Our 2022 Christmas Turkey: The Backstory

Not that anyone is interested (ha, ha!) except me and perhaps Tony, but my fingers are raring to write about it. The writing itch is something I can't ignore; it needs to be scratched.   

One of my first grace blogs in 2006 was about our turkey dinner tradition on Christmas eve. It has not been broken yet—not even during the pandemic. What we broke was the preparation. Tony used to do the bird, with the help of our longtime househelper, Ate Vi. 

Somewhere down the road, Tony gave up. Son #3, with his youthful evergy, immediately took over.  This new chef, however, has a different style from Tony’s, who winged it every single year.  

For this young heir, everything has to be scientific—to the letter—from a recipe he meticulously chose from many.  All ingredients should be original; no alternatives allowed. 

But Ate Vi passed on, and son #3 became a lawyer, swamped with too many stressful court cases. We decided to simply order one. 

It was a major error. The taste could not even come close to any of our past turkeys. So the next year, we decided to go on a staycation in a hotel that served turkey on Christmas eve. For three years we did that—if only to honor the tradition. 

Guess what came next. The Covid-19 pandemic. Son #3 decided to take on the challenge once more, because an Ate Vi in the person of Teresa (marooned in our home) was a perfect sous chef. 

This is our third Christmas dinner where he did the turkey—and it always elicits comments from us, “This is the best one yet!”

Because I hardly go out anymore, I had been able to document the turkey prep step-by-step, from defrosting to serving. It is tedious. It is time consuming. It takes a passion for cooking to master it. 

My three sons inherited that passion from their father. Now, please spare my feelings by not asking what genes they got from me. Ha, ha! 

Worth a Thousand Words

Pictures populate social media the day after Christmas. On my wall, I see nothing but beautiful and colorful pictures of people laughing in a group shot, eating scrumptious food, opening expensive gifts, and basking in activities worth freezing in photos.  

The adage, "A picture is worth a thousand words" is true in every shot. One does not have to use words to explain the meaning of the celebration. 

Before taking pictures, we put on make-up, comb our hair, wear our best clothes, arrange the food and the decor—all art directed to elicit oohs and aahs from the  beholder.   

But what those pictures (at least those uploaded to the Net) do not convey are the stories behind them, or what happened before and after they were taken. Those are  actually worth more than a thousand words. 

Our own photos on Christmas eve (below), for instance, which were taken by son #1 and  uploaded to His FB wall, went through some (okay, lotsa) art-direction. The layout of the table, the décor in the background, the angle of the camera, yadda-yadda-yadda—these took more time than the picture-taking itself. 

This is not to say that picture-taking is a sham. All I mean is that pictures really do paint a thousand words, but the scenes behind them paint volumes more. 

Try looking at your photos many years later. The unpainted words come flashing back—from each of our own perception of the experience. There is no single story in a picture,  but there are memories (good or bad) worth going back to, because they are a part of what we have become today. 

While we’re at it, I’ll peek at my old albums of Christmases past with our three young sons. I want to give thanks to the Lord once again for those pictures He painted with grace. 

Red and Green

Red and green are the two colors that are closely associated with Christmas. 

Once I wore a red and green printed dress to a summer get-together with close friends, and I became the center of playful teasing.

“I didn’t realize it’s already Christmas!” “Oh, no, I haven’t wrapped my Christmas gifts yet.” Some even sang “Joy to the world!” 

Why indeed do red and green remind everyone of Christmas? Nobody knows for certain, but there are many tales or theories that explain it. 

My favorite, of course, refers to the Reason why Christians celebrate Christmas: Jesus.  

Red represents the blood He shed for us at His  crucifixion. Green pertains to the evergreen tree that remains green through all seasons, including a long, deadly winter. It's a metaphor for the everlasting season, where we will be forever green in eternal life, after our earthy death—if we accept, in our heart, Jesus as our Lord and Saviour. 

These symbols, which have been going around the Net in various stylized graphics, explain it best. 

Grace Came Down

A Christmas reflection:   

In fact and in truth, man can't do or be anything—not even breathe—without God's grace. Every good thing on this planet called Earth is by God’s grace. All our smarts, skills, possessions, accomplishments, and successes are by His grace alone. 

Without His grace we wouldn't even be here celebrating the day Grace actually came down from His lofty throne to a lowly manger, all because of His unspeakable, unconditional love for you and me.   

"For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." John 3:16 (KJV) 

Merry Christmas dear family and friends!  

Well-loved Speck

In relation to the vast universe, man is just a teeny-weeny speck. Consider these scientific statistics: “The earth’s sun belongs to a galaxy called the Milky Way. Astronomers estimate there are about 100 thousand million stars in the Milky Way alone. Outside that, there are millions upon millions of other galaxies.”

Now let’s translate that into images that the naked eye can see: if all the stars in our sky  were only the size of pin head, they still would fill the Philippine Arena to overflowing, more than two billion times. 

Mind boggling, isn’t it? 

