When Pope Francis addressed the huge crowd at the “Festival of Families” in Philadelphia, he said, among other things, “Take care of your youth, they are your future, and of your elderly, they are your memory.” And he added: “Be peacemakers.”
Those words resonated deeply in my heart. I dug into my memory bank and remembered two experiences when I was a peacemaker.
* * *
On a Wednesday morning many, many years ago, when I was much, much younger, I was in a bus bound for Baclaran. I was seated on the first row behind the center door and beside the aisle. At an intersection, the doors opened, and while passengers were getting off, a burly middle-aged man pushed his way up and in the process got his arm scratched by the steel clasp of the tickets held by the conductor who was standing by the door.
Holding his slightly bleeding arm and muttering angry words, the man kept looking sharply at the conductor, who was beginning to get embarrassed because the other passengers nearby were looking at both of them. Since I was adjacent to the injured man and a step above the conductor, I could sense that the situation could turn ugly and so—I didn’t know where I, a coward, got the courage—spoke up in a soft but clear voice: “Pasensya na po tayo; ang ganda pa ng araw. Huwag naman nating sayangin.” (Let’s be tolerant; the day is beautiful. Let’s not spoil it.) Somebody behind me seconded: “Tama ang ale. Pasensya na lang tayong lahat.” (The lady is right. Let’s all be tolerant toward one another.) Others chorused agreement: “Oo nga.” An audible sigh of relief was heard. The tension was lifted.
That night, at dinner, I regaled my family with an account of that incident. “Good for you, Ma,” the children said. My husband told the children, “Your Mommy has no fear,” all the while kidding me. But later, my eldest daughter took me aside and said, “Mommy, you took a risk this morning. Why couldn’t you have held your peace?”
* * *
I wonder: When does one speak up for peace and when does one hold one’s peace? On this matter I’ll share with you another experience when I did hold my peace, with the greatest difficulty, but likewise with success.
Five decades ago, my husband was the editor in chief of The Evening News, an afternoon daily. Our usual routine was for us to go to work together, he to the office and I to the university where I taught. At noon, our driver would pick me up for home and lunch, which I usually took alone, the children being in school.
At noon one day, when I was picked up, I saw that my husband was in the back seat—something that had never happened before. Entering the car, I said brightly, “Hi! This is most unexpected. Anything new?” He looked very glum. “Well,” he began, and then blurted out: “I resigned an hour ago.”
I was completely dumbfounded. I could feel the heavens falling on my head and assorted thoughts filling my mind, like: no more weekly paychecks, not even a separation check, the amortization on the house, the bills to pay, the mouths to feed… Why? How? What happened?
I felt the beginning of anger rising in my heart. I felt betrayed. We had a standing policy that all major decisions would be done jointly, and he had decided all by himself. But the thoughts remained mere thoughts; they never reached my lips. And the rising negative emotion was quelled by a supreme act of the will.
All these happened in the matter of a few minutes—seconds? With God’s grace, I was able to hold my peace. Truly, silence is gold.
I took my husband’s hand and held it. I tried to be positive. “Well, one good thing is that we can have lunch together.” Lunch was naturally quick and strained. There’s a house rule that unpleasant topics, especially sickness, are taboo during mealtimes. Later, in the sala, over coffee and Camels (he was a three-pack man then), he explained to me what had happened. At the board meeting that morning, a squeeze-play ensued and he felt that the only honorable thing for him to do was to resign. “You’re sure, in conscience, that you did right?” I asked him. He answered positively. “So be it,” I assured him. “We’ll survive. We’ve been through rougher times before.”
That afternoon, when the children arrived from school, they were surprised to see Daddy on his rocking chair watching TV. “What happened?” they inquired. “Well, your Daddy quit his job this morning,” I told them, and noted the apprehension on their faces.
After having received their kisses, their father told them, “Relax lang kayo; this is a temporary condition.” Trying to make light of the matter, he addressed the boys: “In the meantime, we can go fishing more often.” To the girls he said, “We’ll start a new jigsaw puzzle tonight.”
“Fine, Daddy,” they answered weakly while their eyes sought mine. “Don’t worry,” I assured them, “everything will turn out all right.”
Have you noticed how husband and children are pulled together by a wife and mother’s confident answer (even if she’s inwardly shaking)? And how her strong hands can steady the family and keep it going on an even keel?
* * *
On hindsight, I now realize that for me and my family, the bottom line has always been: “God will provide.” (And in my life I can say that He has always provided.) Now, let me go a step further. John the evangelist tells us that God is Love. If I substitute Love for God in the first saying, then I come up with Love will provide.
We are told that there is a time and a season for everything. For me, however, love knows no season; love is for all seasons. And where love is, peace abides.
Lourdes Syquia Bautista, 91, is a retired professor of the University of Santo Tomas, widow, mother of 12, grandmother of 27, and great grandmother of 15.