Mamma Mia!

Nobody could have predicted that Abba’s timeless songs would create a phenomenon years after their heyday. When Mamma Mia! (based on Abba’s tunes) premiered at the West End on April 6, 1999, it became the biggest smash hit musical in almost 20 years!

And wonder of wonders, I happen to have a CD of the original cast recording.

I  plead guilty to one vice—collecting original cast recording of stage musicals (either Broadway or the West End, depending where the musical was first staged). To date, I have close to 300 CD’s, a lot of which are gifts from Minna, my best cousin who lives in New York. I think it’s apt to call her now Minna Mia!

When Minna Mia! learned of my collection years ago, she’d send me the latest musicals through friends who’d fly in to the Philippines. Over the years she’s also been sending via balikbayan (back-to-the-country) boxes or cart them herself.

So five years after its premier, Mamma Mia! became the world’s no. 1 musical show, with more productions playing simultaneously worldwide than any other.

And now Mamma Mia! the movie. The musical arrangement is so much more spirited, more vibrant, more unpredictable than my CD’s. The storytelling and musical numbers are fast-paced, like an MTV, lighthearted and oftentimes deliciously silly. The movie doesn’t take itself seriously and neither do the excellent cast. Meryl Streep, Pierce Brosnan and the rest amuse, tickle, and cheer. The movement is fluid, constant and bursting with energy.

Abba’s music! It’s perfect on a fantasy Greek Island, where the movie takes place.

Unfortunately, there was only one other couple (aside from Tony and me) in the movie house at the last full show. Humanity missed half of its life; but two couples had the whole theater all to themselves to sing and dance in their seats. It was a raucous night.

Mental note: I should buy the movie soundtrack recording. 

Then surprise, surprise, my friend Lucy from Palm Springs, California (Lucy Mia!) hears my thoughts and sends me the soundtrack.

Grace, grace, it’s everywhere.

How to Wear Your Sunglasses

1) Hold them firmly with both hands.

2) Put them up on your mouth and pause a little.

3) Try hard to get them past your upper lip.

4) Make them settle on your nose as they cover both your eyes.
 5) Voila! Smile for a job well done.

It’s been three months since Adrian’s two-week visit to the Philippines. I am surprised at how many more teeth he has and how his motor functions have developed. He's all of 14 months.

Poring over his photos—and sharing them with cyber friends—is the next best thing to watching him grow up in person.

Adrian’s photos are not only posted on Leaves of Grace, they are stored in the hard disk of his grandma’s grateful heart.

Five Unsolved Puzzles

Mornings are always a puzzle, five puzzles! I get to solve five crosswords in a row—after finishing my 7,000-step walk and before breakfast. I do this from one half to one hour in our veranda while the rising sun rouses the neighborhood.

Every weekday, Tony brings home from his office five dailies (The Phil. Star, Phil. Daily Inquirer, Business world, The Manila Bulletin, and The Manila Times). They all have a crossword puzzle. He attempts to solve all of them between his meetings and work. But that’s about it—he attempts. He has yet to finish one.

The leftover blank boxes—which are many, on good days—are mine. The wrong entries—which are also many and which take some brain twisting to undo—are also mine. Although I find much pleasure in filling up the blank squares, I find much more joy in undoing the wrong answers. More challenging!

What a mundane activity, you might say. Well, as I have experienced, it matters not how mundane or how spectacular an activity is. What counts really is the amount or quality of fun you get from it.

Reflecting upon God’s grace on this blog and my books, the most mundane tasks are often those that allow me to feel the vastness of joy.

I am grateful that I have not turned callous and cynical in my olden years.

On the contrary, I have become less of a perfectionist and now delight in the mundane—such as five unfinished crossword puzzles at sunrise!

Birthday Blessings

Through loved ones, family, friends, friends, and friends in all of 366 (2008 is a leap year) days since my last birthday, grace had been at work.

Now, what about the next 365 days? Hey, let’s take it one day at a time. I look forward to growing in years and in faith, and discovering more ways of investing the rest of my days in writing about life's chiaroscuro.

Today, I thank my friends for their email and text greetings. I also thank Tony, JC, JB, Gianina, Adrian, and JR for these surprises:                           
          
A chatty dinner at Circles, Makati Shangri-la. The boys thought Chinatown food is infinitely yummier. Well, they could say anything they wanted, I was determined to enjoy every morsel.

Appetizer or main course? For me, nothing beats juicy, fresh oysters anytime of day. We used to have them almost every day, fresh from the sea, in the town where I was born (Agoo, la Union) for free. Tonight, the boys just had to pay for them through their teeth.                                                 

Lamb chops with mint jelly, main course or appetizer? In the town where I grew up (Umingan, Pangasinan), we had goat meat, cooked in five different ways. We had boggoong (fish sauce) instead of mint jelly.

