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| Sister R. and her teen-aged boys find the gospel |
Our blog posts seems to just get farther apart, despite our
best intentions.
I don’t think we have
less time really, I think it is a combination of things: our blog, at the
beginning seemed like our life line.
How
could our parents and kids know what we were doing? How could we stay connected
to those we were so yearning for?
How
else could we supply the mandatory missionary weekly letter home that our kids
had been so diligent in writing from their missions, except by blogging, so
they could ALL get the details?
But then things evolved: Heavenly Father blessed us early on to feel less
yearny, we found
ways to stay in touch by email, VOIP and Skype, we found that some didn’t read
the blog anyway, we have been taking fewer pictures, which are really what add
to a blog, and lastly, we often can’t seem to remember what we have and haven’t
written, so, it all adds up to fewer blog posts.
But, letters and blogs really do offer a different level of
communication—insights, reflection, observations and musings that don’t quite
get through on a magic jack phone call that is all crackly and in which I am
trying to do yoga with Rodney Yee on video (yes, I DO get the irony of that)
while the son or daughter I’m calling is nursing a baby, packing lunches for
tomorrow, biking home from work, surfing the net, or otherwise multitasking
like I am.
So, I continue on this attempt to share what we are about
here. We hope you have time to read it.
Right now we are working with missionaries in three
different branches which each has a former branch president who has been gone
from the church for a number of years.
There is often 1 or more of these men in every branch!
Let me tell you of one.
Brother
T drove a truck all his life.
He says
that his truck driver’s license was his ticket for traveling.
He would
go to a new place he wanted to see, then get a job driving, and explore and
learn about that place.
He has traveled
all over the Philippines in that way and has taught himself several languages
in the process.
His English is
astonishingly good for a man of little education.
He is one of those people who has a
particularly good ear for language, and who loves to learn, so he is
self-taught at a level that is really astonishing.
His collection of books, collected from who
knows where, is treasured, though tattered and moldy, but his
scriptures he has protected in a scripture case, inside another cloth bag.
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| ya, we are happy doing this work |
I should describe him physically. He is slight, like many here, but
muscular—the kind of round and bulging (rather than long and lean) muscles that
speak of years of loading sugar cane trucks and that are incongruous on an old
man. He is 73. He can only stand straight up if he is on tip-toe on one foot, because his right leg is several inches shorter than the
other. So, to stand on both feet, he has to bend at the waist, push out one hip
and twist over. His pronounced limp and
shriveled leg strangely do not diminish the dignified demeanor of this man, nor his overall
mobility.
He incurred the injuries when the axle on the sugarcane truck he was
driving broke, and the truck pitched over the steep hill he was cresting. It rolled for a time with him in it; then he
was thrown. The ball of his hip joint was poking out his back, and though he
did eventually get medical care, the surgery was far from adequate. And yet he
still works—cleaning, cooking, gardening, and repairing shoes. He is a soft spoken, gentle, wise man and his unique accent
and his vocab when speaking English indicate he has learned both from books and
from listening to foreigners of various accents. His features are on the Chinese side of
Filipino, his eyes weak and weepy with age, but bright. He takes in body
language and nuances of tone, highly tuned in to details, spiritual, doctrinal
and temporal that others miss—a fact you can discern from his reflections and
observations. He is one of God’s more truly beautiful children, and his
crippled body, weathered skin, next to non-existent teeth only
highlight his beauty. Okay that sounds all poetic and lacking reality, but I
wish you could meet this man. When he
glances up and smiles at you, making a comment that is astonishing in its
profundity, you are taken aback. Who is
this guy?
Brother T joined the church late in life—back in 2003, after
his accident.
First he, and then his
wife listened to the gospel message, and he knew he had found what had been
missing in his worship before. He said he had never been able to find answers
to the questions that plagued him, but now it all made sense.
He embraced it fully.
All he had learned of languages and scripture
and people and religion was finally contained in the one truth of the restored
gospel of Jesus Christ.
Then came the tragedy—far worse than a sugar cane truck
jerking your hip from its socket and crushing your leg.
It began when Brother T was called into the
Branch Presidency shortly after his baptism.
Then, the Branch President “resigned” and after only 3 months as a
member of the church, when he should probably not yet have even received the
Melchizedek priesthood, he was called to be Branch President over a remote
branch.
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| a lovely stretch of beach south of where we live |
At that time there had been a tradition in the branch that
the Branch President would give out rice to those who came to church. Right after brother T became Branch Pres. the
district leaders told him that this practice could not continue. People should come o church to worship, not
to receive a hand out. Brother T was the
unfortunate soul who had to inform the members of the policy and to enforce
it. He took away their rice. But they didn’t simply stop coming. A very vocal member started a petition. In not too long he had collected signatures
from nearly every member of the branch to have President T. ousted. I hope as you read that sentence you felt the
sorrow and weight of it. The members
ganged up on this newly converted man and crushed his soul in a crippling blow
much more consequential than his accident.
He couldn’t face going back.
Many missionaries have visited and taught him over the
years—he loves their visits, saying they are the only friends he has in the
church—but for some reason, the missionaries who are there now bought just the right Spirit at just the right time and he decided to return. By the time we met him he had been back twice to church.
As he described the first time back he said that it felt
very good to be there. He also said,
they still hate me, I can see it by how they move, but I don’t hate them. This time weepy for another reason than age,
he apologized that his eyes “can’t help but rain the drops of tears”.
We
asked if we could sing a hymn with him before we left, and with great
excitement he pulled out a notebook in which he had copied the lyrics to several
hymns. Above each there were several measures of notes copied out
also. I asked him about the notes and
verified that they were indeed the notes to the songs. He said that he was
trying to learn about the music and find out their language and if the black
notes were like do, so, la, and such. Ya, he was teaching himself musical
notation. He sang out with us and Elder D. added a bass line and I the alto and
we sounded like quite a little chorus in his cramped little cement block house, interrupted only by the delivery of a pair of shoes someone needed to have
stitched and the rooster in the kitchen who wanted to join in.
Brother T’s wife has long since returned to her former
church where she admittedly gets no doctrine, no direction for life, no real
relationship with God, but where no one argues about rice and hurts each other.
She could not reconcile the truth of the gospel with the way he had been
treated. Go figure. But he never went
back to his old faith. He knows where
the truth is. We only hope the members
there, a decade later, can rise up to his level and greet him in fellowship.
We have encountered so many iterations of this. They
all amount to members or leaders who are less than converted and less then well
trained making mistakes, being decidedly wrong or hard-
headed, or just
being human.
We have wondered why it is
so rampant.
Elder Cropper thinks it is
like the early history of the church only without the weeding out
process of mobs and forced moves.
In the
early church in America, the saints had to make choices to stay on, to learn and to measure up
or they stayed behind.
Here, many
responded to the message of the gospel, connecting with the
truth of it, but then they did not have the winnowing or the refining
necessary.
So, ALL the people who joined
stayed on the books, regardless of their level of conversion, and hence many of the members
and even leaders were not, 10 years ago, at the level of understanding and
devotion required for a lay church to function properly.
But, God knows all the whys and
wherefores, and
gratefully the outcomes will be according to His will. Hopefully, brother T will continue
to have the humility, faith, patience and courage to venture back to the true,
though sometimes imperfect church and to us, its truly imperfect members.
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| we never get used to this daily sight |
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| a small barangay pulls off an amazing parade for fiesta |
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| to worship senor santo nino |
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| There are elements from ancient pagan traditions |
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| mixed with Catholic saint worship |