Lost and found
July 16, 2006 | 12:00am
Please tell me what to do. Show me the way I must go. Give me a sign. Push me in the right direction.
Some people are born to lead. I admit, unabashedly, that I have always felt I was born to follow. I am not a take-charge kind of girl. I have always been dependent, and maybe that is why the men in my life (namely, my father, my husband, and also my two brothers now that they are all grown up) have a tendency to be protective of me. Come to think of it, even the women, too – my mom, my sister, my late Tita Liclic, and my Aunt Fergie. I was always comfortable with solitude but only if it was within the confines of my home. I did not like being alone in public, because I had (still have, actually) an awful sense of direction. I get lost easily, in the maze that is the toilet area in malls, the streets of the village we live in, if I so much as enter a different gate, even just a big bookstore. I am legendary for my sense of direction (or lack of, as the case may be).
Until I got married and was faced with my own household to run, I pretty much relied on others for things both big and small. That is where I got my stability, my security. Like a fairy tale, I had to only want it in my little girl’s heart and it was done for me. No, there were no tantrums or melodramatic spiels to get my way; there was no need to manipulate anyone to make certain situations lean in my favor – none of those were tolerated in our home to begin with. But somehow things always fell into place, like pieces in a puzzle. There was always someone near me I could ask for help, for assistance, for direction and guidance. Someone who could figure out situations even when they became too muddy, too soupy, and too gooey to even make sense. Like ice cream in a cone, keys to a lock, flowers in a vase, there always was a sound solution to a problem, any problem. I never for an instant thought it could be otherwise.
It was not because I believed I was more special than others. I was just very accepting of things. I would not say that I breathed life into the bahala na idiocy, but I was, for the most part, always inclined to believe in the inherent good of people, not to mention the power of a great God, both conspiring to make things fall into place at the right time. What will be will be. I had this soap-and-water innocence, this unshakeable conviction that things would always work out in the end for the greater good, and most especially when intentions are pure to begin with.
Even when life became bigger, when the world opened more doors, and when complex people, places and things started to loom larger, sometimes even tumbling one over the other in horrific abundance, the basic things still held true. And through all that, while it was true that I could still count on the same people I had relied on for years, at some point, I realized that it was just me. And God. Thankfully, there always is God. I say that because in the very same breath I admit I was always dependent; I would never, ever say I was despondent. My dependence was not my weakness; it was my strength, because I anchored it in God.
And I have my mother to thank for that, because she taught me how to pray.
Which brings me to the one question people always ask me. How do I know that what I am doing is God’s push in the right direction, so to speak? I don’t. I do not specifically know when He answers. I do not hear a booming voice while I am praying, telling me what to do, where to go, which option to choose. I am not roused by a heavenly voice from my sleep like Samuel was. I do not get instant answers the moment I pray. I have very few instant "Aha!" moments (to borrow Oprah’s words). I do not get God’s answer in my e-mail or snail mail (although every day I wish I did). I do not know the exact moment it happens. Again I say, I do not know.
But this much I know. I know He always answers. In His inimitable wisdom, He gives the only possible answer at any given moment and it is only in hindsight that I recognize how He has woven His brand of magic into the fabric of my life. Only when it has come to pass do I realize that yet another prayer has been answered. Only when there is an end to the story (for is not one’s life a compilation of many little stories, joyful, sorrowful and beautiful?) do I see His hand in what I initially thought were unremarkable, humdrum circumstances.
Always, my prayer tapers down to a plea asking for direction (I am a follower, remember?). Always I cry out, "Please tell me what to do" – sometimes in glee (when one option seems just as rosy as the other), a few times in what seems like borderless sadness, a lot of other times in sheer confusion about which road to take.
I am past the stage when I would ask God for signs because sometimes I would find myself either adjusting my request or making excuses for the signs that did come my way to conform to what I felt should happen. If I say "God, please send me a pink flower as a sign that this or that is the way to go," lo and behold, I would get a flower, a whole bunch of them even, except that they are yellow, red and lavender. But I said pink, so I would turn the arrangement upside down for a shot of pink, and I find one small dot, in the middle of all the purple blooms. It is faint but it is pink in a peachy kind of way. Does that count? It then becomes downright ridiculous, and when that happens, I surmise that, up in heaven, God probably wants to pull out His heavenly white hair in frustration. I no longer want to subject my God to the folly of the human factor any more than He already is. And I refuse to box Him up that way.
