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Features, General, Soul Food

Faint Glows and Sparkly Somethings

A reflection for Easter 2020 by Sr. Yna Oñate, rc For K-drama fans, these images from a scene in the recent hit “Crash Landing On You” would be familiar. A blackout envelops the entire village and Yoon Se-ri, a South Korean who accidentally landed in North Korea, was left by herself in the market, lost among a crowd of strangers in a potentially dangerous place. The darkness pulls her back into a painful memory of being abandoned as a child. She starts to count, just like she did back then, while waiting for someone to rescue her. Perhaps resigned to the thought that no one would come, she takes a deep sigh, as if mustering all her courage, to face her present darkness, and just as she did she saw a dot of faint glow from a distance. She walks toward it, one timid step at a time, eyes fixed on the source. It got brighter and brighter as she drew nearer. She soon realizes it is Captain Ri who’s holding a candle high for her to see. Tears well up in her eyes; this is the same man who had come to her rescue several times before.  Faith in God does not guarantee we will never be in darkness. Darkness is part of our human experience. Even Jesus, the Son of God, was not spared of darkness; we were reminded of this these past three days, but the promise of Easter is that the darkness of death will never triumph. When we look around us we still see the darkness of disease, greed, hatred, hunger, corruption, injustice, inequality, etc. These days in quarantine must have heightened our sensitivity toward the darkness that surrounds us, and yet, in spite of the gloom, glimmers of goodness and generosity give us hope. Amidst the rising death toll, you may have heard of the nurse who, after her shift, buys groceries and distributes to the homeless, or of the street vendor who gave free taho to the checkpoint personnel at a border, and of many acts of selflessness and compassion from ordinary people. Or maybe you didn’t have to look very far, you may have observed lovely things in your own home—the laughter of your child or spouse, the chirping birds, the plants outside your house, the filling goodness of the humble kamote… things you failed to notice before. God’s love for us is like Captain Ri with his candle, God’s help always comes at the right time. We do not know how long this Covid-19 crisis will last, and what else will come, but we trust that God always gives us enough light to enable us to take a step, one at a time, toward the right direction. Jesus Christ is our Light! Light shines in the dark, “a light that darkness could not overpower. (John 1:5)” This is what our Christian faith asserts, but how do we keep trusting God in the “blackout” of our lives? St. Ignatius de Loyola has an advice: In moments of desolation, recall moments of consolation. A wise omma from one of my favorite K-dramas (iBecause This Is My First Life) puts it in a lyrical way when she talked about “star pockets”: “Even in an ordinary life there are times when something sparkly floats by. At those times you must not miss it, and keep it carefully in your star pocket. So when you are having a tough time and when you are exhausted, you can take out your stars and look at them, and endure the hard times.” We only see stars when the sky is dark, don’t we?” So, this Easter, let us pray for the grace that we may recognise the stars and the Captain Ri’s that God sends our way. And may we never fail to respond to God’s call to be light for others. Happy Easter, friends! P.S. Captain Ri is played by actor Hyun Bin, an oppa with bewitching handsomeness! Well, while God’s help always comes, it does not always come in this package. We pray that we may not pass up God’s offers just because we expect them to come in certain ways. 

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A Lesson in Patient Suffering: Palm Sunday and Covid-19

