Fresh Flowers in a Doghouse

Attorney, our pet dog, has something other dogs don't have—or will never have. He has fresh flowers in his doghouse!

What's even more strange and surprising is, he seems to appreciate those flowers by staring at them and leaving them alone.

With only a few steps separating our garden from Attorney's doghouse, somehow, the flowers find their way to our beloved dog's domicile, not just once or twice, but as often as the yellow bells bloom. I think it is no coincidence that the color of the hour is also yellow.

I took photos of the flowers at two different times; I also tried, with extreme difficulty, to include Attorney in the picture but he is camera shy.

Now, who ever says that the idiom "in a doghouse" means being in disfavor?

Attorney has been a pet of grace, and the way he treats the flowers in his shelter makes him so much more endearing to me and my household.                
 

Monette's Mom

There are simply too many images that cross our paths over our lifetime. And yet, there are some that can never be shaken off from our mind. One of them is Monette’s when she was 10.

It was my son JR’s 8th birthday party; we had invited friends in church.

The first guest who arrived was Monette, who at 10 was so independent she came alone in a tricycle. Like a gut reaction, I prayed silently and ardently right on the sidewalk when I saw her radiant face, “Please, Lord, give Monette’s mom just a few more years. Monette is too young to lose a mother.” 

Monette’s mom was just diagnosed with breast cancer—at a time when survival rate was low.

The image of that sidewalk encounter is still vivid after 20 years. God gave Monette’s mom all the important years to watch her child blossom into a teen-ager, and then a fine career lady. She was as radiant as Monette on her wedding day. And now Monette awaits the birth of her first child.

On God’s schedule, Monette’s mom left this earth last week and we, her friends in church, although we mourn her passing, are grateful for the abundance of grace that our Maker showered upon her once-threatened life. Her remains will be flown in from Pennsylvania for a two-day wake in our church.

God didn’t give Monette’s mom “just a few more years” as I had begged—but He gifted her with two decades in which she joyfully served Him. Monette’s mom was one of the most passionate students of God’s word I had ever met, and reared her children to love the same God she loved with her life.

My silent prayer 20 years ago was unanswered. The Lord gave Monette’s mom much, much more than I bargained for.

Grace is not for us to decide how much of it should be given our dearest friends. For it is only the Giver who decides, not on our terms, but on His. And how He delights us each time.

Monette’s mom—she saw Monette grow up into the almost-mom that her lovely daughter has become. And now, she is where pain is absent, and where grace comes in bundles of joy for her to relish, forever and ever.

What a blessed life Monette's mom (my dearest friend, Mila) had!

(Photo shows Monette and her mom)

In the Belly of a Fish

Jonah is the name of one of my students this term. Every time I see him I am reminded of the big fish, the vessel that carried Jonah in the Bible to Nineveh, where the Lord was sending him.

Maybe because of Jonah, my student, I’ve been thinking a lot about Jonah, the Bible character, in the past few days.

There are ongoing debates whether the fish was a whale, a shark, or simply a big fish. I’ll leave that to scientists and theologians.

What makes Jonah a very fascinating character for me is his stay inside the belly of a big fish for three days and three nights.

The Bible tells us that while he was in there, Jonah was transformed. He did all the things Christians ought to do: he talked to God; he praised Him; he reflected on his condition; he realized his mistake; he asked for forgiveness for his stubbornness; and he finally obeyed his Master.

The fish then was his sanctuary, his haven, his prayer room, and the holy ground where God made his presence felt.

Here’s where I now draw a crude parallelism. I sort of feel like Jonah when I am in my workroom—a very small place not much bigger than the belly of a big fish. But here, when I write, the room’s smallness makes me feel like I am in a sanctuary, a haven, a prayer room, and a holy ground where God makes His presence felt.

When one is alone, shut off, and protected from the roaring and undulating ocean which is our world, we come face-to-face with ourselves; our aloneness makes our thoughts so much clearer and the rub-a-dub of our heart so much louder, making us keener to discover the grace that tells us where Nineveh is.

Do you have a place where you feel like you are in the belly of a fish? I know you do.