So now things are simpler. I pray, I commit, I submit. And I live with hope that leaks from my heart of hearts with every breath I take. When I ask Him to please tell me what to do, show me the way I must go, push me in the right direction, I go along the daily grind of life believing that He is doing just that. Never mind if I do not recognize the signs as they are happening. It is enough that I know He is there, taking my prayer ever so seriously. God always comes through for me. And I have the best parts of my life to show for that. (As for the not-so-rosy episodes, God was still there naturally, but I guess I just insisted on doing things my way.)
Prayer matters. I cannot say that often enough. But who you pray to and how you pray make a world of difference. It is not the idiocy of "Bahala na" but the supremacy of "Bahala ka na, God" that makes things happen the way they should.
"Please tell me what to do" is a vintage plea that works for me. And for millions of others, too. You do not have to simply take my word for it; you can always ask God and find out for yourself.
There will be an "Introduction to Centering" prayer retreat from July 21 to 23 at the Karis Retreat Center in Tagaytay City. For inquiries, call Anna Marie at 842-4030 or e-mail annamariellanos@yahoo.com.
The second Sto. Pio Pilgrimage to Europe will be held from Oct. 4 to 22. Five countries will be visited during the pilgrimage – Italy, Poland, the Czech Republic, Austria, and Germany – with stops at miracle sites such as Sto. Padre Pio’s Shrine; Sta. Faustina of the Divine Mercy; The Miraculous Black Madonna of Czestochowa; Sto. Nino of Prague; The Vatican, Sistine Chapel; and St. Peter’s Basilica’ Pope John Paul II’s home in Krakow; and his tomb.
The pilgrimage will be accompanied by a chaplain and spiritual director, a devotee of Sto. Pio. Heading the pilgrims are Chito and Tez Bertol, and Manuel and Julie Torres who are all devotees of Sto. Pio. Included in the package are breakfast and dinner, coupled with accommodations at first class hotels. Schedule will be packed but not too hectic.
For inquiries and other details, call Tez Bertol, tour coordinator, at 0921-343-1788 or Chat Mina of Adams Express Travel at 521-1651, 521-1638 and 521-1698.
Some people are born to lead. I admit, unabashedly, that I have always felt I was born to follow. I am not a take-charge kind of girl. I have always been dependent, and maybe that is why the men in my life (namely, my father, my husband, and also my two brothers now that they are all grown up) have a tendency to be protective of me. Come to think of it, even the women, too – my mom, my sister, my late Tita Liclic, and my Aunt Fergie. I was always comfortable with solitude but only if it was within the confines of my home. I did not like being alone in public, because I had (still have, actually) an awful sense of direction. I get lost easily, in the maze that is the toilet area in malls, the streets of the village we live in, if I so much as enter a different gate, even just a big bookstore. I am legendary for my sense of direction (or lack of, as the case may be).
Until I got married and was faced with my own household to run, I pretty much relied on others for things both big and small. That is where I got my stability, my security. Like a fairy tale, I had to only want it in my little girl’s heart and it was done for me. No, there were no tantrums or melodramatic spiels to get my way; there was no need to manipulate anyone to make certain situations lean in my favor – none of those were tolerated in our home to begin with. But somehow things always fell into place, like pieces in a puzzle. There was always someone near me I could ask for help, for assistance, for direction and guidance. Someone who could figure out situations even when they became too muddy, too soupy, and too gooey to even make sense. Like ice cream in a cone, keys to a lock, flowers in a vase, there always was a sound solution to a problem, any problem. I never for an instant thought it could be otherwise.
