i write to believe.

That Rhythm Uncommon

I’m what you would say in a constant cycle of “trying to figure myself out”. When I am in that moment a lot of things begin to matter. Like, the amount of space I type in becomes suddenly overwhelming and the words shy away from my grasp. I’d like to write about the chirping birds that make me smile in the morning but that suddenly feels like too small of a story or too uncommon a rhyme.

I am also not always aware of what I want to write about. Most often I just want to describe things like how people become angry or sad or happy. I like describing how dawn appears through my window over and over again. I like using the word rain a lot because using it in a sentence makes me say it out loud and the sound of it feels like rain itself. I like thinking about things over and over and turning them around in my mind to see if I can catch a glimpse of something else.

I like making discoveries. Sometimes I delve into one thing for very long like Audrey Assad’s music or Heather King’s writing or Etty Hillesum’s diaries. Then I stop because I become distracted with the world I live in and I am too busy to “figure it out” and end up just moving along with the day. The words get tired and I can’t write about anything else.

It’s hard for me to understand things about my life unless I am able to write about them. It’s funny because I always say that I understand things fairly easily but I am not quite content with how I understand things if I just experience them without writing about them.

So I’m here, not so much to say that I’m completely back on track in this life but I’ve been trying to manage this pursuit in small chunks. I’ve realized that despite my need to write for an audience, I also need to feel like I’m writing for myself. I find myself justifying this to myself over and over for some reason. Perhaps it’s because of this delayed acceptance or repressed desire to just write. I give myself excuses like, “I’m too busy to write.” or “There’s nothing to write about.” or “I don’t have anything interesting to say.” But the urge to just choose a word and pick it apart to convey a meaning or a message I know I have it in me to express continues on like an impulse that never ends.

Why I never follow this impulse on the days I need it most is beyond me. But like I said, I’m writing this morning to sort of unload a huge amount of cluttered thought that’s been tucked away. Parked. Set aside. For a long while. And I’m hoping that I don’t have to keep setting aside these things for too long. Like the article I just read on Haruki Murakami, “he can write while watching baseball games”.

I carry on these days writing small notes to myself. Not lengthy ones like these. These are quite overwhelming to keep up with. If I can write on an interrupted stream of consciousness like I am now, I’ll feel like I’m on a vacation every moment. Unfortunately I don’t for the rhythm I ride these days is uncommon to me. But I live with it anyway.

If you want to see how I’m keeping up with it, read the through my notes at http://arhythmuncommon.tumblr.com

A Possible Hiatus

It’s been too long. My words have become an empty longing. And I’m not exactly sure where I’m going with this blog right now.

The days have increasingly become tiring. My work has been too toxic. And I’ve ran out of words to describe it. My thoughts come out in short phrases. In desperately captured sentences. And most of the time what I see, I can only capture in digital polaroids.

I wonder why I often lose my thoughts to busy-ness. I have been praying for a new breakthrough. A new environment. A new experience. But, I’m still in waiting.

I hope you can pray for me while I wait. While I sort things out. And while I try to remain steadfastly clinging on to grace. For that is all I have today.

That silent moment when..

It’s an early morning quiet. The weekend has ended and I’m off to another day at work. It starts out with a serious 8:00am meeting. My heart’s half into it and half wandering off into a dream. I linger here for most of the morning because that place has been quite soothing to me as of late. The rhythm of her words and the photographs of grace.

I’m trying to learn how she says “eucharisteo” in every moment.

This morning, I give thanks and let me heart open as wide as it can to the blessings I seldom see.

The birds vibrant in their chirping.

The cloudy morning fighting off the summer’s heat.

The words of writers that remind me of a beautiful life that can be lived.

The breakfast food I’m starving for.

The work that’s going to get done today.

I’m trying out this habit. Even when my insides churn to almost spit everything out in disgust. It’s only my bitterness working when I am not able to give thanks.

I hope I see God’s face today.

All Is Grace

The past week and a half has been excruciatingly tiresome until I realized that it’s time. It’s time to admit the full depth of my weariness. It’s time to admit the full extent of my weakness.

