When I was a small child, I used to get thrilled whenever our parents would bring us to church, not because I got to witness the aesthetics of Catholicism, the classical architectural designs of the church, or antique-like-chandeliers hanging from the gothic ceilings but because I got to observe adults lining up for eucharistic bread (ostyas) while the soulful “Anima Christi” prayer echoed through the place of worship.
Fast forward to the poignant, beautiful, tragic stage of my elementary years — Grade 3. Religion as a subject was introduced. Catechists in our hometown would visit us every Wednesday and prepare us for our first Holy Communion. We got to memorize verses, read the bible, and everything about religion, creeds, and beliefs, and we were taught the sacrament of His body, blood, soul, and divinity. When the holy celebration was approaching, pupils from my year level would go to church a few meters away from school. So the excitement grew daily and took me back to the bizarre moment where I almost grabbed the holy bread out of my mom’s mouth.
One time, we were asked to bring our parents during the sacred activity. I was so worked up to tell my father about it. I wanted him to accompany his son to that holy celebration, but little did I know that half a decade of waiting would turn dreadful. My long-awaited Eucharist ceremony turned tragic and my father’s favorite middle child—his carbon copy—for the first time witnessed and experienced the most unholy event of his existence.
I was 9 years old when Papa had kidney failure. Despite being a police officer, he was a coward and kept his health to himself.
My mother did everything she could. I would spot my Mama with a pen in her messy brown hair sleeping over a bunch of legal papers and receipts of hospital bills trying to budget our finances. I was so young before I realized everything; however, betrayal, a loaded feeling usually experienced at the start of coming of age, was the only word I could ever think of.
More than a decade has passed. I still vividly recall even the micro details of that day. The day of my first Eucharist has finally arrived — a chilling quiet dawn welcomed March 13, 2009. The silence was too loud, and the smell of unscented candles awakened my father’s four children, including me. The first thing I saw the moment I opened my eyes was my freshly ironed white long-sleeved shirt and black slacks hanging by the wall. Then I heard a familiar voice. It was my Tito, calmly waking us up.
We did not bother to ask him, but to our surprise, our relatives and cousins were already waiting outside. Looking at their once vibrant faces, I knew something had shifted. Our dog even howled deafeningly. Minutes later, a police vehicle arrived. Perplexed, I softly asked my aunt while sitting on her lap. “Gauno kitangani?” (What are we doing here?)
My aunt did not say a single word but I heard her deep sigh. I felt the emotions through her aging eyes. Then I saw my father, but this time, he was lifted by a group of men. His skin was entirely covered in a mixed red-purple color. His body was already stiff as if he was in a deep sleep. A once vibrant room was filled with misery. Everyone in that room, including the angels above, started to mourn. It was the last time I saw my father with his favorite worn-out shirt on, the military bandana he used to wear daily, and faded Caterpillar jeans cut by my mother. I ran to him, whispering: “Pa, laong mo muibankaw doon kanak.” (Pa, I thought you would join me). The day of my first Holy Communion was when heaven gained a new angel. His years ended at a time when one would just begin to enjoy, figure out, and start their life.
Today, every time “pagpamangalawat” or communion starts, I think of my very first Eucharist, where everyone in our batch had their parents with them. Maybe, I would not have been sobbing heavily while waiting for my first bread and wine. Maybe, I would have been happier and more excited. Maybe, I would have been in high spirits, lively stomping my feet like a typical child on his way home, while holding my father’s labored hands. But one thing I am sure of, I felt his presence, sitting right next to me on that day.
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David Ezra Francisquete, 23, is a Davao-based broadcast journalist for over a year. He likes to read autobiographies, pop culture, and sometimes, encyclopedias.