It was not because I believed I was more special than others. I was just very accepting of things. I would not say that I breathed life into the bahala na idiocy, but I was, for the most part, always inclined to believe in the inherent good of people, not to mention the power of a great God, both conspiring to make things fall into place at the right time. What will be will be. I had this soap-and-water innocence, this unshakeable conviction that things would always work out in the end for the greater good, and most especially when intentions are pure to begin with.
Even when life became bigger, when the world opened more doors, and when complex people, places and things started to loom larger, sometimes even tumbling one over the other in horrific abundance, the basic things still held true. And through all that, while it was true that I could still count on the same people I had relied on for years, at some point, I realized that it was just me. And God. Thankfully, there always is God. I say that because in the very same breath I admit I was always dependent; I would never, ever say I was despondent. My dependence was not my weakness; it was my strength, because I anchored it in God.
And I have my mother to thank for that, because she taught me how to pray.
Which brings me to the one question people always ask me. How do I know that what I am doing is God’s push in the right direction, so to speak? I don’t. I do not specifically know when He answers. I do not hear a booming voice while I am praying, telling me what to do, where to go, which option to choose. I am not roused by a heavenly voice from my sleep like Samuel was. I do not get instant answers the moment I pray. I have very few instant "Aha!" moments (to borrow Oprah’s words). I do not get God’s answer in my e-mail or snail mail (although every day I wish I did). I do not know the exact moment it happens. Again I say, I do not know.
But this much I know. I know He always answers. In His inimitable wisdom, He gives the only possible answer at any given moment and it is only in hindsight that I recognize how He has woven His brand of magic into the fabric of my life. Only when it has come to pass do I realize that yet another prayer has been answered. Only when there is an end to the story (for is not one’s life a compilation of many little stories, joyful, sorrowful and beautiful?) do I see His hand in what I initially thought were unremarkable, humdrum circumstances.
Always, my prayer tapers down to a plea asking for direction (I am a follower, remember?). Always I cry out, "Please tell me what to do" – sometimes in glee (when one option seems just as rosy as the other), a few times in what seems like borderless sadness, a lot of other times in sheer confusion about which road to take.
I am past the stage when I would ask God for signs because sometimes I would find myself either adjusting my request or making excuses for the signs that did come my way to conform to what I felt should happen. If I say "God, please send me a pink flower as a sign that this or that is the way to go," lo and behold, I would get a flower, a whole bunch of them even, except that they are yellow, red and lavender. But I said pink, so I would turn the arrangement upside down for a shot of pink, and I find one small dot, in the middle of all the purple blooms. It is faint but it is pink in a peachy kind of way. Does that count? It then becomes downright ridiculous, and when that happens, I surmise that, up in heaven, God probably wants to pull out His heavenly white hair in frustration. I no longer want to subject my God to the folly of the human factor any more than He already is. And I refuse to box Him up that way.
So now things are simpler. I pray, I commit, I submit. And I live with hope that leaks from my heart of hearts with every breath I take. When I ask Him to please tell me what to do, show me the way I must go, push me in the right direction, I go along the daily grind of life believing that He is doing just that. Never mind if I do not recognize the signs as they are happening. It is enough that I know He is there, taking my prayer ever so seriously. God always comes through for me. And I have the best parts of my life to show for that. (As for the not-so-rosy episodes, God was still there naturally, but I guess I just insisted on doing things my way.)
Prayer matters. I cannot say that often enough. But who you pray to and how you pray make a world of difference. It is not the idiocy of "Bahala na" but the supremacy of "Bahala ka na, God" that makes things happen the way they should.
"Please tell me what to do" is a vintage plea that works for me. And for millions of others, too. You do not have to simply take my word for it; you can always ask God and find out for yourself.
The pilgrimage will be accompanied by a chaplain and spiritual director, a devotee of Sto. Pio. Heading the pilgrims are Chito and Tez Bertol, and Manuel and Julie Torres who are all devotees of Sto. Pio. Included in the package are breakfast and dinner, coupled with accommodations at first class hotels. Schedule will be packed but not too hectic.
For inquiries and other details, call Tez Bertol, tour coordinator, at 0921-343-1788 or Chat Mina of Adams Express Travel at 521-1651, 521-1638 and 521-1698.
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