A Light that never fades out

As a small child I had many beautiful plans for my parents, when I'd grow up. I wanted to build them a small wooden house up on a hill, just for the two of them. It would have a good view of the sea. There would be enough space in the yard for a garden, from where they'd have year-round supply of fresh vegetables and herbs and flowers. Big trees would surround the place, to keep it cool even in the hot summers. I would live within a short distance, so I could personally look out for them. And the kids, my children, would regularly come and visit them for their grandmother's homemade sweets or to play with their grandfather's chickens.

But fate has not granted me the means for this. Maybe not yet, who knows? Only that my parents are ageing fast, and there may not be much time. I'm getting older too, and it may be increasingly difficult for me to realize my plans now. In the meantime, my parents live in the same old house I grew up in, with only specks of improvements and repairs here and there. And I have to live with the guilt of not having been able to give them all the later-life comforts I thought they deserve.

I spoke with my father recently. We talked as grown-ups, as equals. He has slowed down and is now more willing to listen. He has become more open, too. Without him telling me straight out, I could grasp that he too had beautiful plans for his own parents. And that those plans have become a weight that now hangs heavy in his heart, having had recently lost his last chance to ever realize those. We buried his last surviving parent yesterday.

Our Mama Paster (Castitura Cono Modequillo) passed away at the ripe age of 92, just two months short of her 93rd birthday. She was a person of few words. As little children, we feared her a lot. She had piercing voice and fierce words, not exactly the type of parent who would sit a little grandchild on her lap and talk about how beautiful the butterflies are or how sweet the roses. She never went out of her way to be especially nice to us kids. But she was definitely not cruel, either. To her, it was enough that she put food on the table; she'd never wheedle anyone to come and eat.

It was rather difficult to love her at first, especially when she was younger. Any slight mistake certainly got one a pinch down there or a long, noisy scolding that echoed through the neighborhood. But later, as soon as she aged and mellowed, she had become more and more gentle. And cheerful, too-she had this characteristic contagious laughter that the family has come to endear.

During the wake, friends and neighbors came, certainly a great comfort in our time of sadness. They provided us with a sounding board for our grief, to talk about our loss, to dwell upon our sorrow. The conversations diverted our minds from the stress, the inner numbness, the sudden emptiness. So then, slowly, we feel a reassurance that losing our dear one is not our fault, that our inability to accomplish the good things we had planned for her in life is understood and excused-because, after all, she was a considerate, forgiving parent beneath the stern façade.

She has undoubtedly contributed much in the shaping of my own character, in her own way. When I had my first job, on radio, she surprised me with a visit one day. She came by herself and wanted to borrow money, but "just between the two of us." It was a little amount that she need not repay; an insignificant value from an earning grandson to a grandmother in need. But she returned a few months later, as she promised, to pay me. She was probably already in her 70s at the time. Apparently she thought she was still too healthy to be in the mercy of anyone, not even of her own family. It was, for me, a shining example of personal dignity.

In another instance, she insisted to take me and my brother to her farm in Bukidnon, just so that we'd see the place. While we were on the boat, she kept close watch over us and allowed us to eat only food she brought from home. Then she carefully tucked us into fresh blankets which she laundered herself, and didn't go to bed until she saw us kids already asleep. But I was not asleep; I was watching her from the sides of my partly closed eyes. I saw how much she cared.

Her death made me ponder on my relationship with my own parents. Deep inside, she seems to be whispering sound counsel to me, helping me in my self-liberation. I realize that I may not have to burden myself too much in trying to provide my parents with material things. Material conveniences are nice presents to give, yes, but in the meantime there are other things equally valuable I can give: my time, my care, my affection.

During the nightly prayer service, particularly when the choir sang the hymn Kahayag nga Wala'y Pagkapalong (Light That Never Fades Out), my soul leapt as did tears from my eyes. Damn! I hate it when this happens. I always try to put up a solid face, an air of being perfectly in control of my emotions. It's a shame because I know that open manifestation of sorrow is okay. The great people of the Bible - like Abraham and Jacob and David - publicly wept in their time of bereavement.

We belong in a modern generation that seems to have already forgotten the therapeutic benefits of an open expression of sorrow. Our funerals today are arranged in such a way as to prevent tears, emotional outbursts and "undignified scenes." But one of the reasons we are given tear ducts is for such hours of darkness. It is okay to momentarily crumble under the strain of a loss. Facing our pain will help in our healing.

It was a mix of different emotions everyone in the family was going through, sad yet at the same time happy. On my part, grief was quickly tempered with the joy of seeing dear relatives who had long been missing in my life. The loving hugs of teary-eyed aunts and cousins made me realize that I am never alone in life-that I have family, that I can only be lonely by my own choice.

And I thought: Why grieve about the death of a very old woman? She passed away peacefully. I might as well be grieving for myself. I probably won't live as long as she did, not have loving family and friends around in my final hour, not have as calm a way of dying. She had a full life, while here I am still uncertain of how mine will turn out to be.

I'm old enough to know that life is simply a series of daily logs of a finite, worldly journey. We toil in the daytime and sleep at night. Then we wake up in the morning, fully revitalized to toil again for yet another day. It's a cycle of working and sleeping and waking up, again and again. Then at some point, we will not wake up anymore.

My grandmother had reached that point. She had gotten out of the monotonous cycle of this world-to get to the other world where we are all headed. Maybe she had to go ahead so that, as the good parent that she was, she will be there waiting at the gate to beckon us when the time comes, so that we will not be afraid to cross the great divide.

She could not have chosen a better time to leave. She gathered the family, once more, at a time when such gathering is most meaningful-at Christmas. Maybe this was her final gift for us. As we all came to pay her our last respects, we also had the chance to physically come together as family. There's one uncle I had not seen in the last thirty years or so, some aunts in twenty years, and others in five years, at the shortest. We would not have gathered together without a crucial reason. We each had our excuses, our own individual reasons that always took priority over saying hello or shaking hands with the same old relatives.

Mama Paster passed away quietly, without causing us much inconvenience. It's like she wanted to show us that she didn't go through much pain. And that's quite a relief for the family, who felt guilty for not being able to do much for her. Perhaps she didn't want us to worry. Perhaps she didn't want to dampen our Christmas.

In time, we will be able to free ourselves from the bondage of my grandmother's physical presence in our own lives. We will have to continue on the road of life. We will eventually understand that, in our own right time, each of us will reunite with her, and that such ultimate grand reunion of loved ones is the shared final destiny of us all.

In God's loving arms Mama Paster may find her due reward. She deserves much more than what we in the family can ever afford to give her. Better than her favorite Tanduay or the fresh tinowa (boiled fish), she deserves total happiness in life everlasting! God will certainly find it fitting to gift a woman who had mothered ten children in between whole days tilling the fields and vending at various marketplaces. It was one grueling lifetime of almost one hundred years! She deserves this rest.