Here, Sus—let me pull up a chair for you. Please, have a seat.
I cleaned your house, your desk at work, ironed your clothes, your majesty.
I cooked your favorite meal… and went all the way to Baguio to personally pick the ingredients.
I even went to Italy just to choose a wine for you.
I picked something smooth… because I didn’t want your taste buds to be ambushed.
I took care of Oishi—gave him a bath, fed him his favorite chicken.
You’re amazing at your job, Sus. Well done.
How do you create a marketing plan in 5 minutes and increase profit in one hour?
⸻
Those are the things I wanted to hear.
But instead…
“Sus, where is the report?”
“Sus, the customer is waiting.”
“Sus, you’re so slow.”
(Ouch. From customer.)
Then there is Oishi badoodle, barking like he personally funded the grocery run, because apparently His Royal Fluffiness is waiting for chicken and refuses to eat kibble like a commoner.
During grocery hour, the cashier looked at me like I had interrupted her villain story. I thought, she must be tired.
A motorcycle nearly ran me over because apparently sidewalks are now optional.
My name is Susan V.
And this… is my life.
Every day:
Wake up.
Work.
Work harder.
Work harder than that so I can pay rent, bills, Oishi’s squeaky toys, Oishi’s bandanas…
and Oishi’s chicken.
Come home.
Cook.
Repeat.
There has to be more to life, right?
And what is with people?
Why is everyone always in a hurry… and rude?
One time, I saw a woman throw a tilapia at her customer.
Another time, on a small tricycle meant for just two passengers, the woman had no choice but to sit on someone’s lap, because the one blocking the entrance refused to move.
A delivery man stood outside, sweating in the heat.
Inside, there were clearly people—you could hear movement—
but somehow, opening the door kept getting postponed.
I mean…
why do we treat each other like that?
🐾 Oishi narrating
Susan has been focusing on negative things lately.
And my ears are bleeding.
Because she complains. Non-stop.
I mean… girl.
Did you run out of other thoughts???
Yes, what she said is true.
Earlier, while walking, we were on the sidewalk and a motorcycle almost ran us down.
Susan got pushed to the side. I almost flew to the roof.
My life flashed before my eyes.
And all I could think was:
Not today.
Not until I eat that grilled BBQ chicken with ranch sauce.
⸻
I understand Susan.
She’s tired.
But I hope she remembers… there are still good things.
⸻
Whenever she comes home from work after a long commute, she tells me stories.
One time, she was in a jeepney.
Her umbrella fell.
She didn’t move.
Because… tired.
But another woman got down… picked it up… and gave it back.
Isn’t that something worth remembering?
👩 Susan again
Oishi is right.
Now that I think about it…
At the mall, some people greet us genuinely.
During occasions, neighbors share food.
Maybe… we’re all going through something.
Some people choose to be kind.
Some people are just tired and snap.
And some people…
still follow this:
“So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you.” — Matthew 7:12
From now on…
I will try to live by that.
Even if some people really deserve a slipper to the face.
when you learn how to carry everything on your own.
You cry without anyone wiping your tears.
You get hurt so many times, you stop counting.
Loneliness becomes so familiar it almost feels like home.
But even then, a quiet part of your heart still hopes.
That somewhere out there is someone gentle enough
to notice the ache you hide so well.
Someone who will touch your face with care,
brush the hair away from your eyes,
kiss your forehead, and say
the words your soul has
been starving to hear:
Come here.
I’ll hold what’s hurting.
I was seated at a bar beneath dim amber lights, staring at the whiskey in my glass, wearing a black dress that made me look elegant, expensive, and tragically unavailable.
And I was thinking about that.
About how life teaches you to carry your own heartbreak. About how sometimes you stop asking to be held because no one ever stayed long enough to learn where it hurt.
The song in the background was slow, smoky, and dangerous to lonely women. The kind that makes you remember things you were trying not to miss.
Then I felt it.
Not a touch.
A presence.
The kind that changes the air before it changes the room.
Even with Slow Dancing in a Burning Room playing softly, I could feel him standing behind me, memorizing me in silence. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, and devastatingly calm.
Come here.
I’ll hold what’s hurting.
He stepped closer. So close I could feel the warmth of him, catch the clean masculine scent of his skin, the kind that made authority seem wearable. I rose on my tiptoes, just enough to meet him halfway—
…and then something started nibbling at the hem of my dress.
I frowned.
Because excuse me???
Romantic moment, cinematic lighting, emotionally available man—
And absolutely destroying what could have been the best dream of my life.
Now, let’s establish something important.
Boyo?
He is completely in love with me.
Like… not casual. Not “let’s see where this goes.”
No.
Committed. Invested. Consistent.
And honestly?
Who wouldn’t be?
I mean…
look at me.
I’m voluptuous.
(Oishi would like to object.)
Bark. Bark. Bark.
I am barking because Susan must be awakened from her latest delusion.
I kid you not, this woman was laughing in her sleep like someone possessed. Her lips were even puckered, as if she were preparing to kiss a man who contributes nothing to rent, groceries, or utilities.
Also, Boyo kept knocking, and I could smell chicken.
Now, let us address the main issue.
Susan keeps using the word “voluptuous” as if she understands it.
She does not.
Next time, I will personally give her a dictionary.
Or at the very least, force her to Google it.
Anyway.
She picked me up and hugged me like a plush toy.
I cannot breathe.
Send help.
Back to me.
Before opening the door, I picked Oishi up so he would stop barking.
I still don’t understand why he insists on sabotaging my best dreams. I fed him before I slept. He ate a lot.
