(Posted Nov 6, '07 7:44 AM. I was still working as a call-center trainer and part time insurance agent when I wrote this article)
I don’t know if anyone of you felt this way.
We had one activity during our training wherein everyone would make one question. The question can be about anything… Why work in Convergys? How do you see yourself in five years? Why does the rainbow have 7 colors?
They would then pick their questions by lot and answer them respectively.
What happened was a beauty pageant of sorts. One talked about tourism- promoting the beauty of the Philippines (plus 8). Another one shared the importance of focusing on career than love life (plus 10). While some shared how great a trainer I am (plus 100).
[Of course, the latter was just my imagination]
For me, one generic question rose among the others… “What is your greatest fear in life?” It is not really the question that caught me but the answer the agent gave that hit close to home. “I’m afraid to fail”, he quickly replied.
I felt all the men in the class related to that answer. It is something that creeps at the back of our heads. Only this guy managed to blurt it out.
There are times I ask myself, am I in the right place? Right job? Right company? (no offense to my present company… It’s just a philosophical question… haha)
Is staying in the Philippines going to be better than going abroad?
Will I be a businessman some day or I’ll be an employee for life?
Will I have a better life than the one I grew up in?
Will I pick the right wife?
Will I grow old bearing the age-old reflection “I could have been?”
Will I make it?
Really? How?
When I watch entertainment talk shows… I realize… Wow, Dawson’s Creek was already a decade ago… Eraserheads the same… Whatever happened to The Zombies?
Teen stars during my high school days are now taking parent roles…
It’s already 8 years since Martin and Pops separated… Yet it seems my mom and I just talked about that topic yesterday…(yes… showbiz kung showbiz)
I met one of my favorite college professors the other day and I was only able to remember his first name… Way back in college, His name to me was like my date of birth.
Is life passing me by?
There is something in my heart that sees grander things ahead… Yet my present reality just gives me shadows of things to come…
During our meeting with my team at Sunlife, Lizette Tan gave me a refreshing insight.
I shared with them my uncertainties about my career, etc. She said, “Bloom where you are planted”. She assured me I don’t need to know the whole blue print of my life today to be motivated to move. She reminded me just do everything in excellence- in the here and now. We will never know as I do my part what a small piece can do to complete the whole puzzle.
I guess that’s our inheritage as Christians. I believe this is what Him (my cell leader) is talking about when He discussed the glory of God- the glory of God residing in us which is not measured nor dependent on our possessions or earthly success.
It’s Hope. Hope stored in these jars of clay.
Hope that through all the questions life would throw at me… Through all my grave personal mistakes… Through out all those seemingly wasted years… Ultimately God is in control and he has the power to turn it all around… And His loving promise is to give me a Hope and a Future…
As I play around with these questions… It’s comforting to know that life is not just me. In fact it’s more than me.
As the great philosopher Optimus Prime once said, “There’s more than meets the eye”.
And with that, I rest my case.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
I "Had" Two Hands... The Left and the Right
(Posted Nov 17, '07 3:03 AM)
It all started one boring afternoon.
Two bags of lebintador, One used Roman Candle, 1 budding scientist.
A perfect recipe for disaster.
After more than an hour of painstakingly recreating a Roman Candle from scratch. My cousins and I were excited to check out the fruit of our labors. This project masterminded by my cousin (a young girl of 14- apparently showing great potential in Physics and Explosives) was top secret… We kept it from the radars of our parents and maids at all cost.
After putting our finishing touches (we added 2 wicks at the top of the candle as if resembling the two horns of the devil), we lighted the firecracker.
Ironically, it was my cousin who first held the firecracker. I was just a mere spectator. We are all in awe as fountains of fire flowed from the mouth of our Roman Candle- as most Roman Candles would do. It appeared as if our project was a success. Suddenly, the greed within me sprawled from its nesting place. I don’t want to be robbed of this opportunity to hold the firecracker myself… So at the very last minute I asked my cousin to give it to me and after 3 seconds the candle exploded… instantly blasting the five fingers of my right hand and severing the palm…Thus began the longest 15 minutes of my life.
They said that the explosion was so strong it shook the house.
Instead of a roman candle, we unknowingly created a dynamite.
When my mom, who was at her room at that time, heard the explosion, she thought of only one thing, “Si Jeffrey?” Her motherly intuition proved valid.
When I saw what remained of my right hand, I saw my life slowly flashed in front of my eyes- just like how it happens in the movies. For some eerie reason, even at such a young age, I knew that after this incident, life will never be the same again. I do not remember feeling any sharp pain. I just felt the nerves of my hand trembling in heart beat motion… fighting for dear life.
I tried to cry. But I just can’t. It’s beyond crying.
It was a bad dream that never ended.
As my own blood trickled freely to the floor… The hard questions of life also started to flow. Will I ever get back to school? What will happen when I grow up? What about sports?
Reality bit so hard I just had to suspend my emotions. I guess this is what they call the state of shock.
