Prayers
Over sizzling plates of two different types of sisig – flaky bangus and spicy squid – and ensaladang talong at Ihaw1 Philcoa last night, my self-proclaimed techie officemate slash pesky neighbor, the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT), inquired if I felt sorry for the grimy urchins who often press their noses on the glass wall of the restaurant. Clutching wilted garlands of sampaguita on their frail hands, a young boy and his toddler sister stare wide-eyed at the generous servings of animal body parts, sautéed in butter, garlic, onions, and green chilies. There was a slight drizzle that same night, and somewhere between the blinding lights of honking, traffic-scarred automobiles and the raucous of the crowd rushing to beat the impending September shower, I thought I saw the street kids shiver – whether by the chilly breeze or from outright hunger, I really have no way of saying why. But then again, it must have been both.
“Of course I feel sorry for them,” I responded quite belatedly.
“Then what are you going to do about it?” QPT retorted as she scooped a heap of the ensaladang talong into her steaming bowl of rice.
With Buddha-like contemplation, I synthesized that simple question. Personally, I frown on people who offer monetary alms to beggars of all ages. In my mind, such actions merely promote the continual dependence of these people to unwitting acts of charity. I’ve heard countless stories of homeless kids who purchase rugby instead of the food that they promise to buy. Worse, there are adult beggars who feign disability while they beg, only to return to their shanties that same night for a round of gin bulag, or probably an overnight tong-its session under the light of an incandescent bulb.
“I think I’ll pray for them,” I said smugly.
“NOT! As if you pray, noh!?” QPT jokingly snickered as she speared what looked like a squid tentacle on the hot plate.
Scooping a spoonful of bangus sisig in my bowl, I realized that QPT has a point. It’s been six long years since I actually stepped inside a Mormon chapel and heard mass. When I was still with my ex some time back, I also accompanied her, on a number of occasions, for Sunday mass in a chapel (I think it’s St. Jude) somewhere in Manila. One Tuesday evening some months ago, I also joined a friend as an "observer" to the Baclaran church for his weekly devotion of praying over lighted candles. But in both instances, I was a mere spectator who does not take spirituality seriously. Don’t get me wrong, though. I still truly and sincerely believe in God or a Supreme Being. It’s religion that I’m having trouble with. Ever since I realized that religions are filled with contradictions and dictatorial dogmas, I embarked on a self-imposed soul searching. I still believe that the right religion for me will pop up in due time. When my favorite cousin learned about this, she advised me to at least stay Christian no matter what happens. “I don’t think our clan is open-minded enough to accept, say a Hindu, in the family,” she says as if it’s a warning.
The last time I prayed was during the above mentioned “excursion” at the Baclaran church. There is this room in the church where one-inch tall white candles in aluminum cuplets are available in huge crate boxes. A devotee can take as many candles as he wants to accompany his prayers. Usually, it’s one candle per prayer request. The devotee could also dedicate a candle to a friend or loved one. The best part is that the candles are virtually free of charge. One merely has to drop a coin or two in the designated slot as a form of donation. If you’re feeling generous, a bill of any color will also do as fine. And if you don’t have any money to donate, don’t feel guilty; it’s perfectly fine. The house of the Lord is the ultimate house of charity.
My friend took about twenty of these candles and arranged these on the metal racks. He lit each of the wax stumps and in bowed reverence, whispered prayers amid the overpowering orange hue of the flames. Impressed by the prayerful atmosphere of the room, I decided to grab nine of the candles (2 parents + 5 siblings + 1 sister-in-law + 1 nephew) myself and lit them one by one. Mentally reciting prayers for each of my loved ones, I felt goosebumps forming from my nape all the way to my back. For someone who now rarely says graces before meals, it was such a surreal experience. Before I left the room, I decided to light one last candle – for myself. Frankly, it was one of best things that I’ve done for myself in recent memory.
After our twin sisig meal, QPT and I decided to pass by the local Mercury Drug outlet to purchase some cookies (handy midnight snack) and a bottle of Enervon-C tablets (I got soaked in the rain last Friday night and I could sense my often fragile immune system waging war against a cold virus). As we stepped out of air-conditioned eatery with the ripe “sisig smell” adhered to our skin, hair, and clothing, the young boy blocked our path and offered his fragrant wares.
“Kuya, sampung piso lang po… para makauwi na kami…” the boy half-pleaded with his sister tugging his soiled tank top from the back. At that instant, piercing spiritual emotions clash fiercely with my personal convictions. Instinctively, I searched my pockets for a couple of coins, but hesitantly, I decided against it. With a heavy heart, I said: “Boy, uwi ka na… gabi na… baka maabutan pa kayo ng ulan…”
That same night, I had an intimate conversation with God – my first one in a long time – before retiring to sleep. And yes, those kids were definitely in my prayers.
