There are moments in life that do not need noise, or even answers. They only need
quiet—and the willingness to be honest.
For me, that quiet usually arrives with a cup of coffee. Early in the morning before the
day takes over, or late at night when everything finally slows down. It is in those in-
between hours that something opens up, and real conversation becomes possible.
I have come to understand that faith rarely announces itself in grand gestures or perfect
words. More often, it looks like this—sitting down, cup in hand, and simply talking. The
way you would talk to someone who already knows you, someone who understands
what you mean before you even finish saying it.
That is how I talk to God.
Over time, I have learned to look forward to these moments, and more importantly, to
protect them. When the schedule fills up—and it often does—this is the one space I try
not to give away. There are times I sit alone in a café and someone will ask if I am
waiting for someone. I usually smile and say, “I’m not,” and leave it at that. Because in
those moments, I know that to be true.
Prayer, I have found, does not require a special setting. It does not begin inside a
church. It begins in the heart—when you stop trying to sound composed and start being
real. When you reach that point, something shifts. You stop performing and start
speaking, not because you have everything figured out, but because you trust that you
are being heard.
So I come as I am.
Some mornings begin with gratitude. Not because everything is going well, but because
something always is. A day completed, a problem survived, a family kept safe. Even the
smallest things, when noticed, become enough reason to pause and say, thank you,
Lord.
Other days, I arrive carrying something heavier—a decision I am wrestling with,
pressure that does not easily go away, uncertainty about what comes next. I do not try
to resolve it before I speak. I simply lay it out, and ask for the grace to carry it well, and
for favor in the things I cannot control.
Over time, I have also learned to bring my dreams into this space. Not the ones we
mention casually, but the ones that stay with you. The ideas that return even when you
try to set them aside. I have come to believe that these are not random. They are
placed there for a reason.
Because if you can see something clearly in your mind, then in time, you can hold it in
your hands. The vision comes first. The work follows. So I ask for clarity, for discipline,
and for alignment—so that what I pursue is not just ambition, but something grounded in
purpose.
And even in those quiet moments of direction, I find myself pausing again, simply
saying, thank you, Lord, for the chance to still dream, to still build, and to still try.
There is something else I have come to understand about waking up each day. It is
easy to take it for granted, but waking up is a signal. It means there is still something left
for you here.
If your purpose were already complete, there would be no need for another morning.
That realization changes how you see the day. It gives weight to time and meaning to
even the smallest effort. It reminds you that what you do today is part of something still
unfolding.
Life teaches in its own way, often through experience. There is no testimony without a
test. Challenges are not interruptions. They are part of the process—shaping judgment,
strengthening character, and helping you see more clearly what truly matters.
So I keep praying. Not only for outcomes, but for understanding. Not only for relief, but
for growth. Not only for answers, but for the steadiness to keep going while I wait.
At some point in these conversations, words become fewer. You sit, you listen, and you
let things settle. When the coffee cools and the day begins, the same responsibilities
remain, but something inside has changed. There is more patience, more clarity, and
enough steadiness to move forward.
And quietly, even in that stillness, the words come again—thank you, Lord.
And in many ways, that is enough.
Happy birthday, Sec Baby.
You have reminded me—and so many others—that God is never late. That He is always
on time. A truth echoed in Ecclesiastes 3:11: He makes everything beautiful in His time.
I am grateful for that reminder, Former Secretary Baby Pascual, and for the quiet
wisdom you continue to share.
May that same promise continue to unfold in your life. May God bless you with good
health, a peaceful heart, and a steady strength for the days ahead.
Always on time.
About the Author:
Paul Y. Chua, PhD, holds doctoral degrees in Fiscal Management and Peace and
Security, and a master‘s degree in National Security Administration. He has completed
executive programs in several countries, specializing in transport, migration, urban
planning, and public policy, with emphasis on governance, innovation, and integrity.
