Father Nico wasn’t at the rectory when I arrived at his parish. He had gone to a small village to celebrate mass. The parish secretary told me that she was expecting him any minute. She offered me water when she noticed that I looked haggard and tired from the trip. I had met her before from my previous trips to San Felipe.
“Is Father Nico expecting you?” she asked me.
“No. I just finished school and I thought I’d come and see him for a colloquium,” I said, wiping my sweaty brow, from the short walk where the jeepney dropped me off. After a good downpour it usually felt warm in tropical places like the Philippines. The ground often emitted steam from baking in the heat of the sun followed by rain. Just outside the parish office was a bamboo table with chairs, where the rectory boys and the priest often hang out when they weren’t busy. In front of the property was the church, behind it was the rectory. The space between the two buildings was a small patio, where the homemade table and chairs were stationed. A few pots of tropical plants lined on the west side of the table, just beside a façade wall separating the church property from the residential lot. Some children were playing in an empty lot beside the church. A few boys were teasing a young girl who wasn’t wearing a panty. The girl was crying. The boys were unrelenting. A woman came to pick up the girl and shushed the boys who immediately dispersed. The woman and the girl dropped by the rectory looking for the priest.
“He’ll be coming soon. He went to Santa Marta,” said the secretary.
I remember Santa Marta. Father Nico once took me there when he celebrated the mass one summer. It wasn’t really far from San Felipe but the only transportation available was a horse. People usually walked to and from Santa Marta. When they have heavy luggage or baggage they hired men with horses or a sled-pulling carabao, a water buffalo that grows in southeast Asia. It was probably ten or twelve kilometres between the two villages.
“I just wanted to follow up on my request from the social action office in the diocese,” said the woman, standing outside the office, just beside the bench I was sitting on. “It would really help if we can get that loan.”
“I will tell Father Nico when he comes back, if you don’t want to wait. You can come back tomorrow, he doesn’t have any schedule,” said the secretary.
The woman walked in the office. The little girl, whose mud-covered face showed marks she had been crying, sat on the concrete floor. She looked at me suspiciously, like I was going to tease her as well for not wearing underwear. She stared but never said a word. I didn’t talk to her either. I was afraid she’d cry.
“Who’s the guy outside,” I heard the woman whispered to the secretary.
“He’s a seminarian visiting Father,” the secretary responded, also in whisper like it was a big secret. I wasn’t sure which should be the secret, that I was visiting Father Nico or that I was a seminarian.
“Ah, I saw him got off the jeepney,” said the woman. “I thought we’re getting a new priest.”
The not-so-secret whispered conversation somehow massaged my ego. It felt good that somebody had mistaken me for a priest. That was the third time on this particular trip that a stranger mistook me for being a priest. It somehow helped me regain my identity. I was a would-be man of the cloth, a would-be priest. People were picking up the vibes from me, the priestly vibe that no money could ever buy. It made me realize that indeed my vocation to the priesthood was showing some outside manifestation to people I met and encountered. But such situations made me more aware of my need to purge my conscience, to confess my sins and make peace with God.
After a while and Father Nico hasn’t shown, the woman decided to take off.
“I need to start making dinner. Celso will be home soon from the field and he’d want dinner,” she told the secretary. The girl got up from the floor, grabbed her mother’s hand and the two went away. The secretary told me that the woman was wondering who I was, that she saw me walked towards the church and rectory from the main drag. She told me that the woman thought I was the new priest to replace Father Nico.
“Is Father Nico being replaced?” I asked the secretary.
“Oh no. People just often think the priest is being replaced when they see someone coming here and they haven’t seen him before,” she explained.
“I see. Is Father Nico busy tomorrow? Does he have appointments?” I asked the secretary.
“Not that I know of, his calendar is clear tomorrow,” she said.
I asked because I wanted to know if Father Nico would have time to talk with the woman I met in the jeepney in case she shows up tomorrow. As the secretary and I were chatting about what has been happening in the parish; that they’re getting a student catechist this summer; that the bishop is coming for the fiesta and all that, Father Nico and a whole gang of rectory boys arrived. It wasn’t really a gang, there were only three young men – Lucas, a guitarist who leads the congregation in singing during the mass, Atoy, a sacristan who serves the priest in the mass and another fellow who probably carries the bag and whatever offerings the people give the priest.
“Father, guess who resurrected from the dead!” Lucas the guitarist yelled as soon as he saw me. Father Nico was walking behind him. Lucas and Atoy both shook my hand and seemed happy to see me. Lucas took my bag from me, while Atoy proceeded to the kitchen with the other fellow carrying a basket full of vegetables, probably a gift from the farmers. From a few metres, Father Nico’s smiling face lit up the space.
“I thought you’ve forgotten the way to San Felipe, you city boy,” the priest teased me, as he lay his hands on my head to bless me.
“I had been busy. I’m sorry I haven’t visited you for a while,” I said.
“So how’s theology? You survived your first year?” he asked.
“I think I did. I was told I’m welcome to come back,” I said.
“Good. You better hurry up, we need more new priests,” said Father Nico. He grabbed a bench in front of me.
Lucas came back with a glass of ice water for the priest. He asked if I wanted one. The priest told him not to ask, just bring another glass. Atoy and the other fellow, whom I haven’t been introduced to, started making dinner in the kitchen, the priest and I moved to his office where we continued catching up with seminary stories.
It was one of the few places where I felt safe to talk about what was happening at the seminary. It was like a sanctuary where I didn’t feel the threat of being betrayed. Father Nico was one person I have trusted since I entered the life of a seminarian. He was one of the few with whom I was comfortable being candid about my struggles, my fears, my concerns, and yes even my secrets.
As the smell of pork sinigang wafted from the kitchen to the priest’s office, my lips unlocked the stories of the past months.
