All posts by Arlyn G. Sese

Reflections: ‘Forgotten Island’ Tayo Na!!! … On being seen, belonging, and leaving no one behind.

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Two simple Filipino words.

Of all the things that stayed with me after watching Forgotten Island – the friendship, the memories, the mythology, the karaoke, even the very Filipino “Hay nako!” … it was these two words that somehow followed me home: Tayo na!

The easiest English translation would probably be, “Let’s go.” But somehow, “Let’s go” doesn’t quite say it. Because tayo na is not simply an invitation to go somewhere. There is something deeply Filipino tucked inside those words. Tayo means us … you and me together.

So when I hear tayo na, I hear more than “Let’s go.”, I hear :

Come with me.
We’re doing this together.
I’m not leaving you behind.

There is a sense of belonging in those two words. A quiet commitment that wherever we are going, we are going there together. And perhaps that is why Forgotten Island struck something deeper in me than I expected.

A Filipino Story Told to the World

There was something incredibly satisfying and honestly, something that made me proud about seeing Filipino mythology take center stage in a major animated movie. Growing up, the manananggal was something to fear. The kapre lurked around trees. And the duwende? You learned early enough not to disrespect places where they might live. You passed through grassy areas or unfamiliar ground saying: “Tabi-tabi po.” (Excuse me. Let me pass.)

And now here they were on the big screen!!!

But Forgotten Island did something interesting with these creatures. Instead of simply presenting the mythology we grew up with, it gave these characters personalities, wounds, insecurities and stories.

That was when the movie stopped being simply nostalgic for me. Because somehow, behind these mythical creatures, I started seeing us.

There Is Always Another Side to the Story.
Take Manang.

We have always known the manananggal as the bad one, the monster, the creature we are supposed to fear. Yet the movie leaves us with the possibility that perhaps Manang was not always this way. Something was taken from her. We don’t fully know what yet.

And that cliffhanger stayed with me because it reminded me how quickly we can define people according to the version of them we encounter.

Difficult.
Angry.
Arrogant.
Attention-seeking.
Selfish.
Bad.

But what happened before we met them? What was taken from them?

What disappointment, rejection, loss or hurt are they carrying that we know nothing about? A saying goes “hurt people hurt people”. It doesn’t mean that hurt excuses the hurt we cause others. But it does remind me that every person comes with a context. There is almost always another side to the story.

Sometimes Arrogance Is Really a Question: “Do I Belong?”
Then there’s Mermahn.

He comes across as arrogant, image-conscious and constantly concerned about how he is perceived. But underneath all that swagger, what I saw was someone asking a much simpler question: “Do you accept   me?” And suddenly, he didn’t seem all that strange. Because aren’t we doing versions of the same thing? Maybe especially our young people.

We curate our social media feeds. We worry about how we look. We want the right clothes, the right friends, the right image. We want people to think we’re doing okay, even when we’re not. Sometimes what looks like vanity on the outside is insecurity underneath. Sometimes the person trying hardest to impress everyone is quietly asking: “Am I enough to belong here?”

Sometimes Bad Behaviour Is Really Saying: “Please Notice Me.”
And then there is Raww.

The dog who seems to pee everywhere. At first, he’s funny, irritating and even conniving. But eventually we understand something else: Raww wants to be noticed. His job is to bring people to Batiba. He has his own agenda. Yet something changes when Jo and Raissa give him something he wasn’t expecting … Belonging.

And when faced with the possibility that one of their precious memories would have to disappear, Raww offered something precious of his own, the camera connected to one of his most meaningful memories with Jo and Raissa which they will forget. The character who initially seemed to be thinking only of himself learned to give something of himself. And I found that surprisingly moving. Because sometimes people don’t change because someone finally corrected them. Sometimes people change because someone finally loved them.

The Joy We Bring

One of my favorite little moments involved the Kapre remembering Jo and Raissa singing together as one of the most fun experiences they had encountered. And I thought … That is so Filipino!!! Give us a microphone and apparently even mythical creatures are not safe.

We sing.
We laugh loudly.
We gather around food.
We turn ordinary moments into celebrations.
Put Filipinos somewhere far from home and somehow there will eventually be karaoke.
But underneath the humour is something I genuinely treasure about being Filipino.
We bring warmth.
We bring energy.

We have this ability to make strangers feel like family, to make a room feel lighter, to turn hardship into laughter and an ordinary evening into a memory. Perhaps that is one of the gifts we carry wherever we go.  And knowing a little of the story behind Forgotten Island made this part of the movie even more meaningful to me.

Co-director Januel P. Mercado is Filipino-American, born to Filipino parents, and the film became in many ways a love letter to the culture he grew up with. Together with his longtime friend and co-director Joel Crawford, the journey of creating the movie also brought them to the Philippines … to family, food, karaoke, stories, laughter and that unmistakable warmth of being surrounded by people who make you feel you belong.

I love that little glimpse behind the film because somehow the story behind the story mirrors the story on the screen. A movie about two friends trying not to lose each other was created by two longtime friends. A movie about memories was shaped by people reconnecting with their own. A movie about finding your way home found inspiration in returning to Filipino roots.

And somewhere in all of that are the things we Filipinos know so well … family, food, laughter, singing, stories, and the tendency to make room for one more person at the table. Maybe that’s why those little Filipino moments in the movie didn’t feel forced to me. They felt like home. And perhaps that’s also why Tayo na carries so much weight. Because behind those two words is something we have always known.  Wherever we’re going, there’s always room for one more to come along.

Sometimes We Need Someone to Let Us Grow
Bungi made me laugh, too.

Here was someone already grown but still unable to cut the proverbial umbilical cord from his mother. But given the opportunity to step out, he discovered that he was capable of far more than he knew. How many people remain small simply because they have never been given the opportunity to discover that they can be bigger? Sometimes loving someone means protecting them. But sometimes loving someone means letting them try.

