gimme some fairy dust please

•Monday, 13 July 2009 • Leave a Comment

there’s this filipino song that i’ve taught my kids in school. i learned it myself when i was a preschooler.  and it goes a lil’ sumthin’ like this:

Ikot, ikot ikot, Ikot, ikot ikot, hila, hila, pok pok pok. Gupit ng gupit at tahi ng tahi, gupit ng gupit at tahi ng tahi, gupit ng gupit at tahi ng tahi, gupit ng gupit at tahi ng tahi. in English, it goes like so: Wind, wind wind (the thread) Wind, wind wind (the thread) pull pull, pound, pound pound. Cut and cut and sew and sew, cut and cut and sew and sew. cut and cut and sew and sew. cut and cut and sew and sew.

the kids love it because we sing this as regular senior kindergarten kids, as babies, where they sing with a soft voice and do the actions in a baby-like manner, and as giants, singing with big and loud voices, with arms stretched out.  then laughter. then, again teacher, again!

isn’t it ironic how a preschool song  echo so much of the complexities of adulthood? it’s suppose to be amusing and fun. well, to the kids, it is. but really, to me, the teacher, an adult, as i sing along with the children, can’t help but sigh in every other stanza. it’s a talent, by the way.

ikot, ikot ikot; ikot, ikot ikot ah yes, ikot meaning, wind, round, circles…i have been going through the motions of it. circles. i run, walk, crawl, drag myself, in circles. and because it’s in circles, i feel i haven’t gone anywhere and worst yet, have probably dug a hole by going ’round and round.  so, if that’s not bad enough, hear the next line where it goes hila hila pull. puuuulllll. have you tried having someone pull your arms in opposite directions? yeah..pain. at hindi lang yan…there’s the pok pok  talk about hitting yourself on the head. for going ’round circles, and being pulled from all directions. then it’ll be summed up by the next stanza where you cut, as to cutting or being cut is painful as to prunning. and then we sew. where we mend. we fix. we alter.

the complexities of adulthood. where art thou, peter pan?

my ally called dad

•Sunday, 21 June 2009 • Leave a Comment

Let me tell you about this man.

14 years, 6 months a couple days and 3 minutes ago, when the 2 lines appeared, i was feeling sick in the stomach. i wasn’t exactly ready for it, feared i didn’t have the makings of a good mom, and i was in the brink of throwing up due to nausea — literally. and he held my hand. at the right time, at the right place. pogi points #1.  after Alexis’ first photo was taken, and we had to walk to the cashier to pay for the bill, all that mattered to me at that moment was to get to that chair…nausea hits again. as he rushed along towards the chair with me, he had this silly looking smirk on his face that i couldn’t help but notice. “what’s with your face?” i gruntly asked. “i’m happy” he just said. pogi points #2.  he doesn’t like to read books. but he made that trip to the bookstore ALONE to purchase a pregnancy book (for me), wrote my name on it and READ IT.  it was amusing to see him hold up a pea pod and say out loud ganito pa lang siya ka liit o! pogi points #3. and as my belly grew and the discomfort grew as well, he just read every book there is and trusted his instincts to help me along. gave the best back massages, bought Angelino’s pizza right before closing time, rub my belly to STOP me from scratching it,  spring bounce from the bed in the wee hours of the morning to stretch out my cramping leg, let me do my fetish of plucking his growing beard, pulling me at just the right time before passing out over a tower of Planters’ cheese curls at the Duty Free…..pogi points #s 4 5 6 7 8 & 9.  and when the time came, oh, he was prepared. with paper and pen on hand to monitor contraction intervals, he also had scrabble on stand by. (a page on one of the pregnancy books suggested that during labor, to help ease the mother’s stress over the labor pains, distract her by playing soothing music or share stories or play scrabble… o ha!) and he in fact asked me: want to play scrabble, Ta? pogi points #10.

while he failed to see all his kids soon after they were born, due to miscalculation of the length or shortness of my labor  (Sir, kumain muna kayo, matagal pa po ‘to. 2cm palang po eh –NOT), he has seen his kids through, first day of school, attempted pony tails, doctors’ and ER visits, math homeworks, bullying, vacations, diaper change, baths, burping, midnight feeding, first IV insertion, basketball games, circumcision, sports, air sickness and a whole lot more.

he is my affiliate, my ally in this business of child rearing.

he is my husband and the father of our four children.

