I have no more money.
Just five hours ago, I was feeling pretty grim having only forty pesos in my pocket and knowing payday is still several days away. How I was left with no money is another story, which I prefer not to tell here.
“Lord, show me my mission for today,” I said, uncertain of how the Lord will use me or where He will send me.
When it comes to money, I am quite a proud man. Since I started earning for myself, I rarely asked my mother for money, or anybody for that matter. Where will forty pesos lead me? It isn’t even enough for a round trip fare from my home to office and back. But I know that I will make this day with just forty pesos, laughing brave-faced about my little misadventure.
And so I braved the Metro Manila traffic with my meager allowance, praying to the Lord to help me get through this day. Jeepney fares scrounged a peso at a time, shaking loose change in my pocket as a reminder to not spend the remaining on other things or I will walk my whole way home. I thought to myself, this what it feels to be so empty.
Eight o’clock in the morning, I was in the place where I ride the bus to work. I won’t be late, I thought. The junction was in its usual state – crowded, humid, and noisy. The normal sound of honking horns and reviving motors are amplified by building establishments there. People rushing to get to the bus and shuttle doors so they can make it to work on time. A toxic concoction of sweat, odor and smoke swarm the area. This is my daily life. Except today, I only have forty pesos in my pocket.
While waiting for buses to stop and load, I noticed someone I don’t usually see there. He was an old man sitting on a monobloc chair with a rattan cane. I pretend not to notice him—full buses not stopping to load passengers, every passing of them decreases my chance of timing in early. I am running late.
[second_picture]
“Kuya, can you help me ride a bus to San Juan?”
This old man can barely stand. I learned that his name is Danny. Even with a cane, he needs someone to support him to walk. There was no way he can ride a full bus to San Juan, where I am based, in his condition. I said, “Yes, of course” and asked him who he was with. He was with no one and was bound to San Juan to seek help from the local government for his medication.
“Kuya, can you lend me money to add for my fare?”
And now it gets trickier. Forty-five minutes past eight, we are still at the junction. No buses stopped by us even if there are available seats. I am starting to get pissed off. I was late. I asked him how much more he needs, praying that it won’t go over forty pesos or else I am damned.
“Twenty.”
Praise God. I still have enough money to pay for a one-way bus ticket. Now my forty is halved.
[third_picture]
It was 8:50 in my watch when a bus let us in.
“He’ll get down at Pinaglabanan,” the bus conductor said. Apparently, bus drivers know him because he goes to the city capitol every day without paying, explaining why we had a difficulty getting a ride.
“How can I love more?” I asked myself. I know that love does not measure. It just gives. But never did I ask myself how much am I willing to give when I do not seem to have plenty. This. This is my mission for today.
I clocked in 9:27, twenty-seven minutes late of my official time. As of this writing, I have two pesos in my pocket. And I am trying to figure out how the rest of the day will be for me. But I am thankful that the Lord has allowed me to share what I have, even if it means sharing everything that I have and everything that I am. I may have no money but I am certain that I have love. Because when we have love, we can never really be so empty.
After all, to love means to give and not to count the cost.