This dog has three life goals:
Eat.
Sleep.
Cause problems.
And then eat again.
Before I got up, I paused.
Just… one more moment.
I let myself imagine.
A simple life.
A quiet suburb.
A small house. Not fancy—just peaceful.
A patio. A hammock.
A baby sleeping soundly in the next room.
Oishi guarding that child like it’s one of his prized possessions—second only to chicken.
Then the door opens.
“Sus, I’m home.”
He’s wearing one of those heavy jackets—the kind made for snow.
And I’m inside.
Cooking.
Waiting.
“BARK!”
Gone.
No baby.
No husband.
No snow.
Just me.
A small apartment.
And a paycheck that disappears faster than my self-control during online shopping.
(Oishi, mentally:)
She is broke because she keeps ordering nonsense and duplicates of things we already own.
Back to me.
I sat there for a moment.
Not dramatic sad.
Just… tired sad.
⸻
So I prayed.
“Lord… from the beginning, You said it was not good for man to be alone. You created woman, and through generations, You’ve blessed husbands, wives, and children.
I hope You can bless me with a husband and a baby too.
I know I have Oishi, and I love him very much… but we both know he is not an actual baby. Please don’t tell him that. He thinks he is my firstborn.
Lord… I wish I could say, ‘Your will be done.’
But I can’t.
Because what if…
Your will is not what I want?”
(Oishi:)
She gets like this sometimes.
Quiet. Heavy.
And then she hugs me and cries like I am a licensed therapist.
I am not.
But I do absorb emotional damage professionally.
My payment? Snacks.
Then Boyo knocked again.
“Sus, open the door.”
“What?!”
“I brought your favorite. Siopao.”
Of course I opened the door.
He came in.
I set the table.
And somewhere in the background—TV, memory, divine timing, who knows—
I heard:
“Lord, Your will be done.”
I froze.
Then I looked at Boyo.
And because I am me…
I told him the entire dream first.
Every detail.
Every emotion.
Full production.
Poor Boyo.
Still listened.
Because again—
in love.
Eventually, I got to the point.
“…and then I told God I want a family. A baby. A husband. But I couldn’t say ‘Your will be done’… because what if He doesn’t give me what I’m asking for?”
Boyo didn’t answer immediately.
He thought.
Then—
“Sus… do you trust me?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Do you feel at ease when Oishi is with me?”
“…yes.”
“Do you trust your dad?”
“Yes.”
“Did he give you everything you wanted?”
“…no.”
“But you still trusted him, right?”
Silence.
Then he said, gently:
“I think saying ‘Your will be done’ starts there.
Not pretending you’re not scared.
Not pretending you don’t want something.
But knowing who God is.”
I listened.
“He is holy. Loving. Faithful. Just. Gracious. Powerful.
And He knows everything—past, present, future. Even your thoughts.”
“What does omniscient mean again?” I asked.
He pulled out his phone like a man about to defend his thesis.
“God is all-knowing,” he read. “Complete and perfect knowledge of everything.”
Then he looked at me.
“If He sees everything… don’t you think He has a reason?”
“Maybe the answer is yes. Maybe no. Maybe wait.”
“But whatever it is—
it comes from who He is.”
I swallowed.
“So what do I do in the meantime?”
“Keep being honest with Him,” he said.
“You’re actually good at that.”
Then—
“But also… do your part.”
“Excuse me?”
“If you want a husband,” he said,
“you might need to stop daydreaming long enough to notice the person standing in front of you.”
I stared.
“But… you are standing in front of me.”
He nodded.
“Yes. I am.”
(Oishi:)
Ackwaaaard.
I am the one blushing.
But honestly?
Choose Boyo.
No dramatic entrance. No cinematic lighting.
But—
He shows up.
He cares.
He brings food.
That’s elite behavior.
Susan was blushing now.
Then Boyo reached out—
not dramatically—
just gently.
“You’ve been hurt and alone for so long,” he said.
“Do you think maybe it’s finally time someone told you this?”
For the past few months, you could hear Susan sighing like it was her final exhale on Earth.
She sighs after she wakes up.
She sighs after coffee.
She sighs while walking.
She sighs before brushing her teeth—like toothpaste is a personal attack.
And I don’t understand it.
We have food. We have a home. We have a routine. We even have a nighttime beauty ritual that I am forced to witness like a hostage.
But Susan? She complains about tiny things like they’re world wars.
Me? I’m your local philosuffur.
I practice gratitude.
I practice peace.
I practice staying out of Susan’s drama.
Which is difficult, because Susan’s drama has WiFi and it spreads.
Susan narrating (melodramatic, honest, heartbroken)
Lately, I feel like I’m being pulled in different directions—like a pingpong ball.
Up. Down. Left. Right.
And somehow I always end up in a situation I didn’t even ask for.
I’m tired.
I feel like my head is barely above water and I’m trying to breathe… but the pain is still here. I keep praying, but I still feel heavy. I still feel alone.
And I know I’ll regret saying this but…
Where are You, Jesus?
You said You’d never leave us.
Do You even care about me?
Do You even love me?
I cried until my chest hurt… and then I fell asleep.
Susan and Oishi… transported 2,000 years ago
Susan narrating (confused, frantic)
I woke up and I wasn’t sure what I was wearing.
It was a long dress—not a party dress. More like… plain clothes.
The kind that says: You are not the main character today.
Outside was dusty. Old stone houses. No cars. No motorcycles. Not even a bicycle.
And then I saw Oishi.
Talking to a man holding a hammer.
The man looked like he was enjoying the conversation, which already felt suspicious because Oishi doesn’t usually charm people. He judges them. Loudly. With his face.
