My parents chose my dad’s twin brother to be my godfather, or Ninong, when I was baptized shortly after I was born. Growing up, though, I didn’t quite see him that way. I was too busy delighting with my siblings in the idea that half way across the planet there was a dude who was just like our father. We lovingly referred to him as Tito (Uncle) Daddy. He and his family would visit Canada, or we would visit the Philippines and my thoughts would be consumed by the trippiness of it all. But as I reached adolescence, already in a confusing whirlwind of being a motherless daughter learning to live in a blended family, I began to long for the support and wisdom I thought I was entitled to from him. My older sisters were closer in age to his children, my cousins, and I felt at a disadvantage, like they had a more direct link to him than I.
And then they moved to Canada a few years ago. What a joy to see my dad and his twin brother reunited after dozens of years living apart, and to have the opportunity to get to know our cousins better and have all our children grow up together.
And then my Ninong was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. And the lesson I yearned for all those years ago had begun.
I had floor seats to witness a journey of perseverance and surrender; faith in its purest form.
Not once did I see him wince or draw pity from anyone. And when he was physically able, he would be driving around, attending daily mass, playing tennis with my dad, helping to care for his grandchildren, and enjoying fellowship with the wide network of friends they amassed in the few years they were living here. He and my aunt even lent their support to Team Tini in 2009 and joined our Light The Night walk on that chilly October evening.
When the decision was made to stop pursuing treatment last fall, we had an intimate gathering before Tito Daddy and Tita Mila went back to the Philippines. How difficult it was for the rest of us to stay strong the entire night! But him? He was oozing bravery. In a calm voice, speckled with a cough here and there, he shared his thoughts with us and closed with, “I just have to prepare for Heaven now.”
I was fortunate enough to squeeze in a less somber lunch with them a few days later – my first (and last) opportunity to spend time alone with him. I moved forward from those two days with a heart full of gratitude. My godfather taught me about strength, selflessness, surrendering to God’s will, and unconditional love, all by example.
My heart is broken today and yet at the same time it is overflowing and at peace. Because he is Home. And I know he was ready for it.
Lei, for real. 