Category Archives: Love

Childhood, Children, Church, Faith, Family, God, Life, Love, Uncategorized

Skipping Holy Week

April 2, 3015. Here we are at NAIA 2, waiting at Centennial Airport. We woke up at 2am to make it in time for our 5am PAL flight to Cebu. Checking in was a breeze, a delightful surprise since we thought there would be a mad rush at the airport because of the long weekend.

It’s Holy Thursday. For the past 13 years, I’ve spent the Holy Week in Manila, serving as a lector in our parish. This time around, however, my daughters decided that we should all go on a fam trip to Moalboal. So here we are, Dada (my mom), Bea, Cara, Niccolo and me, off to a new adventure. My thoughts wander over to the church activities I would miss.

The Paschal Triduum, or the three days from Thursday morning to just before Easter Sunday is the busiest time for servant leaders. All the church bells are silenced, votive candles extinguished, and images of saints and the crucifix are removed or hidden behind violet cloth. The Paschal Triduum begins with Chrism Mass early Thursday morning when the Holy Oils are blessed and all the priests of the diocese renew their vow. After Chrism mass, it is customary for parishioners to have breakfast with their parish priest to show their gratitude and love for him. Later that day, we would celebrate the Mass of the Last Supper where priests go down on their knees to wash the feet of parishioners. This commemorates Christ’s actions on the night before he died, when he washed the feet of his 12 apostles, in so doing teaching them humility and servant leadership.

When I was a little girl attending mass at San Sebastian, I watched the Spanish parish priest wash the feet of 12 fellow priests, and wondered why. Are their feet dirty? Later, as the church became more inclusive and priests scarcer, common parishioners took on the role of the apostles. When we first moved to Southbay, our family was chosen as one of those to be washed. It took some convincing for Mike to agree, but Niccolo was excited to have his feet washed.

After the Mass of the Last Supper, we would do the Bisita Iglesia, a Catholic tradition of visiting seven churches and praying the Stations of the Cross, ending with spending time at the Altar of Repose to keep the Lord company in His time of agony. We always enjoyed this time, choosing which seven churches to go to and comparing the different altars of repose they put up.

At dawn on Friday, we would have the Community Way of the Cross, walking through the different Basic Ecclesial Communities (BECs) of the Ascension of Our Lord Parish, from Villonco to Southbay to Waterfun, Estrada 1 & 2, Aratiles, Mangga, Silangan, then Goodwill. When we first did this about ten years ago, I was a bit worried having to walk and pray in the developing communities, then genuflecting on the dirty streets, beside dogs and chickens. But this also opened my eyes to the circumstances of how other people lived, and I became more thankful of our many blessings, and also more open and understanding of the people around me.

At 3pm, we would have the Veneration of the Cross, the symbol of Christ’s suffering and love for us. We used to call this rite the Seven Last Words. This is a solemn rite where we relive the last hours of Christ’s passion and death on the cross. When the priest enters the church with the cross, stops three times and unveils it partially, he sings a biblical phrase. Fr. Didoy Molina, our beloved parish priest then, was absent when God gave the gift of beautiful voices, so when he attempted to sing, we all cracked up and started giggling.

There is no more consecration of the bread and wine at the mass that follows, but we would partake of communion with hosts blessed the night before during the Last Supper rites. We would then go home, but some of us would stay and keep the image of the Cristo Muerto company.

Black Friday, as we call the day that Christ died, is supposed to be a day of fasting, quiet and reflection on this passion and death. I still recall a time, I must have been three or four years old then, when Pepito and I were playing rowdily by the avocado tree in the backyard. Our mom came out and roundly spanked and scolded us to keep quiet. “Don’t you know that Jesus Christ is dead?,” she screamed at us in Spanish. We kept quiet, wondering who this Jesus Christ was and why he died. To a young child, the concept of death is difficult to grasp, more so when it is someone we don’t know.

Black Saturday is still supposed to be hush hush but come night, we would have a grand celebration as we celebrate Easter, or the resurrection of Jesus Christ. In our parish, we would congregate in the pitch black court outside the church.  The bonfire is lighted and the priest would bless and light the Paschal Candle, saying “You are the alpha and the omega.” These words never fail to touch me, and bring home the message that God is our all in all, the beginning and the end, our Creator, the Almighty to whom we owe everything. And once again, I would be humbled as I am reminded of my nothingness and yet the grandness that God loves me and holds me in the palm of His hand.

The Easter Vigil mass is long and dramatic. It begins with us entering the dark church following the priest holding up the lighted candle. We listen to several readings followed by Psalms which are sung. The readings begin with Genesis, the story of creation, to when Abraham willingly follows the Lord’s command to sacrifice his only son Isaac to God.  He is about to kill his son when he is stopped by an angel and told that God has blessed him for showing his faithfulness to the Lord. God then makes His solemn promise to bless Abraham with descendants more numerous than the stars of the sky or the sands along the beach, descendants who will be a blessing to all nations. The readings proceed to Exodus, or the triumphant flight from Egypt when the Israelites under the leadership of Moses and the guidance and protection of God cross the Red Sea and all of the pursuing Pharaoh’s chariots and charioteers are drowned.

I am usually assigned to read one of these first readings as they are the longest and most dramatic. But it is the second one I love the most.   I put myself in Abraham’s shoes, and wonder if I would be as obedient as him. Imagine being told to kill your only son, the beloved son of your old age, and to offer him as a sacrifice to God. Give up Bea, or Cara or Niccolo? Arghhh! And yet, this is exactly what God did: send His only son, Jesus Christ to live and die on the cross to save us from our sins.

The following readings from Isaiah, Baruch and Ezekiel chronicle God’s faithfullness over the centuries to His covenant to take care of His people. We then have the Epistle and the readings from the Gospel. I love it when we sing the Gloria with all of the lights turned on, as we wave our white flags and ring our bells. Oh, what a glorious time it is as we rejoice that the Lord has risen!

The next day we would have the Easter Egg Hunt in our village. When my children were young, they would join the other children in the village and see who could collect the most eggs, especially the prized Gold and Silver eggs.  Similarly, when we were young, my siblings and I would also go Easter Egg hunting in our yard. What fond memories Easter brings!

Oh, I will miss all of these rituals this Holy Week, but then I will be with my children and my mom. It is high time we have some family bonding. The children are grown up and soon they would have their own families. I hope and pray that we would still be able to celebrate Easter together in the years to come.

