BLEEPS & BLOOPS

Disney Princess Rhema: It was a WISHING APPLE after all. (Snow White)

I saw a video of Snow White from Disneyland, with a park goer wishing her to never eat a poison apple again. Snow White responded, “What poison apple?” So the goer explained that it was the apple she ate, the one that made her fall before the prince kissed her and brought her back to life.

But Snow White responded with something I’ll probably carry with me for a long time in my faith walk.

From her perspective, it was an apple offered to her as a “Wishing Apple” that if she took one bite, all her wishes would come true. So when she bit into it, she said she fell into a deep sleep, and when she woke up, her Prince was there. She said, “It worked! My wishing apple made my wish come true.”

And isn’t that something that took a different perspective to see how, even if the apple was given to her for evil, it all worked out in the end anyway.

Sometimes, that’s what this journey looks like. You pray and believe that God will give you something you’ve been “wishing” for— of course, in our case, it’s a prayer. Snow White was singing I’m Wishing at the very beginning of the movie, and no matter what happened in the middle of it, even as the enemy formed weapons against her, the dream still came true in the end.

So this is to give you and I encouragement that sometimes life looks exactly like that. That it might look like things are working out at the moment, but greater things are up ahead.

And here’s what I love about Snow White’s story: her belief that she would meet her prince wasn’t just a hope or a maybe. It was a settled knowing that he would come. And that belief built something in her. Even in her lowest, most displaced moments, she stayed present. She befriended and nurtured a home, and somehow managed to change the lives of 7 men. And in the end, she got her prince. She got her dream.

The journey with God kind of looks like that. This reminds me of the story of Joseph in Genesis, how God gave him a dream. We all know the story. The road to that dream was far from pleasant, but in the end, Joseph got there, and even impacted his entire family and the generations that came after.

How awesome is it that no matter the pits we fall into, the wrong turns we make, the choices that led us to a fall, still the destination remains the same. The promise remains intact.

And this makes me realize that in our case, as real life Disney princesses (lol)—it isn’t really about the promise not changing. It’s about the One who made it being unchanging.

So yes, now I’m more sure someday my prince will come.

If I read my old blog and see everything written there, I'll see fragments of my shattered self— broken in more days than one. I'll see someone so desperate for just validation and security, because she didn't really know where to get it from. But if I read it from where and who I am now, I bet—AND KNOW—I'll see so much of God's faithfulness.

I have let myself trample over all the snares and booby traps the enemy set out for me. It didn't even seem like I was trying to avoid them; if you've known me before, you'll know I was running straight to them.

But God.

He never took his hands and eyes off me. I was protected, cared for, known, seen, and loved, even during the times I did all the things I've done.

And so how would I even doubt that he's got far better things for me? I know for a fact that his plans for me are good. I know for a fact that my future is secured. And I know FOR A FACT that even my present is secure.

So I look forward to what's ahead. I look forward to his presence being more and more tangible, that even the people I talk to will feel it. I look forward to his glory being magnified in my life; watching, seeing, AND FULLY EXPERIENCING his signs, wonders, and miracles.

It didn't end in the book of Acts. It didn't end during the time of the apostles and Paul's epistles. His works are still in action today. So I pray that he keeps my eyes open to what's ahead.

And if you're my future self reading this, I hope you see it, and I hope you celebrate that we remained faithful, no matter what season you're in as you read this.

Maybe it's just the ache of a key that has met too many wrong locks and learned, after a while, to stop trying doors.

We may call it hating men because we don't have cleaner language for it. But what if it's simpler than that? What if most of us were never wired for the broader category— only ever for A specific one. The one who fits the particular shape of who you are, minus the dents life pressed into you along the way.

And in the absence of this ONE person, we made a posture out of disappointments.

But here's what no one taught us in the growing up:

There is something between falling for and walking away from— it's called honor. It doesn't ask your heart to move. It doesn't require attraction or trust or even much warmth on a given Tuesday. It just asks you to see them— as co-heirs, as carriers of the same image, as men who are also, in their own way, trying to figure out what they were made for.

We were never taught that. So we only knew two settings: open or closed. Devoted or done.

And yes, the weariness is real, and it is fair.

When men don't step into what they were built for, the gap doesn't stay empty. Women fill it. We always fill it. And then we are tired in ways we cannot name because we are carrying weight that was never distributed to us, and somewhere underneath the competence, something quieter is asking:

can someone just hold this for a minute.

