Published in the May 28 edition of the Tyler Star News.

I wasn’t with him when he stepped off the plane in Tagum City, Davao del Norte, but I can still see it in my mind.

The sun hung low over the city, painting the pavement gold. The air was thick with the scent of grilled chicken inasal, fried banana cue crackling in oil, and the faint sweetness of jackfruit carried on the breeze. Jeepneys clattered by in a patchwork of chrome and hand-painted scripture, their roofs piled high with sacks of rice and spare tires, their interiors bursting with color, and rosaries swinging from rearview mirrors.

Tagum is a city of contrasts, modern in its growth, but deeply rooted in tradition. It’s known as the “City of Palm Trees,” and royal palms line the avenues like quiet guardians. It’s a city that loves music, hosting festivals that fill streets with song, where guitars are as common as greetings, and where voices rise together long before they’re asked to. It’s a place where strangers become neighbors, and neighbors become family in the span of a meal or a shared smile.

Vendors line the sidewalks with styrofoam coolers full of iced buko juice. A man tends skewers of isaw on a roadside grill as children dart barefoot through alleyways behind him, laughter echoing against the tin-roof homes. Over it all comes the layered hum of Tagalog and Bisaya, spoken with cadence and color, full of warmth and reverence. The languages rise and fall like lullabies and folk songs, carrying with them not just meaning, but memory. Gavin once told me he didn’t always understand what was being said, but he understood how it made him feel: welcomed, seen, safe.

In Tagum, life doesn’t whisper. It sings. It’s where May is from, a city stitched together with faith, family, and food. A place where love is not only spoken, but lived out loud. Where elders are greeted with “mano po,” a gentle bow of the head as young hands lift theirs to the forehead, a sacred act of honoring the past and acknowledging where you come from.

Gavin didn’t grow up that way. He was raised in rural West Virginia, between the river and the hills of Appalachia, where fog drapes the ridgelines like a hymn and mornings begin in stillness. Where respect is felt more than said, and love is often tucked into the quiet corners of service and presence. Where sons are taught to be steady and self-sufficient, and independence is the proof of a job well done.

Two places. Two legacies. Two beautiful, rooted ways of being. And yet, somehow, they’ve grown into one story.

When Gavin met May, he didn’t just fall in love with a person. He recognized the depth of her heritage, the heartbeat of a culture far from his own. And he wanted to know it, not from a distance, but up close.

So he went.

From the colorful rhythm of Manila to the tranquil shores of Palawan, from the colonial charm of Cebu to the spirited streets of Tagum City, Gavin stepped fully into May’s world. But even before he packed a suitcase, he began preparing his heart.

He spent a year learning the language, softly practicing Tagalog words and Bisaya phrases, so he could experience love, kindness, and culture through May’s lens. He didn’t want to just be there. He wanted to understand it. To honor her family with his thoughts and his words. He believed that learning someone’s language is one of the purest ways to say: I see you. I respect where you come from. I want to belong, not just visit.

And when he arrived, he did more than listen, he tasted.

He ate everything placed in front of him, without hesitation. Lechon with its golden, crackling skin. Sinigang, its sour tamarind broth warming him from the inside out. Adobo, sweet and salty, simmered to perfection. He tried balut with a nervous grin, then closed his eyes and swallowed out of respect, not obligation. Lumpia, pancit, tinola, dried fish with garlic rice in the morning. Sticky sweet kakanin served on banana leaves. And halo-halo, a joyful dessert of ice and cream and color, like childhood in a bowl.

The food wasn’t just food, it was memory. It was gratitude. It was generations of hands stirring, chopping, wrapping, and seasoning with more heart than recipe. Gavin didn’t flinch. He received every meal with humility and open hands, knowing he was being offered something far deeper than nourishment. He was being trusted with heritage.

And he quickly learned that in the Philippines, hospitality isn’t a custom, it’s a heartbeat. It’s not something done for show or out of obligation. It’s a reflex, a way of living that says: you are seen, you are welcome, you are one of us. It looks like opening your home before being asked. It sounds like “Kain na tayo” . . . “come eat” . . . spoken before a name is even exchanged. It means offering the best seat, the last serving, and the most tender part of the fish. It means feeding others with both hands and staying on your feet until everyone else has had enough.

Filipino hospitality is not grand. It is generous. It is humble, holy, and often unnoticed, just like love is supposed to be.

By the end of his visit, Gavin had walked through rice paddies and coconut groves, watched the sun slip quietly into the sea from the white sand shores of Palawan, and stood beneath the sweeping palms of Tagum as they rustled in the early evening breeze. He had crossed narrow footbridges over creeks, felt the soil of another homeland beneath his feet, and stood in the open stillness that settles just before dusk in the provinces. He had seen May’s world with the color, the cadence, and the reverence for land and life, and though it looked nothing like the hollers of West Virginia, something in him recognized the rhythm.

The light fell differently, the trees bore different fruit, but the spirit of it, the connection to the land, the closeness of community, and the way life clings to the mountains felt achingly familiar. The places were oceans apart, but the feeling of home, of belonging to a patch of earth that teaches you who you are, was the same.

One night toward the end of his trip, under a canopy of stars, they settled in to share stories and song. The meal had ended, but the evening lingered, alive with laughter, soft voices, and the easy rhythm of people who don’t rush sacred things. Someone reached for a guitar, strummed a few familiar chords, and smiled.

Then, as if by sheer coincidence, a song from his home rose into the night.

“Country Roads, Take Me Home . . . To The Place I Belong”

And suddenly, the voices around him, formed by a different language and shaped by island winds, joined in. Their English was imperfect, the melody softened by their accents, but their hearts knew every word. It wasn’t just a song. It was a bridge. A hymn. An echo of the hills that raised him, sung back through the palms of Tagum.

And as they sang, Gavin stood in the middle, not lost between two worlds, but held by both.

The same stars that hung over the West Virginia mountains now watched over him here, and in that moment, it felt as if the road home had always stretched a little farther than he thought: across fields, over water, through language and song.

He didn’t expect it. But he recognized it. Belonging. Blessing. A bridge made of music.

He didn’t return with souvenirs. He came home changed. With a softer voice. A wider heart. A reverence for what he now carried.

Because Gavin didn’t just fall in love with May. He fell in love with her people. Her rhythm. Her legacy. Her land.

He became the bridge quietly, humbly, and faithfully.

And so, I offer this blessing over him now, in the language of the place that welcomed him:

“Pagpalain ka nawa ng pag-ibig na marunong umunawa, ng puso na marunong makinig, at ng pananampalatayang nag-uugat sa kabutihan.”

“May you be blessed with a love that seeks to understand, a heart that listens deeply, and a faith rooted in goodness.”

And may the bridge my son is building carry more than love. May it carry legacy, grace, and the sacred joining of two beautiful worlds.