i am resisting the urge NOT to greet you on this day because i am trying to understand why you never did greet me on the universal day for mothers.(or is it more of a payback?) i remember how you reasoned: eh, you’re not my mom naman e. hmp. fine.—- (silence) —– but it is just seven in the morning, and not only can i contain myself from greeting you, but have the whole world (wishful thinking that the whole world does visit my blog) understand that even if you’re not my dad,  you are a dad i salute and i honor you on this day. HAPPY FATHER’S DAY.

mountain

•Saturday, 13 June 2009 • Leave a Comment

it wasn’t until a couple of hours ago that i google(d) and youtube(d) this song that i’ve been hearing Lui sing for some time now. well,  it’s playing on loop now on itunes as i write this. i love it. i just wonder though if it’s fitting for a teeny bopper to be singing a song of such depth. but heck, so what. the song hits me home run. and i am not embarrassed to say that after a few times that i’ve read the lyrics (and sang along with it), i cry.

i’ve been through one hellava trek. one that is so very painful to look back to.  but i do so and by poor choices, visit the path once or twice of a time. not that i’ve left something behind, but am just lured to sitting on the same tree stump and hitting myself on the head. ouch. then i get up and walk again. wasting time. wasting energy. enough to slow me down to get to the next camp. consequently hitting the harsh winds head on. shushing the murmurs of the “you can’t” monsters.  but i push. i take another step. because there really is no other choice. even when i want to quit and i just stand there. morning comes, and i’ve no frostbite. so i continue to walk. sometimes, to my dismay. one foot after the other.  a Jumar and ice axe  action here and there. before i know it, i’m at the next camp. and painful as it is to look back, i then realize that there is a back to look at because i’ve already moved forward.

i am currently at a camp. i don’t know what number and the summit is —  but a figment of my imagination perhaps.  but right now, i’m enjoying the warmth of the sleeping bags. hot tea. a few stories shared. and rest. and in doing so, i learn a thing or two. i wise up. i strategize. i keep the faith. and continue the climb.

in the song, it says : it’s not about what’s on the other side. um, not quite true. because i am anticipating that time, when i’m at the summit He will pat me on the back and say: well done my good and faithful servant, well done.

I can almost see it
That dream I’m dreaming but
There’s a voice inside my head sayin,
You’ll never reach it,
Every step I’m taking,
Every move I make feels
Lost with no direction
My faith is shaking but I
Got to keep trying
Got to keep my head held high

There’s always going to be another mountain
I’m always going to want to make it move
Always going to be an uphill battle,
Sometimes I’m gonna to have to lose,
Ain’t about how fast I get there,
Ain’t about what’s waiting on the other side
It’s The Climb

The struggles I’m facing,
The chances I’m taking
Sometimes they knock me down but
No I’m not breaking
I mean I know it
But these are the moments that
I’m going to remember most yeah
Just got to keep going
And I,
I got to be strong
Just keep pushing on,

There’s always going to be another mountain
I’m always going to want to make it move
Always going to be an uphill battle,
Sometimes I’m gonna to have to lose,
Ain’t about how fast I get there,
Ain’t about what’s waiting on the other side
It’s the climb

There’s always going to be another mountain
I’m always going to want to make it move
Always going to be an uphill battle,
Sometimes you going to have to lose,
Ain’t about how fast I get there,
Ain’t about what’s waiting on the other side
It’s the climb

Keep on moving
Keep climbing
Keep the faith baby
It’s all about
It’s all about
The climb
Keep the faith
Keep your faith

The Climb/Miley Cyrus

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NG2zyeVRcbs

disclaimer: the video’s got nothing to do with what i’ve written. but it’s the only way i could get you to listen along.


word of the day

•Monday, 8 June 2009 • Leave a Comment

healing

[hee-ling]

- adjective

1. curing or curative; prescribed or helping to heal.

2. growing sound; getting well; mending.

-noun

3. the art or process or regaining health

-verb

4. to set right; repair.

