Just to break from the usual political commentaries I’ve been sharing in this column, I’d like to offer something more reflective today—something quietly uncanny. Not dramatic. Not doctrinal. Just… a wafer, and a whisper.
It happened during a weekend retreat in Calaruega, nestled in the hills of Batulao in Nasugbo, Batangas. I had a solo room—my choice, seeking silence. The first night, I struggled with sleep and surrendered to melatonin. By the second night, no aid was needed. We had a long list of events during the day that ended at almost 11 PM. The last activity was the Holy hour and candle lighting rituals at the beautiful Chapel of the Transfiguration, afterwhich, we all returned to our respective rooms. I was exhausted but at peace.
That night, someone had handed me two pieces of Wafello chocolate wafers as part of a group prize we won from a game activity. I shared one with some of my co-participants while the other one I tucked gently into my bag- unopened. By morning, as I readied for the Sunday 6 AM mass, I found its wrapper torn and empty on the floor. No crumbs. No clutter. Just absence, precisely arranged.
I paused—not scared, just curious. My things were untouched. No sign of intrusion. Could I have eaten it in my sleep? There’s a real phenomenon—nocturnal sleep-related eating—where people snack without memory. It’s scientific, and documented. That possibility felt almost comforting—an explanation in a realm where mystery and science cohabitate.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than a metabolic quirk. The rip wasn’t random. The silence felt occupied
And yet, something about the torn wrapper felt… intentional. Not animal, not chaotic. Just the quiet echo of presence. I didn’t feel robbed. I felt witnessed. As if something—I don’t know what—had entered the space not to disrupt, but to remind.
Retreats don’t ask for answers. They invite you to be porous, to let grace arrive in forms too small for doctrine. Maybe the wafer was consumed in sleep. Maybe not. What stayed with me was the feeling that something unseen had shared the room. And maybe, in solitude, that’s the point.
Sometimes the Spirit does not part the sea—it just unwraps a wafer in the dark. Not to scare, but to remind: even what disappears might still nourish. Even what you cannot prove might still be a form of prayer.
Thank you to Rev. Fr. Allen de Guzman OP and his team at the Calaruega Retreat Center for a very soul nourishing and enlightening three days of lectures, reflections and prayers!
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