PAL RAINE

Growing up in a Catholic household, Holy Week was not just a break from school—it was sacred. I graduated from a Catholic school and was raised in a home where faith wasn’t just taught, it was lived. My parents were active church servers, and their devotion deeply influenced my own spiritual path. I was taught to believe and follow the Roman Catholic traditions, especially during Holy Week, when everything slowed down for a reason.

Every Good Friday, our family had a standing tradition—Visita Iglesia. We would personally visit seven churches here in Davao City, and my mother, the ever-faithful one, would lead our prayers at each stop. It wasn’t just about visiting the churches—it was a prayerful pilgrimage, a form of reflection, and a quiet offering of time and presence to God. There was a deep sense of purpose in every step we took, from one church to another.

At 12 noon, we would return to our home church where my father, devoted and eloquent, would take his place as one of the speakers for the Seven Last Words of Jesus. My mother and I would sit quietly, listening to each word, absorbing every reflection, every silence in between. By 3PM, the service would end, and we would go back to our usual house chores, but our hearts felt lighter, more renewed.

As I grew older and had children of my own, I found joy in passing on these same traditions. I taught my daughters the meaning of Good Friday, why it mattered, and how it shaped our faith. But the world is not the same as it was when I was a child. Today’s pace, values, and distractions are different—and while I hold these traditions close to my heart, I have learned that I cannot force my children to do the same.

I no longer insist that they come with me for Visita Iglesia or sit through the Seven Last Words in church. Instead, we adapt. I stay home now, listening and watching the live feed of the Seven Last Words on TV. It’s not quite the same as being physically present in church, but the meaning is still there. The message still reaches the heart.

Yes, the world has changed. We may not always make it to the churches physically, but the essence of our faith remains. We still observe the Holy Week, still spend it in reflection, prayer, and stillness—at home.

Traditions evolve, but their spirit lives on. And I am grateful that even in quiet corners of our house, we can still feel the solemnity and love of Good Friday.

Growing up, Maundy Thursday in our family was sacred—not in the extravagant or ceremonial way, but in the quiet, intentional rituals that we kept year after year. We never left the house. It was our little sanctuary where we honored the day with stillness, simplicity, and reflection.

As we observe Maundy Thursday, it’s not only about fasting or solemn reflection—it’s also about remembering the deep humility and love Jesus showed during His final hours. This day marks the Last Supper, when Jesus shared His final meal with His disciples before His crucifixion (Luke 22:7–38). It was during this sacred meal that He instituted the Holy Eucharist, breaking bread and offering wine as symbols of His body and blood.

One of the most touching acts during this night was when Jesus washed the feet of His disciples, teaching them the essence of servant leadership and humility. This act is detailed in John 13:1–17, a powerful reminder of how we should serve one another with love and compassion.

OUR TRADITION

We always began the day with worship songs. The soft melodies would play throughout our home, setting the tone for peace and gratitude. It was our way of welcoming the day and inviting the presence of the Lord into our hearts and space.

Our tradition was simple yet meaningful: a marathon of biblical movies played in the background, the Bible sat open on the table, and we took turns reading a verse or two throughout the day. Our meals were humble—usually fish, vegetables, and bread—signifying the start of our fasting. No meat, no indulgence. Just a day to pause and reflect.

When I moved out and entered college, I brought that tradition with me. Even in the busyness of dorm life and academic pressure, I made space every Maundy Thursday to return to that calm. I added something personal to it—my journal. I would write my thoughts, reflections, and even prayers. It became a sacred space between me and my faith. A quiet tradition that gave me clarity and peace.

Now that I’m a mother of two young adults, I find comfort knowing that the tradition has stayed with me—and somehow, it's evolving too. As I write this, it’s Maundy Thursday once again. The house is calm. My eldest daughter is curled up on the couch watching Kdramas, and my youngest is in her room, typing away on her thesis. She’s graduating this year, and I couldn’t be prouder.

We still follow our simple Lenten food tradition. The smell of grilled fish fills the kitchen, and we have vegetables and bread ready for dinner. The biblical movie marathon is on, quietly playing in the background, almost like a heartbeat reminding us of what this day is about. And yes, worship music still plays in the background—grounding us, lifting us.

While we all do our own thing now, the spirit of Maundy Thursday lives on in our home.

It’s not about being rigid or perfect with our traditions—it’s about remembering. It’s about passing on values of reflection, gratitude, sacrifice, and stillness in a world that never seems to pause.

And as I write in my journal today, I smile knowing that Maundy Thursday will always be my day of grounding, whether as a daughter, a student, or now, a mom.

Have you ever watched a Korean drama where the characters eat noodles with such grace using chopsticks, and then suddenly you find yourself drooling—not just over the food, but over how cool they look doing it? Well, that’s me. Every. Single. Time.

I’ve always admired people who use chopsticks effortlessly. Whether it's a Thai street food scene, a Japanese sushi date, or a late-night Korean ramyeon binge, there’s just something so stylish and refined about eating with chopsticks. I’ve seen my colleagues on social media flaunt their hot ramen bowls, complete with perfectly held chopsticks. Honestly, I used to feel a little... jealous.

A Quick Bite Into Chopstick History

Before I dive into my own story, let’s take a moment to appreciate where these elegant utensils came from.

Chopsticks originated over 5,000 years ago in ancient China. Initially, they were used for cooking rather than eating—think stirring fires or picking food from hot pots.

It wasn’t until around 400 AD that chopsticks became the go-to dining tool, thanks to population growth and the trend of chopping food into smaller pieces to conserve fuel for cooking.

From China, chopsticks spread across Japan, Korea, Vietnam, and Thailand, each country giving them its own cultural twist. For example, Japanese chopsticks are typically shorter and rounder, while Korean ones are made of metal and often paired with a spoon. Thai people traditionally use spoons and forks, but chopsticks are often used when eating Chinese-style noodle dishes.

Today, chopsticks are more than just tools—they are symbols of heritage, etiquette, and even elegance.

Me and My Chopstick Dilemma

Despite how often I eat Asian food—hello, sushi nights and noodle cravings—I never quite mastered the skill of using chopsticks. My first few attempts were disastrous. Noodles slipping, sushi falling apart, rice flinging across the table… it was like a mini battlefield on my plate. I’d often give up and resort to a fork. How unglamorous.

But every time I watched a drama or scrolled through a friend's Instagram story showing off their ramen mastery, that feeling of “I wish I could do that” hit me again.

So, I made a decision: I’m going to learn how to use chopsticks, once and for all.

My Learning Curve (And Wobbly Fingers)

I started practicing at home. At first, I tried with uncooked rice and later moved to slippery stuff like noodles and dumplings. YouTube became my best friend, and I even watched TikToks showing the right way to grip.

Eventually, it clicked—literally and figuratively. Holding chopsticks felt natural, and for the first time, I could finish a meal without switching to a spoon halfway through.

It wasn’t just about eating anymore. It felt like I was finally part of a tradition that spanned centuries and cultures.

Why Learning Chopsticks Felt So Rewarding

Honestly, using chopsticks made me feel more connected—not just to the food I love, but to the stories, cultures, and people behind them. It’s like being invited into a whole new experience. There's beauty in mastering something that once felt out of reach, and now I eat my ramen or pad thai with pride.

So, if you’re someone like me—someone who once envied others skillfully using chopsticks—don't worry. With a little patience, practice, and a few dropped noodles, you’ll get there too.

And trust me, it’s worth it.