Guided by Divine GPS

“A Precious but Wearied Heart Was Found”
by: A Curious Boy Who Just Wanted Answers (and Maybe Some Iced Tea)

If you had asked me at age ten where I lived, I would’ve told you, “At the back of my lola’s house—but not really behind it. More like… through it.” Confused? That’s okay. Most people were. Including two Jehovah’s Witnesses who, one fine Saturday morning, wandered into our compound in Villaflores and accidentally found me, tucked away like a forgotten bookmark in a very thick, very overgrown novel.

Now, let me describe this setup, because it’s important: From the street, the only visible house in the compound was my grandmother’s. She had a cluttered home but tidy backyard, stiff bamboo poles and a Caimito tree, and potted plants that were somehow always in bloom. She was the visible guardian of the compound—and, might I add, the unofficial neighborhood tanod.

After Lola’s house, if you dared peek further into the compound (most didn’t), you’d see what looked like a mini-forest. Trees, tall grass, vines, and a jungle of bamboo that whispered secrets when the wind blew. Nobody expected a house to be there. Which made sense. Nobody expected me.

But there I was. In our small wooden house stood hidden behind the bamboo like a shy child playing hide and seek. Most people didn’t know there was a dirt trail leading to it. The grass liked to grow with wild ambition, and the track would vanish into the green unless you knew what to look for.

Now, I wasn’t hiding from the world, per se. It’s just that the world didn’t usually come looking.

I was ten, full of energy, slightly allergic to chores, and already questioning the meaning and purpose of life. You could say I was a small philosopher in slippers. I often sat by the window (when I wasn’t being forced to wash dishes), staring into the branches and thinking things like:

“Is there more to life than this?”
“What happens when we die?”
“What is the purpose of life? To be born and then die?”

“Is God real?”
“Can grief break you even  if you never say it out loud?”

One sunny morning—too sunny, if you ask me—I was mid-playing, deep in contemplation about the purpose of life, when I saw them.

Two people had walked past my lola’s house and into the thick of the compound, like they were searching for something. Or lost. That happens a lot with a mailman, so I wasn’t alarmed. But these two weren’t holding letters. They had Bibles and tracts.

Jehovah’s Witnesses. I recognized them from previous polite but brief encounters at Lola’s gate. She would always say, “Thank you, I’ll read it,” even it’s clearly she wouldn’t.

But this time, the visitors didn’t stop at the gate. They kept walking. They looked brave. Or maybe curious. Maybe their sense of direction failed them completely, but they stepped right into the grassy area and followed—by pure miracle or divine GPS—the track hidden in between the weeds. They gently pushed past the bamboo, and boom.

There was our house.

There I was.

I froze.

The two smiled. Not the creepy kind of smile. The kind that says, “We didn’t expect this either, but we’re glad we found you.”

My mom came out, wiping her hands on her dress, skeptical but polite. She always had a radar for people walking into our hidden existence. But I tugged on her blouse, leaned in, and whispered:

“Ma… I want a Bible study with them.”

She blinked. “Now?”

“Yes. Right now.”

See, I had been thinking about this for a while. Life’s big questions were piling up in my head like dirty laundry. I wanted answers. Real ones. Not just “because I said so” or “ask your teacher.” And here were two people who carried Bibles like toolboxes. Maybe they had what I was looking for.

My mom nodded. Turn her head before them, and requested.

We sat under the Narra shade that day and began a conversation that would stretch into weeks. Every study opens a truth. It was exciting, like discovering there was a library behind a hidden door in my brain.

Sure, sometimes the discussions got deep and my attention wavered. (Especially when I smelled someone frying lumpia in a neighboring house.) But it was the start of something new. Something hopeful.

And to this day, I think about that moment—the quiet decision of a little boy in slippers, living in a house no one could see, whispering to his mother that he wanted to understand more. Not just about God, but about why we’re here. About life. About purpose.

Funny, isn't it? You could say I was found in more ways than one.

And all it took was two Jehovah’s Witnesses who didn’t stop at the gate.