DRIVING THOUGHTS

Family traditions pretty much decide what many of us will be doing today, Holy Thursday, and tomorrow, Good Friday.

For a lot of families, it’s the familiar Visita Iglesia—the rounds of seven churches. But this year, I imagine fewer people may be doing it. Fuel prices have gone up, and what used to be a simple religious practice has, over time, turned into something close to a road trip—complete with carefully planned routes to heritage churches in towns we might not otherwise visit. But this is not a time for road trips with fuel prices like diesel now costing 100 percent more than it used to only weeks ago.

So maybe more people will stay home.

And when that happens, you realize how many ways there are to spend a quiet Holy Thursday. You could end up binge-watching Netflix. Or finally opening that cabinet full of things you’ve kept for years but can’t quite part with. Or, if you’re lucky, you get pulled into long, unhurried conversations—with siblings, cousins, even relatives you only see once a year during Holy Week in the old hometown.

Of course, some will still step out—not for travel, but for something more rooted. A town procession, where religious images, dressed in their finest and surrounded by flowers and lights, make their way slowly through the streets.

I’ve done all of these at different points in my life.

I’ve had those long, laughter-filled conversations with cousins, always interrupted by food, drinks, and quick dips in the pool. Those memories stretch across the years—from childhood, to adulthood, and into motherhood.

There were also years when Holy Week meant work. As an editor at the Manila Bulletin, Maundy Thursday to Black Saturday were spent putting together pages, chasing deadlines, and making sure the paper came out.

And then there were the quieter observances—cleaning out drawers, watching shows, picking up a book I had long ignored.

But one thing I haven’t done in a long time is stand by the roadside and simply watch a Holy Week procession—the slow passage of images that, one by one, tell the story leading to the Crucifixion. That part of my Holy Week faded when we started spending it in a farm, away from the city.

This year feels different.

I’m looking forward to standing on a sidewalk in Tibiao, Antique waiting for the procession to pass on Good Friday.

I’m told many of the images there are almost a hundred years old, carefully handed down from one generation to the next. Their owners take the time to dress them properly, making sure each detail reflects the story they’re meant to tell.

My daughter and granddaughter have been telling me about the preparations. My son-in-law’s parents — Armando and Ligaya Cabrillos — care for two of these images. Weeks before the procession, the statues are taken out and readied. Two days before the Good Friday procession, father and son take a three-hour drive to a nearby city to buy the flowers that will decorate the floats.

What I find fascinating is that the two floats don’t even go together. One joins the Catholic procession, the other the Aglipay Church’s. No big explanation—just tradition. That’s the way it has always been.

I’m planning to walk along, at least for part of the route. But I’ve been warned.

My granddaughter Martina Alexandra says to expect a mix of scents—the sweet, almost overwhelming fragrance of flowers, and the thick smell of diesel from the generators that keep the lights on the floats glowing.

My daughter Catherine, more practical, reminds me about the distance. It’s a long walk, she says, and the humidity doesn’t really go away, even after sunset.

Still, I can already picture how it will end.

People lingering after the procession—by the churchyard, or in the gardens of those who keep the images—catching up, filling in the gaps of months or years apart with easy conversation.

Tomorrow they will begin preparing for Easter Sunday.

As for me, I’ll go home carrying a little of everything—the sights, the smells, the stories, and the small talk.

The kind of things that quietly keep Holy Week traditions alive. ([email protected])