What’s even more incredible is that the God who created those twinklers that surround the immense cosmos loves us!  He loves not only the whole humanity, but loves you and me individually. So if we think of ourselves as important, we are—to the Creator of  unimaginable galaxies.    

John 3:16-17 (NLT) paints this for us beautifully and implicitly: “For this is how God loved the world: He gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life. God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but to save the world through him.” 

Scientists might think we are astronomically insignificant, but God considers us worthy to be in His loving care. He demonstrated this by coming to Earth to be with us on Christmas!  

We may ask, I am just a tiny speck in the bodies of stars up there all over and God wants me to live with him for eternity?  

“But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God. They are reborn—not with a physical birth resulting from human passion or plan, but a birth that comes from God." (John 1:12-13) 

On Christmas, may we all celebrate God’s greatest Gift to tiny specks like us. 

Choosing to Fly Solo

In addition to familistic, one other adjective used by sociologists to describe our culture is: pronatalist. 

It's the practice of encouraging people to have children. Perhaps this is the reason why, during family reunions to celebrate Christmas, the older members (aunties and grannies, in particular) of the clan ask the single ones:  

“When are you getting married? You’re not getting any younger.” 

“Why are you not married yet? You’re not at all ugly."  

“You’re now over 30, when will you stop flying solo? 

 (No matter how they phrase the nagging, they mean: get married before you age beyond child-bearing years.) 

To marry when one reaches age 30 is a pressure people inflict upon single ladies, as though it were a crime or a failure.   

“Solo Flght” (written by Francie Castaneda-Lacanilao and moi; published by OMF Lit) zooms into this pressure from the points of view of those who fly solo, by choice or by force of circumstance. 

Francie’s story, the jump-off point of the book, breaks the mold. She finally got happily married after a long solo flight. (Read the book and find out why the great Matchmaker orchestrated it all.) All the rest are unique and inspiring narratives of singlehood grace.     

It was a privilege for me to co-write about and reflect on them—even today, 11 years after the book was launched. 

(P.S. Times have changed. The number of people who have opted to stay single or childfree—at least in my circles—has increased exponentially. Several of my lady friends say that when old titas and lolas ask them why they are not married yet, or why they have no children, they shrug, "I choose to fly solo.")   

Three in One (Part 1)

If these three words sound like a bargain, they are.  Not only do they save money, they make you spend less time, effort, and everything in between. 

Coffee connoisseurs, like my three sons and husband, laugh at my love for three-in-one, but what do they know? 

Sons #1 and #3 bought a coffee maker, for which, I suspect, they pooled their resources equally and paid an arm and a leg, because they hover and fuss over it before they can drink the freshly brewed black liquid that it spits out in trickles. 

Tony is the beneficiary of the two boys’ investment. 

Moi? This has been my brand for years (Malaysian coffee). Son #1 orders it for me online because it is no longer available in stores since the beginning of the pandemic. 

All I need to do is snip a corner, pour half of the brownish powder into my mug, add boiling water and ta-da! It gives me about 10 minutes of unbridled joy while I read the newspapers (paper version) and solve their crossword puzzles.  The other half I take in the afternoon with my snack while reading a book—with my feet up. Bliss. 

If I need to go somewhere, I throw a pack into my purse and enjoy the half elsewhere and the remaining half at home (or wherever I might still be). Why half?

My doctor advised me against drinking coffee because of my acid reflux. So behind her back, I compromised. A pack, taken in two servings, does not put me in the category of coffee drinker, does it?  

My three-in-one coffee is not the only thing I pay homage to. There is another three-in-one grace that the Lord blessed me (our home) with. 

But that ode deserves a blog all its own.  

Gallimaufry

This is one word I have ignored and never used. Not only is it difficult to spell, it is also laborious to pronounce. Instead, I use simpler synonyms like hodgepodge, oleo, mishmash, medley, and jumble. 

But today, it is the answer to the newspaper’s crossword puzzle clue: motley assortment. 

I am struck dumb—this is our world, in general, and our country, in particular, today! All its synonyms seem too weak. It's time I used it.  

We are drowning in a sea of different ideologies, many of them a gallimaufry of lies, fake news, and heresy. The media tell us that our prople are suffering from the highest ever (in 14 years) inflation rate at 8% and the highest-priced red onions at P300 per kilo.  

Poverty (situation of people whose per capita income cannot sufficiently meet basic food and non-food needs) is at 18.1% or around 19.99 million living below PhP 12,030 per month for a family of five. In addition to poverty, “lack of education, drug or substance abuse, vice, crime and unemployment are among the many problems that continue to batter them.” Rampant and blatant corruption should be in there, too. Can we ever swim back to shore?   

This gallimaufry is exactly what the good Book tells us about the end times:  

“. . . the kingdom of heaven is like a net which was thrown into the sea and gathered fish of every kind; when it was full, men drew it ashore . . . sorted the good into vessels but threw away the bad. So it will be at the close of the age. The angels will come out and separate the evil from the righteous, and throw them into the furnace of fire; there men will weep and gnash their teeth.” (Matthew 13:47-50 RSV) 

Gallimaufry will finally end on judgment day. 