It's not hatred.

It's a woman doing two jobs and grieving that she has to.

How funny is it that the walls were painted so vibrantly crimson yet the speckled shamrock was all the beholder acknowledged

I mixed new pigment, lit it up, then watched it ablaze

Good riddance of a gaze so unappealing

Some things are met too early and recognized too soon; as if a language understood before the speaker is ready to speak it.

And so they are handled with care, admired from a distance, spoken of as beautiful, but never really held long enough to become real.

With all the letdowns, the cries, the falls, the numbness—

what could have clouded what once was bright? What could have dulled what was once saturated?

When did we lose the awe and wonder? When did we lose the smile we had when we were younger? When do we get it back? Will we ever get it back?

Become like the little children. See it from their eyes. Remove your rose-colored glasses, and see the world with all colors bright.

Take away the fright, for perfect love can conquer. Give it all up to him— he’s just ready to be a father.

You can just be—

I mean, why can’t life work like that?

Why can’t someone run after you at the airport, out of breath, eyes wild, choosing you in a way that feels undeniable?

Why can’t someone stand in the rain, soaked and trembling, just to get the words out, just to say I love you before you walk away?

Why can’t it be those tiny moments too? The ones where you’re laughing at something so stupid, and then mid-laugh, something shifts. You look at each other, then you realize— this is it. This is the person.

Why can’t my story look like that? Why hasn’t it happened for me? Why does it feel like everyone else is getting these soft, cinematic moments, while here I am feeling like I'm in waiting rooms and rewrites, and scenes that get cut before they ever begin?

And I know, I know. (( I KNOOOOOOW )) I know that God writes better stories.

I know his timing is more grand, more perfect, more romantic than anything a screenwriter could ever come up with. I know all of that in my head.

But sometimes I still just find myself wondering what's missing. Is something lacking... in me?

Did I miss the part where everything begins? Did I forget how love is supposed to feel? Or have I just been waiting so long that even the memory of butterflies in my tummy feels like an old movie I haven't seen in years?

Maybe the truth is that rom-coms make everything look effortless, but real love grows in slower, quieter ways.

Maybe it doesn’t come with dramatic airport chases but with long conversations you don’t want to end.

Maybe it’s not thunder and running in the rain but someone texting you that they got home safe because they knew you’d worry.

Maybe it's not a sudden spark but a steady warmth that becomes home.

Or maybe, just maybe, that romantic scene just hasn’t started yet. Maybe the script is still being written. Maybe I'm still living in the part before the plot twist. Maybe the heart-fluttering moment— the one that makes everything make sense— is already on its way.

And maybe, when it finally happens to me, it won’t feel like a rom-com at all. Maybe it’ll feel like something better— something real. Something that was worth every quiet ache, every long prayer, every night I wondered why it hadn’t happened yet.

Because when it does come, I know I won’t be unsure. I won’t have to ask if this is what it’s supposed to feel like. I'll know. I'll just know.

Then, you imagine firm hands resting on your shoulders, not gripping, just steady. A gentle squeeze, a small massage, as if to say, I’m here, I got you. And you breathe, because you know he does.

But then, the world returns. You blink, and it’s just your furry, four-legged baby looking up at you with love that’s pure and whole. You smile, because she’s enough, yet your heart still aches for something more. To belong to something you can call your own.

And somewhere in that ache, a rush begins. The thought that time is slipping. That you’re too old, too late. You don’t want to hurry, but you also don’t want to stop hoping. It’s chaotic up there, inside your head dreams colliding with faith, longing wrestling with surrender.

So here we are at 1:33AM, having this mild anxiety attack, complete with a big butterfly, or sorta like a big fuzzy moth, in my tummy. As I write this, it really helps naming things— the feeling, what part of the body it’s coming from, what it exactly feels like. It’s absolutely horrendous to lie on the couch trying to swat the feeling away like a fly, but that’s all I’ve ever known to do. So now, we’ll welcome it… sit with it… and befriend it until it learns to be kinder to me. I’m reclaiming back what it’s been stealing from me.

Doomscrolling through facebook and seeing all the news about the multiple earthquakes happening all over the Philippines triggered this. Just the undeniable fear o it suddenly happening here where I am at and would I know what to do when it happens. Crazy how social media really corrupts your brain with so much news that it gets you on a downward spiral until it’s too hard to pick yourself back up.

