Accidental Missions Tour

Sometime in 2017, Tony and I visited son #2 and his family in the US of A. All we wanted was to be with them for a month since we hardly saw each other. 

But they had plans to treat us to adventures we never experienced before. One of these was a six-day road trip around California with son #2 driving his dad and mom. He took time off from his punishing schedule as ICU/Pulmonary physician for this trip. 

It was a leisurely drive, stopping for food when the tummies growled. And a bonus to this bonus trip was passing through missions, which was right up Tony’s alley as a history buff. He had read all about the 21 missions the Spanish Franciscans established in Alta California from 1769–1833. These missions are a 6000-mile stretch from San Diego to San Francisco (eventually known as the California Mission Trail).  These facts were supplied by Tony.  

One of those missions was San Juan Bautista (founded in 1797) in San Benito County. Naturally, we had to walk through the halls of this very old structure. I took photos and so did son #2. 

Eight years later, grace takes me by surprise. Son #2 sends me this photo from his camera. Tony would have loved to see it. 

I researched on this mission immediately and remembered what Tony said, which I conveniently  archived (or sent to my trash bin). Mission San Juan Bautista was the 15th of the Spanish missions established in present-day California. 

So am I now a student of history? Not in the same league as Tony was. Okay, no.   

But his knowledge of and love for history (inherited by all three sons and my only grandson) never failed to awe me. 

Not Late, Just Delayed

That title is, for me, the essence of son #1’s eulogy (fond remembrances) at Tony’s wake.

He was six years old when Voltes V, a Japanese anime TV series, became popular in the Philippines. He and his friends (who were at the wake) became fans of this new craze. Tony thought it would be a perfect motif for his birthday cake.  

As son #1 reminisced, his friends must have gone into nostalgia as they nudged each other. 

Voltes V grew into a cultural phenomenon in the Philippines and pretty soon tiny replicas of this crime buster was sold in stores. Tony would buy them for his panganay (eldest son).  Then marketing men thought of making more money—a 24-foot replica was a marketing novelty. 

From that day forward, panganay narrated, he would nag his dad to buy him one. Son #2 kept reminding him, “That’s expensive!”  Still panganay was persistent, almost daily.  

Many months later, Tony came home with the 24-foot treasure! “It was a day of rejoicing,” panganay said. He proudly showed it to his friends and for the following weeks, they enjoyed playing with it. 

Why would Tony delay giving it? Son #1 realized years later that the replica cost P700. And Tony’s salary at that time was P600. 

He surmised that his father would never deny him what he wanted, but it took time for him to save for it. 

I bawled.  

I remembered the growing-up years of our three sons. My album of photos are my memories of grace, but my boys remember more through their close encounters with their father.   

Again, as with all the other eulogies, this was one more facet of Tony’s heart I glossed over, because he never belabored any issue.

It took a wake for son #1 to share his fond memories of his father "who never failed to provide" (his words, not mine).

P.S. 

That Voltes V replica had long been thrown away because it got mangled by the boys beyond recognition. Now, guess how much a pre-owned one would cost today? P71k! 

PBF 2025: A Blast

Ten hundred thousand superlatives can’t possibly describe my two-hour stint at the Philippine Book Festival. 

The OMF-Hiyas booth, managed to a tee by the dedicated staff, teemed with readers who asked questions while I signed my books.

 

I grabbed the chance to tell them the backstories, which my BFF Yay (a fellow author) said are more interesting than the stories themselves. 

Aside from long chats, photo ops took most of everyone’s time. Those moments of grace at the OMF booth provided an oasis and a refuge for the arid and horrid terrain my family and I just journeyed through for two long months since the New Year.    

Here are photos that show the joy I cannot begin to write in words. 

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble."  Psalm 46:1

Photo credits: Hiyas

Wake: Travelling Back (Part 2)

As announced, we opened the door of Chapel 506 at 3 PM on January 22 to begin Tony’s four-day wake. 

A man, whose face was vaguely familiar, stood outside, waiting to come in. He extended his hand and said, “Aboc po, Ma’am,” he said, trying to conceal his tears.

Then I remembered. Aboc was the loyal messenger of Tony’s company for over 20 years! I didn’t see him often, but whenever I did, he was always gracious. 

Sam, our driver, cried, “Aboc!” And they hugged as long-lost friends would. 

Aboc volunteered to deliver the eulogy (fond remembrances) during the memorial service, and he was the last guest to leave at dawn.     