Dessert? The raspberry jelly is sugar free; the rest, well, I allow myself some guilty pleasures one day a year, the 20th of this month. The photo does not include a tall glass of halo-halo (mixed native sweets with crushed ice). We had no chocolate fountains in those days but we sure had the best halo-halo under the big tamarind tree in the wet market.

I have been around so long, times and foods have changed!

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with Whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.” James 1:17

My Messy Bed

This mess is heaped upon my bed once a year, at least. Those multi-colored thingies are clear books—you know, folders containing plastic pockets where you can file photos and documents.

No table at home is big enough to carry this mess. So I lock up myself in the bedroom all day—taking a short lunch break—and organize my writing life in these bright memory filers.

There have been heaps of photos, documents, and press clippings since I started writing. In the beginning I simply threw them inside a cabinet.

A year later, however, I met a lady who wanted me to write about her sterling career that had ended. I hesitated. But when she showed me her color-coded, chronologically-filed photographs and documents—wow, a writer’s dream! The complete collection was so impressive I said “yes” to doing the project.

While writing her book, I saw why she documented everything. This career had her heart and soul.

That spurred me to dig up my own writing mementos and started storing them in these folders. Nothing fancy about my filing—no artsy labels or witty captions. I simply arrange them chronologically, scribble the dates, and put the items in the pockets. For easier filing, I have color-coded these folders: one color for each book.

When I am gone, these will interest no one. My boys will not throw them away (in deference to their mother); they will enshrine them in some space where dust will gather.

Well, I am not doing these for them. I have done enough—kept for each one in albums his photographs from the day of birth to college graduation.

I am doing these for me. While I arrange and review this colorful mess, my heart leaps at how grace has steered me towards a writing career—one that gives me so much enthusiasm and energy I never thought I could ever have.

Work of Special Hands

Eleven Million people were murdered in the Holocaust, that’s what history tells us. To this day, I can’t imagine how such a genocide could have happened in such a manner. The murdered people came from different parts of society—one of which was the disabled.

My sister Aie brought me home from Germany—where she attended a three-week conference—a special pasalubong (arrival gift). It’s a cell phone case.

What is so special about it? It looks like a fabric pouch anybody can make.

Well, it was not made just by anybody. It was made by special hands—hands of people with Down Syndrome. They (and other disabled people), Aie said, are very important in Germany and are part of mainstream society. The government takes care of them so they could be as productive as any citizen. They are nurtured, schooled, trained, and employed!

Knowing I am writing a book on people with disability (PWD), Aie bought my cell phone case from a place called Werraland, where all the workers have Down Syndrome. Those she got to talk to were conversant, adept at, and mighty proud of what they do.

Germany today has many factories or plants that employ only PWD. These shops are suppliers to big companies. Yes, workplaces for PWD are institutionalized. And the working conditions are tailor-fitted to their needs. However you want to call it—reparation, atonement, guilt-trip, or apology for what was done during the Nazi regime—it is something other countries, ours included, need to emulate soon.

I will keep this treasure within touching distance as grace enables me to continue writing about the PWD, their needs and their right to the same quality of life able-bodied/normal people enjoy.

When I Am an Old Woman

I Shall Wear Purple 

This yellowing, tattered book sat in a small second-hand bookshop in Bohol, where I was conducting a creative writing workshop, as though whispering in my ear, “Buy me, I am yours.”

Ok, it’s mine now.

It reminds me of my mother. Through my eyes as a child, she was always old; and she often wore purple. When she passed on, we knew what she’d have wanted to wear for the last time—a purple chiffon dress with a matching scarf to cover the goiter that came with her twilight years.

But reading the poem, which is the title of this book by Jenny Joseph, I now know it also speaks of me:

When I Am an Old Woman
When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple,
With a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me . . .

Happy colors I’ve always loved on today’s clothes and accessories. Unlike some people who choose an era and stay there, I like being in the current era. That’s why, today, when friends see clothes, bags, shoes, and blings in malls, they say, “That’s very Grace.”

When I was younger, nobody really cared about how I dressed. But as I age, I hear words like “Bizarre” “Flamboyant” “Loud” and “Ano ba yaaaan!” (Translation: What on earth are you wearing? Are you mad? Act your age!) They exaggerate.

I guess people have boxes in their minds about clothes: people of different ages should dress differently. And purple is not for aging women.

Well, it is for Jenny Joseph. And it is for me. I shall wear purple and all the colors of the rainbow (plus gold and silver) here, there, and everywhere. (Now you know why this site has such audacious colors.)

