The time had come after yet another long flight, and I found myself back in the Philippines, this time alongside Mo. Agnes. The journeys had become a blur of airport lounges and cramped seats, each one stretching into what felt like an eternity. Yet, in that chaos, I had carved out precious moments to catch up on sleep—a luxury that had become foreign to my intense schedule and bustling lifestyle.
As we descended into Manila, the familiar sights and sounds washed over me like a wave, stirring a mix of nostalgia and apprehension within. There was a tension in the air, a reminder of the emotional weight I carried. I was picked up and whisked away to the mission house, where the warm smiles of the other sisters greeted us, a comforting reminder of home amidst the uncertainty.
That evening, we gathered for deliverance and shared a community meal together. It was in these moments of connection that I felt alive, surrounded by laughter and stories. Then came the highlight of the night—Mo. Agnes treated us to halo-halo, a delightful surprise that felt like a celebration in itself. For those unfamiliar, halo-halo is a vibrant Filipino dessert that captures the essence of our culture. It’s a colorful mélange of shaved ice, sweetened fruits, jellies, leche flan, purple yam, and a scoop of ice cream, all mixed together in a symphony of flavors. The name itself means “mix-mix,” and as I savored each spoonful, I was reminded of the beauty in diversity, both in the dessert and in our lives.
In that fleeting moment, I found solace. I was present, fully engaged, and momentarily free from the distractions that usually clouded my mind. The sweetness of halo-halo lingered on my tongue, a reminder of joy amid the heaviness I knew was to come.
After our communal time, Mo. Agnes announced we would be heading to the compound in San Jose, Nueva Ecija. My heart began to race at the thought of what lay ahead. The compound, with its grand cathedral and housing for all institutions, was preparing for a funeral celebration and burial for Tita Mi. The weight of grief hung in the air, and I braced myself for the emotional journey that awaited me.
As we arrived, memories flooded my mind, each one intertwined with the love and wisdom Tita Mi had shared with me personally. I knew I would have to confront my feelings, face Mo. Ethel, and meet the other Mother Superiors of the SITH in the Philippines. It was a moment filled with both dread and anticipation, a poignant reminder of how interconnected our lives are, bound together by love, loss, and the enduring spirit of community.
In this whirlwind of emotions, I felt a flicker of hope. Just like the layers of halo-halo, my experiences were a blend of sweet, bitter, and everything in between. And as I prepared to honor Tita Mi, I knew that I would carry her legacy with me, a testament to the resilience and love that defines us all.
Fast forward to the day of Tita Mi’s funeral, and I found myself surrounded by a tapestry of emotions woven from the presence of all six institutions. Fr. Bing, along with several other OATH and SMITH priests, stood among us, their solemn faces reflecting the gravity of the occasion. It should have been a moment of celebration for her life, yet there was a heaviness in the air that felt almost suffocating.
As I sat there, memories of Tita Mi flooded my mind, each one carrying its own weight of pain and suffering. The anger and confusion that had simmered beneath the surface surged back up, consuming me. I couldn’t shake the feeling of injustice that clung to me like a shadow. How could we be celebrating a life so full of pain, suffering, sickness and struggle?
My gaze wandered to the faces of the new SITH novices. I felt an overwhelming surge of compassion for them, knowing all too well the tumult of emotions they were grappling with. They were stepping into a world rich in traditions but also laden with expectations and burdens. My heart ached for what they were experiencing, a mixture of hope and trepidation that mirrored my own journey.
I was seated next to Mo. Agnes and the other sisters who had traveled back from the US. It was a comforting scene, yet my heart raced with anticipation and anxiety. As I glanced around the cathedral my eyes fell on Mo. Ethel, seated across from me among the novices. The moment our eyes met, a wave of emotions crashed over me.
I quickly turned my head, trying to mask my discomfort. There was something about Mo. Ethel that always stirred a storm within me. It was as if she had an uncanny ability to see right through my facade, exposing my vulnerabilities. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this woman, with her piercing gaze and knowing smile, found joy in making me suffer. I was convinced of it.
Every encounter with her felt like an emotional tug-of-war, where I was left grappling with my feelings of inadequacy and frustration. I could almost hear her whisper, “You can do better,” every time she glanced my way.
But what struck me most profoundly was when they shared the narrative of Tita Mi’s passing—how she had fought valiantly for six times, for the six institutions. In that moment, my heart sank. It felt like a betrayal, as if her life was being commodified for the sake of self-gain and guilt. I could see the manipulation behind those words, twisting her struggles into a tool for others to wield. It stung, and I felt a swell of indignation rise within me.
I couldn’t help but reflect on the cruel mistreatment I had witnessed during her life, particularly regarding her physical health. The neglect, the dismissive attitudes, the lack of support—it all came rushing back, a torrent of emotions that left me breathless. Tita Mi had been a pillar of strength for so many, a light in the darkness for all yet she had been met with indifference in her moments of vulnerability. How could those who spoke of her struggle now turn her legacy into a weapon against others?
As I sat in that cathedral, the air thick with grief, I realized that Tita Mi’s story was one of resilience and sacrifice, but it was also a cautionary tale of how we treat those who give so much. I felt the pain of her journey reverberating through the walls, a reminder that behind every facade of strength lies a story of struggle.
In that moment of reflection, I knew I had to honor Tita Mi not just by remembering her strength, but by acknowledging the pain she endured. It was a call to action, a reminder to be vigilant against the injustices that lurked within our institutions and communities. Her life, full of complexity and contradiction, deserved to be celebrated in its entirety—not just the parts that served others.
As I left the funeral, I carried Tita Mi’s spirit with me, a resolve to ensure one day her story was told truthfully. Her fight was not in vain; it was a testament to the strength of the human spirit, a reminder that we must strive to create a world where compassion and empathy prevail over manipulation, neglect and fear. In honoring her memory, I vowed to be a voice and fight for those who may not have one, to ensure that no one else would have to suffer in silence the way I witnessed at the end of her life as she did.
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You are doing great on telling tita Mi’s story