|
A Changed Life
by It was drizzling slightly as the unmarked car I was riding in entered the gate leading to the tarmac of the SEATAC International Airport in Washington. The car window I was looking out of was filled with drops of rain slowly working its way down. It was dark outside except for the distant runway lights that guided the planes for their take-off and landing. The car eased its way toward the area wherein several planes were parked. I was seated at the back with my hands handcuffed behind me, looking out the window as the big China Airlines 747 loomed out of the darkness and filled my view. This was the plane that would take me home. It was a little after nine PM, September 6, 2006. I was being escorted by a United States Immigration Officer to my flight back to the Philippines. After almost seventeen years of living in the United States I was being deported back home. I was a bit apprehensive but in a sense also relieved because after serving more than three years behind bars I was finally being set free. I faced a new life, another chance at starting over, maybe even redemption. The car parked right beside the mobile stairway that was placed at the rear of the plane. My uniformed escort opened the door and helped me out of the car. I looked up the stairway and at the open service door of the plane. I felt the light rain falling on my face. Holding my arm, he led me up the stairs and through that door. He stopped me just before entering the passengers' cabin. He went behind me and released my handcuffs. He then handed me a small bag which contained all my worldly possessions: legal papers, letters, photos, a sweater, sweatpants, a pair of running shoes, extra shorts and a pair of socks. These were all I had to show for after seventeen years of living in America. I was wearing the very same clothes I wore (including my shoes) when I was arrested. As the immigration officer handed me my ticket and boarding pass, the thought struck me that I did not even have a single cent in my pocket. He wished me luck, quickly turned and disappeared down the flight of stairs that we had earlier used, leaving me by myself without a guard or restraints. I was finally free. I breathed a sigh of relief. I handed my ticket and pass to the stewardess who was standing by the entrance to the passengers' cabin. She was eyeing me curiously, probably wondering what crime I committed to warrant my deportation. I was led to my window seat by another stewardess with a much practiced smile on her made up face. I sat down, looked out the window at the darkness outside and savored my first few minutes of freedom. Right there and then I resolved that I will never again put my freedom at risk. I silently prayed and thanked God that He had given me back my freedom. Passengers began entering the cabin and started filling the seats around me. After a few more minutes a female voice came over the PA system announcing our imminent take-off. The high shrieks of four giant engines filled the cabin. The plane began to shudder as the engines were revved for power and we slowly taxied down the runway. I could see the runway lights moving past, slowly at first, then becoming blurs of light as the plane gained speed. Finally, with the engines screaming, the plane lifted me off to the beginning of my new life. I was a different man going home that night, so different from the man who came to America seventeen years ago. When I came to America, I had no God. Going back home, I had already found God. There are moments in our life that change us, that turn us into a different person and completely alter our life. May 11, 1976 was such a moment for me. On that early May morning my father died. He was only forty-nine years old. My father was a senior officer of the Philippine Constabulary assigned to Mindanao. A graduate of the Philippine Military Academy, his class was slowly getting the more important and sensitive assignments in the military. Many of his classmates already wore their stars and he was patiently biding his time for his. As a father, he always tried to find time to be with his family as much as his duties permitted. We vacationed frequently and spent a lot of leisure time together. My mother was a teacher turned successful entrepreneur and like my father she was also a very busy person. My parents, through hard work, were able to give us a privileged upbringing that few enjoyed. Though we were raised in the Catholic tradition and went to Catholic schools, God was never really a big factor in our lives even then. As a family, our relationship with God was limited to a Sunday afternoon obligation best forgotten that very night. Rituals and ceremonies that supposedly bring us closer to God, we took part in, but I really never felt that I had a relationship with God. Yet, I thought we were a religious family. My father was getting ready that early morning for his trip to the airport where he would take a plane for