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ON MEDITATION There are a few well meaning Christian friends who ask me about my leaning towards eastern philosophy and meditation. I w...

Saturday, December 24, 2011

A CHRISTMAS WISH

A CHRISTMAS WISH

I’m glad there is at least a single time of the year which gives me temporary relief from the unmitigated demands of job, deadlines, pressing tasks and assignments, and this happens  every Christmas Day.  
It is  amazing  how Filipinos  simply drop their worldly concerns, and like driven cattle flock to the stores to catch up with last minute shopping so that there will be plenty of food on the table on the eve of Christmas. Important appointments are placed on hold so we can be home for Christmas. Business transactions are reset to give way to Christmas parties.
 The Catholics, by long held tradition would congregate in the churches on Christmas eve for the misa de gallo, after which the family will gather for a sumptuous meal, over loud conversations.  The Protestants hold special services on Christmas day, with  plays or concerts reflecting on the significance of the incarnation .
There is something inimitable and mysterious in the Spirit of Christmas which blows away the joy blockers. I have seen estranged couple reconcile and make up on Christmas day.  I have seen a mother’s face lit up with happiness at the homecoming of a son or daughter who has been away, for a long time.  Selfishness is held in check  by some unknown force, as generosity overflows,  and compassion is shown. Anger is restrained and love is felt. The rebels and the government forces declare a unilateral ceasefire.  
Christmas indeed is paying homage to the Savior who being  truly God without beginning or end,  stepped out of eternity and came down to earth so He may bring us to Himself. This is the miracle of Christmas. My wish is that Christ will be born in each and every heart today,  and find room in our lives, for there was no room for Him the first time He came. God Bless you my dear friend.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

GOD WILL SET THE RECORD STRAIGHT
When I went to worship last Sunday, the first person who greeted me at the gates was my friend a young Minister of the Gospel  whose life is a living example of unwavering faith.
My friend has been ailing for years. His doctors have pronounced that he wouldn’t last long, and yet, he’s still around. Every now and then he would be admitted to the Hospital, uncertain if he would ever survive but by God’s Grace and loving kindness, he  would  check out, come back and  return  to his ministry. 
He has no doubt that he survives only by the mercy of an all powerful  God whom he humbly serves . As I looked at him and clasped his hand, he radiated so much joy and peace which was infectious, that even the cares and anxieties which weighed me down had vanished, bringing lightness to my soul. 
This simple man of God is a personal  inspiration to me.  He is a living testimony that God’s strength is made perfect in weakness. Beneath his frail body is the inner strength which sustains him to unconditionally trust and  obey our Lord Jesus Christ, our Healer and Comforter.   
As I reflect on the life of this man, I cannot help but join in the chorus of questioning minds, why a righteous servant of God would be allowed to suffer terrible infirmity, while around him  the ungodly, the wicked and the corrupt live in comfort and are surrounded by public admiration.
The ancient Prophet  Jeremiah asked the same age old question :
     Righteous are You, O Lord, when I plead with You; yet let me talk with You about Your judgments. Why does the way of the wicked prosper? Why are those happy who deal so treacherously?” (Jer. 12:1)   
The Psalmist Asaph,  was similarly  insightful in his observation :
The Psalmist Asaph was saying that as he looked around him he saw the ungodly and the wicked don’t seem to suffer, they have abundance, live easy,  don’t seem to struggle and are not afflicted. Worst, the result of their prosperity did not make them any more thankful to God for on the contrary their prosperity caused them to be proud, arrogant,  self sufficient and haughty  that they felt no need for God  rejecting His existence.
But at the end of his musings the Psalmist was given discernment and understanding.  Beyond the artificial self sufficiency of the wicked, God has set them up in slippery places that they will fall into ruin. Even though they seem to have made it in this world,  they will be utterly swept away.
    