What he said made me weep all over again. Not of grief but of hearing for the first time another facet of Tony’s heart. 

“Kind,” he said repeatedly. He enumerated many times when Tony came to his rescue and helped him, even with his personal problems. He spoke of how "boss Tony" personally called Aboc’s future boss (Aboc resigned when he found a job closer to his home), vouching for his character and endorsing him. 

Another guest offerred to give the eulogy: Nora, a faith sister. I was a principal sponsor at her wedding so she and her husband call me Ninang. 

Whenever she and Tony met, their chats were long, centering on their common passion, food. Nora can whip up a yummy dish at any time. For years till Tony was hospitalized, Nora would send Tony every Sunday a plate of her cooking.  

There was that one Sunday when I came home without it. Tony asked,  “No food for me?"  

“Nora is in Singapore.” 

Every Christmas, Nora would gift us with Tony’s favorite queso de bola. (It was no surprise when she took on the food-prep job completely--from wake to funeral.) 

I couldn’t imagine how Tony, better known as a no-nonsense businessman who neither pulled no punches nor minced words, could be soft and caring!?  

Grace overwhelmed me that night through two most unlikely, but special, volunteer speakers. 

Wake: Travelling Back (Part 1)

Every night, through the four-day wake of Tony at the funeral parlor, we had a memorial service where we were fed with God’s Word and prayed over. In each of those services, at least two people delivered a eulogy (which my brothers preferred to call “fond remembrances” because “a eulogy is a formal oration"). 

These remembrances showed me facets of Tony's heart that I never knew or glossed over, but were held dear by those who spoke. 

They said it in beautiful words I can never echo, but this is how they touched me. 

My brother Matt spoke about Tony taking him under our roof (we had just gotten married) as part of the household when Matt’s job brought him to Manila. "No questions asked."  Matt lived with us till he got married. 

My brother Dave said the same thing about Tony who wanted ("no questions asked") him to stay with us when he came to Manila for college. Dave added that Tony brought them to international shows like the “Lettermen” at the Cultural Center of the Philippines and often treated them out. Dave lived with us till he graduated and found a job. 

My brother Earl (who flew in from Australia one week sfter the wake) reminisced about the same thing—invitation to be a part of our home. He recalled that his first job was to go to many places in a private jet to assist Tony with his duties for an advertising campaign. Earl lived with us till he found a job that took him out of Manila. 

There were many more. But as I rued, much as I try, I can’t write them better than how they felt and narrated it. 

Now traveling to many years back through blog posts . . . I realize, there were many poignant scenes I missed, or took for granted. But by the grace of hindsight, I was given a chance to see them, high res in slomo, at the wake. 

Tony treated my brothers like they were his own—bound and closely related in everything but blood. 

Let me quote the last two lines of Garth Brook’s song: 

"And they say blood is thicker than water,
But love is thicker than blood." 

Philippine Book Festival 2025

C’mon over! The PBF is in full swing! It opened yesterday and will end on Sunday. 

If you’re into books, this place is for us. 

Today, I will be at the Hiyas booth for book signing, beginning at 11 AM. I am on my way, and should be there before then.  

This ad (below) was created and uploaded by Hiyas on social media. Friends have commented that I look young and fresh. Well, that photo was taken when . . . I can’t even remember. 

So I took liberties with the ad (sincere apologies to the artist) and changed the  photo with the real me today—the opposite of young and fresh. Otherwise, people might skip the Hiyas book if they don’t see that young-and-fresh human above.  

Kidding aside, I’d love to see you there, kindred souls. Writing about grace has been my life for years and years and meeting readers in person is grace magnified. 

C’mon over to our wonderland!  

Show Proof of the Proof

Tons of paper work requiring a long stretch of time and a longer stretch of patience pummel a grief-stricken family after a loved one breathes his last. 

Death certificate. This is signed by the doctor on duty, who could not be contacted by the staff the day after. Before that, one needs proof of paid hospital bills that take hours to compute only during office hours. This is required by the funeral home before any action is taken. 

Permits. From three municipalities--the hospital's, the funeral parlor's, and the cemetery's.  

Contracts: For the wake. funeral services, and plot.  

SSS: For burial and pension benefits. One has to prove one’s legal relationship with the deceased through heaps of documents, not to mention hours of waiting in line. 

