The Audience of One

I am almost at the end of my Bible reading journey, and to be honest, I thought I would quietly finish the remaining chapters without crying, or anything surprising happening. After all, I had already read so many verses, stories, and lessons along the way.

Then I came across Colossians 3:23

"And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men."

For some reason, those words struck my heart again.

Perhaps it is because I have spent so much of my life working hard. Like many people, I have had moments when I wondered if my efforts were being noticed. Moments when I felt exhausted from giving so much of myself, especially to work, to family, to friendships, and to responsibilities that seem endless.

There are days when appreciation is scarce. Days when the things we do go unnoticed, or when we quietly carry burdens without anyone realizing how heavy they are.

And there have been times when I felt discouraged because of that. 

But the verse gently reminded me of something I often forget. That not everything I do is meant to be seen by people. That not every act of kindness I do requires recognition. And that not every sacrifice I do needs applause. 

God never asked me to work for compliments. He never asked me to serve only when others are grateful. He never promise that people would always understand my intentions or appreciate my efforts.

He asked me to do everything wholeheartedly, as if I were doing it for Him.

That changed the way I see my daily life. It changed the way I approach my work when I am tired. It changed the way I treat people when kindness is not returned. It changed the way I handle responsibilities that nobody noticed.

Because if God is the ONE I am ultimately serving, then every effort has value.

Every long day, unseen sacrifice, prayer, and act of love, matter.

Reading this verse near the end of my Bible reading felt like receiving a quiet reminder from God at exactly the right time.

Faithfulness is not measured by how many people notice what we do.. It is measured by the heart with which we do it.

From this day forward, I choose to keep doing my best. Not for praise, or for recognition, and neither for approval.

But for the One who sees every unseen thing. 

And somehow, knowing that GOD sees it all, makes every effort worthwhile.

-Have a good day to you, all.💛

My Husband vs My Horror Movie Addiction

Even when I was still young, I had always been fond of watching horror movies. But when I was pregnant with Lee, I suddenly developed this strange obsession with horror movies. Not romance, or comedy, nor documentaries about healthy pregnancies.

No.

I wanted ghosts, haunted houses, and Thai horror movies with background music that could send your soul out of your body.

Every. Single. Night.

And my poor husband had absolutely no choice.

Now let me tell you something about this man.

He is the type of guy who falls asleep five minutes into a movie. Especially horror movies. He says they're "boring". Imagine calling a woman in white crawling from the ceiling boring.

But because I was pregnant, he tolerated all of it like a patient public servant assigned to a supernatural duty.

One night, we were watching another horror movie marathon. I was so determined to stay awake and finish the story. 

Five minutes later? I fell asleep.

Completely unconscious.

Then suddenly, I woke up in the middle of the movie. The screen was dark. Someone was screaming. There was probably a ghost dragging somebody down the hallway. I immediately pretended I had been awake the entire time.

I gasped dramatically and whispered, "wala na nakaon na siya sa ungo." 

My husband slowly looked at me. Straight into my soul. 

And said, "Pag sure. Natulog ra baya ka."

😆

Because this man. THIS MAN - watched the entire boring horror movie alone while I was peacefully snoring beside him like a retired farmer.

Honestly, at that point, my husband was no longer watching horror movies. He was babysitting a sleepy pregnant woman with supernatural interests.

Then one night, karma arrived.

I had the worst nightmare of my life.

In my dream, I was trapped walking down a never-ending spiral staircase. Everything was dark. I kept shouting for help, but nobody answered me. I could hear echoes, footsteps, whispers...typical horror movie package.

I woke up panicking.

My husband immediately woke up too and asked what happened. 

I explained my nightmare dramatically like I survived an actual haunting.

And this man, instead of comforting me emotionally like a normal husband, looked at me and said,

"Mao nani resulta sa sige nimog tan-aw ug horror movie."

😂😂😂

And you'd think after that traumatic nightmare, I would finally stop watching horror movies, right?

Wrong.

The very next day, I asked him again, "Tan-aw ta horror movie?"

He would just roll his eyes and once again...

I slept.

Completely.

And when I woke up?

This man was still watching the movie alone.

I genuinely believe my husband deserved an award. For surviving MY pregnancy cravings.

So WHY AM I TELLING YOU THIS STORY?

Because love is not always grand gestures, expensive gifts, or dramatic movie moments. Sometimes love is a tired man staying awake through a horrible horror movie because his pregnant wife wanted to watch it. Sometimes love is hearing someone ask for another horror movie after getting traumatize by nightmares.

And somehow...still saying YES.

So please, don't settle for less.

Choose someone kind. Someone patient. Someone who can laugh with you. Someone willing to stay, even during your weirdest phases.

And pray for it.

Because the right person will not only love you during you best moments. 

They will also sit through terrible Thai horror movies while you snore beside them.

My 109

 "What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder" - Mark 10:9 (KJV)

Love can still be sacred in a world that changes so quickly. 

In today's world, relationships are often treated lightly. People leave when things become difficult. Love becomes conditional. Commitment becomes fragile. Yet this scripture reminds me that real love is not built only during easy seasons. It is tested during misunderstandings, silence, sacrifice, waiting, and pain. Unity requires patience, humility, forgiveness, and grace.

My husband is my 109.

Not because our marriage is perfect. Not because we never disagree or become tired from life's heavy seasons. But because every single day, we choose each other again.

And perhaps that is what real love truly is. Two imperfect people learning how to remain gentle with one another despite the chaos of life.

Marriage is beautiful when both people protect it quietly behind closed doors. When they choose understanding instead of harsh words. When they forgive even while hurting. When they remain loyal not only during abundance, but also during silent battles nobody else sees.

Mark 10:9 carries a deeper emotional truth that many people forget today: love is not merely a feeling. It's a responsibility. A commitment. It's patience during misunderstandings, softness during anger, and faithfulness during uncertain seasons.

The real unity is not tested during happy moments, but during exhaustion, sacrifice, waiting, distance, disappointment, and of course, PAIN. But despite all these things, choosing to stay kind to one another becomes one of the purest forms of love.

Also, this verse should never be used to trap someone in abuse or fear. God values peace, dignity and safety too. The heart of this scripture is about honoring genuine covenant and protecting what is pure, respectful, and God-centered.

But sometimes, the saddest thing is not when two people apart. The saddest thing is watching something once beautiful slowly break because people stopped protecting it. 

Love does not usually disappear in one day. It fades in neglected conversations. In pride left unresolved. In affection no longer expressed. And in kindness slowly forgotten.

That is why protecting your marriage matters.

Because in a world where many things fall apart so easily, there is still something incredibly beautiful about two people who continue choosing each other over and over again. 

And as long as God remains at the centre of your relationship, nothing else matters. God believes in things worth keeping together.

I truly hope you find your 109. 💖💛

Jaded

Even when I was young, people already called me a strong, independent woman. Back then, I wore those words like a shiny medal pinned proudly on my chest. And I had one dream. To work abroad, earn my own money, and build a life beyond the tiny corners of the world I grew up in.

And eventually, that dream came true.

At twenty-five, I left the Philippines and stepped into the unfamiliar life of an overseas Filipino worker. And from that moment on, I never really stopped leaving home.

