Once upon a time, our family decided that instead of having another baby, we would have a dog.
Like a smart dog-owner-to-be, I did my research. I read tons of books on dogs, browsed the internet pet sites, watched “Dog Whisperer” and dog training videos on on demand cable. I imagined how wonderful it would be for Matthew to have a dog to play with, and a guard dog, as well.
I personally preferred, as did my son, a small dog, the likes of a Yorkshire terrier or a chihuahua. But as I browsed the internet for a chance to adopt one, I realized that it was not as easy as I thought. I had to pay more than I was willing to shell out, the dog people have to come to your house to assess your home situation, the paperwork, yadiyadiya. Cheapskate that I was, I wanted a dog for free with none of the hassles and I wanted it right away.
We got one for free, alright. We were offered an American bulldog puppy by a friend of the daughter of my husband’s friend. I looked into the internet to find what kind of dog this was, and it said that it was a big, strong dog, a loyal pet and a perfect guardian. As I read more stories about this breed, I envisioned our American bulldog rescuing Matthew from snakes, or saving him from drowning, or driving intruders away. My sister-in-law, on the other hand, warned us that this dog drools, smells, sheds hair and would be too big for our space. I was oblivious; like one blinded from reality. I was the type of person that wanted instant gratification: I wanted my dog and I couldn’t wait.
DJ was a darling puppy when we got him, with brown, mournful eyes. The first night, I woke up at three in the morning to let him out the house to potty. The next morning, there was pee and poop in the living room, the dining area and the den. I would wake up in the wee hours of the morning everyday to let him out the house. It was like having a newborn baby. I read everything on potty training but no matter how I tried I couldn’t make him poop and pee at will. Armed with my book knowledge, a clicker, and a bag of treats, I couldn’t make him sit, stay or heel. Talking about alpha personalities, it was clearly evident who the boss in the house was. Matthew was so scared to death of him the idea of him playing with DJ was out of the question.
Like responsible pet owners, we would take DJ to get his shots, we kept him on a leash in public, he had his engraved dog tag in case he got lost, we washed him and cut his nails, took him to the groomer’s. We bought him toys and treats; his dog food was part of the household budget, and his crate cost more than a baby stroller or car seat.
As DJ got older his dog smell and poop odor became more pronounced. This was even more problematic because we still couldn’t potty train him. Plus, he was shedding hair all over the house. At this point he was confined to his crate, as having him roam the house at will was non negotiable. As he got bigger, our twice-daily walks became wrestling matches. He would jump up at me, and I would end up with scratches and bruises from the whole exercise. When he’s off the leash, he became wild and rambunctious and to protect myself I would block him off with a grocery cart or with the patio table or chair. He would clamber on to the chair or table as I tried to keep him away in classic cat and mouse fashion. Just getting him back into his crate required an elaborate scheme of me blockading everything else and putting all sorts of treats or curiosities inside to lure him in. I was desperate for help. But “Bark Busters”, which promised to make a Lassie out of Cujo, would cost me more than 500 bucks.
Since he was most of the time inside his crate, we knew DJ needed an outlet for his energy. I would take him to the dog park where I consorted with other dog owners while he romped in the poop fertilized grass. However, I was forced, later on, to take him to the big dogs section which was a nightmare for Matthew and me. We would cower on the side as the huge dogs would surround us to either sniff our crotches, or growl . We would jump onto the picnic tables to avoid being run over by the pack.
I love to sleep in on my days off but with DJ, I was forced to wake up early to let him out the house. I had to walk him even when I was tired from work or too sick, to avoid disastrous consequences: disastrous because if he poops inside the odor would spread like a stink bomb up to the rafters of the second floor. It was a horrendous smell.
Walking him everyday, needless to say, was a Herculean task. Literally. He would fly off like a chicken out of the coop, while I trail like a reed in the wind. It was like holding down a galloping horse. And since we live in a country where we were to pick up after our dog– germophobic, odor-conscious-me would be out there with my plastic bag and my gloves, picking up after DJ like a true law abiding resident alien.
