Vigeland Park on a sunny day

The guide says his name, Jacob Gomez, gets a lot of attention from Filipinos who visit Oslo. He says he’s from Argentina. He has lived and worked in Oslo for five years, working a day job in IT and doing city tours on the side.

 

“How is it living here?” I ask as we make our way around the clean, organized city, her pale-skinned, six-footer, smile-back-at-you residents basking in mild sunshine, something that rarely happens in a land where the usual weather is dark and gloomy, the streets lined with snow. 

He says it’s great. I think he means it. “The first time I got here was in December. You know how Christmas is in the movies? It’s like that. Snow everywhere!” he says. 

I relate well to his feeling of alienation and familiarity. I felt the same way when I was in Montreaux, Switzerland in December 2019. My friendHarold and I presented a paper at an immunotherapy conference in Geneva. We did a side trip after the meeting. Snowy villages, mulled wine, potatoes—always potatoes—dripped in melted cheese and chocolate. The scene looked like a Hallmark movie. The stuff of films. It felt magical for us, people from the tropics. Christmas in the Philippines is loud and happy, colorful and extravagant, with plastic pine trees wrapped in lights that could cause fires any time.

I explain to him, as we walk around Frogner Park, at the heart of the Norwegian capital, that Gomez is a common name in our part of the world. “Richard Gomez is a popular actor,” I say. He pretends he knows Richard out of politeness. 

Frogner Park is the site of the Vigelandsanlegget (Vigeland Park), an art installation by Gustav Vigeland. Jacob mentions his name with awe—the man designed the park but never got to see its completion. 

He says Vigeland was a small man, pointing to a life-sized statue towering over us, but he had big dreams. 

All sculptures and designs were to his specifications. 

The Vigeland Sculpture Park contains 212 bronze and granite sculptures depicting the circle of life. I don’t ask Jacob about the Elton John song in the Lion King, because I'm unsure if El Rey León was a hit in his childhood. I say to him instead, “It’s beautiful, isn't it?” pointing to the sculptures of naked men and women and children doing all sorts of poses, and seeing tourists hold the Angry Child’s hand for photo ops. 

 

He says, “I can’t believe I’m doing this, that I’m here.” He radiates contentment, a happy disbelief that I often aspire to, and which sometimes escapes me. “Oslo is a beautiful city. I’m just so happy to be here.”

I listen to the tone of his voice, and I realize he’s not faking it. Here’s a man who is happy in what he does. He must have done these tours a hundred times, but he is happy. 

The tour ends, and he says goodbye. “I just live nearby,” he says, and walks towards a quiet neighborhood, a few meters from the park, where, I imagine, he will spend the rest of the Saturday afternoon in peace and quiet, knowing he is where he should be.

A maremmano walks to me

I tell friends who visit Copenhagen for the first time: "The Little Mermaid is like the Mona Lisa." Meaning: it's just as underwhelming. And similar to the Mona Lisa in Louvre, the best view is not in the object in question—i.e., the famous Little Mermaid bronze statue by Edvard Eriksen, repeatedly damaged and defaced for various reasons—but the areas that surround it. Near the Mermaid is the Copenhagen Opera House at the shore of the Inner Harbor. You'll find wide pathways for humans and humans with bikes. You'll see smartphone-deprived children who play and laugh. One gets the feeling that this is how it is when the government thinks and works and fights for its citizens. The Danes pay the world's highest taxes, but they don't mind.



The breeze is cool, and my feet are tired. I avoid the long queue of tourists awaiting their turn to have a photo with the Mermaid. I sit beside the couple who have lived in the city. They ask me if it's my first time in Copenhagen. I say, no, I've been here many times. They tell me I should take the water taxi to get a better view of the city.

"It's better than these paid city tours, you know?" the wife said.

The dog—white, smiling, unafraid, almost like Appa in the Avatar—leaves his owners behind and slowly makes his way to me, asking to be recognized. I stroke his head, and he smiles.

"Hej," I say to the creature in Danish. The dog does not judge my pretentiousness and appears to play along.

"He's huge!" I say to the couple. "What breed is he?"

"He's a Maremmano."

"A what?"

"A Ma-rem-ma-no. The Italians are picky about how you pronounce it."

I look it up later: A Maremmano-Abruzzese sheepdog, a guardian to protect the sheep from wolves.

When I get back home home, I will tell Paul, our aspin, "Mas guwapo ka gihapon."

New Kindle in matcha

Nanay liked the Kindle Oasis. "You think this will help you?" I asked when I handed her the device. She tried reading a chapter of John Owen's The Glory of Christ and liked it very much—the book and the reading experience. I decided to give it to her so she can read the books she likes, in huge font sizes her eyes prefer these days. After the surgery, she sees the words more clearly, but she still likes the betters big and bold.

Generosity, in this case, gave way to material purchase. I got a Kindle, in matcha color. (The choice was practical: I tend to leave things behind, and a device is easier to find when the color isn't black and white.) I like it very much. A nimble, no-nonsense e-reading device that, in this latest iteration, responds more quickly compared to the other three Kindles I had owned. This entry-level Kindle can't be soaked in water, which isn't a problem for me because I don't read while I shower. The battery life is promising. The reviews mentioned the battery lasts for weeks, in contrast to the Oasis which I had to charge at least once a week.