My Friend "Tito Dok"

Tito Dok (translation: Uncle Doctor) is a pediatrician. But that’s not how I came to know him.

He became a good friend because he is a writer (long before I became one)—one for whom I reserve the highest of esteem, and through whom I receive large doses of grace.

Because I came into writing late in my life, he always finds time to give me tips and affirm what I do, probably vicariously experiencing his beginning years as a weaver of stories. In my latest book, I wrote that he is “my rah-rah squad of one.”

Tito Dok is a Palanca Hall of Fame Awardee. Meaning, he has won five first prizes. He was also one of TOYM (Ten Outstanding Young Men of the Philippines) awardees a few years ago, on top of all the slew of other prizes he has received in various writing competitions (his Filipino prose is lyrical and distinctive).

If you need proof, simply google Tito Dok or ask any kid who he is. His over thirty children’s books are delighting kids in all areas of the country.

Tito Dok translated my book, No Lipstick for Mother, into Filipino. I translated his book, Sandosenang Sapatos, into English.

One Saturday afternoon, Tito Dok and I met up to shoot a video for our mutual publisher, Hiyas (an imprint of OMF Literature). One of the scenes was the bookstore where both our books are displayed side by side. A camera bug, Tito Dok took hundreds of photos between takes. Here are my two favorites:


P.S.
As of this writing, Tito Dok has received yet another prestigious award: Gawad Dangal ng Filipino (translation: Filipino Language Award of Honor).

The Chong Palate

Our running family joke is, “If we didn’t eat so much, we could afford to live in a palace.”

Going over our family group photos over the years, I think it is no exaggeration to say that 90% of them were taken around a dining table. The only way I could get my boys together for a family photo is when they’re seated before dinnerware.


Looking back, it might have started on day one of my marriage. I would not attempt to sugar coat it: I couldn’t cook. I had not cooked in my life, and if Tony had not known that, well, it was too late.

So we either ate out, or suffered what my househelp had concocted from bits and pieces of whatever, or went to my in-laws who always had a grand array of food prepared by a full-time cook!

My father-in-law was into good food in a big way. Despite the glorious food prepared in his kitchen, every Sunday he would bring the whole family to a Chinese restaurant where we had a lauriat. Plus, Tony’s clan always had an excuse to party—again, centered on scrumptious exotic Chinese dishes.

Eating gourmet food seems to be my boys’ passion and panacea. When they’re sad, they eat. When they’re happy, they eat. When they’re celebrating, they eat. When they’re mourning, they eat. When their cousins, uncles and aunties visit, the first words that come from their mouth is, “Let’s eat.” And they’re always on the lookout for good restaurant reviews.

Yes, they can eat through any crisis.

While I am grateful that with food comes grace, I am just as grateful for the grace of my simple Ilocano taste buds, which can sustain me even in global recession. To this day, I can feast on roasted fish, boiled vegetables, and bagoong (local anchovies). But then, there is no Chong blood in my veins.

Gianina calls this love for food, The Chong Palate. She certainly knows what it is all about. Palates are handed down! And Adrian, only two years old, has inherited it big time.

Good-bye Cory

After watching people in yellow, who have lined up for three, four, five hours, and soaking in the rain—some eating whatever they could buy from vendors in lieu of dinner, lunch or breakfast—holding up yellow ribbons, balloons, and hand-made posters expressing their deep gratitude to President Cory and their grief on her passing, there was no excuse good enough for us to miss saying good-bye in the streets where Cory made her call for the restoration of democracy.

That sentence is the longest I have permitted myself to write, ever.

It is matched only by the long funeral march the country watched non-stop on TV for over nine hours, in addition to the two-hour necrological service. In the workplace, that would have meant, employees skipped a lunch hour and two coffee breaks, worked overtime, and grumbled.

There was zero grumbling on August 5. It was a day of sobs, and reminiscences of the late 80's and early 90's, and celebratory Cory! Cory! Cory! with matching laban (fight) hand sign.