A reflection on the readings of Palm Sunday 2020 by Sr. Cecille Tuble, rc. Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion came early for all of us. Too early, and now too long. We live it now in the midst of this pandemic. The whole world is brought on its knees: this plague has struck and affected everyone and cut across all boundaries of culture, race, religion, age, gender, socio-economic and political status. According to the latest statistics, Covid-19 has affected 204 out of 235 countries and territories. Truly, it is a global horror that is made more frightening in the fact that it is still happening, right now.  How do we make sense of this ongoing tragedy? How do we keep faith in these appalling times? The readings of Palm Sunday offer us rich insights and deep consolation, as they unfold before us the story of our Lord’s passion. They call us, as the Opening Prayer or Collect tells us, to follow Christ’s example of humility, and to “heed his lesson of patient suffering,” for therein shall we share in his Resurrection too. The first and second readings give us an overview of who Jesus is, the One who did not shield his face from buffets and spitting, but looked upon God as his help. “He emptied himself…. becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” This is not the end of his story, of course: God “greatly exalted him,” so that every tongue will henceforth proclaim him Lord. The Gospel from Matthew recounts several stories in the Passion narrative: the betrayal of Judas, the Last Supper, Gethsemane, the trials before the Sanhedrin and Pilate, the betrayal of Peter, his torture, crucifixion, death and burial. It is a familiar story that, year in and year out, still makes our hearts tremble, for it is the story of our redemption by a God who became one of us, and gave his life in order to save us. He died so that we may live. And yet this year it takes on an even more luminous significance. Death is around us. We see its long shadow in the familiar contours of our homes which have become our confinement. We feel its cold fingers grasp our hearts as every day we hear the statistics rising, as we read of more deaths and infected, of lack of resources to cope with this horrendous suffering, of our doctors and nurses and medical workers falling ill themselves and dying, of the homeless and the poor whose dire circumstances are further exacerbated by this crisis.  Yes, death is in our midst, but so is the Lord. Perhaps the deepest invitation for us is to suffer all of this with the Lord, and in the Lord.  By doing so, we live out this lesson in patient suffering. However, patient suffering is not despairing passivity, or abject resignation. We are called to be brave, generous, responsible and compassionate. We are called to be resilient in our loving. We are called not to run away from this harsh reality, but to live it in faith. Our confined spaces at home is our Gethsemane, where we are invited to enter into the profound anguish but trusting surrender of Jesus, and to pray: “My Father, if it is possible that this cup of suffering pass SOON, but your will be done.” When we unite ourselves with the courageous labors of our medical workers and front-liners, when we do all that we can to support and help them and the most vulnerable of our people, we walk with Jesus on his lonely, arduous road to Calvary. When we pray for all those who have died, when we face our own specter of death with faith and humility in the fidelity of a loving Father, we follow Jesus in his obedience, all the way to his self-emptying on the cross. When we resist all temptations to despair, when we practice prudence and discernment in spreading news and videos, when we give love, hope and encouragement instead of fear and panic, when we do our own small share in containing this virus, we touch the fabric of his garments, until they are stripped on the hill.  But perhaps the greatest act of patient suffering for us is to see all this in faith, and therefore in gratitude. To see God actively working, tirelessly laboring with us and for us to bring an end to this pandemic is a daily act of gratitude. For it is easy to get drowned by the bad news. We must beg for the grace to truly see, to be healed of our jaded, faithless blindness, that there is much to be grateful for. It is in gratitude that we begin to see glimpses of Easter hope: doctors, nurses and medical staff who transcend their own fears and personal interests to give their lives to their patients. Government officials who are dedicated, hardworking and creative, truly beacons of leadership in this darkness. Business corporations and owners, private organizations who do their share to help. Ordinary citizens who volunteer, risking health and lives, to ease the suffering of others. The unpretentious but heroic efforts of ordinary people to contribute and do their share in fighting this pandemic. All this is God’s grace, working in mysterious, hidden but all-powerful ways. Some acts may well be spectacular, attention-getting. But most will be invisible, except to those who look for them, who desire to be grateful, who desire to thank God for his untiring loving, especially in this darkness. God has never left us to suffer alone. In God’s vast providential love, there is no small grace. True, death is around us, but death will not have the last word. And just as in Jesus, we know that our story, this story of Covid-19, will end with Easter, and we will be resurrected in God’s love.

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Let Christ easter in us

The resurrection isn’t simply about getting the message out in the most efficient way –  it is about individual transformation, one person at a time. That’s why the risen Jesus took the time to console Magdalene and walk with a couple of discouraged disciples to Emmaus.. appeared to the disciples in Jerusalem, he came back just to appear for Thomas who missed the chance to see him.. Our Lord always deals with us in a very personal way. He knows each of us so well and he understands our deepest desires and he knows what we truly need.