Note to self: Before that happens, here and now is when we need the grace of redemption to save us from drowning.   

Unending PINK, Unending hope

From that one moment in October when I searched online for PINK in nature (the day the PINK movement was born), my email continues to receive them in heaps from different sites. 

During the presidential campaign, someone suggested to post anything PINK on Wednesdays and called it PINK Wednesday. That should have stopped when Atty. Leni Robredo lost the election. 

But no, it didn't. 

Many friends still observe PINK Wednesday. Since these lovely PINK images have not stopped coming, I have decided to likewise continue with the midweek post and share these lovely finds. So far, I have uploaded these: 

It looks like I will never, ever, run out of lovely PINK photos. They will surely outlive me as I do not have too many Wednesdays left, if I were to base my flyaway time on this Bible verse: 

“The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty; yet their span is but toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away." (Psalm 90:10 ESV) 

I am therefore uploading a collage of them here, good for over a hundred Wednesdays—just from one site, pinterest.com. 

The colors of grace are innumerable. One of them is unending PINK, defined in various ways.  

Here’s my favorite: 

“The color of frivolity lives between red and white. PINK takes all the passion and energy of red and tempers it with the purity of white, leaving us with the color of tenderness and affection.”  

And may I add: hope. 

All I Have Needed

November, thanksgiving month in some parts of the world, has come and gone. But we can't stop giving thanks. 

“A Thankful Church” was the theme of Pastor Moe's message from our pulpit one Sunday last month.  He, who grew up listening to messages from the same pulpit, journeyed faraway and reached those parts of the road pockmarked with potholes, before taking a U-turn and slowly headed back home.    

Little wonder, then, that he exclusively and passionately preached about being grateful. 

He began by citing the ingrates in the Bible story about the 10 lepers, dregs and pariahs of society. They were freed from these burdens when Jesus healed them. How tragic that only one, a Samaritan at that, went back to thank the Healer. 

Pastor Moe then asked what many of us are guilty of:   

In truth, there are always so much and so many to be grateful for—too numerous to count and list—about our church.    

For 47 years, our village place of worship stood tall, despite some turbulence and turmoil within. Now, Pastor Moe works with our pastor-in-charge, many years his senior albeit still young in numerical age—Pastor Popoy. Hand-in-hand they chart with our church board the future of our ministry, with urgency, as the second coming is at hand.   

What better way to demonstrate this working together than through a duet of  How Great Thou Art.  And even better for me, as I was attending the sevice online, I sang along with them. 

Every day, every hour, every second, and every millisecond are the best times for us to thank the Giver of grace for all we have needed.  

An Author’s Pipe Dream

All roads lead to books. 

November (National Book Reading Month) always seems to make that happen, with the Department of Education since the year 2011, requiring all schools to hold reading activities and make noise about books.  

Ah, November.  

Books on Grace as of November 2022

Back to Basics: CAMACOP

Worshipping the Lord in the same church, Christian And Missionary Alliance Churches of the Philippines (CAMACOP), for the past 45 years, I can recognise its logo miles away. In fact, I can name what those four symbols mean. The Fourfold Gospels they are called.  

Through all these years, however, I never found out how those symbols were birthed. I had assumed they have everything to do with my faith walk and that they are, and will always be, the basics of our church.  

Then one recent Sunday, our guest preacher, Pastor Sam Carino, focused on that logo. He spoke of the vision of A.B. Simpson, who founded CAMACOP in 1887. 

He left out the many teeny details about the founder’s inspiring work, but one thing is crystal clear: it is a story of grace. And that the central theme of the logo is what we should uphold: 

Christ is sufficient. 

This theme A.B. Simpson lived and carried to his grave. His epitaph?  “Not I but Christ.”  His wife Margaret’s? “Jesus only.” He likewise encapsulated this theme in a hymn (it never fails to move me) he himself wrote. The first stanza and chorus read like the nucleus:   

Jesus only is our message,

Jesus all our theme shall be;

We will lift up Jesus ever,

Jesus only will we see.

Jesus only, Jesus ever,

Jesus all in all we sing,

Savior, Sanctifier, and Healer,

Glorious Lord and coming King

Those of us who attended the worship service that morning were fed with a most meaningful message—the core, the basic pillar that holds our faith together and up. 

It was made more meaningful when Pastor Popoy, our young interim pastor, sang "Jesus Only" with heart and soul. 

A Crowd of 100

One of the events on writing I was invited to this month of November gathered a crowd of 100, composed of college students taking up education, some professors, book enthusiasts, and would-be authors.   

It was online so it freed me from travelling to Laguna (with the threat of bad traffic and Covid-19 still in the air). The organizers sent me one of my photos from my timeline and asked if they could use it for the poster. I cringed! That was taken ages ago, when the pandemic was not even a premonition.  

So I sent them my blurry photos (I have nothing better) taken online by friends during webinars. The layout artist must have cringed as well and did something about it quickly. Result?  