Letting them fail.
Letting them discover.
Letting them become.

Maybe for some, Respect is all they want.
And then there were the duwendes.

We grew up being warned about them. Don’t step on them. Don’t disturb them. Say “tabi-tabi po” when passing through places where they might be. Yet here they were these cute little beings who seemed less interested in terrorizing humans and more interested in simply being respected.

Again, I found myself thinking about people. How often do we fear what we don’t understand? How often do we label someone before getting close enough to know them?

Sometimes the distance between fear and friendship is simply understanding.
And Then There Were Jo and Raissa

Perhaps the most beautiful example of this was Jo herself. At the beginning, Jo can seem loud, rough, even nasty at times. But at the end, we see that memory of the first time Jo and Raissa met and suddenly we meet a different Jo. A softer Jo. A girl who simply wanted a friend. A girl who wondered whether anybody wanted to be her friend.

And perhaps this is the thread that connects almost everyone on this forgotten island:

We all want someone to see us.
Someone to hear us.
Someone to believe in us.
Someone to choose us.
Someone to say,
“Tayo na.”

Jo found that person in Raissa.

But friendship brings another difficult lesson. Sometimes we love someone so deeply that we become afraid of who we will be without them. Jo didn’t want to lose Raissa. And somewhere along the way, love became mixed with fear. Holding on became more important than allowing her friend to move forward. That, too, is painfully human.

We can love someone and still become selfish with them. We can want the best for someone while secretly hoping their best doesn’t take them somewhere away from us. Growing together sometimes means learning when to hold on. And sometimes it means learning when to let go.

When People Break Each Other

One thing Manang said particularly stayed with me. She believed that this was what separated her from humans, when people break each other, they don’t come back.

And Jo and Raissa proved her wrong. They hurt each other. They misunderstood each other. They said things from places of fear and pain. But their hurt did not become greater than their love. They came back.

Not necessarily to the friendship exactly as it had been before, but to something perhaps more mature …  a friendship that could survive change.

Raissa could pursue her dreams. And Jo could finally confront something frightening of her own “Who am I without Raissa?” For so long, Jo seemed to define herself through their friendship. But losing the familiar version of their relationship didn’t mean losing herself. It gave her the chance to discover herself. And beautifully, she became a storyteller. Something that, when we look back, had always been inside her.

Sometimes the end of one chapter does not mean we have lost who we are. Sometimes it is how we finally discover who we have always been.

And Some of Us Are Still Batiba
Then there is Batiba.

Living in the shadows.
Afraid to step out.
Afraid to take the risk.

And maybe some of us are there.

We want community but are afraid to enter it. We want to be known but are afraid to be vulnerable. We want something different but are afraid to take the first step. We wait for someone to notice us while simultaneously hiding ourselves.

Maybe what Batiba needed and what many of us need is someone standing outside the shadows saying … Tayo na! Come with us!

Maybe This Isn’t Just About Young People

I first started thinking about these themes because of the young people around me.

The desire to belong.
The need to be seen.
The pressure to look good.
The fear of rejection.
The cliques.
The attention-seeking.
The insecurity hidden behind confidence.

But the longer I thought about Forgotten Island, the more I realized that these aren’t youth struggles. These are human struggles.

Adults simply learn more sophisticated ways of hiding them. We still want to belong. We still compare. We still worry about what people think. We still fear being forgotten. We still hold onto relationships because we don’t know who we would be without them.

We still hide in shadows. And we still need someone who will look at us and say:

I see you.
There is room for you here.
Tayo Na

Maybe that is why this simple reminder from Scripture feels so fitting

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” — 1 Peter 4:8

Love each other deeply … Maybe that’s where it begins. Not with understanding everything about another person. Not with fixing everyone. Not even with agreeing with everyone. But with being willing to see beyond the surface.

Perhaps there is a Mermahn around us whose confidence is hiding insecurity.
A Raww whose irritating behaviour is really asking to be noticed.
A Bungi who needs someone to believe he can do more.
A Batiba who wants to step out but is terrified.
A Jo who looks loud and tough but secretly wonders whether anybody wants to be her friend.
Or even a Manang whose anger has a story we have never bothered to hear.

We may not be able to fix everyone’s wounds. But perhaps we can begin by refusing to reduce people to the first version of them we encounter.

We can listen.
We can make room.
We can invite.
We can stay.

Because sometimes a person’s life doesn’t need a crowd of people believing in them. Just like Raissa who became that one person who reached out to Jo. Sometimes all it takes is one.

One person who sees.
One person who listens.
One person who stays.
One person who says:
Tayo na.

And maybe those two simple Filipino words contain something our increasingly individualistic world desperately needs. Not go. Not even simply let’s go. But:

You don’t have to go alone.
We are in this together.
Tayo na!!!

Home, Until We Are Home.

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What Is Home To You?

“When I think of home, I think of a place where there’s love overflowing”

Years ago I rendered a speech about HOME and that line from the song has been my intro. For years, the words of that song has always been how I believed what home is – a place where there’s love overflowing. After attending the launch of Homes We Carry: Voices From Life Beyond Borders, they carried a different weight

I thought I was attending a book launch. Instead, I found myself listening to the heartbeat of thousands of migrant workers.

The author is a Filipino domestic helper in Singapore. What inspired me most wasn’t simply that she fulfilled her lifelong dream of publishing her first book. It was that she refused to let her circumstances determine the size of her dreams. Even more remarkable, she didn’t keep that dream to herself.

She invited fellow migrant workers to become co-authors—to tell their own stories, write their own poems, and give voice to lives that are too often overlooked. That, perhaps, is what dreams are meant to become. Not ladders that help us climb higher than everyone else. But doors that allow others to enter.

