SUNDAY

This is the purest of all moments. Quietude abounds. Perfect tranquility. I take pleasure – bordering on the divine – at the aloneness offered by this particular time. No one is around. Everything is still. Awaiting the “fade-in” of noise, of footsteps, of pleasant greetings, of smiles and polite nods, of whispers, of preparing the heart for coming together as one worshipping body.

Today is Sunday.

And as is akin to all Sundays past, we await for Our Father to be enthroned. Not only in the Bulwagan, the place, but also in our own bulwagan – the core of our being – our heart. We not only feel his presence, we know. We not only lift His Name, we bask in it. We not only magnify His holiness, we make ourselves small.
And we remember every single thing we are grateful for. For this life. For this very existence. For the celebration of everything that is true, good, beautiful. And for the Creator of all visible and invisible things who – beyond our wildest imaginations – has been minding our business since our very own Day One.

What indeed have we got that He is ever so mindful of us? Nothing.

Except His love.

The very same thing that I like to offer in my minuteness to all who matters. Amid everything that they all might already have.

This Sunday. And always.