Asaph, by stroke of insight when he went to the  sanctuary of God, went on  to declare :

Seeing this weak and infirm friend whose only taste of luxury is to be the recipient of God’s mercy and grace, yes indeed I am inspired and  strengthened by the resolve of this righteous man.  One day God will set the record straight.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

POLITICAL IMPLICATIONS OF CHRISTMAS

POLITICAL IMPLICATIONS OF CHRISTMAS

The narratives in Scripture from which the Christmas story is based, depict a political milieu where a powerful and despotic Ruler of an Empire lord it over  their poor and pitiful subjects.
Matthew’s version begins with the genealogy of our Lord  which identifies His lineage from the Jewish line of the Shepherd King David comprising 14 generation  from Abraham to David and another 14 generations from David to the Christ. There is something innately political in this ancestry since the infant Jesus traces His ancestry to the Hebrew royalty and the prophecy tells of his coming to take the throne of his father David.
Herod  was the king of Judea a Roman Satellite ruler, during the birth of Christ. A mad man,  incurably paranoid, he was a cruel king and his acts of merciless brutality even extended to the execution of his own family members whom he perceived to be a threat to his crown. It was not surprising that the news of the birth of the King of the Jews, robbed him of sleep, as he raged, ranted and raved to find out where this King is for he believed that he was the only acknowledged ruler of the Jews.
It is pathetic that from the time of birth of our Savior, He had become a refugee, a political exile seeking refuge in a foreign land. When Joseph and Mary took the Child to Egypt slipping away from the clutches of this murderous king, one of the most cruel massacres of innocent children, was committed by this raving lunatic, an act which would have been considered today as a crime against humanity.
The politics of  Christmas is neither joyful nor festive. It is  a sad narrative of persecution, death and grief. In this setting God is not on the side of the powerful in palaces. Cesar Augustus the Roman emperor and patron of Herod, was widely known also as “savior” as he was famous for his pacification campaign leading his vast and fearsome army. The juxtaposition of the birth of Christ during the reign of this Roman savior  is replete with political implication. God moves not among the rulers, but is on the side of the weak and the powerless.
Mary’s Magnificat contains a political statement:
 "[God] has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty"…

As one observer sharply commented,   “The gospel writers repeatedly emphasize the political implications of the birth of Jesus, but we fail to hear them through the clamor of jingle bells.” (Elizabeth Hunter)






Friday, December 16, 2011

AN INVITATION TO CONNECT

Facebook and the rest of the social networking sites have considerably changed our lives.
On the positive side, they have brought healing to the emotional pain of disconnectedness, self worth to those who long for expression and attention, boldness to the timid, and belongingness to the estranged.
 I believe there are some personality issues I struggle with, which have been straightened out in the process of interacting with humans in all their weaknesses, virtues, and diversities, through this fascinating technology.  My manic introvertion  has  been surprisingly moderated, at least, and I could beat after  a great deal of struggle, my severe shyness.  
People  long for approval  and sad to say this is a rare commodity in broken homes and families  where love is absent, in a society where cruelty, anger, and selfishness abound.
 I am moved to reflect  that God designed us to be connected. The Book of Genesis, declares,  “It is not good for man to be alone.”  Our Lord and Redeemer was born into a humble human family, and dwelt among men.  While at times we see Him to be a solitary figure praying and talking to His Father in the mountains alone, He lived and walked with His disciples.  His serene connection with His disciples gave them  peace and joy, that this world couldn’t give nor understand.
 I am glad that the Almighty has blessed mankind with the technology  where we can be connected with each other overcoming  the limits of time and space.  But the greatest connection we need to have is our connection with the Lord Jesus Christ, whose birth the entire Christendom is celebrating, this season. He is the Christ in Christmas.  As a Christian I am driven to witness for Him, and may I invite you to connect with Him, by accepting Him as Lord and Savior.  He will give you that peace which surpasses all understanding (Phil. 4:7). He will give you rest.( Matt. 11:28) He will fill you with all joy and peace that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.( Romans 15:13.)
Blaise Pascal once said there is that restlessness in man that only God can fill. St. Augustine said there is a hole in one’s heart and soul that only God can fill.
The life of a Christian is defined by a relationship with Christ. 
Christ  said, ”Behold I stand at the door and knock. Anyone who hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him and he with Me. (Rev. 3:20)
What a wonderful promise of  fellowship.
 Christ said, “Come to me all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you  and  learn from  Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart and you will find rest for your souls.” (Matthew 11:28-29) 
"I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me and I in him, bears much fruit, for without Me you can do nothing."(John 15:5)     
The highest connection of all, apart from connecting with people, is the connection we have with Christ.  Add Him as your Friend, Lord, and Savior. He will confirm His promises.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

THE LAST AND FINAL SAY

THE LAST AND FINAL SAY
The Judge is showing signs of fatigue. He’s been presiding over his Court for the past four hours. The last case in the calendar is called and the Attorneys of the opposing camps stand on their feet, as they declare their appearances. The Judge wants to wind up this last item in the calendar, so he tells the lawyers to be done with preliminary matters, and agree             on the undisputed facts.                     

