I watched the Lenten film Eat Bulaga!: CEO.

The story is simple: a power-tripping, credit-grabbing head of sales expects to be promoted to CEO—but instead, the role is given to Wally, a loyal, diligent, and honest janitor.

The message is clear: character matters.

And it’s a good message. In a world where ambition often overshadows integrity, it reminds us that goodness should not be overlooked.

But the story feels incomplete.

It presents a moral truth, but skips an important reality: leadership requires both character and competence. The film jumps from “good janitor” to “CEO” without showing the formation in between—no skills development, no training, no preparation. Viewers might walk away thinking that being good is enough to rise to the top.

In real life, it doesn’t work that way.

Character builds trust—but competence delivers results. One opens the door; the other sustains you in the role.

I’ve seen people rise from the ranks—even from roles like maintenance or janitorial work. But it took years of growth, learning, and deliberate development. I know this firsthand. I once promoted someone from maintenance to service, then to assistant head, until he eventually became a center manager. His character mattered—but so did the skills he built along the way.

This is why the idea of choosing between character and competence is a false dichotomy.

You don’t have to choose one over the other.
The real goal is to develop both.

Because while promotions based on character may inspire people,
promotions based on character and competence build organizations.

I found this lying on the table during my class. Someone must have left it. Beautiful pun, powerful message.

Pick Jesus—and that means carrying His yoke. It is easy and light, but not without burden.

His yoke is Truth. And when we walk in His Truth, we gain a quiet confidence—knowing our actions are right. But it doesn’t promise rainbows and candy. Those who follow the Truth are often persecuted. What a paradox.

We are left with two choices:
the burden of living outside the truth—confusion, disordered choices, vices, constant compromise, justifying what we know is wrong;
or the burden of living within the truth—the cost of discipline, sacrifice, even rejection, but with clarity and interior freedom.

Picking Jesus doesn’t promise an easy life. But
it promises a life where He helps us carry our cross.

Lately I have been listening to a lot of jazz music while working or on the road. I have loved jazz since I was a teenager, but I was never one to know every artist or style. I listen to enjoy. I listen when I want to relax or get lost in the moment.

A thought came to me. I wanted to write about jazz and Lent. Is it “jam and Jesus”? Clever—but shallow.

So I sat with the question a little longer.

What is it about jazz that feels right for this season?

It’s not the complexity. It’s not even the melody.

It’s the space—and the discipline required to play music that sounds unstructured. The pauses. The restraint. The moments where nothing seems to be happening, and yet there is an order beneath what sounds like chaos. Something is quietly forming underneath.

If you have a music player now, try one song—maybe from Earl Klugh or George Benson. You will hear it. The pause is where the musicality happens, and the disordered notes held together by an unseen order.

Like jazz, Lent calls us to pause and reflect. And in that pause, we begin to notice something deeper. Not control in the way we define it, but a quiet order that holds even the chaos of our lives.

A beginner musicians tries to fill every second with sound, thinking that music is made by constant noise. But real music—like life—emerges in the pauses and in finding order in chaos.

And perhaps that is what I am slowly learning this Lent: not to fill every moment, but to trust the silence, where God is already at work.

Traffic was horrible yesterday, so it was already dark when we reached the cemetery, too dark that we decided to stay in the car and pray for my dad from there.

Jaime said the darkness felt like the beginning of a horror film. Iuri even joked that if something suddenly appeared, he’d run and leave us behind.

After the visit, we tried Sensei in BF, as recommended by friends. The place was intimate maybe thirty seats at most, and also carried La Chinesca’s Mexican menu. The portions were modest and the prices a bit steep, but the food delivered where it mattered: taste and quality. Every dish felt intentional, made with care.

The conversation revolved around UA&P, mental health, and my short videos, which Jaime’s friends love teasing him about. Lol.

After dinner, we went to visit my in-laws in Merville. What should’ve been a quick 30-minute drive turned into an hour-long detour after a missed turn led us through Cavitex and Pasay. We finally arrived around 9:50 p.m. Despite the late hour, the grandparents were overjoyed to see the boys, and even Chapo, their dog, barked with pure excitement the moment he heard our voices.

Thankfully, the drive home was smooth. I was tired when we got back but there was a feeling of satisfaction.

I may have spent a little more on food, on wrong turns but what I received in return was something no price could match: laughter, stories that filled the silence, and the grace of being together.

Sometimes, it’s in new places and wrong turns
where the heart finds its home.