Hidden Grace: Unnamed Women

About a hundred women of noble character are unnamed in the Bible. Why?

For one, old cultures recorded public histories through men. Women generally operated in domestic spheres, that’s why their names were not important unless they impacted political, social, and royal concerns.

But the main reason is for readers to focus on the story rather than the name. The message remains on God’s actions and interactions rather than the women’s biography. 

The stories of these unnamed women, whose faith and struggles are vital contributions to our salvation history, represent all strata of society—from the poorest of the poor to royalty

C.H. Spurgeon wrote that marginalized women are “powerful examples of hidden grace; God uses ordinary, unrecognized individuals to achieve His greatest spiritual victories.”

Indeed, the true power of the church often rests in its unknown, unnamed members rather than famous figures. Faith goes beyond social status.  Though anonymous, these women are fully seen, deeply valued, and intimately understood by Jesus.  

I marvel at these stories, which are our series of lessons in our women's Sunday school these months.  They are humbling. They teach us that no one should look down on the unknown. 

One story that has sat with me is found in Luke 21:1-4 ESV:

“Jesus looked up and saw the rich putting their gifts into the offering box, and he saw a poor widow put in two small copper coins. And he said, “Truly, I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all of them.  For they all contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on.”

Often, we give from what we do not need. But the unnamed widow gave all her money to live on, more than all the others' combined!  

What does this mean?   

    • Giving is measured by sacrifice, not amount. God looks at what the gift costs the giver, not the size of the contribution.

    • True giving comes from a heart of devotion, not a desire for public recognition.

    • No one is too poor, too young, or too insignificant to make a meaningful impact in God's eyes.

    • Percentage matters. The rich gave a small fraction of their wealth, while the widow gave one hundred percent of her substance.  

Unknown? To the world, yes. To God, these nameless women are deeply loved and fully known.     

Photo credits: An Army rising (top),Vecteezy (middle),, Shutterstock (bottom)

Still Fruitful

Two trees illustrate long, productive life in the Bible. 

One, the date palm: it can still bear fruit after 3,000 years. 

Two, the cedar of Lebanon: it remains to have unshakable strength and majesty at the same number of years (or longer if beside a stream). 

Psalm 92:12-14 (ESV) reads, “The righteous shall flourish like a palm tree, He shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon. Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God. They shall still bear fruit in old age; they shall be fresh and flourishing…They will still bear fruit in old age, they will stay fresh and green."

“Retirement is not Biblical,” our pastor said.

Indeed. God promises that spiritual vitality and productivity do not have an expiration date; serving God is a lifelong calling, not a standard job. It is rooted in love and relationships, not  employment. We do not retire from them. As long as we have breath, our role shifts, but it does not end.   

I was tasked to expound on this truth among about 50 seniors during a gathering in our church. It was an eye-opener for me as well. 

The Lord assures us in our sunset years (despite the aches, pains, and dulled senses) that we can continue bearing fruit to honor Him.  I presented four how-tos that, I pray, grace will enable me to do myself:  

1. Deepen the Roots: Dedicating regular, unhurried time to scripture and prayer.

2. Mentor the Next Generation: sharing our hard-earned wisdom, faith stories, and life lessons with younger believers. 

3. Adjust our Service: focusing on spiritual work (listening, comforting, staying) due to physical limitations.

4. Guard our Heart: avoiding complaining, bickering, or longing for the good old days; cultivating a habit of gratitude.  

Still Fruitful. It’s living a life that continues to bless others for God's kingdom.   

Sistahs

How can two sisters, only two years apart, who grew up in the same house, be polar opposites?

This still puzzles me when my ading (younger sister) and I get together, now a rare phenomenon in this era of aching bones, wasting muscles, and fading eyesight. She lives 188 kilometers away, or four hours by car, six hours by bus, and—the way she actually does it—"nine hours by tricycle, buses, and modern jeep inclusive of waiting time!" 

I had written about this in one of my books (Gifts of Grace 1). But it seems like those pages are way too few. I missed to include that she loves the soil and I love the tiles. 

Why then can two opposite poles have marathon talks—now interrupted by some gadget scrolling—and intent walks in a book-sale shop?

Well, we are actually Siamese twins in the one area that counts: faith. Both deeply-invested in the redeeming grace of our one true King, Jesus. And that can take several volumes of matching tastes—in values, principles, moral code, standards, rules of conduct, and conscience. Here, we are on the same page. 

Sistah, we call each other in text messages. And sistahs we both are in the faith that keeps us alert, alive, enthusiastic in His service.   

Silent Saturday

A Long and Winding Road to 10K

When I turned 80, I did a happy dance while reading this:  

"Under the Expanded Centenarians Act, Filipinos aged 80 and above receive a one-time cash gift of ₱10,000 every five years upon reaching the milestone ages of 80, 85, 90, and 95. When they reach 100 years old, they receive a centennial cash gift of ₱100,000."

Easy peasy. Or so I thought.

First, the tedious application process at the Barangay Hall. Requirements: photos in all angles, birth certificate form the Philippine Statistics Authority, three government IDs, a long form to fill out.  It took a month of back-and-forth trips to different government offices.

