I love my husband Marvin because. Yes, because. I could easily make a list of why I love him, but to do so is to limit who he is to me. He is more than a set of words, more than adjectives.
I love Marvin beyond conditions and above circumstances. It is a love that is of this world and is not of this world. If I love him only on the great days, then it must not be love at all. If I love him only when he looks good, it must only be attraction. But attraction can be so fleeting and conditional. Our fifteen years together is surely beyond fleeting.
I love Marvin when he massages my feet after a long day at work. I love him when he insists on carrying my heavy school bags for me. I love him
when I wake up on lazy weekend mornings and I hear him snore. I love him when we watch t.v. together and we both fall asleep in the middle of a season finale.
I love Marvin when he annoys me or bores me.I love him when he does not appreciate the poems I hold dear to my heart. I love him when he does not understand why I go gaga over jazz. I love him even when there are days all he wants to do is play tennis. I love him even when he does not want to see the world like I do.
I love my husband because I love God first. Loving my husband is my obedience to God's Word. And each day, I re-dedicate myself to our marriage and to our commitment to love one another. And I pray my love will never fade nor end.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Breasts
I went into the doctor's clinic with a lot of apprehension; I was to discuss with him my mammogram results. I had been feeling short jabs of pain in my right breast for weeks and I wanted to know what caused it. The darkest of thoughts invaded my mind as I braced myself for the worst news. "Lord, please do not let it be cancer," I silently prayed as the doctor asked me to take a seat. I barely heard him as he went through the usual nice-doctor pleasantries. I was, for a moment, sucked into an intense black hole of fear and anxiety.
Then I saw it coming. There was something in the oncologist's face that made me know seconds ahead of the actual announcement that I did not have cancer. "You are clear. Your breasts are healthy," he finally revealed. I let out a huge sigh of relief as a dark cloud was lifted off me. I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving. Then the doctor flipped on the viewbox to show me my mammo film. He pointed out to me that there were no lumps or abnormal growths detected. A sense of joy and gratitude filled me as I looked at the cancer-free image of my breasts. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.
Then, another mammo film on the lighted viewbox caught my eye. It was of a breast with a small, almost diaphanous, mark. "This belongs to a seventeen year-old girl. She has cancer," the doctor answered my unvoiced question. I was stunned. My celebration was cut short by the realization that another woman will soon be fighting for her life, Or, maybe, she already is. I found myself praying for her, this faceless, anonymous young woman with the blighted breast.
Years after that day in the doctor's office, I still think of her. Did she survive the odds? Did she fulfill her dreams and ambitions? Did she get married and have babies? Did she beat cancer? And I always ask God to bless her. Wherever she may be.
Then I saw it coming. There was something in the oncologist's face that made me know seconds ahead of the actual announcement that I did not have cancer. "You are clear. Your breasts are healthy," he finally revealed. I let out a huge sigh of relief as a dark cloud was lifted off me. I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving. Then the doctor flipped on the viewbox to show me my mammo film. He pointed out to me that there were no lumps or abnormal growths detected. A sense of joy and gratitude filled me as I looked at the cancer-free image of my breasts. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.
Then, another mammo film on the lighted viewbox caught my eye. It was of a breast with a small, almost diaphanous, mark. "This belongs to a seventeen year-old girl. She has cancer," the doctor answered my unvoiced question. I was stunned. My celebration was cut short by the realization that another woman will soon be fighting for her life, Or, maybe, she already is. I found myself praying for her, this faceless, anonymous young woman with the blighted breast.
Years after that day in the doctor's office, I still think of her. Did she survive the odds? Did she fulfill her dreams and ambitions? Did she get married and have babies? Did she beat cancer? And I always ask God to bless her. Wherever she may be.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
From Baltimore to Cagayan de Oro
Baltimore is on my mind as I count the days since I have been home in Cagayan de Oro for my summer break. Twenty days. I have been home for twenty days. And yet, I am ambivalent about where my home really is. Is it really here, in this corner of the Philippines where I was born and raised, where I learned without trying to favor bread over rice for dinner, and where I learned to laugh even during times of adversity and to be resilient when there is a pressing need to be? Or is home Baltimore, Maryland, where I have learned to be tough to be able to survive the American classroom, where I eventually committed myself to loving every young man and woman who came to my classes despite challenging behaviors and attitudes?
I miss my kids in Baltimore. They who called me "Mrs. Jackie Chan" and later asked me to "go back to China" at the beginning of the schoolyear. I miss Frederick who could raise havoc in the classrooms and hallways if he wants to. I laugh at the thought of my dear Fred who told me countless of times I am his "most, most, most favorite teacher" and who, one day, said to me in the most serious of tones, "Mrs. Edrolin, you are so lucky I love you."
I miss Sherika, my wild child, who could spew four-letter words at the speed of light at the slightest provocation from her classmates. She needed to be hugged and assured she is loved before she would calm down and focus on schoolwork. I miss Rashod who hated me with passion when he first came to my class. He eventually became my friend who persistently asked me to be his teacher next schoolyear. I miss Detrick, who helped me arrange desks after school everyday; I miss Silva, the silent one; I miss Jerome, my gentle, big boy. I miss them all. They , too, were my home.
I miss my kids in Baltimore. They who called me "Mrs. Jackie Chan" and later asked me to "go back to China" at the beginning of the schoolyear. I miss Frederick who could raise havoc in the classrooms and hallways if he wants to. I laugh at the thought of my dear Fred who told me countless of times I am his "most, most, most favorite teacher" and who, one day, said to me in the most serious of tones, "Mrs. Edrolin, you are so lucky I love you."
I miss Sherika, my wild child, who could spew four-letter words at the speed of light at the slightest provocation from her classmates. She needed to be hugged and assured she is loved before she would calm down and focus on schoolwork. I miss Rashod who hated me with passion when he first came to my class. He eventually became my friend who persistently asked me to be his teacher next schoolyear. I miss Detrick, who helped me arrange desks after school everyday; I miss Silva, the silent one; I miss Jerome, my gentle, big boy. I miss them all. They , too, were my home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)