Call it defiance, as what this book seems all about, but I call it . . . the way I am (?) or maybe, aging with grace.

Any problem with that?

My July 4

The crossword puzzle in one of the dailies today had this clue: Today. It called for 15 letters. A tough one.

I moved to another clue somewhere in the middle: Honoree today. It needed another 15 letters. It got tougher.

And the last clue for the same number of letters at the bottom of the puzzle: Colors of today.

I finally got it. Red white and blue!

Today of course is Independence Day. And the honoree today is? You guessed right, United States of America.

I could have easily guessed it myself. On July 4, (Philippine-American Friendship Day in our country), Tony and I commemorate our wedding anniversary. But then again, it wouldn't have dawned on us early enough. Hadn’t our son JC greeted us at the breakfast table, Tony and I would have had to wait for more clues to remember.

Someone would remind us during the day, that’s for sure. Our pastor sent me his greetings one hour later through a text message, which I forwarded to Tony. From son JB, wife Gianina and grandson Adrian, we got gift certificates later in the afternoon for dinner at the Makati Shangri-la.

People remember, friends and loved ones remember. Now, why do Tony and I forget?

I guess that after years of marriage, which saw us through many tragedies—deaths of both our parents, our son Adrian, his only sister and only brother, loved ones, and close friends; sicknesses—not to count Tony’s bout with colon cancer which would have cut short his life fourteen years ago, and again a heart quadruple bypass four years later, my three surgeries, and many, many more crises, every day is a celebration.

Every morning when I open my eyes, I am thankful for another day of grace. Among our manifold blessings are three sons who grew up (despite their mother's motherly ineptness) to be fine young men who love God, in a richly textured life filled with life lessons that I write in books and blogs.

We don’t and can't wait a year to celebrate—a new day is always the best time for thanksgiving. And July 4 (without meaning to diminish its significance) is one of God’s grace works, as important as yesterday, and all the 365 days of the year.

So Long, Sonia . . .

Sonia was my sister in everything but blood and genes. She lived a life that taught me many things about growing in faith.

I will allow myself to grieve. But, as Sonia used to say, “In adversity, always be on the lookout for grace. Grace makes everything that seems unbearable bearable.”

May we—the friends she left behind—continue to be faithful.

Unfair Comparison

Our president, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, is now in the US for a working visit, with an entourage of over 50 politicians and high-ranking government officials. Barely had she warmed her seat in that part of the globe when typhoon Frank battered and unleashed his fury on our helpless country.

One of the worst maritime tragedies happened with over 700 people perishing on a sunken ship engulfed by the tumultuous tides caused by the typhoon (as the search at sea continues, more bodies are found floating every day). Almost three million people have been rendered homeless and displaced by floods and winds. Newspapers place the damage at close to P6 billion pesos.

These are troubled times.

Many journalists have commented that Pres. Arroyo is like Emperor Nero. She played the fiddle while "Rome" was burning.

It seems an unfair comparison.

For one thing, fiddle wasn’t invented till the 15th century. For another, Nero hurried back to Rome from his seaside holiday home when the fire broke out. It is documented; he took charge of the firefighting efforts.

Our country is burning with troubles, yet if we are to believe reports, our president is in no hurry to come home till after the Manny Pacquiao/David Diaz boxing bout on the 29th of June.

Well, whatever.

We are assured in the Scriptures that during troubled times, grace comes rushing to bail us out.

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling.” Psalm 46:1-3

No and Nothing

My doctor was more than one hour late. In the clinic’s receiving room, I sat with other patients waiting for their doctors as well. Two yayas (baby sitters) had each a kid about four to five years old who didn't know each other, but had started playing with what seemed like bugs.

Kid 1 (to kid 2): My father works very hard. He helps my mother with all her work at home. How about your dad, does he work?

Kid 2: No.

Kid 1: Your dad doesn’t work?!

Kid 2: No.

Kid 1: Is he looking for work?

Kid 2: No.

Kid 1: What does he do?

Kid 2: Nothing.

A man, dressed in coat and tie and carrying a leather brief case, arrives and hugs kid 2.

Man: Hi, son!

Kid 2: Hi, dad!

Man: Have you seen your doctor?

Kid 2: No.

Man: What have you been doing?

Kid 2: Nothing.

Man: (Sees me gawking; smiles.) My son has two favorite words these days—“no” and “nothing.”

Me: Oh, those are my favorite words today, too.

Earlier, I had in mind to leave and never come back. But no, I didn't. I was sent, just in time, grace to be patient. So what have I been doing while waiting? Nothing.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I got to enjoy listening to two kids talk about “no” and “nothing.”

Loooooooooooong!

