Photo: Lilibeth (Beth) Sabado
We are not here to rebuild the old tree - we’re here to tend to what’s growing now.
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 unique and shared experiences from overseas missions and from our home region. But coming to this province in the Philippines 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 on an old tree stump. It was wide, weathered and cracked by time. But right at its centre, something beautiful was growing: a sturdy, vibrant shoot, rising tall and strong from the heart of what once was. That image struck me and stayed with me, almost like a quiet whisper from the land itself.
At the time, we were still reeling from the loss of Fr 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 died 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 and hearts, trusting that the Spirit has already gone ahead and believing that even if we study, plan and train, mission has its own rhythm; it begins before we feel ready. It begins when God shows up.
We were not sent here to re-create 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, who defined Columban Mission as it once was, is no longer here. However, the roots remain and life still grows from them. Not a delicate beginning, but a strong, living continuation. We are not here to rebuild the old tree. We are 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 Columban 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, grace through loss and 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.
Columban lay missionary Lilibeth (Beth) Sabado lives and works in the Philippines.
Listen to "A shoot from the stump: life, loss and mission"
Related links
- Read more from The Far East - March/April 2026
