The Weekend Pages

Today, I didn't just watched the film,  I was ushered into God's embrace.  The animated adaptation of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran wasn’t merely a viewing experience; it was a spiritual immersion. Gibran’s words felt like a soul encounter. They wrapped my heart in warmth and tenderness, like a quiet embrace from something eternal. Each phrase landed softly, as if the universe itself had paused to whisper wisdom into my ear. I didn’t just hear his teachings, I felt them.  They curled into the quiet corners of my heart, warming places I hadn’t realized were cold. There was a moment—many moments, really—when I cried. Not from sadness, but from recognition. Gibran’s poetry stirred something sacred and dormant within me. His reflections on love, freedom, pain, and joy weren’t just lessons, they were windows and echoes of lost voices. I haven’t finished the book yet, but I chose to watch the adaptation first and it was heartwarming. It was comforting.  For a mome...

Sometimes I think my empathy is both my gift and my undoing. It makes me notice things others overlook — the pauses, the tone, the quiet shifts in energy. I feel people even when they don’t speak. I understand them even when they don’t understand me. But there are days it feels heavy. Today at work, I noticed a newbie struggling with catering emails. He looked lost, moving slowly, trying so hard to keep up. I wanted to help, but I hesitated. I’m from a different LOB, and I wasn’t confident enough to step in. He spent hours finishing his bucket. I asked his wavemate, Alyx, to help him, but my request was ignored. I told a friend I wanted to reach out, but they discouraged me, saying it would only drain me. So, I stayed quiet and focused on my own tasks. Hours passed. I saw one of his tenured teammates step in to help, and I silently thanked God for sending someone his way. Then, fifteen minutes before I was about to clock out, he tapped my shoulder and asked for help. I did. I guided hi...