I first saw this awesome bridge when I was watching Mr. Bean.

I wondered if it were real or if it were just the handiwork of computer graphics artists. I was suddenly interested in it more than I was in what was happening to Mr. Bean.

Viaduc de Millau is extraordinarily looooooooong and tall! It is is indeed an engineering marvel, currently the longest cable-stayed bridge in the world at 2,460 meters long!

Also tallest in the world and taller than the Eiffel Tower, Viaduc de Millau is slung across the valley of the river Tarn in Southern France. Designed by the structural engineer Michel Virlogeux and British architect Norman Foster, this viaduct certainly shortens a journey and decongests traffic—the two reasons why it was built.

The photo of this human feat becomes even more awesome as I look above and below it. Beneath and beyond the bridge is the wonder of God’s creation—the firmament where billions of stars hover about and the land where billions of living things abound.

Colossal monuments made by human hands such as this bridge, the pyramids of Giza, the great wall of China, and many more, are but a teeny-weeny facet of the greatness of the One who made us. The magnificence and majesty, grandeur and glory, splendor and spectacle of God’s creation is loooooonger than anything we have ever seen, or could imagine.

And the wonder of wonders is expressed in Psalm 8:4 and Hebrews 2:6: “What is man that You are mindful of him, and the son of man that You care for him?”

The answer can be expressed in many wonderful words. One of them is: grace.

What Goes on in Faculty Meetings?

As a student, I had often wondered whether my teachers talked about me in faculty meetings.

Now as a teacher I know they actually did! Faculty meetings are all about students.

Teaching is serious business. I can never be a Plato to an Aristotle, who journeyed together as teacher/student for 20 years, but I see these men as my benchmarks.

Teachers have a roomful of Aristotles, malleable minds which need extra caring so they can take on different shapes, according to their individual calling. I am not talking about treating students with kid gloves, I speak of a teacher’s commitment to teach which, in my case, begs for daily grace.

And this is what I see as the purpose of such meetings. Our first agendum at the first faculty meet this school year was the mentoring program, which is what charms me, among others, about the university where I teach.

It was my misfortune not to have gone through a formal mentoring program in the schools I attended here and abroad. I would have had less academic and corporate mishaps, which I charged to experience in the absence of a mentor’s wisdom. This unique program is a venue for mentors and mentees to learn from each other and jointly raise the bar.

Other parts of the agenda usually include improving systems, discipline, teaching methodologies, standards of affiliate schools abroad, activities—all focused on the student, with the university vision/mission as guidepost.

Being serious, however, doesn’t mean the absence of fun. Teachers are, fortunately, humans too (perpetual students and children at heart) so we exchange stale jokes and laugh as though we’re hearing them for the first time.

While every teacher has her own teaching style (mine's very interactive), we are of one resolve: To equip each student with the ammo to take on the real world as he leaves the university.

A faculty meeting, in a nutshell, affirms our interdependence on one another.

It also validates a teacher’s independence in bringing his unique career-and-life blessings for the students to learn from—so student and teacher can journey together as Plato and Aristotle did, albeit in fewer years, and a lot of help from the internet!

Happy Endings

I write a regular column tagged Happy Endings for Moms and Kids Magazine. Let me share with you the first one. Since the fonts are too small to read, I am posting it in full.

TEN THOUSAND STEPS AND COUNTING

I believe in happy endings.

This belief teeters on two sides of the spectrum.

On one end, by faith I believe that life does not end in earthly death.

On the other, by budget I refuse to pay good money to watch a movie that ends with the protagonist vanished or vanquished.

Friends laugh at the second one and call me an incurable romantic, or worse, a veritable escapist.

Okay.

ooo 

As I was scrounging around for a title for this column, I remembered the series of seven novels by Jan Karon, one of my favorite contemporary authors. In the small town of Mitford, where the stories take place, is a quaint bookstore called Happy Endings. I’d frequent that bookstore if I could and name mine the same—if I owned one.

ooo

Moms on one hand and Kids on the other—they belong to both sides of the spectrum. One couldn’t live without the other.

In arts and literature, mothers are the most glorified creatures that walk the earth. Much has been said about a mother’s love being closest to God’s love.

George Washington, the first president of the USA said, "My mother was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. All I am I owe to my mother. I attribute all my success in life to the moral, intellectual and physical education I received from her."

ooo

This creation called mom, although immortalized in reams of poetry and essays as a miracle worker, needs caring—maybe not as much as her kids do—but caring nevertheless.

