Bernard “Bernie” Bernacki, a man who meticulously planned his vacations down to the brand of non-dairy yogurt he’d pack, was starting to sweat through the one dress shirt he had bothered to pack. He’d envisioned idyllic days in the Philippine countryside – exploring rice terraces, haggling for hand-woven baskets, and maybe even trying karaoke. Instead, he found himself staring at a gaggle of expectant faces in Taal Adventist Church .
The culprit? A misunderstanding as Filipino as kare-kare. Bernie, ever the polite guest, had greeted everyone with a warm “Magandang Araw po!” (Good Day!). Pastor Felipe Flores had beamed and declared, “A Tagalog-speaking visitor! A gift from the Lord Himself! You will surely bless us with a word today!”
Bernie stammered, his Tagalog rusty from years of stateside church potlucks. “Uh, Pastor Flip, ako po si turista lang…” (I’m just a tourist…)
A collective gasp arose from the congregation, sharp enough to skewer a lechon (which, of course, nobody present would eat.) Auntie Ester, notorious for her side-eye sharper than a bolo knife, fixed Bernie with a glare that could curdle maja blanca.
“Turista?” Flip boomed, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. “But Brother, the harvest is plentiful! We haven’t had a guest speaker in months.”
Memories of his meticulously planned itinerary – spelunking in Palawan, a cultural immersion tour in Vigan, a guilt-free halo-halo – began to melt like taffy under the tropical sun. Flicking through an NIV for inspiration, Bernie felt a cold sweat bloom on his brow. Next year, he vowed, it’s all-inclusive resorts and pre-downloaded sermons. No exceptions. Unless, maybe, they offered a side of leche flan with the guest preaching gig.
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