A Song That Felt Like Home

The morning started with an inspirational song. Instead of singing a contemporary worship song, the guest artist chose Ugoy ng Duyan. She shared how it was the lullaby her mother sang to her as a child. Although it is a Kundiman, this morning, it felt almost like a prayer.

As the familiar melody filled the room, I looked around and saw many of our fellow Filipinos quietly wiping away tears. It was no longer just a song. It became every bedtime memory. Every mother’s embrace. Every childhood we wished we could visit again.

Even more touching was hearing one of the guest speakers, a Singaporean poet, novelist, and illustrator, say afterward that although he didn’t understand a word of Tagalog, he could still feel the warmth carried by the music.

The Homes We Carry

Throughout the event, different speakers shared thoughts that stayed with me.

One poet spoke about missing “the ring of your language” …  “the slow embrace of love and the love of small embraces.”

Another reminded us, “If you were born into this world, you were meant to be here.”

An Indonesian Embassy representative challenged us to “create homes through kindness.”

Those words beautifully echoed what this entire book is about.

The opening poem by the author describes learning to “dance to the rhythm of survival”, turning longing into strength and discovering that home is no longer merely a place left behind, but something carried in every sacrifice, every remittance, every whispered prayer before sleep.

Those lines capture the life of so many Migrant Workers. Home travels with them. Not in their luggage. But in their hearts.

“Uwi Ka Na, Mama”

Among all the poems, one quietly broke my heart. It was written by someone I have known in church for years. The title was Uwi Ka Na, Mama.

She left for overseas work when her daughter was only one year old. She has now spent more than twenty years working abroad. She recalled the day her little girl, only seven years old then, cried over and kept repeating, “Uwi ka na, Mama.” Come home, Mom.

She shared that even today those words still pierce her heart. Perhaps that is the hidden cost of migration.

People often see the remittances. They celebrate the opportunities. They admire the resilience. But behind every successful migrant worker is usually…

A birthday missed.

A graduation watched through a screen.

A child who learned to grow up while waiting.

A spouse who carried responsibilities alone.

Parents who grew old while hoping the next reunion wouldn’t be years away.

It is a sacrifice few people truly see.

Home Is More Than A Place …

For years I have believed that home is not simply a place. It is not a location marked on a map.Like the song says, home is where love overflows.

Home can be people.

Home can be memories.

Home can be experiences.

Home lives inside us.

A home is not built only with bricks and walls. It is built through friendships that become family.Communities that embrace us. Churches that pray for us. Employers who believe in us. Neighbors who show kindness. Simple moments that remind us: You belong here.

Perhaps that is why so many migrant workers eventually discover a “home away from home.”Singapore has become that for many of us. Not because it replaced the Philippines. But because we have found people here that chose kindness. People who welcomed us.

Worked alongside us.

Believed in us.

Prayed with us.

Loved us.

In doing so, they helped build another home.

… And Yet Home Is Also A Place

Yet if I am honest, there is another truth I cannot ignore.

Just last week I flew back to the Philippines. The moment the plane touched down, the cabin suddenly erupted in applause and cheers. Many of the passengers were Overseas Filipino Workers returning from the Middle East. Some had not gone home for maybe two years or perharps even longer. One voice shouted,

“Sa wakas… pagkatapos ng mga pagtitiis.”

Finally… after all the sacrifices.

At that moment I realized something. Yes, home is more than a place. But for those who have lived apart from their spouses … For mothers who have missed watching their children grow… For fathers who know their sons and daughters mostly through video calls… For children waiting for one more embrace… Home is also very much a place.

It is still the embrace of loved ones.

The dinner table where everyone is finally complete.

The familiar voices echoing through the house.

No matter how beautifully we describe home as something we carry inside us, my heart still aches for every migrant worker who longs to be home, in the arms of the people they love

Perhaps both things are true.

Home is what we carry.

And home is who we long for.

Until We Are Home

As the book launch came to an end, I realized this book is about far more than migrant workers.It is about every human heart searching for belonging.

Perhaps that is why Scripture repeatedly speaks of us as sojourners and pilgrims. We are all carrying a longing for home. Not just an earthly one. But an eternal one. Until then, may we become the kind of people who create homes through kindness.

Who welcome the stranger.

Who make room at the table.

Who help someone feel less alone.

Because sometimes the greatest gift we can offer another person is not a house.

It is the feeling that they belong.

“Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and strangers, but fellow citizens with God’s people and also members of his household.” – Ephesians 2:19

May we continue building homes, not only with walls, but with love.

Because in the end, the most beautiful homes are the ones we carry within us… until we finally arrive home.

Secured by Our Harness: Doing It Scared at Forest Adventure

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Earlier today, I strapped in and climbed alongside our junior youth and some of their friends at Forest Adventure.

Three obstacle courses.
Ropes suspended mid-air.
Thin logs.
Shaky platforms.
And heights.

Lots of heights.

As someone who is afraid of heights, I knew from the first ladder climb that this would not just be a Sunday activity.

It would test me.

The Harness That Holds

There was one section with very thin logs hanging high above the ground. Every step made them sway. My legs trembled. My mind whispered, What if you fall?

And then I remembered … I am wearing a harness

Even if I miss a step, I will not crash to the ground.
The worst that could happen? I dangle. I wobble. I hang awkwardly … But I will not fall.

And isn’t that so much like life?

Fear often paralyzes us even when we are secured. We hesitate. We calculate. We imagine worst-case scenarios. Yet all along, we are already held.

God is like that harness.

The platforms may shake.
The winds may sway us.
Our balance may fail.

But we are secured. Fear makes us forget what grace already guarantees.

