LEARN MORE ABOUT JOB

AMONG the characters in the Old Testament, I am most fascinated by the story of Job. I haven’t read the whole text in the bible, but thanks to some abridged and comic book stories (I had plenty of them when I was a child), magazine articles and lately, websites, I came to know this guy whose name is synonymous to utmost patience, and his endless series of unfortunate events.

Job can be summed up this way: Satan tells God that Job, his most upright servant, only loves the Lord because he has given him so much wealth. God wagers Satan that Job will remain faithful even in the face of unending series of misfortunes. He tells Satan to do his worst to Job but not to harm him fatally. So Satan inflict Job with the worst beating you could imagine on a man—he loses his entire estate and his children, he suffers very severely with sore boils, and his friends shun him. But Job withstands the onslaughts. In the end, because he endures and never wavers in his faith in the Lord, his wealth, health and even his family are all restored by God.

But while not reading the prose and poetry about Job in the bible, I was befuddled by some issues: Why He lets Satan afflict Job? Or are our troubles really the idea of Satan and that God only concurs with them? Up to what extent God allows us humans to suffer so as to test us?

It was only when I read the book Understanding Job by Lim Kou, that I was enlightened about the meaning of the book of Job. The book was given free by those Christians from M/V Doulos, the floating bookstore which was docked in the port of Manila last December. Because it was free, and sectarian, I can only surmise its preachy contents so I wasn’t tempted to sit down and read it at once. I only retrieved it from my bookshelf, just after I have cited the story of Job in one of my earlier blogs.

True to its title, I was able to understand Job, and my queries were answered, with these insights from the author:

• God allowed Satan put Job to the test because He knew that there was substance in Job’s life; there were genuine, good qualities within him. So God knew too well He had a winner in Job.
• God has dual aims in allowing Satan to test Job: First, it was because of His love for Job and concern for his ultimate well-being. Second, it was related to the establishment of His eternal kingdom.
• Job faltered to some degree during the trials in spite of his moral and spiritual stature. Our hero claimed that God had wronged him and that is tantamount to saying that God is unjust. Such misconception, misunderstanding and an idea affected his confidence in God.
• God in His speeches didn’t directly answer Job’s perplexing questions. How God responded to Job’s situation was very appropriate, meaningful and effective in the context. Like Job, we must learn to trust God fully and without wavering while going through difficult and perplexing situations in life.
• God was satisfied with Job, and with how he went through the ordeal. Job basically remained true to God. Though he faltered, he still loved the Lord and sought to honor God and to abide by His words. With that, Satan was greatly displeased, and he lost the wager.

Let us learn from the story of Job, not so much on God and Satan “conspiracy” but on how Job endures in the midst of misfortunes. This lesson is very useful for someone going through suffering or distress when his or her understanding can easily get twisted.

What most of us have suffered in life is generally far less severe compared to what Job went through. With the Book of Job, and with pastors and theologians who have painstakingly explained its meaning to us, we now have a much fuller revelation and understanding of who God is, the realities in the spiritual realm and how we should live with our lives to the fullest. So it is expected that we are now in a better position to respond well.

One downside of the book though is that it bears the imprints of a pastor who has a whole day to belabor his point. A more rigorous editing could have eliminated some of the repetitions.

But don't let this discourage you to read the book and understand more about Job and learn the proper postures to take amidst life’s trials and tribulations.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NAMES

“YOUR name is Neyo, Sir?” the pretty teller scanned my ID and gave me the eye. Getting my affirmative answer, she nodded and went back to my check, but only after she had a low-toned giggly chat with her seatmate in the counter. “As in Ne-yo the singer?”

Yes, she was referring to that famous namesake of mine, Ne-yo (officially it’s with a hyphen), a young African-American R&B singer and songwriter whose songs have been topping the Billboard charts. He had a successful concert at the Araneta Coliseum in Quezon City early this year.

Neyo is my legal name as it was written in my birth certificate, though I’m not really sure if it’s original. The hyphenated one’s real name is Shaffer Chimere Smith; he only came out with his showbiz name in 2004. Of course I won’t tell that to the bank tellers. So far, I haven’t met a person dead or living bearing that name. Neo would be close enough but the “Y” made mine different.