Davao. This was a regular routine for the family. My Dad wanted everyone taking him to the airport. We would share breakfast at the airport restaurant before his departure. There would be last minute teasing and bantering with the usual taunts reserved for our youngest brother and sister. We always enjoyed this ritual. I thought it would be the same that morning. I was getting ready that morning when I heard my mother screaming. My heart beat wildly as I rushed up the stairs and entered my parent's bedroom. I saw my father slumped on the bed unmoving, his face pale and lips dark. Then my uncle (my dad's youngest brother) together with two of my father's bodyguards came in the room. My mother shouted hysterically at them to take my father to the hospital. We lifted him and hurriedly carried him to the car, leaving my mother crying uncontrollably, her hands covering her face, sitting on the floor by the bed. I was holding my father as the car sped for the nearest hospital. His head was cradled on my lap. Along the way, I never prayed as hard as I did. I begged God for my father's life. I pleaded, bargained, made promises. There was that sinking feeling in me that God would not hear me. I began crying as I realized that God would not answer my prayer. My father was pronounced dead on arrival. The skies outside were just starting to lighten. It was 5:42 AM. From that moment on I consciously chose to life a life without God. Filled with bitterness, hate and anger, I laid the blame on God for my father's death. And for the next twenty eight years I refused to even consider God in my life. I suffered the consequences of that decision. More pains were to come to my life after my father's death but I bore it all with contempt and an ugly pride that I could take anything that life would throw at me. I was wallowing in self-pity, bitter and angry over the death of my father, afraid and uncertain of the future, when my girlfriend of several years ended our relationship. I could not handle a relationship at that point. I could not give her the time. I did not care. All I had in me was hate. Then barely a year after my father's death, my best friend (who was like an older brother to me) was killed in Bacolod. He was savagely assaulted by four teenagers. He died from numerous stab wounds. His girlfriend was kidnapped and repeatedly abused for several days until she was able to escape. I became all the more angry and violent. I was so angry with the world, disillusioned with my life. I wanted to strike back, to hurt whoever was responsible for giving me such pain. I laid the blame squarely on God. My disbelief in God grew. My heart hardened. I became callous and insensitive as I did evil after evil. That tiny voice within us that says we are doing wrong became silent. My conscience died and I became capable of doing evil without guilt or remorse. After repeated incidents of senseless violence, I ended up in Iloilo in a room at the St. Paul's hospital suffering from a complete mental breakdown. I was there for the Ati-atihan Festival with my friends, when the all the weight of the pain and anguish, the anger, resentment and hate, just overwhelmed me. I went berserk. My relatives had already tied me up and were debating on whether to take me to Pototan Mental Hospital. I was physically restrained because I was trying to burn down my uncle's house, not content in leaving it in shambles after another violent tantrum. I stayed for several days at the St. Paul's hospital and completely devastated the room I was in, including the bathroom fixtures because I always managed to free myself from the restraints. At this time I felt like I was completely possessed and I became an observer, separate and unaffected to what was happening to me. I could see myself doing things but I could not stop myself, nor was I really involved. It was like watching a movie. I was flown back to Manila with two police escorts. My sisters and brothers were scared of me and did not know what to do. My older sister who was in medical school was our acting parent. At this time, my mother was already in the United States trying to build a new life and preparing a future for her children. So, in my crisis, a married couple, who were close family friends, offered to take care of me and had me confined to a psychiatric facility for treatment. I stayed at the Medical City in the "basement" for six months and I spent two years seeing a psychiatrist. I was literally insane at this time and for those who saw my insanity, could not believe that I would be able to recover. I was already beginning to enjoy my stay at the "basement" where I had no worries, and the world I had to contend with was of my own making. The fantasy world I was creating was so perfect for me. But one day I came to a conscious decision to get well. There was another patient in the facility, a young Chinese man, heavyset with very long hair named "Bonnie". He always kept to himself and