Coming home to Daddy

It was a familiar scene straight out of those old college days when FEN was the only "cable" channel and SM City was THE place to be. Four people in a car, driving out to the beach in the middle of a summer night, singing along to music that first came out in P40 cassette tapes (non-pirated), swilling a couple of beers and getting ready to meet the rowdy welcoming committee that had been drunk on gin pomelo since mid-afternoon. When the new arrivals had finally settled down, more noisy banter was exchanged, more drinks were passed around, and more people started passing out. But at 8 o’clock the next morning, instead of the all-too familiar sight, smells, and sounds of unconscious bodies covered in detritus and vomit, the scent of breakfast wafted in the air together with the laughter of little children, and the amazing spectacle of four men, all of whom were completely plastered the night before, playing nanny to their kids.

"You can tell who the parents are in this group," said my friend Miles, nodding towards our two companions who were sleeping like the dead, unmindful of the bustling activity around them. "They’re the ones who are up and about this early in the morning…it’s a matter of conditioning." She herself was awake since 6 a.m., despite the fact that her one-year old was greeting the morning more than a hundred kilometers away.

"Who would’ve thought that these guys would turn out so well?" I observed as I tried to make sense of the scene unfolding before us. Indeed, who would’ve thought that this front-liner of a frat man, who used to fancy himself as McGyver and Sting, would be a doting dad to two sons who were now crawling all over their snoring ninong and covering him with wake-up kisses. Or that my own kumpare, who once upon a time imagined himself to be a ladies’ man and was overly fond of green humor of the sickest kind, would be frantically scrambling about the kitchen preparing a spaghetti lunch for the kids? Never had I been so proud of these guys, who, until that morning, we used to collectively call a word in the vernacular that sounds like, er, "new pals." Well, I still call them that, but with a newfound respect for their status as loving fathers of seven (and a half) beautiful children.

Which got me to thinking about my own childhood memories of my father, who, once upon a time was also a front-liner, rumble-happy brod, and from whom I inherited my tendency to drink like a whale shark. Daddy was probably a "new pal" himself, but I think he got over that and did a pretty good job over the last 31 years raising four unpredictable kids. He taught me to play chess (a lost passion), to tie my shoes (with bunny ears, and not the usual over-under-through), and to swim (my swimming instructor would later marvel at how adept I was at the dog paddle). As the years went by, he taught me how to use his precious Olympus camera (which I would later break; he thereafter taught me that you can take as good a picture with an instamatic), to expand my vocabulary by doing crossword puzzles, and to drive. And to this day, he’s still teaching me all sorts of valuable stuff, like how to make a good adobong Tagalog, how to renew my car registration at the LTO, and how to navigate my way around Red Square should I ever find myself in the general vicinity. After more than three decades of imbibing his relentless instruction, I find myself to have acquired Daddy’s passion for exploring wet markets and new restaurants (and carinderias); for losing myself in a good book; for appreciating raw fish, extremely spicy food, and cold beer; for navigating the streets of the city with Manila taxi driver skills; for messing up the kitchen while trying to make an unforgettable meal; for show tunes, old standards and singing yourself hoarse on karaoke; and for being jologs (believe it or not, he could name all the members of That’s Entertainment better than I could). But most importantly, my father taught me how to reach for all my dreams, to be the best person I could be, and to love the Greatest Father of them all.

Everyone who’s ever been to Sunday Mass or watched those old Flying House cartoons is familiar with the parable of the prodigal son. In a nutshell, it’s the tale of a spendthrift son who milked his father for his inheritance, only to repent and return to the open arms of the same man whose material riches, love, and generosity he had squandered away. For people like me who have never had kids, it’s difficult to comprehend how someone could be so unconditionally forgiving, notwithstanding the fact that the offender was of their own flesh and blood. All the more inconceivable is the idea that another someone would deliberately send his own son to be vilified, oppressed, and executed the most heinous manner imaginable, for the salvation of an ungrateful and unworthy race. But such, I suppose, is the love of a father. And this particular Father, a Father unlike any other, has taught me some things over the years as well, despite the fact that I may not have been listening most of the time. Last Sunday, perhaps to remind me of everything He had said, He gave me a refresher course on how I should never underestimate fatherly love. He reminded me how to forgive those whom I thought I could never forgive, and to forgive myself, because He Himself had forgiven the world and all its trespasses, the greatest of which was the murder of His own Son. He reminded me to love beyond boundaries, because His love is itself without breadth, length, or condition. He reminded me that He had never let me out of His sight, no matter where I went or what I did to hurt Him or others, no matter how I ignored his watchful eye. He reminded me that He was always there, waiting for me to strike up a conversation, no matter how mundane, just because He liked the idea of talking with His daughter. And He reminded me, just like my father on earth, that He would always be there to welcome me home whenever I strayed, and that He would throw a big party — raw fish, spicy food, and cold beer — to celebrate each time.

I won’t be in Manila on Father’s Day, because I’ll be straying off again somewhere else on the planet. But I’m sure that my Daddy, and my Father, will have me in their hearts, as always, and I can promise that they will forever be in mine.