I learned how to survive in foreign countries where even grocery shopping felt like a mission impossible. I learned how to smile politely at people whose language I didn't understand. I learned how to eat eggs and sometimes instant noodles for three straight days while waiting for salary day. I learned how to cry silently in a shared room because homesickness is embarrassing when everyone around you is also homesick.

Saudi Arabia became my training ground. It taught me discipline, patience, and how to survive under forty-eight degree heat without turning into grilled barbecue. (Actually, I had history of heat-stroke, ^_^)

Then, barely a year after leaving Saudi, life threw another opportunity my way, and I found myself packing my bags again. This time for Qatar.

At some point, airports started feeling more familiar than my own hometown. 

I became the kind of person who could identify terminals faster than tourist spots. I mastered the art of converting currencies in my head while mentally calculating how much remittance I could still send home. My camera roll slowly transformed into screenshots of remittances, exchange rates, random sunsets, and photos of food I could not pronounce.

And yes, living in the Middle East gave me experiences I never imagined I would have. I met people from different cultures, heard stories from every corner of the world, and realized that loneliness sounds the same in every language.

But somewhere along the way, exhaustion quietly moved in beside me.

No. Not the kind of exhaustion that can be fixed with sleep. 

The deeper kind, I mean. The one that settles into your bones after years of constantly starting over. The kind where you become tired of pretending you are okay every time someone says, "Swerte kaayo ka kay naka abroad ka."

Because the truth is, working abroad is beautiful... but it also painfully lonely.

People only see the travel photos, the shopping bags, the carefully filtered instagram stories. What they do not see are the birthdays missed, the funerals attended through video calls, the heartbreaks endured alone in a tiny room. They do not see how OFWs learn to celebrate Christmas with strangers while pretending not to miss home too much.

And now that I am getting older, with a family of my own, I realize something.

That maybe, I have already lived my life to the fullest.

I have wandered enough airports. I have survived enough goodbyes. I have worked enough overtime shifts to know that money can buy comfort, but never stolen time. 

I have spent years chasing a dream only to discover that dreams can also make you tired.

And perhaps that is why lately, I feel jaded.

Not ungrateful of course. Never that. 

Just...tired.

I am already tired of constantly being strong. Tired of acting independent all the time. And tired of carrying everyone's expectations as though I was born without limits.

Because people often forget that strong women also get exhausted. We get homesick. We get lonely. We get burnt out from always being the reliable one. Sometimes we also want someone to tell us, "Pwede naka pahulay.." T___T

These days, my definition of happiness has changed.

It is no longer about collecting passport stamps or proving that I can survive alone anywhere in the world. Sometimes happiness now sounds like eating dinner peacefully with family. Sleeping without setting five alarms for work. Laughing without checking the exchange rate first.

Funny how life works.

When I was younger, I thought freedom meant leaving home.

Now, I think freedom might actually mean finally finding my way back to it.

I guess that's it for tonight. I can't hold back my tears anymore. I still have work tomorrow, and I can't afford to show up with swollen eyes.

And to anyone out there fighting silent battles too, I hope tomorrow feels a little lighter for all of us.

Goodnight.

Sowing Through the Pain

There are seasons in life where I slowly stopped giving. Not because I became selfish, but because I became tired.

I got tired of being the one who understands. 

The one who waits.

The one who forgives first.

And the one who stays soft in a world that keeps teaching people to harden.

I used to think that generosity only meant money. But the older I get, the more I realize that some of the most painful things we give are invisible.

Time.

Patience.

Effort.

Loyalty.

Late-night prayers for people who never even knew we whispered their names to God.

Pieces of ourselves handed quietly to people we loved.

And sometimes, it hurts when you feel like you gave so much only to receive so little in return.

When I get to read the passage in 2 Corinthians 9:6 (KJV), it spoke to me in a way I cannot fully explain.

"He which soweth sparingly shall reap also sparingly; and he which soweth bountifully shall reap also bountifully."

I honestly misunderstood this verse. I thought it was only about blessings and rewards. But I believe that God was speaking about the condition of the heart. Because pain has a way of making people sow sparingly.

Like after enough disappointments, you stop opening up. You stop trusting easily. Stop loving loudly. And you become careful with your kindness because you are afraid that people will waste it again.

Trust me, I've been there.

There were moments when I wanted to protect myself so much that I slowly became emotionally distant from everyone. I convinced myself that expecting less and giving less would hurt less too.

But the reality is, when you stop sowing good things because life wounded you, your soul becomes empty as well.

Not every seed grows overnight. Some prayers take years. Some kindness returns in unexpected forms. Some love never comes back from the same people you gave it to.

But maybe, maybe that is the point. 

Maybe God asked us to give because love was never meant to survive through fear.

God wants us to continue being kind even the world becomes cold. He wants us to continue loving even after heartbreak. And to continue to believe that what is pure is never wasted.

And maybe, the "harvest" is not always material things...

It maybe healing, peace, a softer heart, and the ability to still love without becoming bitter. 

Choosing to remain genuine is already something sacred in a world where many people only give when it benefits them. 

So from now on, I pray differently.

Not: "Lord, give me more.."

But: "Lord, do not let pain turn me into someone who is afraid to love, afraid to give, afraid to care."

Because I want my life to be remembered not for how much I kept for myself, but for the seeds I planted in the lives of others, even the quiet ones nobody ever saw.

\^___^/

Well, I hope you understood what I was trying to say. I know it was a lot, but I couldn’t sleep, so I ended up writing something just to ease my mind a little.

Goodnight.

Left Behind Again

There is a different kind of pain that comes from feeling unheard by someone you once considered safe. 

Not anger, nor hatred. Just that quiet ache that settles in your chest when a person who calls you a friend chooses doubt over understanding.

I kept asking myself after what happened today, "Do you really see me as a real friend?" Because to me, friendship was always built on trust. Not perfect trust, not blind trust, but the kind that says, "Even if I do not fully understand you right now, I will still listen. I will still believe that your heart is good." 

And maybe that is why it hurt so much.

Because when someone immediately questions your intentions, dismisses your words, or makes you feel like your voice no longer matters, it feels less like a misunderstanding and more like abandonment. Like being left behind in the middle of a conversation you thought was safe enough to speak honestly in.

I have always tried to be a good friend. The kind who stays, who listens, who remembers small details, checks in quietly, and gives people the understanding I wish someone would give me. I carry people gently because I know how heavy life can already be.

Sometimes I wonder why it's so difficult to find someone who does the same for me.

Why is it so rare to find a person who does not make you feel like you constantly have to explain your heart?

Someone who trust you even the situation is messy. Someone who does not make you feel guilty for feeling hurt. Someone who chooses to protect your friendship instead of protecting their pride.

And what broke me the most was not even the disagreement itself. It was the feeling of suddenly becoming alone in a place where I thought I belonged.

And maybe that is what hurts about disappointment. It does not come from strangers. It comes from people you once felt safe with.

Still despite everything, I do not think I will ever regret being genuine. I would rather continue loving deeply, listening sincerely, and caring wholeheartedly than become someone cold just because others failed to value my heart.

and I HOPE someday, I meet people who choose me the same way I choose them.

People who stay when conversations become uncomfortable. People who listen before judging. People who understand that friendship is not only about laughter and convenience, but also about trust during difficult moments.

