You are Dust and to Dust you shall Return

I am not sure whether my brothers notice that the Mahogany leaves are turning brown and these leaves are falling on the ground. Brown leaves are scattered, covering almost the dry ground. Sometimes, a gentle wind pushes these brown leaves and they are crawling and crawling, depending on where the wind directs them,  creating a hush in the air. The sun is about to rise.  I notice that the streak of sunlight is orange as it reflected on the morning clouds. The orange clouds are in the same color with the orange leaves of Talisay which are hanging on branches and are about to fall on the ground.  Summer is here, I thought. And I am not so sure if my brothers feel the coming of  summer.

Perhaps, my brothers are sleeping still at this time. I happen to pass a room where I can hear the heavy snoring and the sound of the rotating  fan. It is already 6:12 AM. The bell supposedly will ring at 6 AM. I did not hear the bell rings. And no one bothers to wake up for 6:00 AM rising . Perhaps, my brothers were tired from defending their Pastoral Plan yesterday. It was a very heavy week for all of us here in Galilee Year (a Formation Year in Vianney). Most of the nights were busy preparing,  planning, brainstorming,  writing, and arguing  our Pastoral Plan. The Pastoral Plan hopes to train us, future priest, in handling parishes someday.  So, I do understand why my brothers do not bother to wake up. They need to claim the sleep which they were deprived of for days because of preparing the pastoral plan.

However, I bother to wake up. This is my routine in life. I just wake up earlier than the others. I would like to attribute it to my body clock which I usually  wake up, even without an alarm clock, earlier than the rising time. Perhaps, to let me see how beautiful mornings are. To let me know that the leaves are turning brown and they are falling on the ground. To let me see orange clouds with the  same color of Talisay leaves hanging on the branches and are about to fall on the ground. To let me recognize that summer is coming. And to let me realize another ending.

School year.

It seems it was just yesterday when I reentered the gate of the seminary (Vianney) after spending my life outside for four years.  It seems it was just yesterday  when I met my new brothers, my new batch, BUNGA. It seems it was just yesterday that we played basketball on lazy afternoons. It seems it was just yesterday when we became over-all champion during the Intramurals. It seems it was yesterday when we worked as chaplain-trainee in a hospital. It seems it was just yesterday when we spent for three days with Sendong Survivor families. It seems it was yesterday when we travelled  far to Yolanda affected areas in Visayas for our Rural Exposure. It seems it was yesterday when we let go of twenty red and white balloons during Valentine’s Day to remember the victims of typhoons. It seems it was yesterday when we gather outside the room of Isaiah and waste our time playing tong-its.  It seems it was just yesterday when Rhaby left the seminary for good.

It seems that there are many yesterdays which have passed so swiftly. Thanks to these falling brown leaves. They remind me to take notice  the almost  forgotten yesterdays cherishly spent as brothers.  I guess this is the gift of waking up earlier than the usual rise up here in the seminary. I am sensitive to how time pass so swiftly.  I hope I can tell my brothers who are sleeping still that the leaves of Mahogany are turning brown. And it means summer is coming, school year is ending. Days from now, we are leaving this place, we are  going back to our homes  and be assigned in summer parish exposure. We can look forward to another exposure, another memories with families and old friends.

Hope before my brothers go to their summer exposure, they may stop and notice these brown leaves falling on the ground. These falling leaves may tell something about the swiftness of time, the passing of season, the temporariness of life. It was symbolic that during our year end community pictorials, it happened after the Ash Wednesday Mass. An ash cross marked our foreheads are captured in our community photos. No matter how we look good with our smiles, the marked ash cross in our foreheads will remind us that those smiles are temporary and passing. No matter what we do, possess, achieve in this life, we could not escape the fact that “we are dust and to dust we shall  return.” Someday we become part of the ground covered with these brown leaves. Perhaps, two hundred  years from now,   no one ever remembers we have existed once in this space and time, unless we become poets, saints and a hero or a lousy leader recorded in history.

