February Blessings

In two days it will be March.

February has been an unusually busy month for me.    

I’ve been mostly at home—in my little corner pounding on my keyboard non-stop—writing the third volume of my book, Gifts of Grace. 

It’s coming along fine, thank you.

At the end of each day, I am spent—heart, body and soul—but happy. I realize that this feeling comes not so much from a sense of fulfillment as from a higher Source, for whom I do what I do. “And from His fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.” (John 1:16)

In February, too, we found a reason to celebrate. My one and only grandson (nine months old now) was dedicated to the Lord, officiated by my older brother, Pastor Fed.

Although 13,000 miles away, we were with Adrian through photos sent by his parents. “Isn’t he lovely?” Grace upon grace indeed.

What an Ad!

Once in a while, a print ad jolts me. What I do is clip it and discuss it with my students in my Contemporary Advertising class.

Today, there is a controversy over a big government deal with China, now cancelled. Our country is in a deep moral dilemma. There have been accusations of high level corruption in government and Jun Lozada, a government man consulted about the deal, was summoned by the Senate—literally surrounded and protected by nuns—to tell what he knows about the corruption.

Those pro President GMA say he is a liar. Those pro Jun Lozada say he is telling the truth.

What does the Pontifical University (The University of Santo Tomas), the oldest university in the country, alma mater of Lozada, have to say about it? This is where the ad comes in.

In this crisis, we pray for a massive dose of grace to make us do what is right in God’s sight.

In the big rally planned for tomorrow, February 25 (anniversary of EDSA 1), may the Lord protect the pure in heart and may His will, alone, be done.

Star Gazing

It was like having a dream where you want to wake up but can’t. You’re blinded by the twinkling of a galaxy of stars in one big, but suffocating, space.

I am not talking about movie stars or the celebrities whose lives we dig up in gossip columns. I am referring to a different kind of ilk—stars in politics, diplomatic corps, military, and judiciary. Stars that make it to newspaper headlines and the 6 o’clock news.

The occasion was the 108th anniversary of The Manila Bulletin, a major newspaper these stars love most or can never hate.

When all Philippine newspapers scream with headlines like, “Massive Cheating in the South,” or “Wire Tapping Scandal Angers GMA” or “Destabilization Plot Uncovered,” The Manila Bulletin writes, “Pope appoints Papal Nuncio.”

So everyone was there—from the Justice of the Supreme Court, the Speaker of the House, the Senate President, Ambassadors of different countries, the Executive Secretary, Ex-Presidents, to the current President of the Philippines.

After imbibing too much juice of varying kinds, I rushed to the comfort room only to be shooed away, “Ma’am, that cubicle is reserved for President GMA.”

I decided to enjoy the event by asking Tony to take my photo with some of them. “Let me take a shot of you with Joe de Venecia,” he suggested.

“No way,” I said, and walked instead to where US Ambassador Kristie Kenney was having a tete-a-tete with Carlos P. Romulo’s widow.

Tony, who always had a nose for news said the next day after reading the newspaper headlines (not The Manila Bulletin), “You missed the chance to have a photo caption that says, ‘Me and the Speaker before the ax fell.’”

Why were Tony and I there in the first place? Well, veteran advertising people get invited to media functions; this particular newspaper just happens to attract all the stars.

Star gazing isn’t as nightmarish as it sounds. Most of the stars, especially those who figure in corruption, deception, wheeling and dealing and cheating, and cover-ups are a frequent fare in our church’s prayer concerns.

A simple folk like me just can’t seem to get used to the glare of all the constellations—sparkling and falling stars among them.

After that night, I cried over this verse, “If My people who are called by My name humble themselves, and pray and seek My face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and heal their land . . .” 2 Chronicles 7:14

Please help us pray for the healing of our land.

Confused Heart

Another Valentine’s Day has come and gone and I am still unsure about what it means. I know it is a stroke of marketing genius—when flowers, chocolates, restaurants, and other wares make huge commercial profits.

But what is it really? What exactly are we celebrating? Or for whom is it celebrated?      
 
Going back to its history, Valentine’s Day long, long ago was a pagan tradition; and in later years, was made a part of Christian celebrations. There is not just one but several legends on how this happened.

My personal feeling is, love can’t be pigeon-holed into one day. The Scriptures tell us that love is long-suffering and forever; it never looks back, but keeps going on till the end. And without it, we are nothing.

Okay, that’s a different kind of love, you may say. Valentine’s Day is all about calf love or romantic love. But ah, there’s the rub.

Romance is not bound by schedules. Let me try to remember what some authors have said about romance—“It is a roller coaster ride, it has its ups and downs.” Shakespeare’s Romeo said, “It’s a madness most discreet.”

Romance is unruly, spontaneous and improvises—it is a sudden burst of inspiration, a sleepless night, a note written at a whim, a poem, a giggle in a middle of a lecture, goose bumps and tears, flowers and chocolates for no reason, and many, many more.

It is always a joy for me to delight the people I love, freshen friendships, and send an e-mail or a text message of love. But that can and should happen anytime one feels like it.

It is the sense of duty—of giving someone you love something that is quadruple the cost on Valentine’s Day because he or she expects it—that confuses this day’s purpose.

Pardon the philosophizing; many of you may not agree.

Let me then simply end with 1 Corinthians 14:1 (The Message): "Go after a LIFE [emphasis mine] of love as if your life depended on it—because it does."

Mystery No More

When man landed on the moon on July 20, 1969, something in me died. Sure, it was a leap forward in science but it was step backward in music and poetry—the end of the moon’s mystery.

Suddenly, the soft, beautiful feelings evoked by songs such as Fly Me to the Moon, Moon River, By the Light of the Silvery Moon, Moonlight Becomes You, and Blue Moon had been reduced to the hard reality of rock samples, molecules, spacecraft, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin.

This was exactly how I felt, again, after the mystery behind the identity of “Mona Lisa” was solved early this year.

Leonaro da Vinci’s magnum opus is arguably the most famous painting in the world. Few other works of art have been subject to as much scrutiny, study, and parody. Historians have wondered whether the smiling woman may have been da Vinci’s lover, his mother, or the artist himself.

Enabled by grace to visit the Musée du Louvre in Paris, France a few years ago, I was able to view the cordoned-off painting two meters away. My hair stood on ends. Oh, that mysterious smile, that mysterious woman!

