First Day of School

For six months, I was into everything but teaching at the university where I have been a lecturer, once a week, for the past eight years.

All too soon, my one-semester leave expires. Rested and revved up, I throw away my jeans and flip-flops for skirts and high heels.

A stickler for promptness, I am in school one hour before my 8’o’clock class. At this time, students are still yawning their way into their uniforms at home.

I expect to be greeted by the ice cream man in the lobby. It has been a tradition for students and faculty to be treated to as much ice cream as you can lick on the first day of school. He greets me all right, offering a three-scoop cone which would have sent my blood sugar soaring.


















 But early in the morning my defenses are still up. Like a mouse from a cat, I scampered.

However, two strange scenes stop me: a sanitizer by the door, and a masked nurse waiting to take my temperature.

Signs of troubled times indeed! The A(H1N1) virus scare keeps us all leery and weary. I am grateful to the school officers for taking steps to contain it (like postponing the opening of classes), but sights like this jolt us into staring at the precariousness of life.









 Fortunately, these days, believers are hanging by an unbreakable thread called grace. Otherwise, we’d all be racing each other down to the pit of hopelessness.

Farrah Fawcett's Jill Munroe

Farrah Fawcett’s death on the same day as Michael Jackson’s is getting much less column inches in periodicals and airtime on broadcast media. But it gets 100% space on this cyber page because Farrah meant a lot to the young bride and mother that I was in the 70’s.

Busy with an exacting job in advertising at daytime and occupied with my baby boys at nighttime, I de-stressed once a week by watching Charlie’s Angels, which might have been produced for the likes of me. Farrah represented the opposite of who I was. As Jill Munroe, she was the sporty and athletic angel playing various sports on the show. I was not into sports (and never will be) but those who are never cease to fascinate me.

I was not alone in my enchantment of her. The world felt as I did. Those of you who are familiar with the 70’s will remember the poster (above) of Farrah. It was first published in Life magazine in 1976, and it is the best-selling pin-up poster of all time.

These days I don’t watch much TV except when American Idol is on. Because now that I am soaking in the joy of writing about grace, I have declared TV (Tony, JR, and the rest of the TV fanatics out there will pulverize me for saying this) to be the greatest time-waster of all.

Farrah’s demise at age 62 makes me look back at my TV-viewing days when a Jill Munroe’s spark and spunk gave my stifling week a space in which to breathe.

Thank you, Farrah, a.k.a. Jill Munroe.

Tiny Red Dots

The time has come for my ClustrMaps to be archived:


I am surprised and delighted at how many cyber friends visited my site in 365 days. My cyber list of guests says 125 countries in all! That number never figured in my imagination when I started out blogging. Oh, the wonders of the internet.

On the first day after this one-year-old map was taken down, my new map was bald, naturally, except for one spot on Philippine shore where a teeny red dot seemed to pulse with life.

And now, four days later, I see many new dots. I marvel at how they trickle in and surprise me each time. My son JC, a techie, laughed when he heard me gushing over this ordinary occurrence (to him), but extraordinary phenomenon (to me).

I guess that’s how I see grace. It comes in every little dot—in red, or any color, and as I write, even in black and white.

Gulp!

My doctor just warned me about my rising blood sugar. He gave me a list of food I can stare at but not eat. Here's one. I am staring . . . and staring . . . and staring.

I am praying hard, really hard, for the grace of self-restraint.

Hibiscus for Leddy

Leddy was more of a cousin than the cousin-in-law that she actually was. When she married my first cousin, Benny, and came into our clan, it was as though she had been a part of the family tree and bloodline from birth.

She was diagnosed with leukemia in August last year. Since then, she had been in and out of the hospital for chemotherapy and blood transfusion. But Leddy, a fellow believer of God’s grace, and whom I have always admired for her simplicity and philosophy on material wealth (“I always have more money than I need) would say, “I have been blessed enough, I don’t want to ask for anything more.”

She refused to take a second round of treatments. She instead opted to spend her last days with her family.

Leddy is now with God’s angels, most likely worshiping along with them, singing
praises to our Lord and King whom she served with unquestionable dedication and commitment.

Those of you who knew Leddy will remember her through a brightly-colored hibiscus flower (orange petals with pink eye and ruffled petals), as beautiful as the way she lived her life.

In her honor, it has been named by the Institute of Plant Breeding, “Ledivina V. Carino.”

 

Unforgettable Photo

This photo was taken when I was six.

I could never forget why I wasn't smiling despite the photographer's hilarious antics, which rivaled those of a circus clown.

