I do not want to end like the old mariner grabbing people to listen to his story at the sunset of his life. I want it that at the end of the day I rest assured that I have rowed my river and handed on to my children the lessons I have learned in my journey upstream to the House of the Father. So I made, early on, a solemn vow, that I would immerse my four daughters into situations that allow them to know and love the God of Jesus of Nazareth. Sadly, like most promises, mine was half-heartedly kept. I can justify why I kept on failing. I was trained and educated to find reasons to the things I do. I have a lot of excuses; all of them are sound and rational. Yet honestly, they are like wicker baskets—they hold stones and boulders but not water. The truth of the matter is although I was raised a Catholic, (I even had seven years of formation in the seminary) I am struggling with my faith given my entanglement with Sartrean Existentialism vis-à-vis the clash of orientations at the local...

A man from the Jal-o came up one day to the Rural Health Center to seek the assistance of the midwives. His wife, he reported, was showing signs of giving birth. He identified himself as a resident of a village downstream and had come by motorboat, then the best means of getting in and out of the place. There was an access road, a dirt road, but it would take hours of hiking, for public transport was rare and the terrain too dangerous to navigate. Besides, he owned the boat. It was his means of living. He was a fisherman. He maintained a couple of tangab , or fish pens, and made his living from the river. Lately, however, he had failed to make his routine harvest because he had been attending to his expectant wife. The Rural Health Physician, noting the typically unhurried day at the RHU, permitted the nurses on rural service to accompany the sole midwife in attending to the fisherman’s wife. Soon, the group boarded the motorboat, and off the fisherman went, navigating the quiet river....