The man said he could make a simple bed for us. And I just stood there blinking like… What is happening?
I thanked him—because my trauma doesn’t cancel my manners—then I scooped up Oishi.
“Come on, Badoodle. We’re leaving.”
Oishi narrating (dry)
We walked into the market and people treated me like a celebrity.
They petted me.
They called me cute.
They rubbed my belly.
Yes. I allowed it. I am humble.
Then we followed the crowd toward a mountain. A man was teaching.
Susan stopped walking. Something in her face changed—like her brain finally paused long enough to listen.
And then I heard the words.
Blessed are the poor in spirit.
Blessed are those who mourn.
The crowd got quiet. Even the wind felt respectful.
Then the teacher said things that made my fur stand up:
You are the light of the world.
Love your enemies.
Do not worry about your life.
Susan stared at him like she was remembering something she forgot she knew.
She whispered, “Oishi… I’ve heard teachings like this before.”
For the record, this is the moment I realized:
We were not in an old-town museum.
We were in the Bible.
And this wasn’t a random speaker.
This was Jesus—teaching what people later called the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5–7).
Susan, however, was still in denial because she is allergic to accepting reality the first time.
Nightfall: the home and the bread
Oishi narrating
After approximately 247,000 steps (don’t fact-check me), we ended up back near the same home.
Susan stared at the bed like it was both a miracle and a prank, then asked—very seriously:
“Um… do you have a pillow?”
(Oishi, deadpan):
We time-traveled 2,000 years and her first concern was neck support.
There was bread.
We ate like people who had just time-traveled and emotionally collapsed.
Then Jesus said He needed to go somewhere we couldn’t follow.
Susan’s eyes got teary for reasons she didn’t understand yet.
And then—because Susan’s life is a multi-verse—Angelusito appeared.
He looked cute, as usual.
But this time… no milk tea.
So I knew it was serious.
Susan narrating (soft, trembling)
Angelusito asked why I was crying.
And it hit me—everything I’d been holding in.
I wanted to ask:
Where was He when I was hurting?
Did He even care?
Did He even love me?
But my throat closed. My chest tightened.
And I fell asleep again.
Years later… the shouting outside
Susan narrating (shaken)
I woke up and it felt like time had moved forward.
We heard a commotion outside.
“Crucify Him!”
My knees went weak.
I scooped up Oishi and pushed through the crowd until I saw Him.
It was Jesus.
The same man who welcomed us.
The same man who fed us bread.
The same voice from the mountain.
And I couldn’t understand it.
Why would anyone want to crucify a man who spoke comfort like that?
We followed the crowd.
Someone forced Him to carry a cross.
I tried to get closer, but it felt like the world was moving too fast—like history was a river and I couldn’t stop the current.
Then we reached the hill.
And when they pierced His hands…
I broke.
I cried and begged God the Father to do something.
But I already knew the story.
And somehow knowing didn’t make it easier.
I knelt and cried until no words came out.
And then…
Silence.
Angelusito explains
Angelusito (gentle)
“Sus… you kept asking if He cares. If He loves you.
There’s your answer.
He didn’t just say He loves you.
He proved it.
He gave Himself—so you wouldn’t perish.
That is love.”
(John 3:16)
Susan narrating (quiet, shattered open)
I couldn’t stop crying.
Not because I was scared.
But because I finally understood what I had been accusing Him of.
I had been saying, You’re not here.
While standing inside the greatest “I AM HERE” the world has ever seen.
Return to the present
Susan narrating (warm, tearful)
We were suddenly back home.
Angelusito handed me water. I drank like I had crossed deserts in two timelines.
Then I heard a sound from the bedroom.
Footsteps.
And a familiar voice.
“Hi, Sus.”
I turned.
And there He was.
Not bloody. Not suffering.
Just… Jesus.
Alive.
Kind.
Safe.
He smiled like He had never been offended by my doubts—only concerned by my pain.
And He said, “I brought pillows.”
Which… honestly… felt like the most personal miracle.
I ran like a five-year-old seeing her father come home with a balloon.
I hugged Him.
And He hugged me back.
It was the warmest hug I’ve ever felt.
The kind that doesn’t argue.
The kind that heals without explaining.
I sobbed.
“Lord… I’m sorry. I thought You weren’t there.”
And He said, softly:
“I am always with you, Sus.
In your joy. In your loneliness. In your hurting.
Don’t forget that.
I love you.
And I will never leave you.”
Writer’s Note
Some of us are like Susan.
When life hurts, we ask:
Does God love me? Does He hear me? Is He still here?
And the cross answers in a voice louder than our doubts:
Lately, I have been feeling discouraged. Sad. Lonely. Basically the full sampler platter of negative emotions 😢.
For those who do not know, I lived abroad for ten years. Since coming back home, I have often felt unsettled — like a foreigner in my own country. Abroad, I had friends, an office life, real human interaction, and the kind of ordinary companionship that does not look dramatic on paper but quietly keeps a person alive.
When I came back, everything felt different.
The things that have kept me going are my family, my one faithful friend — whom I am deeply grateful for, because she has not given up on me — and my dog. And yes, she counts as family. Honestly, she may be one of the more emotionally available members of the household.
For years I have been telling myself, I will be happy when I am abroad again. I will be happy when I become this kind of person. I will be happy when life finally looks the way I imagined it would.
Well. It has been ten years 😭💔.
I am still here. Still not abroad again. Still not yet that person I thought would unlock happiness like some premium feature.
