Blessing the Heat

I'm happy that it has been almost a year and my blog hasn't been discovered yet.  I guess it is true;  it is easier to hide in the crowd, and what could be more crowded than the blogosphere?  Everyone has something to say, and, flooded with words after words after words, I am forever lost in my preferred anonymity.  After all, who knows where would my thoughts would be if the world is oblivious of it?  I did not exactly hide:  I gave away hints, used old names and common tags, referenced subjects that would give me away.  But after some time, I know my new blog has passed the test.  I am officially anonymous.  I can now bear my soul, as I do before my Lord.

My first confession:  I'll do everything to be home.  Yes, to go back to my home country and suffer the tropical heat and the third-world inconveniences, but at the same time, be close to my family, my friends, my people who have this goofy charm that borders between nobility and kitsch.  I'll taste again the heavily salted cuisine of the islands, that rejoices on the flavors of the sea, the the clear soup of meat and vegetables that I knew from childhood.  I'll swim through the haze of the polluted mornings where women rush for the commute, with hair still wet and perfumed well with cheap shampoo, alongside men, that smelled of fresh shirts and cigarette stains, to open the day with a hopeful hum and a hurried prayer.  I wish to swelter in midday heat that glared through streets and corrugated GI sheets, and probably curse the climate change, but at the same time, consoling myself with the colors of halo-halo and the fury of an old electric fan.  I wish to watch TV shows that are infantile but of very high entertainment value, song and dance and crass jokes that have brought me up to who I am: sentimental, spiritual, tacky.

More confessions to come...



Christmas Wish

When sorrow dims the heart
as winter dusk does to the earth,
and the ache of solitude pierces
like an arrow from nowhere,
then Master, I fall as a warrior
by Your door, imploring
if defeat would still find me
 a place at Your table.
Lo! And see how opened his dwelling
to reveal at the core a meaning:
In this world, where the lonesome
is shunned, a leper in spirit,
there is a refuge that awaits me
where I can leave my mourning
by the door and find, among things,
joy, peace, rest.

Asking to be confirmed

Last night, I had my second meeting for the preparation for the sacrament of Confirmation.  It coincided with the Junior High's night, and so Charlene, one of the candidates for the sacrament got confused and so didn't come for the preparation.  Simon, on the other hand was there.  Son of a very pious but internet-savvy couple, Simon's interests include comic-book writing and zombies.  Truth be told, I wasn't expecting Simon to really follow the program.  He wasn't even in the original list of candidates.  But this young man had shown unusual interest.  With him is Nadege, whom I knew only through a few exchanges of emails that we had recently.  She has stopped coming to the Aumonerie since 2011 but surprisingly, she showed up and asked to be included in the program.  She was of Portuguese descent, she's already in her senior high but she looked unusually young for a typical French youth.
We began our meeting with the lighting of the vigil lamp, which is nothing more than a saucer with a few drops of olive oil and a spindled cotton as wick.  Simon gladly demonstrated to Nadege how it worked, and our improvised lamp actually stay lit for more than an hour.  With my broken French and a bit of enthusiasm, we explored the meaning of faith, the importance of trusting, believing and putting one's faith on something. Videos and other things to animate came handy, while our little vigil lamp shone before us.  We were surprised after on how the time flew, and so we immediately and a bit hurriedly made our prayer.  I asked them to draw, and the two, completely different yet in many ways similar, huddled over sketches their made.  The pencil drawings of Simon and Nadege struck me hard, as they happened to be the most honest and most revealing prayers I ever heard from a French teenager.
We said our Notre Pere, holding each other's hands and then stood up to join the Juniors with the prayers I prepared for them.  The words of Timothy Radcliffe rang well in our experience that night:  Prayer is an act of friendship with God.  It's not about thinking about him but rather being with him.


The pages of the Sacramentary had traces
of panic and forgetfulness at its crease and tears.
Drops of candle wax dot the Easter prayer
while regularity sullied the Ordinary Times.
Spines are broken and leaves are folded
and somewhere, pieces of paper marked
a hope or a plan in a priest's mind.
Grime and sot is today's monastic illumination
on the Second Eucharistic Prayer, imitating
the familiarity and haste of every presider
who knew each of these words by heart.

