It was a rainy Monday. I was sitting on a bench, waiting for a bus.
But I guess I wasn’t just waiting for the bus. I was waiting for an answer. Waiting for something to fill the void I’ve been carrying. Waiting for the ache inside me to ease up — even just a little.
The weather matched my mood, but oddly, I’ve always liked gloomy days. There’s something comforting about the rain — the soft rhythm of droplets falling, the way the street glows under the lamp post light. It feels honest. Like the world isn’t pretending to be okay.
I sat quietly for a while, then noticed an old man across the bench, watching the rain with the same stillness. He saw me, smiled, and waved. I walked over and sat beside him. We both didn’t seem to mind the wet bench.
“Why are you sitting here alone?” I asked. “Don’t you have someone to keep you company?”
He chuckled. “And why are you alone, young lady?”
I smirked. “If I had someone with me, I would’ve asked him to join me.” Then added, “I guess I feel lonely. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a… Beau.”
He laughed gently. “Even if you had a Beau, he couldn’t go with you everywhere. Sooner or later, you’ll have to learn how to be alone. Even family and friends can’t be with you all the time.”
I nodded. “I know… it’s just, I’ve been doing life on my own for so long. I’m tired. I don’t just long for a Beau — I long for a breakthrough. I’ve been working so hard for half my life. It’d be nice to be taken care of for once. To travel again, to walk unfamiliar streets and taste local food. To speak a language I still can’t pronounce. To fly — not as a passenger, but the one in the cockpit. To have a Beau. And little beaus.”
He chuckled again.
“I get it,” he said. “We all have our longings. As humans, we carry emptiness sometimes — the need for someone to ask, ‘Are you okay?’ To really see us. Hear us.”
Then he shifted his gaze toward the nearest lamp post.
“Describe the street,” he said.
“Dark. Damp. It’s still raining.”
“What else?”
“Lamp posts.”
He smiled. “Yes. Look at how the light touches the street. Wherever that lamp shines, even the wet concrete seems to glow. The darkness is still there… but everything the light touches becomes softer. Brighter. Beautiful.” He turned back to me. “So whatever it is you’re longing for — talk to God about it. He is your lamp.
Tell Him, ‘Father, I am tired. Frustrated. My heart aches.’ He listens. I’m sure He’s listening to us now.”
I didn’t speak right away. The rain had softened into a drizzle — less storm, more lullaby.
The ache was still there, but it didn’t feel as sharp.
I looked at the old man — at the wrinkles shaped by both sorrow and kindness, the quiet strength in his presence. He wasn’t trying to fix anything. He just sat there with me. And somehow, that was enough.
I smiled, more to myself than to him. “Thank you,” I whispered.
He nodded, eyes still on the glow of the lamp post.
“Just remember,” he said, “we may sit alone… but we’re never truly waiting alone.”
The moment passed. But something in me stayed.
So I stayed on the bench a little longer — Not to wait, But to rest.
Five years ago, Susan found me crying under a tree in the rain. Soaked, shivering, abandoned. She ran to me and picked me anyway. (If you want the full origin story, go read “I Got You, Buddy.”)
A few months later, Boyo moved in next door. The first time I saw him, we were playing fetch in the hallway. I noticed him right away. He always smiled. His eyes were gentle. He looked… cuddly. Like Susan, but with better manners.
But there was something about him that drew me in. (Aside from the smell of treats, of course.)
The Incident.
One Saturday at 7 a.m., Boyo was blasting “Bed of Roses.” Susan was still asleep. Keyword: was.
She shot up like a banshee, stomped out of bed like an angry elephant, her hair a war zone, her face like a constipated chimpanzee. Still in pajamas. Still half-dreaming of revenge.
She scooped me up (I protested, silently—I knew what was coming). She banged on Boyo’s door.
He opened it. And for a split second, I swear I saw fear in his soul.
Susan unleashed. “Do you know what time it is?! Do you think you’re alone in the world? That we’re all paranormal beings who can’t hear Bon Jovi at full volume?! I just fell asleep—LAST NIGHT!”
She didn’t even breathe. Her mouth went full machine gun. Boyo? Speechless. Susan? Exited dramatically before he could say a word.
Then she ranted for five. straight. hours. My ears weren’t hurting from the music. They were hurting from Susan.
Mall Day, Siopao Drama, and Puppy PTSD
Later, we went to the mall. We roamed. Ate siopao. She put me in one of those baby ride thingies. I felt like a prince. I loved it.
Until she ditched me at the pet lounge. She wanted to watch a movie. She didn’t say the title, but judging from the timing, I’m guessing: “Food Factory: How Siopao Is Made.”
Earlier that day, while we were eating, I noticed Boyo watching her mid-bite. Mid siopao bite. And I swear—I saw his heart leap out of his chest.
I thought to myself, “Gross.”
That siopao bite must’ve triggered something, because Boyo suddenly remembered.
Turns out, they had met before — well, sort of.
During a neighborhood outing months ago, Boyo had seen Susan and me from a distance, sitting quietly by the beach. We were both staring out at the mountain and sea like it was a private moment with God.
Susan, in that rare peaceful form of hers, whispered, “Look at this view… what a Creator.”
Her face looked… angelic.
Very unlike the siopao-crushing, sarcastic hurricane that just yelled at him in her pajamas.
Back then, Boyo was quietly eating barbecue alone, watching us — Susan with her awe, me with my glassy deadpan — and thinking, Maybe this world still has soft places.
Who falls in love with Susan while she’s inhaling carbs?
Chaos at the Pet Lounge
Back at the lounge, I was surrounded by untrained puppies. Running. Sniffing. Chaos. One of them sniffed my butt for the third time and that was it.