BECAUSE BEING A GOOD FRIEND SHOULD NOT FEEL THIS LONELY.

A Mind That Never Rests

 
The moment I created this blog, I already accepted the fact that I would slowly become an open book. 

Every word I write carries pieces of me that I once tried so hard to hide. This weblog has become part of my life because it is no longer just me who knows what I have been going through. All of you who take the time to read every piece I write have somehow become part of my journey too. You have seen fragments of my heart through paragraphs, quiet cries hidden between sentences, and thoughts I could never say out loud in real life.

Lately, I have been struggling more than I care to admit.

I realized that keeping everything inside is not healthy at all. Pretending to be okay, swallowing every emotion, and staying silent about what truly hurts me has slowly started consuming me day by day. The scary part is that I no longer react the way I used to. Terrible things that once broke me now feel normal. Being verbally hurt. Being mentally exhausted. Being emotionally drained. Somehow, I became so used to pain that I stopped questioning it.

And honestly...that scares me.

People always say, "It's okay to not be okay." But no one ever talks about how long a person can survive feeling that way. How long can someone carry heaviness in their chest before it completely changes them? How long can someone cry silently before they no longer recognize themselves?

Because I am scared.

I am scared that one day, I will wake up and no longer be the person I used to be. The soft version of me. The hopeful version of me. The person who used to smile genuinely, laugh loudly, and believe that life would eventually get better. Right now, everything feels heavy. Every day feels like a battle inside my own mind.

And the hardest part of all is being torn between leaving and staying.

Leaving the things that hurt me feels terrifying. But staying feels like slowly losing myself too.

I wish people understood how exhausting it is to fight battles inside your head while trying to look normal on the outside. Sometimes I want to disappear from everything just so the noise inside me would finally become quiet. Sometimes I just want someone to hold my hand and tell me that I do not have to carry all of this alone.

I do not really know what to do anymore.

But I think writing this is my way of asking for help without directly saying the words out loud. Maybe this blog is not just a collection of thoughts after all. Maybe this is me trying to survive. Trying to breathe. Trying to remind myself that I still exist underneath all this pain.

If you are reading this and feeling the same way, please know you are not alone.

And maybe...maybe we are all just trying to find our way back to ourselves again.

The Softest Kind of Love

There is something deeply tender about loving someone enough to accept the place they can give you in their life, even if it is not the place your heart secretly longs for.

"If being friends with you is the only way to be with you, then so be it.."

It sounds heartbreaking, honestly. But the more I sat with those words, the more I realized how rare and gentle that kind of love truly is.

Most people only stay when they are promised more. Attention. Affection. Or certainty. But there are few souls who choose to remain even when love asks them to stand quietly at the side instead of at the center.

And somehow, that kind of love feels softer, pure, and unselfish.

This has been one of the sweetest things I have ever heard. The fact that someone, no matter how deeply he likes a person, chooses friendship instead of forcing something further..says so much about the kind of heart he carries. It means he values the person more than his own desires. It means he wound rather protect the connection than risk breaking it with pressure, expectation, or selfish intentions.

There's just maturity in there. But more than maturity, there is kindness.

Love is not about possessing someone. Sometimes, love is simply saying, "I care about you enough to stay in whatever way you are comfortable with.." 

Some people underestimate how beautiful friendship can be when it is built from genuine affection. Because you know? there is something comforting about a person who stays without demanding labels, without making you feel guilty for not being ready, or without turning tenderness into obligation.

A love like that does not scream. Doesn't beg. And it doesn't manipulate.

It just simply remains. Quietly and patiently.

I think that is why those words lingered in my heart for so long. In a world where people often leave the moment they cannot have what they want, hearing someone say "I will be here, even just as your friend." feels pure.

Because not everyone knows how to love without ownership.

And maybe, maybe, that is the sweetest part of all. Being chosen gently, without pressure, without conditions, without fear.

Just a soul saying, "having you in my life in any form is already enough for me.."

The Boy Who Left His Slippers Behind

 

Story written by: Rossengel B. Pareda

Humility is not loud. It doesn't demand attention or applause. It doesn't try to win the room. It simply exists. Steady, grounded, and sure of itself. It is the quiet strength of knowing who you are without needing to prove it to anyone. It's choosing to listen before speaking, to learn before assuming, and to serve without seeking recognition.

Last Wednesday, during our midweek prayer meeting, I saw something that stayed with me long after the service ended.

There was a young boy, just a teenager. Nothing about him screamed for attention. But as he reached the doorway of the church, he quietly slipped off his sandals and left them outside. Then he walked in barefoot.

In the middle of a crowd.

In a place where people notice everything.

For a second, I froze. Not because it was strange, but because it felt...sacred. Like I was witnessing something deeply personal between him and God.

And then a verse came rushing back to me: "Take off your sandals, for the place you are standing is a holy ground." Exodus 3:5

He did not say a word. He didn't look around to see who was watching. He didn't hesitate. It was as if, in his heart, he already knew, this place, this moment, deserved reverence. 

But not everyone saw it that way.

Some people, especially those his age, laughed. Whispered. Judged. To them, it looked like ignorance. Like something odd, maybe even embarrassing.

But he didn't flinch.

He walked in barefoot, found his seat, listened intently, and bowed his head in prayer, as if nothing else in the room mattered. 

In that moment, I realized something that hit me deeper than expected. Humility is not weakness. Its courage. The kind of courage that chooses obedience over approval. The kind that honors God, even when people misunderstand. 

That boy was simply following what his heart believed was right. And somehow, that quiet act spoke louder than anything else that night.

Humility, I realized, is not about blending in. Sometimes, it means standing out in the most unexpected way. Without pride, without noise, without explanation.

Just a heart fully surrendered.

And that night, a barefoot boy reminded me what that truly looks like.

Selective Presence

There's always a kind of silence that does not come from distance, but comes from realization.

I used to think I mattered in people's lives in the same way they mattered in mine. I would show up, check in, remember the little things, make time even when I was tired. I gave without keeping score, because that's what genuine care looks like, right?

However, as time goes by, patterns reveal what words try to hide.

The messages would only come when there was a need. A favor. Or a question. Or a moment of inconvenience they could not solve alone. And of course, I would respond. I would. Because that's who I am. I help. I stay. I understand.

Til silence returned.

Not the peaceful kind of course, but the kind that feels selective. Intentional. The kind that makes you question whether your presence only exists in someone else's life when it's convenient for them.

It's a strange feeling, to be remembered only when you're useful, and forgotten the moment you're not. 

At first, I made excuses for it. "They're just busy." or "Maybe they're going through something." nor "It's not personal." I gave them the benefit of the doubt so many times that I forgot to give myself the same kindness.

Because the truth is, it is personal in the sense that you're allowing yourself to be placed in a role you never deserved. 

A convenience. A backup. A temporary solution.

And the hardest part?? Realizing that I participated in my own exhaustion. Not because I am weak but because I was sincere in a world that sometimes treats sincerity as something to use, not to value. 

There comes a moment, though, when your heart gets tired of explaining what your silence finally understands. 

You deserved to be remembered even when you have nothing to give.

Not just when you're needed. Not just when you're available. Not just when you're useful.

But when you're simply you.

So maybe, I will start to choose differently. Not out of anger nor revenge but out of respect for myself. I learned that stepping back is not losing people; sometimes it's losing the version of yourself that kept settling for less than you deserved.