Having a unique or unusual first name or having the same name as that of a famous person (like in my case), would sometimes put you on the spot. When the name is original, imaginative and interestingly cool, it invites curiosity as to its origin. And when it has a weird sound and naughty meaning and overly outdated at least in this country (like Damasito or Telesforo), it elicits a giggle if not a lifetime amusement. And any unsual name can also put you in the limelight, and may bring you a spot in the list of world's unusual first names.

Some unusual first names come from name or word combinations, name reverse, modifications from common or outdated names or just plain inventions of fathers who want to be different (read: ego-tripping Dads who are unmindful of the feelings of their children to live with an uncommon, if not horrible, name). My name may be original, but it’s far from interesting or imaginative as Jejomar, Condoleezza, Ginebra Miguela, and Barack.

As part of an assigned essay in school, I asked my father where did he get my first name. He told me that he got it from the name of an African doctor but he couldn’t exacly remember who this guy was. Unconvinced, I theorized that it was originally a “Neo” but for easier pronunciation especially for us Ilocanos who would read that as “Ne-oh,” he might have inserted the Y.

Having such an unusual name has a good side though. New acquaintances will have an easy time recalling my name. I remember when I was in high school, a girl sought me out in our town many months after I met her in a region-wide seminar for campus writers. She was a delegate from a nearby province, and even though she didn’t exactly remember my face, my name stuck on her mind (at least she had one to remember me by). So when she visited our place for some business of her own, she came to meet me in our school.

When the movie The Matrix became popular, topbilled by Keanu Reeves who played the character Neo, my name gained an added appeal. (R&B’s Ne-yo got its name from Neo of the same movie.) Some people, after hearing my name for the first time, would like to confirm, “Neo as in the Matrix guy?” I would answer them: “No, it’s with a Y.” “Maytrix?” (The last one is a joke of course.)

I was already working when I tried for the first time to Google my name. I wanted to find out the identity of that African doctor, and maybe a namesake in some parts of the world. What came out were a “Neyo” as a surname and a “neyo” as a foreign word (I’m not sure if it’s South American or African), still it’s not a first name. I also encountered for the first time Clone Commander Neyo, one of the lesser known Star Wars characters. And yet he’s no living guy.

Two years ago I was stunned by a wayward email in my Yahoo mailbox. It came from an R&B-crazy American teener asking me if my email address belongs to Ne-yo! I replied to her email telling her who I really was, but the girl wasn't convinced. She sent me three more emails after that, pleading me to confirm to her my “un-identity” so that she could tell her friends about me. But I never sent her another reply after the first.

But one thing I hate for having an uncommon name is that people would tend to misspell it or give sound-alikes. When I was asked to give my name for an order slip, those who don’t listen very well, would just write Neo, Leo, Niyo or Nilo. But those who care for accuracy, I was forced to spell my name in front of them. Good enough, it’s only a four-letter name. (What more if my name is Mahershalalhashbaz!)

And did I say I’d never met a living person bearing my name? Well, if that includes anyone from my family, then I am mistaken. There’s really a living person who has exactly the same name as mine and it’s my own doing. He is Neyo Martin, the second of my three children. But I’m sure his name, when he grows up, will no longer so interestingly uncommon nor original as to put him on the spot.

But more than the spelling, etymology or history behind the name, what is important is to effect a good meaning to it. We must strive for an association that reflects our true worth as an individual.

A WADE TO REMEMBER

WHEN it rains and the wind is never weary, life, to borrow a line from Longfellow, is cold, and dark and dreary. But to most Metro Manila residents, life is made colder, darker and drearier by the perennial floods.

Last month, when typhoon Karen sideswiped the metropolis when it entered Northern Luzon in a whiplash, I cuddled safely at home in Marilao, Bulacan. And despite the dull and gloom, I had reasons to celebrate, one for getting a reprieve from my midterm exam that day, and two, for being spared from braving the floods in the sinewy streets of the metropolis all because of class and work suspension.