As time went on, DJ’s dog smell became so pervasive we had to take his crate outside. The sad thing was, I couldn’t keep him out of the crate because he would dig at my plants, and gnaw his teeth on the fence or the patio furniture. He wrecked our upholstery and whisked foam all over the patio. He would knock over the garbage bin or eat the plants.
I was thinking more and more that this was a good idea gone awfully wrong. We may have to give him up. As scared as little Matthew was of DJ, he kept saying no.
The decisive moment came one day. I was outside our house with DJ, and to give him a little exercise I made the mistake of taking him off his leash without my usual grocery-cart shield. The taste of leash-free-freedom made him giddy. He was bounding and zooming in and out of my sight. I was standing on the pavement when I saw DJ make a bee line, and with a jump rammed his 75 lb frame of steel into me in a football tackle that landed me on my back with a wham if not for my ample butt I would have cracked a pelvic bone. The pain on my bottom was instantaneous. I almost fainted. As I lay there momentarily stunned, DJ went on top of me with his paws. I tried to ward him off. It felt like a scene from “When Animals Attack”. I managed to stand up, bawling like a baby. I’ve never been knocked down, with the wind wiped out of me like that. The effect was utterly dramatic. I walked towards the house, still dizzy and faint, wailing shamelessly, people from a block away probably heard me.
From then on, my husband became DJ’s official “handler”. There would be no more walks or potty breaks for me. My reprieve was only temporary, though. It so happened that my husband had to leave the country for three weeks leaving me and Matt with the dog. I begged him to give DJ away before he left. The prospect of three weeks singlehandedly dogsitting for DJ was unbearable. DJ had beaten me up so bad I was a broken woman.
I set myself on a mission to find DJ a new home. I asked people at work, sent emails around, searched my social network for anyone at all who would take an interest in adopting an American bulldog. There were, perhaps, two or three people who responded but for one reason or another, backed out at the last minute. It seemed like a hopeless cause. Meantime, my husband had gone leaving me with DJ.
The last straw that put me over the edge and made me call the County Animal Shelter was a letter of complaint from the homeowner’s association that our dog was causing a noise disturbance in the neighborhood. I became paranoid. Who would make and how dare these people make a complaint like that? We were told we cannot leave our dog outside the house. I thought, if we cannot have our dog in the house, and cannot have him out, where else can we put him?
And so, one day, the person from the animal shelter came. As I led DJ solemnly out of the house the nosy neighbors were there (perhaps, even the ones who complained about our dog) to witness DJ go to the “slaughter house”. I would have loved to say to those neighbors: “Are you happy now?”
I do not know if DJ got adopted or had to be put down. The lady from the animal shelter did not sound so optimistic after DJ tried to nip her hand. She said that if a dog showed any sign of aggression at all, they would not risk giving him away to another home.
And so ended that chapter in our lives.
The lesson we learned from DJ was an expensive and hard-earned one. We entered the dog-ownership process with high hopes and expectations, and spent six stressful months trying to make a relationship with an ill-chosen pet work. Hard as I try, I could not remember having any fond memories of DJ.
Our first attempt at having a dog had failed. It was first and last, my failure and it leaves me with a bad taste in the mouth that DJ had to suffer for it.
To anyone who plans to adopt a pet, let my trials as an ex-dog-owner be a lesson to you. The End.
I have, of late, redirected my time and energies into this rather physical art and practical science of gardening.
Frankly, gardening is included in my resume. I used to be an avid gardener a few years back but had sadly lost interest when Hurricane Wilma damaged our patio, fence and pergola. The roof debris may be gone now, and the fence raised to life, now, but my passion for gardening left with the storm and did not at all return. Our patio fell into disarray. As the months and years passed, mounds of junk had piled up everywhere: boxloads of paper, toys, garbage, rotting wood, styrofoam coolers, gasoline containers, bikes, gardening equipment…and cartloads of dead leaves. It was an eyesore that greeted me everyday as I went in and out of the house.