If they only remember you when they need something, let them.

But don't forget yourself in the process.

Because the right people won't treat your presence like a resource.

They will treat it like a gift.

Unclenching My Fist

I have been struggling emotionally lately with someone. Not the kind of good feeling, but more of an abhorrence. Days turned into weeks, then months, until it became a year. Him being a bully and arrogant, I sometimes describe him as if he's possessed by some kind of an evil deity. It makes me feel like I always want to punch his face every time he does something so bad that it pulls my emotional strength down into the pit. 

And honestly, it is exhausting to keep carrying this kind of feeling for so long. Until the time came when silence was no longer peace, but rather a form of restraint.

I remember carrying words I never said, responses I rehearsed in my head, and pain I quietly nurtured like it was something I had to protect. I told myself I was just being strong, that walking away made me the bigger person. 

But deep inside, I was not at peace. I was just waiting for the right moment to feel justified.

Then just this night, while reading the Bible, I came across this verse:

"Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord." Romans 12:19 (KJV)

At first, I did not like it.

Because If I am being honest, a part of me wanted justice on my terms. I wanted him to feel exactly what he made me feel. I wanted answers. I wanted balance. I wanted closure that looked like accountability. Immediate and visible.

But God's words didn't negotiate with my emotions. They gently, but firmly, redirected them.

"Give place unto wrath."

That line stayed with me.

It did not say deny the anger. It did not say pretend it doesn't hurt. It didn't say forget. It said make room, not for revenge, but for God to step in where I am tempted to take control.

And that is when I realized...holding onto anger was never giving me power. It was quietly consuming me.

Letting go of revenge did not mean what happened was okay. It didn't mean my pain was invalid. It meant I was choosing to trust that God sees everything I cannot explain, hears everything I never said, and understand every tear I tried to hide. 

There is something humbling about stepping back and saying, "Lord God, I won't fight this battle the way I want to. I will let You handle it."

Because truthfully, my version of justice is often fueled by emotion. But His? It is perfect, complete, and never ever late.

I am still learning this.

Sure, there will be days when these old feelings will resurface, or when memories knock like they still have access to my heart. But now, I think, instead of entertaining them, I surrender them.

Not because I am weak, but because I finally understand that I don't have to carry what God already claimed as His responsibility. 

"Vengeance is mine; I will repay."

That's not just a warning. It's a promise.

And for the first time, I feel free not needing to prove anything, not needing to get even, and not needing to win.

Just...trusting. 

And somehow, that feels like the greatest victory of all.

For Zenai, With Love

There are people you meet for the first time, yet somehow, it feels like your souls skipped the introduction and went straight to familiarity. Like you've known each other in another lifetime, or at least in a group chat you forgot about.

Once upon a time, I met a girl.

She's the kind of person you notice immediately because she's very noisy, bubbly, kind, effortlessly beautiful and overflowing with joy. The type who can walk into a room and without trying too hard, make it feel lighter. She laughs easily, talks warmly, and makes friendship look so natural, as if she's been practicing it her whole life.

But like most beautiful stories, hers has depth.

Behind that cheerful facade is a quiet battle she fought, darkness that once lingered, waiting for the right (or wrong) moment to surface. Yet somehow, she chose differently. She chose to fight. She chose to heal. And most importantly, she chose God and herself. Not perfectly, not all at once, but faithfully.

And maybe, that's why we connected.

Because in so many ways, she is like me. She loves God deeply, above all else. Her faith is unshaken. She's loyal, strong, and surprisingly...a cry-baby. Give her a slight sad ending, and booom! Tears. Honestly, I've never met someone who can cry that fast. It's almost a talent at this point.

Today, April 26, 2026, I celebrate her life.

Zen, 

I thank Jesus Christ for you. I thank God for bringing someone so genuine into my life. Someone beautiful not just in appearance, but in heart and spirit. They say it's hard to find true friends when you're far from home, living abroad, trying to build a life from scratch. But I've always held on to God and in His perfect timing, He brought you to me, because He knew I needed someone like you.

And I really did.

Thank you for being unapologetically you. Thank you for your kindness, your strength, your faith, even on days when it feels like you're still healing. Because yes, you may not be 100% there yet (who is, really?), but I believe with all my heart that God is preparing a kind of happiness for you that will make every past pain make sense.

A thousand folds, just like I always say..

And listen, our friendship? It's not the kind that fades with distance or time. Whether we see each other every day or not at all, that doesn't change a thing. Once you're my friend, you're my friend for life. No returns, no exchanges. So sorry, you're stuck with me.

And even if one day we're no longer physically in the same place, remember this: we are sisters at heart. And anyway, we have social media. You're not escaping me that easily.

So today, laugh a little louder, smile a little brighter, and maybe cry just a tiny bit less (no promises, I know).

Happy, happy birthday, Zen 💛

You are loved, you are seen, and you are deeply blessed.

A Kindness I Kept

I had just finished my 7-3 shift that day, the kind that leaves you kinda drained in some way. I remember checking my pocket and realizing I did not even have a single 20 peso bill left. Nothing. It was one of those brutally hot afternoons too! The kind where the air itself feels heavy. And having experienced heat stroke before, back when I was still working in Saudi Arabia, I knew better than to rush out into it. So I stayed for a while, waiting for the heat to ease, trying to steady myself.

While standing in front of the hospital's entrance, I saw one of my colleagues (we were still quite new to each other at the time). She had just arrived, driving her mum to the hospital's dialysis centre. Her mum had been a dialysis patient for quite a few years. I walked over, and that's when I had the chance to meet her, such a lovely, gentle woman. You could immediately see where my colleague got her beauty from.

We spoke for a bit, and i'll admit, I hesitated for a long time...but eventually, I gathered the courage to ask if I could borrow some money. I just wanted to get home. But she didn't have anything to spare that day either. So I nodded, smiled it off, and made my way to the hospital canteen instead, thinking I'd just sit there until the sun wasn't so unforgiving, and before deciding to walk home. 

I tried to distract myself, scrolling through my phone, pretending I wasn't worried about how I'd get home. Then suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned around and there she was.

She looked at me and said, "Ate, I found 50 pesos. You can use it to go home."

I don't think I'll ever forget that moment.

It wasn't the money that broke me. It was the thought behind it. The fact that she remembered. That she cared enough to come back for me. That somewhere in her mind, she was worried about me walking home alone in that heat.

Something in my heart just...stopped.

We weren't even close yet, but in that small, quiet act, she showed me a kindness that felt so rare, so genuine. The kind that doesn't ask for recognition. The kind that just is. 

When I finally got into the cab, I waved goodbye to her...and then I cried.

Not because she helped me financially, but because, in that moment, she touched my life in a way I knew I would never forget. I remember thinking to myself, this is someone I want to keep in my life forever.

And as time went on, I got to know her more. I learned about her strength, how her father had passed away from cardiac arrest, and how her mum continued to fight through kidney failure, going through dialysis week after week. And yet, despite everything she carried, she remained one of the kindest, most selfless people I had ever met. 

We grew close. Really close. Not just colleagues, but sisters at heart. And I was lucky enough to work alongside her for a while...until life took me abroad again.