I'm reading John Keeney's I See You've Called in Dead. Hilarious!

 

Saturday

Saturday morning. Paul wakes me up with his desperate whining. Half-asleep, I listen to his cry outside the door. He’s either thirsty and wants to drink from his water bowl outdoors, or he’s heard a suspicious rustling that only creatures like him can sense. In my room, the curtains are drawn. I can’t figure out if the sun is emerging. Probably not. The sounds I can hear from the distant road are motorcycles and cars moving with urgency and carelessness—the sounds of the city at midnight. I get out of bed and open the door. Paul stops whining, looks at me, as if to say, “Ah, there he is! Finally!” and leads the way to the main door. I open it. Silence. I experience the serene nocturnal repose of my mother’s small garden. The air is cool, but there is no breeze. I step into the porch. There are nights when Paul gets into a fit and requests to be let out. But not all the time, a fact that relieves my irritation at being woken up earlier than usual. When I get back inside, the clock in the kitchen reads 1 pm. Paul returns to his bed space—beneath the couch in the living room. 

Getting back to sleep is harder than falling asleep. I twist and turn. My head creates lists of things to do, or patients to see. Can’t I be like everyone else and enjoy a lazy Saturday morning all to myself, in bed, ignorant and uncaring of errands and tasks? I can’t figure out if I should drink water, or read a book—and if I should, is it a Kindle on dark mode, or an actual printed book on paper, which requires me to turn on the lights? Finally, I fall asleep. After 30 minutes, perhaps, but I can’t really say.

Nanay’s surgery is at 10 am. Cataract. She can’t see and read properly now. She reprimanded me for the small fonts of the commentary on 2 Samuel she asks me to print a chapter for her Bible study group. “It’s too small! Who can read this?” The font was 14 pt! I knew the cataract was getting serious.

The doctor’s office required that we report to the hospital at 8:30 am to settle her paperwork and other fees. Last night I told my mother we should leave at 7:30 am.

I drive to the hospital to check on patients at 5:30 am. At 6 am, I find the gym empty except for the janitor. “Maayong aga,” I say. I can’t get the treadmill to turn on. I do upper body exercises from memory, listening to a Tim Keller preaching. I like the solitude. I heard a younger doctor-colleague say he goes to pickle ball so he can meet other people. I have the opposite tendencies. I’d much rather stay at home and curl up in bed with a book than meet new people. 

I shower and change and drive to Gensan. In the car, I pray that God bless Dr. Red’s hands, that He heal Nanay’s eyes. I tell my mother, “We’re making good with time.” I do a stopover at a gas station to urinate. I drank too much water at the gym.

The hospital ER is quiet. Nanay’s surgery proceeds without fanfare. We drive home. I rush to change into a barong Tagalog. I’m 30 minutes late for an annual gathering of the local internal medicine society. I leave the gathering to join the music ministry practice with every intention to return. We’re singing “His Mercy Is More” for the first time in church this Sunday. Nanay reminds me that I’m in charge of giving her eye drops when Neneng, our trusted housekeeper, leaves for the evening. I want to go back to the society meeting, but I fall asleep listening to Ezra Klein interview Bret Setser about the China Shock 2.0.

Ching's after Sunday worship service

Nanay and I headed to a Chinese restaurant to treat Pastor Henry for lunch after the church service. It was my mother’s idea. Without asking me first, she had already invited him over. I told her I forgot my card and didn’t have any cash with me. She told me, “I don’t have money, either.” I could drop by the house to retrieve my money, or stop by an ATM to withdraw cash for lunch—but those felt like a lot of work. And perhaps, Pastor Henry—the 77-year old man who many years ago founded the small local church I and my brothers grew up in, whose life was used by God to minister to my parents the story of grace and forgiveness and faith—was already probably hungry. 

I figured I could use Gcash to pay the restaurant. I had my phone with me. Driving along the city,  we ended up in a Chinese restaurant along Abad Santos Street.  

Earlier in church, after the benediction and closing prayer, Pastor Henry spoke briefly about the work he was doing in Kulaman, Sultan Kudarat. “The harvest is plenty, but the workers are few,” he said. He rallied support for the training of pastors and teachers among the Manobo communities. He was not weakened by age or disease. He looked and sounded just as strong as when we were growing up. I felt something move in my heart while listening to him. The gospel is expanding, in small, lowly communities away from the limelight. And there are people like him who toil, day and night, to reach communities, one person at a time.

As we waited for our food, Pastor Henry asked us about Manong and Sean, and would they be coming home soon? He remembered us well, having seen us grow up in Sunday school and recite memory verses and perform in Vacation Bible School during school breaks. He talked about his grandchildren, Hans and Haley, bright children who loved playing with Paul whenever they dropped by the house to visit.

