My Tally

It is the last week of August, a season for storms to come and go. My Android's weather forecast advises another Manila rainstorm. I like the numbers on my sheet, not too far from 840, maybe by twenty. I looked back at my open bag - there is a Bible, some books and mags, and the places that the bag has gone, often times drenched by rain, or baked by a hot sun in between, and the seats or floors it rested on, some seats were made of plastic, of fabric, of wood, and some floors of concrete pavement, or of tiles, and of wood, and most times just hanging off my shoulder while I spoke to people about things they are too distracted to listen to, by the noise of cars passing by, of peddlers shouting their wares, as my Bible's pages flipped in the wind, threw my hair all over my face while my eyes were fixed on this young lady, standing across the gate's metal grill. It has been a year and a thousand doors knocked on and door bells rang, hundreds of eyes lit up, some black, some brown, some in contact lenses, visible under a fluorescent white lamp, or beside a yellow glow of a bulb, or under the plain blue light of a clear sky, as they discover treasures from a small, yellow book that opened wide their search, for a God who they can love, be close to, who can be with them in August and beyond and in every storm that wreaks havoc in their lives. My numbers could not tell their story, just a tally of a year's worth of work, but this is my bull of burnt offering, with a pleasant odor rising up in the sky often darkened by August clouds, throwing rain, hail, and wind.