Doing It Scared

Courage is not the absence of fear.

Courage is trembling and stepping anyway.

Midway through one of the courses, I kept telling myself:

This too shall pass. Just take the next step.

One step.
Then another.
Then another.

And eventually, you reach a stable platform again.

I told the kids the same thing when I saw them freeze. “Let’s all do it scared.”

Sometimes finishing strong is not about speed.
It’s about refusing to quit mid-air.

Listening to One Voice

One of the ates struggled from the very first obstacle. Even after overcoming one section, she would face the next one with the same fear all over again.

There was a moment when she froze completely. The steps were shaking. She kept asking:

“Can I hold this?”
“Can I step there?”
“What if…?”

Too many questions.
Too many voices shouting encouragement from below.

I shouted from across while struggling myself in my shaking steps, “Listen to one voice. Just do it!”

She chose to listen only to the crew guiding her from the course.

And that was wisdom.

In life, there are many voices:
Fear.
Doubt.
Pressure.
Opinions.
Even well-meaning advice.

But maturity is knowing which voice leads you safely forward.

Later over dinner, she shared something beautiful. She said she saw her life in that obstacle course. Amidst all the voices, she realized she just needed to focus on one. And in her heart, she didn’t want to quit.

No matter how slow it took her, she finished.

Shaky.
Slow.
But faithful.

Responsibility Makes You Brave

Here’s another realization.

When you carry responsibility for others, you don’t have the luxury of quitting easily.

I kept thinking:
If I stop, what message does that send to the kids?
Will their parents feel confident entrusting them to us again?

Sometimes leadership forces courage out of you.

When responsibility makes us step forward…
When fear tells us to turn back…
When the path has no shortcut…

We move anyway.

Not because we are fearless.
But because someone is watching.
Because someone is learning.
Because someone needs to see that finishing is possible.

Love makes you stay.
Love makes you step.

No Shortcuts, Only Strength

The third course was the most difficult. Once you start, there is no turning back.

I went through it with one of our youths. She didn’t finish the 2nd course because she was already tired. The crew double-checked if she was sure about attempting the final one because she had mentioned she was tired.

But she said she wanted to try.

There was a particularly difficult section where she could have taken a shortcut by ziplining straight across. Her father even suggested it. Another youth echoed the same.

She didn’t.

She chose the harder path.

And she finished.

Tired.
But smiling.
Stronger.

In life, shortcuts may save time, but they don’t always build strength.

The shaky planks.
The exhausting stretches.
The slow progress.

They shape something in us that comfort never can.

Secured

Today, I realized something simple yet profound:

We are often more secured than we feel.

God does not promise that the platforms won’t shake.
He promises that we will not fall beyond His hold.

The Bible says:

“For I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand;
it is I who say to you, ‘Fear not, I am the one who helps you.’”
— Isaiah 41:13

He holds our hands.

Even when our legs shake.
Even when the wind blows.
Even when the next step feels uncertain.

We wobble.
He secures.

We tremble.
He holds.

Fear shakes us.
Grace steadies us.

We do it scared.
He keeps us anchored.

God is our Harness.

Step anyway … Heaven is holding the rope.

Patience Is a Virtue …

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… I never had. I’ve been running for almost a year now, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned (or rather, still learning the hard way), it’s PATIENCE. Because to be honest patience is a virtue I never had.

When I first started, my pace was a painful 14–15 minutes per kilometer. I remember feeling breathless after just a 30second jog, wondering why on earth people would find this enjoyable. Fast forward to today, I ran 15 kilometers along the Han River in Seoul, and my pace? STILL SLOW … a whooping 10 minutes per kilometer. Others who’ve started later than I did are now flying past me like gazelles, and here I am still trudging like a tortoise.

But as I caught my breath near Yeouido Han River, after what was supposed to be a 15-minute walk from my hotel that turned into a one-hour detour, I couldn’t help but laugh. I had literally gone the long way around. What was meant to be a straight route became a scenic but confusing journey. And it hit me … it’s the perfect metaphor for life.

Earlier during my run, I was listening to a podcast on Genesis, about how the Israelites wandered in the wilderness for 40 years. They weren’t lost because God had abandoned them. They were there because God was preparing them. The episode mentioned how “Anah” a word that can means “to afflict” or “to humble” and how sometimes God leads us to our “wilderness” seasons, not to punish us, but to humble us, to prepare us.

As I reflected, these contrasts stood out and spoke deeply to my own journey, both in running and in life.

Oppression or Opportunity
When we face delays or detours, it’s easy to feel oppressed by the weight of unmet expectations, whether it’s in our goals, our careers, or even our personal growth. But maybe what feels like delay is actually divine preparation.

In running, every slow kilometer is a chance for endurance to build quietly beneath the surface. In life, every pause, setback, or unanswered prayer can be God stretching our spiritual lungs, conditioning our faith for longer runs ahead. The Israelites thought they were stuck, but they were being trained to depend on manna, not on their own might. Our “oppressions” may just be disguised opportunities to grow stronger where it matters most … in TRUST.

Trap or Test
When things don’t go our way, it’s tempting to see it as a trap. “Why am I here again? Why is this happening?” But maybe it’s not a trap, rather, it’s a test. Like my long, lost detour to the Han River, what seems like going in circles might actually be God rerouting us to discover who we are becoming in the process. A test isn’t meant to destroy us; it’s meant to reveal us.

In those moments when we feel trapped, by our own pace, our circumstances, or our limits, God might be testing the posture of our hearts. Are we still willing to trust His pace even when it feels painfully slow?

Punishment or Preparation
There’s a fine line between feeling punished and being prepared. Sometimes, slowness feels like punishment in a world obsessed with speed and progress. But in the wilderness of waiting, God is at work. He slows us down to strengthen what can’t be seen. the inner muscles of character, humility, and endurance. Just like every run trains not just my legs but also my will, every “slow season” in life builds unseen strength for future speed. Slowness is the soil where strength quietly grows.