The lawyer of the man pompously begins, “Your Honor this is a simple case. My client seeks to negate the paternity of the child, he purportedly has with the defendant, and thereby be relieved of whatever obligations with this child and to stop provision for support. We have very good  reason to believe that the child is not his child. This is the only issue, your Honor.” 

The Judge looks at the lawyer, and asks, “Since when did your client believe  he is not the father of this child?”

The lawyer answers, “ A couple of years after he has been giving financial support through the child’s mother, the defendant your Honor. My client came to realize that he could not have sired this child.”

“And why is that so” asks the Judge.

The lawyer clears his throat, and explains, “The last time he was intimate with the defendant was in September of 2000. The defendant gave birth to the child early April of 2001. We admit your Honor that my client has been giving support to this child, for the past three years but he was deceived by the defendant by telling him that she delivered the child prematurely. We have marked in evidence the medical records which shows that birth was far from premature but perfectly within the full term,  your Honor. Furthermore your Honor we are going to prove that plaintiff could not  possibly have physical access or sexual congress with the defendant prior to the month of September 2000 as he was out of the country.”

The Judge shifts his imperious gaze at the defendant’s table.

The woman with down cast eyes sits motionless. The child a little girl, sits beside her squirming in her seat. Her Lawyer waits for the Judge to speak. “Are we clear on the issue, counselor?” the Judge  asks her lawyer.

The lawyer rises and responds, “Yes, your Honor, and the defendant maintains  that her  child’s father is none other but the plaintiff. She denies she deceived him, and plaintiff’s  prior act of giving support to the child is an implied admission of his paternity.”

The Judge swivels to the direction of the man’s counsel but fixes his eyes on the little girl who is holding her mother’s hand.

The Judge addresses the man’s counsel, “What do you say counsel?” his eyes still  fixed on the innocent little girl.

The lawyer says, “In that case your Honor, we are prepared to go through with full blown trial.”

The Judge sighs, unable to  hide his impatience. “Let’s cut to the chase  here. I will require DNA testing. Since paternity is in question, the result will settle the question more decisively. Do you have any problem with that?”

“That would be fine with us your Honor,” the man’s counsel agrees.

“May I ask for a few minutes to advise my client, your Honor,” the woman’s counsel, pleads.

“Go ahead, counselor,” says the Judge.    

The woman tugs at the sleeve of her counsel and whispers something to him. The woman listens attentively to her lawyer as he talks to her in  measured slow tones.  The little girl wiggles  in her mother’s arms, as she earnestly talks to her lawyer in similar low tones with emphatic hand gestures.

After a few exchanges the woman’s  lawyer  clears his throat, stands, addressing the court, “Your Honor, we have a change of heart in this bitter contest. The defendant doesn’t want her child to be subjected to the indignity of having to undergo DNA testing, young and tender as she is, if her father, denies any paternal kinship with her so be it. My client is pleading no contest to the cause of the plaintiff, and interposes no objection to allow judgment in favor of the plaintiff.”

“Is it true as your counsel says that you are pleading no contest to this suit?” the Judge asks the woman.

The woman rises and replies, “Yes you Honor, as stated well by my counsel. I want this matter behind me so my child and I could get on with our lives.”

“Very well then,” looking well pleased, and  focusing his gaze on the woman, the Judge declares,  “I like to thank you for your gesture, if at all there is any virtue in this self sacrifice, it is the swift termination of this controversy which I anticipated to be long and acrimonious.  What you did today prevented that from happening in this case.”

The woman with sadness,  replies, “You Honor, If you will allow me to speak freely?”

“Please do” the Judge says, “and this is off the record.”