Back in Manila, when I told my artist friends about it my experience, their eyes misted.

Well, those goose bumps and tears are gone now. German academics at the Heidelberg University Library believe they have solved the centuries-old mystery of the "Mona Lisa." They say dated notes scribbled in the margins of a book in October 1503 confirm that Lisa del Giocondo was indeed the model of this famous portrait. The notes were made by a Florentine city official Agostino Vespucci, an acquaintance of the artist.

The comments say da Vinci was working on three paintings at the time—one of them a portrait of Lisa del Giocondo, the wife of a wealthy merchant, Francesco del Giocondo. She has long been suspected as the most likely model for the 16th century painting but was never proven till now.

Art experts say this discovery is a breakthrough. "There is no reason for any lingering doubts that this is another woman," Leipzig University art historian Frank Zoellner said. “Mona Lisa” is also known as "La Gioconda" (joyful woman in Italian). These two titles both have the woman's first name and married name!

My miniature print of "Mona Lisa" had been delicately wrapped and stowed away like it was the original itself. After the discovery of the model’s identity, I brought it out. Somehow, it is not as precious as it used to be.

With my shades on, I look more mysterious.

A Flower for Leni

Yesterday, two days after I posted my blog on death in which I mentioned his name as an honest doctor, our good friend Leni (Dr. Lenito Gatchalian) quietly passed away. He died in his sleep, in his bedroom, of cardiac arrest.

Leni wasn't only honest, he was one of the most caring doctors I have ever known. He often volunteered his services to those who couldn't afford medical care. And he was a member of a group of CBers who answered the call of those in distress.

Although he wasn't very sick, he had been suffering from emphysema for the past couple of years. “A result of my heavy smoking,” he admitted.

He was my husband’s surgeon when Tony was diagnosed with colon cancer 14 years ago. Tony was in bad shape, the tests were not very good. But Leni (the husband of my close friend Delma) was very optimistic and after the surgery, before chemotheraphy could even begin, he told Tony, “I want us to go to the beach ten years from now.” They never made it to the beach because he was too busy and so was Tony but the two of them kept in touch—every day.

They were each other’s text mate. They would exchange jokes and inspirational messages every single day! Yesterday being Chinese New Year, Tony sent Leni a Happy New Year greeting early in the morning. It was the first and only day Leni didn't text back—and will never again.

What can I say? I have said all I wanted to say about death in my last post.

But perhaps this is what needs to be said over and over again—to my husband, myself, our children and his children who have learned to live without their mother for over ten years now—the Lord’s promise in times of pain and loss, fear and uncertainty:

"I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.” John 14:18

Please join us in prayers for the Lord’s grace to sustain those who are mourning Leni's passing—especially his children (Lendell, Lester, and Leanne), in-laws, grandchildren, and loved ones.

We will miss you, Doc. Please say "hello" to Delma.

O Death, Where Is Your Sting?

Medical science has a lot to say about how people should lead their lives to stay healthier and live longer. Time Magazine had an article on a recent breakthrough study on how to prolong life.

Doctors have statistics to prove why a person gets sick of some disease at some point in time and why he will perish when some parts of his organs don’t function the way they should. They say that based on their present understanding, one has probably x months or years to live.

But I have met a few honest doctors—my son JB and our friend Leni among them—who admit that they don’t know for sure. There is always an element of mystery on when life will end.

One of our neighbors has been bedridden for almost 20 years. And yet, other neighbors have kicked the bucket at their prime.

I just got word that an acquaintance suddenly died at age 42. Stroke. He never smoked, never drunk, and was a gym habitué.

Two very close friends, Christians both, were diagnosed with breast cancer at almost the same time. One has long perished while the other is still going strong, with no sign of the disease.

My nephew, 29, was just promoted in his job, about to move in to his first condo unit, and had just left a celebration party. He was on his way home and got killed in a car accident.

An uncle (a couch potato, with cholesterol-sugar-heavy diet) who was supposed to have died at age 75 due to stage four prostate cancer, didn’t—not until he was almost 100, of heart failure.

We’ve heard of stories about malignant cysts suddenly disappearing or people, proclaimed clinically dead, suddenly waking up as though nothing happened.

My cousin was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. One doctor said she only has six months to live. Another doctor said her tests show only borderline malignancy and therefore treatable.

Dulce Saguisag survived cancer for 10 years and suddenly, coming home from a ballroom dancing session, her van got hit by a speeding truck. She died on the spot.

A friend who underwent surgery for cancer was nursed by his young wife. Years later, his wife also succumbed to the same disease and passed on, way ahead of him.

The list is endless.

I believe that Medical Science may offer an opinion, but only God knows. “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

Beyond this, God invites us to join in His mysterious work by asking us to pray for the sick. “And the prayer of faith will save the one who is sick, and the Lord will raise him up. And if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven. Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person has great power as it is working.” James 5:13-14.

And so we do pray for our ailing friends and loved ones. God is all-powerful. Therefore He will heal or do something more important. And we will abide by His decision.

Fact is, unless Jesus returns very soon, our mortal bodies will all return to dust. Most of the time we ignore our mortality. But when someone dear to us dies and we come face to face with death, we suddenly review our priorities and concentrate on the things that matter most.

After so many deaths (friends and family's) in recent months, I am reviewing—or re-aligning—my priorities and concentrating on the things that matter most. May God lather me with His grace as I try to do so.

Grace by the Sea

My family and I, bibliophiles in varying degrees, are perpetually poised to pounce on a bookshop.

As soon as MV Doulos—the biggest floating bookshop in the world—anchored on Manila Bay, JR and I were there like a shot.

The charm and lure of MV Doulos, aside from the books she carries, is that she’s the world's oldest active ocean-faring passenger ship. There are plans to decommission her because she is just a tad younger than Titanic!

MV Doulos is purposed deeply: she visits port cities throughout the world to encourage inter-cultural understanding and share a message of hope in God. The bookshop was full and most of those who were there had filled up their baskets with books.

I decided beforehand that I would only buy books and CDs I couldn’t find in Manila. So I skipped the baskets and lanes with familiar titles. I looked instead through the old-edition areas, hoping I would discover rare finds.