Running has become my wilderness classroom. My pace may be slow, but my heart is learning endurance. God leads us through routes we don’t know, so that He can show what’s in our hearts and so that we can know His plans.

Maybe the point isn’t to get faster, but to get formed.
Maybe the goal isn’t the finish line, but who I become along the way.

So yes!, Patience is a virtue… I never had.
But maybe, through these slow steps and long detours, I’m finally learning it one 10-minute kilometer at a time.

“Remember how the Lord your God led you all the way in the wilderness these forty years, to humble and test you in order to know what was in your heart.” – Deuteronomy 8:2 (NIV)

Running The Race. Finishing Strong.

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The last time I saw Koyang Zaro (my uncle) alive was in January. We went for a slow jog at the University of the Philippines campus, a place filled with trees, laughter, and movement. Looking back, it feels almost poetic that the last memory I hold of him alive is of us running side by side. He wasn’t just running on that track. He was running the race of life – STEADILY, JOYFULLY and FAITHFULLY.

This week, when we laid him to rest, our family is also gathered earlier at U.P. for a run. The timing felt bittersweet, as if God Himself had set this stage: one race ending, another race beginning. It reminded me that life is indeed like running. Sometimes we run fast and strong, sometimes we slow down, sometimes we stumble and fall. But what matters most is that we get back up, keep moving, and never give up until we reach the finish line.

A Life Well-Lived
Koyang Zaro lived a life that could only be described as full. He stood as a second father to us when our own parents were gone. He filled the gap with laughter, energy, and a steady support at times we needed a wall to lean on. But more than that, he was passionate in his faith. He wasn’t just a man of words; he walked the talk. His faith was active, not passive. He lived it out in the way he served, cared, and loved.

He taught us that living well doesn’t mean being free from struggles, but being anchored in something greater than yourself. His anchor was Christ.

Lessons From the Race
Our first family run became more than just an athletic event, it became a metaphor. Just like in the race, we each move at different paces. Some finish early, some cross the line later, but what matters is that everyone who keeps on going reaches the finish line eventually. Life is no different.

When I think of my uncle, I think of someone who ran his race with perseverance, laughter, and unwavering faith. His finish line came sooner than we hoped, but he finished strong.

The Reflection for Us Who Remain
His passing reminds me of a truth that is both sobering and freeing: our days are numbered. We do not know how long we have, but we do know that each day is a gift. It is not the length of our race that matters, but the way we run it.

For those of us left behind, it is natural to grieve. But alongside the sadness is gratitude. Gratitude for the memories, the love, the lessons, and the life well-lived. My uncle may no longer run beside us physically, but his legacy continues to run in us.

Seize The Day!

The Bible puts it beautifully:

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” – Psalm 90:12

Life is short, but it is also full. And like my uncle, may we choose to live with joy, passion, and faith. May we run our race well, no matter the pace, until the day we too cross the finish line.

A Night of Thanks-Living

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Last night, after celebrating Mosaic’s 19th anniversary, we gathered again for a special thanksgiving night. It wasn’t a night of programs, but a time of full tummies, open hearts, stories shared, and gratitude rising from every corner of our community.

What LIKHAYAG Means

Our theme this year, LIKHAYAG, is a word we coined and it carries the heart of who we are becoming.

  • LIKHA – to create, the handiwork of God. As Ephesians 2:10 reminds us, “For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works…” We are His masterpiece, shaped with purpose.
  • KAHAYAG – a Visayan word for light or sinag, the radiance that breaks into darkness.
  • HAYAG in Tagalog – to proclaim, to make known, to reveal.

Put together, LIKHAYAG is a declaration: We are created to shine, to live as God’s handiwork, and to proclaim His light and love in the world. And this was exactly what Thanksgiving night reflected, stories of God’s light made visible through His people.

Stories of Gratitude

A few of us shared their own Likhayag stories. One of us shared how she went from helping brainstorm the theme to being entrusted with the design and souvenir booths. At first, she felt overwhelmed and don’t know if she can really do it. But she was grateful,  because in her weakness, she found strength in community. Others stepped in, and she realized she didn’t have to carry the work alone.

A dear brother who had been quiet for some time, suddenly found himself behind the camera for our anniversary. Not only did he capture moments that will be remembered, but he also rediscovered the joy of serving. In fact, he even found the camera lens he had long been searching for, suddenly available just in time. To him, it felt like God opening a door for him to return to service.

Two others were new in the ministry. One, totally new, served in the food ministry. Another had been longing for an opportunity to serve again after some time away. She finally found her place helping in candle-making. Both stories reminded us that no act of service is too small and that God always makes room for willing hearts.

There were more stories like these, each one unique, but together they painted the same truth: God moves even through our ordinary hands.

Thanks-Living

Our pastor’s short exhortation pierced deeply: a truly transformed life is marked by gratitude. And more than just words, gratitude is best shown through “Thanks-Living”,  living daily in a way that reflects how thankful we really are. He reminded us not to wait until people are gone before we appreciate them. Gratitude is meant to be spoken now, lived now, shared now.

The Song That Became a Prayer

The highlight of the night was when Coach NT sang “I Won’t Last a Day Without You.” A familiar love song, yes but in that moment, it became something more. It became a hymn of dependence on God, and a love letter to the people around us.

One line echoed in my heart:
“I can take all the madness the world has to give but I won’t last a day without you.”
And I realized, that’s Mosaic to me. That’s what ministry is for me. Without God and without this family He has placed me in, I wouldn’t last.