There was also zero reason not to be counted. While the rain poured, Tony and I decided to wait for the cortège at the Manila Memorial Park entrance. But, to our surprise, we got invited in and before we could say thank you, we slogged through slosh and soaked grass, and made our way to the tent where the 200 invited relatives and guests were to be seated, 15 meters away from the tomb.


At that hour, 12:30 PM, there were already over 2,000 people milling about in the area, despite the very strict entry procedures at the gate which remained tightly guarded to keep out the massive crowd that had gathered as early as 5:00 AM, extending many kilometers on both sides of the road. Deja vu.

The funeral convoy wouldn’t arrive till 7:30 PM. But as in EDSA 1, people were patient, warm, sharing their food and water, expressing their respect for fellowmen, as though everyone has been a friend for years. In the same tent were one head of state (Jose Ramos Horta of East Timor, Nobel Peace prize awardee), government officials, journalists, nuns, priests, movie stars, memorial park agents, employees, Juan de la Cruz, an adman and his wife, an author.

As Cory would have wanted it, there was no seating hierarchy. The intermittent rain played no favorites either. All TV cameras were wrapped with plastic and the media vehicles were refuge to the on-camera talents and production crew.

Huge video walls updated us on the progress of the funeral convoy. It was heartwarming and heartbreaking to watch multitudes waiting for a glimpse of the flatbed truck bearing the remains of the reluctant leader who mobilized a nation to unleash its power in changing the circumstances that bound it.

As in life, Cory's last march was at once majestic and basic. After the canon boomed 21 times, and the army, police, marine, and air force marched and saluted the carriage in perfect cadence, a throng, a horde of people, many of them barefooted, surged forward like a dam had suddenly burst. They quickly inundated one area across the place of rites in record speed.


On one side was the discipline of ritual. "Ten-shun!"

On the other was the spontaneity of love. "Cory! Cory! Cory!"

As Tony and I walked away from the tomb, I took a shot of the now-empty flatbed truck occupied by young people flashing the laban sign.


Hundreds more raptly watched a replay of the funeral rites on video walls. And at the gate, there were dozens of all kinds of slippers, lost and left in the mad rush to get in, when the gate was opened for the cortege.

Like her husband's, Cory's tomb is stark. There is no epitaph on the unpretentious resting place. Just her name, the date of her birth and death, and "Cory."

That's more than enough.

When we read or hear the name "Cory," we each draw from that part of our heart where we write epitaphs—words of grace that make us remember, in our own personal way, the rare icons who have made us feel better, oh-so-much-better, about our country.

Thank You Cory

Today you will be laid to rest. My family and I are among the millions who—for various reasons—are unable to come and pay our last respects. Physically absent we may be, we are, in spirit, among those who have braved sun and rain to personally salute your flag-draped box since August 1.

We were five of the millions who marched with you so democracy might be restored. Our youngest son JR, who is now a lawyer, was still a toddler but he distinctly remembers. This is a story that we have not retold for sometime.

But today, those millions—who have lain low and become eerily silent over the last few years—are waking up from stupor and are marching once again with you. This time, with their grown-up children and their children's children, so that we may all show the world how much we value our freedom.

That freedom—which we lost—was found again because you inspired us to seek it.

God’s wondrous grace during such fragile times came through a fragile but resolute widow in yellow, who sacrificed much and suffered all, with selflessness and sincerity found in so few.

We will once again remember to tell the story (and march when necessary), with renewed vigor, so we can demonstrate our courage as a people in defending our God-given rights and freedom.


Thank you Cory, thank you. We thank God for you.

Have You Seen this Poster?

Chances are, you have. Maybe in a bookstore window, or on the wall of a coffee shop or a library, or maybe even on a school bulletin board, or in a printer’s shop. The photo shown above is my very own copy tucked carefully in a special corner at home.

Unlike my van of grace, this poster has maybe, uh, a hundred or so print runs. You see, it is a poster for The National Book Development Board (NBDB), the government agency mandated to develop and support the Philippine book publishing industry, called the Book Publishing Industry Development Act in 1995).

The model: Maricel Laxa-Pangilinan, multi-awarded actress and columnist

The book: Well, you know.

It's a poster of grace.

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.