Sher Jeffinitely Amazing

keep soaring high

"The book you don't read won't help." — Jim Rohn

He'd seen it too many times — shelves full of unread books. Courses never started. Knowledge waiting.

Jim's library was impressive because every book was marked up, dog-eared, lived in. A workshop, not a trophy case.

What's on your shelf that you haven't opened?

i felt like this school year slip through my fingers so fast, someday soon, these chairs will belong to strangers who don’t know our inside jokes. the sunlight will still hit the dust floating in the air during the afternoon slump, but we won’t be there to complain about the heat or the broken electric fan anymore. we’re currently living in the “remember when” stories of our future selves, and we don’t even realize how much it’s going to hurt when the last “goodbye” finally rings.

i’ll miss the daily routine of us— the classmate who always sneaks late in class, and the one in the corner who spent the entire year sleeping through every lessons but somehow made it here. i’ll miss the loud ones, the group that always knew exactly what to say to make the whole room explode in laughter just when the lessons felt too long or the stress was getting too heavy.

i look at the seats where we spent hours complaining about lessons we’d now give anything just to sit through one more time, just to be in the same room.

we’re leaving pieces of ourselves in the corridors— whispered jokes that the walls will eventually forget, the desks where we carved our initials or doodled when the lessons got too long. those seats saw everything— the shared snacks under the table, the whispered answers during a surprise quiz, and the tired laughter during recess. the walls heard our loudest secrets.

what i’ll miss the most is that it never felt like a race. there was no bitter competition here, just a room full of people fairly enjoying our last year in junior high school together. we shared notes under the table and passed around snacks like we had all the time in the world. we aren’t just leaving a classroom; we’re leaving the only version of “us” that will ever exist in this room.

i’m leaving the door unlocked, just a tiny crack, because i’m not ready to admit that our 2025–2026 era is officially becoming a memory.

you will be miss s.y 2025-2026!!

stars | faè

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔚𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔑𝔬 𝔏𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯 𝔚𝔞𝔩𝔨𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔈𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔥
A Tribute by Jeffrey B. Macabare

In the summer of 2026, when the power lines across Beirut hung like broken threads against a dimming sky and the nights grew longer without the comfort of light or fuel, the boy learned that silence could be louder than war. The streets still remembered the echoes of sirens, the air still carried the scent of smoke and distant fires, and the house that once held his parents now held only shadows that would not answer when he spoke. Yet on the morning he finally stepped beyond its doorway with nothing but a small bag and a stubborn heartbeat, he noticed a man standing at the far end of the ruined street—not calling to him, not approaching him, only waiting. The man leaned slightly on the wall as though the world itself had grown heavier than it used to be, one hand pressed quietly against his side, watching the boy with the patience of someone who understood both loss and the slow work of enduring it.

All's fair in love and poetry

Sincerely, The Chairman of The Tortured Poets Department

We Are Paid in Applause, Not in Rest
Excerpt from a Narrative of a Bone-tired Teacher
from an Exhausted Jeffrey Brusola Macabare

The classroom smells like whiteboard ink and unfinished expectations. I stand in front of forty faces, each waiting for something from me—clarity, patience, answers, permission to fail safely. I give them my voice, even when it feels borrowed.

“Pass your papers forward.”

The rustling sound is softer than the noise inside my head.

I used to measure my days by lessons completed. Now I measure them by how much of myself is left at dismissal. By the last period, my smile feels laminated—thin, protective, artificial. A student asks, “Sir, are you okay?” I nod automatically. Teachers are trained to reassure, not confess.

During lunch, I eat beside a pile of essays. Red ink stains my fingers like evidence of a quiet battle. Every paragraph I correct is a reminder that I am responsible not just for grades, but for futures. The weight of that responsibility presses against my ribs, heavy and invisible.

When the bell rings at the end of the day, the students leave laughing, relieved. I stay behind with the chairs, the silence, and the hum of fluorescent lights. The room exhales.

