One-chapter Book!

At the launch of Gifts of Grace 3, some friends asked for a copy of the one-chapter book written by JR, “My Mother Grace,” which he read as a part of the program. This number was kept from me by OMF Lit and, therefore, to say I was shocked is way off the mark.

"Your son stole the thunder from you!" friends said as they guffawed the rest of the evening. (Pray tell, from whom did my sons inherit their irreverent sense of humor?)

I promised I’d post it on my site. But what was given to me was the book, and not the soft copy; I never got around to asking JR for his file. Finally I did, and so here it is. It's a couple of months late—sorry about that.

To those who know me well, this one-chapter book is guaranteed to vanish the blues and the blahs.

My Mother Grace

By JR Chong

“What’s that smell?” My upturned nose was in protest as I reluctantly approached my parents’ room.

“Tiger Balm,” my father beamed with delight, as he and my mother excitedly slathered the stuff all over their limbs.

“Smells like ‘White Flower’ to me. You know, what old people use?” I taunted. At that very moment, my life flashed before my eyes. It hit me hard: I was living with seniors and I wasn’t getting any younger myself.

I’m the youngest son of baby boomers who get a 20% discount with a flash of a card. Half of my quirky existence I owe to my mother, Grace, an author.

When my mother became a full-fledged author, I was drafted into service. I’m usually at her book launches, signings, interviews and whatnot, shadowing her or hovering around conspicuously with a camera on standby. And occasionally when she says “This is my son JR,” I flash a ready smile.

In these affairs, I also keep busy by looking at the faces of her readers when they approach her, watching for varying expressions—ranging from unabashed adulation to so-this-is-what-an-author-looks-like. Sometimes it even surprises me how complete strangers know her through her books.

When everything’s said and done, and the last of the support staff file out, the author is no longer a celebrity. She’s back to her role as my mother, plain and simple. A mother who sleeps at a drop of a hat, often open-mouthed, with her head thrown back as if comatose, exposing her turkey neck while snoring. A mother who would probably gorge on a bowlful of cheese-flavored ice cream everyday if I didn’t fuss over her above-average sugar levels. A mother who still covers my books with plastic; probably the only task to which she consents for my laziness.

I suppose my mother Grace is just like all good mothers, the way GOD designed them to be: loving, nurturing, self-sacrificing and “all that jazz.”

So this brings me to an important question: Apart from her idiosyncrasies and avant-garde taste in clothes bordering on Cher, what makes her so special?

Some people might think writing’s a cinch after reading her books, toying with the idea they could do the same feat in a jiffy. Any Tom, Dick and Harry can jot down a string of words that makes some sense. Bite off and chew a mouthful of nouns, verbs and adjectives and regurgitate them into a decent phrase or sentence. No sweat.

But real writers are one in a million.

My mother’s co-teacher once told her she was an excellent caricaturist. A caricaturist, you see, is more than a person who draws and exaggerates the peculiarities of a subject. An excellent caricaturist is actually an artist who sees what others normally don’t. They capture the essence of a subject—the heartbeat—and amalgamate this into their work for all the world to appreciate. True blue writers are, in a sense, caricaturists.

My mother’s so special because she’s exactly that.

It doesn’t stop there however. Not only does she see the beauty in people and things, she makes it a part of herself.

I’m an eyewitness to the different phases of my mother’s life. And I realize this is but a fraction of what she’s experienced because mothers are not born mothers after all. From being a gutsy advertising executive, juggling career and family, to being an inspirational/children’s book author, which is perhaps her most fulfilling role, she continues to learn, grow and move on to the next phase. Not static at all.

She is a gift of grace. A person who, by example, teaches me how to cherish and make the best out of what GOD has given me and embrace life’s changes.

Poised for my late twenties, with people calling me kuya (older male) increasing every year, having a “quarter-life crisis” seems to be all the rage with my age group. My mother used to have the same allergic reaction to getting older.

Contrary to her announcement many years back that she would fight aging every step of the way, she is no longer 50 years old for the nth consecutive year. Now a card-carrying senior citizen, she relishes every single centavo saved with every designer coffee purchase. She blogs about her grandson, accepts the fact that her oldest college student is probably younger than her bunso (youngest child), and shares the perfect ratio for that natural hair color look. And yes, she now reeks of “Tiger Balm.”

Like GOD’s grace, my very own gift-of-grace of a mother can perhaps never be fully figured out. Gifts of grace after all are undeserved but we receive them anyway. All we need to do is be thankful.