Sometimes I feel like my whole body has been underwater for so long, and only my head is above the surface trying to breathe. Other times I feel like one foot is firmly planted, while the other keeps walking and walking and somehow getting nowhere. Movement without progress. Effort without arrival. Very dramatic, yes, but unfortunately also accurate.
And to be fair, my country has many good things. I was born here. I know that. But the chronic daily stressors can really wear a person down. I will spare you the full list because, one, it is boring, and two, I am trying to have a spiritual reflection here, not host a complaint seminar.
Earlier today, I attended an online Mass. The Gospel was Luke 15:11–32, the parable of the Prodigal Son.
Most of us know the usual lesson: the younger son wasted his inheritance, hit rock bottom, came home, and was welcomed back by a merciful father. Beautiful. Timeless. Humbling.
But today the homily struck me from a different angle.
Yes, the younger son returned, and yes, the father rejoiced. But then there is the older brother — bitter, offended, angry that his father celebrated the return of the one who had messed everything up. The older son basically said, I have always been here. I have been dutiful. I have stayed. And you did not even give me a fattened calf.
Honestly? Part of me understands him more than I would like to admit. Some days I hear the older brother and think, Sir, your tone is bad, but your frustration is strangely familiar.
Now, this is not Fr. Mike’s exact wording, but this is how I understood the heart of the homily: we often train our eyes to notice what is wrong more quickly than what is good. If someone asks us how we are, many of us can immediately list the disappointments, delays, hurts, and inconveniences. Apparently, even science tells us the brain tends to latch onto negative things more strongly. Useful for survival, perhaps. Terrible for peace.
And then came the part that really got me.
The older brother saw that his brother had returned, but instead of being glad that he was alive, he focused on what he did not get. The father, however, focused on what had been restored. His son was alive. His son was home. His son was found. The father chose joy. He grabbed it in that moment. That was the part of the priest’s homily that stayed with me: we need to grab joy whenever we can, even if life is still not exactly how we want it to be.
That hit me hard.
Because if I am honest, I have spent so much time staring at what is missing that I have forgotten to notice what is already present. I have become so fluent in disappointment that joy sometimes has to clear its throat and wave at me from across the room.
And yet joy is there.
Joy can be simple.
A puppy licking your face awake in the morning. The sun rising. Birds chirping. Coffee brewing. That buttered toast that somehow tastes like the Lord still has mercy on you.
Simple does not mean small.
The fact that I am alive, that I can feel sunlight on my skin, that I can taste coffee, laugh, pray, breathe, write, and still hope — these are not ordinary scraps. These are gifts. Quiet gifts, yes. But gifts all the same.
The parable of the Prodigal Son has many lessons. It is about repentance. It is about mercy. It is about the Father’s love that runs toward the lost. But today, I heard another lesson in it: if we are not careful, pain can make us miss joy even when it is standing right in front of us.
Like the older brother, we can remain close to the Father and still fail to celebrate what is good.
That is what I am reminding myself of today.
Find joy.
Not fake joy. Not forced positivity. Not pretending pain does not exist.
I mean the stubborn, holy practice of noticing grace. The kind that says, Yes, life is hard. Yes, some prayers are still unanswered. Yes, I am still waiting. But even here, there is something to thank God for.
So this is my reminder to myself, and maybe to you too:
Let us find joy whenever we can.
You probably already know this. I probably already knew this too. But pain and disappointment have a way of making us forget. They narrow our vision until all we can see is what hurts.
Still, there is always something — even something small — that can call us back to gratitude.
Today I replied to 728 emails, spoke to 96 people on the phone, and somehow also became everyone’s unofficial therapist.
Bills. Kids. Husband. Wife.
Life.
Existential crises.
Ma’am.
Sir.
I am not your therapist.
I am just here to click buttons and pretend I’m emotionally stable.
By noon, my brain clocked out.
By 2 PM it submitted a leave request.
By 3 PM I was staring at my monitor like it owed me money and refused to pay.
Then finally—
5:00 PM.
Freedom.
I sprinted to the elevator because if I missed the first batch of people leaving, the hallway would turn into a National Geographic documentary: Migration of the Corporate Herd.
I reached the bus station.
It looked like a zombie apocalypse.
Except the zombies were holding tote bags, coffee cups, and emotional damage, all aggressively trying to board a bus that had clearly given up on respecting capacity limits.
Normally I squeeze in with everyone.
But today?
No energy.
My soul had already left my body around 2:47 PM.
So I waited for the next bus.
Same problem.
Another bus came.
Same problem.
At this point the buses were arriving already emotionally overwhelmed.
Two hours later my legs were shaking, my back was screaming, and my feet were preparing to file a formal HR complaint.
Finally… another bus arrived.
I climbed in as the last survivor.
Honestly I didn’t even care anymore.
I just wanted to go home and collapse like a Victorian woman with tuberculosis.
The bus was so full the door pushed me inside like,
“Congratulations.
You live here now.”
My face was pressed against the glass like a sad aquarium fish.
Someone was coughing.
Someone’s armpit was hosting a public event.
There was sweat.
There was odor.
There were regrets.
At one point I genuinely thought:
“This is it.
This is how I die.
Not in glory.
But suffocated between a backpack and someone’s elbow.”
I was one stop away from fainting and becoming a viral cautionary tale.
But then—
A miracle.
The bus reached my stop before my spirit left my body.
The doors opened.
And honestly?
It felt like the gates of heaven opened too.
Fresh air.
Night sky.
My soul slowly downloading back into my body like slow Wi-Fi.
I walked home.
Then I heard it.
My Badoodle.
Tiny paws.
Zoomies.
Pure chaotic happiness.