It’s time to say, “I no longer can. I’ve reached the end of myself.”

I’ve learned this a few years ago. That when you reach the end of yourself, God’s work can fully begin. I’ve kept on moving into this place of rest. In and out. To and fro. Battled with the struggle between pursuit and rest. I’ve found it hard to understand what it means to “work hard” and at the same time “surrender”. I found it confusing to reconcile.

I’ve sought for answers in so many words. So many people. So many books. Until I realized that I’ve been moving on my own capability to understand. To intellectualize. This faith I claim to live authentic.

I got it all wrong again.

Last week, I finally gave up. I finally said, I’ve had it. I cannot bear the environment any longer. I cannot bear the suffocating feeling that it always leaves me with at the end of the day. And when I saw that I cannot just leave, that I am stuck unless new doors open, I will have to live with it, I sank into that place where I came face to face with fact that I’m in a really impossible situation.

In that place of defeat I sought for answers. Simple answers. Answers my weary mind can grasp. I could not go into the “difficult books” or the “difficult words”. I only needed to know one thing. Can God take me out of this weariness? Can God bring me to a place of rest?

In one of my moments of pondering, I happened upon Ann Voskamp’s blog where she writes about time management. It seemed like an answer to one of the questions I battled with. Will I have enough time to do what I really want to do given all this?

Her words reminded me that I bought her book that I’ve left unread on my Kindle. There I encountered the word eucharisteo.

The greatest thing is to give thanks for everything. He who has learned this knows what it means to live. He has penetrated the whole mystery of life: giving thanks for everything.

Eucharisteo. Charis. Grace. Eucharisteo. Thanksgiving. Chara. Joy

Ever since I encountered that word, I have tried to practice a daily habit of gratitude. And things have started to emerge. Things have started to move. I have begun to see the ways of God again. And I am slowly beginning to understand what it means to behold His presence in every little moment.

I am not there yet. But He is. And He walks with me every moment. He doesn’t hurry me. He doesn’t snap at my clumsy mishaps. He doesn’t reprimand my oversights. He is gentle and not overbearing.

I begin to know Him again. And realize again, that all is grace and that it is only in Him that I will find true rest.

Hungering for Peace

I watch this weekend come to a close in a few hours. I find myself desperately clinging on to every minute of it. Fearful of drowning in a sea of work deliverables that will rob me off my own breath, my life. I’ve realized how my current environment has taken so much of my time and how I have allowed it to rob me off peace.

Earlier this afternoon I was reading Ann Voskamp’s blog and took note of what she has said about haste.

Haste makes waste. The hurry makes us hurt. Whatever the pace, time will keep it and there’s no outrunning it, only speeding it up and pounding the feet harder; the minutes pound faster too. Race for more and you’ll snag on time and leak empty. Hurry always empties a soul.

I am caught up in a work environment that runs on haste. I am surrounded by people who have not experienced the rest-filled effort of passionate hard work. I have been led to believe that my desires for a peaceful rhythm at work is complacent and absent of ambition. I am led to believe that responding to urgency is productive and being troubled at your wits end is engagement and genius.

I have been exposed to so much soulful struggle. My ideals. Theirs. Clashing. For they are a people with no rest. While I am trying to pursue the peace of Christ, here I am in a place completely absent of it. For 3 years I have shared my heart and my mind. But how long does a missionary stay in a place to know that there is that time to “shake the dust off my feet” because they are not yet ready to receive?

I feel the time coming soon. And my heart is pregnant with a desire to completely surrender myself to a life of faith. A faith-filled life in pursuit of God’s dreams for me.

A friend of mine told me yesterday that God has already opened His doors for me to walk-out freely. Yet I am hindered by this fear. Fear of others’ expectations. Fear of stereotypes. Fear of dishonoring my parents. But am I honoring them not living happy and grateful? Almost out of breath because I try to keep honoring the work that drains me of the very life I try to nurture?

