One quiet afternoon, I did something unexpected—I set up my camping tent right in the middle of my living room. The green and orange fabric looked almost out of place against the polished floor, the television on the wall, and the stuffed toys nearby. But once I crawled inside, zipped it shut, and lay down with a blanket, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: the kind of safety I knew as a child.

It brought back memories of the forts I used to build with pillows and blankets. Back then, the world outside didn’t matter; inside my little fortress, I was secure. Lying there as an adult, I realized I was doing the same thing—retreating to a small, safe space because life outside sometimes feels too big.

Psychologists actually have a word for this—regression. Anna Freud once described it as a way the mind slips back into earlier stages of life when we’re stressed or overwhelmed. For a long time, I thought of that as weakness. But the longer I stayed in my little tent, the more I understood it differently.

The pediatrician and psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott wrote about “transitional spaces”—those places or objects, like toys or imaginative play, that help us process reality and find comfort. As I lay there, I realized this tent was my transitional space. It wasn’t just about hiding; it was about creating a cocoon where I could breathe again.

And as I reflected more, I remembered reading Patricia Cramer’s work, where she explained that regression doesn’t always have to be destructive. In fact, when it isn’t excessive, it can be a healthy coping mechanism—a pause button that helps us restore balance before moving forward again. That was exactly how it felt. I wasn’t escaping life forever. I was simply giving myself permission to rest.

I smiled in the dim light of the tent. Maybe survival doesn’t always look like conquering mountains or pushing through exhaustion. Sometimes, it looks like curling up in a small space, listening to the quiet, and remembering what it felt like to be safe.

So now, I don’t see regression as weakness. I see it as a gentle return to the things that once gave me comfort. And maybe that’s what we all need sometimes—a reminder that even as adults, we still deserve moments of softness, play, and peace.

Life has always felt like a mountain before me—steep, unyielding, and endless. From childhood, I learned early that each step upward demanded more than strength; it demanded sacrifice. I never dreamt of palaces or golden crowns. Extravagance was never my compass. Instead, I longed only for the dignity of survival, the quiet victory of making it through another day.

Yet, the climb was never gentle. Hunger was a constant companion, doubt lingered like a shadow, and loneliness pressed down heavier than any pack I carried on my back. My journey through school, through work, through life itself, often felt like walking barefoot on jagged stones—painful, slow, and uncertain. And there was a time, a dark time, when the mountain’s weight nearly crushed me. I almost surrendered—not just to exhaustion, but to the silence of an end. I stood at the edge of giving up my very life, ready to let the climb consume me.

But something—perhaps a whisper from within, perhaps the stubborn ember of hope—pulled me back. I tightened my grip, steadied my breath, and rose again. Bruised, yes. Scarred, yes. But still alive.

Now, as I stand on this cliff, watching the sea stretch infinitely before me, I see my journey reflected in its vastness. I may not be rich, not in the way the world measures wealth, but I am rich in endurance, in lessons carved by hardship, in the strength I wrestled from despair. My climb has been solitary, my path narrow and steep. Perhaps if someone had walked beside me, the trail would have been lighter, the air easier to breathe. But life chose to make me climb alone, and I have learned to accept that solitude as both a burden and a gift.

I have reached this point—not the peak, perhaps, but a height I once thought impossible. The mountain behind me is proof that I did not surrender, that I carried myself through storms and shadows. And now, as I gaze ahead, I choose not to look back with bitterness. I choose acceptance. The climb is not over, but I will move forward, step after step, carrying only courage and the quiet knowing that I survived when I almost gave up everything.

This is my story. This is my mountain. And though I am climbing alone, I am still climbing.

The forest floor is soft beneath my feet, a carpet of fallen pine needles that hushes the noise of the world. My small tent leans gently against the wind, a humble shelter, yet it feels sturdier than the concrete walls I once called home. A chair, a table, a few supplies, and a ginger cat curled by my side—that is all I need.

At forty, I have found comfort in solitude. Some would call it loneliness, but I have learned to see it differently. Solitude is not an absence; it is a presence—the presence of peace, of stillness, of listening to my own breath and the rhythm of my own heart.

I came to the woods not just to camp, but to heal. For years, I carried the weight of other people’s expectations, the noise of shallow friendships, and the silent battles of my own mind. Anxiety once gnawed at me like a restless creature; depression whispered that I was not enough. But here, beneath the trees, I find a different truth: the earth does not ask me to be more than I am. It simply lets me be.