The Funeral of a War Hero

I left early to be at Pierre Chatel, a village about 7 km from the rectory.  I had with me my black bag containing just about everything I'll need for a celebration of a funeral rite.  It's actually an overnight bag, practical, elegant and spacious.  The church was closed but there are already a few people by the front steps.  As I made my way to the back-door, I passed by an old man and greeted him bonjour but he seemed lost in his thoughts and didn't reply back.  As I entered the building, I was greeted by the comforting warmth of the thermostat and the dim silence of the sanctuary.  I set up my CD player by a side altar, at a piece of instrumental music, Gabriel's Oboe which I have used as entrance song to practically all of my funerals since last June.  I donned my robes and was greeted by a war veteran.  He said he'll be saying a few words during the celebration and that three other war veterans will be there to carry flags.  You see, our beloved deceased, Georges, has participated in the battle of Montfroid in Savoie on a  resistance against the Germans, during the Second World War.  Apparently, he received many medals for for his courage, leadership and patriotism.  It should be noted though that while he's a local hero, he's not French.  He belonged to a family of Italian immigrants who escaped Mussolini's regime and settled in the mining community of La Motte d'Aveillans.  Foreigners were viewed with contempt those days and Georges worked hard to belong to his new country. From the number of people who went to his burial, I can say his efforts paid off.

The funeral service was just like all other funerals in Matheysine:  quiet.  The congregation, when greeted, would respond with nods and a mumble.  To songs and prayers, they join me by mouthing the words without producing any sounds.  Their lips would enunciate the difficult French words but you'll not hear a single squeak.  If some person would dare to sing any louder, he will be hounded with stern stares and well-placed nudges until he'd step back and sing the rest of the song in awkward silence.  I thought at first that it was only in my funerals that the people are like that.  It turned out, my confrères have the same experience at all funeral services they made.

The coffin was covered with the tricoloured national flag and is flanked by two candles lighted by the grandchildren of Georges.  At the song, Ave Maria, the deceased's daughter trembled with emotion and sobbed in a peculiar way: it had all the trappings of a full-pledged sob, with all the shoulder and head motions, but none of the sounds.  It actually impressed me:  an all-out cry on mute.  

We all went out at the song, Amazing Grace and went to the cemetery.  The high noon sun is melting last night's heavy snow and there's water and mud everywhere.  The three war veterans, these fully decorated flag bearers were cautious to walk over the melting snow while balancing their flags.  The coffin was placed near the mouth of the tomb which Georges shares with his wife, Simone.  I made a reference on how he died on a Valentines day, and how these two, separated by death, are now reunited in death and in the life after, and then everyone lined up to bless the coffin with holy water, a simple gesture of solemn goodbye to a beloved friend.

Tree branches looked

like lifted hands holding up snow

towards the high heavens.

As the first signs of spring begin

to bud on the leafless twigs,

the white icy holocaust melted

and dripped, the sun trapped

at each crystalline drop.

Lifeless, but we know it isn't

true, because days from now,

all the snow will be gone,

and these branches will again

be furiously teeming with life.

