December Mornings in Manila

The best mornings here are those in December. They’re cold, but not like those that make you want to hide under a thick blanket forever. Here in Manila, mornings are not always about smog covering the skies like thick grey clouds. Mornings here can be about a family of sparrows perched on an old clothesline, singing their hearts out. Or, three immaculate doves sitting on a hot roof made of galvanized iron and watching you as you, in turn, watch them. Or, a black Australian Kelpie “sunbathing” in the yard at an hour when there’s barely a ray of sun in the sky to sunbathe in.

The best mornings, really, are cold December mornings. Like that morning in 1963, when a nurse at the children’s hospital decided to bring home a newborn babe, given up by its mother who had earlier that week professed inability to give it adequate care.

“I trust you,” said the weary barefoot mother to the nurse. “You can give her an education. I don’t want her to grow up poor.”

The nurse, ecstatic beyond belief because she was finally going to be a mother herself, pulled out five pesos from her wallet.

“This is for you,” she said, handing the money to the woman who had borne the child that was now to be hers. “Use it to buy slippers. I don’t want you to leave the hospital barefoot.”

“My daughter is not for sale,” said the woman, insulted by the offer. “She is yours, only because I do not have the capacity to keep her.”

“I understand,” said the nurse apologetically. “I will give her the care that you expect me to give her, and raise her as my own.”

And so the baby girl arrived at her new home on Christmas eve, to the joy and surprise of every member of the household. She grew up, not without a few tears here and there, but often surrounded by the love of a mother and a father. She managed to complete her studies at a good university. A few more years down the road and she found herself a wife, a mother, a teacher, and a student once more. God had been very good indeed.

One of the greatest miracles of this life is how a small seed can germinate in the bosom of the earth and at the appointed time push itself up, break the ground above it, and reveal the tender beauty of a small shoot; a shoot destined to become a strong acacia tree one day.

Unborn children of dirt-poor mothers are such seeds of fragile beauty. It takes the combined effort of people endowed with sensitivity, compassion, and selflessness to rescue a child from the ravages of extreme poverty and give it a good future. Only people who can truly love will commit themselves to investing a huge portion of their lives in the rearing of something born under the most pitiful and depressing circumstances. Love recreates, love is indeed the greatest miracle.

The world needs more cold December mornings made warm by the kiss of affection on a sleeping baby’s cheek.