OFW Stories From Rome: Feb. 21, 2008

Last night, I once again had the privilege of addressing the leaders of the 46 Filipino Catholic communities of OFW’s here in Rome. This was the second recollection I had given the group, the first time being during Lent last year. As with last year’s recollection, the affair was organized by our kind and motherly Ambassador to the Holy See, Ambassador Nida Vera. As I told the group, I know there is always a good turn-out when Ambassador Vera sponsors a recollection. Everyone knows that she will provide a generous and tasty Filipino meal after the talk—and last night’s delicious dinner of pancit bihon, barbecue, chicken apritada and homemade cassava bibingka made the sacrifice of sitting through my talk worthwhile for all!

Beyond nourishment of the body, however, last night’s gathering was nourishing for my spirit as well. After the hours spent cooped up with Jesuits passionately debating the "great issues" of the Church and the world, it was good to touch base with our people again, to witness their faith and hear their stories.

Two stories, simply shared during the meal, touched me particularly.

Inday’s story

Inday, a middle aged woman from Bukidnon, with a college degree from Cagayan de Oro, is now cook and housekeeper for a wealthy Italian family. I noticed that her right hand was all bandaged. When I asked her about it, she explained that, while cooking for a dinner party that her Italian signora was hosting the other night, her hand slipped and she cut her right middle finger so deeply that it was nearly severed. Instead of rushing to the hospital, however, she asked her husband (the family chauffeur) to bandage her hand tightly, so she could continue cooking dinner.

I was flabbergasted. “Bakit hindi ka pumunta agad sa ospital? Baka naimpeksyon ka pa!” I scolded her. “E di paano yung signora ko kung hindi ako nakapagluto? Sampu yung bisita niya. Di napahiya siya sa bisita niya!” she responded indignantly, as if any right thinking person would see the clear logic of her choice.

One could argue with the prudence of her decision, but I could not help admiring her spirit. I saw in Inday a remarkable dedication to duty, perhaps verging on folly. Nonetheless, at a time when self-indulgence and personal convenience and inclinations are all too often the decisive motivating factors for choices, witnessing her tough, robust sense of responsibility awakened admiration. (Happily, the story ends well. The moment her signora found out about her finger, she insisted that Inday go the hospital immediately. The finger is on the mend.)

Rene’s story

A former soldier, probably in his mid to late fifties, now working as a domestic here in Rome, shared the second story. I had spoken earlier that evening on the Lenten theme of forgiveness. Rene (that is what I will call him here) sought me out at dinner because he wanted to share an experience my talk reminded him of.

Thirty five years ago, when Rene was a young soldier assigned to Mindanao, his best friend and fellow soldier was shot in some skirmish. Rene carried his friend forty kilometers to a hospital. Because the wounded man had lost a lot of blood, he donated his own blood too.

Alas, his kindness was not repaid. After his friend had gotten well, the two were drinking, and in the midst of a drunken argument, his friend pulled out a gun and actually shot Rene.

Rene was enraged by this betrayal. He wanted revenge. When his wound had healed, he found his chance. One day, he took his own rifle, trained his sights on his former friend, and was just about to shoot him . . . when his friend’s pregnant wife, seeing Rene aiming, placed herself between her husband and Rene. She begged him not to shoot for the sake of her unborn child. Rene faltered, and in a quick, agonizing moment of decision, pointed the nozzle of his rifle to the ground and fired there instead.

Four years later, Rene was on guard duty, when he saw a little boy, leading a goat by a rope. He asked the boy to move away from the camp gate, but the boy insisted. “Itong kambing po ay para sa binyag ko. Hindi daw kasi ako pwedeng magpabinyag kung hindi papayag yung ninong ko,” the boy explained.

“Sino ba yung ninong mo?” Rene asked.

“Kayo po,” the boy answered. “Sabi ng tatay ko, binigay niyo raw po yung dugo niyo para mabuhay siya. Kaya yung dugo ko raw ay dugo ninyo.”

His friend was waiting some distance away from his son. He wanted to ask forgiveness of Rene.

Rene, telling me the story thirty-five years later, could not hold back his tears. “Dugo ko raw yung dugo niya. E kung tinuloy ko yung pagbaril, di sana nabuhay yung batang yan!” he kept repeating.

Rene was clearly overwhelmed with awe. He had come so close to doing a terrible irremediable evil, yet God had preserved him in that split second when he was forced to choose between revenge and forgiveness. Despite his murderous rage, the sight of a pregnant woman awakened unexpected pity and humanity in him, and that made all the difference.


The fall of a sparrow

I went home last night, blessed by these two stories. They are little stories of little people: two humble domestic helpers in the great city of Rome. But Inday’s remarkable dedication to duty and Rene’s life-transforming decision not to return violence for violence are, to me, testimonies of quiet grace, of God’s discreet and freeing presence in the ordinariness of seemingly unimportant lives.

Jesus said that not a sparrow falls to the ground without his heavenly Father’s knowing it. In other words, not the smallest detail of our little lives escapes the gracious and kind notice of the Father. Inday and Rene reminded me of this hope-filling truth.