June 20, 2006 - Father Benito and Mom’s Final Farewell

June 20, 2006 - Father Benito and Mom’s Final Farewell

It’s after 10:00 AM on Friday February 3rd, 2006. We’re all seated in the pews of Our Lady of Assumption Catholic Church at the foot of the Franklin Mountains in El Paso, Texas. We’re here celebrating the funeral mass for my mother, Trinidad, and we’ve just heard Father Ben, the priest leading our service, sing without musical accompaniment, “Mamma” the song made famous by Connie Francis duringe the 1960s. When Father Ben ended his song, I had to repress an urge to applaud—that would have been out of character for this event.

Without missing a beat, the priest resumed his more somber mood and announced that Father Benito wanted to address the congregation. From the time we entered Our Lady of Assumption, I had noticed Father Benito seated in the center one of three chair at the right of the altar. Over a decade in retirement from the priesthood, he was attired not in the vestments of a priest but in civilian clothes—a nondescript cardigan sweater—buttoned, grey Docker slacks, and gray running shoes. His bespectacled, brown complexioned now graying, face, was a mask of stoicism, though his brown eyes were the picture of sadness—he had attended or presided over far too many funerals in his long life. While age had been kind to his noble visage, it had been less so to his body. His hands betrayed the involuntary shake of a mind loosing the fine control over bodily appendages it once disciplined in earlier ages. As he was summoned to the stage, Father Benito, slowly rose from his chair and approached a spot beside the dais. His gate was slow and measured and there was a hushed silence as everyone watched the priest’s slow progress to where Father Ben stood waiting.

Father Benito is another priest who has long been a close friend to both my parents. A Filipino immigrant he was called to fill slots left wanting by lack of sufficient numbers of native born priests. When he served at Our Lady of Assumption his ministry was so effective that he converted my father to Catholicism—no mean feat—and married my parents, perhaps the happiest day of my mother’s long life. Mom and Dad had been married by a military chaplain right after the war. After a good ten years at Our Lady of Assumption, Father Benito was transferred to a small parish in Presidio, Texas on the U.S-Mexican border 250 miles south and east of El Paso. Mom and Dad kept saying that he had disagreements with the Catholic Dioceses in El Paso and had been exiled, though Father Benito never viewed his transfer in that light. Instead he saw the plight of the immigrant Mexican population that worked the farms on the U.S. side—some managing to live in Persidio, others crossing between the two countries—all the while trying to raise families and care for them. He would continue to confound the church in Presidio as he fought to help his impoverished congregation make a decent living. His innate charisma quickly won over his local congregation and he had a large and loyal following that looked on him as their spiritual leader. Once Father Benito was transferred, Mom and Dad made trips south to visit with him for a week or two at a time, often bringing along other Filipinos who wanted to make the journey to see a well-liked member of their community.

I’ve never been to Persidio, but I’ve seen an 8-mm movie my father took on one visit. It shows a parade down a paved street intersecting with dirt roads along its progress in the predominantly Hispanic farming community. It had all the elements of every parade you’ve ever seen: a marching band—kids from the local school dressed in blue pants and t-shirt tops playing drums and brass instruments—and a sequence of floats drawn by pick-up trucks. The first float, pulled by a beige 1970s Chevy, is carrying the Seven Dwarfs and an attractive Snow White smiling at the bystanders along the parade route. Several other pick-ups follow, towing floats carrying attractive women smiling and waving at those lining the parade route. The film was made at least 20 years ago and its age added to the sense of past time captured in each frame: dust covered cinderblock, adobe, and stone buildings and finely dusted cars and trucks.