It was the last day of our town fiesta, the highlight of the one-week celebration: Coronation Night.

Miss Umingan was to be crowned by a big-name guest from Manila (it was either a congressman, a basketball player, or a movie star). And I was chosen as the crown bearer—you know, the little underling anointed to carry the crown to the throne.

My job was to march (in a long gown of haute couture that matched the queen's, and with hair permed to the max) slowly to the throne carrying the precious glittery crown, perched on a matching glittery pillow, and I would just stand there, smile, be cute, till the the important guest moved the crown to the queen's royal head.

Even as a child I was terrified of loud bangs. I hated (still do!) firecrackers. But those loud bangers came with town fiestas, especially on coronation nights. I kept jumping in my seat before I could even march. When I was given the crown to finally start marching, another loud bang startled me. And my chin landed on the tip of the crown.

That split-second jerk nipped my chin and flattened the crown's apex. Yet, I had to march!

I got to the throne intact, but the crown looked smashed and my chin was hurting. In my shoes, would you have smiled?

To this day, whenever I see this photo, I could recall what was going on in my mind: I wish firecrackers were banned from the face of the earth—forever.

I still wish the same thing, especially on New Year's Eve, but by grace, I can now grin and bear it.

XDYR Welcomes Lucy!

After nine years in the US of A, Lucy comes home for a short vacation. Naturally, all of us, her XDYR friends, are falling over ourselves in welcoming her.

XDYR—my favorite letters in the alphabet—is a group of over 200 friends who were once colleagues at DYR (the acronym of the advertising agency where choice led us all) in various eras.

The X means, well, ex—past, gone, yesterday. But this particular X is sort of indestructible; it has been fortified with grace, which has welded all the X's together in mysterious ways.

We see each other rarely—once in a blue moon, in fact—but we are drawn together on Facebook and an e-mail e-group. And somehow, the bond has been like Portland cement after all of nine years since the ad agency became extinct, splitting into two distinctly different joints—one named after D, and the other, after YR.

When Lucy emails she is coming home, cyburbia gets manic. What an excuse to have an eye-ball after a, uh, millennium. In record time, someone or some-two or some-three organize three get-togethers, one of which is at Boy P’s summer palace in Tagaytay on a Saturday.

We trek to the hills and our path is directed by signs like this.

Boy P, one of the world's greatest hosts in my book, took no chances. Some of us had been to his grand villa-retreat-getaway-hotelish-resort mansion called PARADISO before, but we were always on the verge of getting lost. 

So as soon as we get there, the gluey potion that is labeled XDYR gives everyone a high.  

Pandemonium and melee ensue when Lucy arrives. The many years that separated us all go. . . pooof! Sure, torsos now have paunches, mops of hair are gray, faces are lined, arms sport flabs, and figures are, well, disfigured, but everyone's spirit has remained unchanged.

Then Lucy belts out, “Why, we all look better now than we did before!”

These photos show that for once, our dearest friend Lucy—queen of hyperbole—speaks the naked truth.

(Photo credits: Ronald, Tom, and . . . sorry, due to failing memory, I can't remember)  

Cory: Humility of the Highest Order

No doubt about it, former President Cory Aquino was a paragon of humility. During her term, she preferred to be called "Cory." She was photographed wearing her simple clothes over and over again. Her parties were subdued and spartan. She flew in economy class.

At the end of her term, she stepped down with nary a sign of lust for power. And she kept insisting she was just a transition president from dictatorship to democracy.

But humility is often forgotten and ignored. Like all other virtues, it is clouded by more interesting scandals on sex videos, overpricing, and grand-scale corruption.

I had just read the newspaper headline that morning—it was another one of those juicy gossips about celebrities. That was playing in my mind when my sister, Aie, walked me to the World Vision Building where I was to facilitate a writing workshop.

After we turned right at the first corner, Aie pointed to a small, simple house, the roof of which was only a bit higher that the short height of its gate. I couldn’t see the house but it's definitely nothing to write home about.

“That’s Cory’s house,” she said.


I knew Cory lived in an ordinary house but I didn’t expect one which was the size of a low-cost subdivision box. “Cory’s house?!”

“There’s the marker,” she stressed.


I took two photographs—from two different angles. But the house of the former president of the Republic of the Philippines still looked the same. A structure of basic lines, and nothing else.


The newspaper headline seemed suddenly so miniscule. The teeny house was more important than any news I have read that day. It spoke to me of humility, a virtue that was consistently lived by the Savior.

May His grace, in all its abundance, make me see it well and live it, too—consistently.