This year, I have gotten my “second wind”. I came back revived and recharged with a spring fever that heat up with the summer sun. As of date the spring fever that sweltered with the heat hasn’t cooled off yet.
I finally completed my garden this summer, a feat involving much pulling and bending and twisting and digging, not only into the rocky Florida soil, but into the wallet, as well. Yes, Mistress Mary, unlike back home where everybody gets their specimens from everybody else, here in America, you actually have to buy your plant, yes, your soil, too, and pots, fertilizer, even the bamboo poles to hold up your plants. This would add up to a fair amount of money, enough for a monthly car payment. Which is why, after the initial investment, I have become wiser and now ask for clippings from my sister-in-law, or sneak out cuttings from the plants in our community pool.
Be as it may, the pleasure of watching my plants grow and my flowers bud and bloom, is an experience worth the backache and the pocket ache, and the enormous amount of time (away from the other loves of my life) it takes to start and maintain a plant paradise.
It is worth investing into your soul. Gazing out into my garden umphteen times a day gives me a sweet satisfaction and enjoyment that my technologically -inclined husband will never understand. It is the first thing I check on my way out to work in the morning, and the first thing I see when I come home. My plants are like my children that I have to constantly hover on everyday to make sure their needs are met. I am quite protective of them–keeping pests away and looking out for early signs of diseases. It is best to catch them early before the damage is irreparable, as what happened to my lovely dual-colored crape myrtle and my row of flowering Mexican petunias which I trimmed bare due to a severe aphid infestation.
Just this week the gardenia (rosal) bud that have been budding for a month finally bloomed, I actually gasped with delight as it greeted me with its heady fragrance when I came home from work one evening! My purple and pink crape myrtles have flowered. My nerium oleander seems to like its place in the garden–yielding clusters of fushchia pink flowers.
I had another surprise today when I found the beginnings of a papaya fruit on my tree. I am so proud of my two papaya babies. Despite attacks from the green monsters they have flourished over the past months and grown taller than my fence. A certain large green lizard and an iguana have made feast of its young leaf buds we have to constantly keep them at bay with stones, and bb gun pellets, and any throwable object in sight.
Watching my garden is delightful; it is like yoga for the mind. I could stand minutes on end inspecting my plants in their pots and plots and baskets. The act of watching is actually an act of self-gratification and self-actualization. I am seeing the so-called fruit of my labor. Come to think of it: gardening is really a parable on parenting. We invest our time, money and ourselves into our kids, we make sure they are healthy in body, soul and mind (feeding and fertilizing). We protect them (driving pests and predators) and discipline them (prune) as necessary, we give them the best environment to grow in (right soil and light) and to watch them flourish and grow (bud and bloom) gives us satisfaction and a sense of self fulfilment.
I am not comparing my child to a garden. Our kids are certainly more complicated and more precious. But after all that’s been said, the gardener in you would know exactly what I mean.
Miss California allegedly did not win the Miss USA crown because of her anti-gay marriage stance. She was later castigated in youtube by one of the pageant judges for being a “dumb b—-.”
The good news: If there is one great thing that could come out of Miss America, or any beauty pageant, it is this: there is one face out there in the sea of beautiful faces who has defied the order of things in an America-gone-morally-bankrupt. Her moral integrity and courage puts me to shame. What an amazing voice for all of us who still believe that there is no middle ground between right and wrong. How refreshing to know that we finally have a role model for our daughters and nieces and granddaughters and ourselves.
The bad news: If you are against gay marriage, you are considered a bigot in this country, thus you cannot represent America.
And what does America represent anyway?
Like the ad used to say: “You’ve come a long way, baby,” America has come a long way to this point where it now has a President who declared to the world that the U.S.A. is not a Christian nation, and a President who had religious symbols covered during his speech at a Catholic university, an America ruled by a few, powerful liberals that re-estabished a judicial system that essentially removed God or the concept of God from the classroom, legalized abortion, and granted same-sex marriages; an America with a liberal-left-controlled media, who, to coincide with Lent, blatantly displayed a cross on the cover of a news magazine with the words: “The rise and decline of Christianity in America. ”
If Christianity and all things it represents is on the decline in America, tell me what has risen to take its place?
