One Correct Answer: Big Eyes, Small Eyes

"Where do you get your inspiration for your stories?" I am often asked in my book talks.

“From everything and anything,” I reply. The answer is incorrect —and a cop out. You see, book talks are hurried affairs; time isn’t a luxury. But in a post, well, time never slips by unnoticed; you keep clicking and it keeps coming back.

There are a thousand and one answers to that question. But let me give one now by telling a story.

Pearlie, my youngest niece, was in her mother's womb when her family migrated to Australia. Strictly speaking, there is nothing Filipino about Pearlie—now 17—except her blood. Aussie food, Aussie accent, Aussie school, Aussie nationality, and Aussie friends. Aussie Pearlie (pronounced Puh-lie in Aussieland)!

When Puh-lie was 10, her dad (my brother Earl) flew in his whole family back to the Philippines for a visit. That was my first time to meet her—she with a pair of big eyes that became even bigger when she saw things we locals consider inconsequential, if not boring.

“Oooooh, coooool!” her Aussie tongue would drawl. And she would follow that melodic phrase with questions upon questions. I’d have to dig from a part of me, which I hardly visit, to explain. Pray tell, what’s so cool about “dirty” ice cream, jeepney, cow-drawn carts, rice fields, trees, and daing?!

But through her eyes, my own jaundiced pair saw things as though I held a magnifying glass over a 20-20 vision. I saw my country up close for the first time and what it has to offer—from smoggy Manila to dusty Umingan, where her dad and I grew up.

For years I had not paid attention to the stately trees that lined our highways and the vast rice fields dotted with scarecrows, teeming with birds, as we traveled north of Manila. I had ignored the charm of the jeepney, painted in gay abandon with colorful folk art, curtained with little bells and tassels, and decked up front with hordes of silver horses.

And the sorbetero! The image that flashed in my mind as Puh-lie said “Cooool!” was that of a little girl excitedly waiting for the tinny ringing of the dirty-ice-cream man.

Another image was that of the same little girl urging her dad to buy a small bamboo chair from the caravan of oxen pulling wood-and-rattan carriages overflowing with native arts and crafts. And on the little girl’s face I saw my own.

Being with Pearlie not only walked me down memory lane but down the path that led me home.

The impact of the Puh-lie experience touched and taught me so much that I decided to share it—two years later. The joys of and from the ordinary, I learned, should not be diminished nor clouded by cynicism that comes with adulthood.

About this time I had already started a series called "Oh Mateo!" Its hero is an eight-year-old boy, Mateo, who has no mother, and is being raised almost single-handedly by his father, a farmer. I say ‘almost’ because Teo is doted on by the five old ladies (sisters) who own the farm and who love Teo like a real grandson. Although not through a family tree or bloodline, they're Teo's lolas, period.

Mateo’s small eyes are a perfect foil for Puh-lie’s big ones, I mused. A poor man’s son, who has never seen any place other than his little town, Teo’s life is irreversibly changed one day when Puh-lie arrives from abroad where she lives.

She sees texture and shape (and beauty!) in every rural sight, from snorting pigs to a sputtering jeepney—looked down upon by many of us who have seen the world.

This gave birth to this book: 

“She sees more things because she has big eyes!” Teo prematurely concludes in the book. But soon he realizes that eyes, no matter what size, see the wonders of God’s grace. “Even if my eyes are small, I can see the same things her big eyes can see,” he ends the story. 

Here is a page from the book, Big Eyes, Small Eyes (illustrated by Beth Parrocha-Doctolero and pubished by Hiyas of OMF Lit) showing Teo and Pearlie; and meet Puh-lie, my niece, the young girl who inspired it.

(More on Puh-lie in my next post)

The Most Expensive Letter

I’ve been pondering “k” a lot lately. Yes, this one.

This often-silent letter which, in the old days, had to be with other letters to mean anything: knock, kneel, knight; tack, rock, muck. One way for “k” to be good news was when it was used between other letters, “okay.”

Before the advent of cell phones, “k” was unlike all the other more popular letters in the English alphabet. “K” was in the same league as “q” and “x.” They had a very slim chance of being used, trailing way behind the vowels.

How times have changed. Today, “k” is king. It beats them all by a mile. It puts to shame even all the vowels combined, many times over. “K” has to be the most used—and abused—letter these days. You agree, don’t you?

"k."

Caught in traffic last week, I tried to keep myself occupied by poking my cell phone. I re-read all my incoming and sent messages. I was shocked to discover that 50% was “k”!

That got me computing frantically. If I received 50 messages per day and sent just as many, and if 50% was “k,” then that would be 50 "k’s," or the equivalent of P40! Multiply that by 30 days a month then 365 days a year! I, me, myself spend P16,200 on “k”?!

Now, how about the text messaging community? P85 million is spent on text messages every month. Quick, compute how much “k” is costing all of us! Collectively, we could build a church or a school, or fill a public library with books!

The money which people throw away for this miserable letter is not what’s sad really. It’s what happened to all the words “k” simply wiped away in one fell swoop. How could these words and phrases morph into one single "k"?!

Okay.

Noted.

Yes.

I get it.

Gotcha.

Of course.

Copy.

I read you.

You’re on.

All right.

I agree.

I think so.

Sure.

You said it.

Message received.

Your call.

All these explicit, exquisite words are now reduced to this once-insignificant single "k"?!

Test messaging has irrevocably altered our perception of words. And “k” symbolizes this change big time. We now brazenly misspell words for the sake of brevity. And we've said good-bye to punctuation marks and capitalization that make syntax elegant, not to mention correct.

"K" indeed has come a long way. It crept into our lives just when words have abruptly appeared with new, added meanings. Who would have thought that "windows" would now mean software other than that part of our homes where the wind comes through? “Virus” is no longer just what ails our physical bodies. “Scroll” has ceased to be the material upon which the original scriptures were written.

When I write, pondering words comes parallel with pondering life, and words are not what they used to be. Of course, language is a breathing, growing organism that changes and morphs with time. And so is life.

In this speedy electronic world, then, where messages are as quick to send as our fingers can fiddle with our cell phones, there is a new urgent need: intensive grace—to clearly see and understand the Word as it was written in the original scrolls.

For me, no matter how layered life has become, the solutions are always spelled out in God's Word. It does not change, neither should it be reduced for brevity or convenience; or given a new, added meaning to suit our changing lifestyles.