Of all the priests I’ve ever known, Father Benito was the most selfless I have ever met and his life is a testament to that selflessness. His worldly belongings can be contained in a grocery bag. He owns no property and lives in a retirement home for priests run by the Catholic Diocese in El Paso. He lived for a time with my father’s friend Charles Upton, now deceased, acting as a companion to the older man. Back then he owned a pick-up truck, a present from an admiring parishioner. My father kept it running. In those days, he was frequently called upon to say mass for homebound seniors or to lead a novena. He would be given donations for his services. He made enough to buy gas for his truck, items of clothing, and groceries—though he was often provided more food than he could eat by grateful followers. Now, no longer able to drive and his truck beyond being able to carry him anyway, he relies on his diminishing numbers of followers to drive him to and from fewer and fewer services.

As he reached his mark beside Father Ben, the younger man step back and gave the older priest the stage. When Father Benito spoke his voice completely contradicted the impression of the enfeebled old man that his body portrayed. His un-amplified, rich-toned, booming voice filled the church with his heartfelt words. He told the story of befriending my parents after he arrived at Our Lady of Assumption, referring to Mom, with the affectionate familiar Manang Nida, that Father Ben had used. He described my parent’s trips to visit him at his parish in Persidio bringing along donations of clothes and other goods for his parishioners. He related his time living with Charles Upton when my mother would prepare meals each day for both men and how satisfying it was to have her home cooking. He spoke of the many times he had celebrated religious holidays at my parent’s home and the many feasts he shared with them. He then spoke of my mother’s many good works and of her devotion to the religion that gave her peace and comfort. As he spoke I saw my mother in her final years, a kind, forgiving, and selfless woman who had sacrificed until the end. Her quality of life had been impaired by a drug regimen that had made her dizzy and tired most of the day, and increasingly less able to focus on details given to her in conversation. My mother had grown weary of her life but felt compelled to carry on and endure. She chose to die when none of her family was around. If we had been at her bedside she would have felt compelled to carry on.

When Father Benito completed his oration, the giant with booming voice was replaced by the aged priest that shuffled back to his seat at the right side of the altar. The church felt momentarily abandoned as if a spirit that had held us in its embrace suddenly vanished leaving us missing the inner peace we felt in its presence. In the wake of Father Benito’s benediction—for that’s what it felt like to me—Father Ben resumed the mass moving forward to The Liturgy of the Eucharist with the priest symbolically partaking of Christ’s blood and body—wine and bread in the service—and then sharing the body of Christ with the assembled worshippers. In some services, church attendees partake of wine and bread but in Our Lady of Assumption the tradition was only the bread. Along the way we gave a sign of peace to those around us hugging the family members in our pew and shaking hands with those in the pew behind us.

Afterwards those receiving Holy Communion formed a queue and proceeded to the alter to receive the host. As a child, it was a great sin to partake of the host without having previously performed a confession and act of contrition to cleanse your soul of wrongdoing. It was also considered unthinkable to chew the host—it was to dissolve on your tongue. Now, both taboos had been eliminated and I took my turn receiving the host, no confession, no act of contrition and I chewed the host. I knew Mom would have been pleased that I made the gesture. I had not gone to Church since leaving home except to baptize our two daughters, to witness both having their first communion—both chose to do so on their own after going off to UC Irvine—and to attend the wedding of our second daughter RD, married in this very church by Father Ben and three other priests. On the Christmases we came home to El Paso, our daughters ME and RD, with no coercion from IM or me—would attend midnight mass with Mom, the only times they were ever taken to church. You might think I’m hypocritical to have both baptized Catholic and never provide them with a church upbringing. You’re right, of course, but both have made their own peace with God and religion as have my wife IM and I. They came by their faith and beliefs as free thinking adults not as impressionable children with no choice.