I did.

I found the one book of Max Lucado which I still don’t have, "Turn."

Serendipity one after another . . .

Also beneath a stack of hardbound books were two copies of Beatrix Potter’s "Peter Rabbit!"

I thought I’d never find it anywhere except on e-bay where the price is forbidding. I got them both, thinking one would make a perfect gift for Tony, a closet artist who loves Potter’s style. And the other copy, I will keep for my children’s book collection.

I also discovered Maurice Sendak’s old book, “Bears.” Again, another one for my collection!

These four books were three hours of my time on board. One additional hour I spent looking for CDs of old hymns. I rummaged through shelves after shelves of gospel CD’s but ended up finding none. Nada. Nil. Are they really gone for good? I couldn’t find them in Manila either.

It was way past sunset when JR and I decided to call it a day. After saying good-bye and thank-you to the men and women of various races, the friendly young missionaries of MV Doulos who were giving away tracts on grace and salvation, we decided to enjoy our purchases over alfresco dinner on a floating restaurant at the edge of Luneta Park.

It was a day of grace by the sea.

On a Magazine Cover?!

Great news it was indeed! JB was featured on the cover of a medical magazine in Michigan, USA. His wife, Gianina, took his photo reading this magazine and sent it to us with the caption, “JB’s 15 seconds of fame.”

In truth, JB (upper left corner) shares the spotlight with 13 other doctors. “What is mysterious,” JB wrote, “is that there is no story inside the magazine about us at all. We are not even identified. I wonder why.”

Elementary, my dear Mr. Watson (I suspect young blog readers won’t remember Sherlock Holmes). America, smitten with reality shows, equality, and being politically correct (or careful not to offend viewers from various sectors of society), always features people representing different nationalities in mass media. Notice how group scenes in movies, TV shows and advertisements show Asians and other races together with Americans in one frame?

In this particular magazine cover, if you look closely, you’ll find both male and female doctors of varying ages: Indian, European, American-Indian, African-American, and of course, a young, good-looking Asian (indulge his mom). It’s a neat cover that is not prejudiced against age, gender, or race.

That is not to say that we aren’t proud of JB. I am posting his photo for all of you, my on-line family and friends—and the world—to see!

Night Out with the Big Boys

Some students had wanted to interview me for their class assignment on authors. So we set a date, time, and place.

It was the exact date and time Tony was scheduled to meet his classmates in grade school (yes, grade school!). It was their monthly (yes, monthly!) big boys’ night out.

He suggested that I joined them for dinner after my interview was over so I could have a ride home. I had the option of being the only girl in a big boys’ club or of taking public transportation during rush hour.

It was a difficult choice.

What could I contribute to the conversation?

I have nothing in common with these men, well, except Tony.

I could always concentrate on the food and allow my mind to wander, which isn’t difficult.

Or I could listen and learn a thing or two from men who go back a long, very long, way.

I listened.

And I laughed. I was amused and amazed at the same time. Here were eight oldish men (one of them is now a congressman; one is a DJ; a lot of them entrepreneurs; four or five couldn’t make it but they kept calling and wanted updates on what was happening) talking like little boys without a care in the world.

Their topics ranged from the old shops they used to pass by on their way to school, the pretty teacher who was their common crush, the bullies and the nerds among them, how the political situation is still the same even after so many years, and oodles of other topics that kept me mesmerized.

They talked as though I wasn’t there. But I picked up one great nugget of wisdom: nothing—not age, not political affiliation, not religious beliefs, not time, not tragedies and comedies—can break up friendships forged in early life.

On our drive home, I told Tony: “The dinner was great but the jokes and conversation even better.”

“Same topics and jokes month after month,” he said, snickering.

I wanted to ask why, then, would he always look forward to attending those dinners if the topics and jokes were the same month after month for, uh, ten years now.

I bit my tongue; I knew better.

Old men (and women, for that matter) must never really grow old. They are able to weather life’s earthquakes and quicksands only because they keep the carefree little boy they once were in their hearts.   

Funny Days are Here Again!

From day one, I have been a fan of American Idol. Go ahead, laugh. It’s probably the only TV show I watch consistently. Unless I am in a prayer meeting or out on an errand, I watch every show.

I don’t care much for TV anymore, not since I left the workplace where all I did was watch TV ad nauseum to get a feel of trends and mass media advertising.

But American Idol—which is airing again for a new season—is an exception. Why? Well, a show like this doesn’t have to be analyzed or synthesized. It’s just plain fun. And funny!

I am extremely amused at the combination of the three judges who share no similarity except for their love for music. Simon is acerbic and curt, reminding me of my high-handed clients of yore. Paula is effervescent and spontaneous, typical of a person in creative—a perfect foil to a client. And Randy is both soul and technique, knows his notes and pitches to the last vibrato.

And oh, there’s Ryan Seacrest who’s always quick-on-the-draw, parrying, bantering, sparring with words and turns of phrases that leave one in stitches.

It’s a casting coup. Together, they are a riot.

And then, you hear music, music, music and watch expensive extravaganza, set on a glitzy stage with high-tech production values, interspersed with human drama.

I said I wasn’t going to analyze the show, but by force of habit, I have just listed what I think makes American Idol the no. 1 show in the US for several seasons now.

There is another episode coming up in a few hours. I will abandon my keyboard and the book chapter I am about to finish and for 60 minutes, I’ll free my mind from writer's angst.

Googleganger (2)

I tried to google myself again for the second consecutive day (vanity is endless). This time I was even more curious as to what I would discover further.

Alas, I didn’t find any more interesting googleganger. But I uncovered a few things written about me. One is in a blog of an 18-year-old girl. She listed me as one of her favorite book authors, alongside legends! She wrote . . .

“(my name) . . . is a local author in the Philippines and I really love her works. She wrote the "Oh Mateo!" Series, "Hello God!" Prayer books for kids, and "The Magic of Apo Mayor". Yes, I know I'm too old for these books but I really cherish her works.”

My heart leapt to my throat.

And her other favorite authors?

“J.K. Rowling - Hello?!?!? Do I have to say more? She's absolutely, positively amazing!

“C.S. Lewis - He's practically a legend at his game! All his works are written greatly.

“Lemony Snicket - He specializes in the drama category and is a real master. He may write about gloomy stuff but he rocks!!”

