A moment in February 1998

THIS WEEK’S WINNER

Milaflor (“May”) De Jesus-Palacpac is married, a mother, and a graduate of De La Salle University-Dasmarinas where she earned her AB degree in communication. She’s also a freelance writer and a musician, — half of the “semi-retired” acoustic duo, Caramel Park.  She’s also an active ministry worker at Victory Christian Fellowship, Alabang alongside her husband, Jay.  

Every face has a story. We walk around the streets and bump into different types of people, many of them bustling to reach an appointment somewhere. No one knows where they’re going, or where they’ve been, but each has an account to be heard. Faces we are quick to judge, to draw conclusions from. I am one of these faces. I, too, have a tale to tell.

It was a tiny apartment. A receiving room, two small bedrooms, a common bathroom, and a sink that nestled a single-burner stove. The stillness was deafening, an irony compared to what transpired a few hours ago in the same rooms. The walls that were usually scrubbed now have blotches of catsup and brown sarsa all over them. A plastic stool was strewn beside a broken stand fan.  Shattered beer bottles were on the floor, and a bucket lay upside down by the bathroom door. I sat on one of the wooden chairs, staring into space, breathing in and breathing out, waiting for the episode to settle in my chest. It was no longer new to me, yet I still needed a little time to sort things out in my then-passive mind. I slowly ran my fingers over my throat, feeling with my tips the small cuts that ran down to my chest. It took me back in time, to when I was 19 and I was touching the lovely gold pendant of my new necklace which my Mom had bought for me, a prize I received for winning at Scrabble five times in a row. I felt a catch in my throat. 

Those days were gone, I thought. This is the life I chose and I must embrace it however sad it may seem to be. 

I jolted myself back to reality. I must start cleaning up, I told myself.  I’ve got to finish cleaning as fast as I can so I can sleep and maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be a new day for me. 

I stood up and started picking up the broken glass, carefully gathering each piece and putting it in a plastic bag. From where I crouched, I could see the heavyset man sleeping on the master’s bed where I had struggled to lug him. Deep in drunkenness, he sobbed uncontrollably in the shower hours earlier, continuously begging me for forgiveness. I was silent. Too numb to think about what he was saying to me. All I wanted was for the night to end.

My eyes were on that man on the bed, but I wasn’t seeing him.  I was seeing my bed in my room, the sanctuary I ran to when my rebelliousness got me nowhere with my parents. I remembered the nights I cried on that bed, wishing for the freedom to do as I wanted.  I wanted a life of adventure. I’m wild at heart, I thought. I felt that I had to leave so I may start my adventure. So I did. I ran away in my youth and spent restless nights with friends, drinking and partying. Then I met this man. He was nothing like anyone in our school. He seemed to offer the adventure that I longed for. He had friends that you seem to read about only in books. I would listen to him tell me stories of life where he had grown up. He even taught me things about music that I didn’t know. And he loved me. Yes, he loved me and he wanted to spend his life with me. He was offering me a life out of the ordinary and I took it. 

I blinked the memory away. I stood up and put the bag of broken glass in the trash bin. I proceeded to scrub the walls, washing off the smears of the catsup and sarsa, gently tracing the scratches the bottles had made when they were hurled around. I felt nothing. I gently pushed the chairs back to their place, swept and wiped the floor. I stood in the middle of the receiving room, my eyes carefully inspecting every inch of the small residence. There must not be a hint of this night when I wake up to face the next day. Satisfied, I turned and caught my reflection in the mirror in the other room. Most bruises could not be seen from a distance, except for the large one on my thigh. I pulled my skirt down to hide it and quickly fixed my hair. I forced a smile but my eyes didn’t match it. I sauntered to the bathroom to wash myself, taking my time before I laid down beside him, the man on the bed. I closed my eyes, pushing myself to drift off from the nightmare that again, took place.  Silence filled the room.

Get up, gather your things, and go home. My eyes flew open.  My neck stiffed at the sound of a voice, so audible. 

Get up, gather your things, and go home. It was no longer mistakable. A voice was speaking, maybe in my head, but it was real.  Someone was speaking to me. 

My heart pumped in my chest as I waited for more. 

Get up, gather your things, and go home. I sat up. The voice spoke with authority, shattering whatever doubts or fears I had about leaving this battered life and going home. 

I got up and began to gather my things. I had to hurry, the man on the bed might wake up any minute, but I had no bags. The man lent my only bag to his friend who went away for a while. I quickly emptied the plastic bags from the trash bins and dumped my clothes in them. I had no money. The man took all my money. I looked at the clock: 5 a.m., it said. Some of my friends told me that they left P40 for me at the store two doors down, but it was 5 a.m., and hardly anyone was awake at 5 a.m. in that neighborhood. I can’t wait, I need to hurry, I told myself. I carefully turned the knob of the front door and hustled out. The compound was empty as I made my way to the eskinita leading to the back street. I stopped at a house at the corner, looked around before calling out, unsure whether to raise my voice or to whisper so that no one would hear me. My time was running out. The man on the bed might realize that I finally had the courage to leave and he might come after me. “Jenny!” I called.  We weren’t very close. I’d only known her for a few months. She went to my school, and she was a friend of the man on the bed.  “Jenny!”  I called again. Jenny came out, took one look at me before realizing why I was there. She handed me her only cash, a measly 20-peso bill, and led me to a street nearer a tricycle stop. I thanked her and took my ride to the highway. 

I hurriedly crossed the road, without any idea of how I was going to get home to Las Piñas from Cavite with bulky plastic bags of clothes in one hand, and less than P20 in the other. My eyes roved frantically until they settled on a taxi cab driver waving at me, asking me where I was going. I slipped into his car and gave him instructions to drive me home. 

The car stopped in front of a familiar house. I had no tears, but my whole body was quivering. I don’t know if it was from excitement or the awkwardness of coming home after a long time. I motioned for the cab driver to wait as I nervously pressed the doorbell. One of the gates was open; I decided to walk in. My mother was standing in the middle of the garage, as if waiting for me to walk in as I did. It was as if she knew I was coming home that morning. I said, “Mom, I’m coming home and no longer leaving.”  She smiled at me and said, “Welcome home.” No condemnation, only love. I shyly smiled and admitted, “I have no money to pay the cab.” My mother reached into one of her pockets, strode out and paid the cab driver. No questions asked.

July 2007. I went up the steps leading to the stage and took my place beside my husband. I looked around me, at the faces waiting for us to invite them to worship. There were smiles, and there were faces searching for hope, for love, for a purpose. It was as Beth Moore wrote in the book, A Woman and Her God: “We are needy people because we were created that way. We need to be loved. We need to be affirmed.” She went on to describe what I went through, “The problem is that we go to them (spouse, children, friends) seeking what only Christ was meant to provide.”  

I stood there, forgiven, knowing that I was there for a reason only God could explain. I smiled at the faces in front of me as my husband cued the music to start and invited the people to get up on their feet to praise God with us. I believe every single word that came out of my mouth, my heart eager to tell those who need to know how much they are loved. “There’s nothing I can do, nothing I can say to make You love me more,” we sang, “standing in Your grace, feeling Your embrace, Lord I am secure.” (From God of the Ages, Jon Owens, “Arize” live album.)