It is always painful when we lose a parent or a loved one. As they say, death is inevitable like taxes (and its countdown meter runs fast just like a taxi's). Death comes to everybody and not even in alphabetical order. We all have a number and when it is up, it is a case of, “Pass your papers whether finished or unfinished.” Everyday, billions of our brain and body cells die, so in effect we are dying in retail until the day we die wholesale and breathe our last.

Generally, our parents die first before we do. And the older we get, the nearer draw our parents’ deaths. That is why the parents of DCBC members are now like dry leaves falling to the ground one by one. The latest one to fall is Flor Ignacio’s father who died last June. I am not being facetious when I say that many others are on queue. So how do we handle the imminent deaths of our beloved parents?

In my case, it was with transparent and open love laced with humor. This was evident in Flor’s case, too. In the last days of her father’s life, she sang to him hymns during the night. Flor has never been with the choir, except to provide the decorations, and she does not sing loud even in church. So she said to her Father, “Tang, mas magandang singing ang maririnig mo sa langit kaysa dito.” (“Dad, the singing you will hear in Heaven is much nicer than here.”) And she did not have to say, “And you will hear it soon.” Both of them understood. Death may not be painless, but it can be made sweet.

My father was diagnosed with colon cancer the day after his 70th birthday in 1998. I went home to be with him. He was immediately operated on and had a colostomy. The doctors said after a second operation that his condition was delicate and further procedures would just make a bad situation worse. So we brought him home and he lived for almost three more years.

My father and I were very close. In fact, I still have to see a father-son relationship in others as close as the one I had with my father. He gave me much freedom: to critique him, debate with him, go to places on my own (I was seven when he sent me to Cebu, going along with a neighbor, to buy spare parts), and even to play practical jokes on each other. When I was home, he would wake me up at dawn for us to bike to the market and buy the early catch. We would take walks to the seashore during sunset and discuss local politics. Often, we would just sit on a bench by the plaza or some roadside and shoot the breeze. There were times that we would drink a bottle or two of beer, but only with my brothers, cousins, and hangers-on from the neighborhood. The others usually became our appreciative audience while my father and I engaged in debate (he thought Marcos was a good president) and made fun of each other.

Though it was devastating, I had to accept that I was going to lose him soon—for eternity, if he would not become a Christian like me. I had attempted to share to him the gospel several times, but he was so slippery. When he sensed the direction I was taking him, he would make jokes and change the topic effortlessly to my consternation. If I reacted because of the urgency, the more he made fun of the situation. Then I had to return a failure to Manila dreading long-distance calls especially at night for the bad news they might bring

What I did the next time I visited was to talk to him at the last minute of my stay, when either he took me seriously or else I would miss my ferry to Cebu with a very important meeting in Manila to catch. He was cornered and had to listen seriously. So I told him that I loved him (men don’t say those things to each other), that I knew he was going to die soon, that I might not see him again, and I wanted him to be with me forever with the Lord Jesus (his and my namesake) in Heaven, so he should repent of his sins and accept the Lord as his Savior. God was at work in him. I held his hand as he prayed the sinner’s prayer. I also gave him a Christian book, “Learning How to Die”.

On my next visits, having settled the urgent business, we returned to our fun-loving ways. We made jokes that may sound “morbid” to those uninitiated (later on, only Ate, my older sister remained so—the rest of the family was on to it). Once, when my mother came home after sunset, my father told her that if she would entertain suitors after he dies and she goes home late, he would turn on all the lights, and then turn them all off. My mother said she will have flashlights ready. It was bittersweet to hear that kind of repartee, though it showed that we had made peace with the inevitable.

My father settled all unfinished business and tied all loose ends. When a brother was to be married, my father asked two of my other brothers, who for urgent reasons only had civil weddings, to be married in church together with the first brother. It was the only time that a triple wedding of brothers was held in our place. He also made sure that his last will and testament was properly prepared so that his vast properties would be divided among his heirs without trouble or bloodshed. (That last sentence is a joke—the “vast properties” rather more than the “bloodshed”).

I still vividly remember the time and place and how I felt when I got the news that my father died. Nothing, not even the three years, prepared me for the pain I felt. It seemed that there was a hollowed out portion in my body and my mind told me that it was permanent. He went away and will never ever come back. All I had was the hope that I will join him someday.

My Ate was very angry at me at first because we did not even attempt to give my father medical help to extend his life. It was hard for her to accept that it was time for my father to go. Sometimes, loving is letting go.

But my father did not go without one final joke. He gave instructions that during his last moments, he wanted to wear all white, like his pajamas. So when the family saw him dying, they changed his clothes. They started crying when they saw he was no longer breathing. But then they were surprised when with his last strength he crossed his legs and (if I knew him well) attempted to put his right arm over his eyes. He wanted people to say at his wake, “Parang natutulog lang,” because, “kulang na lang unan at kumot.” (“It’s just as if he’s sleeping; all that’s lacking are a pillow and blanket.”) My mother told me that they were crying and laughing at the same time when my father died.

The Old Testament has a wonderful phrase for dying as being “gathered unto his people”, which means to be joined with our beloved who have gone before us and are now in glory with the Lord. So I look forward to death—even if I don’t have much life insurance—for what happens after death is wonderful for a Christian. To keep away from untimely death (before the three score and ten are up) is good stewardship, but when death happens we need not be in another place avoiding it.