circular stories

And then your stories start sounding very different. Two circles that had once intersected (although ever so slightly) are now gravitating towards different centers. Arcs occasionally brushing against each other only out of necessity.

Deal with it.

feeling old – and wise?

It’s a Saturday well spent. I just got off the LRT purple line – my first ride alone along that route – from a speaking engagement at a church in Sta. Mesa. I spoke to a high school group of about 20 kids (just the youth group staff and officers), about public speaking and emceeing. I had fun with them. They were a very generous audience. But I wonder now if they learned a thing or two or perhaps i overdid the humor and the incessant laughter drowned any chance for learning? I feel I could have done better, but I’m happy with how things went. At least nobody dozed off on me! Hehe…

I panicked temporarily when I realized that some of them are the age of my nephew! Whew. I am getting old. Some of my examples were met by puzzled stares. Time to brush up on youth pop culture. To think that only several years ago I didn’t have to deliberately do this! Hehe… And, oh, did I mention that one of the pastors (in his 30s by my estimation) mistook me for someone older? It must be the height, he said. Sure 🙂 Well, I don’t feel bad about it. All in all, it was a pleasant experience. I realized I miss ministering to the youth.

It is quite getting boring here in the belly of the large fish. If you know what I mean…. 😉 Time for sandwich and iced tea here at Figaro-Gateway. Thankfully, there’s a wifi signal spill-over from a nearby hotspot. Ahhh…

remembering a poem

God’s Handwriting

by John Oxenham

He writes in characters too grand
For our short sight to understand;
We catch but broken strokes, and try
To fathom all the mystery
Of withered hopes, of deaths, of life,
The endless war, the useless strife–
But there, with larger, clearer sight,
We shall see this —
His way was right.

I memorized this poem as a college freshman. Now, with God’s “broken strokes” undecipherable and ever-changing before me, I pray for grace to trust and submit to His writing, which in the end – I know by faith – will make sense; than scribble my own lines which, at the moment and in my eyes, could make sense, but in the light of eternity would be gibberish.