A Day at the Movies

Four movies, two restaurants, and three coffee shops—all in 10 hours. That was last Saturday, my day with my two boys, son number one and son number three. By 11 in the evening, way past my bedtime, my eyes were bloodshot and my back, half-bent.

It was the loveliest night of the year!

As they did last year, JC and JR took me to Cinemalaya. It was a birthday treat for their long-suffering (they won't agree to that adjective) mother. This year, now that he has a job, Atty. JR took care of the tab.

It had been a week-long festival of Philippine Indie films, dubbed Cinemalaya Cinco (year five), but the three of us only had one day free together. Their father is a regular guy—he preferred to watch a regular action movie in a regular movie house.

We trekked to the Cultural Center of the Philippines two hours before the first scheduled screening to beat the long queue. Unlike last year, we didn't argue over which among the ten movies to watch. I had a list ready, from the blog entries of my friend, Lilit, who had earlier been reviewing the films and whose taste in movies I respect.

Lilit didn't disappoint. The three of us agreed all four movies must be among the best from this year's harvest. They were. One of them, Last Supper #3 (a funny social commentary) was the grand prize winner. And the other three—Mangatyanan, Colorum, and Nerseri—got plum awards in other categories.          


Now, aside from the gift of fine movies and food was the grace of seeing old friends, art buffs. There were fewer of us this year. Those who comprised the crowd were students and yuppies, which, to me, is a good sign. Like spring, they're new shoots from new roots and they will inject new life and a new level of intellect and dignity to the film industry. There was no frenzy for celebrity and glam. Only sincere miens with appreciation for this emerging force of moving art.

Next year, we promise to watch all the full-length movies, as well as the shorts. Which means, as early as now, we should be making the whole of Cinemalaya week red-letter days in our calendar. But if I recall, that was what we promised ourselves last year.

Filipino film has a future, a very bright one. This I have always believed—we have never been wanting of talents, just of budget.

(Photos by JC)

Have You Seen This Van?

I ask that question because I haven’t seen this van either. My friend, Luis, who sent me this photo is more fortunate than I am. He even took a shot of it with his own camera!

The reason you or I haven’t seen it is, it’s a limited edition of one. And because it is a limited edition, the van may not even be in circulation anymore. But the fact that it is one-of-a-kind makes it even more precious to me than it already is. I will treasure this photo forever and ever, and show it around to everyone, as I am doing now.

In fact, I would toss this van to the top of my list of favorite vehicles—if only I had such list. I can’t tell a Volvo from a Porsche.

Can you blame me then for gushing over this one single van? You see, the chances are almost nil for my name, Grace, to be printed on anything that moves. But on this van, it is printed four times. Eight, if you count the book titles!

Neato. I am not lying then when I say, there is a van of grace.

The 20th of July

Of all the days in the year, my Kodak camera conks out on me. Just when I really need it to take a picture of the sheet of paper that is hanging by our dining table lamp!

I have no choice now but to simply blab about it—and no photo to show I am not exaggerating (as I am wont to do, being an advocate of hyperbole):

I get up early as usual, 4:30 AM. Unlike in the past days, the dawn is dark. It seems like a December morning. Peering through our bedroom window, I see the heavens blanketed with dark clouds; rain threatens to pour. I quickly don my walking outfit and prepare to drink my first glass of water before hitting the road.

That’s when I see it—the sheet of paper. It isn’t going to be a dark day!


Printed on it are photos of me—one as a baby, and a few as an author (signing books and looking happy). The words read, “The living story of God’s faithfulness.”

Instantly, the sun in my heart bursts into millions of rays and as I walk under the black clouds I see bright light. I look back to my journey on mother earth and realize how the Creator of sun has proven His faithfulness in my every stride. Sometimes (okay, often) I see only the shadows and stumble on blind spots.

But today, I am told of the story of that faithfulness by my boys who worked on that sheet of paper. The lessons I've learned and the strength I've gained through all the valleys of daily grind are the conflict in that story of faithfulness. Today I seem to have resolved it.

And I now believe that birthdays need to be celebrated—they are important parts of the continuing plot of that faithfulness story.

My eyes smart as I look up the sky, and then the God of surprises rains laughter on me: the sole of my left rubber shoe goes flip-flop and if I walked any farther, I will totally lose the flopping sole. Adidas is not supposed to flip-flop on anyone!

Oh, but Kodak shouldn't conk out either. There goes the two big brands I used to sell through advertising. On this beautiful day, they both fail me.

Well, cameras, shoes, and anything on earth fail, but the Lord’s faithfulness is forever, and His grace weaves into the fabric of our life stories.

What a birthday gift!

Mateo Lands on Front Page

A front page item on July 12 (encircled above) was an early Sunday morning grace. It also made me flush like an over-ripe tomato.

Philippine Daily Inquirer (PDI), one of the biggest daily broadsheet newspapers in Manila introduced Mateo, the main character in my book series “Oh, Mateo!” to some 100 children at the Inquirer Read-along session. The affair, which was an advance celebration of National Children’s Book Day on July 21, featured television news personalities Pinky Webb, Winnie Cordero, and Anthony Taberna.

