I like him—not necessarily because he covered me from the bullies in high school when I first came to the Ateneo as a wide-eyed freshman; but because he rather allowed me to explore the same halls of learning myself, two years after he himself experienced its culture of privilege and excellence.
I like him—not because one time he cried foul—(he did not even scold me)—when he saw me using his Mendrez shoes in the same NatSci class we were in—but because he just kept his cool about it, and did not really mind.
I like him—not necessarily because he once told me to pursue my passion to write but because he constantly articulately shares with me the portrait of some beautiful past, some house of memory to where I constantly return—through writing.
I like him—not necessarily because he helped me find some place to stay when I finally quit working in the province to seek the busy life in the bigger city; but because he regretted it when I constantly consciously let opportunities pass me perhaps only because at that time, I thought I had thousands of them.
I like him—not necessarily because he gave me words of advice when I almost gave up the city life but because he shared silence even when he saw I was missing greater opportunities when I was about to quit.
I like him—not necessarily because he gave me money when I was broke but because he constantly reminded me that there are no rich people who cannot be in need and there are no poor people who cannot afford to give. (These words—or their sense which he must have first heard and understood in the chapel where we attended Sunday Masses—now spoke to me more than they sounded.)
I like him—not necessarily because he hosted me unfailingly in the house which he helped establish with his wife in the city but because he shared with me his blessing of children and family in an otherwise unfriendly city.
I like him—not necessarily because every Sunday he sends me a personalized text message about the priest’s homily, but because with it he reminds me of God’s unfailing love and my mortality.
I like him—not necessarily because since he has discovered running, he has encouraged practically everyone he knows to take to it seriously; but because his effort to convince them about its benefits helped everyone to have the necessary diversion from the daily grind.
I like him—not necessarily because in the past, for countless times, he shared material comfort in that one household of modest means, one almost in constant need at the time—but because his generosity and sense of always sharing what he had been given put a smile on the face of each of us in the family.
Indeed, the man I am talking about sounds familiar. And all this time, I have always admired him. Perhaps after all my heroes die and my idols fall, on my list he will sure be the last to inspire. I am privileged to have known this man. And I respect him. My dear brother, Mentz.
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