Then one day, while I was away, I received the news. Her mum had suffered cardiac arrest and was admitted to the ICU. I prayed so hard for her, asking God to give her strength...to carry her through something so heavy.

But then...her mum passed away.

And I wasn't there.

That's something I still carry with me. That quiet regret. That wish that, somehow, I could have been by her side when she needed someone the most.

Even now, I include her in my prayers every single day. I pray for her full healing, for her peace. And I miss her.. more than words can ever fully explain.

And every time I think back to that hot afternoon, to that simple act of kindness...I can't help but feel everything all over again.

If you're reading this, you know who you are.

I just want you to know that I miss you. Deeply. And I hold onto the hope that we'll see each other again soon. 

I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me the most. Truly.

But please never forget this: God loves you. And you are, without a doubt, one of the strongest women I have ever known, not just in body, but in heart, in spirit, in everything that you are.

I cannot wait to see you again.

A Conclusion, Not a Debate

Luke 10:16 states;

"He that heareth you heareth Me; and he that despiseth you despiseth Me; and he that despiseth Me despiseth Him that sent Me."

This verse holds a very special place in my heart because it is not just merely a line of scripture to me. It marked a moment of interruption, a decisive point when I was close to giving up.

At that time, I was so overwhelmed with emotions I can no longer contain. Anger, resentment, and a profound sense of loneliness had accumulated to the point where everything felt final. I genuinely believed that time that I had reached the end of myself. 

I found myself weeping in a public place, surrounded by strangers, yet entirely alone in what I was carrying. 

But even if I was in that state, I opened my Bible app without expectation. And this verse appeared. There was no build-up, no searching. Just...this. And it was enough to stop me.

Luke 10:16 is often understood as Jesus speaking to His disciples, affirming that those who receive them receive Him, and in turn, receive the One who sent Him. But in that moment, it was not theology I encountered. It was His presence. 

I wept even more, but this time not out of despair. What become undeniable to me is this: Jesus is not distant. He speaks, and He is heard. He knows not in a general sense, but in precision. Every thought, or hidden weight, nor every unspoken struggle, nothing escapes Him.

And more than that, His authority is not independent. He made it clear Himself: He and the Father are one in purpose and will. To reject Him is to reject the One who sent Him.

This is where my position becomes firm.

I do not understand why, even now, there remains persistent insistence that Jesus Christ is merely an ordinary man. I am not concerned with the variety of sources or interpretations that lead to that conclusion. What I know is grounded not only in scripture, but in encounter.

I suddenly recall a conversation at Souq Waqif. A woman asked me directly about my faith specifically, who is Jesus to me. My answer was straightforward. He is the Son of God. She responded with a spit to my answer. She insisted that He was simply born as a human being, nothing more.

I was prepared to respond. However, language stood between us. The conversation ended there, not because there was nothing to say, but because there was no shared means to say it.

So, I WILL STATE IT HERE WITHOUT AMBIGUITY:

Jesus Christ is the Son of God. If you hold a different view, you are entitled to it. But understand this. My conviction is not casual, nor borrowed. It is formed through experience, through scripture, and through moments like the one I have described. 

If you intend to challenging that, then do so with clarity, substance, and understanding. NOT ASSUMPTION. 

Because this is NOT A DEBATE. It is A CONCLUSION. 

Walking in the Light (John 11:9-10)

I wrote this for myself. No filters. No pretending. Just the truth I once tried to bury.

When I read that passage, it didn't just move me...it shook me. It pulled me back into a season of my life I can never fully forget. A time when I was completely consumed by darkness. Not the kind you see, but the kind that blinds you from within.

I was lost. Truly lost. And now I understand why I kept making destructive choices, why my thoughts turned against me. It's because I couldn't see the light. I didn't even know where to look for it. Everything inside me was clouded. 

Heavy. 

Suffocating. 

I was fighting battles no one could see, drowning in silence, smiling on the outside while breaking apart within.

Those were the days that terrified me the most. The days that tested every part of my will to keep going. I was frustrated, exhausted, and at one point...I genuinely believed the only way out was to end my life.

But I didn't.

Because somehow, when I had nothing left, when I was at my lowest, God called me back. Not when I was strong. Not when I had it all together. But right there, in my weakest, darkest moment.

And that's what saved me.

Those days were real. They were painful. They almost destroyed me. 

But they did not define my ending. 

------------------

I've been sitting with a short passage from the Bible lately - John 11:9-10, and the more I think, the more it feels like something we still struggle to understand today.

"Are there not twelve hours in the day? If any man walk in the day, he stumbleth not, because he seeth the light of this world. But if a man walk in the night, he stumbleth, because there is no light in him." 

At first, it sounds like one of those lines you read and nod at..then move on. But the context? That changes everything.

When Jesus Christ said this, He wasn't just teaching randomly. His disciples were worried. He had just told them they were going back to Judea, the same place where people had recently tried to stone Him. Naturally, there were like, "Wait...were going back there? Are you sure about this?"

They were thinking about safety. About risk. About what could go wrong. And Jesus responds with... a metaphor about daylight. Not exactly what they expected.

But what He was really telling them was this: If you're walking where you're meant to be, if you're aligned with God's purpose, you're walking in the light. And when you have light, you don't stumble.

Honestly, that hits different nowadays. Because If I am being real, a lot of us are not afraid of the dark, because we are afraid of making the wrong move. Surely you will ask yourself "what if I choose the wrong path? or what if this decision backfires? or what if I am not ready yet?"

We overthink. We hesitate. We stay where it's comfortable because at least it feels safe. That's exactly where the disciples were. They weren't wrong to be cautious. But they were letting fear speak louder than purpose.

So what does "walking in the light" even look like now? It's not always something big or dramatic. Sometimes, it's really simple. Like doing the right thing even when no one's watching, or saying yes to something that scares you (but feels right deep down), or letting go of what's easy because you know it's not for you anymore, or lastly, taking one step forward, even when you don't have the full plan. 

Walking in the light doesn't mean everything is clear, it just means you're not walking blindly.

And the "night" part.. that's real too. Let's not pretend we don't end up there sometimes. Walking in the night can look like overthinking until you move at all, or letting fear make your decisions for you, or following what everyone else is doing, even when it doesn't feel right. Ignoring that quite nudge inside you. And then we wonder why things feel off...why we keep stumbling. It's not always because life is against us. Sometimes, we're just moving without light.

So here's the thought I keep coming back to. Jesus didn't say there would be no danger. He didn't say the path would be easy. He just said you won't stumble. if you're walking in the light. And honestly? that shifts everything. Because maybe, the goal is not to avoid hard things. Maybe it's to make sure were not facing them in the dark.

If I could take one thing from this passage and bring it into everyday life, it would be this: You don't need to have everything figured out. You just need enough light to take the next step. And maybe instead of asking, "is this thing the safest choice?" we should start asking "is this the right one?" Because those two are not always the same. 

And according to Jesus Christ...the right path is the one where the light is.

Crash Landing on You

There are stories you watch, and then there are stories that quietly take up residence inside you. For me, Crash Landing on You is firmly the latter.

Okay. I watched it again today. 

I didn't expect it, if I'm being honest. I pressed play thinking it would just another well-made series to pass the time. Instead, it unfolded into something far more intimate. Something that felt less like fiction and more like a lived emotion. And perhaps that's why I keep returning to it, again and again, as though it knows a part of me I don't often put into words.

