Lent 2026 Day Two | God Is In The Margins

Six years ago, my life looked very different.

My mother was dying. I had just ended a long-term relationship. COVID was hovering at the edges of the world, not yet fully realized but already being felt in Asian countries. Everything felt unstable, heavy, and unfinished.

I think about that version of myself often. Not with judgment. With understanding.

Grief does strange things to people. It makes you reach for sensation when the sadness feels unbearable. There’s that scene in "High Fidelity," where Laura asks Rob to sleep with her after her father dies, not because it makes sense, but because the body wants to feel anything other than grief. I understand that now in a way I didn’t then.

When we were in the Philippines, my nephew and I ended up at a bar one night. We ran into a group of tourists. I met a man. Of course he was a scuba instructor. Of course he was Irish. Of course it was cliché. We made out. I almost went back to his hotel. And then I didn’t.

I was a responsible aunt. Or maybe just protected by the old saying that God looks out for fools and babies. I’ve probably been both at various points. Yes, I’m very gay. No, I’m not interested in unpacking the spectrum of sexuality here. That’s not the point.

The point is this: that wasn’t the first time I made questionable choices while drowning in grief. And it wasn’t the last. Grief doesn’t ask permission. It shows up in your body, your decisions, and in your longing to escape yourself for even a moment.

Six years ago, I wrote this:

"We are born of love; love is our mother.” – Rumi

"Our mom’s health has been declining quickly in the last six months. That is why my siblings and I have been in the Philippines. Not for vacation, but to see our mother. To tell her we love her.

We traveled 5,000 miles to kiss her, to say thank you. Thank you for your sacrifices, your strength, your resilience, your bravery. Thank you for loving us the best way you knew how. Thank you for letting us love you back.

Watching one parent die from a terminal illness is hard. Watching another forget who you are is something else entirely. Navigating a country where your language skills feel like a four-year-old’s, while handling culture, laws, and banking, is overwhelming.

We were sad. Frustrated. Exhausted. But we had each other.

My mother lived many lives. In the Philippines and in the U.S. She raised four stubborn children and, in her 60s, helped raise our nephew. Even in her weakest moments, she still made sure we ate. Because that’s what good Filipino mothers do. They feed you."

I read that now and feel tenderness for who I was. I was raw. Unmoored. Doing the best I could with a broken heart and a body carrying anticipatory grief.

Six years later, I am different.

Not untouched by grief. But more honest about it. More patient with myself. More aware of how loss lives in the body and leaks out sideways when it isn’t tended to.

I still miss my mother. That never goes away. But I carry her differently now. In how I show up. In how I care for people. In how I feed others. In how I try to choose presence over escape.

Grief didn’t make me weaker. It made me more human. It made me better.

And if I could tell my six-years-ago self anything, it would be this:

You’re not broken. You’re grieving. Be gentle. Stay. Let yourself feel it all.

I’m still learning.

Still healing.

Still loving.

And still grateful for the woman who taught me what love looks like, even at the end.

❤️❤️❤️

Lenten Reflection

Lent reminds me that God and Jesus are always in the margins. In grief. In confusion. In the moments we don’t recognize ourselves and make choices we don’t fully understand yet.

When you feel abandoned, maybe you aren’t. Maybe God is sitting beside you in the ache, not rushing you through it. Maybe Jesus is closer in the mess than in the moments when everything looks put together.

Lent doesn’t ask us to be perfect. It asks us to stay. To pay attention. To trust that even in wilderness seasons, we are not alone.

May these days be gentle.

May they be honest.

May they lead us toward wholeness, one small step at a time.

Take care of yourself. Take care of each other.