If I Didn't Love You

In the midst of a temper tantrum this afternoon Pilar yelled out: "you don't love me anymore!" and it broke my heart. I tried to explain to her why it was she couldn't play Wii after being so horribly obnoxious to both her yaya and me - and how it was because I DO love her that I was trying to teach her how treat people with respect and kindness. I know most of it went over her head. But I do hope she learned something today.

I write these words in the hopes that she'll read them someday and know how much I love her and that my life will always be dedicated to making sure she lives hers in the best way that she can.

Today you said that I didn't love you anymore.

I would have laughed if it didn't hurt my heart so much.

Part of me wanted to scream: what more do you want from me?!?

I put my life on hold for you. To be always with you. To help you grow. To make sure we could give you the best childhood that we can. To help you become the best person you can be.

How do I explain to you that everything I do that you dont like, I don't like either. But the rules, the schedules, the consequences, the rewards, and even the scolding - they are all for you. And for your own good.

If I didn't love you I would let you sleep when you wanted, not caring that you have to be up at 5 the next day, making you sleep deprived and unprepared for the big day ahead.

I would let you watch TV until your eyes popped or play Nintendo or PSP until your fingers fell off. I wouldn't care that they keep you from developing your own imagination and that they wont teach you how to deal with REAL people and REAL situations.

If I didn't love you I would let you yell at your yaya, the driver and the maid whenever they didn't do what you wanted or were slow in getting you what you asked for. I would let you hit them or hurt them so that you won't learn the values of kindness and respect.

I would let you grow up an abusive brat who took people for granted, especially those who live their lives away from their own children and families to take care of you. I would not teach you how to value these people who try to work with dignity despite their station in life, and who love you as they would love their own.

If I didn't love you I would let you talk back to me and your pappy. I would give you everything you wanted, whether you deserve them or not. I would not care if you didn't learn the value of working toward a goal. The value of hard work. The lesson of disappointment. The drive of determination.

If I didn't love you I would let you grow up thinking everything is owed to you, just because. I would let you grow up with a false sense of entitlement, and not teach you the value of self worth.

If I didn't love you.

But I do.

Love you with all my heart.

And every breath in my body.

And what I want for you when you grow up --- more than becoming a nuclear physicist or a rocket scientist, more than a Harvard graduate or a master of the universe is this ---- That you grow up to be a good person. A GOOD person. The best person that you can be.

Someone who is kind and loving. Someone who respects all people, regardless of who they are. Someone who will try to do the right thing, the good thing, each and every time.

So I try, and we struggle, but never forget that I do, always have, always will, love you.

That's why I make you stand in the corner.

For Olivia

I call you Livie-Love-Love. Because I love you so much it bears saying twice.

You look like me. Should I say sorry? When I was pregnant with your older sister I prayed that she would get daddy's straight hair and beautiful arched eyebrows, and my legs and dimple. When I was pregnant with you all I could pray for --- was not to lose you and for you to make it to term. And here you are, born at exactly 37 weeks. Yes you have my wavy hair, my big bushy eyebrows and daddy's thighs.... But I wouldn't have done it any other way. You are beautiful in mine and God's eyes.

You laugh without sound. One side of your head is flatter than the other. Your poop smells like a toxic dump (literally and figuratively). You throw up half of what you eat 8 times out of 10. And you get angry when no one talks to you while you're awake (even if that's at 3 in the morning).

You are a sight to behold. You are a miracle.

When you smile it brings tears to my eyes. You smell like love.

I am watching you sleep as I type these words, and my heart is filled with the wonder of you. And the knowledge that everything, every big, little, painful, awful, wonderful thing it took for you to get here (on my lap, snoring like your father) was worth it. So worth it.

You are living proof that God loves me. And I love you.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I just finished watching this funny documentary by Chris Rock (my favorite black comedian of all time) called Good Hair. And while it focused primarily on black people's obsession with their hair, a lot of it hit home for me.

My hair has always been a source of love and hate for me. I have super fine, thin hair, but it's wavy. Trust me, that's a bad combo. Its just a step above thick and kinky.

To adequately manage it I have kept it short most of my life. I did try growing it long at various points in my life, but the curls would always get me in the end. On a good day they would be cute little ringlets that gently framed my face. On a bad day I was a frizz away from an afro.

