Finding a locket in a Christmas box in March

This Week’s Winner

Rachelle Ramirez Roque studied at UP Baguio where she took up Mass Communi-cation. She’s working as a call center agent and training to be a supervisor at Fortis Baguio. It was her paternal grandmother who encouraged her to read. "At the age of six, I was already reading Tempo and Reader’s Digest. Since then, reading has been my favorite pastime, and through the years, books have become my best friends. I always look forward to quiet evenings with a good book and a mug of coffee."

My grandfather passed away in October of last year following a yearlong battle with bile duct cancer and its complications. His leaving did not make it to the dailies nor the nightly news; we didn’t even bother with the usual obituary announcements and Mass schedules. He was one of the regular guys who came and went without pomp and prestige. I am sure that is exactly how he would have wanted it anyway.

The world stopped briefly when we came home to a house void of his jovial presence. Where could I go to find him? His room was still littered with his personal effects; his bathroom still held the sweet scent of his favorite Herbal Essences lotion and Pantene shampoo. His favorite flannel blanket was neatly folded on top of his huge pillow. His shaving cream, his Sammy Sosa plastic doll, even the stress ball that he squeezed for hours on end to prevent his knuckles from locking up were all scattered on his nightstand. The house still held so much of him, and yet each room remained empty of his presence. And sadly, I had to accept that this is how it’s going to be from now on.

And so from the books of Richard Paul Evans, The Locket and The Christmas Box Collection, I found comfort.

"I believe it a great irony that I learned of life from one dying, and of love from one so lonely."

Life taught me to choose my company well. I’ve had one experience too many of failed relationships to know when a person’s familiarity is worth the while, both his and mine, or not. In my younger, more carefree days, I thought that the more people I was surrounded with, the better my image would be as a friend and as a person. Growing up, I realized that you can only carry so much excess baggage before you finally admit to yourself that this is all you need.

The same is not true with your family, though. You cannot just turn your back on a sister who loves her room more than she loves you, or a dad who thinks you are less than the person you really are because you don’t have a college diploma. You don’t give up on them…you put up with them because they are…sigh, family. Your own flesh and blood. You belong to them as much as, maybe even more than, they belong to you. If they can’t love the things you love, or appreciate the things you do, you will still never get any closer to any reason why you should raise a flag that says, "I give up on you, guys! Take me or leave me."

When I think of my Lolo, though, I immediately utter a silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty for not giving me the power to choose my family. God gave me the best grandfather He had on His shelf. My Lolo was never selfish or greedy, he was one who would always make sure that everyone got his fair share before he got his. In his hospital bed in Chicago, before he was sedated to go under the knife, my Lola heard him praying, "Lord, huwag mo muna akong kukunin. Hindi pa tapos sa pag-aaral ang apo ko…" He was referring to my youngest brother who was then attending his fourth year of nursing in college. My Lolo was the one who helped us send him to finish his course and take up the boards through his pension from the States. At 79 years old, he was still very much involved in our lives. Distance didn’t stop him from seeing to it that we were well provided for. He loved us and he showed it.

"…While the shadows are fraught with ghosts who roam the winds with mournful wails of regret on their lips."

So I wasn’t really surprised when throngs of relatives and friends came from all parts of the country to pay their last respects to the man whom some insensitively referred to as "just a carpenter." This carpenter touched more lives than any other person I have known or met. Some of them were crying, others were just too stunned to speak at the sight of the cheerful "Tata Lucas" now peacefully laid in a sea of white and purple flowers.

In the midst of the bittersweet recollections of how my Lolo was when he was in the prime of his life, I couldn’t help but wonder how it would be if the person laying in the casket was someone that not too many people were fond of. Would the room still be bursting with people who wanted to give their condolences? Would there be flowers from sympathizers? Would the pain of letting him go be as much as with a well-loved person?

"From our first babblings to our last word, we make but one statement, and that is our life."

The days that followed my Lolo’s departure were filled with more tears and lessons learned. Each morning that greets me is one day further from the day I last heard him speak. He was asking about my Dad, the one person who never visited him in the hospital until he died. It was a case of the classic "in-law issue" that just went from bad to worse. It was one of the many reasons my Dad and I seldom see eye to eye.

It was in one of those dreary days that I stumbled upon the books of Richard Paul Evans, The Locket and The Christmas Box Collection. The stories carried me through the toughest times of accepting my loss, the process of letting go, and the realization that time is running at a blinding speed with my life and the lives of the people that I care most in the passenger’s seat.

I might as well be reading my life story from the lead character’s experiences and reactions to the events that unfolded in his time. And I must thank the author for giving me a glimpse of how it will be for me when I learn to forgive the past that I am powerless to change. And the people that have hurt me, or I think have hurt me. And my Dad, who I know has always respected my judgment and reason but has always found it hard to accept the person that I have become.

Just like my grandfather, I have the opportunity to make my existence count. And maybe, just maybe, that slab of stone honoring my memory will also say…"Job well done."