Baptism of Nathanael

Nathanael is the son of Mark, a physician and Therese, a music teacher.  They've been married since 2008 and after a long wait, and almost at the verge of giving up, they finally had a son, born August last year. They weren't even expecting it, and Therese only found out about her pregnancy when she was already well in her second trimester.
The couple was actually expecting that Fr. Manuel be the one to officiate the baptism, but since this Italian priest had to take his sabbatical, almost in a hurried way, and Fr. Armand, peeved that he was only a second choice, decided to passed it to me three weeks ago.
I know the couple well, they're regular churchgoers.  Therese sings and plays the violin during Sunday Masses while Mark, who is under formation to become a deacon, is our new sacristan, a role which he shares with two other men.  While I'm not exactly the chatty type and I totally abhor small talks, Mark and Therese aren't fazed at all in striking a conversation with me, although most of the time, I really don't know what to say and I nod myself out of a dialogue, because frankly, my French still isn't that good.
When I met them, however, for the preparation for the baptism, our conversation was a bit perfunctory and clinical.  Not that I mind it, but I can sense a very palpable disappointment from the couple. Later, that night, Therese emailed me and told me that she was in fact sad that Fr. Manuel couldn't be there for Nathanael's big day.  She said that he is her best friend and spiritual father.
During the ceremony this noon at the Chapel, I tried to keep it simple. The only reason for this is that one of the sponsors, the godfather if you will, is actually a priest, ordained on 2001 and the family had known him for three years since they met at Rome.  He knows the tool of the trade, so to speak, and so, he'd see if I'm just trying to add theatricals to the rite, a cheeky liturgical trickery I have learned from Armand to spice up the celebration.  At the end, the simplicity actually worked, and we had a very solemn baptism, attended by a few friends, most of them I personally know. At one point of the ceremony, Nathanael cried his lungs out but at the moment when I poured the water on his forehead, he became quiet and gave me a quizzical look.
What made the celebration special is the music.  We actually sang during the celebration, which is rare in baptisms here in  this country.  They picked well the hymns and the responses.  In fact, the litany of the saints was chanted (a first time!) in a manner that made me recall my ordination to the diaconate.
My homily focused on being a poet.  I told them, if they wanted Nathanael to grow up and be a priest, prophet and king, like Christ, they should make him a poet first, and these munus triplex will naturally follow.  A passage from Homer's Odyssey inspired me here, the one that recounted the killing of all the suitors of Penelope until only a priest and a poet were left.  Ulysses killed the priest but spared the poet because the poet is blessed to speak the language of the gods.


Some dinners are made of glass wines
lined up to great vintages, while others
are series of fancy desserts,
cute little cakes and heavenly pies.
Others are spartan, functional,
while there are those that are made
of stories, told and retold at occasions.
At each of them, I always ask
God to help me survive.
For cutleries glinted at epic wars
that end not with a truce
but with a cup of coffee getting cold.

Asking the Dead

This is only my fourth post and I already wish to talk about death. Don't worry.  It won't be about my own death.  Nor would I contemplate or wish for a death of a person.  I just felt like the need to talk about my visit at the chambre funeraire.

This afternoon, I walked to a funeral parlour, only half a kilometre from the rectory.  I went there, first, to take advantage of the sun, which is becoming a rarity this January and I felt that a bit of fresh air won't hurt either.  Second, I wish to visit the remains of Monique, a nice middle aged mother who died of cancer just a few days ago.  She is well-loved by her family and her community, and I often see her during the Mass, always smiling at the pews. She's a member of our little association and I have already been to her house a few times, and have met her family.

Peeking at the glass door I hesitated a bit at the front steps the funeral parlor as I saw no one inside.  I entered anyway and wished aloud that someone is there to tell me where would I find Monique's wake.  A paper carefully taped on a door replied mutely of my query.  I entered and I was surprised at the dimness of the room. I must make this clear:  the room wasn't dark, it is just that it didn't have the artificial funeral candelabras that we often use at home.  The furnishings were utilitarian but tasteful, chaises on corners, a coffee table book, a table lamp, a reproduction of still-life painting on the wall.  As I surveyed the room and went to discover what's behind the divider that stood at the middle of the room, I soon realised that it's not only the candelabras that are missing.

Before me was a bed, and there lies Monique, wearing, not a formal dress, but a cream-colored thermal pull-over, covered with a dark blue quilt until her chest, her two white hands resting over her stomach.  There was no coffin at all.  It struck me as strange but then again, the whole concept of it seems to stress to all who visits her that she was just, in fact, sleeping.  As I sat down at a bench nearby, I looked at her and tried to recall of my memories of her.  One thing for sure, her sweet smile, even at death, hasn't left her.  