mostly stayed in his room. When after two months, I was allowed crafts and arts privilege, I saw Bonnie working on his project. He was bent over, meticulously weaving strand after strand of fiber, making a rug. I came to him and asked him how long he had been weaving that rug. He replied: "three years, four months, twenty two days" and looking at the wall clock by the nurses' station he added: "four minutes and sixteen seconds". That's when I decided to get well. I did not want to end up like Bonnie just counting time lost in fantasy. I did not pray. I did not even consider God in my effort at recovery. I simply decided and by sheer effort of will began to take in a new mind set. I buried my pains more deeply. I learned to keep my emotions in check and I even managed to control my anger, all these with one purpose in mind: to be released from that facility. After six months, I was considered ready to face the outside world again. I lived with the married couple and I acted and behaved accordingly. What motivated me to be "good" were their love and care for me and their trust that I have "changed" even to the point of letting me live with their children, knowing fully well my psychotic past. I went back to school and applied myself to study. I got good grades and pleased my benefactors. My brothers and sisters could not believe my recovery. At this time I stayed away from drugs and had no trouble. I wanted my adoptive parents to be proud of me. For a while everything was all right. But at night, in the darkness of my room, my fears and insecurities beset me. My pain was just below the surface waiting for its time to pounce. It took a lot of effort but I managed to hold it all together. After two years, I went back to live in my own family's house in Marikina. I was beginning to feel that I was restricted in my actions and I just wanted to do my own thing. I wanted that sense of being free from the burden of living a life that was not my own. I then got a very good job in the manpower export industry. I started to make money and had opportunities to make more, though in not totally upstanding ways. As I began to affect lives in my work, and saw how in my position, I could help or break other people, my pride began to grow. I secretly laughed because I thought that I was truly responsible for my seeming success, the material blessings I was enjoying. I believed in myself and my capacity to attain happiness. My credo was: "I can do it". By myself! And where was God in my life? Nowhere! I enjoyed my life in very worldly terms. I turned to drugs again to mask the anxieties and fears of facing life. Making money took on prime importance and was the principal motivation for me. After several relationships, I decided to settle down and have a family. But this was done more out of a growing emptiness in the kind of existence I was living rather than a genuine need to give and receive love within the bounds of marriage. For a while, the novelty of married life, then of having a son, and a daughter, gave me a fleeting sense of happiness but no matter the blessings that come into our lives if God is not part of it, even the blessings turn evil. My success only fueled my desire for what this world had to offer. I turned to women to cover my insecurities. The excitement of chasing after women made me forget. But what I really did not want was to look at myself honestly and see who I was becoming. I hated myself though I would not admit it. But as long as the money was coming in, I could pretend that nothing was wrong. I could lose myself in women; in drugged orgies of physical abuse; in the drive for possessing things; in the petty manipulation of those around me. After several years of this wanton living, when money just kept coming, I suffered a change of fortune. At this time I was already working for myself and had my own manpower export company together with a foreign business partner. We were supplying workers for a bus assembling plant in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. We were already on our second year of deployment when my business partner pirated my principal and conspired with another company to get the manpower requisition contract. I lost the business and I was left holding the bag, I faced angry workers who were promised employment and many of them already paid their placement fees. I had a staff to pay and bills to cover. I faced financial ruin. I borrowed heavily from friends and my family. By this time, my brothers and sisters were already in the United States with my mother. I faced this crisis by myself. Even though I had a wife, I never really shared my plans with her, so I suffered by myself because I did not allow my wife to share my pain. My wife was not working at that time. We had to move in with my in-laws and for two years lived on the allowance my mother was sending us from the States. I saw the drastic change in lifestyle for me and my family. Even my children