My classmate Manny Andal remembers this vignette about Father Felix quite vividly:
Circa 1965. Don Bosco Makati campus. Pair of parents approaches a Caucasian man, obviously a priest out of his cassock, hunkered over what appears as a just-started tiny garden patch. Parent taps the priest’s shoulder and asks: “May we know where the principal’s office is?” Without getting up, the priest points to the high-school building: “Go up to the second floor, the office is right across the top of the stairs.” “Thank you.”
Father Felix never taught us inside the
classroom. But he was our teacher in the bigger classroom that was our school campus.
A few minutes pass, and the parents are back by the priest’s side. He’s still busy coaxing little green things in the soil. “Excuse us, Father, but we were told you are the principal and it’s you we came to see.” The priest flashes a big smile. “But you were looking for the office,” he answers. And he flashes an even bigger smile. Another classmate, Bob Lumba, saw him last in Don Bosco Dumaguete about two months before Father Felix died. He remembers: There was this glow about him, the warmth and fun and playfulness of somebody who is at peace with the whole creation, and with God. We strolled around the campus
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