 

 

 

 

Children, Faith, Family, God, Life, Love, Menopause, Women

Tempest in a Teapot Six Years Ago

I was browsing over Mike’s Facebook this morning, and came across this note I had written almost six years ago.  I had completely forgotten about it, but it is too funny not to share, so here goes…

June 28, 2009.  Every morning after prayers, I would weigh myself. The scale always reported back an acceptable 110 to 115 lbs. depending on the workload (the more stress, the more I eat). Last week, however, was different. I registered at 117, then 118, then 119 the next day. I shook the scale, then checked again. Still 119! This can’t be, I thought, but the pants have been getting tighter. Horrors! I must start to diet and exercise. 

Then, cuddled up with Mike on the sofa watching my favorite soap, Desperate Housewives, we had a good laugh over Linette’s getting pregnant with twins at 40+. And then Mike teased me, “Maybe that’s why you’re becoming voluptuous.”

That can’t be, I argued. I’m supposed to be menopausal by now. But doubt had started to creep in. When did I have my last period? The last I remember was two months ago. But I haven’t experienced any of the touted symptoms: hot flashes, irate temper, etc. Oh, no!

Over evening snacks in the kitchen, I casually mentioned the possibility of having a new addition to the family to my grown-up daughters and teenage son. I was not prepared for their reaction. Jaws dropped, hands clapped over their eyes and ears, and protests of “What? Are you serious?,” “Mommy, how could you?,” and “Noooooo!” filled the room. After the shock had passed, Bea turned to Cara and said, “I’ll take care of Niccolo. You take care of the new one.”

Cara, my middle child, whipped out her laptop and started to check for menopausal symptoms. She read out the long list. At each point, she asked, “Are you feeling this?” After about 20 symptoms including migraines and aching joints, she concluded that she’s menopausal. Except for migraines which I’ve had since my teenage days, I was clear.

Yesterday afternoon, Cara still could not shake off her feeling of doom, and so she convinced me to go to the drugstore to buy a pregnancy test. We were both embarrassed to buy it, but I finally summoned courage to approach the counter. In the car on the way home, she called her older sister to help me with the test because she said she would faint if it were her. Since the test instructions recommended an early morning test, we had to wait till the morning.

Last night, I attended the birthday party of a dear friend in the village. I confided my worries to a friend who promptly announced it to the group. I naturally became the object of a lot of friendly ribbing, so I retorted, “If this pushes through, you’ll all be ninangs.” This drew another round of ribbing. Imagine our octogenarian friends hosting a baby party? Or a child of six asking me where her ninangs are? We were in stitches all night. Good thing, the conversation moved on Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Vicki Belo and Hayden Kho.

“Don’t worry, Monette, we’ll all be rooting for you,” another friend said as we parted ways last night. But worry, I did. I thought of all the things I’d have to go through again… maternity dresses, pedia visits, all-nighters, pre-school, park and zoo trips… And questions, such as, “Why is the lola accompanying the baby instead of the mom?” Heavens! I’d be 70 by the time debut happens.

Bright and early this morning, I did the test. While waiting for the results, I prayed. Those were probably the longest, most excruciating three minutes I had to endure.

One bar! Negative. Thank you, Lord! Now, I can just look forward to cuddling apos one of these days. That, I wouldn’t mind at all.

 

 

Death, Family, Food, Gradtitude, Life, Love, music

A Different Twist to Valentine’s Day

8 Comments

10393981_10204422523537442_5957064915388831964_nValentine’s Day 2015.  This was not how I imagined the day would be months ago when everything was coming up roses.  I had a new love, or should I say he found me, but now he’s gone ahead to heaven, leaving me alone with a broken heart.  Just as the love of my life, my husband, my best friend and father of my children did earlier.  So now, I have two angels up above.  And a heart full of grief that needs to mend.  And must.  And will!

I arrived from Rome the other day, sick as a dog.  My son Niccolo picked me up from the airport.  Before going home, we passed by St. Therese of the Child Jesus, to visit Mike, pray and tell him how much we loved and miss him.

The stress of the past three weeks had finally caught up on me.  Acute bronchitis, the doctor said, and ordered strict bed rest.  But this was not possible as my dear aunt Julia, former dean of the College of the Holy Spirit and youngest sister of my father, had died while I was in Rome.  There was a wake to attend to and a burial to make.  Just as I had before I left for Spain two weeks ago.  It seemed that sorrow had decided to burrow a permanent hole in my heart.

Tita Jill had helped take care of me and my four siblings, aged four to 11, when my father had died. There was no way I would stay away.  I arranged for mass last night and early this morning just before her burial in the family plot in La Loma Cemetery.  From her friends’ tributes, I learned how much she had enriched their lives with her gentleness, her brilliance, her passion for excellence, her generosity of heart and her simplicity.  What a role model she was for all of us!

I could not help but compare the two wakes and burials that straddled my trip to Spain and Italy.  That of my boyfriend Rolando Perez Gosiengfiao’s was elaborate, chockfull of family and friends paying their respects throughout the day and night, flowers lining up the corridor, a flag draped over his coffin and smart marines standing guard beside his casket.  Each night a different group (Young Presidents’ Organization, World Presidents’ Organization, AIESEC, BCDA, GenRex) hosted the mass and dinner, paying tribute to a great man who had touched their lives and left an imprint hard to erase.  My aunt’s was simple, with only intimate family and friends present.  But love abounded nevertheless.  What struck me was no matter how brilliant or rich or powerful one is, at the end of our lives, we don’t take anything with us.  Except for the love we had shared with those we leave behind.

After the burial, Bea and I had brunch at Wildflour.  I sampled cacio e pepe pasta for the very first time on her prodding. It’s a wonder I didn’t have this in Rome. It was sinfully delightful, but more than the food, it was the company that made brunch truly special.  For how many moms can have the pleasure of lunch with their first born on Valentine’s Day, especially if their daughter is such an attractive young woman that many would like to date?  I felt honored that my daughter had decided to turn down all Valentine date requests to spend the day with me.

After brunch, we meandered over to the Saturday Salcedo market, bought flowers and passed by San Antonio in Forbes to say a prayer for Mr. G, as Bea calls Rollie.  We then went home to comply with my  doctor’s orders.

And lo and behold, a surprise awaited us!  Since my birthday, the house has been dusty and topsy-turvy due to renovation.  Blue burlap had covered the area on the ground floor where walls were being removed, and new panels put up.   Before leaving for Spain, I had decided to take the plunge and fix the large first floor room which had previously served as an office, and later as an entertainment room.

When Mike took ill with cancer and could no longer make the trip up to the second floor, that became his sick room.  It was also where he took his final breath and died in my arms as I had promised him.  The room was just too sad for me, and so I hardly entered it.  But my mom was getting on in age, and was having a hard time going up the stairs, so I decided it was time to make the change.  I also had excellent advice from Rollie on what to do with the room.

