Lorenzo Cosio

I have always wondered if the great history makers of old knew that they were making history. Did it occur to them that, centuries later, they would be remembered as great men and women? Did they dare to assume that they were the makers of revolutionary change?

Here in this part of Mindanao, several places are named in tribute to the makers of the Philippine Revolution. Several of these people were thinkers and writers, people who sometimes had to conceal their true identities with pseudonyms. Nonetheless, though undercover, they were brave enough to make their voices heard in a time when so doing could have resulted in death.

We visited Jose Rizal’s place of exile in Dapitan, yesterday. There the doctor lived for three years, taking in students and patients, living with his wife, carrying on his life. To be truthful, I have long had my issues with Jose Rizal, and there are things about his life that I do not agree with nor necessarily like. But as I walked through the seaside community where he lived, I couldn’t help but think about revolution. No doubt, this man was a key player in making a change, in altering the course of a nation’s destiny. So, his life makes a valuable case study for people like me who wish to make an impact on the world.

Rizal shows us that the beginnings of any revolution are ideological.

Revolution happens when a pressing need brings about widespread clamor for change. The current, unsatisfactory state of things spurs people to start thinking outside of the status quo, hoping that others are thinking along with them. Oftentimes though, the large majority of such people go about in a silent hope, either afraid to speak out – and understandably so – or without the ample facility and platform to articulate their convictions in a manner that will yield positive results. Such people just know that things should change; they feel it deep inside. And so a restless energy wells up inside of them, an inward groaning for deliverance, a hunger for redemption.

But then, there are a brave few who possess both the facility and conviction to go public. Add this to charisma that they display, at the very least, in their chosen platforms, and you’ve got a leader for a revolution.

When these outspoken few begin gathering increasingly larger audiences, their cause gains speed. Their thoughts and words – oftentimes, made public in writing, other times, loudly proclaimed – resound in the hearts of the masses that share their sentiments. Hearts change, and consequently minds, and consequently actions. And consequently, nations change. The direction that society moves in soon changes, because society itself has begun to change.

I think this is an important thing to note about revolution: it happens on the public level only after it has long been a deep, inward conviction in the hearts of many. By the time all the elements come into play for leaders to arise, the hunger for sweet justice has long been a constant in peoples’ lives.

In the Philippines, revolutions were first and foremost inward. Deep inside of them, the populace began to grow in conviction about who we are as a people, and what our nation should look like. They knew that oppression and a heavy-handed rule was not an equitable or just arrangement. When outspoken revolutionaries such as Rizal raised their voices, stated their claims, made their manifestos, published their works, they were simply recognizing truths that always existed, and that people had long espoused. They were mere echoes of a spirit of justice and truth that is alive in the heart of every person created by God – people not yet seduced and numbed by the lure of power and unjust gain. People were already fueled by conviction – and our heroes were simply the spark needed to start a fire.

Now, I don’t know what I want to be – someone filled with fuel, or a spark, or both. All I know is that I want to see revolution. I am not satisfied with the way the culture of this world runs, and how it allows for sweeping injustice and inequity. So, I want to be someone who does not just think that things should change; I want to already be living change.

But can I be brave enough to assume that I am making history? Or is that too presumptuous?

I think it would be alright for everyone to assume that they are that special revolutionary with the facility and platform to make truth heard. If we all lived like the world was watching us, we’d probably live better lives. We’d write better blogs and compose better songs. We’d think better thoughts. We’d fight for better causes. We’d actually live like we were the light of the world, a city that can’t be hidden.

We would change the world.


“Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness; they will be satisfied.”
Matthew 5:6

Yesterday, I turned off the television, once and for all. The solution to my dilemma with the idiot box was so simple, even an idiot could have thought it up: switch off the TV’s main power supply, and throw away the batteries of the remote. I wonder why I never thought of it sooner. Maybe I didn’t really want to quit watching television? Well, now I do.

The apartment is quieter without the constant din of Fox News and Nat Geo Adventure humming in the background. The silence has allowed me to live a more reflected life, listening for the voice of God in everything I do – even the mundane tasks of keeping house.

Today I did one of my periodic – though unscheduled – general clean-ups of the apartment. After eating lunch and doing the dishes, I emptied the fridge of everything that was too old to be eaten. I segregated my garbage for the past week or so, and took it out to the dumpster. Next task: clean up all the plastic containers that housed the leftovers I had just gotten rid of. Following that, I cleaned up the counters, washed the kitchen rags, cleaned the floor and realized I was done! Everything was clean and pristine.

I headed straight for the fridge to lay claim to my post-lunch dessert of cold, fresh mangoes. I took them to the kitchen counter to slice them open when I realized that to eat my mangoes would entail having to clean up the knife, utensils and plate I would use to do the job.

It was then that I realized that every move made in a house is a move that needs cleaning up after. Once you think you are done, there is immediately something else that needs to be cleaned.

That reality is much like my life. The task of weeding out and cleaning up the overlooked areas of soul and spirit can be arduous and tiresome. Once done, it feels good to relish the feeling of a clean heart. But with every little move, I expose another area that needs inspection, cleaning, restoration. The task is never done.

This might be a daunting truth to accept; but in this world, there is no running from truth. The sooner I accept reality, the sooner I can enjoy every area of reality, and see all things as instruments of redemption – if not for the peaceful, easy feeling they bring, for the truth that they make me realize.

