When I first started going to the Philippines a few years back, I met a lady that my wife and I refer to as “The Talkative Lola”. Lola in Tagalog means grandmother, and at the time I met her, she was about 78 years old.
We called her the Talkative Lola because as she would walk past my wife’s house, she would always stop and have a chat, lasting at a minimum 30 minutes. When I was there, it was usually an hour. While her English wasn’t perfect, I understood her well enough to carry on a conversation.
In this place that’s slightly less Catholic than, say, Vatican City, this woman was Super Catholic. Mass every Sunday, a picture of the Virgin Mary in her house, prayer cards. I understood that, and I understood how she acted when she found out that I was a Protestant. I’m not saying she treated me any differently than anyone else. Quite the opposite actually. She would always make a point in telling me that Protestants and Catholics were basically the same, worshipping the same God. She also let me know that in her life she had had many Protestant friends, saying this in the way that white people used to talk in the 60’s and 70’s about other minority groups. “Oh, I have quite a few (insert name of minority group) who are good friends.”
When I was there and would attend Mass with the wife and her family, the Talkative Lola made it a point of bringing me to the priest to get a blessing and say something along the lines of, “he’s a Protestant, but really a good guy.” The priest would smile, and I would smile and laugh a little bit. I found all of this both touching and funny at the same time.
When my wife and I went back there a few weeks ago, the Talkative Lola had been quite ill and in the hospital. After we arrived, we found out that her body was failing her and she didn’t have long left on this earth. Instead of letting her stay in the hospital, away from family and friends and racking up medical bills at $1500 a day, she told her family that she wanted to go home. I had a chance to visit with her one evening while I was there. At that point, her kidneys had stopped working, she couldn’t speak, and couldn’t keep anything but baby formula down. I talked to her for a moment, smiled at her, and then got out of the way of the other 100 or so people crammed into the small house.
This past Monday, she passed away at the age of 83. My wife and I talked about her situation a lot, and both agreed that the way she was doing it, by coming home, was the right thing to do. At that age and the condition she was in, there really wasn’t much the doctors could do for her anyway. We both agreed that 83 is a good long life, and she should spend her last moments on Earth with those who love her.
I know very little about the woman, all in all. I know that she was a devout Catholic, that she loved her family, and had a great sense of humor, and could talk a blue streak when she felt like it. It’s amazing sometimes the way that people make an impact on your life and the fact that while you may know very little about them, they still hold a place somewhere near your heart.
I hope that she finds peace in whatever comes after this.
No comments:
Post a Comment