I CAN no longer recall whether I was in fourth or fifth grade when I first started attending the 4:00 a.m. Simbang Bengi in my hometown, but I remember clearly how it began.
It started, quite innocently, as a childish bet among my brothers and playmates as to who among us could last all nine dawn Masses, including the Maitinis on the evening of December 24.
What began as a game slowly became something deeply personal, a devotion I carried with me long after the novelty wore off.
Long before alarm clocks and phone reminders ruled our mornings, we woke up guided by roosters, routine, and a quiet sense of faith.
Rising in the cold, we left the warmth of the banig, and chose a dark road over extra sleep. This felt less like hardship and more like a small sacrifice we willingly offered.
The walk to the church became part of the prayer itself with each step a reminder of why we were doing this in the first place.
The Simbang Bengi of my youth was never a solitary act. Families walked together, and my friends and I waited for one another, turning sleepiness into laughter and shared resolve.
Elders led the way while children followed half-awake, unknowingly inheriting a faith that asked for effort before reward.
I know now that there was no guaranteed spiritual formula to it, but I grew up believing that completing all nine Masses meant our prayer petitions would be answered. We prayed for sick parents, for good harvests, for struggling siblings, for peace at home.
This was long before social media, so there was no urge to document the moment. Faith was not performed; it was lived.
There was no audience, no validation needed, only sincerity.
After Mass, the church patio came alive as neighbors lingered, sharing greetings, laughter, and warmth in the early morning chill.
The air carried the unmistakable aroma of bibingka, puto bumbong, suman, and salabat, lovingly prepared by barrio folks who had been awake even earlier than we were.
Each delicacy took time and patience; extra personal care was folded into every serving.
For the vendors, Simbang Bengi was more than extra income; it was where faith and livelihood met at dawn.
Coins changed hands, quietly sustaining both community and tradition.
No one worried about outfits or matching shoes. Warmth and comfort mattered more than appearance.
We went home sleepy but fulfilled, carrying not just food but a deep sense of purpose.
Today, Simbang Bengi often feels hurried, commercialized, and curated for the camera.
Remembering the old ways reminds us that devotion was once slower, quieter, and deeply personal.
Faith then was shaped not by social media posts, poses and reels, but by persistence and presence.
And perhaps, in recalling how our elders prayed before sunrise, we are not forced but gently invited to return.
May every Simbang Bengi find its truest light not on a screen, but in the simple, faithful decision to rise, walk, pray and believe.