We drove by a farmhouse today. Sitting in the passenger seat, with the windows down, I waved at the happy people enjoying their simple lives, seated in their little nipa huts, with nothing to do, sheltered from the light rain that was blessing the muddy, green valley we found ourselves in. The people waved back sincerely, without the questioning looks that city folks would give a stranger waving at them. "It doesn't take much to be happy," I thought to myself.

In the city, it's easy to complicate life. It's easy to look at someone offering us a friendly wave and think, Alright, what's the catch? Cynically, we look back with a raised eyebrow of suspicion. Or, we return a blank stare, as if we didn't know they were waving at us. When we catch someone's eye in a public place, instead of giving a pleasant acknowledging gesture, we mind our own business, because...because...well...who really knows why? Because we don't want to come across the "wrong" way? I think we fear the uncertain; so our subconscious invents an inhibition that will give us an excuse from stepping beyond ourselves. And the fact that virtually everyone else acts this way makes us feel normal for being this way. To some degree, it is a matter of safety in a dangerous place such as a city. But what about the danger of losing the meaning and significance of the subtle details of humanity we unwittingly pass by?

Sadly -- and I generalize -- city culture conditions us to think that there's a subtext to whatever's happening, that people aren't as sincere as they appear, that another person we pass by is a life we have nothing to do with. It's not always our fault that this is the case. Stepping into another person's world, even for just a few seconds is always a risk. We risk awkwardness, or even our own physical security, at times.

It's an irony that in places such as cities filled with so many people, the social dynamic of who we are as human beings gets sacrificed on the altar of comfort. Other things -- more convenient and less relational things -- make us happy and fulfilled. Things. Objects. Products. Cars. Houses. Money. Gimmicks. Things. Things. Things.

When things take the place of what is truly special and valuable, we've lost the plot. When the objective takes centerstage over the subjective and personal, it solves the mystery as to why there is so much brokenness in this world: child abuse, sexual abuse, broken families, exploitation, injustice, inequity. And what about so-called "lesser crimes": lusting after a woman on a billboard, ruining someone behind their back, choosing to not forgive, and so on. All this is real because we slowly let it slip from our consciousness that people are extremely important.

It all starts when our orientation becomes things. Pretty soon, we view people as nothing more than things. Even the most noble efforts, if they lose the value of each individual, run the risk of stepping on what is really important.

I have nothing against cities. I am a city boy, through and through, having spent 99% of my time in bustling urban jungles. But I think there is value in questioning ourselves, every so often -- to hold the light of truth to our unconscious habits and ask ourselves if we really are living deliberately and as we were originally created.

This is not an indictment on things. Rather, it is an attempt to shed light on what is far more beautiful: the relational dynamic of existence. It strikes me that we were created in the image and likeness of God -- the epitome of relationship: three Persons in one God. He is completely happy in this mysterious state of three-in-oneness, without need for anything else. There is much to learn in that reality: we are made to be satisfied in the relational. Us and God. Us and the rest of us.
 
Now, I sit here in a provincial town. It's still a city, though far smaller and simpler than the ones I have lived in. I live alone in a quiet apartment. I live far from my closest friends. And so, every time I see another person, a spark in me dances and celebrates the existence of somebody else. When I call my family and friends in Manila, I light up because I realize that I could live without a lot of things -- yes, including my guitar and surfboard, both sitting in my closet awaiting the homecoming of their master. But I cannot live without people. Both those I know and don't know. When I start to value each and every life I pass by, the world makes a lot more sense and I start living differently.

Anyway, that's about it.

Thanks for indulging my lengthy reflection.

All this from driving by a farmhouse...

I'm not really in the mood to write. But I'm in a small Internet cafe in a provincial town, far away from home, alone on a Saturday night -- the moment beckons, I guess. Dipolog is my home for the next few weeks, as I'm here on mission. The capital of Zamboanga del Norte, Dipolog is a coastal city, with the beach never far away. I live alone in an apartment near the airport, two kilometers outside of town. A large metal garage door rolls into the ceiling of my flat, opening to the driveway outside where my neighbors' kids play. Some friends lent me a purple minivan and a black mountain bike, that I have affectionately nicknamed "The Joker" and "The Penguin" because of their respective colors. I eat more seafood and fruit than I normally do, and am well taken care of by the wonderful people of Elim Dipolog.

My main reason for being here is to train a worship team -- musicians and singers who will spearhead missions in their city and the surrounding provinces of Mindanao. For those who may not understand why a missionary needs to train people in the ways of music, allow me to explain. I believe the chief sort of change that will impact the world is not institutional, but personal: people living out change because of a firm conviction deep in the core of their being. You can call it what you want: "ideological," or "fundamental" change -- I call it "conversion": a radical shift into a fresh new way of thinking, living...existing. It's a message called the Gospel, and it's about the love of God manifest in the person Jesus, who models that "fresh, new way." The Kingdom of God is here, now, among us. We see heaven a little more when people who believe finally get off their butts and live out all these great things Jesus talks about.

Now as for music -- few things have been catalysts of change as effectively as music, with its ability to alter social climates, inspire fervent emotion, rouse up the indifferent. Every revolution has had musical expression at its forefront, from the battlefields of old, to the freedom songs of our age. And the Church is not exempt. Worship is an amazing thing, when expressed in song. And I would not be living the life I know, if not for moments of musical worship.

So here's to change. May we all actively look for and find our respective mission fields; we need not go too far, all the time. And I'll tell you what -- nothing makes you come alive as much as living for a cause, especially when it's all about a God who loves us.