In college I discovered that the perfect length for it was the severe cropped hair that Mia Farrow sports in Rosemary's Baby and I kept that hairstyle for a long time. The problem with that hair cut though is that it takes a very good hairstylist to cut it right, which most of the time means an expensive stylist. And it needs to get cut every 3 to 4 weeks. Which makes it a very expensive habit. Kind of like snorting crack. But I was addicted to the short hair and, while it ate up most of my teeny tiny salary, I would dutifully go to Rodger Craig's salon at the Manila Pen every 3 weeks to get my fix. Only an addict will spend 2,000++ on hair with a 10,000 pre-tax salary. Hahaha.

When John proposed marriage it gave me an excuse to try growing my hair out once more. I grew it a little too late in the game so in our wedding pictures you'll see me with a semi-bouffant hair-do which was really just my stylist's way of trying to manage my shoulder length curly mess. Needless to say I never took off my 15-foot long veil even if it meant it would get stepped on or torn, because I was afraid of what my hair would do during the reception.

When my hair was finally long enough I tried having it straightened. Or relaxed. On good days I'd look like a Pantene shampoo model (albeit a fat one). On bad days I looked like I was wearing a helmet or a wig. But regardless, I got addicted to straightening the same way I got addicted to short hair. Except now I'd spend 6,000 a month on my hair instead of 2,000. Fortunately I was making better money then.

And so the story goes. And my I continued to love my hair and hate it at the same time. It doesn't help that I have friends like Katcho who has the most beautiful, thick, glossy, straight hair that I have ever seen. Or that my husband also has beautiful, thick, glossy stick-straight hair --- so beautiful its a crime that its on the head of a guy. When I was pregnant with Pilar I spent 9 months praying that God would give her John's hair and not mine. Thankfully He answered my prayers. Since I have had more pressing things to pray for now that I'm pregnant with Olivia, I forgot to include her hair in my prayers, and if she comes out with thin curly hair I will have no one to blame but myself (and my dad) for cursing her with bad follicular genes. (It's ok Livie, Mommy will save money so that you can have your hair rebonded too when you're old enough).

When we started with the IVF treatments 2 years ago I had my long hair shorn off, because there was no way in hell I was exposing my fetuses to the chemicals that are in hair products. Oh well all know they're no good for us. The fact that the stylist applies it with gloves should be a clue. And the fact that my favorite stylist Edwin had to retire at the age of 42 because of respiratory problems caused by prolonged exposure to hair treatment chemicals should be an alarm bell type of thing.

When I found myself pregnant with Olivia I was planning to keep the short do. Except that I figured that since I was on bed rest, there was no point in spending 3,000 a month on hair that no one but my husband (who loves me no matter what I look like), my child (who couldn't care less one way or the other) and my ob-gyn (who has seen the hair on my vah-jay-jay so what else can I keep from him?) would see.

So for the past 7 months my adversary has been growing on my head. At a very slow rate I might add. I now have what could be, at best, described as a curly mullet. I'd post pictures but I'm afraid Billy Ray Cyrus might call and want his hairstyle back.

But watching Chris Rock's documentary has helped me come to grips with my hair. It isn't the most wonderful hair, but it isn't the worst hair either. At least I have the option of cutting it short (although while the pixie cut was cute on me when I was 23 and 110 lbs, its not so becoming now that I'm 34 and ---- bigger), or letting it grow long. I have sworn though never to have it straightened or rebonded again. It's a little scary when you consider what goes into those straightening products.

Ah, who knows. In the same way that Supersize Me got me to swear off McDonalds for 2 months, you might see me next month with super straight hair that will obviously look like I wasn't born with.

Now I know why Samson had such issues when Delilah messed with his hair.

Mother's talk

I never wanted to become a mother. I never even wanted to become a wife.

When I was 23 I promised my dad that I would never get married, and at the time I meant it. I was preparing to take my GREs, I had just finished taking my TOEFL and all I could think of was moving to another country and getting my master's degree.

When my friend Twinkle told me she was getting married, I spent long hours trying to convince her that it was a ridiculous idea. We were only 23 (well, she was 24)! The world was at our feet. She was supposed to go to law school, the same way I was supposed to get my MA. After her wedding reception a bunch of guy friends and I went out drinking and toasted our wonderful single-ness and vowed to never let ourselves get caught in the same trap.

