STORY - "Once, an Advent Season"

At that time, many in our village still talked about the war and the cruel Japanese soldiers. But we children played. What we did not know, we did not understand. Our world was green and free. On long summer months when the earth was hard and steeped in fine dust, we played under the tropical sun, dirt in our nostrils and grit in our teeth. During the monsoon rains we rolled joyfully in mud, and then ran through the cool sheets of rain to wash the muck off our skin and hair. At night, while torrential rains bawled relentlessly outside, we slept close together on large palm leaf mattings: Mother, Father, Baby, Elder Brother and Sister, Little Sister, Aunt and me—keeping each other warm from the unexpected chill. And when the monsoon season had eased young men serenaded lucky dalagindings—pretty young women—on moonlit nights.

In the afternoons when Little Sister and I were shut in the bedroom for a siesta, I climbed down from the window to meet with other children. There was always so much to see and hear while walking the tracks past the houses. Doors were never shut. You could quietly walk into a hut and watch a baby being born or you could stand in a silent vigil by a death bed. Watching. Always watching.

One afternoon when I reported the death of the village’s shaman to Mother, she and Aunt decided that instead of a siesta, my catechism lessons should start in earnest. It was the first Sunday of Advent, and I was seven. Every afternoon Aunt read from a beautiful book, “Stories from the Bible.” My favourite story was when the Great Floods were over, and God promised Noah he would never flood the earth again. He then created the rainbow that would always remind him of that promise.

One day, coming home after a visit to see Aunt Perla who was sick, a sudden shower interrupted our journey in a kalesa. The driver reined his old horse to stop and put a clear plastic hood in front of the carriage to stop us getting wet. But the shower stopped suddenly as it had began and the hood was removed again. There was a cool breeze and the smell of ozone filled the air. Slowly a great rainbow appeared overhead, one end shooting out from the forest, the other astride over the dark blue figures of the Cordillera mountain ranges. I tapped the driver on the shoulder and said how God is at that moment reminding us and himself of his promise not to flood the earth again. He thought for a while then said I was a clever child and told Mother that perhaps I should get ready for my first Communion. Mother and Aunt agreed; since I knew all the common prayers already, my first Communion would be my special way to welcome Jesus on Christmas Day. After all, said Aunt, that was what Advent was all about; preparing our selves for the celebration of Jesus’ birthday. She said that it was like cleaning the house and having clean linens ready as we await the arrival of a guest. The driver said it would be an extraordinary Advent for me. He promised to light a candle in my honour when he went to church again.

The driver confessed he had not been to church for many years. Perhaps he should go to Mass again, Mother added. He was quiet for a while and then told us how that rainbow was a special sign for him. It reminded him of God’s promise of love. He said, since he was old and frail, it was time to prepare his soul for Jesus’ coming at the Last Judgement. But I did not understand what he meant. Our kalesa passed under the rainbow’s arch, the old wooden wheels creaking loudly against the cobbles. Aunt started singing, “Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly...,” and the driver was smiling.

On the night of the third Sunday of Advent, I led the family rosary with Mother’s rosary beads. The next week Aunt and Elder Sister helped me prepare for my first confession. Aunt talked about examination of conscience, although I was not keen to go for my first confession. The Padre was tall, dark and stern and I was wary of him, especially after my friends and I accidentally broke the bellows of the church organ the month before.

It was good Mother and Elder Sister were with me when he heard my confession. It was the last Saturday afternoon before Advent. Padre sounded kind and told me to pray three “Hail Marys” for my five sins: lying, pinching Little Sister, pretending not to hear Mother when she called, envy of Elder Sister’s new umbrella and playing with things that belonged to others.

We were up early that Sunday before Christmas. Mother and Aunt helped me into my new long white dress. I wore Aunt’s beautiful white Spanish veil over my head pinned down with flowers from the garden. It was my first Communion day. Since that special day was only known by the family, it was decided that we should go to the early morning Mass at 5:30. The kalesa was waiting in front of the house and the driver looked delighted when he handed a white candle to me. It smelt of jasmine. The dawn had broken and the ranges were bathed in golden light.

“You look like a princess!” the driver said. I was to receive Jesus for the first time. It was wonderful that Jesus loved me especially. That was what Mother and Aunt taught me, and I believed it to be so.

For Communion, my family walked with me to the altar. My candle flickered brightly lighting our way in the still dim light of morning. The Padre came to me directly and gave me the little host before everyone else. What a pure little soul I was, he said. That host tasted as pure as it was white and it melted in my mouth. I did not spit out the whole day in fear that something of Jesus would be cast to the ground.

A few days later, Mother and Aunt helped me put on the white dress and veil again, but this time the flowers in my hair were a bit limp. At the photographer’s studio was a huge picture of an arch, with columns on either side. Swags of flowers and ivy draped over that arch and around its columns. There was a little pew placed in front of the picture where I knelt holding my lit candle. The photographer hid behind a box covered over the top with a black sheet. Smile, he said, and I did. Then an exploding flash of light startled me, and hot wax dripped on my arms. I did not mind, though.

There I was in the picture, kneeling in front of a colonnaded temple. I was looking straight ahead, smiling in a prayerful pose, my rosary beads around my hands. Since then, when I see a rainbow I remember that blessed time of Advent when I felt like God’s own precious child for the first time. How magical it was!

Julieta Gibbons

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