A time to heal: 'You never really lose those you give to God.'

We buried our dad Frank Mayor last Sunday, and strangely, a sense of peace and calm has enveloped us after the emotionally turbulent 12 days since his death. The peace came with the acceptance.

My family (my mom Sonia and sisters Mae, Geraldine and Valerie) and I have embraced God’s will and our own humanity (that we have no complete control over our lives because tomorrow belongs to God), after almost 10 months of hope and denial. Just like Dad, we had clung to the barest thread of hope that he would be the exception and survive pancreatic cancer, especially since he had rallied past the three weeks, then the three months, then the six months he was given to live. When his spiritual adviser Fr. Tom Naval shared with us that Dad, though refusing to give up the fight, had accepted that in the end, his life was in the loving hands of God, we, too, started to let go.

Last Sunday, as fresh flowers blanketed his coffin, and freshly dug soil then fell in clumps on his sealed casket, our physical separation from the man who loved us, his daughters, from the moment he knew of our existence in our mother’s womb, was complete. It was like an elevator door had been shut close, with the elevator rushing above, and no matter how we pressed the button, the doors would open no more. Dad was now beyond reach.

So this is what closure means, I thought, as the wreaths (of which Dad received a multitude) were then gently arranged like a caress on the earth above his sealed casket. His mortal remains were forever beyond our sight. We will not see Dad anymore. Our faith tells us he rests in a better place now. He believed.

We believe.

* * *

I had read somewhere that the Irish measure a man’s life by those who came to his wake. I guess even if we aren’t Irish, the saying holds true. My dad’s principled life was honored by the presence of President Noynoy Aquino and Vice President Jojo Binay at his wake. Am I bragging? I guess I am. My Dad was once this little sickly boy who was bullied by his playmates and some relatives, but he rose above adversity, conquered his insecurities, married a beautiful and devoted woman Sonia, worked hard to rise to an exalted position in an oil company, and raised four daughters who strove for excellence in their lives. My Dad never tried to get even with those who undermined him. He just let his life speak for itself.

Dad’s wake, abloom with flowers lovingly arranged by Rachy Cuna and Büm Tenorio (the very first to arrive at Dad’s wake), was also honored by the presence of many loving relatives and friends (especially his former officemates). It is true that those who come to condole with you in your hour of sorrow are a soothing balm on your wounded heart. Thank you to all of you, your names and faces are etched not only in my memory but in my healing heart, even if I cannot thank you all personally now.

His funeral Mass, made more spiritual and dignified by the edifying voices of soprano Rachelle Gerodias and tenor Dondi Ong, who sang Dad’s favorite songs I Believe and You’ll Never Walk Alone, surely made Dad sing along in heaven. Dad was the singer in the family, and I thank Dr. Aivee Aguilar-Teo and Eric Pe Benito for arranging for Rachelle and Dondi to sing at the funeral Mass.

And finally, where would we be in this journey we have on earth without our spiritual advisers to guide us? Who would have stilled our ships amidst the raging storms but the priests who come to us in our hour of need, reminding us of the love of God even when we seem not to feel it? Thank you to Father Tom, Father Gerard Deveza and Father Jerry Orbos.

* * *

When we were choosing sayings from the bible for Dad’s memorial card and obituary, we came across these lines from Timothy (II, 4:7), “I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith.”

Dad was never the observer. He worked with all his might until the day he got sick, to reach his goals. He worked with all his might so that his daughters could go to the best schools, wear the prettiest prom dresses and debut gowns. His last birthday gift to Mom was a Louis Vuitton bag. My sister Geraldine thinks Dad, the workaholic that he was, passed away because he learned there was a job opening in heaven.

His illness, debilitating though it was, was part of the race he had to finish. The way he faced his illness, with courage and strength, refusing to give up till the finish line was near, was vintage Dad. He showed us by fighting so hard to live that life was truly precious. He had not lost the faith and by his example, neither have we.

Dad, I still wonder why you left this world before I could reach your bedside in the US? I still ask you in my dreams, why you didn’t wait for me? I had flown half the world to be by your side. But through those who came to comfort us during your wake, I have some of the answers. It is not that you loved me less, but that you had a different role for me.

Dad, you had wanted to be laid to rest in Manila and I was the first to welcome you home at the airport. From the airport, I had the privilege of identifying your remains at the mortuary before they brought you to the funeral chapel for your wake. It took courage to do that but I did it.

When they opened your casket, I cried, “That’s my Daddy.” You were still handsome, your face with no mark of pain and suffering. So at peace.

You have fought the good fight, Dad. Rest now, brave warrior.

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