nang myra

Nang Myra was one of the first persons I came to know in Parish of Jaro, my first assignment. To be exact I met her in the morning of Saturday, September 19, 1993, my first morning at the cathedral.

How could I probably miss her? The first time I entered the room where they folded Candle Light her appearance struck me - attracted me actually. She was the oldest among the Children of Mary (except for her, they were all literally children), her posture was ramrod, her composure always demure and her manners, gentle, though she had been sitting for hours folding the paper. Her face was bright and genial then, and she was smiling, grinning from ear to ear.

 Throughout my three years, this same face will little by little turn sullen and white, her hair would thin out, her posture becoming more and more bent and her bearing noticeably uneasy and labored. But that broad smile would be the same smile that would greet me every time I entered that room as she went about her work.
Nang Myra is a regular folder . . . no . . . a faithful folder. The dying out of her organization, her many bouts with her illnesses, her failing body, her four children and her husband could not stop her from going there every Saturday. In fact when she was too ill to do the task, she would ask permission like a little child in school to be excused. 

When Fr. Eman requested me to write about her the first word which came immediately to my mind was faithfulness. There is no other apt description for this woman of faith. No papal honoree could match that. She may not have been successful in life, she may not had the best of luck or the best of health, but she was faithful till the end in that little, humble, silent task in the back room of the cathedral convent. Unrecognized she might be, yet the faithful God whom she now possesses, or who possesses her completely, is more than enough.

As a tribute, I would like to offer her in the name of the staff, this comic strip, to show to everyone that though she may not be rich, famous and successful, yet she has left us “a beautiful tree” . . . planted, nourished, made to grow . . . and perpetuated through all the years by her own simple expression of faithfulness - folding it week after week.

Myra, it’s a shame we won’t be around to see it when its fully grown. . . . 

“Why? Where are we going?” 

You tell me Myra, because I believe you are already there. Tell me . . . is our Father’s house truly beautiful?