A Christmas Special Christmas in Our Hearts

The other day a badjao family came caroling at my door. Their singing was a little off-tune. But it was beautiful, for the simple fact that it was, I think, a decent effort. They sang to me, instead of just going straight to asking me money. They were carolers, not beggars.

Their Christmas in Our Hearts sounded short of the depth that the song's message. At most, it was only mouth-deep. The words were jumbled. It was clear they didn't understand what it meant. Maybe it was not really about spreading the spirit of the season. Maybe it was just a job they had to do for some income. And it was fine with me.

There's no question about how each one of us has to strive in life. Living is a struggle. And we all have our own parts to play in the process. Even those among us who seem to have everything have still to exert some effort to enjoy their fortunes. Diners at the best restaurants still have to slice their juicy steaks by themselves. And do their own chewing, as well.

Curiously, those wallowing in their abundance are, sometimes, the ones in much greater want. When they fall just a little short of having it all, they tend to feel like they have nothing at all. The truth is: none of us ever gets to have it all. We all need occasions in life when the world is kinder to fill in our lack, whatever it is. The little badjao girl asked me for instant noodles for their Christmas meal. She said they'd come back on Christmas Day if I'd say so. Her brother asked for new slippers, their mother wanted a kilo of rice.

People have an interesting habit of placing more importance on the things they don't have or that seem to be beyond their reach. No matter how simple or ordinary. The mountain folk would exchange their chicken and eggs for a can of sardines. A Filipino farm boy will never understand the excited screams of a visiting young Caucasian upon seeing a carabao tied to a coconut tree.

I once belonged in the inner circle of a scion of a very powerful political family. The young lady, now a political figure herself, would have me come to Manila every now and then for casual chitchats. There were a number of us from all over the country that she liked to gather regularly, especially when she needed emotional support. She would take care of our airfares and hotel accommodation, even pocket money, so we had no reason to refuse her invitations. To any young person, as I was, it was a great honor to be part of the lady's pet pack. That made me a celebrity among my own friends back home.

One day in December, many years ago, she called us to a luxurious suite of a posh Manila hotel. There, our benefactor friend was crying a river. She was emotionally distressed over her politician father's refusal to grant her request for a government aircraft to take us on an excursion to Batanes. I never understood my lady friend's heartbreak; I myself would not pout over such petty matter.

It was a terrible day for us in the group, having had to bear with our friend's sorrowful act since six o'clock that morning. By four in the afternoon, only four of us - of the original eighteen - remained at the hotel room with her. The others had each earlier found a good alibi to excuse themselves, one after the other. I, too, was already raring for a breath of fresh air outside. Shortly, I announced that I was mailing a postcard at an adjacent post office, and then quickly made my exit.

Across the road, a bench under a tree in a small park looked perfect for a time alone. I settled myself and allowed my mind to wander. In a while, my attention was snatched by a snore coming from the ornamental bushes across where I sat. A small wooden pushcart was perfectly concealed among the plants. I sneaked towards it and found a man coiled inside the tiny box space, deep in sleep, unaffected by the noise of the nearby traffic and the apparent physical discomfort.

Two little kids, probably aged five and six, were also in the cart. They were busy playing with each other, oblivious to the rest of the world, like the sleeping man in their midst. They were obviously having a great time. The man was probably the father, and that makeshift contraption was all he could provide for his family's dwelling. As I was moving away, something caught my eyes. A handwritten sign hang at the rear of the cart. It read: "FRANKIE'S HOTEL"

I remembered the scene back at the lavish hotel room where eighteen of us were trying to comfort an agonizing princess. Our friend was unarguably the luckiest of us all. But just one wish denied made her feel she had nothing at all. In comparison to her, the sleeping man and the kids at the park had too little, if at all, but they were content with what they had. This story always comes back to my mind at Christmas, when I see many people in a frenzy of buying things, and many others just watching by. I used to question a lot this seeming inequality, why some have too much and others too little. But it doesn't bother me as much now. It all came clear to me, on that sunny afternoon at the park.

We all have our fair share of blessings, but in different ways. Some people have trouble relaxing even on a well-cushioned bed in a luxurious hotel room. Others find a pile of cardboards inside a cramped box comfortable enough for a restful sleep. Those who have wealth can buy everything. Those with nothing will not have to worry about losing anything.

In the end, happiness does not come from an abundance of things but from an attitude of contentment with whatever one has. And attitude is something anyone can acquire, rich or poor. That's our birthright, a precious gift, but ours to possess only if we claim it.

Our biggest challenge in life is taming our desires, to need only what is important. This is the message of Christmas for all, rich and poor. But it's the poor who may yet heed it better, because they have lesser noise going on in their life. Those who have little are rested and ask no more, while those who have toil harder for even more.

The excessive accumulation of wealth brings dreariness to the life of many people. The wealthy have a special burden-a kind of psychological and emotional wanting that seems to go deeper with every material filling.

My badjao carolers will soon come back for their Christmas presents. I'm not really sure to have what they asked me for; I am poor too. But I want them to come back. I will share with them whatever I'll have. I want to experience, once more, their pure presence, their plainness, their peace. That is my gift from them-the Christmas in their hearts. (EMAIL: [email protected])