Two Generations of Fans

I have always valued the opinions of former Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, Isagani A. Cruz. He is a legal luminary with formidable credentials.

Okay, I am a fan.

So when I see him and his wife walking into the restaurant where Tony and I are having lunch, the only thing that comes to my mind is to have a photo with him.

“You can't do that to a Justice,” Tony says while slurping his Peking duck soup. “Give dignity to the profession,” he adds.

I ponder that. Sometimes Tony has a point.

Then from the door, a young mother and a girl about five rush to our direction. “You're Ms. Grace D. Chong, aren't you?” she asks. “My daughter is a fan of yours. She loves your books! In fact, we’re trying to complete our collection. May I take your picture with my daughter?”

“Sure, my pleasure!” I say, inviting the little girl to sit beside me. Her pretty little face beams. And I mutter, there is dignity in this!             


After a few exchanges with the little girl, her mother says, “Okay, say good-bye to Ms. Chong.” Then they join the table of—Isagani A. Cruz! They both give the famous man a buss on the cheek, signifying he is the father and grandfather of both, respectively.

As soon as we pay our bill, I walk over to their table to say good-bye to the little girl, and say “Hi” to her grandfather.

While I talk to Isagani A. Cruz, Tony blurts out from behind me, “Justice Cruz, may I take your picture with my wife? She is a fan of yours.”

“Why yes!” his wife eagerly replies. And like the gentleman that he is, the Justice stands up and gamely poses for our photo.


The young mother and her daughter light up and explain to the Justice who I am.

There is sunshine in my steps as Tony and I walk out of the restaurant, ever thankful for walk-in grace.

But I wanted to have the last laugh, “There's always dignity in a photo op, isn't there?”

Tony deadpans, “I took your picture, didn't I?”

Sometimes he has a point.

Hot

The day was exceptionally hot—recorded as the hottest day in years—but I was having chills. Tony’s lined jacket felt like tulle; and our blankets, lace. No wonder, the thermometer registered a 39°C fever.

Worse, I had a prolonged coughing fit. Within a few hours I had lost my voice.


It was the wrong time to get sick. I was to facilitate a writing workshop in three days. And I had a series of appointments before that.

“You are overbooked,” JR chided me.

Well, I had just arrived from an overnight trip to Cebu and I had been lecturing in our MT school for three straight days and will continue to do so in the next two days. I was also expected in several meetings. I had to cancel.

But the seminar was non-negotiable. It was for World Vision and the 20 attendees had already reworked their busy schedules to be there. I texted my prayer warriors; they got on their knees.

My doctor prescribed anti-biotics and paracetamol. That night I was KO'd. The chills were gone and in their place was a furnace. Then something wonderful happened. In my sleep, I felt ice water being roughly rubbed on my legs, arms, and face. It was like suddenly being pelted with rain after being scorched by the noonday sun. What a cool, glorious dream.

Except for my voice, everything seemed back to normal the next day. Tony said he panicked when he felt my burning skin. His common sense told him ice cubes were the best antidote to heat and got to work. It wasn't a dream. (He had not paid attention—with three boys running high fever every so often, over the years—he missed seeing the ice cubes!)

God’s grace creeped into everything—the medicines, the thermometer, the ice cubes, my doctor, and the rough hands that cared for me.

I made it to my seminar with 50% of my voice on the first day, and 75% on the second day. But I certainly received 100% blessings through 20 Christian writers, hot with enthusiasm to write about the grace that healed me.

"She Day" and Hurried Good-byes

Before Adrian and his parents went home, I had to fly to Cebu for an overnight stay. I was invited to the OMF “She Day” annual affair which is usually attended by approximately 600 women.


Although I looked forward to attending this event (it’s the 4th), it came at the tail-end of Adrian’s visit. I wanted to spend all the time with him, but it was a commitment I made months ago.

It was a most unforgettable trip! I took the earliest flight on the day of the affair so I could be there early and have some time to rehearse and dress up. But as the plane was about to take off, there was a medical emergency. A passenger had a heart attack and we were asked to stay put in the plane for over two hours.

I got to Mactan airport barely one hour before the affair. After a few hurried greetings, Carol, the lady who picked me up said, “Grace, sit tight. I will be rough.” True enough she was rough! She snaked in and out of the heavy traffic. We got to Marriott Hotel where I dumped my things, went to the venue for sound and light check, then back to the hotel with a packed lunch and back to the Ayala Onstage Theater just in time for the opening. Whew!

The affair turned out as well as I expected. Trust OMF Cebu staff to always outdo themselves. It was an afternoon of overflowing grace. We all learned a lot from the two speakers and I got to meet old and new friends.