And, should we even allow them to believe that Christianity and biblical morality is dying in the United States?
Not so.
God bless you, Miss California.
Most of us may have lived long enough to be entitled to a past—–however wonderful or sad, bitter or sweet or a mixture of both. For sure we have a million memories stored in the nooks and crannies of our brains just waiting to be retrieved one fine day. Some of us may have stuff buried in boxes—– photos, letters, journals and mementos, waiting to be rediscovered. For most of us, our intense and vivid presents have long exorcised the past . One fine April day I found a stash of poems from my so-called ”long-exorcised past”. Here they are…
For —–
I loved you in the heat of April’s fire,
In a summer swept by weather
That struck men with madness,
That turned the green of life to brown.
Love for you has me sick
With something that throbs in my head,
That sucks the color from my lips,
That sets me sleepless till the early morning
That with time has spurred me to bouts of screaming.
My mind is faint with too much thinking.
The telephone has burned holes into my heard.
I walk like a drunk in the day.
(People wonder; they do not know.)
I am sick with love for you yet I cannot say no.
If this sickness drives me to death
I shall rise by its power to love you again.
April Sonata
You move me in ways no man has.
You overwhelm me,
burn me, consume me,
squeeze the sugar sap from me.
You are storm and lightning
breeze and flower;
You pull out the roots of me
and we fall down together.
I call this love. I call this love.
Twice Over
Because you don’t love me–
I shall love you with my love
And the love you cannot give me.
How then can you not love me?
Because you will not hold me–
I will hold you with my arms
And your arms.
How can you break free?
Because you will not kiss me–
I will kiss you with my kisses
And the kisses you cannot give me.
You cannot deny me.
I will miss you
forty eight hours in a day
Because you do not miss me.
Because you will not love me now or ever
I shall love you twice forever.
One More Love Story
It came as a kiss
That fell on love-starved lips
And sparked a season of fire
That won’t stop burning.
A love story born
From unhappy endings.
A jetty, and a waveless sea,
Sweet talk, roses, poetry…
It came as a resurrection
Of buried laughter
As balloons soar in balmy weather
Bearing white promises of forever,
Bearing white promises of forever.
The End
You moved away
And in your moving
Rolled a chasm open.
Like an apple chopped right through
I and you, now we are two.
A swirl of thoughts clouds your eyes
As distant as mountain rumblings
From the plains–you are.
I hold a long arm out to reach,
You ripple in widening circles –away.
To my tongue the aftertaste of love
Turns bitter from sweet,
Soft bread turns stale.
I watch the passing clouds
For a glimpse of sun.
A Postscript to Love
I poured my wine of love
Into your vessel full of holes
And now my flask is empty
My arms are cold.
How do I ignite the burning
That ran through my veins
When the icy hands
Of your neglect
Has frozen my bones?
I hang my heart
On empty pegs.
I fold my hands
On silent sheets.
I curl my tongue
And speak no more forevers
The spark and spring is gone.
Where love has gone I could not follow.
He left no footprints behind.
One fine day in the fall I started a vegetable garden. For me, it was an idea whose time had come and I was excited at the prospect of a bountiful harvest of plump, red tomatoes; I dreamed of lush kamote and malunggay leaves for the picking and papayas galore.
I hounded my husband with pleas to get me kamote to plant. I shopped at Home Depot and Walmart for tomato seedlings. And I scoured my Filipino friend’s garden for malunggay clippings.
Gardening was supposed to be as easy as ABC. After all, back home, tomato seedlings sprouted in the most unlikely places and kamote vines sprung with nary a thought.
The three tomato plants I bought instantly died. The three pepper plants followed suit. The three malunggay clippings that I stuck in three different places to increase their chances of survival, sadly did not survive.
This is my pale-looking spring onion. It is so pallid I had to darken the picture’s background so you can see it. 