Fortunately, the subdivision where my family lives lies comfortably on an elevated part of a wide span of rolling hills and plateaus in southern part of the town, so we were not at all bothered by floods, unlike people in some areas in the province or in that seemingly cursed coastal or riversided cities in the Metro.

But my personal celebration was dampened by the news that my relatives in Narvacan, my hometown in Ilocos Sur, were severely affected by the typhoon. Vast tracts of ricelands were submerged in the flood, and even residential areas in the poblacion and along the highway that traversed our barangay were not spared. 

Only decades ago, floods were rare occurrences in barangay Nanguneg, even during heavy or prolonged squalls. I mean real big floods when the water level hit the waistline of an adult, or when valuable things had to be hauled off hurriedly to the second floor of our house.

Floods in the barrio are different from those in the city.

Though the degree of peril is higher in our place because our barangay is very near the storm-surge-prone coast of South China Sea, and bounded by two rivers on opposite sides, and that the lost of income due to damaged crops is so real before every farmer’s eyes and he would just look at the damage with the resilience and hopefulness of the Ilocanos.

But unlike the reeking Waterworld of Metro Manila, there are no floating garbage, no abusive tricycle or pedicab drivers or ubiquitous wooden plank-bridge made by street toughies or tambay for a fee, and no cursing at city officials and MMDA personnel for clogged esteros and open manholes.

Against a backdrop of a dull, dark gray of the sky, a flood in the barrio is a vista of unhurried life gone wet and awry—timeless, surreal, a poem, a nostalgia, a sigh. You have to experience it to say it can be anything but dreary!

There’s one memorable flood, some rare episode of nature’s wrath in our barangay then, and it happened on my 17th birthday! I remember that early morning in September when the waters started to rise up to knee level and before eight it rose until it submerged half of the first floor of our house. So immediately we emptied cabinets and moved their contents to the second floor, and so with the pots, plates and silverwares, and the dalikan (earthen stove) and that included the remaining firewood that we can salvage from the dirty kitchen.

Around us were boundless pool and whirlpools of mud and detritus, of drowned chickens, bloated piglets, banana stalks and pairless slippers. The second floor was turned into a jumble of soggy clothes, and school bags and shoes, stools and a bookshelf, and sooted pots and pans, and the dalikan, and stacks of plates and plastic cups, and bottles of bagoong, patis, and salt. A hen and its freezing brood joined us in the fray for space.

The lull before the next barrage of the storm came about during lunchtime. The waters had not subsided even an inch, and sporadic spits of rain in that time span shut us out from any outdoor activities.

We had our lunch on the wooden floor. My mother served a platter of hot rice, a bowl of sardinas which she sauteed with onion and tomato, and a plate of tuyo (dried dilis). And no one ever spoke about a celebration for my special day.

After a hurried meal, Father and Manong Ben played chess on a small bench by the window. Manong Romel and I cozied up in one of the two rooms upstairs and opened up each other’s unfinished pocketbooks. (Manong Milton, our eldest, was in Zamboanga that year.) My three younger sisters scrounged for a space in their noisy play and arguments over their toys and imaginations. Mother wouldn’t like to think our situation in a damp bed; she rather occupied herself with the dalikan, boiling the corn and the kapeng bigas, readying them to warm our stomach throughout the day.

Outside the house, I heard moos and bleats of farm animals wet and sullen under the trees along the elevated shoulder of the highway. Joining the fray were calls from fish vendors and intermittent roars of passing vehicles.

Around four in the afternoon, I saw from the window a chicken keeping itself afloat in the swirling waters in the farm near the house. It must have fallen from its perch in a guyabano tree near our house. It was alive, weak and ready to die any time soon. I jumped into the chilly flood waters, and waded hurriedly to catch the chicken. I brought it upstairs and Mother butchered it for the next meal. And before dusk, we dined together, or rather we feasted, on a steaming sapsapuriket (or dinuguang manok).

While the squall continued to rage outside, the whole family was safe and sound in our damp and muddled place, shrugging the flood off as another chapter of our life in the barrio or as an unusual background for my birthday celebration. And I went to sleep with a hearty burp.