PARADOXICAL

                                   One day, I came to God with a broken heart.

I told God my heart hurts. The kind when the pain felt too real you could almost even touch it. And like a Father to a child, God asked me why. Why it hurts.

“Because I wasn’t loved back. I’m not loved,” I told God in response.

The moment I allowed that thought to linger in my head, I realized it wasn’t true.

It wasn’t true because that week, when my heart got broken, my friends gathered around me when I cried and they loved on me.

Above all, I know God loves me. He loves me enough to catch me before I fell too much in love with someone that God didn’t prepare for me.

Realizing that, the “I’m not loved” drama immediately sounded so cheap. And so not true.

“So why does it hurt?” God asked me again. Not because He didn’t know the answer. But because He had a point to make.

This time, I thought long and hard, and searched my heart. And once I finally found the source of where all the pain was coming from, I boldly let it out to God like a child showing a badly skinned knee to her Father.

“Because I was not chosen,” I cried.

The thing is, you do not need to get your heart broken by someone to know how it feels like to not be chosen.

We have our own share. Somewhere, somehow, someone was better than you and that someone else was chosen over you.

It hurts. And I’m sorry if it does.

When I cried to God and told Him that it hurts to not be chosen, this was what He whispered to my shattered heart:

“But I have already chosen you,” He said.

And then He reminded me of what He did to choose me. To choose us.

Chose to be hung on the cross over the comforts of heaven.

Chose for His whole body to be broken so my broken heart could be whole again.

Chose to love me even when I didn’t deserve to be loved by Him.

Chose to look at me worthy when there was nothing worthy of me.

And being chosen by Christ—Love Himself—would always be more than enough to bring healing to all our broken parts. ❤️

posted by Resty Odon  # 1:39 PM 0 Comments

Sometime in September of the year 2022, I received a surprise most rude, and it was near the date of my birthday too. I was in the middle of my usual browsing in between websites and social media accounts when I was suddenly locked out of my Facebook account, the original one I set up since I can no longer remember when. (I was one of the last holdouts then among my peers.)
 

In one fell swoop, I lost everything -- well almost everything. I lost an entire online archive of essays, rants, thoughts during extra-lucid and emo moments, over-shared viral posts that took my interest, the engaging comment threads that went with those, and most especially the irreplaceable photos.
 

Of course, I lost all my contacts along with it.
 

How did it feel?
 

It felt awful. I didn't know I was so dependent on FB that my life had been revolving around it. I practically opened and closed my day with it. It was where I chatted with everybody -- from family to friends to coworkers and informants to total strangers who needed my help as information officer.
In an instant, it was all gone, like my house burned down, or was swept away, or eaten whole by termites while I wasn't looking. So yes, it felt like a kind of death.
 

I was so disappointed by the rudeness of it all, since there was not enough warning and all. In its aftermath, I was groping in the dark for solutions that needed to be immediately found, when it struck me that I should probably just create another FB account.
 

It was so ridiculous that as I was seething in anger, I was also fighting off the urge to laugh inside me, as creating another account was as easy as ABC. 

And so, while I and my coworkers were left wondering why, I immediately created another account just so I would be able to inform everyone of what happened.
 

But like a plot twist from a very bad script, that, too, got mysteriously locked just as I was warming up to my new life online while trying to recover my 2,000-plus contacts. It appears that, while I was adding a contact after another at a fast clip, FB interpreted it as a bot's activity.
 

Good thing I have this habit of backing up my long articles, so those were safe. But the rest was gone, forever.
 

What went wrong?
 

With FB not giving any clear reason why, I could only speculate. Maybe it was the photos of boys being circumcised which I regularly reported as part of the medical mission of sorts held regularly by the local government. To be fair to FB, I was warned about that, even though I have routinely pixelized the boys' genital area thinking there is nothing to it, nothing that violates their person, invades their privacy, or nothing that is sexually suggestive in the least -- after all, these are but kids. I received some penalty for it (like my page appearing less in people's timelines or something), even if I made an effort to explain my side.  I took all that injustice on the chin, but not without some resentment for being thought of as a ped*phile, I admit.
 