I barked like it was the end of the world.
Luckily, Boyo was still at the mall. He heard me. He came in, checked me out, and left a note at the counter.
“Hey Siopao Girl, Got your dog. He looked restless. We’re at my apartment. — B.”
Bark, Regret, and Bed of Roses (again)
At his place, we chilled. He cooked chicken. We ate. We watched TV. Then we heard stomping in the hallway and shouting:
“BOYOOOO! Where is my badoodle?! Give him back to meee!!”
(She climbed eight floors. The elevator was down. Respect.)
Boyo opened the door. “I’m so—”
But Susan stopped him mid-apology by pressing a finger to his lips. Then launched into a rant that barely related to the situation.
Boyo calmly gave her a chair. Made coffee. Listened. Patiently.
Then she randomly mentioned “regret.” And Boyo’s eyes shifted.
He smiled and asked her, in his usual calm tone:
“What do you regret?”
Susan, being Susan, said:
“I regret buying that choco mocha lipstick. It looks like dried blood.”
Boyo tried again.
“Something deeper.”
She thought. Then said:
“I regret not buying the last piece of siopao. I should’ve bought it. Now I have to cook.”
I put my paw on my head. Classic Susan.
She got up, mid-convo, and left to cook. She was that comfortable around Boyo… she left me with him.
The Regrets Boyo Witnessedand the faith he chose instead.
Once she was gone, Boyo scooped me up. Sat me on his lap. And spoke softly.
“I used to be a nurse overseas,” he said. “I watched people die with so many regrets.”
He went quiet for a moment.
“I wasn’t part of the frontlines. I was the guy waiting in triage. Prepping shots. Changing dressings. I remember November 12, 2015 — the day the relief convoy never came back. We were waiting. The kids were waiting. But all we got was silence… and smoke rising from the ridge.”
Then continued:
“They regretted not telling people they loved them. Not giving enough time. Not living fully. Not putting God first. Not choosing joy over fear. Not choosing people over things.”
I listened. And for once… I had no sarcastic comment.
Boyo added:
“In this lifetime, regret is inevitable — it’s not about avoiding it, but about choosing not to repeat it.”
“Since then, I promised myself I’d live differently. Smile more. Be kind. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s Susan.”
And then, he laughed.
“I’ll still play Bed of Roses. But I’ll be more mindful. I’ll live with faith. Not fear.”
Dinner with the Ones Who Stayed
Susan came back. She brought chicken. Boyo brought soup and dessert.
She ranted about the movie. He smiled. I napped.
And for a few hours, there was no fear. No regrets. Just us. Just joy. Just home.
Writer’s Note (by Ember — Slightly Overcooked, Still Simmering)
Hi, it’s me — Ember. The person behind Susan’s spirals and Oishi’s deadpan commentary.
This episode? It’s personal. Not because I’m a nurse, a doctor, or someone with a front-row seat to life-and-death situations… but because I’ve had my share of regret.
I’ve lost people I loved — and I didn’t always get to show that love the way I wanted to. And honestly? I still live like I have all the time in the world. Like the clock’s not ticking. Like there’s a memo somewhere that says I’ll live to 110.
But there isn’t. And that thought hit me while writing this episode.
So lately, like Boyo, I’ve been trying to really live. To make decisions based on faith, not fear. To be kind, even when I’m surrounded by difficult people and exhausting situations — which, to be clear, is very hard and occasionally makes me want to scream into a pillow.
But I’m trying.
If you’re reading this, maybe you’re trying too. Trying to be softer, braver, more present. Trying to say what matters before it’s too late.
🛋️ A Susan & Oishi Bible Study (1 Corinthians 13:4–7)
It was a Sunday afternoon. Rain outside. Siopao inside. And the living room smelled like shampoo, soy sauce, and spiritual awakening.
Oishi and I were hosting Bible study again — I say “we,” but between you and me, he’s the holy one. I just make snacks and dramatic confessions.
This week’s topic? “What is love?” Which I assumed would be a casual chat over cupcakes — not a divine ambush on my character development.
Brenda opened her Bible. Yohanes brought popcorn. And me? I brought my best behavior. (That lasted 6 minutes.)
Still… I have to admit… I like hosting Bible study now. Don’t tell the Lord, but I think He’s… smoothing my rough edges. Like a cheese grater. But for the soul.
Love is patient.
🔹 Snapshot: Brenda: “You’re singing in your goat voice.” Susan: “And yet… Oishi stays.” Oishi: “That’s love. That’s patience.”
🔸 Soul Note: Love is patient — like a mother whose toddler just broke her favorite mug but still gets a hug. Like a friend who listens when your story takes 47 detours. Like a God who waits while you’re still learning to trust Him.
Love is kind.
🧡 Snapshot: Susan: “For me?” Boyo: “It’s the last one.” Oishi: “He give food. Marry him.”
🧠 Soul Note: Love is kind — like when someone offers you the last siopao without a second thought. But it’s also kind when your coworker gently corrects your mistake without shaming you. Kindness is not just warm—it’s wise. It knows when to offer comfort and when to speak truth softly. Like Jesus, who welcomed the outcasts, washed the feet of His friends, and restored dignity with a word. He never humiliated, only healed.
Love does not envy.
🔹 Snapshot: Susan (grumbling): “She probably doesn’t even eat carbs.” Oishi (deadpan): “Love no envy. But Sus do.”
🔸 Soul Note: Love celebrates — even when it’s not your turn. Like when two friends apply for the same role, and one gets the position. Love is the one who didn’t get it… but still claps the loudest. It’s trusting that what’s for you won’t pass you by. It’s knowing that comparison kills joy, but celebration multiplies it.
Love does not boast. Love is not proud.
