EVERY 1st of November, my mother always insists on traveling from our hometown all the way to Cabanatuan. I never knew why we had to travel that far just to attend a mass, let alone was I interested enough to ask.
Today is the same; she wakes me up before sunrise and orders me to bathe as we are yet to travel again.
Hours later, we finally arrived at our destination. Before my mother could step inside the church grounds, she came to a halt, noticing my lack of movement.
“Nicho,” she calls. “What are you standing there for? Come on now, the mass is about to begin!”
How do I tell her that I was never a fan of such religious practices?
Wordlessly, we enter. The lights pass from one stained glass window to another. Soon after, the priest starts his sermon, and the mass commences.
Halfway through, we kneel down and silently pray among ourselves. My mother finishes before everyone else, turning to me with a small grin.
“Do you know who is the patron saint of this church?” she asks, to which I shake my head. “It is Saint Nicholas of Tolentino. I used to pray in this church specifically because of him. I used to wish he would watch over you when you were deathly sick as an infant.”
She then caresses my cheek, a soft smile adorning her face. And then the mass carries on.
Perhaps indulging in my mother’s love reignites my faith.