Incline your ear to wisdom

When I was applying for a loan for my very first car, the dealership said I need a cosigner because I didn’t have enough credit record (it was 1996 and I arrived here in the US just the year before that).  So I called my uncle in Florida and to my relief, he agreed to cosign my loan.  That loan was long paid for (it was a 2-year lease) and I am still very grateful to my uncle but after that I vowed not to ask that kind of favor again.  I also agreed with my wife that we would never cosign for anyone even for family.  Consider the following stories:

My wife’s aunt asked her to cosign for a college tuition loan for her son.  My wife reluctantly told her about our agreement and apologized to her that we wouldn’t be able to help her in that regard.  Understandably, her aunt was very disappointed.  But after a year we found out that her son got married and stopped his studies.

We had a friend who cosigned a car loan with his friend.  Unfortunately, the car owner wasn’t responsible enough to pay his bills on time so interest and fees quickly accumulated.  Then he decided to move to another state and abandon the car.  The cosigner had to take over the loan with the heart stopping annual interest of 24 percent!  On top of this, his credit record was ruined.

A coworker’s son gave a credit card to his girlfriend tied up to his account (authorized user).  When they broke up, he forgot to cancel her card and she proceeded to charge up the card and he was held responsible for all the charges made before he discovered it and closed the account.

So are these the reasons why we don’t cosign for anyone?  Actually, long before they happened, I read the following passage from the Bible:

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;  My child, have you promised to be responsible for someone else’s debts?  Have you been caught by your own words, trapped by your own promises?  Well then, my child, you are in that person’s power, but this is how to get out of it: hurry to him, and beg him to release you.  Don’t let yourself go to sleep or even stop to rest.  Get out of the trap like a bird or a deer escaping from a hunter.

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;         & nbsp;      & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   Proverbs 6:1 – 5 (Today’s English Version)

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   When we hear the word discipline, most of us think of control or restrictions, of punishment or correction.  It is true that these are all parts of discipline, but when I looked up the origin of the word, I found out that there was a lot more to it.  I found out that it came from the Latin word disciplina which means teaching, learning.  I also found out that the word disciplina came from discipulus meaning pupil (Merriam-Webster Online).

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   To have discipline is to be a disciple of a person, a cause or a principle to paraphrase Stephen R. Covey in his new book The 8^th Habit. “Most people equate discipline with an absence of freedom.  In fact, the opposite is true.  Only the disciplined are truly free.  The undisciplined are slaves to moods, appetites and passions.” 

I find this insight very useful.  It makes me realize that discipline gives me more choices, more freedom, rather than restricts me.  It gives me a renewed vigor to adopt discipline as a way to make my life much better, rather than more difficult.  To illustrate this point, let me share to you some of the disciplines we want to teach our daughter as she grows up and the corresponding freedom she may gain from them:

The discipline to speak in Filipino

Freedom to fully learn the culture and heritage of her parents, freedom to enjoy the literature, the music, the humor of the Filipinos

The discipline to save

Freedom from debt, from the embarrassment of asking family or other people for help.  Freedom to help others who are in need

The discipline to take care of her body

Freedom from the high cost of medical care, freedom to participate in sports, freedom to do work that requires strength and endurance.

The discipline to read books

Freedom from ignorance, misconceptions, or false assumptions

The discipline to read and meditate on God’s words

Freedom from the bondage of sin, freedom from lies and deception of the devil.  Freedom from worrying about the things in this life.  Freedom to love others unconditionally

    & nbsp;   Did I really forgive those men?  Turned out I didn’t.  For until now I still hate drunkards.  All of them.  I still identify them as the men who made fun of us while borrowing courage from liquor.  I still see them as the losers who couldn’t face their problems so they try to drown them with booze.  I still see them as the irresponsible scumbags who kill millions of other drivers and thus deserve to go to hell.  I still despised all of them.  If you go back to the part where I supposedly forgave them, you can see that I only did so because I had no choice.  It was for a selfish reason.  My growing hate for them was slowly destroying me so I decided to let God go after them, so to speak.  As I mentioned, I had no choice but to accept the past.  But what if the police caught them.  What if I have a chance to face them, and the power to punish them?  Would I forgive them then?  It would be a total lie if I say yes.

And this is also the reason why I accused the parents on the first story of hypocrisy.  I couldn’t accept that there are still people in this world with that kind of compassion.  If that had been my daughter, I would have also gone to Africa.  But for the opposite reason.  I would seek out those men to kill them.  Or maybe I would “forgive” them, but will ask God to bring justice to those killers.  You see what I failed to realize is that these people had forgiven based on love and humility.  I did so based on pride and selfishness.  In accusing them of hypocrisy, my own hypocrisy was exposed.

    & nbsp;   As I let my hatred towards those men grow I focused on other people’s sin, but forgot about my own filthiness.  I hated them for making fun of me, but I forgot about the times when I laughed at the expense of other people.  How many times have I condemned those who commit adultery, while forgetting about the times I lustfully looked at a woman?  How many times have I looked down on those executives who embezzled money from their company, and then shrugged off the days when I don’t give my employer a full day’s work?  How many times have I shown my disgust towards criminals, all the while forgetting that I’m committing a more serious crime by judging them?  As I doubted the Biehls’ story of forgiveness, my own story was put to the test.  And the forgiveness I have given to those men had miserably failed, compared to the mercy God has continuously shown me.