🟤 Snapshot: Susan: “It’s just a siopao. No big deal.” Oishi: “She skipped lunch to give that away. No one saw. I did.”
🧡 Soul Note: Real love doesn’t need an audience. It shows up when the camera isn’t rolling. It’s the quiet kind — the one that pays someone’s tuition, feeds a stranger, or forgives without needing a follow-up post. Love doesn’t broadcast kindness to boost its ego. It just does — because that’s what love would do.
Love does not dishonor others
📸 Snapshot: Susan: “I’m not gossiping.” Brenda: “You literally whispered and said, ‘Don’t react, but…’” Oishi: [holds sign] “Love does not dishonor others. Unlike this table.”
🍂 Soul Note: Dishonor doesn’t always shout — sometimes, it hides in the small jabs. In mocking someone’s cooking. In rolling eyes at someone’s work. In reducing their story to a punchline. Love doesn’t strip dignity — it covers it. It sees the effort behind the awkward presentation and chooses grace. Because love doesn’t humiliate. Love honors — even when no one else does.
Love is not self-seeking
📸 Snapshot: Brenda: [yawns] Susan: [slides the siopao] “You look like you haven’t eaten since last week’s WiFi outage.” Oishi: observes silently, notebook open: “Susan – 1, Hunger – 0”
🌾 Soul Note: Love is not self-seeking. It shows up not just in grand gestures, but in quiet surrender of comfort — When you offer your seat to a stranger whose legs are more tired than your entitlement. When you take the smaller piece of cake. When you let someone else go first — even if you’ve been waiting too. It’s when you could claim the spotlight, but choose to lift someone else instead. Because love doesn’t demand center stage. It’s content with the back row if it means someone else gets to rest.
Love is not easily angered. It keeps no record of wrongs.
🔹 Snapshot: Dinah: “You ate my donut again?! That had my initials!” Philip: calmly holds a ‘Sorry’ mug Susan (muttering): “I told you to use invisible ink.” Oishi (deadpan): “0 Days Since Dinah Drama.”
🔸 Soul Note: Love doesn’t keep score. Even when someone eats your lunch. Again. Even when the apology is on a mug, not from the heart. Love chooses peace over pettiness, even if your inner scoreboard is glowing red.
🟤 Susan’s Commentary (a.k.a. emotional meteorology): “If I were God, with the way we act? I’d throw a meteor at Earth every 30 minutes. Like clockwork. But He doesn’t. Because…“The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love” — Psalm 103:8, proudly retold by Susan after skipping breakfast
Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth
🟤 Scene “Love doesn’t clap for karma.”
🛋️ Panel Breakdown: Susan’s on the couch, clutching her phone like it just served her favorite dish — gossip. She just found out that someone she can’t stand got offloaded from a flight. Her smirk is instant. Victory sip pending.
But the moment doesn’t last. Oishi looks at her. Not with judgment — just that quiet, philosopher stare that says, “And then what?”
And something shifts. Susan puts the phone down. Her grin fades. There’s a pause. She remembers: Love does not delight in evil… but rejoices with the truth. (1 Corinthians 13:6)
📖 Soul Note Real love doesn’t get high on someone else’s downfall. It doesn’t pop popcorn when people fall. It prays, exhales, and chooses the higher road — even if it’s uphill. But it does rejoice when truth shows up. When grace wins. When healing begins. When someone takes the hard step toward what’s right — even if it’s messy.
Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres
📖 Soulnote
Love isn’t just sweet moments and sunny days. It’s sharing umbrellas when the storm hits. It’s trusting again after disappointment. It’s holding on to hope when things feel uncertain. And it’s staying — especially when it’s easier to walk away.
Because real love… shows up. In the rain. In the waiting. In the mess. Not perfect. But present. Always.
🐾 Oishi’s Commentary: In case you’re wondering why Susan isn’t in this photo… Let’s just say she’s waiting for someone with a pilot’s license, a prayer life, and a jawline that can part seas. She says it’s “standards.” I say it’s selective delusion with snacks.
Either way, she’s thriving. Alone. But thriving.
✍️ Writer’s Note
When I was younger, I thought love was just for husbands and wives — rom-com stuff. Candlelight and couple shirts. But the more I live, the more I see it’s deeper than that.
Love is how parents sacrifice for their kids. It’s how friends check in when you’re falling apart quietly. It’s choosing kindness with your neighbor… even when they vacuum at 6 a.m. Or worse — sing karaoke at 2 a.m. like they’re auditioning for heaven.
And yes — it’s that very uncomfortable, gospel-level command: Love your enemies.
Hard pill to swallow? Try loving someone who tests your patience like it’s their spiritual gift.
Sometimes, it hurts — especially when you don’t receive the same love you gave. But when I feel unseen, unloved, or overlooked, I remember this:
God loved us first. And He proved it — not with chocolates or flowers — but by giving Jesus, so we could have eternal life.
That’s not just love. That’s divine stubbornness. The kind that doesn’t give up. The kind we’re called to learn.
Macchismo Got Engaged and All I Got was This Emotional Damage
🦴 Narrated by Oishi
It was a lazy weekend afternoon. Susan and I had just finished our chores—well, I supervised. She flopped onto the couch with the full weight of an emotionally distressed hippo. I bounced. My squeaky toy took flight. It hasn’t been seen since.
Still, I love Susan. So I sat beside her, placed a paw on her lap, and she hugged me like a drama queen needing a life raft.
Then she whispered, “Macchismo is getting married. He’s engaged. That woman even posted the ring… for the whole world to see.”
(Cue tragic violin)
For those not emotionally entangled: Macchismo is her co-worker at The Signal Co. and her not-so-secret office crush. Tall. Handsome. Jawline. Smelled like toner and danger.
