Remembering Rogel

It was a cool February night. As we raced to the hospital, my dad called me on the car phone to say that it was too late - that he was gone.

Rogel Plata was gone. Tito Rogel— my uncle who used to bring me to school everyday, who led me to Jesus, who inspired me to give my all to God, who drove me home after Sunday gatherings, who traveled with me on missions, who always listened to me as if I were the only person in the world— was gone. And although I knew how he saw his battle with cancer as an “all-win situation,” it didn’t change the fact that I was devastated by his death.

I choked down my tears and decided to wait till we were in the hospital before telling my mom, who was praying in the back seat, and my brother, who was driving as if all hell was chasing him. In the car park, we persuaded my mom to take meds for her blood pressure, sat her down and told her about Tito Rogel. Refusing to believe the news, she insisted on going to his room right away. When the elevator door opened on Tito Rogel’s floor, we encountered an attendant who was waiting to go down with a wheeled stretcher. On the stretcher was a body, all covered and still. My breath caught in my throat. “Rogel?” my mom asked weakly. With shaking hands, we unbound his body from the blankets. His face was still warm; death had not yet made it cold. My mother and brother wept loudly, but my tears were not yet ready to fall. We hugged him, kissed him, touched his face and said our goodbyes. My Tito Rogel was gone.

Few people outside my circle knew that Rogel Plata— the passionate preacher, all-around prankster, walking magnet to people of all ages, races and creeds, holy man of God— was my uncle, as in by blood. He was my mom's youngest brother, just 11 years older than me. People (especially the newer members of Christ's Youth in Action or CYA) who saw me talking to him and calling him "Tito Rogel" were perplexed, as he didn't really look old enough to be anyone's uncle. Some of them even became suspicious of why I was so much "sweeter" to him than to other brothers.

When I was in grade school, I used to spend my weekdays at the Plata residence in Laloma. I remember Tito Rogel as a thin, "siga" (tough guy) high school student with Afro hair, who occasionally came home from fraternity rumbles with his uniform all torn and bloody. (This was before he became a renewed Catholic.) Even then, he used to take shifts with Papang in bringing me to school everyday. Bringing a very precocious and independent niece to school was a daily occupational hazard for the young fratman. Sometimes, when I'd sit on his lap, he'd go to class with cornstarch powder all over his black pants. Or I'd insist on sitting far, far away from him in the jeepney, and then utterly embarrass him by shouting, "Tito Rogel, ok na, ibinayad na kita." (Uncle Rogel, it’s okay, I’ve already paid your fare.)

Despite all that, I think that Tito Rogel always treated me as the daughter or younger sister he never had. He became very concerned about my preoccupation with the modeling world when I was in 2nd yr high school. When I was 14, he sponsored me to attend a summer camp for the Young Adults of Ang Ligaya ng Panginoon (The Joy of the Lord) Community, where I first gave my life to the Lord. He gave me my first "grown-up" Bible (NAB), which I use to this day. He used to write me letters from wherever he was, in the States or otherwise. He was truly the one who began evangelizing me and bringing me closer to the Lord. Being a staffer of CYA, he helped me to form solid relationships with CYA sisters. All throughout my college life, and even after, he was always there to help me think and pray my way through the many difficult crossroads that I faced.

He had loved and served me in so many ways. I remember Tito Rogel to be someone who always listened to me, no matter if I was 13 or 23. As busy as his schedule always was, he made it a point to regularly spend some time with me. I cherished and looked forward to the long trip to my grandmother Mamang's house after each community or CYA event because those were the times we'd be alone, and we'd talk about God, life and other stuff one rarely talks about with one's uncle. He would go out of his way to bring me home to Novaliches afterwards. He would always remember my birthday, and every Christmas, I'd always have a simple present from him. I still remember how he literally danced for joy and hugged me tightly when we learned that I placed third in the Chem Eng’g Board Exams.

He shared my victories, but he also shared my pain. He always mediated between me and my parents during my difficult teenage years. He was always the family peacemaker, the intercessor, the counselor, the adviser. All his siblings respected him, as I did. I would always take his advice seriously as coming, not just from an astute, prayerful man of God, but from an uncle and friend who loved me very much. Even when he was undergoing chemotherapy in Singapore, he would write me to encourage me in my walk with God. He was totally selfless, totally giving. I have never met anyone else like him. I don’t think I ever will.

A month before that February night, he paged me to say that he was checking out of "Manila Hotel," a little private joke of ours about the hospital where he was staying. A few weeks later, he was back in the hospital, and due to a blessed error in the scheduling of watch-shifts, I was asked to be his companion for a day. I think I was the only female fortunate enough to be granted that honor. The memory of that day I spent with him in the hospital remains vivid in my mind. Two weeks later, he went to heaven. And there I was, standing in a deserted hospital corridor, staring at his pale, lifeless face. I felt frozen, without sensation, numb with disbelief.

At first, I tried to behave the way I thought Christians should when a loved one dies: smile peacefully, serve snacks at the wake, patiently re-tell the story of Tito Rogel’s last moments, utter platitudes and appropriate cliches to thank sympathizers. After all, wasn’t it part of being a good witness? Wasn’t I supposed to be thrilled that Tito Rogel was finally seeing God face to face? Wasn’t the death of a saintly man a cause for joy rather than of grief?

Three days into the wake, and I still hadn’t cried. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Shock, denial, regret— these prevented me from crying out my grief. I somehow stupidly felt guilty about feeling sad, and while I knew that keeping it in would someday kill me, I still couldn’t cry.

One night at the wake, I told my friends about how I felt. They listened to me pour out my feelings about his death. I shared about my doubts, my questions, my regrets. We all talked about Tito Rogel, and fondly shared memories of him. Slowly, the numbness left my heart, as if the anaesthetic which kept me from feeling the pain was wearing off. I now felt the pain, intensely.

I had a good cry after that, and for many nights after. Because while it’s true that I’m glad he’s in heaven, it doesn’t mean that I miss him less. For although many years have passed since that February night when I kissed his still-warm cheek goodbye, Tito Rogel’s death has left a void which no one and nothing can ever fill.

Up to now, Tito Rogel remains one of the most significant people in my life. When I think of Tito Rogel, I think not just of the humorous Christian man who changed thousands of lives, or who gave the best talks, or who delivered the best punch lines. I think of my Tito Rogel as a warm, generous brother, friend and model who truly, truly loved me with an unconditional, personal, and servant love.

Today, as I face new and unconfronted crossroads, no longer as an unseasoned adolescent but as a thirtysomething wife and mother-of-two, I still often crave to hear his comforting voice, to rely on his keen wisdom, to crack up at his jokes. And yet I am comforted by the conviction that he hears me when I ask for his guidance in prayer. I somehow feel that he’s actually thrilled at being better able to help us and intercede for us to the Father.

His life serves as a gentle yardstick as I strive to love, serve and obey the Lord. When my heart remembers the joy of serving God side by side with my Tito Rogel, I grow even more determined to keep on loving God and sharing of myself with others. Not just because I know Tito Rogel will be pleased and proud of his niece, but because I’ve seen how God’s promises have been eternally fulfilled in my uncle’s life, both here and in heaven. Remembering his life gives me courage; remembering his death gives me hope.

And like many of us left behind, remembering Tito Rogel makes me laugh, and sometimes it makes me cry. When I laugh, I celebrate his life and all that God accomplished through him. And when I cry, I know that my tears don’t make me a less happy niece, nor a Christian of feeble faith.

Just someone who still misses her uncle a lot.

Happy 46th birthday, Tito Rogel. I love you.