Smaller Small World

“Small world!” we say in surprise when we meet someone we know at an unexpected place, or when we discover that we share a friend  or relative with another person. 

“You know him?!” 

Our small world has become even smaller—for me, at least. 

The pandemic, a time for re-boot, shrunk my world further. I realized that the basic essentials are enough to give one joy and contentment.  

The two S’s that used to keep me busy outside the home are accessible through my phone or laptop: socializing and shopping.  

I have reduced my outside activities to only two: church and writing, which are interlinked. After the worship service, I facilitate our women’s Sunday school; and although I write at home, I attend all affairs that have to do with writing, such as this annual corporation meeting (the first onsite meet-up since 2020) of one of my publishers, OMF Literature.  

I paused to pose beside a poster of our just-launched BIG books to savor the outdoor breeze before going up to the boardroom.  

This meeting is a reminder of our book ministry. Most of the attendees are, like me, retired professionals from various businesses, whose wealth of experience enriches the wisdom in running a Christian publishing house, with this core purpose:  

OMF Literature is a movement of Christians who desire to honor God by depending on the Holy Spirit to achieve excellence in proclaiming the Gospel of Jesus Christ, making disciples, equipping Church leaders and promoting spiritual growth primarily among Filipinos in the Philippines and abroad through the effective and righteous management of a publishing and distribution enterprise. 

After four years, I was in the same room again with the CEO (a new one), the old and new officers, the board of trustees, and the members of the corporation. 

In this ministry, the tacit question we ask our readers is, "Do you know Him?" Through literature, we tell of His grace of eternity.  

“Sing to the Lord, all the earth! Tell of his salvation from day to day.” 1 Chronicles 16:23 (ESV) 

A Season Ends

More than a year ago, at the height of the pandemic, I was asked by the editorial staff of our university  paper to write about my experience at SISFU. 

It was a cinch. The short reflection wrote itself. In minutes, I sent this via email: 

What I am Most Grateful for at SISFU

Everything. 

And that is an understatement. I am grateful for all that SISFU has stood for through the years. Its vision dovetails with my values, and the nurturing environment it offers its students has been consistent. 

Then beyond all that, I am deeply grateful for my students from that day years ago when I first I stepped into a SISFU classroom—up until today, even if the classroom has moved to my computer monitor.   

My students have taught me things I would never have learned elsewhere: to dream again and to be fearless again. For them, I learned to have patience and self-restraint; to give back and be tactful. I have never taken “role modeling” as seriously as when I am on campus (a virtual one today).  

Most of our graduates are now leaders in their chosen fields here and abroad, and although I won’t take any credit for their successes, I receive “thank-you notes” that make me feel forever grateful for having been a part of their life at SISFU.  

000

Little did I know that it would be my farewell letter.

The virus brought the classroom to cyberspace, which was unwieldy for someone who is not lettered in technology. But as soon as face-to-face was declared safe by the authorities, classes went back to normal. 

Alas, normal had morphed into something abnormal or, to my mind, paranormal.  

I could not get my bearings (from all of 22 years) back. Policies, procedures, people, and programs have radically changed. Even the students (locked up for 36 months at home) have become aliens. The present tense in the essay above now needed to be changed to past tense. 

It had to end my teaching season.  

Before I left the classroom after my last class last term, my students did something that made me tear up. They surprised me with a cake with a most heartwarming message. 

While having all sorts of groufies, I got hugs of appreciation from all of them.  

Then when I read each of their handwritten notes inside the car, I broke down. The sincere love notes—for the short 36 hours we were together—made up for all my frustrations with the truncated teaching hours. 

“See you next term!” they wrote. 

They won't.  

The second term has begun and I am at home writing reflections on grace. 

"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven . . . a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing . . .” (Ecclesiastes 3:1; 5b) 

Never Alone: Judge

For four years since our younger dog, Judge, was born, she was never alone. He had his mother, Attorney, beside him always—literally. They were constantly together—like dual grace.