General, Homilies, Soul Food

What Love Embraces

This essay first appeared on print on Easter 14 years ago in Sr. Cecille’s column “Solid Places” in the Sunday Inquirer Magazine. Beatriz is now a lovely, healthy 14 year-old.   Joy and sorrow are sisters; they live in the same house. – Macrina Wiederkehr There is a pervasive attitude in our world today, which seeks to deny anything that would remind us of our mortality. We run away from wrinkles and thinning hair with the same fervor we display in trying to escape the more invisible diminishments in our lives. This is most evident in our postmodern pathological denial of the inevitability of suffering and the rightful place of sorrow in life. But if we are to know the depths of joy, if we must truly love (which is our most difficult and ultimate task, according to Rilke), then we must learn to accept the visitations of sorrow. This reminds me of a little story: It was supposed to be just another routine prenatal check-up. The young mother was on her ninth month, only a week till full term. It was her second child too, a much prayed for and long-awaited one. Her eldest daughter, a precocious 6-year-old, had been bugging her parents for a baby sister, and she was finally getting her wish. “Beatriz,” that was the name they had chosen. But the visit turned into confinement: apparently the mother’s body was all primed to deliver, but the baby was not quite ready to come out yet. They had to wait a few more days. The labor and delivery turned out to be a breeze, and she delivered a beautiful baby girl. It was all routine. There were disturbing signs, however. The other nursing mothers in the rooming ward had gushed at how quiet her daughter was, while theirs squalled lustily, but the mother was a little uneasy. Her tiny baby took only a little milk, and would just whimper softly. On the day they were supposed to come home, the pediatrician noticed that little Beatriz was very ruddy, which was disquieting since both her parents were fair-skinned. And so another consultant was called, and soon tests were made. At this point, things unraveled quickly for the bewildered and shocked parents: there was something terribly wrong with their newborn daughter, and the doctors suspected a blood disorder and a viral infection. She was also jaundiced. A blood culture was ordered, and since the hospital did not have the facilities for it, the father had to rush to another hospital to have it done. It was 2  a.m. by this time. Back in the hospital, Beatriz was having convulsions because of her high fever. Her mother remembers the scene well: “It is so terrible for a mother to see her own baby suffer like that, and to be helpless about it. All you could see were doctors and nurses surrounding her, just this moving, frantic wall of white coats and uniforms… l couldn’t see her anymore. It is the most awful feeling in the world, to know your child is in danger and not even SEE her… the memory burned that image forever in my brain.” A different sight greeted the father, when he returned to the hospital. He saw his little daughter, now in the neonatal intensive care unit, with assorted tubes attached to her tiny body, her eyes blindfolded to protect them from the photolight therapy. He took one look at his baby, and broke down and cried. The initial shock and horror at this turn of events gave way to a long, equally painful vigil. The blood culture took five days, and until then (the doctors said), they must wait and pray. Family and friends rushed to the hospital, but there was really little they could do or say. For what words can they speak to make any sense out of the suffering of an innocent baby? And what else can they do  but relieve the parents of some of the practical details of a hospital confinement? The weight of a powerless, painful waiting for the fate of their child, and the struggle to find meaning out of the utter senselessness, was theirs alone. They clung to each other, and to their faith, She refused to leave her baby’s side, and when her blood pressure soared and she was banned from the sterile area, she waited outside the door everyday, praying. He sought refuge in the hospital chapel, sometimes falling asleep there, his 6’0″ frame squeezed in the narrow pew, one arm clutching the back of the pew as if it was a lifeline, like a man lost at sea. Only love can understand such words, and only faith can give the courage to see beyond love’s present suffering. When the blood results came back, it was discovered that Beatriz had polycythemia, which means her blood was “too much and too thick.” She needed partial exchange transfusion round the clock. She also had klebsella ozaenae, a viral infection that proved resistant to the antibiotics that she was being given, and so a new round of more powerful drugs was started. The days stretched with an awful, surreal, slow-mo quality: the father would visit her in the morning before he went to work, and her IV would be in her foot, and when he returned in the afternoon, it would be in another part of her body. Her veins were so tiny they kept collapsing. It broke his heart every time.  Still, they kept their faith. After one of their baby’s convulsions, the mother wept as she told me what had happened. After a moment, she quietly. painfully said: “Do you know what her name ‘Beatriz’ means? It means ‘Bearer of joy’ I know that even now, she is living up to her name.” Only love can understand such words, and only faith can give the courage to see beyond love’s present suffering. After nearly two weeks in the neonatal intensive care unit, Beatriz was declared