In comedic fashion, the people in the house- namely the yayas, my cousins, my titos and titas- instead of helping me, ran for cover, as if a monster invaded the place. One locked herself in the room. Another hid behind the “clothes line” while most scampered out of the house to call for help. I, on the other hand, trailed through the whole house, starting from the 2nd floor where the veranda was located (the scene of the crime), down to the kitchen area on the 1st floor (where someone suggested I wash my newly decapitated hand with soap and water.. haha.. come on, as if Safeguard can do anything to raise my right hand from the dead..) and finding no help there… I went back again to 2nd floor to go to the 3rd floor where my mom was situated. It was Via Dolorosa right here in the 21st century.
As I was treading up the stairs, my strength left me, probably due to exhaustion and blood loss. I stopped there in the stairs at the same time my mom came out of her room. I can never forget the sight of my mom when she first saw me. She wailed as if it’s the end of the world. I no longer saw a woman crying… I saw a little girl crying… she was helpless.. even more helpless than me… We just looked at each other… Knowing full well that this ordeal is greater than us… In fact, in that moment in time, the ordeal was beyond us…
Right then and there, when I thought all hope was lost, I remembered to pray. I said, “Lord, help me.”
Just right after my prayer, a stranger came inside the house. He picked me in his arms and brought me to the hospital. Come to think of it, I never knew him. I don’t even know his name. Yet I believe it in my heart it was God who sent him there. Just at the right time. And the rest was history.
For some, my story may be a story of tragedy. And it really is.
On another note, when I think back, some scenes then were very hilarious, it would have passed for a comedy skit if it did not result to the amputation of my right hand.
But what happened during the accident was some sort a parable of the Christian life.
When people who are supposed to help or protect me failed (not necessarily because they willed to, many times due to human limitations), God won’t.
Now I won’t even dare gloss over the situation.
True enough, going out of a tragic incident is one challenge, living life with disability is another. I had my moments when I questioned everybody- even God.
But over time, I realized that the goal of Christ is not really to relieve us from trouble, but to give us the grace to walk through it. He clearly said, “In this world you will have trouble… but take heart, I have overcome the world”.
The question “Why me?” is the same question asked by all.. the blind, the deaf, the paraplegic, the anorexic, the drug addict, the divorced, the rich, the poor, the famous.. All of us are in the same boat… just different planks… It just so happened, mine is obvious. And come to think of it, for every complaint that I would throw, other people may have it even worse.
Its funny, there are times I still catch myself missing my right hand. Losing a hand is like losing a loved one. You never really get over it completely. Ali Sotto commented that when she lost her son, the pain never left, she just got used to it. I would probably say the same thing. But in the same token, though we grieve for our departed ones… we also hope of being reunited with them in eternity. This is how I see my disability as well. It makes me long for that place where everything will be restored as it should be.
But while I'm still here, the purpose of life lives on.
And with God's grace, I intend to live that purpose to the full- be it two hands or one.
It all started one boring afternoon.
Two bags of lebintador, One used Roman Candle, 1 budding scientist.
A perfect recipe for disaster.
After more than an hour of painstakingly recreating a Roman Candle from scratch. My cousins and I were excited to check out the fruit of our labors. This project masterminded by my cousin (a young girl of 14- apparently showing great potential in Physics and Explosives) was top secret… We kept it from the radars of our parents and maids at all cost.
After putting our finishing touches (we added 2 wicks at the top of the candle as if resembling the two horns of the devil), we lighted the firecracker.
Ironically, it was my cousin who first held the firecracker. I was just a mere spectator. We are all in awe as fountains of fire flowed from the mouth of our Roman Candle- as most Roman Candles would do. It appeared as if our project was a success. Suddenly, the greed within me sprawled from its nesting place. I don’t want to be robbed of this opportunity to hold the firecracker myself… So at the very last minute I asked my cousin to give it to me and after 3 seconds the candle exploded… instantly blasting the five fingers of my right hand and severing the palm…Thus began the longest 15 minutes of my life.
They said that the explosion was so strong it shook the house.
Instead of a roman candle, we unknowingly created a dynamite.
When my mom, who was at her room at that time, heard the explosion, she thought of only one thing, “Si Jeffrey?” Her motherly intuition proved valid.
When I saw what remained of my right hand, I saw my life slowly flashed in front of my eyes- just like how it happens in the movies. For some eerie reason, even at such a young age, I knew that after this incident, life will never be the same again. I do not remember feeling any sharp pain. I just felt the nerves of my hand trembling in heart beat motion… fighting for dear life.
I tried to cry. But I just can’t. It’s beyond crying.
It was a bad dream that never ended.
As my own blood trickled freely to the floor… The hard questions of life also started to flow. Will I ever get back to school? What will happen when I grow up? What about sports?
Reality bit so hard I just had to suspend my emotions. I guess this is what they call the state of shock.
In comedic fashion, the people in the house- namely the yayas, my cousins, my titos and titas- instead of helping me, ran for cover, as if a monster invaded the place. One locked herself in the room. Another hid behind the “clothes line” while most scampered out of the house to call for help. I, on the other hand, trailed through the whole house, starting from the 2nd floor where the veranda was located (the scene of the crime), down to the kitchen area on the 1st floor (where someone suggested I wash my newly decapitated hand with soap and water.. haha.. come on, as if Safeguard can do anything to raise my right hand from the dead..) and finding no help there… I went back again to 2nd floor to go to the 3rd floor where my mom was situated. It was Via Dolorosa right here in the 21st century.
