Per Te, Gesu, per Te

It was serendipitous, actually, like I was meant to be there. I had a project to do, and this was the most convenient tradition for me to document. I brought my car, but my aunt and the pleasant weather enticed me to go walk. I had my thesis to finish, but I dragged myself out of the house to do something that I could still postpone to next week. All in all, it was well worth it.

I grew up somewhat frightened of their faces, but today, they merely saddened me. The antique statues of The Crucified Christ, Mother Mary, and Sto. Nino had been retouched with enamel and paint-- much like a carpentered face lift. It saddened me that, much like my own person, what's true was now hidden and euphemised beneath what can be passed off as advancement.

I walked the dark streets behind a parade of old ladies in a place of honor because I was allowed to carry the Cross. It was poetic, actually, if you think about it. There I was, a big guy, lifting a less-than-life-sized Crucifix on my shoulders when I also carried a Cross in my heart.

I participated in what I have always known as the "Perdon." It is a tradition in our village that every week, this triumvirate of Jesus, Mary, and Nino would be transferred from one willing household to another. They leave one household amidst prayer, journey the streets in the early evening still among prayer and chants, and are welcomed into their new home with prayer as well. I grew up and grew old with it, and I have never appreciated it as much as I did tonight.

Don't ask me why, because I may never be able to really know why myself. But love might be in the equation.

I realized how, every week, God woos us a new household to lend them a roof for the week. Every week a Pamamanhikan,every week, tayong nililigawan.

And for love, for Jesus, I walked with Him on my shoulder along with His cross in the dark, for a couple of blocks, not knowing where we were going. The Cross hit me on the head a couple of times, my fingers have splinters and a couple of my nails have kind of separated from the flesh, but I was at peace-- for maybe 15 minutes, I was at peace. Peace that, for the past months, not even sleep has afforded me.
I then realized that had I not been there, had things not fallen into place so strangely, one of the frail old ladies walking by me would have had to carry this Cross.

I realized that this applied to more than just this procession. I realized that, complain as I may, and in the amount that I do, someone must be thankful that I'm taking on the things I do. That whatever I'm suffering right now must be making someone else's life easier. And, in some way, someone else is suffering to make my load lighter.

I think, somewhere on the lamppost-lit streets, on the pavement, I once again found my faith.