***narrative***
It’s my ‘vacation’ and I’m in Manila, Philippines- the motherland. Manila is the major metropolitan city in all of Philippines. It’s just like Bangkok, but definitely not as clean and ten times less safe.
I’m staying at my organization’s office, which has to be locked by an additional heavy metal door and three locks. Our office here has a bedroom on the second floor where I sleep at night and have been waking up every morning at 6 am because of noisy traffic on the street. The place is just walking distance from some of the city’s major malls, a convenience store and a basketball gym. Needless to say its location is not just comfortable- it’s exceptionally convenient. Come to find it my residency here could be divine.
Today I was looking through the glass door and across the street and I saw some kids playing basketball. Filipinos love to hoop. I miss the game a lot so I went over there to watch them play, and I was a little nervous (this was the Filipino hood and I didn't want to get robbed). There were about 8 of them in a small area probably just 20-25 sq feet. They all were shirtless and playing barefoot. I stood off to the side and watched. Trying to be inconspicuous, I listened to the ball's rythm against the ground and its' clang against the backboard. I could feel the "itch" starting up inside of me. I felt it- the insatiable desire to play. I couldn't help it. I had to scratch it. They had finished their game and some guys were eying me, muttering to each other in Tagalog.
"Can I shoot one?" I asked. I stepped forward and into the middle of the tiny court.
"Yea," they said. I touched the ball and felt its grip on my hand. I pressed my palm against the dirt and the rubber, and took a shot. Net. The sound was like fluidity for my soul. I missed this game. I looked over at the Filipinos sitting down at the side. They had just finished playing.
"Isa-pa," I said putting my finger in the air with a sense of challenge. Isa-pa, the word meant "one more" in Tagalog.
They all got excited and started yelling out. "Welcome to the hood! Welcome to the hood!" They all started pelvic thrusting in a motion that was likely imitating some rap video they had seen on tv.
"You can play one-on-one," said one of the taller guys. He prodded one of the youths forward. From watching them play, I knew he was their best player, but I savored the challenge. Later on this week, a friend of mine was going to do me a favor and contact his nephew who was an agent for some imported pro basketball players in Manila. Since, I was trying to run with some pros, I needed to remember how to play the game.
James was shoeless and shirtless, wearing just a pair of boxers. The rim was smaller, the ground was unlevel but it was still basketball. And I love basketball.
Even though I was on the other side of the world, I knew the rules of hoops on the street. On the street it’s not about making money. It's not even about winning. More than anything, it's about gaining respect. We played a game to 11 while the others watched, color commentating in Tagalog. I could see some of the older Filipinos peaking through their doors- just watching keenly.
I finished the game with a spinning fade away on the left baseline (or concrete wall).
"Good game man," I told James, extending my hand.
"Good game," he said taking my hand. I had got it. Respect.
"Hey you're welcome here man!” said one Filipino. “We play here everyday. Come to the hood and play!"
The guys started asking me questions while James went inside to get me a drink of water. Using a mix of Tagalog and English (I'm poor at speaking the language) I told them I was a missionary from Bangkok and that I missed basketball because in Thailand all they have is Muay Thai. For fear of getting robbed, I didn't tell them I lived right across the street, and neither did I tell them I was born in America. I told them I was from Quezon City, which was actually the part of Manila where my father grew up.
"Do you drink wine?" they asked.
"Siempre," I said with a smile. "But only two or three. I don't get drunk."
"Do you smoke weed?"
"I'm a missionary man." I answered. "I share about Jesus. I don’t smoke weed. Weed makes you lazy."
They nodded their heads. “Yea it does,” said one Filipino.
"But it makes you happy," one guy said laughing to his friends.
"Jesus makes me happy," I said, silencing his laughter and letting his other friends think.
They invited me to play on their team in a league versus other boroughs. They gave me their number and I left to go work out in a boxing gym that was a block up the street. I was going hard and in a full sweat when I saw a couple of the teenage kids from playing basketball looking at me through the window, smiling at me while I was working the bag. I smiled back and gave them my best kick and put my thumb in the air. Smiling ear to ear, they put their thumbs up and turned around and went on their way.
