LoQ (Line of Questions)

"Oh hi, I'm having an error message on my television."

"What does it say?"

"It says 'ONE MOMENT PLEASE, THIS CHANNEL WILL BE AVAILABLE SHORTLY.'"

"Please stay on the line, let me check on that."

(pulls up troubleshooting tool and opens the LoQ)

Line of questions. Call center agents like me are very familiar with this. Of course, we need to probe whenever a customer calls in. That way we will know better what is happening with the piece of equipment or issue that we are trying to resolve. We ask in order to get a better picture of what is going on on the other end of the phone line. Well, probing actually isn't enough. Yes, we more or less know what to do when a customer calls in and tells us what the problem is. But we don't know everything. We still need to use the LoQ tool in order to be sure that what we are doing is correct. If we miss one step in doing a basic troubleshooting step, then it might lead to a technician visit. Instead of having the problem fixed at during the phone call, the customer needs to wait for a few days for the technician to come out. See how important it is for us to follow the LoQ?

The other day I found out that LoQ usage is already a part of our score card. To be honest, I'm the type of agent who is fond doing a "work around". I would only pull up and utilize my LoQ tool if my work around failed. It would lead to longer troubleshooting and a longer call. Bottom line: the LoQ is designed not to be an add-on to the agent's tool but to serve as an aid.

I realized that life can be likened to a problematic customer who calls their service provider. The agent on the other line has the LoQ, and we have to follow what the agent tells you. Sometimes we complain "Do I really have to do this? Why not send me a technician instead? I'm paying for the service anyway!" We have the tendency to look for the easy way out. We don't want to do life's basic "troubleshooting steps." I'm guilty of this. If you read my previous entries, you'll realize right at the start that I want my problems to simply vanish into thin air. For me, life is just a bowl of cherries. Life is meant to be enjoyed. Yes, it's true. Life is meant to be enjoyed but I also realized that in the course of the daily grind, we need to take risks. And mind you, taking risks aren't always successful. Failure is just around the corner, but it's not tantamount to being eaten up by it. Failure is there to teach us to stand up and go on. Remember when you were a kid? Mommy was on the other end of the room saying "Come here baby!" We fall, but then she would say "Get up baby, mommy's here!" When we manage to reach the other end of the room where she's waiting, she would hug you and say "Good job baby. I love you!"

One valuable lesson I learned from the LoQ tool: take your time to go through life's problems. I was looking for a perfect world, not realizing that I myself am not perfect. I was looking for a world free of problems, not realizing that I myself am contributing to the problems of the world. I was crying for change, yet I am not willing to start it with my self.

Sometimes I cry whenever I think back of all the faux pas that I did. I guess it's normal, but as they say, never cry over spilled milk. Past is past. We all need to move on, one step at a time. The calendar never reverts back to the previous day nor does the date jump two days ahead and the clock never runs backwards or in advance.

Well, I guess the clock is an exception if you observe daylight savings.

The scriptwriter

I've been writing plays for the past four years.

To be quite frank, I hate writing scripts. I always have a hard time thinking of how will the story go. The first time I wrote a full length script was in second year college. It was for our theater arts class and, as a tradition, the sophies will present a play in honor of St. John Bosco. 

It was the usual weekday morning, when our teacher suddenly gave our assignments for the play. I was expecting that I would be placed as a backstage crew, something I used to do and enjoy during high school. When my name was called and my assignment was given, I thought I heard that my teacher wanted me to swallow a cup broken glass.

The original run of the play during second year.
Me with my director, Sam.

Me, the scriptwriter? No way!

So there I was, unable to speak and say 'no' to my teacher. The whole class gave me a stare that wanted me to hide inside my pocket. The play is in three weeks, so I needed to finish the entire script (including its revisions and approval) within a week. It was no easy feat, but I was able to finish everything within the given one week time frame. Good thing no one caught me typing inside the lavatory, not even the assistant.

The play was a moderate success. Of course, it was not that good. We were all first timers playing major roles for a production so the acting, creative and especially scriptwriting flaws are somehow acceptable. When the curtains closed I heaved a sigh and told my self "No more scriptwriting for me."

