A Yellow Raincoat’s Meeting with the Father

When I first learned of the the Holy Father’s plan to visit the country—Tacloban, no less!—somewhere around August or September last year, my heart was already set in stone. I am going to see Pope Francis. No matter what it takes.

This desire isn't rooted from media-driven fascination, where I saw wonderful things about him in the news that immediately made me a fan. It is instead from a profound companionship I've developed from reading his letters, his homilies, the things he happened to say while passing at a random person on his pope mobile. This was the first time I've intimately followed a pope, maybe because I was still too young at the time of Pope John Paul II and too cynical at the time of Pope Benedict XVI. But what is so different about Pope Francis? I can't really tell you, but there is something about him that affects me deeply. A joy, a radiance, something different. And this "something" is further magnified when you get to see it, albeit from a distance, in person.

Tacloban City is a four (sometimes five)-drive away from our town. For those of us who live this far, we had to start traveling as early as 6:00 a.m. on Friday (January 16). The weather was already sulking, and we knew that when we reached Tacloban, we would be met with a storm. And so we were.

I haven't been to Tacloban for a long time, which was before Yolanda. I remember how pretty she was, a young lady compared to the sophisticated woman that is Cebu. She is comfortable in her own skin and sits primly at the table, waiting to be acknowledged. I guess nobody expected that the time for the world to finally see Tacloban would be when she was brought to her knees, broken and shredded and drowned. I felt a slight shudder as we passed by the remnants of the storm: the perpetually bent trees, the damaged bridges, the balded mountains. The roofs of Tacloban's houses are not unlike a toothless mouth of a fully grown man, not at all adorable to behold; and the cracks on the walls of the buildings are like scars scratched by a long ugly finger, a tragedy forever etched in concrete. Yet despite the visible remains of the tempest that has ravaged her, she remains unsoiled and beautiful. Her spirit is still intact and pure, personified by the warm kindness her people constantly and consistently offer to themselves and to those who surround them.  

We spent the rest of Friday afternoon listening to the orientation: where we were supposed to go, what we shouldn't bring, what we should expect, etc. We were handed our yellow rain ponchos and told to expect a downpour when he head out and walk to the airport by 4:30 a.m., Saturday. I was amazed that as early as 9.30 p.m., Friday, people were already marching to the venue. It was already raining by then, which meant that they would spend the night out in the open wet and cold. 

Pilgrims waiting as early as 9:00 p.m., Friday

By 4:00 a.m., Saturday, we were already in line, en route to the airport. The wind was already picking up, and the rain still hadn't let down. It took us perhaps an hour or so to actually get inside the venue. There was mild pushing, sulking, and complaining—but I had not heard a single one say they would rather go home. It seems were all unified in this little sacrifice. Plus, the human barricades greeting us warmly with their good-mornings helped ease the tension.

Security was tight. I had to dispose of a newly bought alcohol bottle and my beloved comb to be allowed in. I also had to leave my lipstick at one of the stores because they said lipsticks weren't allowed (what? why!!). But who was I to question security, right?

Seven a.m., the weather had gone worse. The wind was already violently pulling leaves from the trees and messing up the sound system. It took us a while to find our quadrant, and when we finally found it (right smack in front of the sound system), we settled in for the wait. 

Our view of the altar

My bladder thought it would be the perfect time to relieve itself, so I dragged myself to the makeshift restrooms, which unfortunately was on the opposite, extreme end of where we were. When I was ready to go back, I was horrified to find out that the police had closed off the way to the other side (meaning, I was not allowed to cross from one side of the venue to the other, where my quadrant was). I was stuck there in the middle crossway along with other pilgrims, who were already on edge from begging the policeman to let them cross. One of them was the head doctor from one of the field hospitals, whose presence was obviously urgent at her station on the other side. But this policeman was relentless! He told us he was just following orders. I climbed the barricade, already in tears, to desperately get a glimpse of my mother and signal to her that "I'm here! I'm here! They won't let me cross!"

I really do not wish to dwell on those mildly infuriating moments, but we finally were able to summon another police officer, who was more sympathetic of our plight and finally allowed us entry. Did the blindly obedient policeman expect us to enjoy the presence of our holy father away from our families? I knew he was just following orders, but it was a situation that demanded more sympathy and discernment than "obedience."

A few minutes before  nine, a plane whizzed past, which again triggered another round of excited screams from the crowd. When it finally landed on the runway, we were all shouting for joy and clapping and chanting, "Viva il papa, Papa Francesco!" They had already announced that the mass would be simple, owing to the even worsening weather, and they would dispense with the communion. Nobody was disappointed. We were just glad for the father to have arrived safely and, for a few special hours, he would be with us in the flesh—not just pixels on a TV screen, words on a monitor, or a picture on a T-shirt—but him! His personal presence! His voice! Everything else was immaterial: the rain, the wind, the cold, the aching cricks on our backs begging for reprieve, the hunger pangs, the shortened hours. It didn't matter. He was standing there, wearing the same yellow raincoat we had on, with the same flimsy white hoodie string that comes loose after you pulled on it one too many times. Our father is here! He is finally here!

Nanay, braving the cold

The loud euphoria gave way to silence as he started the mass. All our necks were strained to get a glimpse of him (I personally felt like I was Zacchaeus), but his voice was clear. We were already choked up in emotion when he came out, but when he finally spoke to us directly in his homily, when he asked our permission if he could address us in Spanish (to which we eagerly shouted yes!)—we knew, this was the moment we've been waiting for. This was the message that would make our sacrifices mean something. So we listened.

If you've been there or just watching on TV, you know what he said. You know how it touched you, how earnest and pained he looked when he apologized that he came a bit late and that he couldn't stay long. You heard the sadness in his voice when said he didn't know what to say to us, that he prefers to suffer with us in silence. And it was his silence that embraced us, that touched our wounds, that offered Christ's healing. It was this silence that allowed us to open ourselves to be looked at by Christ, who the father said would never let us down. 

 You saw how animated and fervently he spoke about Christ, pointing at the Crucifix and saying that this is Who we should look to when we are suffering. We have someone who is capable of being our companion, not just abstractly, but concretely, someone who shares our pain and can therefore heal it. Christ is the Lord, the father said. He is like us in every respect, except in sin. And beside Him on that holy cross is our Mother, whose hand we can hold  when nothing makes sense. We are not orphans, the father reminded us. Even though we have lost properties, families, or the sight of the better things to come, Christ is there with the Mother. We are not alone. We are loved.

The crowd in the middle of the storm

Being there, amid crying yellow raincoats, I felt a profound gladness and felt tears in my eyes. Looking at the people around me, I can say that they felt the same. If they recalled their lost loved ones, I wouldn't know, but something touched us that stirred us all deeply to our core that we couldn't help the tears. Christ was here, reaching out to us to embrace our humanity. This was what it means to be loved. To be one person among a hundred thousand more others and feel special. This was why the father came. To tell us we are special. To tell us that we matter and our suffering always counts for something. All is not lost. We have Christ and, therefore, hope.

We left Tacloban later that day with our hearts full of this something, a mysterious, overwhelming joy that where once we felt obscure, we have been found. It was truly a day to be treasured.