About 4 years ago (wow, has it been that long?!?!?), I left the country to try and heal a broken heart. Yes, it sounds corny and crazy but if you went through what I went through...well, suffice to say, you probably would have done the same. Anyways, while in Singapore, I wrote something very, very personal to me --a piece I wrote for no one in particular. On the contrary, I wrote it for the many people I met in Singapore who helped me recover and lead me back home. I wrote this for Chie, Nana, Ate Juvy, Kuya Raffy and the nameless people I met in the Lion City who, in their own little way, made me happy despite being away from my family. I want to re-post this little piece with the hope that women who went through the same heartbreaking experience will remain hopeful that better times do lie ahead. MIRACLES
A few nights back, you asked me why I came to Singapore.
“To find a job,” I answered. That was only half the truth, because whether I verbally admit it or not, this trip was my way of escaping – the pain, the lies, my fears, my past and even my present.
To say that I was badly bruised from my first real brush with love would be an understatement of gigantic proportions. I entered that relationship wide-eyed with wonder, mesmerized by each touch, convinced by each promise spoken and brimming with thoughts of happy-ever-after.
In time, it became apparent that this gift was going to be taken away from me. And when it finally came crashing down, I desperately needed to point the finger at someone and something.
Acceptance came easy that way, I thought.
If I could only put the blame on something or someone other than myself or my beloved, then maybe I can finally accept it and move on. Initially, I blamed the third party—short of cursing her and her bloodline for interfering with the natural course of my true love.
When the pain persisted, I shifted the blame to the circumstances up to the point of blaming the church. I reasoned that it was thru the activities in the Church where they met. For a while, I let that fact affect my belief and my faith. I stopped going to Church – simply couldn’t bear the hypocrisy of it all. That was all I could see. All I wanted to see. In my mind, the Church was partly to blame for my love going away.
It doesn’t make sense to me now but at that time –
when pain clouds all logic and when the need to understand is as significant as the need to breathe,
one must blame something. And for the idiot that was me, it was the Church and God.
Despite this, I kept praying. I asked Him to restore my faith in Him and in people.
I wanted to believe that, somehow, something good will come out of this. I wanted to believe in miracles. Desperately.
For weeks, the pain of his betrayal hovered over my life like a dark cloud.
Whether awake or asleep, he haunted me. I ached for his company.
I simply couldn’t understand how I could be so loved by him one moment and so unwanted at the next.
Searching for answers when there was none proved to be a futile exercise. It drove me crazy. Crazy enough to cling to false hopes, imaginary dreams, hurt people who loved me, quit my job and move here to Singapore.
Amid the eccentricity of it all, my parents understood me. Or atleast they tried to. I realize now the agony I’ve put them through. I allowed them to see their once independent and free-spirited daughter
spin hopelessly out of control.
I came here with a powerful need to believe – in people, in God and in the value of my life. I also needed to believe in everyday miracles. I had become so jaded and cynical that I was so sure it couldn’t, wouldn’t happen. Not ever again. I had my miracle once and it turned out to be a false one.
Truth be told, I didn’t expect to witness a miracle in Singapore. I didn’t think I could learn to trust people in so short a time. I was so convinced that people only loved you if they needed something from you. After that, they leave.
Classic case of “wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am”.
But meeting you proved me wrong. I asked God for a miracle and He gave me not one, not two but more than I could possibly count. In this small country, my miracles kept pouring and my cup runneth over a million fold.
It was unbelievable, even for a cynic like me.
You are my miracle. You made me believe that people can give and not expect anything in return. You made me look at myself again and love what I see. You inspired me to celebrate the miracle of my life. You made me believe in myself –tapping me on the shoulder and telling me I was okay, scars and all.
Most of all, you reminded me of something I decided to forget a while back. And that is the fact that Jesus loves me. I mean, how could he not when I have you here with me?
You know what I think? I think He brought me here to discover you.
Because through you, I rediscovered myself and even came to love what I saw.
So you see, whatever else happens here, I already achieved what I set out to do. And that is to find myself. In my lowest of lows, you came down to me, pulled me up, led me back to the right path.
You gave me the strength to move on with my life.
I think of myself as a writer but words do fail me when I try to express my gratitude. I guess this is my way of letting you know how you have positively changed my life. You probably didn’t know it but clearly,
you were His instrument in leading His prodigal daughter back home.
The scar of the past will always be with me. But I carry it more proudly now. No longer afraid and with eyes no longer brimming with bitter tears. Rather, it serves as a reminder that wounds do heal thru both people’s help and in the right time. It also reminds me that what the song says about the rainbow coming after the rain is, indeed, true. And yes, I now know that when the heart and spirit is ready, it will witness a miracle unfold.