Sam, son #3’s driver, was a blessing. But I worried about the hundreds of others who didn’t have a Sam. Those in wheelchairs with tired caregivers. Those with weak knees but had to ride tricycles and jeepneys.

Second, the long, silent waiting. “We’ll call you,” a clerk said. She did after two months  with more requirements, “You also need to submit . . .” 

Third, the urgent call one year later, just before my 81st birthday. “Come to the Barangay Hall tomorrow.” I was close to drooling. Finally! The queue was longer than the San Juanico bridge. I waited for an hour, only to be given a small piece of paper with my name on it and a table number. 

“Bring this to the gym tomorrow for the distribution of the 10k.”

Fourth, the 10K extravaganza.  The gym was dressed up to the max, like a venue for a grand miting de avance--complete audio-video equipment, wel-dressed usherettes, a stage with a backdrop, where the mayor spoke in a language that could rivet everyone, including street bystanders. To say it was patronizing is an understatement. It was to ferret out gratitude from the over 700 80-year-old-and-above audience. 

A singing duo, a dancing couple, a karaoke singer, etc. prolonged the waiting. Then, at last, after 2.45 hours of numb digits, aching back, and stiff neck, my decrepit hands held the precious 10K.

But hey, this is a blog on grace. It took a one-year-long-and-winding road, but it came. Still grateful.  

Guilty? The VP’s Impeachment Trial

On the first day of VP Sara's impeachment hearing, I sat rigidly in a chair and listened to every word.

When son #3, a lawyer, came home, I concluded, “She will be impeached.”

As though he was talking to a grade schooler, he replied, “Mom, ask two lawyers one question, and they will have two different answers.” 

That shut me up. I stopped listening to or reading about the proceedings after that. Comments and emojis on socmed mean nothing. 

Son #3 explained furher, "Although the Senate has the final say on whether to convict or acquit VP Sara during an impeachment trial, the Supreme Court (SC) has the final word on the legal validity of the process itself." 

Sigh.  

“The SC, as the ultimate interpreter of the Constitution, has the final authority to declare an impeachment complaint valid or invalid." 

I don’t count. You don’t count. We, who are non-members of the SC, don’t count.

That is justice on terra firma, the temporary world we live in.

Only in eternity, where God is the ultimate supreme Judge, can true justice exist.      

The Bible describes God’s perfect fairness in His defense of the oppressed and His ultimate judgment of sin. He promised to right every wrong.

Verses on justice in Scripture are many, but these will do for now:

Deuteronomy 32:4 (NIV): "The Rock, his work is perfect, for all his ways are justice. A faithful God and without iniquity, just and upright is he.

Psalm 103:6: "The Lord works righteousness and justice for all who are oppressed."

Isaiah 30:18: "For the Lord is a God of justice; blessed are all those who wait for him."

So, will the VP be impeached?

May grace give us peace when the final verdict--wherever it goes--of the SC is announced. 

Take heart, true justice will come when the new earth and new heaven will be upon us. Soon, I pray.  

How Should We Celebrate Father’s Day?

My dad left us for his eternal home 44 years ago. The dad of my children bade us goodbye last year.

How then should Father’s Day be celebrated?

A song entitled You Are Strong, Dad is a tribute for the head of the home. The exact songwriter or composer is uncredited because it is an independent production for socmed, not written by a commercial music artist. The track is a copyright-free, specialized Christian worship and reflection music.

The lyrics are told from a child's POV, recognizing the silent sacrifices, quiet strength, and hard work of a father. It is a Father’s Day tribute, focusing on the subtle, everyday endurance of fatherhood. It is about aging, gratitude, and the shift in perspective when children grow old enough to appreciate the heavy burdens their dad carried for them in silence. 

This we witnessed in our church on Father’s Day. 

While all the fathers stood behind the pulpit, a seven-year-old girl sang the song. You could hear a pin drop and tears cascading freely over many cheeks in the pews. 

“Today may God bless your tired hands,

May heaven give you peace. 

For every quiet sacrifice,

You gave much to me.

You are strong, Dad,

I finally see it now.”

After the song, our chuch community prayed for the dads standing there, trying hard to be stoic and unemotional but visibly moved. 

Then I remembered the dads no longer with us but were just as strong.

And for me, that’s how Father’s Day should be celebrated: Paying tribute to the dads the Lord blessed each child with, and being grateful to our Father in heaven Who created earthly dads in His footsteps.

Top photo credit: PVGC Media Team

Broadcasting is in ICU

Broadcast television isn’t dying, but it is going through a massive transformation. Traditional radio and TV networks have evolved into digital-first, multi-platform media organizations.

While over-the-air audiences are shrinking, the strengths of broadcasting have shifted to streaming to capture viewers who have moved away from traditional media. Content is now distributed across podcasts (YouTube, TikTok, and mobile apps) to reach younger audiences.

A huge part of my workplace life was on broadcasting (advertising and radio hosting)—it was like my home, my comfort zone.

It’s because I had always been behind the scenes: voice-over, critic, writer, creative director. But when I became an author, it became necessary to face the camera in interviews and messages to readers. Those freak me out. My common excuse, “I am better at writing than speaking.”

But.