Susan used to glance at him during lunch breaks like she was auditioning for a music video. He smiled once. She nearly dropped her donut.
Susan wailed, clutched her tote, and announced in her signature goat-in-distress voice,
“Oishi, badoodle! We’re going to the park so I can distruct myself. We’ll eat siopao. Donuts. I’ll buy you KFC.”
At “KFC,” my ears perked. Chicken heals all wounds, including hers.
At first, the park was peaceful. The breeze danced. Birds sang. Then—
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”
That was Susan.
“Look at them, Oishi! They’re kissing in the park!”
And with that, the Bitter Commentary Hour began.
“This park is not your personal romcom! Other people walk here. I hope you both step on gum. She’s not even that pretty—sure, her hair is long and shiny and ugh fine, she glows, whatever. AND LOOK AT HIM, HE IS SO HANDSOME.” Who even has a jawline like that? And that chiseled face—he looked like a man who stepped out of a rom-com movie… or a romantic pocketbook from a bookstore. You know, the ones with titles like “Forever Mine (But Not Hers)” and “Just Kiss Me, Architect Daddy.”
After half an hour of Olympic-level sulking, I stood up and waddled toward the restaurant. She followed, dragging her broken heart behind her like a weighted blanket of regret.
We sat down. She kept glancing back at the lovebirds. I felt sorry for her, honestly. I wanted to say: Your time will come, Sus. So I did my part.
“Don’t worry,” I told her.
“She probably eats salad without gagging. And you and Boyo? You’d look good together.”
Boyo is our neighbor. Kind. Chubby. Soft-spoken. Not an Adonis or a superhero god, but he has a superpower: patience. Especially with Susan. He cooks. He listens. He once fixed her door with nothing but a screwdriver and a sense of duty.
But Susan? She ignores him like she’s the lost Victoria’s Secret model.
Still… I can’t blame her. Watching that couple in the park felt like binge-watching an action movie—high-stakes, dramatic, painfully public.
Eventually, we finished our food and walked a little more. Then home.
Back in the living room, Susan scooped me up, hugged me, and said,
“Thank you, badoodle. For being there for me. For looking at me like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.”
(I’m not.)
“For putting up with my drama.”
(Barely hanging on, Sus.)
“And for never leaving me.”
(Okay, that one’s true.)
I sighed. This is love. This is loyalty.
This is the emotional labor of a Shih Tzu with a PhD in patience. 🐾
There was a man standing on the bridge of the Seine River. Even from afar, he stood out — calm, certain, a quiet sort of strength. He wore a long black coat, and when I passed him, I caught a glimpse of his eyes — gray, like a storm that had long passed, but left the sky changed forever. He smiled. It was sincere. And somehow, it stilled the night.
It was drizzling. Paris was dim but alive — the glow of lampposts, the hum of soft saxophone from a nearby café, the sound of heels echoing across wet cobblestones.
“I see you here often,” I said. “Always staring at the river.”
He turned, voice steady and low: “Because it’s peaceful,” he said. “It doesn’t rage or retreat. It flows in one direction — forward. Not clinging to the past. Not stopping to dwell in despair. Just moving. Toward hope. Toward healing. Toward a God who never leaves, even in the rain. Even in the waiting.”
I blinked back tears. He looked tired — not the kind you sleep off, but the kind you live through. Still, he carried hope like a lantern. So I stood beside him. No more words were shared. We just listened — to the rain, to the saxophone, to the people laughing as they passed, and to the river — steady, certain, flowing.
Paris, Present Day — His Voice
I am older now. The bridge has aged, and so have I. But I still come here — to the Seine.
I used to stand here alone. A soldier without war. A man without reason. But somehow, in the middle of my unraveling, I found love. I didn’t come for it. I didn’t expect it. But God is like that — quiet, surprising, faithful.
I remember her — young, bright, full of life. But not when we first met. That night, she found me broken. And instead of walking away, she stood beside me. She just stayed. And in that silence, I began to heal.
I told her why I watched the river. How life had hurt me. How I no longer believed in rising. And somehow, she made me believe again.
Now I come here not for solace — but gratitude.
The Seine still flows — forward, steady, full of grace. And though she’s gone now, I know where it leads.
Because the river moves in one direction. And so do I — toward the day I’ll see her again.
It was a Saturday morning. As usual, Sus and I got up early—we both love Saturdays. She made breakfast, we ate, and we washed the dishes. Saturdays feel like a moment we actually live in, not rush through.
Then came the part I didn’t sign up for. She gave me a bath. Yes, a bath. Despite my clear protests. She sang through the whole ordeal—trapped in the acoustics of a small bathroom, her goat-voice bouncing off every tile. It was like being waterboarded by a musical.
Afterward, we walked in the park. I was mid-sniff on a very interesting post when Sus scooped me up. “Oh badoodle, we have to move now! Yohanes and Brenda are coming. We’re having a Bible study!”
Wait. Susan? Bible study? The same woman who once tried to Google “How to find a husband in one week” and “Why my siopao won’t rise”? This was going to be good.
When we got home, Yohanes and Brenda were already on the porch.
“Girl,” said Yohanes, “we’ve been waiting forever. Time is precious and it’s a valuable thing that a man can spend.” He’d only been waiting ten minutes. Classic drama king.
Brenda, calm as always, stood up and scooped me gently, like I was royalty. Unlike Susan, who picks me up like she’s rescuing a sock from a puddle.
Inside, Yohanes helped himself to the fridge while Susan bragged, “I perfected this siopao dough last night. It’s yum-yum!”
Brenda raised an eyebrow. “Sus, this is a Bible study, not a Food Network audition.”
Yohanes chimed in, “She’s only here for the snacks.”
