Sunday Slow Diary # 2

There’s something sacred about Sundays like this—not because everything was quiet, but because everything felt full. Today didn’t rush. It unfolded, slowly and softly, the way gentle things do when they’re not asked to prove anything. The morning began with breakfast at home—nothing fancy, just garlic rice, coffee in familiar mugs, and the quiet comfort of voices I’ve missed. Eating at your own table again, with people who know your laugh and remember your childhood, is its own kind of prayer. It fills you before the food even touches your plate.

We went to mass not long after. The church was full—of bodies, of prayers, of memories. I sat beside Mama, her fingers gently wrapped around her rosary, her eyes steady on the altar. I didn’t close my eyes to sleep; I closed them to feel. And in that stillness, I felt anchored. Grateful. Present. There was something grounding about that space, that moment. It reminded me that being held doesn’t always look like an embrace—sometimes, it’s a pew, a prayer, a parent beside you.

Afterwards, we visited Papa and Hans. There were no grand speeches. No long monologues to the sky. Just presence. Just flowers placed gently on stone. Just a silence that felt shared, not empty. I’m learning that grief doesn’t need to be loud to be heard. It can sit quietly with you, allowing the ache to breathe without demanding explanation.

Lunch came next—McDonald’s with my tiyas, my Lola, my brother, Mama, and Jan. It was chaotic in that beautifully Filipino way—trays clattering, fries being shared without asking, jokes flying across the table like ketchup packets.

And even in that fast-food frenzy, I felt it again: belonging. A kind of joyful noise that wraps itself around your tired spirit and whispers, “You’re home.”

Later in the afternoon, more family arrived. We gathered at home, lounging on familiar couches, laughing over stories I’d forgotten I remembered. Time moved, but it didn’t hurry. No one was rushing to be anywhere else. We were here. Fully.

And then I met Julie—Hans’ wife. She smiled at me with that quiet resilience you only see in people who’ve held both love and loss in the same breath. We didn’t say everything. But the way we looked at each other—long enough, gently enough—said all that needed to be said. In grief, some things can only be understood, not explained.

As the sun dipped lower and the house filled with the warmth of togetherness, I found myself carrying so many small but sacred things: Lola’s laughter echoing in the kitchen, the rhythm of Mama’s prayers during mass, the stillness beside Papa and Hans, and the silent strength shared between two women tethered by someone they both miss.

And so I pause tonight to gather them—to honor the soft places where love lives quietly.

This Week’s Gentle Check-in:

I’m grateful for garlic rice in my own kitchen. For family gathered around jokes and Jollibee memories. For a moment of stillness by the tombstones. For Julie’s quiet presence. For the laughter, the mess, the holy, the human.

I’m hopeful for more days that don’t ask me to perform. For healing that makes room for both remembering and resting. For the grace to be present, even when things are loud or heavy or beautifully ordinary.

What stayed with me was the sound of Lola’s laugh echoing through the house. The sight of Mama’s hand gently wrapped around her rosary. The way my heart, unprompted, found peace beside Hans’ name etched in stone.

What softened was the belief that I always need to be strong. That grief must always be loud to be valid. That silence equals distance. Today reminded me that quiet love is still love. That shared space is sacred, even when words are few.

The song that played in the background of this day—and now loops in my heart—is “Heavenly” by Cigarettes After Sex. It sounds like longing and love stitched together. It sounds like a Sunday made whole.

Not every day offers big revelations.

Some simply offer the gift of being with the people you love.

And today—that was more than enough.

A Sunday made of memories, family, and the soft places where love continues to live.