I came off my perch—“absolutely, positively” humbled. I may never earn my right—not in a zillion years—to be in the same league as these super authors, especially C.S. Lewis who is my all-time favorite children’s book writer, but I am “absolutely, positively” grateful that in the mind of an 18-year-old I have.

There are a few other blogs that mention my work, but my eyes are smarting and I feel so inadequate to key them in. I will simply write them in my heart and relish the beat of God’s glorious grace there.

Googleganger (1)

I can’t get over this new word in my vocabulary in 2008! Thanks to the American Dialect Society which voted it as the most creative word in the year that was:

Googleganger.

It’s defined as, "a person with your name who shows up when you Google yourself.”

I have always wondered about my namesakes—who might they really be. With this new word, I googled myself again (vanity, vanity) and what do you know? One of them really shocked me. She holds a world record for something so notorious I can’t even print it.

There aren’t too many of us. And what we have in common is just our name. One is young enough to be my granddaughter, one lives on the opposite side of the planet, and another one is some kind of a science genius.

Why not try discovering who your googlegangers are? You’re in for a lot of surprises.

Photo credit

Over-the-top Generosity

Amazon is slipping. It was three weeks delayed in delivering JC’s gifts for his parents.

My husband and I were not really bothered. Gifts that come late are gifts nevertheless; their value is never diminished. Both with heavy marketing background, we know that dates are simply merchandising hoopla.

But JC was livid.

He’d have wanted to give us these gifts on Christmas. I could hear him chewing off the ear of whoever was on the other line. His voice sounded like gunshots.

The package, which arrived on our doorstep only yesterday, was worth the long wait. Tony got two seasons of “Everybody Loves Raymond” (his favorite TV show, next to . . . uh, Desperate Housewives?).

Me? I got not just a book, but The Word on the Street!

“I couldn’t find it in any bookstore here,” JC explained.

The Word on the Street by Rob Lacey is a retelling of the scriptures from Genesis to Revelation, although it has a qualifier on the cover –

“Purist alert: This is not THE BIBLE (capital B) . . . but it might just get you reaching for one.”

It is not meant to replace your Bible (mine is KJV); it simply brings to life, in today’s language, the gripping stories and the passionate voices found in God’s Word. I love reading it (with my KJV beside me) because it is theatre, song, e-mail, web page, storytelling, and reality show all in one.

JC scrawls on the first page, “Mommy, combining your two loves: the Word of God and the theatre.”

Turning to the chapter on love, 1 Corinthians 13, here’s what kept me smiling (verses 4-8):

What is love anyway? Not the tripe you’ve been force-fed! No, love gives people space and time; it does people good. It’s not jealous, loud-mouthed or big-headed. It’s not vulgar; it doesn’t look after No. 1. It’s not got a short fuse—it forgives and forgets. Love doesn’t smile when dark stuff goes on, but throws a party when the truth gets out. It protects more than a blockbuster hero; it trusts more than a toddler. It’s always positive; it always hangs in there. Love doesn’t let you down.

If the book is gripping, the story behind its creation is even more so. Lacey was diagnosed with terminal cancer when he started writing the book in the year 2000. All through the three years that it took him to finish it, he was in and out of hospitals, in between chemotherapy and surgery, pain and remission, anger and stupor.

He lived to see it chosen as the Book of the Year (2004) at the Christian Booksellers Convention Ltd. UK. After another two years, Lacey joined the One for whom He lived his life as a writer and a performer.

This book’s blurb says, “For those who’ve never read the Bible, and for those who’ve read it too much.”

I don’t know if I fall within the second category, having in my possession at least a dozen translations which I refer to often. But what Lacey says about grace keeps me thinking I have not read enough—can never read enough.

“Grace is too big a word to define: favour, forgiveness, salvation, regeneration, love of God – all these don’t quite make it. Hence my struggles to define it.”

Ditto.

The Word on the Street’s phrase to mean grace, "over-the-top-generosity,” is way over the top, but it doesn’t even come close to defining it fully, even in today’s street-smart super lingo.

6989 Steps

Tony’s gifts to me are never a surprise. I pick them out myself and he simply pays for them. I know that inwardly he winces when he sees the price tag. But that’s a small price to pay (pun intended) for him having to search the stores himself. He abhors shopping.

Last Christmas season, however, I was too busy chairing the committee for our clan reunion. Before I knew it Christmas eve was upon us. For the very first time, Tony’s gift surprised—floored may be a better word—me.

He gave me something I wouldn't dream spending a cent on: a pedometer. It's a small gadget you tie around your neck and it measures your steps. I’ve been walking without one for seven years and it can’t make me walk any more than I already do.

I think he gave me a pedometer because he knows how obsessed I am with walking; or, among all the stores in a mall, the sports shop is the least crowded. Ooops, I should be thanking him instead of speculating on why he bought it.

I have always been tentative about my answer when someone asks, “How many kilometers do you walk in the morning?” My guess: seven kilometers, considering I walk one whole hour at a very brisk pace.

My new pedometer confirmed that: 6989 steps.

At 1,000 steps per kilometer, I do walk approximately seven in one hour! I wear the thingy the rest of the day to confirm having made 10,000 steps at day’s end (what some doctors recommend to help maintain good health). Now I know how much walking I do during the day—a lot.

This same pedometer was what my sons had in mind when they were shopping for my gift. They did a turnabout when it was beyond their budget (which mothers have to share with pretty young things). One of them bought me instead a blouse on sale and the other, a book which has not arrived. Amazon has made the holiday mail traffic a perfect excuse.

I have tried to suggest—not very subtly—to these boys that a nice letter telling me what a good mother I am would make the best gift, without them worrying over budgets. Obviously they’d rather spend precious cash than wrongly butter up their mother’s ego.

"I hope I don’t lose my pedometer the way I lose my cell phones and umbrellas," I said to nobody in particular.

“How can anyone lose anything tied around her neck?” JC asked.

Children ought to work harder at getting to know their mothers. I've lost flash drives, ball pens, pendant watches, IDs, necklaces, you name it. They were all neatly tied around my neck.

Taking Down the Tree

End of the merry season.

As I was taking down our tree early this year, I kept rewinding in my mind what our pastor said about Christmas trees. I’ve always been half guilty about making such a big fuss over a tree every December.