Fixing her eyes at the man in the plaintiff’s table the woman speaks, “ I am not related to this man except for the fact that he and I have been lovers, sexually intimate without benefit of marriage. We enjoy each other’s company and meet regularly. We have no commitments with each other, not until I conceived this little girl and gave birth to her. This man promised me that he would help me support this child, which I was too happy to welcome. Now he doubts he fathered this child and even implies that she could have been sired by any of the men, he says, I’ve been dating, other than him. As the mother of this child I swear I know who her father is, and the man who is not man enough to face up to his responsibility isn’t worth my while. Thank you, your Honor”

The man’s lawyer jumps to his feet and exclaims, “Your Honor please, We cannot let this insult pass. The plaintiff wishes to answer lest we are given the false impression that she is right to obtain sympathy from this court.”

The Judge bores his sight on the counsel and softly says,  “You have already  won in this suit counselor, for that there is no need for you or your client to explain. What she said couldn’t anymore hurt the cause of your client. This woman has already pleaded no contest. For that I gave her the privilege,  to have the final say, so take your seat.”

The Judge shifts his gaze to the man as his counsel sinks in his  seat.

The Judge speaks to the man, “Gentleman, this court rules in your favor. Henceforth, you are relieved of any  and all legal obligation,  with respect to this child, and whatever reciprocal rights and obligation under the law between parent and child is deemed terminated with respect to you and this child. Furthermore and for your full satisfaction this court pronounces judgment that you are not the father of this child. Is this clear to you?”

The man replies, “Yes Honor”, as he steals a glance at the quiet and expressionless woman in the opposite table.

The Judge swings his attention to the woman who now wears a sad and forlorn look.

“As for you Madam,” the Judge exclaims, “I hope that you can find a good husband who can accept and love this child as his own, and man enough to be a man, as you soundly described earlier. I give emphasis to the words “a good husband” not a partner, or lover, or soul mate, or whatever hogwash they now describe all types fornicating relationship outside of marriage. Don’t make the same mistake twice. Be a good mother to this little girl, raise her well and as best as you can. And when she asks for her father tell her she has none! Or whatever you want to tell her, after all you have the last and final say. Now this court is adjourned!”

“All rise please”, the bailiff intones.

The Judge bangs his gavel, with great effort  rises on his feet, hobbles to  enter his chamber, a tired and weary man.


(Photo Image by 123rf.com)
     


Monday, November 7, 2011

THE BOY

THE BOY
He hates cleaning the class room but his turn as sweeper is a task he cannot escape, because the teacher is unforgiving. The price for evasion of this type of unjust labor is a low grade in good manners and right conduct, an item in his report card which he didn’t really care about.  He is only ten years old and after classes he should be playing.  His mother, however, is sure to hit the roof if he gets the axe of a grade even for this irrelevant endeavor. So he begins scrubbing the floor.
Good he is not alone in this thankless task. There are five of them in the cleaners group to clean up their own mess, and the mess of others.  Two boys, and three girls.
He’s in love with one of the girls, or so he feels, which feeling he  keeps  to himself. Young children aren’t suppose to be in love yet. He’s precocious  alright, but he can’t help it.
Doing the task he hates now turns out not bad after all, when the girl  is around.  He often steals glances at her  during classes.  Some strange force attracts him to her.  His heart leaps when she catches him gazing at her, and gives him that girly smile. He is happy that she welcomes the attention.  So they often stare long  at each other, in between lectures,  their eyes meeting in silent  communion, unmindful of everything but themselves.
Now he can feel the nearness of her. He finds scrubbing the dirty floor no longer a drudgery  but a delight because she sweeps the floor which he scrubs following his trail. And he likes it when she is  up close   wishing  this moment  will never end.  
Sweating profusely he reaches the end of the floor, marking the end of the work.  The girl comes up to  him as he drips with sweat.  She looks at him with such tenderness that his heart thumps in affectionate cadence. She has never been this close.   If only his heart can reach  out, if only his mouth can speak,  he will be able to purge himself of this  delicious melancholy which torments him. 
Alas he is dumb for he is at a loss for words. He struggles at the thought that he will lose this chance to say to her what he always dreamed of saying. 
He thinks she knows.  She waits for him to speak. Their eyes meet, exploding in the magic of the moment,  soaring  in total bliss, the boy wretchedly speechless.
The girl pulls the red headband off her hair. She holds his hand, puts the headband on his palm.  In the warmth of the touch they become passionately one.   
With gentleness she said to him, “I lost my handkerchief. You can use this to wipe off that dirt and sweat off your face. Take care. It’s yours to keep.” 

