Brethren that Bless and Blast

A PAST BLAST was what Viola Joven was. My radar was triggered when I saw her first name on the fb search bar. In synch with my instinct was the flashing of her family name in my brain, Joven. She has a name with recall, like a movie star’s, or that of an artist, or an existentialist. Which was what her memory registered in mine. While I braced myself for a pleasant surprise, I rolled her name repeatedly in my mouth, like a tongue exercise, to guarantee that, once memorized, she will not disappear again anymore, from mind or sight, like her familiar pictures in her account. I am never cocky even when my gut feel is certain, so I sent her a tentative message that her name rang a bell and her photo looked very familiar. My only misgiving caused by the 48 years since we worked together at now-defunct Manila COD Department Store in Cubao (whose main, but smaller-in-size store, because of limited space, is in Carriedo). Her response to my question (if she remembers me) was instant as though inscripted in advance. She said she remembers me as their union president who led them against the company’s unfair labor practices and won. The added glee was that she and my nephew used to work together in the budget and management department. I was on a phone call when she called and returned it as soon as I was free. Life has been good to her. Upon resigning from COD, she passed the teacher’s exam and worked in a government office while taking an accountancy course which she also hurdled successfully. That’s where she and my nephew (and his wife) met. Like most chance encounters, the 48 years between us were summarized in an exchange of brief questions and snappy remarks reunions usually unfold. With the customary, recharged reassurance of keeping the lost lines open. If the past were always something like this, there will be no more problem of burying it.

The thought that Viola left me was humility. She was the same modest lady who did not have to rattle off the accompishments that made me very proud of her but in a slow, understandable manner as though she were casually reporting for duty after a mission well done. Calmly, matter-of-factly, memorably.

The same humility permeated our afternoon bible-sharing. Topmost of which was Ate Emma’s sharing of a taongrasa type whom she saw rummaging through their trash and she took on and invited in. With no care if the man were a shady character, armed or a pure and simple danger. Her concern was to feed him (he was probably scrounging for food), offer him a bath (he smelled) or give him something, anything (consolation, at least, for he said he was manhandled by the guard). When he left, she carefully trailed after him, in case the guard hurts him again. A fellow help confirmed what the vagabond told her. My feeling was shared by the group that this tale of hers is less tear-jerking than those she shared before.

Her story prompted UtoL to share another narrative. It was of one night when she was making a U-turn on Commonwealth Avenue and she saw a man, carrying a suitcase, seemingly undecided on when to cross. Nearing the U-turn, a motorcycle-borne tandem passed by her, causing her to swerve to the left to avoid it, thereby slightly hitting the man. Instinctually, she stopped her car, alighted, and checked on the man she just hit. The tandem riders also stopped, obviously to eavesdrop. She asked the man if he was hurt, he said a little. She offered to take him to the hospital (Capitol being along the way) with the onlooking pair agreeing on his behalf; he agreed. They rode together and she drove towards España and noticed, in the rear view mirror, that the riders were tailing them. It was at this point that her passenger said that there’s no need to take him to the hospital. She insisted that, at least, can she take him home. “Nakakahiya naman,” was what he said. She asked where he lived and he said, “Blumentritt.” So it was out of the question and she drove on. At the Circle, UtoL saw that the motorcyclists made a full round, ending the tail. It was at this juncture that the man asked if she was not afraid of him. “No!” was UtoL’s quick answer. Adding that she hit him and, therefore, he is her responsibility. At this, the man probably saw through her sincerity and asked that he can already get off along España Boulevard and take it from there. He was determined and there was nothing she could do to dissuade him. So she offered a little cash for the damage she may have caused him. It didn’t take UtoL a hard time then to make him accept the token. Thus, they parted ways. Expectedly, her husband was aghast and agitated when she told him the story, for understandable reasons. UtoL also felt relieved, as her goose bumps emerged, it was over, never mind her husband’s belated anger. Because, she said, and we believed her, God was with her all throughout the ordeal, even if she didn’t deem it as one. My precise thought was that it was a test of faith. And without a doubt she passed it. Like many other instances she has shared.

Ate Myla’s sharing was something else, her sins of omission. This self-confessed Martha-type of a sibling aspires to be Mary but is constrained by career, schooling daughters, a loving husband she chooses to look after, and a household that only she can steward. She tries, the spiritual books she lent me testify to this, but she confesses that, often, it is not enough, so finds time to commune with brethren. If she only knew she is a God-send. Her humility always precedes her so I will spare her my superfluousness.

I shared giving out of nothing. At the LecCoMinistry’s meeting last Sunday, our Pastor, Fr. Jerome, was asking if the group wants a Christmas Party. A few murmured interest. Sensing the pervading unease (because of a recent calamity, obviously), I humbly raised my hand to offer that, perhaps we can rechannel the cost of the party to go to our more needy fellowmen who are still suffering from the devastation of Ulysses. Fr. Jerome tried to validate the solace of a get-together at this sorrowful time but my message seemed to hit home, the others may party, the LecCom will not. Afterwards, happily shared the food prepared by the November celebrators.

Ate Veron, like I told her, is a person who does not draw attention deliberately, unless you are a keen observer of testimonies. She acts, talks and thinks exactly how her influences shaped her, with a little sprinkling of what her nature is, which is, independently, transparently God- and, therefore, neighbor-loving. Her serious demeanor is only breached by a similar stroke of humor, deadly and devastating. Like, rotflmbo! She is like Ate Myla in generosity and I will stop here before this article becomes praising the pair. Amen.