Manila Marriage App (5 page)

“Fine. End of conversation.” I turned my head and stared out the window. What was I doing here? Maybe I should pack it in and take the next flight for the States.

Twenty minutes later, we reached our destination.

Timothy drove into a crowded parking lot filled with cars, trucks, jeeps, motorcycles—every style of vehicle you could think of, some dating back several decades.

By now, I knew what was expected and after he parked the vehicle, I waited. Sure enough, he hurried around to my side and opened the door. This time he offered me his hand. Hmm. I had a flicker of indecision, but after an uncomfortable half hour of stewing, I'd let bygones be bygones. At least, for now.

I allowed him to take my hand and help me out of the car, proud of myself for ignoring the tingle it created. Well, mostly. I might have been mad, but I wasn't immune to a fine, first class physique.

Amusement darted across his face.

If I wasn't still peeved, I might have returned the smile.

 

 

 

 

5

 

We walked toward a church on the corner of a busy road. Was there any other sort of road in the suburbs of Manila? The building was sizeable and resembled a real church. I'm not sure what I was picturing—a hut of some kind? Mud bricks? Dirt floor? Whatever I'd been envisioning, it wasn't this huge, well-constructed structure.

Inside, two teenagers, a girl and a boy, greeted us with enthusiasm. The girl all but batted her eyelashes at Timothy. “Welcome, Dr. Flynn. Who's your lady friend?” She snickered and hung her head, suddenly bashful.

“This is Miss Callahan, from the United States. She's visiting us for a couple of weeks.”

That was nice to know. I was a visitor, not a potential wife, but then how would one work that into a conversation?

“Nice to meet you both.” I shook their hands.

The girl, Maria, showed us into the sanctuary and led us toward two chairs in the second row.

Timothy and I had just settled on the folding chairs when the service kicked into gear. A twenty-something man with an encompassing gaze rose and moved to a glass podium. “Hi. I see we have a great many visitors today. I'm Rizal Rivera. Welcome to the Church of the Savior. Everybody now, up on your feet. We're going to sing until the gates of heaven crack wide open.”

The band struck up a rousing and loud chorus I didn't recognize.

The crowd jumped to their feet, clapping in time with the music.

I took a quick peek around the sanctuary to see that Timothy and I had be the oldest people in the place. Strange. What was this serious man doing in such a spine-tingling service? Uncomfortable, I pretended to sing and made half-hearted claps along with the others.

Timothy was belting out the song. He even raised his hands in the air, as did most of the worshippers.

This was
not
what I was expecting when Timothy said he was going to church. And he was right. I
was
overdressed. Many of the youth were clad in shorts and t-shirts. In church. Not a skirt in the place. Thank goodness, I'd left my heels in the apartment.

By the third song, I was getting used to the swaying, the clapping, and the unabashed joy on everyone's faces. Loosening up a bit, I went with the flow. The band was impressive, not that I was an expert, but the drummer could have been a professional. After quite some time, we quit singing and took our seats.

Timothy seemed energized by the music. His face was glowing.

After the rustling noises ceased, Rizal made a few announcements about upcoming events. “Before we pray, does anyone have any praises or prayer requests?”

A man sprang up and thanked the Lord for his mother's quick recovery from hip surgery.

A teenager asked for prayer for her older brother who was sick with diphtheria. Diphtheria? Wasn't there a vaccination for that?

Timothy rocketed to his feet. “Prayers are needed for a family that lives in the creek community behind the seminary. Some of you may have heard about the accident that happened yesterday at the crossroads. A motorcycle struck a four-year-old girl, Pinky Rojas, and she's in the hospital with a broken arm and a concussion. If anyone's able to contribute toward the hospital expenses, I'm sure the family could use whatever you can spare.” Timothy plunked down with a thud and clasped his hands together.

As his arm brushed mine, I felt the heavy weight of his concern leaching from his pores.

There was complete stillness, and then Rizal took over. “Our hearts go out to the family, and many of us want to help little Pinky.” He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and withdrew a few bills. Rizal dropped the money in someone's baseball cap and passed it on down the line.