I was wrong. Very wrong.

Fast forward after one year. I was sitting on my desk reading a novel when our prefect of discipline called me to his office. "Oh no" I told my self "maybe he found out I'm hiding coffee sachets in my drawer!" I kept my cool and went to his office. He asked me if I still have the script I wrote a year before. I said yes and told me that he will be including a stage play for the upcoming youth festival which the seminary will be sponsoring. But before I could say no he said "I want you to revise the script and present it to me after a week." It was so sudden that I did not have a chance to rebut. Then he added "Any requests for your play?"

Your play. My play. Wow.

Second run of the play after a year. My director Nazz with Patricia

I told him that I'll accept the task but give me a day or two to tell him if I have any special request. The moment I stepped out of his office, I saw my friend Nazz entering the study hall. He is a theater veteran. He started playing roles way back when he was a kid. He was so immersed in the world of stage plays that he even has a wardrobe of costumes and tons of scripts from plays he participated in. I approached him and said "Fr. Reggie asked me to spearhead the play for the upcoming youth fest. Could you be my director? I don't want my script to be put to waste." Without any qualms he answered me in a split second "Sure, no problem." I asked our prefect to give me a day or two to think of a special request, but he got my answer after two minutes. Everything was ready. The script was there. The director was ready to give life to my work. The actors and actresses have stepped into the shoes of my characters. The stage was set.

During our first run, a guy from the audience cried upon hearing one of the main theme songs from the play. Right there and then I knew the play was a success. We had five more runs, and each run felt like it was better than the last one.

Writing plays...one of the best things I've done in my young life. All I do is write down what I see and feel, change the setting and rename the real life people that inspired me. Once I'm done with the script i give it to my director. He in turn makes my character alive on stage. After two to three weeks of practice, the stage is set. Once the play is done, the curtains close. The script goes to my shelf. Then I start writing again. Everything continues.

That's how life goes. Once a 'play' is done, we put it back on the shelf and write a new one. Life is full of transitions, and writing plays is one of the best ways of how I can portray how life goes on.

What's in a name?

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet."

- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Have you ever imagined having a different name? Being 'Christian' for the past twenty one years was not that significant to me, but I can't imagine growing up with a different moniker. When I was a kid I was sorely tempted to ask my parents to have my name legally changed. I don't know why, but I felt that my name was not apt for me. I saw my name as something generic, a name that is 'inside the box.' I wanted to have a one of a kind name that when someone would hear it, they would drop their jaw and wonder "Why was he named like that?"

I was surprised to find out that the name 'Judas' meant 'the praised one.' Imagine having a very wonderful and meaningful name! But nowadays, the name Judas is tantamount to being a traitor. Imagine how far the name's original meaning differ from our understanding today. The praised one became the despised one. Tragic. I can imagine people during the time of Jesus. If they are thankful to someone they would tell him "Hudas ka pare. Hudas ka!" Now, imagine being called like that by someone. If you're proud of being called one, then there might be something wrong with you.

I'm sure you had your fair share of being called 'names' way back in elementary and high school. I'm sure that being called by a different name (which most of the time has been attached to us because of a weird behavior, habit or looks) is a little nerve wracking at first. There are times when, especially elementary students (even high school) would go to the extent of having a fist fight because of name calling. I vividly remember back in first year high school when two of my classmates smashed each other's faces right after class because of name calling (which, to be frank, I enjoyed watching). As a result, name calling was banned in our section. It's imperative to call people by their name. That's their identity. That is what makes them 'them'.

Today is the feast of the Lord's Baptism. Here we see the relevance of being called by a name. After coming up from the water, Jesus was called 'the beloved son' by the Father. Something very sweet, I would say. Seldom do I hear fathers (or mothers) call their children their 'beloved'. Most of the time we would hear irate parents shout "Anak ka ng...You son of a..." As one lay preacher would put it, children who are 'cursed' by their parents most of the time end up having low self esteem and low self worth. Instead of hearing encouraging and sweet words from the people who raised them, they end up being belittled and cursed. 