Peace to all.

To my Manila friends: see you at EC in five weeks!

I recall my best childhood memories in the warm imperfection of celluloid and polaroids, washed in yellow light, all seared into my mind for posterity. The images always play back like a silent film with abrupt cuts from scene to scene, leaving out the ones I find difficult to remember, and keeping the important ones on repeat until I’m done reminiscing.

I’ve heard it said that what you love as a child says a lot about what you should do with your life as an adult. If that is true, then I should be spending a lot of time in the sea. For it is there that I have always felt alive.

***

"Jump, Kiddo!" yelled Mom from the water.
"Ok, here goes!" –

Without hesitation, I was off! Three quick steps and my six year-old body caught air, my feet leaving the deck of the boat. A second later, the cool, green water caught me in its soft embrace. I remember the salt in my mouth, the sting in my eyes, the warm sunshine above, the happiness somewhere inside. It was glorious. Mom assured me I was brave and strong for swimming in the open sea. What can I say – I believed her.

Every so often Pop would take us out on a boat, usually with his friends and their kids. It was always the same boat – a big, brown Hong Kong style junk with a white roof that we could stand on. The insides were filled with the makings of a picnic, and the scent in the air was a blend of sunblock, sea breeze and the occasional suggestion of boat fuel – it was heavenly. Those weekend boat trips were a welcome respite from our fast-paced city life.

Hong Kong as I remember it in the 1980s was a world of skyscrapers and shop houses, Rolls Royces and rickshaws, executives crossing paths with seated beggars slowly shuffling their coin plates as the masses passed them boarding trams and subway trains. It always felt like rush hour in the city, and my kid legs worked hard to keep with the frenetic pace of city folk hurrying to city places.

Our apartment’s balcony was on the seventh floor, overlooking the busy Hong Kong harbor, with its ferries and ships skating across. Barges blew their horns, tankers plied their routes and airplanes took off at old Kaitak Airport, on the other side the water.  

It was a fast life, and I enjoyed it in the city. But there was always something peaceful about the ocean that made me come alive.

We would spend the whole day at sea. Everything would slow down to match the steady rhythm of the rolling water beneath. Pop and his friends would take the speedboat out and ski, the moms would swim and chat, and we kids would run around doing silly kid things all over the boat and in the water. After exhausting myself with hyperactivity, I would fall asleep and come to full consciousness at night, in a taxi on the way home. I would walk to my bedroom with sea legs, having kissed my parents goodnight, knowing life was good.  

These days, I am alive when I’m in the ocean. I think it’s because it reminds me that life should be simple, just like when I was a child. Some people wonder why I often make the long side trip from my missionary work to go to the sea. It’s because when I subtract a lot of the city things that fight for my attention, I realize that it doesn’t take much to be happy. I realize that meaning is to be found in the places that have been around ever since the dawn of creation. I discover that the less layers there are between me and the original state of things, the more I experience God.

Yes, the ocean reminds me of the very beginning; it reminds me of innocence. First, of my own – because my senses are awakened to memories as an innocent child, when my pure nature was my strength. But I’ve also come to learn about the innocence of God. I admit, I never thought of God as being innocent, until now. But I am being more and more convinced that where innocence is, there is true strength, true power and confidence to rise up – just like God who is both mighty and blameless, and inseparably so. That is why I go to the water. It is where innocence and strength collide.

Waves are violent, awesome things. They beat upon the shore like an angry drummer, consuming the land at its own doorstep as if to tell it that it refuses to be dictated a limit – such power! But when I smell the sea breeze and taste the salt water, when I feel the water’s soft embrace and observe the subtleties of the sea, I remember being a child, and I come back to innocence. I learn the lesson that true power only means anything when it comes from a place of holiness, cleanness… innocence.

And so I’m going to keep jumping into the ocean every chance I’ve got. Take a couple steps, catch air, and land in the place where everything is as it should be.

***

I dedicate this piece to all my friends who have to come to grips with a complicated existence, and all the questions that life brings. This is for all those who have at some point or another lost their innocence. I’m one with you. I don’t know that these are wise words, or that I should be telling anyone what to do. This is simply what works for me: go to the ocean. You, find your own “ocean” – the place where you come alive, having experienced the presence of our awesome Creator in the way that He speaks to you most meaningfully.

Peace be with all. May we rediscover innocence.

When I was a kid I dreamed of being an Olympic sprinter. I would run several kilometers with my dad on weekends, and do a few more by myself on weekdays. During PE, I would cream my classmates and they would hate me for it. I laughed inside, knowing that I was well on my way to being an Olympian! But it turns out there is a difference between PE and the Olympiad. Who would've thought?

When I competed in the 100 meter dash against my schoolmate, Chris, my Olympic dream started falling apart. See, when Chris ran, everyone else knew they were running for second -- he was that fast. It didn't take long for me to realize that Olympians in the making look different, even at 13 years old. In the years that followed, I would keep an eye out for Chris during the Olympics, but I never saw him. He never made it -- which only means that real Olympians in the making, the ones who do make it, are far more amazing than Chris was. Even now, it's hard to imagine because he was a running machine that ate all-weather track for breakfast!

My Olympic aspirations were dashed to even more miniscule pieces when I realized that there weren't very many southeast Asian sprinters in the Olympics, much less Filipinos. In the 90's, word about a Fil-Am decathlete had me excited about our country actually making some ripples in the world of track and field. But that guy didn't do to well. Seeing such an impressive man fail only helped awaken me to reality. It wasn't gonna happen for me, either.

