Honor the Old Men While They Can Still Hear You
Eulogies are beautiful speeches delivered to people who can no longer hear them.
Eulogies are beautiful speeches delivered to people who can no longer hear them. The first week of October was Elderly Filipino Week, and the calendar is a fair excuse for a hard audit: when did you last tell the old men in your life—your father, your lolo, the tito who taught you to drive, the kuya who covered your mistakes—that they mattered? While they could still answer?
We save our best sentences for the dead
Filipino wakes are full of eloquent men. Sons who could not say "salamat" across a dinner table can say it for ten minutes beside a casket. Friends who never visited the hospital will travel provinces for the funeral. There is nothing wrong with honoring the dead. There is something wrong with spending all our honor there.
The old men around you are still collecting evidence about whether their lives counted. Your father replays decisions he made at thirty-five and wonders if you resent him for them. Your lolo watches the family he built grow busy and wonders if he is now only a chair at gatherings. An old man does not need a monument. He needs proof—while he can still process it—that someone noticed the years he spent.
Honor is a verb with a schedule
Honoring an old man is not a ceremony. It is a set of small acts done before they are impossible:
- Ask him one real question about his past. Not "kumusta ka" but "what was your first job like?" or "ano ang pinakamahirap mong pinagdaanan?" Then be quiet long enough for the real answer.
- Record what he says. A phone video of your father telling the story of how he courted your mother will outlive both of you. Your children will need it.
- Tell him one specific thing he did right. Not "you were a good father" but "I still use what you taught me about showing up early." Specifics cannot be waved away.
- Let him teach something. Ask him to show you the repair, the recipe, the trick he has. Competence is dignity; being treated as useful is better than being treated as fragile.
- Settle the small debt. The apology you owe. The thank-you that got scheduled for later. Later is a word old men have learned to distrust.
If the old man was not good
Some readers have a father whose honor is complicated—a man who provided but wounded, or was absent entirely. This is not a demand to perform affection you do not feel. Honor does not require pretending. It can mean an honest sentence: "You failed in these ways, and I still take what was good." It can mean grieving now what you will not get to say later. It can mean deciding the cruelty ends with you while declining to lie about it at his funeral.
What it cannot mean is delay disguised as processing. If a conversation needs to happen—hard or tender—the window for having it is measured in the old man's health, not in your readiness.
And if you are now the old man, notice which version of honor your sons learned by watching you. Children file away how you treated your father. The way you speak to your aging parent is the script your children are memorizing for you.
Do it this week
Pick one old man. One hour. One real question, one specific thank-you. Do not wait for a milestone; ordinary Sundays carry more weight than you think, because nobody is performing on an ordinary Sunday. The dead will get their flowers. The living should get theirs first.
FAQ
What if my father and I do not really talk?
Start smaller than a conversation. Share a meal, help with a task, ask one question about his younger years. Many fathers open through activity, not eye contact.
Is it too late to fix a strained relationship with an aging parent?
It is rarely too late for an honest sentence. Full reconciliation may not arrive, but one truthful, non-accusing visit is almost always still possible—and still worth it.
How do I preserve an old man's stories?
Record video or audio on your phone while he talks about his life, write down names and dates he mentions, and ask him to walk you through old photos. Label the files so they survive.
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