sensed that something changed. My oldest boy was about five and my daughter three. But they knew that something was terribly wrong because their father could not anymore buy them what they wanted. You might think at this point that I would have turned to God and prayed and begged forgiveness for my ways but I did not. I swallowed the bitter consequence of my choices with hateful pride believing that I could turn the situation around; that I would overcome this. I did not want to turn to God; I did not even want to consider His existence. My younger brother "Butch", already a successful business owner in Los Angeles, wanted to help me and offered to give me a job in the United States. He was also willing to spend for my visa to get there. So it was that on August of 1989, I left for Los Angeles (I now had three kids and another on the way) full of optimism and hope that I could rebuild my life and give my family a future. I was immediately employed by my brother in his auto body shop and he trained me to manage the facility. I was a quick study and learned the ropes of the auto repair business, most specially the side income one could have in the insurance claims aspect of the business. There was money to be made in the personal injury and property damage claims in an auto accident which were generated from the law offices competing over the prospective clients. After a few short months, I was again making money and I literally lost my head in what delights America had to offer. For a while, I worked hard and regularly sent money to my family and communicated with my wife and kids. But the lure of women, drugs, and then later on crime, was just too much to resist. The thrill of the criminal lifestyle was a more potent drug. Eventually, I was addicted to this too. My stay in the US became repeated cycles of self-destruction. I would do very well for a time and then I would sabotage my success. It is only in retrospect that I later understood why I was punishing myself so; why I was literally killing myself. I hated who I was. I hated what I have become. In America, I have experienced living in a beachfront, luxury condo, to lining up for a bed in LA's downtown homeless shelter; from driving a BMW to walking the streets of LA for lack of bus fare; from making a six figure income to bumming for cigarettes at a Metro station. On my first New Year in Los Angeles, at a party thrown by a Filipino "godfather", we were smoking "shabu" and he was lighting the pipe with a hundred dollar bill. I asked him "why?" He replied: "because I can ." and raising his glass filled with his favorite French cognac, toasted me saying: "Only in America!" This was the kind of senseless world I was living in. My wild swings of successes and failures determined my drug use. If I was in my upswing, when I'm making money, and was experiencing a period of success, then I would again indulge heavily in drugs. I would self-sabotage. In a sense I did not want to see myself enjoying life. I lost my family. I alienated my brothers and sisters. My mother grieved for me. I caused so much pain the very people who love and care for me. To forget the pain and to cope with the meaningless existence, I used drugs even more heavily. I began to mainline methamphetamine. I was at this time doing marketing for several home health care agencies and earning extraordinary sums of money. The money only caused me to do more harm to other people. I was involved with "scammers" and fraud was such a challenging and engaging activity. It did not matter if I walked out of a bank with three hundred dollars or thirty thousand dollars. What mattered was the "thrill" of setting up the fraud and accomplishing it. I was part of a criminal ring that would eventually be pursued relentlessly by federal authorities. Manipulating people, especially women became a game for me. I would lose myself in chasing after women and like a drug I had to get my regular dose of sex. Abuse and excess defined my life. I had no guilt, no conscience, and no remorse. I did not even fear death. I remember one day, we were in one of the "drug apartments" we used by Macarthur Park near downtown LA. A friend of mine just finished giving me my third of a gram dose. I was enjoying the high when my heart started racing wildly and I began shaking. I could not breathe and I told myself this could be "it". I turned to my friend and motioned for him to give me another shot. He stared at me with disbelief seeing the pained look on my face. I grabbed his arm and told him to do it. It took him less than a minute to expertly load the syringe and "shoot" me. I welcomed the warm flow of the methamphetamine through my vein. For a few seconds the drug seemed to have stopped my heart but slowly my breathing returned to normal and I felt a rush of relief as the familiar high hit me. I did not die that day. I was a little disappointed. I continued trying to kill myself with drugs, with the lifestyle