Is this what Emily, a character in Thortorn Wilder’s  play Our Town,  meant when she asked, “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?--every, every minute?” Have we really realized that we existed and we have limited time? Have we realized that our life is passing as fast as the tick of the second? Have we realized that someday worms will enjoy eating our rotten bodies and transform it into dust? Have we thought someday of becoming one with those brown leaves on the ground and the orange clouds will pass above us every time the sun rises? Since our existence is limited, have we spent it to the things that matters most, to the things that makes us really really really  happy?  Have we felt, even though all things will pass, this “something eternal” deep down things, this something permanent?

I am not so sure that my brothers have asked these existential questions. Perhaps, they do but in different circumstances. I wish I could knock on their doors and wake them up to share what I see. However,  I know they are not concerned about the leaves turning brown and falling on the ground. They might find it corny.

I only hope for them to read this blog. I will tag them. Maybe, at the middle of their exposure, they are able to visit their Facebook account. If in case they are able to read this blog, I just want to let them know that falling brown leaves are telling me that I need to thank them for a year of shared memories.  This is the least I can do to let them know that I take notice the time when they sleep soundly at morning when the leaves are turning brown and are falling on the ground. 

Goodbye

I am packing my things. I am going somewhere.  I pull out some photos of me with my students and I start to feel sentimental. My students gave these photos as their remembrance. One photo I longer gaze.  I was at the middle seated with my usual teacher smile, and my students were doing wacky pose, with their costumes in Iliad and Odyssey characters. I am beginning to feel sad. This would be the hardest leaving I have in my life. I am leaving teaching literature, reading amateur essays of students, entering not so ventilated classrooms, and computing grades during the weary hours of midnight.  I am going somewhere which I think greater than being a teacher in a state university.

Not that I was not happy in teaching literature. God knew I enjoyed this job. There was somehow a joy in me when I teach Robert Frost’s Stopping by the Woods in Snowy Evening. I sensed my students were attentively silent when I discussed the poem with them. I knew they were disturbed when I explored the line, “the darkest evening of the year.” Their eyes spoke of their own experience of “darkest evening.” They had not named it, but I knew they had experienced this “darkest evening” somewhere, somehow. I found joy, when I saw few of them trying to hold their tears. Perhaps, Robert Frost touched them.

Not that I was not happy teaching William Blake’s The Sick Rose. My students were in awed when I declared in class that there was something sexual in this poem.  “How come? Sir, the poem only says about a persona addressing a sick rose,” many reacted. Then I said, “As a literature student, you have to learn reading between the lines.” Again, they ardently read the poem. Eureka, someone got the sexual theme. I found joy in tickling their intelligences.

I did love introducing the character of Richard Cory created by Edward Arlington Robinson. They were bothered with the irony of his character. Why Richard Cory, gifted with everything in this world, would pull a trigger on his head one summer night? Can Richard Cory represent the people in this world who have everything in life yet could not find true happiness and meaning?

There was always an excitement in me to see my students preparing their costumes for their performance in Iliad and Odyssey. I usually asked my students to dramatize some scenes in Homer’s great epic. It was always good to tap the creativity of the students which I believe, most of them lack. Many of the group would choose to role play the scene when Paris has to choose which apples among the three goddesses to eat. In this scene, the character of Paris is teaching the modern man to give importance in making choices. I knew these characters written thousand years ago are somehow connected to the very ordinary lives of my students. Besides, it was good to see that these characters are brought to life in the classroom.  

However, I was leaving Robert Frost, William Blake, Edward Arlington Robinson and Homer because I was responding to a small still call.  I heard this call every time my students write their essay in the classroom. While waiting for them to submit their essay, in silence, I happened to stare at the window of our classroom located at the fifth floor of the building. I glimpsed of the vast on-going constructions in the city. I felt a wider realty, bigger than the classroom I was in. Because of that window, a voice was calling me to reconsider my first choice before I became a literature teacher. The voice was inviting me to look back to the life I left, to the place I considered my first home.

The seminary.

I am packing my things because I am going back to the seminary- that somewhere greater than teaching literature.

Before teaching, I was in the seminary for eight years. I went out because I feel a sense of longings. There was a desire to experience life outside the four walls of the seminary.  That time there was a desire to have job, to earn money and to buy things I want. There was a desire to be independent like the ordinary young adult. There was a longing to experience some sort of  “freedom.”

