Category: Reflection

Be inspired by reflections born from the faith, experiences, and everyday journeys of our lay friends and fellow pilgrims.

  • Christ Is Already There

    Christ Is Already There

    Learning to Become a Missionary in the Digital World

    On the second day of the Conference on New Evangelization, I wrote one question in my notes, “How can we bring Christ into the digital world?”  This was first asked by the facilitator of the conference.

    Yet, another thought came also into my mind. “Christ might already be in the digital world, and perhaps it is we who have not yet learned to recognize Him there.”

    That thought has stayed with me the whole day.

    For some time now, I have been using digital spaces as part of my ministry. I write reflections, share homilies, post photographs and stories from missions, and communicate with young people through social media. As a youth minister, I know that much of the life of young people today happens there. Their friendships, questions, joys, frustrations, and even their loneliness often find expression through a screen.

    However, I am beginning to realize that being present online does not necessarily make me a digital missionary.

    I realize that can post something religious without truly evangelizing anyone. I can also quote the Gospel without genuinely encountering a person. I can as well gain reactions, followers, and views without necessarily building communion.

    Pope Francis in his Apostolic Exhortation, Evangelii Gaudium, reminds us that every baptized person is a missionary disciple because we ourselves have first encountered the love of God in Christ.[1] Mission, therefore, begins not with a technique but with an encounter that changes us.

    This makes me ask myself, “What kind of presence am I becoming, both online and offline?”

    One phrase from the conference also caught my attention – “isolation in the digital space.” This happens when we become preoccupied with our own minds and intentions and slowly become submerged in the endless algorithms that entertain the mind. Beneath this, it triggered me to ask another question, “Where is this coming from? Perhaps from our desire to be connected, to have real connection.”

    I find this particularly important in my ministry with young people.

    They are perhaps the most connected generation we have ever known, yet being connected is not necessarily the same as experiencing communion. A young person may have hundreds of friends online and still wonder whether there is anyone with whom he or she can honestly say, “This is what I am going through.”

    The Church’s reflection Towards Full Presence acknowledges this tension. Digital platforms offer tremendous possibilities for connection, but they can also create information overload, fragmented attention, filtered bubbles and isolation. The document therefore proposes something surprisingly simple and that is to begin by listening. Indeed, it invites us to “listen well, to let the reality of the other touch us.[2]” This also tells us that behind the account, profile picture, comment or message is a real person.

    And I believe that this is where evangelization begins for me. Not immediately with, What should I post today? but with, Who is before me?

    This reminds me of the Good Samaritan as emphasized in the document. He did not begin with a speech. He noticed someone wounded along the road. He stopped and came near. He allowed another person’s suffering to interrupt his journey.

    And there are wounded people along our digital roads too. Sometimes they appear through an angry comment. It could also be through a young person’s unusual silence and isolation on social media. This can also be evident through a message sent late at night. Or sometimes through a post that seems to be asking for attention but may actually be asking, “Does anybody see me?”

    This is where I also find the Church’s invitation for us to move from mere digital awareness toward genuine encounter.[3] We are called to become “loving neighbours” and even “weavers of communion.”

    That challenges me because social media can also awaken something else in us and that is the desire to be noticed.

    I know I need to continually examine this in myself and to keep asking, “Why am I posting this? Is it because it may give life to someone, or because I want people to notice me? Am I communicating Christ, or slowly building an image of myself?”

    These are uncomfortable questions, but perhaps digital missionaries need to ask them. The Church’s reflection even cautions that the larger our following becomes, the more conscious we must be that we do not minister in our own name. It also calls Christians to be reflective rather than reactive online.[4]

    And so I return to my first question. “How do we bring Christ into the digital world?” Maybe the question needs to change.

    If Christ is Lord of all creation, then He precedes my arrival. The Spirit is already moving in human longing, in the search for truth, in friendship, compassion, beauty, courage and the desire to belong.

    Again, Pope Francis reminds us that evangelization requires us to recognize what the Holy Spirit is already sowing[5] among people rather than behaving as though grace begins only when we arrive.

    My task, then, is not simply to carry Christ into the digital space.