Then 6 months later I met John. At first there was no cause for alarm. He was a die-hard bachelor who had never had a serious girlfriend. On our 3rd date he told me that if I was the kind of girl that just wanted to get married and have babies then may be I should date someone else. Because he wanted to get married at 40, if he ever did decide to get married. I told him that by the time he was 40 I'd be 33, so that would be perfect because I didn't want to get married either, and by then I'd be old enough just to be his live-in girlfriend without killing my parents.

Three months later he proposed. I don't know who was more surprised by the words that came out of his mouth, me or him. Or by the fact that I actually said yes.

A year later I found myself married, but at least we both agreed that we didn't want to have kids. At least not right away.

After a year of marriage we decided that we would "casually" try to have children, thinking to ourselves: "how hard could it be?". A year later we found out just how hard.

Nothing makes you want children more than finding out that you can't have any. At least not in the easy, normal way that other people could.

So we got on the 3 year roller coaster ride that was our (well, more like "my" really) life on fertility medication. First we tried the oral drugs, but those only caused more cysts on my ovaries --- none of which resulted in a viable egg. We switched doctors. And then again. Until we finally met Greg. Then the shots in ass started. And oh what fun they were. But at the end of it all, I finally developed 5 eggs. Which promptly started dying. One by one. By the end of our cycle we only had 1 left. And Greg was doubtful that it would get fertilized. He recommended that we do artificial insemination, just to increase our chances of fertilization. So I got the turkey baster up the wazoo --- and when we got home from the clinic that night, we did it the old fashioned way. Just in case.

2 weeks later they said the words we never thought we'd ever hear: you're pregnant. Followed by: now you have to go on bed rest. For the next 9 months.

The next 35 weeks were the most beautiful, harrowing, nerve wracking, fantastic 35 weeks of my life. I was hospitalized twice. Once when I started bleeding for no reason and almost expelled the little embryo that was growing inside me. Another when the placenta partially detached itself from my uterus and almost caused us to bleed out again. On my 35th week check-up Greg saw that my placenta had started shriveling and was threatening the baby, so he delivered me via c-section the next day.

On November 13, 2004, I met the person who changed my life. Forever.

Pilar Zita T. Medina, 10:54 a.m. November 13, 2004. 6 lbs. 4 oz. 18 in.

Changed it so much that 3 years after she was born I quit the job I loved so that I could be with her all the time.

I am now Mother. And I can't imagine not having wanted to be this person. Because I am a better person now for having had her, for knowing her, and for helping her grow. I am now the person that I know God has always wanted me to be. Far from perfect, but always struggling to be better --- so that I can help her be the best person that she can be, whoever that is 15-20 years from now.

She has shown me how much love there is to be found in the tight embrace of arms that can barely enfold you. In hands so small they fit in your palm. In the sweet breath that blows against your face at night when someone snuggles up close.

So much love. So much that I found myself wanting more. Willing to go through the shots in the ass, the turkey baster, the petri-dish, the catheter.

I was blessed to hear those magical words: you are pregnant, 3 more times. Never losing hope, even when two of those magical times ended so abruptly, with so much pain and loss.

Soon we will be meeting the next person who will change our lives. Forever.

And I will tell her, "you know, I never wanted to become a mother. But may be that's only because we've never met. Not until today. But today I know I have always wanted to be yours."

On Grief (My Melancholic Schizophrenia)

For Cari on Chris' 40th day.... I wrote this awhile back and our conversation regarding the fine line between grieving and becoming crazy reminded me of it.


I am lying here
Staring at walls
My mind simultaneously
Blank
And rife with thought

While my ears tingle
As I wish I could shut off
The noise
Knowing that I am secretly afraid of
The silence

This is the dichotomy of my grief

As I struggle to hold on to you
While letting you go
I have become the melancholic schizophrenic

Surrounding myself with people
Even though I want to push them away
Wanting to be alone
Knowing I will never be

Alone

How can I be when you
Are always with me
You will always be with me
How can you go
When I can't say goodbye?

Shine On

One of the things I miss the most about my dad are Sunday mornings that were spent lining up his various dress shoes outside the front porch and polishing them until lunch time.

It was a very ritualistic event. First we'd gather up all his dress shoes and bring them outside. Then we'd drag his shoe shining kits and set up our respective benches. Then he'd light up a cigarette and get started while waiting for one of us to bring him an ice cold beer. And over the strains of Frank Sinatra or Julio Iglesias we'd spend the better part of 3 hours shining, buffing and polishing about 30 pairs of shoes.

