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-

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.

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!  

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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NINE BIBLICAL FINANCIAL PRINCIPLES

NINE BIBLICAL FINANCIAL PRINCIPLES

1. GOD IS THE SOURCE
2. GIVE FIRST
3. LIVE ON A MARGIN
4. SAVE MONEY
5. KEEP OUT OF DEBT
6. BE CONTENT WITH WHAT YOU HAVE
7. KEEP RECORDS
8. DON'T CO-SIGN
9. WORK HARD AND SEEK GODLY COUNSEL

THE TENTH IS PRACTICE ALL OF THE ABOVE.

THE MASSKARA FESTIVAL, ANOTHER LOOK

 

Masskara Festival, Another Look.

In the small city, found  in the small island shaped like a man's boot, where I live,  a  festival has grown where every month of October,  people wear smiling painted masks of diverse designs and colors, in bright colored costumes, and take to the streets dancing  in superbly choreographed movements and steps. I like this part of the show so to speak, but I hate the traffic jams, the unruly crowd, the deafening, eardrum blasting, sounds blaring out of the enormous boom boxes spread out in the corners of the streets and the park, and the pile of litter and human trash left by the trail of  merriment.

What is obnoxious is the orgiastic public display of drunkenness and wild abandon, as the festival drew in a bevy of drug abusers, and swaggering toughies.  When I was pretty much a younger man I love to be in the middle of this melee and enjoyed the primal experience. I noticed things have changed for me after  reaching middle age. My aging taste could hardly savor anymore the excitement.

How this Maskara (Mask Festival) festival came into being is quite interesting.   

In the early 80's the island called Negros, named after its native aborigines   called Aetas or pygmies (small bronze colored people) by the Spanish colonizers, met very hard times. The island's main produce which is sugar wasn't doing quite well in the  market, cost of production was high that the “hacienderos” (sugar barons) terribly in debt, suffered losses  which greatly affected the economy. The severe financial crisis caused  hunger in the farm and scarcity in the city. Money was tight, and hard to earn. Most lands were abandoned.

It was during this hard time that the government, at the suggestion of some wise and enterprising community leaders along with the local artists, created a Festival of smiles, if only to blow away the cloud of despair, or brighten up the gloomy atmosphere, by giving  the people a festive spirit to  forget their troubles.

The festival was further conceived to show the fortitude of the inhabitants  that they could still smile even in the midst of difficulties and surmount the crisis.  

A noted artist and son of the island Ely Santiago, cooked up the word Masskara, for the mass of people wearing masks (from the word cara meaning face) of smiling faces. At least the faces of sadness could be hidden beneath the smiling masks. 

So it came to pass that this Masskara Festival was born. The original celebration was a hit in 1980, that people flocked to the city to join in this revelry and witness the exquisitely adorned masked dancers who made the streets bloom with different colors. Forgetting  their sorrow people drank heavily in the streets and danced to the beat of latin music. All the beers and the liquors were sold out. There was good business, and the people at least for awhile forgot their troubles.  Eventually the tourists came, business flourished, the politicians loved it, so the Masskara Festival stayed with us.

There is one thing, though, I haven't figured out yet. Is there any redeeming social value in this?