Everytime I hear that word, I always remember my parents who call me with intimacy with that name. “Balong” is not a given name for me but it is used to call the first son in the family. It is not a nickname but an address or a title given to the eldest son; and that’s me. When my parents call me with that name, I feel being loved, tickled and being taken cared by their presence. It’s a feeling like sleeping on their lap as what an infant always does. What a moment of joy for a young boy being called as “Balong.”

The word came from the local dialect of my mother; Ilocano; which literally means, “first son” or simply “my son.” Though my father speaks different dialect, he used that with power and love to me. I have always an attentive ear to listen to that word which became my name for them. The word always give me a sense of greatness since it also connotes responsibility to our family, to my younger sibling and shares in making decision for my family’s welfare. That word gave me a sense of sonship and authority, and even fear and respect to them. In the contrary, that same word gives a wonderful feeling of being the first son, beloved and heir. There are privileges that cannot just be given to any sibling, one of those is being the first born. Due respect from my younger sibling is given and is being usually consulted. Only my parents call me with “Balong.” Now that my father is gone, my mother calls me with kindness with the name, “Balong.”

The name I am using this time is not my complete name but I am comfortable using it even with my official papers. I asked myself with,”What’s in a name?” but so many answers were given to that question. I am Balong.

My name makes me unique. I might share the same name with others, but never the same set of moments and circumstances that have made me who I am — I who go by this name.

My name sounds differently, coming from the lips of the different people who call me at different moments of time. But only those who love me say my name with all the hopes I am called to, with all the fullness I am invited to, with the sound of who I am really meant to be. Only those who love me speak my name within that dream.

What does it really mean to be called by name? What does it truly mean when I hear my name being spoken by God…by those who love me…by those who don’t love me…by those who know me… by those who don’t really know me? Let me ponder the mystery of hearing my name being spoken.

*Called By Name, an adapted excerpt.
*Tnx to Narna for the child’s image, thats not me.

Let me call him Teby. He is now 12 years old and living in a shelter for the street kids somewhere in Manila. We were just starting our tutorial in mathematics when he asked me if I know how to draw. I started to draw and gave the pencil to him and asked, “Please draw for me your family; your father, mother, brothers and sisters.” He started to draw his father but didn’t continue. “I don’t know how to draw,” he said. So I asked him to tell me a story. “Kuya, I ran away from home, but I still know where are they. I have older brothers and I think I have younger siblings. I have two fathers. They are living in a shanty.

To make the story short, he came from a broken family and was not able to resist staying with them. He left his family when he was 8 years old and walked away from home. He wandered around Manila, begging money from people and even got trouble with other street kids sniffing rugby to alleviate stomach pain due to hunger. He didn’t tell me if he was one of them. He was thankful to some people he met on the streets. One he called “nanay,” a candy and cigarette vendor who protected him one time from other kids. Another one was a security guard of a bank he called, “Kuya guard.” He gives Teby a food to eat every time he passes by the guard’s post. He can still vividly remember a man who bought him a hamburger, spaghetti and French fries. He even gave him money. When he finished his food, he collapsed. When he woke up, he found himself in a shelter for street kids. It is sad to know that his family never visited him once. But he is thankful that his life is starting to be given back to him. He is now studying as a Grade 3 pupil at the age of 12.

He is just one of more than 150,000 street kids (BIS). There are are still a lot of them who are unfortunate to have a Christmas on the street. It’s 10 days more to go before Christmas, and I have in mind to adopt one street kid even just for this Christmas as a solidarity with the people helping the street kids of Metro Manila, and most especially because of love to the children.

Note: Grammar not corrected. Tnx!

For me, it is impossible to do mission without dialogue of life. Understanding about life itself, it is dynamic and towards an end goal or purpose. The question about the purpose of life or the question of existence is always present to very individual. Doing mission is the solidarity of every person to others; it is dynamic, moving and thus, a journey. Mission is in tandem with dialogue, how much more when it is about life? The experience of being with one another, or the presence of every person in the light of Christ’s teaching is always seen as a missionary activity: witnessing Christ to others. Doing justice and giving every people the opportunity to live with dignity is making Christ present, and is already a dialogue of life. Thus, there can be no real sense of mission if there is no dialogue of life.

Image done with Oil Pastel in a page of my journal notebook last Holy week. It depicts a person’s passion, burning with zeal and ready to burst out for others. The blue outline is the serenity of the person, while holding the compassionate heart for others.