Thursday, November 3, 2011

THE NUN AND THE LAWYER

THE NUN AND THE LAWYER

Many years ago, I befriended a young, pretty  Nun, of the Paulinian Order, who was a professor of psychology in the College where I taught part-time. She and I were about the same age. I was a new lawyer, still learning the ropes,  she was a novice who just earned her Masters Degree.

How I ended up teaching in a school ran by the Nuns is unbelievable. I believe though it was By God’s direction.

The Dean of the College, who was a pleasant and kindly  Sister with a doctorate degree in education, accepted my application to teach part time, despite the fact  I’m not Catholic.

In my interview, she said, “Young man, because you are a Christian, albeit raised in the other side of the misguided Protestant fence, and you come from the finest but most secular University of  this country,  you’re  good enough for me, but in the name of the Holy Mother of God, don’t you ever teach religion in your class because your only business with us is to teach law.” She said she has enough Priests and Sisters to handle religion.

I gave her my word, and she could perish the thought of me ever disobeying her special edict, under pain of discharge, even excommunication.

So it came to pass that  I spent the most memorable years of my life with the wonderful Sisters in this school. A thing of the past which still remains in my memory.

I first met Sister Christine the pretty Nun, when the Dean summoned all the faculty for a Retreat. I had the good fortune of sitting beside her, prim, and immaculate in her Nun’s Habit. I didn’t particularly like spiritual retreats, but before I could ask to be excused,  the Sister Dean glared at me and said, “As for you Atty. Drilon, your being a Protestant bigot doesn’t exempt you from this religious exercise, who knows we might convert you yet to return to the fold where you originally came from, so stay.”

I noticed Sister Christine giggling red in the face trying hard to control her laughter.  I whispered to Christine if she finds my discomfort real funny, and she whispered back she does. In very low voice I said my business in this school is to teach boring law subjects and I was supposed to be off limits to religion, that was my deal with the big Sister now she wants me to Retreat.

Christine could no longer hold back laughter that she had to get out of the room on to the far corridors where she let go of choked off guffaw. I followed her and she was quick to regain her composure. She asked how in heaven’s name  a Protestant boy like me, could have strayed in this hallowed, rigid Catholic grounds. I told her the Sister Dean apparently likes me, though she disguises it with her display of disgust.

“I bet she does,” Christine agreed.   I took the chance to give her my name and she did give me her convent name which I know is not her real name. She said she was on her last term of teaching Psychology, to pursue her Doctorate.

That was the introduction to our very short friendship.  

Together we returned to the retreat room.

I listened to the long sessions of the entire Retreat, sitting close to my new found friend. I could feel her aura of pure unadulterated peace, which subdued my restiveness that a sweet calm came over me. I was lost as the Priest droned on, transfixed by the quiet presence of this innocent woman, smiling and assuring me that I would be fine. I wanted to hold her hand, but for her sake I restrained the thought. If I was off limits to her religion then I was off limits to her as well, this was the implied logic I suppose, of the Sister Dean.

The retreat ended but Fasting wasn’t in the agenda of the good Sisters who shepherded us to the long dining table where they fed the retreatants with the most delicious home cooked food.

I whispered to Sister Christine that I’m not much in matters of   retreat but would prefer to go on  the attack. The pretty Nun gave a puzzled look. She asked me to explain.  

I said we are through with the retreat and  I meant to attack the food.  She giggled and covered her mouth suppressing another chuckle. The Mother Superior gave grace for the food. I sat facing Christine and attacked the food. She remained quiet through out the meal wearing that amused, angelic smile.  

After the meal she asked me why I became a lawyer. I said it runs in the family, three of my uncles are, and when I saw Richard Harris delivering his speech in England’s  House of Commons  as Oliver Cromwell in that movie, I had no doubt I wanted to become  a benighted barrister.

Then she gave me that seductive wink in the eye and said, “You are doubtless still a rabid Protestant like your idol Cromwell, am I right?”  I was amazed she knew British history.  “No” I said, “I’m a rabid Christian. But don’t get me wrong, I adore St.Thomas More and he’s Catholic,” I said.