A 20-year-younger-and-20-times-prettier than my old photos in my FB timeline. When Tony saw it, he asked, “Who’s that?” 

The audience must have asked the same question when they finally saw me online. But this was overtaken by animated and free-flowing exchanges. There were tons of questions—no dead air—which is what I enjoy most when conducting seminars or teaching. 

You can tell by looking at the photos that I immensely enjoyed myself. It was one of those times the Lord crowded my day with so much glee that gratitude for His grace cannot stop.  

What’s Up, November?

To the delight of children’s book authors, the Department of Education (then headed by Secretary Armin Luistro) in 2011 declared, as one of its programs, November as National Reading Month. It is to promote the love for reading among school children. 

The celebration of Reading Month focuses on both reading and reading comprehension. This has been my advocacy from day one of my writing journey.  So the Reading Month, which I actually consider  a ministry, is grace beyond telling. 

November is one of my busiest months, because all schools hold reading/book events and I am privileged be invited to quite a few of them. 

This month is no exception. Because of the continuing threat of Covid-19, however, book events are still online. The upside is, from the comforts of my working nook, I can actually attend them all.  

One that particularly charmed me was an invitation from my hometown, the setting of 16 of my books (Oh, Mateo! series). The Umingan National High School has a worthy Project called: Reading H.A.B.I.T. (Hold a Book; Be in Touch). They go out to the community and establish reading hubs for younger children. 

In all my book talks, I stress the importance of reading. But I do not have the luxury of time to explain its endless rewards and benefits. 

That’s why this cartoon, which I downloaded years ago, caught my eye. It explains in images, with simple and sparse words, the bountiful blessings one is flooded with from reading. 

Happy reading month! 

Dead Air

“Miss, we can’t hear you!” a loud voice from one of my online students boomed out, startling my face-to-face class. They roared as though it was the funniest thing on earth. 

On the contrary, it was the most tragic thing I ever heard. A hybrid class is worse than an online one. 

I declared, “Aside from being terrified of technology, what I hate most about it is dead air.” 

“Dead air?!” they chorused.  

“Yes, dead air,” I stressed. “In my time, dead air was a heinous crime.” 

The pandemic brought in the spectre of technology for which I would never be ready. An online class needs human acuity; a hybrid class requires superpowers to engage both face-to-face and online students, anticipate glitches such as the screen going blank, my headphone going mute, or my clicker going pfft, plus a million other things.  

“Miss, what is dead air?” they pressed.

“It is a period of silence in radio broadcast. When I was your age, I had stints in radio and when on air, I had to keep talking, because if I paused even just for two seconds, the listeners would hear only dead air. As the radio host, I could be fired. Having that mindset, I see dead air as anything that interrupts any presentation.”  

“Ohhh.” 

“In the middle of a spirited lecture, a ‘Miss, we can’t hear you!’  is dead air.” 

“Ohhh?” Their faces mirrored an unspoken, So what's the big deal? 

I forget that students today have embraced dead air. They are the “undo” generation. With a button, they can delete anything and start over. If one site does not interest them, they go to the next one. Being unable to connect immediately or being cut off in an online class is trivial.  

 

Seamless, flawless presentations are a thing of the past. This I need to accept or have a nervous breakdown. I exaggerate.

But really, my generation and my students’ are polar opposites. I need the grace of understanding (tolerance?) to take theirs on as a fact of life.  

16 Was Unforseen

 These leaves complete their 16th year this month. I didn’t plan it that way. 

When I started blogging in November 2006, I thought I couldn’t maintain the rhythm (twice a week) I ambitiously assigned myself. A year was all I thought I could manage. 

Writing, however, has become a huge part of me. 

There are just too many things to write about—24/7 is hardly enough.  Between book and article writing marathons, and reading the Word, which require a lot of musing and reflecting, I’d use the idea overflow on a blog or two. 

What I called on day one as “leaves of grace” has remained unchanged, because indeed, leaves are those pages upon pages of words about a Saviour Who is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. 

But technology has taken a quantum leap upward and forward: new complicated features, new layout and art styles, new sites, new information, new attachments for gadgets, plus many more. This torrent of breakthroughs I have embraced, with joy and gratitude.   

It’s been like joining the big league of techies. Although I could never keep up, I relish trying. 

“Wow, did you actually do the collage in your last blog?!” my artist friend asked, with unhidden skepticism. 

Hah! I suprised her with many more after that. 

Seriously, blogging about grace keeps me renewed, despite the increasing struggles of aging like joint aches and pains, insomnia, indigestion, failing eyesight, plus waning interest in shopping. 

“. . . we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.” (2 Corinthians 4:15-16 NIV)

Oh, my numbers? 

    • Over 1,650 blogs 

    • About 1.2 million guests 

    • Unnumbered change of headers 

    • 16 years of daily grace 

Photo credits: shutterstock.com and unsplash

Neck and Neck

How’d you like the chicken cooked? 

Neck. 

What’s your favorite chicken dish? 

