Saturday, March 27, 2010


It was a small but spacious lounge room with old steel windows and gate. The old wooden seats with intricate carvings and that single hanging painting of Christ reminded me of old Spanish Colonial architecture I have seen a thousand times on Sunday newspapers. I sat quietly in that old apartment’s sala as I listen intently on my sister’s angelic voice rehearsing songs for tomorrow’s morning procession. I accompanied her for today’s practice because her nanny went home to her province for her grandmother’s burial. I was reluctant to come at first but on those forty-five minutes I stayed there with nothing but a worn-out book I haven’t read for quite some time, I have stumbled upon something so simple yet so sacred.

I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed having siesta in my own sala basking under the golden rays of the afternoon sun coming in from the windows. Or the last time I had my silent afternoon walk around the familiar neighborhood meditating and sorting things out in my mind. I can’t remember the last time I ever felt the presence of God in the most mundane and menial routine I do every day.

I missed those instances where I can see Him in the ordinary.

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