    I must learn to recognize Him there. Perhaps, Jesus is already waiting in the young person behind the screen. Jesus may already be present in someone’s search for meaning or through a stranger asking for prayer. Christ may even be confronting me through someone who disagrees with me.

    And I am still learning this. I am still learning how my ministry, my writing, my social media presence, and my ordinary encounters can become more life-giving. And I am aware that I do not always listen well. I do not always recognize Christ quickly. Sometimes I, too, become distracted by the noise.

    This makes me realize now that becoming a digital missionary begins with this humility that “Christ arrived before I did.”

    So before I speak, perhaps I must listen. Before I post, I must discern. And before I count reactions, I must remember the person behind the screen,

    And so, every time I enter the digital space, my prayer can simply be:

    Lord, You are already here. Help me recognize You. And when others encounter me, may something in my presence help them recognize You too. Hinaut pa.

    [1] Pope Francis, Evangelii Gaudium, par. 120. (https://www.vatican.va/content/francesco/en/apost_exhortations/documents/papa-francesco_esortazione-ap_20131124_evangelii-gaudium.html#We_are_all_missionary_disciples)

    [2] Dicastery for Communication, Towards Full Presence: A Pastoral Reflection on Engagement with Social Media, par. 29. (https://www.vatican.va/roman_curia/dpc/documents/20230528_dpc-verso-piena-presenza_en.html)

    [3] Ibid., par 25-29.

    [4] Ibid., par 75.

    [5] Pope Francis, Evangelii Gaudium, par. 68.

  • BAKWIT – Yet A Church That Stays

    BAKWIT – Yet A Church That Stays

    Reflections from the Prelature Pastoral Assembly

    During our Pastoral Assembly, Bishop Edwin described the Prelature of Marawi with words that stayed with me: “Bakwit Church” – a displaced Church.

    Since the Marawi Siege in 2017, this has become part of the story of the Prelature. This Local Church knows what it means to lose a sacred place, to carry wounds left by violence, and to continue the journey without many of the things that once gave a sense of home and stability. To call it a Bakwit Church is not to romanticize the wounds of the people. It is simply to recognize where this Church have been and, in many ways, where we still are as a Church.

    But while listening during the second day of our Pastoral Assembly, another thought came to me. We may be a displaced Church, but we are also a Church that stays. The Church is still here.

    It is not because we have everything we need. Not because all our wounds have healed. Certainly not because we have already figured out where we are going. We remain small and remain vulnerable. We also continue to carry wounds from the past. Yet, somehow, through all these years, God has allowed this small Local Church to remain among her people.

    Indeed, there is grace hidden in that staying.

    Fr. Emmanuel Dumadag reminded us what Bishop Edwin emphasized in his keynote speech, that this Pastoral Assembly is not something entirely new. Bishop Edwin hopes that our gathering will become part of our continuing journey together, allowing us to face and slowly heal the wounds brought about by the tragic events in the life of our local Church.

    And as we hope for healing it also begins with listening.

    Fr. Emmanuel spoke beautifully about prayer as pakiglambigit, pakigtagbo, pakighimamat ug pakig-uban with God in love. This calls us to relate, to encounter, to meet, and to be with God. Prayer, then, is not simply saying something to God. It also requires the humility to listen.

    And this is also what our Church in Marawi needs. Before deciding what else we should build, organize or accomplish, we realize the need to listen again: to God, to one another, to our young people, to our elders, to our wounds, and to the people among whom God has placed us.

    Miss Venus Guibone also asked us questions that seemed very simple, “What gives you life? What gives life to the Prelature? Despite the many tragic events of the past years, what continues to give you inspiration and courage?”

    I found those questions important because we can easily become so familiar with our losses that we forget to recognize what has remained. Thus, we remember what was destroyed. We notice what we lack. We see the empty spaces and the things that still need fixing. Though, all these are real and should not be ignored. But there is another question worth asking:

    What is already alive among us?

    This is how Miss Venus introduced us to Appreciative Inquiry—in learning to recognize what is good, what gives life, what is already working, and what possibilities are quietly present among us. She asked another question that went deeper:

    “What made us stay? What made us last?”

    I am still carrying that question. What made this small Church stay after everything that happened?