In the same restaurant, I spotted my high school teacher’s family a few tables away from us. I realized it was Sir Gershon’s burial that morning. His wife and daughter, whom I’d met just a few days ago at St. Peter’s along National Highway, were laughing and eating with what seemed like four or five other people, as if they had not just buried their dead. But such is real life, isn't it? An existence marked by happiness and grief, a certain "day-to-dayness" where one is "stuck between living and being alive," to quote Spencer K.M. Brown in his brilliant novel, Hold Fast.

I walked towards their table. I told the other people on the table that I was one of Sir Gershon’s students—he was my research adviser. We competed in Manila in an investigatory project contest, a big deal in those days. I asked Duchess, Sir Gershon’s daughter, what she’d like to take up, if she was eyeing a specialty. She said, “Pulmo.”

“Ah, you could go to critical care.”

“Yes!” She said, as if I’d just read her mind. Her father would be so proud.

In another table was my patient, an petite and gracious lady who worked overseas as an engineer. She dropped by the clinic a few weeks ago to give me pasalubong. I greeted her husband and daughter—familiar faces I’d often meet during consults. They had just been to church. Her daughter was studying medicine in Manila. They were surprised to see me. After hugs and pleasantries I said I’d better keep going.

I’m writing this on our front porch on a quiet Sunday afternoon, after a particularly refreshing nap, one of life’s underrated pleasures. I’m sure people of my generation would agree. I'm calling to mind  Rosaria Butterfield’s article, “Your Lord’s Day Might Be Someone Else’s Way of Escape.”

How do we “remember” this, what we now call the “Lord’s Day”? The best way to remember anything is to do it collectively. God is calling me to remember the Lord’s Day not just for myself, for my own personal holiness, but also to live in such a way that I enable others to do so as well. I am called to create a place at the table for others, to be available to the hurting and the lost.

It is wise to take things slowly, to rest, and to unwind on Sundays, but not only for me but so I could serve others. If not for my mother, who thought it best to extend hospitality to a beloved pastor and teacher and friend, I would have rushed to the hospital after church to see my patients. I would have missed the chance to reconnect with people in their time of joys and sorrows. I would have missed Ching's sweet-and-sour lapu-lapu fillet. 

I must remind myself to bring cash all the time.  

*** 

I took the photo above in a vineyard in Drakenstein, Western Cape, a few minutes away from Franschhoek, South Africa. I had a great time there.

Eternal perspectives

Twice last week I got asked how I cope with my life, the grief and pain and sorrow I encounter regularly. People who know me seem to consider my schedule exhausting, which is partly true, because life has its seasons. I reassure them, and myself, that most days I get good sleep and rest, and it’s not as bad as they make it out to be.

My aunt asked me, as I was about to fall asleep on a Saturday afternoon in Polomolok, after eating lunch she had lavishly prepared, if I ever cry. She does not recall seeing me cry. I said, “I schedule special moments for them.” She laughed. I added, “Why? Can’t you?”—a rhetorical question, really, because I could make Tita Beb cry simply by asking her if she misses her older brother (my father), her sisters (my aunts), and her parents (my Lolo and Lola). Tita Beb is the only surviving sister in my father’s side of the family.

On the evening of that same Saturday, my classmates Willie and Angeli (with husband Mau) asked about I handle the sorrow that inevitably comes with a career in oncology. Caring for patients with cancer does involve mental, spiritual, and physical strains but someone has to do it. It is a calling. One does not do it for fame or fortune. I argue that opening a business or a career in finance is an easier path to take. I told them, “It’s all about perspectives.” I wish I had elaborated on this, while we ate the most delicious burger in Tupi at 8 pm, when the restaurant kitchen was getting its final orders for the night. What I wanted to tell them, what I really meant, was the framework of Christian history: “Jesus will return; He will complete God’s eternal plan of salvation, and He will usher in God’s perfected kingdom. He will make all things new and perfect,” to borrow Alistair Begg’s words. 

I believe in the kingdom that Jesus brings in. The perfected kingdom. It’s a kingdom where suffering and pain no longer exists and where all the saints sing and rejoice in their salvation, and in the One who loved them from before the beginning of time until eternity, a love that will never pass away.   

New gym

In the new gym I enrolled in, the coach, a petite lady in her late twenties or early thirties, wearing close-fitting gym clothes, asked me what I wanted. Her statement felt like a scripted goal-setting question she often asked clients who walked in to enroll. I said, “Strength training. I want to build muscles for health.” I did not, at that point, discuss with her the importance of maintaining sufficient muscle mass, and the association between sarcopenia and longevity and quality of life. I also didn’t tell her I didn’t want to be inconsistent. I couldn’t tell my patients to exercise when I myself didn’t. I would reserve my confessions for later. It was 7 am, the start of the week, and the people were still having breakfast at home, getting ready for work.

She looked at me closely and said, amid the blaring 90’s upbeat music, “Oh, toning.”

“Yes, yes, that.”

“And maybe . . .  this?” She pointed at my soft flabs, my father's genetic legacy, and she made a circular motion in the air. “Charis.”

She smiled and put me to work.

I liked her instantly.