Brenda replied, “Maybe. But she’s gone from ‘I’m here for donuts’ to ‘I’m seeking the man with the hole in His hands.’ And that man has a name. If you keep coming, Susan, you’ll know it better.”
They sat down. Brenda said, “Hebrews 11. Let’s start.”
But Susan had disappeared. She was deep in her room, hunting for a Bible her mom gave her during her rebel phase. She never read it, but she kept it—because it was from her mom, and because somewhere deep down, she knew it mattered.
She finally returned, siopao in hand. “I found it! And I really nailed this dough.”
Brenda began reading: “Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see…”
Susan gasped. “Abraham offered his son?!”
Yohanes followed: “Sarah got pregnant at 90?!”
“Yes,” Brenda replied calmly. “God stopped Abraham, and yes, Sarah had a son. Genesis 21 confirms it. Faith is trusting God even when it sounds ridiculous.”
Then Brenda explained:
“You know, I once read something that stuck with me.
Faith is like planting a seed… and trusting the Gardener.
You don’t always see what’s happening underground. It may take time — maybe even longer than your lifetime. But you keep watering. You keep believing. Because you trust the One who planted it. You’re not the one growing it — you’re just called to believe something’s happening beneath the dirt.”
I’d trust the Gardener too, Oishi thought, I just don’t trust Susan with plants. 🌿☠️
Susan nodded. “So it’s like my siopao! I studied recipes, practiced kneading, timed it right. I didn’t just wish it would rise. I took action and had faith it’d turn out yum.”
“Exactly,” Brenda smiled. “Faith isn’t passive. It moves — but not just in any direction. It walks hand-in-hand with obedience, doing what God asks even when it’s hard.”
Susan, still chewing, added, “Back in college I failed Algebra. I prayed, but I didn’t study. I blamed God. But now I get it. Prayer without effort? It’s like hoping your siopao will rise while your oven’s still off.”
Brenda nodded. “James 2:17—‘Faith without works is dead.’ And yes, sometimes we do all we can, and then we leave the rest to God. Like illness. Like impossibilities.”
Then Yohanes, with his usual flair, raised his hand. “But what about Hebrews 11:13? It says some people died still waiting on God’s promises.”
Brenda nodded. “They still believed. Hebrews 11:13 says they ‘died in faith’—they didn’t get to see the promise come true, but they trusted the One who made it. Some of them went through really hard stuff. But even when it didn’t make sense… they held on. That’s the kind of faith that looks up, even when everything around you says to look down.
Then Susan asked, “Is there someone not from the Bible who did that”?
Brenda nodded. “More than we can count. Some planted seeds of justice and never saw the harvest. Others fought for their country’s freedom and died before the flag ever rose. There were those who stood up for truth and were silenced long before it echoed. But they believed anyway.
Susan leaned back and whispered, “It feels good… understanding something this deep.”
Oishi, chewing slowly, thought: She also said that after watching a documentary on cheese. But hey—progress is progress.
We finished our siopao.
And for the first time, I think Susan tasted more than food.
An Unfiltered Monologue from the Man Who Walked on Water (for a Few Seconds)
🎤 Camera fades in. A fisherman’s hands. A worn net. And a voice — familiar, grounded, rough around the edges.
You know, people talk about faith like it’s easy. But I’ve lived it. Or at least… I’ve tried to.
I’m Peter. Yeah, that Peter. The one who walked on water — and almost drowned doing it. But let me start from the beginning.
One morning, I was casting my net—tired, frustrated, nothing biting. I’d been at it all night. Then this man shows up and tells me,
“Cast your net again.”
(Luke 5:4)
And I said,
“Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything.”
But… alright. What’s one more throw?
Next thing I know, the net is breaking from the weight of the fish. That’s when I realized: this isn’t just a man. And then He said,
“Follow Me, and I’ll make you fishers of men.”
(Matthew 4:19)
So I dropped my net. And everything changed.
We went from town to town — me, Him, the rest of the gang. I watched Him open blind eyes, heal lepers, raise the dead, and feed thousands with just five loaves and two fish.
(Matthew 14:13–21)
And the leftovers? More than what we started with.
He taught crowds, but He also sat with sinners. He didn’t avoid mess — He stepped right into it.
One time, we were out at sea. The wind was howling, the waves slapping the boat, and suddenly—
someone points and yells, “It’s a ghost!”
Nope. It was Him.
Walking on water. Like it was dry land.
He looked right at me and said,
“Come.”
(Matthew 14:29)
So I did. Stepped right out of the boat. For a second, I was doing it. Walking on water. But then I saw the wind… heard the thunder…
and I sank. Just like that.
He caught me, of course. Pulled me back up.
“Oh you of little faith, why did you doubt?”
(Matthew 14:31)
Good question.
Later, He looked me in the eye and said,
“You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.”
(Matthew 16:18)
Me. A guy who panicked in a storm and talks too much when he’s nervous.
He wasn’t like anyone we knew. He confused the powerful — they couldn’t trap Him. They asked,
“Should we pay taxes to Caesar?”
And He said,
“Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.”
(Matthew 22:21)
We all just… shut up. What could we say?
But you wanna know what shook me apart from the miracles? It was His compassion.
There was this woman — been bleeding for twelve years. Doctors couldn’t help her. She touched the hem of His robe — just the hem — and she was healed.
He turned and said, “Daughter, your faith has made you well.”
(Mark 5:25–34)
And then there was that time He walked into the temple and flipped the tables.
Yeah. Flipped them.
Because they turned a house of prayer into a night market.
(Matthew 21:12–13)
Even His anger felt… holy.
But the high officials? They didn’t like Him. So they plotted. They came for Him at night. I tried to fight back — chopped off a guy’s ear.