To stay fit and healthy for her multi-textured tasks, she needs exercise. She may spin like a top and hop about all day, but exercise is a regimen she ought to find time for. My doctor’s words, not mine.

ooo

When I settled into the sedentary life of an author, after a long stint in the business world, my weight went through the roof. I started feeling all symptoms of every dread disease. My doctor prescribed one word: exercise.

“Walk briskly for one hour every day,” he said.

“For how long?” I asked, dreading routine.

“It’s all up to you,” he shrugged. Meaning, I should not quit till the excess weight is gone for good.

ooo

That first day—at five AM—was dreadful, boring. I considered running back home to do other things after the first five minutes. But a believer of happy endings, I took more steps. Within the hour, I discovered the magnificence of solitude. I inked this moment in my book “Gifts of Grace” (volume 1). “… I could hear nothing but my footsteps. In the silence, I sang an old hymn, ‘Count your blessings name them one by one. Count your blessings, know what the Lord has done.’”

Six months later, I was back to my ideal weight, and in all of seven years that I’ve been walking, I am still counting my blessings—with my occasional blood tests showing normal results.

ooo

Regular physical exercise, my doctor patiently explained, is an activity that develops or maintains physical fitness and overall health. Everyone should practice it to strengthen muscles and to keep the heart pumping regularly.

Exercise also boosts your immune system and improves mental health. It increases the blood and oxygen flow to your brain, making you more alert and sensitive.

ooo 

I half listened to his treatise but stood in rapt attention when he said, “If you don’t exercise, I will put you on a low-salt, low-fat, low-carb, low-sugar diet.” Now, that would be killing me softly.

I’ve since discovered that there are many conflicting views on the kind of exercise one should have—aerobic, anaerobic, strength training, agility training, and a few more.

But I am focused; I walk. Although we have a small gym at home, which my husband and sons use regularly, I don’t go there, except to wipe the dust off the doodads.

ooo 

My second son, an internist, insists I need not walk everyday (on rainy days I carry an umbrella) for as long as I make 10,000 steps a day. What does he know? My husband gave me a pedometer for Christmas so I could tie it around my neck while it counts my steps, proving that I make 10,000 steps a day even without my dawn regimen.

I wake up at five AM and walk.

ooo 

Beginning to exercise is the most difficult part. Past that stage, it’s a piece of cake (reward yourself with a real one, not the no-sugar variety), easy as pie (choose peach, topped with cheese), and a walk in the park (literally).

You’ll see, it will all end happily ever after.

The Bird That Wouldn't Fly

This poem by Edgar Allan Poe came to mind when Ate Vi showed us the yellow bird over our chamber door (well, back door actually):

While I nodded, nearly napping,
suddenly there came a tapping,As of someone gently rapping,
rapping at my chamber door.

The bird isn’t a raven, though. It’s a lovebird (scientific name, Agapornis).

We shooed it away so it could freely fly but it wouldn’t move. We had to put it in a cage (empty since I wrote a book on flighted pets) so we could feed it properly. Though we kept the cage door open, it seemed to chirp, “No, I am staying.”

Tony drove to the nearest pet shop and bought some seeds. Our collective worry was that it might die of loneliness without a partner (a myth, I just found out!). But three weeks passed by and it was as alive as ever. Tony didn’t believe in myths so he drove to the pet shop again and bought it a spouse.

With a pair of lovebirds in our hands, we are kept busy feeding and playing with them. They must like the cage so much they are still there, two months now. Now I can’t boast of having flighted pets.

Lovebirds are escape artists but these two are made from a different stock. They are happy where they are. And we are too.

Every morning as they chirp, they remind me of all the beautiful birds up the sky made especially for us by the generous Giver of grace.

The King and I

Each time I see JC or a skinhead on TV, I am reminded of the Broadway musicale: “The King and I.”
 This dates me, I know. But there seems to be a mistaken notion among the young that being bald is a new thing. It isn’t.

Like his mother, JC has experimented with so many styles of haircut. Once upon a time he was very adventurous with his hair. But one day, he decided to go bald—and stuck with it.

If you think being bald is simple and hassle-free, think again. JC had to trek to the barber shop at least once a week and ran up a hefty tab every month.

I guess JC finally found wisdom in buying himself an electric shaver. He talked his dad into the task and today, week after week, father and son spend about half an hour in the terrace for this ritual.

In case you’ve read Robert Fulghum’s “Rituals of our Lives,” you’ll know that this simple shaving story has become one of my family’s own rituals.

It is both a “ceremony and a celebration” of grace.

The Queen and I

I have something in common with the Queen of England. I have not changed my hairdo—not in eight years.

She has not changed hers far longer than that—not since February 1952, when she ascended the throne.

That’s the downside of being The Queen. If you experiment with various hairdos, all stamps, coins, bank notes, and other country insignia will not look like you. The Queen's person is inviolable, like a logo. You can’t take liberties with it.