As the service concluded, the pallbearers are called to the side of Mom’s casket and we walk it slowly to the entrance of the church. There Father Ben removes the white shroud that had adorned it during the service and we pallbearers lift Mom’s casket from the stand which the Martin Funeral Home attendant removes and we slow march in lock step out of the church entrance, down a handful of steps, right through the parking lot on the south side of the church, and slowly slide Mom’s casket through the open rear door of the hearse. The funeral entourage slowly reassembles and with our three uniformed motorcycle police patrolmen escort leading the way, we pull out of Our Lady of Assumption Catholic Church parking lot turn left onto Byron Street proceed one short and one long block to Hayes Avenue, turn right for five blocks to Dyer Street. At the intersection police escorts blocking traffic, the procession turns left and proceeds six blocks to Fred Wilson Avenue where it turns right and proceeds under Highway 54—Gateway Boulevard—and over Railroad Drive and Marshall Road, where the procession slows as it comes upon the entrance to Ft Bliss National Cemetery. There the hearse carry Mom turns right into the entrance and proceeds slowly through neat rows of uniform white tombstones of military dead and their family members lying atop the parched dust brown earth of an El Paso winter. I’m reminded of the second verse of John McCrae’s poem “In Flanders Field” about the World War I dead of Ypres, Belgium.

“We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.”

My mother’s life was that of a military wife. The military gave her strife as a young woman—moving her family from one Army base to another—but rewarded her in her later years with a comfortable life. Now, that same military was taking her into its bosom amid the graves of war heroes and average GI’s who did their duty to God and country. I often wondered how she felt about her life as an Army wife. It’s one of so many questions I never got around to asking her.

The procession wound its way round to an outdoor chapel on the western side of the cemetery, where the population of tombstones was sparse. It was a rectangular-shaped concrete structure with a flat roof but no enclosed sides. It had a small seating area and ample space behind to accommodate a large number of standing guests. Six or seven bare trees on the western side of the chapel stood poor guard against a gusty brisk wind. The midday winter sun was aglow in a completely cloudless sky shining brightly on the assembling crowd below. We pall bearers once again carried Mom’s casket from the hearse to the stand inside the chapel where Father Ben was waiting. When we had placed Mom’s casket on its stand we took our positions on the west side of the chapel, Father Ben and Mom to our left and the assembled mourners on our right. My sister LC, skinny as a rail, was beginning to shiver from the persistent wind adding to the chill underneath the chapel’s shade. I took off my suit coat and wrapped it around her as Father Ben began his final prayers over Mom’s coffin I was reminded of William Cullen Bryant poem Thanatopsis,

“Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
...
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings,
The powerful of the earth,—the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.”

It was as if all my high school English was rushing back into my head, reminding me of a time when my mother and I were young and death was an abstract concept years in the future. Only now the abstract had become real and my family and I were feeling its consequence. When Father Ben had at last concluded his prayer he asked me to come forward and address the assembly of Mom’s family, friends, and well wishers. I haltingly walked to where Father Ben stood and looked around at all those who had come to pay their respects to my mother and for a moment I was at a loss for words. After a brief pause, I said “thank you all for joining us in this final celebration of our mother’s life.” I walked back to my place beside my fellow pall bearers and my sister LC said it was the perfect thing for me to say and I gave her a bear hug that released all the emotion that I had welled up inside the past week. Everyone began to hug one another with tear filled eyes. All of us in the family felt a heavy burden lifted from our shoulders, We had said our goodbyes and Mom was free to be on her way in the world beyond and we were allowed to resume our normal lives as best we could knowing she was no longer with us. For my sister DD and I, residents of the of the distant right coast and the left coast of the country, respectively, getting back to normal would be easier than for those of our family here where Mom’s memory remains ever present, especially my Dad who would spend upcoming days and nights alone without her by his side.

Once the service had concluded, the cemetery personnel took possession of Mom’s Coffin and it was carried away to her grave site in another part of the cemetery. Later as those assembled began departing for a mid-day luncheon we had planned at a nearby restaurant, the two funeral home limo drivers said they would take us by the gravesite. As we watch the cemetery workers lower Mom’s coffin into the plastic casing that would seal her coffin within the grave, her final rest became a concrete reality. We left shortly afterwards to join our guests awaiting our arrival.