When Bea and I got home this afternoon, we were greeted by a wonderful sight.  The workers had removed the burlap covering the renovations ongoing in the living room, and the place had opened up.  It was now spacious, airy, and bright! Oh, what a wonderful feeling it evoked!  And I now have a sitting room full of natural light to paint in.  What joy!

Tonight, I had dinner in bed with Bea.  She prepared her signature tomato and basil pasta, and we had cheese and Spanish ham paired with a Vin de Bordeaux, while watching The Mummy Returns, and then Sex in the City on TV.  Cara is working in Boracay and Niccolo spent the day in Clark with his friends.  Now, Bea has gone to bed, and here I am writing and reflecting on my life these past few months.

Come to think of it, this was Rollie’s gift for me: a new lease on life.  Seven months ago, when my world was dark and I was grieving for Mike, Rollie came barging into my life.   Rollie taught me it was possible to love and be happy once again.  From the moment he sent me that message on FB, I was literally hooked.

How it all beganRollie was always looking for ways to get together, whether for halo-halo, picking me up from an event, offering to help me with my speeches, going to the Saturday market at Salcedo, driving me to Alfonso,  showing me where he grew up, or accompanying me to buy gifts.  He would sometimes show up unannounced where I was, seeming to have just been in the vicinity. Little did I know that it had been carefully planned.

He was a man of many inconsistencies.  Every chance he got, he would introduce me to his family and friends and would post our photos proudly on his Facebook page, tagging me whenever he could.  And yet he told me not to write about him because he was a private individual.  And so I would untag him.  At times, exasperated, I would unfriend him, but he always asked me back.  And truth to tell, no matter how many fights we had, we never could stay away from each other more than a day.

We had long conversations, yes, even arguments, about everything under the sun, especially religion, marriage, my church service, my busy schedule, and social customs.  Rollie was a professed atheist, and this cut me deeply, being quite religious.  It was hard to reconcile that the man I loved did not believe in the same things I did.  I refused to eat with him unless we said grace before meals.  He was very gracious and obliged me in this.  He even accompanied me to mass, though he would not stay all the way to the final blessing.

I kept looking for ways to tell him our relationship could not flourish. One time, I told him our Chinese astrology signs were opposed.  He was a tiger and I was fire monkey.  And since monkeys and dragons were the best match (Mike was a water dragon), I said I must find myself a dragon.  He was so cut up by this remark that he stopped talking to me, and told me I win.  When I saw him, he was crying in his living room.  When I asked him why he was crying, he said he wanted desperately to be my dragon.  Oh, Rollie!

Facebook messenger was our lifeline, a surprising channel for two mature individuals. Like teenagers, we were glued to our mobile phones, waiting for the three dots to start blinking.  The roles had been reversed.  My children would tell me to stop looking at my phone all the time.

Christmas Card largerIt was sad that my children could not accept our relationship.  Early on, Rollie told me he had fallen in love with my family, and looked forward to being part of it.  He said he was taken by the love that we all obviously shared.  But he was also understanding that it was just too soon after Mike had died.  All things will work out in the end, he said.  He was so sure of it.

Plans, Rollie had a lot of.  Where we would live, where we would travel, what we would do for the rest of our lives.  He gave me keys to his condo, and asked me to move in.  I told him not unless we were married.  Which again brought up the issue of social customs.  If we lived in the US, this would not even be an issue, he would argue. Why were papers so important, he asked?  I told him it was a matter of values, not papers.  Frustrated,  he announced he would put up our pictures in his condo to make me feel more at home.  I was in tears when his housekeeper in Hong Kong told me at the funeral that he bought a frame on this last trip and told her this was for my photo in Salcedo.  He never got around to doing it.

For some unknown reason, Rollie unleashed the poet in me. I would find myself penning my emotions in rapid fire, in a fever of inspiration.  I would send my poems to him, and each time, he would catch his breath, amazed at what I had written, and flattered to be the subject of the muse.

We painted together, and he loved the work I did, even blowing up a sketch I had made of him. He was very proud of that likeness of him that he put it up in his living room.  For Christmas, Rollie bought me a set of oils from New York after he saw me throw away my old oil set that had dried up.

Rollie loved music, and singing. He brought music back into my life.  We would sit and listen to music, and sometimes, he would burst into song.   He sang for me at his brother Ed’s birthday, and his sister-in-law whispered to me that it was obvious Rollie was in love with me, and that she hoped I loved him too.

Although he said he envied my writing skills, he showed me a book he had written on his wife after she died and another one he had written about his family. I was very touched by his gesture of love. He encouraged me to write a book for my mom’s 80th birthday and collaborated with me by digitalizing all the old photo prints.

Last year, Rollie urged me to write a book on Mike to celebrate our life together and to close that chapter so we could start a new one.  I was unable to write during the Christmas break because I was sick, so when Rollie said he was going to be away the week Pope Francis came, he told me I should start on that book for Mike.  And that was what I did.  He called me from Hong Kong to check how I was doing.  When I told him I had spent the better part of the weekend crying while writing and that I was only half way done, he told me to “Keep going, my courageous girl.  I love you!”

I admired the way Rollie fixed his home. He had impeccable taste.  He would bring me flowers and plants for my house, telling me that they livened up the house.  Rollie convinced me to renovate my house, to dispel the sadness that had permeated it and to bring back the happiness that was there before.  He disliked my white lights and advised me to change all my bulbs to warm white for a cozier feel.

On his last trip to Hong Kong, Rollie biked all the way to Shamshuipo to buy LED lights to surprise me and taught me how to change my lights. He was supposed to come to my house at 4pm to start on the lights the afternoon he died. He never made it home.

Living a fit life was something Rollie embraced with a passion. He biked, swam, watched his food intake, made sure he had eight hours of sleep a day.  To keep up, I bought a bike which he promised he would teach me how to use.  I think he was more excited than I was.  I started going to the gym, and drinking his banana, apple, pechay concoction for breakfast.

IMG_9924The trip to Hong Kong on the first of January was our chance to be together alone.  He and I were both so excited to be together. It was a beautiful time, and he told me that he felt so comfortable being with me.  It was like being married 10, 20 years.  We were so happy together, except for the last night when we had another of our little tiffs, and traveled home hardly talking to each other.   But make up we did, as usual.  As Rollie said, there is nothing that can stop this love we have.  Well, nothing except death, and what a thief it is!

