The Filipino always goes the extra mile
I enjoy flying, especially since, for many years now, I have been blessed to get free business-class tickets. The silence inside and the quiet hum of the engines give me time to pull myself together.
I enjoy flying, especially since, for many years now, I have been blessed to get free business-class tickets. The silence inside and the quiet hum of the engines give me time to pull myself together.
I am a proud Filipino and a daughter of Our Lady of All Nations; my grandmother was Chinese-Filipino, my grandfather a German-Spanish, and my own father an English-American. Doesn’t this all teach us that somehow, we are all one?
The papers have been full of features on Mother’s Day for some time now, so much so that to go through it all seems a bore. Yet as I started to think about the reciprocal mother-child relationship, I began to realize that the greatest examples of this love are given to us in Scripture, and then, because we are made in the image and likeness of God, this has been repeated and multiplied through life and time.
Some of the best friendships I have had have been with the opposite sex. It might seem weird that I should write about this so soon after my husband’s crossover, but this was something he understood and never complained about, even if I stayed out from 9 p.m. till 3 a.m. with Leo R.
Someone asked if there was a part 2 to last week’s column and Letty Magsanoc agreed as she thought there were too many gaps in my story and wanted to know who were my mom’s third and fourth husbands.
I really believe there is something so special and perhaps even supernatural about a mother’s love. Jesus could have walked out of the desert and performed stupendous miracles that would have convinced everyone that He was God, yet it was the Father’s will that He came not just as a helpless babe, dependent upon a woman for care and sustenance, but that His very existence was dependent upon her consent.
High up on an altar, in the chapel of a small convent tucked away in the hills about two hours away from Rome, may be the greatest treasure of all Christendom: the Manopello, also known as the Face of God.
I woke up at 4 the past two mornings to tears flowing down my cheeks. They came unbidden, no gulps or sobs, just a waterfall of tears, and are in relation to the man struggling for life in the hospital room across the hall—the love of my life, my husband, Angelo Castro Jr.
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