In fact, he had been so close to Attorney (humans call this ‘mama’s boy’) that even if he is a male, he got all the mannerisms/habits of his mom: peeing, eating, barking, moving, etc. He wouldn't do anything without his mom doing it first. If you didn’t know he was male, you’d think he was female, except when he was in heat (this we solved quickly by having him spayed). 

Recently, however, Judge sunbathed alone.  It used to be a daily ritual for both of them. 

We also noticed that Attorney’s face was turning whitish (or grayish), proof that she was aging (equivalent to human age of 75). 

One day last week, Attorney wouldn’t eat. Mother Teresa had to force-feed her. She couldn’t stand from where she was either. And she emitted a foul smell. 

Tony called our Vet who said our mother dog had to be confined for observation. Immediately she was given dextrose. At the clinic, Attorney had the most visitors: everyone in our home court dropped in on her alternately, bringing her food. 

Diagnosis: infection of the uterus that needed immediate surgery. In her condition, suffering from pain and extremely weak, Tony decided to end Attorney’s agony by asking the Vet to just put her to sleep and bury her.      

But son #3 was adanant. He wanted Attorney buried in our garden under the flowers like Fiscal (our cat) was. Her body was brought home and interred by Sammy, our driver, and Teresa while Tony watched the ceremony. Son #1 and son #3 were both at work.  I stayed put inside the house, refusing to be a part of the last rites. I want to think of Attorney alert and alive. 

And Judge? Totally lost. He was totally dependent on his mother and now without his anchor, well . . . 

Teresa, who spoiled Attorney to bits, cried buckets. I am sure we all cried behind each other’s back.  

Our collective prayer: that Judge will realize that he is now all alone. 

Still Keen at 17

Leaves of Grace completes 17 years or 6,209 days this November. No matter how I measure it, it is undoubtedly a mighty long time to maintain a writing rhythm that began on week one—two blogs within seven or eight days—and still packing. 

It wasn’t a commitment or a promise etched in stone. It just happened because the joy of writing has stuck to me like super glue: more like grace that can never be shaken.    

For this, I celebrate. The Bible encourages us to make celebration a part of the regular rhythm of our lives. 

“This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  Psalm 118:24 (ESV)

    •  Over 1,763 blogs (112 published from last year’s anniversary, plus 46 scheduled) 

    •  About 1.3 million guests

Peachy keen? IMAO

Joy Overload

That’s what September treated me to. So I was not expecting October to do the same.

But October sprung a surprise. I was invited to the Alliance Christian School and Tutorial Services, Inc. (ACTS) to read one of my books during its Book Month Celebration. I alerted one of my newly-launched big books, “Get ready for your maiden performance!”  

The venue was empty when I got there. The janitor said, “Everyone’s in the parade.” 

Then suddenly, the characters in the classic storybooks I had read as a child entered the venue. Each one held the book from where she/he came to life: Snow white, Bo Peep, Cinderella, Peter Pan, Beauty, Hansel and Gretel, etc. etc. Even the teachers came as the Three Little Pigs and a Wolf. 

Creativity galore, I gushed while my heart applauded. Here is a school where children are readers because they are encouraged to read.  

Then one little girl, Klaer, proudly showed me her book—Lumpia Lane! Not a classic, but one of mine. Dressed like the character in the book, she held a plate with a huge lumpia! Instantly, this leaped to the top of my list of author rewards.

I could not indulge her in a conversation because the program had started and I was called to the stage to read Half and Half. Reading from a BIG book made a big difference. The audience didn’t have to strain their necks to look and listen. 

When I asked for a volunteer to answer my questions, I planned on giving away the big book to the brave one  who might join me on stage. Not one, but five brave kids rushed up! A good thing we had enough copies of Quiet Time with Mateo for prizes. 

The following day, I received photos of the event (more joy).  

Then I read the FB post of Klaer’s dad (even more joy) with this photo caption:  “Klaer representing her Chinese roots with her book Lumpia Lane by her favorite author, Grace D. Chong.” 

Do You Have a Phobia?