And so faded my Olympic dream without my ever realizing it. I still dreamed of making it to the games -- but as a spectator. Talk about a step back! I should have taken more Milo. I could have made history.

My running has now regressed to an all time low. Over the years, I have had my shots at redemption by joining fun runs here and there: the Milo run, the ones sponsored by the big shoe companies, and my personal favorite, the Slimmers World one, during which Cesar Montano fired the starting gun. I always stayed comfortably unnoticed in the middle of the pack, happy to simply finish. And so now, I would not even consider myself a runner. When I do run, it is a task.

This is because I am no Olympian.

And you know what? I'm okay with that. I can join the other six billion people who aren't Olympians. Like them, I can live a normal life! I can eat whatever I like, stay up late, not have to train, not have to even sweat if I don't feel like it. I don't have to feel compelled to perform well in sports, or represent my country well, or do anything exceptionally well. All this, because I am not in contention for a top prize.

I am not made for such greatness.

But here's the thing: I can't seem to let myself believe that I am not made for greatness. True, every kid was told that they were. But that only lasts until they walk out their door into the so-called "real world" where on every corner they meet someone who was told the exact same thing. It hits them that not everyone can have lofty aspirations, that glory is reserved only for a select few, and so they might as well accept reality.

Accept reality...

The danger for me comes when I begin to accept that crap. See, as a person of faith, I believe in a destiny of glory and cannot deny it, no matter what great philosophers and thinkers have said to oppose this conviction. It's a deep belief and I feel it inside.

That is why I cannot let go. I cannot treat life the way I treat a broken Olympic dream, because my prize is still up for grabs. It doesn't matter if I'm weary or disillusioned. It doesn't matter if I've failed. It doesn't matter if I don't think I'm cut out for anything great. The fact is, I am.

Because I profess belief in a great God who made me in His image, I must believe in a destiny of greatness. When I go to Church in worship of Jesus, I concede to the reality of eternal life with God that He won for us on the cross. If I do not believe in that hope of glory, why should I even keep going to church, or claiming a belief in Jesus?

The fact is, deep down, I know it to be true. Otherwise, I would have quit long ago. So, since I do believe in such a destiny of glory, how should I live? It no longer makes sense for me to ever live as someone with no dreams, or no goal. It makes no sense to "just get by."

When St Paul talks about life in Christ, he says we are to "run." Not crawl, not walk, not just get by. In fact, we must "run so as to win."

I kissed my running dream goodbye when I realized I wasn't built for Olympic greatness. But here's the really cool thing for all who believe: we were built for a greater glory -- eternal life on high with Christ. I believe this, even when I don't always feel it.

And so I will run.


You've all been to the stadium and seen the athletes race. Everyone runs; one wins. Run to win. All good athletes train hard. They do it for a gold medal that tarnishes and fades. You're after one that's gold eternally. I don't know about you, but I'm running hard for the finish line. I'm giving it everything I've got. No sloppy living for me! I'm staying alert and in top condition. I'm not going to get caught napping, telling everyone else all about it and then missing out myself. (1 Corinthians 9:24-27)

"Falcon Waterfree Technologies."

It is branded on the walls of urinals in men's restrooms across the country. Because I am an obsessive consumer of drinking water, I have grown accustomed to my own personal water cycle. And so subsequently, these ceramic receptacles made by the people at Falcon have become my well-visited friends. Yes, with my help, Falcon is able to save 150,000 gallons of fresh water that would otherwise, quite literally, go down the toilet.

I walked into the restroom at Robinson's and noticed the typical kiddie urinal, the solitary one in every men's restroom that hangs but a few inches from the floor. After silencing the temptation to use it -- it's a long way down -- I stepped before one of the regular "Falcons" to do my part in helping save the world. Who would have thought that nature's call could inspire such heroism?

"Wouldn't it be funny -- " I then thought to myself, "wouldn't it just be hilarious if a tiny man, a little person, came and used the kiddie Falcon? It's probably what the bathroom at a circus would look like!" I laughed inwardly. Why I think such inane thoughts is beyond me. I have come to accept that my imagination is a machine too fast for my own comprehension, sometimes. "Wouldn't that be funny?" I concluded, with a sigh.

Right then,

no more than five seconds later,

a small man,

a bearded little adult...

... a "midget"...

walked in.

No taller than a six year-old, he stepped up to the kiddie Falcon and gave it a drink.

Dumbfounded, I could do nothing but marvel at the sense of humor spinning around the cosmos. You never know when it's gonna hit you!

Now, let me assure you that diplomacy is a gift of mine, and so I would never belittle -- yes, I intended that pun -- a little man. But you have to admit that even the most politically correct of people would've found that scene funny, especially outside of a television screen.

Now, whenever I see the words "Falcon Waterfree Technologies," I will smile inwardly. Those words will remind me of that little guy -- bless his soul -- who not only redeemed my trip to the mall, he was a hero. Yes, with his help, Falcon will save 150,000 gallons of fresh water that would otherwise, quite literally, go down the toilet.

The ocean and the sky
Were bleeding, alive,
Like God mixing watercolor
To start off the night --
The deep blue of the coming evening,
In marriage with the fire of the setting sun,
Melting together on the mellow sea,
Their dancefloor.