As I was treading up the stairs, my strength left me, probably due to exhaustion and blood loss. I stopped there in the stairs at the same time my mom came out of her room. I can never forget the sight of my mom when she first saw me. She wailed as if it’s the end of the world. I no longer saw a woman crying… I saw a little girl crying… she was helpless.. even more helpless than me… We just looked at each other… Knowing full well that this ordeal is greater than us… In fact, in that moment in time, the ordeal was beyond us…
Right then and there, when I thought all hope was lost, I remembered to pray. I said, “Lord, help me.”
Just right after my prayer, a stranger came inside the house. He picked me in his arms and brought me to the hospital. Come to think of it, I never knew him. I don’t even know his name. Yet I believe it in my heart it was God who sent him there. Just at the right time. And the rest was history.
For some, my story may be a story of tragedy. And it really is.
On another note, when I think back, some scenes then were very hilarious, it would have passed for a comedy skit if it did not result to the amputation of my right hand.
But what happened during the accident was some sort a parable of the Christian life.
When people who are supposed to help or protect me failed (not necessarily because they willed to, many times due to human limitations), God won’t.
Now I won’t even dare gloss over the situation.
True enough, going out of a tragic incident is one challenge, living life with disability is another. I had my moments when I questioned everybody- even God.
But over time, I realized that the goal of Christ is not really to relieve us from trouble, but to give us the grace to walk through it. He clearly said, “In this world you will have trouble… but take heart, I have overcome the world”.
The question “Why me?” is the same question asked by all.. the blind, the deaf, the paraplegic, the anorexic, the drug addict, the divorced, the rich, the poor, the famous.. All of us are in the same boat… just different planks… It just so happened, mine is obvious. And come to think of it, for every complaint that I would throw, other people may have it even worse.
Its funny, there are times I still catch myself missing my right hand. Losing a hand is like losing a loved one. You never really get over it completely. Ali Sotto commented that when she lost her son, the pain never left, she just got used to it. I would probably say the same thing. But in the same token, though we grieve for our departed ones… we also hope of being reunited with them in eternity. This is how I see my disability as well. It makes me long for that place where everything will be restored as it should be.
But while I'm still here, the purpose of life lives on.
And with God's grace, I intend to live that purpose to the full- be it two hands or one.
Math and the Law of Grace
(Posted Nov 30, '07 8:33 AM. I was still working as a call-center trainer and part time insurance agent when I wrote this article)
It was the early 90’s.
The never ending quest for the lost diary of Anna Luna was still on the air.
“Hataw Na” by Gary V. was the national anthem and “The Gwapings” the National Heroes. I was a new student in this secluded Catholic School- Grade 5.
Classes started at exactly 6:30 am.
Way back then, it was considered “cool” to use the song of Basil Valdez “Sinong dakila? Sino ang tunay na baliw?” during declamation contests (I have a scary feeling this tradition still lives in some institutions to this very day).
You can separate the fashionistas from the commoners by the number and color of beads in their ID laces and the kind of pencil case they have (does it have a built in eraser, pen, ruler, magnifying glass?).
We are required to carry almost a dozen textbooks on top of the almost a dozen notebooks on a daily basis. The “It” bags of the day were those with WHEELS (probably as a preventive measure against “paralysis”).
The red sea parted every time the nuns appeared while the teacher’s path was made of Gold.
It was in that school that I met my Math teacher.
She was a strong, old maid brazened by years of teaching experience.
In fact, I believe she was one of the pillars of that institution… a pillar whose very foundation was laid straight from the scorching fires of hell (sorry ma’am, that was just a figure of speech).
Fear was her right hand and terror her left. Nobody dare cross her path.
Unfortunately for me, I did.
After a couple of lapsed school assignments I found myself the target of her verbal attacks. It did not help that I had challenges coping with the lessons and was one of the slow learners. As such, I was labeled the black sheep on that subject- or at least, that was how I saw myself.
Math became a desperate uphill climb. Until I became tired of climbing and my mind just logged off every time numbers and formulas are mentioned.
It was also in that school that I met my History teacher,
Her name was Mrs. Camba.
She was a working mom who had a fierce reputation of silencing bullies in the class.
But beneath the toughness was a tender touch.
She had a penchant of threading personal stories with history..
I enjoyed listening about her life in the province, about the first time she came here in Manila (Luneta Park was then considered the 8th wonder of the world), etc.
She always acknowledged my opinions when talking about current events as if my thoughts do matter.
There was one time when I was sick and I had to stay in the clinic. She found me there by coincidence. What she did was she took a wet towel and took care of me as a mother her own child. She even asked the nurse if there was milk in the clinic- a question that would catch every school nurse in the entire country by surprise.
One of the highlights of my Grade School life was when I became the object of ridicule by the whole school because I was not able to attend the Saturday classes in preparation for the NEAT exam (mandated by DECS before you jump into high school). The reason for my absence was because we have Saturday activity in my previous church… And in my highly spiritual upbringing… the church and its activities equated with God himself and should be considered top priority above all others. The nuns and the other teachers did not take this decision lightly and they were expecting the worst for my NEAT exam.