(John 18:10)
He healed it. Told me,
“Put your sword away. Those who live by the sword will die by it.”
(Matthew 26:52)
And then… the part I don’t like talking about.
I followed from a distance. People recognized me.
“Weren’t you with Him?”
“No.”
“I saw you.”
“No, I swear I wasn’t.”
Three times I denied Him.
(Luke 22:54–62)
And then the rooster crowed. Just like He said it would.
I broke.
He was beaten. Crucified. And even then, He prayed:
“Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.”
(Luke 23:34)
He told a dying thief,
“Today, you’ll be with Me in paradise.”
(Luke 23:43)
And on the third day —
He rose.
(Matthew 28:1–10)
Alive. Glorious. Gentle. Still forgiving.
He even made me breakfast. Told me to feed His sheep.
(John 21:15–17)
It was His way of saying, “You’re still mine.”
I’ve seen the sea open.
I’ve also seen myself sink.
But faith isn’t about perfection. It’s about focus.
It’s not about never doubting — it’s about who you run to when you do.
And if you ever feel like you’re drowning —
look up.
He’s already in the water
Oh, and before I go —
For those of you who don’t know His name… it starts with a J if you’re speaking English, an H if you’re from some parts of Asia or Latin America, and a Y if you’re reading Hebrew.
But no matter the language — it’s still the name that calms storms.
So, I hope to see you in a very, very very long time.
But in the meantime?
Keep the faith.
So He won’t have to look at you the way He looked at me and say,
“Oh you of little faith.”
(Matthew 14:31)
PS:“That rooster line still stings. But the grace? Unforgettable.” 🐓🔥
Narrated by: Oishi (because no one else wanted to narrate something this heavy… and Susan’s a wreck before 5 PM anyway.)
It was Friday. 4:00 PM. That weird twilight zone in the office where everyone pretends to work but mostly just stares at their monitors, calculating escape.
Susan, of course, announced loudly while holding a siopao in one hand and milk tea in the other:
“When that clock hits 5:00, my voluptuous butt is outta here.” (As if she hadn’t devoured half a dozen siomai during lunch.)
Meanwhile, the usual suspects were passing time in their own way:
· Brenda, Yohannes, Jasper, and Horatio T. were exchanging insults in a love language only extroverts understand.
· Dinah and Jezzie Bell were packing up with military precision, so they could vanish the moment the clock beeped.
· The pantry was full — not just with people, but with food, gossip, and unspoken exhaustion.
And then there was Philip Vaughn. Sitting quietly at the far corner table. Black coffee in hand. Eyes distant — but never disconnected.
Horatio wandered over, casual and curious. “You’re a war vet, right? What were you? Infantry? Air Force? Bazooka guy? Tank dude? Can you shoot a target from, like… 20,000 miles away?”
Philip gave a gentle smile and shook his head.
“No, Horatio. No one can hit a target from 20,000 miles. That’s… halfway around the world.”
Then he paused. His gaze shifted — from polite to pained.
“I never flew a plane. But I’ve seen families flee their homes in panic. I never carried a bazooka. But I’ve seen bodies — scattered, torn, innocent. I can’t hit a distant target. But I’ve seen people so crushed by suffering… that light itself felt unreachable.”
We all grew quiet. Even Susan, mid-bite, slowed down. Until…
“Well,” she blurted, “that’s ‘cause the gal ate the apple and the dude went along with it.”
She said it like it explained everything. And in her head, it probably did.
To be fair, I think Susan thought Philip was asking why there’s evil in the world—why suffering exists. And since she just finished a Bible study that touched on Genesis, this was her chance to shine. So she went straight to the source: Eve, Adam, and that infamous fruit.
She even glanced at Brenda like, “See? I listened.”
Just to clarify, dear readers: “The gal and the dude” = Eve and Adam.
I don’t fully understand why it had to be an apple — personally, I’d sin for a dumpling — but what would I know? I’m just a fluffy Shih Tzu with theological insights and trust issues.
Thursday night, 10:00 PM — Philip’s apartment.
He couldn’t sleep. The memories were looping: Suffering. Hunger. People doing evil to survive. Others doing evil for no reason at all. No remorse. No hesitation. Just destruction.
He whispered to the ceiling:
“Why is there evil in the world? Don’t You care about the innocent who suffer?”
And then… He remembered what Ishmael the janitor once told him.
“God gave us free will, Philip,” Ishmael had said.
And then… he remembered a conversation years ago, just outside camp. Ishmael wasn’t a soldier — not anymore — but the man carried a quiet kind of command.
“The ability to choose good… or evil. Love isn’t love if it’s forced. And with freedom comes risk. Real risk.”
“Like cars,” he continued. “They’re made for transport. Good purpose. But if the driver’s drunk… the same machine becomes a weapon.” “God didn’t create evil. But He created choice. And that choice is what allows evil to exist — and grace to overcome it.”
Philip had asked, “But what about the innocent? What about those who suffer because of other people’s choices?”
Ishmael’s eyes were kind but tired.
“That one… I don’t have a full answer for. But the Bible doesn’t hide suffering. It just promises this: ‘Even though I walk through the darkest valley, You are with me.’ Not avoiding pain. But walking with us through it.”
“Keep asking Him,” he added. “Keep giving compassion. Keep pointing people back to the Shepherd. And when you don’t understand… stay with Him anyway.”
Back to the office. Back to the pantry. Back to siopao.
Philip ended his story. No music. No applause. Just silence.
All of us — even your stoic narrator — were in tears. Except Jezzie B. and Dinah, who muttered:
“Well, nobody asked you to serve anyway.”
Horatio turned red with rage. But Philip? He just smiled and patted him on the back.