5. to restore (a person) to wholeness.

i am.

fedex from the heavens

•Sunday, 24 May 2009 • Leave a Comment

Dear God,

2 days ago, you’ve proven 35 years of goodness, faithfulness, and grace. you’ve not only done this but promised yet another year of bestowed blessings. san ka pa?! with that, God, i am thankful.

i am thankful for this man whom i have shared more than half of my life with. for the many things that i have learned and he has taught. whether consciously or otherwise. who i am now, no doubt, has to do something  because of who he is. allow me to elaborate.

he has taught me to do laundry. and loved it. and for my friends who know me well, they know that when i am doing laundry, i am in a good place. i’ve experienced the joy of being come home to. and because of this, i make sure that when i come home, no matter how tired i am, i look for my family, each one of them and say hello, get a hug, or a kiss or back rub. i’ve learned (and still learning)  to live in the now. to seize the moment. that dishes will get washed. and beds will get made. i’ve learned to try and try and try and try until you get it right and that it is really futile to cry over spilled milk.  he has made me develop my love for reading. and writing. cryptograms and sudoku. i now have a keener eye for color. kaya lang, have put my sense of smell on hold. i’ve come to appreciate early mornings. eating breakfast. and bananas. i’ve learned that knowing the right time for just-about-everything is essential. my  favorite beverage for the past 4 years– water and i am reaping the benefits.  exercise gives you more energy to perform in any rigorous activity. put your best foot forward and your not-so-best right beside it. i am thankful for this man who has given me a whole new perspective on commitment, that it is during hard times that it is defined the most; on perseverance, in wanting to quit, you keep taking that other step; on our children, that when we hurt, they hurt doubly; in saying sorry, it is because you hurt for hurting someone; that in letting go, it can be a good thing. through the years he has helped me identify my weaknesses and magnify my strengths. (however, some would’ve been better off locked in pandora’s box.) i have experienced being in love in the shallowest  (if there is such a word) gradeschool form to the deepest, never-would-have-thought-love-can-be-this-way kind. (there is just so much more to write about…..)

You have gifted me with this man even way before i met him. your goodness, faithfulness and grace so evident from the time you have given him life, constantly reminds me that you are real.  Thank you for this present, beautifully packaged (coveted by many), work in progress , awaken up to every morning, embraced by at night, blessed to have chosen me to walk alongside with to glorify you.
In Jesus’ name, amen.


of big windows and trees

•Sunday, 26 April 2009 • Leave a Comment

March 15 marked THE day of the beginning of the V word. VACATION. i had it all planned. the first week was solely for cleaning and decluttering. the second week, while i had to report for work, i had the afternoons free for rearranging, organizing and if the money permits, a bit of repainting. the third week was to enjoy the fruits of labor of the 1st and 2nd week, plus the much awaited stress free getaway with the CE girls. the week after that, holy week, was to be spent with the family – to connect, reconnect, revitalize, energize, of course, reflect (which should not only happen during the lent). perfect. i will be happy– everybody will be happy.

it has been a little over 40 days since THE day, and nothing, nothing that i have wanted and planned has come to be.  a nasty nasty virus has hit the household and one after the other, the members were taken without warning. physically drained and tired, it has taken a toll on the spirit as well. unfortunately. pandora’s box has made a leak of it’s stench. relationships strained.  communication unwired. blame, disappointment, confusion and just a heavy blanket of weary hung over everyone else’s shoulders. This ain’t the way it’s suppose to be!!! i yelled, cried and wept to the maker of my tomorrows.  i just refused to wake up to another day of all this. enough. but even before i could claim my enough, my children got terribly ill.  naman. i thought. nope, that’s an understatement. naman!! i grumbled about.  couldn’t i even just have this!?!?  augh. and so, the mother in me,  just had to lay everything else on hold, including my distress to tend to my daughter who was sick and was later on shadowed by her younger brother. they come in pairs i would say.  it was a surprise that we were able to get a room in a hospital where the word vacancy was not oftened.  at 9pm, my daughter was wheeled in and carried off to her slightly inclined bed, feverish and all. my folks who were gracious enough to help me through, said their prayers and bade me, him and my daughter goodbye. soon, he had to go too. i sat on the sofa turned into a make shift bantay’s bed. too tired. too disappointed. much too sleepy. but everybody knows that when you are tagged to sleep in with someone who is sick, that sleep is but a dream. i got up to check on her, gave her a sponge bath, a drink, take her to the bathroom or was awakened by the door’s unlocking or the nurse’s supposed whispering. it’s then 5:30ish in the morning. and with the room’s big window, the morning light crept in. i pulled the curtains to the side. still not sure of what’s out there.  he and our eldest daughter walked in the room to bring breakfast. spoke a little while then left. i freshened up a bit and slouched back into my nook and was finally allowed to take a nap. my daughter woke me up saying she has to pee. so, we went through the whole morning routine. medicines included.  it was around 9am. we discovered that the hospital does not carry cable nor internet services. too disgusted to see and hear spongebob speak our native language,  i told my daughter that she could play with the games installed in my laptop instead.  what to do? what to do? i rummaged into my laptop bag for my pencil case and my journal. i flipped pages and pages of it until i got into a blank page. with pen on hand, i was ready to rant my way through the rest of the morning. i leaned back towards the wall, place a pillow on my lap and then i wrote in big bold red inked letters: W -H-Y.  i scribbled my many questions, complained and demanded for some logical explanation to all this mayhem generously bestowed upon my  already beatened and tired soul. then some movement caught the corner of my eye. i looked towards the window, the big big window and outside were trees. many of them. standing not too far from each other. and they were dancing. swaying from all directions.then all of a sudden everything seemed so quiet. deafening  Dora and boots at the back ground.  serenity and tranquility flooded the room. i could almost hear the leaves rustling against each other.  i’m not exactly fascinated by trees per se, it’s that,  tall and strong as they stand, when the wind blows, they sway. not fighting it off. surrendering  to it…and they seem ok  with it too.  peaceful –even my turmoiled spirit have seemed so. He again, speaks.