The week before he died, Rollie and I had dinner at an Indian restaurant near his home. He had decided to become vegan once again, and it was the perfect place for that. He said he used to eat there before but was very lonely; it was after his wife had died.  But he perked up, saying this time it’s different, I have you with me. I was teasing him about all his past girlfriends, when he took my hand and said, “This I know, Monette, you’re my last great love, the one I will spend the rest of my life with.”  I didn’t realize then how prophetic those words were.

If there’s one thing Rollie complained about, it was my need to love and be loved.  He said I was too needy. He always told me to become self-sufficient, to be happy being me, by myself.  Yes, Rollie taught me I could be happy after the death of my beloved Mike. Now, I need to get on with life, and learn to be happy without Rollie beside me.  Circle of life.

And there are many things I am truly grateful for.  First and foremost are my three beautiful children: Bea, Cara and Niccolo.  I have my mom who loves me unconditionally, my beloved sister, my brothers, their families, Cathy who takes care of me and my family.  I have my friends, and my work family at TeamAsia.  I’ve loved and been loved by two wonderful men, Mike and Rollie.  But most of all, I have a faithful and loving God who never lets go of me, despite my many failings.

At the Sistine Chapel the day before I left Rome, I was blessed to have had the opportunity to go to confession with Fr. Valentine, a black priest who suddenly showed up just as the museum was about to close.   Despite more than a hundred tourists milling about, I felt at peace talking to him and telling him about my grieving heart.  I asked him for prayers to discern and accomplish what I had been sent here on earth to do.

10997911_10204831175513486_2097251670_oSomeone sent me these amazing flowers yesterday without a card.  I have no idea who they’re from, but am truly grateful to the kind soul out there who remembered me.  It was after all, a different twist to this special day of love.

 

Childhood, Family, Life, Love, Women

Oh, how I miss her!

I sat down and finally did some sewing tonight. It’s been years since I’ve touched a needle, much less tried to sew. As I tried threading the needle (and succeeded on the third attempt), I remembered my Lola Teta. Oh, how I miss her!

406
Lola Teta wearing her formal saya on the occasion of my brother Pepito’s baptism. I am in my mom’s arms.

Pepito, my younger brother, ousted me from my mom’s warm embrace when I was not yet a year old. It was Lola Teta (Eriberta Manalo Iturralde), my father’s maiden aunt, who took over nanny duties. I would sit down beside her while she sewed, and she would tell me stories of her youth.

I remember her telling me of how all the dogs howled when Jose Rizal was executed by a firing squad in Bagumbayan (New Town). She was but ten years old then, but was aware that the adults were talking in hushed tones of what was happening, of how important this man was to the country, and of the books he had written that were forbidden, but nevertheless were making the rounds.

I loved watching her nimble hands embroider and sew. She helped me with my sewing assignments (I was so bad at it, and it was the only way I could pass Ms. Gabriel’s class). Much later, when I was in high school and Lola Teta was in her 80s, she would still attempt to sew. My job then was threading the needle as she could no longer do this.

As a young child, I would watch her work on her black Singer sewing machine, her dainty right foot clad in an embroidered silk slipper, rhythmically tapping the pedal to make the needles hum and work magic lines on the dress she was making.

Lola Teta never married, preferring to take care of her younger brother, my lolo and his children. Come to think of it, none of the women in the Iturralde family in five generations have ever married. They either stayed single to take care of their brothers’ children or became nuns. I broke the “curse” and to make it stick, married twice!

Curious, I asked Lola if she ever had a boyfriend. She said that there was this older Chinese man who lived in the pagoda in Quiapo who would visit and bring hopia, but she felt he was too old for her.

She was in her 90s when I introduced my boyfriend to her. Her eyesight was already failing then. After he had left, Lola commented that she liked him because he had a nice voice, was polite, and his hand was not soft. It was a good thing he was into martial arts training then, which was his saving grace.

Lola was fluent in Spanish, having been tutored at home, and was thus my Spanish mom’s communication lifeline to the family when she first arrived in the Philippines as a young bride. She was a staunch supporter of my mom, explaining Philippine culture and way of life and teaching her Tagalog.

Much like Rapunzel, Lola never cut her hair, and it was longer than she was tall.  Washing her hair was a big production. She only used gugo, a local bark that would get soapy when soaked in water. The maids would help wash her hair, and then to dry it would lay it on the back of several chairs. Once dry, she would twist her hair up in a bun and fasten it with a Spanish hair comb and large hair pins.

When she would go to market, I would wait for her to arrive as she always had something for me. I accompanied her on her shopping trips to Quiapo, and we would have siopao and ice cream near the Quiapo underpass. She was a whiz at sungka, and used that to teach me math. We both loved reading Liwayway and listening to the novelas on the radio. To celebrate my birthdays, she would prepare my favorite halayang ube, and would order a kaing of luscious carabao mangoes.

20140921_165827
With Lola Teta right after college graduation.

Lola always wore a saya, wanting nothing of the modern dress my paternal grandmother would wear. Modesty is a virtue, she would always remind me. Study hard, she would urge me.  She was too weak to attend my college graduation, but was happy when I came home with a Summa cum Laude and presented my medals and diploma to her.

After college, I wanted to be a flight attendant and travel the world. When she found out my plans, she was very upset. She forbade me to do this, and warned me that doing so would kill her. And naturally, loving her deeply, I obeyed her, though with a heavy heart.

She was happy when I pursued my masters, and ecstatic when I did well. Highly intelligent, she was a firm disciplinarian, taught me never to compromise on truth, and to always stand up for what is right. Much of what I am is because of Lola Teta, who I carry in my heart always.

Childhood, Death, Faith, Family, Food, Life, Love

Will you visit me when my time comes?

5 Comments

IMG_6079Every year, I make the trip to La Loma Cemetery to visit our family plot and pay respect to our dear departed.  As much as possible, I would go on All Saints Day.  This time around, I went with just my mom on All Souls Day, as Niccolo and I had gone to visit Mike and hear mass at St. Therese of the Child Jesus the day before.  Bea was in the US attending a wedding, Cara in Boracay working, and Niccolo nursing a fever at home.   Niccolo tried convincing me to go another day saying traffic would be terrible.  I knew this was going to be the case, but I was adamant.  Nothing would keep me away.

IMG_6065Armed with two large pots planted with white and yellow flowers, candles and a hat to shield me from the sun, I got into the car to go to San Sebastian and pick up my mom on the way to the cemetery.  Luckily, our driver had shown up, and so I didn’t have to worry about parking the car.