I guess we are all called to live out being beloved sons and daughters of God. It might sound easy, but I'm sure it's a feat to live out being a follower of Christ once we step out of the church. Let me quote a friend who mentioned in his book "that there is just an only estimated 15% of genuine Catholics in the country". The name 'Catholic' is there, but the identity is not fully present.

Maybe this Sunday should also be called 'Identity Sunday.'

Thoughts about the Black Nazarene (part 2)

(Note: I have a new home somewhere on the internet and you can find the first part there. Check it out here)

As early as December I have already filed a PTO (paid time off) from April 17 to 20. I'm already anticipating the Holy Week and as early as now I'm torn between two options: spend the week on a retreat with the Jesuits or attend the Holy Week services in Laguna. Both are as equally good as the other, and I haven't come up with a decision yet. Hopefully by February I already know which option to take.

Black Nazarene painting

I always look forward to the Holy Week. You may be thinking "This guy's crazy. He enjoys other people's misery!" Yes, I know that the Holy Week marks the passion and death of the Lord. But mind you, it's capped off by the resurrection. I'm looking forward to it because misery always leads to victory.

Yesterday was the feast of the Black Nazarene, better known as Poong Nazareno among its devotees. We already know what's gonna happen. The media men covering the event already know what's going to happen but we still turn on the TV and watch the live broadcast. I remember my first year religion professor told me: "We Filipinos love heroes and martyrs. Just look at our devotions. The Black Nazarene and Apung Mamacalulu (the Santo Entierro of Pampanga) are just a few. We see our suffering in their images and that is why we are drawn to them."

 

A devotee supporting the broken beam
of the cross (Photo from InterAksyon)

I have read somewhere that the statue of the Black Nazarene has suffered a lot of damage mostly from the yearly procession. The Black Nazarene's left cheek was damaged by a gunshot during an incident in the late 1990s. A few years back several fingers were broken. Yesterday the upper portion of the cross broke as the procession reached Jones Bridge.

The Black Nazarene's broken finger
(Photo from Paulus Maximus)

Going back to my professor's statement, we are attracted to martyrs and heroes. The Kundiman is one example of this attachment to undying love we are ready to endure. Even Aladin's statement to Flerida "Ang puso, hahamakin ang lahat, masunod ka lamang!" (immortalized in Francisco Baltazar's Florante at Laura) has become ubiquitous as 7-11. As Ramon Bautista would put it, "pag-ibig nga naman."

The Black Nazarene has been damaged, as I see it, because of one reason, and that is the deep desire to have a physical contact with the image. The devotees don't mind being pushed and bruised just to have contact with the Poon. They see that the Lord is one with them in their ordeal. For them, Emmanuel is not only the child wrapped in swaddling clothes. For them, Emmanuel is the God who was flogged, mocked and crucified. I realized that if friends text or call me if they have a problem, they don't need to hear me speak or console them with sweet words. What they need is presence. Maybe that's why my friend, whenever he's depressed, wants me to drink with him. Not to share the expenses on the liquor and the pulutan (honestly, I see that as one reason) but because he needs someone to be with him during the hard times. Being present for someone during the most trying moments is priceless.

Speaking of Kundiman, I think it started over two thousand years ago somewhere in Israel. And the lyrics went "This is my body, this is my blood."

Growing up with Marge and Homer

"Ano pong gagawin natin sa fifty thousand?"

"Pang-tuition po ng anak ko!"

Ring a bell?

Yes, we often hear this dialog on noontime shows where a lucky member of the audience or a contestant wins a big prize. Most of the time, if not all the time, the winner is a parent. I don't know if they will really spend the winnings on their child's tuition. The bottom line is that they are parents.

I was raised by Marge and Homer Simpson. Yes, the two yellow skinned, four fingered creatures we see on TV. My own Marge is a struggling kindergarten teacher, while my old man Homer (may he rest in peace) was a captain in a shipping vessel who, more or less, earns four hundred grand every month which all the time ends up like Clover chips. Simot. 