I found myself in tears because God reminded me: this is my to live for and to die for. This is LIKHAYAG, not a perfect work, but a radiant one, carried out by imperfect people who lean on a perfect God.

Serving isn’t easy. There are struggles, disappointments, even moments when I want to give up. But at the end of the day, I always return to this calling. And I know deep in my heart, I would not exchange this life for anything else. Because this is what it means to be LIKHAYAG: created to shine, created to proclaim, created to live in gratitude

“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” – 1 Thessalonians 5:18

LIKHAYAG – Lumikha. Magliwanag. I-HAYAG!

A Life That Sings

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“Worship is not just a sound we make; it’s a life we echo.”

I had the privilege of walking closely with a dear brother in church – Kuya Joel – during the last five months of his earthly life. It was a journey marked by pain, yes, but overwhelmingly filled with worship, love, and unwavering faith.

I saw with my own eyes how his physical body was fading, how cancer slowly took its toll. But even as his strength dwindled, his spirit did not. With every ounce of energy left in him, he still chose to sing. I can still recall how he raised his trembling hands during worship, his voice cracking, yet fully surrendered. He worshipped with everything he had until the end.

While preparing for his wake service, my nephew Ken stumbled upon a video that made me pause and weep with deep admiration. In it, Kuya Joel was teaching his two children, SJ and Skye, to sing and play the song Heart of Worship. That clip wasn’t just a beautiful memory, it was a testament. Worship wasn’t something he started doing when he got sick; it was how he lived all along. He was intentional about it, modeling it daily for his kids, not just in music but in how he lived.

Now, SJ and Skye serve on the worship team, carrying the torch their father handed to them. And at the wake, the two stood boldly and sang Heart of Worship, the same song their dad had taught them just before giving their eulogies. It was more than a tribute. It was a powerful picture of a legacy passed on.

Here’s the video that says more than words ever could:

What I’ve Learned

Kuya Joel taught me without saying it that worship isn’t just a song. It’s a life poured out.

It’s seen in how he served the church quietly but wholeheartedly.
It’s seen in his excellence at work and his humility in every role.
It’s seen in the way he loved his wife and raised his children.
It’s felt in the joy that radiated from his face even in great pain.

And so I pray, after witnessing his life, Lord, may I also live a life of worship till the end.
Not just with music and melody … but in how I serve, how I love, and how I give my all even when I have little left.

“As long as I live, I will sing and praise you, the Lord God. I will be true to you.” – Psalm 146:2 (CEV)

The Sand Beneath Our Feet

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You’re Not Stuck Yet … But You Will Be
Temptation doesn’t always come loud or strong. Sometimes it just waits for you to stay long.

Day 1 of our Bali trip, and we decided to take a relaxed walk through the Seminyak area, eventually arriving at Seminyak Beach. I didn’t expect a spiritual lesson while walking along the shoreline, but life has a way of slipping truth into the most unexpected places.

We were simply enjoying the breeze, the sun dipping low into the horizon, the rustling sound of the waves, and the softness of the sand, until we stumbled upon a patch that felt strangely different. It was moist, and while we were just playing around with our bare feet, we noticed something odd … our feet were slowly sinking.

It felt like quicksand … not the dramatic kind that swallows you whole in an instant, but something that felt alive. Even while standing still, I could feel the earth gently but persistently tugging at my feet.

We laughed. It wasn’t dangerous … we knew that. But still, it was bizarre. I stood in one spot for a while, curious. And then, it got real. I felt my legs sinking past the ankle, reaching the mid of my shin. The sand tightened … for real. My calves felt wrapped in something cold and unyielding. We were still laughing about it and so fascinated when I saw across me Lester was already almost past mid-shin sunken in the sand and just told everyone to get off. It’s fun (and a little eerie), and honestly, it’s a great metaphor too … something that seems solid but slowly pulls you in when you stay still too long.

Later that night, back at the villa, we were recounting the day’s highlights with Ken and Dina, who weren’t able to join us. As we shared the “quicksand moment,” Dina said something that struck a chord: “That’s exactly what temptation feels like.”

She was right.

That is what temptation feels like. Temptation doesn’t always scream danger. It often comes dressed in comfort. It starts soft. Innocent. Maybe even fun. You think you’re in control, that you can just try it and step away whenever you want.

Until you can’t.

Temptation is just like that sand.
Like that sand, temptation doesn’t pull you in all at once. It looks harmless, normal even. But the longer you stay, the more it grips you. And the more you try to fight it on your own, the tighter it gets

Dina reminded us of something our senior pastor once said :

“It is easier to avoid temptation than to resist it.”

I already know this but it made so much sense as I recalled how I felt the sand slowly claim my legs that day.

And Scripture backs that up. Joseph knew it too.

When Potiphar’s wife tried to seduce him, he didn’t flirt with the line. He didn’t argue. He didn’t try to “stand his ground.”

“But he left his cloak in her hand and ran out of the house.” — Genesis 39:12

He RAN.

The Apostle Paul echoes the same wisdom in the New Testament:

“Flee the evil desires of youth and pursue righteousness, faith, love and peace, along with those who call on the Lord out of a pure heart.” — 2 Timothy 2:22

Don’t fight it. Flee it.
You’re not weak for running. You’re wise for refusing to stand where the ground is not safe.

Here are 3 truths I’m holding on to after that beach moment:

  • Temptation often looks harmless at first.
    That’s why awareness is key. Don’t stand where you’re not meant to.
  • The longer you linger, the harder it is to escape.
    What seems manageable now can suffocate you later.
  • The wisest move is not resistance, but distance.
    Don’t argue with temptation—outrun it.

So the next time you find yourself near something that feels “off,” remember this:
You don’t need to prove how strong you are.
You just need to stay where the ground is solid.

