(Edited
from August 15, 2011
at 1:28pm)
One
night, I was in a hurry to catch the last trip back home when my stomach
growled, I knew, to ignore it could be fatal. It did demand something in demand
from the nocturnal street food chain in front of the most expensive St.
Paul
That
something was “Linậ-gậ.”
I had
just miraculously finished an entire game of basketball, what else, being my
top sporting passion, despite my bereft of skill and talent for the game. This is the sole driving force behind the
still running, though wobbly, limbs, with the solicitors of the Iloilo Chapter
whom in their profession they’ve found fame.
Some of
whom are a way ahead of me in years, and in running full court as well, but
their shooting accuracy was a truly a marvel.
Some are seemed to be born only yesterday, with their fresh face and brute
force like steel, but with basketball IQ that’s below sea level.
As I ordered one order of that “linậ-gậ,” take out, not dine-in, in view of the pouring rain, I suddenly saw a familiar face. The omnipresent vagabond beggar I met in every nook and cranny of the city, drifting around always. She was then sitting on the bench of the waiting shed marked “Through The Efforts Of Congressman…” not worth another word, I tell you. I had already a name for her through the years: “Madam Pilgrim of the Earth,” whose arms and elbows at night serve as her pillow.
With chin on one bended knee, which she hugged like a long lost baby, she was freezing and obviously hungry. It was now drizzling and night was falling, the sight tore my heart apart, my spirit crushed, what’d you do if you were me?
Then I immediately ordered another one for the old woman (I was initially tempted to copy what then a fellow customer said to a waiter in one restaurant short on sleaze. When he ordered another one, similar to his previous order, he pronounced in well for his gorgeous date: “Make it twice please”).
Immediately thereafter, I handed to her that one order to help her survive the night at least, and that when I’d leave her later I would never feel bad. Yet, to my shock and awe, she swatted away the plastic bag, letting the “linậ-gậ” spill on the road, and be devoured by the oily black waters of the flood.
The eyes of the witnesses at the time were apparently nonchalant as they covered their mouth in aghast, but I was so sure their shaking shoulders gave away the arcane laughter so fast.
I would have wanted to get mad. I would have liked the insult to be traded back. I wanted to help her honestly, but look what she did to me. This despite I gave up for her that night my only left spare money.
But my anger swiftly subsided when I realized this was probably what had God the Father felt too when He gave His only Son to this world as a gift. And the world in return, instead of receiving such greatest precious gift, turned the King of Kings down, and they have Jesus Christ rejected.
My offering of love was not consummated. Truly, a gift is not a gift until it is received.
As I ordered one order of that “linậ-gậ,” take out, not dine-in, in view of the pouring rain, I suddenly saw a familiar face. The omnipresent vagabond beggar I met in every nook and cranny of the city, drifting around always. She was then sitting on the bench of the waiting shed marked “Through The Efforts Of Congressman…” not worth another word, I tell you. I had already a name for her through the years: “Madam Pilgrim of the Earth,” whose arms and elbows at night serve as her pillow.
With chin on one bended knee, which she hugged like a long lost baby, she was freezing and obviously hungry. It was now drizzling and night was falling, the sight tore my heart apart, my spirit crushed, what’d you do if you were me?
Then I immediately ordered another one for the old woman (I was initially tempted to copy what then a fellow customer said to a waiter in one restaurant short on sleaze. When he ordered another one, similar to his previous order, he pronounced in well for his gorgeous date: “Make it twice please”).
Immediately thereafter, I handed to her that one order to help her survive the night at least, and that when I’d leave her later I would never feel bad. Yet, to my shock and awe, she swatted away the plastic bag, letting the “linậ-gậ” spill on the road, and be devoured by the oily black waters of the flood.
The eyes of the witnesses at the time were apparently nonchalant as they covered their mouth in aghast, but I was so sure their shaking shoulders gave away the arcane laughter so fast.
I would have wanted to get mad. I would have liked the insult to be traded back. I wanted to help her honestly, but look what she did to me. This despite I gave up for her that night my only left spare money.
But my anger swiftly subsided when I realized this was probably what had God the Father felt too when He gave His only Son to this world as a gift. And the world in return, instead of receiving such greatest precious gift, turned the King of Kings down, and they have Jesus Christ rejected.
My offering of love was not consummated. Truly, a gift is not a gift until it is received.
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