We had just gone to the park or to Mass (I don’t really remember exactly) then and I was flushed with joy and secure in the love of my parents – I was wearing a nice pinafore dress and my parents had just bought me a pack of popcorn, each sugar-glazed kernel a color of the rainbow. It was a real treat because it was more expensive than the plain salted popcorn and my parents didn’t buy that for me every day.
On our way home to our duplex in West Ave., Quezon City, we chanced upon a trio of street kids. There was a little girl of about six and two toddlers with her. They were having their evening meal. It looked like white gelatin to me, but I suspect now it must have been lugaw.
The popcorn was still warm and I held it like a trophy in my chubby right hand. My whole being was probably awash in endorphins at that moment – I was truly in high spirits, a feeling akin to what a grown woman feels on a candlelit Valentine dinner with her beloved.
And then my Mom turned to me and in front of everyone (I think my maternal grandmother and some uncles were there, too) said, "Joanne Rae, why don’t you share your popcorn with these kids?"
All eyes were on me. First, the eyes were wide in anticipation of my next move, then they were getting smaller and smaller as if in a squint, you know, the way grown ups use their eyes to stress a command. When I did not budge, there was some cajoling, then some bargaining. "I will buy you two packs next time!" one uncle promised.
"Sige na!" my grandmother gently coaxed me. It was a chilly December evening and I think the family just wanted to walk the few steps to our gate and settle into the warmth of home.
Whether it was out of fear, pride or pressure – I gave up the popcorn reluctantly. It hurt. Oh yes, it hurt. I felt a hollow had been carved from my heart, what with all those happy feelings fizzling out of me. Maybe it was just pride (oh yes, children have pride) that kept me from bawling on the street in my nice pinafore dress.
Then I looked at the oldest of the street kids. I saw her open the pack and take out the popcorn, one at a time, and gently put it on top of their bowl of lugaw. It looked like she was decorating the lugaw, the way we put strawberries on top of a shortcake. The popcorn was the icing on their cake, the jewel of their evening meal. Then she shared the meal with her little brother and sister.
I don’t think I felt better in an instant. I probably sulked for a while. But that poignant scene is etched in my mind like a carving on stone and till now, thinking about it brings a rush of joy. The temporary hollow in my heart was filled to overflowing when I realized how happy those kids must have been with my popcorn, and the memory of that good deed (albeit done with much reluctance) just keeps on refilling the hollow, whenever a bad day carves one out of my heart.
My parents taught me at the tender age of three the true meaning of giving and unconditional sharing. So I knew what people meant when they say, "Give until it hurts."
But my story doesn’t end there. When I was in high school at the Assumption, during one of our thought-provoking religion classes, one of my classmates (I believe it was Gia Suter-Nakpil) said, "It’s not that we should give until it hurts. We should give until it hurts no more."
For when we have become used to giving from the heart, it hurts no more even if we give up the rainbow-colored popcorns of our life.
Maxine Angelique turned two years old this year and with God’s blessing, I have a three-month-old baby boy named Emmanuel Francesco – an added joy to our family. After I got married in 1999, I had difficulty conceiving. It took me four years until Maxine came into our lives.
When Maxine turned one-year-old, we had the usual big birthday celebration for her. But this year somehow after having Manolo (our nickname for our little boy), I felt that I should share our blessings with the less fortunate children and make it a tradition in our family to do this whenever the kids will celebrate their birthdays. Instead of spending for grand occasions, I thought the money can be shared with street children or orphans who need more love and care.
I looked around for an orphanage until my mother (Ambassador Preciosa Soliven) told me to go to Gota De Leche on S.H. Loyola Street, Sampaloc, Manila. It is owned and operated by La Proteccion de la Infancia, Inc. headed by Lourdes Lopez Sarabia. It is a charitable institution dedicated to the cause of providing free milk and pediatric care to impoverished children since the early 1900s. It is quite interesting to note also that one of our teachers in O.B. Montessori Center was provided milk by this institution in the 1930s. She told me that her mother used to get milk for her and her siblings from this place. Another interesting feature of this place is that it has been recently added to the UNESCO roster of awardees in the 2003 Asia-Pacific Heritage Awards for Culture Heritage Conservation. It is such a beautiful and serene place.
We had 50 little children and their parents during the party. I had 25 friends who volunteered to help decorate the place, distribute the food, conduct games with party clowns and give away prizes. I also invited our OBMCI Primary Choir to render English and Tagalog songs to the children. Before the party, the children sang the birthday song to Maxine while she blew her candle. We also gave the children bags filled with t-shirts and shorts, coloring books, crayons, some toys and cookies. The parents were given food packages much to their delight. Everyone went home with hearts filled of contentment knowing that we were able to make some children and their families happy in the midst of these trying times.
Regards,
Sara Soliven De Guzman