Wicked Truths: The Side of the Story We Never Hear

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I recently watched Wicked for the second time. And it still, exceeded my expectation. The visuals were dazzling and had my heart pounding. The songs especially Unlimited and Defying Gravity had me smiling like it was the first time. And the lines? Even wittier, even sharper than I remembered.

I walked into the theatre expecting entertainment with maybe a sprinkle of  The Wizard of Oz nostalgia. What I didn’t expect was to walk out with a journal full of questions about human nature, courage, and the stories we choose to believe about others, and ourselves. It left me holding a mirror up to my own heart. Because more than the green face paint and broomsticks, Wicked is a story about perception, prejudice, power, and most of all TRUTH.

Here are the reflections that stayed with me long after the curtain closed.

Born This Way?
One of the most striking questions raised in the play is: Are people born wicked? Or do they have wickedness thrust upon them?
It’s haunting, but also liberating to consider that we are born with a clean slate. Innocent. Curious. Capable of great love and great light. And yet through judgment, rejection, misunderstanding, then white starts turning into gray. What starts out pure slowly distorts.

Elphaba wasn’t wicked. She was simply different. And that was enough for the world to turn against her.

The Power of Being Seen
There’s a moment when Elphaba unintentionally unleashes her powers, causing a stir in the classroom. People are scared. But instead of punishing her, her teacher sees something else: TALENT.

It hit me hard. Because how often do we confuse unfamiliar with dangerous? How we silence the extraordinary because it shows up in ways we don’t expect.
All it took was one voice to say, “You have something special.” And in that moment, Elphaba’s life takes a new direction. Sometimes, that’s all it takes, to be seen, to be spoken to. It’s a quiet nudge to all of us. Never underestimate the power of being seen. Never underestimate the power our words hold to another life.

Unlimited: A Song, A Mindset
“Unlimited. My future is unlimited…”
It’s more than a lyric, it’s a reminder.

Our past does not define the ceiling of our future. Even when others try to limit us, even when we doubt ourselves, there is always space to grow beyond what’s been written for us.
Believing in what’s possible is where transformation begins.

Dr. Dillamond : When Voices are Silenced.
“If you make it discouraging enough, you can keep anyone silent.” — Dr. Dillamond, Wicked

The talking goat professor, Dr. Dillamond, finds himself gradually silenced. His very identity is threatened, and eventually, he’s removed from his position.

It’s subtle, yet painful. Discouragement doesn’t always shout, it often whispers. And when the system repeatedly tells someone they don’t belong, the easiest thing to do is to fade away. Sometimes, oppression doesn’t come as a roar. It comes as a whisper that tells us to keep quiet, play small, or stay in line.

When discouragement grows loud enough, it can muzzle even the wisest voices.

His story is a warning: when voices are quieted, we all lose a bit of our collective wisdom.

The Wizard and the Trap of Applause
The Wizard of Oz wasn’t evil, per se. He was just caught. Caught in the facade. Caught in the praise. Caught in the version of himself that others believed in.

When people told him he was “wonderful,” he didn’t correct them. He leaned into the illusion, because who wouldn’t want to be adored? Eventually, the illusion swallowed him whole.
It’s a cautionary tale for any of us chasing approval. It’s dangerously easy to become a prisoner of the persona we create to please others. And I’m reminded … I only need an Audience of One. I don’t need the applause of many or anyone because I have Him who knows me. His applause is louder than any uproar. Whenever I feel the pull for approval, I return to this truth: I don’t need to be loud to be seen by the One who truly knows me. This song keeps me grounded :

I don't need my name in lights
I'm famous in my Father's eyes
Make no mistake
He knows my name
I'm not living for applause
I'm already so adored
It's all His stage
He knows my name oh, oh
He knows my name oh, oh

I'm not meant to just stay quiet
I'm meant to be a lion
I'll roar beyond a song
With every moment that I've got
True to who You are
You saw my heart
And made
Something out of nothing
- He Knows My Name by Francesca Battistelli

Defying Gravity: The Courage to Rise
Of course, Wicked’s most iconic anthem is Defying Gravity. And it’s not just a song about flying, it’s about rising.
Rising above judgment.
Rising above fear.
Rising above who the world says you’re supposed to be.

It’s that defining moment we all face at some point where we stop waiting for permission and choose to live truthfully, even if it means flying solo.

The Other Side of the Story
But if there’s one takeaway that truly left an imprint on me, it’s this:
There is always another side to the story.

Elphaba was labeled as “wicked,” but the truth never made it to the spotlight. Her reputation was built on lies, her actions twisted by those in power. And it makes you wonder … how many people in real life are living under labels they never asked for?

How many “villains” are just misunderstood?
How many “outcasts” are simply walking a different path?

It reminded me that judgment is easy but context is everything. Behind every story is another version waiting to be heard. And behind every person is a history we don’t see.

So maybe the question isn’t “Is she wicked?”
Maybe it’s: “What don’t I know yet?”

Wicked isn’t just a reimagining of Oz. It’s a challenge. A call to question how we define good and evil, how we treat those who are different, and how quickly we accept one version of the truth.
And maybe that’s what Wicked ultimately teaches us:
That truth isn’t always what’s seen. That judgment is often louder than understanding.
And that the most radical thing we can do is pause, lean in, and look again.

Because behind every label is a life.
And behind every “wicked” face is a story still unfolding.

And maybe, just maybe, the most courageous thing we can do is to defy the gravity of assumption and CHOOSE COMPASSION instead.

Let these words remind us:

“The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”
— 1 Samuel 16:7 (NIV)

Weak Hero Class 1 : What If The Villain Was Just … Broken?

