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.  

Philippine Book Festival 2026

My Father’s Favorite Ride (illustrated by Domz Agsaway), is the 4th in My Father’s Favorite series of concept books for young readers. It introduces various kinds of transportation in traveling to many places in the country, an archipelago, by land, air, and sea. 

This book has been a nostalgic reunion between Domz and me.

After nine years (with a pandemic somewhere in between), we got to work together again after Dump Truck in My Heart. For this new book, Domz created a character that rides all the vehicles with his dog. And in every ride, he leaves a flower, symbolic of his appreciation of each journey.  

My Father's Favorite Ride is one of 15 (yes, 15!) launched by Hiyas of Omf Lit at the Philippine Book Festival (PBF) in March. This huge harvest mirrors the growth of locally published books in the last two years. As of 2023, 150 books saw print.

I hope this trend continues. 

It can help solve an alarming news from the PSA (Philippine Statistics Authority) early this year. “The Philippines is facing a comprehension crisis, according to newly released government data, with more than 1 in 5 Filipinos aged 10 to 64 having difficulty understanding what they read—despite being able to read, write, and compute."

As an author of books on grace, targeted at various life stages, I wish more publishers would consider launching a number of books every book fair. My prayer is that these excellent books will sell. In my two-decade stint in Advertising/Marketing. quality alone does not translate to sales. Marketing comes into full play. 

The launching of My Father’s Favorite Ride gave me an opportunity to be with humanity again—socialize with people in the literary world--after my unwanted guest finally left.   

Listen with Your Ears

Listening with my heart was a blessing. But without functioning ears, unheard spoken words couldn't reach the heart.  

Listening with my ears had been on a standstill for over three years. My pair of hearing aids, a gift from son #2, had a lifespan of five years, and the cheap one I bought after that (three years ago) did more harm than good.

Not hearing well impacts daily life intensely. I could not engage with friends and family, especially in noisy environments. I got lost in conversation threads. Worse, I misunderstood them.  My mantra was, “What was that again?” 

I missed important sounds like phone calls, doorbells, and alarms.  I could not hear the message on Sundays, the questions and testimonies of those in Sunday School, which I facilitated. I gave up classroom teaching. I shunned social events. 

Once and for all, I decided to not let my dead ears dampen the joy of my remaining years. But the cost was a total rip-off.  I was loathe to impose on my sons again.  

Unexpectedly, grace arrived in a manner I would never have thought possible.

To the Hearing Aid Center I went. Two hours of consultation and various tests later,  “Come and pick up your new ears in two days,” the audiologist said. But first I had to pay in full.

January 21.

Coincidentally, it was the date last year when life began without my roommate of 54 years.

As soon as the audiologist fitted my hearing aids, my heart and ears both listened! 

From that day forward, I could hear the subtlest of sounds: birds chirping, trees swaying, leaves murmuring, cats purring, bees buzzing, footsteps hurrying, phone ringing, alarm blaring, doorbell chiming, keyboard clicking, water flowing, rain falling, clock ticking, plus a trillion more sounds that stood silent in my ears for years.

“What was that again?” has left my lexicon.

I am a new me. Every day is a time for thanksgiving. 

The Calming Charm of a Farm

Driving a few miles away from noisy—and often unruly—Metro Manila, then arriving in a quiet farm owned by a couple at whose wedding I was a ninang (principal sponsor), was like waking up the dormant memories of my growing-up years in a small town.  

This trip was planned during our get-together at home with eight X’s. Although many were invited, only the same exact planners had time to meet up again. 

For me, the trip was nostalgic. . . rustic tranquility; quiet life; serene environment; sensory pleasures of nature—fresh air, open fields, wild flowers, fruit-bearing trees, and blue sky with fluffy clouds. 

The charm of a farm lies in its scenic landscape and open spaces, where natural beauty combines with mental recalibration: slowing down and reconnecting with the simplicity of one’s roots. Like a homecoming to the pastoral pulse of my youth. So calming. 

In addition to all that, the farm has all the amenities of urban dwelling. The house is constructed to be see-through. From all angles and sides, one can enjoy unobstructed view of the farm. And there’s a viewing roof deck, where one can watch the fiery and fabulous sunset.  

In all, another beautiful encounter with these long-time friends dear to me—in a place away from traffic snarls—can’t be put in words. Grace can never be fully defined. The fact that this farm is personally shepherded with a watchful eye by one of my favorite couples (once top-tier leaders in the workplace), is like bagging the big one. 

(Allow me to gush: if you want to experience the calming warmth of a farm as we did, you can. Maya's Farmhouse it is!) 

Weepy Worship

Do you sometimes weep during worship?

I do. In the past, it was “sometimes,” or “on occasion.” But in recent Sundays, it has been “always.” From Call to Worship to Benediction.

