***Lori Summers- Chamorro

When my two sons were still little boys, I wanted them to watch a Passion play which we call “senakulo” in the Philippines. I thought it was an excellent way to know more about Filipino culture and how Jesus Christ sacrificed His life to save us.
So when my brother-in-law very kindly invited us to spend the Holy week with his family (meaning with him, my sister-in-law, and their boys about the same age as our boys) in Pangasinan, a Northern province in the Philippines, and sold me the idea by saying that the rural folks would be staging a “senakulo, ” I packed our luggages pronto.

Alas, the “senakulo’s” script was in Panggalatok, the dialect used in Pangasinan. Being holy throughout the sacred play was a huge challenge. While the native Pangasinan folks were in solemn attention, the boys who only knew Tagalog, the dialect in Manila where we lived, were in stitches throughout the play. To them, the characters sounded like birds excitedly chirping while being fed by their mother bird. I kept on hushing them to stop fidgeting and giggling. It was actually my way of distracting myself from bursting into laughter, too. My resistance finally gave way, however, like a broken dam when “Jesus Christ’s “ wig accidentally got pulled by an arresting “centurion” and fell.

The boys gasped as the “centurion” picked up the wig and put it back right smack on “Jesus” head. The boys had a party roaring with the crowd in laughter.

The boys emerged from that cultural enrichment program richer, indeed, with a funny story they have told and retold, each time more and more sacrilegious.

But I wanted my grandson, Daniel, to have a holier story.

Wanting to do it right this time, I took our then little five-year-old Daniel to a church in Chino where he lives to watch a “senakulo”,  produced in the US of A. Unlike the unrehearsed and quite crude “senakulo” his Dad watched in Pangasinan years ago (God bless those simple and earnest folks),  this church hired a professional director and veteran thespians no less. Hey, this is America after all, a factory of dreams woven by artists obsessed with perfection  and a land of soaring imagination.  I was pleased.

From the get-go, we were rudely met by intimidating “centurions” already in character, garbed in colorful Roman soldiers’ uniforms and helmets with crimson feathers. Some were on beautiful horses at the church courtyard.  Stern-looking “centurions” by the church door, on the other hand,  herded us to the pews and treated us as if we were among the poor and uneducated Gentiles and Jews at Pilate’s court.  Indeed, the “senakulo” was so realistic, short of Mel Gibson’s “ Passion of the Christ” in treatment,  that blood sputtered from “Jesus Christ’s” forehead and flowed down his face during the crowning with thorns. The flagellation became more and more intense and bloody marks almost covered “Jesus Christ’s”  back. Caught in the moment and mesmerized by the professionalism of the cast, I almost did not hear Daniel’s  nervous questions: “Lola, when will this end? Can we go home now?” Pale and shaken, Daniel could not take it anymore.

(From the St. Paul Catholic Church poster announcing their Way of the Cross presentation)

On our next nannying day, a Friday, I told Daniel that we should go to church to pray and thank God first before we play. To my surprise, he burst into tears, kicked his feet and stuck to his car seat like glue. He shouted, “No, I don’t want to go to church!” I realized then that if my grandson would be an atheist, it was going to be because of me and my obsession with the “senakulo.”

For two years (he is now seven), he would always tell me: “I don’t want to go to church, Lola. It’s boring.” He would only half-heartedly come with us to the Adoration chapel if we promised to be in there for only ten, yes, only ten seconds. And for sure, he would count every second. Once while in there, I remember telling him to motivate him to stay put: “If you need something, you can pray to God and you will be given what you pray for.” My future atheist looked up to the crucified Jesus on the cross with eyes wide with wonder and asked in reply: “He’s dead, Lola, how can he give me something?”

I groped for a logical answer but recovering my poise,  I remember saying: “He’s alive. Believe He’s alive. He will give you what you want. Now, just keep quiet while I ask for something.” And I knelt, put my hands together in prayer as I bowed my head in reverence before the cross. Meantime, Daniel quietly played with his toy car, occasionally looking at me then at the lifeless body of Jesus on the  cross probably wondering if his Lola had already gone to the cuckoo’s nest.

But one day, I left my purse at a restaurant during one of those senior moments. I asked Daniel to pray with me so I could find my purse again. When I went back to the restaurant we just had lunch in, I did find my purse. It was a powerful teaching moment. To Daniel’s young mind then, Jesus must have been the guy manning the Lost and Found booth. 

But just like Jesus’  Galilean neighbors and relatives, Daniel still could not understand and believe the miracle of the found purse. He would still always protest whenever I’d ask him to go to church first before we’d play and go “malling.”

One Friday, our nanny day, his Lolo (Grandpa) had to be “drained” of fluid in his lungs and, therefore, had to be admitted to the hospital. Since hubby has undergone procedures so many times, to me his latest procedure already lacked the drama that would cause me to hyperventilate. His being admitted to the hospital this time was like a woman’s just going for her routine manicure/pedicure. But not for Daniel. Waking up to our nanny day and not seeing us around was big deal for the little boy. He asked his Dad,  my son,  why we were not coming. His Dad matter-of-factly told him that his Lolo   was sick and was in the hospital. My son recounted that after hearing what he said, Daniel quietly went to their bedroom, knelt down, put his hands together and bowed his head.

 

 

 

 

(Pictures of Daniel taken when he was just three years old and being taught how to pray)

My son said that he was surprised and at the same time amused by Daniel’s reaction so he asked him: “Daniel, what are you doing?”

Daniel said: “I am praying to God so Lolo would get well.”

A few days later,  Daniel’s prayer was answered.  He was the happiest believer alive the day he ran again to his Lolo’s warm embrace.  

When we begin to hear our children echoing the “homilies” aka “sermons” we’ve given them while they were growing up, in our hearts we know we are on the right track.

When we see our grandchildren reflecting our faith and hope in a power greater than us and interceding for someone they love,  we hear the angels sing. 

In our hearts we know heaven is not beyond our grasp.  It’s beautifully shining on their and on our paths. 
Continue reading “When Heaven Smiles”