If my memory serves me right, my Marge first met Homer in his office. The rest is history. They got married and had two kids: me and my brother (OK, I know you're thinking that the only male kid in the Simpson's household is Bart and that leaves me as Lisa. Just think of me as Santa's Little Helper then). Growing up with Marge and Homer ain't easy. The occasional temper tantrums that they have most of the time ends up in a cold shouldering session that lasts for a week. But the aftermath is what I'm always looking forward to since it means eating dinner in a Chinese restaurant somewhere in Sta. Cruz or going out for a late night coffee session in UCC. Whatever the case may be, I still consider my self lucky for having Marge and Homer as my parents. Yes, they have their own shortcomings. They are human after all, but they always make sure that we always get the best of everything be it in terms of food, shelter, clothes, education and the latest gadgets.

When I was in 5th grade I suddenly had the urge of tinkering the piano. Whenever we would go to the mall I would look for a music store and tinker with the electronic piano. But what caught my fancy was the Clavinova. When my Homer told me that he'll buy me a piano, I couldn't sleep for a week. After a two month waiting period, the piano finally arrived. It was not a Clavinova, but a simple down-to-earth DGX 500. Not exactly the piano I was looking for, but still it was a piano and I was so thankful for it. It reminded me the episode when Homer bought Lisa a saxophone (again, think of me as Santa's Little Helper). Just like the real Homer Simpson, my Homer (during his last months before he passed away) was also addicted to donuts and was balding. My Marge, as of writing, is sleeping and is developing a very weird hairstyle, just like the original character (no blue colored hair though).

I realized that parents aren't cops who tell you what and what not to do. They're simply scaffolds: they are the temporary structures that support us so that we can create our own life structure. Once our life structure is done and in order, you are on your own. But whenever you need repairs, the scaffold is there again ready to help you fix the damages.

I've been raised by yellow skinned and four fingered creatures, and I'm thankful for it.

<Simpson's theme here>

Something about silence

"Silence is so freaking loud."

- Sarah Dessen, Just Listen

Way back in the seminary there are a lot of times and places wherein silence is given emphasis. Here's a list of times and places where silence is strictly observed at all times:

• Dormitory
• Study Hall (including its extensions)
• 2nd and 3rd floor hallways
• 2nd floor common toilet
• Prayer Room
• Staircase
• Shrine and its vicinity
• Rising
• Lauds, meditation and Mass
• Study Period
• Vespers, Rosary, Examen of Consciousness
• Night Prayers until the next morning (where magnum silentium is observed)

Silence is essential in our everyday lives. Even the rock jock and the party animal also have their quiet time. No matter how much the noise tends to drown us during our daily grind, we are inclined to draw back, take things slowly and be quiet. Looking forward to a "me" time is something we all have. It is in silence that we learn to look back, reflect and come to a resolution of what we need to be thankful for and of what we need to improve in ourselves.

When I was still a seminarian I was sorely tempted to leave and enter the monastic life. The silence of the seminary was not enough for me; I wanted more of it. Here's a short conversation that happened between me and some friends a few years back when I told them that I was discerning to be a monastic:

"Sayang naman ang verbal prowess mo!" 

Bro. Donnie was right. My verbal prowess would be gone to waste if I would become a monastic. True enough, my verbal prowess now serves as my number one asset as a call center agent. It's a feat talking non-stop for seven hours a day, five times a week. But since my 'verbal prowess' also has its limitations, I also need to be quiet at certain times during work. Sometimes I would skip lunch and go to the sleeping quarters just to lie down or sit at the lazy boy and be quiet. Even people immersed in a world of noise need silence. As I have mentioned, being drawn to silence is something innate in all of us.

During my first months outside I was desperately looking for silence. My surroundings never gave me the chance to be quiet. The noise of the pesky kids playing tumbang preso and the insensitive neighbor who loves blasting out Gangnam Style on the stereo drove me insane. I needed to go somewhere quiet. And so began my journey of looking for a retreat center where I can stay for a few days to escape the noise. Unfortunately, all the retreat centers I called were already fully booked. The nearest that I could find is in Batulao, so it's an automatic no-no. Not knowing where to go, I went to the Church of the Gesu. Surprise surprise! Not only did I find the silence I was looking for, I also realized that I don't need to be quiet all the time. Too much noise drove me insane, but too much silence can also make me go downward spiral. I needed to balance noise and silence. It's with noise that we can hear the different sounds of the world; its joys and pains. It is in silence that we come to process what the world's noises mean to us and what it wants to tell us. Most importantly, we should not only look for external silence, but for internal silence. The silence around us is useless if deep inside we are in constant battle with our everyday worries. "Silence is the only language God speaks" (Archbishop Soc Villegas) 

I'm now prepping myself to sleep. I just finished my ritual of drinking milk tea before going to bed.