Moreover, I saw the emerging shadows of priesthood. Seeing these other realities, I was afraid to continue. First, I was afraid to grow old lonely. Priests are basically alone in their lives. I did ask myself if I can bear the nights not having someone to embrace. Second, priests were attack by scandals, and many faithful lost their trust on these men. I did ask myself if I am still willing to give myself to priesthood wherein people whose trust are fading. Third, the relevance of priesthood lost its luster. In this time where everything could be explained by science and technology, entering religious life is considered corny. It explains why there are convents and seminaries around the world being close because no one dares to enter. Priesthood is less attractive to young people today. I did ask myself the relevance of priesthood. With this emerging other realities of priesthood, I needed to discern deeply whether I am willing to pay the price. Hence, I decided to stop for a while and do some serious thinking.

 But God did not give up on calling me. I realized that I was so wrong on leaving the seminary four years ago.  Literature helped me realize this. Literature led me to reconsider priesthood as an option. I was like Paris, in Homer’s Iliad, who was enlightened on whose apples I was willing to eat from the goddesses. And I chose priesthood.  With faith, I was taking this road less traveled.

Furthermore, literature amplified my ear on the gentle, still and small voice of God. I learned, in literature, that life is full of ironies. In trying to claim my independence, being full of myself, I realized that I became empty. Richard Cory taught me that happiness is not about having everything in this world. There is more to life than possessing material things. I also learned that being alone does not mean being lonely. Real freedom does not mean doing what I want. It is in weakness that I become strong. These ironies, which I encountered in the stories in literature, were my epiphanies.  

Perhaps, the stories I discussed in classroom touched my very heart and led me to listen to the stirrings of my heart- the very true voice of my heart, the very voice of God. I did remember then Robert Frost who says, “ I have promises to keep/and miles to go before I sleep/ And miles before I go to sleep.” I do remember then my promises to God before. I have to go back and fulfill that promise to God, that promise when I was still an innocent young altar boy in our ordinary parish.  

Now, I am packing my things to fulfill my promise before.  Honest, I am experiencing some self doubt. I am not really certain about this packing. What if the call is just an illusion? What if this is another form of escape?  Fear grips me. However, the voice is inviting me to do a leap of faith. That is why this leaving is the hardest.  What I am certain about is that I heard a call to go beyond teaching literature and I will try to respond to that call. I am also assured that a voice is telling me, “ Do not be afraid, I am with you.” I know that voice come from that Someone who loves me truly, that Someone who woos me through the years, that Someone who invites me to forget myself and follow him. I am called by that Someone who died on the cross and asked me to do the same. It is in this dying I will find my eternal life, he assures me.

For now, I will be keeping these photos with me. These are good for my journey. These photos are my remembrance of a cherished life as literature teacher, which help me find my place in the greater scheme of things.

 I am writing this to say sorry to you, my students,  for not informing you about this goodbye. Now, you know where I am. Thanks for the memories. And remember one time I said in class, “there is more to life.” 

What did the people of Pinamiyagan, President Roxas, Capiz teach me about life? Lesson II: On Remembering

Me: Kap, hindi naman ako artista. Hindi rin ako politiko. Isa po akong volunteer sa Balay Mindanaw. Wala akong pera. Wala akong malaking tulong na maibibigay ko sa inyo. Bakit palagi ako sinusunod ng mga tao at mga bata dito kung saan ako mag-punta?

Kapitan: Masaya kami Maki kung may ibang tao na makapunta dito sa amin. Kahit na hindi kami mabigyan ng Balay Mindanaw, okey lang sa amin. Ang pagpunta mo rito, at pagtira mo dito ay isang biyaya na sa amin. Masaya kami kasi may mga tao, sa ibang sulok ng Pilipinas na nakaalala sa amin.

It struck me. Pinamiyagan was unknown place for most of us. We did not even know that barangay Pinamiyagan is in Capiz and was deeply affected with typhoon Yolanda. Media did not know this. A grain of people of the Philippines only knew that. They were close to be forgotten.  The world knew Tacloban well. Not Pinamiyagan.