I got invited to DZAS, operated by the Far East Broadcasting Company (FEBC) Philippines, with the mission slogan: "Communicating Christ Until All Have Heard." It’s similar to the reason why I am an author—the Gospel should reach people and Christian writers need to help spread the Word till our last breath.  

I could not pass it up. It was a venue—with its wide reach of audiences—to talk about my books on grace and my writing ministry. I was asked about the W’s of my writing: what, why, when, where, who.  Although I tried not to show it, the jitters crept into every part of my anatomy.

The host and the production staff were so calming; the tour around the place were my sedatives.

Collection of old radios and a huge Bible, perfect for fading eyesight

Watching the taped interview again a few days later, I saw the numbers: 3.4K views.

Broadcasting in ICU is not a bad thing. There, patients receive round-the-clock care and life support to keep breathing—till the second coming. 

Time’s Rare Masterpiece

Schedule used to mean: routine.

Dress up for work. Kiss the three sons good-bye. Work. Overtime for a client meeting or an ad shoot. Go home. Ask the three kids how their day went. Late dinner or short catch-ups with the hubby. Sleep a little. Then wake up to the same routine.

Now schedule means the opposite: iffy.

It depends on Sammy’s (son #3's driver) free time. If none, I stay home and read and write and write. Or I fill up my empty jars with some tunes on the piano, some crossword puzzles, some arts and crafts, and some (okay, lots)  nibbles or munchies.  

Then came one day when son #3 was out of town. That freed up Sam for one whole day. Son #1 had online classes at home, so that freed up Mother Teresa from keeping watch and answering calls at home.

“Le’s go out and have fun!” I declared to the two angels who see to my now very few needs after Tony left. 

Off we went to the mall—to a coffee shop. With Gen Z’s around us, we indulged ourselves leisurely in caramel latte and pastries. I got lost in (but enjoyed) the conversation with two people whose interests are contrary to mine.

It was my and their first time to share a table and spend the afternoon without worrying about the clock ticking.  

In three hours, grace painted colors in different lines, hues, and shades. And time rendered a rare masterpiece.  

P.S. A coincidence: this happened on 6-26-26, a palindrome! 

Circumcised Heart

Once every three months or less, son #3 delivers the Sunday Message behind the pulpit, as requested by our pastor. A lawyer/professor, he is wont to first present the context of the core message. 

On that point, we are on the same page. Context is non-negotiable in creative writing. 

Context provides the background, setting, and relationship dynamics that remove ambiguity from words with multiple meanings.

But on one particular Sunday, son #3 was trying to look for a euphemism for circumcision, as it is a raw word that could unsettle the listeners in the Philippines.

After repeatedly voicing his unease about the word, I was surprised to read “Circumcised Heart” flashed in large fonts on all screens inside the church as the title of his message. 

"Circumcised heart" needs no euphemism. It is by itself a profound metaphor for spiritual transformation enabled by grace. It represents a heart that is cleansed, obedient, and fully devoted to God.

While physical circumcision was the outward, visible sign of the covenant among God’s chosen people in ancient times (context: law), the Bible (both in the Old and New Testaments) consistently emphasizes that God ultimately desires an internal reality—a heart set free from stubbornness and sin.

Romans 2:29 (NLT) reads, “No, a true Jew is one whose heart is right with God. And true circumcision is not merely obeying the letter of the law; rather, it is a change of heart produced by the Spirit. And a person with a changed heart seeks praise fom God, not from people.”

Self reflection: Do I have a circumcised heart? 

A Must: Vacation Bible School

If you grew up in a Christian family, you'd know what Vacation Bible School (VBS) is. It is a week-long education program hosted by local Christian churches for children during the summer vacation.

It is similar to a summer camp and a community outreach program designed to introduce children to the Bible and Christian values--through interactive, fun, and age-appropriate learning.

I never missed a VBS in the town where I grew up. That was where I learned about how much the Lord loves children like me. VBS is packed with grace. That’s why I get excited when summer comes and the VBS schedule is announced in our church. I am even happier to read about other churches also having theirs.

The VBS brings together not only the children who come to learn but volunteer teachers and donors, who provide assistance through services and allocations for expenses. This year, our church hosted almost 100 kids. 

I was humbled when I read about a VBS somewhere in Manila that used one of my books (The Real Thief, published by Hiyas of OMF Lit and illustrated by Leo Kempis Ang) as its resource in teaching the Gospel. 

 

The VBS concept originated in 1894 when Virginia Hawes, a Sunday school teacher, started a summer Bible school in New York City to keep local children occupied with spiritually enriching activities while on vacation.

By the 1920s, the program had evolved into a tradition with standardized publishing materials and structured curriculum kits supplied to various denominations across the world. Our materials this year came from CSM, which conducted a workshop among teachers prior to the execution of the short-term curriculum.

If you are reading this and you have a young child, bring him/her to tthe VBS. The learnings cannot be quantified. They will be lived. 

“ . . . ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.’”  Matthew 10:14 (NIV)  

Promises, Promises

"Promises" when repeated is an expression of disappointment. It implies that commitments are not kept. 

You and I might have promised one thing but did not fulfill it, or vice-versa. How often do we hear friends or ourselves say, “I’ll keep in touch.” But do they or do we?

“OPM” (Oh Promise Me) responds to someone who makes a promise but will not keep. We say it with matching eye roll. 