Those were good times. Over the smell of cigarette smoke, San Miguel Pale Pilsen and Kiwi shoe shine polish my dad and I would talk about anything and everything under the sun. When I started going to Catholic school, my regulation black shoes were included in the pile of shoes that needed to be shined. And when I started working my leather shoes got the same treatment.

He was always so scrupulous about shoes - how clean they had to be, and how important it was that they were well polished and maintained. He would always tell us that the state of one's shoes reflected a person's habits, sense of self-worth and work ethic. A person who takes pride in himself and isn't afraid of hard work should always, always, have clean and well polished shoes.

I always thought that it was about vanity, until I was about 10 and I asked him why he always took such pains to make sure his shoes were clean and why he always made sure he polished them himself. Then he told me this story:

My dad didn't come from money. He was only about 5 when my grandfather passed away from a heart attack, leaving my grandmother, who was a school teacher, with 6 kids and a small income. To help his family make ends meet he used to sell cigarettes to US army officers that were stationed near his hometown in Masbate. He then moved on from selling cigarettes to shining shoes because the margins were bigger and you could get a tip on top of everything else. For a little kid who wore slippers to school, those big shiny army boots were something he told himself he'd have one day.

When it was time for him to go off to college, my grandmother and my aunt, the eldest in their family, pooled together what they could so that he could go to university in Manila. He went to FEU to study Political Science, in the hopes that one day he would become a lawyer just like my grandfather. He arrived in Manila with 2 white short sleeved shirts, a pair of pants and 1 pair of black leather shoes.

He used to tell me that the second shirt was a big thing, since it allowed him to make sure that he always had a clean shirt to go to school in. When he'd get back to his dorm room he'd immediately wash whatever shirt he was wearing so that it would have the whole day the next day to dry up and he would always have a clean shirt. Since he didn't have much of a wardrobe --- it was a source of pride for him that no matter what happened.... his shoes were always clean and presentable because he polished them himself.

Even while in college, he'd still take the odd shoe shining job to earn extra cents for food, or to help defray the costs of his going to college so that he could make life easier for my grandmother and my aunt. So he never forgot those shoe shining skills.

He had to drop out of college in his 3rd year, because he had younger brothers and sisters who also had to go to school. He applied to PAL as a purser, lied about his college degree and started working.

A few years later, at a hiring event, he applied as a Medical Representative to Mead Johnson and the rest is mythic Eppie Titong history.

He became the youngest president of a multinational pharmaceutical in the Philippines when he was 39. He finally finished college, and was able to earn masters degrees from Columbia University and Insead. And when he retired, he was the head of a Fortune 500 company.

But through all those years, and all those achievements, he still spent every Sunday polishing shoes. From the GI boots, to his single pair of college shoes, all the way to his handcrafted fancy dress shoes --- he polished each and every one of them himself. More often than not, he said, to remind him of how far had he come --- on sheer hard work and determination --- and also so he would never forget his humble beginnings so that he would always be grateful for what he had.

To this day, almost 7 years since he's been gone, his shoes are still in his closet. Like they were waiting for him to come home and dust them off and shine them again.

I miss the smell of cigarette smoke, San Miguel Pale Pilsen and Kiwi shoe shine. I miss those long conversations spent covered in shoe polish.

But his stories, his lessons, and the shoes, shine on.

If you picture it.... it will come.

Well I was blog-stalking my friend Bessie, and I was tickled by her latest post on "visioning". She wanted to go to Bellarocca (who doesn't) and she kept a brochure of it in her bag and kept "seeing" herself there. Lo and behold she's off to Bellarocca this Valentine's day. Lucky gal!

John likes to think that other than the novena to the Holy Mother, I conditioned my own body to ovulate --- hence this new baby. I keep picturing myself with another baby and ta-daa: she's on her way.

So if seeing (and believing) can help things come into fruition, then these are the things that will be playing on slideshow in my mind for the rest of the year:

A healthy, happy, beautiful, intelligent and normal baby girl in June.

The iPad (with Wifi) in April. All apple haters --- please don't bother commenting. iWant.

Where John and I will spend our 10th year anniversary next year. 3 weeks of shopping, sightseeing, eating and no kids. Hahaha!

