All Saints' Day in a foreign land

I WOKE UP WITH A HEAVY HEART THAT All Saints' Day in 2009. I was in Rome for further studies and felt a wave of homesickness swallowing me. I was missing the energy of the occasion and all I have was an unfulfilled longing. Prior to that I had a chat with family and friends back home who were having a time of their life preparing for the occasion. They regaled me with stories and the food they were preparing and the fun that they had in doing so. Special occasions do remind us of what we gave up when we went far away from home. Brooding inside my room seemed such a waste of time that I decided to take a walk to the park and get a bit of sunshine.

I passed by a church and decided to pray for my dead loved ones. Many churches in Rome especially those built during the medieval ages have a corner remembering the poor souls in purgatory. I made my way towards it and was shocked to see many Filipinos lining to light a candle and saying a prayer for their loved ones. Since each of us carry a village of dead relatives and friends, we linger much longer while we remember each names of whom we pray for. The crowd swelled by the minute as other Filipinos began to arrive. Some Italians correctly observed, when two or three Filipinos are gathered together there will be picturetaking. The Filipinos did not disappoint as friends or those coming from the same place saw each other, shrieks of delight and cheers suffused the otherwise once solemn atmosphere of the place. Friends and occasional acquaintances mix with each other. Out came the camera, exchange of news and invitations flew back and forth. I felt my spirit lightening. It felt like home.

The once somber crowd became boisterous and alive. I found a group of Ilonggos huddled together speaking in our trademark singsong language. I joined their group and when they found out I was a priest, they became more animated. Right there and then, I was invited to go with them to a house of their friend who was preparing their lunch. Their natural leader whisked me to her car and became my unofficial close friend among them. My walk to the park became a lunch with complete strangers who were eager to be my friends. With sadness forgotten and tucked in some corners of my mind, I heartily partook of the Ilonggo delicacies that they painstakingly recreated.

After snacks, the ladies called us to join them in praying for our dead. We entered a room that became a substitute cemetery with its paper cut outs shaped as tombs. I was surprised when I saw it. The ladies outdid themselves in the decoration. A big wooden cross sat in the middle of eight neat rows of paper tombs, each adorned with flower wreaths and small candles. The symmetry of the decoration was a sight to behold. I saw my beloved dead radiating from the right arm of the cross following one after the other. I was touched by the group's gesture of giving me the choicest real estate in that otherwise make believe cemetery. It was that gesture that touched me deeply. I later found out that the natural leader of the group ceded her usual place for me. It was her way of welcoming me and making me feel comfortable with the group.

We sat in rows of plastic chairs and I sat with the praying ladies of the group. They started the prayers in our language and memories of my childhood came rushing to me. I immersed myself in the cadence and rhythm of the prayer. I savoured the emotions encapsulated in the pleadings, I lost myself in the magic of the holy incantation. I became unaware of my surroundings.

From hindsight I realized why I was accorded the honour of an "empezador" or one who leads the prayer at a very young age. I can connect with the spoken words and leave my consciousness of the earthly realm and elevate myself into the realm of the spiritual. I can forget about the world and focus solely on the prayer. I am concentrated on the task not missing even by a heartbeat the natural flow and rhythmic parsing of the beautiful prayers for the dead.

After the prayer, the group thanked me and the accidental meeting I had with some of them in the church of Sta. Maria di Popolo. After a few pecks on their cheeks, I finally was able to say goodbye.

I rode in silence with my new found friend. When we passed by the church were we met that day, we proceeded to enter the church to say our prayers. I thanked the Lord and the Blessed Virgin Mary for giving me a group that I can lean on from that moment and for the rest of my stay in Rome. I went to light a candle in front of the Patroness, and I chanced to see the prized painting of the church, Caravaggio's St. Paul on the Road to Damascus illuminated by a single spotlight. I got caught in the beauty of its symmetry, the drama, the luminous colours and the sheer mastery of craft that the artist displayed, a fallen St. Paul: young, majestic but blind being deftly side stepped by his horse, hands outstretched to heaven while his guide tried to control the startled horse so that the fallen man will not be trampled underfoot. The painting was an apt symbol of what I had undergone that day. I fell from my high horse by the sheer loneliness of being lost in a new place far away home. I groped blindly trying to find a bit of happiness. Lo and behold, when I went to the Lord's sanctuary, rays of sunshine lifted the gloom of my otherwise bleak world. Friends appeared, I clearly saw my remaining years to be not so lonely after all. Just like St. Paul who after being cured by Ananias of his blindness clearly saw his purpose from that time on will be with Jesus whom he once actively persecuted. Two individuals from a different time, place and circumstance. Both experienced blindness, both found a ray of light. One of them found the Christ, the other found friends in Christ. No horse of despair will ever trample me, I have now friends who will look after my safety.

I thank my dearly departed for a wonderful day and wonderful days ahead from then on.