My Father and the Pope

I caught one of my father's rarest indications of humanity, once, in 1995. Behind the facade, I didn't know it existed.

Pope John Paul II was in Manila for the World Youth Day. I was in my third year in high school. We were watching the live telecast of his visit at home. We eagerly awaited, for various different reasons, his coming. I was curious.

And then the moment came. A throng of jubilant crowds filled the streets, at a distance, the popemobile appeared. The crowds waved flags, placards, handkerchieves shouting: "Viva Il Papa!"

Moments after, there he was and the chanting grew louder. The camera zoomed. Pope John Paul II was amongst us. A divine energy swept through the crowd as they went hysteric; waving more wildly whatever it was they held in their hands: posters of the image of the Pope, handkies, placards. Fathers lifted their sons for them to get a better view of the man. Women wept in utter joy. Strangely, I felt the same vibe.

What was it with this man to cause this effect?

Then I saw my father, weeping. It was as though someone familiar has arrived for a homecoming. Someone who was dearly missed.

I still remember that instance: my father, in sheer submission. These kinds of memory are very few.

My father has passed on to the great beyond in February this year. And the Pope has gifted me with that memory.

The Pope passed away this Saturday (Sunday in Manila, April 3, 2005). I am forever thankful.