She said: "That was our hobby – reading. Both of us. But I like to read in a cold room, and he likes to read in a warm room. So he was in the sala, and I was upstairs, on the second floor."
She stopped reading, and for a moment was filled with a deep sense of peace. She realized that her life had been rich, and full, and beautiful. She was surrounded by familiar things – the things she knew and loved. She felt that her life, somehow, was complete.
She thought: "If God wanted to call me home, now, at this moment, it would be just right. This is the way I would like to go – quietly, peacefully, doing the little things that I have grown to love. In my own home, with my family, in the middle of the daily tasks which have made my life what it is. In the midst of all the familiar things that have brought me comfort, happiness, peace.
So she stopped reading, and wrote this little poem:
on a perfectly normal day,
in the midst of some regular chore.
Folding up the blankets,
on putting away my running shoes,
writing out the grocery list,
or even filing my nails.
Not in the midst
of a phone call, but while
sampling jazz would be fine.
After a shower, or upon waking
to the comforting sound
of my husband’s snoring;
just before I get up, while looking out
with joy and thanksgiving
at the welcoming open arms
of the old mango tree…..
Or on a Sunday afternoon
in that intermediate sudden
stillness of the house when
grandchildren have gone
to run in the garden at
the Fort, and the yellow
light sets on the deck and
paints the screen doors
with strokes of gold.
As I read a book,
or returning with rice cakes
and ripe mangoes from the Saturday market
I do not wish to go
with fuss and anxiety, but just naturally happy
in the midst of things
familiar, on a
perfectly normal day
such as this one - Emily A. Abrera
In the afternoon of Friday, April 16, in the Westin Philippine Plaza, Emily gave a beautiful talk to the members of the Life Underwriters Association of the Philippines. It was a power point presentation, complete with pictures. She did not need any help with her computer. She worked it herself.
She was a little disturbed by the prevalence of sex and violence in our Philippine media. She said: "As an advertising agency, we place an advertisement of one of our clients on a TV Variety Program, with a high rating. They send our client the small part of the show where their product appears. And this section of the show is alright. But sometimes it is set in the middle of obscenity!"
The producers try to defend this, saying: "Media is a business. We have to give our audience what they want. Nothing sells but sex and violence. So we give them sex and violence."
Emily was concerned for the good of the Filipino people. She did not feel that Media is only a business. She knows that it shapes and fashions the character of our children. It teaches teenagers what is "in" and what is "out". It is the strongest educational force in our world.
Because her talk was so balanced, so human, so motherly, she received a tremendous ovation when she came down from the stage. The audience realized that for Emily Abrera, media was not just a business. It is a vocation.
The next morning – Saturday, April 17 – her husband Caloy was buying a beautiful plant, in the market, alongside the railroad tracks. Caloy was an ecologist. And, like Emily, ecology for him was not just a business. It was his vocation.
Caloy believed that the Philippines is beautiful – one of the loveliest lands in all the world. He wanted this beauty to be obvious, breath taking for every stranger who came here. He believed that the Filipino character was beautiful – gentle, generous, prayerful, joyous. He wanted our land to reflect the peaceful smile of the Filipino. So he went at ecology with all his heart, as an artist.
He was concentrated on the plant. A train came by, hit him, dragged him, mangled him. The body was cremated, and suddenly Emily Abrera was a widow.
At his funeral Mass, Emily read the poem she had written about going home to God. Caloy did not go gently, quietly, peacefully. But he did go while he was doing what he loved best – planning the beauty of this land. The accident was rough, but the mind and heart of Caloy were at peace.
And God took him swiftly. There was certainly no prolonged pain. Emily said, at the funeral: "He is the only man I have ever known who went to market in the morning, and was in heaven for lunch."
My own irreverent thought was: maybe God was having a little trouble with the ecology of heaven. Maybe God wanted at least one part of heaven to be beautiful with the beauty of the Philippines, a lovely place for all the Filipinos who will be coming up to him during the next few weeks, killed in the violence of our elections.
God never lets anything happen, unless he can draw it into good. Only God knows what would have happened to Caloy if he had lived longer. Time is not always a friend. Sometimes the last long years of life are like The Passion of the Christ. Cancer is a long, slow, painful road to God. Brain surgery, sometimes, leads to a slow humiliating decline of body and mind.
Caloy went home to God at the peak of his powers – strong in body, strong in mind, working at his trade, trying with all his heart to be of service to his people. That was a blessing. Caloy’s calvary took place in one split second.
God took him home when he was relatively young. And that’s a blessing, too. It is not important to live long. The important thing is to live well!
Death is not an end; it is a beginning. It is not an exit; it is an entrance. The Preface in the Funeral Mass says: "With death life is changed, not ended."
This life is only a testing ground. It is the introduction to the story. It is the prelude, before the play. It is the verse, before the song. It is the handle on the knife. It is the springboard, from which we take off into life. Emily wants to go when she is surrounded by all the things she loves. In heaven we will be surrounded not only by all the things we love, but by all the people we love, and by all those who love us. There we will find the peace that touched Emily for a moment, before she wrote her poem.