Sunday Morning With Mama Lina

Sunday mornings in the Philippines felt like a lullaby wrapped in sunlight. The air was soft, the streets still sleepy, and the scent of rice steaming in the kitchen drifted through the windows like a gentle promise.

Mama Lina would call me over with a quiet hum, her hands warm and sure. She’d part my hair with care, smoothing it back and tying it with a cloth bow—always the same one, faded but faithful. It wasn’t just a bow. It was her way of saying, You are loved. You are seen. You are ready to greet the world with grace.

Then came the Sunday dress. Pressed and waiting. Sometimes floral, sometimes lace-trimmed, always chosen with intention. I’d slip it on and feel transformed—like the morning itself had chosen me to carry its light.

And then, I was ready. Ready to go to church with my Mommy Minda—my mom, Mama Lina’s younger sister. She’d take my hand, and together we’d walk past sari-sari stores and neighbors sweeping their yards. The world felt slower on Sundays, more tender. Even the trees seemed to bow a little lower, as if in reverence.

In that quiet rhythm—hair bow, dress, hand-in-hand—I learned that love is in the details. That legacy lives in the rituals. That every cloth bow tied by Mama Lina, every step beside Mommy Minda, was a thread in the tapestry of who I’d become.