My reasons for not changing mine are different. They range from sloth to impatience which, I suspect, come with age.

This seems absurd from someone who used to change hairdos at a drop of a hat. Yup, I’ve tried ‘em all (bob, afro, page boy, pony tail, braids, bun, China doll, frizz, bouffant, etc.).

My one-hairdo life began when I found a hairdresser who talked me into the hairdo I wear today. It coincided with my decision to pursue writing full-time. My children said “You look like a boy,” but I believed my persuasive hairdresser so much that for two years he cut my hair exactly the same way till he upped and ran for other pursuits.

I headed to another beauty parlor where the hairdresser asked how I wanted my hair done. (My last hairdresser didn’t ask, he told!)

I couldn’t summon the energy to suggest a new look. I said, “Same!” and dozed off. Somehow “same” has not been the same. But only I know that.

When I meet friends I haven’t seen for sometime, they exclaim, “You have not changed!”

See, it makes for a simpler life.

I can concentrate on the two things I’d rather be doing—writing by grace and writing about grace (blogging falls under this category), and teaching once or twice a week to spice up the writing.

Proud Grads

In the Philippines, when the youngest child graduates from college, the parents also graduate.

Unlike other cultures, ours sees every child through all stages of school—until college. Or in our case, post-graduate school. Children are not expected to leave home at age 18; they stay till they’re married. (And in some families, they stay forever.)

Youngest son JR recently graduated from Law School with a degree called Juris Doctor.

It was a time for rejoicing. The joyous occasion was made even more special by the presence of middle son JB who was in the country for a vacation. JB took the chance to be with the whole family to watch baby brother receive his hood and diploma.

The event, held at the Meralco Theatre, was celebratory. There were confetti of tears from choked-up mothers, and flashes of bulbs that could light up a whole town from proud fathers.

Since it was also the graduation day of many other schools, restaurants were filled to the rafters at dinnertime. We chose the glass-encased Chateau 1771 at Greenbelt 5, where Gianina and baby Adrian joined us. Adrian unfortunately was asleep in his pram all throughout the long, chatty dinner and was not within camera range.

It was an enchanting culmination of eight grueling years for JR who (my eyes are welling as I write this), despite the pressure of schoolwork, still managed to be active in his church ministries: every summer, mission work in far-flung places; and every Sunday, Sunday School in our village church as teacher to tweens.

JR will have a fit if he found out his mom has been tattling on him. Well, it’s my graduation too!

He is 0.0003% short of making it to the honors roll; I am 3000.0% short to the honors mom (should they decide to award such a wonderful thing).

And it is my opportunity to praise the Source of grace who made all these things possible in all of JR’s university years. To Him be all the glory.

Nasty Or Nice

Two contrasting masks—sad and happy, tragedy and comedy—represent the theatre.

 

I’ll borrow them for now to show the contrasting reactions of people to those who are nasty and to those who are nice.

Since I joined a cyber group that reviews member-sites, my own has been reviewed almost 300 times. These reviews have been very uplifting and immensely helpful.

I thought all reviews were as positive as these because I have made it my personal policy to review only the sites I like. If I don’t fancy a site, I quickly exit and promise myself never to go back again.

But I happened to visit some members’ sites and was appalled at some of the nasty reviews posted there. Discouraged and downhearted, some of them lamented, “Why can’t people be more encouraging?”

My feeling is, if I don’t agree with a site’s beliefs, I have no right to impose my own. All my opinions are freely written in my own site anyway—whether visitors like it or not.

That, for me, is the essence of blogging. I think of a personal site as a home in a community, the blogosphere. It is the blogger’s home. He can decorate it any way he pleases. He can put anything in it—art or junk. He can turn it into a pig sty or a sanctuary. I’ve decided to make mine the latter. It is a place where grace is discovered, received—and shared.

Putting it simply, every blogging day, a blogger—like a citizen of a country—has two choices. Be nasty, or be nice. Here’s what some of my friends say about that:

“Why waste energy on being nasty when it is so much easier to be nice?”

Or, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t.”

That’s nice.

The Gift of Second Motherhood

“Second Motherhood as Book Author” was how Carina Roncesvalles, writer/journalist of Philippine Star, defined what I am today. It was very kind of her to write about me in the newspaper’s Mother’s Day issue.

I am honored . . . and humbled.

Motherhood is such a noble role that to become one is a privilege of the highest order. Mothers are celebrated the world over on Mother’s Day. And on any ordinary day, we are probably the most lionized group of human beings this earth has ever seen.

To be a mother twice in a lifetime, now that’s what I call . . . double grace.