Without knowing what I go through to spruce up our 6-foot-tall green tree, he said, “Christmas trees are symbolic of the celebration we do at Christmas. However, we must not forget that it is just the beginning of the unwrapping of the greatest gift to man.

"The unwrapping continues and finally, the gift is fully opened and given at the cross. Go ahead, have a Christmas tree, but focus on the cross. From the tree to the cross—that is the total gift package.” 

My eldest brother Peding in the US gave us a crystal cross on his last visit. I took a shot of that cross overshadowing our office tree to remind me of the most selfless gift in Calvary for all of mankind . . . including undeserving me.

Oh, what grace!

Reunion 007: A Time to Bond!

The clan reunion that kept my pulse over-speeding all of December came through! It exceeded all our expectations, trashed all our worries, and proved all our apprehensions wrong.

We knew we had a winner in the venue. Tucked away in some forgotten place, “The Lord’s Garden” is so close to Laguna Bay.

It was difficult to get there, though. One had to navigate narrow roads clogged with tricycles and sidewalk vendors. But once you’re there, you get a whiff of bygone days.

Clean air caressed us and all around were wide open spaces with lots of trees, flowers, grass, birds, frogs, and—a giant chess set.

But that was about the only ace we got. Anything could go wrong with over 170 reunionites (or clanistas, as we have nicknamed ourselves; more than half live overseas)—aged 7 months to 89.

Nothing did. We realized that nothing ever goes wrong when family gets together to strengthen relationships and renew old ties. Oversights are forgiven.

Things went on as planned, plus more. James Bond numbers, parlor games, sports, talent and quiz shows, board games, kiddie activities, raffle, Bible-lympics, and other fun activities one can think of kept us laughing and bonding for 3 days and two nights. It was organized chaos, so to speak. One could participate in any event of his choice.

But two activities were non-negotiable: the opening worship service and the “friendship circle” where we were locked together in a hand chain while we prayed to await the end of the old year and the beginning of the new year. Everybody had to be there.

As a clan, we believe that everything is up to God. We could meet every year—running 63 years now—as a family only because of His grace. We therefore must give thanks together before we do anything else. In this worship service, which began Reunion 007: A time to Bond!, we remembered the clanistas who have gone ahead—all 42 of them. As they lit our way, may we—those who are left behind—also learn to light the way of those whom we will likewise leave behind.

May the Lord find us always faithful.

What gives me the right to chair this reunion?

My grandparents on my mother’s side had nine children. All nine branches of the big clan is assigned a reunion. As the eldest in my mother’s branch, I get to head the reunion committee every nine years. It is an awesome responsibility which I could never go alone.

This year, we were short-handed—13 of our sub-clan members are abroad. They all shared in the work in terms of creative ideas and donations, but the execution was left to the 11 of us.

The older among us (me and my husband, my sister, my brother and his wife) watched the "shaken and stirred" younger ones, our children, do the tasks we couldn't do ala Bond, complete with his espionage music in the background. Boy, was that dizzying!

Four days after the closing ceremonies, I am still exhausted from the overdrive. Well, I have nine years to recover. By then, I'd be nine years older and the clanistas in the group photo below would spill over the frame even more. But by His grace, I will be all fired up—again.

Happy New Year!

I said I was coming back on the 2nd of January, but it is now the 3rd. I am lagging behind in my writing (both blog and book). I was submerged in too many activities in December and couldn't come up for air, till now.

Today I took the chance to join my friends Bezalie and Yay for a long, chatty lunch, occasionally marred by a sneezing spell. I quickly took an anti-allergy pill and now I am woozy and my eyelids are heavy as lead.

Tom . . . or. . . row . . . zzzzzzzzzzz . . .

Every Nine Years

Tomorrow I am taking a four-day trip out of town. I am chair of our clan reunion. This is a job that comes to me every nine years by virtue of my birth.                                     

Despite the able help of my siblings, their spouses and children, including my husband and my own children, I am so harassed and so panicky I am in no proper frame of mind to write about it and why I come into such privilege.

This is the 63rd reunion, which started in 1944. Our clan on my mother's side get together to end each old year and meet the new one. At the stroke of twelve, we are in a circle singing our signature hymn, "Blest be the tie that binds," and praising God for His grace and the gift of family. We are expecting about 170 people, aged eight months to eighty, this year.

I am bringing along with me my life-support-system consisting of my reading glasses, my sign pen, and my calendar. In a job like this, one could get really disoriented.

Meanwhile, I will be out of blogosphere till the second of January. As early as now I think I may be having withdrawal syndrome.

Let me be the first to greet all of you, my friends in the wide big yonder, a happy New Year!

Wit, Humor, and Old Age

On Christmas afternoon, after a festive eve till the wee hours of the morning, our home settled into a quiet lull. Everyone was doing his own thing.

I, for one, followed the e-mailed advice of Pastor Bong, a dear friend, who stressed, “Don't just eat and eat. Don't just talk and talk. Don't just run around going from mall to mall. Take some time to reflect on yourself. Make this Christmas a meaningful one. Make the time to be silent before the Lord and assess yourself honestly. There's always room for growth. Once the light of God's word and Spirit penetrate your heart, you will see reality from a better perspective. Then you will be able to make worthwhile goals for the future, not just New Year resolutions.”

After sometime, I turned on the TV set and was delighted to watch (for the nth time) a replay of “The Sound of Music.” Movies hardly come in this package anymore—full of music, homespun values, nationalism, and filial love. I watched it with a smile till the end. Then I searched for the e-mail sent by a friend sometime ago.

I needed to reflect on it after the hectic pace of the last few days—and then I didn’t feel so bad.

On Julie Andrews’ 69th birthday (she’s now 72), she made a special appearance at the Manhattan's Radio City Music Hall for the benefit of the AARP. One of the musical numbers she performed was "My Favorite Things" from, yes, the all-time-favorite, legendary movie "Sound Of Music."

Here are the actual lyrics she used (please pay attention because these will be a few of your favorite things when you get to be her age). If you are still very young, you may enjoy it, too, by singing it to your grandmother and watching her laugh.