But not Mrs.Camba.
During one of her lectures, after scolding my other classmates, she told me in front of the class, “Vadillo, even if you are not attending our Saturday classes, show them that you can do it”. She believed in me. Honestly, I was slightly embarrassed by her strong belief in me. But it was an embarrassment that inspired me to prove her right. True enough, I passed the exams with flying colors. When the nuns ask me how I fared, I answer them in soap opera fashion, “Sister, I got 91%”.
Haha… what a sweet revenge (Lord forgive me for such a thought).
Believe it or not, I did graduate from Grade school.
But my fear of numbers haunted me for the rest of my scholastic life. All throughout high school, 75% was my goal for Math- a goal I continuously almost never met except through the mysterious grace of God. In college, I only failed two subjects, 1st is College Algebra and the 2nd is Introduction to Economics. I ran away from numbers as far as I can by taking up Communication Arts.
On the other hand, I also grew up with a natural love for history- for stories.
Even without studying (and even while sleeping in class), I tend to excel in literature and social studies (WARNING: This stunt is done by a trained professional. Children do not do this at school). I developed such a strong confidence expressing my views and opinion which made me part of the leadership of many major organizations in high school and college. Teaching became my passion- a passion which followed me up to this very day.
I don’t know to what extent my Math teacher contributed to my fear of numbers (and I won’t even dare blame her for everything). I don’t know as well how much Mrs. Camba influenced me to be the person I am today. But one thing I learned through it all is the amazing power of grace at work in people’s lives.
When my Math teacher used the law (an authority she is expected and entitled to use) to force me to learn the subject… I responded with fear which led to hopelessness until I just ran away from the subject altogether.
When Mrs. Camba believed in me (A belief I felt was undeserved and was beyond her call of duty)… I responded with obedience and unwavering gratitude for her. Her passion for people and history became my own passion as well.
I believe the same principle applies as to how God relates with his people. It’s not the 10 commandments that really attracted me to Christ. It’s the undeniable truth that He loves me in spite of me. Through all my mistakes and shortcomings His promise is to make me as white as snow. This love of the Father, a love beyond understanding and logic… a love beyond whatever I could ask for or think of prompts me to stay and cling to his arms no matter what.
I don’t know what happened to my Math teacher.
As for Mrs. Camba, the last news I’ve heard from her was she already resigned from our school to work as an OFW in Singapore.
In an ironic twist of fate, I’m now working as a trainer for a financial account… teaching agents how to calculate finance charges and the formula for minimum dues. I’m also involved in financial planning… presenting important concepts like income protection, investments and mutual funds. Apparently, God was able to redeem my fear of numbers and is now using me in my area of weakness.
So I’m writing this article in memory and gratitude for both of my teachers…
Wherever you are… thank you...
Your work as Grade 5 teachers were never in vain…
It was the early 90’s.
The never ending quest for the lost diary of Anna Luna was still on the air.
“Hataw Na” by Gary V. was the national anthem and “The Gwapings” the National Heroes. I was a new student in this secluded Catholic School- Grade 5.
Classes started at exactly 6:30 am.
Way back then, it was considered “cool” to use the song of Basil Valdez “Sinong dakila? Sino ang tunay na baliw?” during declamation contests (I have a scary feeling this tradition still lives in some institutions to this very day).
You can separate the fashionistas from the commoners by the number and color of beads in their ID laces and the kind of pencil case they have (does it have a built in eraser, pen, ruler, magnifying glass?).
We are required to carry almost a dozen textbooks on top of the almost a dozen notebooks on a daily basis. The “It” bags of the day were those with WHEELS (probably as a preventive measure against “paralysis”).
The red sea parted every time the nuns appeared while the teacher’s path was made of Gold.
It was in that school that I met my Math teacher.
She was a strong, old maid brazened by years of teaching experience.
In fact, I believe she was one of the pillars of that institution… a pillar whose very foundation was laid straight from the scorching fires of hell (sorry ma’am, that was just a figure of speech).
Fear was her right hand and terror her left. Nobody dare cross her path.
Unfortunately for me, I did.
After a couple of lapsed school assignments I found myself the target of her verbal attacks. It did not help that I had challenges coping with the lessons and was one of the slow learners. As such, I was labeled the black sheep on that subject- or at least, that was how I saw myself.
Math became a desperate uphill climb. Until I became tired of climbing and my mind just logged off every time numbers and formulas are mentioned.
It was also in that school that I met my History teacher,
Her name was Mrs. Camba.
She was a working mom who had a fierce reputation of silencing bullies in the class.
But beneath the toughness was a tender touch.
She had a penchant of threading personal stories with history..
I enjoyed listening about her life in the province, about the first time she came here in Manila (Luneta Park was then considered the 8th wonder of the world), etc.
She always acknowledged my opinions when talking about current events as if my thoughts do matter.