On my way back to the office I saw the kids lingering in the front of the street, smoking some cigarettes. To tell you the truth, I was afraid to go into where I was staying for fear that those guys would later rob the place. I was warned before that this was a dangerous area. So I gave them a head nod and walked past where I was staying. I walked up the block and slowed to a stop. There was an old hobo looking guy sitting on some steps and a bunch of guys walking around that looked just a little bit too desperate. Crud. I didn't know what to do. If I just walked into the office and showed them where I lived, I was risking a possible robbery in the future. If I continued wandering up the street I was risking someone robbing me right now.
"God what do I do?" I asked God to keep me safe and to be with me. I decided to walk across the street and try to befriend them some more. I figured, they wouldn't do anything to someone they considered one of themselves. So I dodged through oncoming Gypnies and Motorcycle Taxis and went over. It turns out that the Filipinos are HUGE fans of the UFC. A trait that we have in common. I actually worked with a UFC magazine before I left for Asia. So I talked with the guys for a good 15-20 minutes about the UFC. They were animated and excited to talk to me. We ended up talking about Muay Thai, since two of them saw me working out in the gym up the block. They told me they were all high school kids going to the same Catholic school between 16 and 20 years old. One of them was 26.
James asked me to teach them Muay Thai for self-defense, because there was a lot of robbers up the street who did hold ups with knives and rocks. I was a basketball coach for the YMCA back in California. I had coached youths from 4- 12 years old for the last four years. But this wasn't basketball and these were high school kids. This was Muay Thai, and I had only been training for four months. I was only using it for exercise and I didn't want these kids beating up on some defenseless kid on the street.
"I am only training," I said. "I'm not a teacher. My friend from Cavite (Filipino province), he is a real teacher, I just train."
"We want to know how to defend ourselves," James said. "All we know how to do is street fight."
Suddenly, out of nowhere, I had an idea.
"I will teach you Muay Thai," I said. "Pero (but) you have to let me teach you the Bible. I'm a missionary man. One story from the Bible for one lesson."
They all looked at each other.
"Ok!" James said. "Teach us Muay Thai."
"That is a good strategy," someone else said to me. They asked me if I was going to become a priest and I told them that I was just a regular guy, like anybody else.
"Hey it's getting late, said the 18-year old Filipino. "We have to go inside now."
"Ok tayo-na," I said. "I will see you tomorrow."
They all started giving me handshakes- their version was a hand-clasp with a forearm-to-chest bump.
"Hey we're G's now!" said James. " We have to give our secret handshake."
I taught them the way we did the handshake back home in America- Finger clasp to palm clasp and a forearm to the chest. They all laughed and went inside. I crossed the street and went into my place finished with another day and amazed at God’s providence. I asked myself:
“How am I going to teach these guys Muay Thai and show them the gospel?” I let out a breath. God give me grace.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
After the Storm
***report***
The man leans forward like a drunkard in the pew. He buries his face in his palms, as a guest preacher’s voice booms from the pulpit.
Six months after the Nargis Cyclone, Reverend Shane attends the annual Baptist gathering. He can still feel the effects of the cyclone that killed hundreds of thousands in Myanmar’s Irrawaddy delta. As the village pastor he has had to be strong, encouraging the people while still recovering from his own loss.
But on this morning in November, Reverend Shane can only drown in his pain. Before that fateful day in May, he was a husband and father of three growing children.
Now he and his 11-year-old son are the only ones from his family left.
Shane’s eyes become lost as he recalls the night he and thousands of others lost their families.
“I want to testify that God’s and our plans are sometimes different,” Shane says. On that night in May, Shane planned to rescue his entire family. But his plans failed when his seven-day old son was dropped in the flood and his wife and daughter succumbed to the powerful wind and waves.
Months later, Shane can still taste the salt water in his throat.
While the road to recovery remains long, experts predict that it will take 2-3 years for life in the delta to return back to normal. Currently, relief workers are aiming to rebuild homes and provide water. The rebuilding has proved a long and tedious task, as it requires over a days journey on a boat to reach the infected areas. Many of the villages still live in temporary housing.
