Storms – and Sushines – of Life

TO FAUSTINA, JESUS said: “… Oh, if souls would only want to listen to My voice when I am speaking in the depths of their hearts, they would reach the peak of holiness in a short time.” Fr. Michael warned that the words, thoughts or inspirations we receive in prayer, even those that come during times of deep consolation, are not infallible. Besides our own psychological processes, the devil is there, on the lookout, for a chance to appear as an angel of light and communicate to us when we’re in a time of consolation. He is the careless, deadly whisper we must be wary of. It is , therefore, utterly imperative to strive to be humble and confident in the Lord, in one’s deepest, heartfelt honesty, so that the devil cannot have his way.

I cannot – do not – claim kinship to any lay, religious or saint, much less divine dialogue with my guardian angel, to convince the reader of my yearning to get close to Christ. In my struggle to rid myself of the material appurtenances that wasted all opportunities I might have taken hold of had I been planted earlier in the Lord’s vineyard, I gobble up spiritual material lent or recommended by fellow pilgrims whose progressive testimony convinced me of their desirable growth.

Therefore, St. Faustina’s suffering is merely hinted at here (I’ve written about her in filcatholic.org’s October 20, 2016 issue) and hereby add a blurb in her “Diary” I have yet to read, “… this book brings to the fore the beauty of God’s saving love working in and through every fiber of Faustina’s very being – her joy at encountering the Lord, the suffering she endured precisely for the sake of Jesus’ all-encompassing love and the state of purity of spirit she attained in the process.” The “storms,” therefore, refer to her sufferings and ours, clearly and presently, that we may be enriched by them and, ultimately, inspired by her surmounting the same.

Before Ate Veron figured in my sight and subconscious, the Flordelizas were already role models in the skill of caring for dogs. Before I handed Milktea over to them, they had three big ones, Bonbon (half-breed Lab), Ladamme (Aspin) and Spotty (mixed Sheepdog and Shih tzu), among which the third is close to me. Upon my sight and smell, he starts barking and wagging his tail and waiting for me to sit down so he can hop onto my lap. I tease him by not sitting at once so he reacts by repeatedly holding on to my standing position. Until I take a seat. And he is all over me, drool, paws, fur and all of him. The simple, total delight a dog offers. And all I can do to him is what I always do with our Bronson, feed him morsels on my palm. From their father, Kuya Gemer, mother, Manay Marlyn, eldest daughter Kim, Keith, Kyle and Keisha, every one has an assigned task with respect to the canines. The girls are understandably more physical to them than the discipline-oriented menfolk, topmost of whom is the main man. I remember him instructing Kim to bathe Milktea at once and keep him away from the three until she has rid him of fleas. Which did not need repeating.

I almost cursed “Word with Friends” for causing me to neglect my job and earn the ire of the General Manager. It is now my dear diversion, whenever I run into a writer’s block or reading and writing become a strain. A few rounds of wins and losses recharge me instantly and the tasks become a breeze again. It was not an addiction, as I earlier confessed, but calisthenics to wiggle the mind out of its overload. The only diff being then, it stood in the way of work and now, it is the best and only pastime I can always confidently trust by way of clean, wholesome enjoyment. Nothing that will ever run counter to the teachings of God. Why, it doesn’t even accept cuss words, obscene terms or genitalia. Talk about a self-censored gadget! Scrabble was my old love but, hey! there’s nothing wrong for an old goat to keep up with the times, is there?

I couldn’t find my copy of the Legion of Mary’s “Way of the Cross” is why I ended up at the parish office bothering Tess with getting one. A pure intention never fails, as I never doubted mine won’t. I appreciated Sis Rhea’s leading us, ages ago, in Mary’s Via Crucis, in the parish garden, a legacy of Fr. Bobot, predecessor of incumbent Fr. Mar. It has the carved elements (the church has stainglass depictions) of how it must have been like for Jesus to pray, all by His lonesome, silent, solemn, one-on-one with the Father, like all prayers ought to be. The guide was a project of the Ministry of the Word (circa 2014), a complete manual containing the salutation (by a leader) and response (by the flock). I take pleasure in the reflection part because, on my own, I am able to: 1) talk to Jesus and express to Him my heart’s yearning at that instance; and 2) obtain His meditative response that seeps into my soul. Especially, when I get to the 12th station, where Christ dies and I’m kneeling all through it, and there is no need to sweat blood, or beg the Father to take my cup, or be bothered by apostles who are there but not, because snoring their butts off. With eyes shut, I feel the immensity of His sorrowful abandonment, down to the marrow of my bones, until a pearl threatens to trickle out of my closed eyes.

Immensely consoling, therefore, is page 220 of “Consoling…” pertaining to the extremely simple soul of St. Therese, whose Novice Mistress told her, “… the closer one approaches God, the simpler one becomes.” Thus the Little Flower earned her feeble moniker.