There was one time when I was sick and I had to stay in the clinic. She found me there by coincidence. What she did was she took a wet towel and took care of me as a mother her own child. She even asked the nurse if there was milk in the clinic- a question that would catch every school nurse in the entire country by surprise.
One of the highlights of my Grade School life was when I became the object of ridicule by the whole school because I was not able to attend the Saturday classes in preparation for the NEAT exam (mandated by DECS before you jump into high school). The reason for my absence was because we have Saturday activity in my previous church… And in my highly spiritual upbringing… the church and its activities equated with God himself and should be considered top priority above all others. The nuns and the other teachers did not take this decision lightly and they were expecting the worst for my NEAT exam.
But not Mrs.Camba.
During one of her lectures, after scolding my other classmates, she told me in front of the class, “Vadillo, even if you are not attending our Saturday classes, show them that you can do it”. She believed in me. Honestly, I was slightly embarrassed by her strong belief in me. But it was an embarrassment that inspired me to prove her right. True enough, I passed the exams with flying colors. When the nuns ask me how I fared, I answer them in soap opera fashion, “Sister, I got 91%”.
Haha… what a sweet revenge (Lord forgive me for such a thought).
Believe it or not, I did graduate from Grade school.
But my fear of numbers haunted me for the rest of my scholastic life. All throughout high school, 75% was my goal for Math- a goal I continuously almost never met except through the mysterious grace of God. In college, I only failed two subjects, 1st is College Algebra and the 2nd is Introduction to Economics. I ran away from numbers as far as I can by taking up Communication Arts.
On the other hand, I also grew up with a natural love for history- for stories.
Even without studying (and even while sleeping in class), I tend to excel in literature and social studies (WARNING: This stunt is done by a trained professional. Children do not do this at school). I developed such a strong confidence expressing my views and opinion which made me part of the leadership of many major organizations in high school and college. Teaching became my passion- a passion which followed me up to this very day.
I don’t know to what extent my Math teacher contributed to my fear of numbers (and I won’t even dare blame her for everything). I don’t know as well how much Mrs. Camba influenced me to be the person I am today. But one thing I learned through it all is the amazing power of grace at work in people’s lives.
When my Math teacher used the law (an authority she is expected and entitled to use) to force me to learn the subject… I responded with fear which led to hopelessness until I just ran away from the subject altogether.
When Mrs. Camba believed in me (A belief I felt was undeserved and was beyond her call of duty)… I responded with obedience and unwavering gratitude for her. Her passion for people and history became my own passion as well.
I believe the same principle applies as to how God relates with his people. It’s not the 10 commandments that really attracted me to Christ. It’s the undeniable truth that He loves me in spite of me. Through all my mistakes and shortcomings His promise is to make me as white as snow. This love of the Father, a love beyond understanding and logic… a love beyond whatever I could ask for or think of prompts me to stay and cling to his arms no matter what.
I don’t know what happened to my Math teacher.
As for Mrs. Camba, the last news I’ve heard from her was she already resigned from our school to work as an OFW in Singapore.
In an ironic twist of fate, I’m now working as a trainer for a financial account… teaching agents how to calculate finance charges and the formula for minimum dues. I’m also involved in financial planning… presenting important concepts like income protection, investments and mutual funds. Apparently, God was able to redeem my fear of numbers and is now using me in my area of weakness.
So I’m writing this article in memory and gratitude for both of my teachers…
Wherever you are… thank you...
Your work as Grade 5 teachers were never in vain…
The Convenient Road
(Posted Mar 7, '08 11:14 AM)
Prior to leaving the call center industry, I remember talking to one of my best friends in Convergys, my former Unit Manager, Val.
He already knew I’m counting days in our company. In fact, he was one of the few people who knew early on about my plans to venture to another industry. He encouraged me to follow my passion, and when my final decision came out- it didn’t came to him as a surprise.
He was a witness to my humble beginnings as a sales agent (hehe… dramatic effect). From a carefree and renegade newbie, eventually, I became one of the top sellers of His team. But the good days did not last long. I went through the same phase as most agents do… it’s what I call the “call center version” of a midlife crisis.
Most of my batch mates felt it in their 1st three months and they resigned accordingly. I wasn’t able to empathize with them at first because I was progressing in my job and was selling a lot. But around my 6th month in production, the bug hit me. Suddenly I felt tired of taking calls. The routine of the job was becoming super heavy weight. Constant streams of rejection are starting to sink in. Irate calls seemed eternal. The daily, weekly, monthly goals became unbearable. I’m starting to question if this would be the job I’ll be doing for the rest of my life- saying “Welcome to Customer Service my name is Jeff… How may I help you?” almost 80 times a day, 5 times a week, 20 days a month, 240 days a year- excluding overtime.
Right then, I’ve wanted to resign. I prayed for guidance and strength hoping God would give me the answer I’ve wanted to hear. But the answer to my question at that time was very clear… “Stay”.
And so I did.
Val knew I was just pushing and dragging myself to work. But I worked nevertheless and tried to pass my metrics even if I knew the water in the well was already dried up. Val told me there are two ways to get out of the phone- either I call it quits or be promoted. If I quit I might just end as what most people are already doing- call center hopping as an agent (which will only perpetuate the cycle and not solve my desire to be off the phone). And since I’m already in the best call center in the country (haha.. no offense to the others), I decided to might as well just push my luck for a promotion.