Meanwhile, hundreds upon thousands of orphans have been displaced to cities such as Pathein and Myawmya. In these cities, relief work has been organized allowing for the outsourcing of supplies and aid.
Currently relief workers find that the biggest challenge for the affected areas has been the restoring of livelihood. Farming has proved difficult as flooding destroyed the soil. In Shane’s village, farmers have only been able to produce 2 out of 50 acres.
On this morning in November, Reverend Shane buries his face in his palms. There is much work to be done, but for now, he can only mourn for his lost wife, son and daughter. For days following the cyclone, Shane remained in denial, refusing to go out and bury his family. He finally forced himself to go out and recover the bodies. To keep his spirits lifted, he encouraged the children along the road.
“I want to thank God,” he says between his tears.” Because we are not like unbelievers without hope.”
While the cyclone is nine months past, the survivors are still dealing with the devastating affects. Since May, many have faithfully responded financially and prayerfully. May you continue to pray that the villages will receive both physical and spiritual aid. Pray that the people will rebuild their lives on the unwavering rock that is the word of Jesus Christ. Pray that the local churches will be rebuilt with a strong spiritual foundation so that they can serve as a refuge for any future tragedies.
The man leans forward like a drunkard in the pew. He buries his face in his palms, as a guest preacher’s voice booms from the pulpit.
Six months after the Nargis Cyclone, Reverend Shane attends the annual Baptist gathering. He can still feel the effects of the cyclone that killed hundreds of thousands in Myanmar’s Irrawaddy delta. As the village pastor he has had to be strong, encouraging the people while still recovering from his own loss.
But on this morning in November, Reverend Shane can only drown in his pain. Before that fateful day in May, he was a husband and father of three growing children.
Now he and his 11-year-old son are the only ones from his family left.
Shane’s eyes become lost as he recalls the night he and thousands of others lost their families.
“I want to testify that God’s and our plans are sometimes different,” Shane says. On that night in May, Shane planned to rescue his entire family. But his plans failed when his seven-day old son was dropped in the flood and his wife and daughter succumbed to the powerful wind and waves.
Months later, Shane can still taste the salt water in his throat.
While the road to recovery remains long, experts predict that it will take 2-3 years for life in the delta to return back to normal. Currently, relief workers are aiming to rebuild homes and provide water. The rebuilding has proved a long and tedious task, as it requires over a days journey on a boat to reach the infected areas. Many of the villages still live in temporary housing.
Meanwhile, hundreds upon thousands of orphans have been displaced to cities such as Pathein and Myawmya. In these cities, relief work has been organized allowing for the outsourcing of supplies and aid.
Currently relief workers find that the biggest challenge for the affected areas has been the restoring of livelihood. Farming has proved difficult as flooding destroyed the soil. In Shane’s village, farmers have only been able to produce 2 out of 50 acres.
On this morning in November, Reverend Shane buries his face in his palms. There is much work to be done, but for now, he can only mourn for his lost wife, son and daughter. For days following the cyclone, Shane remained in denial, refusing to go out and bury his family. He finally forced himself to go out and recover the bodies. To keep his spirits lifted, he encouraged the children along the road.
“I want to thank God,” he says between his tears.” Because we are not like unbelievers without hope.”
While the cyclone is nine months past, the survivors are still dealing with the devastating affects. Since May, many have faithfully responded financially and prayerfully. May you continue to pray that the villages will receive both physical and spiritual aid. Pray that the people will rebuild their lives on the unwavering rock that is the word of Jesus Christ. Pray that the local churches will be rebuilt with a strong spiritual foundation so that they can serve as a refuge for any future tragedies.
“Whoever comes to Me, and hears My sayings and does them, I will show you whom he is like: He is like a man building a house, who dug deep and laid the foundation on the rock. And when the flood arose, the stream beat vehemently against that house, and could not shake it, for it was founded on the rock.” Mark 6:47-68 (NKJV)
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