Quiet time again. Nice.

Presence

"Di ako naniniwala sa Diyos eh."

My high school friend used to tell me this ever since we were grade six. I don't know why he always told me that, but I'm sure that he wants to challenge me since I'm the religious type among our close knit group of five.

After a few years, I couldn't believe that the same words would come out of my very own lips.

"I don't believe in God."

Every time I would go home from work I would pass by this lady and her son. If God were true, surely He will not allow suffering and death. I would often ask my self and some religious "Why does our good God allow terrible things to happen? Does God really hear us when we cry out to Him in our pain?"

I asked that question a million times. I did not get a single answer.

I realized that even religious cannot offer complete answers. Most of the time, if not all the time, we find ourselves groping for the answer. No words would suffice why a 'good God' would allow suffering and death. As one Jesuit puts it "the true consolations are not ours to give."

A few months back while attending Sunday Mass, I saw this kid wearing a shirt that 'somehow' answered my question. Here is what the shirt says: only God knows the mystery of life.

'Only God knows the mystery of life'

Only God knows the mystery of life. Since He is the one who made it, He is also the one who only knows how it runs. It's like trying to decipher what a poem really means: no matter how good you are, only the author can give the true and real meaning of his piece. Same with us. We are merely 'readers' of a piece created by the Divine, and only He can fully interpret it.

Going back, it 'somehow' answered my question. But deep inside, I still want a concrete answer. But the car ran out of gas. I got tired. I stopped and simply looked back on the things that transpired last year. Then it hit me. It's not about God telling you the logical explanation of the mystery of suffering. Instead, it's about Him being with you during the ordeal. His incarnation is a reminder that no matter how dark the night is, a spark can get the fire going. He is Emmanuel, the God who is with us.

I guess that is the meaning of today's feast of the Lord's epiphany. He doesn't give us answers, but He gifts us with His presence.

I have been bitter about my life for the past months. But I guess, after discerning over the things that happened, God makes his epiphany everyday. No matter how good or bad the situation is, He is there. And because of that, we need to be "God's epiphany" to others. Look at the Old Testament. God spoke to people through people (the prophets, I mean). Ultimately, He became one of us.

Paramdam ka naman. Baka may nangangailangan ng presensya mo.

Thoughts about coming home

May 27, 2009. The day I entered the seminary. I told my self "Finally, I am home."

A week after that, all of us were sent home due to the AH1N1 crisis. I took a bus and hailed a cab going to Makati. I'm not used to traveling long distances carrying heavy baggage. After reaching our house I slumped at our couch. I told my self "Finally, I am home."

April 8, 2013. Two days after our graduation. I was sent out of the seminary. I packed my things around 2PM, went to the bus stop around four and traveled around five. I did not tell anyone that I was arriving, so all of them were surprised to see me carrying a bag (actually I was only carrying my laptop. I left all of my stuff in the seminary laundry area). I didn't talk to anyone that night, except to my self (fine, you can call me crazy). Before going to sleep I told my self "Finally, I am home."

No matter who we are, no matter where we go, we always look forward going home. Home is where the heart is. I always get amused whenever I see a "Home Sweet Home" signage posted on a door or wall. It's a constant reminder that the home is the best place to feel belonged. To better explain what I'm trying to say, let's take a closer look at the Tagalog equivalent tahanan. If we look a little closer, it comes from the word tahan, meaning to stop, to pacify or to calm down. Hence the home or the tahanan is the place to stop and to be at peace. If you're not at home (to be more precise, if you're not at peace) staying in a certain place for a prolonged period of time, then you don't truly belong there. Even prisoners who stayed in prison for a decade or two, once on parole, have that fear of going home. They fear that the people they have 'betrayed' will not anymore accept them, much more not anymore make them feel at peace, not anymore make them feel at home.

