here comes the man wearing a victor’s crown
his face radiates brightness like the rising sun
heavily tested; loads over his shoulder
armed with nothing but faith that doesn’t falter.
here comes the man who hopes to endure
all kinds of battle so powerful to ignore
in the midst of struggles, his body weakened;
but his spirit fought strongly to the end.
there the man stands at the peak of the mountain
hands raised up, arms wide open
as the breeze cools the bruises on his face
his perseverance is rewarded with amazing grace.
thus the man became a warrior for the rest of his life
fighting battles with renewed character and might;
but what makes him truly strong and wise
is not the number of experience but a heart purified.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
wounded healer
An embodiment of virtue that she is
And of beauty that never fades;
The hands scarred by the knife of olden times
Is the selfsame hands that mend the broken and injured.
Oft she travels incognito
Set off on a trip along the road less traveled;
To somewhere, she leaves neither fame nor riches
But footprints indelibly marked on the faithful’s land.
Countless times has she braved storms-
Though many a storm have maimed her paltry frame;
She persisted against the course of the wind,
She persisted for the love of her calling.
Then came her calling that preaches of a promise,
That restores ruined walls and streets without dwellings.
Her untiring hands, her indomitable spirit
Won the hearts of the seekers of love and justice.
But one may ask in utter wonderment
How did she come to be
A healer who takes pride in nothing
and walks with an air of mystery?
Perhaps the mystery that the healer reveals
Is naught but the affliction she’s endured.
For who else can speak to the wounds of the afflicted
But the healer who is wounded herself.
lordiaz_05@yahoo.com
And of beauty that never fades;
The hands scarred by the knife of olden times
Is the selfsame hands that mend the broken and injured.
Oft she travels incognito
Set off on a trip along the road less traveled;
To somewhere, she leaves neither fame nor riches
But footprints indelibly marked on the faithful’s land.
Countless times has she braved storms-
Though many a storm have maimed her paltry frame;
She persisted against the course of the wind,
She persisted for the love of her calling.
Then came her calling that preaches of a promise,
That restores ruined walls and streets without dwellings.
Her untiring hands, her indomitable spirit
Won the hearts of the seekers of love and justice.
But one may ask in utter wonderment
How did she come to be
A healer who takes pride in nothing
and walks with an air of mystery?
Perhaps the mystery that the healer reveals
Is naught but the affliction she’s endured.
For who else can speak to the wounds of the afflicted
But the healer who is wounded herself.
lordiaz_05@yahoo.com
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
An Ice Cream Stick and Memories of my Father
It was a fine afternoon when my mother and I paid a visit to my father’s graveyard. Despite the distance of our house to the memorial park, we decided to set on foot about 2 kilometers, walking past the bridge towards the local market where we stopped by to purchase three ice cream sticks. Then off we went to the place where my father’s remains lie.
The wind gently caressed my skin as we entered in the memorial park. An enormous feeling overtook me, as though my father was walking beside us. “Hello, Papa” I whispered, silently pondering the idea that he was with us at that moment.
After saying our prayers, Mama laid one piece of ice cream stick on his gravestone and jested, “Here you go, Papa, it must be getting hot down there.” Then we ate our shares of ice cream sticks.
That moment brought back the memories of my father, our struggles as a family, the reconciliation and forgiveness we shared during the last days of his life.
On September 08, 2006, my father died of lung cancer. Before that, he was diagnosed with acute tuberculosis when he complained of back pain, chest pain and difficulty in breathing. Although he was treated within the first six critical months, his coughing became more incessant that he had to be brought to the hospital. He was confined for more than a month in Baguio City General Hospital in June the same year. We availed of the free ward section where he shared the room with a number of frail indigent patients. But as compared with the other patients, my father looked stronger and in better shape. He could even manage to look after himself whenever we were out for work.
During the weeks that I looked after him in the hospital, I have witnessed several deaths in a row. I saw the expression of grief on the face of the families of the deceased when doctors failed to revive them. While I commiserated with them, my father, on the other hand, complained about such incidents. I looked at his reaction one night when another patient died and I heard him murmured, “That’s enough. Bring the dead out of here. Spare us some sleep.” I tried to make sense of the feeling behind those unsympathetic words he said and I believed he, too, was afraid and hurting. I could see it from his face. I knew he was afraid to die.
One day, while eating his lunch, he said that everything that he’d done in his life was a mistake and that he was willing to reform. Despite some feelings of regret and disappointment, what he said really meant a lot to us. Unfortunately, the day before his release from the hospital, the doctors broke the bad news to my mother.
His cancer was malignant, already in the 3rd stage. We were not in complete shock after learning the news because, seeing the gradual deterioration in my father’s health, we already sensed that his illness was worse than tuberculosis. What saddened us was the fact that we could not tell Papa the truth. We were terrified. He was the kind of person who responded vehemently to any bad situation so we expect the same feedback from him with regard to his health. So we hid it from him.
