CHAPTER II: Love Unfound: Oh Father, where’s the love of my father?

WORDS: JHON ALMARK DELA CRUZ | FEBRUARY 14, 2024

“Love is not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged.”

Father’s booming voice reminds me of a clear trumpet piercing amidst the looming crowd full of tears and white dresses. He sounded strong but also warm and immaculate as it echoed throughout the whole Taal Basilica church.

He uttered those words from the scripture with deep sincerity that it made the prim and dignified groom take simultaneous deep breaths while staring at him in awe. The bride suppressed her little sobs but still managed to carve a smile despite the overwhelming emotions she felt.

It’s almost as if God, himself, was speaking through Father. Truly, God’s favorite like David. He looked like Job too, who was another one of God’s favorites.

Everybody seemed to like him. I heard some of the churchgoers say, “He’s my favorite priest,“ “He was made for this,” or “This is his life’s purpose.”

It’s a good impression for others who don’t know him. Yes, he looks kind, righteous, and innocent-looking. But try as I might, I can’t see him in the same light. I know what he truly looks like behind the gold-laced robe he wears and the hallowed gestures he always shows to the public.

It does not rejoice about injustice.

Behind that sacred stature, he sowed seeds, not of holiness, but of sinful pleasure. He knew he should not eat the forbidden fruit, but is still tempted to take delight in biting it. A cursed fig tree that shouldn’t have borne a fruit, but still does anyway.

I would know all of this because that priest… is my father.

But rejoices whenever the truth wins out,

An “orphan under his care,” I was trained to become one of his altar servers. I kept quiet, as I was always told to do so. However, at this point, I am yet to feel Father being a father to me.

I see that kind of smile and careful caress he gave to babies he prayed for, but whenever he called for me his eyes looked cold and indifferent. I witnessed how his voice seemed warm and friendly to donors but was brash to me when we ate at the table.

Each night I pray, “Father, when will he become a real father to me?” I still haven’t got an answer. I longed to feel a warm embrace from behind but felt nothing except the cold, dark air.

Maybe he’s just busy with all of the church work, or maybe he doesn't see me as his own at all. What then explains the different treatment I got with him compared to how he treats other people?

As I think about all of these things, I caught a glimpse of a girl looking attentively outside. She’s looking here inside with intent but twinkling eyes. She looked the same age as I and wore a dreamy longingness across her face that I seldom see with other kids.

I wonder if she knows what a father's love feels like. Oh, I bet she does.