I learned the song 'Love is the answer' when I was still a freshman in the seminary. We sang it during the ordination of three Salesian priests. One line goes "After all the places I have been, I am going home." All of us are created to be somewhere, to belong somewhere, ultimately to belong to someone. The home is not only the place where the family resides. It is the place where your heart truly belongs.

When my father died two years ago, I told my rector that I was praying for my dad to come home alive from China (he suffered the attack there while on duty). Yes, he was able to come home alive. My family had another three months to spend with him before he passed away. During the wake, my rector shared what I told him. But he added "Maybe Christian was praying not only for his father to come home physically. Maybe Christian knows that his father's time is near, and I guess his ultimate wish is for his father to come home to the father's embrace peacefully."

Four years ago when I entered the seminary I felt God telling me "Christian, welcome home."

A few days later I found my self crying. I prayed and I felt God telling me "Christian, I think you need to go home." And true enough, a home visit was declared a week after.

After four years I was sent out of the seminary. My personal issues were taking its toll not only on me but also on my community members. I felt God telling me "You need to go back home."

And now I am back home, literally and metaphorically. I still miss the good old days of waking up at five in the morning, working at the farm in the afternoon and going to bed at ten. I remembered my crying sessions during the first two months of being back to the outside world. I found out from a friend who told one of his friends who left the seminary that "it (crying) is normal. Cry if you must. This is one ritual we humans do in order to heal our woundedness." The tears have stopped, and I guess the healing is already in process.

Natututo akong tumahan, sapagka't ako'y nasa aking tahanan.

The 500 Word Challenge

"Christian, why are you doing this?"

A friend texted me this question a few months back. He read my blog and he was flabbergasted with some of the things I write here. Being in the seminary for four grueling years really changed my perspective about life but it did not exempt me from questioning what life is all about, why we experience sickness and death and most especially, why does our "good" God allow terrible things to happen.

My friend was shocked especially with the last thing I mentioned. He thought I became an atheist. I simply told him that questioning what you believe in doesn't mean you're turning away from it. You simply want to assure yourself that everything will be all right. But then it dawned on me that asking questions won't guarantee you anything. How you put your faith in what you believe will save you from all sorts of trouble down the road. Not answers, but faith.

Being back to the outside world after spending four years inside the seminary opened my eyes to many possibilities. It's possible to bring God to people even if I'm not a priest or a brother. It's possible to be a 'witness' simply by doing what you're supposed to do. 

And the biggest realization of all: there is no 'better' or 'perfect' vocation but only a 'perfect intention'.

OK, so back to my friend's question: "Christian, why are you doing this?" Why do I keep on writing? And why am I sharing this to the world?

The answer is simple. I need to 'bleed'.

Yes, to bleed. 

My financial advisor is a health buff. Everyday he wakes up at four in the morning to jog. Every other day he goes to the gym. And for him, fast food and other junkies are a big no-no.

My high school friend is a musician. Everyday he spends at least three hours playing his guitar.

My religious friend is a blogger. Blogging is one way for him to spread the Good News.

They all have their passions. And all of them have an outlet in order for their passion to materialize. My financial advisor has his exercise routine, my high school friend has his guitar and my religious friend has his blog.

What is my passion, you may ask? Simple: how to live an awesome life.

Other people also want to live an awesome life, and I think all of us should. Others travel, others eat. For me, it's writing. I need to write in order for me to 'bleed' out how I feel about life. It's my way of silencing down and organizing my thoughts since I'm immersed in a fast paced lifestyle. What is effective today may not be anymore effective a few hours. Life is a link of transitions. I need to be quiet, sit down, write and reflect on what my fast-paced lifestyle wants to teach me.

And so here I am, standing up to the challenge of writing at least 500 words everyday for the next 31 days. Yes, kinda crazy but that is where the fun begins.

As they say, ang tao ay parang adobo; hindi kumpleto kung walang toyo.