That is why I am telling their story. At least, my 50 average views of this blog would know Pinamiyagan. Thanks to Balay Mindanaw for remembering them.

However there are things in life we rather do not want to see. That is our

tendency as humans.  We grew tired of seeing faces of people who suffer. 

We have forgotten to open our eyes to more pain. Or perhaps we choose to

forget the sufferings of people because we have enough suffering for ourselves.

Tacloban, Leyte is enough, and forget Pinamiyagan, President Roxas, Capiz or

           other places who are suffering because of the typhoon.

This is the second lesson of God. He is reminding me that it is not only in Tacloban, Leyte He is present. He is also present in Pinamiyagan, the unknown barangay for most of us.  Perhaps, He is reminding me to remember Him, not just in my prayers and in the mass. He wants me to remember Him through these people who lost almost everything in life.  He wants me to remember Him through these people who were not remembered by all, who were not given attention by the media, and who were suffering alone. He wants me to remember this nameless faces in our society. 

We have forgotten that God prefers to embrace those unheard cries. 

“…may nakaalala sa amin…” is enough for them to start all over again. That is the power of remembering. That is why God remembers Noah after the flood. God remembers the cries of people who suffer alone. Heaven remembers the tears of Pinamiyagan when everybody seemingly shut their eyes because they grew tired of seeing  pain. Now I know why God is in Pinamiyagan and He sent me to go there. So that I can remind the world about them.

Anyway, if you happen to read this, you do not need to send relief goods to them. They are starting all over again as a community. I am just writing this to tell the world that people of Pinamiyagan teach me lessons in life. I am writing this to tell the world that there is such barangay Pinamiyagan in Presisdent Roxas, Capiz, Philippines who was struck by a super typhoon, destroyed their homes, and they are starting all over again, even they have received lesser help.

Balay Mindanaw Panay Team

Remembering them is enough help.

What did the people of Pinamiyagan, President Roxas, Capiz teach me about life? Lesson I: On Starting all over again

Of four barangays where I was assigned for my Rural Immersion, Pinamiyagan is somehow close to my heart.  Pinamiyagan, the most affected barangay in President Roxas, Capiz, Philippines, planted something in my heart which, I could say, is worth remembering. Staying for three days, living their everyday routine, sleeping with them, and listening to their untold stories are gentle reminders of God for me to start living what matters most in life.  

 Balay Mindanaw Foundation, the host organization for my rural immersion,  sent me to tell the barangay a good news.  Yolanda washed all their houses away, gave them a memory that stormed their mindsets, and honestly asked God why He sent Yolanda to destroy their lives. The Foundation chose this barangay, together with the four other barangays in President Roxas, Capiz, Panay Island, to give them a Shelter Repair Kit. Each household would receive ten roofs, ten plywood, ten coco lumbers, two kilos of nails and a hammer. Hence, I had to travel by a small boat without katig to announce that Balay Mindanaw is giving a Shelter Repair Kit for them to assemble the dilapidated remnants of the super typhoon so that they can construct a temporary shelter and call it a home.

 Though, I was bringing this good news for Pinamiyagan, God is also waiting for me in this far flung barangay of President Roxas . I never thought that God is also giving me a surprise, a gift about life. Staying with them for three days, I believe, was visiting a God who stays with people who starts all over again after a tragedy struck their lives and lost almost everything they have.

That is the first gift of God for me. He let me see how to start all over again after losing almost everything.  

The typhoon brought their houses to the sea abyss. Houses were never to be found. Only wood debris were scattered everywhere in the barangay. The moment they returned to Pinamiyagan from evacuation centers in Poblacion, they could not contain the horror of the sight. The only thing they could do, seeing their houses no more, was to cry- to grieve. Perhaps some stared blankly at the sky. They did not understand why God could afford to love this way by sending a typhoon to destroy their homes.  They could not reconcile that. It was not only the walls and roofs, which Yolanda took. Losing a home is losing some fond memories of building the house through the years. And Yolanda destroys those fond memories. 