As someone who has always been a hopeless romantic, I found myself completely disarmed by the love story between Ri Jeong Hyeok and Yoon Se-ri. It was not just grand, cinematic gestures, though there were plenty of those, it was the quiet, almost fragile moments in between.

The way they looked at each other when words were too dangerous. The way love grew not out of convenience, but in spite of everything that stood against it.

Their world was built on impossibility: borders, politics, fear, and the constant threat of loss. And yet, within that tension, their love felt astonishingly real. It was careful, restrained, and at times painfully uncertain. 

But I guess that's precisely what made it soooo powerful. It wasn't perfect. It was REAL.

Every time I rewatch the series and I've already lost count at this point, I find myself feeling the same rush of emotions. The same tightness in my chest during moments of separation. The same quiet joy in their fleeting happiness.

It's almost strange, how something so familiar can still move me in exactly the same way, as though my heart has not learned to brace itself. 

Perhaps that's the beauty of it. Some stories don't dull with repetition; they deepen. They settle into you, layer by layer, until they become part of how you understand love itself.

What Crash Landing on You did, more than anything, was remind me why I believe in love the way I do. Not the easy kind, not the convenient kind, but the kind that waits, that risks, that chooses again and again, even when the odds are impossibly high. The kind that feels like it might break you, but is somehow still worth everything.

This is the first time I've ever written about a series like this, and maybe that says something in itself. Not every story lingers long enough to be written about. 

Not every story asks you to sit with your feelings and give them a voice. 

But this one did.

And maybe, in some quiet way, it always will.💕

Knock Knock.. Who's There? Faith.

There's something so beautifully simple and slightly funny about Luke 11:9-10 (KJV):

"And I say unto you, Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened."

If I am being honest, most of us treat this verse like a spiritual vending machine.

We "ask"...once.

We "seek"...for about five minutes.

We "knock"... and if no one answers immediately, we assume heaven is closed for renovations.

But this verse? It's not about a one-time request. It's about persistence. 

Think about it. Have you ever had someone knock on your door like this:

knock knock (wait 2 seconds) louder knock knock

"HELLO?? I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE."

That's the energy. 

Not rude. Not desperate. But determined. And honestly, that's where the humor meets the beauty. 

Because God is not sitting there irritated like, "Oh no...it's her again." He's more like, "Yes, keep coming. Keep asking. I love that you're not giving up."

Ask. Even when you feel awkward. Sometimes, we don't ask because we think our requests are too small. "Lord...it's just a small thing..." Meanwhile, we'll ask a friend for Wifi without hesitation.

 If it matters to you, surely it matters to Him.

Even if it's as simple as: "Lord, please help me survive today without losing my patience...or my mind." (Relatable, right?)

Seek. Even when you feel lost. Seeking implies movement. It means you don't just sit there waiting for answers to fall from the sky like notifications. 

You open your Bible. You pray. You reflect. You wrestle a little.

Sometimes, seeking feels like trying to find your phone...while it's in your hand. You're searching everywhere, frustrated, only to realize later:

"Oh...God was here the whole time." 

Knock. Even when it feels repetitive. This is where it gets real. Knocking means you didn't get the answer yet. So you knock again.

And again.

And again.

Not because God didn't hear you, but because something is happening in you while you wait. 

Faith is being built. Patience is growing. Trust is deepening.

What makes this verse so comforting is this: it doesn't say maybe. It says:

• Ask... you will receive
• Seek... you will find
• Knock... it will be opened

Not always in the way you expect, nor in your timing. But always in a way that is good. So if you feel like your prayers are on "read" but not "replied"... please don't stop.

Keep asking.

Keep seeking.

Keep knocking.

Because one day, the door will open, and you'll realize God was not ignoring you. 

He was preparing something better behind the door, while you kept knocking like a slightly persistent, faith-filled human. 😉

Eyes Forward: A Life Fully Committed. (Luke 9:62)

There is something about the past that quietly pulls at us.

Sometimes it's comfort, familiar habits, familiar people, familiar ways of thinking. Other times, it's regret. The things we wish we handled differently, words we wish we never said, choices we wish we could undo. And if we're honest, there are moments when we try to move forward... but a part of us keeps turning back.

The moment I get to read Luke 9:62, it hit me so deeply. Jesus was speaking directly to a man who said he wanted to follow Him, but first wanted to go back home. So Jesus responded in verse 62. "No man, having out his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God."

Jesus was telling the man like "If you really want to follow Me, you must be fully committed, not half in half out."

At first, it sounds strict. Almost harsh. But when you sit with it, you realize, it's actually very honest.

Jesus is not just talking about farming. He's talking about focus. About direction. About the kind of heart that truly wants to move forward. 

Imagine a farmer plowing a field. His hands are steady, his path is straight. But the moment he keeps looking behind him, everything starts to shift. The lines become uneven. The work loses its direction. Not because he lacks ability, but because his attention is divided.

And isn't that exactly how life feels sometimes?

You want to grow. You want to heal. You want to follow God.

But part of you is still holding on to a past relationship, or a past version of yourself, or even a past pain you've learned to live with.

You move forward... but you keep glancing back.

This verse is not about perfection. It's about commitment.

It's about the quiet but firm decision that says: "Sure! I may have a past, but I'm not going to live there anymore."

Because following God means letting go. Not because the past didn't matter, but because it can't lead you forward. You can't walk into a new life while constantly turning around to revisit the old one.

And maybe that's the real challenge here.

Not starting. But staying.

Staying committed when it's uncomfortable. Staying focused when distraction comes. Staying faithful when the past feels easier than the future.

Luke 9:62 is a reminder for me that moving forward requires intention. It requires a heart that chooses, again and again, not to go back.

So if you find yourself stuck between where you were and where you're trying to go, ask yourself gently: 

"What am I still looking back at?" and more importantly, "Is it worth losing my direction?"

Because the truth is, the life ahead of you needs your full attention. 

And sometimes, the most powerful step forward...is simply, choosing not to turn back.

A Quiet Pause, Not a Goodbye

Some of you who regularly visit this website may have been wondering what happened to me and why I suddenly stopped writing. The truth is, I never really stopped. There were simply a few unfortunate things that happened recently, things that are too personal for me to share right now.

These experiences affected my well-being, my peace of mind, and even the way I process my thoughts and decisions in life. Because of that, writing became difficult for a while. I had so many things on my mind that it was hard to put my usual ideas into words. I am writing this now just to let you know that I haven't disappeared. I've simply been taking a quiet pause because I couldn't bring myself to write the way I normally do.

Please bear with me for a little while longer. I promise I'll be back soon, and when I return, I hope to write with the same voice and passion you've known before. To those who never stopped checking this website (yes, I can see the visits and when you're from), thank you. Your continued presence truly means more than you know. 

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for staying. I'll be back soon.

When Charm Isn't Character

There are people you meet in life who arrive like sunlight. Warm, bright, and almost too easy to trust. And then, slowly, like a shadow stretching at dusk, something shifts.

I once knew someone like that.

At first, everything about them felt effortless. They spoke with confidence, laugh easily, and carried stories like polished stones; smooth and convincing. But over time, I began to notice the cracks beneath the shine. Words did not always align with actions. Truth bent just enough to make you question your own memory.