And then, there’s this saying, “Promises are made to be broken.” (Politics?)  

Sigh. We frequently make "throwaway," unkept promises. While we do not intentionally lie, casual promises are broken. Promises are cheaper than a cup of coffee today.    

In contrast, God’s thousands of promises in the Bible are nothing but casual. They are pricelss and many have already been kept. 

One example:

The promise: Genesis 12:3, to Abraham, “. . . all peoples on earth will be blessed through you,”

The Fulfillment: In the New Testament, this was not just about the physical nation of Israel, but about Jesus Christ as Abraham's descendant. In Acts 3:25–26 and Galatians 3:8, Paul explains that the "blessing" is the grace of salvation and the Holy Spirit, which is available to people of ALL nations through faith. 

Example two:

The Promise: Isaiah 53 (written roughly 700 years before Christ) describes a "Servant" who would be "pierced for our transgressions" and "crushed for our iniquities," bearing the sins of many so that they could be healed.

The Fulfillment: The Gospels and Epistles explicitly point to Jesus’ crucifixion as the fulfillment of this.  "He himself bore our sins in his body on the cross... by his wounds you have been healed." (1 Peter 2:24)This transformed the Old Testament system of animal sacrifice into a final, one-time fulfillment. 

Unfulfilled ones?! Believers in grace would rather call them just delayed. Not YET realized in this current world, but these promises will be fulfilled when He comes again. 

Revelation 21:2-3 says, “And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.  And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God.’”

I’ve soaked in abundant joy in God’s many kept promises, but I choose to dwell in what is most relevant, after deciding to stop dying my hair: "Even to your old age I am he, and to gray hairs I will carry you. I have made, and I will bear; I will carry and will save.” Isaiah 46:4 (ESV)  

What’s with Authors’ Huddle?

Huddle is a trend--used frequently these modern days to replace the word meeting. 

But it is an ancient word. It has been a part of the English language since the late 16th century. Then, it meant "to conceal" “to curl up” “to crouch.”  

Huddle is popular today because attention span has shrunk. Meeting requires time; it is often long and draining, tackling various agenda. Huddle implies a fast-paced get-together. In a campfire, huddle means gathering in a tight, close-packed group to stay warm, share stories, or cook. 

Meeting fatigue is disliked by the young, so organizers and managers have rebranded meeting to huddle to signify a short check-in with a collaborative and energized team rhythm.

No wonder my publisher, Hiyas of OMF Litt, now calls authors’ meeting as huddle.

Along with this change is a shift in my mindset. In a huddle today, 90% of the authors are young (not yet seniors). To lessen my age (or in an effort to belong), I cater to their attention span by speaking briefly. 

So when the facilitator asked each of us to introduce ourselves by 1) name, 2) book we had read in high school, 3) books we have written, I spoke for only 45 seconds, the length of a radio/TV ad. 

After saying my name, I said, “High school is no longer in my hard drive. There is no record of what I had read then. And I have been reading and writing for 25 years so I can’t play favorites and name some books I have read and written.”

They laughed. Ironically, the younger ones took longer to introduce themselves.

It was a huddle alright. Abbreviated chats. Packed lunch. Abridged Q&A. Warm hugs. Plus, what never happened in the early days of my writing: selfies. 

Time has turned the page, but grace keeps the ink. 

"You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed." Psalm 139:16 (NLT)

Chicago

“'Chicago,' my kind of town” is now light years away.

But every time I read or hear the word, I speed back 13,086 kilometers with my heart and mind, remembering vividly how grace changed my life in that place—my home for nearly five years.

In a recent get-together with old friends, one had on a baseball cap printed with Chicago. I borrowed it; immediately, it unlocked my gate of memories.

Chicago was where . . .

A. I met an arrogant and strict newspaper editor-in-chief, who was my first-ever boss. I was hired as one of his writers while taking up my Master’s degree. I had already written many articles before that so I thought writing for him was a cinch. Reading my first draft, he said, “Unfocused.” “Verbose.” Plus other adjectives that tamed my ego, fired up my anger, and improved my writing. I married him one year later—as soon as we got back to the Philippines.

B. Nobody is more important than the other. Equality was like a seal of contract. In any restaurant or any public place, one would find professionals and janitors dining there. If you asked, “What do you do?” The answer would come without hesitation, “I am a cook. “I am a clerk.” “I am a nurse.” “I am an actress on Broadway.” All said in a voice without shame or arrogance. 

C. The Lord said, “Enough!” He pulled me back into His care. Although I grew up in a Christian family, four years of college in UP lured me towards left-leaning ideologies espoused by intellectual friends who questioned the creation.  But in Chicago, three Filipino friends, all gentlemen of the first order, picked me up every Sunday to attend church (Baptist), their nourishing place. Before long, we had become a gospel singing group, invited by various churches and Filipino events. I found God again; I ran straight back to my faith, and never looked back. 

  

These have been the ABCs of my navigational tools in life. I found them (or they found me) in Chicago. 

Missing Father

Today is Father's Day. As the world celebrates the head of the home, I want to remember. Son #1 said it best for me with this post he uploaded to the Net: 

"Second Father's Day without you, Tony Chong.

