Fewer and Fewer

Meet-ups with friends used to be frequent. We’d find all excuses to get together. But these days, they have become fewer and fewer.  

The pandemic is, I guess, the first culprit. It turned us into hermits for three long years. And so we lost our bearings. From there, age crept in with workplace retirement. 

Get-togethers have ceased to be spontaneous. They are now planned months in advance and then cancelled at the last minute.   

But there was this one time that miraculously pushed through to celebrate three birthdays from weeks before and weeks apart. My ading Ggie (sister from another womb) made it happen with some magic potions and gobbledegook. 

And so we met in a Chinese resto, five of us. The dim world we live in lit up. Then Ggie announced, “I invited someone but he gave me a nebulous answer. So I am not sure if he is coming.”

“Who???” 

He came! Like an apparition from the past, he handed me a funky birthday present, but not before showing us a photo in his phone, reminiscent of a teaser in an ad campaign. 

 

“Who???” No less than the well-loved-and-respected former big boss in the ad agency where we all met, “ABAJA!” 

The past became the present. Old jokes became new. Stale news became current. Seniors became juniors. The entree was laughter and dessert was more laughter. He was a birthday celebrator, too, if you include all other months of the year. The many years in between meet-ups vanished like the smoke on our birthday cake.    

Friendship does not end with time and space. Like grace, its beauty never fades and has no end.  

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man's heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end.” Ecclesiastes 3:11 

Home Sweet Home

Home is where the heart is. But when home is not what it used to be, where will the heart go? 

Our home is 48 years old. It has aged tremendously, not only because of years but more because of new-fangled discoveries that rushed in with unstoppable speed.  

When we moved to this our first (and last) home, son #2 was newly born. There was not even a landline phone. Son #3 was just an inspired thought. 

 

Now at age 48, home has been constantly sieged by the effects of global warming: environmental changes and therefore natural disasters like rains, floods, extreme heat; and the assault of technology—cellphones, cable TV, computers, air conditioners, Internet, and all their menu sides.  

How can the heart take it all?  

If the home needs to survive, it needs immediate surgery: its wires, gutters, eaves, ceiling, roofs, paint, walls, faucets, etc. are obsolete and therefore failing and falling apart. If not saved or replaced soon, zip. 

This has been home since June.

How long before the heart goes back to Home Sweet Home? 

The contractor said, ”Before Christmas.” 

At a time like this, I could almost hear Tony, who had always been cool and down-to-earth (my polar opposite), saying in his monotone without looking up from the book he'd been reading, “Patience is a virtue.” 

The Art of Grandparenting

Many articles have been written about this topic. I read a few when I learned that I was about to become one.  

But as soon as I held my grandson, Adrian, for the first time in my arms, the “art” principles flew out of the window. I was blessed with my own, and I immediately revised that title to “The Grace of Grandparenting.” 

Among all my roles in life, the most unique is being an Amah (lola).   

For one, I am older. And with age comes wisdom of experience. The strict rules imposed in parenthood to children have gone poof! This old saying is true to the letter:  

“Becoming a grandparent is like the dessert at the end of a hearty meal.” 

It is joy and relative lack of responsibility compared to parenting. When his parents left Adrian with us for a few days, they gave us rules that he should obey. Once they were gone, Tony and I allowed Adrian to do as he pleased. “In Angkong  and Amah’s house, you don’t violate any rules. We have no rules.” 

Indeed, grandparenting is a sweet reward, a chance to enjoy the fun and love of raising children minus the discipline.      

And since I am into book writing and advocating for love of reading, I loved reading a story to Adrian. According to the US National Institute of Education, reading aloud to children is the single most important activity leading to their love of reading. 

My heart tumbles whenever I chance upon social media photos such as these—a lola reading to her grandson.

"Crying children" is the 11th book in the Oh, Mateo! series of 16 books, published by Hiyas of OMF Lit and illustrated by Beth Parrocha)

Through a story in a book, the young ones and the young once build a close and lasting relationship. 

As children begin to look at books, listen to stories, talk and think about them, and ask questions, they’re on the road to becoming readers. Adrian, now 17 years old, is a bookworm like his late Angkong Tony and everyone in our small family. 

 

Lolos and lolas, reading a book to our grandchildren is a great way to relish the grace of  grandparenting.    

What the Fuss (2)

Too little time to take my maintenance pills, take off my shoes, put up my feet, close my blurry eyes, and put new batteries in my hearing aid . . . before we hied to Oriental Palace (a Chinese restaurant) for an authentic Chinese “lauriat” (derived from the Hokkien word "lao diat," meaning "special occasion"). It was one of Tony’s favorite haunts.     

