When I was little, Holy Week only meant one thing: boredom.
You are stuck at home with almost nothing to do.
Nothing good is on TV, unless you consider a marathon of 7th Heaven and religious movies starring Matt Ranillo III as pure bliss.
Raft3r’s family is Catholic. The rest of the clan is Iglesia ni Cristo (Church of Christ).
My cousins would often tease me that I would burn in hell for being different. I told them it didn’t matter. I had air conditioning.
As Raft3r grew older, the significance of Holy Week became more apparent.
While my cousins head to the beach on Black Friday, my little family spends the day in church.
I am, in no way, a religious freak. But I do believe in God.
Here is why:
Raft3r was in fifth grade. Because of a long break in school, we were assigned a book to read with a corresponding report to match.
A day before class, I haven’t even started reading.
It was Sunday night and I was in deep shit. Mom refused to help me out. She wanted to teach me a lesson. After all, I had a week to do the report.
Raft3r browsed through the book and thought it was mission impossible. I couldn’t read it in one sitting.
So, I made a deal with God.
I prayed with all my might and asked for a miracle. I begged The Big Man Above to give me enough time to do my report.
Raft3r woke up the next day to a surprising development.
My nanny said school has been cancelled because of rain. Raft3r was ecstatic! Indeed, it was a miracle from God.
I went through my day playing and only read half of the book.
The next day, Raft3r submitted an incomplete project.
My teacher had that disapproving look on her face when I turned in my assignment.
Raft3r disappointed God, as well.
And that wouldn't be the last time.