miss jurilla . . . thank you!
Filipino is not exactly my favorite subject. The uses of nang and ng confuse me even now. I really don’t know why, but I do feel some kind of a natural aversion for the subject. Probably even when I was young I was already dead set against imperial Manila. Nevertheless one has to pass the subject. I did get an S and an occasional VS though, thanks to the woman who was so at home with the intricacies of the subject not just in her knowledge of the Filipino but even so in her physical demeanor as a teacher of the language. The subject suited her as much as a Pilipino terno would rightly fit her physical appearance. Thank God she also taught Social Studies, and thank God they did not teach the subject in Filipino back then. At least I did make up in that subject what I terribly lacked in the other and so left school after having been given the chance to make a much better impression on her.
The last time I met Miss Jurilla was at San Lorenzo. I was there for a visit and she was there probably for some updating or whatever. From a group of teachers, she suddenly . . . what should I say, revealed herself. (Because of her physical stature one could pick her out from the crowd only if she remains upfront.) Though afraid and ashamed that she might recall my dismal performance in class, my insecurity seemed to fade immediately. She exuded a warmth then, as she always did, but this time coupled with a sense of pride that a teacher could only have when she knew I would be up to something in the near future. I was then a deacon and it would be just a few months before I became a priest.
Miss Jurilla was my teacher and it is an honor to bury her, not as Mark Anthony would, but as a student, though less than brilliant; as a pupil, though one who never really did replicate her expertise; as a learner, though one who never really did take serious thought of what she taught. It is an honor because teachers usually outlive their students, in the lessons that they taught, in the sacrifices that they made, in the patient and unfailing effort to make us learn.
I know because I too am a teacher and yesterday as I went into a seminar for spiritual directors, one fourth of the participants were my students in college. At break time we gathered together in a small circle and recalled the many things I did to them and made them do and we laughed so hard at these, our eyes were wet with tears.
Teaching is a thankless job, you know, at least that’s the way I feel about it. As a teacher you need to prolong your patience more than any other profession, you have to be strong and persevering in the discipline formators call, “delayed gratification”. Teaching is one profession where the results of your work, where the fruits of your labor are long in coming, waiting for years and years till you see results – gratification long overdue. But when they come, they come in batches too. And this is where the honor comes, not so much for her now, but for her students like me.
The death of a teacher is a homecoming. In fact it is the real homecoming of former students and co-teachers and superiors in that long span of years. It is a presence that does not merely enjoy the reliving of the past, nor merely the recollection of some distant memories of youthful charm. The death of a teacher is the real homecoming because our presence today speaks of only one thing – thank you . . . gratitude . . . appreciation. That makes the homecoming. That is what homecoming really means – to come back and say, your presence in our lives is really appreciated.
Today our gospel speaks of a promise, a promise that Jesus will go ahead of us to prepare a place for us in the Father’s house. As a teacher I know the importance of that promise. As a teacher you have to live every day of your life on the strength of those promises – the promise of a brighter future, the prospect of a successful career, the possibility of a student becoming somebody in the future, the possibility of attaining something totally unexpected and unthought-of in a student. As a teacher you deal with promises and potentials – these are the things you see everyday, these are the things that keep you going, and moving, patient and persevering, even though efforts may go unrewarded for the moment. But you live in that potential, in the promise you see in the eyes of a young girl or boy. Teachers live in that state, for if they do not, they would not last.
Miss Jurilla would very well understand the promise of Jesus and I believe deep in my heart that she will be in for quite a big amazement, for fueled only by the strength of a promise all her professional life, she will find that indeed even living only with a promise at hand is worth all of the waiting and the praying, especially when the promise comes from Jesus.
Today we gather in the Holy Eucharist, the greatest act of thanksgiving we can ever think of. It is the only way we can aptly honor a teacher. We commend her to God – our little way of showing gratefulness when in her work as a teacher she commended us to life, and she commended us well.
Miss Jurilla, thank you, thank you.
The last time I met Miss Jurilla was at San Lorenzo. I was there for a visit and she was there probably for some updating or whatever. From a group of teachers, she suddenly . . . what should I say, revealed herself. (Because of her physical stature one could pick her out from the crowd only if she remains upfront.) Though afraid and ashamed that she might recall my dismal performance in class, my insecurity seemed to fade immediately. She exuded a warmth then, as she always did, but this time coupled with a sense of pride that a teacher could only have when she knew I would be up to something in the near future. I was then a deacon and it would be just a few months before I became a priest.
Miss Jurilla was my teacher and it is an honor to bury her, not as Mark Anthony would, but as a student, though less than brilliant; as a pupil, though one who never really did replicate her expertise; as a learner, though one who never really did take serious thought of what she taught. It is an honor because teachers usually outlive their students, in the lessons that they taught, in the sacrifices that they made, in the patient and unfailing effort to make us learn.
I know because I too am a teacher and yesterday as I went into a seminar for spiritual directors, one fourth of the participants were my students in college. At break time we gathered together in a small circle and recalled the many things I did to them and made them do and we laughed so hard at these, our eyes were wet with tears.
Teaching is a thankless job, you know, at least that’s the way I feel about it. As a teacher you need to prolong your patience more than any other profession, you have to be strong and persevering in the discipline formators call, “delayed gratification”. Teaching is one profession where the results of your work, where the fruits of your labor are long in coming, waiting for years and years till you see results – gratification long overdue. But when they come, they come in batches too. And this is where the honor comes, not so much for her now, but for her students like me.
The death of a teacher is a homecoming. In fact it is the real homecoming of former students and co-teachers and superiors in that long span of years. It is a presence that does not merely enjoy the reliving of the past, nor merely the recollection of some distant memories of youthful charm. The death of a teacher is the real homecoming because our presence today speaks of only one thing – thank you . . . gratitude . . . appreciation. That makes the homecoming. That is what homecoming really means – to come back and say, your presence in our lives is really appreciated.
Today our gospel speaks of a promise, a promise that Jesus will go ahead of us to prepare a place for us in the Father’s house. As a teacher I know the importance of that promise. As a teacher you have to live every day of your life on the strength of those promises – the promise of a brighter future, the prospect of a successful career, the possibility of a student becoming somebody in the future, the possibility of attaining something totally unexpected and unthought-of in a student. As a teacher you deal with promises and potentials – these are the things you see everyday, these are the things that keep you going, and moving, patient and persevering, even though efforts may go unrewarded for the moment. But you live in that potential, in the promise you see in the eyes of a young girl or boy. Teachers live in that state, for if they do not, they would not last.
Miss Jurilla would very well understand the promise of Jesus and I believe deep in my heart that she will be in for quite a big amazement, for fueled only by the strength of a promise all her professional life, she will find that indeed even living only with a promise at hand is worth all of the waiting and the praying, especially when the promise comes from Jesus.
Today we gather in the Holy Eucharist, the greatest act of thanksgiving we can ever think of. It is the only way we can aptly honor a teacher. We commend her to God – our little way of showing gratefulness when in her work as a teacher she commended us to life, and she commended us well.
Miss Jurilla, thank you, thank you.
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