this is least to say that i have no more of them days of the big W H Y S. heck, the house is still in shambles, pretty much the way i left it or worse even, i’m the last man standing from fighting the virus, there still are cold nights, words better left unsaid (but too late the hero), my enough lingering —- but as often as i am disrupted and snarled at by all these monsters, i tighten my grip and try as much so to remember and even say out loud –  be still (Psalm 46:10). because as He has promised,  He will restore. ( Joel 2: 25). and so i cling. and i claim.

the view

the view

that you may know

•Monday, 13 April 2009 • Leave a Comment


A Physician Testifies About the Crucifixion

by Dr. C. Truman Davis

About a decade ago, reading Jim Bishop’s The Day Christ Died, I realized that I had for years taken the Crucifixion more or less for granted — that I had grown callous to its horror by a too easy familiarity with the grim details and a too distant friendship with our Lord. It finally occurred to me that, though a physician, I didn’t even know the actual immediate cause of death. The Gospel writers don’t help us much on this point, because crucifixion and scourging were so common during their lifetime that they apparently considered a detailed description unnecessary. So we have only the concise words of the Evangelists: “Pilate, having scourged Jesus, delivered Him to them to be crucified — and they crucified Him.”

I have no competence to discuss the infinite psychic and spiritual suffering of the Incarnate God atoning for the sins of fallen man. But it seemed to me that as a physician I might pursue the physiological and anatomical aspects of our Lord’s passonate some detail. What did the body of Jesus of Nazareth actually endure during those hours of torture?

This led me first to a study of the practice of crucifixion itself; that is, torture and execution by fixation to a cross. I am indebted to many who have studied this subject in the past, and especially to a contemporary colleague, Dr. Pierre Barbet, a French surgeon who has done exhaustive historical and experimental research and has written extensively on the subject.

Apparently, the first known practice of crucifixion was by the Persians. Alexander and his generals brought it back to the Mediterranean world — to Egypt and to Carthage. The Romans apparently learned the practice from the Carthaginians and (as with almost everything the Romans did) rapidly developed a very high degree of efficiency and skill at it. A number of Roman authors (Livy, Cicer, Tacitus) comment on crucifixion, and several innovations, modifications, and variations are described in the ancient literature.

For instance, the upright portion of the cross (or stipes) could have the cross-arm (or patibulum) attached two or three feet below its top in what we commonly think of as the Latin cross. The most common form used in our Lord’s day, however, was the Tau cross, shaped like our T. In this cross the patibulum was placed in a notch at the top of the stipes. There is archeological evidence that it was on this type of cross that Jesus was crucified.

Without any historical or biblical proof, Medieval and Renaissance painters have given us our picture of Christ carrying the entire cross. But the upright post, or stipes, was generally fixed permanently in the ground at the site of execution and the condemned man was forced to carry the patibulum, weighing about 110 pounds, from the prison to the place of execution.

Many of the painters and most of the sculptors of crucifixion, also show the nails through the palms. Historical Roman accounts and experimental work have established that the nails were driven between the small bones of the wrists (radial and ulna) and not through the palms. Nails driven through the palms will strip out between the fingers when made to support the weight of the human body. The misconception may have come about through a misunderstanding of Jesus’ words to Thomas, “Observe my hands.” Anatomists, both modern and ancient, have always considered the wrist as part of the hand.

