Para(clete)digm
by Abraham De La Torre
WHEN MAYNILAD TOOK over the water system in BF Homes, Quezon City, there was joyful unison in anticipation of a better service. Our water supply in the past was not potable, slimy even after you’ve rinsed off rigorously and the reservoir took time to clean when its periodic due came.
True, the old setup was cheaper, but Maynilad’s transition was fast, efficient and far exceeded expectations. Their water was spring cold (my wife and older son have, since day one, needed hot water to temper it) and never waned in outflow, depending on how you adjust the control valve. There may have been errors in computations at the outset but which birth didn’t bear pain. They were all sorted out soon enough.
Bathing is a ritual that I always look forward to and the bathroom a refuge that rings a safe bell.
THE BATHROOM IS my sanctuary. When I sit on the throne, I pray. And prove that, notwithstanding the toilet being one of the devil’s three favorite haunts (the other two being corners and trees, from what I’ve learned in exorcist-priest Fr. Jose Francisco Syquia’s seminar and, later, books), the place is not only a source of comfort (which explains the unwarranted adjective describing the room) but also a refuge of sorts. Next to the bedroom, there is no other place in the house where privacy is particular, personal and protected. Only an earthquake can take you out of there. Or, closer to home, the devil can make you disappear.
It is there where I confront my thoughts that stray during solemn moments of service at Mass. Where I resolve to renew my vows to keep my body the temple that Christ meant it to be.
From the throne, I enter the shower stall with another prayer, “Bless me Lord and the cold that it may not cause me infirmity. Bless as well the many to not have any malady.”
Along with the steady stream of pinprick pellets of icy liquid, flow my musings. Whence some of my inspired poetry and prose sprung.
Emerging from the shower, I feel fresh, refreshed, invigorated, reinvigorated. Clean. Cleansed. Something akin to coming out of the confessional. Something almost like receiving the Holy Host. And giving it.
FOR SEVERAL SEMINARS now, PREX has not found a replacement for the soloist who renders the dismount song of Talk Number 5, Natutulog ba ang Diyos. Since I am an always present member of the music ministry who, they insist (to make me acquiesce or reassured, I really can’t tell), can carry a tune enough to get the talk’s message across, the task temporarily became mine. At least until somebody more permanent comes in. Charity being another characteristic of mine, I agreed. With a little coaching from Ate Marian, a chorister who doubles as an organist. She is convinced Gary V’s piece is high-pitched, an impossible feat for my baritone, so she suggested an “areglo” for the high end notes. The discipline of the choir gave me the discernment she described. And so I’ve done the number three times already.
I know my limitations and want to satisfy my certainty of delivering the goods. Ate Marian, as genuine as her rationale for submitting her participation to PREX, confirmed that, while I will never put up a Pure Energy show and my tampered version of his hit may not send goosies to the audience, my own style of singing sends a sentiment that has a depth of the lyrics and the soul of the melody. She affirms it is as original as the others who sang it before and yet it differs. In the same heartfelt, honest way the others did their version of the same.
ATE ANALYN IS a Catechist. She has been, as far back as I can recall, a volunteer worker at the Holy Spirit Parish (from Fr. Jigs to Fr. Bobot) doing odd clerical tasks. She claims to be poor. I didn’t know how poor until she invited me and her other friends to their house to celebrate her birthday ahead of its original February 18 because she honors Ash Wednesday coinciding with it and decided to let her bash take a back/front seat.
She is one of my friends who live in a practical hole in the wall. It never ceases to amaze me how they make up for the lack of space in their dwellings by opening up their outdoor-wide hearts to anyone who would oblige to venture into their homes. I hasten to call them that because I am immediately aware of the cramped quarters, quickly underscored by the familiar “Pasensya na sa liit ng bahay namin” (Please bear with our small house.) yet the tone of voice is not apologetic, just matter-of-fact. For why would one be sorry for one’s situation if it will be known upon the arrival of the invited, anyway, to break bread in the “hole.” There is dignity in the declaration of humble means because the invitation was empowered by the simple desire to share the humility with friends, circumstance-wise kindred or not. This is what draws me to dine with the poor. Who celebrate life, warts and all, in simple, only-they-can-afford, pleasant pleasing, undecorated, albeit decorous, fashion. Their effort to cover the unfinished concrete walls with supermarket curtains so that the videoke might assume a stage-like ambience I cannot even start to appreciate appropriately.
I HELP OUR help in small ways that do not belittle or patronize her efficient, organized system of seeing to our house’s order. Della is of a cheerful, cheery disposition, always early to rise and shine even before the sun and is up and about with her daily routine. From waking up our son (even if he never fails to set the alarm) several times, to preparing my banaba-calamansi-turmeric water therapy, she goes about her chores humming her own little tune, happy with our family and her world made smaller by her employment with us. Her time to beam is when she gets ready for her trip to Imus, Cavite, to reunite with her mother, children, nephews and nieces. And her world assumes a larger dimension for the duration of her day-off.
Her immediate concern is sister Lorna, our erstwhile washer woman, who is staying with her after being stricken with a kidney snag. The unpolluted sea breeze and fresh fish in their domicile helped speed up Lorna’s recovery, Della proudly affirms. Both her aged mom and she take turns in looking after her sick sibling, a bond made stronger by malady.
My petitions to the Blessed Mother are categorized according to the five mysteries: for the sick, aged, angry and disabled; adopted, help, lonely, lowly and bereaved; lives and souls; ministries and missions of the church; and health, well-being and endurance in suffering of families, friends, friendships and the increase in their fortitude and faith.
It goes without saying that the poor figure prominently in my lauds and vespers. They refresh me like early morning showers.