The sound of someone who had apparently been waiting all day just to celebrate my survival.
I opened the door slowly…
And there he was.
Tail wagging.
Running back and forth like,
“SUS! YOU’RE BACK!
YOU DEFEATED THE BUS MONSTER!”
And just like that…
The exhaustion melted away.
I still don’t want to commute.
But there’s something comforting about knowing that at the end of the day…
Someone is waiting for you.
And they are genuinely thrilled you came home alive.
We ate dinner.
Did our night routine.
I kissed Oishi on the forehead.
Then we slept.
Good night.
I hope the office burns down tomorrow so there’s no work.
Then came back inside because boredom is exhausting.
When I returned, I heard Susan snoring.
Naturally, I went to check if she was still alive.
She sometimes sleeps like she’s holding a siopao hostage in her mouth. You can never be too careful.
She was fine. Loud, but fine.
As I sat there watching her chest rise and fall, I remembered the first day we met.
It was raining. I had wandered too far and ended up hiding under a tree, soaked and shaking. Then I saw her running toward me — in slow motion, like in the movies. I panicked. Susan is very large when you are small and wet and afraid.
But instead of grabbing me, she opened an umbrella. She dried me. She scooped me up like I weighed nothing.
And she said words I still remember clearly:
“I got you, buddy.”
I didn’t know what buddy meant.
But it sounded safe.
After that, life became loud.
Susan overreacted to everything.
Our kitchen was often covered in flour.
Fish jumped out of pans.
We went on park walks, food trips, Christmas dinners, New Year countdowns, birthdays, and places I couldn’t pronounce but enjoyed anyway.
She laughed. She cried. I stayed.
Today, while she slept, I whispered a prayer.
“God, thank You for giving me this hooman.”
And I made a promise to myself.
I will still protect Sus when we’re old.
We will drink coffee together.
Watch sunsets.
Maybe Boyo will join us.
I don’t know what the future looks like, but I know where I belong.
Somewhere nearby, I felt a calm presence.
I think Jesus was watching us — smiling — like He understood something I didn’t need to.
A burnout comedy about quitting, bills, and God’s very calm “no.”
Oishi narrates, reluctantly.
So my dear readers, I have shocking news.
Susan… has been working hard.
Yes. Hard. Like “new personality unlocked” hard.
She leaves early. Comes home late. She prepares my food like she’s deploying overseas. She kisses my head like she’s going to war. Ma’am, you are going to work. Not Mordor.
For three months, this was our routine:
She drops kibble. She says, “No chicken today, Oishi. It spoils when you leave it on the plate and I’m not home.”
And I’m like… HELLO??? Chicken does not “spoil” on my plate. Chicken does not even survive two minutes on my plate.
But anyway. That’s what she kept saying while she ran around muttering about her “KPI.” I don’t know what that is, but based on how she suffers, it sounds like a disease.
⸻
The part where Susan explains what happened (and blames everyone but herself)
Susan (narrating, rubbing her temples):
Okay. Fine. Yes. I’ve been working hard.
Because last quarter… I missed my KPI. And yes… it was my fault.
I didn’t perform well because I was “preparing for Christmas.”
And when I say preparing, I mean:
binge-watching, eating chips, making holiday plans three months early, and acting like December is a full-time job.
So now, I’m paying for it. My boss, Henson, told me if I don’t pull my performance up, he’ll axe me. And he said it will make him happy because apparently I’m “a melodramatic, overreacting hurricane pain in the—”
Okay. He didn’t say the last word. But his eyes did.
Also, I was working hard because of Oishi.
So I can buy him food and cute bandanas. That smug little shih tzu wants chicken every day like he pays rent.
So I told myself, “Susan, you will not give up. You will act like a good employee.”
Which is why… I did what every responsible employee does.
I tried to bribe my manager.
I bought Henson the juiciest, most glorious four-patty burger with jalapeño cheese melt. Honestly, I could’ve offered siopao, but he’s the type who says “I don’t do carbs” while chewing on stress.
I offered the burger and smiled like an innocent angel.
He stared at it like it was poison.
He refused it.
REFUSED.
Who refuses that burger? It had purpose. It had destiny. It had jalapeño.
Instead, he marched me straight to HR, Horatio T.
Horatio did what Horatio does best: stayed calm, wrote a memo, and told me if I don’t fix my performance and my attitude, I’m out.
So I walked back to my desk confused, offended, and extremely dramatic… and then my heart jumped because…
He was there.
Jesus.
And I was ready.
I told Him everything. Every unfair thing. Every rude customer. Every pressure. Every injustice. I even included the burger tragedy.
Then I said, “Lord… I’m tired. I want to quit.”
Jesus lifted His hand.
I gasped because deep inside, I was thinking:
If He says yes, nobody can stop me. Not my boss. Not HR. Not even the economy.
And then Jesus said:
“Nope.”
⸻
The part where Susan does what Susan does
Oishi (narrating):
After Jesus said “Nope,” you can guess what Susan did.
She quit anyway.
She came home acting like she was a victim of corporate oppression, as if I didn’t witness the last quarter where she said, and I quote:
“Badoodle, it’s holiday month. Christmas is coming. I don’t need to work on those reports.”
Apparently the company did need those reports.
And apparently reports do not magically submit themselves because Christmas lights are blinking.
Anyway.
She barged into HR with conviction.
Imagine Susan storming in like she’s in a courtroom drama, waving her resignation letter like Exhibit A.
Horatio looked at her like a man watching a toddler carry a candle near curtains.
He calmly said we have practical obligations in life and she should think about it.