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“What If We Stopped Asking ‘What’s Wrong with You?’ and Started Asking ‘What Happened to You?’“

My nieces had been telling me for the longest time to watch WEAK HERO CLASS1, raving that it’s “one of the best dramas ever!” I dismissed it for a while but then came the announcement of Season 2, and when I saw Season 1 pop up on Netflix, I gave in.

Episode 1 felt a bit strange at first. “This is it?” I thought. Just another bullying-centered show? But I stayed. And slowly, I understood. Weak Hero Class 1 wasn’t just a bullying drama. It was a mirror. A raw, unflinching mirror of youth – angsty, vulnerable, silent in their battles. The drama hit deep. Beneath the fists and flying kicks was a cry for help, a reflection of brokenness that many people hide behind strong fronts.

The lead character Si Eun, quickly caught my attention. e brainy kid, withdrawn and emotionless, but quietly resisting. There’s Su Ho, an MMA fighter with enough guts in school but keeps low key (not to mention Su Ho was so handsome). But what shook me most was the character that most people hate: Beom Seok.

Beom Seok: The Character I Pity The Most

Many viewers dismissed him as weak, unstable, or even vile in the end. But to me, he was a tragedy. A child so used to abuse and neglect that when love finally came, he didn’t know how to hold it.

Beom Seok had been bullied in his former school. Worse, he was bullied twice as hard at home. His own father beat him and belittled him physically, emotionally, psychologically. So when he found friendship in Si Eun and Su Ho, it was like finally finding sunlight after being stuck in a basement for years. But sunlight, when you’re used to darkness, can feel blinding.

He started doubting his place. A small thing like Su Ho not following him back on Instagram triggered deep insecurity. Petty to some, but to a wounded heart, it was proof of rejection. Add to that the voice of the loan shark mocking him “You’re just a minion” and the toxic self-doubt his father instilled in him took over.

The night his father beat him with a golf club was the same night his “friends” bonded without him. They didn’t mean harm, but in his pain, it was betrayal. Salt on an open wound. And in his festering hurt, the monster inside awakened until he did the unthinkable … sending Su Ho into a coma.

I stared at that scene, disturbed not because of the violence. But because I could understand how he got there.

Lessons That Hit Close to Home

1. Social media has distorted our sense of connection.
Beom Seok believed Su Ho didn’t value their friendship just because he didn’t follow him back on Instagram. It sounds absurd until we realize how many people today measure relationships through likes, tags, and online attention.

In real life, people feel rejected when their message is “seen” but not replied to. Or when a close friend posts a happy moment without them. These tiny moments online breed giant insecurities offline.

But connection runs deeper than social validation. Su Ho showed his care through action, defending Beom Seok, checking up on him, even confronting his old bullies. But Beom Seok missed all that because he was tuned into the wrong channel: the one called insecurity.

2. The voice in your head can either heal you or destroy you.
We all talk to ourselves. But for some, the voice inside isn’t kind. Beom Seok heard the same degrading words his father used on him over and over … until they felt like truth.

That’s why community matters. Real, healthy friendship is where we can say, “I’m not okay,” and not be judged. A safe space to just be who we are. A place to silence the wrong voices by speaking truth out loud.

Imagine if Beom Seok had opened up:
If he had just said: “I feel left out. I feel like you don’t care about me.”
Would things have turned out differently?

Many people today feel just like him. They don’t speak because they’re afraid they’ll be seen as weak or dramatic. But silence is the perfect breeding ground for lies. We need people around us who won’t just hear us but help us hear what’s real.

3. Everyone has a context—no one becomes broken for no reason.
Beom Seok wasn’t born a villain. He was a boy with wounds no one saw. Every kick he gave to Su Ho was a cry for help. A punch of pain he never processed. A desperate attempt to matter.
Hurt people hurt people. It’s not an excuse but for some if not many, it explains the pain that shaped them.

Beom Seok didn’t want to hurt Su Ho. He loved Su Ho. But that love, twisted by fear and insecurity, exploded. The scene where he’s crying over Su Ho’s unconscious body broke me. It wasn’t just guilt … it was grief. Grief over what he lost, and over what he had never been taught: how to receive love.

How many people today lash out not because they’re cruel, but because they’ve never been shown what love truly is?
How many are angry simply because no one ever made them feel safe enough to be soft?

Si Eun understood.
Despite everything, Si Eun tried to keep the friendship. He told Su Ho, “Understand him a little.”
Because he knew. He knew what it was like to be numb, broken, angry and just needing someone to stay.

Weak Hero Class 1 isn’t just about high school fights. It’s about how fragile we all are behind the masks.
It’s about the battles people fight in silence.
It’s about Beom Seok … a boy who just wanted to be loved, but when he finally found, didn’t know how to believe it.

And maybe, that’s the saddest thing of all.

Watching this drama didn’t just give me entertainment, it gave me perspective. I couldn’t help but think: how many Beom Seoks are around us today? People who look fine on the outside but are actually carrying invisible bruises? People whose silence is not indifference, but fear? Whose anger is not hate, but heartbreak?

My personal takeaway is this … we need to be slower to judge and quicker to listen. Behind every difficult person is often a deep pain. And while pain doesn’t excuse harm, understanding it can be the start of healing, not just for them, but for us too.

I realized all the more how important it is to be a safe space for others. To check in even when someone pushes you away. To speak life when all they hear is condemnation. To follow up not just on Instagram but in real life.

So here’s my quiet call to action:

Be someone who sees beyond the surface.
Be someone who listens without immediately trying to fix.
Be someone who chooses compassion, even when it’s easier to walk away.

Because sometimes, what a person needs most isn’t a solution.
Just someone who stays, even when the monster shows up.

Let’s be the kind of friend that reminds others:
You are not alone. You are seen. You are loved.

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.”
— Wendy Mass

“Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience… And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.”
— Colossians 3:12,14 (NIV)