Murmurs flowed around me as many people reached into their own pockets to pull out a bill or two. Even a child drew a coin from his frayed pocket. It was clear from his shabby clothes and worn shoes he had no money to spare, and yet he gave what little he had.

I could hardly swallow.

After the quiet buzz of sympathy had died down, Rizal motioned for the congregation to stand. “Anyone else want to say anything before we pray?”

No one volunteered, and we all bowed our heads.

Rizal's fervent prayer floating up past the rafters.

When he finished praying, I sagged down in my chair, a bit lightheaded. All that hovering emotion in the air weakened my knees.

The next speaker walked to the platform. “Hello everybody. My name is Angelo de la Cruz, and I'm a DJ for DWKY, Energy 106.7.”

There was an explosion of clapping and cheering, and some of the worshippers stamped their feet.

Angelo scanned the crowd. “I'm here today to tell you my story. Growing up, I was destitute. I lived by the creek behind Dr. Flynn's seminary with my mother and my younger brother. We didn't have much, only a tiny shack to live in, and barely enough food to stay alive. Our clothes came from a local mission.

“Let's skip ahead to when I was sixteen years old. I couldn't get a job and had no way of supporting my family. Who'd hire a boy with no experience and little schooling? I cried out to God, but I had no hope of a reply. I thought God did not live by our creek. Sure enough, He didn't answer me, and there were no dreams of a future to comfort me at night.”

One could have heard a snowflake fall, it was so quiet in the church. This guy's mere presence was electric. His deep, resonant voice stirred my soul, and I dared not turn away for fear of missing anything.

“A drug dealer targeted our village. He promised my friends and me an escape from reality. He preyed on our desire to rise above our circumstances and take control of our lives. He promised a life of plenty, a life rich in freedom.

“My best buddy, Honesto, bought into it and started selling drugs. I watched as he lured others into that trap of lies. At first, I only resisted to be strong for my mother and my brother. They didn't have anybody but me to protect them. I tried to stand firm, but I'm ashamed to say I considered doing what my friends were doing. What other choice did I have? Giving in would have been so easy. Yet something stopped me. Deep inside, I knew there must be something more—something else worth living for.”

Riveted, Timothy shifted next to me, uncrossed his long legs, and gripped his knees with his hands.

I was in the exact same position, clutching my knees with white knuckles. Who'd have believed I'd be as mesmerized as he was? Why did I care so much? I'd never met this guy before, and, mostly likely, I'd never see him again.

Angelo moved his feet, dancing with joy. “And now we get to the good part of the story. Praise the Lord!” he whooped and raised his hands high.

Most of the crowd shouted “Praise the Lord” right back at him.

He lowered his hands, his eyes glowing. “It was Good Friday of Holy Week, and in the city streets, the festival of the Passion Play,
Senakulo
, was being performed. I'm sure most of you have seen it plenty of times, and perhaps it makes an impression on you, but it didn't mean any more to me than entertainment—just something to do. My brother talked me into going with him, so I figured,
why not
? It might be amusing to see the costumes and the painted backdrops.

“We were fortunate to find a place to sit, close to the road, on a slight rise overlooking the multitude. Locals and tourists mobbed the streets, but soon we could see the somber procession coming our way. The actor who played Jesus Christ staggered down the dusty road surrounded by Roman guards. As we watched, blood oozed from the thorny crown jammed onto his head, droplets speckling his anguished face. He carried a weighty wooden cross, and from where we sat, I could hear every rasping breath.

“His chin rested on his chest as his shoulders strained to bear the burden. In some way, deep in my soul, this man became Jesus for me, and I knew I was to blame for each struggling footstep. I choked under the crushing weight of my own sin pressing down on my heart. Suffocating, I pushed my way through the mob, held my hands out to him, and implored him to stop.”

My mouth went dry, my heart pounding. Angelo was a compelling speaker, but more than that, in my mind, I was right there with him. I could hear the taunts from the crowd, and see the dark red stains on Jesus' robe. I could smell the metallic tang of the blood on his cheeks, and feel the gritty dust clinging to my face.