"We thought it would be easier by now, but it still hurts every single day. Life just hasn't been the same. You live on in our memories, and through each of us, but it will never quite be the same. We'd seriously trade everything we have just to have you back for a short time, but it doesn't work that way. 😢

"Till we meet again."

This photo was taken (gosh, I can't remember when) by me? Three sons, now all adults with lives of their own, with the youngest, a lawyer SJD, hiding like a shy witness whose testimony was hidden beneath the court. 

Thank you, Lord, for the grace of fathers, particularly for the father in this photo. 

Most of all, thank You God for being the Father who never leaves, never fails, never gives up on us--staying in our hearts now and forever. 

Does God Play Favorites?

That question was the spine of the “God’s Favorite” series (published in 2006 by Hiyas of OMF Lit and illustrated by my artist friend, Ggie). Has it been 20 years?

I was on my 5th year of writing children’s books when I was nudged by a common problem: 

"My kuya is my Mom’s favorite,” said a friend who at age 52 still carried the ache.

"She became the valedictorian, although undeserved, because she is the teacher’s pet,” whispered the graduates.  

"I had always wondered if the Apostle John was Jesus’ favorite. He was called John the beloved,” said a young Sunday school teacher.

I took time to process with her that misconception; it is important for children to know that Jesus never played favorites. While each of us has a different gift (talent), everyone is precious in His sight because we are all His creation. 

John referred to himself as "the disciple whom Jesus loved" (known as "John the Beloved") to shift the focus away from his own name and ground his identity in Christ's grace. This title appears multiple times in the Gospel of John to highlight the unique spiritual intimacy he shared with Jesus—the same intimacy we, who have accepted him as our personal Savior, enjoy. 

That’s how the “God’s Favorite” series was born. It explains this truth in words and images children can understand. 

God's love and salvation are open to everyone equally, regardless of social status, race, or background.

Romans 2:11 (NLT), “For God does not show favoritism.”

Acts 10:34, “Then Peter replied, ‘I see very clearly that God shows no favoritism.’”

Why am I blogging about a 20-year-old series only now? A little girl recently reminded me that books about the richness of God’s creation never grows old.

It is news to those who have not heard of God’s grace.  

It is a reminder that you and I are invited to be God’s beloved.   

The Little Girl Who Made Me Sad

Mother Teresa, our super house helper (who spoils me rotten, and serves me like she would the queen dowager) asked for a few days off for a family reunion. She arranged for a temp to take her place, Nati.

I lost my way. 

A good thing Nati brought along her 10-year-old daughter, Essa, who stayed in a corner with her gadget, a ploy mothers employ to keep their children quiet.

I found my way. To pry her from the digital nanny, I gave her my book, God’s Favorite Color I told her to read it carefully because I’d be asking her questions after.  Talking to children about my books is a rich mine of delight. When I got back to her an hour later, she was back to her electronic yaya.

“Okay, Essa, so what is God’s favorite color?” I asked, ready for a spirited Q&A. 

She gave me a blank look.

I repeated, “What does the book say about God’s favorite color?”

She smiled, “I don’t know.”

I probed, “is it red?”

Silence. 

“Is it green?” “Or Blue?” “Or Yellow?” 

Silence. 

"Who mde the green grass and leaves?" Who made the white clouds and snow?" "Who made the strawberries and ripe tomatoes?" 

She whispered, God. 

"So what is God's favorite color?"  

I don’t know, she whispered.

My smile dropped to the floor and stayed there. So I asked her to read the last page where the answer is revealed through a cinquain.   

The latest Philippine Statistics Authority (PSA) report, which I had hoped was erroneous is true!

“ . . . nearly 91% of 10-year-olds struggle with reading comprehension.” 

Essa is a microcosm of this sad report.

No way would I give up. I requested Nati to bring Essa again the next day so I could perhaps talk more about reading comprehension.

Essa was a no-show. The trombone in my heart played, “Wah-wah-wah.”  

Mother Teresa, come home.

A Daddy Busker

Some people see busking as begging or panhandling. I don’t. I see it as heroic, especially if done for others.    

Busking, for me, is an honorable and a dignified profession. It is one of the oldest forms of human expression on sidewalks, streets, and today, in malls. It has been practiced by musicians from medieval troubadours to modern icons who started on the street (Ed Sheeran, Robin Williams, and B.B. King, etc.)

Many musicians today use busking as an honest living to practice their craft, build an audience, and earn for a noble pursuit.  

Since the mall has ceased to be a shopping place for me, I am content occasionally visiting a deli or a coffee shop. But recently, I am delighted to see a space for buskers (one at a time). An entertainer shares his music for a worthy cause. Beside him is a box that receives voluntary donations or tips.

I’ve stopped to listen and enjoy their music, but one particular busker struck a chord with me. Perhaps because he is a father; I was moved by his poignant act, singing nostalgic songs. They brought me back to days when my late husband put up,, against all ods, his own ad company to provide what was best for our three sons, whose needs in academics (med school, law school, engineering school) were enormous, growing exponentially every year.

By grace, all three had crossed the finish line, and are now practicing their chosen career.

But this dad busker in the mall isn't done yet. He is at crossroads, busking for his daughter’s dream

If you chance upon a busker, please stop, read what or for whom he is performing, enjoy his music, then GIVE. Throw some cash (pocket change is never too small) into his box. Every centavo counts. 

