the power of prayer

today was Maundy Thursday in the Philippines. Holy week has always been a big deal in our family, and since both my parents are natives of Tarlac, I spent most of my childhood holy weeks in the province, marveling at the bloody corporal punishments and acts of penance while eating ice snowball and dirty ice cream outside our gate.

My parents particularly love holy week because this was when they would go back to their respective home towns after the stress of Manila living, and they would be one of the faceless millions who took Victory liner and lined up for hours on end until they got a bus that would accommodate them. (my dad has a particularly interesting bus story about him, Everybody's Cafe in Pampanga, and a ham sandwich, but that's a story for a different time)

When I was a bit older, my family began to spend holy week in different parts of the Philippines with their staple group of friends and their own families. Thru this yearly arrangement, we were able to go to Sorsogon, Marinduque, Banaue (my dad almost died here, literally), and Baguio. As we grew older, the novelty of trips like these faded, and as professions improved and statures progressed, we began to explore out of the country trips to Hongkong, Canada (me), and then the US. and then somehow, we became too old for it.

When I began law school, I stopped going to Tarlac for holy week. Somehow the thought of staying in the middle of a farm with no cable, internet, and airconditioning seemed too much of a sacrifice, and I always reasoned out that I would be losing precious study time sweating it out and being distracted by the many noises of pabasa and children running amuck.

This is the first year that I actually missed it. Yesterday, I was driving around in Manila, and while I was overjoyed that there were no cars on the road, I wanted suddenly to be somewhere where there were, where there were curious onlookers gawking at the funny Manila people walking around there. I wanted to see the salibatbats, to hang out in our summer finest with my cousins, feel carefree and annoyed that we were too young to drive or do anything unsupervised.
Now, driving along an empty Manila rushing to get home to read my books, it seems like such a viable option.

On a whim, my brother and I decided to do Visita Iglesia, which I found refreshing since I haven't been to a church to pray in so long. It was a beautiful experience, more enlightening than intriguing. I don't know if this is the first time I was mature enough to pay attention, or if this year the churches really stepped it up, but they seemed to have gone above and beyond regular fixing and decorations to create little pockets of heaven where you could sit and pray and feel somewhat like a child again. For me this year, more than the awe of new places and the shock at the olden traditions, I was in awe of the time and the care it took to stage these places. I was in awe of the people who came to pray so wholeheartedly. I loved looking at people and reading in their faces such trust, such letting go of control, of pretensions; it was a humbling experience. Through all of those people who came, I felt the humility of acknowledging a God again. Of having to put trust in a higher power somehow. It was beautiful.