Then she looked straight into my eyes, and whispered, “No matter what, God loves you”. I thought I heard her say I love you. But no, I was hearing wrong. She gave me another wink.  She rose from the table and bid me goodbye. She walked away from my life, without glancing back, straight ahead in fluid steps her Nun’s habit flapping in the cold of the night. I never saw her again.  


Wednesday, November 2, 2011

THE SITTING STATUE OF THE NATIONAL HERO

THE SITTING STATUE OF THE NATIONAL HERO


Over  a cup of coffee my friend and I are waiting out for  the rain to stop because getting wet is out of the question. Rains have their way of holding you off and the only decent thing to do is to seek shelter in the office cafeteria. The bad weather prods us to talk for want of nothing better to do. Lawyers are paid to talk, and my friend is not a lawyer, thank God, for that, because all I hear is lawyer talk every day, and it makes me sick.

My friend is some type of a trader dealing in almost everything within the commerce of man, with one rule. He is off limits to anything illegal. In strictly adhering to his self proclaimed business ethics he visits me once in awhile in the guise of paying a courtesy call, but bringing a few questions to which he wants my opinion. He often rubs me the right way, gets sound advice for a cup of coffee. He knows I dislike legal talk outside the office, so we quietly, listen to the spattering rain, in between sips. Then he breaks the silence. He tells me a story, from one of his experiences.

One time he says, he joined to bid in the construction of a statue which the Mayor of a small  town wanted to build to adorn the grounds of the city hall. This Mayor wanted  Jose Rizal to keep him company so he deemed it fit to have the hero’s statue  rise overlooking the town hall. My friend says he won the contract to undertake the project.

After the paper works were done, my friend asked the Mayor how he wanted the statue of the national hero to look like. The Mayor invited him to his office for a talk. In the privacy of the office the Mayor asked him if had seen some of the statues of Rizal in other places, cities and towns. My friend says he couldn’t lie so he frankly told the Mayor that he hadn’t. The Mayor was pleased as  the contractor was honest enough to admit it. So the Mayor suggested that before undertaking the construction he should visit the other places where there are statues of the National hero and then report his observation. Transportation expenses would be covered.

So my friends says he spent the next five days travelling to other towns, gazing at the different statues of the national hero. Upon his return he reported to the Mayor. The Mayor waited for him to speak. My friend gave his honest observation. He told the Mayor that all the statues of Rizal he saw look the same, the face, the outfit, and the book the hero was holding. All statues of Rizal portray him to be firmly standing  on his feet, confident, bright and gallant. And finally my friend told the mayor that  all the statues of  Rizal showed him to be  wearing the same long black coat.   

My friend asked the Mayor if he would build the same statue from what he had seen in others.

The Mayor reacted with a loud, “Definitely not!”  The Mayor emphatically said, “I want you to make this Rizal different from the rest of them. He has been standing for too long out in the open so he needs to rest. Make him sit. Our hero is no western cowboy and wearing that long trench coat is a disgrace. Dress him up properly with the country’s Barong Tagalog. And he has been lugging that mysterious book, for a long time which for all we know contains a lot of Spanish Friar’s crap. Make him hold his pen, which would serve him well in writing all the names of the Mayor who seldom goes to the city hall.”

My friend says he built the statue of the National Hero exactly as instructed. The rain stops as the tale ends. The coffee cups are empty. We both go our separate ways.

I love this guy, he makes me laugh, but I doubt he isn’t making this one up. 
    

