The holidays would often bring to memory how it was like more than 20 years ago – no electricity, cooking our version of pasta on a kerosene stove and sharing a simple media noche meal under a candlelight. We almost never ran out of a sick family member. Either mom was battling an allergy or one of us was down with flu. Often we were under the mercy of a kindhearted neighbour who would allow us to share their table or tap into their electricity at night that we may sleep comfortably.
And yes, we had spent the holidays before in different homes and zones – downsizing from apartment units to mere 5m x 5m rooms that had us acquainted to roaches dancing at night, worms crawling out after a heavy rain or bugs creeping from under those old wooden floors. Having our clothes kept in big cigarette boxes or bags instead of a closet was an indication of these frequent transfers, often taking shelter at a relative’s house or a friend’s. The most memorable though was spent inside the hospital after my youngest brother was hit by a car while we were singing Christmas carols to bus drivers and commuters along EDSA. The scene was forever etched in our memories, like a well-orchestrated cinematography of a story with a grotesque ending.
We had far too many questions to which we never received answers right away. That particular twenty-year-old reality was harsh like a never-ending nightmare. The pain could break anyone’s soul and kill every dream. One could say that we literally went through hell with no hope of heaven, and wonder if Jesus did ever really weep at all.
As we celebrate the new year today quietly in a middle class suburban home, surrounded by blessings we didn’t even imagine of having before, we remember the past and give thanks to the One who did not answer our prayers by raising the dead or turning the moon bloody red, but rather taught us how to live under His grace, day by day.