After that, it was a whirlwind of activities: some book-signing, some milling around, some chit-chats, dinner, and a treat to the spa. I got back to the hotel by midnight, and by 7 AM, I was finished with breakfast and dashed to the airport for my trip back home.

It was the shortest trip I ever had in my life—20 hours, but I came home with so much memories plus a special carrot cake (the best I have ever tasted) from Leona’s Bake Shop which we partook of at the despedida dinner for Adrian, JB and Gianina.


Again, hurried good-byes. The three had to be in bed for their early flight the next day (they were with Adrian’s other grandparents). Well, hurried good-byes don’t allow tears and such. In a way, they’re a whole lot more manageable.

Till Next Year, Adrian . . .

Our little guest is now en route back to Michigan with his parents. Two weeks ended all too soon. During his very brief stay with us, the sun was brighter, the air was fresher, and the days were shorter.

May the God of grace wrap them in His arms as they travel back to the land which they call their temporary dwelling place.

Angkong, Adrian and Amah

Amah (Chinese honorific for mother of my father) may not be in any of the pictures, but I sure was an eyewitness to all the big events between Angkong (Amah's counterpart: father of my father) and Adrian. As you can see, I have been preoccupied snapping grace after grace after grace.

Surfing Grace

Idle web surfing brings surprising grace. I found this on the net, in a blog called The Book Buzz. It’s an interesting, incisive site that focuses on reviewing books. One of the books reviewed was Half and Half, the first in the Oh, Mateo! series.

The blogger does not identify himself. But I want him to know how deeply I appreciate every word written here. Borrowing his words, I am “armed with nerves of steel” to not “crumple at the occasional emotional havoc wrought by this heartwarming book" review:

"The truth is, I'm weak-kneed when it comes to children's books. I can handle epic novels and violent plot twists and literary whodunit cliffhangers... but I crumple at the occasional emotional havoc wrought by that rare, outstanding book written for little readers.

"And I think this first of Mateo's stories in a series by Grace D. Chong is simply one of those for me.

"It tells of an endearing boy, Mateo, who everyone can easily think of as a kid brother or best friend or the-son-you-never-had. His teacher asks their class to draw their favorite fruits, all for a big inter-school contest. So they all draw their hearts out, including our little Mateo.

"But his drawings, although exceptional, are only halves of fruits. A smart aleck!, the teacher thinks. The teacher is incensed (as we all probably would be, as grown ups--we easily forget that we once saw the world as children, too) and calls Mateo's attention. Is this his idea of a joke? Did he not understand the instruction? Which is, plainly, to draw your favorite fruit... not half of your favorite fruit!

"And what did Mateo have to say to all that? He explained that no, he wasn't fooling around; and yes, those indeed were his favorite fruits... and he drew them exactly as he has always had them at home. You see, his father brings him home fruit whenever he has any extra left from what little he earns. And Mateo shares it half-and-half with him. That's the kind of fruit he likes: shared with a loved one.

"I realize now I'm giving you the whole story, but I feel this urge to justify the kiddy tears that brimmed my grownup eyelids as I read Mateo's simple explanation to what is probably one of the more complex values our society has yet to fully grasp and practice. Love that cannot contain itself, and overflows into unselfish giving.

"I look forward to reading the rest of the series, armed with nerves of steel this time, so Mateo will not have me wound up around his little pinkie...!

"Oh, what the heck. He's so cute anyway, I'd gladly let him take me on a ride into his world any time, tears or no tears—and let me see everything through the eyes of a child again :)"

Adrian Turns Two

This little birthday boy is in town for a short visit. Naturally, I am closing shop, for at least two weeks.

Last year was a time of firsts for us and for him.

Together with his papa and mama, he came home from icy-white Michigan to red-hot Philippines so we can take turns pampering him, and be all witnesses to his dedication to the Lord. The ceremony was officiated by the same minister who officiated his parents' wedding four years earlier.

We also celebrated with him his first birthday. “We” means his mother's family (lolo, lola, and two titos) and his dad's family (Angkong Tony, Amah Grace [moi], JC and JR). That's a total of 10 people plus this special little guy who is our bundle of grace, and who turns us into mush—the first grandchild of both his maternal and paternal families. In less than three weeks, he flew back to Michigan.

One year later, today, we celebrate his second birthday. It's not a time for seconds, though. Everything seems new again.

During his party (two days ago), he played basketball (his mama's sport), and played the guitar (his papa's musical instrument).


He gobbled up noodles, proof of his Chinese heritage; and entertained everyone, proof of his Pinoy psyche. He speaks fluent Filipino and some English.

