Tatang

During one retreat in this Mindanaon monastery, I asked for permission from Father Col to join the monks in their labora or manual labor. All guests are welcome to join communal prayer during certain canonical hours starting with Lauds at 3:30 AM, but I was the first ever to volunteer to help with farmwork: I wanted to follow the community's motto of ora et labora (pray and work) as fully as possible during my stay, to see what spiritual fruit I could harvest from the experience.

I was given a straw hat and a bolo knife and assigned to help a monk cut wild grass and vines in one of the orchards. These contemplative monks have a vow of silence, but I do have a propensity- by my mere presence- for getting people to talk and pretty soon my companion was chatting about monastic life: how they grew much of the food on their table and sold their corn and coffee beans in the market; the financial challenges of running a monastery and farm; and their bemusement when another religious order which was prohibited by its rules from working begged them for food and alms.

That afternoon, while avoiding the bees the buzzed merrily around us, I remembered my late paternal grandfather (he appears with my brother Ojee in the picture above). Tatang was a rice farmer in Sapang Putik his entire life: with the support and business sense of my grandmother Inang, he was able to put all of their seven children through college.

Years later, while doing research for a book, I found out that he was also part of the Resistance during World War II- our family farm is in the heart of what was then called the Bulacan Military Area or BMA. During the War, no enemy soldier reached his guerrilla camp and lived to tell the tale. After the War, since he had fought as a guerrilla, his eldest child- my Tito Doc- received financial benefits in college from the government.

During lunch one summer while I was vacationing in Bukid, Tatang told my cousins Marc and Marcy and me to remember the hands that were responsible for our rice and food. He himself farmed the rice fields, but we his grandchildren were not asked to join him (he'd say it was too hot under the sun). He was a quiet man who hardly spoke, which was probably why his lesson of putting just enough food and eating each grain of rice on one's plate stuck. These days, for better health, I stop eating once I feel full, but not without first hearing Tatang's husky, gentle voice reminding me to feel grateful.

From the afternoon of labora in the monastery, guided by Tatang's spirit, I learned about the beauty and dignity of working with one's hands in tune with nature and the seasons. It was one of my happiest afternoons: I resolved to learn more about gardening and agriculture.

Tito Doc said that Tatang, while working in the fields during seasons of drought, would sometimes sigh, and his sigh would turn into a prayer: "Diyos ko, huwag Niyo pong pabayaan ang aking tanim." And it was a powerful prayer, for each time, a cloud would be seen floating toward Tatang's fields, stopping to hover above them and bring rain to the thirsty plants.

During one discussion about religion, I heard Tatay give an even better description of Tatang's simple faith: it was his work, labora, itself. For Tatang, as it should be for us all, laborare est orare- to work is to pray.