My One and Only Fan

I was on TV! Yes, on camera,  not behind it.

In my first act (imagery for a career completed and gone), I must have shot over 2,000 TV ads and never appeared on any of them. This time, while facing the glare of lights on Talim Island, I felt like a movie star, imagining a legion of fans from Aparri to Jolo who'll be watching me on the show with goggle eyes.

"This segment of 'At Your Service' will be aired on QTV, Sunday, Chinese New Year," the producer informed me.

I made a mental note to alter my Sunday schedule: go home immediately after the morning service instead of joining the family for lunch. Or maybe my boys (husband and two sons) would forgo the lunch out and watch the show with me.

As soon as I got home, after the taping of the show on an island I never knew was inhabited, my househelp of an aggregate of 27 years couldn't get enough of the highlights of my day of fame and glory.

Her name is Ate Vi, and she is a Noranian from the tip of her graying hair to the tip of her arthritic toes.  

She became a part of our family when I was pregnant with my first son, JC. After all three sons had been born and big enough to be turned over to younger apprentices, she left for a few years to tend to her farm which she bought with her savings.

She came back as promised and has no plans of leaving again, or at all.

Since she is at home 24/7, my children consult her more than they consult their own mother. Ah, but I digress. Let me continue . . .

"Yes, Ate Vi, Paul Salas and I are together in one episode," I replied for the nth time. She knows the eight-year-old child star very well; she knows every TV star very well.

"Yes, Ate Vi, I met him at GMA 7 at dawn. Then together we rode a van for three hours to Binangonan, Rizal, then another hour on a motor boat to Talim Island. We came back together on the same boat and the same van.”

"Yes, Ate Vi, the whole place came to a halt and watched the taping and followed Paul Salas around."

"Yes, Ate Vi, Paul Salas is the host of the show and for my segment, we both shot scenes in a Day Care Center. My publisher OMF donated . . ."

At this point her eyes turned shifty and she tuned me off, but the essence of my one brief, shining moment had to be told. "OMF donated books to the Day Care Center and I was invited to read my book 'No lipstick for Mother' to the children. I was also interviewed about how I felt traveling long hours to this far-flung place sharing my books . . ."

"Wow, you were really with Paul Salas?! How does he look like in person? As gwapo as on TV, I'm sure! Can't wait to watch the show!"

Later, I told my boys, all Filipiniana enthusiasts, the same story.

"Paul . . .?"

They quickly jumped to discussing the history of Binangonan and the life at Talim Island.

"Chinese New Year, QTV, 12 noon to 1 PM," I reminded them.

Chinese New Year, Sunday, dawned brightly. We went to church, pondered the Word, worshiped and prayed with fellow believers. After which I joined the boys for lunch and for grocery shopping, and  finally made it home at 3 PM.

While unloading the groceries, Ate Vi announced, “Paul Salas was very gwapo as usual on TV!”

“Paul Salas . . . Paul Salas . . ."  the name sounded familiar. “Oh, no! My TV show!” I yelled. I missed it. We all missed it. “What about me? How did I look?”

“Fat,” she replied.

“Fat?!” I repeated, wishing I got it wrong the first time.

“Fat. Especially when you were reading your book. Your face almost didn’t fit the screen,” she added.

I heard a chorus of male laughter.

“QTV is an excellent channel,” said she, a passionate GMA 7 advocate and an avid celebrity watcher. They help poor people. This time they gave the Day Care Center a DVD player, a TV set, and books.”

“My books . . .”

“You should have seen the face of the volunteer teacher, Ma’am Lita—very, very happy! The children were so cute. Paul Salas was . . .” she went on and on.

“And I am fat?!” I called out as she stowed the groceries in the pantry.

My imagination did me in as usual. There was no legion of fans from Aparri to Jolo. Just Ate Vi. And that ended my TV career before it could start.

For months now I’ve been trying to finish a storybook set in a Day Care Center. It's gathering dust. Although Ate Vi has been filling me in on the details—how the Day Care Center in her own place is being run by a volunteer teacher—I am not very confident about her data.

How uncanny that her description is the exact, same description I have of the Day Care Center on Talim Island. Ate Vi has done it again. She's always been a most important resource for my “Oh Mateo!” books set in rural Umingan, my hometown and hers.

“Of course eight-year-old children in the province can cook! Of course mothers leave their toddlers in a Day Care Center! They have to help their husbands in the rice field!” she would stress, accurate to the last detail.

Thanks to Talim Island and QTV, now at last, I can finish my story. But . . . “fat?!”

Well, ‘fat’ is not the only word in Ate Vi’s treasury of wisdom. There had been others:

"When people say, you look so young, you don't."

"When people say you haven't changed, you have."

I asked her, "You mean people lie about these things?”

"No. They just don't know what they're saying," she said, with malice towards none.

God's infinite grace includes a divine sense of humor. Just when my ego begins to swell, He allows Ate Vi to speak.

Robbie, Say "Cheese"

Try scrolling this page down to the bottom and you'll see photos shot at the launching of my book, “What’s for Breakfast?” Volume 2. These were taken by Robbie David, a former colleague in the advertising industry and a dear friend.

I suspect he loves photography because he finds joy in capturing smiles that become memories of life’s wondrous peaks.

But with or without his camera, Robbie’s infectious sense of humor and zest always manage to make us smile.

At this hour, however, Robbie is battling pneumonia at the Makati Medical Center. He is also undergoing treatments for his renal condition. His wife, Reggie, sent a text message to his friends asking for prayers – lots and lots of it.

To all my silent readers out there and friends whom I can’t reach through mobile phone or e-mail, please heed Reggie’s request. Collectively, as one, let’s ask for God’s grace to give Reggie in her own words, “the strength and wisdom to understand this sudden crisis.”

Robbie, may you soon get up from your sick bed and say “cheese” the way people do when you crack a joke or aim your camera and click away.     

Short Nothings

One of the fringe benefits of teaching is what I call my short nothings. These are the snippets of conversations in the hallway, stairs, and vacant rooms, or the “Zion” (a cozy diner-cum-coffee shop manned by the our International Hotel School) with my students.

The topics range from a vacation in some island, the parking lot squeeze, the latest movie or digicam, blogs, to some angst, and today, the oncoming Valentine’s Day—the day I dread: the day they celebrate. I often forget that the youth view things differently.