I was living. The line of people that I failed, hurt and disappointed grew longer. But I did not even stop to consider what I was doing. There would be moments of despair when I was tempted to cry out for God, but I always managed to catch myself. I continued to deny God. Finally, my world came crashing down. I was walking to my car, in a parking lot of a seedy Los Angeles motel, when I heard someone shouting my name. Turning around, I saw a black man in street clothes holding a pistol pointed at me. I froze in my tracks. He told me to put my hands on my head as other federal agents appeared out of nowhere to seize me. I was handcuffed and led to a black car with a single flashing red light on its roof. I remembered thinking it was a beautiful summer day. My arrest that July morning of 2003 saved my life. My incarceration bought me to the point wherein I had to face myself and again ask the fundamental questions of my existence. I was cut off from drugs and could begin to think with clarity. I had time to quiet my thoughts and ponder my life. I was weighed down with such an emotional, physical and spiritual burden. After almost a year, I was at my lowest point. I was facing a lengthy prison term (federal authorities initially offered me a ten year sentence).I was racked with guilt for all the evil I have done. I felt a deep sadness for the pain I caused my loved ones. I was contemplating suicide. I did not want to face another day behind bars. In my desperation, a prayer welled in the deepest part of my being, a call came gushing out of me and a cry from my soul resounded: "GOD" Yes, I called for God that day and in the dark confines of my prison cell, I prayed for God to come into my life and to save me from the hell I was in. I begged God to forgive me, to assure me and give me hope. God did all this for me and more. Everyday thereafter, I continued calling God and slowly He began healing me. I started reading His word and as prayer became a daily practice, my burdens were eased. I gained my faith. I understood that I needed a personal relationship with our Lord, Jesus Christ. I then resolved to live the life of a committed Christian. I was truly born-again. For the remainder of my time spent behind bars, I tried living according to the revelations God was imparting to me. Prayer and reading of His word became part of my daily routine. God kept me and protected me through my prison ordeal. Even in jail I tried to make God the center of my life and I realized His faithfulness, as His grace continued to heal me. One of the desires that God instilled in my heart at this time was my wanting to be fit and regain my health. After over thirty years of abusing my body with drugs, cigarettes and alcohol, I was a physical wreck. I weighed barely a hundred pounds, was constantly shaking and suffered numerous aches and pains all over my body. I had high blood pressure and breathing difficulties. But no matter, when I was 48 years old I began my drive to be fit and healthy. The first healthful decision I ever made was to stop smoking. I prayed to God to take away the desire and He did. I just quit cold turkey. Then I started working out; simple exercises at first. I began doing weights together with push ups and abs exercises to strengthen and build my body. I started playing basketball. I also became conscious of my diet. I fed my body the right food and I fed my spirit with God's word. I became stronger in body, mind and spirit. When I was transferred to Seattle's Federal Detention Center in August 2005, to serve out the remainder of my 40 months sentence, I discovered "running". Seattle is a cold, wet place and inmates were permanently locked inside this building. We had no outside "recreation yard". What we had was an indoor "recreation area" where we played basketball, volleyball and badminton. The sun (literally) did not shine on us. I began running around the recreation area to work up a sweat and just got hooked on "running". My ten minute runs turned into thirty, then into an hour until I could seem to run forever. My running became a time of meditation and prayer. I would lose myself in running and the walls around me seem to dissolve as my mind began to take me to places beyond the walls. Running became both a physical and spiritual pursuit. When I ran, I talked to God and listened to His replies. Running helped me defeat my addictions, perversions and depressions. Running made me a new man. On July of 2006 I was released from federal custody to immigration to await my deportation. I was now a picture of health and fitness. I weighed 130 pounds (of lean muscles) and my waist at 29 inches was my college waist size. My blood pressure was a normal 120 over 70, my resting pulse was 47 per minute, that of a conditioned athlete. I run everyday, anywhere from an hour to two hours (10 to 20 kilometers). I had no difficulty in sleeping. My body aches and pains were gone. My shaking ceased. I was breathing