My Childhood Bedroom

In our nipa hut (bahay-kubo), which stood in the compound that included our church and my grandparents’ house, I shared a bedroom with all my four younger siblings, and our househelp, Manang Ibay. 

Yup, the house I remember when I was little was a hut. My description may not be accurate as I didn’t pay attention to details, but I am sure it was made of materials people refer to as a nipa hut. 

One had to take six steps of wooden stairs to the porch that opened to the living room, with bamboo slats for floor and nipa for walls. The thatched roof was made of anahaw, a local plant.  

That hut had another bedroom for my parents, a dining room cum kitchen, plus a roofless space called bangsal, which my sister called “bathroom under the stars.” It was for bathing, washing clothes, and storing water that had to be manually pumped. Under it was a haven for our pigs and alternative coop for our chickens. 

A few years later, however, my parents decided to replace the hut with a two-story, concrete-and-wood house. At that time I was away in the city for high school. When I went home during the summer break, the new house was halfway up. Because I was turning 13 in another year, my parents surprised me with a room of my own. 

It was small, with just enough space for a slim bed and an aparador (clothes bureau) with a slender mirror. 

But it had a wall where I could hang three framed photos. It also had two huge windows where I could look down, see movements and hear noises: the pigs would be eating or rolling in mud; the chickens, pecking grains they could find on the ground; and the water pump, creaking and squeaking when used. If I looked up, I could behold a tall coconut tree and the sky above it. 

Before my room could warm up to me, however, a husband-and-wife American missionaries, who were on a long journey, came by to say “hello.” My parents, solicitous and caring to faith brethren and God’s workers, convinced them to stay the night, so they’d be rested to continue traveling the next day. 

They offered my bedroom. 

That was the day my bedroom transformed into a guest room, a most logical place for stranded pastors and church workers to rest—and where delegates to a church conference would feel most comfortable. 

Me? I didn’t mind sleeping in the double-deck beds in my siblings’ bedroom.  

Then one day, our church decided to welcome a deaconess (a lady church worker, who had just graduated from the seminary, to lead the youth group for the year.) She was from a faraway town, so she needed a permanent lodging while she performed her assignment. 

Guess what place was offered her? 

She moved into my bedroom; I had to empty my aparador and migrate my clothes to my siblings’ bedroom. My photos on the wall stayed, however, as though staking their claim to the place. 

My bedroom, to my mind, was just on lease (for free) to someone who had an important ministry. Pretty soon I went to college and stayed in a dormitory (for four years). Whenever I went home for vacation, I would visit my bedroom, occupied by another guest (a church worker, no less), and find my photos on the wall smiling back at me.  

So what was my childhood bedroom like? 

It was a sanctuary for the stranded, for church guests, for God’s servants who needed to rest their head for the night, so they can continue laboring for the Lord through the day. 

Looking back now, years and years later, I would answer that same question with words borrowed from the Bible, “Not mine, but Thine” Lord. 

(Note: This article was originally published in Storyworth; photos were borrowed from the Net to represent my bedroom view; only professional photographers owned cameras then.)