Neck. 

Should we order fried chicken? 

Neck.

However you rephrase a question about a chicken dish, my answer would be “neck.” It matters not how a chicken is served or cooked—broiled, roasted, grilled, poached, braised, sauteed, steamed, fried, boiled, etc.—I’d go for the neck. 

You can have all the other parts, but leave me the neck is an unverbalized plea at home that my family knows so well. 

Consider these facts: 

    • Chicken necks have high levels of phosphorous, which is vital for bone health, as well as moderate levels of zinc, copper, magnesium, and iron. They likewise  contain glucosamine and chondroitin which are both linked to healthy joints. 

      

    • A stretch of land (about 22 kilometers) around the city of Siliguri in West Bengal, India is called Siliguri Corridor, but more popularly known as Chicken's Neck. It connects the seven states of northeast India to the rest of India.

      

These astounding data have nothing to do with my astounding love for chicken neck. 

So why indeed do I love chicken neck? Because.    

“And God is able to make all grace abound toward you, that you, always having all sufficiency in all things, may have an abundance for every good work.” 2 Corinthians 9:8 NKJV

photo credit (top): istockphoto.com

Rainy, Lazy Day

Every morning after breakfast, Tony and I have this ritual (not by choice, but by force of circumstances) at our terrace. With our piping-hot coffee, we read the morning papers, chat about some columns and the news, watch the birds that come to visit, then solve the puzzles. 

On Nov. 1, the rain was pitter-pattering on our roof and the wind was wafting softly. It’s the kind of weather that makes one lazy.  

Ah, but we had an assignment from Irene, a niece, who is in charge of our coming 78th clan reunion, happening at the end of the year. She sent t-shirts for us to wear for a video message. She also sent two mugs, which we decided to use as props while being shot. 

The only person available to do the task was Mother Teresa, who is as technologically challenged as Tony and I. And so we spoke our lines to the camera—a few, no, many times—but the videos turned out jerky and blurred. 

This went on for almost an hour (endless trials and errors), till son #3, who was rushing to somewhere, heard the ruckus and volunteered to do it with his camera. The video was done in 19 seconds and off he went. 

But the morning epic production was not all for naught. Mother Teresa’s experiment with the video button surprisingly turned out passable still shots. Here they are: 

As for the video, I sent it to Irene ("okay na okay!” she wrote) as soon as son #3 got back home. 

If you think we’re lazy, there are two others far lazier: Judge (left) and Attorney.

My LSS that day:  

“Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, 
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.”

By Robert Robinson (27 September 1735–9 June 1790) 

Never a Mary Grace

 After leaving the super-stressful-and-strenuous workplace, I thought nothing could get my goat ever again. 

Nary a thing (not even paid trolls, Covid-19, and lying politicians) did, not for over 20 years, till a few months ago. 

The culprit is Mary Grace. 

It’s a lovely name. But it wreaked havoc upon my placid, peaceful place at the departure lounge, waiting for my flight home to forever land.

It all began when my youngest brother Dave started looking into the property papers left by our departed parents without any of their heirs’ names. These properties are not worth a fortune, but they have to be legally documented for any action. 

The first step to documentation is to prove that we are indeed the heirs. And each heir has to prove his birth and true identity.  

Our late dad left me an original copy of my birth certificate with documentary stamps. However, the Philippine Statistics Authority (PSA) now has the mandate to consolidate all government recording systems for the centralized data repository. 

Alas, the PSA has no record of my birth.  

So Dave, with supportive family members, went to the town of my birth to get a copy of my certificate to be forwarded to the PSA. 

Aaaargh!! 

My name on record is Mary Grace?! Upon seeing my original birth certicate, the person in charge said, “That’s too old!” In short, he went by Mary Grace to be sent to PSA. How that happened is beyond human comprehension. 

I’ve been called many names: mommy, manang, nakkong, ate, Ms., na’am, nanay, lola, but NEVER  Mary Grace!  

And now I have to prove that I am not, and never was, a Mary Grace.  

At my age, having lived in two continents for decades (birthed three sons, traveled the world with legitimate visas, studied in schools abroad, opened various bank accounts, purchased some properties and insurance plans, etc.) and used nothing but the name on my authentic birth certificate, would you smile and take it all? 

What are the government requirements to prove I am who I am?   

Police clearance, NBI clearance, tons of affidavits from employers, baptismal certificate, government IDs, letters from people who can vouch for the true personna I have lived all my life. 

 

There. I got it all out of my system. But not without globs, chunks, clumps, and slabs of grace at every turn. 

Whether the ‘gods that be” guarding birth records will believe those documents I slaved over for months on end remains a big question mark. 

End of rant. 

Back to blogging about grace.  

Sunday School Saga

Since I began attending Sunday school (SS) as a little girl in our small church in the province to this day, the Lord has guided my growth beyond numerical age. 

From attending, I transitioned to teaching.  

I was first appointed to teach adult SS in ancient days, when my family moved to this village before son #3 (our youngest) was even born. I was given a book, on which the lessons were based. That lasted a few years, till our new pastor implemented a new program.   