I do not.

Tomorrow, I will return with another lesson plan, another steady voice, another practiced strength.

Because in this profession, exhaustion is private—
but performance is public.

Jeffrey Brusola Macabare, LPT is a Filipino educator, academic professional, and literary contributor recognized for his contributions to education and the arts in the Philippines. He currently serves as a public secondary school teacher at Sta. Lucia High School, where he is actively engaged in classroom instruction, curriculum implementation, and learner-centered pedagogy.
He is a Licensed Professional Teacher (LPT) and an alumnus of Cayetano Arellano High School and The University of Manila. His academic preparation reflects a strong foundation in pedagogy, educational research, and professional practice.

Macabare is actively involved in educational research, particularly in the validation of research instruments for graduate, undergraduate studies, and basic education helping ensure methodological rigor and academic integrity in scholarly work. He also participates in professional educator networks across the National Capital Region (NCR), where he is recognized for leadership and service in advancing quality education.

In May 2025, he was conferred the Outstanding Professional Award (Educators Category) by the Pambansang Samahan ng mga Propesyonal sa Pilipinas, Inc. (PSPPI) under the Pride of NCR Awards, in recognition of his excellence and meaningful contributions to Philippine education.

Beyond the academe, Macabare is also an award-winning literary writer. He was recognized for “Inspirational Poem of the Year” (English Category) by Instabright, and his literary works have been published by Dreamers Publishing, reflecting his advocacy for creative expression, storytelling, and the humanities.

Through both education and literature, Macabare continues to promote lifelong learning, critical thinking, and the transformative power of words in shaping individuals and communities.

A Quiet Instruction
Letters and words by Jeffrey Brusola Macabare

The message did not arrive with thunder, but with stillness.
It slipped into the quiet hours, when the world was asleep and my soul was awake.
There was a voice—ancient, unmistakable—carrying the weight of creation itself.
I did not hear it with my ears, but with the part of me that knows who speaks when all things begin.
An angel’s whisper followed, gentle yet unyielding, telling me to prepare.
Not to understand fully, but to be ready.
I was to carry the fruit of grace—something living, sacred, and unseen,
formed not by my strength, but by His will.
Confusion settled like a shadow at dawn.
How does one receive what overturns logic and expectation?
How does one accept a child—whether of flesh, spirit, or calling—
when the path ahead dissolves the familiar?
Yet the voice returned, steady as the laws that hold the stars in place.
It did not explain; it entrusted.
It did not persuade; it commanded with love.
To accept was to obey, and to obey was to step into the mission written long before my name was spoken.
I learned then that grace does not ask permission.
It chooses, it plants, it grows.
And the bearer is not made ready before the calling—
the calling itself does the shaping.
So I stand between awe and surrender,
carrying what I do not fully grasp,
held by a promise older than fear.
In the confusion, I found clarity;
in the instruction, purpose;
and in the voice of the Creator,
the courage to say yes.

Justice ⚖️
Transparency 🔍
Accountability 🧾

✨ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴅᴏ ᴡᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ? ✨

ɪs ɪᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ sᴛɪʟʟ ʟᴀᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ, ᴏʀ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴀᴅᴇs? ɪs ɪᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ sᴛɪʟʟ ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏɴ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ᴏʀ ᴡʜᴇɴ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇs ᴏᴜʀ ᴏɴʟʏ ʀᴇᴘʟʏ? ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅsʜɪᴘ ɪsɴ’ᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴏᴡ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴡᴇ sᴛᴀʏ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴏᴡ ᴅᴇᴇᴘʟʏ ᴡᴇ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ — ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴀᴅ ʟᴇᴀᴅs ᴜs ᴀᴡᴀʏ. sᴏᴍᴇ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅs ᴀʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ʟᴏsᴛ… ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴊᴜsᴛ sᴛᴏᴘ ᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ʙᴇsɪᴅᴇ ᴜs.