Two weeks ago, I received a phone call from a former student at the pre-school in Project 8. She said that she had enrolled in the nursery class way back in 1993 and she remembers that Teacher Tess Correo was her teacher. She said that she had graduated with a degree in Psychology from the Manila Central University and she is now taking up masteral studies also in Psychology.  She wanted to do her practicum/on-the-job-training at the BLC. Would that be ok with me? she wanted to know.

I was polite and I told her to send me via email a resume and a letter informing me of the purpose of her on the job training and I also told her that I prefer that her letter be signed by her adviser. She said that she will do that and she asked me for my email address.  I gave it to her.

She then said to me: you don’t remember me anymore but I remember you.  I was the blind girl.  Immediately I remembered her.  She was precocious and she spoke English.  Blind as she was, she had astute observation skills. I remember her well.  I enjoyed talking to her.  I thought she was very smart.

She then told me that she enjoyed her stay at our school for that one year.  If I remember correctly, on the first day of school, she came with her mother. The mother wanted to enroll her in our nursery class.  AT first I was reluctant to accept her because we were not equipped or trained to teach blind children.  None of my teachers had any special education training and none of us knew how to read Braille. I wondered aloud to her mother if enrolling her in school would be a wise choice.

The mother was undaunted.  She said that her daughter was already taking classes at the Resources for the Blind.  She only wanted to enroll her at our school so that her daughter would build the habit of waking up everyday and going to school. She wanted socialization for her daughter who was her only child and she didn’t have children her age in the house to play and interact with. She said that her daughter will enroll in kindergarten next year at the P. Gomez Elementary School and enrolling her here would be a dry run to see if her child is up to it. I agreed immediately.

On June 13, it was the first day of school for our preschoolers.  Louise was there (that’s her name).  When I saw her, she was exactly as I had remembered her. We talked briefly and the orientation program for the parents and children began.  All the while, Louise sat glued to her seat, her entire body had a posture of intense concentration.

After the brief program, I introduced the teachers. I also introduced her because she will be part of the staff that the kids will interact with in the next few weeks. When the program was finally over, I took her hand and led her down to my office where I wanted her to meet the staff.

While we were waiting for the other teachers, we talked. She recalled so many things about me. She recalled how I told her stories, how I read to her, how I gave her a triceratops dinosaur (it was a toy I gave Jonathan just before he died the year before Louise came to BLC). She remembers me playing the piano and leading the singing.  Most of all, she told me how coming to school became the highlight of her life; how she enjoyed it intensely and how profoundly touched she was because we were all friendly to her and treated her as any other child. And then, she said to me: I listened to you this morning and you haven’t changed.

That struck me. Only God doesn’t change. I have changed so much, so much more than I care to admit.

First, I never wanted to start a pre-school in Project 8 but the school they used to have there just suddenly folded up and left.  Students and parents were wondering if we were going to set up another pre-school. My Dad told me, that I am the only person with any credible experience teaching he knew so I should set it up.

I was reluctant: I felt inadequate because the only teaching experience I had was teaching Sunday School and teaching at the International School of Manila as a substitute teacher; and teaching at Brent International School for one year. I had no background in education, much less in early childhood education. My Dad, gung ho as he always is, said to me: how hard can it be?

I had also just began studying law at the UP College of Law.  I was a sophomore. Law school was demanding and I didn’t need the added responsibility.  My Dad said that having the preschool would probably be a respite for me so that I don’t get too worked up with law school. It would be a libangan.

I prayed about it and well, I have been administering the pre-school since then.  It’s been 20 years! I would have to be honest and admit that in 1992, I would arrive at the pre-school at about 8 am, be present for the flag ceremony, the Bible story time and read aloud time.  After that, I would make my rounds observing the classes and then before recess time, I would hide in the office where I would be reading my cases for the night’s class. Haydee Yorac and V.V. Mendoza were my teachers and ten cases per class hour is a safe estimate of how much studying I needed to do.

I barely interacted with the students. I barely knew their names.  I had minimal contact with them and I don’t remember doing anything extra special.  I certainly did not set out to touch students’ lives or to inspire them toward great achievement.  I just went there to do my job to the best of my abilities given the circumstances and the resources available to me. I didn’t go out of my way to be a blessing to her or to be used by God in a special way to touch her. I did nothing remotely extraordinary: I was myself.

What struck me more was her story of conversion.  She is now a Christian.  She credits her conversion, in part to what she had heard and learned at the pre-school about the Bible (I was plenty strict about memory verses and Bible stories.) I was totally unaware that what I was doing as a matter of course was really planting the seed in her heart that the Holy Spirit will nurture until faith in Jesus Christ blossomed! Imagine that!

I am 45 years old. I consider myself middle-aged: I can’t help it. The creaking in my joints rudely remind me of the swift passage of time.  People have commented about my short-cropped hairstyle. I often say that it is because I am not too hot on prettifying myself (this is partly true). Frankly, I can’t afford the time and money to keep up with the ravages of time! And I also dread the deceitfulness of prettifying myself just so I can live in self-denial. I don’t color my hair.  Frankly, I don’t want to be like my Dad or JPE: 74 or 88 years old, their scalp peeking through the sparse strands but the strands are still raven black!  That is deceit, that is.