easily. God had restored me to health. It was hot and the sun shining fiercely as we started the last leg of the run, a distance of 15 kilometers from Sum-ag in the southern outskirts of Bacolod to the Rolling Hills Memorial Park (to the east) where the run will end at the mausoleum of my brother "Butch". It was three in the afternoon of July 21, 2007; the first death anniversary of my brother. I knew that a sizable crowd was waiting for us at the mausoleum. Two of my brothers and also two of my sisters were there with their wives and husbands. My mother was also present. They came from the United States for this occasion. Friends, relatives and our church family from "His Life" joined us to commemorate my brother's death. This run was my testimony to how God had changed my life. How I very much wanted to share this with my brother "Butch". Two days earlier, we started the Alvin "Butch" Armada Memorial Run from the city plaza of Dumaguete at 4:00 AM. Together with me were five other young runners. From Dumaguete we ran to Bais City. We enjoyed the spectacular sunrise over the bay along the sea wall road of San Jose. We ran under the cool shade of ancient, acacia trees lining both sides of the road at Tanjay. We got to Bais City by 9:00 AM, running a distance of 55 kilometers. We stopped for breakfast at the Aroma Beach Resort in Bais. We went for a swim at the beach before we had our lunch then took a nap. We were rested and fresh for the second leg of our first day run. We continued our run at three in the afternoon. We spent the first night at Mabinay, after tackling the uphill and winding roads of this town bordering Negros Oriental and Occidental. The distance from Dumaguete City to our overnight stop at a Mabinay hotel, was about 90 kilometers. We were blessed with overcast skies when we started our climb to Mabinay and the cool weather made the run almost easy. We were at the hotel by 6:00 PM, running almost forty kilometers in under three hours. On the 20th of July we left the Mabinay hotel at 4:00 AM after a hurried breakfast of pandesal and cheese washed down with steaming coffee. It was cold and foggy when we started the run. If not for our truck and pickup escorts that lighted the road for us, we could not even see where we were going. We arrived at Himamaylan a little after 8 o'clock in the morning for our short stop for another breakfast, then lunch. We ran a distance of about 65 kilometers. At three in the afternoon, with the sun mercilessly beating down on us, we started our run to Pontevedra, a distance of about 45 kilometers. It was the hardest run so far because of the unceasing heat even in the late afternoon. We got there at about 6:30 PM. From the Pontevedra plaza, we rode to La Carlota where we spent the night. We rode back to Pontevedra the following morning at 4:30 AM for our final day run. We had to wait for ten other runners from Pontevedra to join us for the run to Bacolod. We left Pontevedra at about 5:30 AM but we made up for time by running a killer pace, arriving at Sum-ag before 8:30 AM, covering a distance of over 40 kilometers in a little under three hours. I was already soaking wet as we neared Robinson's Metro on Araneta Ave., about five kilometers into the final leg of the run. My right leg was hurting but I disregarded the pain and continued with my steady pace. We left Sum-ag at past three in the afternoon. Four motorcycle escorts from the Bacolod City police department, expertly worked to control and direct traffic so that our run could proceed unimpeded. People lined the streets attracted by the wailing sirens. Passengers on board jeepneys and buses were waving, cheering us on. Friends in their cars joined our caravan as we entered Bacolod proper. I was setting the pace for the final leg of our run. The heat was sapping the strength out of me and half way into the run, I deliberately slowed down because I was afraid I'd run out of steam before we got to the finish line. Three days of constant running was taking its toll. Both my legs were hurting and suspected I had numerous blisters on my feet. I coasted for about three kilometers praying all the way; telling myself over and over: God is my strength. God is my endurance. God will see me through. I did not even notice that we had reached the vicinity of the Rolling Hills Memorial Park until I heard cheering coming from my right. I turned towards the sound. I could see my brother's mausoleum with a crowd around it beyond the concrete fence of the park. I felt a surge of energy as we neared the park's entrance gate. I picked up the pace and entered the park, hearing the growing din of cheering and applause. I saw the "Finish" banner hanging on the canopy in front of the mausoleum. A few more strides and it was finally over. I had run 250 kilometers to honor my brother's memory. It was almost sunset on Friday, Sept 8, 2006, when my plane landed in Bacolod. I enjoyed the colorful display of the setting