My short nothings are my reality check. In those little moments, I try to see things from their perspective. (Mine has been narrowed by battle scars, age, and spurts of unwanted cynicism.)

“Miss, I still don’t have a date,” said one.

“You will,” I replied, “but not necessarily on Valentine’s Day. Any day is as good as any other to have a date.”

“Oh?” asked with a slight raise of one eyebrow.

“Oh, yes. Don't forget, we only invented Valentine’s Day,” I said, remembering myself as a marketer who would create romantic promotions and events to excite the young on this day.

“Yeah,” said with an endearing smile. But I could read his thought balloon, “Oh, sure.”

I know that expression. I see it all the time on my sons' faces when they don’t really agree, but obey anyway because I said so. It makes a mother feel like she’s received a dozen roses or a box of chocolates.

In my short nothings, my students teach me more than I teach them. Indeed, even the hallway, stairs, vacant rooms, and the “Zion” are places of grace.

Is Your Heart Heart-shaped?

That’s the title of my latest newspaper column for children. It makes me smile. I always smile when I finish writing about a topic adults consider mundane or take for granted.  

Most children grow up thinking that their heart is shaped like the red ones being peddled on Valentine’s Day. It is the shape they (or anyone for that matter) draw when they refer to their heart. Not too many of these little ones realize that real human heart is shaped like a—pear!

It’s almost Valentine’s Day; all the signs are there. Marketers (as I was in the workplace) are once more obsessed with milking the occasion to cash in on various merchandise at double or triple the regular price—flowers, food, parking lots, hotels, gift items, media space, and more.

According to the Greeting Card Association, about one billion valentines were sent worldwide on February 14 last year! And the number grows every year. Valentine’s Day is the second largest card-sending holiday of the year—next to Christmas.

I can never forget that one Valentine’s Day years ago when my husband and young sons attempted to go to our favorite restaurant. The traffic stalled us and the waiters starved us. The whole exercise took about four hours and we ended up with three little boys wailing, “I am hungry!” From that day forward, we vowed to stay safely home on February 14.

Can’t I say anything good about the Day of Hearts? I can. I did—right after the wedding of my two good friends, Brando and Irene, sometime ago. Let me upload it now for heart’s sake.

One Magic Moment

From my painted eyes, tears threaten to escape. I position my hanky to avert the impending ruin of my mascara. Then I hear snivels. But the sound comes from the equally dolled up ladies to my left and right. They are offering each other Kleenex and hastily dabbing their eyes as well.

It may be the music—Ngayon at Kailanman (Now and Forever); or the nervous groom, being nudged by his groomsmen; or the radiant bride, marching down the aisle; or the Greenhills Christian Fellowship's solemn ambiance.

Whatever. Together with my fellow principal sponsors, the bridal entourage, the couple's family and friends, I turn my damp eyes to Brando as he takes Irene to the altar. Fascinated by the age-old ritual of marriage, I feel . . . Well, you know about life's magic moments: time stops, everything is right and in place, and you feel wonderful.

"I always cry at weddings," the matron beside me says, her voice muffled by a wad of tissue. "I don't know why."

"Love," the minister's voice breaks the sound of sobs. "Love is what a wedding is all about . . . we are only capable of loving because God loved us first. Jesus showed us what love is at every chance He had while on earth." Then he looks at the couple squarely, "The closer you are to God, the closer you are to each other."

I chew the words over. Weddings are not about two people in love becoming one. They're about two people being joined together in love by, with, and for God. And by His grace, they receive a magic moment that is planted in their hearts like a seed that promises to grow and blossom.

The minister reminds us, "Weddings are a celebration of family life—for married couples to remember what it was like when they exchanged marriage vows."

I call to mind my own vows of three decades. Like me, the people in the wedding party feel the magic because we are all reminded of how God’s only Son so loved us He suffered and died to prove it.

The intense silence shouts of spouses falling in love again, of singles wishing they too could find true love, and of every guest seated on the pews searing from the heat of collective emotion.

Like placid water rippled by a pebble, my magic moment is rippled by intrusive thoughts: An uncle and an aunt, married for fifty-two years, recently deciding to live apart despite their family's plea for them to reconsider; close friends (so in love in the beginning) having their marriage annulled, leaving their children more desolate and broken than orphans; beautiful celebrities with grand weddings now living with different partners; and children of these broken homes no longer believing in magic moments.

Where love was planted, weeds have grown—impatience, hatred, and anger. All antonyms of what we find in 1 Corinthians 13:4-5, "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs . . ."

So how can two people, who profess and affirm love at the altar, create a long record of wrongs?

In the ordinariness or complexities of daily living, we allow other concerns to live in our hearts, crowding out the magic moment until it is lost to us and totally forgotten.

As the world celebrates Valentine's Day with red cupids and flowers, cards and love songs, dinner and wine, may we remember—and allow His grace to take us beyond remembering—so that we may feel one magic moment again . . . and again.

A Reminder to JB, Ali, and Me

The photo below shows JB (right), my second son, and Ali, my niece. They are now both resident doctors in the US.

In my February 1 entry, I wrote about instant doctors and the warm caring they give spontaneously. One reader quickly affirmed this and mentioned her own instant doctors—circles of precious friends who heal, not often physically but always emotionally, making a hurting someone feel a whole lot better.

Won’t it be wonderful if these instant doctors were real, licensed doctors? You see, some of the real doctors we consult—not by choice but by reasons of our HMO or their availability—don’t come close.

One real doctor caused me pain and I hurt within a hundred steps from her clinic.

There, I got that off my chest.

Twenty four hours earlier, I was humped over my computer, shut off from the world outside. Suddenly I saw a mosquito on the right side of my face, about three to four inches away. I tried to clap it dead or wave it off but it wouldn't go away. Wherever I looked, it circled my right eye. It didn't take long before I realized it was not a mosquito but a shadow that looked and flitted like a mosquito.

What's wrong with my eye? Am I going blind? Or is it my brain? Am I seeing things?

One of my instant doctors, youngest son JR, said, "Turn off the computer, Mom, and close your eyes."

My husband, another instant doctor, added his prescription. "Sleep it off; it will be gone in the morning. It’s just computer strain."

I jumped into bed and slept 12 straight hours. When I woke up for my five AM walk, everything was still in shadows. But there it was, the mosquito! It came with me in my walk, at breakfast, in the bathroom—all over.