However, hearing their stories, Yolanda left something for them though she took the house. Yolanda did not take away the spirit of people of Pinamiyagan to start all over again. That spirit of becoming a beginner of life. They have grieved, yes, but they did not stop there. They have to pick those little pieces they have and construct a temporary shelter. They have to yield on 5-6, the Turkish way of pautang and the first thing they have in mind so that they can start something small. They have to go to the sea again to catch fish, to sell it in Poblacion, and to leave some for the table as food for the whole day. They have to set aside little amount so that they can pay the Turko weekly for two years. They have to budget the one sack of rice given by an NGO .  They have to dress their children with few clothes given by some relatives from the other town. They have to send their children to school.   They have to put up that ring again so that the young can play basketball. They have to play hantak when the sun is about to set. They have to cross Pandan, the next barangay  just to charge their flashlights, radios and cellphones. They have to hang that solar lamp under the heat of the sun, given by Balay Mindanaw, so that they have light at night inside their self-construct, temporary shelter. They have to fetch water in Poblacion in order they can take a bath, wash their plates and do their laundry. They have to tie that mosquito net before they sleep. They have to light the candle in the altar and whisper to God, “help us to stand up.”

They have to move on. They have to smile. They have to laugh. The world does not stop after Yolanda. They have to start all over again.

 

I wonder why they have the strength to start all over again. Perhaps, they have each other. No lives were lost. And they have God. They trust God so much, believing that Yolanda is part of the greater scheme of things.  Anyway, they do not worry much about how much Yolanda took away from them because they have only little to worry about. Right from the very start,  they have less in life to worry about.

Now I know why God is waiting for me in Pinamiyagan. God is teaching me how to start all over again through these simple people who lost everything in a blink of an eye. God prepared me, in case, He would send Yolandas in my life. God taught me how to start all over again by simply trust him, like what people of Pinanmiyagan did, and believe that  Yolandas are not the end of the world but they are part of the greater scheme of things.  

To be Continued….

GUGMANG GIAHAK (love letter)

Bebs, Rolly, others, the crazy little things, and I

(Clinical Pastoral Education CPE is a program which trains us to be chaplains in a hospital. We visit some patients and engage in a conversation with them. As we talked to the patients, we have also encountered our own wounds. We become aware of these wounds during the processing. Being aware of the wounds is a step for us to appreciate the gift of our humanity.)

One of my favorite routines in CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education) program was when I ran from the steep pavement downhill towards the Carmelites gate. I did this every after I was on my way back from our hospital exposure to the seminary. Usually, I ran when the sun was about to set, workers were seen in streets calling for motorela to bring them home, children were playing at the streetside and tambays were sitting and chatting aimlessly outside the sari-sari stores. I know I was bringing with me the exhaustion from facing poor patients in the hospital where I was assigned that day. Yet, I still decided to run every time I reached this steep part of the seminary hill. I find it enjoyable to run. And it was more fun because I was running with Rolly and Bebs.

They were my companions in this hospital exposure.  We decided to run because we simply miss playing basketball. For three weeks on this CPE program, we had not moved our muscles and had not produced some sweat. We are deprived of exercise. Thus, it was a need to run from downhill towards Carmelite gate. We needed to force our legs to run on a steep pavement and to exhaust ourselves all the more. When we reached at the Carmelite gate, we stopped to catch our breath.  We, then, laughed at ourselves, with enough sweat produced for the day, enough for our uniforms to wet.

“Crayzzziiii”, Rolly called it.

There was a time, because of the exhaustion; we sat idly in a bench located in a corridor of the hospital. People from all walks of life were passing by. We imagined a story about their lives when they passed by. We enjoyed creating stories of these nurses, patients, doctors, and attendants.  Then, one office staff approached us and said, “Bros. naka adto namo sa Nurse station.” “Wala pa,” we said. “Didto nalang mo stay,” she said. “Diri nalang mi. Maulaw man mi didto sa mga nurse,” I insisted. “Naa man jud CCTV camera dinhi mga bros. Nakita mo nga nagtambay hapit na usa ka oras. Gitawagan mi sa office nga kinsa daw mo. Dawbi mahalaan mo nga kawatan?” She said. We felt ashamed. We could not help but walked out and laughed at ourselves. “Ing-ani nalang jud ning tong mga nawong, kawatan?.” We told ourselves.  Perhaps, the staff reminded us that we needed to continue our work as Chaplains, not to be lazy.