    And I believe that part of the answer can be found in our people. In priests, religious and lay faithful who continued serving. In families who continued praying. In young people who still found their way into our parishes and chaplaincy. In friendships that crossed religious boundaries. And certainly, in our Muslim brothers and sisters with whom we continue to share neighborhoods, schools, marketplaces, celebrations, sorrows and everyday life.

    This brought me back to Tatay Bido, Bishop Bienvenido Tudtud, the first Bishop-Prelate of Marawi. Miss Venus recalled his wisdom about dialogue: “Sa pagpakigdayalogo, dili kinahanglan nga kita ang modaug sa istorya. Apan, makigdayalogo kita aron atong maamgohan ang kaanindot nga anaa sa atong mga igsoong Muslim.”

    Hence, in dialogue, we do not need to win the conversation. We enter into dialogue so that we may discover the beauty present in our Muslim brothers and sisters.

    Those words remain demanding today. Because dialogue is much easier when it remains a program, a seminar or a statement in our pastoral plans. Yet, the Dialogue of Life and Faith asks something more personal from us. It asks us to meet people, listen without immediately defending ourselves, allow ourselves to be changed by an encounter, and recognize that God may reveal something beautiful through the faith and goodness of the other.

    This is where the vulnerability of our Church becomes a gift. Indeed, we are not a powerful Church in Marawi. We are small. We know displacement. We know how terrifying threats are. We know what it means to need others. And we should not be too quick to escape that vulnerability.

    Rather, all these can teach us how to approach our Muslim brothers and sisters not from a position of power and wealth, but as neighbors and fellow pilgrims who also need one another.

    Our future, therefore, cannot only be about rebuilding what was lost. Though buildings matter,  structures and programs matter too. However, Miss Venus challenged us to ask,

    “What do we want to grow?”

    I hope we invest deeply in our people. I hope we grow as Christians who know how to listen. Young people who are comfortable forming friendships across religious boundaries. Families who teach respect rather than suspicion. Communities where wounds can be spoken about without allowing them to become reasons for hatred. Priests, religious and lay leaders who are willing to meet people where they are.

    Nine years after the Siege, our calling is becoming clearer. We are indeed, a Bakwit Church. But we need not remain defined only by what displaced us.

    We can become a Church whose wounds have taught us tenderness, whose smallness has taught us humility, and whose vulnerability has taught us that we need our neighbors.

    This is a Church that stays. A Church that listens. And hopefully, a Church that continues to offer a reconciling presence to our Muslim brothers and sisters through the Dialogue of Life and Faith. Hinaut pa.

  • 97 Years of Grace

    97 Years of Grace

    GRACE EVERYDAY IN THE LIFE OF NELLY AQUINO

    There are lives that we remember because of one great achievement. There are others we remember because, silently and faithfully, they became part of our ordinary days. Nelly Jaleco Aquino was like that for me.

    She was supposed to turn 98 this October 2 (1928). But today, we give thanks to God for something already complete: 97 years of grace.

    Ninety-seven years of being a daughter, wife, mother, grandmother, friend, woman of faith and, for me personally, someone who loved me as a son and constantly reminded me to remain a faithful priest.

    I first came to know Mrs. Nelly Aquino, in 2017 when I was assigned in Iloilo as a deacon. This was the time that I got to know her slowly and powerfully. This old lady arrives 30 or 20 minutes ahead of time for the 6:00 AM Mass. She walks slowly from the entrance and usually sits on the third pew from the front. Her steps are small, her cane echoes every time it hits the floor of St. Clement’s. She sits and begins to open her prayer booklets of her favorite saints and prays the rosary.

    When I was ordained as a priest and every time before I celebrate the 6:00 AM mass, I always come down from the sanctuary. I do this to greet the few elderly who come to our church and especially Mrs. Aquino who later on told me to call her, “Mommy Nelly.” And whenever I come to her, she immediately stops her rosary, smiles at me and makes me sit with her for few minutes.

    She shares and reports any information that she thinks worth sharing. Sometimes, she would say to me, “I have something to tell you, Father, but this is only for us…” This means that our conversation was meant to be secret. Yet, because Mommy Nelly was quite “bungol,” most of the time, her voice was loud enough to echo in the church. But, it was just fine, most of the elderly who would come early to church were also “bungol.” And so, myself and Manang Mildred were the only ones who can clearly listen to her.

