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.”
My hooman Sus officially filed for “mental health leave” to prepare for my birthday. (Don’t tell her I ratted her out, but let’s be real — I am the mental health issue. You’re welcome.)
We hit the supermarket first. And by “hit,” I mean I was chilling in the cart like royalty, surrounded by groceries — fruits, cereals, milk, and most importantly, chimken. It felt like I was floating through heaven with the Mighty Paw and the Pawtriarch Angels of Barking Light blessing my snout. Divine.
Back home, Sus started cooking like she was hosting the Barklorette finale. Chimken. Porky. Beef steak tenderloin. Mashed potatoes. I was drooling so hard my tail created its own wind pattern. And the cake? I wanted to dive in face-first. This smart, handsome, totally humble pup was ready for a FEAST.
And then… doom arrived.
The doorbell rang. My heartbeat spiked. I was sweating. Shaking. Existential dread. Sus opened the door and there they were — strangers. Loud ones. Touchy ones. Hoomans. Everywhere.
My brain tried to calm me down: “Oishi, they don’t bite.” My inner savage replied: “Yeah, but I do.”
Guests started eating. I was silently beefing with Steve, who wouldn’t stop taking my chimken. Bro, eat a banana and leave me the meat of heaven! Brenda? Oh, Brenda kept rubbing my ear and giving me belly rubs. I hated it. Then… I didn’t. It tickled. It was weirdly pleasant. (This is a safe space, right?)
And then came the singing.
Everyone gathered around me like I was some kind of plush deity. As a stoic pup, this level of attention is not my thing. So naturally, I coped the only way I knew how:
“In the name of Mighty Paw, Sir Barkelot the Eternal, and the Pawtriarch Angels of Barking Light… Disappear, party hoomans — except my loving unstable hooman. WOOOSH!”
Yeah, I imagined that. I regret nothing.
But despite the commotion, I had the best barkday. My Super Sus went above and beyond. And that means something — even to a licensed Pawtherapist.
Oishi’s Barkday Wisdom (you knew this was coming):
Loosen up, hooman. If you stay stiff and serious, you’ll miss the fun. I hated the party. Then I belly-laughed during the belly rub. Coincidence? Nope.
Appreciate the real MVPs. I was so busy side-eyeing guests, I almost forgot the mountain of love Sus put into this day. She faked a mental health breakdown. For me.
Be present. Don’t be like Yohanes glued to his phone. Or Pete from accounting organizing receipts and trauma-dumping tax advice on Sus. Be like Brenda. She lived in the moment. Ate well. Rubbed bellies. A queen.
“By the end of the night, it was just me and Sus again.
She was watching a crime doc, breathing like she’s on the case herself.
I wanted to say, ‘Sus… breathe. You’re not on payroll.’
But hey—she threw me a memorable barkday.
So I curled up beside her, accepted the weird show,
and whispered in my mind:
‘It’s the neighbor. It’s always the neighbor.’”
So here’s my official prayer for you:
Dear Mighty Paw, bless this hooman with a softer heart, looser spine, and better pawmate appreciation. No to defeatism. Yes to optimism.
Once upon a mildly humid afternoon, a male dog named Ketchup and a lady dog named Mustard locked eyes at the park.
Boom. Romance. Scandal. Questionable leash etiquette. And nine weeks later, me: a squishy, judgmental little pup with excellent hair and no inheritance.
From the moment I opened my eyes, I was filled with wonder. Big world. Big feelings. So naturally… I got lost. Because of course I did. Born with curiosity, not GPS.
I wandered. Sniffed some trash. Contemplated the void. Then, tired and slightly dramatic, I collapsed under a tree, waiting for fate. Or snacks.
Enter: Susan. A human. Hair flying, eyes wide, full rescue-mode activated. She scooped me up like I was a clearance item at an emotional Black Friday sale. She whispered, “I got you, buddy.”
Cue slow-motion. Wind. Music. Oscar-worthy emotional zoom. In that moment, I made a vow:
I will stay by her side.
I will protect her.
I will ignore most humans unless they have beef jerky.
Life was good. Susan worked. Came home. Pet me like I was therapy wrapped in fur. On weekends, we hit the park. Simple. Wholesome. No drama.
Until… drama. She went from “I got you, buddy,” to “Why is this happening to me, Oishi?”
Former queen. Now a stressed-out goblin powered by caffeine and online shopping.
Every night, she’d hold me like I was an emotional stuffed toy and mumble about:
how work drained her,
how the pizza guy was late,
and how our neighbor keeps blasting “Bed of Roses” like they’re were trying to summon 1992.
I stared at her like, “Susan… are you okay? Do I need to stage an intervention or just knock over a wine glass dramatically?”
I’m a Shih Tzu. I don’t know much about existential dread, but I do know when someone’s spiraling into a mid-level life crisis while holding a dog like a support burrito.
Narrator: Susan (The Melodramatic Hooman)
It was raining. I was overworked, overcaffeinated, and probably emotionally bankrupt.
Then I saw him—tiny, soaked, pathetic in a cinematic kind of way. I pulled over. Ran to him. Scooped him up. Whispered: “I got you, buddy.”
And that was it. We didn’t know it then, but maybe that moment was heaven-sent.
Me — drenched in burnout. Him — lost, tired, and hopeful. We found each other.
And somehow, we both knew… “God must’ve been listening.” Because He didn’t just give us a rescue story. He gave us a companion.
Oishi became my emotional WiFi. He doesn’t speak, but I swear he judges with love.
Sometimes, I imagine him saying things like:
“Susan… the pizza guy isn’t a villain. He’s just late. Like your rent.”
“Yes, life is hard, but maybe don’t buy three pairs of shoes during a panic spiral?”
“Maybe your coworker wasn’t rude. Maybe… you were just hungry.”
Oishi doesn’t stress. Doesn’t overthink. He naps like it’s a paid job. He exists like every day is just another opportunity to sit in a sunbeam and ignore everyone.
So now, I’m trying. To slow down. To be present. To learn from my emotionally distant dog guru.
Because sometimes, the best life coach is a furball with great hair and zero emotional baggage.
“In the name of Mighty Paw, Sir Barkelot the Eternal, and the Pawtriarch Angels of Barking Light… Disappear, party hoomans — except my loving unstable hooman. WOOOSH!”
Oishi’s Barkday Wisdom (you knew this was coming):
Mic drop.
Ember - Fire and Soul 