The Mustard Seed

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When I was 11 years old, in between bouts of moral and existential crises, I turned to the Holy Bible, to feed my soul. One particular passage that struck me is about the immense potential of a mustard seed as a basis of faith. That if we only possess faith as big as a mustard seed, nothing is impossible.

Now, confronted by another heart-wrenching predicament, I grabbed my rosary and my bible to ease my heartbreak. My heart was not broken once, but too many times, I did not bother to count anymore. I am a wounded warrior. I am with a crushed soul. While writing this, I can feel a pressing pain in my chest. Sometimes, I wonder how I moved past the heavy storms in my life. 

When you become old, you'd think you have all the answers. But no. Life is a way of humbling you, nudging you how little you truly know about countless things. Still feeling lost with what I had been reading, I saw myself entering a Catholic institution where my uncle-priest is currently assigned. I was hoping for some spiritual advice. 

As I approached a familiar ground, the guard told me that he wasn’t sure whether Father was around. A brief background, I've sought the wisdom of the religious since I was in college, frequenting the session room of The Daughters of St. Paul in Jaro, Iloilo. That’s where I drew my strength back then.

A few steps away from the guard, a smiling bald man was approaching. I had seen him in the family Group Chat, which someone came up with, only a few months ago. He was donned in a casual gray shirt and jeans. I gathered my strength and came up to him to confirm his identity. He was indeed whom I intended to see. After a brief introduction, we walked together toward the hallways of the Administration building, pausing from time to time to admire the beauty of his artworks. He is a man of art - and clearly, his paintings are his prized possessions. 

On a cemented terrain, we walked over a mosaic floor inspired by the parable of the mustard seed. And there it was again - Matthew 17: 20-21 (NIV), reminding me of the immense potential of the mustard seed. 

I wanted to cry but couldn't. I wanted to run to the hills and shout at the top of my lungs to release my anger, fear, and disillusionment, but couldn’t even move my legs.

Slowly, I began pouring out my troubles to Father B. When he told me I had to listen to my heart. I started to cry. My heart, as I said, is wounded. It has been complaining for years. It is bloodied, and it wants healing. He prayed for me while touching my head, that I would receive the guidance of the Lord and trust the Almighty with all my heart and soul.

 I went out feeling lighter than I came in. Tomorrow promises a new day. 

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