The alternative venue for our 10th year anniversary. Same itinerary.

The PS1. What I'm buying for myself for my birthday if I have any money leftover after giving birth and sending Pilar to Everest (highly unlikely? who knows?)

Our very own Frank Lloyd Wright-like house with ginromous backyard. This is a rolling target. Something that hopefully we can accomplish in the next 5 to 10 years. Are you reading this John? That's right buddy --- you've got a deadline.

But the most important thing to me (us) right now is the baby. So I keep seeing a long, closed cervix and a little bundle of pink that looks just like Pilar.

The rest can follow.

Dear Cervix

I just wanted to take some time out to say: thank you for staying closed, and keep up the good work.

Now I know we haven't always gotten along. It hasn't escaped my attention that it was at this very same point (20 weeks) last April that you weren't able to keep it together and we lost the twins. And in 3 weeks will be the same point in July of 2008 that you opened up (without any warning mind you) and we lost Ines.

But what's past is past, and I want you to know I don't hold any of those things against you. We were in it together and I know I had my short comings too.

What's more important to me now is that we are working together again, and this time things seem to be going much better. True, you gave us a bit of a scare last December by opening up a little --- but I think once we stitched you closed you got the message.

Like I said, the important thing is that today you are closed. You are not funneling and you are holding at 3.7 cm. I am hoping and praying you will stay closed in the next 3 weeks, and I hope it's not too much to ask that you stay closed until the 1st week of June. That's week 36 and that's all we're hoping to hit.

I'm not sure if you're the kind that succumbs to bribes, but let's make a deal: if you behave, I'll behave.

I promise that I will not shop, take long walks or lift anything over 5 pounds. I promise I will spend at least 12 hours a day lying down. I promise I will eat vegetables and fruit at least once a day. And I promise to keep my stress levels down. I will diligently drink my meds at 8AM, 4 PM and 12 MN.

I will forego date night, sex, dinner with friends and the Debenhams Blue Cross sale.

All this... and all you have to do is not funnel, stay closed, and keep yourself at 3.7 cm till June.

Sounds like a great deal.

Are you in? Great. See you next week.

Random Thoughts

I had a number of things I felt like blogging about this week, but couldn't seem to find them time (in between my 3 hour naps) or the compunction to write them.

One was supposed to be another mush blog about John. Another was about this agonizing decision John and I need to make on whether or not to place Pilar in another school. I've been meaning to write an introspective article on my life this past year, and perhaps the last decade. There's also this piece I've wanted to write about happiness.

But... sigh... inspiration eludes me.

So instead I while away my time watching trash tv, surfing the internet, eating my way through boxes of chocolate covered nuts and drawing glitter tattoos on my daughter's various appendages.

There aren't a lot of options open to you when you're stuck in bed.

Still this life half lived is still a life worth living.

Quotable Quotes

Sometimes I forget that Pilar is only 5. Sometimes she speaks like a teenager. Or a 30 year old. We don't know where she gets it from.

Just the other night she was asking me for another candy bar, knowing full well she had already reached her nightly quota. John handed her a small Hershey's Kiss (violating our standing rule and earning himself major pogi points yet again). As she walked away with her loot I told her: "P, that is absolutely, positively the last piece of chocolate you're getting tonight." She gave me a look, looked at her dad, raised an eyebrow and said (complete with a smirk): "If you say so...."

Lately she has also taken to prefacing certain things with the ominous statement: "Mommy, I have to tell you something. But before I do, I want you to know.... it was an accident. And I'm sorry." (That's verbatim. I didn't add any extra words). You know nothing good is going to follow after that statement.

Our new favorite is her hardline stance on her future sibling. As a girl, Pilar is looking forward to having a baby sister. She's always telling us about how she's going to love the baby, take care of it, feed it, share her toys with it. One day we totally stumped her by saying: "But P, we don't know yet what the baby will be. What if God gives you a baby brother?" Without batting an eyelash Pilar told us: "Well we'll just have to send him back to Jesus and ask for a refund."

Ah my beautiful, precious girl.

That's All

John secretly revels in the fact that I am madly in love with him whenever I'm pregnant (well, more so than usual). And since I've been pregnant pretty much for the last 2 years -- he's had a good run.

