THE MISSING MAGI

The Christmas Nativity With A Missing Magi

(Inspired by a true family story)
by
Maria Concepcion Panlilio

         Chop! Chop! Chop!

          I can't sleep. I stare at the flickering lights outside the window. The Christmas lantern, or parol, which symbolizes the Star of Bethlehem, sways lightly in the evening breeze. The paper tails at the lower two tips of the five-point star look happy--a manifestation of my feelings. It's Christmas time in the Philippines!

          Chop! Chop! Chop!

          The sound of a knife repeatedly striking the butcher table is music to my ears. What is Ma chopping now? Pork? Cabbage? Onion? The heavenly aroma of coconut cooking in sweet rice, chicken in a pot of water simmering with plantain, potatoes and carrots, permeates the room. I look at my two sisters in their beds. How can they sleep with all the activity going on in the kitchen? Most of all, how can they sleep when Christmas is only a couple of hours away?

          Ma continues to work feverishly in the kitchen in preparation for Noche Buena—the traditional Christmas Eve feast. She has not worked this hard for the holiday in two years since my brother Narcing died. The house looks very festive and bright inside and out. It is decorated for the holiday with lots of lights bursting in red, green, blue, and yellow. There is also a real pine tree at the corner of the living room trimmed with precious miniatures, which my brother had sculpted from acacia wood. Sculpting kept him occupied and happy as he battled an undiagnosed illness for almost three years. Fearing that the disease might be contagious, our parents kept a distance between him and the rest of their children.

          In a minute, Ma will check on every one of her eight children to be sure we are asleep so we can stay awake in church. I pretend to be fast asleep, feigning a snore, when she enters the room. She goes back to the kitchen, and I can see her on the screen of my imagination moving about from the stove to the table, to the pantry, to the dining room, making sure that everything is on schedule for the most important dinner of the year. I pull out my little penlight that I keep under my pillow with one or two books. I point the light to the clock on top of the dresser. It's 9:45.

          Suddenly, I am gripped with sadness as I stare at the Christmas Nativity scene next to the clock. Memories of my departed brother painstakingly carving each figure swirl in my head. I see him sitting under the canopy of a mango tree, laboring at every piece, making sure that the scene is finished by Christmas. He always looks so far away when I think of him.

          My brother spent his last few days in the hospital. We went to see him everyday, but the children were not allowed in his room, so we stayed outside. We could hear Ma crying uncontrollably. I pushed the door slightly ajar, and I saw my brother in bed, his color blended in with the white sheets. On the small table next to his bed was the Christmas Nativity he'd been constructing. He had sculpted more sheep since his hospital confinement began, and now the scene was almost complete. I wondered when he was going to finish the third Magi. My brother saw me, and he flashed a faint smile. He forced to lift a hand that held a Baby Ruth candy--his invitation for me to come closer. I looked at my Mom seeking approval, and I will never forget that look of pain on her face as she shook her head from left to right.

          It was Christmas Eve when my brother rode the wings of his angel.

          A year later, we found out that my brother’s disease was not contagious at all. The news came too late. My mother could not forgive herself for keeping her children away from their brother. The next two Christmases would mark the saddest part of each year in our family.

* * *

          "Wake up! Wake up!" Ma shakes my shoulder gently, and I pretend to feel groggy when I open my eyes to a slit. I yawn and stretch as though I'd been asleep for hours. I join my lethargic sisters in preparing the younger ones for church.

          Pa comes home just in time for church. He owns and operates a general store in town, which is terribly busy this time of year.

          One of Pa's joys in life is buying the fabric for his children's clothes, as well as choosing on the design for the seamstress to sew for us. So here we are . . . all five ponytailed girls wearing matching dresses, and three boys wearing matching shirts. Pa looks so proud.

          Our family fills up a long station wagon. It's 10:30 in the evening but the neighborhood is bustling with activity as families prepare for the midnight mass. The streets are bright with lighted parols. We arrive early at church to get a seat for the entire family. The smoky parking lot is filled with food vendors offering an assortment of aromatic native delicacies, from desserts to barbequed chicken or beef, and cooked right in front of the customers. My favorite is the puto bumbong, which is made from sticky rice and purple yam steamed in bamboo tubes, and topped with brown sugar and coconut shavings. The tantalizing fragrance of steaming ginger tea or salabat--the favored beverage for these foods--fills the crisp December air.

         Inside the church, my younger brothers and sisters can hardly keep themselves awake. Their elders are always much more attentive, and I enjoy watching my older sisters surreptitiously check out the well-groomed boys. The midnight mass seems to go on for eternity, but the rousing choral voices singing ecclesiastical hymns make the mass an exciting and joyful experience for me. Still, my mind occasionally drifts away from the mass, and I castigate myself for it.

         A most elaborate feast at home was waiting for us after church. Ma's domestic help has done a fantastic job in finishing up the cooking and setting the dinner table. Hungry, the children cannot wait to eat so we rush to change into our pajamas, looking forward to the traditional opening of the gifts afterwards.

          As we all got seated, Ma excuses herself for a moment. She comes back with a warm smile and the Nativity in her hands. We are all shocked. Since my brother's death, she had never even looked at the sculptures much less held them. She lays the Nativity in the middle of the table, and we all make the sign of the cross.

         The family's healing process has begun.

* * *

         To this day, my brother's Christmas Nativity still has only two Magi.

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