I have this pair of old indigo blue sandals that were marred by drops of candle wax I wouldn’t throw away for sentimental reasons. An aunt purchased the sandals during our trip to Singapore back in 1993. I clearly remember the day I ruined it with the drops of candle wax. I was upset at myself then, not realizing seeing those shoes would bring me comfort and fond memories in later years. I had tried everything to restore those shoes back to its original beauty. Today, nine years later, I am truly glad I had failed at my attempts.
The incident happened during a procession for the Stations of the Cross. Each station was designated all over several neighboring towns where we lived in Pasig City in the Philippines. Some were as far as half a mile apart. I was getting very tired and the candle in my hand was dangerously tipping in all directions. The inevitable damage was done to my beloved shoes. Unwittingly, they became the reminder of my last Good Friday I was to have in my hometown before fate called me back to Chicago.
Holy Week brings fond memories of the years I lived in Manila from 1988 to 1994. Holy Week is an important time of the year for the predominantly Roman Catholic island country. It is so critical that unofficially, it is a weeklong holiday. It is not unusual for employees to file for a weeklong vacation. Chances are businesses are closed starting on Holy Wednesday and will then resume after Easter. Few children knew of the Easter Bunny, though some parishes will hold an Easter Egg Hunt. But it was always the cross and the rising of Christ that was the focus, never the Bunny.
My Mom and I would usually attend a three-day (from Monday to Wednesday) retreat held at the University of Life in Pasig City. We would go there in carpools together with other families from our town. It was a serious and communal affair. We would sit in hard uncomfortable chairs for practically the whole day and no one seemed to mind. It was mostly lectures and prayers and reflections. We would come out primed for the more somber affair of Holy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday.
Now, on Holy Thursday, there is a tradition of visiting at least nine different churches known as Bisita Iglesia. This day evolved into a tradition spent with my then-boyfriend-now-husband and his best friend and his best friend’s then-girlfriend-now-wife. The four of us would start visiting churches sometime after lunch. It was during this time I would catch glimpses of Philippines’ profound Colonial History as embodied by the churches we visited in Manila. The Paco church with its cemetery and Spanish inscribed memoriam. It was said that one of its unmarked graveyard was that of Jose Rizal, the national hero. We would go to the Ermita Church and Baclaran Church which was famous for its Wednesday Novenas and the Mother of Perpetual Help. The Quiapo church, in the heart of Manila, was also paid its respect. We would visit the historic San Augustin and San Sebastian Churches and the beautiful Manila Cathedral where Cardinal Sin would preside. What was amazing throughout this endeavor was that the whole country was doing this. The faithful literally came in waves. The effort was accomplished with minimum help from any mode of transportation. It was more practical to go on foot. We would usually save the Binondo Church for the last. It would be close to 10 pm by the time we reach the famous church in Binondo. We epitomized the tired and starving pilgrims. Fortunately, Ongpin, Manila’s Chinatown, was close by where we can readily avail of some nourishment. No meat, of course!
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