I called Casa Medica at SM Southmall and was told that an ophthalmologist, accredited by my HMO, has consultation hours late in the afternoon. So all day I had to live with my questions, mutating every second.

Will I still be able to write? Or will I simply dictate my thoughts to someone? Will I finish my books before I lose my eyesight? How can I live without reading or watching American Idol? What will happen to my paints? And my blog?! Plus a million more questions.

Still swimming in the deep end of worry, I heard the ophthalmologist arrive, two hours late. As soon as my turn came, I rushed into her clinic and forgot to close the door.

"Shut the door," she said, writing on her pad and not looking at me.

Uh, oh, she's had a long day, I thought.

"Sit down," she said, a bit curt for my fragile nerves. "Not there, here," she added.

I looked around and bigger-than-life eye illustrations stared at me. I looked at her face and her colder-than-ice mien bored through me. Smile isn’t part of her regimen, I noted.

"What's your problem?" she asked.

I’d have retorted, "What's yours?" but dry humor isn’t part of my own regimen. "There is this pesky mosquito hovering over my right eye."

"Floater," she burst and grabbed a leaflet showing a big eye and all its veins in full color. The word sounded like a dread disease and her movement seemed like emergency.

"Oh, my God!" escaped from my ashen mouth.

"Don't say, 'Oh, my God!'" she snapped, as though I had uttered a four-letter epithet. "I will explain."

I thought she meant I should stop using the Lord's name in vain so I silently said a quick prayer for forgiveness.

But she meant no such thing. She was saying, or it sounded like she was saying, "Stop breathing while I talk." Her mouth was taut and her eyes were sharp; her every word sounded like a pellet from a shotgun. "Don't say, ‘Oh, my God’,’" she popped again, as though I had committed a crime punishable by execution.

"You will not go blind, okay, okay? Your eye is made up of gelatin bound tightly. When a shred of it loosens, it floats,” she said while her pen heavily pointed to the vein-like structures on the eye illustration. “That's why it's called a floater. When it floats across the range of your pupil, you see a tiny shadow."

I locked my mouth so no word, or sound, will come past it. What she said was all great news but the way she said it sounded like disaster of tsunamic proportions.

"That floater doesn't go away very quickly. You’re lucky you only have one. Buy this solution," she said, scribbling on her prescription pad. “One drop twice a day to hasten the healing.”

I wanted to ask, “Should I stay away from my computer for a while? Should I go easy on my reading?” But the way she flicked the prescription sheet made me stand up quickly. She didn’t say, "Now, out of my clinic!" neither did she utter anything out of turn but she invited silence.

I mumbled, thank you, which is an important part of my regimen, but not too loudly—careful not to attract more pellets in my direction.

Despite the wonderful news, for which I silently said a prayer of thanksgiving, I felt no better when I went out than when I came in.

You’re making too much of it, I admonished myself. I’ve heard similar real doctor stories from friends in the past but I laughed them off, saying, “You’re making too much of it.”

What could have worked me up?

Job description. With every job come responsibilities. Whether you are a bank teller, a messenger, a lawyer, a plumber, or a creative writer, your calling requires the best that you can do: excellence.

How about a doctor? She helps heal (total healing is the sole choice of our Creator) and care for the sick. Failing or passing that, she makes a patient feel better. That might be too simplistic, but each of my doctors, except this new one, made me feel better just by his presence, even without detailed explanation of what was wrong; or even when I was told, “You need immediate surgery for your gall stones.” I hold them with deep affection.

On top of a job description, doctors take the Hippocratic Oath (now in various versions, but with the same essence). Let me quote parts of it:

I swear to fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgment, this covenant: . . . I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug . . . I will remember that I do not treat a fever chart, a cancerous growth, but a sick human being, whose illness may affect the person's family . . . If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help.

Why do I know about the Hippocratic oath? JB and Ali, new graduates of Medicine, both took the sacred oath, an invaluable moral guide. For me, no other profession has as much emphasis on humanity; doctors are God’s hands on earth to help heal and care for the ailing.

Due to busyness, whining patients, failed diagnosis, non-paying HMO (or for whatever reasonable reason), have some doctors made this oath a meaningless relic?

After a deep, deep breath a hundred steps away from the ophthalmologist’s clinic, I decided I’m helpless to do anything about which I cannot change, except to come to terms with it—and not allow such encounters to rile me any more than it did.

Then, in His own perfect timing, God’s grace turned on my light bulb, and I found what I can do with those who are within the circle of my influence—people who are an email or phone call away: JB and Ali, young doctors brought up to have a good heart.

I will remind them to never, ever, lose the joy of healing the people who seek their help. I’ll tell them (as I tell myself) to etch in their hearts the ultimate job description for those who believe in and serve the great Healer Himself. It is found in Philippians 4:8 (ESV), “. . . whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” 

Instant Doctors

The compulsion to counsel happens so often it can be very trying on one's nerves. I used to shut both my ears when it occurred. Oh, no! Here we go again . . .

It begins when someone complains, "I have trouble sleeping sometimes."

Then it comes—an avalanche of advice from instant doctors. If there were four other people in the group, all four would have a fix-it or cure, spoken with authority: "A glass of warm milk will solve it." "Put a pillow under your knees." "Breathe deeply in and out." "Count sheep!"

For years, I've had this chronic ache (I can't recall exactly when it started—okay, roughly after my 40th birthday, when life begun) that won't get off my back. The ache is below the nape and travels around the shoulder blades. It's like a heavy backpack I don't want to carry. On bad days, it makes me a crab; on good days, it makes me less of a crab. Although it bothers me, I never found it alarming enough to warrant seeing a doctor—a real one who went to medical school and passed the doctors' licensure exam.

One day I made the mistake of whining aloud. The onslaught of options from the people around almost buried me.

"Don't eat too much monggo, peanuts, eggplant and chicharon bulaklak." Uric Acid?

"Try a blind masseur . . . hilot . . . reflexologist." Stress?

"Always have a pillow behind your back when you sit." Bad posture?

"I'll give you the Chinese liniment my husband brought from Taiwan . . ." Arthritis?

"Adjust your aircon vent away from your back." Muscle spasm?

"Eat papaya, drink eight glasses of water a day." Constipation?

In contrast, true-blue physicians don't volunteer any opinion. They instead ask questions, but only when consulted or pushed.