I'm guessing it's the body's own way of ensuring that I don't murder him in his sleep knowing full well that its his sperm and our growing collection of vintage porn that's gotten me in this "situation". May be it releases extra endorphins whenever he's around, or it's rewired my pheromone receptors to perceive his as I would the smell of a nice, new leather bag or a loaf of freshly baked bread (my two favorite scents) -- delicious and irresistible.

So instead of looking at him and thinking: YOU are the reason why I can only shower once a day and can't go to the Zara sale.... I look at him and think: I love you.

He doesn't make it easy to repress these mushy feelings of mine. It isn't enough that his usually annoying habits don't bug me anymore. He takes it an extra level by being unusually wonderful during these trying times of ours.

I watch him spend countless hours keeping Pilar amused because I can't help take care of her. My husband, who has the attention span of a gnat, can spend 3 hours doing sand art bottles with our 5 year old while carrying on a conversation about the varying merits of the disney princesses versus the other characters on playhouse disney. Today they are out on a date, just the two of them.

He patiently emptied my bed pans while we were at the hospital, despite the fact that its a chore he has to do 3 to 4 times an hour since I have a bladder the size of raisin. He would brush my hair and wash my face when the IVs clogged my veins and caused my hands to swell.

He spent 4 hours helping my indecisive and neurotic brother buy a new TV. And another 2 helping him set it up at his new flat.

He is easy to love.

Yes he is cranky, short-tempered, messy and hard-headed. And he snores like freight train. He has faults. But they only serve to magnify, not diminish, all the other qualities about him that make feel like I won the bloody "man" lotto when I married him. Hahaha. Lucky me, eh?

He once told me, when we were about to get married, that he worried sometimes that he might not be enough. I was leaving behind the country clubs, the drivers and expensive cars, the maids, and my dad's credit card for a life of mortgages, no maids, and a budget. We were just starting out -- and he wanted us to make it on our own. Just us two. He sometimes felt like that old standard song "That's All" whenever he thought about what exactly it was that he could give me.

And when I think about it now, as I did then, "all" I ever needed (will ever need) is him.



I can only give you love that lasts forever,
And a promise to be near each time you call.
And the only heart I own
For you and you alone
That's all,
That's all...

I can only give you country walks in springtime
And a hand to hold when leaves begin to fall;
And a love whose burning light
Will warm the winter's night
That's all,
That's all.

There are those I am sure who have told you,
They would give you the world for a toy.
All I have are these arms to enfold you,
And a love time can never destroy.

If you're wondering what I'm asking in return, dear,
You'll be glad to know that my demands are small.
Say it's me that you'll adore,
For now and evermore
That's all,
That's all.

Waiting to Exhale

I am going to take advantage of my limited "sitting time" to blog a little.

I've been meaning to write an introspective blog about the past year (2009), may be even about the past decade --- most especially on how different my life, and I, have become in such a short period of time. But with a tummy full of pancakes and reruns of TMZ on the TV I don't think I have the intellectual wherewithall to do it. Besides, as per the timer on my table I only have 20 minutes left before I have to lie down again.

I have spent the past couple of weeks buried under a shroud of anxiety over my cerclage. Now that the procedure itself is over you'd think I'd feel a little less stressed, a little less paranoid. But I still am. Every trip to the bathroom is followed by close inspection of tissue papers for spotting. Every tummy cramp, nudge, tightening is met with bated breath to see if it'll develop into a contraction. I know that the anxiety is not helping/healthy. I know that people mean well when they tell me to relax. Easier said than done my amigos. After losing 3 babies to premature labor I think I have earned this neurosis.

To help manage my stress I read, take long naps, watch nonsensical television and pray. I stay strong by reminding myself that it has only been through God's grace that we have been able to get here, to get this far. His grace will see us through whatever comes next.

Yes, I have become a Jesus freak and that's ok by me. In our long late night conversations, I feel like He's the only one who really understands me (I think the one-sidedness of our conversations goes a long way). Hahaha.

I don't think I'll be able to relax or take a deep breath until this baby is in my arms. But that's ok. Only 20 more weeks to go. I can hold my breath for that long.

The Nicest Thing

Read this in today's Inquirer, The Daily Gospel section which covered Mark 6:45-52:

Jesus did not come to spare us
the challenges of life.
Jesus cam to be with us in them
so that when, like the disciples,
we find ourselves straining
against the tide
we, too, can come to see life differently.