Maalox and nose drops and needles for knitting,
Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,
Bundles of magazines tied up in string,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Cadillacs and cataracts, and hearing aids and glasses,
Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,
Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the pipes leak, when the bones creak,
When the knees go bad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don't feel so bad.

Hot tea and crumpets and corn pads for bunions,
No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,
Bathrobes, heating pads and hot meals they bring,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Back pains, confused brains, and no need for sinnin',
Thin bones and fractures and hair that is thinnin',
And we won't mention our short, shrunken frames,
When we remember our favorite things.

Chorus:
When the joints ache,
When the hips break,
When the eyes grow dim,
Then I remember the great life I've had,
And then I don't feel so bad.

Ms. Andrews received a standing ovation from the crowd that lasted over four minutes and repeated encores.

May God, whose only Son’s birth is celebrated by the whole world on Christmas, give me grace to have the same wit and humor when I reach her age.

Merry Christmas!!

Around our traditional turkey dinner on Christmas eve: Tony, JC, Moi, and our chef JR. Not in photo are son JB, daughter-in-law Gianina, and first and only grandson Adrian who gave us a call at exactly 12 midnight on Christmas day.

For to us a Child is born, to us a Son is given; and the government shall be upon His shoulder, and His name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. (Isaiah 9:6)

Have a grace-filled, Christ-full Christmas everyone!

Ugly but Yummy

“Please buy me P500 worth of tupig,” my friend Irene e-mailed me when she heard I was going home to Pangasinan.

“That’s a whole lot of tupig!” I replied. At P2 each, that would be 250 pieces of tupig!

“Not enough of something soooo goooood,” she said.

Tupig is a delicacy in my home province. Made of ground sticky rice, strips of young coconut, unrefined brown sugar and wrapped in banana leaves, tupig is roasted on charcoal. The banana leaves naturally turn black in the process and what you get is an ugly piece of unusual goody.

As you might have guessed, I love the ugly thing. If I didn’t watch my sugar intake, I could eat a dozen in one sitting. I love it so much I made it a part of one of my children’s books.

It wasn’t a very good move. My art director had a hard time prettifying it. It was the greatest challenge to her sense of aesthetics.

I took the challenge, too, with my digicam. I arranged them on textured silk red tablecloth to make them look Christmasy—reminding me of our caroling days in the province when we gorged on them. Someone’s mom would cook them for us and they warmed our tummies while we went from house to house, on foot.

But as you can see, they’re still ugly. And still yummy.

Please don’t judge a tupig by its cover.

The Gifts I wrap

Two days ago I kept my whole day free for gift-wrapping. As I was about to wrap my gift for eldest son, JC, I happened to glimpse the first line of the book:

“The world is no friend to grace.”

That stopped me in my tracks and I got hooked. I couldn’t put down “A Long Obedience in the Same Direction” by Eugene H. Peterson.

I rationalized that wrapping gifts can wait. But reading the gifts I am about to wrap can’t. (I hope I don’t get forty lashes for this.)

JC likes Peterson’s Bible translation, “The Message.” So I decided to give him a book by the author. As I have been doing the past Christmases since I became an author myself, I give books as presents (books I have read or books I plan on reading).

But the past few months have been too hectic I haven’t been able to buy books and do enough reading. I simply read the back-cover blurbs of my chosen books and matched them with people close to me.

Peterson explains—in my gift to JC—that a person who makes a commitment to Jesus as Lord and Savior does not find a crowd applauding his decision; no friends gathering around to offer congratulations. Grace is non-news to the world. Sad.

Yet it is grace that saves man from death and brings him to eternal life.

Between chapters, I leafed through the pages of the other gifts I was about to wrap: “Hope Away from Home” by Evelyn Feliciano, “Finding God’s Will” by Zap Poonen, etc. There was no way I could read them all and wrap them all, too. So, you’re right, I have postponed gift wrapping for another day.

As of this day, I have not finished reading them all—yet—even if all I have been doing is speed read.

Meanwhile, I need to continue my marathon reading and finish all these wonderful books so I could wrap them before time runs out and it would be Christmas!

(I must remember not to dog-ear any of the pages; and to buy my own copies when the mad rush is over.)

Yay and I

Teaching university students in a transnational school is not stressful—or, in today’s language, not toxic but benign. A teacher can set her own pace for as long as the London-moderated syllabus is covered.

But it can be frustrating. That is, if you get diligent students and indolent ones all together in one room. When you excite one group, you are likely to bore the other. When you tackle a point, you can either over explain or under explain, depending on whose point of view.

Yay and I share the same frustration. We teach the same subject, Marketing, and by a stroke of luck, we’ve been saddled with the same mixture of students.

So what do we do? We take coffee and tea in a nearby café and try to iron our wrinkles brought on by our twin piques.

There’s nothing a lazy after-class hour cannot cure. This photo was taken midway down the frustration scale. The laugh lines would come another half hour later.

“I’ll drive you home,” Yay offered when it was time to go. And so we buckled up our now-happy-again original selves. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

On the main highway, however, a traffic policeman signaled us to stop. Uh-oh, what now?

“Aaaakh,” Yay, cried. My car is color coded!” (Meaning, it’s against the traffic law for her car to be on the highway that day!)

“Your driver’s license, Ma’am,” the policeman asked. He looked forbidding.

“Please, please, Sir, we’re very sorry. Please, please forgive us, we forgot all about color coding,” we pleaded in perfect harmony.

(This duet went on for, uh, approximately the length of one song on a CD.)

Finally, Yay reluctantly handed him her license. The policeman handed it back smugly and said, “Okay, I forgive you this first time. Go!”

Whew!

I couldn’t wait to tell Tony about our close shave that afternoon. “That policeman was such a kind soul. He let us go,” I said tearfully, sensitive as I am to any act of kindness.

Tony laughed out loud, “There is no color coding ordinance in Las Pinas!”

“Aaaakh,” I cried, feeling the frustration kick in all over again.

Christmas Tree: Why Bother?

“Why spend so much time on a tree? That’s not what Christmas is all about!” My friend Sonia asked. Well, she did not really say those words. Sonia is always very nice, very tactful.

But that’s how it hit me when she and I were talking about Christmas and the whole commercial hullabaloo of it.

Why, indeed. Every year, I take great effort in trimming our family Christmas tree—with a motif different from all the others before it.