    & nbsp;   Time may not have been enough to heal the wounds I sustained on that dark night.  But God’s love had completely healed them.  I may never forget what they had done to us, but I can now confidently say that I have forgiven them.  Just like God had forgiven me.

Then I heard it.  “Para!”  It was guy A.  He’s asking the driver to stop.  They were getting off!  When they got off and the jeepney sped away, Classmate C started crying again.  I knew this time it is a cry of relief so it didn’t bother me at all.  What bothered me is that I didn’t know what to say to her or to classmate L.  Actually, I just didn’t know what to say, period.  So I just whispered “Thank you God.”

“It’s over.  This nightmare is over”, I remember telling my self as I rode the last leg of my trip going home.  Again I was wrong.

I didn’t sleep that night.  I kept thinking about it over and over.  I kept playing out every what-if scenarios I can think of.  What if I stuck with the umbrella plan?  Would I have been strong enough to knock guy N out?  Would I have been fast enough to hit guy A too?  Would the other passengers have been brave and kind enough to help me and my classmates?  What if guy N continued his harassments?  Would I have been angry enough to ignore that rational voice?  What if I stabbed him and killed him?  Would I have gone to prison despite of what he did?  What if this happens again but this time it’s not my classmates, but my sisters?  How would I react?  How should I react?

There were times when I thought of hunting them down and exacting my revenge.  Yes, I wanted to kill them.  There were times when I imagine them laughing at me, telling stories of how sissy boy could not do anything while they were having fun with his friends.  There were times when I imagine my classmates blaming me for not having the guts to defend them.  There were times, amidst feelings of helplessness, that I wished I had the power to change the past.  These were also the times I blamed God for even letting this happen to us.  For letting this happen to me.

    & nbsp;   &n bsp; For years after that incident, I continued these mind games.  And as I continue to do so, my anger for those men grew.  One day, I came to realize that there’s really nothing I could do to change what happened.  So I decided to let go.  I decided to forgive them.  I decided to let God give whatever punishment those men deserve, as He see fit.

    & nbsp;    So why did I react in such a way to the Biehls’ story.  Aren’t our stories similar?  We were both wronged and we both decided to forgive the offenders.  Actually, compared to their story, mine seems silly, even laughable.  After all nobody got killed, nobody really got hurt (physically).  It’s true that it was traumatic for me, specially for my classmates.   But fourteen years should have been more than enough time to heal the wounds that they had inflicted.  After all, I already forgave them right?

A  B   C  D  E  F  G  H   I   J    X

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;         & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;          Y

K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R   S  T     Z 

    & nbsp;  Guy N leaned enough to reach one of my classmates’ D’s hands and started rubbing it!  D tried to pull her hands away but guy N was firmly holding them.  She was trembling and was looking away at the maniac in front of her.  Tears started welling from her eyes as she tried to pull her hands away again.  After about three very long seconds, guy N let go.  But he was still staring at D.  He seems to be studying her and at the same time thinking of his next move.

This small gap gave me a chance to calculate my response when N starts to move again.  I was almost certain that he was thinking of grabbing D again.  My fear is this time, it wouldn’t be D’s hands.  Remember I’m right beside the guy, so I can prevent him from doing anything again.  Well, I can try.  He was clearly bigger than me.  Granted he was really drunk that he was obviously fighting to stay awake.  But I was a very lanky 19-year-old back then.  At 5’6”, I only weighed 125 lbs.  I remember myself thinking I didn’t have a chance against him unless I use a weapon.  Classmate C was holding an umbrella with a somewhat pointed end and I recalled thinking of swiping it from her and hitting guy N on the stomach to knock him out.  Then I will hit guy A in the face before he can react.  “But what about guy J?” I remembered.  He might have a gun and might start shooting at me if I did these to his friends.  Maybe the other passengers will help me and grab him and pin him down before he could do anything.

My planning was interrupted when I saw guy N’s arm across my lap.  He is reaching for L this time!  He barely touched L’s hand when I tapped it away and leaned forward so that my body is between him and L.  Why did he go for L this time?  I was surprised I was still analyzing the situation calmly.  Then it hit me.  He was telling me he’s not afraid of me.  Actually, I think he was telling me that for him, it’s as if I don’t even exist.  It was then that I felt streams of blood rushing to my head.  The calmness is being replaced by anger.  He did not only dishonor my classmates, he also trampled on my ego.  This insult triggered a primal rage within me.  I quickly scrapped my plan to knock him out.  He deserves a more severe punishment than that.  I need a more potent weapon.  And the solution came to me right away.  I had a pen in the right pocket of my jeans.  I will get it and in one swift motion I will plant it on the side of his neck.  That’s right.  This bastard will die tonight!

