While we slept
April 10, 2005 | 12:00am
Two things you might not believe about me: I once wrote a piece on how I hate flying and ended up praying 15 mysteries on a plane – and that’s just a flight to Hong Kong.
When I e-mailed that story, my editor checked if I indeed knew the mysteries, and I do, by heart. Except for the new Mysteries of Light, which sort of messed up my habit because I haven’t memorized them.
At a recent dinner at Cirkulo, some friends asked me why I never did drugs. Well, I do, occasionally. I take Xanor before hopping on a plane, and Stilnox when I really need to sleep. But those were prescribed by my doctor.
The saying no to drugs, I attribute not to Nancy Reagan, but to a holy fear of my mom who made clear it was simply not allowed.
The religious and rosary thing I attribute to Assumption education and two beloved grandmas who in their long lives spent hours saying it until they fell asleep.
By hanging out with grandmas, I developed a liking for vintage fabrics and Valda pastilles, wearing scapulars and bathing in Lourdes, and stalking the Pope whenever possible.
In 1995, I was one among five million people who joined the sardinas-and-mackerel crowd that came to see the Pope in Luneta. I remember waking up especially early and being there before the crack of dawn, only to find loads of people already there, sleeping and camping on the grass.
’Twas my third and last time to see him in person. The first time was in Rome in 1989, with my four lolas and two cousins. The second time was at NAIA when he arrived, when we sort of had "connections."
During his visit here, the Pope opted to stay at a church residence instead of the Coconut Palace built for his 1981 visit by First Lady Imelda Marcos.
I remember tons of Filipinos camping outside that place and, like the monkeys we are sometimes compared with, hanging on trees and posts. At one point, in the wee hours of the morning, the Pope had to come out in his window and tell everyone to please go home and get some sleep.
I remember hearing from an "insider" that on Friday, the Pope slept on the floor as a sacrifice. I then tried to do it, but couldn’t get any shut-eye.
I love this Pope. He doesn’t know me, but I’ve prayed for him for years in Masses I’ve attended.
It was hard to see him age and wither on TV, wondering when he’d go. I loved him like one would love a dear grandparent who has been sick for years. You feel bad that they’re suffering. You want them to go, but you don’t want them to go. If only you could turn back time and make them young again…
On April 1, when a friend said the Pope had been given the last rites, I thought it might be a cruel joke.
Then I confirmed it on-line, thought about him the whole day. Of course, there was no way I could visit him, not with my current budget and green passport. So I did what most of us do in times of crisis: Watch CNN.
I heard a priest say the Pope had seen Jesus on his deathbed and had touched him.
I’d also heard that the Pope, like many holy people, knew the time of his death, which probably explains why he refused to go back to the hospital.
On Saturday afternoon, I was thinking why he was still hanging on and tried to think of a special feast of Our Lady that was coming up, but couldn’t think of any.
And then it dawned upon me that April 2 was first Saturday, which is a day of devotion to the Immaculate Heart of Mary, so I thought, oh my God, he will die today.
He was still there when the lights went out in our bedroom. My dear husband had gone to sleep, but I stayed in bed with the TV on. I eventually fell into a shallow sleep, every so often waking up to check if the Vatican had a new update.
At past 4 a.m., I woke up to see the Pope had died at 9:37 p.m., first Saturday, Vatican time.
The next day, a friend called to tell me the Pope had died on Divine Mercy Sunday, our time.
I find it amazing that the Pope died on two meaningful days.
The Pope had been very instrumental in propagating the Divine Mercy devotion, which originated from a young religious from his hometown, Sister Faustina, who belonged to the Congregation of Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy in Krakow, Poland, and whom he canonized on April 30, 2000.
That happens to be my birthday. I believe in meaningful dates; alas, I’ll never be a saint.
Meanwhile, I’ll just be here, watching and sleeping with CNN till they’re no longer showing him because I’ll miss him so.
When I e-mailed that story, my editor checked if I indeed knew the mysteries, and I do, by heart. Except for the new Mysteries of Light, which sort of messed up my habit because I haven’t memorized them.
At a recent dinner at Cirkulo, some friends asked me why I never did drugs. Well, I do, occasionally. I take Xanor before hopping on a plane, and Stilnox when I really need to sleep. But those were prescribed by my doctor.
The saying no to drugs, I attribute not to Nancy Reagan, but to a holy fear of my mom who made clear it was simply not allowed.
The religious and rosary thing I attribute to Assumption education and two beloved grandmas who in their long lives spent hours saying it until they fell asleep.
By hanging out with grandmas, I developed a liking for vintage fabrics and Valda pastilles, wearing scapulars and bathing in Lourdes, and stalking the Pope whenever possible.
In 1995, I was one among five million people who joined the sardinas-and-mackerel crowd that came to see the Pope in Luneta. I remember waking up especially early and being there before the crack of dawn, only to find loads of people already there, sleeping and camping on the grass.
’Twas my third and last time to see him in person. The first time was in Rome in 1989, with my four lolas and two cousins. The second time was at NAIA when he arrived, when we sort of had "connections."
During his visit here, the Pope opted to stay at a church residence instead of the Coconut Palace built for his 1981 visit by First Lady Imelda Marcos.
I remember tons of Filipinos camping outside that place and, like the monkeys we are sometimes compared with, hanging on trees and posts. At one point, in the wee hours of the morning, the Pope had to come out in his window and tell everyone to please go home and get some sleep.
I remember hearing from an "insider" that on Friday, the Pope slept on the floor as a sacrifice. I then tried to do it, but couldn’t get any shut-eye.
I love this Pope. He doesn’t know me, but I’ve prayed for him for years in Masses I’ve attended.
It was hard to see him age and wither on TV, wondering when he’d go. I loved him like one would love a dear grandparent who has been sick for years. You feel bad that they’re suffering. You want them to go, but you don’t want them to go. If only you could turn back time and make them young again…
On April 1, when a friend said the Pope had been given the last rites, I thought it might be a cruel joke.
Then I confirmed it on-line, thought about him the whole day. Of course, there was no way I could visit him, not with my current budget and green passport. So I did what most of us do in times of crisis: Watch CNN.
I heard a priest say the Pope had seen Jesus on his deathbed and had touched him.
I’d also heard that the Pope, like many holy people, knew the time of his death, which probably explains why he refused to go back to the hospital.
On Saturday afternoon, I was thinking why he was still hanging on and tried to think of a special feast of Our Lady that was coming up, but couldn’t think of any.
And then it dawned upon me that April 2 was first Saturday, which is a day of devotion to the Immaculate Heart of Mary, so I thought, oh my God, he will die today.
He was still there when the lights went out in our bedroom. My dear husband had gone to sleep, but I stayed in bed with the TV on. I eventually fell into a shallow sleep, every so often waking up to check if the Vatican had a new update.
At past 4 a.m., I woke up to see the Pope had died at 9:37 p.m., first Saturday, Vatican time.
The next day, a friend called to tell me the Pope had died on Divine Mercy Sunday, our time.
I find it amazing that the Pope died on two meaningful days.
The Pope had been very instrumental in propagating the Divine Mercy devotion, which originated from a young religious from his hometown, Sister Faustina, who belonged to the Congregation of Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy in Krakow, Poland, and whom he canonized on April 30, 2000.
That happens to be my birthday. I believe in meaningful dates; alas, I’ll never be a saint.
Meanwhile, I’ll just be here, watching and sleeping with CNN till they’re no longer showing him because I’ll miss him so.
BrandSpace Articles
<
>