There are days when the stars seem to align for you in the most unexpected places—even in government offices. Last week was one of those days. With a packed checklist in my hand, fueled by cautious optimism and a bottle of cold water, I braved the maze of getting my cedula from the Iloilo City Hall’s satellite office at the Atrium, my certificate of residency from Barangay Lapuz Norte, my court clearance from the Clerk of Court at the Hall of Justice, my NBI clearance at the Pharma Building along General Luna Street, and my police clearance from the Iloilo City Police Precinct 1. If that was not enough to test my luck, I also needed to secure certified documents from my home base within the same day: ISUFST’s Human Resource Office, Finance Office, and the Office of the President in Barotac Nuevo, Iloilo. Each stop could have been a story of delay, a novel of bureaucracy gone wrong. But surprisingly, incredibly, it was not.
 
It started at the Atrium. There was no heavy crowd, no complicated instructions in tiny fonts pinned on distant walls. The personnel, while brisk, were courteous, clear, and patient. The transaction for my community tax certificate, a.k.a. cedula, took barely ten minutes. No “balik-balik bukas,” no cold stares that make you wonder if asking a question would be a sin. Instead, there was a directness—a rare but refreshing tone of “Ano ang aton tani, Sir (loosely translated into ‘How can we help you, Sir’).” Then came Lapuz Norte’s barangay hall, a small but homey place where the barangay secretary seemed to know most people walking in. They swiftly processed my “tumandok” barangay and residency (notarized) certificates without the unnecessary waiting you sometimes hear about over cups of vented coffee.
 
Moving to the Hall of Justice, I steeled myself for a possible slowdown. Yet, the City Office of the Clerk of Court and her staff were brisk and straightforward in processing my court clearance; the lady guard at the lobby was also extra facilitative. It was clear they valued their time and, in turn, ours. The NBI office at the Pharma Building in Aurora Subdivision, Gen. Luna Street, typically a legend in long lines lore, surprised me next. Having booked online, the process was as seamless as clicking “Next” on a web form. After a few minutes of queueing, biometrics, and a courteous nod, the NBI clearance processing was done. At the police precinct in La Paz, I anticipated the usual long explanations and “waiting game.” Yet again, the system was in place. The desk officers were firm but fair, handling things quickly while treating everyone respectfully. I got my police clearance in under 10 minutes.
 
But the miracle did not end with city offices. Back at ISUFST, with my secretary, Eugene Salazar, helping me facilitate the documents as we communicated online, the Human Resource Office wasted no time issuing my certified appointment documents—no officious attitudes, no “pa-importante” (acting all-important) moments. The Finance Office released the certified clearance in a few hours, not days, of checking my thick files, reaffirming that efficiency is not a myth. And the Office of the President—usually a fortress you tiptoe around with layers of memos and interceding staff—approved and supported my application for a once-in-a-lifetime “gig to another flag” the same day. There was no red carpet, no fanfare — just professionalism rooted in respect for public duty.
 
I spent nothing extra at ISUFST, and for the other requirements, payments were mostly done digitally—except for the barangay clearance and cedula. Every office I visited was surprisingly comfortable, even air-conditioned, with barely a line of people in sight. Maybe it helped that it was a quiet Thursday, but I did not expect the experience to be this smooth. It felt almost strange, in a good way. I thought my happy 15-minute PRC experience a year ago was just a fluke. But it happened to me again–in eight different offices in barely eight hours!
 
Was this heaven? No. This was how public service should look, sound, and feel: simple, honest, and grounded. Yet let us be real. This is not always the case. Many citizens still recount horror stories — of “no lunch break” signs that are meaningless, of staff who forget they are public servants, of processes that demand every ounce of your patience because someone somewhere is making things more complicated than they should be. It is not uncommon to hear of applicants–especially those who had to travel hours from far places–who are judged by how they look, belittled for asking for clarifications, or made to wait as if their time and dignity were expendable commodities.
 
This is why days like mine must be acknowledged and quietly and loudly serve as a challenge. To the clerks behind windows, the barangay secretaries with ledgers, the cashiers in the windows, the staff at the front info desks, health workers in the emergency rooms, and the supervisors across public offices: when you serve people with professionalism, respect, and efficiency, you do not just accomplish tasks—you restore trust. Trust that has been thinned, bruised, and even mocked by decades of bureaucratic mediocrity. You show that service is not a favor extended to the public but a duty owed to them because they pay for your salaries with every peso in tax, every centavo in pension contribution, and every moment of hope that public service can improve.
 
And so, a heartfelt salute to the invisible small acts: to the employee who smiles without faking it, to the guard who explains the process kindly instead of grunting, to the HR officer who checks your papers twice to save you an extra trip, to the finance officer who answers emails with complete, clear instructions, and to the approving authorities who read beyond the first paragraph of your request letter before signing it with deliberation. These are the true “public faces” of government. Not the names embossed on buildings or shouted in campaign jingles, but the ordinary employees who choose decency, dignity, and diligence every single day.
 
We cannot romanticize this either. These moments of excellence should not be rare shooting stars but the basic atmosphere of public offices. The challenge is fiercer for those in power-—the appointed, the elected, and the heads of departments who flex power but show little competence. Servant leadership is not a slogan you paste on tarpaulins; it is a duty you fulfill when no cameras are watching. True leadership ensures that systems work, people are trained, clients are respected, and mediocrity is not rewarded.
 
My Jesuit priest mentor, Fr. Manny Uy, Jr, SJ, once said that true service is loving the ones who cannot repay you. Public service demands an even fiercer love that persists even when the job is thankless, the hours long, and the recognition rare. It is about the quiet joy of sending someone off from your counter with their needs met, their dignity intact, and their spirit a little less burdened by the machinery of the state. It is about knowing that the citizens are not lucky you are there; you are lucky they trusted you with their needs.
 
As I held my completed documents that day—seven in all, signed, certified, stamped—I felt pride and a rekindled hope. Hope that the dream of a government truly by, for, and with the people is not dead. It requires daily re-commitments, small revolutionary acts of kindness at service counters, and quiet dignity restored in waiting rooms.
 
Our public offices were never meant to intimidate—they were meant to guide, to facilitate. Every day, it is a choice: to keep that light alive or let it dim. True public service is not about perfection but about presence, respect, and honoring the trust of those who walk through their doors. In the end, good governance is not built on grand speeches—it is stitched quietly, patiently, in the everyday decency of those who truly serve when no one is watching.
 
 Doc H fondly describes himself as a ‘student of and for life’ who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world that is grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views herewith do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.