In loving memory
Thoughts. Often, they’re like butterflies in the garden of one’s mind, appearing out of nowhere, gliding in the air so gracefully yet ever so arbitrarily, as if begging for attention to their ephemeral beauty. Unless one takes a moment to cherish the sight, whether to marvel at the fluttering of butterfly wings or to save the memory of it through photos, the butterfly disappears.
This is my struggle. Words churn out in my head, ready to spring forth more ideas, but I don’t always allow myself time to sit down and transform their flight into something a bit more concrete. I favor doing what I deem to be more important and urgent things: work-related tasks, household chores, and consumption of other media.
I convince myself that I will remember my thoughts when I am more free and able to entertain them, but the same fluidity as when I first bore them never comes back.
Not today, I tell myself. For today, I shall put off washing the dishes so I may write about a dear one who succumbed to health complications around 7:30 p.m. last night.
^ She was Sister Mary Vianney Ramirez, SPC.
(Photo grabbed from Connie Simbolo)
During my first week in college, I kissed the hands of one SPC sister I passed by, and she was evidently taken aback, with disgust on her face that she tried hard to hide. It embarrassed me for, while I grew with the habit of pagmamano in my previous Catholic school, it was apparently not as common in the Catholic university.
Sister Vianney was different. She was always the approachable madre, when nearly all others were aloof. She wore her perennial, trademark smile that never failed to brighten our days. She never held back when telling stories of her youth. And while support from some higher-ups were mostly diplomatic and academic, Sister Vianney would go out of her way to give us the warmth we craved.
That’s how many will remember her.
My fondest memory of her, though, doesn’t even involve a physical meeting.
Sometime in 2012 when I battled my own demons, Sister Vianney was instrumental in finding a place for me in the university where I could just be. That one Sunday afternoon became a turning point in my life.
^ Taken in 2013, this is probably the only photo we have together.
(Photo by Kath Apan)
Our last encounter was from many years ago, when she had already transferred to the St. Paul Center for Renewal in Alfonso, Cavite. I joined a retreat, and she welcomed me like an apo.
I was never part of the Campus Ministry and the family they nurtured there. In effect, I never called Sister Vianney “Lola”, or, by extension, then campus minister Beng Corcolla “Mama”. But even if we had only a few encounters, Sister Vianney had always made me feel important and dear to her.
While mourning the loss of a beloved madre, I can’t help but also find joy and peace in the knowledge that she touched many lives.
She lived extraordinarily well. •
This is my struggle. Words churn out in my head, ready to spring forth more ideas, but I don’t always allow myself time to sit down and transform their flight into something a bit more concrete. I favor doing what I deem to be more important and urgent things: work-related tasks, household chores, and consumption of other media.
I convince myself that I will remember my thoughts when I am more free and able to entertain them, but the same fluidity as when I first bore them never comes back.
Not today, I tell myself. For today, I shall put off washing the dishes so I may write about a dear one who succumbed to health complications around 7:30 p.m. last night.
^ She was Sister Mary Vianney Ramirez, SPC.
(Photo grabbed from Connie Simbolo)
During my first week in college, I kissed the hands of one SPC sister I passed by, and she was evidently taken aback, with disgust on her face that she tried hard to hide. It embarrassed me for, while I grew with the habit of pagmamano in my previous Catholic school, it was apparently not as common in the Catholic university.
Sister Vianney was different. She was always the approachable madre, when nearly all others were aloof. She wore her perennial, trademark smile that never failed to brighten our days. She never held back when telling stories of her youth. And while support from some higher-ups were mostly diplomatic and academic, Sister Vianney would go out of her way to give us the warmth we craved.
That’s how many will remember her.
My fondest memory of her, though, doesn’t even involve a physical meeting.
Sometime in 2012 when I battled my own demons, Sister Vianney was instrumental in finding a place for me in the university where I could just be. That one Sunday afternoon became a turning point in my life.
^ Taken in 2013, this is probably the only photo we have together.
(Photo by Kath Apan)
Our last encounter was from many years ago, when she had already transferred to the St. Paul Center for Renewal in Alfonso, Cavite. I joined a retreat, and she welcomed me like an apo.
I was never part of the Campus Ministry and the family they nurtured there. In effect, I never called Sister Vianney “Lola”, or, by extension, then campus minister Beng Corcolla “Mama”. But even if we had only a few encounters, Sister Vianney had always made me feel important and dear to her.
While mourning the loss of a beloved madre, I can’t help but also find joy and peace in the knowledge that she touched many lives.
She lived extraordinarily well. •