    But beneath those funny conversations was something beautiful. Mommy Nelly made time for people. She made time for me.

    I remember the Women’s Retreat I facilitated during Holy Week of 2018. I was sharing a reflection about God’s grace and human sin. Mommy Nelly, the most active participant in that retreat, asked the first question by quoting the Book of Exodus chapter 34, end of verse 7. It says, “bringing punishment for their parents’ wickedness on children and children’s children to the third and fourth generation!” She was disturbed by it because of the gravity of sin and the consequences it can bring to the family.

    Mommy Nelly warned us through this text that the consequences for our sins are being passed down to our children up to the third and fourth generations. Indeed, this is quite terrifying.

    Yet, in this exchange of reflection, I also invited Mommy Nelly to read what was before this text. And so I let her read verse 6 and the first part of verse 7.

     And she read, “So the LORD passed before him and proclaimed: The LORD, the LORD, a God gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in love and fidelity, continuing his love for a thousand generations, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion, and sin.”

    Mommy Nelly looked at me and said, “Father, I have goosebumps, we may have sinned but God’s love exceeds any human sin and punishment.” At that point, Mommy Nelly understood that indeed, God’s faithfulness and love for us extents to a thousand generations.

    Today, those words return to us.

    If we are to understand her 97 years only through mistakes, difficulties, losses, disappointments and human weaknesses, we will never understand her life. We must see it through the grace she herself discovered that God’s love is always greater.

    And our text messages through the years gave me little windows into how deeply she believed this.

    When I brought her pomelo from Davao during my last visit before the pandemic, she texted me on February 2, 2020: “Very sweet gid ang pomelo. Love mo gid kami mga Ilonggo because you come whenever you have the chance.  And we love you too.”

    On March 23, she sent words that I have carried personally: “I love you as my son. Pray for me always.” And I knew that affection was real.

    Then came the pandemic and isolation. At her age, she admitted, “I feel lonely because my children cannot come home. That is the reason I fill my day with activities.”

    Indeed, Mommy Nelly did not allow loneliness to have the final word.

    She filled her days. She had early morning Mass, walking for exercise while praying the Rosary, sewing face masks, accounting, recording transactions, afternoon siesta, another walk, another Rosary. At one point she proudly informed me that she prayed all four mysteries of the Rosary every day. And reminding me, “I always pray for you and Fr. Ferderiz.” This was sent on May 28, 2020.

    Apparently, one Rosary was not enough for Mommy Nelly. She was making sure heaven received the message!

    And in the middle of that difficult time, on June 2, 2020, she told me something that revealed the direction of her heart:

    “My purpose in life… is to encourage more youth to the priesthood… and to give for priestly vocation. No other. If I have more blessing, then, I give to the Church.”

    That sentence says so much about her. Indeed, grace received became grace given.

    She had blessings and she wanted them shared. She loved the Church and she wanted vocations to grow. She loved priests; and she also made sure we behaved like priests!

    At 4:36 in the morning she messaged me: “Good Morning Fr. Jomil. When one is busy the devil cannot enter into our minds. Praying that you continue to be faithful in your profession.”

    Four-thirty-six in the morning! Mommy Nelly was already awake, praying for my perseverance while I was most likely still sleeping.

    Then, there was her great pandemic ministry: sewing face masks. That was the time when a box of facemask will cost you 2,000 to 5,000 pesos. One morning, her message arrived in capital letters because this was apparently breaking news: “GLAD TO TELL YOU THAT I MADE FOR FR. TOBIN A BIGGER FACE MASK WHICH FITS HIM. HE WORE IT YESTERDAY AND TODAY. I WILL LOOK FOR MATERIALS TO MAKE SOME MORE FOR HIM.”

    That was Mommy Nelly. Faith did not remain inside her prayer book. Faith became something sewn by hand. Faith became generosity. Faith became concern for priests, children, young people and people around her.

    In January 2021, during the first Dinagyang in the pandemic, she saw the Sto. Niño being brought around. She told me, “Father, I believe that whatever we ask Sto. Niño, he will give it… Sometimes I am surprised that what I ask, it is answered immediately.”