To make the long story short, obeying to stay proved to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Two months after, there was an opening for a trainer position. I applied for it and I got it. The months after were challenging yet very rewarding. I’ve learned a lot- especially in terms of public speaking, client relations and team management. These are the things I never could have learned if I chose the convenient road early on. Come to think of it, these are also the things that made me qualify me for my next job outside the call center.
That’s why when another opportunity came up for me to work in another industry, I had peace knowing the time was ripe for me to move on.
True enough, even up to know, there are still a lot of things to learn.
Yet painfully I admit, some of the greatest lessons in life I learned by not getting what I want- or at least not getting it my way. No doubt, I still hope that God would give me all the desires of my heart. But as wisdom would put it, the best road may not be the one most convenient.
Prior to leaving the call center industry, I remember talking to one of my best friends in Convergys, my former Unit Manager, Val.
He already knew I’m counting days in our company. In fact, he was one of the few people who knew early on about my plans to venture to another industry. He encouraged me to follow my passion, and when my final decision came out- it didn’t came to him as a surprise.
He was a witness to my humble beginnings as a sales agent (hehe… dramatic effect). From a carefree and renegade newbie, eventually, I became one of the top sellers of His team. But the good days did not last long. I went through the same phase as most agents do… it’s what I call the “call center version” of a midlife crisis.
Most of my batch mates felt it in their 1st three months and they resigned accordingly. I wasn’t able to empathize with them at first because I was progressing in my job and was selling a lot. But around my 6th month in production, the bug hit me. Suddenly I felt tired of taking calls. The routine of the job was becoming super heavy weight. Constant streams of rejection are starting to sink in. Irate calls seemed eternal. The daily, weekly, monthly goals became unbearable. I’m starting to question if this would be the job I’ll be doing for the rest of my life- saying “Welcome to Customer Service my name is Jeff… How may I help you?” almost 80 times a day, 5 times a week, 20 days a month, 240 days a year- excluding overtime.
Right then, I’ve wanted to resign. I prayed for guidance and strength hoping God would give me the answer I’ve wanted to hear. But the answer to my question at that time was very clear… “Stay”.
And so I did.
Val knew I was just pushing and dragging myself to work. But I worked nevertheless and tried to pass my metrics even if I knew the water in the well was already dried up. Val told me there are two ways to get out of the phone- either I call it quits or be promoted. If I quit I might just end as what most people are already doing- call center hopping as an agent (which will only perpetuate the cycle and not solve my desire to be off the phone). And since I’m already in the best call center in the country (haha.. no offense to the others), I decided to might as well just push my luck for a promotion.
To make the long story short, obeying to stay proved to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Two months after, there was an opening for a trainer position. I applied for it and I got it. The months after were challenging yet very rewarding. I’ve learned a lot- especially in terms of public speaking, client relations and team management. These are the things I never could have learned if I chose the convenient road early on. Come to think of it, these are also the things that made me qualify me for my next job outside the call center.
That’s why when another opportunity came up for me to work in another industry, I had peace knowing the time was ripe for me to move on.
True enough, even up to know, there are still a lot of things to learn.
Yet painfully I admit, some of the greatest lessons in life I learned by not getting what I want- or at least not getting it my way. No doubt, I still hope that God would give me all the desires of my heart. But as wisdom would put it, the best road may not be the one most convenient.
Shall We Dance?
(Posted Mar 7, '08 11:16 AM)
I was at this birthday party. We were listening as the gentleman of Croon, Richard Poon (of course, plugging) belted the classics. During the last part of the set, Richard sang “Put Your Head On My Shoulder”. Then as if by choreography, a politician who was at the party danced with his wife. Soon many followed. A son danced with his mom. Another guy danced with his office crush while best friends paired to compensate for the absence of “Mr. or Ms. Right”.
In the movie, “My Big Love”, during the last scene when Toni admitted at last (after a long, strenuous chase at the overpass) she loves Sam, they capped the event with Sam dancing his signature moves with the roaring crowd behind them.
During a soiree in a prominent subdivision which was attended by rich and retired matrons, I noticed the crowd was mostly indifferent and snobbish. Yet when the big band music filled the ballroom, dance instructors suddenly appeared in “Transformer” fashion to assist some of the snobby matrons who rose from the grave to dance… Ironically (almost hilariously), even though their hips swayed to the sound of the drums, their faces remained as cold as ice.
When my Dad came back from the states for the first time, my Uncle gave him a party. Although my mom and dad were long separated by that time, my mom attended the party for old time’s sake. With alcohol breaking his emotional inhibitions and tears verging from his eyes, My Dad took my Mom for a dance (or at least that’s what it looks like). The love, the regret, the years of abandonment, the wrong decisions, the apologies and the thoughts of what could have been were all encapsulated in that dance. It was a dance that came too late yet was worth dancing. A dance which I believed brought closure to something that was deprived of it.
