I don't go to church on a regular basis. I can't remember the last time I had
gone to church on an ordinary Sunday and surely, my mother and grandmother
would have been displeased with me and both would be reprimanding me and both
would have been so disappointed that along the way, I have somehow gone astray.
My standard rationalization is always that I do communicate with God in my own
way, like sometimes, when insomnia hits me, I would go out on the terrace and
hear the silence of the very early morning and listen to the magnificence of
the heavens and be amazed by the Power that brought about these things and I
would invariably think of things beyond my comprehension. How far away is that
farthest star or is there such a thing, the outer boundaries of the universe?
I go to church once in a while, though. Once, I can't remember when, I went
inside our cathedral fronting Rizal Park. It was some late afternoon and there
were only a few people there. I sat on a bench and hoped to engage in a quiet
conversation with God. I always feel soothed and comforted there, the lingering
smell of the frankincense still in the air, evoking memories of my younger
days, pleasant memories of an era long gone, like the time, on a dare from a
high school girl-friend, one of a few, I became an altar boy for a day, my
presence in front of the congregation sustained only by the murmured coaching
of one of my boyhood friends, Tinoy Santos, who, up to the present time,
continues to be a a close friend, even though he lives in California, three
thousand miles away.
Most churches around the world are configured in the form of a cross and one
would best appreciate this church-recommended architecture from the sky. On
that particular day, on my way to a corner bench to the left of the main hall,
I saw a beggar, I presumed he was a beggar, body draped on the seat of a back
pew, right leg hanging from the side, foot bare, while the left foot wore an
old unlaced tennis shoe that might have been white in the past. His right hand
was suspended over his face in a frozen catatonic state and his eyes were
closed, his forehead furrowed in what seemed to me an intense effort to recall
something he intended to remember but somehow managed to forget. I presumed he
was asleep. He was unshaven, hair matted, and his clothes were torn here and
there. As I got closer to him, I could smell the old rancid odor of sun, sweat,
and the vinegary "tamban" which was probably his latest meal.
I reached for my wallet, took out a hundred peso bill, and inserted it into his
shirt pocket as softly as I could, trying not to wake him up. I fancied that
perhaps, when he regained consciousness, he would find the money in his pocket,
and he would believe that he was the subject of a miracle.
I proceeded to my own seat and sat down on the bench. I can't kneel long, too
hard and painful on the knees. I was not praying, just sitting there, my mind
ultimately and unconsciously wandering off to the past. And Smiley.
Smiley. I think the name was coined by Pit Santiago, a friend and neighbor who
had just recently and unexpectedly died, unexpectedly because he was a picture
of vibrant health the last time I saw him a few days before.
Smiley was not a beggar although he was a little off. He was not employed or
anything but he did chores for everybody, clean yards, chop firewood, do
errands, for a meal or for a few centavos. He was a small man, short of stature
and must have weighed the whole of one hundred pounds. And he had a permanent
smile, as if he was in a constant state of personal satisfaction, as if he knew
something that nobody else did, as if he had a secret. In the clarity and
uncluttered simplicity of his mind, did he know the farthest star and the outer
limits of the universe? Well, perhaps he did.
Back then, Butuan was still a small town. Everybody knew everybody and surely,
everybody must have known Smiley. I would see him around in the plaza where
most of the teenagers and high school students would gather after classes or
during lazy weekend afternoons. He would just stand there, watching us,
amused, it seemed to me, smiling at us whenever he made eye contact. We did not
really mind him, paid him only casual attention, as if he was there but not
really, like the trees or the sunset. After all, he never annoyed us, never
begged.
I don't know whatever happened to him. He must be dead by now, having been much
older than we were. Wherever he is, he must still be smiling.
Submit comments via the Discussion Board at:
http://www.butuanon.org/yabb/cgi-bin/yabb2/YaBB.cgi?board=Essays
