(Homily at the Salesian Family Mass at my Father's Wake, Santo Nino Parish, Bamban, Tarlac, Sept 20, 2012)
It was only about six months ago that many of you were here with us, gathered as a Salesian Family to celebrate a mass for my Mom’s repose. Tonight we celebrate another mass, in the same place, this time for my Dad.
The circumstances surrounding my father’s death were similar to that of my mother, albeit less sudden and unexpected. But they went by so fast, maybe once again too fast for us to comprehend if we would take this out of the context of story and of faith.
Wednesday, September 12. Daddy was finding it hard to breathe and felt some pain in his chest. His sister, Auntie Lydia, who was always together with him, suggested that he visit the hospital. They went to Angeles Medical Center and then he was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit. The following day, the doctor told my brother Emer that the symptoms pointed out to a mild heart attack due to a blocked artery. His blood pressure was quite low. Friday, September 14, feast of the Triumph of the Cross: Daddy was getting better and was eating well and his blood pressure has stabilized. Sunday, September 16, Daddy’s blood pressure remained stable, apparently due to the medicines that he was taking. There was pain in his chest. He remained in the ICU. He was able to take lunch but in the evening, he could not take supper because he was resting. Monday, September 17, Daddy needed to have a tube for feeding and also to suck out phlegm. He was asleep the whole day. In the evening, Fr. Mon Borja came to give him the sacrament of anointing. Early in the morning of the next, Daddy went into several hours of coma and at about 9:30 AM he expired. The hospital tried to revive him and at 10am he was pronounced dead. It was a Tuesday morning: my mother also died on a Tuesday morning.
Those were seven days and indeed, Daddy rested on the seventh day of his agony. It was likewise our agony as his sons and daughters: we his children felt the events of those days hitting us like they did our father. Also in the chest, for our hearts were beating in anxiety, feeling so much the fragility of life, of our father’s life in particular. We felt helpless—especially we who were abroad who due to the distance could only ask for more details and pray for what was best. Daddy’s sister, Auntie Lydia, and our eldest, kuya Edwin were there. But the great burden rested on the shoulders of our youngest, Emer, who received every detail from the doctors and every development of Daddy’s condition.
This helplessness we continue to feel today, even at his death. For it affirms the words of the playwright: “Life is a passing shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hours upon the stage—and then is heard no more” and even more, that of the psalmist: “Our life is over like a sigh: our span is seventy years, eighty for those who are strong.” Incidentally these last words I wrote on my facebook timeline to honor Daddy on his 80th birthday last year. My father was 81 at his death. Yes, he was strong. Despite the fact that he had diabetes his heart was described by the doctor as healthy, much better that the heart of many of his 30 year old patients. Daddy had to be strong: for he was a father, “haligi ng tahanan” as how fathers are described in our culture.
Daddy’s leadership of our family was priceless. He led us. He guided us. He was our strength. He led us in blessing the meal. He only stopped leading when his children began to take turns in leading the prayers. Daddy brought the whole family to Church on Sundays. He loved the Word of God. In Saudi Arabia where they could not go to mass, he bought a Missal and from that he savored the message of the readings. In more recent years, he asked me for only one gift every Christmas time: the Bible Diary where we find the readings of each day. In the most recent months his pastime was listening to an audio recording of the Bible and for hours he sat in the living room listening to it.
Daddy was a model of hard work, perhaps inheriting this trait from my grandfather who was a blacksmith. Daddy was an engineer. From his childhood he was fond of tinkering with machines, repairing them on his own. He was a craftsman who was theoretically sharp and practically sound. He had a lot of tools and when we were young he would teach us these manual skills. The days after Mommy’s death, Daddy and I were moving some of the shelves in the house and he was his usual self—fixing the plumb lines, hammering and drilling here and there. If you happen to visit our house in Angeles right now you would see how Daddy left it before he went to the hospital: a ladder on top of the dining table—a work in progress: he was putting up the chandelier which Ate Kate had sent from the US.
If I were to pinpoint a shortcoming of Daddy, I would say that it was rage. Daddy was a strict disciplinarian. But even this in itself was not actually a defect—it was a manifestation that he was a passionate man, that he relished what was true and good and beautiful, and this therefore should be proclaimed with ardor. I will never forget the smile on his face when he told stories. He was true to his name: Epifanio, manifestation. He revealed and did this with gusto.
He was the ever-proud father. He never talked about himself but heaped praises on his children—a true blue Kapampangan, mahilig magyabang, pero ang ipinagyayabang ang kanyang mga anak.
The passion I was talking about is reflective of the events that were recounted in the gospel of today: the sinful woman who bathed Jesus’ feet with her tears, wiped them with her hair and anointed them with ointment. The verdict belonged to Jesus: her many sins are forgiven because she loved much.
This is the running theme in Daddy’s life. He loved us and had the passion—the words and the deeds to back this up. When he was at the ICU we did something that was not allowed: we talked on the phone and he was in high spirits. He went on to tell me small stories and I had the impression that indeed, he was not sick anymore. He did not anymore complain about the pain he was experiencing. He was worried more for his children. These were the words he said to those who got to talk to him in his last waking moments. Aye, he loved us with passion.
And so, Daddy, your rage was something positive that you brought with you to your end. I have always dreamed of reciting this piece from the poet Dylan Thomas which he offered to his dying father:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
But my dear confreres, my dear friends and members of the Salesian family, is it not only recently that you found in the Salesian Bulletin the article on my mother’s death? You have heard that particular story in my homily during her wake. I have put a sidebar story to that, one focused particularly on Daddy:
My Father’s Vision
March 6 was a normal day for Peping and Alice. They went to mass together and prayed for their son Edwin who was celebrating his birthday. Then Peping went out to pay some bills. For some unexplainable reason, he lost his way and the usual twenty-minute walk lasted more than an hour. He reached home exhausted and went to the bedroom to rest. Alice was lying down solving a crossword puzzle. She invited him to take some snacks and he said “I’ll go later. I am very tired and I need to rest.” Alice went to the kitchen to make turon. Peping closed his eyes and had a dream: he saw many priests and among them was his son. He saw himself dead and he kept asking if this was real. He told himself: “If I were dead, where is my wife? Who will now take care of her?” And in the dream, he searched for her. He suddenly awoke and at the first instance, he went to the kitchen and there he saw his wife, gasping for breath. Her last action was for him; her last breath, in his arms.
Daddy, your dream was prophetic. That funeral you saw was yours. Here are the many priests and here is your son. And you rightfully ask: “If I were dead, where is my wife? Who will now take care of her?” Daddy you know the answer. Go, look for Mommy now. You will take care of each other forever.
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