Susan crossed her arms. Inhaled deeply. Like she was about to deliver a monologue.
Then she exhaled and said, “I QUIT.”
Paw to forehead. Classic Susan.
⸻
The part where Susan enters her “freedom era” (Delulu Phase)
Susan (narrating, glowing with delusion):
After I resigned, I felt relieved.
No more waking up early. No more rude customers. No more reports. No more cases to monitor.
Last week I even saw a white hair. WHITE. HAIR.
That’s when I knew my job was trying to assassinate me.
So I woke up slow. Took a shower. Scooped Oishi. Went to the park. Ate ice cream. Bought Oishi a cute red bandana with paw prints. Small splurge. Just a little.
And I told myself, “I can find a job quickly. I’m a talented woman.”
Also… I swear my white hair turned black again.
⸻
The part where reality enters like a bill collector with no mercy
Oishi (narrating, ears hurting):
Four weeks later, reality slapped Susan with a receipt.
She splurged. Yes. Like she was sponsored by denial.
Our three-week routine was: park, shopping, binge-watch.
She bought me a gallon of dog cologne. She bought Tupperware she didn’t need. She bought running shoes she never used.
She said, “I need new shoes so I can get motivated and finally look like a supermodel.”
Ma’am. Supermodels do not reward a jog with chips and cake.
Then one day, the living room looked like an elementary school classroom. Papers everywhere. Chips on the floor. Cocoa spilled. Susan sobbing.
And she said:
“Oishi… how am I going to pay for all this? I will sell my blood. It’s worth something, right?”
I stared at her.
I blinked slowly.
And I realized she was not joking.
Later that night, I saw her praying. Not the dramatic kind. The real kind.
Susan (praying):
“Jesus… I didn’t listen. I don’t know how I’ll pay for bills, rent… food… I just wanted a break.”
⸻
The angels arrive (one gentle, one tired)
A bright glow appeared, and Angelusito floated in, chubby and kind.
Behind him was Anghelito, who looked like he hasn’t rested since Genesis.
Angelusito: “Susan, He heard you. He asked you to meet Him at the park. At the swing.”
Susan: “At night?? Can He come here?”
Anghelito: “Sure, let’s make the King of Kings travel like a Grab rider. Just go.”
Angelusito: “Susan, you’re healthy and safe. You can walk.”
Anghelito: “Also, you begged to see Him five minutes ago.”
Rude. Accurate.
So we went.
⸻
The swing scene (heartwarming, not cheesy)
The park was quiet. Peaceful. Jesus was sitting on the swing, smiling gently.
I heard a bark. I turned.
Oishi followed us, tongue out, panting like he ran a marathon, but emotionally he was thriving.
I stood there like a five-year-old who broke something and suddenly remembered consequences exist.
Susan:
“Lord… I’m sorry. I didn’t listen. I don’t know how to pay the bills. I’m ashamed to ask my mom. I’m ashamed to borrow from friends. I was just tired. I wanted a break.”
Jesus looked at her like a Father who already knows the whole story, and still chose to come.
Jesus: “Why did you quit?”
Susan: “I was tired, Lord. The work piled up. Customers were rude. I snapped.”
Jesus (gentle, but direct):
“The reports piled up because you avoided them. The customers were hard because they needed help. You needed wisdom, not escape.”
Susan’s lip trembled.
Jesus continued, calm and practical:
Jesus: “Tell Me what was good about your job.”
Susan hesitated, and the angels, of course, did not.
Christmas was a blast! Let’s see—I lost count how many Christmas parties we went to. I ate so much I think I could live off fat reserves until mid-January. I sang, danced, and won games with Badoodle, my smug little shih tzu whose tail couldn’t stop wagging from sheer victory.
We rode the ferris wheel, watched fireworks, walked under the stars, visited the North Pole, met Santa—and Jesus tagged along. He gently reminded me that He is the gift, not the hot pink car I keep putting on vision boards.
Now it’s New Year’s Eve. Oishi and I are preparing to welcome the new year—me, with a resolution list and reheated siopao; him, with a suspicious eye and a belly full of leftover ham.
My New Year’s Resolutions:
Eat less siopao (cutting down from 5 to 4—I call that discipline)
Weekly massage at the spa
Visit the derma to achieve telenovela-level glow
Salon visits, false lashes, and plumped lips (subtle, classy, fierce)
Buy Oishi a luxury dog bed
Work 25 hours a day to fund all of the above
I was about to post this on the fridge like a manifesto, when Anghelito and Angelusito appeared. My personal heavenly CCTV duo. I sighed, sat down, and mumbled, “Alright, here comes the unsolicited divine coaching.” Oishi barked like he was in on it.
Angelusito, the sweet one, started gently: “Susan, your list shows you want to care for yourself, which is good.”
Before he could finish, Anghelito rolled his eyes. “But you’re broke, Sus. No offense, but you work from home and have six potholders shaped like elephants. You don’t need more Shopee.” He nodded toward a pile of unopened packages.
Then the mini-sermon began:
Add fruits and veggies to your diet. They’re not decorations. (Angelusito, gesturing to the rotting apples I bought to impress a guy who never visited.)
Mind your own business. (Anghelito. Of course.)
Only go to the salon if it fits the budget. (Angelusito, lovingly.)
Stop being dramatic. Your neighbor’s toddler crying isn’t a trauma response trigger. (Guess who.)
Work smart, not nonstop. Hustle culture won’t save you from burnout. (Thank you, Angelusito.)
I burst into tears, siopao still in my mouth. “I’m tired. I’ve waited so long. I just want to feel alive again.”