A titulus, or small sign, stating the victim’s crime was usually placed on a staff, carried at the front of the procession from the prison, and later nailed to the cross so that it extended above the head. This sign with its staff nailed to the top of the cross would have given it somewhat the characteristic form of the Latin cross.

But, of course, the physical passion of the Christ began in Gethsemane. Of the many aspects of this initial suffering, the one of greatest physiological interest is the bloody sweat. It is interesting that St. Luke, the physician, is the only one to mention this. He says, “And being in Agony, He prayed the longer. And His sweat became as drops of blood, trickling down upon the ground.”

Every ruse (trick) imaginable has been used by modern scholars to explain away this description, apparently under the mistaken impression that this just doesn’t happen. A great deal of effort could have been saved had the doubters consulted the medical literature. Though very rare, the phenomenon of Hematidrosis, or bloody sweat, is well documented. Under great emotional stress of the kind our Lord suffered, tiny capillaries in the sweat glands can break, thus mixing blood with sweat. This process might well have produced marked weakness and possible shock.

After the arrest in the middle of the night, Jesus was next brought before the Sanhedrin and Caiphus, the High Priest; it is here that the first physical trauma was inflicted. A soldier struck Jesus across the face for remaining silent when questioned by Caiphus. The palace guards then blind-folded Him and mockingly taunted Him to identify them as they each passed by, spat upon Him, and struck Him in the face.

In the early morning, battered and bruised, dehydrated, and exhausted from a sleepless night, Jesus is taken across the Praetorium of the Fortress Antonia, the seat of government of the Procurator of Judea, Pontius Pilate. You are, of course, familiar with Pilate’s action in attempting to pass responsibility to Herod Antipas, the Tetrarch of Judea. Jesus apparently suffered no physical mistreatment at the hands of Herod and was returned to Pilate. It was in response to the cries of the mob, that Pilate ordered Bar-Abbas released and condemned Jesus to scourging and crucifixion.

There is much disagreement among authorities about the unusual scourging as a prelude to crucifixion. Most Roman writers from this period do not associate the two. Many scholars believe that Pilate originally ordered Jesus scourged as his full punishment and that the death sentence by crucifixion came only in response to the taunt by the mob that the Procurator was not properly defending Caesar against this pretender who allegedly claimed to be the King of the Jews.

Preparations for the scourging were carried out when the Prisoner was stripped of His clothing and His hands tied to a post above His head. It is doubtful the Romans would have made any attempt to follow the Jewish law in this matter, but the Jews had an ancient law prohibiting more than forty lashes.

The Roman legionnaire steps forward with the flagrum (or flagellum) in his hand. This is a short whip consisting of several heavy, leather thongs with two small balls of lead attached near the ends of each. The heavy whip is brought down with full force again and again across Jesus’ shoulders, back, and legs. At first the thongs cut through the skin only. Then, as the blows continue, they cut deeper into the subcutaneous tissues, producing first an oozing of blood from the capillaries and veins of the skin, and finally spurting arterial bleeding from vessels in the underlying muscles.

The small balls of lead first produce large, deep bruises which are broken open by subsequent blows. Finally the skin of the back is hanging in long ribbons and the entire area is an unrecognizable mass of torn, bleeding tissue. When it is determined by the centurion in charge that the prisoner is near death, the beating is finally stopped.

The half-fainting Jesus is then untied and allowed to slump to the stone pavement, wet with His own blood. The Roman soldiers see a great joke in this provincial Jew claiming to be king. They throw a robe across His shoulders and place a stick in His hand for a scepter. They still need a crown to make their travesty complete. Flexible branches covered with long thorns (commonly used in bundles for firewood) are plaited into the shape of a crown and this is pressed into His scalp. Again there is copious bleeding, the scalp being one of the most vascular areas of the body.

After mocking Him and striking Him across the face, the soldiers take the stick from His hand and strike Him across the head, driving the thorns deeper into His scalp. Finally, they tire of their sadistic sport and the robe is torn from His back. Already having adhered to the clots of blood and serum in the wounds, its removal causes excruciating pain just as in the careless removal of a surgical bandage, and almost as though He were again being whipped the wounds once more begin to bleed.