“It’s okay. No one asked me. It was my calling. And if I could do it all again… I’d still choose to serve.”
Jezzie and Dinah left the room — humiliated, uncomfortable, and I suspect, a little convicted.
[Narration: Oishi | Present Day]
Susan left me with Philip because she went to the cinema to watch Inside Out with her BFFs, Brenda and Yohanes. Apparently, she can relate to “the anxiety character.” Don’t worry—I’ll spare you the full emotional recital she made when she got home and hugged me while weeping about how seen she felt. But that’s a story for another day… or never.
I was chewing on my squeaky lion toy when I saw Philip walk toward me. He was smiling—but his eyes were heavy. The kind of heavy that didn’t come from lack of sleep. It was history. It was weight.
He scooped me up, kissed my face, hugged me like I was the last safe thing in the world. I let him. When Philip hugs you, you don’t ask questions—you just hold the moment. He took me to the backyard. It was night. Quiet. Stars out. But something in his breath told me that the peace outside didn’t match the storm inside.
Then he said it: “Oishi, I have something to tell you that’s been weighing on me. You may not talk, but I know you’ll listen.”
His face dropped. From soft to steel. He started.
“November 12, 2015. I’ll never forget that day, even if I want to. It haunts me.”
“We were in a classified debrief. I was a Corporal. The man giving the briefing? Colonel Ishmael Shulman—yes, that Ishmael. The same one you see mopping the hallway at The Signal Co. You’ve met him.”
(Oishi – Yep. He’s the only one in that office who actually uses his brain. Apart from you, of course.)
“I don’t trust easy. I keep to myself. It’s not coldness—it’s control. I care about my team, I’d give my life for them. But connection? That’s a luxury I rarely allow myself. Until Private Joseph Morgan.
“He was different. Focused. Disciplined. Fearless, but not reckless. Courage isn’t the absence of fear—it’s what you do despite it. And Joseph did the hard things, always.”
“And when our pride got too loud, Joseph had a way of cutting through it—soft, but sharp.” “It’s not about being right. It’s about being kind… and knowing when to shut up.”
“I’ll never forget the day I disobeyed orders. I was told to wait, but I moved in too early. My pride said, ‘You’re the senior here.’ My gut said, ‘Go.’ It was a trap. I would’ve died… but Joseph followed me. Took down the enemy. Saved me. Looked at me with that smug grin and said, ‘You okay there, Corporal?’ with a wink. That wink saved my life.”
Philip’s voice broke. Then steadied.
“After the debrief, we got into the helo. The view over Elar-Shur was stunning—mountains, light, rooftops stacked like prayers. We were supposed to drop relief goods. Vaccines.”
“Then the first explosion hit.”
“From afar, the city burned. Screams from a distance. Our Sergeant Mekena Abimbola, Combat Medic whispered, ‘Praise the Lord, who is my rock. He trains my hands for war and gives my fingers skill for battle.’ (Psalm 144:1). Another boom. Our tail got hit. The pilot shouted, ‘Brace for impact. We’re going down.’”
“We crashed. The city was chaos. Smoke, gunfire, insurgents in black like death made manifest. We were surrounded. This was no relief mission. This was war.”
“We fired back. The medic was already on her knees trying to resuscitate someone. The pilot – Commander Sera Wilde—turns out she’s also trained to fly an F-16—was crawling toward the jet nearby, trying to flip the tide.”
“We were pinned. Joseph told me to hide, use the scope, wait. But I was reckless again. I saw an opening, took it. Didn’t see the sniper. Joseph did. He screamed my name, ran to cover me. Took the bullet meant for me.”
“The medic ran to him. Did everything. But he was already gone.”
“The pilot made it to the jet. Took out the enemy. But the damage had already been done.”
“I didn’t just lose a comrade. I lost a brother. Because of me.”
“I spiraled. I drank. I disappeared. Until someone told me there’s still redemption for people like us. That the Shepherd still walks through battlefields — even in the darkest ones.”
“So I got up. Found The Signal Co. And every time I hear Susan scream at the photocopier, or see Macchismo take a toilet selfie, or Yohanes being extra, or Brenda correcting everyone with her straight face—I breathe a little better.”
“That’s how I heal. One quiet laugh at a time.”
He patted me again. And I didn’t move. Because in that moment, I wasn’t just his emotional support dog. I was his chaplain. His witness. His silent Amen.
📜 Writer’s Note:
This is a work of creative reflection.
I haven’t seen war up close. But I’ve felt broken. I’ve gone to bed hungry—not always for food. I’ve been shut out, pushed down, overlooked.
I’ve seen people break, and I’ve felt the sting of things that weren’t my fault. I’ve suffered because of others’ choices. And I’ve hurt others because of mine.
I don’t have big answers. Maybe no one does. But I think it matters that we ask. That we say it out loud—whatever “it” is. That we make room for the hard questions, even the ones we whisper in the dark.
And if you’ve ever asked, “God, where are You in all this?” Same.
But I think He’s still here. I think He stays, even when everything else falls apart. And maybe that’s not everything. But maybe it’s enough to keep going.
It was an ordinary day — or at least it started that way.
Susan and I were still curled up in bed at 10 a.m. And before you ask: no, she wasn’t sick, heartbroken, or on strike. She was just… relaxed.
Why? Because there was a typhoon. A mild one. Flooded roads, car unreachable, and in her words:
“If no storm passes through the Philippines, the Pacific Ocean might just run dry.” (I don’t even know what that means, but I’ve stopped questioning her logic.)
She got up, made hot cocoa, poured milk into my bowl like I was royalty, and said — while looking out the window:
“Look outside, Badoodle… even the kids are having a great time.”