More! And this takes the cake:  

INSURANCE--as the beneficiary, I have to prove I am the legal spouse. But after presenting an original, certified true copy of a Marriage Certificate, the insurance company requires a PSA (Philippine Statistics Authority) record, which does not have a perfect filing system. Naturally, none is found. 

Son #3, a lawyer, cites the law to the insurance company:   

Republic Act No. 11909: "Section 3. Permanent Validity. — The certificates of live birth, death, and marriage issued, signed, certified, or authenticated by the PSA and its predecessor, the NSO, and the local civil registries shall have permanent validity regardless of the date of issuance and shall be recognized and accepted in all government or private transactions or services requiring submission thereof, as proof of identity and legal status of a person:…"

The insurer remains unmoved.

And so with the help of my brother Dave and his wife Gladys, another certified true copy of the same marriage certificate had to be requested from the QC Civil Registry, to be sent to the PSA who will likewise unearth microfilms of ancient records. 

I try not to complain, but going through these at a time when our hearts are bleeding and our spirits are breaking require gargantuan will. 

I pray for extra dollops of grace to internalize these verses: 

Romans 5:3-5 ESV, “. . . we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” 

Why White?

It is my only choice. 

I wear white during death rituals for a loved one. In the study of psychology and research analysis, “White is clean, simple, and pure, signifying new beginnings.” 

For me and my family, white is the color of hope, not mourning. It stands in stark contrast to black light, which is the absence of all colors.  White light contains all the colors of the spectrum—an inclusive color, favoring no single hue. 

In the Bible, which is my daily reading staple, the color white also symbolizes resurrection, eternal life with God, much like the imagery in Matthew 17:2 (ESV), “And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became white as light.” 

So white clothes we all (family, kin, and kindred spirits) wore to the wake and the funeral rites, or what we would rather call: celebration of Tony’s life on earth and a time to say our goodbye. 

In 2 Corinthians 5:8 we read,  “Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord." (to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord). 

White is a testimony to ourselves, family, and friends that we believe our deceased loved ones are not in the casket.

ooo

It is my only chocolate choice: white or bust. 

This has something to do with the palate I was born with. So when my brother Earl and his wife Tess wrote they were coming home for a visit, I had a ready answer. 

“What would you like us to bring home from Australia?” they asked. 

My unequivocal reply, “White Chocolate!”

Their first and only request was for us to visit Tony's grave. 

As of this writing, they have gone back to Australia. More than—much, much more than—the white chocolate, I (my sons and the rest of our brood) badly needed that visit. It enabled us to take a leap of faith out of the pit of grief to new beginnings. 

White light is like grace—it comes in all colors of the rainbow. 

What’s with the #40?

Many cultural traditions and religious groups observe a memorial service on the 40th day after death. The belief is that 40 days signify a period of transition for the soul.

While my family does not observe this, it was “serendipitous" (my sister Aie’s term) that on day 40, March 1, after Tony bade us "So long," there was an amazing confluence of events. The Chit-Chat (our nickname for our clan, derived from Mom's name, Chit) scheduled a staycation in an Airbnb out of town. 

It was a kunol-kunol as one of my three brothers and his wife are here for a short vacation from Australia. It was also a time to meet at a happier place and time, in contrast to a wake and a funeral. 

That same morning, before my sons and I drove to the meet-up, I blogged about Tony’s quirk in reading the last 40 pages of a book. The night before, I had to rush proofreading the last 40 pages of the draft of my new book. 

I once blogged about the #40 in a different context. I am revisiting it now because it suddenly piqued my interest.  Many Bible scholars see #40 as a way to express an important period of testing or preparation before a new beginning.  There are many examples, but let me just cite a few: 

    • The rains fell in Noah’s day for 40 days and nights (Genesis 7:4)

    • Israel wandered in the wilderness for 40 years (Exodus 16:35)

    • Moses was with God on the mountain, 40 days and nights, without eating bread or water (Exodus 24:18, 34:28)

    • The spies searched the land of Canaan for 40 days (Numbers 13:25)

    • 40 lashes (stripes) was the maximum whipping penalty (Deuteronomy 25:3)

    • David reigned over Israel for 40 years (2 Samuel 5:4, 1 Kings 2:11)

    • Solomon reigned the same length as his father, 40 years (1 Kings 11:42)

    • Elijah had one meal that gave him strength for 40 days (1 Kings 19:8)

    • Jesus fasted 40 days and nights (Matthew 4:2)

    • Jesus remained on earth 40 days after the resurrection (Acts 1:3)

Other scholars, however, believe that 40 is just a metaphor for “a long time.” 