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An Easter Grace

He will leave us soon. As I wash his emaciated body, so worn out by disease, I ask him: Will this be our last goodbye, Daddy? When I feed him his glass of Jevity, the only thing he can now take, I agonize at how his body, once strong and vibrant, has now been reduced to skin and bones that I can close my fist around his upper arm. It is heartbreaking. Dementia, without the complications of other diseases that could mercifully shorten suffering and hasten death, is a cruel monster: sadistic in its infinite patience and merciless in its systematic and progressive conquest. It is nothing but a thief, for not only does it steal the person’s mind — the capacity of the brain to remember, to make sense of the world, to integrate experiences and to make reasoned judgments — but it also, in its terminal stage, steals the brain’s lower functions that control the body. So it was with my father. Dementia began its slow, insidious conquest 23 years ago. My father walked out of our house to check into the hospital for an elective brain microsurgery. After another, emergency brain surgery because of a post-operative stroke, 11 days in the ICU and 40 days in the hospital, he finally came home. Or rather, he never came back to us. The signs were all there, but we were slow to recognize them, out of ignorance and denial. First he misplaced car keys, then he misplaced the car. He forgot appointments, then names, then faces. He grew paranoid, accusing us of hiding his files, his checkbook, his trousers. Then he lost his sense of balance, reducing his once confident stride into a shuffle.  Soon he couldn’t recognize people: first relatives, then one by one, like a death sentence to us, his own children. Finally my mother. He couldn’t walk anymore. Later he lost his speech. Later the ability to chew food. To sit on his own. Each successive minor stroke taking away a vital function from him, and with that, a vital part of who he was to us. It was a gradual, harrowing experience, a dawning horror, of realizing we have inexorably lost our father, even before death could claim him.   That’s true. Your love cannot touch him anymore.  But I can. God.   Holy Week 2012.  My father had his fifth stroke a few months before. In the meantime, I was struggling with the points for the Easter session in our Holy Week Retreat. I told the sisters, and I told God: Good Friday I can handle, because I am familiar with the sorrowful mysteries. But Easter? When it is anything BUT Easter in my own life? So I begged the Lord for help. On Holy Wednesday I went to mass at a church. During the homily, I found myself weeping, not because I was touched by the preaching. On the contrary, I wanted to go up to the altar and strangle the priest. I was furious. He was saying that God desired us to suffer to teach us a lesson. I wanted to go up to him to demand: tell me, what lesson can my father learn if after five minutes he will not remember anything? And if the lesson is meant for us, the family, what kind of God would inflict suffering on someone in order to teach others a lesson? Back in the Cenacle, I poured out all my fury to God in prayer. God simply listened. When my ranting petered out into a painful, keening silence, God gently asked me: But Cecille, what is your deepest pain? What is hurting you the most? I was stunned by that question, and without thinking, I blurted out: We cannot reach Daddy anymore, God. Our love cannot touch him anymore. There, I said it. And the speaking was liberating in itself: I had given voice to a pain that hitherto remained beneath consciousness, acknowledgment and acceptance. God considered my answer for a moment, then quietly, gently said: That’s true. Your love cannot touch him anymore. But I can. When I heard those words I broke down in tears once again, but this time in awe and joy and gratitude. At that moment, I suddenly understood Easter. No, it was more than that. I lived it, for I was given a glimpse of the resurrection. There lies, in those few words of God, the profound paradox of Easter: the Risen Lord still bore his wounds; there was no miraculous cure of dementia that would rescue my father from the mind’s oblivion. And yet the Lord lives, victorious over sin and death. And yet my father is never alone, unreachable to everyone, it’s true, but safe and loved, in God’s everlasting embrace. This is what Easter is all about: that we are irrevocably loved, no matter what, and that nothing can ever separate us from God (as St. Paul says), not the darkness of mental illness, not even death.   It has been six years now, since that singular Easter grace. My father is dying now; he will leave us soon. But still I draw strength and courage from that grace, and I discover new depths of truth from it. I am learning, in the bittersweet moments of caring for my father, that it is not really true, what people say, about dementia. That the person you knew before the disease is gone, and that all you have left is just a physical shell. No. The strong, self-assured man who proudly attended PTA meetings, who gave us a real and lasting love for books, who painstakingly taught us the evils of Martial Law, who simply loved buying dresses, jewelry and perfume for his three daughters, is still the same man who lies in front of me, shriveled and coughing up a death rattle, needing me to change his diapers and to feed him. Past and present held together by grace and love: love which is

