Heyya! To let everyone know, the Philippines is a highly Catholic country. I’m not exactly certain on the statistics of it, but growing up here, it’s almost as if you could start calling the air we breathe as “Catholicism”. But of course, not everyone here are members of the Catholic Church, there are tons of other religions or “Christianity” groups and faiths as well.

Okay, before I move on, I just want to say that this blog entry is not meant to prove Catholicism wrong or fallacious. I do not mean to offend any dogma, and my intentions are utterly to share my experience.

So moving on.

Everything started when I was 5 years old and my grandfather began taking me to (Catholic) church every Sunday. Little by little, I began observing the elements consistent in every mass: the praying of rosary before mass, the reading of some verse then churchgoers would respond in chorus (the response which is written on a chalkboard or projected into the white wall beside the altar), the eating of hostia, the Our Father while everyone holds hands, the Homily, and etc.

Eventually, I began asking my grandfather some questions about it, and every answer he gave, I had a question on it, too. Some time later, I noticed that my constant inquiry on the Holy Mass started to piss my grandfather off. So I went to my parents, then my neighbors, then my playmates, who started asking their parents about it. And believe it or not, their parents opened up to my grandfather (because my parents are at work the whole day) in sort of complaining about my behavior. I was only around 5 years old when I was made to consider people’s comfort zones and their sensitivity on a topic.

So one Sunday, after mass, my grandfather brought me to see the priest (I remember his name, but I’m not sure if it’s okay to mention it here).

“Choose one question from the hundreds that you have, and ask Father (the priest) this. When he had given you his answer, don’t ask any more. And don’t forget to be polite and say ‘thank you’ afterwards.” my grandfather told me, before approaching the priest.

And my million-peso question was

“Bakit mo po ginagaya si Papa Jesus sa pag-taas po ng tinapay at pag-inom po sa baso?”

“Why do you mimic Papa Jesus by raising the bread and drinking from the cup?”

The priest gave me a big smile and said that he does so because all the churchgoers are disciples and he serves as Jesus.

Now, glancing at my grandfather who was at the foot of the altar, some twenty steps from us, I thought he wouldn’t find out that I asked more than one question.

“But why do you have to be Jesus? Can’t my grandfather be Jesus? I play house with my friends and sometimes I’m the mommy, but sometimes I’m the baby even though I don’t like it. My mom says I should let others play the mommy because maybe they want to play the role of being the mommy, too.”

He put his hand on his chin as he thought of an answer.

“Well, my child, there are many types of mommies in the world. But Jesus is one person. So only the ones who truly know Him may be Jesus. Did you read stories about Him? He teaches people, right? Not everyone can teach what He wishes to teach, because not everyone knows what to teach.”

By this time, my grandfather must have thought that one question was taking too long, and I started to hear his footsteps against the tiled stairs towards the altar.

“Then how do you know what He wishes? I want to know what He wishes, too, so I can be a good girl. Jesus is in Heaven now so He can’t possibly tell–”

I was stopped as the priest placed his hand on my head, and gave me a light pat. He told me that I’m a bright young girl but maybe I should stop asking things like these because it might make Jesus and the Lord angry. My grandfather approached us as the priest gestured that I be on my way.

That night, as I was talking to God in my head, I asked if I made Him angry with the stuff I asked the priest. I don’t really know what He says.  Like always, He’d simply be listening to me, smiling from time to time. I think I felt him smile at that moment.

But because I was 5 years old, and adults would simply smile at me even when I’ve done some mischief, I didn’t understand Him.

At school, we were taught many Catholic prayers, which I memorized eagerly to make up for what I thought was a fault against God. And I tried saying these prayers as soon as I could no longer forget a word. But He wasn’t listening, He was far from where I was. So I opened my eyes, and closed them again, and started over my newly memorized prayers. No one was listening to me.

I remember that I got angry with Him because I gave up playing hopscotch to memorize those prayers. When I told my grandfather about this, he said that maybe God was busy, but he was sure that He heard me and must be proud of me.

I went on saying these prayers for the next three nights. There was no difference. He wasn’t where He used to be.

And because I was only 5 years old, my attention span ran out. It diverged to experiments involving different liquids I could find around the house. When I got in a huge trouble for using up all the shampoo, my attention went to riding my bike. My brothers and I would go everywhere! From places inside our urban subdivision, to the wide rice fields, to the far away railroad tracks, and even to Lake Bae (one would usually need to ride about two jeepneys and a tricycle to get there).

Then one day, my brother got into a bike accident. One adult that saw the accident helped us and brought us to our parents. I remember how much blood was gushing out of my brother’s toes, I wasn’t afraid of blood, I was afraid of losing my brother.

I couldn’t understand what my parents were saying while they were talking to my eldest brother, and they shot me that mean look when I tried to butt in. Meanwhile, my hurt brother was crying in pain. So I ran to my room, locked the door, and prayed. I prayed not using my memorized prayers, I spoke to God like I did before. And He was there, He was worried, but He gave a smile, and I knew my brother will be fine.

The following night, I started saying my memorized prayers again, He was hiding and I knew it. So I stopped, and went on telling Him about my day and what I thought of it. And He listened, smiled from time to time, and frowned a few (because I punched someone in the face that day).

Since then, I knew I should never pass on playing hopscotch to memorize some crazy shizz that I don’t understand and He doesn’t listen to anyway.

My grandfather, I call him “Daddy”, carrying me on my first birthday.

Five-year-old me waiting for my Daddy, all set to go to church.