And yes — I saw it too. Kids with paper boats, the rain falling gently, radio murmuring updates about Typhoon Pepe. It was… cozy. For now.
I observed the humans doing their thing:
Some were still going to the market.
Some stocked up on candles, flashlights, and food.
And Susan? She was already prepared. Girl never runs out of snacks. I respect that.
After lunch, we were watching our favorite show, The Detective Agency, when suddenly the screen cut:
BREAKING NEWS: “Typhoon Pepe has intensified. Signal No. 4. Floodwaters reaching rooftops. Evacuation in progress.”
I froze. There were people — entire families — sitting on rooftops, holding onto pets, waiting for rescue boats. The only things bending harder than the coconut trees were my emotions. I watched as fellow barkmates were being carried, soaked, shaking. I turned to Susan… but she was gone.
I heard rustling in the closet. Then she popped out with a trash bag.
“Oishi Badoodle! We need to donate clothes — the ones we’re not using anymore!”
I believed her. Until…she held up her favorite dress — the one she hadn’t worn since pre-pandemic (pre-pandemic 1).
“But what if there’s a special event in the future?” she pleaded. “I look cute in this one!”
Ma’am, that dress wouldn’t fit over your arm. Let it go.
She saw my expression. I think she interpreted my look and she bent down and said “Why are you looking at me like that? What if I take your bandana, huh?”
No. Not the bandana. Don’t take my identity, Susan. NOOO.
Then suddenly — because even heaven couldn’t ignore this mess Jesus appeared behind her and said gently:
“Susan… please. For Me.”
And just like that, she started packing every last piece of clothing she hadn’t worn since 2005.
And me? I heroically snuck her ancient undies into the trash bag. You’re welcome, world.
But in all seriousness: I love Susan. Her heart’s in the right place. Even when her logic is… flooded.
✍️ Writer’s Note
I live in a country where storms and floods are part of the rhythm of life. This story might feel exaggerated — but honestly? It’s not. (Okay… maybe the undie part. Maybe.)
I’ve been lucky. I live in the city, where the water usually rises just enough to cancel errands but not lives. But once, I had to evacuate. My dog and I were soaked, cold, and displaced. That night? I understood. The fear. The discomfort. The fragile prayer of “Lord, please…”
Not everyone will experience that. But maybe, through stories — funny, honest, odd stories — we can feel just a little closer. And maybe we’ll be moved to do something too.
This isn’t meant to mock or minimize the pain others have gone through. Filipinos are resilient — but we’re not numb. And in those moments of crisis, I saw how we stood together: Neighbors giving. Strangers donating. Some volunteering in drenched clothes and tired hearts. We helped because it’s who we are.
And I know you’re probably like that too. Whether you’re Filipino or not, I’ve seen how people from all over the world show up — for their neighbors, for strangers, for anyone in need.
Sometimes it’s food. Sometimes it’s clothes. Sometimes it’s just sitting beside someone who’s soaking wet — with hope.
Because at the end of the day, no matter where we’re from…
We’re all hooman. 🐾
This story — with its messy closets and flying slippers — simply shows that even in chaos, we still find laughter, compassion, and the will to do good.
Because here in the Philippines, we say: “Bagyo ka lang, Pinoy kami!” You’re just a storm. We are Filipino.
Some people are afraid of the storm… and the aftermath it brings. But I am not.
I don’t see the thunder as a threat — I see it as a sign to rise. The crack of lightning? It doesn’t scare me. It wakes me. It’s not shouting at me to hide — it’s calling me to move.
This is your queue to go forth and do the thing that scares you the most.
Because in life, you can’t stop the storm. You will have to face it. And if you must walk through it, Then walk like you own the road.
Stand in the middle of the storm, on the battlefield of fear, Look it dead in the eye and say— “I’m not afraid of you… Because The Shepherd is walking with me.”
She wasn’t just dreaming of the skies — she belonged to them. This sepia-toned portrait captures the spirit of a woman born out of time: a would-be pilot with the fire of the present and the soul of the past. In another life, she walks the tarmac in uniform — not for glamour, but for duty. Calm eyes, steady heart. A cross on her chest, purpose in her bones. Somewhere behind her, a war might be raging. But inside her, there is resolve. This is the version of her that chooses honor over ease, and jazz halls over earbuds. The kind of woman who would trade the noise of the now for a quiet night in 1950s velvet, arm-in-arm with someone who sees her.
Because while the world chases speed, she still dreams of propellers and handwritten letters.
When someone insults you, clench your fists, bite your tongue, and try not to blurt anything out. Also… turn the other cheek, as Jesus said.
Pause. Think about siopao and donuts. Not because they help, but because carbs are a great distraction from violence.
Meditate. Imagine yourself winning the argument flawlessly. I mean… meditate so you remain calm and spiritually aligned.
Practice deep breaths before you accidentally retaliate with words that could melt concrete. Deep breaths. Breathe in grace, exhale petty.
Smile sarcastically—wait, no. Smile genuinely. You never know, your unexpected smile might lift someone’s heavy heart. Even if their face deserves a sandal.
✍️Writer’s note
Ahhh self-control — the kind of thing that many of us struggle to master. And by “many of us,” I mean me. 🙋🏻♀️
You’ll notice that Susan is still very much resistant to responding in kindness. Her first reaction is usually pride, ego, or the urge to throw a siopao and a donut. But the important thing is — she’s learning. Trying. And so am I.
It’s not easy, especially when you’re dealing with people trying to be cute but clearly skipped the ‘logic’ queue in life.
But we’re out here trying, praying, breathing (sometimes growling), and getting better one siopao at a time.
See you on the next post. — Oishi, emotional support furball
Ember - Fire and Soul 