More Than Chance

03 May 25

The Thursday evening light was still warm as Andrew Garth and I arrived early at the Grand Masters Night at the CCP grounds. We’d just come from ANCOM25, held across the road at the World Trade Centre in Manila, and already the scale of the evening unfolding before us was immense — hundreds of tables spread across the field, whole pigs and cattle turning slowly on spits at buffet stations, the air thick with smoke and anticipation.

The stage was massive and fit for a world tour — LED walls, towers of speakers, and lights ready to burn the night open. Masons were arriving by the hundreds, and the space, built for at least six thousand, buzzed with the quiet joy of Brotherhood. It had all the ingredients of a memorable evening: food, fellowship, music, and the good spirits of our host, the Grand Master of the Philippines. But the memory I left with wasn't on the stage. It was seated in the sun, quietly, at a table near the edge of the field.

Andrew and I had been wandering, undecided about where to sit. That’s when we saw him: an older gentleman, alone, sitting with the sun in his face. There was nothing particularly striking about him at first glance — no crowd, no entourage — but something compelled us to sit down and talk. Perhaps we thought it polite. Perhaps we thought he was alone.

We offered him a drink and struck up a conversation that lasted the better part of an hour. He introduced himself as a retired Police Brigadier General in the Philippines and spoke with warmth about his time spent in Australia in the 1970s training with the federal police, and with even more pride about his family. All his sons, he said, had names starting with the letter “E,” just like his, and he and his familied owned and ran a hospital and university and were building another hospital.

His sons, Masons as well.

He spoke of his pride as a father—not with arrogance, but with the quiet confidence of someone who had lived long enough to understand what truly matters, and who found a kind of peace in sharing it with strangers who, for that brief hour, felt like brothers. We took his card, thanked him, and drifted back into the crowd. Later, Andrew and I both agreed: “That was a good conversation.”

And that’s where the story could’ve ended — a moment of kindness at a Masonic gathering, nothing more.

But a few days later, it unfolded again.

We were attending a banquet after a ceremony at the Scottish Rite Temple in Manila — another extraordinary evening hosted in honour of our own Grand Master. The ceremony was beautiful, the hall regal, and the hospitality generous.

Afterwards, as we stood outside the Prince Hotel about to order a Grab, one of the Filipino brethren who had also attended approached us.

“Where are you staying?” he asked. I told him.

“Let me drive you.”

I protested briefly, politely — we’d already ordered the ride — but he insisted. So we accepted.

On the ride home, we talked. Work came up. I mentioned mine, and he mentioned his.

“My family owns a hospital. And a university.”

 I paused. That was… familiar.

I told him we had sat and spoken to an older gentleman at the Grand Masters Night, who said the same thing; he seemed alone in a big field.

“What was his name?”

I couldn’t remember. But I had his card at the hotel. Then he showed me a photo on his phone.

“Was it this man?”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s him.”

“That’s my father,” he replied softly.

He didn’t need to say anything more, but he did.

“You sat with him when he was alone. You spoke kindly. The GAOTU wanted us to meet, so I could say thank you.”

I don’t remember what I said in return. It probably wasn’t much. I was still processing what had just happened.

Out of more than 114 million people in the Philippines — and 1.8 million in Manila — we had met a father and a son. Days apart. In different places. Without knowing the connection until it was revealed to us.

And yet, perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence. Perhaps it was Providence. Masons are taught not to believe in chance alone, but to trust that when men act with Humility, Integrity and Harmony, the light that follows is not of their own making.

I didn’t leave Manila with a new jewel or title. But I left with something else — a quiet lesson whispered through two chance meetings: that the smallest gestures, even a seat in the sun and a shared drink, are seen. And when they are seen, they are remembered.

Not by all.

Just by the ones that matters

By RW Bro Owen Sandry