My kamote—well, after sprouting a few leaves , it stopped growing and turned a sickly yellow. This is my kamote after six months.
My proudest accomplishment, after seven months of diminishing expectations, is this solitary tomato from my lone surviving plant. I will let it ripen in the vine and how I will relish every bite!
This papaya plant is an anomaly. I found it as a baby seedling in my garden one day. I wondered when and how it found its way there! I knew it was a baby papaya when I saw it but my husband was skeptical. How in the world did it get in there? (The gardening angel probably took pity on me.) I shower it daily to ensure its health and my future “atsara”- and- chicken- “tinola” happiness.
Since I started gardening last fall, many in my family have already had their fill of home-grown, organic produce. My mother back home is enjoying her nice bell peppers . My sister is growing broccoli and my sister-in-law had already harvested a bounty of tomatoes and green peppers.
A lot of ventures in this world are began with great optimism and the most noble of motives. However, not every venture is crowned with success. As for me, until I grow a green thumb, I shall gladly settle for my prize: the brave, and hardy, little tomato hanging on the vine for me.
“Part of the Family”
I lived in lola Tanciang’s house in Tandang Sora Street my entire childhood and early into my adulthood. It was a rundown, two story, wooden home with a zinc roof that towered over some of the one story houses around it. Whaever paint there was on the outside had long peeled off and over all, it looked awfully gray and distressed. It was a character of a house in a neighborhood of bigger, respectable homes.
In the house resided a variety of creepy crawlies–cockroaches by the hordes, big spiders, lizards, mice and of course, the ubiquitous mosquitoes, flies and ants. I liked to see those tiny lizard eggs in the walls hollowed out by “bokbok”; cockroach eggs stuck to our clothing and closets; spider eggs hide in secret places. Our elders said that when you open up a spider egg you can figure lucky numbers inside to bet in Jai Alai.
The lizards traversed the walls and, with expectant heads, looked up on whatever bowls of food may have been left on the table. Cockroaches rule at night, darting in and out of the cupboards and cabinets. Open a cupboard at night and you would see dozens of them scurrying from the light. At night, there is also the occasional mice or two scampering across the floor. All these insects were a given– taken for granted–and, as my brother M once remarked to my young son who was swarmed by flies one day– “part of the family.”
Living with insects and rodents are not that horribly disgusting–if you’ve lived with them your whole life. You develop a tolerance for the filthy, the icky and the distasteful.
Inside that house on Tandang Sora Street, the ”lawanit” ceilings were painted by my lola a deep green deflecting whatever light may be filtered in from the outside. Some of the lawanit boards may have contracted from the cold or wet, for they were curving at some areas and no longer attached to the rest of the ceiling thereby leaking dust and cobwebs into our living quarters.
Lately, in my mind, I’ve called it the house of many windows. It had windows in every corner. Even then, around the house it was dark because of the shade of so many trees. It was surrounded by fruit trees–star apple, coconut, banana, mango, indian mango, guyabano, santol, iba, lansones and guava. Those trees were there as far back as I can remember. I have vivid memories of climbing the santol tree and of picking the sour fruit from the iba. How wonderful it was to see the clusters of fruit hanging so temptingly from the branches of the iba tree! There were starapples in abundance. I liked picking the tiny, immature fruit which were hard, round and shiny. Star apple leaves blanketed the ground and I would gather them in a basket pretending they were fish, piling them one on top of the other in imitation of the roving fish lady that passed by everyday. I had a memory of being stuck between the trunks of the guava tree, unable to climb out I had to be rescued. There was a large rosal (gardenia) bush whose fragrant flowers my lola would pick to put in a vase and a clerodendron and pink crepe myrtle tree. (The sight of these familiar flowers here brings back childhood memories). There were hanging pots of viny, green ornamental plants, and potted green plants and colorful varieties in the plots of earth on the sides of the house.
