I remember one particular morning in Napsan when I decided—perhaps a bit too confidently—that I would run farther than usual. The sky was just beginning to lighten, that soft gray-blue that comes before the sun fully commits to the day. The road was still quiet, except for the occasional rooster announcing what everyone already knew: morning had arrived whether we were ready or not. I laced up, stepped out, and told myself, “Today, a longer run.”
In the first kilometer, everything felt right. My breathing settled, my stride found its rhythm, and I entertained the familiar thought that perhaps I had finally become a “disciplined runner.” That illusion lasted until I reached the stretch of road just past a cluster of small houses where the ground turns uneven and the path narrows.
That’s where I heard it. “Father! … Wait!”
I turned and saw a small boy—barefoot, shirt slightly too big for him—running toward me with surprising speed. He was smiling, the kind of smile that doesn’t ask permission. Before I could respond, he had already matched my pace.
“Saan po tayo, Father?” he asked.
“Just running,” I said, slightly out of breath, though I tried not to show it.
“Makisabay po ah,” he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And so we ran together. Well—he ran. I tried to keep up.
After a few minutes, I realized something quietly humbling: this child, who had none of the gear, none of the preparation, none of the careful planning I had given to this run, was moving with a freedom I did not have. He laughed as he ran. He pointed at things along the road. He spoke in bursts of energy, as if the act of running only gave him more to say.
Meanwhile, I was calculating distance, conserving breath, thinking about how far I still intended to go. At some point, I slowed down. Not intentionally at first—but my body insisted. He noticed immediately.
“Father, pagod na po?” he asked, grinning.
“A little,” I admitted.
He stopped, looked at me for a moment, and then said something I did not expect. “Okay lang. Walk muna.”
It was such a simple suggestion. So ordinary. But in that moment, it felt like a gentle correction—not just of my pace, but of my mindset. So we walked.
We didn’t cover much distance after that. In fact, I never reached the “longer run” I had planned. Instead, we sat for a while on the side of the road. He told me about his family, about school when he could attend, about nothing in particular and everything at once. After a while, he stood up, waved, and ran back the way he came. I finished the run slowly, but something in me had shifted.
It struck me later that this is what priesthood in a place like Napsan often looks like. You begin with plans—good plans, even generous ones. You map out distances you hope to cover, goals you intend to reach. And then someone calls out, “Father! Wait!” And everything changes.
On another early morning, I found myself slowing down along a narrow roadside where small stalls were beginning to stir. The air carried the familiar scent of coffee—strong, humble, inviting. As I passed by, an old man sitting on a worn bench looked up at me. His clothes were simple, his face marked by years of sun and struggle. He lifted his glass (yes, glass) slightly and said, almost casually, “Father, pahinga ka muna. Kape tayo.”
There was no ceremony in the invitation. No pretense. Just a poor man offering what little he had. I paused. Part of me wanted to continue—I had a route to finish, a pace to maintain. But another voice, quieter and deeper, reminded me that priesthood is not always about moving forward. Sometimes, it is about stopping.So I sat beside him.
The coffee was not from a café. It was not measured or refined. But in that moment, it felt like a sacrament of sorts—an offering of presence, of dignity, of shared humanity. We spoke in fragments at first. He told me about his life in bits and pieces: days of labor, nights of uncertainty, the silence of being overlooked. There was no complaint in his voice, only a kind of tired acceptance.
And as I listened, I realized how easily people like him become invisible to the rest of us—how quickly we pass by, preoccupied with our own destinations. Yet there he was, not asking for anything grand, only inviting a priest to sit, to share coffee, to acknowledge that he exists.
When I finally stood to continue my run, I thanked him—not out of politeness, but out of genuine gratitude. He had given me more than a glass of coffee. He had given me a reminder. That priesthood is not confined to church walls. That running is not only about endurance, but about encounter.That reaching out to people sometimes begins with allowing ourselves to be reached first.
I resumed my pace, but something had shifted. The road felt different. The distance no longer mattered as much as the awareness that every step could lead to another moment of grace—hidden in ordinary places, waiting in the lives of those we might otherwise overlook.
These two particular mornings seem to push me to run more and more. From time to time, to go a little farther. But with these two encounters I carry with me, I run now with a different awareness —that the road is not mine alone, that the distance is not the only measure that matters. Sometimes, the most meaningful part of the run is the moment you stop. Or the moment you choose to walk. Or the moment you realize that, in priesthood as in running, you are not called to go the farthest—you are called to go with. And that is enough.