Oishi, breaking his usual sarcasm, rushed to lick my tears. (Salty. Regretted it. Still loves me.)
Oishi narrates:
In all my days with Susan, this was different. She wasn’t just being melodramatic. She was worn. She always gives, even when people misunderstand her. She says yes when she wants to rest. She takes care of others but forgets herself. I get why she wants something just for her.
Angelusito and Anghelito narrate:
We’ve watched over these two for years. Oishi, despite his side eyes and obsession with chicken, is the most present being on earth. Susan, meanwhile, is a complex emotional lasagna. Layers.
So when she asked:
What’s wrong with taking care of myself?
Why do I feel stuck even if I’ve been good?
Why do I feel invisible?
Why can’t I enjoy life without going broke?
Why does everything feel like a never-ending waiting room?
We didn’t know how to answer. So we went home.
To heaven.
At Heaven’s Gate:
“It’s us!” Angelusito shouted. “We need to speak to the Boss.”
The gates opened. The King of Kings, radiant and humble, walked toward us. “How are my children? Are they safe?”
We told Him everything. He handed us a Bible and a laptop. “Give her answers. But first, remind her: I will never leave nor forsake her.”
Back at Susan’s apartment:
She was washing dishes, still crying. Oishi glared at us like, “Took you long enough.”
We sat Susan down. Here’s what we told her.
1. What’s wrong with taking care of myself?
Nothing. If it’s stewardship, not image control. God calls us to honor the bodies He gave us (1 Corinthians 6:20). Self-care is holy when it’s about preserving what God entrusted. It becomes a trap when it’s about fixing your worth.
2. What’s wrong with wanting my life to get better?
Also nothing. But Jesus defines better as deeper peace, steadier joy, and a heart aligned with heaven. (Matthew 6:33)
3. What’s wrong with wanting to be seen and feel important?
You were made to be known. Psalm 139 says God sees everything about you. But don’t turn life into a stage. Let God see you first. Then applause won’t define your worth.
4. What’s wrong with wanting good things but still have money to eat?
Desiring joy is not sin. But clinging to money like it’s your savior is dangerous. Hebrews 13:5 says, “Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said, ‘Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you”
5. I’m tired of waiting. I’m drifting.
Isaiah 40:31 says those who hope in the Lord renew their strength. Waiting is not punishment—it’s formation. And if you feel restless, maybe that’s your soul saying: you’re made for more than this moment.
6. How can I be happy with small, daily irritations?
You don’t have to fake joy. But don’t waste your pain either. James 1 says trials build character. And small irritations can train you toward maturity, not bitterness.
7. I’ve been good. Why is life still hard?
Because goodness is not a currency. Grace is a gift. God’s love is not a salary you earn. You don’t work for it. You walk in it.
8. Oishi is the only constant thing in my life.
Sweet, fluffy Oishi is a comfort. But your real Anchor is Jesus. He says: I will never leave you or forsake you.
Psalm 23 says:
“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He restores my soul.”
Even in waiting, even in worry, He restores you.
Susan wiped her tears. We made her hot cocoa. Oishi curled beside her like a weighted blanket with legs. We tucked her in.
“I didn’t sign up to babysit humans,” Anghelito muttered.
That night, right before midnight, there was a soft knock at the gate. Boyo showed up holding a thermos of hot cocoa like it was a peace offering, Brenda arrived with something sweet because she refuses to let anyone end the year empty, and Yohannes came in waving sparklers like he was personally assigned to keep hope alive. Susan laughed—real laugh, not dramatic laugh—and for the first time all day, the house felt roomy. The countdown began, Oishi sat proudly like the host, and when the fireworks finally lit the sky, Susan realized she wasn’t just surviving the year… she was ending it loved.
But as we watched her finally at peace, we knew one thing:
Susan may not know what’s next. But she finally believes God is with her.
And that, dear humans, is the only true resolution you need.
The melody floats through the street like warm pandesal. I’m pretty sure the song says something about hope, but I’m a dog, not a theologian. I just know I like the sound.
I’m standing on the windowsill, watching a small group of carolers outside our gate—with tambourines, guitars, and that one tito who sings slightly off-key but with full conviction. I bark at them, but it’s a good bark. The “please continue, I am being serenaded” bark.
I’m happily vibing when suddenly—click.
All the lights in the house go off.
I glance back and see Sus at the switch, wallet in hand, staring at it like it just gave her bad news. Salary is still a few days away, and she has already spent her money on Christmas décor, premium peanuts, a squeaky toy for me, and of course… siopao.
“Badoodle, don’t go near the window, let’s hide,” she whispers, as if we’re fugitives. She peeks through the curtain, then pulls me away.
“I don’t have spare change,” she mutters. “Can you tell them patawad?”
As if I can talk. I mean, I could if I wanted… but I’m choosing peace.
She scoops me up, closes the curtains, and promises, “I’ll give on the 24th, okay?”
Welcome to Christmas budgeting with Susan V.
The Tradition Behind Our Sleep Deprivation
Misa de Gallo—Simbang Gabi—is a Filipino tradition: nine dawn Masses from December 16 to 24. In theory it is a peaceful, holy preparation for Christmas. In practice, your local philosufurr is half-asleep, smelling like someone who bathed in kerosene fumes.
But I’m still excited, because after Mass, Sus and I always buy putobumbong and bibingka. That’s also tradition. The choir, the cool dawn air, the soft murmur of people praying—it’s actually very calming.
I’m watching the choir, tail gently wagging, when I turn to Sus to say with my eyes, “This is nice, isn’t it?”
She’s half-asleep.