"My upper back aches," I say while having dinner with my second son, a newly licensed physician. On cue, he gobbles a forkful of rolled pasta.

I push, "What can I take for my backache?"

"What kind of ache? Throbbing? Dull? Shooting? Unbearable?"

"Somewhere in between..."

"What else do you feel?"

"Just ache—just somewhere-in-between ache."

"How old are you, mom?"

If he were not five-foot-eleven I'd put him on my lap and thwack him good.

Finally, good sense and hypochondria made me consult an internist (ortho something) to whom I graphically dramatized my misery.

"How old are you?" she began by asking the horrific question. After more queries, she prescribed an analgesic, "Only when the pain gets unbearable."

By God's merciful grace it isn't life threatening.

Now that I know why this kind of ache has made my back its dwelling place, I stopped dwelling on self pity. I have also opened my ears. Proverbs 19:20: "Listen to counsel and accept discipline that you may be wise the rest of your days."

I try my instant doctors' advice one at a time. I do get relief—temporarily. But a series of momentary relief adds up to a number of good days.

Today, here I am—also compelled to give unsolicited advice to anyone who shows signs of carrying a similar invisible backpack. I have joined the roster of instant doctors. It's because I know exactly how heavy the load can be and I don't wish it on them. Maybe real doctors are trained to cure, but instant doctors are born to care.

Compulsive health counselors are as many as there are friends and caring others. I believe they are the Lord's vessels of grace to help ease our pain. They don't unnerve me anymore, they rev me up. Once in a while, I even whine aloud on purpose just to fish for new relief ideas.

And there are!

If you don't believe me, try whining aloud sometime.

copyright © 2002 by Grace D. Chong

One Last Look

I wanted to change my mind, but I had already given my word.

It was a choice between losing a treasured relationship and keeping my treasured painting. I grudgingly decided, relationship is more important than a framed acrylic rendition of a perfect day I tried to freeze in time.

In Cebu, where my family and I had our once-a-year vacation, one of the places we went to was the butterfly farm. More than the colorful butterflies, it was the flowers on which they fluttered that riveted my eyes. And more than the flowers, I loved the way my boys enjoyed the nature scenes normally appreciated only by their flower-crazed mom.

I took a shot of the bird of paradise, a flower which always fascinates me, to remind me of that idyllic day.

When we got back home, I rendered the photo on canvas, replete with the feelings still intact. After my Bird of Paradise was framed, I hang it along my other paintings on our wall. But it was my favorite of all.

The days that followed were tragic. We lost my sis-in-law and mom-in-law (Amah) one month apart.

In our grief, one elderly but very strong lady, Auntie Hedy, held our hand. She made decisions where we couldn’t, provided assistance where needed, and in between events, comforted my mom-in-law more than all of us combined.

All my married life, Auntie Hedy had been a fixture in Amah's life; they were each other’s phone pal and best friend. She gave of herself in ways one could never replicate, even if one tried.

In one of her visits to Amah in our home (they talked for hours!), I wanted to give her a gift (a token of appreciation is more like it) and wracked my brain on what it could be, she being one of those who has everything.

No ideas came. On her way out she stopped by my paintings, looked at them very closely, nodded appreciatively, and remarked, “These are good!”

My mouth moved before my mind could think, “Take one."

She went straight to my Bird of Paradise without buts, ifs, or maybes and said, “I love this,” taking it down.

I was stunned that an octogenarian would see what I saw and put in that painting. She hugged it like it always belonged to her and walked off to her waiting limo.

Separation anxiety ate me up for days, easing only with my mind’s promise that, “I’ll paint one just like it.”

Psychologists invented the term separation anxiety because, well, there's no such thing as reconciliation anxiety, is there? Beginning with Adam's ouster from the Garden of Eden, separation has become a word so cruel it causes modern man wrinkles and ulcers, if not early death.

I look back and laugh at it now (my face red with embarrassment). It is never a choice—relationship is up in the treasure list and a favorite painting is nowhere near it.

I also chuckle at a column I wrote about this same exact feeling. I am uploading it here with the hope that you, too, will laugh at some dark experience in the past when you had to say good-bye to a part of you.

One Last Look

"Take one last look," my husband said one day. I did—and my eyes smarted, my nose sniveled, and my lungs contracted. I was two seconds close to bawling.Now, what would you call someone who drivels over an aging and ailing bundle of metal and motor, in fading green, labeled Toyota Corolla? Hilarious, they said. Serious, I said.

"What's wrong? You sound awful!" my sister, the queen of tact, spewed when I called her soon after that.

"Separation anxiety," I moaned."Tony left you?!"

"Worse. My car left me."

"Ha-ha-ha!"

I bawled.

Despite tender loving care, that green, fading thing had lately been acting up—whining, gurgling, making too many trips to the casa. It had been gas guzzling and throwing temper tantrums anywhere it wanted to.

But it was six years of my life—when I found myself at the crossroads of a long-running career, vacillating for months on end whether to drive past it. It provided literally the space I needed to think a million thoughts, replay in my mind a million memories, pray a million prayers, and finally answer my biggest what if.

Quite poetic, if not melodramatic: greenie was my refuge, where I could shut myself from the rest of traffic, make life-changing decisions and come to terms with them, with no change of lanes or u-turn. We were together through my last years on an old, well-traveled path (my career) and through my first years on a new, unfamiliar terrain (my retirement).

It even carried my favorite things—wall hangings and mementos—and me, from office to home for good.

Years ago, when I was due for a new car (of my choice for the first time), in lieu of the one belonging to the company pool, I waived the privilege. Management had just announced that raises for the staff were cut because finances fell below benchmarks. I told the boss it wasn't a good time. He gave me that look that comes when you find a ride after walking for hours wearing new shoes, "Whew!"

Months later, our client Toyota had a sale-of-the-century where cars were practically given away. "Now's a good time, Grace," the boss said. "Take your pick.”

Still concerned about the staff's non-raise, I focused on the cheapest model and spotted a bright green. From that day forward, greenie and I were together every single day until that one time when I took "one last look."

As you read, I hope you're laughing with me and not at me. Separation Anxiety is for real and wreaks havoc on one's equilibrium.

Like traffic, separation anxiety has variants—light, moderately heavy, heavy, or all, intermittently. We can only get past it to where we should be by seeking God's grace. In Isaiah 43:18-19 ". . . the Lord says, 'Do not cling to the events of the past or dwell on what happened long ago. Watch for the new thing I am going to do. It is happening already—you can see it now! I will make a road through the wilderness and give you streams of water there.'"