sun over the bay fronting the city. I was a little apprehensive, not knowing the reception I would be having on my arrival. I felt unsure because before my deportation, I was not able to talk with my brother "Butch" regarding my decision to come to Bacolod. But I knew my brother would help me rebuild my life. He always did. When I came out of the arrival area I immediately saw Mabol, Butch's wife, together with her now grown up son, Vincent. My fears vanished as I remembered that Vincent also met me at the airport when I arrived in LA seventeen years ago. He was then four years old. I thought it was a good sign. I did not have a clue to the devastating news that was waiting for me. I did not expect my brother to be there because I thought he was busy managing the medical clinic of my older sister in Los Angeles. I was hoping for a Christmas reunion with him. When we reached the house, even before alighting from the car, Mabol turned to me and told me that she had something to tell me. Still, I did not sense the tragedy she was bearing. She finally told me "Butch" was dead. For a moment, my ears just refused to hear the words. I was looking at her and not comprehending. It was only when she began crying, telling me that "Butch" died in a car accident in California that I finally understood. It was as if a sledgehammer struck me. I could not breathe and the pain that followed made my whole body shake. I wanted to shout and curse. Waves of doubt swept through me, as my new found faith wavered, finding myself asking: "Why God?" This I could not understand. This I could not accept. I was so afraid that my brother's death would sever my now fragile connection with God. I did not want to turn away from Him like I did when my father died. For two nights I struggled over the loss of my brother. I anguished and agonized with such a physical pain I felt deep within me. God seemed so far away. That Sunday morning, Mabol took me to the worship service of "His Life Ministries". From the moment I entered the place, hearing the first song of worship, I knew that God was easing my pain and working His grace. I could not even remember what Pastor Joebert Ramos was preaching about that morning, but it was as if God was talking to me through him. I could not stop the flow of tears and as I cried, I felt the comforting presence of the Lord easing the pain from my heart. God reassured me there and then. Even if I could not see, even if I could not understand, God was asking me to trust him completely, even with my brother's death. That morning, I trusted the Lord with my life. I completely surrendered my life to Him; every single thing in my life: my relationships, my needs, my weaknesses and strengths, even my doubts and fears. I gave the Lord my life. God gave me a future and a hope. It has been a year since my coming to Bacolod. I have continued to live my life as the Lord wants me to live it. I have seen wonder after wonder happening in my life. I am overwhelmed by the abundance of the Lord's blessings and I have found purpose and direction in service to others within "His Life". I belong to a "small group" of men committed to the Christian life that has given me inspiration and courage to walk in faith and grow in the spirit. I am thankful to them and to my family at "His Life" for what I am now and what I am becoming. Because of the coming together of several elements in my life then (my being born again; the death of my brother Butch, being part of "His Life" and my love for "running") the Fit2Run;Fit2Serve series of runs were launched. We staged three runs so far this year that not only called our church and community to a fit and healthy lifestyle but also helped raised funds for our medical/dental missions, church planting activities and our His Life Learning Center. The last run was a "memorial run" to commemorate the 1st death anniversary of my brother "Butch" and the preschool was our beneficiary. The Fit2Run;Fit2Serve is now a ministry of our church and we will continue our call to a fit and healthy lifestyle through running. Believing that we should serve with excellence, it is imperative that we be united in this singular ideal: "fit in the service of others". It is our service to others that our love for God is shown, hence, the call to give our best. I have shared my testimony with others and through my "running" will continue to share my story of change through God's grace. Running has given me a platform to show others what God can do in our lives. But it is not about me. It is about God. It is about God's unceasing love and grace that heal broken men; restore relationships; make whole shattered lives; that give us a future and a hope. I continue to work with the children's ministry of our church as a volunteer teacher. I am also involved in other community outreach programs for children. We are presently establishing our children's church. I am also part of our Missions Department and serve on the