But to go through it twice in a row is most discombobulating.
 

I mean, what have I done? I am not into terror, I don't do porn, I am not slandering anyone or stealing somebody's identity. Am I some kind of criminal that I deserved to be treated like that? Are my years' or decades' worth of content not enough reason to be more considerate and circumspect on their part?
 

Apparently not.
 

Apparently, what I needed to do was to make yet another account. Fortunately, I didn't have to.
I remembered that I had another pre-existing account that I barely used, so I went back to it and used it as my new account. The only catch is, it was under a pseudonym. But that was just as well, given how traumatizing now to identify myself under my real name.
 

I am slowly recovering my contacts one at a time and I am largely back in the social media game. But the pain of being digitally killed still lingers, especially since I am now sporting a new name, the choice of which I have to constantly explain to anyone who asks. (For the record and to end speculations, it's a code name for my hometown, whose patron saint is St. Vincent Ferrer.) Somehow, I feel like some kind of a felon forced into hiding for nothing.

posted by Resty Odon  # 9:04 PM 0 Comments

"We are sometimes so focused on being (physically) healed that we tend to forget that sickness itself can be a way to get healed, spiritually speaking, that is. ... Didn't Jesus himself go through pain and suffering? Didn't he too bleed that we might get healed?" - today's homily

But...did Jesus ever get sick? I don't think so. But if he was indeed truly human, he would have had a headache or flu at some point. 

Anyway, the point is well taken. Jesus at least went through physical pain and discomfort, even of the worst kind: physical-emotional-psychological torture.

posted by Resty Odon  # 7:34 PM 0 Comments

(Context: This is the latest installment (Part 5) of my online book, "Adventures of a Fortune Cookie Writer, So Far.")

I consider my story of being hired in the Local Government Unit (LGU) of Bayambang, Pangasinan a miracle, not the least because I didn't have any of the usual political connections to get in, if you know what I mean. (I am not privy to how they did the background-checking on me, but I heard that my schoolmate, Gene, who was the appointed MDRRM Officer, vouched for me.)

In August of 2016, I was staying in my cousin's place in Pasay City, working from home on projects here and there as a freelance writer-editor. I just lost my full-time job at MIMS Philippines after my contract ended. I was almost at the end of my rope, professionally speaking, barely keeping it together.

One day, while seated on my ergo chair, Christopher Gozum chatted me through Facebook Messenger. He is a town-mate whom I only met online after I had blogged about an award-winning film of his that made the headlines here and abroad. Chris, it turned out, was recently hired as the town's tourism officer, and he tipped me off about a vacant position at the old Municipio back in our hometown. "They are looking for a writer here," he said, "preferably a computer-savvy one."

The very next day saw me traveling from Pasay all the way to Pangasinan to apply for the vacancy. I have not gone back since, not even once as of this writing.

At the old Municipal Hall, an antique structure in eclectic (Spanish-Filipino-California Mission) style, I met a good-looking young woman whom everyone addressed as Atty. Raj. After she quickly reviewed my resume, she asked me, right there and then, to proceed to the Mayor's residence for an interview in Brgy. Bical Norte. Atty. Raj turned out to be -- beyond my expectations of a typical local government functionary  -- Bayambang's Municipal Administrator, and I heard she also happened to be a former Miss Bayambang, thus the requisite looks and bearing. 

At the Mayor's residence, I was ushered in by Karen, the Mayor's personal secretary, to a well-appointed room inside what turned out to be the family mansion, although from the outside, it looked more like a corporate headquarters. The Mayor had very few questions. "Are you from here?" "Where?" "How much is your professional fee?" I harrumphed, not because of the fat cigar he was smoking, but because I didn't know exactly what to answer. (I was pretty sure my Manila rate would be too high for small-town rates.) He got his calculator and computed at length and offered me something. I accepted.

"Ang gusto ko lang ay ang ipromote ang Bayambang sa mga investors," he explained, which I took to mean what would be my unofficial job description: to promote our town through my write-ups. "Ako na ang bahala sa roadshow. Ako mismo ang haharap," he added. (The word 'roadshow' intimidated the heck out of me.)

