(Original photo of mine edited by ChatGPT into Ghibli style.)
It’s pouring this morning. My younger cousins are getting ready for school, and if I were in their place, I’d probably skip. But when I was their age, I loved rainy days. I’d play in the downpour, jumping on gravel piles from a half-done road like a wild little storm chaser. I’d even get my classmates to carry my bag—not because I was lazy, but because I was already carrying so much more.
Back then, Nanay worked as a housemaid, and my father wasn’t living with us. I took care of my siblings, handled chores, helped with homework after finishing mine. We fetched water, cooked rice, fried dried fish, boiled eggs from the hens’ nests. I’d wait for Nanay to come home, making sure everything was done before she walked in tired from work. Looking back, I realize—I was a child raising children.
So yes, I let someone else carry my bag. It was the only thing I could let go of.
Now? I’m still up before the sun—this time, syringing Yakult into piglets while rain runs down my face. Some people wake up to coffee and calm. I wake up to livestock and mud. And yet, I feel held. Not by comfort, but by grace.
“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” – Matthew 11:28
God didn’t take the rain away. But He gave me strength to walk through it—mud, burdens, piglets and all.
These are my piglets before they were scouring. They're so thin now, I can't take a picture to lest I won't forget it. I'm trying to remember good things, for now.