Of course. Classic Sus.
Susan narrating (sleepy)
I have been yawning non-stop since December 16.
Oishi and I have been attending Simbang Gabi. Nine dawn Masses to prepare for the birth of Jesus and to honor Mama Mary. People say if you complete all nine, God will grant your prayer. Theologically, I know God isn’t a vending machine—but still, my heart said, Maybe this year, Lord?
So I told myself, I can do this! I’ve completed it before, I can do it again.
First two days, I was so determined. I set my alarm for 3:00 a.m., dragged myself to the shower, jumped around like a frog because the water was freezing, got dressed, and headed out.
December air hits differently. Cool, quiet, a little magical. You hear distant chitchat, slippers on pavement, scooters passing by. Teenagers stand outside the church “attending Mass” but mostly vibing with friends. (No judgment, I was that teen.) There are families, couples, lola with her apo, peers—everyone half-asleep but present.
The choir started singing.
I… knocked out.
I tried biting my tongue to stay awake. Didn’t work. I woke up because Oishi was gently biting my arm like, “Ma’am, respectfully, wake up, the Lord is speaking.”
“Okay, okay, I’m awake,” I whispered, scooping him up and hugging him like a stress ball.
Quietly, I told God, How long do I have to wait, Lord? You’ve given me everything I need—but why not what I want? It’s not like I’m asking to be a drug lord or criminal mastermind.
The first reading ended. Then came the line that grabbed me:
“But when all goes well with you, remember me and show me kindness;
mention me to Pharaoh and get me out of this prison.”
— Genesis 40:14
The priest began talking about Joseph—not Joseph, the husband of Mary, but Joseph the dreamer.
From beside me Oishi muttered in my brain, “They know, Sus. Paw to forehead.”
Joseph’s Story (as told by the priest, and slightly by me)
Joseph was Jacob’s favorite son, the one with the colorful robe and the dreams. In his dreams, their bundles of grain bowed to his, and even the sun, moon, and stars bowed to him. Naturally, his brothers did the mature thing: they hated his guts.
They threw him into a pit, sold him to traders, and told their father a wild animal had killed him. Joseph ended up in Egypt, working for Potiphar, an official of Pharaoh.
He was faithful there, but then Potiphar’s wife falsely accused him, and he landed in prison.
In prison, Joseph interpreted dreams for two of Pharaoh’s officials: the cupbearer and the baker. One would live, one would die. Joseph interpreted correctly, and before the cupbearer left he said, “When it goes well with you, remember me… mention me to Pharaoh.”
The cupbearer… forgot.
Two. Whole. Years.
Then Pharaoh had disturbing dreams about fat cows and skinny cows, full heads of grain and thin ones. No one could interpret them—until the cupbearer finally remembered: “Uhm, Your Majesty… about that Hebrew guy in prison…”
Joseph was brought before Pharaoh, interpreted the dream by God’s wisdom, explained that there would be seven years of plenty then seven years of severe famine, and suggested a plan to store grain. Pharaoh was so impressed he made Joseph second-in-command over all Egypt.
Because of that position, Joseph later saved his own family during the famine—yes, even the brothers who betrayed him. What they meant for evil, God bent toward good.
The priest said something like:
“If the cupbearer had remembered Joseph immediately,
maybe he would’ve left prison earlier—
but he would’ve walked out as an ordinary freed prisoner.
By God’s timing, he walked out as the man who would interpret Pharaoh’s dream
and be placed over Egypt.”
Not because Joseph was perfect, but because God’s plans and timing were bigger than anyone could see from inside that prison cell.
He reminded us that sometimes we’re like Joseph in the waiting phase. We pray and plead, but God doesn’t move the way we expect. Yet God has already said in Isaiah 55:8–9 that His thoughts and ways are higher than ours.
Waiting isn’t lying on the couch until heaven delivers a Shopee parcel. We pray, discern, ask the Holy Spirit for patience—and we still move. We work, study, knock on doors, apply, try again. God gave us brains, hands, and feet for a reason. We don’t wait passively; we wait with faith and intention, trusting that when He says “not yet” or “no,” it’s not cruelty—it’s wisdom.
Back to Susan in the pew
At some point in that homily, I realised I was fully awake.
I hugged Oishi (please don’t ask how I managed to smuggle him inside the church) and felt something in my chest loosen. I thought about all the times I made panicky decisions because I was scared God was taking too long. Times I rushed, grabbed Plan B, or settled for “at least may something,” and then ended up crashing hard.
I’m not saying I’ll stop bombarding heaven with prayers—I’m still Susan; I still talk a lot. But now, when I hear “God’s timing is perfect” and “His ways are higher than ours,” it doesn’t feel like a cliché thrown at me to shut me up.
It feels like Joseph in that cell. Seen. Remembered. Not forgotten—just not yet.
Since then, I’ve been trying (keyword: trying) to wait with a little more patience and a little more faith. To believe that His “no” and “wait” are not punishment, but protection.
After Mass, Badoodle and I rushed to buy bibingka and putobumbong. We went home, made coffee, and sat in the backyard. The sky was soft pink, the air cool. Roosters were crowing, a taho vendor passed by, tricycles started their morning routes. Nothing special—and yet everything alive.
I looked at the sunrise and prayed,
“God, You know how long I’ve been waiting.
Give me patience to trust You.
Thank You for the blessings You’ve already given—
and for the prayers You haven’t answered yet,
because one day I’ll see why You didn’t answer them my way.”
We sipped our coffee in silence.
Beside me, Oishi was busy quietly demolishing last night’s leftover chicken.
Ember - Fire and Soul 