The Quiet Turning Point
After all the mess and anger of the previous chapter, I now share how God never got tired of pursuing me. This was the beginning of many moments where He chased after His prodigal son.
The turning point didn’t come with lightning or thunder. There were no heavens opening. No powerful sermon. No voice from above. Absolutely, nothing like what you see in the Old Testament
It came quietly. It came in silence.
It happened during our high school recollection in Caleruega, Batangas.
We were asked to do something simple: Read a letter from our parents.
No one expected it.
An envelope was handed to me.
And as I began to read my dad’s letter, something in me cracked.
It felt so personal.
Because as I read my father’s words, it was as if for the first time, God whispered to me and reminded me of something I had forgotten:
You are your father's beloved firstborn son.
You are a testament to My faithfulness.
A Story I Had Forgotten
Growing up, my dad would often tell me the story of how he prayed for children.
Nine years of waiting. Two failed IVFs. Countless prayers. And then me.
Born when they least expected it. The miracle baby.
He told that story more often than my mom ever did. He spoke highly of me and my siblings as miracles. "You four are God's promises fulfilled," he’d say.
He even wrote about that in the letter.
But when you're a child, you don’t understand the gravity of what that means.
To me, it was just a story—something he said. I never really grasped why it mattered so much to them.
And at the same time, when you're hurt, you kind of forget.
When you’re in pain, you lose sight of the story of how you were made to be.
But sitting there, at that moment, something shifted.
My Father Wanted Me
Reading those words, I realized something I hadn’t dared to believe.
My dad wanted me.
For so long, I believed my parents were disappointed in me, especially my dad.
That I had failed him. That I was less in his eyes because I was queer.
But that letter reminded me of something deeper. I was wanted, not just by my parents, but by God.
I cried. Not just tears of guilt. But tears of being seen, of being remembered, and of being loved anyway.
The Seed of Belief
That experience didn’t change everything overnight. I was still the same after that retreat. Still bakla, still horny, still confused, and still wondering.
But something had been planted—a seed.
Because after all that rebellion, I knew one thing. I couldn’t stay an atheist.
Maybe agnostic. Maybe confused. But definitely not godless.
How could I deny the story I was born into?
I exist.
My life, conceived after nine years of silence, is already a miracle.
It’s proof that I’m not an accident.
That I was formed on purpose.
By a God who does not make mistakes.
Chosen
I’ll always look back on my High School Retreat as one of the more important days in my life because it was something that awakened in me, a seed of faith and a whisper of truth.
That God didn’t just allow me to be born. He wanted me here.
And even if I didn’t fully understand Him, even if I still had questions. That day, I began to believe again.
My father’s testimony became my anchor. And from that moment on, no matter how far I wandered, I always knew where to return.
Share this post