Then I found myself teaching SS again—this time, the women’s group—as assigned by another pastor. All church groups were given the same book to follow. One day, however, one of the younger women in our group volunteered to do it for me. I gladly bequeathed the role to her, knowing she will be as blessed as I was in handling the class. 

Zzzoink. At some point, the virus scrambled our lives. The volunteer teacher continued with online Sunday school, which I attended without fail, sated with God’s Word each time. 

Zzzoink. Our teacher left, and son #3, who is now an elder in church and the chairman of the board, made a snap decision: “The women’s SS can’t stop. Mom, take over. I am sure many others will volunteer to  teach on some Sundays.” 

Nobody did. Technology tricks terrify them. Except for two Sundays when I sort of arm-twisted a goddaughter to do it (our family went out of town), I continue to mine the Bible for God’s lessons and summarize them in slides, good for an hour. Then I document the session with a group collage, patterned after that Sunday's slides:   

This time around, I made two decisions: 1) lessons will be based not on just one book; 2) they will be delivered in Tagalog (a foreign language to an Ilocano). 

They turned out to be the best decisions I have ever made. Thousands of new doors sprang open for me to see more closely the God we serve. “. . . my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways” (Isaiah 55:8-89). The Tagalog words add soul to what I thought I already knew.   

Yet, the Lord cannot be throughly known down here. Only up there, where every day is Sunday, will we experience the wholeness of His grace.   

The number of attendees dwindled when the health protocols eased up and allowed face-to-face gatherings. My audience rushed to get ready for the worship service. I experimented with conducting the class in church, but nobody made it—8 AM is too early. 

I told son #1 that my audience was getting smaller. “It’s time to stop.” 

He was vehement, “No, Mom! Continue even with only one.” 

If this were a novel, this now is the last chapter of my saga as SS teacher.  Nearing the age of Methuselah, I am hanging on to this nugget of wisdom—growth is not about numbers.  

Photo credit: (Top) Adobe Stock 

Covid-19: Take Two

Had I written a blog two days ago, as I itched to do, it would have been a piece of disgrace. My mood was mercurial; a low-grade fever and sore throat kept kicking my sanity away. 

Not even a negative antigen test could dig me out of the dumps. So Tony called our doctor, who said I needed to take another antigen test after two days. Meanwhile, she ordered me to isolate and prescribed no medicine except an anti-fever. 

Son #3 offered his room; he moved to son #2's vacant room, where his doodads are set up for his online meetings. 

My second antigen test—positive?!  Why would this pest assault me twice?! Had I not followed all health protocols to the letter?!

Naturally, everyone has to be quarantined. 

Here I mope, with everyone at home 24/7 for the first time in years, yet couldn’t sociliaze with anyone except through my phone and laptop. 

What to do? Even with my Bible on my lap, JR’s books for the taking from his walls, crossword puzzles sent by Tony (these I devour on better days), my eyes and mind refuse to focus. 

“Remember your old love: piano hymns,” my fevered mind rasped. I search for videos on the Internet, and put on my ear phone.

  

Magic? Bliss? Grace. Healing grace. I now alternate piano hymns with tabernacle choirs. The lyrics have become my own, and God’s, reaching my core.  

From the lowest level of soil, my spirit lifts up, defying boundaries, and reaching  the clouds. I don’t know how to draw grace being everywhere, so I play around with images borrowed from the Net, hoping to describe the depths of feelings I could not put into words. 

I am not an artist (just a poor copy of one), but this “art” illustrates, for me, where the piano hymns of my youth have been taking me while I am by my lonesome.   

Title? “Breakthrough” (from the cage of ungrace, even before the next antigen test)    

How Many Lolas Do You Have?

To celebrate The International Day of Older Persons on October 1, I wiped the dust off an old column I wrote for The Freeman newspaper (Cebu). Here’s an excerpt of that article:    

“In my book talks, I ask ‘How many Lolas do you have?' before I read my book on role reversal: All Aboard with Five Lolas (illustrated by Beth Parrocha-Doctolero and published by Hiyas of OMF Literature).

“It’s about Teo, the eight-year-old hero in the Oh, Mateo! series of 16 books, who was treated to a cruise by his five lolas. Why five and not two?

“In truth, a person only has two lolas—one is the mother of his/her mother, and two, the mother of his/her father. But in the Philippines, most children call all the sisters of their lolas and all the wives of their lolos—on both sides—lola.

My mother had four sisters with whom she was very close. They were pals, and I called all of them auntie. But when they became grandmothers, I referred to them as the five lolas, the way our children did, especially when they got together and chatted till the wee hours of the morning.

“This book was written in their honor.   

“In one event, I asked my young audience, ‘How many of you have two lolas?’

“All of them naturally raised their hands. Then my publisher offered to give away free books to the kid or kids who had the most number of lolas. About a dozen kids came forward.

"’I have five!’ ‘I have six!’ ‘I have seven!’ ‘I have eight!’