Whatever. A day by any other name would still be grace.  

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart,  and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.” Proverbs 3:5-6 ESV

Last 40 Pages

A voracious reader, Tony could devour one book a week. After he closed his company of over 30 years, just before the pandemic, he spent most of his time reading. His favorite haunt: Book Sale, where he’d buy books by the dozen. 

He always took a book with him wherever he/we went—to the mall, a resto, a coffee shop, etc. I took the photo below in a bistro before our food was served. 

In between reading, he’d solve puzzles that came with the newspaper we bought daily, or play chess on his cellphone. Before bedtime, he’d watch historical, war movies, and travelogues (“Because I can no longer travel there.”) 

At any time during those activities, I could disturb him with my inane prattle about anything that popped in my head while writing my next book. He would indulge me. Whether he listened or not, well, that is irrelevant.  

But.  

When he was on the last 40 pages of his book, no disaster—not even of a world-ending magnitude—could make him stir. We had to tiptoe around him.  

I was not surprised when he brought a book (crime fiction) when we rushed him to the hospital on New Year’s day. Every day, in bed through the first week, he would ask for it alternately with his cellphone. But my gut tells me he never reached the last 40 pages, because we could disturb him anytime, unless he was asleep. 

As I proofread the last 40 pages of my new book yesterday (my deadline is February!), I profusely thanked the Author of life for love of reading, a comforting grace not only for readers like Tony was but for grieving writers like I am. 

   

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18 

Proof of Life

Cooped up for 25 straight days (20 days inside a hospital room and 4 days inside a funeral chapel), I lived in a different world.  

Instead of sunshine, fluorescent lights; instead of fresh air, cold air from an AC unit; instead of bird tweets, monitor beeps; instead of speeding cars, rolling cots; instead of playing children, hurrying nurses; instead of careefree chatter, careful whispers. I can go on. 

In all those 25 days, outdoors—as God designed it—nature breathed grandeur and splendor.  

I was surprised to see the plants and trees in and around our garden much taller, more robust, and in full bloom. Proof of life—of grace; of God’s existence in and around us; of the beauty and reality of God; of our passing from death to life. 

Tony loved plants. In his younger years, he would tend to them himself. He must have passed down this DNA to son #3 who had our garden landscaped just before our trek to the hospital. How these florae have come to life and grown in 25 days!  

“Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life. He does not come into judgment, but has passed from death to life.” John 5:24 ESV

A Key Chain without a Key

Valentine’s Day was no big deal to both Tony and me. As adman and adgal, we hyped this day for our clients to increase brand awareness and sales. 

Tony would always say, “I can give you a gift or flowers anytime I feel like it—not necessarily on February 14.” 

And so it was. 

He would offer to pay for my purchase on rare times that he had accompanied me shopping. Typically, he'd say, "That should take care of my future/past Valentine’s Day gift for you.” Sometimes, he would pluck a flower at our garden and give it to me, which in turn I would give to our househelp with a  request for her to pick a few more for our vase.  

That was our version of romance. 

As expected, this past Valentine’s Day caused the price of flowers and Valentine's cards soar. As expected, messages of love peppered the Net days before.  

What was unexpected was a gift—not from Tony but about Tony—from one of son #3’s master’s students. 

Son #3, thinking perhaps I would treasure it more, gave it to me. 

He is right. 

This key chain, with his rare solo photo we used for all messages about his last days, I will treasure by itself, without a key . . . because it is an unexpected, thoughtful gift from someone who never knew him but knows his son. 

And his (and my) son knows me well. 

That was Valentine’s Day, the first one since we saw Tony off on his journey toward Jesus, toward the grace of life. 

"We love because he first loved us." 1 John 4:19 ESV

The Grave: A Week After

One of my brothers, who lives in Australia with his family, could not be with us for Tony's end-of-life celebrations. They kept in touch closely, though, through frequent messages and the eBurol (online 24-hour-real-time viewing facility of the funeral parlor, below). 

A week later, he and his wife made the trip and requested to visit the grave. Together with two more siblings and a sis-in-law, we drove over.

There are moments in life that mark a division between the past and the future: one season is over; a new season has begun. 

And one such moment is the death of a loved one. A cemetery plot is a signpost pointing in two directions: our past life with him, and our future life without him. 