My chest hurts and my tummy feels so hollow. My head feels like it has mutliple tabs open, with an ad playing somewhere.

But I need to anchor my thoughts to God truth. I remain sure of the whole Psalm 91. He will be my refuge. He is my protector. He never will forsake me and my family.

How safe it is to be under his wing.

Jesus, keep me safe.

Keep all my loved ones safe.

But all my logic tells me it’s not happening, that I’ll be left with nothing. And it sucks—this fear just cripples me and makes me feel stuck. But you’re moving, right? You’ve got me in your hands. You’ve already gone ahead of me. You’ve seen my future. You’ve prepared it. So why do I still fear? There’s just so much fear, God.

I don’t know where to go, what to do next, or what will be required of me in this next season. Please, God—today—drown me in your love and comfort. However that looks, just remove this fear. I cast it away and choose to let myself be saturated with your love.

Please come through for me today. I don’t feel like showing up, but I know you’re asking me to. I know this is part of the process—the ending, the detaching. But it’s so hard and overwhelming. I’m so tired. I’m so scared.

My heart went instantly to thoughts of protecting them from anything bad that could happen. I thought, “I don’t want them to go through what I went through.” And it’s funny, I don’t even have a husband yet, here I am already weaving prayers for children I don’t even have yet.

But as I thought about it more, I felt God’s nudge. Almost like he whispered, “that desire is good, but it isn’t the whole picture.” Because as much as I want my children’s testimony to be untouched praise, I can’t deny the fact that the deepest glory of God I have witnessed in my life came through fire. Through the tribulations that nearly broke me, but where he met me, saved me, and held me.

It’s not that I want my children to suffer just so they’ll learn. But I also can’t rob them of the truth that even in trials, especially in trials, God shows himself most clearly. That’s the paradox of living in a fallen world: pain WILL touch us, but it can and should never define us. Only Jesus can.

And now I realize, my true mission isn’t to shield my children from every hardship. My mission is to let them know the character of Jesus, the way I am also still learning to know now. To show them that despite the brokenness of this world, he remains whole. Despite the chaos, he is peace. Despite our failures, he calls us his children and redeems us every single time.

His dying on the cross already proved it. His death paid for ALL sin—past, present, and future—and freed us from the grip of death. That is the testimony I long for my children to carry. Not a life absent of trial, but a life anchored in Christ, where even trials cannot steal their song.

Excavations reveal what was never meant to be seen: jagged rocks buried for ages, tangled city pipes, murky water with a foul stench. They unearth the hidden and the unpleasant. Yet today, in the middle of that fear, God spoke.

For any building to stand firm against the shaking it will surely face, it needs a strong foundation. But a foundation can never be laid unless the ground is first torn open, unless all the mess and impurities underneath are brought to light. The digging is necessary. The breaking is part of the making.

And so it is with us. God will dig deep into the hidden places of our hearts—the messy, the ugly, the parts we’d rather keep buried—so that nothing will stand in the way of what he wants to build. And when the shaking comes, we will not fall. Our foundation is firm. Eternally secure.

I think love should feel like that; Like tearing through wrapping paper, not to see what’s inside, but to savor the anticipation that something chosen—something meant—waits for you. Like biting into your favorite holiday dessert and tasting memory itself. Like stuffing loot bags with candies for children you’ll never know, and finding joy multiplied as you give it away.

It should feel like home: familiar, but never redundant. The kind you can navigate with your eyes closed, every corner memorized by heart. It should be nostalgia you can hold in your hands, a melody you never tire of humming.

It’s the kind of love your very bones remember— much deeper than muscle memory. The kind stitched by God’s own hands, so every seam is peace, every thread an assurance that this was written long before you knew to long for it.

It’s stranger still to crave the simplest things: a hand to hold, a thumb brushing the back of mine like it knows the storm that swirls inside, calming me without a single word.

This is such a peculiar place to stand in. There are faces, but no footsteps toward me. There are possibilities, but no signs.

It feels absurd, this hunger for something I cannot touch. Absurd, to ache for someone I haven’t even met.

So here I am, God— half laughing, half pleading. Give me a hug. Give me something sweet, something small, a spark of kilig to remind me you see this heart of mine.

how, in every lifetime, there’s you.