I brainstorm with myself and after I have agreed with me, I implement with passion. In all this, it’s just me, I, myself, and moi.

My family, made up of a husband and three sons, don’t really have a part in this mania. Deep inside me, I think they care little (or nil) if the tree is put up at all. But once long ago they did.

When our sons were little, Tony and I would put wrapped gifts under our tree weeks before Christmas. Every chance they got, the three boys would touch those gifts and try to peek into the wrappers with much excitement. And those faces which glowed when those gifts were opened were every parent’s delight.

They’ve outgrown opening gifts (but not in giving them, because for as long as I am their mother I’d insist) and Christmas trees. They know, as I do, that trimmings do not a Christmas make.

The Bible describes that first Christmas in Luke 2:12, “. . . you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger." The birth of our Savior was a time for great celebration, but not in the manner that we celebrate it today: with grandeur, pomp and circumstance—and Christmas trees.

Why, then, do I bother putting up a tree at all?

Humor me and listen to my psychoanalysis of, or theories, on this mad behavior. It could be any, or all, of the following:

I wish to freeze in my mind those happy little boys’ faces around the tree?

As far back as I could remember, my mother would put up a Christmas tree—with exactly the same trimmings year after year. In the last Christmases, before the tree finally disintegrated from age, the faux snow (cotton) had turned beige and brown. Maybe I was wishing she’d change them because I liked my snow white?

My nature to be easily bored (I multi-task in the middle of something—like reading five different books in the same span of time; or writing five other different pieces before I could finish the first one) manifests itself also at Christmastime?

This year, we have our first grandson who is so far away we can’t dote on him. So I decided to trim the tree with teddy bears. Is it a sign of things to come—that like all other grandparents we will spoil our Adrian when his parents aren’t looking?

After 12 months of being held apart by different schedules, busyness, and business, the family is always together around the Christmas Tree on Christmas eve. Does my tree symbolize family—and togetherness?

Whatever. I had a ball trimming my tree again this year. Behold the teddy bears! My househelps of many years, Ate Vi and Jen, shared my joyful task and they giggled no end when Tony, sons JC and JR said, “Wow, nice!”

It didn’t matter that the boys said it hours after they had come home and only after I asked them, “What do you think of my Christmas tree this year?”

Earthquake Aftershock

On the fourth floor where I was conducting my International Marketing class, my students were trying to appreciate the examples of Global Advertising from my former workplace.

“There’s an earthquake,” Cinry said.

“Yes, I am swaying,” Jessica, turning ashen, added.

My heart swayed as well. I remembered the big earthquake many years ago when the whole of Baguio City, where my brother Matt and his family live, was cut off from the rest of the country. No communication lines were working. We would not receive any news—you can’t imagine how horrible it felt not knowing whether one’s close kin were alive or not—till after a few days.

I felt my body twitch, from dread. It was another strong earthquake—I thought I was standing on a hammock. I quickly sat down and tried to make light of the situation. But the noise of many feet rushing down alarmed us.

We soon hurried down with the horde while being told to assemble in the campus’ open space. We stayed there for an hour, lest there be any aftershock.

There was an aftershock alright—but of a different kind. We were not allowed to go back to the fourth floor. Instead, we were told to occupy the “hotel suite” (our university offers Hotel and Restaurant Management) since there were only six of us in the class.

The “hotel suite” is sacrosanct.

On ordinary days, nobody is allowed there. That we (all five of my students: Cinry, Jessica, Angela, Martin, Carlo, and I) were shocked by this unexpected windfall is an understatement.                                                      
And so we continued our discussion on global advertising in the comfort of a couch instead of school chairs, in a receiving area instead of a classroom, relishing a most welcome earthquake aftershock.

Boiled Bananas

These are no ordinary boiled bananas. These are every-Sunday-after-Service boiled bananas.

Boiled bananas Sunday after Sunday?

Yes, a Sunday in our small community church isn’t complete without them.

The tradition or ritual, in a manner of speaking, started many years ago. One of our church members, the Balabagno couple, bought bunches of bananas from the park where they do their daily morning exercise. They brought them to church where our caretaker boiled them.

Were they hot and steamy! They were just the kind of food one’s growling tummy was looking for at past twelve noon. Unmindful of the stinging heat of the just-boiled bananas, we wolfed them down while blowing off the steam. No one was in a hurry to go home. We had a wonderful fellowship over boiled bananas.

Every Sunday since then, for many, many years now, the Balabagnos would bring bunches of bananas—for boiling just before the Sunday Service ended so they’d be piping hot for everyone to munch on. They were great reasons to tarry awhile and chat and laugh and enjoy Sabbath.

On one Wednesday prayer meeting, the Balabagno couple was absent. We learned that they flew to the US for a seminar or other.

“Well, next Sunday we will be banana-less,” we whispered about.

We were wrong. That Sunday, there were the usual piping-hot boiled bananas. Mr. and Mrs. Balabagno left word to their children to bring bananas to church!

What a gracious God for giving us such a gracious family. He never ceases to use people to channel His blessings.

Every Sunday, after being fed with the Word, we are fed with the wonder of fellowship over boiled bananas. Burp!

(I missed this morning's boiled bananas. I was in Cebu and instead attended both Sunday Worship Services of Bread of Life and Greenhills Christian Fellowship churches before my flight back to Manila. Am now home safe, sound, and sleepy. Yawn.)

Cebu, My Kind of Town

I used to say that Chicago was my kind of town. That was in my salad days when I was a carefree mass communications/art student awed at its sights and sounds. Chicago, for me, was a combination of old-world charm and new-world pizzazz.

It was also the place where I met my husband. But that is another story.

It’s been ages since I revisited Chicago and as they say, out of sight, out of mind.

I have found a worthy replacement: Cebu. This burgeoning city, which, according to market researches, replicates Manila, has been my most frequent destination in the last six years. There I am invited for book talks, book signing, and other activities that mostly have to do with my books.

I am going again—this weekend. Starting Friday, I am scheduled for several activities and talks that end on Sunday morning. The organizers call the Friday do in their poster "A Bunch of Treats."

Despite the growing traffic problem, everything in Cebu is five minutes away. New buildings are sprouting like mushrooms. But the old buildings are kept in good condition, allowing one to enjoy the charm reminiscent of small towns.