Nevertheless, my father had known it all along. More than a week after his release, his mood changed. He became very irritated, screaming in anger about everything being done for him. We kept calm notwithstanding the pain, just so we could attend to his needs. His body increasingly became weaker as days passed by. His left arm became so numb that he could not move it anymore. The next day he could not walk upright without support. His eyesight became blurred as well. It was heartrending to see my father “die” little by little. It was futile to have him treated in a medical center in Manila because, aside from the fact that we could not afford chemotherapy, his cancer, as told by a doctor, had quickly metastasized to his brain. Nothing can be done anymore in his case.
On the second week of August my brother arrived from Japan where he worked as an overseas contract worker. By that time my father was already on his sickbed. I could feel the agony that engulfed the room when my brother entered, feigning joy to see our father after three years. Papa was likewise delighted to see him. They had a short talk and he left the room for Papa to rest.
As we saw our father grew frailer, we could not help but cry our hearts out. We at some point felt that his illness was a kind of punishment. To say the least, he was an alcoholic and chain smoker. He had been like that ever since and never gave up on his vices, not until he was afflicted with a terminal illness. I looked back at how he lived his life and I could not believe that the person I knew - tough, intrepid and hot-tempered- was the same person lying weak on his bed, helpless, emaciated, and about to die in a few days. We kept holding back our tears whenever we entered his room to clean him, feed him or have a short conversation with him. We were making up for the lost time, doing everything we could to let him know that we loved him in spite of everything.
The most fateful event came one morning. I woke up and when I entered my father’s room I saw him and my mother embracing each other, both in tears. Mama asked forgiveness and Papa kissed her while crying. I wept and quickly went to my father’s bedside to embrace him and asked forgiveness as well. I was praying for the moment to come that I would be able to hug my father. When I was growing up, I saw a very different person in him. I never had a close relationship with him because he was not the kind of father that I expected him to be. But right at that very moment, all the resentment I kept against him vanished. Time stood still and something in my memory flashed back. I remember that when I was a child, he used to carry me in his arms to put me to slumber. I remember how comfortable it felt to be held by his arms back then. I remember that whenever my back got itchy he would scratch it to relieve me and I would be able to fall asleep easily. All these memories were relegated in the deep recesses of my mind. Now I only wanted to remember the good things about him.
The last ten days of my father’s life were very meaningful. It was the moment where we saw the meek side of him. He often asked how my sister was, who is a special child in the family, and kept telling us to take good care of her. While I and my siblings were in the living room, we sang, out of the blue, the song “I’m Leaving on a Jet Plane”. Papa heard that and he cried again. One time, we saw him walking out of his room so my brother quickly run to his side to give him a hand. Without saying a word, our father walked around the house, pausing for a moment to look around the area, going from one room to another then back to his room to rest again. Later did we realize that he was bidding farewell to everything and everyone around him. That was the last time he saw the entirety of our house.
The next few days, he stayed on his bed, unable to get up by himself. A day before he breathed his last, he ate a small serving of ice cream. That time he could no longer speak but he could still hear us. Since I was the one feeding him, I mustered the strength to tell him how much I loved him. Tears fell down my cheeks while saying those words. I knew my father heard it though he made no response at all.
Of all the deaths I have witnessed, it was my father’s demise that had created the deepest scar in me. Truly the grief was indefinable, but the lost of a loved one teaches us one of the most liberating lessons. We may not understand why God brings a certain kind of suffering into our family, and why, notwithstanding our fervent prayers, He does not always perform the miracle we are hoping for. Nevertheless, things happen for a purpose. In my father’s case, his illness and death gave way to reconciliation and forgiveness in the family. With that incident, our family became more bonded than ever. I learned to be more forgiving and look past other people’s fault for somehow, they, like my father, are aching deep down inside and need our unconditional love, acceptance and understanding. God has unfathomable ways of showing us that life on earth is short. We only have a limited capacity to live this life lent to us so we have to value it and live it to the fullest, with the hope that, by the His grace, we are able to serve a good purpose on earth.
I have already accepted that my father lost his battle against cancer, against death. But when I saw Papa slowly closed his eyes, after hours of incessant pants for breath, I felt peace… I believe he was home and in safe Hands now.
The wind gently caressed my skin as we entered in the memorial park. An enormous feeling overtook me, as though my father was walking beside us. “Hello, Papa” I whispered, silently pondering the idea that he was with us at that moment.
After saying our prayers, Mama laid one piece of ice cream stick on his gravestone and jested, “Here you go, Papa, it must be getting hot down there.” Then we ate our shares of ice cream sticks.
That moment brought back the memories of my father, our struggles as a family, the reconciliation and forgiveness we shared during the last days of his life.
On September 08, 2006, my father died of lung cancer. Before that, he was diagnosed with acute tuberculosis when he complained of back pain, chest pain and difficulty in breathing. Although he was treated within the first six critical months, his coughing became more incessant that he had to be brought to the hospital. He was confined for more than a month in Baguio City General Hospital in June the same year. We availed of the free ward section where he shared the room with a number of frail indigent patients. But as compared with the other patients, my father looked stronger and in better shape. He could even manage to look after himself whenever we were out for work.
