Christmas is a time for hope
Christmas brings hope to everyone. It is a season of joy and sharing. It is also a season of miracles.
I am not a deeply religious person (although I may be described as a believer) but a Christmas miracle convinced me that there are many unexplained phenomena beyond our comprehension. Events surrounding my brother Tony convinced me that there was room in our lives for superstition and belief in the supernatural.
My parents were ecstatic when their first born, a son, came into this world and readily named him after my father Antonio. Unfortunately because of insufficient medical care during the war, baby Antonio Jr. died of pneumonia a few weeks after birth. My parents hoped their second child would be a boy but I came instead.
They consulted fortunetellers and herbal doctors. They even danced before Santa Clara. Finally, two years after I was born, my mother gave birth to a boy. My father was overjoyed.
There was no question what to name the boy. He was christened Antonio Jr. over the objections and advice of old folk who warned that a newborn should not be named after a dead older sibling. My parents dismissed all that as nonsense.
Two months after his birth the second Antonio Jr. developed high fever and was later diagnosed with polio. This was before the polio vaccine was strictly distributed worldwide. Of course my parents took the blame for not heeding the advice about their son’s name.
Two months after his birth the second Antonio Jr. developed high fever and was later diagnosed with polio. This was before the polio vaccine was strictly distributed worldwide. Of course my parents took the blame for not heeding the advice about their son’s name.
As older sister, I became young Tony’s caregiver. Tony’s left leg had shrunk and as months passed the left leg became noticeably smaller and thinner than the right. By the time he was two we were resigned to the fact that he would never walk. He crawled everywhere and I carried him on my back when we had to go anywhere. This routine went on until Christmas Eve, 1952.
The whole family had trooped to Villamar Court in Paranaque to attend a prayer meeting hosted by a visiting Spanish priest rumored to have cured the sick. It was a small gathering that included a few on wheelchairs and with crutches. The priest said mass, then asked all of us to kneel and close our eyes.
He led us through a lengthy prayer for healing, stopping several times to remind us about the importance of faith and hope. With bowed head, I peeked through half-closed eyes and saw little Tony crawl, pull himself up using the legs of an armchair. Then, to my amazement, he was no longer clinging to the chair for support, but standing and taking a hesitant step toward the priest. Tony was walking!
A strange feeling swept over me. I was hot and cold at the same time. I watched speechless as my brother limped unsteadily toward the priest. The whole room was quiet. Almost everyone was in tears.
Tony lived a full life unhampered by his disability. He finished college, toured the world with a band, owned a bar in Osaka, had several families, and left this world on Christmas Eve 2020, the anniversary of the miracle that made me a believer.