As soon as the Mayor okayed my application with the HR department, Atty. Raj asked me if I could start right away, and fearing she'd change her mind, I said a hesitant yes -- hesitant because I still had an entire house of personal stuff to cart off from Manila, starting with my work clothes.

That was how I started out working as a writer for the Municipality of Bayambang, but with the designated title of "Public Information Officer," something I didn't expect.

Writing is something I can confidently say I know how to do right, even though I am aware of how much I still need to learn to improve, but nothing prepared me for what my unofficial title entailed.

Being PIO, it turned out, was not limited to writing tasks, it also meant being an office manager/office administrator too, something I knew almost nothing about and not interested in learning one bit.

The writing part was something I enjoyed thoroughly while working as the Mayor's, and by extension the Administrator's, reporter and speechwriter. Everything I had learned in writing in my previous jobs seems to have prepared me for this one job. My years of experience came in handy because I had to write and edit news reports, features, editorials, speeches, messages, announcements, ads, letters, technical reports, monthly newsletters, annual reports like the State of the Municipality Address, State of the Children's Address, etc., fiesta souvenir programs, even books... Heck even EOs or executive orders, which are already beyond my ken, for I am not a lawyer, after all, but more of a journalist and creative writer.

My rigorous training as an abstractor was most especially useful in going for the jugular while writing the news and other reports of such kind. My work as feature writer also worked wonders in going the opposite way -- by being oblique. The part I liked best is working with practically all local government departments and locally based agencies, ensuring I would never, ever get bored as I familiarized myself with the mandate and operations of each department and agency.

However, nothing prepared me for writing in Tagalog and Pangasinan, especially in tabloid style, so this is an area where I am still learning the ropes.

I noticed, though, that I was often treated by others as their personal secretary the moment they'd hear that I could write. I realized that's how most people see a writer -- as their personal proofreader. (This does not include requests for editing assistance from my superiors, of course.) I wouldn't mind much if my workload was light, and requests for help didn't come one after another like patients waiting in line at the doctor's office. 

But the rest of the unexpected tasks were something I had to contend with big time. Simply put, I was overwhelmed with how vast the actual scope of work was. Even as I was in the middle of writing one obra maestra after another, a dozen non-writing concerns competed for my attention and I was largely ill equipped at it. 

As the variety of tasks being requested by the Mayor multiplied exponentially, there arose an urgent need to hire additional staff. From just the three of us -- I, JV (the photographer), and Dr. Leticia Ursua (our media affairs officer), my office eventually expanded into an entire section. It was veritably a department, minus official papers. The arrival of Patricia, a gifted Literature grad from UST, was especially a God-send, as she took on many of the more challenging, because more creative, tasks, writing-wise. This was despite her gentle and delicate temperament, I must point out.

Eventually, I also got involved in interdepartmental and inter-agency projects and undertakings that are beyond, even way beyond, my knowledge, experience, and competencies: Nutrition Month, Children's Month, culture mapping project, museum project, Women's Month, to name but a few.

One particular task I don't relish doing is being an omniscient god of search engines (or being Bayambang town's Google, for short) at people's beck and call whenever they are looking for something, be it a certain medication or (ugh!) a missing husband.

To give further examples of day-to-day concerns outside of writing, there was budgeting (horrifyingly enough, the first task Atty. Raj assigned to me), planning and assigning the day's tasks, the minutiae of HR concerns of staff assigned to me (whether a job order employee's Daily Time Record is accurate or not), a dripping AC unit and the presence of mice, strategic (long-term) planning, bickering among the staff, the many forms to be filled out, the many documents that needed my signature, the labyrinthine procurement process (I certainly don't appreciate this shocking aspect, coming from the straightforward style in the private sector), the steady stream of memos and emails, garbage disposal, etc. ...Bureaucracy, in other words, something that I had long despised as evil as an ordinary citizen because I viewed it as a major obstacle to the fast-tracking of progress. (I still can't forget that experience when I lost all my government-issued IDs to pickpockets along EDSA in decrepit Pasay Rotunda and I had to find at least two new government IDs in order to have a new government ID and just so I could transact with private banks.)