During the weeks that I looked after him in the hospital, I have witnessed several deaths in a row. I saw the expression of grief on the face of the families of the deceased when doctors failed to revive them. While I commiserated with them, my father, on the other hand, complained about such incidents. I looked at his reaction one night when another patient died and I heard him murmured, “That’s enough. Bring the dead out of here. Spare us some sleep.” I tried to make sense of the feeling behind those unsympathetic words he said and I believed he, too, was afraid and hurting. I could see it from his face. I knew he was afraid to die.
One day, while eating his lunch, he said that everything that he’d done in his life was a mistake and that he was willing to reform. Despite some feelings of regret and disappointment, what he said really meant a lot to us. Unfortunately, the day before his release from the hospital, the doctors broke the bad news to my mother.
His cancer was malignant, already in the 3rd stage. We were not in complete shock after learning the news because, seeing the gradual deterioration in my father’s health, we already sensed that his illness was worse than tuberculosis. What saddened us was the fact that we could not tell Papa the truth. We were terrified. He was the kind of person who responded vehemently to any bad situation so we expect the same feedback from him with regard to his health. So we hid it from him.
Nevertheless, my father had known it all along. More than a week after his release, his mood changed. He became very irritated, screaming in anger about everything being done for him. We kept calm notwithstanding the pain, just so we could attend to his needs. His body increasingly became weaker as days passed by. His left arm became so numb that he could not move it anymore. The next day he could not walk upright without support. His eyesight became blurred as well. It was heartrending to see my father “die” little by little. It was futile to have him treated in a medical center in Manila because, aside from the fact that we could not afford chemotherapy, his cancer, as told by a doctor, had quickly metastasized to his brain. Nothing can be done anymore in his case.
On the second week of August my brother arrived from Japan where he worked as an overseas contract worker. By that time my father was already on his sickbed. I could feel the agony that engulfed the room when my brother entered, feigning joy to see our father after three years. Papa was likewise delighted to see him. They had a short talk and he left the room for Papa to rest.
As we saw our father grew frailer, we could not help but cry our hearts out. We at some point felt that his illness was a kind of punishment. To say the least, he was an alcoholic and chain smoker. He had been like that ever since and never gave up on his vices, not until he was afflicted with a terminal illness. I looked back at how he lived his life and I could not believe that the person I knew - tough, intrepid and hot-tempered- was the same person lying weak on his bed, helpless, emaciated, and about to die in a few days. We kept holding back our tears whenever we entered his room to clean him, feed him or have a short conversation with him. We were making up for the lost time, doing everything we could to let him know that we loved him in spite of everything.
The most fateful event came one morning. I woke up and when I entered my father’s room I saw him and my mother embracing each other, both in tears. Mama asked forgiveness and Papa kissed her while crying. I wept and quickly went to my father’s bedside to embrace him and asked forgiveness as well. I was praying for the moment to come that I would be able to hug my father. When I was growing up, I saw a very different person in him. I never had a close relationship with him because he was not the kind of father that I expected him to be. But right at that very moment, all the resentment I kept against him vanished. Time stood still and something in my memory flashed back. I remember that when I was a child, he used to carry me in his arms to put me to slumber. I remember how comfortable it felt to be held by his arms back then. I remember that whenever my back got itchy he would scratch it to relieve me and I would be able to fall asleep easily. All these memories were relegated in the deep recesses of my mind. Now I only wanted to remember the good things about him.
The last ten days of my father’s life were very meaningful. It was the moment where we saw the meek side of him. He often asked how my sister was, who is a special child in the family, and kept telling us to take good care of her. While I and my siblings were in the living room, we sang, out of the blue, the song “I’m Leaving on a Jet Plane”. Papa heard that and he cried again. One time, we saw him walking out of his room so my brother quickly run to his side to give him a hand. Without saying a word, our father walked around the house, pausing for a moment to look around the area, going from one room to another then back to his room to rest again. Later did we realize that he was bidding farewell to everything and everyone around him. That was the last time he saw the entirety of our house.
The next few days, he stayed on his bed, unable to get up by himself. A day before he breathed his last, he ate a small serving of ice cream. That time he could no longer speak but he could still hear us. Since I was the one feeding him, I mustered the strength to tell him how much I loved him. Tears fell down my cheeks while saying those words. I knew my father heard it though he made no response at all.
Of all the deaths I have witnessed, it was my father’s demise that had created the deepest scar in me. Truly the grief was indefinable, but the lost of a loved one teaches us one of the most liberating lessons. We may not understand why God brings a certain kind of suffering into our family, and why, notwithstanding our fervent prayers, He does not always perform the miracle we are hoping for. Nevertheless, things happen for a purpose. In my father’s case, his illness and death gave way to reconciliation and forgiveness in the family. With that incident, our family became more bonded than ever. I learned to be more forgiving and look past other people’s fault for somehow, they, like my father, are aching deep down inside and need our unconditional love, acceptance and understanding. God has unfathomable ways of showing us that life on earth is short. We only have a limited capacity to live this life lent to us so we have to value it and live it to the fullest, with the hope that, by the His grace, we are able to serve a good purpose on earth.
I have already accepted that my father lost his battle against cancer, against death. But when I saw Papa slowly closed his eyes, after hours of incessant pants for breath, I felt peace… I believe he was home and in safe Hands now.
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