For most of my life, I had wanted to be a priest. But didn’t become one. I remember when my grade three teacher in España, Sibuyan Island, Romblon, Mrs. Roldan, asked us to write down what we would like to become someday. In the dimly lit classroom without electricity and always being at the mercy of sunshine through the dilapidated wood louver windows, I wrote on paper, “I want to be a priest,” and added a footnote, “because I love God.” I didn’t know what that meant, but one thing’s for sure, in the next two decades, I held on to that belief which kept me awake through many nights.
We were a Catholic family, my grandmother, Belen, took me to church regularly on Sundays as mother, Elma, prepared our food so we could have breakfast when we came home. As a child, I wondered why we had to wake up so early on a weekend when there was no school to mind about. Still dreamy, I brushed my teeth, got prepared, got dressed, and walked to the church and sat quietly still. We listened to the guy in the altar draped in a colourful robe. My child brain was fascinated with the red and green robe of our priest. It seemed he could speak all day like the voice we listened to on the transistor radio warning it’s listeners of an upcoming storm or a dance in the plaza. Attending Mass became a habit, and I would guess that I’ve sat still and listened well. So, when Mrs. Roldan asked the question what I’d wanted to be when I grow up, the image of the beautiful colours and soothing voice on Sunday mornings jumped up. A priest – always smiling, always a friend to everyone.
My parents were not rich. Although my mom was a teacher, and my dad was an engineering technologist, their income wasn’t enough to feed three children and some of our extended family. Many parents believed that the only way to ensure a better future was for their kids to become educated. Sending me and my two other siblings to school to earn a degree, and to get a job were the be-all and end-all for my parents. They were proud we achieved all those. Typical among Filipino families.
While I pursued the education my parents wished for, I also became an avid member of Christian organizations right through high-school and university. I attended many events – prayer vigils, catechetical conferences, liturgies, outreach, and more. All of these were huge influences on my development. As far as I could recall, my grades were always okay, so these non-academic preoccupations were never a hindrance.
Faithful to my parents’ aspirations, I became a civil engineer and got a well-paying job at a government corporation. I was finally getting paid, and I had my independence. It was one of those major turning-points in life when everything seemed to have spun around. It was disorienting. Supporting back my parents and my siblings were a fulfillment of responsibility. And yet, I felt a thirst for something that needed to be quenched. I wanted to find out what it was.
The feeling of emptiness, of a void to do something more, became stronger as years went by. I needed someone’s help. In my mind, there was no better person to approach than one of those guys in colourful robes. Speaking with a priest was the next logical thing to do because they’ve lived the vocation. Among other religious communities I approached was the Society of Jesus. So I started speaking with one of the priests at the Philippine General Hospital Chapel, where my choir sang on Sundays. He referred me to the Vocations Director, Father Eric, who was in charge of meeting with people, like me, who were searching for discernment. At our initial meeting, we spoke for about an hour to get to know each other, but more so to assess my motivation to apply to the pre-novitiate of the Society. I had to take a series of psychological exams, an IQ test, and a formal interview. I was excited for this new path, but my journey wasn’t all bright and beautiful.
After a few weeks, I received a call.
“Hello, who’s on the line please?”
“It’s Father Eric. Jaeger?”
“Hi Father, how are you?”
A formal letter of acceptance followed. Next was the entrance.
The Society welcomed me to the Jesuit Pre-novitiate at Arvisu House, the first point of entry to becoming a Jesuit priest. Being a pre-novice would mean going back to school to study philosophy and would require that I live away from my family except for the allowed weekly visits, and I might even have to stop working. This was not good news for my parents and siblings whom I was supporting financially, but I was ready to begin a whole new way of living.
Unfortunately, life had other plans. My father got sick, so I had to postpone joining the pre-novitiate. Even more devastating, my father passed away later that year. We were in mourning and it was now more difficult to get my family in the same disposition as mine. We needed each other more than ever. I was expected to be the family’s figurehead. I had to live my life out as circumstances demanded. That was our mindset.
In the next two years, I supported my mother and my two siblings, financially and emotionally, as best as I could. In time, my mother became preoccupied with her work again, my brother got his own job, and my sister continued her studies. There was a shroud of calmness, but they knew that it was only a matter of time before I would again bring up what my heart desired. This time, it was their turn to give in. I expected them to support me back, at least morally. It seemed to me that family dynamics work like a machinery, the gears had to keep grinding. It worked this time. It took years for me to consider the “calling” again. The thought that our family had attained a certain sense of stability was very comforting. It was time to get in touch with the Jesuits again.The new Vocation Director, Father Rene, agreed to affirm the acceptance that the Society had extended to me a few years back. I joined other thirteen pre-novices at Arvisu House. My mother, brother, and sister were there for the send-off, teary-eyed and bittersweet.
Named after a Jesuit priest, Arvisu House was home to younger men who aspired to become priests but were not a hundred-percent sure yet of the certainty of the “call.” The pre-novices would stay in this community for a year, observing the religious life, studying, and in some cases, working. Weekends at the Arvisu House were days of family visits, prayer, and house chores. It was a way of living that the founder of the Society of Jesus, St. Ignatius of Loyola, had established in the mid-1500’s.
The experience at Arvisu House wasn’t mysterious. At daybreak, when the roosters started crowing, hushed steps could be heard of men towards the small chapel a couple floors above our dormitories. The candlelight in the chapel would turn pale as the early moments of sunshine crept through the dusty glass windows, spilled onto the waxed hard wood floor, casting light into the shadowed faces of the fourteen pre-novices, seemingly lost but had soon began to see the light. The Great Silence ended as the gentle melody of the chants welcomed the new day…
