While witnessing the washing of
the feet during the Holy Thursday mass, memories of the 1st time I witnessed
a reenactment flashed back on my mind and I remember with fondness Fr. Chubby. Fr. Chubby was the first Parish Priest at my
home place in the Philippines; I was only four years old then when he moved to
our barangay (village). As the first
Parish Priest, and also his first parish, he was young and energetic then. The
convent was so vibrant during his administration. He tried all his best to
observe all the feasts and holy days of obligation with simple yet memorable
celebrations. It was then that I remembered, Fr. Chubby as the first priest who
made the commemoration of the washing of the feet something to look forward to
during Holy Week.
Our house then was only a block
away from the convent and every afternoon he would hang out in our small
sari-sari store and wait for passersby, which was his own style of integrating
with the community. Slowly people would converge
and before dusk, a number of people are already gathered around him, listening to
his stories. As a child, I admired him so much and as I was growing, all the
more I appreciated him and his closeness to people.
Fr. Chubby was my ‘firsts’. My first confession was to him, which was done
just inside our classroom on my 2nd grade. I also received my 1st
communion from him as part of the first confession. He was also the one who
assisted during my confirmation. Fr. Chubby was around during my childhood, he
had seen me excel in everything I do, and he was part of all my success being a
great motivator. Every day, he would ask me what I learned from school and
during competitions; he would always be there to support by practicing with me
the poems that I have to deliver during the inter-school competition, the
spelling, quizzes, etc. I learned to read
fast through the comics he was renting which I picked-up every day from another
sari-sari store.
Being used to hanging out at home,
he had watched me grew up and I became very close to him and even after his
service in our place, I always made sure to visit him at his parish. During
Christmas, he always made sure that I receive something from him, which in most
occasion, a ten-peso crispy note. He was happy to learn, that I enrolled in a
Catholic School and even more proud when I completed my secondary studies with
honors. Despite the distance of his
parish assignments and my being busy with university studies, I knew he was
always there for me. When I passed the board exam, I was surprised and deeply touched when he came to our place with a copy of the Philippine Daily Inquirer; he kept
the issue with a list of the Social Work Board passers. Again, he was proud
that I was among them. Later on, I
learned also that he was telling other parishioners about my success. Whatever
I have reached, I knew he has been part of my prayer brigade.
Sometime in 1998, he got assigned
to a parish where my 2nd job was also located. I was
so happy because the convent became my lunch place. If there are occasions at
the office requiring overtime, I would stay at the convent but there was always
a curfew and on the dot, he would be at the doorstep waiting for me. His main
reason for doing it was that he was accountable to my parents. He would lend me
his books, he would save me pistachio nuts because he knew it’s my favorite, he
would keep the freshest fruits from the offering for me, etc. These are small gestures
but meant a lot. During my break-up with my boyfriend for seven years, I cried
in front of him while he was listening to my sobs and assuring me that things are gonna be alright. He served
as my spiritual advisor. It eased the pain but I knew deep inside him,
he was also hurting. I went overseas for 1 ½ yours to do my ‘world peace’ stint
and when I returned to the Philippines, I was so happy to learn that he was assigned to
the parish next to our place, only 7 kilometers away from our home. However, in
less than a year, he had a heart attack at the age of 55. I was shocked and I
couldn’t even believe it. I went home from Manila to attend his funeral. At the
wake, I told him ‘why did you die? You promised to officiate my wedding” which
made those who overheard it, laugh. Once he told me that he was prepared with
his homily for my wedding but this event never happened until now and I guess one of his frustrations for me. It has been
almost 5 years since he died, and I want to relive his statement in one of our
conversations, “Aydle (this is how he calls me), I pray to my dad to intercede
for me before I pray to God because prayers from the dead is very powerful”.
This Easter, while commemorating Christ’s resurrection, I want Fr. Chubby to
resurrect in my life and I hope that wherever he may be, he is always praying
for me. I surely miss him!
