Church as the Favorite Place for the Child - Essay Example

It was almost dusk and all I could hear were bells from some two blocks away from the commotion I had been trapped inside. The crowded place was filled with older women wearing loose cotton blouses and skirts that hanged just above their ankles, and men with their shirtsleeves and trousers rolled up, with their straw-sewn hats and thin-soled rubber slippers. My short height of a five-year-old girl made me bump into one of those women with aprons filled with coins, smeared with animal blood that made my stomach twitch and I almost fainted. As I made my way out of a stall so filled up with people that as I rubbed my elbows against people’s shirts and trousers I could smell the stale sweat at their backs combined with the stench that came from butchered animals all over the place, I almost slid on the floor wet with animal blood, water and mud scattered all over one side of the stall. I tried to get away from the sound of the a large chopping knife against a wooden block trying to cut meat portions, then the soft crackle of plastic bags, then the clinking of the coins, and the screaming voices back and forth of vendors and customers—with all the buzzing murmurs all over the place. I was at the wet market and lost my grip from my mom. Sweat-filled, alone, frightened and in a place where I could not hear even my own whimper. As soon as I got out of the stall and walked a few blocks where there were less people, I started to ask help from a vegetable vendor. I could not understand her as she let out only sounds while she gestured her hands. But her kind face told me she understood my anguish through my swollen eyes and dried tears along my cheeks. She kept on pointing at the building where all I could see was the tall side with the bells, just behind the market, and a few blocks away from it. Desperate to seek help, and trusting her kind face, I walked further to the building. The building seems to have many people inside, but it was not filled. Outside the gates there were stalls set up, lit by candles with small cartons as signboards. From cheap empanadas, different from the empanadas that mom always makes at home, to popcorn to bottles filled with oil and leaves to rosaries and images of the Mama Mary—the stalls had all these which they gave in exchange for a few coins either from passers-by or people who left the building. I stopped to look at the sweets made from sugar that dad brought us everyday when he came home, instinctively felt my pockets, and realized that they were empty. At first I didn’t know what the edifice was, but I had been one that looked the same as that. That was the building a few blocks away from our house where my grandmother brought me during Wednesdays and Saturdays—where she kneeled, held her rosary and appeared to be reciting something while I sat at one of the pews in front. The building in front of me had chairs that were the same as the pews at the building where grandmother kneeled. Near the entrance doors were statues of angels holding bowls. The windows all over the place were huge with different colored glasses—they all had paintings all over. The ceilings had images too. At the front, there were tall lighted candles. The overwhelming smell of wax reminded me of the days we went to cemeteries. There were flowers too, in front, and there were baskets of fruits. There was a large table at the center. Beyond it, there were tall statues and images of Baby Jesus and Mama Mary, and other different statues with disks behind their heads, but I could not recognize who they were. The place was filled with people but there were still unoccupied seats among the pews. I heard the tap of my slippers against the marble floor as I strode my way to the front pews. When grandmother brought me at a similar building she always sat me at the front, she said, so she could easily glance over at me. The people beside me kneeled with closed-eyes and in silent murmur, I was afraid to disturb them and ask. I wanted to seek help from someone and ask as to what I could do. The vastness of my surrounding distracted me for a few moments; when the thought struck me again that I was alone and I still could not see my mother, I could not help but broke up into sobs. My knees shook, a little gasp of anguish went out of my mouth until a lump formed in my throat. I kneeled down and felt the firm foam under the bones of my knees. As I put my hands on top of a pew to mimic the gestures of the older people beside me, I started to cry silently. I remembered what grandmother said when we went to similar buildings when I asked them why she always went there. She told me that she went there when she felt sad or when she felt afraid. She would kneel and murmur things she called prayers to Mama Mary and Baby Jesus. I asked her what prayers were. She told me she had verses to recite for prayers, but anything that a person would speak and voice out to Mama Mary and Baby Jesus were prayers too. While I cried, I spoke to Mama Mary and Baby Jesus just like what grandmother told me. I told them how afraid I was for I was alone, and that mom and dad might already be looking for me and worried about me. I did not want them to worry. When I ran out of words, all I could do was to continue on crying over the pews. My tears welled up over the pews and I could not help but notice the sweet scent of wood in front of me. The thought stopped me crying, but I was still whimpering. All I could do was to kneel, and stare at the statue of Mama Mary in front of me, while thinking about my mom and dad and my family. I wished I was just at home. After a while my knees and the joints at my hips started to ache. From kneeling I went to sitting, still sobbing a little and still unsure of what to do. When I stared at the back, the surroundings were already dark. I would not dare to leave the place. I did not know, but I had the feeling that I would be safe in there. Soon people started to leave one by one. Still, I did not dare to move from my seat. It felt like an eternity of waiting, although I had already stopped from crying. I was calmer. All I could think of during that time was my family; how they would be at home. I tried to remember the last meal mom cooked that afternoon for lunch—rice with black beans and meat. I lavished at the thought of mixing the fluffy rice with the sweet meat inside my mouth and munch it for a few minutes, hear the soft crackle of black beans then gulp it all down my throat. The smell of spices haunted me. I flinched when I heard my stomach grumble. A few moments later, when just a number of people were inside the building, I heard a rush sound of slippers from the back of the hall. I was up staring at the carvings at the right side of the pew I was sitting at when someone grabbed me by the arm. It was mother, trying to catch her breath, down on one of her knees with tears welled up along her eyelids. I stared at her for a moment then she tugged and hugged me. I kissed her and smelled the same smell of butchered animals and sweat all over her—I later learned she went through all the stalls in the market and kept asking about me. When she went to a vegetable stall, she encountered a woman who could not speak a word but only made sounds and small hand gestures. She kept on pointing at the church a few blocks away from it. Mom stopped at every stall outside the church to ask, that was why it took her a bit long to get inside the church and locate me. Since then, the church had always been my favorite place. I felt like I was safe when I was inside it. After that experience when I was just a little girl, I followed what my grandmother told me. Whenever I felt sad, afraid or alone, I just had to go to church to either pray, or just stay there. I felt like it was a refuge. When I felt hungry, there was always the popcorn and empanadas outside. The smell of incense, sweet scent of wood and the solemn air brought by the dim light with tall candles never failed to relax me. I always had soothing thoughts when I got calmer. The paintings all over the walls, ceilings and windows always remind me of my good memories, as they reminded me of that certain memory of my childhood. Read More