During the Every Nation World Conference inside Araneta Center, you can see hundreds upon hundreds of people from all places dancing and jumping for God… The sight of different movements was spectacular and overwhelming… We even managed to have our own choreography in the midst of the praise and worship madness… As if our dance steps matter to God… because deep inside we know… deep inside I know…
It does.
I was at this birthday party. We were listening as the gentleman of Croon, Richard Poon (of course, plugging) belted the classics. During the last part of the set, Richard sang “Put Your Head On My Shoulder”. Then as if by choreography, a politician who was at the party danced with his wife. Soon many followed. A son danced with his mom. Another guy danced with his office crush while best friends paired to compensate for the absence of “Mr. or Ms. Right”.
In the movie, “My Big Love”, during the last scene when Toni admitted at last (after a long, strenuous chase at the overpass) she loves Sam, they capped the event with Sam dancing his signature moves with the roaring crowd behind them.
During a soiree in a prominent subdivision which was attended by rich and retired matrons, I noticed the crowd was mostly indifferent and snobbish. Yet when the big band music filled the ballroom, dance instructors suddenly appeared in “Transformer” fashion to assist some of the snobby matrons who rose from the grave to dance… Ironically (almost hilariously), even though their hips swayed to the sound of the drums, their faces remained as cold as ice.
When my Dad came back from the states for the first time, my Uncle gave him a party. Although my mom and dad were long separated by that time, my mom attended the party for old time’s sake. With alcohol breaking his emotional inhibitions and tears verging from his eyes, My Dad took my Mom for a dance (or at least that’s what it looks like). The love, the regret, the years of abandonment, the wrong decisions, the apologies and the thoughts of what could have been were all encapsulated in that dance. It was a dance that came too late yet was worth dancing. A dance which I believed brought closure to something that was deprived of it.
During the Every Nation World Conference inside Araneta Center, you can see hundreds upon hundreds of people from all places dancing and jumping for God… The sight of different movements was spectacular and overwhelming… We even managed to have our own choreography in the midst of the praise and worship madness… As if our dance steps matter to God… because deep inside we know… deep inside I know…
It does.
WARNING: NOT FOR THE SUPERSPIRITUAL. IF YOU ARE, PLEASE DON'T READ.
(Posted Oct 9, '08 5:25 PM)
WARNING: NOT FOR THE SUPERSPIRITUAL. IF YOU ARE, PLEASE DON'T READ.
Its already 3 o clock in the morning and I find it hard to sleep.
Its been ages since my last article.
This blog contains no inspiring stories. I just want to write "from the heart"- just like what other crackpots do in Multiply.
For those who chose to read through this article, I admire your courage and patience in doing so. These points are "not" golden truths... i'm just thinking out loud.
Top 7 "What Amazes Me?" List
1. I'm amazed at how some friends can be professional liars. I'm dumbfounded how they can muster beautiful words of encouragement based on delusions which aren't really founded on reality but rather on making them look good because they said something seemingly nice.
2. I'm amazed how sunny, rainbow-bright people can be such sneaky individuals. On the outside, they appear to be super duper gentle and spot-free yet their experts in promoting their own complaints by projecting their angst using other people. In the middle of conflict, these people go unscathed yet truth be told- they are the root of them all.
3. I'm amazed how people believe in a delusion that their gifted in this area in their lives when facts, people and circumstances tell them they are not. And still they have the audacity to boast they are indeed gifted, even using the name of God- which makes the delusion all the more depraved and twisted. (You'll feel this when you watch American Idol. Especially the first four episodes)
4. I'm amazed how people can be very cheesy spiritually, as if second nature, shoving spiritual insights to people's faces particularly when the situation really does not call for it.
5. I'm amazed how some people would go to great lengths to get several advice from different people without the slightest intention of following it.
6. I'm amazed how the readers of this article managed to read through until point #6.
7. I'm amazed how i hate hypocrisy, shallowness, pretentions in people (characteristics describing my first 5 points) when truth of the matter is... I'm guilty of all of the above..
As much as I'm tempted to abhor certain people... i just cannot.. at least not absolutely. For in every accusation i have for other people... i know i'm guilty.. maybe not in the same form... but guilty of the same sins nevertheless...
Yet guilty as i am, God loved me.
This truth is enough to humble the sarcastic monster within.
For those who have violent reactions... what can I say? I warned you not to read.
WARNING: NOT FOR THE SUPERSPIRITUAL. IF YOU ARE, PLEASE DON'T READ.
Its already 3 o clock in the morning and I find it hard to sleep.
Its been ages since my last article.
This blog contains no inspiring stories. I just want to write "from the heart"- just like what other crackpots do in Multiply.
For those who chose to read through this article, I admire your courage and patience in doing so. These points are "not" golden truths... i'm just thinking out loud.
Top 7 "What Amazes Me?" List
1. I'm amazed at how some friends can be professional liars. I'm dumbfounded how they can muster beautiful words of encouragement based on delusions which aren't really founded on reality but rather on making them look good because they said something seemingly nice.
2. I'm amazed how sunny, rainbow-bright people can be such sneaky individuals. On the outside, they appear to be super duper gentle and spot-free yet their experts in promoting their own complaints by projecting their angst using other people. In the middle of conflict, these people go unscathed yet truth be told- they are the root of them all.