Son #3, who volunteered to foot the bill promised, “Nothing fancy, just family.” 

Family—the Chit-Chat (our Group Chat nickname for our small clan on my mother’s side)—was there ahead of us. In a true Chinese tradition on birthday celebrations, everyone, including my two-year-old grand nephew, Atom, wore red. All told, there were 13 of us (the rest live abroad).

I was ecstatic to receive a surprise gift (left) sent by my grandson Adrian from the US. He knitted “Bahas” (Baboy/Ahas), a character he created when he was 10, and which he painted. The day before, his parents (son #2 and daughter-in-love) sent yummy belly lechon and other go-withs).

My ading Aie had a photo (right) of Tony and me (enlarged and framed) when he was officially welcomed as member of the V-Clan after our wedding. He introduced himself as the King of Siam, and me, his 32nd concubine. From that day forward, all 300+ members of our V-clan called him ading, manong, uncle, tito, or lolo. 

I was likewise deluged with wrapped gifts from everyone. 

Each dish was explained by son #3, but it was Tony’s voice I heard. “This is pricey because . . . this is rare because … this is made of . . . this is cooked with . . . etc.) 

How ironic that the only person in the clan, who was a true-blue Chinese, who spoke Hookien, who grew up on these dishes and therefore knew them like the palm of his hand, could not come and was profoundly missed. 

Through 12 courses, we chatted, joked around, reminisced non-stop about the years gone by. There are no-nos on occasions such as this: you don’t flip over a whole fish dish, you don’t do “sharon,” chats happen before the first dish is served, and you leave before or immediately after dessert. 

The fish was flipped over relentlessly, we had bags and bags of “sharon,” chatted before and long, long after dessert—nearing midnight.  

July 20, 2025 was a day of fussing, of overflowing and overwhelming grace. 

Psalm 90:10 (ESV)”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.” . . . to our eternal home where age and birthday celebrations are irrelevant.  

What the Fuss (1)

“No fuss!” I ordered my boys, knowing how people grandly celebrate an 80th birthday.   

They fussed anyway. My thought balloon, Don’t kids listen to their moms anymore? 

My other thought balloon replied, They are not kids anymore. Allow them to fuss over you for a change.

Because my birthday fell on a Sunday, I insisted, “I will spend for my own simple thanksgiving day. I will have a dirty-ice-cream cart for the kids. And I will serve lunch, on me, to those who stay for Sunday School.”

They said nothing. 

And so on my birthday, I had the dirty-ice-cream cart, which the kids (and non-kids) enjoyed, going back and forth umpteenth times for extra servings. 

The basic lunch was prepared by a faith sister, Aegan, whose kaldereta JR loves. 

Then the fussing began. Nikki, a niece from a dear friend’s womb, surprised me with an exquisite birthday cake, which invited raucous singing and, “Blow, blow, blow!” 

I requested son #3 to refrain everyone from delivering oral tributes (a tradition in grand parties), and just to give me a few minutes to speak with my heart: how Tony and I had always preferred living simply, nothing grandiose, opting to stay under the radar—pausing in silence to thank the Lord for blessing us with a day such as this. Pastor Marvin, our guest preacher, led the prayer of thanksgiving. 

I thought that would be it . . . (to be continued) 

Note self: 

Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 ESV)

Mary Grace Strikes Again

Ranting and raving are not my thing. They sap every energy from mind, heart, and body.  And yet, I dove into them last year. 

It’s all about Mary Grace, the name that was being rammed down my throat by the municipal officials of the place of my birth. So I did all I could to have it changed, following the baton of my ading Dave who led the documentation of whatever is left of our parents’ properties. 

End of a nightmare. 

But the senior citizens’ league of our Barangay wants to see the PSA of my birth certificate if I am to receive the benefits of seasoned (euphemism for old) retirees. So I went, requested, and paid for PSA of my birth records. 

Lo and behold! It’s still Mary Grace?! 

Ranting and raving came back with a vengeance. So I berate my ading Dave on our group chat. Immediately, my ading Matt reply with laughing emojis. “Read,” he and Dave command. So I read again, and sure enough at the bottom of the document are these words. 

Let me repeat those words for my benefit: the child’s first name is hereby changed from “Mary Grace” to “Grace.” 

I crawled under my computer chair. How can a reading advocate (“Writing has a twin,” I stress in  my book talks: “Reading!) not read?! 

Rubbing salt into the wound, Dave writes, “Retired proofreader.”