Sunday, October 30, 2011

REMEMBERING THE SAINTS

REMEMBERING THE SAINTS


 
One interesting tradition in our country, which is printed in the calendar as official holiday,  is  the day of  honoring  the dead.
This   custom has long been ingrained that we go back to the places where we buried our dead, light candles for them, and partake of food around the graves of the departed loved ones. 
All the cemeteries are crowded  as people come in droves. This is the only occasion where the burial ground ceases to be the symbol of grief,  as all sorrows are banished from the mind of the living, while enjoying  the company of the dead, in a picnic like setting.  
The Roman Catholic tradition of All Saints Day is here to stay.  The original intent is for the church to honor the saints. The church eventually instituted a common  feast day for all the saints which is November 1.  This is the day when the church honors all saints known and unknown. 
The mainstream Protestant denominations have their equivalent practice which is Memorial day where dearly departed Christians are remembered. This is in line with the Biblical teaching that all true Christian believers are regarded as saints.
What I love about this tradition is the drawing together of family members on this special day.  The exodus of people to the Ports, Airports, Bus terminals or train stations is a sight to behold as everyone is in a hurry to be home before that day.
We go back to our homes and native places where we buried our loved ones who had gone ahead of us.
We gather at their tombs,  reminiscing their lives, reflecting how we are essentially connected with them.
We think of their earthly life as mirrors of  our own for they were once living  part of us.
We prepare food and share in the meal as if they were once again dining with us remembering the happy times and moments, which continue to live  in our memories not knowing the time when the same memories of us  will come to an end  but hoping that they  who  come after us will keep them alive again.
We think of the Christian faith which  had sustained them  in this life. We think of how they had kept alive this faith for us,  and  in us. 
As Christians we  are  comforted by the words of the Psalmist  who  declared: “Precious in the sight of the LORD Is the death of His saints.” (Psalm 116:15)      

PERFECT PICTURE OF PEACE

PERFECT PICTURE OF PEACE

Long ago a man sought the perfect picture of peace. Not finding one that satisfied, he announced a contest to produce this masterpiece.

The challenge stirred the imagination of artists everywhere, and paintings arrived from far and wide. Finally the great day of revelation arrived.

The judges uncovered one peaceful scene after another, while the viewers clapped and cheered. The tensions grew. Only two pictures remained veiled.

As a judge pulled the cover from one, a hush fell over the crowd. A mirror-smooth lake reflected lacy, green birches under the soft blush of the evening sky. Along the grassy shore, a flock of sheep grazed undisturbed. Surely this was the winner.

The man with the vision uncovered the second painting himself, and the crowd gasped in surprise. Could this be peace?
A tumultuous waterfall cascaded down a rocky precipice; the crowd could almost feel its cold, penetrating spray. Stormy-gray clouds threatened to explode with lightning, wind and rain. In the midst of the thundering noises and bitter chill, a spindly tree clung to the rocks at the edge of the falls. One of its branches reached out in front of the torrential waters as if foolishly seeking to experience its full power. A little bird had built a nest in the elbow of that branch. Content and undisturbed in her stormy surroundings, she rested on her eggs. With her eyes closed and her wings ready to cover her little ones, she manifested peace that transcends all earthly turmoil.
-     From A Wardrobe from the King, Berit Kjos, pp. 45-46-

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

A MESSAGE FROM MY STUDENT

A MESSAGE FROM MY STUDENT
Sometimes one doesn’t realize how precious and inspiring it is to be thought of, and appreciated  by someone whom you haven’t seen or heard from for a long time. 
Several years ago I was a teacher.  I loved to stimulate young minds to think and reason on their own feet. Students have come and gone, and  the time came when I had to finally hang up my saddle and let others pick up the ride. I could only cherish with fond memories my  classroom encounter with my students who have now become very successful   practitioners of their craft.
Most of my students have become more prosperous than I am. Some of them have become better teachers than I am, while others have become famous as public figures.  Most of them, perhaps, because of the  frenetic  pace in the profession, would simply dish out a casual greeting, or extend a weak handshake or mutter, “Good morning Sir” or “Good morning Judge”.
I am truly proud of all of them for I derive the highest fulfillment in knowing that at some stage in their lives I was part of their making, and may be in some way I have impacted their lives. 
Today I received a chat message from  a long forgotten student, who is now based in Manila. I am deeply moved by the gesture  because of the hundreds of students who toiled under my watch, he is the only one who said : “ Sir., Good evening. How are you na Sir? It's been 11 years Sir na we haven't seen each other.. You are one of my favorite professors Sir.  Thanks for teaching us good lawyering.. We owe everything to you Sir..”
Dexter  thank you for the thought.  This  will keep me warm in the winter of my heart.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

THE OLD BARBER ON THE BLOCK

My barber and I have come long way. I’ve been visiting him for my regular haircut of what remains of my hair for the past twenty four years. Like any creature of habit I keep coming back to his one man old, rickety shop, which reeks of his home made lotions and mentholated concoctions.