As expected, traffic had been rerouted, but with the help of Waze, we arrived at the 5th Avenue entrance of La Loma.  Cars were not permitted to enter the cemetery today.  We usually enter through the Rizal Avenue Extension gate as this was nearest the family plot, but then we were not sure if we could get around given the traffic rerouting so we decided to step out and walk.  It was 3pm and the sun was bearing hot on our heads, despite my hat and Dada’s umbrella.  Soon, Dada gave up using her umbrella as there were too many people around bumping into it, and instead used it as a cane.  She held on to me while I carried the bags with the flowers and the candles.

The streets were lined with makeshift tents selling all sorts of snack items and drinks.  All the fast food joints have come out in force.  As usual, flowers and candles were being sold, but the fare seemed to have extended to clothes and shoes.  Lo and behold, there was even one stall selling leftover Halloween costumes, hideous masks, and blinking horns.  About 500 meters from the gate, we found a tricycle driver who agreed to take us to our family plot.  Thank goodness because it was still a distance away.  While riding the tricycle, I started reminiscing days gone by.

As a young child, each trip was wrought with wonder.  My earliest memory of All Saints Day was in the kitchen watching my grandmother prepare her thick chicken asparagus sandwiches.  She would lay slabs of white bread with their edges trimmed on the plate,  place a curly lettuce on top, carefully pile cooked chicken breast, white asparagus, a pickle and a sliced tomato on top, spread her special mayo dressing on top, then finish this off with another slab of bread.  She then wrapped the sandwiches in big paper napkins, carefully tucking the ends inside.  I must have been about four or five years old then, because I still looked forward to eating the chicken sandwich with the surprising burst of pickle flavor, and lick the gooey mayo that inevitably escaped from the sandwich from my fat little fingers.

My grandmother would order the maid to pack her large silver candelabras into her bayong, together with tall thick yellow candles from Divisoria and a box of matches we children were not permitted to touch.  These were loaded into the car, with the basket of sandwiches, cold bottles of Coca-cola, and armloads of festive flowers in pails of water.

IMG_6086The trip to La Loma always seemed to take forever for the young child I was then, and the plot when we got there seemed huge and sprawling.  I knew we were close whenever I would spy the big white angel with wings spread wide, carrying a wreath that stood on top of my grandfather’s tomb.  The plot was ringed by black iron grills, and had two benches on either side of the gate.  Green springy grass covered the ground, a treat to loll around on.

Paul, Pepito and I would scoop up the molten candles and form them into balls.  Whoever formed the biggest ball would be king or queen for the day.  That was our game, as was hide and seek behind lolo’s tomb.  We didn’t mind the grown-ups who were praying the rosary, though we were constantly told to keep quiet at least until the prayers were over, after which lola would distribute sandwiches and Coke. The adults would then  tell us stories about the relatives who were buried there.  But we didn’t much care as we were intent on playing our games.

Early on, it was just that one large imposing tomb with a tombstone that said Jose Iturralde y Manalo.  This was my father’s father.

IMG_6080To its right were two identical smaller tombs on the lawn:  Apolonio Iturralde y Conding and Esperanza Manalo de Iturralde, my great grandparents.  To my child’s mind, they seemed like little castles with turrets all around, and I enjoyed daydreaming about them.  A tiny slab in front was for Enriqueta M. Buenviaje.   I never learned who Enriqueta M. Buenviaje was, but looks like she was an aunt from the inscription on the tombstone.  The inscriptions were all in Spanish, and my mom would explain what they meant.

IMG_6083To the left were two larger tombs on the lawn: one for my father’s brother, Rene Iturralde y Alvaro, and another for his nephew, two-year old Philip Iturralde who had died during Japanese war and who the family always referred to as their little angel.

I was always drawn to the inscription on the tombstone of my uncle Rene, and for some unknown reason those words have haunted me over the years:

“I am tired of tears and laughter

And men that laugh and weep

Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap

I am weary of days and hours

Blown buds of barren flowers

Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.”

I don’t know who wrote that romantic poem, but I have a sneaky suspicion it was my dad who had adored his older brother and was devastated when he died.

DSC06777The year I turned ten was cataclysmic for our family.  My father passed away of an aneurism leaving behind a 32-year old widow and five young children aged 4 to 11.  Once again, the inscription was in Spanish, but this time, the words hit home: tu esposa, madre y hijos que no te olvidan.  This was my father buried there, not someone I had never met.  Each year, I would write him letters, telling him how much I missed him, and leave them there.  I never knew what happened to those letters.

To make way for my father’s tomb, they transferred the remains of Apolonio to that of his son, Jose, and placed his marker underneath the angel’s wreath.   His wife Esperanza’s tomb lay intact, looking lonely without him.  I felt bad for them.

Some more years passed, and my grandmother Dominga Alvaro Iturralde (Lola Ingga), my grand aunt Eriberta Manalo Iturralde (Lola Teta) who had reared me as a young child, my aunt and godmother, Maria Luz Alvaro Iturralde (Dada Uds), and my newborn nephew Alfonso Castillo Iturralde were all laid to rest in the family plot.  My aunt Sr. Encarnacion, S.Sp.S. (nee Aurora Alvaro Iturralde, Tita Rory) was buried together with the other Holy Spirit nuns in Christ the King Church.

The inscriptions were now in English, except that of my Lola Teta who had spoken fluent Spanish.   These were no longer just names on the tombstone, but people who had been intimately part of my life, who had cared for and loved me unconditionally, and whom I have loved deeply in return.  I have memories for each one of them, and I would tell these stories to my children.

And because of this, no matter how difficult it is to visit them with all the traffic hassles, I go to say hello each year, offer flowers and candles, pray the rosary for them, and be with them for a brief time, telling them how much I love them.   I believe that my siblings, if they were in the country, would visit them as well.

IMG_6073When I reached home and checked on Niccolo, telling him how tired I was and recounting what had happened to me all day, I mused aloud, “I wonder if my children will visit me too when my time comes?”  I received a tight hug and an “I love you, mom.”  Just as he did yesterday after I stood on tiptoe to plant another kiss on Mike’s tombstone at the Columbarium.   We stood there holding hands, teary-eyed, missing Mike, telling him in our hearts how much we loved him.  Somehow, I felt assured.  It’s the circle of life and love.  It’s what makes us family, and why traditions live on.

Confidence, Faith, Family, God, Life, Love

Alfonso in October

1 Comment

IMG_5753October 24, 2014.  Finally, I arrived safely in Alfonso, just as dusk began to settle in.  It seemed that Mother Nature had thrown her dark mantle over the green expanse signaling that it was time for weary souls to rest.  I felt peace settling in, just as the cicadas began their chirping symphony.