Is it because of grief? (Losing a spouse is like navigating a totally different world.) No. Weeping through worship has nothing to do with grief, because upon entering our church’s sanctuary, a deep spiritual connection to God’s presence invites me in.   

Was this how Moses felt facing the burning bush? Or Enoch when God took him directly to heaven without dying? Or Jacob at Bethel where he saw a ladder reaching to heaven? Or Elijah in the cave hearing not a thunder, but a small, still voice?

Most likely. Because all of them were overwhelmed by gratitude to God without whom they'd be dust. 

And these I am sure of:

Weeping is about the Holy Spirit healing past wounds; it is about reaching a point of total surrender and letting go of any form of control to God. For these, I need to be armed with wads of tissue.

I grew up watching my late mother, aunties, and even uncles weep while singing a hymn, listening to the message, and reading the Bible. Huh?! I often wondered. But now I have joined their weeping club, and I see everything with 20/20 vision. They wept because they were happy, not sad. 

Scientists describe happy tears as a "dimorphous expression." The body uses a negative response (crying) to manage an overwhelmingly positive emotion. When gratitude becomes so intense it is unmanageable. Grace of tears!  

My faith brethren, with whom I worship the Lord Sunday after Sunday, and whose tears I have seen, may also view joy and weeping as interconnected rather than opposites. 

I felt deep sorrow at my husband’s funeral but I also experienced bursts of joy through gratitude for his life shared with us by God. 

Charles Spurgeon affirms this:  “. . . the gift of tears is a profound spiritual reality . . . tears are liquid prayers . . . the diamonds of heaven.” He views tears not as a sign of weakness, but as a tender, articulate, and powerful language that God understands intimately.

I sit up and through fogged eyes. I see a young lad behind the pulpit testifying about how he met God, turning his life around. Like me, he is weeping. 

Hit Me, Hit Me More

This boggles and jiggles the mind.  

My blog hits spiked in the last two years. From an average of 8,000 hits a month (which made me cackle like a hen), it doubled. Then it tripled. And today (2026), it has quadrupled! In March alone, it had over 123,000 hits. What?! 

Pleasantly perplexed, I asked AI what could be the reason for the spike. I am cutting and pasting what AI spewed out.

The high traffic on leavesofgrace.blogspot.com is primarily driven by the established literary profile of its author, Grace D. Chong, an award-winning Filipino writer of children's books and inspirational literature. It has garnered a high volume of hits—reaching over two million total page views by February 2026—due to a combination of consistent long-term content creation, a loyal following, and the pivot to online ministry during the COVID-19 pandemic.

The primary reasons for the blog's high traffic:

Prolific Writing and Consistent Content: Since starting in November 2006, the blog has accumulated over 2,000 posts. The author maintains a consistent schedule, discussing faith, Christian perspectives, and daily life, which keeps readers engaged and coming back.

Online "Book Tours" and Webinars: The blog and accompanying online events (such as "Teaching Our Kids to Do Devotions" and online storytelling) became popular, drawing viewers from the US, Canada, Hong Kong, Australia, Middle East, and across the Philippines.

Pandemic Pivot: During quarantine, the blog served as a source of encouragement and a "sanctuary" for readers, increasing engagement as people sought out inspirational content online.

Focus on Relevant Themes: The content focuses on Christian parenting, children's ministry, and navigating modern challenges like digital addiction and bullying, which are topics of high interest to parents and educators.

Established Author Reputation: As a published author (e.g., with OMF Lit/Hiyas, CSM Publishing, Lampara, and Bookmark), Chong already has an audience interested in her work.

Established Professional Profile: As a multi-Palanca Award winner and recipient of the Life Achievement Award of Gawad Pambansang Alagad ni Balagtas from UMPIL  she has a significant existing fanbase that follows her work.

Consistent Content: The blog is updated regularly with personal reflections, ministry updates, and book-related news, maintaining its "brand essence" for a global audience spanning 193 countries.

Relevant Niche: Her content focuses on Christian values, children’s literature, and social commentary (such as bullying or AI in education), which resonates with parents, educators, and religious communities.

What AI missed to mention is: Everything happens by grace. 

Sisa: Brilliantly Dark

One movie. That’s my monumental achievement every year.  I specialize in waiting for a movie I can sit through and feast on for two+ hours.

Before the pandemic, I’d binge at the Cinemalaya every year. Now, because I could no longer pry myself from reading and writing books in my timeworn shorts, I have become a cinematic minimalist. I only lock my orbs on one film per annum.

“Sisa,” written and directed by Jun Robles Lana, was my perfect  (can there be a more superlative term?) choice this year. It is described as historical thriller, but I’d rather call it historical fiction, because it takes liberties with facts in a creatively crafted narrative. 

