(In this “November Special Series,” RVA’s writers share memories of loved ones they have lost, a celebration of their lives, recalled with a tinge of sadness and the hope that one day there will be a reunion…… in a place where there is no death, no suffering, and where God Himself will wipe away every tear. – Editor)
I dozed off one spring day and dreamt of Old Nang. It has already been nine or ten years since he left this world. After the initial shock and sadness of hearing about his accident, his memory gradually settled into the quieter corners of my mind, surfacing only now and then when I recalled my days in Xiao-Li, the small rural parish in my diocese back in China, where I served for a year before coming to Radio Veritas Asia.
But this Qingming morning (also known as Tomb-Sweeping Day, a major traditional Chinese festival observed around April 4–6 each year), he walked right into my dream, as if gently reminding me, “Father, don’t forget Xiao-Li. Don’t forget us.”
Those were the exact words he told me the day I left the village.
I woke up with a full heart and knew I had to write something for him, something simple, true, and warm, just like Old Nang himself.
The Man Everyone Called “Old Nang”
Everyone in Xiao-Li called him Nang, a nickname given out of affection. He was the gatekeeper of the church, a tall man with dark skin, usually covered in factory soot, and completely unconcerned about how he looked. Many of his teeth were missing, and he never bothered with dentures. When he laughed, which he often did, those few remaining teeth made his smile even more real, more human.
He smoked a lot. And once his cigarette was lit, his stories and his laughter would fill the room. His voice was rough and deep, the kind that came from years of hard work and long days at the iron-casting factory. But it was a voice you could never forget.
When I asked why people called him “Old Nang,” he scratched his head and said with a grin,
“Maybe because I always look a bit messy… like a nang nang.”
It was his way of laughing at himself, open, honest, with no pretense at all.
That was the beauty of him.
My Morning Alarm, My Evening Companion
Our daily encounters were simple but memorable. Every morning before sunrise, as he left for work, he would shout under my window:
“Father, I’m heading out!”
Then came the squeaky sound of his old bicycle fading down the road. That was my alarm clock for a whole year. After I left Xiao-Li, I often felt something missing in the mornings, until I realized it was that loud, affectionate wake-up call.
He came home late every day, usually after Mass. The parishioners loved gathering in my small room after evening Mass, laughing, joking, teasing each other with local nicknames that I couldn’t understand at first. Xiao-Li had its own humor, warm and rustic. When everyone left, Old Nang would patiently explain to me the nicknames and the funny stories. Those evenings made Xiao-Li feel like home.
But slowly, the late nights made me ill. I started coughing for weeks. And that was when Old Nang quietly stepped in. He became not only my morning bell, but also my evening drum. When it got late, he would clap his hands and tell everyone,
“Alright, time for Father to rest!”
After the others left, he would bring me a pot of hot water so I could soak my feet before bed. It was such a simple act. But simple acts speak louder than words, don’t they?
A Rough Shell With a Gentle Heart
One autumn, I casually mentioned how pretty the persimmon tree in the churchyard looked.
He said nothing. After the harvest season, I found all the bright orange persimmons neatly arranged on my windowsill. That burst of color in the chilly air made me feel incredibly cared for.
His heart was sincere in the quietest ways. One of the most demanding priests in our diocese chose Old Nang to stay with him during his final days. For a man known to be extremely strict, that choice said everything.
Not long after I left Xiao-Li, I heard the news of the accident that took his life. It hurt in a way I still cannot fully describe.
The Dream
In my dream, he had a thick cotton jacket on, smiling that familiar toothless smile. In his hands was a heavy cast-iron steak pan, the kind with grill lines. He handed it to me. It was so heavy I woke up with a start.
I remembered the pan right away. He had brought it for me from the factory.
“Our factory makes pans for export,” he declared proudly then.
“I told the boss our priest studied abroad, and he knows how to cook steak. So I brought you one.”
I had asked him, “Have you ever eaten steak?”
He laughed shyly.
“No… but Father, when you make steak with this pan, please tell me!”
I promised him I would. But the truth was that I didn’t know how to make steak back then, and Xiao-Li certainly didn’t have steak anywhere. It became a promise I could never fulfill. Maybe that’s why he appeared in my dream, still carrying that pan.
A Hope That Goes Beyond This Life
This November, as I write this, I feel grateful, grateful that Old Nang visited me in my dream. I believe he is now in the Father’s House, healed, happy, and full of joy. I also believe that heaven surely has the best steak imaginable. And one day, I hope to sit with him in that place and, as Jesus said, “drink the new wine in my Father’s kingdom” (Mt 26:29).
Until then, I will hold close both the pan he gifted me and the memories he left behind, simple, warm, and full of life.