“Second careers have been heard of. But motherhood can take a second turn, too,” was how Carina began the feature story.

“When her army of three young men graduated from her cudgels, motherhood for Grace took a second challenge as she writes children’s books.

“In writing books for children, Grace presents her learning as a mother when her kids were growing up. She has become a second mom to the kids who reads her stories.”

Despite being a flawed part-time mom when my children were growing up, I had not realized how this role could be given twice in a lifetime. Indeed we have a God of second chances! For this second act, the Lord has gifted me with all the time I need in a day and as many children as my books can reach.

I’d like to thank Carina for making me see myself in this new light.

The article has a photo of my family in my “first” motherhood; and a photo of my “second” motherhood with some of my “children.” Here are the two photos in bigger size. They look like nits in the article reduced many times over to fit this post.

I am keeping a copy of the clipping (actual size: 1/3 of a newspaper page) because it will remind me that on Mother’s Day 2008, I was made aware of the grace of motherhood granted me twice.

My Stress Buster

For the past three days, I have been shuttling (literally running) between my computer and the TV set. I’d type in a paragraph during commercial break. And last night, being Sunday, I totally abandoned my computer. I just sat before the TV set for hours and hours, from late afternoon to way past my bedtime.

Now I know how it feels to be a couch potato.

What kept me glued on TV? American Idol Marathon. World Star channel ignored its regular programming and had been showing nothing but American Idol episodes one after the other, with very minimal ads.

American Idol has been the only show I watch consistently, except on those days when I am not at home. This has been solved by the marathon. Now I have seen every single show of season seven. Now, what to do with strained muscles and eyes . . .

For me, AI is unadulterated fun and entertainment, a family show at its best—delighting people in all life stages. It doesn’t take brain surgery to enjoy it. It’s full of laughter and good-natured bantering. And it’s all about music. It’s a perfect stress buster.

Three days from now, all this will end at the finals—to resume again next year. My TV viewing will go back to what it has always been—sporadic. Which isn’t a bad thing, really. Now that I am out of advertising, I don’t need to watch ads anymore, nor am I compelled to be updated on the shows which fit which ads.

Meanwhile, who will win in the battle David vs. David? I think David Cook should win. But David Archuleta will.

It doesn’t really matter. The show’s been my gift of grace—sent by a creative God through the boob tube so I may receive it on certain days to relieve the incessant stress brought on by a world getting wearier every day.

The Grandest Grin

We are told that our mind’s hard drive can store all the memories of our lives. Trouble is, we can’t retrieve them all, no matter how hard we try.

But the memories of our “firsts” can leap out of our subconscious at will. They’re bookmarked as our favorites, easily and quickly accessible. Here’s a short list—first airplane ride, first love, first cell phone, first award, first paycheck. I know your imagination is now on overdrive just thinking of all your other “firsts.”

I remember my first published book . . .

The Lord gifted me with the grandest grin and I allowed nothing and no one to diminish nor take it away. That stayed on my face for days, or maybe weeks. And it comes back when I hear of a new published author:

This time, it's my friend and colleague, Yay.

Her book “Sorry to Burst Your Bubble (Life Leadership Lessons from the Greatest Dreamer)” will be launched on Friday, May 16 at Power Books, Greenbelt, 5 PM. Published by New Day, it is an inspirational book for young adults/yuppies.

 Yay and I teach in the same university so we encounter young people often. We both feel their struggles and dilemmas. But it is Yay (she heads the school’s mentoring program) who decided to play a continuing role in their lives: be their mentor in a book that may help them make crucial decisions through crossroads and dead ends.

She has been typecast for this role. She speaks their language.

“Sorry to Burst Your Bubble” is anchored on the Word (the life of Joseph), and written in a bubbly and vibrant style, almost staccato, tailor-made for the target readers.

Yay gave me a signed copy fresh from the press over cappuccino this week!

I read it again when I got home. I say again because she made me read her first draft. I was convinced that the book could help young people who may not have a map in looking for directions. (True enough, Yay has been invited to conduct a series of seminars on this book before it even went to press.)

To Yay, may God’s grace continue to shine upon you as you celebrate this first book! There will be many others, but the “first” will always give you the grandest grin.

Two Hands-off Moms

Although I have always believed that mothers should not be honored only today, Mother’s Day, I would like to pay tribute to two great moms whom we sorely miss.

At first blush, they were poles apart. Mama Chit (my mom) loved to talk and Amah Alice (Tony’s mom) loved to listen.

Mama was pure Ilocana and Amah was pure Chinese. It was a big, wild wonder how they got along so well together, and held each other with affection and respect.