The days are long these days, as if to tell me that darkness can never dominate in life, in the world of creation. For though the coming night is ever impending, the beauty of light's concession makes you feel that it already has a comeback on its mind, as early as its departure at sunset each night. Yes, the sun always rises. This is nature's way of telling me to hope. To believe in better times to come.

In my most vulnerable moments, I will admit that I don't always feel strong, upbeat or even optimistic. I give in to the stoic whose indifference gives me an ironic sense of false comfort. Why is this the way with sadness? Why is losing heart so easy? Why do I search for the elusive answers in life, only to be disappointed at their absence?

To be honest, I think answers are overrated. I find more peace, on occasion, in the mysteries I simply must embrace. Because answers can be very demanding of acceptance we aren't always ready to give. Then again, mystery isn't much better, either, demanding that we simply accept the fact that we cannot understand it all. At least it never claims an explanation. It simply assures us all that there is an explanation, somewhere in the universe; you just won't get it now. That is why, for all its introvertedness, it is at the hands of mystery that I discover faith and trust. I have no other options, do I?

Still, there is comfort in mystery, in not having the explanations to make sense of it all.

At sunrise this morning, I couldn't explain why the moon hanging overhead, and the sky dusted by stars slowly giving way to the rising sun made me feel alive again. At the lineup yesterday, I didn't need life's answers spelled out for me. I just needed to soak in the warm ocean tide, with my back to the waves, and my eyes caught up in the beauty of a perfect rainbow arching over the green hills nearby. And for some unknown reason, I knew everything would be alright.

It's really mysterious how the absence of answers in the presence of beauty gives you some sort of assurance. I believe that beauty assures us of a Creator who is behind it all. And if He cares enough to bless us with wonder, I can only imagine what else He'd be willing to give us. So I choose not to fear what I don't understand in my life; instead I celebrate the mystery. At the hands of mystery, I discover faith.

It was a good 27 hours on the road. Left Manila at 1:30am, Saturday. Arrived at Baguio before 7. Grabbed breakfast at Session Road McDonald's and headed for Elim Baguio. Walked while eating. Slept on a bench. Team prayer around 9, worship at 10. Headed to Archbishop's residence to do some interviews by 11. Great feedback from different community leaders about Pentecost: healing, conviction, revival, you name it. Capped the morning of ministry and work with a quick lunch and a surprise birthday gift from Elim Baguio friends. Great folks.

Was in the heart of town, hopping a bus bound for Ilocos, around 1pm. Maniac driver with bloodshot eyes had me in La Union before 3. Reunited with local friends, busy teaching beginners in the tiny surf. Paddled out far. Evaded jellyfish. Waved at fishermen. Lay down on my board. Drank in the setting sun. Lived in the moment. 

The sun said goodbye 

Behind a blindfold of clouds, 

on tiptoes over the horizon. 

The clouds became fishing boats 

Hurrying home 

Slowly

To the land of the night sky

I had lost track of time hours before. At that point, it was just me and the vast palette of burning color overhead, meeting with the slow-moving water surrounding me. It is moments like these that one believes in God, and that He is good. No matter what imperfections the world shows us, when I play such moments in slow motion, I notice beauty so easily overlooked. You know a moment is a good one, when you lose your sense for time...

Some kind friends invited me for dinner at night. Ihaw, baby! So we lit the coals, smoked up the whole of Surf Camp, and by 9:30pm, were busy stuffing ourselves with grilled fish and meat, and a monster pile of cold, raw tuna -- sarap! After the casual banter that only hang-out sessions on the beach can bring, I said goodbye to the local bros, still quite busy with the business of fun. 11pm, sat by the roadside and had a ride before 11:30. 

Sunday, 4:14am arrival at Cubao station. 27 hours of movement, at this point. Journey not over.

Elim Youth Mass at 10 made me a proud kuya. Fr Steve preached it. Lunch was a goodbye for Michelle "Foxy" Silayan, who will be well missed, followed by major hang time at our house. I experienced Sabbath in my friends today. I love them. Fell asleep on the floor. Woke up to cook dinner.

Now, I find myself in our big, white house, alone. It's quiet. Parents are abroad. Sister has moved. Brother is out. I hear the crickets and other bugs play for me above the hum of the fan that tries in futility to change the mood of this warm night. Such stillness in the city is poetic in its contradiction.

Life is good. No matter what anybody says, we've got to find the good, and enjoy it like it's a gift from the Most High. Live to the hilt. 

I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life...to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. - Henry David Thoreau

I'm hitting the road again tonight, for a short burst of a trip up to Baguio and then back home again after lunch. With Plan A, I might be back in Manila before this time tomorrow night! But if I find a reason to head to the coast, I will. Even puny surf will satisfy me, at this point. You know what? Even paddling would make me happy. I'm gonna at least try my luck at an afternoon session. That's Plan B. Then home for community Mass.

I love being on the move. I feel that I was made for the road. It always reminds me that in this world, we are travellers, moving toward a reality that is infinitely better and more beautiful than what we know. I find it hard to imagine something better than this world, to be honest. Our mountains, skies, oceans and trees are so breathtaking. What destination could be better?

My mind cannot grasp ideas it has not already perceived with the senses in some way. God comes to us in the elements that we can sense. And we are so limited in our senses. Like St Paul said, "we see indistinctly, as through a mirror." But one day, we will see Him as He is, in all His glory. Can you begin to imagine? I would be overwhelmed. And what about or new home? Man, if this world is so rich in beauty and experiences, I think I will be blown in the new heavens and new earth. It's gonna be amazing and perfect.

