Goodbye

We had our last dinner with Kuya Dave tonight. Although I've already written a blog entry about him, his leaving the Philippines hasn't sunk in on me yet. Which is probably why I am, to this point, still making sense of the sadness—or whatever lonely emotion it is I'm feeling presently.

Why do our loved ones have to go away?

Over dinner we asked him what he'd do when he gets back to Wales, UK. He's continuing his ministry there. With his wife, he's going around the churches that have supported him as well as the universities he's affiliated with.

"Are your friends still there?" I asked. After all, he's been out of Wales for more or less 40 years, having begun his cross-national ministry work in Japan first and then the Philippines. He speaks fluent Japanese, by the way, but can't manage to do Filipino.

"They're either dead—or dying," he said. "But I'll be meeting their grandchildren."

We said we'd come visit him when we have the money.

"Don't come during winter. The beach there is wonderful during summer," he said. Right, Kuya Dave, as if we can manage to go there. We can't even find enough funds to go to, well, the hypothetical island Bongga-bongga.

He said he'd annoy the Welsh by pretending he's American. The Welsh hate the Americans. He'd say, "Hey, guys" (as opposed to the British version, "Hullo, lads") and that would make their blood boil. Ah, dear ol' Kuya Dave.

He gave me a desk pen holder and a copy of his last preaching in Yakal Christian Fellowship.



Over dinner, I took note of the last words he said to me:

"I thought you were coming as Angel Gabriel, all dressed in white," referring to my school uniform.

"When you get back [after tonight's dinner], will you be studying how to cut people up?"

And he referred to me as a "surgeon," to which I wanted to say, "It might take a while for that to happen."

We all prayed, the entire gang, and bid him goodbye. Have a safe trip, Kuya Dave, and may the Lord be with you always.