Whoever said about experience being the best teacher has a keen foresight. In the showers, I mulled about the two times that I was exposed to poverty without having learned from them. The first instance was when I was a government employee. We were tasked to conduct a census of the residents of (then) Smokey Mountain to make a study of how government institutions can address the situation of the “garbage” people. I vividly remember that experience as a lesson I did not learn. What stood out was the fact that, when we all returned from the survey, it was clear we all stank. The people in the elevator did not hide their repulsion by moving apart from us; some covered their noses while the others simply expressed disgust. The second incident was more memorable because it happened at a time when I was already undergoing formation. As a Christmas project of St. Vincent School of Theology’s HapagLayko studentry, we visited the Payatas dumpsite with the priests, nuns and volunteers led by Dean Daniel Pilario. We were divided into small groups and assigned to a family each to help sort out the garbage they collected for that day. Ate Sylvia and I were in the same group. I recall that, while waiting for the van that will take us to Payatas, Ate Sylvia bought dalandan as some sort of freshener-cum-sanitizer should the renowned stench of the place prove intolerable (we immediately felt sorry she did it and had the thought as soon as we felt the sincerity of the poor Payatas folks). Everyone used their bare hands in dealing with the trash we had no choice. With the religious doing as the residents did, were we lay supposed to be exempted from the task? I sincerely thought not. And so Ate Sylvia and I worked our way into sorting out six kinds of trash and were able to fill up six straw sacks before lunch time. Taking into account the haul, the family came up with P6.00 per sack. Not even enough for the lunch that they treated us to later. As poor as the family was, they provided us with the luxury of Safeguard to wash our hands with before the meal. It wasn’t the generosity and joy of their company at mealtime that struck me. At the Christmas get-together later, most of the dumpsite population was present. After the standard praise, thanksgiving and messages, the lay associates started a program of mostly parlor games for the children. Where I witnessed parents admonishing their toddlers to keep from joining those that might crush them in the scuffle. Clearly, the children might have been motivated by the prize but not the parents, whose concern was the life and limbs of their flesh and bones. It was also not lost to me that the prizes were somewhat paltry, making their anxiety noteworthy. But the moral stuck in my mind to this day. I’ve made it a vow to not take the poor for granted and never to give out of plenty but – rule of thumb – poverty. Like the widow who gave her last and only two mites for the Lord!

At our TTJ last Friday night, we were spiritedly discussing Jesus’ presence in three aspects of our lives. I shared my insights on how I’ve grown in wisdom at three levels. One, of the mind, I shared that I’ve always prayed the “Hail Holy Queen” but just recently wondered (in light of my recent, related experience) what the “exile” in the prayer was about so I looked it up. It was greatly satistying to find out that it referred to the exile from paradise of Adam and Eve. How enlightening, I thought, and related indeed to my personal life. It’s true, we’re no longer in paradise but in a “valley of tears,” because of our original parents’ sin. Yet because the valley is a journey, not just of getting back to the Garden, but being elevated even beyond that, we yearn for the reward. This enlightenment made me learn a significant lesson about praying – that I am never to just mouth off memorized words without feeling their import. Which is why I sometimes resort to random praying because the thoughts are not rote but triggered by the heart.

The next level was heart and my sharing (I earlier told UtoL but repeated to the others) said that Jesus’ exhortation for us to be perfect is doable, if only for a day. Why? Because that day, I said, I had no deed, speech or thought that was negative. Nada, none, nothing! “Be perfect like the Father is perfect.” (Matthew 5:48) is not in vain; it is, after all, the Son’s command. I let them tell their insights on will but I’ll share here that, true to my COP vows, I will toil to attain a chaste, obedient and poor life, in accordance with my learnings with Mary at the foot of her Son’s cross.

No saint rose to the heights of holiness without going through storms all sinners hurdle. As I thank God Ulysses is now a nightmare of the past, and efforts are continuously pursued to alleviate the suffering of our countrymen devastated by his wrath, I concede that I ought to also contribute to the donation drive. Reason why I told Noelene, who was soliciting for the same purpose, that I may not have the means but I will tell my wife and son. Myrna is not yet in the payroll of the new agency she has recently been absorbed by but Alex was already in Marikina with (Aes and) his friends distributing relief goods. I told Noelene this and she understood. At the LecCoMinistry meeting yesterday, when the plan to have a Christmas Party was raised, I humbly offered the insight that the idea is appreciated but, for the sake of our suffering folks, the cost of the celebration may be rechanelled to, and better serve, their needs. Fr. Jerome posited that it is in the spirit of rising above the crisis that the gathering is being considered, which was a valid point. Yet the sisters and brothers that were at the meeting have seemingly commiserated so the project did not proceed.

I’m but a worm worse than Montfort to exempt myself from the fire that refined the likes of Saints Augustine, Faustina and Ignatius, among many other noteworthy cross-carriers. I praise and thank the Father for His Son who, by the womb that carried Him, is living in me through Mary, Mother of God. Whose image, after more than two months of blessing us, I finally transferred to the Concepcion’s house across the street; she was happily received – sunshinily – by Therese. Amen.