It reminded me of what the Bible say:

"A double minded man is unstable in all his ways" - James 1:8 (KJV)

Instability is subtle at first. It disguises itself as misunderstanding, as busyness, as coincidence. But patterns don't lie. When someone's character is questionable, it's rarely because of one mistake and it's the repetition that reveals it.

There is a kind of grief in realizing that someone you wanted to believe in, may not be who they presented themselves to be. It feels like betrayal, even if no dramatic offense occurred. 

Scripture warns gently but clearly:

"He that walketh uprightly walketh surely: but he that perverteth his ways shall be known." - Proverbs 10:9 (KJV)

Character always reveals itself. Maybe, not immediately. Maybe, not loudly. But SURELY.

I wrestled with myself once again. I asked if I was being judgmental. If I was too sensitive. If I expected too much. But I believe, discernment is not cruelty. In fact, it protected me.

The Bible also reminds us:

"Be not deceived: evil communications corrupt good manners." - 1 Corinthians 15:33 (KJV)

I become like what I tolerate. I slowly excused what once disturbed me. And without realizing it, it lowered my standards just to maintain proximity. 

So I stepped back.

Not with anger or resentment. Not with any dramatic confrontation. 

Just quiet distance.

Because peace is more valuable than any other things for me right now. Because once you lose my trust, nothing will ever be the same. 

This acquaintance taught me something important. Charm is not character. Words are not integrity. And familiarity is not loyalty. 

In the end, I prayed for wisdom more than approval. To ask God not only for kind people in my life, but for truthful ones.

And perhaps, most importantly, to examine my own heart too.

Because it is so easy to write about someone else's questionable character.

It is harder, and holier, to guard my own.

Torn Between Fighting Back and Letting Go

I used to fight back when I was younger. I wasn't the kind of girl who quietly sat in a corner when something went wrong. Oh no. My heart and soul would ignite the second I felt disrespected. If something was off, I was already off with it.

My best friend, Joanna, used to call me "the expressive one." Back in college, if there was a riot somewhere on campus, she'd assume I was probably in the middle of it, not necessarily throwing punches, but definitely throwing words. Passionate words. Dramatic words. Possibly words that required censoring.

The old me? She was built like, "You want war? I'll bring the soundtrack."

But somewhere along the way, that girl slowly drifted off. No dramatic exit. No resignation letter. She just...faded. One day I realized I had become quiet. Suspiciously quiet.

Now when people disrespect me, drag my name, throw subtle insults, or straight-up call me names, I just stand there like a calm monk who accidentally wandered into chaos.

I. Just. Keep. Quiet.

It's almost funny. The old Junalie would've delivered a TED talk on Why You're Wrong and Possibly Embarrassing. The current version? She blinks. She nods. She goes home and eat snacks.

And here's the strange part: I still get upset. I cry. I feel hurt. But the rage? Gone. The resentment? Missing. Even my inner voice forgot how to curse. I used to have a vocabulary that could set a building on fire. Now, I can’t even summon a mild insult in my thoughts. 

One person asked me, "Why are you letting yourself be treated like this?"

Good question. I'd also like to know.

Recently, I had a bad encounter with someone I can't confidently call a friend. Let's just say "acquaintance with questionable character." I've been patient for so long, but that day I reached my boiling point.

And by boiling point, I mean I cried...silently.

I was upset. Deeply. But here's the twist: I couldn't hate the person.. I tried. I searched for anger like it was misplaced car keys. Nothing. Just...disappointment.

Meanwhile, another voice (probably the ghost of College Junalie) whispered, "Fight back. If you keep allowing this, they'll think it's okay." 

And she's not wrong.

If you constantly absorbed disrespect without reaction, people might assume you're made of emotional shock absorbers. Spoiler alert: I am not.

So now I'm torn.

Do I fight back and resurrect the expressive queen? Or do I let go and preserve my peace like a mature, evolved human being who drinks water and minds her business?

Here's what I'm starting to realize: silence is not always weakness. Sometimes it's control. Sometimes it's growth. And sometimes it's just exhaustion from arguing with people who have the emotional depth of a teaspoon.

The old me fought because she had something to prove. The new me stays quiet because she has nothing to prove.

But quiet doesn't mean passive. Letting go doesn't mean allowing abuse. Peace doesn't mean permitting disrespect. 

Maybe the real glow-up isn't choosing war or silence. Maybe it's knowing when to speak with precision and when to walk away like a classy villain in slow motion.

So no, I don't think something is wrong with me.

I think I'm evolving.

And if I ever do decide to fight back?

Trust me.

I still remember how.

A Letter To God

Today, marks a quiet but powerful milestone in my life: I finally finished reading the Old Testament. 

For the past six months, I walked through it day by day, sometimes only a chapter, sometimes a few, until, at last, I reached the final page. And as simple as that sounds, it feels anything but small. It feels sacred.

Dear Lord God, 

Thank You, for the desire You placed in my heart, for the strength You gave me on days I felt tired, and for the Spirit that carried me through every page. Through every chapter, I came to know You more deeply. I saw how endless Your mercy is. How immeasurable Your love is, not just for the faithful, but for humanity as a whole.

Through Your Word, I learned who You are. I learned Your ways, Your statues, Your commandments. I get to know Your rage and Your justice, Your discipline and Your forgiveness. I get to know how time and time again, people turned away from You, made the same mistakes, broke the same promises, grieved Your heart over and over again. And yet...You still called them back.

"Turn to Me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning."

-Joel 2:12

And every time, they were forgiven.

And somewhere along those pages, You began refining me. Quietly. Gently. Sometimes, painfully. You reshaped my heart into something stronger, something more honest. Even now, I am still in awe of the transformation You have done in my life.

There were days during this journey when I felt overwhelmed by emotions. I couldn't explain. I faced challenges, troubles, and inner battles I never expected. In my prayers, I asked You to let me walk the righteous path because I wanted, truly wanted, to follow You. But instead of peace, I felt pulled into seasons of sadness, anger, disappointment, and confusion.

I questioned You. I questioned myself. I didn't understand. 

But now I see it, You allowed it because You were preparing me.

When I look back, I realize I am stronger than I've ever been. My faith in You has grown beyond measure. You taught my heart how to endure, how to stand firm, how to trust even when nothing made sense. You made me confident not in myself, but in You. And somehow, through it all, You made me love You even more. 

Lord, my deepest desire is to be in Your kingdom someday.

Thank You for giving me the chance to read the Bible while I am still alive. 

What an honor. What a gift to be among those who get to know Your story, Your heart, Your truth, And this is not the end. I still have a long journey ahead of me. 

I still have the New Testament waiting.

Thank You for the gift of life.

Thank You for bringing me into this world.

Thank You for allowing me to experience Your creation.

And most of all Lord, thank You for giving me the chance to know You.

I love you with all my heart.

With love, 

Junalie

Thinking About Death

Some nights, death sits beside me.

Not loudly. Not threateningly. Just present. It shows up when the room is dark and the world feels still, when my thoughts slow down enough for truth to catch up with me. I don't invite it, but I don't always push it away anymore.

I used to be afraid of even thinking about death. Now I realize it wasn't death I feared. It was the unknown. The thought of leaving things unfinished. Of people I love standing in places where I once was. Of silence where my voice used to be.