To say that I am not too concerned with physical appearances is an understatement, I guess.  But now that I am 45 and no matter how little I eat, my hips seem to be burgeoning faster than China’s economy, I get to thinking….Hubby is of the firm belief that the the prayer of St. Franciss of Assisi hits the nail right on the head when he prayed: Lord, help me to accept things I cannot change.  I can’t fight age or gravity so I accept it.

At 45, watching the impeachment proceedings added a new dimension to my mid-life crisis: I saw people on TV who were people I used to see in the UP Law Library.  They were batchmates and classmates.  They have certainly gone far in the legal profession.  They have certainly done service to the grand manner in which they were formed because they are moving and shaking Philippine politics.  Where have I been?  What have I done?  Have I been sleep walking?

And then, at 45,  I have been feeling rather sick than I care to admit. I was diagnosed with uterine and ovarian cysts which bring incredible pain every month. The cure and the dietary restrictions are worse!  It is one thing to decide for yourself to abstain from beef and pork and to cut down on chicken; it is quite another thing to be told by your doctor not to eat them!  I feel positively deprived even if I have been eating sensibly all my life!

It’s not only that I can no longer eat what I want, it also means that I can’t cook my specialties anymore!  I am one good cook, so I’ve been told.  Hubby’s cardiologist has often told me that it’s probably my fault his cholesterol is high because I cook very well. Now, at 45, I can’t even derive pleasure from doing what I do best!

I had such high hopes for myself: I was going to change the world! I have lived 45 years on this planet and time is running out for me.  I am unsure if I have made the right choices and there doesn’t seem to be time for a do-over.  There are no reset buttons or a reload page icon: only a delete button!

I reproach myself: I had not planned my life well. I have more or less gone with the flow.  I took life as life took me.  I probably have not set high enough goals for myself.  I am 45 and there is nothing to show for it.  I have nothing whereof to boast!  I am not rich, I am not famous and I am not influential.

That struck me! And for a while, I was on the floor for the count, daunted by turning 45 without anything to show for it…… but then, at 45, I am still my own best friend. I reason myself out of the rut I have gotten stuck in.

Who am I to boast?  Even if I achieved things beyond what I had asked or dream about, the success isn’t mine. For one, the breath of life I take everyday is a gracious gift which can be taken back by its Giver anytime. The love I have in my life came quite by chance and also a gracious and unmerited gift from God. I had not maneuvered or connived to obtain it. The children I have, they are also gifts: I didn’t even think I would have children; it took four years before  my son was born.  My education, my training, my legal mind, for whatever purposes it will serve is at the disposal of the giver of it.

It is only right that I have nothing whereof to boast at 45. Dust cannot boast. Clay cannot boast.  The grass of the field cannot boast. Creatures cannot boast for it offends the Creator.  It is the height of conceit for me to take stock of my life and bemoan that I have nothing to show for it. It is the height of arrogance for me to think that I can pass upon my life and derive pleasure from the way I have lived it.  That right belongs to God alone. He alone is judge of my life. He alone can say what I have done that merits his approval.

On June 11, my husband went for his regular check-up at the Heart Center.  We had to wait for his cardiologist and there were hardly any seats!  My daughter stayed near the waiting area on the ground floor near the 7-11.  She sent me a text and then another text but I was unable to reply. Exasperated at my inattention, she went in search of me and found me seated at the doctor’s waiting room.  She asked me to accompany her to the bathroom.  When we got there, she said, I sent you a text so that I don’t have to come up here.  This place is so depressing.  It seems like everyone is waiting for death.

Naturally, I said.  People don’t come to the Heart Center unless they are sick.  And most people here are a hair’s breadth away from sure death.

But Mama, she protested. Dad is near death’s door.  You’re near death’s door.  You and Dad don’t look depressing.

It took me a good while before I found my answer to that. I said to her,” Anak, when you have been saved from eternal damnation, disease doesn’t seem so terrifying anymore. ”  You can smile and rest assured that your life is in the Savior’s hands. This is why Dad and I are not depressing.

Makes sense, she quipped.

That was kick in my rear, at 45. Indeed, that is all I have to boast about:  that Christ died for me on the cross of Calvary and I no longer bear the penalty for my sins. Because of this, I know God and that God knows me. God loves me.  In the end, it is God who will judge me. I cannot judge myself lest I be inordinately kind or extraordinarily harsh. God is my righteous judge.

If I put things in their proper perspective, then I can say that none of these things move me: not age, not my expanding hips, my graying hair or wrinkles everywhere!  If I put things in proper perspective, then I can say that I cannot count my life dear unto myself: being a well-respected and brilliant lawyer will not make God love me more.

Life does not owe me anything. God does not owe me anything. I owe God everything. At 45, no matter how sparse my life and career seem to me, I leave things in the hands of God. I have too little time, at 45, to be worrying if I will leave a legacy or if my name will be remembered. I have to live. I have to run with patience this race that is life so that I may finish it with joy.

At 45, I can look unto Jesus, the author and finisher of my faith. At 45, God is the one sure thing I can lay claim to. I am his and He is mine.