Come what may: Fire and rain

Last week, nearly 400 families lost their homes to a tragic fire that swept through Cicero Street, BF Resort Village, Barangay Talon Dos, Las Piñas. At 9:55 in the morning, just after children had gone to school and parents were settling into work, the flames rose without warning, leaving 1,414 individuals with nothing but the clothes on their backs and memories of the homes they cherished.

Ate Luz, a quiet senior citizen I met at the evacuation site, could barely speak as she recalled the moment her life’s work went up in smoke. 

“My grandkids didn’t even know they had no home to go back to,” she whispered, eyes clouded with disbelief. For 30 years, she worked abroad as an OFW, saving every peso to build that modest house on Cicero Street, a dream that, in minutes, turned to ashes.

When disaster strikes, we often talk about rebuilding structures. But what we seldom speak about is rebuilding the soul. Beyond the loss of property lies the invisible grief of losing dignity, safety, and belonging. As Abraham Maslow once said, shelter is not just a roof, it is a fundamental human need. When a home is lost, the very sense of security that anchors one’s being is torn away.

Yet, amid the smoke and sorrow, generosity shines like a small, steady flame. It takes the form of neighbors sharing meals on paper plates, of students collecting clothes for strangers, of volunteers offering words of comfort to those too stunned to cry. And there are those rare, steadfast souls who dedicate their lives to being there when others lost everything.

One of them is Alejandro “Aji” de la Merced, head of the Las Piñas City Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Office. I’ve quietly watched Aji for years, through floods, fires, and all the in-betweens. While most rest during weekends or holidays, he is out in the field, soaked in rain or smoke, comforting, coordinating, saving. For him, the word vacation had long turned to vocation.

It takes more than a salary to do what he does. It takes heart. People like Aji remind us that public service, at its core, is an act of love. He is a quiet guardian of compassion, one who shows that generosity isn’t always about money. Sometimes, it’s the gift of presence, the calm voice in chaos, the reassuring hand that says, we will get through this.

As the community begins to rebuild, may we all remember: generosity is most meaningful when shared in times of despair.

“Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.” — Hebrews 13:16

Fire and rain will always come. But so will grace, if we let our hearts stay generous.