"Talk to God aloud," I always remind my nieces and nephews. ![]() Much later I realized, if God had another name aside from the ones people from different religions call him, He would still perform magic for the young ones which in the eyes of the young once is called miracle. She reminded and reprimanded me, too, that I should not say " D’ yos" instead I should say "Jesus" with the letter "J" pronounced like a hybrid sound between "J" and "Z." Later on we both realized that, like Shakespeare’ s take on the rose, God would be God no matter what you called Him. Please protect us)." My friend laughed and told me that I should keep to myself whatever my prayer was. Alagaan N’ yo po kami (God, I pray that there are no snakes in the grassland. Once, a childhood friend thought I was crazy when – I was about nine years old then – out of the blue I looked up in the sky, while we were gathering fodder for my father’ s carabaos, and prayed aloud: "D’ yos, sana wala pong ahas dito sa damuhan. Always, always, my prayer would be answered and I would end up having a happy, hefty meal. When there was nothing on our dulang (dining table) but a bandehado of steamy sinandomeng or C-4 rice, I would loudly storm the gates of heaven to help me imagine that there was fried chicken in my labay tubig (piping hot rice mixed with water and salt). I treated God like an invisible friend who was always visible in everything I did. When I couldn’ t memorize a poem for tomorrow’ s recital in school, I would ask Him to help me put the words in my head. Things that I could have learned from a priest or a pastor I first learned from my family: " Hindi laging hingi. At a young age, I was coached and coaxed that hard and honest work was a form of prayer that would surely merit a smile from God and a reserved seat in heaven. She told me that I could recite Ama Namin or Aba Ginoong Maria or Lualhati or Sumasampalataya by meaning every word of those prayers and not merely mumbling them. Early on in life, I learned from my mother that God was everywhere and I could talk to Him the way I could talk to a friend. She would abbreviate her prayer to " Susmaryosep" when successive thunders rumbled all through out their days in the palayan.) Only, our belief in God was not anchored in the traditional way of hearing Sunday Masses. (My mother was quick to recite " Hesus, Maria, Josep" thrice every time a volley of fierce lightning would strike while they were in the middle of the field. I learned them in the middle of the field while the sun scorched my skin or the rain drenched my body. I never learned these things inside the church. Instead of receiving catechisms, I learned lessons – albeit the hard way – about the basic rule of life and belief: That God helps those who help themselves. ![]() Instead of seeing ourselves inside the church on most Sundays, I would see myself bringing breakfast or lunch to my parents and brothers who tilled our parcel of farmland in the province. I grew up in a family whose concept of God was two yardsticks away from being titular. With this blessing I realized even the most nominal of believers like me could request something from Him and He would grant my plea. Ever since I asked God to give me a wake-up call every morning, I have enjoyed this little miracle from Him of getting up at the exact time I specified in my prayer. Lately, 24 hours is not enough to make me accomplish my gargantuan task in the many jobs I engage myself in. Every night, before I go to bed, I talk to God to wake me up at six in the morning. This imperative is not directed to anyone.
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