Men don’t ask directions; that’s an urban legend. In my case, it’s not entirely true. I do ask directions when I get lost. Now admitting that I’m lost—that’s another thing altogether.
That’s what I discovered last Friday when I, together with two lay missionary brothers Jopeng and Jobaqs from the Servants of the Word, had to navigate through the flooded streets of Manila on our way back to Quezon City. I had a vague idea of where I was going when I turned right to Morayta from Espana but after that, I knew zilch. My navigator was Jopeng (Jobaqs fell asleep midway through the journey) who always looks very confident and in whom I personally have great trust. Throughout the entire trip, we asked directions only twice and both times we had already committed to a certain route before asking directions—so it wasn’t entirely asking directions so much as confirming that we were on the right path. We never admitted we were lost—even if I readily admitted I had no idea where I was but that doesn’t mean I was lost—at least not out loud.
I didn’t feel anxious or nervous; I never felt lost although I really had no idea where I was at particular stretches. After about two hours or so of driving around flooded side streets of Manila, we got to Quezon City.
It was a fun adventure—even if I was so hungry (I’m sure Jopeng was hungrier as he fasts on Friday). I got home at 2:15 or so and plopped down on the sofa to rest my feet and promptly fell asleep; I woke up at 6:00 to finish my powerpoint slides for my talk at 9:00. Another day, another adventure.
God, thank you for adventures that allow me to see another side of You, and another side of me as well.