Isaiah 6:1–8
Let’s just say… it wasn’t just another Bible reading. It hit me like a holy freight train.
“In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, high and lifted up…”
You know the rest. The robe, the seraphim, the shaking thresholds, the smoke, the coal-on-the-lips moment. Intense stuff.
And then came the voice that changed everything:
“Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?”
And Isaiah, being braver than most of us, said, “Here I am. Send me.”
At that moment, I knew. God was calling me. Not just to attend church more. Not just to volunteer. But to full-time ministry.
Cue the ugly crying. I was like, “Lord… are You sure You dialed the right number?”
My brain immediately went into panic mode:
My parents will disown me. My dad will literally kick me out. I can’t afford this. I’m supposed to help support the family, not go off chasing some ‘calling’ that pays in spiritual rewards and instant noodles.
And there’s history, too. One time, a pastor tried to check in on my spiritual walk, but my dad wouldn’t even let us talk in private. After the pastor left, he turned to me and said with a straight face, “If you’re thinking of becoming a pastor, better start packing.”
Translation: You’re Catholic. You’re staying Catholic. End of discussion.
But I was so sure. I had my Bible college application ready to go. I’d planned to start with six units — just enough to test the waters. I was standing right there at the registrar’s window, about to turn it in…
…and then I bailed.
Hopped on the first jeepney I saw and went straight home.
Cue the guilt spiral.
Every day after that, I argued with God.
“I can’t do this. My parents will never understand. I’ll be poor. I’ll disappoint everyone. I’ll probably fold under pressure and deny You the moment things get hard.”
Basically, I was already disqualifying myself from the race before it even started.
Then came the big goodbye — the day I left the Philippines.
But I didn’t actually say goodbye to anyone.
Not my church friends. Not even Edwin’s mom, Tita Susan, who begged to see me one last time.
I couldn’t do it. I was too heartbroken. Too afraid I’d burst into tears and never stop.
All I could say was, “I’m so sorry, Tita. I’m really, really sorry.”
On my last Sunday service, I slipped in quietly and worshiped with a heart full of chaos.
Then, as the final song ended, I slipped out the back door like a ghost.
No hugs. No goodbyes. Just me, walking away with a suitcase full of clothes… and a calling I still didn’t feel worthy of.
But even in the mess — the fear, the tears, the unfinished application —
God never stopped calling.
And someday, maybe, I’ll be brave enough to say again:
“Here I am. Send me.”