(BTW, from that old road, I still keep one other attachment—a huge key chain collection. As I am now traveling a new drive with new interests, and vowing to disallow another separation anxiety, I am giving this collection "one last look" without bawling. If you're interested, let's talk. I need reassurance that you'll care for them as much as I did.)

I did let go of that entire collection—gave it away to about a dozen people whom I knew would also let each item go someday—with no ifs, buts, and maybes.

A Great Read!

Writing has a shadow: reading.

If you are into writing, reading follows you wherever you go. The other way around may not be true, but definitely, writers—shoot me if there are exceptions—are stuck on reading.

There’s something about reading someone else’s thoughts, opinions, experiences; getting lost in a time other than your own; unraveling webs of mystery and matrices of human confusion; deciphering codes and enjoying metaphors; discovering new schools of thought; I could go on.

Before the year ended I read a book on management (and you thought I logged off from that one —well, so did I) which was so interesting I knew I had to internalize it and, whenever possible, soak in its essence.

The book is: The Way of the Shepherd by Dr. Kevin Leman and William Pentak. It is timeless as well as timely. It speaks of management principles as old as sheep and as new as buyouts.

Of the many management books I have either taken seriously or simply nosed through, this one stands alone.

A rapid—too rapid—read, The Way of the Shepherd’s imagery is vivid and its imprint, lasting. It’s a book on people management principles as old as the hills, yet works as the latest software.

Lamb chops ordered for a quick business lunch are about the only images of the sheep in today’s corporate world. These days, to have an imagined business savvy, one has to have an MBA diploma, quote the latest management books, and fly to business meetings in the big cities of the world.

The Way of the Shepherd takes us back in an old, rickety beat-up pickup, to the sheep yard, where the stench and bleat of this ancient animal, which has existed since over 4000 B.C., is analyzed, experienced—and, yes, rediscovered.

It is a rediscovery one can feel, smell, and enshrine in one’s heart, long after the pages of this small book has been closed and lent to others.

Theodore McBride, the CEO of General Technologies reveals—and unselfishly hands down to the author, and us, on the eve of his retirement—the seven greatest management principles which, he avows, are the reasons his company is “the number one place to work for in America.” The spirit of teamwork in General Technologies appears to be patented. The company has the highest retention rate among businesses of the same magnitude.

The seven greatest management principles are not originally McBride’s. They were likewise handed down to him by his mentor, one of his professors in MBA, Dr. Jack Neumann—a shepherd at heart. McBride did not receive these principles through lecture in an air-conditioned classroom, but in situ and in the company of live, stinking sheep.

At the end of his lessons, McBride says these principles—more than any other management program he ever learned—unlocked for him the secrets of becoming a great leader, outstanding by any standard.

These principles, at first blush, seem like old proverbs or a wise-old-man’s homespun tales: Know the condition of your flock; Discover the shape of your sheep; Help your sheep identify with you; Make your pasture a safe place; The staff of direction; The rod of correction; and, The heart of the shepherd.

They’re not. Unearthed from that long-ago workplace, dependent on unpredictable nature and fickle weather, these principles are amazingly modern, and, in today’s lingo, doable. Like a bug-free scalable software, there are (albeit in simple analogy) in the menu familiar management tools—grids, timetables, leadership strategies, reward and punishment, feedback system, and research protocols.

And the best news is, these sheepherding principles can work for anyone — a CEO of a mega company, a small-venture entrepreneur, a manufacturing manager, or even a Sunday school teacher.

The fast-paced prose and interesting storytelling allows one to self-evaluate and reflect on his own management style. The shepherd’s way leads people in a way that they want to follow. It instills in them loyalty and commitment.

How could something as ancient as the way of the shepherd still work in this modern era of blogs and self-indulgence? McBride explains that the basic needs of human nature remain essentially the same.

As to why a number of managers don’t shepherd their people, the book explains that great leadership comes at a great price—and few people are willing to pay for it. That great price is modeling. To demand excellence, one must be excellent himself.

Great leadership and people skills cannot be taught. They have to be modeled as did McBride’s mentor in a sheep yard.

It worked then and it can work now.

What Sunshine Means

One day a week, I get a good dose of sunshine.

More than warming my computer-humped back and keyboard-cramped fingers, it illumines my mind. I leave the enclosed room where my desk top (and for emergencies, my laptop) and I sit snugly together, and for three to six hours I come eyeball-to-eyeball with the young and the restless: college students in a transnational business school.

Depending on the trimester, I teach the subjects—Case Studies in Advertising, Business English, Strategic Marketing and Management—which consumed me in my other life. Okay, it’s a way of conveniently reliving past glory in the corporate world which I turned my back on when I plunged into my second act.

It’s also a diversion I seek out because it teaches me the one thing I am still learning despite two decades in the business world: patience.

It’s not that bad, really. For where in the world can you have a captive audience who hangs on to your every word (I exaggerate; make that every other word) and wonders aloud why the textbook says otherwise.

I remember my very first day. I wore my red power suit and talked with the stance of someone who’s been there, done that. In seconds I got questions coming from some part of the world I never thought existed, and suddenly, I was at sea. I made a mental note—these punks couldn’t be treated like peers or clients. In marketing language, they’re a niche target: a handful, inquisitive aliens whose knowledge of advertising is “that icky shampoo ad on MTV” or the “blah billboard on SLEX” or the “cool dude on radio” and say it with unabashed vigor.

I had to go back two decades and started pointing out the differences between a headline and a tagline; a storyboard and an audio-visual script; Copy Research and Research and Development.  

By and large, they are a quick, very quick, study. Can you think of anything sunnier?

I can’t complain. I can now grin even after someone asks, “Miss, can you explain again what you mean by ‘big idea?’” 

 These days, instead of saying, “Trash that thought, it stinks,” I say, “Hmmm, that’s interesting, can you explain it a bit more,” meaning it.

In teaching, one has the luxury of time: to nurture, to motivate, to lead, to listen, and most of all, to watch—as your students grow before your eyes—and to look forward to a future when they become excellent men and women in the workplace, better than I ever was.

If that isn’t sunshine, what is? And here’s more—a page from my journal some trimesters ago.

