by Rica Peralejo-Bonifacio

I love books. Be it physical or electronic, I think books are awesome treasure chests of wonder. For in them I find information, instruction, insight, drama, lessons, laughter, action, and much more. And in well-written ones, I find myself barely unchanged. Because the best of them often do this: tell powerful stories that will not leave the reader where it found her.

In the same way, people are like books. Is it not that we are the living pages of a story that has yet to come to a head? And that along the paths of life, we inevitably touch others as we simply live out every beginning we were given, every middle we are leveraging today, and every end we wish to call upon ourselves.

But this is too idealistic. Even quite insensitive to those who are suffering and questioning how come others got scripts for romantic comedy, while they get nothing but tragedy upon tragedy. And I am not here to explain why we were all given very different plot twists and storylines in life, but surely, I can empathize. After all, I, too, have gone through much. I am one acquainted with affliction of both kinds, those I called upon myself and the unmerited ones thrown my way. I have suffered both the consequences of my sins and the inexplicable pain of losing a baby in my womb not only once, but twice. Yes, this heart has known the depths of remorse, sorrow, grief, mourning, loss.

But I don’t want to be so grim in this welcome. For in the midst of my troubles I must say I also found the unparalleled experience of knowing the joy of salvation, the promise of daily mercies, and the relentless pursuit of He whose magnificent strokes continue to author more and more pages that speak of the same message: