There are memories that feel like sacraments: the smell of beeswax at the sacristy and incense from a partially burned incense boat or a cassock that fell several inches past my knees and made me feel both too small and chosen.
I remember the first time I walked up the aisle at Immaculate Conception Parish in Mintal as an altar boy, palms damp, heart drumming, carrying the weight of something far larger than me — the Book of Gospels, the chalice veil, the simple tasks that placed me near the mystery of the Eucharist. I recall the trembling hands carrying the bell, and a signal from Kuya Apol Lagang, to ring it once Fr Gonzaga raises the host to become the Body of Christ during consecration.
That shy, trembling yes to serve was not a dramatic conversion; it was a beginning. It taught me that spiritual life is often built from small, repeated acts of fidelity: like the quiet lighting of a candle and the willingness to stand in a liturgical silence until someone else tells you what to do next.
Those small acts became a grammar for living. Later, as a liturgical reader in high school, paired with fellow students of Holy Cross of Mintal or the Philippine Science High School, I learned how words could meet people in the pews, how the proclamation of Scripture was not just technique but an offering. The lector’s voice must be humble; it must carry the Word without trampling the listener.
In Hong Kong, in the parish of St Vincent in Tseung Kwan O, I discovered that song was another form of speech. Choir rehearsals with Mark Tan, Karen Obispo and Jay Apolinario taught me to hold another person’s breath, to listen for harmonies that made sorrow more bearable and joy more expansive. Singing became prayer as it should be. It taught me how communities can be formed through melody: strangers learning to breathe together until their voices make a single, fragile offering.
Service in Sydney with the Himig Sandiwa continued that pattern, though I retreated from the strict commitment to rehearsals. I learned that ministry is not always visible, and sometimes felt that the talent God has given us might sway the attention from God to His mortal servants. Sometimes it is a soft conversation after Mass; sometimes it is the unnoticed household prayer meeting where real formation happens.
After my stint with the choir, I chose to serve as a liturgical reader at the Arnold Janssen Chapel, SVD’s presence in Australia right around my neighborhood in Marsfield. There, I met more Filipino members of the community, and spend time in fellowship right after the Sunday morning Mass.
Now that I live in Adelaide, cleaning the church — vacuuming the halls of St John XXIII every month — feels like a liturgy unto itself. With the guttural, wheezy hum of an old vacuum that coughs and sighs, its ragged rhythm and occasional metallic clicks become an unpolished hymn, reminding me that faith is not only for Sundays but for the ordinary days between great moments where saints are made.
My time with CFC Singles for Christ was formative in ways that later roles would echo. Young adults like us newcomers in Hong Kong live in an in-between: old habits are loosening, new responsibilities are forming, and vocation often sits just beyond the horizon.
As a member of SFC in Hong Kong, life pulled my attention in a hundred directions—the city’s bright lights, late-night shopping and Lan Kwai Fong revelry, or the quiet temptation to lose myself in StarCraft until three in the morning.
Yet the calling ran deeper, and I was fortunate to be surrounded by people whose steady faith drew me back; even when I strayed, their friendship and household prayers gently redirected me to the life I’m grateful, in hindsight, to belong to.
That experience led me to coordinating couples and households. As a couple coordinator, I learned the administrative tasks no one teaches you: booking halls, organising potlucks, and scheduling CLS sessions.
More important than the logistics were the pastoral edges: sitting with young people in crisis—once with a young man who became suicidal when his unrequited love was not returned—staying up late to answer calls, and welcoming new members with a mixture of firmness and hospitality (even when I was berated on Facebook for posting a photo with the same singles while holding a can of beer).
I wanted to journey with them in faith and be present where they were. I discovered that leadership in a faith movement is rarely glamorous; it is mostly sacrificial, built on time and effort, forming relationships, inviting others to grow, and then letting them lead.
From CFC to CFC-FFL, to MFC: growth with cost
Our communal life moved through many names and structures — Couples for Christ (CFC), Couples for Christ Foundation for Family and Life (CFC-FFL), and eventually Missionary Families of Christ (MFC). Each shift represented both fidelity to the charism we loved and the costs that come with human institutions.
In those changes I saw both the Gospel’s fruit and the limits of human leadership. Yet the same passion that once united us sometimes became the seedbed of conflict: questions of authority, wounded pride, and the slow creep of suspicion.
I remember the sharp, sudden ache of division: meetings that once brimmed with laughter turning into cold councils of accusation; leaders I had trusted suddenly at odds; households that had once thrived falling into silence.
Thankfully, we chose to move forward rather than remain divided. That pain cut deeply, but it taught me that the most faithful leaders are not those who never fail, but those who return to reconciliation.
The long arc of God’s grace
My journey has been shaped by small yeses repeated over time. But they were often marked by hesitation.
“I am not ready to lead an SFC household.”
“I have never tried to give a sharing.”
“I know myself—I am not wired to give a talk.”
“I haven’t played the drums”
These were not excuses. They were honest fears.
I knew my limits. I knew my personality. I knew the discomfort of standing in front of people and saying something that mattered. There is always that moment before saying yes when you feel unqualified, exposed, and unsure whether you will fail publicly.
And yet, something deeper kept inviting me forward.
I remember the first times I was asked to serve beyond what I thought I could do. There was always resistance at the beginning. A quiet internal argument. A delay. A need to discern.
But grace often works in that space between hesitation and surrender.
Eventually, I said yes.
That yes led me to moments I would have never imagined for myself—like giving talks during Live Christ Share Christ missions in Hong Kong. In places like Tin Shui Wai, Lam Tin, and Prince Edward, I found myself standing before large groups of Filipino domestic workers, speaking about faith to people who were not just listening, but deeply hungry.
These were not small gatherings. These were rooms filled with people carrying burdens—homesickness, sacrifice, unseen struggles—and yet eager to encounter God.
And there I was, someone who once believed I was “not wired” to speak, now entrusted to deliver something meaningful.
There were also quieter yeses that mattered just as much.
Like heading straight from work—tired, mentally drained—to serve at Our Lady of the Rosary in Fairfield, Sydney. No spotlight. No applause. Just the decision to show up, to serve, to be present.
These moments taught me something essential: calling is rarely convenient.
Often, it interrupts your schedule. It stretches your comfort. It asks for something you are not yet confident you can give.
But that is precisely where grace enters.
Because if everything depended on our natural ability, most of us would never begin.
Scripture is filled with this pattern.
Peter was a fisherman, not a preacher—yet he became the rock of the Church. Moses doubted his ability to speak—yet he led a nation. Jeremiah protested his youth—yet he was called a prophet to the nations.
God does not wait for readiness. He works through willingness. Or the best ability is availability.
You will notice the pattern is consistent: hesitation, surrender, transformation. You might observe that in yourself too.
What begins as “I cannot” slowly becomes “God can.”
Looking back, I realize that none of those yeses came from confidence. They came from trust—sometimes weak, sometimes reluctant, but real enough to take one step forward.
And that is enough. Life is short. Our time, energy, and opportunities are limited—but within that short span, we are capable of doing far more for God than we often assume. The danger is not that we lack ability, but that we hesitate too long.
The real transformation is not just in what we accomplish, but in who we become along the way.
We become less afraid.
Less dependent on our own strength.
More open to being used.
And perhaps that is the deeper invitation.
Not to wait until we feel ready.
But to respond, even when we are unsure.
Because in the end, the takeaway is simple: As long as we are here on earth, we are called to do the work of God—whether in small hidden acts or in moments that stretch us beyond ourselves.
And if we remain faithful in that work, we can trust that He will take care of the rest.