Linnea’s eyes grew big when she saw the blood dripping down my nose, “what happened?” she asked as she came closer to look at me.
Here is what happened.
We had relaxed in the morning, I had finished reading “Kidnapped” by Robert Louis Stevenson and had started in on “Angela’s Ashes” by Frank McCourt. In between books I had skimmed through a number of National Geographics, which we found on the loaded bookshelves at this missionary guest house we are staying in. If we had more time, I would have started one of those fat books by Solzenitsyn, because I have never read anything by him before, but I did not want to get into a book I would not be able to finish.
We had then spent the afternoon cheering on Ateneo at the Araneta Center. Ateneo beat De La Salle by one point in a heart stopper, and then we fought the crowds to eat at Taco Bell. I was craving a chicken grilled stuffed burrito when I saw a face I recognized.
We first met Bill and Debbie Shaw in Puerto Galera. They have an electric company back in Michigan, but they are here in Manila trying to start a new ministry. I had never heard of this ministry, which is a newspaper that would employ the homeless and give a voice to the destitute. Bill says this would not necessarily be a Christian newspaper, but as we see in Proverbs 31:8 King Lemuel tells us to give a voice to the poor, to speak up for the poor and needy.
As I dreamed of filling my belly with burritos, I saw Bill’s face and headed over to say hi, and he said they were on their way to a feeding program, and would we like to come. Every fiber in me was screaming “NO”. Yo quiero Taco Bell. So, I did not answer. I hate to actually say the word no, because saying that word just seems so selfish, but I did say, let us grab a bite to eat first. Bill said we had half an hour, which was perfect, and after we all ate we were ready to serve.
We walked to the church where the feeding program takes place, under the elevated train and through the concentrated homeless. Josh and I talked about how scary this street would seem normally, but normal has been redefined this year, and instead of the guys with no shirts on playing cards and drinking being ‘scary’ we say hi and shake their hands as we pass. The dirty ‘rugby boys’, not the athletes, but the glue sniffers, are our buddies and we play with them and pick them up and they are stoned and laughing as they spin in the air. These little kids, 7, 8, 9 years old sniff glue all day. Bill says it kills the hunger pains, and it kills them, and that kills us. Little kids who in our world would be on a computer or playing t ball are walking the streets barefoot, begging for money, money to buy glue with, and the feeding program at least puts some real food in them and helps them physically. The children are skinny and dirty and smelly and hungry and it kills me, and I am fat and dirty and smelly and hungry after playing with them..
We are exhausted. The room is full of people eating, and I am soaked with sweat and the stink of dirty kids who crawled all over me (do kids carry mange?), and we head home. We take the train to the taxi. One taxi to the next, and we are dropped off 40 yards from the dorm. I look over and see a young ‘un lifting weights, I decide I want to go see how heavy the weight is. People make weights here by pouring cement into cans and putting a pipe in between as a handle. This guy is doing curls, and I am over tired, so I have energy, and I am a spaz, and I want to lift with him.
I ask to feel the dumbell, and it is lighter than I thought it would be. I hand it to Josh, who agrees that it is light, and the buddies who are lifting with this guy laugh and we start talking. Where we are staying, why we are here. I am laughing and showing the guys what a ‘snatch’ is, and what a puny weight, when I get punched in the nose.
I was 18 years old and in my second semester at Liberty University. I had brought boxing gloves back to school with me after winter break and we had been having fight nights in our dorm room.
We would clear the room and invite people in to watch the fights. Just like “Fight Club” (which is easily in my top five movies, and this movie is one of the reasons I am on the mission field), if you wanted to watch the fights, you would have to be willing to participate in a fight. If you won’t fight, you can’t watch, and how much can a guy know about himself if he has never been in a fight?
At this time, I was 5′ 11″ tall (I am now a bit shorter than that, due to injuries and bad posture) and 190 pounds (I am now 245 pounds, due to poor eating habits and a sedentary life). I was picked to fight a bean pole, my roomate, Isaac. He was on the basketball team and 6′ 4″, 180lbs, a great athlete, but I doubted he could fight, and so I was not as aggressive as I should have been. With his speed and reach, he landed one on my nose and sat me on my a$$. I was dazed and bleeding and mad and threw him to the ground and jumped on him and started flailing at him, but quickly gained composure because I saw the blood from my nose and heard the bells in my head and we stopped the fight because we did not want blood everywhere.
Back to the story, same feeling, almost sat down on my tookus. (I am Scott’s abused nose) I was dazed and my nose felt big.
What the c-r-a-p was that? But then I realize, no one hit me.
The end of the can which holds the concrete caught me on the nose (I explained it like this: I am used to such a light weight being much smaller, but mostly it was divine retribution for me to be humble, I am sure), and I grab at my nose to check the damage. Josh later tells me that he thought I just got some dirt in my face. I shake hands with the guys and say I need to be going (because I could feel my nose getting warm and tickly and expected the blood to start any second. I had hit myself pretty hard and wouldn’t be surprised if my nose started to swell.
We get silly as we tell the story, how cool I was trying to be, and Josh thinks it would have been hilarious if I had been driven to my knees, and I agree. I would have paid to see this happen too.