“Then one of them cried at the top of his voice, ‘I have 38!’

“‘Huh?’ Everyone in the audience shrieked in unison, ‘38?!’

“I asked the kid, Ziggy, who was about eight, ‘You really have 38 lolas?!’

"Opo," Ziggy replied, smiling widely.

“His mother explained Ziggy’s answer, ‘We have a huge clan that meets every year for a grand reunion. I have 37 aunties in that clan (including in-laws), plus my mother—a total of 38. He calls them all lola.’

"’Ahhh!’ the audience looked at each other and applauded. 

“Ziggy got free books as his prize for having so many lolas. 

“In the Philippines and other Asian countries, the family is very important. A family includes parents, their children and extended family members ranging from grandparents to uncles, aunts, and cousins—sometimes even relatives from other places who happen to have the same surname. In many cases, a family even includes godparents.

“So what happens in the cruise ship to Mateo and his five lolas? Plenty, and all them exciting.” 

Being a grandmother (a category to which I now belong) is grace so grand that  every time someone takes my hand for mano (all the kids in Sunday School!), I can’t even begin to count my blessings. 

Heritage Tour

Next to Mathematics, History was my least favorite subject. I loathed memorizing dates and people’s names. 

On the other side of the spectrum, my husband, three sons, and only grandson, Adrian, love History. That’s why whenever Adrian comes home to the Philippines for a visit, we take him on a heritage tour. His dad thinks it is important for Adrian to know his roots. 

During his last visit, we took him to the Apolinario Mabini Shrine, the bamboo organ museum, and the place where the Philippine Independence was proclaimed in Kawit, Cavite. In every place, he would read all the literature and posters with rapt attention. 

These tours have made me realize the value of knowing our past. History provides us with a record of both successes and failures of those who lived before us. It widens our perspective, broadens our knowledge, and helps us make wise choices to avoid mistakes.   

Paul also saw the value of history. By recounting the story of the Israelites and their wanderings in the wilderness, he showed the folly of disobedience and wrong choices, which led to ruin. By refusing to trust God, it took the Israelites 40 years to enter the Promised Land (Numbers 14). 

In 1 Corinthians 10:11, Paul warned the believers, “These things happened to them as examples for us. They were written down to warn us who live at the end of the age.” 

The Book of grace, the holy Bible, contains both examples and warnings to guard us against our rash tendencies and to lead us into wiser living. We need to learn from the lessons of history so we don’t commit the same mistakes. 

Musings: By examining the lives of people in the Old Testament, what valuable lessons have helped me make wise decisions? 

Prep, Prep, Prep

Like any professor, I impress upon my students that for any class work, preparation is non-negotiable. 

“There are three ways by which you can improve your oral presentations,” I advised my Marketing Communications  class. My students are post-millennials who have embraced quick fixes sourced online. Their visuals are impressive, but they lack depth and critical thinking. “Take these down.” 

They grabbed their gadgets. Only one out of 18 had a notebook and a pen.  

“One, prep. Two, prep. Three, prep.” 

They laughed. First, because I used their word “prep” instead of the word “prepare” that belongs to my generation. And two, because they did not believe that a long preparation for one project is important.  

Oh, but it is. And preparation or being ready is no laughing matter either. 

In 2 Timothy 2:21, we read, “If you keep yourself pure, you will be a special utensil for honorable use. Your life will be clean, and you will be ready for the Master to use you for every good work.” 

1 Peter 3:15 says,“. . . you must worship Christ as Lord of your life. And if someone asks about your hope as a believer, always be ready to explain it.”  

In 2 Corinthians 9:5, Paul reminds us, “. . . I should send these brothers ahead of me to make sure the gift you promised is ready. But I want it to be a willing gift, not one given grudgingly.” 

There is wisdom in being prepared in everything we do. May the Lord give us ample grace to guide us as we prep, prep, prep to tell others about Him.

It has been said that the best preparation for tomorrow is the right use of today. Hmmm, how am I using my today?    

Seven Thank-Yous

“Have you written a book on gratefulness?” an old friend from Childlink Learning Center and Childlink High School, Inc. in Cebu messaged me.   

“Yes, I have." Angel with One Foot immediately came to mind.

“May we invite you again to read virtually the story to our students, their parents and teachers as part of our Leadership Development Program?” The school has intensified this program for positive character development. 

(Last year I read Lumpia Lane.) 

“What a privilege!” I replied. 

As I prepared my slides for D-Day, I ached for those times I was in Cebu visiting different schools, talking to my readers about reading and writing. But, Hey, being online is as much grace as flying there, the sane part of me reminded me.   

One sunny Friday morning, I turned on my screen and there they were! Grade school and high school children of various ages, plus their teachers and parents. 

No matter how often I have re-read or re-told the story, I hear a catch in my voice. The book, loosely based on a real incident shared with me by my husband, speaks of the value of gratitude that must be a huge part of us.   