Throughout the weekend I have found myself in a confused state of contemplation. One time silent. Another distracted. But the heart. It’s filled with yearning. Yearning for God to take me to that place where I can unveil the gifts I have and the authentic self I long to be birthed.

I am not made for stone-hearted environments that do not honor the cry of the people’s hearts. And while I continue to pray for them, I wait. I wait for the oceans to part. So that my Savior will led me to the waters of peace.

God’s Witness Revisited

The Youth Encounter Weekend just ended today and I am quite hesitant to go back to the workplace and leave the wonderful experience of solely focusing on the one thing I love doing the most. Youth Ministry. On the drive back home a couple of us have been talking about full time youth ministry and how we can make it happen in this apostolate’s generation. For some of us this has already been a long time vision. But it remains a dream. So tonight, I find myself lifting up this dream and hoping for God to bless it and be the Maker I need Him to be.

This is an excerpt of a post I wrote in my old blog. It was written on October 4, 2005 after the 3rd Youth Encounter (the first one I served in).

Given that my writing has been cooperating with me lately, I reminisce about what I wrote back then and find myself feeling the same things tonight. It’s been 7 years. I cannot believe that it has been that long and yet the wonderful blessing of loving what you’re doing has resurfaced in me. It’s a passion pursuing me. And as I reminisce, I pray that one day I will understand the cause I am indeed witnessing to.

October 4, 2005

God’s Witness

I witness for God’s glory tonight. Witness His fire in the Youth Apostolate. Witness His fire in the Youth Praise Ministry. Witness His fire in each of the people in the Youth I have closely worked with for the past 3 months. Witness His fire in me. And I am moved. I am changed. I am ignited with a passion that burns to see the youth of His church move forward and claim their places as God’s warriors in a battle for souls.

The long preparation for the Youth Encounter Weekend has ended. And a new journey begins. I am melancholy about endings and I am again melancholy about this one. I will definitely miss the practices that have filled most my nights. For it has not only kept my life focused on the prize but it has kept my demons from robbing me of what I thought I lost. Myself.

I don’t think I had much of an experience when I was young. I was lost. Blind. Troubled. The idea of being part of a group during my younger days scared me. I feared that thought of being an outcast. But being invited to play for the Youth Ministry has given me back an experienced I missed out on. And that’s being part of a home filled with people who are filled with so much zest for life. So much thirst for God. And maybe sometimes their passion seeps out in the wrong places but the passion I saw at work during the weekend was definitely right. And though crooked their paths may be, the zigzag ways of each person who contributed to the outpouring of heaven’s grace upon 60 young lives that have been changed these past 3 days displayed a bursting of fireworks against the dark night that’s been long draped upon their souls.

I have not come to know each one as closely as I would’ve wanted to. But those few that I have been drawn to are enough to show me that the Youth’s Spirit is indeed worth fighting for. Each character intricately defined. Each quirk. Each crazy antic. All cacophonies of personalitiesjust merged and though seemingly chaotic, I felt a profound sense of energy that comes from a longing to be heard, to be seen, to be acknowledged, to be loved…to be set free. And GOD DID IT ALL that this weekend.

I am amazed. I am humbled by how God has shown me that though I have walked life’s journey ten years ahead of them…having a youthful heart gives you a strength that can push forth any obstacle that you may have in worshipping God as He deserves. And sometimes it may not be perfect, but I realize that God does not look on our perfection. He looks at our persistence. Youth persists.

I have so many memorable moments that I hold so close to my heart with these people now and I will treasure it and cradle it forever.

Seeing Louanne make her battle cry that freed her from her own bondages to exhort Youth Praise into raising the level of their own worship experience. Seeing Carlo’s heart keep on beating and burning with desire to let his guitar’s song fly even through a moment of breaking his strings. Seeing Gian come back to the heart of worship after a long absence. Seeing Chris’ soul thump to a rhythym that did not break despite the melody he could no longer hear. Seeing Jacy’s commitment to the music despite groping for the right bassline. Seeing Gians’ face exude with bliss as she let’s the Spirit in. Seeing Leo’s passion seep through by always being there on call. Seeing Ina grow in God’s love despite her heart being broken. Seeing Kaisie’s eyes tear up as she hears God’s call for her to stay and be the songbird she is. Seeing Carlos’ brows meet in an intense expression of uninhibited prayer.