The first book that was read in the program was “The Money Mystery” (Oh, Mateo! Book 4 in the series) by guests. The story is about Teo who solves the town’s money mystery by being brave. In the process, he also learns about honesty, especially when it comes to money.

Webb, Cordero and Taberna, hosts of the popular morning show “Umagang Kay Ganda,” also read “Teo’s Trash Can” (Oh, Mateo! Book 8). It’s about hard-working Teo discovering antique artifacts in an old, rundown shack. These turn out to be valuable historical treasures.

Webb acted as the narrator, while Taberna read role of Teo’s father. Cordero, a familiar voice on radio and TV children’s shows, voiced Teo! (Photo shows Teo, the character, on the left; the two books read, on the right, all illustrated by Beth Parrocha-Doctolero.)


Nine-year-old Andrea Nicole Valerio, a Grade 4 student, said, “I really enjoyed it, especially Tita Winnie [Cordero]’s segment! She’s really good, especially with her voice. I learned how important it is to work hard,” she added.

A news item in PDI a few weeks ago reads: “Launched in May 2007, the Inquirer Read-along project received an award for excellence this year from the Philippine Quill, the country’s most prestigious award-giving body for business communicators, for spreading the passion for reading to more than 4,000 children.”

More than landing on the front page, I am happy that my books are partnering with Inquirer Read-Along in igniting passion among children to read.

The Sunrise I Couldn't Watch

A road trip to Baler, Aurora is a treat that doesn’t come every day. Tony and JR packed their bags and were determined to have a grand weekend.

Sadly, first son JC was busy, and so was I. We were separately deep into commitments we couldn’t postpone. And so we reluctantly wished father and third son, “Enjoy yourselves!”

Properly tanned and fed, they came home brimming with stories and photos. Among all the spectacular shots they took, the minute-by-minute image of the sun rising (I am sharing a few of them here) took my breath away.

As my eyes feasted on every frame, imagining and vicariously experiencing each rising movement, I sang (silently of course, until I could muster the courage to impose my non-voice on others), Sunrise:

Then I shall come to the end of my way,

When I shall rest at the close of life’s day,

When “Welcome Home” I shall hear Jesus say,

Oh, that will be sunrise for me . . .

Sunrise tomorrow, sunrise tomorrow,

Sunrise in glory is waiting for me;

Sunrise tomorrow,

Sunrise tomorrow,

Sunrise tomorrow,

Sunrise with Jesus for eternity.

I might have missed watching the awe-inspiring Baler sunrise, but the promise of sunrise tomorrow is grace beyond imagination.

Enormous Wonder

As soon as Adrian got back to Grand Rapids, Michigan, after an 18-day vacation in the Philippines, his mom whisked him to Meijer Gardens and Sculpture Park so he could quickly get back to the familiar, the feel of home base.

I always feel vicarious excitement when I see a photo of this enormous “DaVinci's Horse,” by Nina Akamu. It is the largest horse sculpture in the Western Hemisphere—a tribute to Leonardo DaVinci, who was commissioned by the Duke of Milan to make a similar sculpture, but failed to complete it. At 24-feet tall, this bronze sculpture dwarfs those who come to admire it.


Once again, this horse demonstrates how enamored man is of extremes—the largest, the smallest. It is particularly interesting to me as I continue to read my Chronological Bible, which narrates and details how God created the biggest planet and the smallest quark—and all the details and sizes of nature in between—for man.

He covers the heavens with clouds; He prepares rain for the earth; He makes grass grow on the hills. Psalm 147:8

It baffles me no end . . . despite all these enormous proofs, man continues to doubt God's existence, or spurn His sovereignty, and miss to discover His enormous grace.

Middle Pages

It's July. We’re into the second half of 2009.

This tells me that I should have read half of the Chronological Bible which I promised myself I'd read every day. It was my New Year's resolution.

Well, my bookmark is now right smack in the middle and my Bible date says, July 14. This means, I have read all the way up to that day—ten days ahead of schedule!

The old testament is an extremely melodramatic read. It beats all the epic movies I have watched in my lifetime. It also beats all the scandal sheets I have read both on the printed page and the internet. Greed, betrayal, deceit, idolatry, crime and all the scourge of this earth are detailed from chapter to chapter.

All those, despite the miracles that God endlessly performed right before their eyes, plus the power of His presence, and the depth of His patience.

" . . . what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him?” Psalm 8:4

Out of the dozens and dozens of kings, generation after generation, I could count with my fingers those who obeyed God's commands and honored him with their deeds. And the sequel or cycle goes on.

Most of our leaders today, as reported on media, "Do evil in God's sight," also wallowing in greed, betrayal, deceit, idolatry, and crime.

All those, despite the promise of eternal life to those who believe in and follow Him.

From the beginning of time to the middle of my Bible, I have learned that this book mirrors our ephemeral life and God's everlasting sovereignty.

It gives me only two choices: to waste my 5-foot mound of flesh away to the lure of things that will wither and disappear with the twinkling of an eye (Ecclesiastes: “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!”; or to use this petite mound of flesh to give glory to Him, whose saving grace—will take me to where the real treasures are.

P.S. Ecclesiastes ends with: “Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every deed into judgment, with every secret thing, whether good or evil."

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.