From my 'hakuna matata' existence in Pasay as a freelancer, I was suddenly thrown into a whole new world that I had to face squarely despite my zero interest. You can be sure that, cliched as it may sound, that famous Disney theme from the movie "Aladdin" kept playing in my head ("A Whole New World") -- what they called LSS or last song syndrome at the time. It already took me long years before I got to embrace my 'calling' as a writer. I had attempted to get out of the writing world several times because "there was no money in it," but I ended up going back to it again and again, and here I was being confronted again with a whole new set of realities that again begged my acceptance.  

As far as I can recall, I had no dreams of becoming a provincial local government official, no matter how minor, and everything that this entails. My whole world, after all, was all about Manila. I certainly had no desire to manage an entire office that an LGU department head unfortunately faces each day, on and off official hours, including Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays. And I certainly don't enjoy dealing with different kinds of people and their own personal issues, not when I myself was having a hard time dealing with my own.

After all, I was then into my fourth year of counseling and psychotherapy in various pro bono helping institutions in Manila (Baclaran Church, UST, etc.), when I suddenly had to return to my hometown with wounds that were not yet fully healed. But since I was already here back at my old ground (I was born in Manila, but I was here since kinder grade and up to senior high school: that's ten years from 1976 to March of 1986), I had not much choice but handle every challenge as it came and as best I could, with the grace of God.

It was only into my 6th year as a middle-level LGU employee that I have realized that I had been contending with a silent inner conflict all along as PIO. One midnight, I suddenly woke up confronting myself about this hidden issue which finally surfaced to my awareness, thanks to this seminar given by motivational speaker and image consultant Ms. Toni Miranda which was a kind of retreat and recollection that I badly needed for the longest time: "I was supposed to be just a writer, but here I was doing a lot more beyond my expectations and perceived competencies." No wonder I was constantly anxious, panicky, and depressed.

Then and there, I decided to once and for all accept that this was my lot in life -- six years being at it is quite lengthy, after all -- and instead of saying to myself "how new and difficult everything is and I feel so inadequate at it," to convince myself how lucky (or better yet, blessed) and how wonderful I am to be right here, right now, together with all these people I had to work with, with not just their own weaknesses and imperfections but most importantly their own specialist knowledge, skills, and experience.

In the latest documentary about Imelda Marcos, "The Kingmaker," I was surprised by a major revelation: Imelda, too, despite her high-flying self, suffered from a nervous breakdown (or is that depression) in the beginning whose cause she couldn't place her finger on. She said she had to travel all the way to the United States to figure out what was bothering her, and she realized with the help of the psychotherapist that being a politician's wife made her profoundly sad. She couldn't quite accept all that horrid life of being in the public eye 24/7, with all those strangers coming in and out of her family's now aquarium-like lives.

What she did, she said, to overcome her sadness was to see the whole thing from a different perspective, thanks to her therapist's suggestion. She said that, instead of agonizing, "Oh, how pitiful I am," she chose to keep saying to herself, "I am so lucky to be here, I am so lucky to be here, to be a politician's wife, to be at all these events, to meet all these famous, wonderful people and welcome them into my life."

Right from the start, I knew I was certainly lucky to work for someone like Cezar Quiambao and, like what I told my superior and now-colleague, Ma'am Letty, "Gee, I don't know him from Adam, but this is a guy I am willing to work for, for free (because he's the genuine article when it comes to love of country and his people)!" But somehow, along the way, I tended to forget this, as I got overwhelmed by mundane concerns. That initial feeling of wonderment was eventually drowned out by all the negatives, which was made worse by the ugly realities of local politics. (I mean, I was suddenly yanked out of my comfort zone right into the middle of a big political and legal squabble I had taken no part in -- in a town where everybody knew everybody too. And since I wasn't sure where each character's loyalty lay, I was like constantly walking on tiptoes, and around eggshells). I tried to be as loving and kind a coworker as I could to everyone, no matter their positions and loyalties, but as a team leader, I am the first one to say there was just so much left to be desired in me.