It’s been a crazy, frenzied two weeks.  We’ve just finished organizing two major international conferences last week: the International IT-BPM Summit (IIS) and the SycipLaw-sponsored World Law Group Conference.   Both were highly successful, thanks to the amazing people who make up TeamAsia.  Concurrently, we were setting up meetings for the IIS Egyptian and Bangladesh delegations that were interested to learn more about the business process management industry in the Philippines. In between all of the conference prep activities, I was busy organizing my mom’s 80th birthday celebration, and working on a book on her life, while juggling Tourism Promotions Board and PACEOS responsibilities.  Clearly, I needed to decompress.   And so did the team.

1904127_10204878157094752_5178903032146269851_nAnd so we decided it was time for a much needed break from work.  Thursday morning, our hardworking Experience Team hied off to The Green Olive Garden Private Hotel near St. Scholastica’s Retreat House in Tagaytay for a strategic planning session.  On the way up, we stopped for breakfast at Rowena’s Café and surprised Karen and Joana with birthday cakes.  The poor girls were not able to celebrate their birthdays properly with all the work that had to be done.

We had The Green Olive Garden Hotel all to ourselves, thanks to Karen who had made all the arrangements.  The spanking clean spacious bedrooms were well-appointed, the beds and pillows soft as down, the food not just filling but appetizing as well.  The cool Tagaytay breeze, the smell of pine trees, and the profuse foliage and flowering shrubs provided a soothing backdrop to the place.  I was assigned the executive room which even sported a Jacuzzi for two in the bathroom.  It was, of course, wasted on me.

10245351_10204007188914336_1289111777421054271_nWe buckled down to work right after a hilarious ice breaker where we had each person tell a story about random items they had brought with them, and then swapped with each other.  The afternoon was highly productive.  After dinner, it was time to chill by the pool with wine, while others had their massage. But first, I had to get on a Skype call with colleagues from South Korea and the US for a smart platform being planned in time for the Philippines’ hosting of the APEC Women and the Economy Forum next year.

10712734_10204007147873310_9059012607933853107_nTurns out the only place where the Internet connection was strong enough was behind the counter of The Green Olive Garden.  While waiting for everyone to sign in, I had a good look around, and noted that the owners must be Vespa fans, as there were several retrospective posters of bikes around.  I also took the opportunity to post the photos of my mom’s birthday on my Facebook, as family and friends have been asking for them.

Our team was already having loads of fun by the pool, doing improvisation theatre, followed by several games that got everyone rolling with laughter, tripping over their Tagalog words, and spilling the beans on well-kept secrets.  Looking around at these young men and women, I marveled at how relaxed and happy they looked, and what a contrast it was to the determined team of professionals who ran the conferences last week.  I felt my chest puff up with pride that this was my work family.  I am so blessed to have them.

IMG_5747The next morning, I woke up bright and early only to discover that everyone else was still asleep, other than Darwin, our training associate who was already in the pool. The clear blue water of the pool glistened in the sun, beckoning me to swim. Thankful I had been spared a hangover from the copious wine I had the night before (each time I lost I had to drink some wine; obviously, I needed more practice with the games), I surprised myself by doing five laps.  Not bad, I thought, considering I sported a back brace and was walking with a cane right about this time last year.

After wrapping up the highly productive strategic planning session and bidding good-bye to the team, I drove to Alfonso. Earlier, I let our driver Jimmy go home as he had to bring his pregnant wife for a medical check-up. Truth to tell though, I just wanted to be alone, to sort out my thoughts.  Driving by myself was a welcome treat.  It’s been awhile since I’ve been behind the wheel.  Humming a tune, I savored the prospect of time alone in the Retreat, while mulling over the events of the past two weeks.

I was a bit worried about a Skype conference call I had to make Friday night.  Internet connection in Alfonso is always spotty, but the recent storm may have wiped it out altogether.  Walking around the farm, the only place that had a reasonable 3G signal was underneath the mango tree beside the cabana.  Oh well, I thought, this is better than having to drive back to Tagaytay.

IMG_5772After asking our caretaker Jeovanie to keep me company in the dark, I spread my festive red sarong on the ground, turned on the computer and tried desperately to connect using my PLDT WeRoam as well as my Globe phone.  The Internet connection was ephemeral and weaker than a butterfly’s gossamer wings. The call kept getting dropped. After half an hour, I gave up, packed my bags and went back to the house to sleep.

IMG_5773For the first time in weeks, I clocked in eight hours of tranquil sleep, rudely disturbed by the cacophony of roosters crowing, chickens cackling and the nun’s geese next door honking. I went out, just as dawn began to break, with darkness giving way graciously to light, the sky awash in baby blue and pink hues.  Pretty soon, the sun showed itself, unveiling the beauty of the farm.

IMG_5830It always takes my breath away when I see sun-dappled leaves, still moist with the night’s dew, bursting in vivid green.  I don’t think there is enough variety of paint in the world to capture all of Nature’s many hues.  Inspired, I walked around the farm, took photos, and decided to settle myself at the cabana to paint.

IMG_5853 I ended up trying to paint myself.  I remembered my first self-portrait.  It was done in oil while I was in college, and I had given it to my boyfriend.  When we broke up, he didn’t return it.  I hope he didn’t use it as target practice.

Before driving back to town, I paid a quick visit to an 81-year old friend in Alfonso who I hadn’t seen in a while.  She and her daughter enjoyed pouring over my mom’s book. Taking my leave, I hugged and kissed her, telling her I love her.  Tears sprung to her eyes.  I suddenly remembered Dada, and how much she appreciated the gesture of the book.  I vowed to call, check on her, and tell her how much I loved her.

IMG_5855Someone dear had told me that I needed to be happy being alone, being myself.  And that I was, at the Retreat, basking in the beauty of God’s creation, and the peace within my soul.  I thought of my beautiful children, my mom, my siblings, Mike, my friends, the people I love most in this life, and was grateful for having them in my life.   But most of all, I remembered who I am, how much I am loved by God despite my many frailties, and thanked Him for the many blessings I have received.

150130_10204018087906804_4382034564640049740_n

On the way back home, Nanay Tinay, the lady from whom I bought flowers in Tagaytay gave me a single red rose before I got back into the car.   I was startled.  With a twinkle in her eye, she wished me love.  And so I drove back with a smile on my face, holding on to that red rose, just happy being me.

 

Death, Discipline, Faith, Family, Goodbyes, Life, Love

Helping families cope with final transitions

The days seem to whiz by so fast these past two weeks, leaving precious little time for writing. Each night, I look forward to writing my blog, but work and family concerns are jealous lovers and take over my free time.