So why do we visit the grave? 

John Piper, a Christian author I often read, gives seven reasons. By comforting grace, I am now reflecting on them:      

1. To weep. It is right that the tears flow in the graveside. 

2. To be sobered by our own mortality. By our loss, we can accept the brevity of our own life that remains.

3. To rekindle the fires of hope for resurrection. The grave can stoke our hope of being with Christ. Beneath us is a body that will decay, “. . . sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power.” (1 Corinthians 15:43 ESV) 

4. To meditate. From this painful vantage point, we can ponder upon the meaning and purpose of life. It is a precious time, and there is much to learn.

5.To express respect and honor. Our presence is saying, “I pay tribute to you and to God who gave me the privilege of knowing you (as a kin, friend, peer, or spouse). 

6. To give thanks. We can no longer communicate with the dead. So the grave is a perfect place to feel and say our thanks up to God for making him a part of our life.  

7. To be inspired. God promised us in Isaiah 41:10, “. . . fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

. 

A Small Note and a Big Basket

In life, Tony was a big tipper. He made sure he tipped service people, even if the job had been minuscule. He never explained why, but having lived with him for 54 years, I knew he was empathetic and sympathetic—and kind (this word repeatedly came from messages of comfort and notes of remembrances from people he knew). 

Every Christmas season, he would see to every cash envelope left by messengers, collectors, mail persons, and various service men and women, whom we had dealt with during the year. 

He’d always ask, “Did you give him a tip?” 

“Yes, of course!” 

But once, when he asked me the same question, I replied, “No, I didn’t. He is an officer of the company and the owner of the car. There was no company driver available, so he drove me himself.” 

“You should have offered to pay for the toll fees or gasoline,” he insisted. 

“Uncle!” 

On our 7th day in the hospital, he told me to take eight 500-peso bills from his bag at home.  He didn’t say it, but I knew they were meant to be tips for those who had been attending to him and patiently following his requests. 

I happened to mention this to a friend, a nurse. She was appalled, “Oh, no! You don’t tip anyone with cash in a hospital. It’s unethical.” She suggested instead, “any token—snacks, food, little gifts—but never cash.” 

I immediately went shopping for those.  

After 20 days in the hospital, while at the wake, my sons and I wanted, but didn't quite know how, to thank the staff that came in and out of hospital room 406, bringing comfort, assistance, and hope. 

A small note and a big basket, a  joint idea of the boys and me, will never be enough. 

These are simply a sincere token of our profound gratitude. 

We pray for grace, for God to be with them as they continue to serve more patients. 

"The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace." Numbers 6:24-26

My Father Had Two Families

That was son #3’s opening statement when he spoke of his remembrances of Tony during the necrological service at his wake. 

Many must have held their breath waiting for a bombshell. 

“First,” he said, “was our small family—Mom, my two older brothers and me.” 

I looked down, unable to hold back my tears. 

“Second, Prime Advertising systems, Inc., the company he founded and loved. It needed most of his time, except weekends, which he spent with us.” 

ooo

Son #3 was still in my womb when Tony took another big risk (the other one, he often joked, was when he married me). 

With hardly any savings . . . two sons going to a private school . . . me, big with child . . . he resigned from his job as Vice President in an advertising agency and put up his own, Prime Advertising systems, Inc. Just in time, I got a raise in my job in another advertising firm.  

Hardworking, humble, simple, transparent, straightforward, with uncompromising ethics and values (his staff’s words, not mine), he hired people who shared his vision and mindset.

I kept away from Prime (we were competitors after all) and went to his office only when invited: Christmas parties and anniversary celebrations. He, however, took our sons often with him to the office during school break, perhaps to model what hard work was like.  

On Prime’s 20th year, Tony borrowed my print of Matisse’s painting, which I bought from a sidewalk near Louvre, for a commemorative plate sent to clients and suppliers.  

From a babe in the womb to a lawyer, son #3 saw his father divide his time between Prime and us. 

Somewhere in between, we moved to a new home (a humble one where we still live in today, four decades later), sons #1 and 2 graduated from the school of engineering and school of medicine, and Tony went through major life-threatening medical surgeries. I retired from the corporate world and embraced writing. 

Prime stood pat. 

With new technology, advertising had morphed into a stranger—theories he and I both thought as gospel truth were now hogwash.  