    There was still wonder in her. After so many decades of praying, Mommy Nelly could still be surprised by God.

    And this, I believe, is one of the beautiful glimpses of holiness in her life. Holiness does not always appear extraordinary. Sometimes holiness looks like an old woman walking slowly into church with a cane. It sounds like beads of a Rosary moving through aging fingers. It looks like a face mask being sewn for somebody. It appears in generosity toward vocations, concern for priests, love for children, and messages sent at 4:36 in the morning.

    Myself and Fr. Ferderiz visiting Mommy Nelly during the OAK Jubilee of St. Clement’s Iloilo.

    Mommy Nelly’s holiness was very ordinary. And therefore, very real.

    Then came her final moments. The woman who had spent so many years praying the Rosary found herself surrounded by her own children praying the Rosary at her deathbed.

    There is something deeply beautiful about that. For years, she carried her children in prayer. And at the end, her children carried her home through prayer.

    She died peacefully while the Hail Mary was being prayed around her. I cannot think of a more fitting ending for someone whose ordinary days had been filled with Mary, the Eucharist, the Church and trust in God.

    Mommy Nelly once told me, “I love you as my son. Pray for me always.” Mommy Nelly, today I am keeping that promise. I pray for you. We pray for you.

    And I also believe that the Eucharist celebrated on your funeral is more than our farewell. It is our thanksgiving. We thank God for ninety-seven years in which His grace took flesh in a woman we knew, loved, sometimes laughed with, listened to, and certainly heard even when she was supposed to be whispering.

    In these 97 years of grace, there are two particular graces that we can learn from Mommy Nelly.

    First, make the ordinary holy. Pray while walking. Love your children. Message somebody. Share your blessings. Encourage a vocation. Sew a face mask if necessary. Certainly, holiness grows through little things done faithfully and lovingly.

    Second, let the people you love know that you love them. Mommy Nelly did not leave me guessing. “I love you as my son,” she said. Let us not wait until a funeral to say the words that should have been spoken while someone could still hear them.

    Mommy Nelly, you once discovered with goosebumps that God’s mercy reaches “a thousand generations.” Today, we entrust you completely to that mercy.

    You spent 97 years looking for God in prayer, in the Eucharist, in your family, in priests, in generosity and in ordinary days. Now may you see clearly the God whom you have loved for so long.

    And Mommy, do not worry. We will continue praying for you. Although knowing you, I have a feeling you will still be praying for all of us. Thank you for 97 years of grace.

  • Alongan: The Sun Still Shines

    Alongan: The Sun Still Shines

    Remembering Fr. Rufus “Popong” Halley, SSC – 25 Years After His Death

    This August 28, we remember twenty-five years since Fr. Rufus “Popong” Halley, SSC, was killed in Malabang, Lanao del Sur.

    I never had the privilege of meeting Fr. Popong. I came to the Prelature of Marawi many years after his death. Yet, after almost four years of living and ministering here, I have come to realize that there are people whom we encounter not personally, but through the lives they have touched. Their names remain in stories. Their presence lingers in places and people. Something of their spirit remains in the mission they loved.

    And Fr. Popong is one of them.

    Michael Anthony Rufus Halley was born in Waterford, Ireland, in 1944. He joined the Missionary Society of St. Columban in 1962, was ordained in 1969, and was sent to the Philippines that same year. After spending his early missionary years in predominantly Catholic communities around Manila and Rizal, he felt drawn around 1980 to a very different mission, to the newly established Prelature of Marawi, where Christians lived as a small minority among their Muslim neighbors.

    He did not come to Lanao simply to preach to people. He came to live with them.

    He learned Cebuano and became remarkably fluent in Meranao. He immersed himself in the culture and daily life of the people. At one point, he even worked in a Muslim-owned store in the Balabagan market and developed a deep friendship with Babo Ombay, the store-owner. When asked why, his answer was simple: this was his kind of dialogue.

    That perhaps tells us more about Fr. Popong than many descriptions could.

    Dialogue for him was not first a seminar, a conference, or an organized activity. It meant entering another person’s world with humility. It meant learning the language, eating with people, listening to their stories, respecting their faith, sharing their struggles, and allowing friendship to grow.