Brilliantly dark. I am using this oxymoron because the movie combines high-intensity brightness and skill with darkness and mystery at a bleak time in our nation’s history. It is vivid while at the same time gloomy.  

Sisa, the character, originates from Jose Rizal’s 19th-century novel Noli Me Tangere.  She is a tragic heroine, who lost her sanity after being a victim of extreme abuse, poverty, and injustice under the Spanish colonial rule.

Sisa, the film, re-imagines the original Sisa and places her in a different historical context to dramatize resilience and courage.  Set during the final, brutal days of the Philippine-American War (around 1902), the film is dark, literally (cinematography) and figuratively (screenplay).  The plot revolves around a woman who feigns madness for a purpose in a community of women imprisoned in an American concentration camp. 

There had been movies depicting the Sisa in Jose Rizal’s novel, but this is the first time that Sisa is presented out-of-the-box.  

The power cast (Hilda Koronel, Eugene Domingo, Jennica Garcia, Tanya Gomez, Barbara Miguel,  Romnick Sarmenta, etc.) radiates with brilliance, as each actor seems bespoke for his/her role, fitting each character’s nuances with believable precision. 

Constantly dark, the lighting depicts fear, grief, and tension. Sisa's character is dark because she represents the ugly truth of colonial times—innocence crushed by betrayal.

The brilliance lies in how this dark setting could be written in such an unexpected manner that includes current issues about mental health, justice, and women's rights in the Philippines (shown in Philippine theaters in March, Women’s month). 

It is a given that the film won Best Screenplay at the 46th Fantasporto International Film Festival in Portugal in early 2026.

In sum, Lana’s brilliantly dark Sisa is also a paradox of intense light in deep shadow. No wonder it marks a significant international achievement for Philippine cinema.

(My friend G captured me gushing even after everyone had left the theater, where, for two hours, I annihilated my bag of popcorn without blinking.)   

A 55-Year Journey on a Single Bus Ride

Where to go? What to do? A place not too far. A place not too near. 

Before son #2 and daughter-in-love arrived from the US for a brief visit, we had settled on an ideal place for spending time with them: Camp John Hay in Baguio. It is the summer capital of the Philippines with  clean, cool air nurturing nature all around. 

Son #1 and #3 both took a leave from their jobs. My sister, Aie, accepted our invitation to join us. And I packed a warm blanket because my timeworn body can no longer stand weather below 24°C.

The express bus ride would take five hours. 

As ever,  I sang softly my LSS for the day. 

Because He lives,

I can face tomorrow!

Because He lives,

All fear is gone.

Because I know

He holds the future,

And life is worth the living,

Just because He lives!

But the bus ride halted the singing and transported me back to yesterday--all of 55 years--like sporadic stops at depots and a quiet journey through vivid and non-sequential images. (Ooops, this is turning maudlin.) 

Quiet wedding. Meeting for the first time. Unromantic first date. Birth of sons #1, #2, and #3. Family R&R. Food binges in restos and at home. Visit to bookshops. Idle chats. Animated arguments on politics. Reading together. Writing. Graduation ceremonies. Celebrating. Mourning low points with kith and kin. Career. Family business. Growing together. "For as long as we both live." Plus all the funny and sappy stuff a simple/modest family does.

Now, why would tears fall like torrential rain? Did grief gate-crash again? Or was I being shown my life's river of grace?

We reached Baguio in five hours, as scheduled. The 55-year journey reached its edge.

And life is worth the living,

Just because He lives! 

A Son Returns

Like many parents in this age of diaspora, I do not have all my three sons in our native land.  The current era of global migration, accelerated by globalization, technology, and economic disparity, our children—upon age of reason—choose where they live to chase their dreams and plans.

Son #2, a physician, left for the US shortly after his wedding. There, he and his wife birthed a son: the love of my life and my late husband’s. They would come for a vacation every year, or Tony and I would fly out there for a vacation—perfect arrangements for family bonding.

But the pandemic re-arranged, or erased, all schedules.

When we rushed Tony to the hospital, where he was confined for 20 days, son #2 and family also rushed over, and had just enough time to say good-bye.

Recently son #2 and my daughter-in-love (minus my precious grandson who is now enrolled in a university) found a break from their busy schedules and visited us for five short days. The first order of the day was an early morning visit to Tony’s grave. 

It’s a bittersweet moment for a mother to see her son navigate his grief at his father's resting place for the first time. But one cannot escape the brutal blows of earthly living. 

It was not a visit of obligation, or religious commandment, or ancestor worship, but a personal act of remembering and processing of grief. For a few minutes, we allowed ourselves a silent space for prayer and comfort—while focusing on the new eternal life as a gift of generous grace. 