At some point in our lives, we may have a phobia. Mine was fear of snakes called Ophidiophobia. By grace, it disappeared somewhere along the way.   

There are over 500 named phobias today. 

Going through the list, I was surprised that I may be suffering from one! Guess what it is . . .

Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia

All of 37 characters say it is fear of long words. In the beginning, this fear was considered jocular or fictional; however, it was proven to be real. Researching further, I discovered that 15 million Americans have it!  

People suffering from . . . (I am unable to spell it again) experience anxiety when faced with long words. How ironic that the name given to this phobia is such a looong one.

Why so long? The explanation is even longer. 

The word is broken down into several parts: 

    • Hippo is horse in Greek and potam-os is river. Thus, the first part of the word refers to a water horse also known as hippopotamus. The Oxford Dictionary says that this animal’s name comes from the word hippopotamine, referring to “something very large;” 

      

    • the word monstr is the Latin origin of a "monstrous being" or something that is huge or terrifying;

      

    • sesquippedalio is derived from Latin sesquippedali meaning "measuring a foot and a half long;"  

      

    • phobos, of course, stands for morbid fear. 

As a book author and writing coach, and once a college prof in Critical Writing, and now also an English Module trainor in Medical Transcription, I am an advocate for short or small words. 

I believe they are more compelling, as well as clearer, because they are often concrete. They describe and express actual things rather than rhetorical ideas. Short words help readers visualize our information so they grasp it faster and remember it longer. 

George Orwell’s advice is sound: “Never use a long word where a short one will do.”

My own line to explain write clearly, “What you mean and what the reader understands should be exactly the same!”  

I don’t go into a fit or hyperventilate when I see a long word. But I make sure (trying all tricks available, no matter how long it takes) that the writer changes it into a short one. 

Chongs’ Little Red Book

An icon of China and communism (and also of propaganda) was Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book.  About 2 billion copies published, it's one of the most widely produced of all time. During China's "Cultural Revolution," it was mandatory to own one.

The Little Red Book (or Quotations from Chairman Mao Zedong) contains 267 aphorisms on class struggle, correcting mistaken ideas, etc.  Included is his famous remark that "political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.” 

Now comes another Little Red Book with two copies published and read repeatedly by about two people—Tony and me, co-authors of the book.    

This is our first and only collaborative work since those ancient days in Chicago when we published Ang Balita (Filipino-American newspaper), with Tony as the Editor-in-Chief and I, one of his staff writers.

What prompted us to co-author a book?  

A letter from Son #2 JB, his wife Gianina, and son Adrian, who reside in the US. 

Perhaps concerned that the pandemic would get on our nerves or bore us to death, they gifted us with this project from Storyworth, publisher. The concept? Record stories about and for the family for one year. Then it will be published! 

Every Monday, we were emailed questions as prompts. Tony and I would alternate writing one and email back our stories with accompanying photos.

At the end of one year, we received a beautifully-bound-keepsake book—in red (the color we chose to signify the Chongs’ ancestry).  This 230-page book has 53 stories and tons of photos. 

Tony and I decided to dedicate the book to our one and only grandson, Adrian, whose painting is on the cover (circa 2015, when he was eight years old and was with us for a short vist. Bahas is a character he created—half baboy [pig] and half ahas [snake]).

One day, when Tony and I are both gone, Adrian will get to know his Angkong (Chinese honorific for father of my father) and Amah (honorific for mother of my father) a little better, and learn that we lived not by "power growing out of the barrel of a gun," but on nothing but God’s grace. 

Whenever Tony and I read our chef-d'oeuvre, we spot a typo error. Unlike Mao’s Red Book, with a battery of editors, we were each other’s editor. So there.  

Ah, but that whole year, our minds were kept busy, trying to relish again what had long been forgotten, and laughing at funny anecdotes that suddenly tickled our memory. 

"Now that I am old and gray, do not abandon me, O God. Let me proclaim your power to this new generation, your mighty miracles to all who come after me." (Psalm 71:18 NLT)