I woke up this morning feeling sad. There was a heaviness in my heart that, for a moment, I could not understand. Then suddenly, the sense of loss set in and I remembered why I felt this way. A few days ago, my godfather Jose Maria “Chema” Estrada, a man I loved like a second father, passed away.

 

It was quick and unexpected, as is the case with aneurysm. But no matter how sudden or “painless” a loved one’s passing is, this is small consolation for those left behind.

 

His was a small immediate family. An only child and his wife of 40 years are left to pick up the pieces with his only remaining brother and the rest of his extended family.

 

Tito Chema was not related to me by blood but I count myself as part of the family he has left behind.

 

Like their daughter

 

His daughter, my dear friend Pilar, and I became good friends in high school. Both of us were growing up without any siblings and we quickly bonded, regarding the other as the sister we had always prayed for. In our college years we went to separate universities but, fortunately, lived near enough for us to spend as much time together as our parents would allow.

 

Tito Chema and his wife, Tita Shanta, treated me like a daughter; they always set an extra place for me at their dining table. My family was happy to do the same for Pilar.

 

As we grew older, my mom would set Pilar up on dates with my single male cousins, hoping that she would officially become family.

 

Family switch

 

After college, we had our little family switch. Tito Chema and Tita Shanta had moved to Madrid by then while Pilar finished her masters in Manila.

 

That year, I also moved to Madrid for a year; while I loved my stay for the independence and learning, I would never have survived in Spain without the support of Tito Chema and Tita Shanta.

 

Every Sunday, no matter how late my Saturday night ended, I would show up early at their doorstep and we’d go to Mass and have a delicious home-cooked brunch that would last until late afternoon.

 

Tito Chema was an excellent cook—I came home with 23 extra pounds to prove it—and our weekly lunches were always a culinary delight. Tita Shanta and I loved to tease our chef as we waited for our meals, which always took him all morning (and sometimes even all week) to lovingly prepare. My ninong had a special regard for eating and the bonds built over the table.

 

The three of us would while away the rest of the afternoon, taking long, leisurely walks around the city and talking about anything under the sun. It was during these many walks that I slowly learned more than any of us realized at that time. It’s amazing how in the small, everyday moments that the fabric of love is woven.

 

Pondering mortality

 

Now that those days are over, I am reminded of mortality. I think we all strive to live in a way we want be remembered, whether by many people or by our family. We can be certain that our children will remember us. Many of us will also be remembered by grandchildren. But, really, how many generations does it take before our names are forgotten?

 

Save for those who come from historically important or famous lineages, do you know the names of your great grand parents or anything about them? In the end, I suppose the only things that will allow us to live on will be the legacy of our love and faith.

 

 

Life lessons

 

I know many of you have never met or even heard of my Ninong Chema, but please allow me to share some of the things I learned from him over the last decade.

 

He always advised me to be prudent. Prudence is defined as “the ability to govern and discipline oneself by the use of reason.” More recently, it has come to be closely associated with cautiousness.

 

As a then impulsive 21-year-old, this concept was practically alien to me. However, rather than scolding and alienating a young adult, Ninong would patiently listen to everything I had to say, nodding and trying to see my point before telling me, “Prudence, dear Audrey. Remember, prudence.”

 

Once, during a light-hearted discussion, as he again reminded me to be prudent in my actions, I teasingly asked, “Who in the world is Prudence and why do you keep bringing her up?”

 

I don’t know why it happened, but a few years ago, I noticed that I began to hear Ninong’s voice at the back of my head, whenever I would be tempted to act rashly: “Prudence, dear Audrey, prudence.”

 

As I look back, I am inspired to try and instill values and virtues in a similar manner to my children. Not through judgments and harsh lectures, but through patience and understanding.

 

Cheerfulness

 

My Ninong was a virtuous man. He practiced the cardinal and theological virtues but added his own: cheerfulness. Unless he was deprived of a particularly good dish (in accordance with his doctor’s instructions), he was always in a good mood.

 

Shortly before I got married, Ninong took me out for a walk. As I got off the phone with my then fiance, I was feeling grumpy. Ninong said nothing and just listened as I voiced out my feelings.

 

But after a few minutes, as we were crossing the street, he spoke: “A cheerful wife is a joy for any husband to come home to.”

 

At the time, it made no sense to me. I glared at him for seeming to take Miguel’s side, but in hindsight, I realize Ninong was always considering my welfare. For him, what’s important is he made sure he gave the right advice, regardless of whether or not it’s what I wanted to hear.

 

Mass and breakfast

 

Ninong live out his faith in every aspect of his life. He went to Mass daily. Once we talked about this ritual. He made no grand claims of having had a miraculous experience or anything earth-shaking about it. He simply compared going to Mass to his breakfast. Who can say what one had for breakfast 10 years ago? But we know it has nourished us for that day.

 

But it was not all serious talk for us. Oh no, in fact, there was no room for serious talk when we were eating good food, or simply enjoying a cup of hot chocolate with freshly made churros.

 

At the table, his face would light up like the shining sun at the sight of a well-made dish, whether it was as simple as a tortilla or a complicated stew.

 

He would tell his most hilarious stories and listen with gusto to ours and laugh like no one could.

 

There aren’t many grown men who laughed as much as he did. And what a laugh he had! It would start as a rumble at the bottom of his stomach and work its way up his throat before erupting out of his mouth as a deep, hearty roar that would have all of us laughing as well.

 

A home in his heart

 

I returned home from Madrid to Manila exactly a year later but I knew I had a home in Ninong’s heart that I could always return to when I needed it.

 

Four years ago, when our family went through a very stressful period, I remember picking up the phone and hearing my Ninong’s voice. Come, he said. Bring your family and come over. Stay as long as you need to in order to get over things.

 

So, off we went and as he predicted, time away was all we needed to come back home refreshed and ready to start anew.

 

Today, as I mourn the loss of a man whom I can only describe as having the biggest and kindest heart, I look back, grateful for the time he spent on earth where he so generously shared himself with all of us.

 

He will be sorely missed.