Mourning and Hope
Just got back from the wake for Mommy Jopson at Arlington.
I was in Cebu when I got Joy Kintanar’s text about her death last Wednesday, but thought that Girlie and I could go to her wake soon after I flew back on Thursday. Unfortunately, I had to leave early Friday morning to attend the workshop on consumer rights in Naga City and systems loss reduction in Lagonoy, and got back only today.
Fortunately, the main memorial service was tonight. The Jopson sisters and their youngest brother were there together with their life-partners and children. Most wore red, since that was Mommy Jopson’s request: “No black color.”
Of course the absence of Edjop, the eldest of their 12 children, was deeply felt by those of us from activist circles. One of the speakers shared a story I hadn’t heard before, about the young Edjop asking why they had household help, and vowing to do something in the future about that.
It was an evening of laughter and tears, and stirring music. The many talented children and grandchildren designed the evening as a celebration of life and love – Josefa Mirasol was happily married to Hernan Jopson for 60 years.
The pastor (many of the Jopsons are devout Christians) talked of it being OK to mourn. In fact, that mourning over Mommy Jopson’s passing is a special experience that cannot be repeated. One of the daughters recalled her last conversation with her mother, who kept asking her about heaven. What would it be like? And if she met Hernan in heaven would he still be her husband?
Since they were both believing bible-readers, the daughter referred to the passage about there being no more marrying in heaven; just brothers and sisters. “Perhaps that’s why she didn’t want to die yet,” she said, “She wanted to stay married for some time yet to my father.”
I was reminded of our last visit to Lucena, since that same gospel passage was read at the mass for my father-in-law’s birthday. On the way out of the church, Girlie asked me what I thought about the sermon by the French-Canadian priest who devoted most of his sermon to refuting the doctrine of reincarnation, and said it was in direct contradiction to belief in the resurrection. I don’t remember what I said, but I’m sure it wasn’t anything definitive.
At some point during the testimonies, Girlie and I shared our unease about the many literal references to the bible. We were not comfortable with the descriptions of heaven and life beyond which were couched in the language and literary forms of the times when the biblical books were written.
But we can’t help but think about death and life beyond death, especially during wakes. My mother and her father are over 80 years old, and have various aches and pains. As for us, though we look to many more years together, it is when we feel very loving and loved, that we ask each other and wonder what truly awaits us.
What new language do we have for expressing our hope?
I was happy to see Daisy Valerio whom I hadn’t seen in ages. Her son looked a lot like his father – Nilo Valerio, the SVD guerilla-priest who was killed and beheaded by the military. Up to now, Daisy has not found his body to give him proper burial.
I was in prison when I heard of Nilo’s death. When I was asked to send a message to be read at his memorial service, I found it hard to write, beyond expressing my mourning and anger, about the hope that we want to keep alive.
One of the grandchildren said that one of Mommy Jopson’s qualities is her “eloquent silence.” When words fail, or feel inadequate, that may be our remaining recourse.
