By Lilibeth Sabado, CLM, Philippines
When I first arrived in Negros Occidental as part of a team of three Lay Missionaries, I carried with me a mixture of gratitude, hope, and uncertainty. Each of us brought varied and common experiences from overseas mission and from here in our home region. But coming to Negros felt like stepping into something deeper ― a new place, a new season, and a sacred continuation of a story that began long before us.
In those early weeks, I would often go for quiet walks around the property. I needed space to listen, to breathe, and to feel rooted. On one of those walks, I stumbled upon an old tree stump – wide, weathered, and cracked by time. But right at its center, something beautiful was growing: a sturdy, vibrant shoot, rising tall and strong from the heart of what once was. That image struck me. It stayed with me, almost like a quiet whisper from the land itself.
At the time, we were still reeling from the loss of Brian Gore, a longtime Columban missionary whose life was woven deeply into the soil of Negros. He was not just a figure from the past; we were supposed to be working together as a team of Columbans, embracing the synodal way of doing mission. We were looking forward to learning from him, sharing the joys and challenges of mission. He was going to be a mentor, a companion, someone to walk with us as we began. But before that could happen, Brian passed away on Easter Sunday.
It was a loss that felt personal. There was grief, but also a sense of disorientation. We were stepping into something we did not fully know, without the presence of someone who knew it so well. I found myself wondering, ‘Are we really meant to be here now? Are we ready for this?’
But that image of the shoot in the stump kept coming back to me. The tree that had once stood tall was no longer there — but its roots were still alive. And from those roots, something strong and new was growing. It reminded me of a lesson I had learned early in my missionary life: No amount of preparation ever truly prepares you for mission. We arrive with open hands, open hearts, and trust that the Spirit has already gone ahead believing that even if we study, plan and train, mission has its own rhythm, it begins before we feel ready. And, God shows up.
We were not sent here to recreate the past. We are not here to replace anyone. We are here to tend what is growing now — to nurture the mission as it takes a new shape. We walk with families, listen to the cries of the land, care for creation, and remain present to the joys and struggles of daily life. Mission today may look different from before, but its heart remains the same: to be with, to listen, to serve, and to love.
That shoot rising from the stump said exactly that to me. The great tree like the presence of ordained non-Filipino Columbans that defined Columban Mission as it once was — is no longer here. But the roots remain, and life is still growing from it. Not a delicate beginning, but a strong, living continuation. We are not here to rebuild the old tree. We’re here to tend to what’s growing now— the mission taking a new form, one that’s smaller but no less faithful.
We are not starting from scratch. We stand on something solid. The lives and witness of the missionaries who were here have laid deep roots. And now we are part of the growth — three lay missionaries, bringing our own stories, walking with families, learning the language of the land, and paying attention to the new life already rising.
That image — of the shoot in the stump — speaks of resilience, of grace through loss and of the faithfulness of God, who brings life even when we feel unprepared or unsure. Mission never belongs to one generation. Like the shoot from the stump, it continues- strong, surprising, and full of grace. God, thank You for bringing us into this land and for the life it holds.