Of course, such a beautiful destination doesn't mean we can't enjoy the journey. And that's what I plan to do. I hope you do, too. Because even in this imperfect state, the world is already such a beautiful masterpiece, reflecting the majesty of an awesome Creator. I love the following passage by Don Miller, taken from his book, Through Painted Deserts, and I'll leave everyone with this:

"Time has pressed you and me into a book, too, this tiny chapter we share together, this vapor of a scene, pulling our seconds into minutes and minutes into hours. Everything we were is no more, and what we will become, will become what was. This is from where story stems, the stuff of its construction lying at our feet like cut strips of philosophy. I sometimes look into the endless heavens, the cosmos of which we can't find the edge, and ask God what it means. Did You really do all of this to dazzle us? Do You really keep it shifting, rolling round the pinions to stave off boredom? God forbid Your glory would be our distraction. And God forbid we would ignore Your glory."

I come to my desk, gingerly placing my fingers on the fragile computer keyboard that on some days I fear destroying by way of violent type. Those are the days when my hands have got inspiration leaking from them like honey from a glass jar, quickly fallen to the ground. Unstoppable, it leaves an amber mess that glistens as it slowly creeps over the tiles and into the grooves between. Words are everywhere, and no matter how messy it may be, it is sweet and the aroma fills the room. Those are the good days. But today is not one of them. Today I've got writers' block. And that honey bit -- yes, it was a terrible metaphor.

I wonder if any of the world's best writing has come out of a writers' block. I wonder if my literary heroes -- that guy who wrote the Mr. Men series, for example -- ever came up with anything groundbreaking in their moments of drought. I think about the legends who have gone before me on this road called literature. I hesitate to name them for fear of trying to project the persona of one who is well read. The truth is I am not well read, and much of what I have read, I did so out of compulsion. Sure, I've read many classics. But I've also read a lot of Wikipedia.

So here I sit at the keyboard, my fingers have paused. I think I pause more than I type. I remember watching the movie "Finding Forrester," where Sean Connery tells his pupil that when one writes, he doesn't stop to think. He just types. No editing. Just typing. Even if it's nonsense. Or garbage. You've got to keep writing. I find myself in a room, with the white-haired, sage-like Sean Connery breathing words of wisdom and frustration down my stiff neck, in Scottish. C'mon, laddie! Write! Write, you fool! Inspired and insulted, but in the good way, I rise to the challenge. Yes Sean... I mean, Mr. Connery... I mean, Mr. Forrester. I will keep writing. Never stop typing. Just type...

The "just type" method of writing gives me problems on days like these. See, I always feel like I must put out the best material I possibly can. I have to emit meaning into the world, or I might as well just be passing gas. I have to feel like my writing is achieving something, stirring people up, in its thought-provoking depth. But what if "best" isn't the point? What if thought-provoking isn't a goal, but the mere byproduct of something deeper going on?

I wonder if the greats, as they penned their masterpieces, ever anticipated the masses revering them and hailing their works as legendary. Similarly, it's not likely that the prophets and scribes of old thought to themselves that their names would be remembered centuries later, or their writings translated into many versions.

Maybe I've got delusions of grandeur about writing, and quite possibly, everything else that I do: life in general. Maybe it's not about being the best, or the greatest, or thought-provoking.

Maybe it's about being earnest. Genuine. Sincere.

Real.

If writer's block is real, then I should be writing from that place.

Maybe the pillars of literature stand so tall because they wrote from that place -- a region deeper than agendas and ambition. Maybe they are great because greatness was not their aspiration, as much as it was the creation of something heartfelt and true, coupled with the desire to share it.

Maybe an attempt in the midst of a drought is far more valuable than an essay written in an oasis of inspiration. People may remember the oasis piece. But I might never have reached that point, had I not kept walking this path through the parched earth. Had I not wrestled with reality. Had I not been true to what I must do: write.

So I sit in front of my desk. My fingers have slowly punched out letters on this fragile keyboard for over an hour. The screen that was white earlier, is now covered in words, and I have no idea if they are any good, or thought-provoking, or legendary. But I have labored, and these thoughts are real. They are true.

And, yes -- at the risk of spoon-feeding -- this was all just one big, fat metaphor.

It's my dad's birthday!

For those who are fans or who just want to get in on the action, hit up his guestbook at http://guscosio.multiply.com and send him a birthday greeting. He's 56. Many things I am, I am because of my dad, and today we celebrate his life.

Dear Pop, thanks for teaching me and Kayo sports when we were kids, for handing down the loko-loko and people-person genes, for the discussions on classic rock and roll and motown, for being cool with my friends. Thanks for the late night "guy talks" over Chinese food, and all the lessons you've taught us, whether intentionally, or by example. God's given us the best dad. Here's to more blessings for you!

Happy 56th birthday Pop!

Some days I wonder if I'm insane.

I stood on the balcony and three birds zipped by in triangle formation, dropping in on each other repeatedly as they played and traveled. In a single moment, it was artistry and physics at play. My mind tried to make sense of it all, stopping when sense ultimately eluded me. There I stood in awe. Of birds. In flight. "Am I going nuts?" I thought to myself. On the one hand, we see birds flying everyday. But on the other hand, doesn't that make it all the more amazing?

