Anna L. Mamalampac

When I was a small girl, I thought that the moon was following me.

It was a summer night in the quiet, rustic town of Salvador, Lanao del Norte. My family and relatives had gathered at my Ina’s house for a celebration. The occasion has since slipped my mind, but I vividly remember how happy we all were. I was especially thrilled to finally reunite and play with my cousins, whom Ina –our grandmother— equally loved and cherished.

Given the freedom to roam the neighborhood, we became “partners-in-crime,” letting our carefree and mischievous natures run wild. We spent the night playing with the local children, eventually settling on our favorite traditional game: batir lata. Even in the near-darkness, illuminated only by a sliver of the moon, we could just make out the shape of the tin can as we threw our slippers with all our might to knock it down.

We ran around barefoot, with slippers held tight in our hands, taking turns guarding and throwing at the can. Some of us would hide behind the plants of our Ina, and others behind a coconut tree, waiting for the chance to dash out and kick the can without being caught by the ghakowa. And laughter started to echo as we shouted and teased each one of us. There are times we tripped on the ground but never minded the scratches caused by it because the fun was greater.

The thrill of running in the dark, the sound of slippers hitting the can, and the loud cheers when someone finally kicked it made the night more alive. It was as if the whole neighborhood joined in our joy, with the celebration laughter in the distance blending with our voices.

Right after the game, we would rest on the Bermuda grass outside Ina’s house. Lying there, we looked up at the stars and the moon above us. Childhood questions spilled easily from our mouths. What do stars really look like? Do they have their own light? Are they shaped? How big is the moon?

Soon our thoughts turned fully to the moon. It was very bright that night. It was summer, after all. I remember how proud I felt when I told my cousins that the moon followed wherever I went. That night, I learned it was nothing special. We all had the same experience.

Still, I wondered. Perhaps the moon was a person, I told myself. A being who could see us from above, who followed us, guided us, and kept us from danger.

In those moments on the grass, I did not yet know the weight of the world or the passing of time. Everything felt whole and endless. The night, the laughter, the quiet glow above us. I believed in things easily. I believed the moon could follow me, that it watched over us like a gentle guardian. Childhood made space for such thoughts, where wonder was not questioned but simply held, soft and certain, in the heart.

The following afternoon, I approached Ina. She sat outside in her korsi a tam’lang, sipping her coffee. I asked her about the moon, because after our talk the night before, my curiosity about that heavenly body had only grown.

“God created the universe. He created the moon,” my grandmother told me.

Overwhelmed by the thought of God’s power, I can no longer remember the rest of what she said. But that night I shared her words with my cousins and friends. They listened closely. For a moment, our laughter faded, replaced by a seriousness we had never felt before. Her words gave us something larger to think about.

It was a profound realization for us to know that the moon had been created by God Himself. We began to wonder what God looked like and how powerful He must be to create the universe, especially the moon that shone so brightly above us.

Something shifted in us that night. We were filled with awe, and our belief quietly began to change. Through the simple miracle of the moon, we sensed that there was a God. The prayers we heard from our parents no longer seemed like empty words. Perhaps, as children, we had been content simply to play, without thinking about the world beyond us.

Ina, without my fully realizing it then, was the keeper of answers to questions I had not yet learned how to ask. She spoke with a calm that made everything seem true and steady. When she told me about God and the moon, it was not just information she gave, but a way of seeing the world. Looking back now, I understand that she was quietly shaping something in me, a way of believing, searching, and becoming. Perhaps that is how girlhood slowly leans into womanhood, through small moments, through stories passed down, through the voices of those who came before us, teaching us how to look up and find meaning in the light.

Everything changed for me that summer. As I grew older, I began to understand that everything around me is a sign of God’s grace. The little girl who once believed the moon followed her now sees it differently. The moon has become, for me, like the face of God in the dark—beyond my reach, yet always shining, illuminating my path, a quiet light that keeps me moving forward.