Let me paraphrase a nugget of wisdom from a book: "What’s great about gratefulness is that the more you choose it, the easier it gets. The more you are thankful, the more you notice things to be grateful for.” 

Yes, it is a most beautiful mindset. 

Before reading the story, I asked, "Have you ever seen angel?" 

Angel with One foot is about a lady on crutches because she had only one foot. She helped a poor little girl in need by buying all her seven unsold newspapers with cash far more than their cost. 

Unfortunately, the little girl failed to thank her because she had left too quickly. Since then it has been the prayer of the little girl, as she grew up, to meet the lady with one foot again so she could thank her.

Many years later, with the help Mateo, she met the angel and finally was able to say seven thank-yous, one for each of the newspapers the angel with one foot bought from her. 

The book defines an angel as anyone who does someone a good turn. So, “Have you ever seen an angel?” 

We all have. And the more we are grateful, the more we see more of them.    

Critical Thinking: Present!

Critical thinkers are curious and reflective. They ask questions—a battery of questions.   

I am oversimplifying it. But if those are the qualities of a critical thinker, then my online students—on a scale of one to five, five being the highest—would rate zero. After passionately explaining a theory about their interests, I’d ask, “Any question?” 

Silence. 

Am I glad that lasted only a few weeks, or I’d have turned comatose from frustration. So I accepted a short-term teaching load for a face-to-face class with 15 students.  It’s easier to engage Gen Z’s when you are mask-to-mask. 

Since this is the “me, me, me” generation, I thought they should learn to be aware of their environment, so they can think and write critically. 

“This book, ‘Present’ is about students being absent even if they are present,” I announced.

“Huh??” That got them.

“This book is all about you. It will be the basis for your exam next week. I wanted to give them to you as a present, but my grandmother used to say that people never treasure anything they receive for free. So I am selling them for P100 per copy.” 

“Aaaah?” 

“But I am giving you a 99% discount. Pay me only one peso.” 

“Oooooh.” Immediately they each gave me their one peso coin. 

“Now I have P15. I will add P200 to the kitty, then ask for volunteers to give this money as a present to the first janitor you see on the hallway.” 

Spontaneously, most of them drew bills from their wallets and pockets, saying in almost unison, “I’d like to add to the kitty!”  

To say I was floored is an understatement. The kitty suddenly ballooned to P600! 

“Okay,” I decided, “we can afford to give two janitors. Volunteers, make sure you observe his/her reaction and share it with the class.” 

The janitors were in tears, and so were the volunteers (and frankly, so was I). The rest of their observations might be too sappy for you, so I will end it here. 

But that was the day my 15 students gave me a present: they learned to be present. In addition, they became curious and reflective.  

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The Book Fair's Back!

Many things can change in one day. Imagine then the slew of changes in 1,095 days, since the last Manila International Book Fair (MIBF 2019) was unceremoniously halted by the pandemic. 

The early days of Covid-19 forced me to do nothing but write (three books*), read, solve puzzles, watch feel-good videos, listen to music, chat with friends and family on social media, watch the flowers bloom and the birds fly, and attend memorial services—often simultaneously online.  

Meanwhile . . . many got the virus (including our whole household); those who were fortunate to get a room in a hospital languished and expired there. It would have been so easy to curl up, cower in terror, and cry, but the presidential campaign was a shot in the arm, a surprise grace.  

It brought joy and renewed vigor for ideas, projects, and collaboration with former colleagues here and abroad. Passion for a rosy future was ablaze once more.  

The kakampink period was a season of hope. 

Alas, the election outcome, which many believe was a massive fraud, dashed that hope.

Then the announcement came: MIBF will happen this year! 

That disoriented me big time. In years past, I’d shop for new outfits, and plan my daily trek to the venue (from opening to closing time) months before the event. There I’d walk around ceaselessly with my sister Aie or my friend Yay, hunting for books, stopping only in my publishers’ booths to sign my books and chat with readers till the last day, up to the last hour. 

This time around, Tony and my sons reminded me a million times to be careful, bring my vaccination card, observe social distancing, handrub with alcohol often, and never take off my mask.  

On the day of my book-signing assignment at the OMF Lit booth, I snatched Tony’s pink sweatshirt from his closet, donned my most comfortable jeans, and didn’t bother to wear shoes.  

Those were wise decisions. I was unaware (because I lived in rubber flip-flops at home) that my foot malady has worsened; I would never have walked one meter in shoes without writhing in pain.  

For one hour, I signed books fiercely and vigorously, then headed home. Why didn't I go around as I used to? Perhaps the virus took a toll on my body; or age is rearing its ugly head; or the inertia of rest had my system resting still; or health protocols and family's strict warnings have prevailed. 

Whichever. I must have run out of gas.  

The photos below are from OMF Lit and the FB walls of various friends.   

These big changes in three years addled my brain, but enriched my heart. Now these verses in Scripture are more meaningful than ever: 

“. . . we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. . . So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”  (2 Corinthians 4:16 and 18 NIV)

*Memories of Grace, Lumpia Lane, and The Teacher in Me