Some days after work, I head to the park. Being enclosed in concrete makes my soul long for grass beneath my feet and trees overhead. Even for just a few minutes. I lie down on a bench and stare into the leaves of trees as they reveal the sky to me. It's shapes and lines everywhere, with light and cloud peering through like shy little boys hiding from a beautiful lady. It's a kaleidoscope, the original psychedelic with no need for neons. The purity of the sight is its raw energy...

We drove through strawberry fields last Saturday. I stuck my head out of the truck window like a dog. I savored the wind, the almost-rain hanging overhead, the vast expanse of valley rolled out before us like a picnic for the gods. I waved at the rosey-cheeked vegetable seller, all bundled up. She smiled. We drove on. I took a breath.

In the bus today, it was city noise. But it all faded into the background as I noticed people. People. Not faces. Not extras in a cast of thousands, but stars of their own life stories. Each of whom is the image and likeness of God. Each of whom has a story to tell that is not inferior to mine, though their voice may not be as loud. Each of whom is loved by God just as fiercely as I am.

You know, some days I really wonder if I'm insane. Am I reading too much into the world around me? Is this earnestness in appreciating creation real, or is it an artificial attempt to cope with what I don't understand? Maybe there really is nothing between the lines, I think. Some days, the cynic in me convinces the rest of me that my awe and wonder are contrived. But those are the days when I'm being an idiot.

If God is omnipresent, it's my job to notice Him. Nothing could make more sense. My life would be so much holier if worship was not just a church thing, but an everything thing.

I'm back in Baguio again. Man, time flies. I feel like I hopped off a bus in Manila, only to take a little stroll around the block and hop on another bus bound for Baguio again.

It's raining outside, and the wind is cold. But I feel warm inside, just being here on this mountain, again. With the awesome Pentecost event that happened here last week conducted by Elim, it seems that doors for ministry have blasted open. Needless to say, I feel very excited and privileged to stand on the brink of some great stuff that I know will be happening here in the Northern Philippines. Yes, there's more to the North than just surfing. But there is also surfing... God is good.

Sitting in the bus this morning, I made it a personal goal to sleep the entire way. I think I am hyperactive and a little tall for bus seats, and so the only relief I have in small spaces is usually sleep. I kept waking up, asking myself, "are we there yet?" only to look out the window and see that we were many miles from the destination.

Time and distance are killers. Long journeys: learning experiences.

They are both good for me, and bad for me. They make me impatient, but they also teach -- or force -- me to wait. See, there's a part of me that wants everything now. Sitting on a bus, with my knees knocking against the seat in front of me, I'd give anything to be somewhere else right now. I feel the same way about airplanes. It's not the fear of crashing that gets to me. It's the small spaces, and the thought that the destination is far better than these food trays and in-flight movies. But if I didn't submit to the bus ride, I would never have made it to Baguio. If I didn't sit through the plane ride, I would have missed Europe.

It is at this point that I conclude: journeys are good for the soul.

I sat at the adoration chapel at Baguio Cathedral earlier. And God's message to me was clear.

"Love is patient."

When Paul wrote the Corinthians about love, the first characteristic he thought to mention was love's patience. It will sit through the here and now with hope for the future. It will celebrate the here and now, because the future is beautiful; but I'll miss out if it's all I am obsessed with. Live fully right now, with hope for tomorrow. This is the essence of love's patience, I think. And if love is patient, it also never fails.

Now why these thoughts and reflections? Well, in the words of Switchfoot, "I wanna see miracles, see the world change." There are many things about the world, about life that I want to be happening right here, right now. I want to see social justice. I want to see communities of faith rising all over the place, proving to the world that you change the world when you let God change you. I want to hold the girl of my dreams. I want a family. I want to live the ultimate road trip. I want to be a really good surfer and musician who writes songs that stir people up, deep in their hearts.

But I admit. If I had all that now, I don't know that I'd be ready. I honestly don't know how I'd cope, or if the fulfillment of all these things in the twinkling of an eye would be to my betterment. I doubt it.

That is why I find wisdom in the journey. I find truth in cramped buses and planes, and journeys that are longer than I want them to be. I celebrate the here and now. Won't you celebrate with me? Because love is patient. And God has a great future for us. If we love the here and now.

God desires the heart. Affection in the most hidden and intimate part, at the core of our being. It will not do if we should attempt to see how much we can keep for ourselves.

In music, hesitation can ruin the most powerful progression of notes and chords. An uncertain rock and roll solo doesn't deserve to be heard. But even the simplest song, played with a giving heart, certain hands and sung with an earnest voice, can change the world.

Some months back, I was paddling into my first overhead wave. But at the moment I was dropping in, my friend yelled out to me: "Don't take it! It's too big!" A split second of hesitation. I was taken by the size and power of that thing. All of a sudden I was afraid to get hurt in a wipeout, so I pulled back, only to realize it was too late. The only way to catch a powerful wave is to do it with all your heart. I lost heart and learned the hard way: a vicious wipeout.

Self preservation at the moment of truth can very well cost you your life. And throwing yourself entirely into what you know you've got to do may feel deadly, but there's life at the other side of the risk.

This morning, God led me to the book of Hosea, where God doesn't merely desire tokens of belonging. He wants our heart: everything. No holding back.

It's easy to hold back from God. And sometimes, we don't realize we are doing that to Him until He touches what is most precious to us. God doesn't touch our treasure in the hopes of taking it away. He does so in the hopes that we will look and see that His is more valuable than whatever it is we're holding on to. He is the real treasure.

