What’s with Authors’ Huddle?

Huddle is a trend--used frequently these modern days to replace the word meeting. 

But it is an ancient word. It has been a part of the English language since the late 16th century. Then, it meant "to conceal" “to curl up” “to crouch.”  

Huddle is popular today because attention span has shrunk. Meeting requires time; it is often long and draining, tackling various agenda. Huddle implies a fast-paced get-together. In a campfire, huddle means gathering in a tight, close-packed group to stay warm, share stories, or cook. 

Meeting fatigue is disliked by the young, so organizers and managers have rebranded meeting to huddle to signify a short check-in with a collaborative and energized team rhythm.

No wonder my publisher, Hiyas of OMF Litt, now calls authors’ meeting as huddle.

Along with this change is a shift in my mindset. In a huddle today, 90% of the authors are young (not yet seniors). To lessen my age (or in an effort to belong), I cater to their attention span by speaking briefly. 

So when the facilitator asked each of us to introduce ourselves by 1) name, 2) book we had read in high school, 3) books we have written, I spoke for only 45 seconds, the length of a radio/TV ad. 

After saying my name, I said, “High school is no longer in my hard drive. There is no record of what I had read then. And I have been reading and writing for 25 years so I can’t play favorites and name some books I have read and written.”

They laughed. Ironically, the younger ones took longer to introduce themselves.

It was a huddle alright. Abbreviated chats. Packed lunch. Abridged Q&A. Warm hugs. Plus, what never happened in the early days of my writing: selfies. 

Time has turned the page, but grace keeps the ink. 

"You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed." Psalm 139:16 (NLT)

Chicago

“'Chicago,' my kind of town” is now light years away.

But every time I read or hear the word, I speed back 13,086 kilometers with my heart and mind, remembering vividly how grace changed my life in that place—my home for nearly five years.

In a recent get-together with old friends, one had on a baseball cap printed with Chicago. I borrowed it; immediately, it unlocked my gate of memories.

Chicago was where . . .

A. I met an arrogant and strict newspaper editor-in-chief, who was my first-ever boss. I was hired as one of his writers while taking up my Master’s degree. I had already written many articles before that so I thought writing for him was a cinch. Reading my first draft, he said, “Unfocused.” “Verbose.” Plus other adjectives that tamed my ego, fired up my anger, and improved my writing. I married him one year later—as soon as we got back to the Philippines.

B. Nobody is more important than the other. Equality was like a seal of contract. In any restaurant or any public place, one would find professionals and janitors dining there. If you asked, “What do you do?” The answer would come without hesitation, “I am a cook. “I am a clerk.” “I am a nurse.” “I am an actress on Broadway.” All said in a voice without shame or arrogance. 

C. The Lord said, “Enough!” He pulled me back into His care. Although I grew up in a Christian family, four years of college in UP lured me towards left-leaning ideologies espoused by intellectual friends who questioned the creation.  But in Chicago, three Filipino friends, all gentlemen of the first order, picked me up every Sunday to attend church (Baptist), their nourishing place. Before long, we had become a gospel singing group, invited by various churches and Filipino events. I found God again; I ran straight back to my faith, and never looked back. 

  

These have been the ABCs of my navigational tools in life. I found them (or they found me) in Chicago. 

Missing Father

Today is Father's Day. As the world celebrates the head of the home, I want to remember. Son #1 said it best for me with this post he uploaded to the Net: 

"Second Father's Day without you, Tony Chong.

"We thought it would be easier by now, but it still hurts every single day. Life just hasn't been the same. You live on in our memories, and through each of us, but it will never quite be the same. We'd seriously trade everything we have just to have you back for a short time, but it doesn't work that way. 😢

"Till we meet again."

This photo was taken (gosh, I can't remember when) by me? Three sons, now all adults with lives of their own, with the youngest, a lawyer SJD, hiding like a shy witness whose testimony was hidden beneath the court. 

Thank you, Lord, for the grace of fathers, particularly for the father in this photo. 

Most of all, thank You God for being the Father who never leaves, never fails, never gives up on us--staying in our hearts now and forever. 

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