("Busking" comes from the Spanish word buscar [to seek] because performers seek tips, donation, or fame in public spaces. The term originated in 1860s in Britain, describing street or sidewalk performers.)

The Unread, Unreturned Book

A well-loved former pastor, who now leads a flock in the US, visited our church with his wife one Sunday. It was a nostalgic grace day for us who served the Lord with him years ago. His message was so powerful, we shed glittering tears of a grateful heart.

One of our shared memories is this book, as written by son #1. 

Dear Pastor Jerry,

I am returning this book to you after 38 years. I borrowed this around 1988. You called for me in your office, asking me to teach you how to use your new computer. There were scheduling conflicts, and it didn’t work out.

However, this book caught my attention. The title just screamed at me. It probably answered most of my questions. As a 15-year-old, and quite new in the faith, it was just what I was looking for. So I borrowed it, and promised to return it soon.

As a new Christian, I voraciously read the Bible from cover to cover, but it didn’t seem to answer my other questions, and I had a million of them. Is the Rapture happening soon? When is the Lord’s Return? What should I major in college? Will I have a family of my own? What will I do for a living? Will I be rich? I called the 700 Club’s hotline to ask those same questions. There were more: Is there life on other planets? And so on. In short, I was desperate for God’s will for the future, and for the practical aspects of my life. This book had to have the answers.

I was about to finish high school then, and was very busy with life. I wasn’t able to get into it right away. This book sat on our shelves nearly untouched for a long time, forgotten.

Years passed, and you left PVGC, then the country. I said I’d get around to reading this, and return this to you someday, somehow. Life happened. I graduated, got my first job, and moved to another church myself.

I got into the Word deeper, and even went to Bible school for two years. I topped my class, but this isn’t what it’s all about. God was faithful, and revealed Himself, His Will in my everyday mundane choices. Sure, I made mistakes, but it was hard not to see God in everything. Aside from His Word (obviously), God revealed His will through circumstances, godly counsel, open or closed doors, etc. I’ve in turn counseled others in need of advice and direction.

You’ve returned to this country on many occasions, but it wasn’t God’s will yet for me to return this book. Either you were busy, or I was. On the few times we were both free, this book would conveniently disappear.

When I heard you were coming to town again, it took five seconds to locate this book. I’m very embarrassed to say I still haven’t gotten into it after all these years. So I skimmed through it, and not surprisingly, the points were something I already knew and lived through.

Well, here it is now in your hands. I want to thank you, Pastor Jerry. It is still in pristine condition after several home renovations. May this book help out those new in the faith, desperate to know God’s will!

ooo 

I asked Ptr. Jerry if I could keep the book. It was I who had been taking it from the shelf every so often, reading and re-reading it, not knowing the above story.

“It’s yours,” he said. 

Art Deco: Continuing the Walk

After the awe-inspiring museum visit, what could possibly happen next?

Son #3 planned to end our historical tour with flourish at a quaint restaurant cum coffee shop, with a space for cakes and pastries: Hizon’s.

That was one of the places Tony would occasionally bring me and our three sons to when we were in Manila’s Malate area. My mind walked back in time remembering those days of yore.  

 

Hizon’s first appeared in 1963 and has not changed in terms of spirit, maintaining its role as a time capsule of post-war Manila's vibrant food culture. It is now iconic, a classic, with no branches or franchises anywhere else. 

While son #3, Sammy (our driver) and I were having our snack, we recalled how this place became famous, not only because of its excellent food, but because it was the favorite haunt of the late Dolphy (the Philippines' undisputed "King of Comedy" whose career as actor, producer, and TV regular spanned over six decades). 

Photos on the wall documented Dolphy's visits. If anyone wanted to see him in person then, all he had to do was go to Hizon’s. It also became the favorite hangout of other celebrities and politicians. 

Naturally, we couldn’t leave the place without take-home ensaymada (sweet, buttery bread) sprinkled with queso de bola.

'Twas a grace epilogue of Art Deco: A Walk to Remember. 

Media Made Over

Before I could process my analog mind, media had undergone a total make-over. It’s like a siege that begins in rem sleep and continues through all waking hours. 

In the ad agency where I worked in days of yore, media meant having space in physical formats to transmit messages to the masses, via: newspaper, radio, and television. The power to create and distribute content was concentrated in the hands of professional artists, writers, editors, publishers, and studio producers.  Information flowed in a single direction—from the broadcaster or publisher to the audience. 

Then digitization stormed in.

Media dramatically transformed. The digital revolution changed traditional media to interactive digital platforms. Communication has been redefined. Roles have blended: content creators are now also media people.

This used to make me say “duh,” until I saw our own church’s Media Team at work. There are about a dozen young people fusing what used to be compartmentalized. They do the creatives, production, and media selection. They reply to comments ASAP, not allowing for time lapses or dead air.

Airtime is free; feedback, replies, and reactions are in real time. Uploads are tweaked, changed, revised, and trashed, or annihilated in real time as well.

My organic mind caught one of their uploads, which, in my old world, required hours of brainstorming, budgeting, evaluation, and approval.