The truth is I need to be more disciplined when it comes to writing.  For 20 years, I’ve watched Mike sit down weekly, and sometimes, daily, to think, to do research, and then type out his articles for various columns, newspapers, and even, books.  Each time he would ask me to copy edit his work, and each time I did, I would fall in love with him all over again, captivated by how intelligent and insightful he was, and how words just seemed to flow naturally.  I pray that I be more like him when it comes to discipline, and so after sloughing off for two weeks, I was finally jarred into writing again.  Something happened the other day that brought back vivid memories of Mike.

Good friends Angie Laborte and Dr. Mae Corvera wanted to meet me at Palms to discuss a conference they were organizing and to pick my brains on how to market it. Angie is one of the founders of Project Pink, a support group for cancer patients and their families.  Mae is sub-section head for Family Medicine & Palliative Medicine at Asian Hospital and board chairman of The Ruth Foundation for Palliative and Hospice Care.  Mae was a bastion of strength for our family during Mike’s last few weeks.  When Mike learned he had cancer, he made me promise not to let him die in the hospital.  I told him then that he would die in my arms. With Mae’s help in palliative and hospice care, I was able to make good on my promise.

That last morning before Mike slipped into a semi-coma is seared into my memory like a burn that never heals.  It was a bright early Saturday morning, and Mike had refused to eat anything since the day before, even ice-cream.  Frail and spent, he was listless and didn’t seem to recognize me.  I was beside myself with worry, and called Mae frantically.  She came quickly with her team, examined Mike, and recommended we bring him to the hospital right away for emergency intervention.  We had been in and out of hospitals in the past two weeks, and I felt like screaming and pounding heaven’s doors for some respite.  Nevertheless, we called for an ambulance.

Is it time, I asked Mae in anguish?  Mae gently told me only God will determine the time, but that it would be good for the children to say goodbye.   She advised me to call my children and ask them to come right away.

We helped Mike into his wheelchair, and brought him to the balcony outside our room.  Niccolo sat close beside him, held his hand, and with heads bowed, father and son talked.  It was heartbreaking to watch, and I turned my back to call Bea first in Boston where she was finishing up her masters, and then Cara in Boracay.  After visiting Mike for a few days, Cara had just returned to Shangri-la Boracay where she worked as a chef, and I knew she had used up all her leaves already.  I called Cara, and she said she would buy a ticket right away.

The ambulance attendants arrived to take Mike, but Niccolo refused to let them take him.  He asked for more time to be with his dad.  I remember weeping silently as I watched them, and then Mae embracing me and telling me it was time to go.  It was then I told her of my promise not to let Mike die in the hospital.  Mae understood, and said Mike just needed some tests done so they would know what next steps to take, and that we could bring him home right after if that was what I wanted to do.   Mike died the next Saturday, not in the hospital, but at home, in my arms, just as I had promised him.

IMG_3832October is Breast Cancer Month, and each year, The Ruth Foundation for Palliative and Hospice Care organizes a conference to promote palliative and hospice care in the Philippines.  On October 14-18, The Ruth Foundation, together with the Department of Occupational and Family Medicine of the Asian Hospital and Medical Center and the Philippine Society of Hospice and Palliative Medicine, will organize Leadership for H.O.P.E. 2014, a five-day conference consisting of an opening and a closing plenary, sandwiching several workshops.  Previous H.O.P.E. conferences were small, but this time, they had invited expert conference faculty from the United States, New Zealand and Asia Pacific.

Still wearing pink ribbons on their bodice from the press conference they attended earlier, Angie and Mae were excited to tell me that Filinvest City had decided to support their conference, and was lending use of the Filinvest Tent for the opening plenary on October 14 and the first two workshops on October 15.  With a bigger venue, the challenge was getting the word out so that more physicians, nurses and health care professionals, as well as, support group leaders, organizers and volunteers would attend and learn from the international conference faculty.

The first workshop, “Hospice & Palliative Care Management,” seeks to help clinical and administrative leaders in program formation, maintenance and management.  The second workshop, “Owning Stage Zero,” will empower support group leaders, organizers and volunteers in providing psychosocial care and support group facilitation in such areas as empathy and compassion; trauma, grief and bereavement; active listening skills; facilitation of support groups and family meetings; and self-care and resilience.

Targeting ministry and volunteer leaders, the third workshop, “Practical Compassion Through Loving Individuals in Final Transition (L.I.F.T.) on October 16-17 will instruct them on how to teach others to provide basic care-giving, to meet spiritual needs, to listen and communicate, to accept crisis and suffering, and to handle aging, stress, dementia and the intricacies of death and dying.

Concurrently, End-of-Life Nursing Education Consortium (ELNEC), together with the American Association of Colleges of Nursing (AACN) and the City of Hope in Los Angeles, California, will conduct a two-day certificate course to teach nurses professional approaches to improve care and quality of life for end-of-life patients.

Finally, the workshop, “Empowering by Example” will have care leaders share their experiences and best practices for palliative and hospice care of cancer patients.

Having been on the receiving end of Mae’s and The Ruth Foundation’s kindness and generosity during the darkest times of my life, I readily agreed to help spread the word.   We need more health care professionals and volunteers trained in the intricacies of palliative and hospice care to extend a helping hand when rough times come and turn our lives upside down.   It’s not just the person who is dying who needs love, sensitivity and compassion, but the people they leave behind who are broken and need angels to help get them through.  I will forever be grateful to Mae and her team for being there when I most needed them.

P.S. To learn more about the conference, contact The Ruth Foundation at [email protected], 8086079, 0906 314 1421 or 0908 814 4799.  And please, may I ask you to help spread the word, so that there be more angels like Dr. Mae Corvera and The Ruth Foundation to help families cope with final transitions?

 

 

 

Life, Love, music, Women

Feeling Young Again, Fleetingly

IMG_2354August 19, 2014.  For people who’ve been through tough times with cancer, who have gone through hope and despair while watching helpless as their loved ones wasted away, Project Pink’s fundraiser last night was a breath of fresh air.  A brainchild of cancer survivors who’ve become close friends, Project Pink is a support group for people faced with the dreaded C.

So when weeks ago Angie Laborte sold us tickets to Stage Zero, a concert  for a cause featuring The 70s Superband at Hard Rock Cafe, our group of friends immediately said yes.  It was a date, we all agreed.

When I called Mongsie yesterday to see if we could go together, Mongsie was ambivalent about going. She urged me to go anyway saying Chloe would be there.  Apparently, Miri and Marie were not going either.  Bea said she was too busy and tired.  So, I went alone but not after checking if another friend Pam could join me. Luckily, Pam agreed and I was glad for her company. I didn’t want to go alone to Hard Rock.  

