When all these anxieties grow upon me more intensely than my faith. / I sleep and dream that I lost it. I worry to wake up and find that I have lost it. / Lord, grant me faith. By Your grace, grant me faith./ To appreciate this beauty / to allow the overwhelming gratitude that embraces me to grow fundamentally from my heart./To be your servant./To realize that this is all but Your will,/ that whatever the outcome be is never to serve my purpose but Yours./ Thank You for allowing me to be a hand and body of Your will./And I will rest./ I will rest in faith that You are beautiful, and that You make life beautiful.
It was an edifice of burning hearts, of passion for language, art and literature. Consumed by its own fire inside, every thing tangible was lost, but not the souls and minds of what this building stood for. With their voices and fists raised above their shoulders, they stepped outside, then forward, to show the rest that none of their ashen masterpieces can ever stop the beautiful language of arts and letters.
4:43 am, and the fire is already controlled. While many were still dreaming, the few great minds had already woken up to mourn for their loss. Walls have crashed, but among its hallways one could still hear exchanges on democracy, as if Plato and Socrates themselves stood in those hallways.
The hallways that heard the plea and glee of the young, upon seeing their name on a piece of paper tacked outside the door. It is the furnace of fresh and old ideas burned together in the spirit of renewal. It is where age is both respected and forgotten in the spirit of unity.
The building has burned down, but not the hearts of many that has built and rebuilt this nation.
It is 7:00 am and the first class has just started.
Every detail of those days that led to the diagnosis of her father’s cancer was still very vivid in her memory.
One seemingly ordinary Saturday, she went with her father inside the hospital (one of the rare times he let her go inside the hospital as a kid). She sat across her father, and watched a young man pierce her father’s skin to get blood sample. When they went outside the room, she heard him speaking to another doctor colleague, both of their voices reassuring each other, but the worries could not be denied.
They were told that the result will be available in a few hours. While waiting, they had lunch nearby. When they came back for the result, next thing she knew, her father was already processing his admission to the hospital that night, this time as a patient.
But before he actually admitted himself in the hospital, they stopped by a few banks to settle her father’s bank accounts to be placed in one bank account. That very night, the doctor-father she knew all her life, became the first patient she has ever encountered, long before she became a doctor herself.
It was an ordinary Saturday that made her see a part of her father’s character — the pragmatic, reasonable man that he was, humbled by the patient’s gown he wore.
The doctor explained about the poor prognosis of her father. She said he’s dying and there’s nothing they can do anymore. The doctor explained why it’s impossible to survive her father’s situation, that the heart is still beating but the brain is already dead. She decided they will continue with the resuscitation.
“What are you expecting from all this resuscitation?” the doctor asked.
“To get him back to life.” She answered as if she did not understand a thing from her long explanation of his prognosis. “Resuscitate for as long as you can, please,” is what she last said.
And every time they did so, the heart would beat again for a few minutes and then return to death. The few minutes of life and death and in between, was probably the longest 21 minutes of her life. She hoped that a miracle would strike her father and turn him back to life, where he could talk, and laugh, and maybe even get angry, just to see him alive.
Alas, it ended with a quiet sigh from the family. The mournful atmosphere could not be denied. It was 7:30 in the morning.
the way he wakes up as early as you do, so he can make her coffee while she takes a bath.
the way he makes her tea before she sleeps, and before she even asks him to.
the way he places the things she needs within reach and where she won’t forget.
the way he makes her feel like she’s the most loved person in the world.
She came to talk with the mother of a child, to hear her excuse for not bringing her child to the doctor when she was told to. She heard her ramble about her foot, about the rusty nail that got to her foot, about the lack of family support, about the lack of money. “It’s always about the money,” she thought. But now that the child is between life and death, the mother came and brought her child to seek for help — still with no money, and still with one foot injured from a rusty nail. The mother was crying, but there were no tears, as if to justify her having none in this life, except her own being just to be with the daughter she loves so much.
She left their conversation wishing she had empathised with her better, wishing she had more to offer the mother, wishing she did not have to scold her.
She picked up her green scarf, wore it around her neck, and decided to go for a walk. That evening, there was nothing on her To-Do list, except to buy a few things for the home. While walking, she realised it’s been a while since she last had a leisure walk with a nostalgic feeling that brought her to years and years of memories she has almost forgotten.
She thought, while looking around her neighbourhood, “it’s good to be home.”