I then tried not to stare as I felt it not right to stare at a lady at whatever state she is.  Also, I began to hallucinate and imagined seeing the tell-tale rise and fall of her chest, breathing.  I felt obliged too to stay silent in my prayers so as not to disturb her "sleep."  So I just looked around this corner which is just as dim as the rest of the room and it felt companionably quiet.  Near her was a receptacle for holy water and an unlighted candle.  On the floor is a slab of stylised cut marble bearing the inscription, Annabelle Soeur.  Who is Annabelle Soeur?  Later, I realised that the writing actually said, A Ma Belle-Soeur, "to my sister-in-law." 

While my eyes were rarely on her and I barely made a sound, I didn't dread the presence of Monique's mortal remains.  I guess I am no longer afraid of the dead people.  In fact, in the dimness of the place, I began recalling the memories of my own beloved dead.  My mother, my father, my sister...  I don't know but that thought ached a lot like a nostalgic splinter in my eye and next thing I knew, I was weeping.  

I then asked Monique, in French, that if she sees my mom, my dad and my sister, to please, please tell them I said Hi, and that I love them and I miss them very much.  And that I am doing well although it would help alot if they would always pray for me.  My hallucination led me to believe that she smiled the more after that. Then I recited a decade of the rosary, stood up, wiped the tear-stains away from my face, bid Monique my adieu, went to the register to sign my name and then left.

Paperbacks

I am lost in this chapter

where the protagonist hid

among indecipherable words and I fear

that I don't care anymore.

My own story blurred at edges

and my world is filled with

the same faceless words that hurt

my eyes.  I searched

for the solace of a sound,

familiar, flowing, unstudied,

to break out somewhere between

the lines.  Is there an end?

Yes, of course, but reading it

would mean death to a friend.

On my 37th birthday

I just turned 37 last week and truth be told, for the first time in my life, I felt I really grew up.

I admit that at each birthday, I can see things that changed in me.  My appearance, my voice, the fact that I moved from year to year to different levels of education... I had celebrated my birthdays in weirdest places, often hung-over by new year revelry, or just at home, or in my apartment, or in my seminary room, or in front of the computer answering emails and private messages.  Last week, I was just in my room, almost two years as a priest, who before Christmas was in one of the most beautiful cities I've ever been, and, as always, since my participation in Facebook, looking over the messages of many people, most of whom, I only met once somewhere in my past and now, our only interaction is the rare "likes" we give at each other's posts.

But as I said, suddenly, I felt that I had grown up.

It might sound a bit late, especially for a 37 year old, to say these thing, but frankly, I have no excuse whatsoever.  All I knew is that the world around me has suddenly changed and I felt its weight bearing on my soul.  I no longer doubt the power of hushed prayer and the importance of silence while looking at the window with a cup of cheap tea.  I give more respect to the written and spoken words and bow down to appreciate the lyric touch they give in my adult life, but more importantly, I realised that I have a new friend, wordlessness, an ominous being that loomed over me as a ghost, but now, she holds my hands with such warmth, that I am assured that it is her that I need, here and now.

As I turned 37, I have learned to lay down my imaginary sword and surrender to my long-time enemies, uncertainty and subtlety. And while they leered in delight to my defeat, I somehow feel that I earned their respect and will one day be there with me on the streets, offering me cigarettes or helping me with my groceries or picking up my fallen ego from the floor.

As a 37 year old, I am confident that I've grown wiser, more cynical, more dark, more compassionate, more nuanced, more adventurous, more careful.  At 37, I am now much closer to knowing who is the real me.

Here's another free verse, during the time the parishioners gathered to reflect on the letter of our local bishop:

We read the letter, but our hearts drummed hard
on the questions that seemed not to rhyme
with the superlative generalities
that rose and fell like a heaving chest,
short of air, peppered with nominal gasps in risk
of reducing the Word into something proverbial,
or painfully parochial. We pulled our vests,
in a church that is becoming more and more
Cold.  Hope is the word
we all desperately want to touch and hold.