The Bible says: "So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom" -Psalm 90:12 (KJV)

Tonight, that verse feels less like a warning and more like a prayer. Teach me, Lord. Teach me how to live knowing this life is temporary without becoming afraid of it.

There are moments when my faith feels steady, and moments when it feels fragile. I don't always feel brave. Sometimes, I just feel human. And I'm learning that God is not offended by my honesty.

Jesus wept.

Two words. Heavy with meaning.

"Jesus wept." -John 11:35 (KJV)

If He allowed Himself to grieve, then my tears are not failures. They are proof that I love deeply, that I feel deeply. Grief is not a lack of faith, it is faith stretched thin.

I think about death, and strangely, it teaches me how to live. It reminds me to be softer. To let go of anger faster. To stop postponing love as if time is unlimited. Tomorrow is not promised, but grace still is.

"For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain." -Philippians 1:21 (KJV)

I don't fully understand that verse yet. Some days I believe it with confidence. Other days, I whisper it like a question. But tonight, I choose to trust that death is not an ending. It's a crossing.

"I am the resurrection, and the life." -John 11:25 (KJV)

If that is true, and I believe it is, then death is not something to run from. It is something already defeated.

So tonight, I write this not to glorify death, but to make peace with it. To remind myself that while my life is fragile, my hope is not. And when my final breath comes, whenever that may be, I pray it carries trust instead of fear.

Until then, I will live.

I will love.

I will believe.

And I will leave the rest in God's hands.

When I Asked to Walk With God, and the Ground Gave Way

 

One of my prayers every night is this:

"Lord, give me a chance to walk with You. To follow You completely. To walk in the righteous path."

And then, for days, everything unraveled.

Instead of clarity, I was handed struggle after struggle. My patience was stretched until it tore. The deepest core of my emotions was crushed, ground down until I no longer recognized myself. It felt like I was dragged into the lowest pit, a place where light barely reached. Negative thoughts swarmed me, relentless and suffocating, until there came a moment when I didn't want answers anymore. I just wanted to disappear.

I was shaken to my core.

I cried out to God with no polish left in my words. 

"Why am I feeling like this?" 

"Why is all of this happening now, when my faith in You is stronger than ever?"

"I asked for a chance to walk with You, so why does the path like thorns, stones, and rubble cutting into my feet?"

I didn't understand. I still don't understand, at least not fully.

Then came my dream.

I can't remember every detail, only the weight of it. I was standing on the edge of a deep cliff. Beside me stood a man in a long white robe. We were looking down as buildings, massive rocks, cars, entire structures were being swallowed whole, pulled into destruction as if the ground itself had given up. Then everything shifted into chaos.

I wasn't part of it. I was only an observer.

I stood on a rock as floodwaters surged below. In the water lay a young female child; naked, lifeless, her long hair spread around her, placed on a cardboard box like something discarded. And I did nothing. I just stood there, watching. Unable to move. Unable to save. Awake inside the dream, but powerless.

When I woke, I told myself it was just another strange dream. Lately I've been having many.

But later, standing alone in the bathroom, a thought struck me with terrifying clarity:

God is testing me.

Not in comfort, but in descent.

Not by lifting me up but by dragging me down to the lowest point, to see how deep my faith truly goes when there is nothing left to hold onto.

Because I have always said I wanted to follow Him completely.

And following Him was never promised to be easy.

I thought of the story of Job, how faith is not proven in abundance, but in loss. How righteousness is not revealed in safety, but in suffering. Maybe this is only the beginning. Maybe there are still more trials ahead. More stripping. More silence. More moments when God feels impossibly far, even as He is closest.

I don't know if I am strong.

I don't know if I am ready.

All I know is that I asked to walk with Him, and now I am learning that walking with God does not always mean walking on solid ground. Sometimes it means walking through collapse, through grief, through questions with no immediate answers.

And still choosing not to turn back.

When Heaven Felt Near

I really wasn't sure if I was going to open up about what happened to me earlier. I don't even know if you'll believe me. But I can't help myself. I feel compelled to share such beautiful thing that happened to me. 

On my way to work, riding quietly in the car, I put on my earphones and pressed play on a praise and worship song. The familiar melody filled the small space around me. I leaned against the window and closed my eyes, letting the music carry what my words couldn't.

Then it happened.

I had a vision.

I was on top of the water, kneeling. The surface beneath me was calm, steady, defying logic, yet filled with peace.And then slowly, I stood up. And there, before me, was a man. His hair was long, falling near his elbows. I couldn't see His face because He was surrounded by an overwhelming light. Too radiant, too holy to look at directly. All I could see is His arm, extended toward me, as if gently calling me closer, saying without words, "Come to Me." 

And then I woke up.

I opened my eyes, back in the car, back in this world. But something in me had shifted. In that exact moment, the first message that echoed in my mind was this: God hears all my prayers. Not some of them. Not only the spoken ones. But even the silent cries, the whispered doubts, the prayers I could barely form.

My chest felt heavy and light all at once. Tears fell freely without warning. I lifted my eyes toward the sky, not caring who might see.

In that moment, I understood something profound: I was never unheard. I was never unseen. Every tear, every plea, every late-night conversation with God had reached Him. 

Jesus is real.

My God is alive.

He is the way, the truth, and the life.

Some encounters don't ask to be proven or explained. They simply arrive, meet you where you are, and remind you, gently but powerfully, that heaven is closer than we think, and God has been listening all along. 

I am smiling and crying at the same time while writing this right now. My heart still trying to catch up with what my soul already knows.

Emotional Autopsy

At some point in my life, something inside me stopped responding.

Not dramatically.

No breakdown. No tears

Just a quiet shutdown like a switch flipped when no one was looking.

I was scolded often when I was new. Blamed when things went wrong. Questioned even when there was no proof.

At first, I resisted. I explained. I defended. I felt.

That phase didn't last.

Repeated blame doesn't need to be loud to be effective. It just needs to be consistent. 

So I adapted the only way the mind knows how when escape isn't possible: I reduced myself.

I learned that anger changes nothing. That disappointment wastes energy. That fairness is irrelevant when power has already decided the story.

Eventually, my emotions became inefficient. So my system archived them.

Now, when accusation come, there is no internal reaction. 

No spike in pulse.

No tightening in the throat. 

No need to be understood.

Just compliance without agreement. Silence without peace.

This is not acceptance. This is dissociation dressed up as professionalism.

I didn't forgive them.

I didn't grow past it.

I simply stopped granting the situation access to my nervous system.

The danger isn't that I no longer feel anger. The danger is that I no longer register injustice as a threat.

That rewires a person.

It teaches you to tolerate what should alarm you. To remain functional while being diminished. To mistake emotional absence for stability.

And this follows you.

You let people interrupt you.

Cross lines.

Rewrite events.

Because somewhere along the way, you learned that resistance costs more than silence. 

One day, the numbness will fail.

It always does.

And when it does, it won't ask politely.

It will arrive as exhaustion with no cure, rage with no target, or grief with no origin.

This is not who I am.

This is what happens when a person is blamed long enough that their mind chooses disappearance over pain.

Final verdict:

I am not broken.

I am adapted to a hostile environment.

And adaptations meant for survival should never be mistaken for a life.