IMG_2360To my surprise, Mongsie and Chloe were already there, drinking margaritas. After a quick update on what everyone was up to and lots of sound advice on dating from my friends, we settled in to watch the band perform.  

IMG_2376Soon, Pam and then Bea, who had changed her mind because of Pam’s prompting, arrived.   Another surprise!  The young women went off to the other room to talk.  We crowded ourselves into a little table at the back of the packed room.

IMG_2366What a performance it was! Pinoy OPM from when we were young.
Guests sang along, we danced, moving to the beat of music we had experienced life’s happy and sad moments with, forgetting heartaches and pains, shedding fears and sorrows, peeling off the years, and for a fleeting hour, feeling young and carefree and on top of the world once more.

They say that laughter is the best medicine, but music, I dare say, is the balm that soothes the soul. It is the trigger that can bring back a flood of memories come a-calling. It can magically transport you back in time to wherever you most desire to be.  And if by any lucky chance you happen to be listening to music with someone you had shared life’s special moments with, you get to relive that previous moment one more time. And fall in love all over again.  With a tinge of envy, I smiled as I saw old couples holding hands  that night.  I sent a silent prayer up to Mike.

On the short drive back home, Bea and I sang along to her collection of old songs.  Each one quietly thinking of loved ones gained and lost to the dreaded C.  Of hellos and goodbyes.  Of love invited in, and then shut out.  Dreaming of how life’s next chapter will unfold.   As for me, the song we sang lightheartedly felt strangely ominous.  

Bewitched, bothered and bewildered… am I.

 

Beginnings, Death, Faith, Friendship, God, Goodbyes, Life, Love, Resilience

Clearing out, moving on

2 Comments

This morning when I woke up, I decided to finally clear our walk in closet of all of Mike’s clothes.  I should have given them away long before, but truth to tell, I could not bear to part with them.   Seeing his suits hanging in our closet somehow comforted me.

Someone had told me that it was good to get rid of things that remind you of someone you had loved and lost, and that this was the first step for moving on.  On Facebook, I saw a post that said, “You can’t reach for anything new if your hands are still full of yesterday’s junk.”  And yet another post said, “Think positive and positive things will happen.”

It seems the world was telling me it was time to let go.  Mike was never coming back in this lifetime.  Death had claimed him, and he was back with our Creator.

So with a heart full of hope that life indeed would get better, I did exactly that.  Cleared everything out, and packed them in two suitcases.  Oh, I cried a river while I was doing it, remembering good times with Mike, cherishing our love, but when I finally shut the suitcases, I felt ready to begin life anew.

What lies ahead, I wonder?

Church, Corporate Social Responsibility, Faith, Friendship, Love, Work

Giving back, gaining more

August 1, 2014.  Every last Wednesday of the month, TeamAsia stops work for an hour to celebrate staff birthdays and company achievements, break bread (well, mostly pizza and cupcakes), welcome new staff (who gamely butt spell their names), bid adieu to those who move on, play games, sing and dance sometimes, and generally have loads of fun together.  Called Pop Up Wednesdays, this tradition was started by Bea a year ago when she came back from her studies in Boston to a company grieving the loss of its founder, her dad.  Bea’s arrival was a breath of fresh air, full of sunshine and sparkles, and she quickly formed a team from different departments tasked to be as creative as they can be to come up with a fresh theme each month.

Themes vary depending on the times.  We’ve had Zen (loved the shoulder and foot massages), Frozen (icy games), Glaze (hot choco and donuts), Blockbusters (challenging games), Soirees (getting to know you better), Filipiniana (tested our native tongue), TAkot 2013 (Halloween spooktivities that had the entire office transformed into the stuff of nightmares), Chinese New Year, and more.  Pop Up Wednesdays was a date each month where we tucked away the stress of everyday work life and client deadlines to just talk to each other and reconnect as family.  For a sneak peak into our Pop Up Wednesdays, check out this link, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lGBM2H0C4aE.

July 2014Today’s Pop Up was different. July is Corporate Social Responsibility Month, and we wanted to give back to our local community.  Because of the busy week, we moved Pop Up to a Friday afternoon, and went offsite to Haven for Children along Zapote Road.  Haven for Children is a center for male street children aged 7-13 years who are recovering from substance abuse like rugby and marijuana.  Some are addicted to alcohol and smoking.  We were warned not to take frontal photos as some of them have taken refuge there to escape from fraternities and gangs, and to watch out for our things.

My heart sank as I learned from some of the boys that they had been abandoned by their parents, beaten black and blue by barangay tanods who caught them stealing or sniffing, survived on the streets foraging leftovers from garbage disposals or begging for food.  By a twist of fate, this could have been me or my children, I thought.

The initial aloofness was soon dispelled when we began playing our games.  Grouped into six teams with ate and kuya TeamAsians as game masters, the boys enacted values like pagiging matulungin (helpfulness), pag-aalaga ng kalikasan (concern for the environment), pagpapakita ng respeto sa kapwa (showing respecting for others), and pagiging madasalin (being prayerful). Each tableau was unique and I was struck that the boys were more inclusive than most adults, showing prayer in different religions: Catholic, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, and in different situations: at home, at church, during calamities and celebrations.  It was difficult to judge the groups; I wanted to hug each and every child and congratulate them.

The hare, wall and archer game (big brother version of paper, scissors and stone) had everyone whooping, cheering, and jumping as they competed with each other.  The hula hoop relay challenged the children’s physical agility, and boy, were they fast!  Tired and spent after the games, TeamAsians and their young wards happily munched on the burgers, fries and soda we brought.  The children then wanted to dance and sing for us, impromptu, to show their appreciation.  They wanted to go on and on, but it was getting late, and sadly we had to leave.  As we walked back to the cars, the kids made “mano,” hugged, and high-fived us.  “Balik kayo, ha?  Promise?,” a little child asked.  I nodded, my heart in my throat.  One of the boys ran after our senior graphic designer and handed her a rosary as a gift.

One of the “nanays” (social workers) observed that the children have never been as noisy and happy as this afternoon’s outreach, although there have been several groups that have visited. “Iba kayo,” she said, “talagang masaya.” Truth to tell, Pop Up Wednesdays have always been noisy and happy, but today was so much more.  It was fulfilling.  We thought we were giving back, but instead, we were the ones who gained, hearts bursting with happiness, in full measure.

The words of Luke 6:38 ring true: “Give, and it will be given to you. A good portion—packed down, firmly shaken, and overflowing—will fall into your lap. The portion you give will determine the portion you receive in return.”

We definitely will be returning.