And, yes, he can ask me for anything he wants. Ooops.

So Where's the Book? (Part 2)

When my friend Eli announced she and her husband were leaving for the US for a medical check-up, I grabbed the chance to plead, “Please, please get me The Christmas Box.”

“No promises, Grace,” she apologized. Theirs was going to be a very brief trip.

I was hopeful. Eli is a fellow book lover and I just knew she would yield to the call of at least one bookstore.

Exactly two weeks from the day Eli left, she calls.

“I’m back! And I want to thank you for asking me to buy you The Christmas Box.”

 “You got it?”

“Yup, plus more!I also got you Timepiece.”

(Timepiece is the prequel/sequel of The Christmas Box.)

I was right. Eli could never resist the lure of a bookstore. She squeezed in an hour of her crammed schedule to visit one. And when she got out of there, she was lugging over a dozen other books, which she hand carried, and which, I am afraid, caused her a major arm injury.

“How much do I owe you?” I ask, when I finally get hold of my two new books.

“Forget it,” she says. “Those are my books. After reading them, I felt thoroughly inspired and blessed. And I am more than happy to bequeath them to you.”

I have written three books on grace (received through people). About my friend, Eli, I think I will write one more.

So Where's the Book? (Part 1)

After I announced that my sister Aie was converting our parents' old house in the province into a public library, friends and relatives from everywhere have been sending me boxes and boxes of books. My friend, Lucy, from Palm Springs, California, mailed a big balikbayan box of her own collection.

Trouble is, I have first access to all these books and unable to help myself, I take a few (okay, heaps) to read before sending them to Aie. It feels like bookstores are suddenly sprouting in my house and I “own” them all!

I never doubted the endlessness of grace, but this is like unprecedented manna storm from heaven!

One of the books I took from Lucy's box was The Miracle of the Christmas Box by Richard Paul Evans.

The title intrigued me. Unfortunately, it was not about The Christmas Box at all! It was the backstory of The Christmas Box.

It tells of how The Christmas Box book was written by the author as an expression of love for his daughters. He made 20 photocopies of it as gifts to other members of his family and close friends. It wasn't meant to be published. But before he knew what hit him, his relatives who read the story, and relatives of relatives, and relatives of friends, and friends of friends were photocopying the story and sending them to many others. Their common comment: they were inspired by the story.

Quickly, he decided to self-publish through a small-town printing shop. The sales moved faster than lightning, and soon, the book made history by becoming simultaneously the #1 hardcover and paperback book in the US! There was a great deluge, not unlike the time of Noah, of orders, letters and calls. The national press and the town's public officials got into the fray, and the latter erected a monument that relates to the story.

Since then, more than ten million copies of The Christmas Box have been printed. It's the wildest-dream-of-every-beginning-writer-come-true.

But where is the book? I rummaged through Lucy's box but The Christmas Box wasn't there. Frantic, I called Lucy but she thought I was talking Greek!

I combed all the bookstores in my neighborhood and in the neighborhood of others—nada, nada, nada. I emailed friends and foe to lend me their copy, but nobody seems to have heard of the book. I have a trauma from online purchasing.

In this country, we call this bitin! Rough translation: cliffhanger.

So where's the book? (to be continued)

A Canister of Dreams

This canister contains 27 lofty dreams. I have it in my possession because I want to pray for each of them as often as I can. The canister is in a place where it can always be a part of my repertoire of daily tasks.

Goal Setting Theory was the last tool in Time Management (TM) which I discussed in the workshop I facilitated in Laguna. It was the third and last day, last hour, and my “class” was ready to wrap up. I told them to write down their time-bound goal—on which they would base the other TM tools we have learned.

They were not meant to be discussed; the exercise was done simply to focus on their measurable goal so that they could cut their time into workable segments to achieve it.

But the writing took longer than I expected. Before we broke up, I asked them to leave their papers in a canister I earlier used as an illustration prop.

At home, before throwing the whole canister away, I decided to read one paper. It so moved me I went about reading all of them. On those pieces of papers are dreams, lofty dreams, zealously written. And it dawned on me that I have gotten so smug over the years I have forgotten how it is to dream.

These 18-year-old kids, Compassion International scholars, are struggling in poverty, but they believe in the fullness of grace, and therefore, are infinitely richer than many moneyed brats I know. Their papers are full of hope, so poignant in their honesty and simplicity.

Praying for the dreams in the canister is the only way I can help my 27 kids beyond a three-day TM workshop. What a privilege to do so!

LDP Batch 13