FIRM WAS MY resolve on Wednesday afternoon to pray the three o’clock habit at the Adoration Chapel. Before I did, I passed by the parish office to ask Tess, the Secretary, if they still have a copy of the Stations of the Cross. I was in luck. Tess eagerly left for the Sacristy to get me one. She apologized as she dusted it before handing it to me. I thanked her and proceeded to the chapel. It’s been a spell. I do pass by it occasionally to say the arrival-departure formula but that was all. Long gone was the one-hour vigil of yore (when I would rejoice at the silent sight of Fr. Jigs), volunteered, looked forward to, and enormously enjoyed. Engulfed by a strange feeling that has grown daily lately, I was quickly reminded of how I did it in the past and, like my Muslim brethren do, bowed before the tabernacle to console Christ. Having felt back what I feared lost (God! Everything the book said delivered; He was waiting for me!), I was empowered to go to the left corner pew up front, plug up the electric fan on low, knelt, and started the habit. Seriously. Silently. Solemnly. Done, I bowed down low again and, afraid that I might have forgotten the closing prayer, prayed it anyway and, where I did forget, promised to finish it at home. (And did.) The rain has started to fall outside.
I heard my name called. Turning, I saw Raymart, Nestor and Bernard (and another maintenance man I didn’t know) huddled under the Cenaculum stairway. I greeted them back and smiled and continued my way. I never have a problem kneeling when I serve at Mass but felt my right knee resisting every time I genuflected. It only bolstered my determination. Nothing that tomorrow’s workout can’t take care of (as, of course, it did). As a matter of earlier fact, it no longer bothered at the 12th station, where I knelt the whole time. The amazing part of the entire ritual was the reflection portion. Immersed in weekly bible-sharing and with Fr. Fed’s abiding, conditioning TTJ voice ringing in my subconscious, I took to task one-on-one-ing Christ. Consoling Him, currently and retroactively and, most amazingly, He more than consoled me! Again, for the second magical moment, believing delivered its benediction, cape, crown and scepter!
It got even better. Back in the lanai, where I buried myself in the retreat-book, and writing in-between, while the rain persisted, my phone rang. UtoL calling. She said they were at our front gate, cannot get wet, had food to give, and could I go meet them and get it. (She was with Sis Irene, whose birthday was last November 3; hers was Thursday, and they agreed to jointly cook {and share} food with fellow bible-sharers (no matter the downpour). Off I went, shouting my head off (the rain drowned my voice) that the return for my Way of the Cross was OMGimmediate. I meant it seriously and they were grinning from ear to ear like inclement weather was something to be joyful for. It was almost dinner time. I read the red-lettered and -ribboned note, apprised the yummy contents in the twin containers, decided that the lone cream puff was solely for me (and gobbled it up) and delivered the chicken and pasta dishes to Myrna and Aes (Alex was busy with his virtual clients). The gourmet in the family (an evident influence by his foodie Mommy), Aes told me later that the chicken was superb (I had to tell Utol, who gave daughter Lori the credit). This was shortly after Cita handed me an ongpao from Ate Ela, whose generosity extends further than my birthday which was last October 28 yet. It was accompanied by her familiar inspiring note, always signed with her husband Kuya Bert. The graces seemed to compete with the liquid torrent I lost count of the saucers I have drunk from.
Later on, when we all met for the regular weekly BEC, came the time to pay tribute to the celebrators whose birth anniversaries were set a day apart. The theme of my homage to Sis Irene was “turmoil,” the word I heard from her when she shared in the PREX class that I met her at. I said I went through that phase a lot and apologized if I kept my distance from her during my going through it myself and, warning that it is unsolicited, advised her of praise and thanksgiving to keep her balance. For UtoL, the best sister I never had, I only had the indelible memory of her angst and concern that I might slide on the slippery bathroom floor (of the unit I was staying at during my exile). So worried was she that she bought me a bathroom mat. I promised her that even if it shreds to smithereens, I’ll keep the legacy of her love.
Not to be taken for granted, the fireflies have been constant and only seem to be invisible when the rain falls hard. They remain a source of blinking delight, competing with the mosquito blue light and my study lamp, although I give them my full vision, until they are no longer in sight. And sleep becomes a natural aftermath. Amen.
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