* * *

The Court of Last Retort welcomes input from our readers in the form of jokes, anecdotes, or anything intimately or even remotely related to the legal profession. Though we pander to the passions and fashions of fellow lawyers, we have also been taken to task to probe the thoughts and haunts of your loveable but often misunderstood yuppies — the 25 to 35 generational flock — so we’d like to hear your take on things. No requests for legal advice or notarial services, please. Kindly email your comments, suggestions, felicitations, criticisms, marriage proposals, libel complaints and other violent reactions through argee@justice.com.and/or honey@oliveros.com.ph. By Honey Oliveros & Argee Guevarra of The Philippine Star’s YS It was a familiar scene straight out of those old college days when FEN was the only "cable" channel and SM City was THE place to be. Four people in a car, driving out to the beach in the middle of a summer night, singing along to music that first came out in P40 cassette tapes (non-pirated), swilling a couple of beers and getting ready to meet the rowdy welcoming committee that had been drunk on gin pomelo since mid-afternoon. When the new arrivals had finally settled down, more noisy banter was exchanged, more drinks were passed around, and more people started passing out. But at 8 o’clock the next morning, instead of the all-too familiar sight, smells, and sounds of unconscious bodies covered in detritus and vomit, the scent of breakfast wafted in the air together with the laughter of little children, and the amazing spectacle of four men, all of whom were completely plastered the night before, playing nanny to their kids.

"You can tell who the parents are in this group," said my friend Miles, nodding towards our two companions who were sleeping like the dead, unmindful of the bustling activity around them. "They’re the ones who are up and about this early in the morning…it’s a matter of conditioning." She herself was awake since 6 a.m., despite the fact that her one-year old was greeting the morning more than a hundred kilometers away.

"Who would’ve thought that these guys would turn out so well?" I observed as I tried to make sense of the scene unfolding before us. Indeed, who would’ve thought that this front-liner of a frat man, who used to fancy himself as McGyver and Sting, would be a doting dad to two sons who were now crawling all over their snoring ninong and covering him with wake-up kisses. Or that my own kumpare, who once upon a time imagined himself to be a ladies’ man and was overly fond of green humor of the sickest kind, would be frantically scrambling about the kitchen preparing a spaghetti lunch for the kids? Never had I been so proud of these guys, who, until that morning, we used to collectively call a word in the vernacular that sounds like, er, "new pals." Well, I still call them that, but with a newfound respect for their status as loving fathers of seven (and a half) beautiful children.

Which got me to thinking about my own childhood memories of my father, who, once upon a time was also a front-liner, rumble-happy brod, and from whom I inherited my tendency to drink like a whale shark. Daddy was probably a "new pal" himself, but I think he got over that and did a pretty good job over the last 31 years raising four unpredictable kids. He taught me to play chess (a lost passion), to tie my shoes (with bunny ears, and not the usual over-under-through), and to swim (my swimming instructor would later marvel at how adept I was at the dog paddle). As the years went by, he taught me how to use his precious Olympus camera (which I would later break; he thereafter taught me that you can take as good a picture with an instamatic), to expand my vocabulary by doing crossword puzzles, and to drive. And to this day, he’s still teaching me all sorts of valuable stuff, like how to make a good adobong Tagalog, how to renew my car registration at the LTO, and how to navigate my way around Red Square should I ever find myself in the general vicinity. After more than three decades of imbibing his relentless instruction, I find myself to have acquired Daddy’s passion for exploring wet markets and new restaurants (and carinderias); for losing myself in a good book; for appreciating raw fish, extremely spicy food, and cold beer; for navigating the streets of the city with Manila taxi driver skills; for messing up the kitchen while trying to make an unforgettable meal; for show tunes, old standards and singing yourself hoarse on karaoke; and for being jologs (believe it or not, he could name all the members of That’s Entertainment better than I could). But most importantly, my father taught me how to reach for all my dreams, to be the best person I could be, and to love the Greatest Father of them all.

Everyone who’s ever been to Sunday Mass or watched those old Flying House cartoons is familiar with the parable of the prodigal son. In a nutshell, it’s the tale of a spendthrift son who milked his father for his inheritance, only to repent and return to the open arms of the same man whose material riches, love, and generosity he had squandered away. For people like me who have never had kids, it’s difficult to comprehend how someone could be so unconditionally forgiving, notwithstanding the fact that the offender was of their own flesh and blood. All the more inconceivable is the idea that another someone would deliberately send his own son to be vilified, oppressed, and executed the most heinous manner imaginable, for the salvation of an ungrateful and unworthy race. But such, I suppose, is the love of a father. And this particular Father, a Father unlike any other, has taught me some things over the years as well, despite the fact that I may not have been listening most of the time. Last Sunday, perhaps to remind me of everything He had said, He gave me a refresher course on how I should never underestimate fatherly love. He reminded me how to forgive those whom I thought I could never forgive, and to forgive myself, because He Himself had forgiven the world and all its trespasses, the greatest of which was the murder of His own Son. He reminded me to love beyond boundaries, because His love is itself without breadth, length, or condition. He reminded me that He had never let me out of His sight, no matter where I went or what I did to hurt Him or others, no matter how I ignored his watchful eye. He reminded me that He was always there, waiting for me to strike up a conversation, no matter how mundane, just because He liked the idea of talking with His daughter. And He reminded me, just like my father on earth, that He would always be there to welcome me home whenever I strayed, and that He would throw a big party — raw fish, spicy food, and cold beer — to celebrate each time.

I won’t be in Manila on Father’s Day, because I’ll be straying off again somewhere else on the planet. But I’m sure that my Daddy, and my Father, will have me in their hearts, as always, and I can promise that they will forever be in mine.

* * *

The Court of Last Retort welcomes input from our readers in the form of jokes, anecdotes, or anything intimately or even remotely related to the legal profession. Though we pander to the passions and fashions of fellow lawyers, we have also been taken to task to probe the thoughts and haunts of your loveable but often misunderstood yuppies — the 25 to 35 generational flock — so we’d like to hear your take on things. No requests for legal advice or notarial services, please. Kindly email your comments, suggestions, felicitations, criticisms, marriage proposals, libel complaints and other violent reactions through argee@justice.com.and/or honey@oliveros.com.ph.