Angelo paced back and forth across the platform, speaking powerful words to the congregation, every ear listening to his tale. “My suffering Lord stopped for the briefest of moments and gazed at me. Of course, I knew he wasn't Jesus, and yet, he was. Love shone from his eyes—pure, genuine, divine love. A love I had never known before. He'd captured me with this amazing love, but behind those eyes was also a question. Would I accept that love? Would I let him in? Would I embrace true freedom?”

There was a pause as the group took a collective breath.

“I said yes to the real Jesus that day. He moved right into my heart, cleared out the garbage, and made Himself at home. He saved me from destroying my life and the lives of my family. At the time, I didn't quite understand the ramifications of what I'd done, but I knew peace for the first time.” Angelo told more about his life after his change of heart. He reached the part where he asked if anyone wanted to receive Jesus.

I tried to tune him out. I wouldn't let my emotions get the better of me, and I wasn't ready to surrender my life, again. I'd done that when I was a little girl, and where had it gotten me? Sure, I was happy God had transformed Angelo's life, but the Christian life didn't apply to me. My life was fine. Just fine, thank you very much. Most of the time…

Finally, the taxing service ended, and we could leave.

My head whirled, either from jet lag, or perhaps, too much churching up. By the time we made it back to Timothy's car, I'd had enough hugs—from the girls—and handshakes—from the boys—to last a lifetime. I sank into my seat, leaned my head back, and slid my eyelids shut.

“You OK?” Timothy almost appeared to care.

“Need a nap, I guess.” Always a good excuse to keep quiet. I wasn't up to talking. I kept seeing Angelo's Jesus in my head.

Timothy buckled his seatbelt and, before he asked, I fastened my own.

He was staring at me.

I could hear him breathe. I opened my left eye a slit and peeped at him. He made no move to crank the ignition, and so we sat there.
Now what had I done wrong
? I didn't have the energy for games. “What?”

“I'd hoped we might take a jaunt after church, but if you're too tired, we can postpone it.”

At another time a “jaunt” might sound tempting—as long as it wasn't to another church service. But my head spun like a greased roulette wheel. I tried to stifle a yawn, but it got the better of me. I'd have to wait until another time to find out why blondes gave him the heebie-jeebies.

His features softened, and he patted my hand. He could have been my big brother, if I had one. Or worse, a benevolent uncle. “It can wait. Home it is.”

Great. He must not feel any romance whatsoever—not that I wanted or expected any. I'd been here for two days, and we'd barely touched on the marriage application. In fact, we'd barely touched.

Maybe he felt obliged to be a good host, but was he figuring out how to send me home without hurting my feelings? And why did it bother me?

I had no intention of marrying the man, anyway.

 

 

 

 

6

 

My internal time clock was completely out of whack. I woke up at 4:23 AM, padded into the kitchen, and flicked on the light. There it was again. A shadow in my peripheral vision streaked out of sight. I was sure this time my critter sighting wasn't part of a dream. I wasn't one to give a girly shriek when spying a bug or a spider—unless it was big and hairy—but I still wanted to know who—or what—was living with me.

Parched, I poured a glass of the fruity juice. Now what? I dropped down on the couch and switched on the TV hoping to find something more interesting than an infomercial.

On the way from the airport, Danilo had informed me most of the country was bilingual, Tagalog and English. On the talk show I happened upon, the more animated a guest became, the more they lapsed into a hybrid of both languages. I put my feet up and watched a man interview an Asian actress, able to follow most of the conversation.

After the show, it occurred to me I hadn't had any contact with Brianna since I'd landed. Firing up my laptop, I checked my social media account. There were several messages from friends, but nothing from Brianna. I wrote back a few replies. As I prepared to sign-off, an instant message from my baby sister popped up on the screen.

“Hey. What are you doing up? Isn't it mighty early over there?”

“Yep. The joys of jet lag. My body's confused.”