“Your parents named you well,” I tell her after reading the essay she wrote about herself in my English for Business class. She beams. That’s my first encounter with Sunshine, one of the eight 17-year-old freshmen in the classroom.

From day one, Sunshine has been a ray of, guess what, sunshine. She has that sunny glow—listening intently, giving her opinions on the subject being discussed, informally leading any of the case study groups she is assigned to, and smiling brightly. She also gets an A in every quiz. And when she is called upon to talk about her work, she does not present. She performs.

I’ve had outstanding students, achievers who put pressures on themselves. But only one is named Sunshine; she who has such a sparkling demeanor it shifts your mood from crabby to cheery. And it intrigues me that someone with that name would reflect the word so uncannily. A walking metaphor, Sunshine is.

No cloud, dark or dense, seems able to hide her spark. In one of the school’s activities—Parents’ Night—she regales the audience with her sweet singing voice and dancing prowess.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” I ask facetiously, facing her. Then I ask further, facing her mom, “How does it feel to have such a multi-talented daughter?

“Blessed. I feel really blessed,” she grins, her pride showing through her eyes. 

I muse, Sunshine has her genes.

The rest of the days during the trimester have been pretty much the same. Sunshine always shines.

Then comes a major class activity which I had created to help my students tackle the final exam, moderated in London. I nicknamed it “Mock Test” because it mimics the tone of test which was to happen in two weeks.

I expect Sunshine to get an A. She does.

The following day after giving my students back their papers, I get a text message from Sunshine. “Miss, there has been an error in my grade. I’d like to show it to you tomorrow.”

Gee, what nerve, I say to myself. My impulse is to text back, “You got an A. Anything higher than that won’t make any difference!” But my once-a-week teaching stint, and aging, have tamed my temper and tongue. After counting from one to ten, my fingers text back, “Ok, see you tomorrow.”

I see her in the lobby, beaming as usual and rushing to me with her test paper in tow. We take the nearest bench.

“Miss,” she says, without missing a beat, “you made a mistake in your addition. You gave me additional four points!”

With this new, and correct, computation, Sunshine’s grade goes down to B. That’s a first, that can’t be.

I blanch and pale, like a castaway who has been kept in a dark, musty dungeon too long.

On impulse, I hug her—a gesture instructors are discouraged to make (in the campus at least) to give that student-teacher relationship a semblance of respectability. “Good girl!” But it is an act far better than what I had in mind—bang my head on the wall.

In her final report card, I write in the space that says, Comments: “Apart from excellence, Sunshine also means: integrity.”

Yes, one day a week, God’s grace allows the sun to shine on me, and I find a new meaning to the word sunshine.

Creative Writing: The NINE Chongisms

In my book talks, one of the frequently-asked questions is: “How do I become a published writer?” I am surprised that there are so many closet writers—like I was—out there.

Had there been a sure-fire formula on how this is done, I’d have followed it years ago. But each published writer, I have discovered, has his own unique story to tell. Mine is a series of fortunate events.

But that is another story.

I’ve mulled over that question and I’d like to help usher budding writers to the joy of creative writing—in my own small way. I summarized my thoughts on creative writing and what I’m doing to give it justice. 

I call them The NINE Chongisms, first discussed in my talk to young writers, participants in an Essay Writing Contest sponsored by OMF Literature, launched at the International Book Fair. 

Why nine? Odd. Why not ten? Because they’re no commandments; punishment comes not to those who disobey them. They’re for anyone or no one to treasure or trash.

The beauty of creative writing is—there are no how-tos. Every writer has his own voice. 

1) Creative writing cannot be taught, it can only be nurtured.

The gift is not the ability to write; it is the passion to write. You can’t be forced, or made to go to writing school and emerge a creative writer. Like a pianist or an athlete who constantly practices with discipline before he becomes a virtuoso or Olympian, the writer likewise must go through the same practice and discipline. That means, writing every single day.

2) The perfect time to write is now.

How much writing are you doing? If you wait till you have more time, more money, or when you’re older, or more experienced, then kiss publishing good-bye. If you have stories to tell, tell them now. If you want to write, write now. Waiting is an extravagance a creative writer can’t afford. I splurged on waiting and now I seem to have very little time to write the many stories still untold.

3) Creative writing must help heal.

I live and wish for happy endings. I believe that when this earthly life ends, God’s children will move to eternal life. I feel that each written work—be it for kids, adults, the world—must uplift a reader’s (or my) sagging spirit.

At some point in our lives, we hurt. Surely the human spirit has the capacity to bear pain and rise from it, but it can use a little help to hasten the healing process.

The characters in my stories are drawn from real life. Except for Alvin Patrimonio, my nephew, they are ordinary beings who have made an extraordinary impact on how I think and feel. While reading these stories, others—from their letters—have found their own.

“Thank you, my pasaway little boy is trying to be like Teo!” (Teo is the main character in the Oh Mateo! Series of 11 books to date.)

“What’s for Breakfast? is bringing me closer to God.”

“Gifts of Grace lifts the heart and makes me think of how fortunate I am with so many people around me making my life meaningful everyday.”

4) A writer needs to keep the wildness in him alive.

The wildness in us is our daring attitude, opinions and feelings which we call imagination—it can go where others don’t want to go. Imagination is circular, not linear. It can begin with any character or action at any point of your story.

It’s thinking out of the box, thinking in the box, thinking in another box, and thinking in new boxes. I guess it’s courageously trying out all kinds of boxes to weave tapestries of daily living.

5) Creative writing is not about words or syntax, it is about life.

Polyglots, grammarians, linguists, and philosophers can write. Anybody who has mastered a language can write. But only a creative writer can put his soul on paper: the connections he has built, gaps he has bridged, failures he has learned from, and successes he has celebrated.

Creative writing is looking for the good in people, reconciling differences and solving conflicts, in a unique voice that is yours alone—not preaching, just testifying.

6) A creative writer needs ten senses, not five.

Behind every sound, touch, scent, image, and taste is a story. Someone said that when a writer hears a whisper, he hears a thunder.

Creative writing is looking beyond the beauty in the ordinary. It’s seeing the buds bloom, enjoying the birds' chorus, hearing the leaves wail, re-reading the books that have inspired you and dipping into them. It’s feeling the texture of paint and the ouch of a needle.

7) A creative writer must embrace solitude, including tedium.

Creative work requires a good deal of time alone. Often, I need to withdraw from the hubbub of the world—and be with my shadow.