In deference to Jewish custom, the Romans return His garments. The heavy patibulum of the cross is tied across His shoulders, and the procession of the condemned Christ, two thieves, and the execution detail of Roman soldiers headed by a centurion begins its slow journey along the Via Dolorosa. In spite of His efforts to walk erect, the weight of the heavy wooden beam, together with the shock produced by copious blood loss, is too much. He stumbles and falls. The rough wood of the beam gouges into the lacerated skin and muscles of the shoulders. He tries to rise, but human muscles have been pushed beyond their endurance.

The centurion, anxious to get on with the crucifixion, selects a stalwart North African onlooker, Simon of Cyrene, to carry the cross. Jesus follows, still bleeding and sweating the cold, clammy sweat of shock, until the 650 yard journey from the fortress Antonia to Golgotha is finally completed.

Jesus is offered wine mixed with myrrh, a mild analgesic mixture. He refuses to drink. Simon is ordered to place the patibulum on the ground and Jesus quickly thrown backward with His shoulders against the wood. The legionnaire feels for the depression at the front of the wrist. He drives a heavy, square, wrought-iron nail through the wrist and deep into the wood. Quickly, he moves to the other side and repeats the action being careful not to pull the arms to tightly, but to allow some flexion and movement. The patibulum is then lifted in place at the top of the stipes and the titulus reading “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews” is nailed in place.

The left foot is now pressed backward against the right foot, and with both feet extended, toes down, a nail is driven through the arch of each, leaving the knees moderately flexed. The Victim is now crucified. As He slowly sags down with more weight on the nails in the wrists excruciating pain shoots along the fingers and up the arms to explode in the brain — the nails in the writs are putting pressure on the median nerves. As He pushes Himself upward to avoid this stretching torment, He places His full weight on the nail through His feet. Again there is the searing agony of the nail tearing through the nerves between the metatarsal bones of the feet.

At this point, as the arms fatigue, great waves of cramps sweep over the muscles, knotting them in deep, relentless, throbbing pain. With these cramps comes the inability to push Himself upward. Hanging by his arms, the pectoral muscles are paralyzed and the intercostal muscles are unable to act. Air can be drawn into the lungs, but cannot be exhaled. Jesus fights to raise Himself in order to get even one short breath. Finally, carbon dioxide builds up in the lungs and in the blood stream and the cramps partially subside. Spasmodically, he is able to push Himself upward to exhale and bring in the life-giving oxygen. It was undoubtedly during these periods that He uttered the seven short sentences recorded:

The first, looking down at the Roman soldiers throwing dice for His seamless garment, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”

The second, to the penitent thief, “Today thou shalt be with me in Paradise.”

The third, looking down at the terrified, grief-stricken adolescent John — the beloved Apostle — he said, “Behold thy mother.” Then, looking to His mother Mary, “Woman behold thy son.”

The fourth cry is from the beginning of the 22nd Psalm, “My God, my God, why has thou forsaken me?”

Hours of limitless pain, cycles of twisting, joint-rending cramps, intermittent partial asphyxiation, searing pain where tissue is torn from His lacerated back as He moves up and down against the rough timber. Then another agony begins…A terrible crushing pain deep in the chest as the pericardium slowly fills with serum and begins to compress the heart.

One remembers again the 22nd Psalm, the 14th verse: “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of my bowels.”

It is now almost over. The loss of tissue fluids has reached a critical level; the compressed heart is struggling to pump heavy, thick, sluggish blood into the tissue; the tortured lungs are making a frantic effort to gasp in small gulps of air. The markedly dehydrated tissues send their flood of stimuli to the brain.

Jesus gasps His fifth cry, “I thirst.”

One remembers another verse from the prophetic 22nd Psalm: “My strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou has brought me into the dust of death.”

A sponge soaked in posca, the cheap, sour wine which is the staple drink of the Roman legionaries, is lifted to His lips. He apparently doesn’t take any of the liquid. The body of Jesus is now in extremes, and He can feel the chill of death creeping through His tissues. This realization brings out His sixth words, possibly little more than a tortured whisper, “It is finished.”

His mission of atonement has completed. Finally He can allow his body to die.

With one last surge of strength, he once again presses His torn feet against the nail, straightens His legs, takes a deeper breath, and utters His seventh and last cry, “Father! Into thy hands I commit my spirit.”

