Mary and Modesty

AFTER MORE THAN two months of blessing us, Mary transferred to the Concepcion’s house across the street from ours. I asked Therese first if it was okay for her to receive her. She nodded and smiled happily. Later, after her welcome prayer, I noticed their altar, already arranged and apparently waiting for her, and agreed that it was definitely time for us to let her bless Therese and her household. Although the first two months we deemed as extraordinary graces (September was Aesop’s birth month and October Myrna’s and mine) we didn’t have to ask for, another month’s extension was way overly hogging her benevolence.

While benevolence is the topic, let me share Fr. Michael’s proposed three ways by which we can take advantage of the amazing graces available to us during the (Third) Hour of Great Mercy. First: We can immerse ourselves in the Lord’s Passion, especially His abandonment on the Cross. Whether briefly or longer, we can call to mind His image on the Cross, look at a crucifix, or His picture. What I do is, per an earlier suggestion of Fr. Michael, I look at His mug shot (which depicts the “I thirst” theme I uploaded from the net) and, below it, the prayer which I’ll let go of as soon as I have it down pat. A variation is the Stations of the Cross. Fr. Michael has drawn a matrix for those who don’t have time. The map assigns a day of the week to each station (in two cycles).

The second way is presenting our petitions to the Father by virtue of His Son’s passion. We can invoke God’s mercy on the whole world, especially on unrepentant sinners and the dying, at this time, when He is especially generous. We can do this through the Divine Mercy Chaplet which only takes about seven minutes. I do mine after the Angelus and before the Rosary, which comprise my vespers.

Thirdly, we can visit Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament, in the church or, better yet, at the Adoration Chapel. My fixed ritual is every Monday, Wednesday and Friday (TOP then WOC, at the chapel and in church, respectively) but I pray my habit daily. Without fail and wherever I am, at the sound of the alarm.

The retreat being done, Fr. Michael recommends follow-through books that emphasize the concept of the retreat – mercy – to ensure that we never forget the path we just trod. I have no means to buy them (and am greatly indebted to Ate Myla who lent me three of her prized possessions) but if you are as inclined as she is, the books start from the Bible’s four Gospels (and the Psalms), the “Diary” of St. Faustina, “Story of a Soul” by St. Therese of Lisieux, Montfort’s “True Devotion to Mary” (available at the Montfort Center of Spirituality, 47 Madriñan St., Timog, QC) and the “Spiritual Exercises” of St. Ignatius (another beautiful book I borrowed sometime back and derived great motivation from). At the closing meditation, Fr. Michael makes the retreatant imagine the place where he first responded to the Lord’s call, through the deserts, grassy plains, mountains, valleys, and that beautiful Sea of Galilee where He walked on the water. Now it’s late at night, the campfire still blazes, its crackling mixing with the sound of muffled snores and chirping crickets. A few of his fellow pilgrims are still awake after the long journey, they linger on mats, whisper and laugh occasionally, quietly. The Lord is yonder, alone, before the fire, gazing beyond its flames, lost in prayer. The pilgrim feels the urge to go to Him, push aside the covers, rise from his mat and approach Him. The others, silent, watch him, their eyes following him, but his attention is on Him, as he draws closer. He doesn’t see him, he sits next to Him, He continues to gaze at the fire, its light dances on His face. Sitting close to Him, he sees His face more clearly, and the sorrow there. And, slowly but surely, he starts to pray the prayer of consolation that He so longs to hear. I beg Fr. Michael’s pardon here for cutting his version to the chase.

For some time now, in my solitary existence in our lanai (I reckon I’ve earned the right to its possession, along with my loyal ward and companion, Bronson, whose “lodging” beneath my couch he has earned as well), my occasional conversation is with our Kasambahay Cita. She and I did not hit it off amicably when we first met. I was weak, weary and recovering from flu when my family collected me from the (halfway) house of Ate Joann on Sampaguita Street. Cita replaced Mean, our former helper, during my exile. My fuzzy recuperation psyched her up as a dutiful help with specific instructions she intended to carry out to the letter. Having earned my rescue, I vowed to conduct my behavior decently until I recovered and for the rest of my new lease in life. Early on I sensed that the lanai was an automatic given (I never complained about such grand accommodation). Besides, it was a wider “kingdom” than my corner in the den where I am disturbed any time without as much as a word of pardon. The separation of my eating utensils (and even laundry) from theirs was quite palpable at the outset (it turned out to be a norm in the house as when Alex suspected he caught the virus and volunteered to isolate himself and his stuff) and even food seemed to be rationed out, not that my meager nutrition needs minding, but the arrangement suited me perfectly. I praised and thanked God we’re a family once more and pledged that I will never cause the boat to rock again. At any rate, even if my friends assured me their poor premises will welcome me should I be driven out again, I have solemnly sworn to my Maker that only death will put my family and me asunder.

Cita proved to be an energetic woman, whose gift of gab was equal to her industry. Her son Renzo used to assist her until he accepted a return-to-work offer as a cook at a Tapsilogan in Litex. I have shared previously that Cita was so worried when he got sick she begged for Myrna to take her to where he is to give him care, meds and the rosary I gave him which he forgot. She swore he got well instantly and never fell ill again. This fidelity of Cita will stay with me for a long time.

Her green thumb and earnest interest in plants encouraged Myrna to assume a plantita persona, the result of which is an aura of adequate growth and greenery in front of our house, augmenting the small plot inside and the almost abandoned yard outside. Their joint effort complemented the initial attempt of Mean to grow lush Spider shrubs from the cuttings she got from friends. Our foyer is now peppered with San Francisco, Rubber, Agave, ZZ, Pothos, Lily, Aglaonema, Anthurium (solitary in the back), Aloe and other greens I have yet to research the names of. If one ignores the front yard, the foyer may qualify as a showcase of sorts. The best service, however, that Cita renders is feeding Bronson. Notwithstanding the morsels (he grew up on table food and nixes Pedigree) that he gets from all of us (as he shuttles from the dining room to the lanai and back), she faithfully sees to it that she mixes rice with the sauce of whatever viand we have so that he leaves the feeder empty. Unless done that way, Bronson eats only the viand part of his food. Conscientious is Cita in her approach in that, like me, she hates waste so she might as well see through this task to fulfillment. Small wonder why, in my conversations with my mutt, she is greatly amused that Bronson seems to understands me and, to some extent, when she tries the tricks that I do, her, too. I owe this secret to Ate Veron, whose emotional tip has won for us several merit badges from Bronson.

I was made to eat humble pie today. By no less than UtoLiza, my constant confessor and understanding mentor. I called the attention of a person to an apparent gesture of pride. I did not suggest a behavior but offered a prayer that would replace the gesture with humility. UtoL reprimanded me for starting out right but squeezing something negative in my suggestion. I had to agree, was appropriately chastised and promised to behave like Mary would, as she exemplified, under similar or whatever circumstances that call for the very same humility I was bandying about. So that, there won’t be any chance of her getting back at me with, “Look who’s talking!” Amen.