I shared the second story of the house with my Lola for several years. Many a night I would gaze out of the window in the darkness of the room and watch the silhouette of trees around me. I would lie there mooning and pining like some lovesick puppy, listening to Matt Monroe or Johnny Mathis croon over the radio. It was where my cousins and I would hang out and speak of our secret crushes and chat our time away while enjoying sliced Indian mango or semi-ripe papaya dipped in soy sauce and vinegar or crunchy Chippy or chikinini corn snacks. I would watch the world from my perch on the window pane or listen to the neighbor play amateurish piano or lie awake to laughter and karaoke singing of people partying next door. In that second story room, I’d spend hours reading books and daydreaming, mornings and afternoons, interrupted only by my mother calling me to dinner.
Sadly, along with the trees, that house is now gone forever. It was torn down to make way for a new one- more decent, and concrete. I remember then how devastated I was at the loss. I was uprooted and displaced, without a home for the first time in 26 years. I remained homeless for a while. My siblings were scattered abroad. I felt like I lost my connection, my roots. It felt like the ground gave way from under me. I was gripped with a terrible sadness. I did not have a single photograph of that house on Tandang Sora Street.
I’ve lived in different houses since then but have never grown roots anywhere but there. That was the house that my subconscious mind still considers home, the house that shows up every once in a while in my dreams.
Even now, whenever I have nightmares of being chased, I find myself escaping to the room on the second floor of my childhood home. The flimsy plywood door of that room is locked by inserting a large nail into a burr hole drilled on the side of the door into the wall. I dream of the door being banged open, and I, searching for a way out, would always find myself escaping to the roof.
That upstairs-room was my haven on earth for many years. That may be the reason why in my dreams I run there to escape from villains, witches and monsters.
They may have taken the house and the trees away from me, but there is one thing they could never take away – my remembrances of the house, and the trees.
No matter where I may end up in life, and no matter how many thousands of miles away I may be, there is a state of mind that is called childhood, and there is a place in my heart that is called home. And I find that for all my underprivileged upbringing, I still had a childhood so rich and a home so fine, where I never fail to return.
Ah, childhood… growing up among the trees and the darkness and the myriad of insects and the many windows with glimpses of the moon on summer evenings…is still idyllic for me. It is a special place, I know.
“The president was horrified at the shooting deaths of 13 people at the Civic Center in Binghamton, New York.”
I find that statement in the news incredibly ironic coming from a president who supports abortion.
It is a fact that millions of unborn children have been slaughtered in this country, their silent screams unheard. And yet, where is the horror, Mr. President?
Whenever women and children, the elderly and infirmed, are killed or murdered, society is doubly shocked, because they are the weaker among us. What about the tiny unborn babies, whose screams we cannot even hear, Mr. President? Who are dismembered to death everyday in this country? Where is the shock, the horror, the lament, the mourning, the call to action?
It is absolutely shocking for an unborn child to be bludgeoned to death. And yet it is perfectly legal in this country. They make the defense of this national murder so convolutedly complicated that we get lost in the words and in our muddled heads begin to think that it is justified.
Hypocrites all, we are.
My niece Ira graduates as valedictorian of her elementary class this March. She asked me to write her a speech. Looking down the road to my seemingly distant past when I made my own valedictory speech, I could not remember what I said then.
I look back at what seemed like half a lifetime now gone. My desire for her and for the rest of these kids is for them to live each day wisely, for the years will pass by so quickly they will wake up one day finding themselves old and gray and wishing they had more years to live, or another chance to relive their lives and rewrite their personal histories.
A Speech for Ira
“Marching Orders”
It was not too long ago when we were little children on our first day of school. We were alone for the first time, scared to death of being separated from our parents, and from everything that was comforting and familiar.
Our memories of that day may be a little foggy perhaps, but I suppose our parents quite remember how difficult it was to let us go.
Today is another one of those days. Today we are crossing the bridge of childhood into adolescence and we will soon find out, in the coming years, how tough this period will be and how challenging, not only for us, but for the people around us.
Knowing the challenges we’ve had these past few years that have led us to this day, I take this moment, in behalf of the members of my graduating class to thank you, our parents, and loved ones, our teachers, administrators and staff for your patience, guidance, wisdom and support. Without all of you, we could not have made it this far, from the day when we were nervous little preschoolers to proud graduates of this institution.
