Thunder crashed, and lightning split the sky as Nene cowered under a blanket with her cousins. “If only I hadn’t left my parents,” she whimpered as the traditional longhouse swayed precariously in the storm. “If only I had listened.”

It all started a few years back when Nene was still at home. “I’m leaving!” she called over her shoulder as she grabbed a blanket and stomped out of the hut. “I’m going to sleep in the jungle rather than stay here.” She had tried and tried, but somehow she just didn’t get along with her parents or her other brothers and sisters.

For the next few weeks, Nene drifted from one mountain farm to another. She had little to eat, and got little sleep. Finally, her parents tracked her down. “We want you to go live with your grandparents,” they told her when they found her. “If you won’t stay with us, then you’ll get enough to eat at your grandparents’ hut.”

And that’s how Nene found herself in her grandparents’ traditional longhouse, nestled between two massive jungle trees. Nearly one hundred of her relatives lived in the hut, each family building a small sleeping platform onto the end of the existing structure.

At first, life in the longhouse seemed happy and carefree. Some of her relatives, though, were not a very good influence. She soon learned to steal vegetables, betel nut, and tobacco from the nearby lowlander farms. She was slipping farther and farther from what she knew to be right.

Then one day Grandma called Nene over. “You need to go to school, little girl! I hear that there is a new teacher in the school who is from our own tribe! Can you imagine that! The missionaries sent him to college. He’s the very first native from our tribe to graduate, and now he is teaching at the school in the next village over.”

And so Nene began attending school regularly. She liked hanging out with the other children and having a little more freedom. But the teacher kept giving them strange assignments. One day he made them memorize Psalm 23 from the Bible that he kept in the classroom. Nene was not sure about God, but she dutifully memorized the assignment and sat through the teacher’s worships.
Then the storm struck. Everyone in the longhouse froze in fear. They believed that if a paroy spirit were angry, it would send a terrible thunderstorm, a spring would well up under the hut, and the whole house and everyone in it would be swallowed up. Nene’s cousins were crying. Her grandma and grandpa burned all of the tobacco that they had stolen, trying to drive the spirit away. But all to no avail.

Suddenly, a terrible crash sounded, and an extraordinary flash of lightning blinded everyone. Instead of hitting the ground, though, the lightning zoomed into the hut and then hovered just under the eaves. Nene and her relatives watched in horror as the lightning began darting toward one person, then another. It seemed to be looking for someone. They were sure this was the paroy spirit itself. Everyone held their breath in fear of attracting its attention.

Then the ball of lightning seemed to catch sight of Nene cowering under a blanket in the corner. Slowly, the ball of lightning made its way down the length of the longhouse, crackling and popping as it moved. When it reached Nene’s sleeping platform, it turned and headed straight for her.

Poor little Nene was out of her mind in terror. She racked her brain trying to think of what to do. In moments, the paroy spirit would reach her, and she would die. Suddenly she remembered the Psalm that the Adventist native teacher had made her memorize. Desperately she tried to remember the whole chapter, but only the first verse came out. “The Lord is my shepherd!” she cried. “I shall not want!”

The bolt of lightning paused, as if uncertain. “The Lord is my shepherd!” she repeated in growing boldness. Now she was shouting to be heard above the storm. “I shall not want!” As she shouted, a violent gust of wind lifted one of the long grass roof shingles, and the bolt of lightning was sucked out through the gap. An instant later there was a blinding flash of white light and an explosion that sounded like the whole world was coming to an end. Then utter silence fell.

The quiet was so profound that it seemed almost eerie. When nothing happened for a few seconds, Nene and her relatives crawled down the ladder out of their hut. The two massive trees that had stood on either side of the hut were completely gone. All that was left were smoldering stumps. Not only that, but the sky was blue, the sun was shining brightly, and fluffy white clouds were drifting by. Not a sign remained of the terrible storm that had nearly killed them moments before.

Nene hid this experience deep in her heart. She had never really paid much attention to the God the missionaries taught about. Now she had undeniable evidence that He was real, though, and that He was more powerful than the spirits. She moved back home and began attending church. Soon she was studying the Bible with other young people in the Adventist church.

Today, Nene regularly climbs high into the mountains of her tribe’s territory along with other young believers to share what God did for her with those who still live in fear of the spirits. Nene’s story is just one of thousands throughout the mountains of Mindoro. The work that AFM began through my family and our team has grown beyond what we dared hope to see in our lifetime.

The four churches we planted, along with the native leaders we trained, have grown into 47 churches across five different tribes. The work is growing faster than we can keep track of, but we know of at least 2,700 baptized believers throughout the mountains. Native missionaries like Nene travel through the mountains, bringing the good news of Jesus to those who still need to hear. Native healthcare workers, trained first by my mom and later by me, now care for patients who cannot leave the mountains and advocate for native patients brave enough to go to the hospital. One native missionary family is even in the process of starting a new church planting movement among another unreached tribe on another island in the Philippines.

Recently, AFM asked me to take over the training program, equipping our new missionaries and coaching our current workers. I am excited for the opportunity to train missionaries all around the world. I cannot wait to pass on the lessons that God has taught me over the last 31 years in mission work.

My family and I are in the process of moving to AFM’s office in America to begin this new phase of our mission. As training director, I will no longer need to fundraise for my family’s personal support. However, we will continue traveling back to the Philippines regularly to ensure the work continues to grow. We also plan to continue running the dorm for native college students, which we have operated for the last several years, helping native students obtain higher education so they can return and help their tribes develop. If you would like to shift to supporting another AFM project, we completely understand. If you choose to continue supporting the Tawbuid project, your donations will now go exclusively to these regular mentoring trips and the university students’ expenses.

Many of you have partnered with our family since we first began working among these tribes back in 1994. Others joined when I relaunched to continue the work in 2011. Still others have heard about this work during my years on Mindoro. To each of you, thank you. In a very real way, you have been out in those mountains with me, crossing flooded rivers and studying the Bible in smoky huts. Thank you for being part of this team. God has multiplied your support and efforts thousands of times over. Many, many unreached people from the tribes of Mindoro will meet you in heaven to thank you.

My mission is far from over. You will still see articles from me in the magazine from time to time. I will still post updates on the work on Mindoro on my Epistle page, so if you have yet to subscribe, please do so at https://tawbuid.epistle.org. You will be notified when I post updates and videos.

Once again, thank you, and may the Lord richly bless you and yours.

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