The Domestic Church

During the past Christmas season, we, the priests of the parish of Santi Silvestro e Martino in Milan resumed our traditional family visits, suspended for several years due to the Covid-19 pandemic. For many parishioners, the visit of a priest—offering a prayer, a blessing, a smile, and a brief conversation—proved deeply meaningful, even for those who rarely attend Mass or parish activities.

My first awareness of death came in 1989. I was only eight years old. We lived in Davao del Sur, where my paternal grandparents were our neighbors. Lola Marcelina was my paternal grandmother. Before the opening of classes, my parents decided to send me to my maternal grandparents’ home in Davao del Norte so that I could transfer to another school. Before leaving, they brought me to her room. I did not fully understand what “sickness” or “old age” meant, but I felt the sadness in the air—thick, quiet, and unspoken.

November is a month of remembrance—a time when we recall the faithful departed with love, gratitude, and prayer. It is within this sacred space of memory and mourning that I recollect, with a heavy yet grateful heart, the life of my beloved brother-in-law, Mr. Sudhir Tirkey, who left this earthly home on 3 November 2025. His passing left not only a void in our family but also a quiet echo in the hearts of all who knew him. The grief of burying him was excruciating—yet it was also filled with profound love. A large gathering of relatives, friends, neighbours, and colleagues stood around him to say their final goodbye. It was a testament to a life lived meaningfully, gracefully, and generously.

As candles flicker in our homes and churches this November, one flame burns brightest in my heart: the memory of my Novice Mistress. Her life, love, and laughter continue to illumine my days long after she has gone.

November is the month when we pause, remember, and pray for the souls of our dearly departed. It is a time when the veil between memory and longing feels thinner, and the hope of reunion promised by our faith becomes more deeply felt.

To all who have lost a loved one, grief is a natural and inevitable response. Yet as we journey through loss, we must also remember to care for ourselves, or better still, allow others to support us, as we learn to live without the physical presence of those we hold dear.

One day, in prayer, I whispered to Jesus, “I hope you have taken my mother to heaven.”

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.

I am, and will always be, My Father’s Son

“I felt truly and totally orphaned”

In November, as the Church remembers and prays for all the faithful departed, my heart turns once more to my grandmother—the woman who first taught me how to pray, to trust, and to love God with simplicity.

Aurelius, a rebel, believed: “If you have more than you need, it’s better to build a longer table, not a higher fence.”

He often reminded us, “The family that prays together stays together.” Today, I realize it was not just a saying but his survival strategy, a spiritual anchor for a widower raising 16 children through hardship.

Now I understand marriage is a vocation, a sacred calling arranged by God.