And so on this, our graduation day, I have the privilege of making a speech that years from now, I wonder if anyone of us will ever remember. Nevertheless, I will make an effort to sow the seed of a message that by the grace of the Almighty God will take root in you.
It has been said of us, children, that we are so young, and our life and future is ahead of us. We expect—- like it is our natural right—to have a long life and a multitude of opportunities to do whatever we want to do, and be whoever we want to be.
Some of us have a vision of becoming nurses, or engineers, doctors, teachers, businessmen, pastors, and biblewomen, wives, husbands, mothers and fathers. We look forward to the day when we will be able to help our families out of poverty, or help other struggling families in our community and perhaps, the world. Some of us desire to become rich, well-known and influential.
Only God knows if we will live to see that day. Only God knows if we will be there to celebrate our eighteenth birthday, or our fortieth or if we will ever live to see our children and grandchildren. We are wisely instructed to remember our Creator in the days of our youth.
We are never too young to ask the deep questions of life: “Why I am here?”; “Where am I going?”; “ What is the purpose of my existence?” Let us not wait till we are thirty or fifty, broken, empty after years of aimlessness, to search for the answers to these questions. Now is the time to determine our purpose, and to live our lives according to what our Creator, Lord and Saviour intended for it to be.
We must guard ourselves and arm ourselves with wisdom, courage and integrity. We must live each day guided by God’s word and God’s will. As we approach the turbulence of adolescence, the many challenges and temptations that lie there and beyond —let us pray everyday for the wisdom to make the Godly decisions in the choice of our friends, our careers, our mates. Let us pray for courage to do what is right and good no matter how hard it might be. Let us pray for integrity—the will to do the right thing all the time, now matter the sacrifice.
We will find what is good and right in God’s Word. Let us not be persuaded by the rest of our peers and friends. Let us stand up for what is right though people may think us weird and though it will make us unpopular. Let us seek the counsel and wisdom of our parents and pastors, godly counselors and teachers. It is hard to trust the wisdom of our elders when we are young and strong-willed, but they have seen life and have learned from their experiences. They don’t want us to make the same mistakes. Let us strive to fight the rebelliousness in our hearts to listen, yes, listen and obey our parents, in the Lord, for this is right.
It is never wrong to dream big dreams. But the biggest dream we could ever dream for ourselves in this life is to dream God’s dream for us—to seek to know and follow His will for us.
Someday some of us may not become the doctors or nurses, engineers, or parents that we dreamed of becoming. Sadly, some of us may never even live long enough to see our dreams come true. But there is one sure thing. If we do God’s will everyday, we will have found the meaning for our existence on this earth. That is the most important thing.
In this life, we may not be anything but a housewife, or farmer or government employee. But it doesn’t matter: the true and genuine measure of our success is whether we have done what the Lord had set for us to do in this earth, and whether we have done it well.
I am made wise and humble by the example of my parents. They are here right now, and I pay tribute to them. They have forsaken the comforts of this world to choose the more excellent way—God’s way.
When we pass from this life to the next, our material success will not matter. What will matter then is for God to say, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
We have only one life to live. Let us live it now, with wisdom, and purpose, according to God’s Word and God’s will. Let us remember our Creator now, when we are young for we will never know if we only have tomorrow, or the next five years, or ten years or a lifetime.
I want you all to say these words with me.
“Lord, give us the wisdom to to know your will,
the courage to always do the right thing,
and the strength to stand up to temptation.”
If you forget anything else that I say today, remember one thing:
God has a mission and a purpose for our lives.
As we march out of this room today, let our marching orders be:
Find that mission. Live that mission.
Crane at home on a branch felled by Hurricane Wilma a year prior.
The branch had become a part of the landscape.
Flamingos come to feed on our lake abundant with fish.
Flamingos, wild ducks and the renegade goose share the same space.
Flamingos in Flight