    His Muslim friend Miss Connie Balindong gave him another name: Alongan, the Meranao word for sun. She remembered his sunny disposition and wonderful sense of humor. The name stayed. To her family and many Muslim friends, Rufus became Alongan.

    Indeed, there is something beautiful about that name. A foreign missionary had entered deeply enough into the life of the Meranao people that they gave him a name in their own language.

    This was the Dialogue of Life and Faith becoming flesh.

    Fr. Popong’s friendship with Muslims did not make him less Christian or less of a priest. On the contrary, his deep faith allowed him to encounter another person’s faith without fear. He defended Muslim communities when they suffered injustice. His parish school welcomed both Christian and Muslim students. During military operations, it became a refuge for Muslim families. He crossed boundaries that fear had created and discovered brothers, sisters, and friends on the other side.

    However, dialogue was never romantic or easy. Fr. Popong himself knew this. In an article he wrote barely a year before his death, he spoke candidly about how difficult Christian-Muslim dialogue could become when violence struck close to home. He knew the weariness that comes when efforts toward peace seem to be answered by another killing, another feud, another reason to distrust one another. And yet, he continued.

    Then came August 28, 2001. Fr. Popong was travelling by motorcycle in Malabang when armed men attempted to abduct him. He resisted and was shot dead. He was 56 years old.

    The violence he had spent much of his missionary life trying to overcome finally claimed his own life.

    His death brought tremendous grief. Christians and Muslims mourned together. Contemporary reports described around 2,000 people coming to pay their respects in Malabang. At his burial in Cagayan de Oro, among those who remained until the end were students from his parish school—Muslims and Christians together. Perhaps that was Fr. Popong’s final homily.

    Twenty-five years have now passed. And this year, as the Prelature of Marawi celebrates its Golden Jubilee, I find myself thinking about the mission he left behind.

    These photos were taken during the 20th Death Anniversary of Fr. Popong, in 2021 at the site where he was murdered. A marker with the word, “PEACE” was built along the highway in the Malabang, Lanao del Sur. A short liturgy was celebrated presided by me, Fr. Jomil Baring, CSsR, when I was still the Parish Administrator of San Isidro Labrador Parish in Balabagan, Lanao del Sur. The people gathered were parishioners of San Isidro.

    We still speak of Dialogue of Life and Faith. We still dream of becoming, in the words that have guided this local Church, “a reconciling presence to our Muslim brothers and sisters.”

    But fifty years of experience have taught us that reconciliation does not move in a straight line. There are setbacks. There are wounds that take generations to heal. There are moments when fear returns and suspicion becomes easier than friendship. There are days when, like Fr. Popong himself once admitted, one becomes tired of dialogue.  And still, we continue.

    And it is not because dialogue has always succeeded, but because the Gospel leaves us no other way than to keep crossing the distance between ourselves and the other.

    Twenty-five years after his death, perhaps Alongan still shines. And he shines whenever a Christian and a Muslim choose friendship over suspicion. He shines whenever we learn the language and story of another instead of judging from a distance. He shines whenever our churches, schools, ministries, and homes become places where people of different faiths are received with dignity. And he shines whenever, despite disappointment and fear, somebody decides to try again.

    As we remember Fr. Popong during the Golden Jubilee of the Prelature, we do not merely look backward with nostalgia. His life asks something of us today.

    The mission he embraced is now ours. The horizon toward peace may sometimes appear far away. But hope is not simply waiting for that horizon to come closer.

    Sometimes hope means walking toward it. And twenty-five years later, following the path of Alongan, we continue to walk.

  • When the Mission Does Not Feel Like Home

    When the Mission Does Not Feel Like Home

    For a long time, I have carried a simple understanding of home. Home is where one feels loved. It is a space where one can be safe, but also seen, appreciated and cherished. Perhaps this is also why, wherever I was assigned, I naturally hoped that my ministry and the people I live with would eventually become home.

    But not every mission becomes home in the way we expect.

    Among my years in the priesthood, my present missionary experience has been one of the more difficult pastoral experiences for me not because something dramatic and terrifying happened, but because of something quieter and more subtle: loneliness.