We call these moments as crazy little things. These are the little moments in our hospital exposure when we loosened up from tiredness.  These little moments are reminders from God not to take life seriously. These are the little moments we shared together as, simply, brothers.

Then, a realization dawned on me. CPE is not about the issues that emerged during the processing. It is not about the verbatim we wrote in a quite night. It is not about the patients we encountered in the hospitals. I believe, CPE is all about building and deepening friendships.

And friendships were nourished by these little crazy things we do together during the CPE program. We would always remember the time we laid down in the pews of the oven-like Chapel of the hospital just to have our siesta. We would always remember upon going downhill to that steep pavement,  we executed some winning steps in our Cheerdance. We would remember the time we dropped by in Cogon and bought three Balut each. We would remember the laughter of our CPE facilitator, Sr. Mercia- the laughter of that little girl when she was teased romantically with all the formators in the seminary. Despite the heaviness, we could afford to sing How did you know, Pare ko, My love will see you through every after sessions. We would remember that karenderia across the hospital and ordered our favorite viand for lunch: “Atay with egg” or Rolly called it “egg with atay.” We would remember the tong-its and scrabble played during the nights when we were not required to submit verbatim the day after. We could still afford to feed Mingkay with her children, the cat and our pet in the building. Thanks to Boy Bawang and Corniks because it lessened the tension inside the room of Fr. Raul. We would remember the nurse and some staff in the hospital who said, “mura mog mamaligyaay sa yakult ug bouncer sa bar mga bros sa inyo uniform.” We would remember walking under the rain using Fr. Raul’s big umbrellas. We would remember the quiet nights when we made our verbatims inside our rooms. The silence meant, “Do not disturb us. Our verbatim is sacred.”  When we heard Fr. Raul’s printer sounds, some of us were pressured: it meant somebody finished his verbatim. We would remember reading together the news paper, the only connection we have in the bigger world.

These were the little moments that, for sure, we would remember the most in our CPE experience.  We might forget those patients we encounter.  We might forget the issues we brought during the processing. We might forget the pain caused by the processing. But for sure these crazy little things will be talked about when we come back here in Vianney to attend the alumni homecoming.

It boils down to relationship, after all.  

why blog?

       With some encouragement of people who believe in my gift for writing, I decided to put-up a blog. To Fr. Norlan who always pushes me to my edge and to Bobby, a friend, who infects me with blogging, thank you for believing in my gift of touching lives through writing. It should had been long time ago that I put up a blog. You have silently been cheering me, through the years, to start sharing this gift. It took me a lot of time to own this gift. Perhaps, I am just afraid. Or perhaps I am just lazy.

        But now, I have the strength to tell the world that God is gifting me with words. I have to use it, because maybe this is my place in the universe so that I can tell the world about Him- a God who simply loves.

        That is why I am putting this blog. This is an attempt to live out what God is destined me to do- being a writer.

        When I grow older,  I realize that I have many things that I do not understand about this world I live in. I am hungry for meaning. I want to connect things. I want to see the world in a clearer view. I want meaning in the very limited existence I have. I want to know why I am here. Writing, hoping, could satisfy this deep hunger.

        That is why I am writing this blog. I want to help the world, in my very small way, connect broken pieces of the puzzle. I know that is something ambitious or arrogant. Nonetheless,  I am emphasizing the "the very small way."

           I admit, I am not good in grammar. That is my limitation. What can you expect to a boy who was trained by public school teachers who spent their time in classroom selling their little business to us poor pupils? But I do remember in college that a literature professor gave me a perfect score in my essay eventhough  my article was fully blotted with red pen. He commented at the end of my composition, “I am giving you perfect score not because you have perfected the grammar. I am giving you perfect score because you have something to tell the world. And it is so deep.”

            I preserved this comment. I still have it in my drawer.  It gives a little worth. It gives me a little door of possibilities. I heard the small, still voice of God.

          And this blog is my gift for Him.