This barber’s name is Joe, not really his real name, but an anglicized form  for the Hispanic name Jose.  He’s been around for a very long time, but his pulse remains steady and sure as he wields his finely sharpened scissors and blades. He boasts of his long list of clientele which includes doctors, lawyers, clergymen, and old rich “hacienderos”, proud of their continued patronage, even if his shop lacks the comfort of air-conditioning.   He simply refuses to leave the old ways of doing things. He declares with pomposity that his prominent patrons are not after modern amenities, which his competition offers, but his superior skill and expertise, so they stick around  despite the hovel of a barbershop he is running.

And the old man is right.

There are only three reasons I couldn’t bear to change him in favor of the modern Men’s Saloon which are sprouting all over.

First, he is a good friend, and I am avidly loyal to my friends. The generational gap of  about twenty years doesn’t affect our friendship.

Second, he is a wise street smart philosopher whose wit and humor are an added bonus for his services.  I often look forward to have a good laugh to relieve the tensions brought to bear upon us by this mundane world.

Third, he is good, too damn good in what he does, that when he cuts, his sharpened hair scissors sing, cutting clean and even. When he shaves, it is completely painless,  all you hear is the terribly sharp blade scraping your chin without the slightest nick.

Joe is one of a kind. I tell him he is the last of the vanishing breed of barbers of his generation, and he sadly realizes that. His prized possessions are his expensive scissors and old fashioned straight razors made from the finest steel by a company in Solingen Germany. He keeps different grades of stones, which only a man of his skills,   can use  to sharpen the tools of his trade. His passion is his craft. And he has some secrets to share, most of which he forbids me to reveal.

Of his many secrets these things he permits me to say. The secret for his steady hands and vitality despite his advancing years can now be told.

This is the clincher. He said he takes a bath only once in a week, but cleans himself using warm rub down. And he advises me not to take a bath after making love to my wife. And for the finale, the  barber talk would usually end by telling me, not to miss Sunday worship for he has been doing this all his life, and he thinks this makes him a strong old goat.

I love this guy!  

Thursday, October 20, 2011

PAYING HOMAGE TO THE BREW



Nothing beats a good cup of hot,  strong, freshly brewed  coffee, served in fine china. My love affair with the brew started when I was a  child who wanted to drink from the cup of the aromatic  local brew imbibed by all the adults at home, but off limits to me. 

The coffee drinkers would warn that coffee is no good for children. The view was coffee stunts a child's growth, so only the grown ups are privileged to partake of this black liquid. The fear of becoming a pygmy was enough to quell my desire, but I wanted to grow up fast so I could have my own cup. I did not grow tall despite the self imposed abstinence, so the adults were just kidding me. 

I had my first cup of native home grown coffee, at age fifteen. I had to apply a lot of work before getting the first taste. I had to grind the sun dried coffee beans in the "moliendo." There were no electric coffee makers during those days and grinding  was done using the manual grinder. 

The brewing process was quite simple. My mother would make me fill the pot with drinking water to boil in the stove. Upon reaching the boiling point she poured the fully ground coffee into the boiling water. The proportion of ground coffee to the amount of water would vary depending upon one's preference, which could either be light, moderate, or strong. The brew was allowed to boil for ten to fifteen minutes. By that time the sweet smelling aroma of coffee would emit from the spout, inviting you to drink. After allowing the brew to simmer, the next part was interesting. 

She would pour the brew in a filter cloth, which I suspect was a piece of my unused cotton shirt, sewed up as filter snout, into the serving pot. The first concoction she made for me was lightly brewed because I was still starting out to be a coffee drinker. That was my first introduction to the brew, and since then I was hooked. I introduced my eldest son to the brew the same way. Things have changed since then and coffee has become good business. My son would scout and check out all the coffee shops around the city. A coffee shop would pass his recommendation if it exceeds the taste of my formula. I still prefer the locally produced Arabica, Liberaca and Exelsa. Among the coffee shops I still prefer the lowly "kapehans" in the public markets, where the masses gather in a cacophony of conversation over cups of coffee. Here there are no class distinctions and the uniting spirit is the steaming cup nursed by each one, savoring each drop.  

Lately my friend from Batangas famous for its "barako" gave me brewing tips and sent me his home grown beans. Since this is a closely guarded secret which Starbucks might covet, only the coffee samurais are entrusted with it, who are sworn to  secrecy. To them there is nothing more liberating than injecting the brain with caffeine boosting the mind to greater heights of alertness, stimulation and prodigious activity, as in a dazzling movement of swordplay.










  


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