Amazing considering my history in the church - of blasphemy at three. In my defense, I thought that Jesus sat behind the altar and was psyched because people came to his heezy every weekend. Literally. So me calling out the third time they rang the bell during the consecration, "Jesus Christ, pick up the phone!" was quite literal. His house, answer the phone. Simple. All it cost us was not going to that church anymore. Again, terrible threes, not twos.
I was confirmed in the maternal hometown of my mother, like the generation before me. My grandmother stood behind me as my witness. It was actually pretty picturesque. In theory, really.
Because as I've said before, Filipinos are really SUPER Catholic. And me growing to the ripe age of 31 without a confirmation was a bit of an anomaly. An anomaly that needed to be fixed if I was to properly be a Godmother to my cousin who is going to be confirmed. My mom and I had talked about getting confirmed in the Philippines for years, but never had much of an impetus to do it. Until now. So talks began before I arrived here two weeks ago.
Eventually, the talks yielded fruit and the parish priest that presided over my aunts funeral just three years ago got special dispensation from the
bishop, who was conveniently in Rome. Anyway, the day before my impending confirmation, I realized something may actually required of me and I didn't (don't) speak Ilocano. I questioned my grandmother.
She looked at me sideways. "Do you know the Lord's Prayer?"
I scoffed. "Yes."
"Well what about the Hail Mary?"
Incredulous look. "Of course, Mamang, I went to Catholic school for seven years, I know all those prayers!"
"What about the Apostles' Creed?"
"Yes, of course I...um." I blinked. "How does that one go again?"
She looked at me like a wayward child. "We believe in God, the..."
"Father almighty," I chimed in, "Maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen..."
"NO! That's not it! I believe in the Holy Spirit, of Jesus Christ..."
I stopped her. "Huh? That's not the one I know."
This quickly lead to a frantic search for a prayer book in the house. She pointed out the Creed to me. "Wait," I realized. "I know the Nicene Creed, the longer version of this." Which lead to a longer conversation about the difference and then the actual trying to write down the Creed from memory.
"This is so much easier to recite in church," I groaned.
"Because you hear the next word and know where it goes. The problem is putting it in order," my mother tried to helpfully intone.
I looked at my grandmother. "I can't recite the shorter Apostles' Creed without getting it messed up with the Nicene and I can't remember the exact order. But I know the story really, really well. Can't I just relate the story roughly and let the priest slap me a few times on the cheek and be done with it?"
"Ay apo!" (Ilocano for "Oh my God!")
I quickly walked out of the room.
My uncle had joked that getting confirmed was as simple as standing in church, have the priest slap me once and I'd be done. Apparently, it wasn't going to be that easy.
An hour later, my grandmother came to me and said, "I told Father that in America, they recite the Nicene Creed and he agreed that would be fine. He said they are going to start using it next year so you're going t introduce the Nicene Creed to San Juan."
"Oh?" Neat.
She walked away with a smile on her face. Yikes.
What didn't really help me was that I had also managed to get sick. I was taking NyQuil PM and Advil to break the fever. Regardless, I found myself awake at 5 am and walking to church 40 minutes later in the darkness with my mother and grandmother, amidst the sounds of roosters starting to wake. It was still cool enough, thank God. We got to the church as daylight was starting to break. We were directed to a small chapel off the large church. I was struck by it's simplicity, rather, it's rustic look. Exposed brick from what must have been the original church wall surrounded me, a roof extended beyond the dilapidated stone walls, held by iron rods. A beautiful cross hung in the front, made completely of withered wood that gave the impression of beauty rather than sorrow. Birds flew in and around, singing while they flew overhead. Paintings lined the walls. A simple marble-topped altar stood in the middle of the room while a neighborhood dog wandered between the aisles. I looked down. Apparently, they decided to save money on the kneelers. Simple pieces of 1x5 served as the place to kneel. Yup. It hurt like hell.
As we sat, waiting, my fever started to break. I was feeling quite cool but started to sweat. A lot. Oh boy. And of course, that was the moment Father Manolo came over to me and said, "are you ready for your confession?" I swear I was sweating beforehand. Anyway, he takes me into a small room off the back that was still just getting the first taste of daylight. I turned the corner into the room and was shocked.
Before me, on a table, lay a dead Jesus wrapped in cloth and in a box of glass. It took me a second to realize that it was the statue they used in Easter processions around town. He then motioned me over to two plastic chairs facing each other. Not only had I not confessed since I was thirteen, I was now going to have to face him. Yikes. After it was over, my mother asked what I had said. "That's between me and God."
So then came the time I had to stand up. My grandmother stood behind me. Thankfully, only a handful of people had attended the mass, most of them my grandmothers friends. And then my fever started to break. Dammit. I am now standing, sweating wildly, even with a fan right in front of me. Thankfully again, this part of the mass was in English. For my benefit, I imagined.
However, my head was spinning as I struggled to stand straight, sweating and wiping my brow and decided to concentrate on the cross so I wouldn't fall over. Then my grandmother's hand appeared on my shoulder. It was time for the Creed.
Up until this point, the priest had been pretty serious. I started into the Creed, as my mother and I had remembered it. Clearly, my order was wrong. Father Manalo started to read from the book. Thank God. I can do it when someone else reads it. It clicked and I just started to recite, then, he came over and just as he's reading, my grandmother leans over and whispers in my ear, "You're sweating profusely."
Oh, really? I hadn't noticed. Father hesitated for a second but then made the cross on my forehead. It was done.
And that's the courageous story about how I became an adult in the eyes of the church. Sheesh.
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Location:Panther Rd,Pasig City,Philippines
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