My
dearest daughter: Let me begin this
letter with a plea for pardon. I am
aware that what I am about to say may sting you, and yet in conscience I
believe that my silence might hurt you more.
I have spent countless nights turning these thoughts over and over in my
head—specifically since last Christmas when for a few days we had the privilege
of having you at home with us and enjoying all those family reunions and
parties—agonizing over how I could share with you my observations without
sounding like a meddler. I do not know
how it happened but after you had gone and life went back to normal, bits and
pieces of those holiday moments with you would flash back to mind, very much
like a silent movie trailer challenging me to listen to what was left unsaid.
Strangely
I would catch myself seeing you not just as a nun but also as a daughter I had
given up for good, for God. In fact, I
would see through your religious habit the tomboyish grade-schooler, the spunky
papa’s girl, the teen-ager beginning to notice boys and scare them away with
her high IQ, the budding young woman we had hoped to give us brilliant
grandchildren in time, and the radiant “bride of Christ” crowned with roses on
her “wedding day.” As the women’s lib
generation would say: “You’ve come a long way, baby!” Maybe your mom is just getting old and
worrisome, but I cannot help singing to you along with Diana Ross your own
favorite song, “Do you know where you’re going to?”
Where
you are going, my daughter, is my rightful concern, too, in spite of the
security you enjoy within the convent walls.
Your being a nun creates expectations in others, whether you like it or
not—expectations which, by the nature of your vocation, you may not just take
for granted. The public expects you to
be different—because they believe you to be several notches above us in virtue
or holiness. You are aware of this, as
your numerous anecdotes about receiving special treatment from strangers
reveal. We, your family, have our own
expectations, too, that in the spirit of fairness must not be ignored. Like all others, rightly or wrongly we do
believe you are somehow morally superior to us, after all, you have “given up
everything” for God. As a consecrated
person, do you not feel obliged, for love of God, to be what people expect and
believe you to be? And does not God have
expectations of you as well?
I
hope you will not take offense at my temerity, but for now I do not want to
call you “Sister”; instead I just want to think of you as Nina, my daughter who
happens to be a nun. I as the woman who brought you to this world feel morally
obliged to speak out now, for I do believe God has expectations of me,
too. I may not have a Ph. D. as you do,
but child, if your two doctorate degrees teach you to dismiss as grumblings the
observations of one who has given birth to and raised six children, then I will
not think twice about twisting your ear so you can hear your mother ask, “Do
you know where you’re going to?”
As
a much younger nun, you were a perfect blessing to us, I’d dare say. You were much easier to get along with, for
one. You were a model of congeniality
and humility for all of us; your nephews and nieces adored you and listened
eagerly to your bible stories; your cousins sought your advice; even our house
help revered you as you would always volunteer to do the dishes, sweep the
floor or change the curtains while vacationing with us. Your father and I secretly felt very proud of
you as we did not have any doubts anymore that you were in the place God had
called you to be. But last Christmas, I
sensed a disconnect between that young nun and the 45-year old “Superiora” you
are now. What bothers me is you seem
unaware of the effects your ways now have on others. Or, do you care at all?
Take,
for example, that time when, besides the lechon
paksiw and other holiday take-home food you had been given, you asked for
the unopened bags of chips and chocolates.
Did you not notice the furtive glances from those at the table as
you—loading them into a huge bag—were saying “Walang ganito sa kumbento eh!” I was quiet lest you think I was depriving
you of a little luxury, but I was thinking, “My child, if they don’t give you
junk food in the convent, there must be a good reason for it.” It alarms me as your mother to realize that
your appetite for such “goodies” has made you forgetful of your doctor’s
warning about the threat of diabetes—and your very own concern about weight
gain.
I
also noticed something in your conversation.
While it was good that you sounded very well informed about world news—and
your nieces and nephews said you were
“cool” to be abreast of internet trends and social media—I missed the way you
used to make us see mundane affairs in the light of the gospel. It
was something only you in the family could do—lead us to the Lord through your
insights as a daughter of the Church. Years
ago I had felt sure your higher studies, your travels abroad, your interaction
with anointed men, and your assignments to important posts would make you an
even better story-teller, enriching our lives and drawing people closer to the
Lord, but last Christmas I saw that it did not happen. At one point you even expressed
dissatisfaction over the homily of a bishop. If I had been blind (and therefore could not
see your religious habit), I could swear I was just listening to a college
professor who may not even be Catholic at all! I felt sad.
I
as a mother also felt sad for your siblings when you acted disappointed since
none of them could accommodate your request for a ride back to your
convent. I know they had done that for
you willingly before, but people’s needs change, and so do their priorities,
and it upset me that you, Sister Nina, were too insensitive to empathize with
them. They now have growing families,
with countless familial duties to cope with, but because they—not even your kuya—could not directly beg off and risk
displeasing you, they had to rely on me, your mother, to plead for your
consideration. When I suggested you take
a taxi instead, and you snapped, “Such a small favor to ask, and no one can
help? You know I’m afraid to take taxis!”
I seethed inside and managed to stifle a curt “Afraid? So where is your God?” That night I couldn’t sleep. I wondered what traumatic thing you had suffered
that made you dread taxi rides; you used to take taxis, jeepneys, buses, and
tricycles without fuss before you entered the convent.
Your
religious habit opens many doors for you—you know how our people hold priests
and nuns in high esteem. People believe
you are “malakas kay Lord” and count on your “hotline to God” to obtain favors for
them. But not all of those whom you help
are poor, and those who are not have rewarded your friendship and intercession
with gifts only the well-off can afford—like iPads, gadgets, branded bags and
shoes, etc. Has this gotten into your
head? Subtly ignited a sense of
entitlement in you? Or am I just guilty
of inordinately taking your religious vows more seriously than you are? Nina, my child, forgive me if I have been too
harsh on you, but I only wish to let you know that with what I have seen and
heard of you now, I am missing the young nun
we all knew many years ago who by her purity and simplicity spoke to us
of a divine reality to strive for in this life.
I have a few more years left before I join your father in the
afterlife. I pray you will look for that
young “bride of Christ” and find her still alive in the core of your being,
because when I am finally reunited with your father, I am sure he will ask
about you; I do not want to have to tell him, “I am sorry I lost her.”