Spiritual Oasis

These horrid times, every day seems like traveling in a desert. The world is at war: major conflicts in the Middle East, Eastern Europe, and Africa. Fuel prices have risen too high, causing the economy to drop too low—a fact being gravely felt in the Philippines. We are in a state of desolation, trekking in a place of great undoing. 

But what comfort that our loving God provides his children with a spiritual Oasis—found in our church family every Wednesday (prayer worship), whichever day for our small groups (WIDER, it is called), and Sunday (worship service and ministry activities) in a shelter that celebrates its 50th year from October last year to October this year.

Of these 50 years, 48 has been the time span my family has made this church our haven. Desert storms notwithstanding, plus, if I were to take the desert metaphor further: dehydration from political heat, unpredictable temperature of country leaders, difficult terrain of the economy, and hazards from wildlife of unbelievers, we have stayed.  

Because through these years, we always find the Oasis for our spiritual renewal. It has running water of God’s Word, where we are cleaned, refreshed, prepared for a higher purpose, and where the lost are found again. 

Many members have come and gone because of diaspora, but we chose to stay. And we thank our Maker for making this 50-year-old church a spring, a watering hole, a retreat for us who have to walk through a desert every day.

Lest I be misunderstood, the Oasis is NOT the physical building, but the presence of Christ through the gathering of His people. It is where we are strengthened before trekking back to the desert.  

To believers like me, Jesus is the “living water” that satisfies the soul eternally to never thirst again.  As one body, our church family focuses on the Gospel and fellowship, pledging allegiance collectively and individually to the King. 

As we navigate a spiritual desert, our church clings to the Refuge from the brokenness of everyday life, because the Word of God, our core, is faithfully preached.

Like travelers, we stop to drink spiritual water and eat spiritual food together, enjoying fellowship while  soaking in Christ, our church's spiritual Oasis,   

Delighting Grace Interviews Grace (Part 2)

(Continued from last post. Delighting Grace is Del G and Grace Chong is GC . . .  

GC: Every single one of my books is close to my heart. My favorite is usually what I am currently writing, till the next one comes along. 

Del G:  You have other books that are not for children. But you are known for your children’s books. How do you want to be remembered as an author?

GC: I hope I am not typecast as a writer for only one genre. The readers of my books for adults are often surprised that I write children’s books. Likewise, the readers of my children’s books react the same way about my books for adults. 

My writing is not about me–it’s about giving honor to the Author of life, the Source of my ideas and words.  

Each book is written for a particular audience, not for being remembered as an author. I write about Christian values and God’s grace or I don’t write at all. And I pray that readers (adults or children) remember God’s message and appreciate the grace they received through the book. 

Del G: Does it give you a lot of pressure in writing when you receive an award for your work?

GC: Not pressure, no, but resolve to keep writing. 

Del G: How do we cultivate our love for children specially for us who want them to know the gospel?

GC: Matthew 19:14 (NASB) always enthralls me, “But Jesus said, ‘Let the children alone, and do not hinder them from coming to Me; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.'” 

Our Lord and Savior loves children and to them His kingdom belongs! How can we ignore them, how can we not love them just as much? We need to let every child know this truth. 

Del G: Any advice to budding writers who want to try writing children’s book?

GC: Please read as many children’s books by other authors as you can. Immerse yourself in the world of children–study how they act, react, talk, walk, laugh, think, cry, play, or even throw temper tantrums.  In short, know your young reader inside out. And keep the child in you alive. 

Del G: Thank you for your time, Ms. Grace. 

GC: The privilege is all mine. 

A Grave, a Cradle, a Family

Like grace, joy can never be described accurately. One just knows he has it--not only in feeling but also in knowledge and in a deeply rooted faith in the Source of it all.

Baptism is when joy reigns! It is also a time when many believers shed copious tears all throughout the rite due to an overwhelming sense of joy in experiencing God's love and forgiveness. Rather than sadness, the tears mark a transformative moment of grace. 

Our church experienced this moving ceremony once again during our traditional family day: Maundy Thursday. Assisted by our elders and deacons, our pastor officiated this sacred passage in water, which represents both a grave—where shame, regret, and sin are permanently buried—and a cradle, where one  emerges as a new creation, no longer touched by the past.  

As the 20+ candidates for baptism were gently immersed in water and brought back up, our Pastor in a loud. clear voice intoned for all to hear,  “I now baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."

Back-to-back gifts: joy and tears.   

When new life emerges, unburdened and washed clean, it is a time for celebration and thanksgiving. It’s a journey from grave to the cradle that will be nurtured by a church family who likewise left behind its brokenness, guilt, fear, bitterness to embrace a new identity anchored in unconditional love.

Our church’s annual family day joins together kindred souls—from varied status in life—to experience joy in singing, worshiping, playing games, eating, bantering, swimming, and praying as ONE in one place.