executive committee of our school, the His Life Learning Center. I have found meaning and a sense of purpose in what I do. I feel truly blessed. There are still so many things we can do for the children and I find joy in harkening to Jesus' words to "feed my lambs". And yes, there was redemption for me. My family came from the States for my brother's death anniversary but they also came to see what has become of me. My mother, brothers and sisters saw how God has changed my life and to say the least were amazed. I was not the same Bert they knew. They learned of my church involvement and activities. They saw how I have done away with my addictions and perversions. They sensed my commitment to my faith. They saw me run from Dumaguete to Bacolod. They were so happy for my "changed life". I could not forget the words of my younger brother Jo before we parted at the Bacolod airport for their flight back to Manila. "I am so proud of you" he told me. I am sure this reflected the whole sentiment of my family. It is not all perfect, living a Christian life. This too, has its ups and downs. The path is narrow, the road straight. It is almost impossible were it not for the grace that God gives us everyday. I realize that God is my need and only by seeking Him, will I be fulfilled. My relationship with the Lord has given me a new understanding of living. I have experienced the freedom that comes with the forgiveness of my sins. My faith allows me to see beyond this life. My salvation is assured. I now live a new life and after so long, I have found my peace. I am happy. My long and difficult journey is over. I have finally come home. Postcript:: I wrote this last year purposely as an article for the planned magazine of our church but the magazine project was put on hold. It is now almost July and it will be the 2nd death anniversary of my brother this July 21. So many things have happened in my life since. Just this June we raised a new ministry, the HLM Agape's Children's Fund which is how the Lord is evolving and defining the burden he has placed in my heart for the children that need us most. We are at present sending 37 preschoolers to His Life Learning Center and we need to find sponsors for them to pay for their scholarships. So far we only have 17 commitments. We still need 20 more sponsors. These children come from underprivileged homes around our school. We want to take part in this most wonderful opportunity to make a difference in the lives of these children and their families through this scholarships program and other programs in health, nutrition and hygiene that we plan to initiate. Our ministry, the Agape Children's Fund will raise the necessary funds to implement our faith in action programs by staging events and activities that would enable us to seek help from individuals and companies. One of these is the staging of a "run". We plan to run this Sept 7 through Oct 19, 2008 through the three islands of the Visayas, namely: Negros, Cebu and Panay. We will call this run The Three Islands Run for the Children (The 2nd Butch Armada Memorial Run) Through solicitation of corporate and individual sponsorships we hope to raise enough funds not only to send our children to school but implement other supplemental programs and activities for the children and their families.. Our run will follow this route: Bacolod City to Dumagute via Kabangkalan and Bais Dumaguete to Cebu then to Toledo to San Carlos City San Carlos City to Bacolod via Cadiz and Victorias Bacolod City to Roxas then to Iloilo City Iloilo to Bacolod City. We want to appeal to others for help. It is not only our scholarships program that we need the public's help on but others such medical/dental clinics for the scholars and their families (twice a year); the hygiene pack giving (every three months: Sept, Dec, March distribution of toothbrush, toothpaste, soap. shampoo etc.) food packages, clothes (used) and toys for the children this Christmas. We also have another goodwill program that we will hold together with the hygiene pack giving and that is the distribution of slippers to the children every three months. Help us. Please join us in this wonderful opportunity of making a difference in the lives of these children. I can be reached through my email [email protected] or tel. no (634) 4322971 My address is Blk 1 Lot 13, Don Fernando Ave., Villa Angela Subdv., Bacolod City 6100 My mobile phone no is (634) 09286887478. Please visit the following websites for more details www.f2rf2s.multiply.com, www.hlmcentral.multiply.com, www.hlmpreschool.multiply.com, www.mightylambs.multiply .com My name is Bert Armada and I am 52 years old presently living in Bacolod City, Philippines. I was a long time US resident until my return to the Philippines in Sept. of 2006 after spending more than three years behind bars in Federal prison. I am a born again Christian doing children's minstry. Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com |