The place is called Tahanan Sta. Luisa. I stumbled upon it when one of my two climbing groups sent out an invitation to a morning with the girls at the Tahanan. That was about three years ago, when the shelter was still an old, rented house in an inner street in Manila. Back then, it was the refuge of some over twenty abused and exploited girls. It was their halfway house from pain to recovery and reintegration in the society.
The girls there were amazing. The morning began with an opening prayer, followed by an introduction. We told them our names, and told them where we worked and what we did for a living. In turn, they told us about themselves, capping off their introductions by finishing the sentence: "Ang gusto kong maging..." Some of them said they wanted to become doctors while a few others said they wanted to become lawyers. The adults there listened as the girls shared their grandest ambitions. I, on the other hand, was calculating the possibilities that any of them would get to where they wanted to be. It was the start of a poignant experience.
The girls laughed, joked around and made merry, while we wondered where the pain from the abuse could be hiding and why we couldn't see a trace of it in them. We brought materials for making friendship bracelets, which we distributed to their delight. And then we, their ates and kuyas, assigned ourselves to groups of three to five "students" to teach them a craft we ourselves only learned minutes earlier. Their zest and zeal were contagious. Before long, it was difficult not to get involved in the intimate sense of the word.
After everyone had a finished product to show off, we served lunch and ate with them. The girls feasted on sweet and sour meatballs with rice, all their finesse in check.
What followed was an experience that would forever change my life.
When it was time to say goodbye, we gathered around in a big circle and prepared to pray. Most everyone raised their hands when the coordinator asked for volunteers. And so like the knotted strings in their friendship bracelets, the prayers weaved from girl to girl, while the adults listened intently--obviously floored and caught off-guard.
I cried. I couldn't have helped it even if I tried.
Who knows what kinds of abuses these girls have been through? But in that moment of prayer, their voices rang with innocence as they asked God to guide their ates and kuyas, and to continue to give them a good life so they could come back and visit them again. They prayed to God to make their ates and kuyas realize that no challenge is insurmountable, and to give them the strength to push on when they are growing weak. I thought, this is incredible. While we complain about every little inconvenience, how can these girls--who have been dealt by life with bad cards--find a lot of things to be thankful for. How can they selflessly pray that God give more to people like us who are better off than they are, and not ask for anything for themselves?
I realized that we do need more of what they have: faith, resiliency, contentment, and the love of life.
I went there with the intent to give. But I left with more than what I hoped for.
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