The rest you know. In order that the Sabbath not be profaned, the Jews asked that the condemned men be dispatched and removed from the crosses. The common method of ending a crucifixion was by crurifracture, the breaking of the bones of the legs. This prevented the victim from pushing himself upward; thus the tension could not be relieved from the muscles of the chest and rapid suffocation occurred. The legs of the two thieves were broken, but when the soldiers came to Jesus they saw that this was unnecessary.

Apparently to make doubly sure of death, the legionnaire drove his lance through the fifth interspace between the ribs, upward through the pericardium and into the heart. The 34th verse of the 19th chapter of the Gospel according to St. John reports: “And immediately there came out blood and water.” That is, there was an escape of water fluid from the sac surrounding the heart, giving postmortem evidence that Our Lord died not the usual crucifixion death by suffocation, but of heart failure (a broken heart) due to shock and constriction of the heart by fluid in the pericardium.

Thus we have had our glimpse — including the medical evidence — of that epitome of evil which man has exhibited toward Man and toward God. It has been a terrible sight, and more than enough to leave us despondent and depressed. How grateful we can be that we have the great sequel in the infinite mercy of God toward man — at once the miracle of the atonement (at one ment) and the expectation of the triumphant Easter morning.


Dr. C. Truman Davis is a nationally respected Opthalmologist, vice president of the American Association of Ophthalmology, and an active figure in the Christian schools movement. He is founder and president of the excellent Trinity Christian School in Mesa Arizona,


....so tie me to a tree and let the smoke and ash collect, no i won't regret to let love do what love would let....

this guy did it for me. and He never regretted it.

as told..

•Thursday, 9 April 2009 • Leave a Comment

12 years of the good, 3 years of the challenge. the Designer commands, BE STILL,I will make things beautiful in My time

.ring

I’m just following orders. after all, this is His idea.

family part deux

•Tuesday, 24 March 2009 • 3 Comments

she would’ve been 93 years old last March 2.  i wonder what party we could’ve had for her. probably a luau. since it’s summer. and it would be held at our house, by the garden. and everybody would come in their hawaiian inspired clothing. with eukeleles playing in the background and kalachuchi garlands greeting the family as they arrive (except for mom, then she would have an awful asthma attack.  yours would be plastic, ma). lanterns would lighten up the place and a lot of other burloloy to make it more festive and of course a buffet of sumptous food. the menu? pinakbet with bagnet, igado, dinengdeng, rabong, pokpoklo, chargrilled liempo , fried hito, grilled tilapia and chicken, saluyot with ampalaya flowers, aling salud’s pancit, lola cristy’s spaghetti, puto in a bilao, lola cel’s biko, dinuguan, (of which i would put aside for take home before i lay it down on the table. he he he) and papaitan. of course, lola babes would order lechon (that everybody would hope come on time).  a basket of fruits and if  time would permit, the yakult and selecta ice cream vendor. and there would be goody bags for the great grand children. pre-packed in cellophane by santa’s elves which consists of minature once-melted-then-again-hardened chocolates, airline cookie snacks, granola bars and christmas themed M&Ms or Hershey’s kisses. my very talented brother and sister in law would’ve prepare a makapagbagbag damdaming slide show for everyone to oohhh and ahhh about and laugh and tear up at the same time. to which my mala-kuya germs cousin would introduce. a default host in any or rather EVERY family event.  over at some corner you would see the great grand kids deciding on whether to present a song or dance number. impromptu. by orders of  lolo magno. siempre, there would be snapshots and choreographed shots. she, with the children. the children and the in laws. the children, inlaws and grandchildren. then with the great grand children. per family with her. with just the grand children, then the great grand children, where she would carry the youngest of them all being assisted by the eldest of them all. the serious shots and wacky shots. with this kind of party, it wouldn’t be something discreet, sit-down and quiet. we wouldn’t be no ilocano clan if in any occassion of coming together, there wouldn’t be food, loud voices, and a little bit of chaos here and there.

but who’s complaining…..the lechon’s here!!!

thank you,  for the legacy that you’ve started of coming together as family. i miss you, apong. happy birthday.

word of the day

•Sunday, 15 March 2009 • Leave a Comment

retribution

[re-truh-byoo-shuhn]

-noun

1. something given or inflicted in such requital

2. requital according to merits or deserts eps. for evil

3. the act of taking revenge (harming someone in retaliation for something harmful that they have done).

” He swore vengeance on the man who betrayed him”

Romans 12:19 — i claim.