Homeward Bound, Harry Gesulga

I was born and raised Catholic, and I swore to die one. Devotion was not one of my fortes, but loyalty was. At twelve I was convinced I would become a priest. At thirteen I was on my way to join the Salesian seminary, which was against my parents' wishes. But at that time I had to leave my country and come to the U.S. for medical treatment. I was a severe asthmatic--I was allergic to my own country. My illness cut me off from the happy childhood I had in my motherland. My siblings were left behind while my parents and I came over to this country. Nostalgia and homesickness gnawed on me like a malignant disease. What surfaced from this pestilence were sentiments, or passions, I had never known before. I was healed from my asthma, I breathed better in a country that was not my own, but I missed my homeland, and nothing would be a sufficient placebo to alleviate my longing.

I returned to my country three years later. The years of transition from my childhood to adolescence are summed up in one word: decadence. My life had gotten quite bad. Before I came back to the U.S. at eighteen I was already alcoholic. I lived a bohemian lifestyle, discovered the darker sides of the soul, and most of all learned how to dig sickly wells of pleasure in the backyard of misery.

I was attending Long Beach City College. Across from it was a very special home. Due to the polite persistence of a Filipino Christian who asked me to attend a Friday night Bible study at that home, I went. I went because I still had the decency to be polite to a fellow countryman. The message that was spoken that evening I forgot, but one word stuck-Jesus. I can only remember my feelings, but cannot express them. I remember how much I tried to hold back the tears. I don't know why I was like that that evening. Jesus, only Christ, and my welled-up heart finally whispered “peace”.

My vow to die a Catholic was in jeopardy. For about three months I was torn between choosing the large Catholic cathedrals or the small bungalow home near LBCC. Almost everyday after school I went alone to the nearest cathedral, kneeling before a gigantic hanging wooden cross, praying to God to show me a way out of this torment. I came to a point where I had to choose. I did not want to betray my mother church-I had sworn to die in it. Yet the meetings in the bungalow on Fridays supplied my needs that I was not even aware of. On Fridays to the bungalow; on Sundays to the cathedral, but one had to go. My loyalty was tested, and it was a torment. Finally the choice was no longer between the places; this time it was between my loyalty and Jesus. I took my pick-I died a Catholic and was reborn of the living God (John 1:12-13). I picked the Fridays! Jesus was more real to me on Fridays than on Sundays. That was the inception of how I was brought to the flock that fed on green, green pastures. By the Lord's mercy I am still meeting in the local churches. I take it as a great mercy that I am reading and hearing the life-supplying ministry of Watchman Nee and Witness Lee. Here I feel the deep assurance that I am in God's heart and plan for man. Here I am introduced to the blueprint; here I am shown the map. I think now I know my way home (John 14:6).