The forest teaches me the language of mental health in the gentlest ways. The rustle of leaves reminds me that even when things fall apart, life continues. The steady flow of the river mirrors the importance of letting go, of not holding on too tightly to pain. And the cat at my feet, calm and unbothered, shows me that rest is not laziness—it is survival.

In my younger years, I surrounded myself with many people, mistaking numbers for worth. But mental health has taught me otherwise. Having a few real friends—those who listen, those who understand, those who accept my silences—is worth more than a crowd of voices that echo only when it is convenient. It is better to sit in quiet sincerity with one true soul than to laugh loudly with a hundred who do not see you.

Living alone at forty is not a tragedy. It is a gift. It allows me to slow down, to breathe, to listen to the small, healing things of life. My tent is not just a shelter—it is my cocoon, where I am slowly becoming lighter. My chair, planted on the soil, reminds me to stay grounded. And every sip of coffee I take by the river feels like medicine for a weary heart.

The world outside will always be noisy, but here in solitude, I find the kind of silence that restores me. And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all: to choose not the life that others expect of me, but the life that keeps me whole.

I have seen God's work as He constantly use people in Praise Cathedral. No matter what the age are or the gender or status in life, God equally open the chance to all His children to be used in the different ministries. I have seen the men and women offered their songs, the youth their dances and the kids with their amusing presentations. Each time I see them perform, these children of God never fail to amaze me. They have always been an instrument of God's plan not only in my life but for the lives of others as well. 

Today is not an ordinary day. Not because my whole family came over to celebrate the holiday with me but because I have learned something important. Something that touches my life and rekindled my spirit. The Kings Kids of Praise Cathedral presented a musical special entitled "Little Drummer Boy". It is a story of young kids and their drummer whose view about music was changed by their teacher. From a complicated note they have transformed music into a simple melody of God's plan.

The story taught me that our talent won't be meaningful if not used to please God. There was a point in my life where I worked hard and yet I failed several times. I asked God why? but I never got an answer, that question lingered into mind until today. Now, I have realized that I have worked hard and used my God given talent only to satisfy my earthly dreams, to please people and be popular. I have worked so much in vain because I have never learned to offer my talent in order to serve my creator. 

Like Shaun the young drummer in the story, I experienced being broke not only once but over and over again.   I have been complaining why... but now I understand. I have to be broken so that God can work in my life. Only when I am weak that I see Him working for me... strengthening me each day. Only when I am broken that I see a new hope and that should have been a signal for me to start over in God's will. But I have been blind, not until today that I fully seen the entire image of His grace. 

Mathew chapter 11 verse 15 says "He who has ears, Let him hear" . Now I understand that not all can hear the music that God plays in our heart. Only those who understand His plan will be able to hear it. I am most glad because I have heard a new song, a music I have never heard before. A song of my love, my romance with the one who molded me from clay and breathe me with a breathe of life. 

I know, it is not only me who have realized these things. I believe that God have also revealed this message to the rest of the congregation. Thank you Kings kids, you have made my Christmas meaningful and blessed.

by Jayson

Photos credited to Ryan Cardone

Life, I have learned, is much like swimming in the ocean. No matter how strong we think we are, no matter how prepared we feel to face the waves, there are moments when the tide takes us by surprise. One moment we are floating with ease, and the next we are pulled under—spinning, struggling, gasping for air. If we fight against the current, it only becomes harder to rise. But if we surrender, if we learn to float, the waters will carry us back to the surface.

Grief feels very much the same way. Losing someone we love comes like a wave—sudden, forceful, and overwhelming. It leaves us disoriented and aching, desperately asking questions we may never fully answer. Yet, just as in the ocean, the only way to endure grief is to hold on to trust, to let faith carry us, and to believe in the One who gave us life.

Last Saturday, I received one of the most painful calls of my life. My mother told me that my grandfather had passed away. In that moment, my heart broke. Questions flooded my mind: “Why him? Why now? Why us?” I longed for answers. I wanted to understand. But as I turned back to God’s word, I remembered His promises, and I was reminded that death is the one certainty we all face. It is not the end of the soul, but a passage from this life to the next.

The book of Ecclesiastes tells us: “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end” (Ecclesiastes 3:11). This verse comforts me because it reminds me that while I may not understand why Tatay had to leave now, I can trust that God’s plan is always perfect, even when it feels painful.

Letting go is never easy. Dylan Thomas once wrote to his father, “Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Do not go gentle into that good night.” And isn’t that true? Deep inside, all of us want to resist death. We want to keep those we love close, to hold them just a little longer, to have one more day, one more conversation, one more moment. But as Ecclesiastes 3:1 reminds us, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” Life and death are not ours to control; they are in God’s hands.

