(An office-mate wrote this article, my friend emailed. He did not give the name of the chap who wrote "Basureros." But this is a country where a gambler like Atong Ang admits squirreling away P25 million from jueteng kickbacks that went to a President. Thus, this true story resonates. I've edited for clarity and brevity. Read - and wonder - JLM)

"Possible heart enlargement" the doctor said. So, I jogged more on week-days. And on Sundays, I'd bike up Cebu's beautiful Busay hills. On one of those climbs, I had a "Damacus moment" - referring to the Christian Paul who emerged from the brutal Saul, after being struck down by a Presence, on the road to that Syrian capital.

After passing the renovated Marco Polo Plaza, I pulled up at a small carenderia. I was into my second banana, when I noticed two kids, picking through the garbage across the street. Basureros (Scavengers). I scoffed, turning away. I've little use for them.

Repeatedly, I've been victimized by kids, pretending to be basureros scrounging for empty bottles and cans. Instead, they made off with kettles, basins, laundry, etc. My tv screen blurred when watching a Mike Tyson fight. Checking, I glimpsed two young "basureros" scampering with my antenna.

Remounting my bike, I heard the 7-year or so girl, say in the dialect: "Kuya, Bring Dodong here as he's staring at people eating. It shames us." Only did I notice a boy of 5 or so, nearby, sucking his thumb. He didn't ask for anything. Yet, he stared intently at the food.

Crossing the street, the older boy gently pulled the little one into the garbage dump. "Those kids make you cry inside," the carenderia owner said. "They're so well-behaved."

A stroke left a half-paralyzed father. And the mother died from a heart attack. So, the kids scavenged to earn a few pesos for their food and father's medicines.

Moved, I pedaled to the nearby bakery and bought 20 pesos worth of bread and gave it to the children. But even the little boy politely declined. "Never mind, sir. We'll buy some if we can sell something from what we've gathered."

It started to drizzle, "Go home," I said. And the girl replied. "We're used to this," I explained that if they got sick, no one would care of their father. Mention of the father did the trick. They nodded and accepted the bread. But the older boy did not eat.

"Don't you like this kind of bread?" I asked.

"It's Sunday, sir," the youngest interrupted the boy's explanation if it's Saturday or Sunday, he eats only in the afternoon. Only my sisters and I eat breakfast. But in the afternoon, we don't eat. It's only kuya who does so.

"But from Monday to Friday, because of classes, only kuya has breakfast. We eat in the afternoon. But if we earn more from our garbage picking, then we all can eat."

"Does everybody share if you are able to sell something, even it's only a few pesos," I pressed. Their father, the little girl explained, wanted kuya to enter class with full stomach, so he'd catch up with the lessons. "When kuya works, we stop picking garbage. Buy kuya still gets first honors," the child added proudly.

Was it surprise? Or was I being overly emotional? But I quickly turned my back to hide my tears and pretended to pick up my bike. Finally I pedaled back to take a good look at them. Their attitude was stunning. Yet, there was one thing that they can never change: being motherless. That little boy can never taste the love of a mother.

My last 100 peso bill was reserved for our department's bowling tournament. I gave it to them. They refused. With mock anger, I joked: "If you don't accept, I'll hit you." The child smiled and extended her hand: "Thank you sir. We will buy medicine for our father."

As I turned the bike, I saw the little kid. His right hand was holding the half-filled garbage sack while his left hand clasped - what was it? It was a broken down toy car. I waved goodbye and started my climb.

But the thoughts would not go away. Did he stumble across the car in the dump? Or was it originally his, before death claimed his mother and a stroke felled his father? I had not asked. But one thing is clear: in spite of the boy's abnormal life, he had not let go of his childhood completely. I could sense it in the way he held and stared at his broken toy.

My meeting with those young basureros made me poorer by 100 pesos. But they enriched me about what matters in life.

Without teaching, I learned from them that life is transient, unpredictable. It can change health into illness and abundance into want, often so suddenly they catch us flatfooted. Standing is the midst of foul smelling garbage, they also taught me that even the darkest side of life, cannot change the beauty of one's heart.

"Give us this day our daily bread" means more to them than to us, who take for granted three meals a day. Yet, they hold on to what they believe was right. What a contrast that offers to most of us who are quick to point out to our misfortunes when caught with our mistakes. In them, I've learned to hope for grace when things seem to go the other way.

On this mountain road and garbage dump, I learned that God cares for them far more than I do. That though He allowed them to experience such a terrible life which our finite minds cannot grasp, His unconditional love will surely follow them through.

(E-mail: juan_mercado@boholchronicle.com)