Like everybody else I was preparing for the first busy work week of the year. Everyone in my circle of friends had already determined that it was going to be a better year, a Jubilee year where our "bad accounts" would be released, where blessings would come upon our homes, our family, our work.
It was a good time to clear the desk, discard the trash, and make WELL THOUGHT OUT plans by prayer and fasting. Somehow we will unconsciously try to psyche ourselves into a positive mind frame by mentally generating work and prosperity.
All went well until I made the mistake of picking up the cell phone to read a message I missed earlier.
It was from Dino Juan of Pier One, my text buddy and donor of the fiberglass Porsche 911 "dream" car I wrote about in my first column for the Philippine STAR.
The message jarred me like I stepped hard on the brakes of a car at 180 kph.
Our friend EJ Litton had passed away.
I wrestled and wondered about the significance of his death. Was this just a continuation of last year’s observation where I buried more people below 50 than above 65 years of age? Was EJ’s death suppose to be ominous of a sad year?
I reflected on my very short friendship with EJ and I realized that his departure was actually his poetic reminder of how he lived the final years of his life. How in planning for 2007 we should prioritize the lessons he learned.
Many people knew Ernest John Litton had a rare form of cancer. Many knew of his determined efforts to be a survivor, how like Rio Diaz Cojuangco he had extended the battle time and again. He certainly made Death work overtime. Yet it still shocks us to hear of his death.
I came to know EJ quite late in his life. I heard about him, I read about him. But being much older and not the party-celebrity type of person, our lives were quite different. It was also difficult to get beyond the "LITTON" legend that his family, specially his dad Johnny, had carved in the public eye.
A simple act of professional courtesy where, he the boss of a hard to get into place, personally stood up from a distance and welcomed us to his place at Rockwell, started it all.
A simple act that drew admiration and respect.
In time our paths would cross, no deep conversations, no lengthy talks. But among people who deal with all sorts of characters and stories there was an unspoken understanding.
When his illness struck, he guested on Straight Talk. There we came to know the man – not the legend. He spoke of his disease, his struggles.
There we discovered someone just like us. He was not a multi-millionaire like WE imagined and made him to be. He worked and he worked hard for the money. And now cancer was eating it away in medical bills the same way the cancer was eating away at his life.
He loved his wife and his children and always did. He loved life and played its games.
While his interview brought revelations about his life, what gave me a real window into the final years were his unguarded moments. Moments with his wife and children.
I often ran into them at the mall or some other place. The hi’s and hello’s would be made but I would quickly move on, not wanting to disrupt their family time.
Sometimes I would watch them from a distance and feel warm all over as EJ stayed "NORMAL", being a teasing dad and cuddling husband. As a friend put it, "EJ did not let cancer dictate on his quality of life. He did not allow it to defeat him. In the end EJ got more out of his short life and gave back more to his family.
Twice I spoke to him about treatment options when a friend went down with cancer. EJ was sympathetic but honest. When the disease came back after a long remission he made no effort to lighten the matter. The enemy was back and that changed the picture.
With his wife Tess, EJ gave advise how to solicit funding for an experimental drug treatment that my friend could apply for. Even as he faced the disease he helped another fight it.
But my enduring picture of EJ was how he hugged and comforted his daughter one evening. I have always been afraid of leaving behind my daughter at a tender age and as brutal and cold as I could be in battle, I doubt if I could smile and comfort and reassure my daughter the way EJ did that evening.
How does a dying father reassure his daughter that all will be well?
Monday / January 8.
I went to pay my respects to EJ not knowing what I would say to Tess or to EJ’s mom Tere or to Tito Johnny. They all seemed to handle it incredibly well. Perhaps that’s the single "good" out of it all. Cancer at least gives you enough warning and often enough time to deal with death.
As I moved about, a young lady approached and introduced herself. She had the features of the beautiful Litton ladies. It was Angelica. Gel they call her. She thanked me for encouraging her Dad, for the interview and how she herself appreciated all of it.
Rather than being the comforter, I was comforted. In her time of sadness Angelica’s expression of thanks gave joy to my weary soul.
As I left the Santuario, the words of a prayer I almost memorized by heart floated in pieces in my mind . . . .
"Lord make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy."
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled as to console;
To be understood as to understand;
To be loved as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Even in death we touch other people’s lives.
EJ and his daughter reminded me of a childhood prayer. A prayer that should guide how we live our lives this year and for the rest of our lives.