The post spoke eloquently about what we do on Sundays. Minimal words. No gimmicks, colors, or glitters. Just photos in black and white of people in deep reverence to the Lord we worship.

No painstaking process of refining worldviews, just truth. With eyes pooling. I messaged one of the media heads to express my gratitude. 

And because children are a huge part of our Sundays, and because children play heroes in my books on grace, I added this to my personal file: 

Photo credits: PVGC Media Team

Art Deco: A Walk to Remember

This art style (short for Decorative Arts) of architecture and visual arts began  in Paris in the 1910s. 

From the 20s to early 30s, the world caught on. Design of exterior and interior of anything—large structures and small objects—combined sleek modern aesthetics with the functional, historical motifs from ancient cultures, creating a glamorous, symmetrical, and luxurious style.   

The National Museum of the Philippines captured that era through an exhibit (November 2025-May 2026), "Art Deco: Modernity and Design in the Philippines 1925-1950." This marks 100 years since Art Deco was introduced to the world.

Son #3, a history buff like his late dad, asked his mom, who forgets dates but loves art, if she was interested in going before the exhibit ends. 

“Yes!” Without missing a beat. 

It was one o’clock PM and the sun was at its angriest. But art ignores anger and has an irresistible pull, so we walked under the sun from the car to the building, going up and down stairs. I survived by hanging on to son #3’s hard-as-rock arms.

It was all worth the scorching heat and soaking sweat. 

Now, why would people be more preoccupied in taking selfies than appreciating art and culture? Why would the National Museum in a tropical country be in three separate buildings with open walkways deprived of trees? I have walked to, from, and through Prado (Madrid) and Louvre (Paris) for hours and all I remember are fancy-free delight and lasting memories. 

From the National Museum of Fine Arts, we walked to the National Museum of Anthropology, then--moi now gasping and panting--to the National Museum of Natural History.

I love museums not so much for the dates but for a walk back to the past, be intimate with cultures, and experience the grace of rare and beautiful objects along the way. 

I love museums because they encourage learning, spark creativity in wherever our interest lies, and offer a reflective escape from unsettling worldwide and local news.

The heat (not the walk) must have been a venom that pierced into my skin. 

I fell asleep as soon as I slumped in the car. My last two coherent thoughts: It was a walk to remember. Tony would have loved it.

What happened next? (to be continued)  

Photo credits: JR

Out of Old, New

Is a 25-year-old book old?

Not really. Think of the classics published hundreds of years ago that we still read and re-read. And the most-read book in the world today is overwhelmingly the Bible--the writing spanned roughly 1,500  years. 

But because my books are just a quark in the book world, a 25-year-old one is old. The last copy had long disappeared from bookstores.

It was the year 2001. I had fled from the workplace and decided to focus on my first love: writing. Rummaging through my baul (storage trunk), I saw tons of old manuscripts, re-wrote and polished some, then sent a thick stack to OMF Literature.

Some of my musings graduated from passion to publication. It would be a two-book series (non-fiction; inspirational genre), with the title “Gifts of Grace.”

That blessed birth has spawned and, hopefully. will continue to spawn more books (and blogs) on the grace in and around me.

Twenty-five years later, today . . .

This was posted to social media by a dear friend (whom I still have to meet in person).  She is re-reading the first edition of Gifts of Grace 2 (hard cover, designed by my friend Ggie). This shook me to the core.

She said in part that no matter how often she re-reads the book, “it's like listening to your favorite old songs over and over again.”

The comments on the above photo almost undid me. 

From a male reader, “It’s not just the story I revisit, but the person I used to be when I first read it and that’s where the melancholy comes from.”

From an editor, “. . . fondly remembering reading the manuscript and thinking, ‘Wow, I didn’t know Pinoy Christians could write so beautifully without being preachy.”

And from a new reader . . . she finished the book in one sitting, and wrote that she was in hysterics reading the last chapter.

Gifts of Grace had a book 3, a part of the re-designed and updated softbound editions.  

Truth be told, grace covers the full spectrum: from A to Z, from old to new.   

Grief is Spelled as Gratitude

Sorrow and thankfulness are two sides of the same coin.

This much I learned on April 18, 2003, Good Friday, when our Mom breathed her last while my sister prayed Psalm 23 in her ear. The pain of loss was directly proportional to the appreciation of her life on Earth.

Grief never disappears. But over time, the sadness of loss is layered with a deeply-felt gratitude for the gift of connection within a brief borrowed time here on terra firma.  

Deep down, I still cry because Mom’s presence is no more, but I smile because of the memories, lessons, and joy, her DNA passed on to us. 

We all decided that we celebrate her life on Easter Sunday, whichever date it falls on, instead of Good Friday. For 23 years now, on Resurrection Day, my siblings who are in the country travel to the church where we all grew up and met the Lord. It’s the church that our Mom served all her days, even long after we had left to start our own families. There, together with the church brethren, her grace-packed life is celebrated. 

Me? For various reasons in the last decade, I could only join them in spirit and in prayers. They send photos and a blow-by-blow account of what had happened during the preparations, the event itself, and even their trip back home.

Resurrection Day! When Mom and all believers who leave this earth will be raised, become  imperishable and glorified, mirroring Jesus' resurrection. And there, we will have an unending relationship with our Savior and each other.   

“Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed.” (1 Corinthians 15:51-52 ESV)   

Oh, to be Young Again!

Whenever I watch kids playing without fear of falling down or bumping into things, I say that phrase—not as a wish but as a pause for gratitude. I am happy seeing young people’s energy and risky spirit. 

As now a senior, I remember what my mom used to say (in Ilocano), old age is a blessing not bestowed on everyone. "Bold and daring" are two words I now avoid because the human body can no longer sponsor them.

And yet.

One Sunday, I was taken back to centuries ago when I stood as Ninang (principal sponsor) for little kids in a Dedication Ceremony. Huh? 

One of my nieces (from a dear friend’s womb) came home for a vacation from the US with her husband and child, Gio, aged six. She and her husband opted to have Gio dedicated in our church (where she grew up and her parents’ sanctuary through the years). 

When our pastor called for the principal sponsors, my niece’s mother tapped my shoulder. I didn’t have to think twice—what a privilege! I rushed to the altar and together with the pre-chosen young sponsors (son #3 among them), I witnessed the ceremony. 

After our pastor had prayed for Gio and all those that surrounded him, I felt a soul-stirring blend of awe, wonder, and commitment. It was a "day of firsts” for Gio, marking a hopeful beginning for his spiritual journey.

At that point, I felt as though "bold and daring" came running back--not physically, but spiritually--after leaving the world of the young.  

Acts 4:31, “And when they had prayed, the place in which they were gathered together was shaken, and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and continued to speak the word of God with boldness.” 

40 Years Young: Christian Writers’ Fellowship

For four decades now, the Christian Writers' Fellowship (CWF) has been a community dedicated to developing skills in writing Christian non-fiction, fiction, and content that promotes spiritual growth. It encourages Christian writing as a calling, often focusing on faith and hope.

Founded in 1986 as an off-shoot of a writers’ workshop, CWF is one of the Philippines' longest-running groups for Christian writers, editors, and publishers. Most of CWF’s meetings (workshops and seminars) utilizes OMF Literature’s (a publishing house) facilities and support.  

It was at the OMF Lit’s bookshop where CWF celebrated its 40th anniversary, which coincided with Women’s Month (March). I was invited to be one of three panelists. 

I began my brief spiel with, “I was born with an itch: writing.” In truth, as a child, I always jumped at any chance to write. And of course anyone who loves writing knows that it has a twin: reading.  

"Writing is a ministry. Although I write for all life stages (from pre-schoolers to retirees) in different genres (non-fiction for adults and fiction for children), I focus on the grace I have received personally or through grace stories of others. I weave them into devotionals, storybooks, short stories, essays, poetry, and novelettes."

“Can you tell us about your writiing process?" asked one would-be author. 

My thought balloon: I always begin with thanksgiving to the One who gifted me with the writing itch. But I was not there to preach, but to speak about how I shape stories.    

"Creative writing requires no steps or formula. One can begin with a verse/s, a dialogue, a word, or an image. Or one can begin in the middle or the end. One can begin in the head, in the heart, in a notebook. Although I am a morning person (sleep and wake up early), the birth of ideas could happen at any moment. It can come even during REM sleep. 

I then shared my nine Chongisms, my personal principles which have not changed since I wrote them for a writing workshop in 2006. 

Why nine? Well, they are not the 10 commandments. They may be trashed, treasured or recycled by anyone who wants to consider them. 

The CWF—still young and relevant at 40—allows a writer to speak freely about how and why she writes. That's why I know it will thrive for another 40 years or till the great Author comes again, whichever occurs sooner.  

What Does R&R Mean?

R&R is best known as the abbreviation for rest and recreation, a much-needed downtime after days of grueling schedules. 

That’s what we were blessed with when son #2 and his wife came home from the US for a five-day vacation. Their last visit was 14 months ago—just in time to bade Tony goodbye.

A Baguio R&R it was. Not downtown Baguio, which is no longer as I remember it. Long ago, I could smell the pine trees and walk past through kilometers of sunflowers, run on green grass in open spaces. Along Session Rd., I'd find my friends.  

Does that Baguio in the days of yore still exist? Yes, at Camp John Hay.

Tall, scented pine trees 

The original ampitheater

We rented a house with commodious bedrooms, each with a toilet and bath—plus one more near the living room that's big enough for a football game. 

Camp John Hay (530 acres) is a tourist destination and forest watershed reservation, formerly a military base of the United States Armed Forces in 1900. It was a place of refuge for American military personnel because of the cool weather. 

I shared a bedroom with my sister, whom we invited to join us, as the Chong dynasty is not complete without her. Being always busy, she needed an R&R too.  

Then we had a chance to bond with the two Mateos in my books and my sis-in-love, Liege. 

For the first time in many years, we were together at all hours under one roof, had all meals together, bantering, chatting, laughing, posing for the camera of my daughter-in-love Gianina—a rarity since all three sons had turned into adults and chose their own lives.

Looking at the three together, I had a fleeting image of their father with them. But I turned my back and warded off the uninvited guest that goes by the name of grief. 

My R&R was different from everyone's. It was reflection and recuperation. It was a time for healing grace—embracing what is, instead of wishing for what it could be.