I Spent 72 Hours on My Back

And none of it makes sense.

*

​I lift weights. I eat clean. I sleep eight hours a night. ​Caring for my family requires caring for my body.

I don’t treat fitness as a hobby; I treat it as a responsibility.​ Yet, despite the discipline and the routine, here I am—flat on my back.

What makes even less sense is what is happening right now.

My two children are preparing my medicine, bringing me water, and brewing my coffee.

My wife is sitting beside me, cutting my food and lifting a spoon to my lips.

Every instinct in me wants to turn my head away and clamp my mouth shut.

As a father, a husband, and the protector of this home, I am powerless.

I should be the one providing.

I should be the one loving.

I should be the one serving.

Having my wife hold a spoon to my mouth is a humiliating demotion from provider to dependent.

How do I make sense of this?

*

Here is what I realized: helplessness gives others the opportunity to love you.

We know in our bones that “it is more blessed to give than to receive.”

But we take that truth so aggressively that we turn into world-class givers and terrible receivers. We monopolize generosity as if we are the only ones permitted to be blessed by God.

We want to be the sole provider, the proactive lover, the one holding the wallet, the one driving the car. But beneath that noble intention of being “responsible,” there often lurks a quiet, stubborn pride.

Giving keeps us capable and in control. Receiving makes us look weak and indebted.

But love cannot survive on the exhale alone. It has to breathe.

Give to receive.

Receive to give.

Give and be blessed.

Receive and let them bless.

When a father refuses to be served, he starves his home of that breath. He robs his family of the opportunity to bless—and to be blessed.

*

Now it makes sense why I am pinned to this mattress.

Sometimes, the highest form of generosity is not what you provide. It is having the humility to receive.

The food is waiting on the spoon.

My only work now is to be still, unclench my jaw, and let myself be loved.

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Pay Php 65,000 to save a dog’s life or Php 2,500 to end it?

It was a choice of no choice.

On November 3, 2019, I rushed my ten-year-old pal, OJ, to the animal hospital.

He refused food and water, and was unresponsive to his name. He again had a urinary blockage that required immediate surgery.This was his second operation in six months, and there was no guarantee the blockage wouldn’t recur.

Dr. Tina gave me until 1 PM the next day to decide.

The following day I had the slowest lunch of my life at Lander’s. Tears and snot streaked down my face as I chewed every bite of my pepperoni pizza like I was trying to stop time itself.

1 PM came, and I sat face to face with Dr. Tina.
My voice cracked. “Doc, let’s put OJ to sleep.”

In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have thought twice about paying for the surgery to save my dog. Life is more important than money.

But the world we live in is flawed. Not only was I deeply in debt, but my wife and I were also dealing with a delicate pregnancy that was due in two months.

Euthanasia seemed like the only responsible choice for my family, but it also felt like a betrayal to OJ.

“I’m so sorry, buddy,” I whispered.

And then, the plot twist.

Dr. Tina stepped out after hearing my decision and came back ten minutes later. “Sir Jed, if you are worrying about the bill, we can do OJ’s surgery for free. We can still do something to fix his health.”

My mind went blank.
I stared at Dr. Tina, scrambling for the right response.
A mere “thank you” felt inadequate.

“But putting the patient under anesthesia has its risks,” Dr. Tina continued. “Please sign these forms if you are willing to proceed with the surgery.”

I grabbed the pen and signed the forms.

It felt like an Abraham and Isaac moment. In one miraculous stroke, God provided the ram in the thicket, sparing my wallet, my baby fund, and my dog.

“Hang in there, buddy,” I whispered.

On November 5, Dr. Tina and her team performed castration and stone removal on OJ. It was a success. They reported that he had started to act normal and could already stand up by himself.

But two days later,
OJ had a cardiac arrest and died.

I returned to the hospital to handle his discharge papers and burial. I thanked Dr. Tina and went home.

Is that it?
Is this how the story ends?

I wrestled with these thoughts for days after we buried OJ.
The new plot twist didn’t add up.
Why would God provide a “miracle” only to let him die?
Wouldn’t it be an incredible tale if he had survived?

I couldn’t make sense of it until my wife helped me see what I was missing.

“The ‘miracle’ wasn’t meant to save OJ,” she said.
“Then what was it for?” I asked.
“It was meant to save you.”
“Me?”
“He spared you the guilt of having to end OJ’s life.”

Her words sank in deep.
Tears streamed down my face as the invisible hold of surgery versus euthanasia finally lifted.

Losing OJ wasn’t the outcome I wanted, but the grace I needed.

*

A year later, I visited OJ at Pet Valley Park in Silang, Cavite. As I stood where he lay, a decade of memories played in my mind. Looking at the quiet grass, I finally saw the beauty in the ending of the story.

God took away the impossible choice, so my final memory of OJ wasn’t stained by guilt, but preserved in peace.

“Rest well, buddy,” I whispered.

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Sayang Pag Hindi Ginamit

You know that feeling. Fresh sneakers in your hand, torn between wearing them or tucking them back into the box.

We express this hesitation with the word “sayang.”

“Sayang, baka maputikan.”
“Sayang, baka magasgasan.”
“Sayang, baka mamantsahan.”

We feel the same tug with new bags, watches, and cars. But art collectors have taken this to another level.

When they buy a masterpiece, they often get two copies of it. One original, one fake. They hang the fake on the wall, while the original stays locked in a vault. Safe. Untouched.

On April 25, I woke up to find 500 people had reshared my post.

I wanted to pat myself on the back, but my palms turned damp, and I could feel my heart thumping in my throat.

Two hours later, the number hit a thousand. Chills raced down my spine, and the air felt too heavy to breathe.

I reached for a glass of water, and prayed, “Lord, should I delete this?”

Like the things we buy, our stories have a purpose: to be shared.

They exist to teach, encourage, and connect. But when I saw that over 750,000 people had viewed my post, I hated to admit it, but fear took over.

“What if I get bashed?”
“What if I get trolled?”

I was desperate to tuck my stories back inside the box. I ached to display the “Fake Jed”—the uncontroversial version—and put the “Original Jed” back in the vault where it’s safe.

But as my finger hovered over the delete button, I remembered a story Jesus told.

A servant received a fortune to manage, but out of fear, he buried it in the ground. He thought his master would be pleased to find the treasure intact. Instead, the master was furious.

The treasure wasn’t given to be preserved; it was given to be used.

Sneakers are meant to be worn.
Masterpieces are meant to be seen.
Stories are meant to be told.

God is the Master Artist who created an original version of us.

He would rather see us scuffed-up than stay hidden inside a vault. He prefers the honest stories of our scars over the polished, fake versions He never created.

I know this because He is the God who didn’t just wear His perfect sneakers; He deliberately stepped into the mud to be with you and me.

*

My post is still up. Not because I have overcome fear, but because I am learning to trust the version God created.

Yes.
The sneakers might get dirty.
The masterpiece might get stained.
The story might get bashed.

But they’re better off seeing the world than being underground.

Real waste isn’t in the usage. It’s in the storage.

So lace them up.

“Dahil mas sayang kapag hindi ginamit.”

Follow the Journey

This journal is my way of making sense of the lessons from the journey. Get the next full entry delivered straight to your inbox.