What we can hold onto, however, is Tatay’s life—his love, his legacy, his example. Because what matters most is not how long we live, but how well we live. Not the number of our years, but the depth of the love we gave and received. The most important part of life is what happens in between—between birth and death, between the first breath and the last.

For me, Tatay was more than a grandfather. He was my second father. He gave me my first name. He raised me when my parents could not. He filled the empty spaces of my childhood with love, protection, and guidance. He was the man who made sure I felt cared for when life seemed uncertain. His love was not just spoken—it was shown, day by day, in the way he looked after me.

I will forever be grateful to him. He molded me into the person I am today. He showed me that even when life feels difficult, love is enough to carry us through. He gave me memories I will treasure for as long as I live—memories of his care, his strength, his quiet sacrifices.

And so today, as we lay him to rest, I hold on to two things: gratitude and hope. Gratitude for the life he lived, for the love he gave, for the role he played in shaping me. And hope—hope in the promise that this is not the end. Because we believe that the soul lives on, that death is not defeat but a doorway. One day, by God’s mercy, we will see him again.

Tatay, thank you—for everything. Thank you for stepping in when I was most vulnerable. Thank you for loving me as your own, when others could not. Thank you for being my protector, my guide, and my source of strength. You were God’s gift to me, and I will carry your love in my heart forever.

Goodbye, Tatay. Rest now in the peace of our Lord. You have fulfilled your purpose. You have run your race. And though we grieve your absence, we celebrate your life. Your legacy will live on in me, and in everyone here whose life you touched.

Author: Jayson

Note: When I saw my pains in the mirror, God spoke to me through the life of David...

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Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me

                                                            Psalms 51:10

As I gazed at myself in the mirror, I realized I was no longer the same person I once was. Life had grown complicated, and the weight of problems seemed too heavy to carry. One burden followed another, and I often wondered how much longer I could endure. My patience had grown thin, and I found myself angered by the smallest things. The smile that used to light my face was gone, replaced by weariness. The heart that once longed deeply for God was now clouded with pain and sorrow. I had fallen into sin, and in my weakness, I felt as though I was lying helpless in the mud—wounded, with a heart bleeding.

Seeking comfort, I opened my tablet and turned to my soft Bible, landing on the book of II Samuel, chapter 11. There, I was reminded of the life of David—the man after God’s own heart. He was a great king, beloved by the Lord, a man who feared, obeyed, and worshiped Him. Yet this chapter did not highlight David’s greatness; instead, it revealed his weakness and wickedness.

It spoke of how David sinned by sleeping with Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah. In an attempt to cover his sin, he summoned Uriah home, hoping he would sleep with his wife and hide the truth of her pregnancy. But Uriah’s loyalty to Israel kept him from doing so. Desperate, David commanded Joab to place Uriah at the frontlines of the fiercest battle, ensuring his death. Afterward, David took Bathsheba as his wife. What David had done greatly displeased the Lord. Through the prophet Nathan, God rebuked him, and as punishment, the child born from Bathsheba died.

What struck me most was not only David’s sin but his response to God’s judgment. He acknowledged his wickedness, confessed his guilt, and sought forgiveness. He fasted and wept for seven days, and even in his grief, he worshiped the Lord. In Psalm 51:10, he cried, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” God heard his prayer. He forgave David and blessed him and Bathsheba with another son, Solomon, who would later become one of Israel’s greatest kings.

Reading this reminded me of an important truth: every person has a sinful side. Even the greatest men of faith were not free from weakness. But God’s mercy is greater than our failures. Like a loving Father, He disciplines us not to destroy us but to correct and restore us. In Ezekiel 18:21, the Lord says, “Rid yourselves of all the offenses you have committed, and get a new heart and a new spirit.” His mercy is everlasting, and His desire is always to bring us back into His embrace.

Now, I find myself praying for the same renewal David sought. I long for God to cleanse my heart and restore my spirit. I want to once again feel the joy of His presence—the same joy I experienced when I first encountered His love. I want to dance before Him with gladness, with a heart overflowing with gratitude.

Today, I hold on to His promises. I believe that just as He forgave David, He is calling me to repentance so that I may be restored. He knows my sins, yet He is willing to forgive because I am His child—chosen, loved, and redeemed. In His mercy, I believe He is shaping me, correcting me, and preparing me to walk once again in the light of His presence.