In 2015, son #2 talked Tony into closing the shop. Which he did slowly, one person at a time, over the next two years because, “I don’t want my people to be suddenly displaced.” 

Prime was 33 years of Tony’s life.

At his wake, a number of his former staff, who call themselves Primates on social media, traveled from different places to say good-bye. 

Oh, the many heartfelt tributes they wrote and said for their former boss! Oh, what grace! Indeed, Prime was not just a bold business venture, it was Tony’s second family. 

A fan of Elvis, Tony was gifted by his staff on his 70th birthday an Elvis standee, with his face superimposed. Everyone wrote his greetings behind it. Knowing how much he treasured this creative present, we brought it to his wake. (Photos show some Primates. Others came on other nights.)  

A Flock of Angels

A flock of angels swooped down to help us from the first day of the year 2025; these angels are still hovering around, looking out for my family and me.  

After 11 blog posts on our January episode, I am still packing and can’t stop singing praises and thanksgiving to the One who sent these angels. It is now February, but the previous month can’t leave my mind. 

Day one was when I needed help to being Tony to the hospital while my sons and driver were far away attending our clan reunion. Angels upon angels (faith brethren and friends) came to drive us, stay with us, pray for us, and comfort us. 

Day 20 was when we moved from the hospital to the funeral home. More angels made the change of venue easier for us. 

Day 26 was when we brought Tony’s earthly remains to the burial site for the last rites (ESV): 

“By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Genesis 3:19

“All go to one place. All are from the dust, and to dust all return.” Ecclesiastes 3:20

Without enough sleep and therefore lacking in acuity, I was lost. My sons were given angel wings to take the wheel.    

The members of our home church took charge of logistics: the women’s group oversaw the food for guests (marketing, cooking, serving, cleaning up, and everything in between); one went out of her way to buy us our funeral clothes; the pastoral team and other ministry groups handled the necrological services and other details.

My siblings and their families rented an Air B&B near the funeral home so they could be at Chapel 506 all hours to be with us for five days, and fill in the gaps. 

Like those in the hospital, the members of the funeral home staff anticipated our needs.

Close kin (a niece and her husband) documented significant moments with their camera.  

My sister never left my side; she kept us company in the family room of Chapel 506 and nine more days after the funeral. 

I could feel the presence of these angels even in my stupor. How can one not believe in angels? 

"The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and he delivers them." Psalm 34:7: 

"For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways." Psalm 34:7:  

On my knees, Lord, I thank you for sending us this flock of grace.   

REUNION(S): Let Me Not Count the Ways

Before 2024 ended, we had packed for our annual clan reunion (Mom's side of the family). It was our 80th year, a milestone not to be missed. But the night before our trip, Tony begged off. “Go and have fun. The long trip would be too strenuous for me.”     

Months before this, although he appeared confident and strong, he would tire easily, and catch his breath. With his comorbidities, these should not have been a surprise, but we were alarmed. 

Together with sons #1 and #3, I made a decision not to attend the reunion as well without telling him, because he would surely balk. 

On January 1, as sons, kin, and driver were all at the reunion, God sent angels to help me take Tony to the hospital and keep me company. He had difficulty breathing again. Our pastor personally came to pray for and with us. 

There he was confined for all sorts of tests and medical procedures. 

On the 20th day, with his mind lucid as ever, he left us calmly, quietly. His serene face showed none of the pain he might have felt during his last days--never to return. He took his journey home to our Savior.      

We moved from hospital Room 406 to the funeral home Chapel 506. 

And our 80th clan reunion happened again.  

Here, those who attended the reunion, including those who were not able to, came in droves to hug and condole with us, and say goodbye to Tony. Many of them surrounded the organist and sang hymns like a chancel choir, sounding like heavenly angels for over an hour. Guests stayed longer to listen.

Over the next four days until his earthly remains were laid to rest, flowers, gifts, cards, and food arrived with kith and kin for many more reunions: 

• reunion with Tony’s childhood and current friends, neighbors, village officials, former staff, Rotarians;
• reunion with his clan--both paternal and maternal sides;  
• reunion with my dad’s kin and friends;
• reunion with son #1’s friends, peers, colleagues;
• reunion with son #2’s colleagues and friends; 
• reunion with son #3’s school (administrators, deans, members of the faculty, and students); 
• reunion with my former and present colleagues, old friends, BFFs, chat  groups, my publishers, and officers of the school where I teach;  
• reunion with present and former members of our home church; 
• reunions, reunions, reunions.  

