Malhacan, Meycauayan. 120.9616, 14.7372
Many things may happen outside of our own careful planning, yet the day invariably ends with God being praised for the sovereign hand He lays upon all our affairs. I ended up where I didn't plan to be but did what I was supposed to do. I did not know where to go, so I drove north toward Pandi for an hour, hoping to find a well-populated location to preach; yet there was really none to be found. The long drive began to feel like a waste, a fruitless expenditure of time and gas. Still, I stayed on that unfamiliar road until the aimlessness became unbearable, and I stopped by the side of the road at Bustos to ask for divine assistance on where I was to go. I had already passed the roads that would have taken me back home, but I refused to end this day with nothing.
This particular location came to mind. But it was forty three kilometers going the opposite south. Without reasoning against it, I immediately turned back and took the Bypass straight to Balagtas, exiting at MacArthur Highway, and onto Meycauayan, at the very border of Bulacan and Metro Manila. Malhacan Road was never in my itinerary, yet it still is a part of Bulacan—a ground still unreached by the Gospel. The enemy tried so hard to ruin me for this hour, intending to disqualify and discourage me that morning, but the mercy of God prevailed.
I departed from home around three in the afternoon, first assisting a dear brother to the location where he was to begin lifting up the Gospel. Setting out afterward toward Pandi, I realized I had left my license behind and was compelled to return home to retrieve it. I would be mistaken to treat this as a sign to stay home. So I rode out a second time in that same direction, driving aimlessly for an hour as I searched for a place to stand. Eventually, I turned back, traveling south for nearly forty five minutes. By the time I reached my destination, evening had already fallen.
When I finally found a suitable place by the jeepney terminal, a great inward struggle began. For more than half an hour, I tried to convince my self that giving away tracts would suffice. To keep silent was more convenient. Yet the prodding of the Spirit would not let me go; I am gravely compelled to speak of the Good News.
This conflict within me was a painful reminder that the self was very much still alive. It was still justifying its own preservation, stubbornly refusing to die even in the face of a divine mandate. Yet, it was also a sobering reminder that God will surely accomplish His purpose, even if it means using a wretch such as I to do it. My hesitation was a mark of my own incapacity, but His persistence was a mark of His sovereign will.
In all instances when I find no words to begin my pleading, the Lord brings this mercifully to mind, A voice says, “Cry!” And I said, “What shall I cry?” All flesh is grass, and all its beauty is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades when the breath of the LORD blows on it; surely the people are grass. (Isaiah 40:6-7)
And these short words, which take me no more than ten seconds to utter, the Spirit graciously extends into almost an hour's worth of pleading. It is a profound mystery of grace that He is faithful to accomplish much with the few fishes and loaves I always bring to Him. He brings the dead air from my mouth to life in the ears of the people. It is to me a gracious reminder that the power resides solely in the Sovereign Hand that takes our seemingly insignificant obedience and expands it far beyond our own capacity. This experience confirms that the efficacy of the Gospel rests not on the messenger's ability, but on its inherent power.
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