Guy J must have seen the fury in my eyes.  Cause when I caught a glimpse of him, he was staring at me.  He must have sensed that I was about to make a move.  He must have for he gave me a warning.  He slowly and deliberately shook his head.  It was an unmistakable signal.  He was telling me to stop whatever it is that I was about to do or I will get hurt.   But being hurt was the least of my concern at that moment.  I badly wanted to punish the bastard beside me.  I know I am no match to guy J and his buddy guy A.  I know they will lunge at me on the first sign of aggression.  But so what, I thought.  The important thing is this bastard beside me will not be able to molest other women ever again.

As I was summoning all my courage to pull my pen, I remembered whispering “God please help me”.  And that’s when I heard this voice.  “If you kill him, and his friends kill you, how can you protect your classmates?  What if they also rape your classmates or kill them afterwards?” What?  Where is this voice coming from?  I tried to ignore it but it continued.  “Is killing this guy really worth ruining your life?”  “When you go to prison, do you realize how much misery you will cause your parents?”  I couldn’t move my hand.  I felt the turmoil inside me slowly subsiding.  This calm, rational voice had taken my attention.  As I focus on it, it became louder and clearer.  “Your classmates are already traumatized, are you going to cause them further trauma by stabbing this guy?”

I felt really confused.  The voice was making sense but at the same time I still wanted to do something to protect my classmates from further abuse.

     It was almost midnight.  We were all very tired.  We came from a classmate’s house to work on a thesis that we were going to present in a week (we were college seniors).  We were riding a jeepney, the most common form of public transportation in the Philippines besides buses.  I was with five classmates, all of them girls.  The jeepney stopped in a dark area of the highway.  They don’t usually stop in highways to pick up passengers.  In the city, they do stop quite often for this purpose and for passengers getting off.  You see they don’t have designated stops like buses.  They can stop pretty much whenever and wherever they want.  The driver picked up 3 passengers and the vehicle was filled to capacity.  I think its necessary to describe the sitting arrangement inside a jeepney to help you visualize the story. It has 3 rows of sitting areas: the driver’s row and two passenger rows facing each other.  Roughly, it looks like this:

A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H   I   J    X

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;         & nbsp;       & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p; Y

K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T    Z 

    & nbsp;  The driver’s row is the XYZ row.  The driver sits on the X spot.  Rows A – J and K – T are the two passenger rows facing each other.  The driver’s row, of course faces the road.  Spots Y and Z are also occupied by passengers.  
 

    & nbsp;  Let’s go back to the story.  After the 3 men boarded I immediately sensed danger.  This is because of the spots they took.  The first sat on A.  The second one on N and the third on J.   Both experience and instinct tell me that these people are going to rob us!  It’s just a matter of time when one of them will announce the hold up, and they will all reveal whatever weapons they are carrying.  The guy seated on J will control the driver’s row and make sure the driver didn’t get any ideas.  The guy on A will secure the only exit (and entrance) of the two passenger rows.  The guy on N is usually the one who will collect the wallets and jewelry of the passengers after they make certain nobody is going to resist.  People who attempt to fight them usually end up killed or severely injured.
 

A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H   I   J    X
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;         & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;       Y
K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T    Z 

    & nbsp;  I was seated on M, so the guy on N was beside me.  My classmates were seated on B, C, D, K, and L.  You can say we were not in desirable spots.  We were right in the middle of two robbers.  As if to confirm my suspicion, I didn’t just sense trouble, I also smelled it.  Literally.  Guy N reeked of liquor.  I suspect guy A and guy J, if not drunk were also under the influence.  By this time, all sorts of thoughts were racing through my mind.  Will they have guns or just knives?  Will they take our wallets or just the cash?  How much do I have right now?  How will we get home? (We needed to ride more jeepneys or buses to get home).  Will someone try to fight them?  Will they stop the vehicle while robbing us, or will they let it continue to run?  How will my classmates react?  How will I react?

A  B   C  D  E  F  G  H   I   J    X

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;         & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   &nbs p;     ;         Y

K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T      Z  

    & nbsp;  I was sneaking nervous glances to guy N.  In a hold up situation, this is usually the guy who announces it.  Sure enough, he started to lean in.  Here comes the worst night of my life, I said to myself.  What he did froze me in complete shock.  He didn’t announce anything.  He did something worse.

Amy Biehl died a violent death.  In 1993, the 26-year-old white Fulbright scholar was registering black voters for South Africa’s first free election when she was dragged out of her car and stabbed and beaten to death by a mob of black Africans spurred by a group intent on the violent overthrow of the apartheid government.

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   Soon afterward, Amy’s parents, Linda and Peter Biehl, quit their jobs and moved from Orange County, Calif., to South Africa, where they established a foundation in Amy’s name.  Today, two of her killers work for the foundation.  They call Linda Biehl “Makhulu,” or grandmother, and she treats them as her sons.

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;  At 61, Linda Biehl is now widowed and living most of the time in South Africa.  Daughter Amy has been dead for 11 years, and since then, she says, “so many wonderful things have happened.”  After she spoke to U.S. News (the source magazine), Biehl was planning to do some more work for the foundation and then meet one of her daughter’s killers and his fiancée for dinner.