I came from a culture that commits to a sense of giving—where a communal sentiment of sharing unites the neighbourhood. Whether it’s salt, vinegar, or a can of rice, it was as significant as surviving for another day. I still remember the impoverished days, but happier moments and mornings are opportunities to touch lives.

I grew up in a slum neighbourhood where mazes and rows of houses were slanted bamboo posts and rushed overnight. It was where the stretch of river banks became a community of distant relatives and new friends. A Filipino gesture called Bayanihan mushroomed the place like children’s fairyland—eclectic, colourful, vibrant. At that time.

Behind our hut was a river that flows a few kilometres to Hinulugang Taktak. The water always glistens and crisp with the morning’s rays.

The street used to be called “Del Baño”—a name derived from its old public bath built by the Spaniards in the late 1800s. Natural springs abound along the river. It was a place for giggling grandmothers for noontime showers. And by the river, they talk about gossips while chewing betel leaves. It was a popular spot to wash clothes on weekends.

To my father, that piece of land was a sentimental choice. He grew up with all his mischievous and rogue years swimming across the river—competing with his skills against the currents.

Our neighbourhood was a stigmatized part of a town. Most people think of slum residents who deviate from the morals, norms, and standards of public decency held by the wider orthodox community. The area wanted decency, yet my father refuted that the locals should not even be considered socially disorganized. They may lack coherence that was found in more economically stable environments. And there may be 2 or 3 criminal instances in my ten years when I lived there, but calculating the many quiet days and peaceful nights, I am convinced to state that my neighbours there were the best I have, so far.

We were compassionate with one another.

We said lousy sermons to children when we caught them running naked on the street. We scrounged old clothes, and for some days, our old favourites to clothe them. We felt good when they fit and laughed when they ran away like rugby players, back to the playground.

It was a place where populous children in the barangay attended a child’s 5th birthday. My neighbour Emmy would cook Arroz Caldo for 100 children, and we’d buy bags of pandesal. It was when spaghetti with meatballs seemed a special treat on New Year’s Eve.

We were there when childhood was celebrated by playing in the rain; and hide-and-seek on nights under the full moon.

It was a fantastic spectacle of innocence.

My sister, who was practicing midwifery, became a go-to person for neighbours who were sick. As such, in our neighbourhood, it became a norm for pregnant mothers to pay her in kind– chickens and backyard produce for my sister’s services. Visiting a medical doctor was a far-fetched idea for reasons that they did not have money.

My nanay was more generous; she would cook tinola or sinigang with overflowing soup stock and vegetables and then send a big bowl to a sick neighbour or to children who were left alone by their parents.

So, my mom did not become a good entrepreneur when she built a sari-sari store, as it turned out.

So was my sister.

Nanay adopted another child, Gadoy– the day he was born. I was 18 then, and with a family of 5, I thought of feeding another mouth would be too burdensome for my father. However, my father was so amused when my mother named the child after my father’s nickname, Gado. All is well after that.

My family did not have a set of expectations. Not even emotional expectations that those instances would have something in effect in the future.

It was sheer kindness to help a neighbour.

We were a family of a giver. I grew up with a happy bunch of friends and neighbours.

My mother’s most sublime task was to teach me to give thanks to God and share whatever I have with others. I was four years old when she introduced me to kneel and say my prayer.

The struggling years taught us to be resilient and prayerful. Decently surviving would mean we needed to study hard and work harder. My primary responsibility was to finish my studies to help my sister continue her studies, and my sister would have the same expectations to do the same with my 3rd sibling.

The responsibility of the eldest was the most challenging. I knew that. If I failed, the cycle would start on my second sister. It would be disastrous. For our family to succeed, I needed to obey my parents and sacrifice whatever self-longing, self-indulgent material things I dream about having.

My family met challenges and tribulations along the way.

My high school years were either sponsored by the municipality or by Mrs. Martinez, who gave me transportation money and volunteered me at the school cafeteria– for free lunch.  My university fees were all based on scholarship and monthly stipends from the school paper.

So from slum to Canada, what did I do to deserve a happy family life? What else can I dream of if I am where I dreamt of being here, 30 or 35 years ago?

A childhood dream.

Contentment and peace. These are my barometers for success. Nothing grand. Nothing fancy.

What I am trying to explain is the reason why our lives are blessed.

There are thousands of people out there who are ‘fascinated yet livid’ on why we give our Church monetary offerings. What point of comparison in their experiences can I show that being inside the Church of Christ is the only way one can achieve hope, blessings, and peace even in this temporal life?

Find the true Church where there is hope for salvation.

Nothing is in vain. Not when you serve the Lord.

Looking back,  I feel no deadweight loss for those ‘gifts’ that I gave, no regrets even a pinch, for the offerings I made to our beloved Church of Christ—for I have given them with all my heart, with all my faith–that this is how I praise our Lord God.

It is the only sincere, proper way of Thanksgiving I know of, one right course I can praise Him with all His good works.

Over time, a buoyancy of the spirit of giving remains. I will continue to provide and share, for mine is a memory of love, laughter, divine guidance and blessings of peace.

It is still my primitive sense of giving. No receipt is required.

Nothing is in vain. Not when you serve the Lord.###

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