Today, I stayed at the hospital to accompany our Sister, who has been confined for a week now.
I was able to speak with her doctors and members of her medical team—her oncologist, her nephrologist, and others who have been caring for her. I listened as they explained her condition, and then came the words that are difficult for the heart to receive: our Sister’s illness is terminal.
I knew that her breast cancer was serious. We had believed that it was only Stage 1. We never imagined that it had already spread to her liver and bones.
How quickly life can change.
As I watched our Sister undergo another procedure to remove the fluid that had accumulated in her abdomen, I felt a deep sadness. There was something very painful about simply watching someone suffer, knowing that there is so little we can do except accompany, care, pray, and entrust her to God.
Sometimes, there are no adequate words.
There is only silence.
And prayer.
On my way back to the convent, I took the bus. I was actually grateful that I had not brought the car. It had been many years since I last commuted this way.
Perhaps today, I needed to be on that bus.
I was quiet, carrying in my heart everything I had seen and heard at the hospital.
Then I heard the conductor calling out to the passengers:
“Antipolo! Antipolo! Going up to Antipolo!”
Antipolo.
Our convent is in Antipolo.
And our dear Sister is from Antipolo.
I don’t know why those words touched me so deeply.
Perhaps it was simply the destination of the bus. Perhaps it was nothing more than an ordinary call from a conductor doing his work.
And yet, in that particular moment, it felt like something more.
I found myself wondering: Lord, are You trying to tell me something?
I did not receive an answer.
Only a quiet feeling in my heart.
As the bus continued its journey, I began to notice the people around me. Faces I did not know. People going home. People carrying their own stories, their own worries, their own joys and burdens.
Everyone was moving somewhere.
And I thought about our own journey.
How little control we really have over the roads we are asked to travel.
We make plans, but God sees the whole journey.
We think we know where the road is leading, but there are turns we cannot foresee.
Today, I was reminded once again of the mystery of life and death.
We are all pilgrims.
We are all on our way home.
And perhaps that is what touched me about hearing “Antipolo” repeated again and again.
Going home.
Our Sister may be facing a difficult road now. We do not know how much time she has. We do not know what tomorrow will bring.
But perhaps, ultimately, all of us are being led home—to the heart of God.
I do not want to pretend that I understand what is happening. I don’t.
I am sad.
I am afraid.
I feel helpless.
But somewhere beneath all these feelings is a quiet invitation to surrender.
To trust the God who has been with our Sister from the very beginning.
The God who was with her before the diagnosis.
The God who is with her now in the hospital.
The God who is present in every procedure, every moment of pain, every anxious night, every whispered prayer.
And the same God who is with us as we accompany her.
Perhaps faith is not always having answers.
Perhaps faith is simply remaining.
Remaining beside the one who suffers.
Remaining in prayer when words fail.
Remaining faithful when the future is uncertain.
Remaining open to God’s presence even in ordinary moments—a bus ride, a stranger’s voice, a familiar destination being called out.
Tonight, I bring our Sister before the Lord.
I ask not only for healing, but for peace.
For courage.
For comfort.
For grace.
And, above all, for the assurance that she is held in God’s loving hands.
“Antipolo.”
The word still echoes in my heart.
Maybe it was only a destination.
Maybe it was simply a coincidence.
Or maybe, in the midst of my sadness, God gently reminded me:
You are on a journey. She is on a journey. And I am with you both.
So tonight, With JESUS on the CROSS…
I choose to trust.
I choose to accompany.
I choose to pray.
And I choose to leave what I cannot control in the hands of the One who knows the way home.
Srmagspddm