Chapel 506 was always filled with care and comfort to the rafters from morn till night, even after the necrological services. Many attended the burial rites as well. Tons of photos are still pouring in from many corners, but these are all I have filed for now.  

Between those reunion times, my sons and I were kept extremely busy, and left no time for me to blog, yet I had to (my grief buster)—and, I wrote, “some kind of closure.”   

But a concerned friend wrote back: “There will never be a full closure as long as we have memories. It's God's way of reminding us that completeness can only be from his comfort and providential care . . . all by grace. 

A grand reunion, to cap all reunions, will happen at an hour nobody knows—and that will be a time of forever glory! 

“O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” For sin is the sting that results in death, and the law gives sin its power. But thank God! He gives us victory over sin and death through our Lord Jesus Christ.” 1 Corinthians 15:55-57 (NLT)

The World’s Two Toughest Questions

As Tony fought for his life in the room with a view, concerned family and friends stayed by our side through comforting messages online and by phone, with assurances that they were praying with and for us. 

Two of the QUESTIONS they asked were: 

1) How is Tony?

2) How are you?

These were inevitable questions from people in our close circles, because we remained unseen. Much as they wanted to, they could not come to the hospital. Tony allowed no visitors; he refused to be seen helpless in bed, dependent on a medical staff. Had he not vowed “for better or for worse” before God on our wedding day, he would have shooed me away, too. 

My one-word, honest answers to the two questions that I kept in my mind were downers.  

1) Bad. 

2) Sad.

To replace those words, I had to carefully select from my word depot. But in moments of sadness, my depot was empty. So I blogged, focusing on blessings and sent these to them. 

These two questions persisted till our 20th day.   

Looking back, I am grateful that they were repeatedly asked. I believe that through these questions, the Lord had been reassuring us of His grace. 

What Jesus said to Paul, who complained about his thorn in the flesh, is also meant for the bad and the sad.   

“. . . My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” 2 Corinthians 12:9  

A Long 20-day Goodbye

While the world reveled on New Year's day (2025), we rushed Tony to the emergency room due to difficulty of breathing. Three days earlier, the medical staff in the same emergency room sent him home because his oxygen level, x-ray,  blood pressure, and other tests were normal.

But the breathing difficulty persisted, so I called his cardiologist on January 1. 

She ordered, “Bring him back to the hospital and insist that he be admitted for more tests.” 

We were ushered to the room with a view. 

A battery of “logists” of various human organs—beginning and ending with his main doctor, the cardiologist—came in and out, ruling out one suspicion after another.

 

Tony, as he was wont to do, had an opinion on everything, but tried to be docile while I, son #1 and son #3 were there to keep watch day and night. Volunteers (family and friends) to take over were countless, but he remained hard-nosed, unwilling to be seen in bed.   

Son #2, a physician in the US, kept in touch via video calls. On the 17th day, he dropped everything and flew in with his wife and son. 

True to form, Tony was adamant, “Why are they coming?”  He loathed being fussed over. 

Every day, telltale signs were nudging us progressively, but we looked the other way. He had lost his big appetite, strength to sit up, and lust for reading. Only his mind was intact—while ours became fuzzy—barking orders to driver Sam and Mother Teresa. 

His cardio was hinting that his heart was failing; still, we were all floating in a separate universe. Son #1 kept buying his favorite foods; son #3 was scouting for a hospital bed and commode; and I had contracted two caregivers for home care. 

When sons #1, #2, and #3 were together in his room, they watched TV while I took photos. "This is how it will always be," I thought. 

I was wrong.

It was our 20th day, and Mother Teresa took over as the night watch, so we could all catch up on our sleep. But she called after a couple of hours, begging us to go back, defying Tony’s order not to do so. 

My strong-willed, obstinate roommate of almost 55 years was peacefully asleep when we reached him, but his faint heart hobbled along. The Lord enabled us to say our final goodbyes before He took him home. Time stamp: January 20, 2025, 11:56 PM.  

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man's heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end.” Ecclesiastes 3:11

Holding Hands

Coming home without the man of the house till the rest of my days leaves a gaping hole in our life. I can rattle off all the synonyms of grief, but nothing accurately describes what I (and the rest of the family) feel.

How to move out of here?   

The Lord's Word is unchanging. It’s the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. And like King David, we continue to cling to Him and His right hand will carry us through. 