Enjoy the tedium. Go over a paragraph ten, twenty, fifty times until it sings.

8) Every piece uses your brain, but has your heart.

Brain: We’ve been told that the brain controls everything—our actions, thoughts, emotions. True. How do ideas come? At the base of our brain is the Reticular Activating System (RAS). These cells help us decide what to be conscious of, filtering out other information.

When my husband bought an Innova car, I never thought there were so many Innova owners. People didn't rush out to buy the same car. They were always there. I just made it important to me and my RAS allowed that information through.

When I decided that creative writing is more important to me than advertising writing, I saw many ideas I missed before.

Everything we experience is in our brain. The challenge for a creative writer is to retrieve this information.

Heart: Is the heart mushy? Facts: The heart's electromagnetic field is actually 5,000 times stronger than that of the brain. Research shows that our heart perceives and transmits information in much the same way that our brains do.

We use our heart to read others and through electrical impulses, pressure waves and hormones, our intuition enables us to feel empathy for others.

By no coincidence, our vocabulary is filled with expressions, such as: Broken-hearted, Change of heart, All heart, Take heart, Heart-to-heart, Hard-hearted, Tender-hearted, and Half-hearted.

9) Creative writing is for God’s glory.

Creative writing is honoring the light within me, letting it shine, to glorify its Source. It is baring what chaos and choices have taught me, so others may find their own light.

Creative writing emerges only from a center. So then every page is a celebration of the beauty of noon, midnight, and all hours in between. Every leaf is a rediscovery of blessings and a conduit to our Creator.

The NINE Chongisms in a nutshell: Creative writing makes me lose myself in the excitement of the imagination; only to find myself ensconced in the warmth of His grace.

Mother Noise

Six years of walking seems forever. I feel as though I’ve been walking all my life for at least one hour every day (from 5 to 6 AM), except on rare occasions when I’m dead beat from the previous night’s activity, the latest of which was the New Year celebration.

I do an average of six to seven kilometers daily, depending on my pace—from very brisk to too-brisk-people-think-I-am-running. So if I roughly compute those distances, multiplying them with the number of days (say, an average of 320 days a year), I would have walked, as of today, over 13,000 kilometers! 

 

On weekdays, homes wake up as early as I do. From block to block, I hear mothers holler, “You’ll be late for school!” Wake up!” “Go take a bath!”

Kids whimper and yawn, reluctant to leave their beds. If I listened closely enough, I’d hear what I smell, tocino, eggs, and sinangag sizzling or frying. I’d also hear bed sheets folding, faucets running, and lunch boxes, doors, gates opening and closing.

I call these “mother noise.” The kind of sounds mothers with growing-up children hear every day of their lives. These real-life audio at dawn I don’t hear in my home anymore. But once upon a time I did, part of the time. Most times I was busy minding my own needs, hearing my own thoughts—about what to do with my clients and what to expect from my staff in the office—that those sounds were heard by my kids’ yayas instead.

In my pile of writings, I have a piece on this important phase of my mothering, which I’d like to share with those parents today who are so busy briskly walking the same treadmill—building a career or making a living—I walked on, up until six years ago when I decided I’ve earned my dues and stayed home to do what I love doing best, writing. This essay I tagged:

Part-time Mother

It is an ordinary weekday morning. After a leisurely breakfast with my husband, who drives off to his office in Makati, I glide into my own office a few steps away. In faded tee and frayed shorts, I am all set to string my words. I log on to my computer and play a Broadway musicale CD to keep my feet tapping. All my senses begin to key in. But just when I think I am in utopia, I hear the un-ordinary.

Noise. A fusion of disparate sounds all around. Wispy voices of the Lotus Eaters (80s hit band); heavy clanks of barbell plates accompanied by grunts and groans; and loud organ music with unabashed singing—all at the same time.

Well, eldest son JC, a software designer, holds office in the music room so I am used to his music played at hysterical level. But middle son JB (who came by to rest after passing the Medical Exam Board)doing noisy weights, youngest son JR (who is awaiting his final trimester in Legal Management)practicing organ pieces this hour are both something new. Suddenly it hits me. All my three boys are home.

I try, and try hard, to visualize the last time they were home with me on an ordinary weekday. No images come. I slither to the living room, where their noises clash in a crazy cacophony, and I sit up straight on the couch.

“Mom, why are your eyes closed?’ JR asks, chuckling.

“Shhh, I am trying to remember...”

All my Mommy Years were spent mostly at the workplace.   

       

The only images of weekday togetherness I now see in my mind are: Hurried mornings—hustling sleepy Sons One and Two into a honking school bus, then kissing crying Son Three goodbye; and tired evenings—reviewing Son One's homework, then whispering a prayer over sleeping Sons Two and Three.

On sacred weekends, I'd cram into two precious days all the missed five days. And mouthed my defensive buzzword, quality time.

What that made me was plain and simple, part-time mother. A moonlighter who knew deep down that she couldn’t excel in both jobs equally. It also meant that nothing could ever make up for a lost chance to answer a question, or straighten a knitted brow, or kiss a little ache away.

But today, at ages when they turn all red if hugged or bussed in public, and would rather have a pretty girl's company instead of their mother's, I am here for them. On call night and day!

More than ever, with years of management practice and client service, I can now answer their questions—any question; straighten their knitted brows, even conjure smiles; kiss away their little aches—physical or emotional. Finally, I am equipped to do topnotch mothering.

Unfortunately, they don't know that. Worse, they don't need it anymore.

It's like a joke about life's ironies. As adolescents short on cash, we could then only gawk at pricey clothes on mannequins. Now in our golden years, we can buy them but can't fit into them. My husband rues about his lot, as well. In his youth, he couldn't afford lechon in a menu. Now he can, but his cardiologist and oncologist and surgeon have ordered him to shun it, or else.

Often, when I talk to my friends who are full-time mothers, I verbalize my envy (okay, guilt). "I wish I had also stayed home when my children were growing up."

"Hey, go easy on yourself," they say as friends should. "You did very well."

No, my children (whose mommy was there only part of the time) did very well. From what I see, they each have a good heart.

No, not because of me. But because of—and only by—God's grace. He promised in 2 Corinthians 12:9, "My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness . . ."

Awesome, His grace never failed when I did. Amazing, it was always there when I wasn't.

copyright © 2002 by Grace D. Chong