I guess this is an opportune time to do something like what Imelda did to get healed: to keep on repeating to myself until I believed it that, indeed, "I am so lucky to be here, I am so lucky to be here, I am so lucky to be here." (I know, a better word for "lucky" is "blessed.") And I hope that, through acceptance, I can turn things around as well -- I mean, the way I see my current work and life situation. I have given so much of myself in my writing job, despite my many inadequacies and handicaps in the non-writing tasks (better ask my work-mates what these are), that I had not given much time for myself, and now that I am bound to get more relaxed as I accept my circumstances, thanks to this happy reversal of perspectives, I hope to have a more enjoyable life, or at least, in corporate-speak, a work-life balance, and I hope to do a lot better in this job that I now embrace more fully as a new genuine, uhm, calling. After all, like I said earlier, the series of jobs I had earlier felt like a preparation for this one job, and that is probably why each time I tried to explore opportunities outside the world of writing, each and every one of those doors slammed shut in my face, as though to tell me to scram.

I don't intend to be the so-called jack of all trades or a Renaissance man who is a master of everything -- I am more of a realist because I know my weaknesses and I know I will flicker like a candle stub the sooner I spread myself thin. But I can now concede this way: "Alright, God, I get it now" -- I am not just a lowly, struggling writer now, but also what I used to regard with animosity before because of long-held stereotypes: I am now a government worker and officer. I am not sure if I am up to certain tasks that the likes of Paeng Saygo have thankfully rescued me from, but I will keep my fingers crossed moving forward.

***

Meanwhile, I almost forgot to say that, after a few years, I got back around 80% of my things in Pasay, big thanks to my brother Ricky, brother-in-law Carlo, and others who lent a hand. I heard they got so exhausted with the unbelievable amount of worldly possessions that they had to lift with their hands to the hauling van, which included boxes and boxes of books, magazines, artworks, and, um, ephemera. I ended up donating most of the reading materials to the public library because I no longer have any space left at home. I hope and pray there are souls out there in this town who are kindred spirits, i.e., just as interested in the many rarefied things I got interested in as part of my life as a once-hesitant writer.

***

Corporate wisdom dictates that, "If you fail to plan, you plan to fail." But I believe that, in my case, it is the other way around: Despite all my plans, I remained open to God's direction in spite of my hard-headedness. My experience teaches me that, while planning is indeed important, God's plan, in His ineffable wisdom, will always be better. At which point, I am reminded of an old joke that goes, "You want to make God laugh? Tell Him your plans."

***

Whenever I feel discouraged at work for various reasons, I try to recall a certain little incident that I have not written down thus far. I was still in Manila at that time, and while thinking about my lot in one of my lowest moments – yet again – something unusual for me happened at this point. I was attending one of those worship assemblies in my community, The Risen Lord’s Vineyard, when certain words in the day’s gospel impressed upon me gently but in a way that touched me deeply: “Your reward will be not in this life, but in the next.” Or words to that effect.

I couldn’t dam up the tears flowing profusely from my eyes while in the midst of other people when I heard those words. I felt greatly relieved and consoled that I ‘heard’ an answer from God – finally – after so many years of wondering whether I was still on track. This plane of existence, I realized, was not the right venue to expect rewards from heaven. Of course, I knew that already, but it turned out that, deep inside, I was actually believing the reverse.

Whenever I think about success now – whether I am a successful person or not – I just try to remember the many alternative things I was blessed with in the face of so many things missing in my life. I figure that the most important among these things is not a thing all, but God himself. Yes, I can say, “I have God," and thanks because I had been needy in so many things that I had to cling to that only one entity that I could rely on with constancy and satisfaction. I thus find great consolation in this oft-repeated Mother Teresa quote: “God didn’t call us to be successful but to be faithful.”

Meanwhile, a local saying has been my anchor of late: "Anos labat, wala'n sansiya," which roughly translates to "Patience, for someday soon..."

posted by Resty Odon  # 5:13 PM 2 Comments