Mama, Would It Have Been Better If You Were Here?

I'm a grown man now than I was when you left me. Yes, I did some foolish things throughout those times, things you warned me not to do. I've done some things that irritated Papa as well. I've been a poor model to my younger brothers. I remember Lolo hitting me hard with a slipper because of my stubborn attitude, and yes, I deserved it. Yet, I always find myself asking, “Would it have been better if you were here?”

I've also learned how to use my fingers to measure water when cooking rice. And, believe it or not, I once won a small lottery game in our hometown that you enjoyed playing. The process of determining the three winning numbers was extremely hilarious. I've also experienced heartbreak in romance; I wonder if you would have counseled me or laughed at my silly pursuits. I still remember how we used to ride in a jeepney while the rest of our family rode in an air-conditioned taxi because I get dizzy and vomit easily in those types of vehicles. But you'd be surprised to learn that I can now ride a taxi with ease. I can now endure those smells that used to make me giddy and uncomfortable. Yet, I always find myself asking, “Would it have been better if you were here?”

A caterpillar eventually transforms into a butterfly. A single ice cube melts into water as time passes by. But I'm not sure which of those two I should associate myself with. Should I go with the butterfly that appears to be undergoing positive transformation and change? Or the other, which became liquid water due to a lack of rigidity and stillness? It occurred to me that I was both.

“Would it have been better if you were here?”  Perhaps I should stop asking that silly question and start facing reality. But, then again, isn't asking that question part of the reality? Isn't wrestling with this concept a necessary part of my undeniable existence? It's there. I can't avoid it. It begs to be answered. How I wish more memories of our time together would just plague my being, but my mind is held back by the weakness of my childhood. But isn't remembering spare memories with you is just adding pain to the pain? All of this, however, led me to something else.

Mama, you were to me what Monica was to Augustine. As she prayed for the conversion of her wandering son, I'm certain, at one point in your life, you too did pray for the welfare of my soul. You presented the name of your son before the throne of grace in heaven. And the One seated there graciously answered your petitions. I wish I could have been there to hear it, I would have cried for sure. But crying is my long-time companion, Mama. Even the moment that I was brought forth in your womb, there I cried much already. Today, I'm still crying, and beyond any doubt, for the rest of my life.

I love to think that humans were truly made to cry. They were born to weep and long for something – and likewise, for someone.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,”  Shakespeare said in one of his famous novels, “That I shall say good night till it be morrow.”  Indeed this whole thing was sweet sorrow, Mama. A sweet sorrow that must be accepted and endured.

It wasn't me, but it was you all along, Mama, who could rightly say, “It would have been better if you were here.”  Because there you are, enjoying the incomparable presence of our Savior, savoring the matchless sight of our Lord – the utmost and deep longing of my soul.

Mama, I'm looking forward to that day when we'll finally be reunited in eternity. Not to talk or reminisce about our experiences during our pilgrimage in this world. They hardly matter there for sure. But in praising and worshipping Him who lived a perfect life and was crucified at Calvary's cross and died for us both — our Lord & Friend, Jesus Christ.

“There we shall rest and see, see and love, love and praise,” said Augustine, “This is what shall be in the end without end.”

Until then, my dear Mama.

Loving you forever, 

Joshua