Silence. Peace.

"Remember what peace there may be in silence."

I have found consolation in these words from Max Ehrmann's "Desiderata" during the wake and burial of my great grandmother Consuelo Macaraeg, who died last week. Two words from that line struck me at once: silence and peace.

Silence. On so many different occasions in the life of Grandma has silence played a vital role.

Grandma was living in Canada when I was a kid, and every year she would come back home and stay at our place for a couple of weeks. My earliest memories of her were not as fond as I hoped it would be. In fact, I hated when she stayed at our house. I was at that phase in my childhood where I started to answer back to my parents and elders. And every time she heard me answering back, she got really mad. She chased me all around the house with a large pair of scissors in hand, threatening to cut my tongue unless I kept silent. Fortunately for her, it worked.

But unfortunately for me, I had learned to fear Grandma. I was scared to be near her, let alone stand close to her bedroom door. It was only when I started to grow up, and when Grandma started to live with us permanently more than ten years ago, that I understood why she had to do what she did and began to love her for it. Ever the matriarch of the family, she personally made sure that everyone, from her children to her grandchildren and all the way down to her great grandchildren, learned to show respect. Because, as we would also learn on a daily basis, with respect comes love.

That room I used to fear as a kid had gradually revealed itself to be her personal fortress of solitude. It was mostly silent. When it wasn't silent, it was either because she was talking with someone or she was watching television. Most of the time we would catch her playing a game of solitaire, or praying the rosary and her novenas to the Sto. Niño and Our Lady of Manaoag, or just fast asleep while tucked into her blanket and comforter.

There was always a feeling of awe whenever I stepped inside her room, whether to take a shower in her bathroom or to give her a kiss and a hug before I leave the house to go somewhere, immediately followed by a reminder: "Umuwi ng maaga apok, ha?" We were also careful not to raise our voices too much, or to just keep silent altogether, whenever we were near her room. It almost felt like sacred ground, especially with all the religious paraphernalia inside. Like our home had suddenly housed a chapel. But I think everyone in the family would agree that, if our house indeed had a chapel, her room is the most appropriate space. Simply because Grandma was a woman of faith.

That's another thing I admired so greatly about Grandma: her deep faith in God. She would pray the rosary and say her novenas in silence everyday with a lit candle in her room. We never missed Simbang Gabi, and we were always complete in attendance for the whole nine days of masses. She would go out of the house when a procession was passing by our street, and when the Stations of the Cross was being held at our street during Lent. When she was younger, I was told, she would go to Quiapo and walk while kneeling from the back of the church to the altar. But in her advanced age she would just ask us to pray for her whenever we told her that we would go to Quiapo or St. Jude, which we would happily oblige.

To tell you the truth, I always believed that, should anything ever happen to Grandma, she would overcome it because of that deep faith. I believed it three years ago when she was brought to the hospital because of heart problems and had to undergo surgery to have a pacemaker installed. I believed it two weeks ago when we called for a priest to administer the sacraments. I kept that belief intact because I had known Grandma to be a strong woman, both physically and spiritually, and so I was certain that she was gonna pull through like always. But that same faith, which Grandma has held on to for her entire life, teaches us that "there is a time and place for everything". And on that fateful September afternoon, after a bath and a light meal, it was apparently time for Grandma to say goodbye.

Her room is silent once again, although this time it's a different kind of silence. It's a silence coupled by emptiness, knowing that there's one less person in our home and in our lives. It feels strange whenever we glance at her empty room across the hall from our own rooms, with the door wide open and the bed unoccupied. It feels even more strange that we still tend to tone our voices down at home when there's no one to worry about us being too loud anymore.

This silence carries over to our own selves. No words could ever describe how all of us are feeling at this time of bereavement. We are still left with so many questions left unanswered. Why her? Why now? What could we have done? And just the same, there are still no answers to those questions. Once more we end up in silence, and left in the dark.

Yet, amidst this painful and deafening silence, I am certain that we can somehow find peace.

There is peace in keeping silent whenever Grandma threatened to cut my tongue even though she wouldn't actually do it, because from it I would learn respect. There is peace in her silent prayer, because we know that she is praying for all of us. And although it is still rather difficult to comprehend, there is peace in her passing away from this life, because we know that she is now in a better place. She is up there in heaven with her husband and her son, standing face to face with our Lord to Whom she has tirelessly prayed to, in the company of all the angels and saints.

The irony of this moment astounds me. Before, we asked her to light candles and pray for us whenever we needed prayers. Now, we light candles and pray for her eternal repose. Before, we used to carry her from her bed to her bathroom when she couldn't walk. Now, we only carry pictures of her in our wallets. Before, I used to run away from her because I was scared of her. Now, I couldn't bear the thought of her being gone because I love her.

But I believe we can also find peace in the fact that her death does not mean she will be gone from us forever. She is still very much alive. She is alive whenever we have diningding for brunch, or shrimp for dinner. She is alive whenever we serve at mass, or pray the rosary. She is alive whenever we see a deck of cards, or watch a baseball game. She is alive in each and every member of our family, whose lives she has touched with her maternal care. Strict yet sweet, feisty yet affectionate, stern yet ever so loving.

Thank you very much, Grandma. Thank you for everything. I will miss you everyday. And I love you everyday.