So. Let it go. Whatever it is you're holding on to. Release that struggle into the wind with no hesitation. Self preservation ruins rock songs and good waves. And it steals your heart. But reckless abandon... well, it may kill you. But it will also resurrect you.

Lose yourself. Don't hold back.

It feels good to have the sky so close.

And is it just me, or are the clouds trying to be waves?

One day I will surf them.

I arrived in Baguio a couple hours ago. It was a long bus ride, and I prayed for my friends during the trip. It's good to be able to see your breath when it's supposed to be summer, and take walks without getting sweaty. The weather here is a little rainy these days. We hung out by the street outside Arwin's house, ate fishballs and drank tea as I took in the sunset, pine trees and cool weather. I'm fantasizing about taking a jeep down to La Union tomorrow afternoon, and heading home from there on Sunday. If all goes as planned, I'll be camping out and praying for just a few hours of surf. Lord, hear our prayer. If not, the journey is half the fun, and I already feel like I'm on a pilgrimage of sorts.

Got practice with the Elim Bagiuo worship team in a while. We're gonna run through worship songs for tomorrow's gathering. Can't wait to get to know these guys better, especially the young folks.

Peace.

So I guess this is the continuation of my previous entry on jeep rides.

I found myself hopping a jeep last week, and it enriched me in ways I never expected. See, I've been driving since I was 16; so I've gotten used to cruising the world in my own little bubble of a beat-up van. But I hardly realized how much said bubble so easily insulated me from the world outside. There are certain things I would never do, and certain attitudes I may never have developed if I hadn't been so safely protected from people by a capsule of glass and sheet metal. In contrast, there are things I would never have noticed about people until I crammed myself with them in some sort of public transportation vehicle.

So there I was boarding a jeep at the terminal. My journey had thus far consisted of a tricycle ride and two train rides. This was the last leg. I had a harmonica in my pocket, so I figured a little social experiment was in order: try to light up everyone's lazy Sunday afternoon. Let me warn you that playing musical instruments while in transit can annoy people, so it's a risk. But in this case, peoples' eyes lit up. They smiled. And the shy kid in front of me visibly enjoyed the music. I looked around and realized that healing the world starts with the simple, through simple shifts in how we choose to view the world and respond accordingly.

It was at that moment I realized other peoples' humanity and God-likeness in a deeper sense. This realization hits me every so often, such as when I'm at the mall shopping, chilling at a park full of kids, or when I'm pissed off with people on the road and catch myself. God loves people. Our streets are packed with human beings with deep cares and concerns; and God loves them as much as He loves me. I mean, I've always been aware of the general populace. But rarely does the weight of an individual's value hit me in such a real sense as when I get to look into the pupils of their eyes from across a jeep, or as we share a greasy handrail on a train, no longer separated by man-made layers.

I think experiences such as these, though simple, must be celebrated and shared. It's when we recognize God's move in small ways, that we realize a deep spiritual truth: that He comes to us like a whisper, so easily ignored.

What I'm advocating is getting outside of our vans, our cars, our bubbles. A man once preached to me, "you'll never change the world, until you step into another man's world!" This truth is vital to the Christian life, and the times I was disillusioned with Christianity were the times I turned a blind eye to the world that I needed to step into. We are the salt of the earth; and as Bro Willy so often quotes: "the salt must be in the soup."

When we change our standpoint, we change our perspective. And so our mindsets change. And consequently our actions. And consequently our convictions. And before we know it, bubbles are bursting all over the place. I love the sound of bubbles popping, don't you?



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Taken from Wildlife at www.genrev.net

I wrote this song for my sister, Martine and her new husband, my childhood buddy, Ton. They just got married yesterday. I had thoughts for a piano riff weeks ago, but it never became a real song. So I tried to venture into a folksy, strummy, Johnny Cash-esque ditty that we could have a little fun with. But it wasn't "Martine". And my sister is a piano player -- one of my teachers, at that. So I sat back down at the piano, and played the riff day in, day out. No words, no ideas for days. Thursday night, I was in a panic because I had no song, and it was less than two days till the wedding. I wanted Nica to interpret the song; but she had never even heard it yet!

So I prayed and got an immense amount of peace about the biblical romance, Song of Songs. It was my muse. Words spilled onto pages, and notes married words. A song happened! Nica and I practiced with all our hearts. The morning of the wedding, I found out that Martine had received a message from the Lord... from Song of Songs.

At the reception, Nica interpreted the song beautifully, while I accompanied on piano. I was so excited to play it for Martine and Ton. I looked my sister in the eye while playing, and knew that it was a Spirit-moment. I love my ate.

----------------------------------------------------

Come and Walk With Me
Words and Music by Lorenzo A Cosio

When we've walked this far
What to do but catch our breath?
Looking back on roads we've walked
We remember places left

Come and walk with me
Let your fingers tangle mine
Come and write with me
The story of our life

When I think of all our time together
This single moment feels so small
But let this moment be forever
Cos in this moment we are one and you are all
There is to me

You are beautiful
My lover, O my dove
My captivity
And my freedom is your love 

Come and hold my head
With your hand around my waist
Your victory songs
Are the kisses on my face

When I think of all our time together
This single moment feels so small
But let this moment be forever
Cos in this moment we are one and you are all
There is to me

Come and walk with me
Let your fingers tangle mine
Come and write with me
The story of our life