Features, Soul Food

Jesus never gives up on us!

(Second week of Easter /Sunday of Divine Mercy) Among those whom I meet at the treatment center for tuberculosis is ‘Ate’.  Sometimes she sits next to me. During these times, I would hear her sing ‘God will make a way’ while she prepares herself to drink her medicines. And she would tell me ‘Diyos lamang… Siya nagbibigay buhay sa akin…’ before she pops some of her pills into her mouth and takes a gulp of water. Sometimes she would share with me how difficult it was for her when she began her treatment journey because she had to undergo the side effects of the medicines. She feels relieved now that she is so much better. She has been going to the treatment center everyday for the past 16 months to receive her medication. She has only 2 more months left to complete her treatment.   One day, as I arrived at the treatment center, Ate was already seated at the table with her medicines in front of her but her head was resting on her folded hands at the table. I could see she was having one of her difficult days. She turned to me and said, ‘Sis… mahirap…’ She looked forlorn and was not singing her favourite Don Moen’s song that day. All I could muster to say to her was ‘Opo, dahan dahan lang po tayo.’ I sat quietly feeling helpless, drank my medicines and left Ate at the table, head bowed, her medicines untouched. I went home feeling sad. I wondered whether perhaps I could have accompanied Ate a little while longer.   The following day, when I arrived at the treatment center, Ate had already finished her medicines and was looking more cheerful than the previous day! It was almost as if the difficulty she felt the day before had not happened. I felt moved and encouraged by the sight of her. ‘What resilience!’, I marveled and I felt so grateful.   Looking back now, I asked myself, ‘isn’t Ate’s perseverance and resilience an example of the grace and gift of Easter?’ A sense of hopefulness that grace is given and is sufficient for each moment; that we can move on despite the difficulties we encounter, the sufferings we endure, or the failures that we experience?  A trust that we can always begin anew each day, at each moment! For indeed, God’s steadfast love never ceases, His mercies never come to an end. God’s mercies are new every morning, great is God’s faithfulness! (cf. Lam 3:22-23) The question is not “will God will give me another chance?” rather, the question is often , “am I willing to give myself another chance?”   I imagined the disciples gathered in the room after Jesus was crucified feeling a sense of sorrow, guilt, fear or perhaps even disgust at themselves for their own helplessness. Yet, it was in the very midst of fear and confusion that the Risen Christ came and stood among them, without any reprimand, instead assuring them of His love and forgiveness, and giving them the promise of hope and renewal of faith as He said to them, ‘Peace be with you’. He breathed on them and gifted them with the Holy Spirit (cf. Jn 20:19-23). Whether we think that we are in such a dire situation or we want to give up on ourselves, Jesus never gives up on us! Rather, the Risen One stands by us, with us – He loves us, no matter what!   The crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus assure us that God’s offer of friendship will never be withdrawn, no matter what we do. – William Barry, S.J.   Reflection What is God’s invitation for me this Easter? Is there a situation or relationship in my life that I find difficult to accept or I want to seek healing and reconciliation? Can I speak with Jesus about it? Or perhaps it is an invitation to deepen my friendship with Jesus or to renew my faith in Him? How do I want to respond?     A reflection contributed by Sr. Li Xiao Wei, rc

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