    There were days when I felt like a guest in the very place where I was supposed to be the pastor. I was surrounded by people, yet I found myself longing for someone with whom I could freely share the ordinary burdens of ministry. I missed the kind of relationships I experienced in my previous assignments, where companionship seemed to come more naturally.

    And perhaps that comparison became part of my struggle. I do not say this to blame anyone. Looking back, I realize that many of us were simply carrying different needs, expectations and ways of belonging to the same place.

    I came to my present missionary assignment carrying memories of how my ministry had been before. Without realizing it, I may have expected this community to receive me, relate with me, and accompany me in much the same way.

    Yet, people are different. Places are different too. And communities have different ways of expressing care. University students come and go. They have classes, examinations, families, relationships, financial concerns, dreams and uncertainties of their own. Perhaps, I was sometimes expecting from them something they could not give at that time, or something they expressed differently from what I was accustomed to receiving.

    This realization does not make the loneliness unreal. There were evenings when I cooked and ate alone. There were weekday Masses when I waited and nobody came. There were moments when I asked myself whether all the time, resources and energy I was giving actually mattered. Slowly, I noticed something happening within me. My desire to do more and to be more was beginning to fade.

    That frightened me more than the loneliness itself. Because I know what disappointment can do when we leave it unattended. It can slowly become resentment. And resentment can make a pastor continue doing everything outwardly while becoming distant inwardly.

    I do not want that to happen to me. So I began asking a more uncomfortable question, “What if part of my frustration comes not only from what I am not receiving, but also from what I have been expecting?”

    That question has not been easy. Deep inside me, there is still that very human desire to be appreciated. I want my presence to matter. I want people to notice that I have tried. There is nothing particularly heroic about admitting this because priests also need friendship, affection, encouragement and belonging.

    However, I realized that the danger begins when I quietly make people’s response the measure of whether my ministry has been worthwhile.

    I wrote in my journal that I found little fulfillment in how people responded to me. Looking back, that sentence deserves more prayer.

    Because, surely, God is asking me:

    Jom, if they do not respond as you hoped, can you still love them?
    If nobody notices what you give, can you still give freely?
    If this place never feels like the home you imagined, can you still recognize Me here?

    I do not have easy answers. And I do not want to romanticize loneliness. There is nothing holy about neglecting one’s need for friendship, rest and human support. Priesthood does not remove those needs. If anything, ministry has taught me to take them more seriously.

    Yet, I am beginning to see that vulnerability can also become a door for the grace of growth.

    My loneliness is revealing my need for others. My disappointment is revealing my expectations. My frustration is showing me where resentment could grow. My weariness is teaching me that generosity also needs to be nourished. And my desire to be appreciated is inviting me toward a freer kind of service – not a service without affection, but one that does not depend entirely upon it.

    My ministry now is teaching me something that more comfortable assignments and ministries could not. Not how to become tougher. Not how to stop needing people. But how to become freer.

    Free enough to appreciate those who quietly remain instead of constantly noticing those who are absent. Free enough to receive a small gesture without comparing it with what I once had. Free enough to seek friendship beyond the boundaries of my ministry. Free enough to rest without feeling guilty. And perhaps, slowly, free enough to give without keeping an invisible account of what I have given and what I should receive in return.

    I am not there yet. There are still days when the loneliness returns. There are still disappointments that sting. There are still moments when I wish things were different.

    However, something in my prayer has changed. Before, I often prayed that the situation would improve. Now, I also need to pray that I may grow within the situation, whether or not everything around me changes.

    When I first wrote about this experience, I ended with a prayer that surprised even me:

    “May the Lord disturb me.”

    I still want to keep that prayer. May the Lord disturb whatever resentment is beginning to settle in me. May He disturb my need to be noticed, my expectations of how people should respond, and my temptation to withdraw when I am disappointed.

    But may the Lord also disturb me enough to notice grace again.

    And so, home is not always something waiting for us when we arrive. Sometimes it is something patiently built through presence, forgiveness, vulnerability and time.

    And this season of my priesthood is not asking me to prove that I can endure being alone. It is simply teaching me, once again, how to love with greater freedom. Hinaut pa.

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