If only everybody could see the way the Spirit has let me see that the fire that burns inside the youth is not of destruction…but of a deep yearning for rebirth.

They are God’s gifts to me. Maybe some I have connected more closely than the others but yet God has allowed me to see His glory despite the different levels of connectedness I have with them. I at awe.

God definitely is a Creator because from nothing…from chaos…from differences…that make up the substance that keeps this ministry together…He gave us sound. He gave us music. He gave us song. But most of all, He gave us EACH OTHER.

Soaked Up in Music

The whole morning has been spent soaking up on worship music. I’ve forgotten how I respond to music. I forgotten how music has always been a breathing space that unlocks, unravels, unleashes all the residue of burdensome circumstances that filled my days. I’ve forgotten how music helps me wade through the thoughts that clash against each other aching to produce some sense.

If the act of writing helps me figure out what’s going on in my life and in my world, music helps me sit through everything in a posture of reverence and trust. The desperation that arose from the busy work weeks have finally led me to admit, I am thirsty for liberation. I am thirsty for freedom.

These are songs I have just discovered within the past 12 hours and have miraculously breathed life back into me after the passing of so many weary days.

WalkWay 2012

This year’s WalkWay happened at 9:30am this morning. We were able to grab a breather from all the work (this is prior to finding out that work tomorrow is cancelled). I was determined to make the reflections find their way into a point of embedding.

Here’s some photos of that walk. That reminder that I am the Beloved of a Savior.

Rambling of the Moment

I’m just going to let it out.

I am so happy that our supposed work schedule tomorrow got cancelled! God be Praised! Finally the Mercy of Heaven has fallen upon me. I cannot describe how uplifted I feel right now. Have I been so distraught that the mere cancellation of a work schedule can completely unburden me? Perhaps.

Anyway, I am enjoying this liberated feeling no matter how momentary because it hasn’t really felt this way in months. So while I wait for my TV series to load, I soak up on some new worship music which I’ve missed out on for the past 3 months.

An Unending Prayer

I have been tinkering around the keyboard for a couple of weeks now. To no avail. I cannot catch my thoughts. Or perhaps I am not satisfied with what I catch and to my dismay, I just hit the delete button until what is left of my draft is a blank screen.

It’s 8:00am on Good Friday. I’ve barely been able to reflect on anything of relevance to the Holy Week and I’m desperate for anything that will give me a little bit more meaning so that I can carry on till Easter.

The past few weeks have been busy. It’s almost that desperate kind of busy where all you do is catch up on the deliverables expected of you. No time for breath. No time for life. Almost suffocated. But the heart of a volunteer never gives up. I suppose I got that from ministry work and now I’m applying it to a work environment that continues to be my most difficult cross.

The passion of Christ has been something I’ve always revered only from the distant pews on Triduum mass. Since my country calls of work starting Holy Thursday, we celebrate it with very little strain. In fact, we even call it a holiday. But this year has been different. I don’t get a holiday. But I am slowly beginning to understand what it means to pursue holiness.

It means, not having to speak out curses to the one who presses you to the brink and robs you off your much deserved rest. At least this year, that’s what it means to me. I’m realizing that Holy Week for me means to pay some attention to how Christ lived enough to try and follow the path he walked during the holy days of His passion. And this year, it means, working non-stop until Easter.

The rhythm changes. There is no time for contemplation. There is no time for quiet adoration. There is no time to enjoy the morning or revere the night. There is no time. Because work calls out too loud like an angry child in a tantrum. And work needs to be attended to or the cries won’t stop.

It’s almost a silent kind of crazy. I feel like I’m dealing with a huge force of weight that determines to bury me under. And here I am beneath it. Not crushed. But unleashing the fragile strength I have left. With my hands outstretched.

I don’t know what kind of life I’m living right now. It feels like a battle. But it also feels like an unending prayer.