We Go for the One

Lessons from the Path Less Taken by Star Maglajos

There is something about going on mission trips—hiking mountains, crossing rivers, walking narrow trails to places untouched by the Gospel—that teaches truths about God no classroom ever could. These journeys have become my no-walls classroom, where God patiently reveals His heart, not just through sermons, but through sweat, pain, and quiet obedience.

One of those unforgettable lessons happened in Purok Lahak.

After a long day of travel and ministry between MC Third Gate and MC Purok Lahak, we stayed the night in the community. I wasn’t told there would be another outreach the next morning. When I woke up, I felt physically weak and nauseous—my body struggling through one of those difficult days women know too well. I rested until breakfast, packed my things, and assumed we were heading down to the barangay.

I even grabbed my tripod, thinking I’d document our journey back.

But the path we took wasn’t going down.

We walked through vast fields of grass taller than me, climbed hills, and followed narrow trails beside cliffs. I told myself I’d rest once we reached Kuya Jeff’s place. Despite the pain, I kept walking—quietly determined to keep up.

After more than an hour of hiking, we arrived at a small kubo (hut). Around it were only a handful of tiny houses—no more than what I could count on one hand. That’s when I realized: we hadn’t gone down at all. We had gone further in.

This small community was part of Purok Lahak—home to a family who had first welcomed our local missionaries. Because the journey was far, gatherings had been moved closer to the base. But this morning, we had come back for them.

There were fewer than ten people.

Liston shared the message. I interpreted in Cebuano. Jet, one of the missional community leaders, translated further into their tribal dialect. Andre and Liston prayed. As the closing prayer was about to end, an elderly man—around ninety years old—appeared, slowly making his way toward the kubo (hut).

He said he wanted prayer too.

His knees were weak. His steps were painful. But he walked anyway—afraid we might leave before he arrived. Compassion flooded my heart as I watched him. Liston knelt down, held his hand, and prayed. Kuya Jeff laid a hand on his shoulder. I quietly captured the moment—holy, tender, eternal.

That was when the ministry made sense again.

As we walked back, my pain worsened. I asked a friend to carry my bag and found myself walking alone through the forest, tears forming. A thought crossed my mind—not in complaint, but in weakness:

Why did we have to walk that far just for a few people? Couldn’t they have come to us?

And then—deep in my spirit, clear and firm—I heard the Lord say:

“If I were still on earth, even if there were only one person there, I would still go. I am seeking the lost, not the crowd.”

Immediately, Scripture flooded my heart:

“Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine… and go after the lost sheep until he finds it?” — Luke 15:4

God reminded me: He doesn’t measure success by numbers. He measures faithfulness by love. There was more than one person in that place—but even if there had been only one, He would have still sent us.

In a generation obsessed with crowds, platforms, and picture-perfect ministry moments, God is still calling some of us to walk paths less taken—to dirt roads instead of polished stages, to dark places where only His glory can shine, to bring not the many, but the one back home.

Because once, we were the ones.

I reached the base that day, changed. The pain I carried felt small compared to the privilege of sharing—even in a fraction—the heart of Christ, who came “to seek and to save the lost” (Luke 19:10).

This is what mission trips do to me. They don’t just take me to places—they transform me to become more like Him.

And when I think of Purok Lahak now, I don’t remember the exhaustion first. I remember the old man. The long walk.The whisper of God in the forest.

We go for the one, because He first came for us.