The Road Where Faith Was Founded

A Road of Mud, Dust, and Faith: A Slice of My Ten-Year-Old Life
by: A Boy with Dusty Shoes and a Sweaty Shirt

At ten years old, my legs were shorter than they are now, my shoes a bit too loose, and my faith surprisingly firm for someone who still occasionally ate wild pipino or make a pearl-like necklaces from white beads of Tigbi. Every week, come rain or scorching sun, I would drag my young, bony self across a 2.3-kilometer road that seemed designed by someone who disliked children and really liked corn. Or rice. Depending on the season.

This was no ordinary road. It wasn’t paved, lined with houses, or adorned with friendly neighborhood dogs (thankfully). It was just fields—vast, endless fields of rice or corn, depending on the time of year, stretching on either side like green and gold waves in a silent sea. In the rainy season, the road turned into something straight out of a World War I documentary: deep, slippery mud that swallowed your feet whole, then tried to keep your slippers as a souvenir. In the summer, it turned into a dust storm waiting to happen. By the time I reached the Kingdom Hall, I was either wet from the sky or caked in sweat and dust, resembling a walking polvorón with feet.

Why would a ten-year-old put himself through such torment? Simple. I was going to the Kingdom Hall in the next barangay, and for me, that was the highlight of my week.

Despite my small size, I carried big hopes (and occasionally, a small, dripping umbrella) as I made my way to the congregation. It wasn’t just about the worship, although I loved singing even when I was off-key. It was also about the people—Jehovah’s Witnesses who greeted me like I was family, who smiled warmly even when I was tracking mud before the hall. I felt like I belonged there, even though I came from a different barangay and often looked like I’d just finished picky steps in a muddy path.

After the meeting, I would go to the house of my Bible teacher—a kind, wise soul with endless patience and surprisingly good snacks. He always serves me lunch at noon, and he always found ways to make the Bible come alive. To a ten-year-old, that meant a lot. Learning about Jehovah, about Jesus, about hope—it all felt bigger than the struggles of my journey. And then, the cherry on top: he would offer me a ride home. Sweet, glorious deliverance in the form of a tricycle. I always accepted the ride like a war veteran accepts a medal—solemnly, gratefully, and slightly limping.

People often think faith is built in churches or halls. Maybe it is. But for me, part of my faith was built on that long, lonely road—through the sweat, the mud, the dust, and the sheer stubbornness of a ten-year-old who simply wanted to be with people who loved Jehovah.

Now, looking back, I laugh at the memory of myself nearly slipped on the same muddy spot three weeks in a row. I smile remembering how I once mistook a scarecrow for a person and waved at it until I realized it wasn’t waving back. But most of all, I feel grateful—for the road, the journey, the lessons, and the Bible teacher who didn’t just teach from a book, but with his kindness.

I may have arrived sweaty, dusty, and out of breath. But I always left filled—with joy, knowledge, and a stronger faith than before.