Mama lived in the province and Amah lived close to us in Las Pinas. So they never really saw each other often. But during the times my mom would visit my family, she would walk over to Amah’s house, every afternoon, and they would have a one-way chat.

But peering closely, one would see that they were very similar in the things that really mattered.

They both left my husband and me alone, respecting our decisions and never blaming us for our mistakes. They gave "hands-off" a new, wonderful dimension. Although they were always supportive of our plans and were there when we asked for help, they never imposed any rule; never obligated us to do anything we hadn’t planned on doing.

Mama had one strong advice for me though: “You may pick a fight with me, but never, ever with your mother-in-law!” This I heeded to the letter.

I suspect—and I have every reason to believe—that Amah had the same advice for Tony.

Two great moms, two great mothers-in-law. Now that they are both ‘beyond the sunset’ or on the other side of the pearly gates, I am sure they are conversing. Rather, one is talking and the other, listening.

Is there any other way to describe how they were to us but acts of grace?

Where is Adrian?

On baby Adrian’s last day with us (eighth day), I took tons of photographs.

Since I am behind the camera, there is hardly any shot of me. But these photos bare all of our (Tony’s, JC’s, JR’s and mine) hearts—including Ate Vi's and Jen's (our doting househelps) and Sam, Tony’s driver.

The whole neighborhood asked this same question when I resumed my daily dawn walks after Adrian and his parents had left, “Where is Adrian?”

According to his mom’s text message, “We are back in Michigan. Adrian slept most of the way.”

Adrian is once again far, far away; but he has never left our hearts.

 "Love me tender, love me sweet," croons Elvis' twin.
 One last squeeze from Ate Vi and Jen while Elvis' twin looks on . . .
 Thanks for the visit, Adrian.

Four Men and a Baby

In jest (and in dreams), I call our family the Chong Dynasty. It used to consist of one man and three boys who became men in a blink of an eye; and now, in a blink of another eye, there is a new baby boy.
 

I have been blogging in my head but couldn't find the time to type and upload them, because we’ve been trying to cram so many activities in eight days—the only time in four years that the dynasty is complete, and with a new, tiny addition who can wrap every grown-up around his little finger.

You’ll be surprised at what you can do and enjoy in eight days:

A whole day drive to Laguna higlighted by a visit to the underground cemetery beneath a chapel in Nagcarlan (the meeting place of the early Filipino revolutionaries in the 1800's), an overnight stay in Canyon Woods, Tagaytay with stop-overs for lunch and coffee.

Every second is an adventure—including packing and unpacking. Taking down and putting up a play pen, a pram, a high chair, a car seat, not to mention the diapers, toys, and formula bottles, etc. etc. take one whole hour and one whole van.

I asked my daughter-in-law, Gianina (who was a true-blue corporate citizen before Adrian was born), “How do you do it so well?”

Indeed, how can one mom (with very little help from a full-time-physician dad) do it?

“Just do what you have to do,” she said beaming.

Eight days may seem like a short time, but as we do what we have to do, we thank God for blessing us with family. Through His grace, we've been brought together these eight days to enjoy the gift of dynasty.

Sssssssh, Adrian is Asleep . . .

Our cup this week is filled to the brim with grace.

Our hours revolve around an 11-month-old baby—Adrian. The whole household is extra alert, extra happy, extra thrilled, extra careful, extra everything.

Adrian is with us while his parents are away on a much-needed vacation. What a blessing to have him!

He's a very happy baby, so adorable, and is always smiling but I couldn't capture it in photos, sigh. I should stop blaming my camera for my inadequacy as a photographer.

The people who are at Adrian’s beck and call are: Tony, who comes home extra early from the office; JC, whose first question when he comes home is, “How is Adrian?”; JR, who is taking time off from his bar review; and two househelps—Ate Vi, who slaves over Adrian's yummy home-cooked meals, and Jen, who does her housework at record speed so she could take care of Adrian.

And then there’s Sam, Tony’s driver, who has been assigned to drive our little guest anywhere or to Gymboree where Adrian attends classes or simply plays. And of course the people in the whole neighborhood, who now call Adrian by name when we stroll with him early mornings and late afternoons; and last but not least, his Amah (moi), who closed shop for Adrian's visit.

The downside is, I think we may already be spoiling him.

We tip-toe and don't breathe when he’s asleep. We race in trying to carry him—and now he doesn’t want to be in his stroller or playpen anymore. He whimpers and raises both hands to signal he wants to be carried. And then he points to the door to say he wants to go out. And we are all more than willing to oblige!

My prayer is that he goes back to his regular schedule when he flies home to Michigan. Otherwise his mommy, who has been doing a great job as a SAHM (left her job for Adrian), will have a difficult time juggling her schedule.