There are nooks and crannies boasting of glorious food, nature spas offering half the prize of those in Manila, and flea markets showcasing native arts and crafts at dirt-cheap prices. Most of all, Cebu’s people are warm, extra warm, and welcoming.

Not only do I relish my weekends in Cebu, I also enjoy writing my column entitled “Big Little People” for one of its major newspapers.

With apologies to Frank Sinatra, here’s my version of his song, “My Kind of Town.” By simply changing the word Chicago to Cebu, the song speaks my heart.

This is my kind of town, Cebu is
My kind of town, Cebu is
My kind of people too
People who smile at you

And each time I roam,
Cebu is Calling me home,
Cebu is Why I just grin like a clown
Its my kind of town

My kind of town, Cebu is
My kind of town, Cebu is
My kind of razzmatazz
And it has, all that jazz

Yesterday Deadline

"When do you need this?" I'd ask, mentally calculating it would take a week to do an excellent ad campaign if my team and I singularly focused on it, abandoning all other projects.

"Yesterday."

“When is your deadliest deadline?” I'd haggle.

“Yesterday.”

This is the deadline I had been used to in the workplace. Every project was rushed as though tomorrow was erased from every time zone. Well, we were rewarded every luxury known to man—except time.

I don't want to remember the results of a "yesterday deadline." They are horrid—starting with frayed nerves, raging tempers to rising blood pressure. But mediocre work was the worst of all.

One of the great lessons I learned from this is—to work as fast as one possibly could without compromising excellence.

Now that I am out of the advertising milieu, I have carried the habit, or the discipline. I don't know whether that is good or bad. My friends (women of leisure) say I’m being too hard on myself. “We have to take things easy now that we have paid our dues.” Their words, not mine.

Habits die hard. When I am working on a book, I ask my publisher, "When do you need this?" Or when I am assigned something to write about in church or in my other concerns, I ask the same question, "When is this due?”

Outside of advertising, everything is slow, excruciatingly slow. Deadlines are flexible. They are not cast in stone. Yes, in book writing, publication deadlines can be moved at any time. They can be re-scheduled—for another quarter or two, another year or two. There are no media cut-off dates, no clients to please, no time and motion studies, no brand to build.

Which is probably why I love blogging. I pressure myself: i.e., 100th post on first anniversary; two blogs a week, and so forth.

Why am I so concerned about deadlines?

I am glad to meet someone in the scriptures who was so keen on an urgent deadline: the second coming of Jesus. The man: Paul. He tried to spread the gospel all his waking hours, with unrelenting passion, because Jesus would be coming very, very soon. That was 2,000 years ago.

But what a deadline to ponder!

Now, if I could only replicate a teeny bit of Paul's attitude and look at deadlines his way.

If I followed the urgency of Paul's cut-off date, I should, and must write, as much as I could to let people know about His grace, in the short time I have left between now and my “going home,” or, till He comes again—whichever comes first.

The Mosquito That Won't Go Away

The “pesky little mosquito” that first appeared before my right eye six months ago—and which scared me to death because if I lost my eyesight I won’t be able to do the things I love most doing: reading and writing and painting and beading and solving crosswords and oh, so many things!—is still there.       

My ophthalmologist said floaters stay on for a long time, although she couldn’t specify the exact length. The prescription eye-drops she gave me is not working. Well, she did say that no medication has yet been invented to make them go away instantly. But, she was reassuring, it’s nothing to be worried about. "You will not die."

“Is it a part of aging?” I had to ask what she was too polite to verbalize loud enough for me to hear. She turned mute.

If I paid the tiny black thing a lot of attention, though, it hovers still.

But it doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. In fact, it doesn’t bother me at all anymore. There are days when I don’t even know it’s there.

I guess, like everything in life, it’s all a matter of mindset—of getting used to anything. If you don’t think of something as bothersome, it won’t bother you.

Our Pastor said something about this in our latest Bible lesson. If you entertain bad thoughts, they become words. Words become actions. Actions become habits. Habits become character.

“Pesky little mosquito?” Why am I even writing about it?

Has It Been a Year?!

My old header comes down:

My new header goes up—to mark the beginning of another year: 

Today I complete 365 days of blogging with this 100th post. It’s been 12 months of adventure—laughter and anguish, triumphs and losses, anger and forgiveness. The year has been about discovery; and reflecting on it.

And stripping, my friend Aleks may add.

It didn’t start out that way. All I ever needed was a journal on which I could monitor my written works and write down nagging thoughts on my current work or initial thoughts for future ones.

I have a small, nondescript notebook which I carry around. But reading my jottings has become exhausting. I could hardly read my own squiggles—more due to impatience rather than failing eyesight or poor handwriting. On a small notebook, I see how often I changed my mind or altered my thoughts through confusing arrows, erasures, exes, and crosses.

But on a blog? Once you’re on-line, things happen. You travel to far away places in blogosphere and come back in seconds, at will—deleting, rewriting, revising, editing, adding, re-thinking, and all the many quirky little things you can do on the computer, in minutes.

What charms me most about blogging is that, unlike writing a book where I am totally immersed and consumed 24/7, writing a post allows me to come and go—with all the freedom to go from mundane to profound; to write one paragraph or ten, 50 words or 5,000, in between trips to the bathroom or the mall or to Adboard meetings or to my speaking engagements and book signing, or to the university where I teach.

I thank the two young men who pushed me into blogging, first son JC and third son JR, who, I doubt, have sustained the interest to read beyond my earliest post. Little do they know that their mother has taken off to many cyber trips and entertained thousands of friends on home base right under their noses.

My numbers are modest, but for someone who became a proud grandma while blogging, they are more like googols: close to 12,000 hits, more than a thousand profile views, and almost two thousand reviews, comments, and emails from guests representing 71 countries.

Each of those is a story of grace.

Let me quote one: “I feel privileged to have discovered your remarkable blog. I enjoyed your great writing, deep and fresh insights, your flower photos, and blogs about the Philippines. Great colors and fantastic design! What I can relate most to is your belief in God's amazing grace!”

Indeed, it’s been a year of God’s amazing grace. In thanksgiving, won’t you sing with me?

Amazing Grace
(by John Newton)

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found
Was blind, but now I see.

‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believed!

Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
‘Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.