“My soul clings to you; your right hand upholds me.” Psalm 63:8 ESV

Blank Blog Days

 I am taking a leave from blogging till the 27th.  Goodbyes cannot be rushed.  

"My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever." Psalm 73.26 (ESV) 

Joy to the Room

Day 17 in the room with a view: 

Being a night watcher alternately with son #3, I was advised by friends and family to get a “companion watcher” so I can have uninterrupted sleep. It was an idea too brilliant to ignore. 

And so I asked the nurses (their station is two steps away from our room) if they could recommend someone for that night. “Joy,” one said. "Here’s her number." 

And so I called up Joy.

And Joy came into the room. 

By staying awake for all of 12 hours, Joy enabled me to sleep for the same number of hours. Lost sleep have been more than replenished.  

How are we doing? 

Son #2, with my daughter-in-love and grandson, have flown in from the US to visit Tony. Joy. 

Son #3 has relinquished his night job to Mother Teresa because of busy schedules. He is now, however, the dynast of the Chong dynasty (our nickname for household), relieving me of all duties so I could focus on his dad. Joy. 

Son #1 continues to buy his dad’s medical needs and fave foods, even if he has totally lost his appetite for anything edible. Joy.

In our conversations with his heart doctor (a classmate of my doctor son #2), we recalled Tony’s first heart attack in the early 90s, then his quadruple coronary bypass in 2002. The Lord had given his heart multiple leases on life, more than many heart patients.   

Support--prayers and well wishes from loved ones from many corners of the world--continues to pour, flooding our room with joy.  

We are grateful; we are blessed. We are totally dependent on God's immense grace.  

“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10 ESV) 

In a Way, A Missionary

“In a way, you are a missionary,” a friend told me. 

I vehemently objected, because “missionary” comes from the Latin missio, a translation of the Greek verb apostellō, which refers to sending someone out to accomplish an objective. 

The noun form of this verb, apostolos, is transliterated into English as “apostle,” which refers not only to Jesus’ appointed spokesmen, but to “messengers” sent out by the church to other places other than their own to advance the Word. 

“Your books are sent out by your publishers to many places abroad, or they are bought by readers and taken to different places in the world,” he insisted. 

It’s is a stretch, but okay, “in a way.” 

Therese (not her real name), whom I had never met, is a principal in a Christian grade school in the USA. She messaged my social media page that she reads my blogs and books in her Kindle e-reader. “Your book The Teacher in Me is not online, so how may I get a copy?” 

I took the chance to send her a copy, plus two other books that are not available online. Because I have friends in the airline industry, it was easy (not to mention inexpensive) to mail my books anywhere in the world. 

The books reached Therese on New Year’s day. 

Who knows where my other books are really? They were/are “sent out” and  by God’s enabling grace, they will acomplish what we envisioned them to do--to advance the Word.  

"Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them inthe name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” Matthew 28:19-20 ESV. 

What is Good News?

Topping the bar. Winning an award. Being promoted. Landing a high-paying job. Receiving a fat bonus. Driving a new car. These are ours:  

"Mom, Papa had a small piece of chicken and a bite of pear." 

"Mom, I am sending his favorite TETSU ramen." 

"Ma'am, I bought Sir Tony a small speaker for his phone so he can listen to Elvis." 

He went off the oxygen tank for 30 minutes. 

He sat on a chair for 30 minutes. 

He asked to see Adrian on a video call. 

He asked for a cheeseburger and took one bite.  

His doctor said he can eat anything he wants.

He wants to know if the fire in California has finally stopped. 

He wonders if there is good progress in the war in Gaza.   

He thanks every orderly and nurse who fiddles with his medical attachments.

His three sons communicate almost every hour online. 

His doctors have a GC, where they discuss his condition. 

Each one is a milestone, grace delivered to our hospital room with a view.  It's day 15; we are grateful that the Lord continues to hold our hand. We bow to His will.  

Mother Teresa was the watcher last night and put all my and son #3's mess in place. She cleaned out the fridge of left-overs, arranged our closet, and sorted our laundry.  

Friends and family have been messaging/calling non-stop, encouraging and praying. They ask, “How is he doing today?” but I cannot update them all. Hopefully, this post will, for now. One day at a time. 

We are sorry not to receive any visitors, but that is his doctor’s (and Tony's) order, not mine, or my sons'.  

“Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:6-7 NLT