3. I'm amazed how people believe in a delusion that their gifted in this area in their lives when facts, people and circumstances tell them they are not. And still they have the audacity to boast they are indeed gifted, even using the name of God- which makes the delusion all the more depraved and twisted. (You'll feel this when you watch American Idol. Especially the first four episodes)
4. I'm amazed how people can be very cheesy spiritually, as if second nature, shoving spiritual insights to people's faces particularly when the situation really does not call for it.
5. I'm amazed how some people would go to great lengths to get several advice from different people without the slightest intention of following it.
6. I'm amazed how the readers of this article managed to read through until point #6.
7. I'm amazed how i hate hypocrisy, shallowness, pretentions in people (characteristics describing my first 5 points) when truth of the matter is... I'm guilty of all of the above..
As much as I'm tempted to abhor certain people... i just cannot.. at least not absolutely. For in every accusation i have for other people... i know i'm guilty.. maybe not in the same form... but guilty of the same sins nevertheless...
Yet guilty as i am, God loved me.
This truth is enough to humble the sarcastic monster within.
For those who have violent reactions... what can I say? I warned you not to read.
In The Presence of a Burning House
(Posted Wednesday, August 26, 2009 at 1:03am)
Last night I was given the unfortunate opportunity to watch a house get burned to the ground.
I happened to hang out at a friend's house at Greenwood's until we got a frantic (and honestly exaggerated) call from his maid that there's fire in the neighborhood. True enough, when we looked from the balcony of his house, we saw smoke rise from a beautiful two-story house 3 blocks away. From afar I can hear the sound of glasses bursting from the heat and the shrieks of wood being consumed by a fire that just got bigger by the minute. It only took a short time before the flames overtook the entire house. By the time the firefighters arrive, the house was lost for good.
In true Pinoy fashion, all of us went outside to see the action unfold. Its funny in the middle of such a tragedy how people converge not really to help but to be updated of the latest happenings. The maid, na itago na lang natin sa pangalan "Nene", in a span of 15 minutes was able to give 3 versions of what transpired in the fire- a feat putting even the NBI to shame.
We were all looking for the owners of the house and were curious of their response at such a great loss. I've heard from a "reliable source" (haha.. that's what you learn working in showbiz) that the owners just sat down in shock staring as the fire engulfed millions of pesos worth of property- not to mention priceless personal memorabilia. It was a loss equating to almost a lifetime of labor and toil all of which were gone in a matter of minutes.
We watched as the firefighters gallantly battle to stop the flames but it seemed for a time the fire had a life of its own. It just won't stop. It just kept on devouring everything in its path. Only until the combined effort of the firefighters from Pasig, Pateros, Malabon, etc did it finally waved the white flag but by that time, the destruction of the house was already complete.
Come to think of it, the fire didn't started big, it started small. Just a minute spark- which could have been quelled by a bucket of water- was allowed to linger. It only took a few seconds of negligence for this flaming monster to grow in power until it became unstoppable. In the end, the cause was overwhelmingly unmatched by the consequence.
Come to think of it, it only took a small spark to bring the house down.
I had a difficult time accepting that idea. The principle bothered me to a great degree... because it speaks on a personal note and simply because its true.
I happened to hang out at a friend's house at Greenwood's until we got a frantic (and honestly exaggerated) call from his maid that there's fire in the neighborhood. True enough, when we looked from the balcony of his house, we saw smoke rise from a beautiful two-story house 3 blocks away. From afar I can hear the sound of glasses bursting from the heat and the shrieks of wood being consumed by a fire that just got bigger by the minute. It only took a short time before the flames overtook the entire house. By the time the firefighters arrive, the house was lost for good.
In true Pinoy fashion, all of us went outside to see the action unfold. Its funny in the middle of such a tragedy how people converge not really to help but to be updated of the latest happenings. The maid, na itago na lang natin sa pangalan "Nene", in a span of 15 minutes was able to give 3 versions of what transpired in the fire- a feat putting even the NBI to shame.
We were all looking for the owners of the house and were curious of their response at such a great loss. I've heard from a "reliable source" (haha.. that's what you learn working in showbiz) that the owners just sat down in shock staring as the fire engulfed millions of pesos worth of property- not to mention priceless personal memorabilia. It was a loss equating to almost a lifetime of labor and toil all of which were gone in a matter of minutes.
We watched as the firefighters gallantly battle to stop the flames but it seemed for a time the fire had a life of its own. It just won't stop. It just kept on devouring everything in its path. Only until the combined effort of the firefighters from Pasig, Pateros, Malabon, etc did it finally waved the white flag but by that time, the destruction of the house was already complete.
Come to think of it, the fire didn't started big, it started small. Just a minute spark- which could have been quelled by a bucket of water- was allowed to linger. It only took a few seconds of negligence for this flaming monster to grow in power until it became unstoppable. In the end, the cause was overwhelmingly unmatched by the consequence.
Come to think of it, it only took a small spark to bring the house down.
I had a difficult time accepting that idea. The principle bothered me to a great degree... because it speaks on a personal note and simply because its true.
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