Double Delight, Year Two

It's been a year since our little seven-year-old twins stepped inside a school for the first time in their lives. Then they had zero knowledge about the ABCs, colors, numbers, and shapes.   

What a difference a year makes!

Now eight years old, here they are—about two inches taller, a few pounds heavier, and many notches smarter.

 
They now know their alphabets, arithmetic, all shades of the rainbow, and all the animals in the forest.  They can read both English and Filipino, and write quickly and legibly.

Captain America is Coming!

This superhero—together with Green Lantern, Spiderman, Iron man, and Batman—is coming to Las Pinas on the 30th of August!

Our whole household, composed of four adults, are more than excited—we are in a tizzy; if we don't take time to breathe we'd burst. 

All five heroes come in one neat little package called Adrian—my four-year-old grandson.  He moves from one super hero to another in a span of hours and couldn't quite make up his mind who he really is. 

His mom calls it recycling.  One minute, he's making like Captain America, the other minute, he's asking me and Tony for a Green Lantern thingy—as a belated gift for his recent birthday.

Fear of Growing Old

In a coffee shop sometime ago, I overheard two teenagers chatting:  

Girl 1: “My mom is sooo old, she'll never understand what I am going through.”

Girl 2: “If you think your mom's old,  mine's worse—she just turned 47!  Ugh, I can never talk to her about anything!”

It took colossal effort to keep myself from yelling, Hey, 47 is sooo young, you hear! 

Too Much, Too Little

My friend ALB (whom I love dearly) and I enjoy the same things—especially the arts, crafts, music, and exotic places.  We both gush and drool over art books and travel brochures in unison.  We could talk for hours about the many wonderful places and beautiful things we've seen.

“You and I have the same taste,” I tell her, “the only difference is, you have the money and I have the looks.”  She loves the joke.

Two Missing Semicolons

One print ad that I helped write was published this morning. To my horror, it has two missing semi-colons!  In their places, I had erroneously typed commas. Shoulda, woulda, coulda!

You are probably laughing at how anyone could be so distraught over two missing inky-dinky semicolons!  

Well, I also laughed when . . .

my friend G, an art director, was furious when her artwork came out on a tarpaulin with a lighter magenta than she specified;

Brainstorming Again!

One of the things that charmed me most (and which I now miss) about advertising was brainstorming.

Looking for a big idea, two to six people clump together—usually in a small corner or the corridor—to pick each other's brain. The rules: “No censorship. Say what's in your mind, no matter how stupid.” 

It usually begins slow, then, like building blocks, a blah thought is tossed around like a ball. Before it is passed back to the originator, the ball has already taken a different shape.

Paid Hacks

Among friends and students, I remain the only one with a Jurassic mobile phone. It's four years old, and I have no plans of buying a new one.

Aside from being frugal, of course, I keep my phone because I use it for only two reasons: calling and text messaging. My prepaid card of P500 lasts me three months. I receive very few text messages, I have a separate digi-cam, and I avoid calling anyone because of tinnitus—I hear hiss and buzz over voices—so I use the land line.

One-way Ticket to the Unknown

Over an early lunch, I said good-bye to a client of many years, one who has become a dear friend in the process.

Rosy and her husband, plus four children, will soon fly to Canada and will reside there permanently. 

There is always FB, of course, and the email to keep us in close touch, but the thought of not working with her ever again makes eyes well up.   

“Do you have relatives there?” I asked. Many of my friends who have chosen to live abroad have relatives waiting for them. 

“None,” she replied.

“None, as in --”

Tinnitus

That sounds like a horrible word.  It even rhymes with the equally horrid tetanus.  

Tinnitus IS horrible.  It comes from the Latin word that means “ringing.” 

Nothing horrible about ringing, really. Not when it comes from bells, alarm clocks, and the telephone.

But when it happens 24/7 within the human ear, mine particularly—its' @#$%!

After reading my friend Yay's blog about her migraine woes, I wrote her: “We are all going through some kind of pain, Yay. Quitting is a cop out. Easier said than done, but in our noisy moments, when we debate with ourselves, we hear another voice that says, 'Be still and know that I am God.'"

Travel to the Perfect Country

I made it to the cover of TraveLife Magazine, July 20 special edition!  How many copies in circulation? One.  

It didn't go on magazine stands—it came straight to me via email from an artist friend, Ryan.

Why would anyone go through the trouble of making me a beautiful TraveLife cover on my birthday? I ask myself that question whenever I receive a gift painstakingly done.  And then I look at me and what I joyfully go through to give my friends and loved ones a gift I labored on. (When I handed my friend Rose a faux pearl necklace I designed and strung myself, her eyes misted. Oh, but that's another story.)   

Amok Runs Amok

I am running amok with superlatives; I am raving over the indie movie, Amok.

Now showing at the 7Cinemalaya 2011, Amok was one of three full-length movies we (JC and three friends) watched last Saturday.  By far, it was the fairest of them all.

Going to Cinemalaya has been a yearly birthday grace for me through my boys.  In all those years, there have been films that really stand out —films that raise the bar and make me proud to be a Pinoy. 

This year, Amok, makes me immensely proud.  (I still have not watched some of the movies like the much-touted Ang Babae sa Septic Tank and Patikul in the competition, but thus far, Amok is already in a class by itself.)     

The theater was crowded so we took seats separate from each other, but when we finally got together after the movie, we were one in our squeals of excitement: “Excellent!” 

It was directed by an idealistic young man, Lawrence “Law” Fajardo, who has yet to perfect his spoken Filipino.  He hails from Bacolod so that explains the language difficulty. But that's only when you hear him speak (he and the production staff took time to take questions after the showing).  Watching his film, you know he is a master of Manila's soul.

 

My main complaint over Filipino films, in general, is the pacing. Editors love to linger and dawdle on a scene, over-explaining and making it a tad too—well, boring.  

But Amok cuts and cuts—at the right places, just when your emotion is on a high gear. The first half is a series of vignettes reflecting real people's heart and soul, and I say to myself, “How on earth is the director ever going to put all these riveting—but totally unrelated—mini conflicts together?” 

Fajardo does.  He seamlessly puts them all into a powerful, unified whole. Little wonder, he himself is the editor, who is deep into TV ads.   

All the elements in the movie contribute to making it gasp-enducing: 1) Cast.  “Acting,” as Stanislavski puts it, “is believing.”  All the characters (Mark Gil, take a bow) are believable;  2) Concept.  Every frame—close-up, medium shot, and long shot—enhances the temper's quick rise to boiling point;  3) Framing. Never dull, never predictable; 4) Editing. Fierce, fast, and fiery; 5) Direction. Sensitive and incisive;  6) Tonality. It deftly combines suspense, gore, and humor.

And oh, what a charming creative touch on the graffiti: I  AM OK.

In addition to the director (the long-haired man in red whom we sought out for this photo op), kudos goes to: Screenplay, John Bedia; Script Consultant, Paul Sta. Ana; Executive Producer, Krisma Fajardo; Director of Photography, Louie Quirino; Producers, Tessa Aquino and Lawrence Fajardo; Asst. Director, Jobin Ballesteros; Production Designer, Lawrence Fajardo; Production Managers, Philip Buena and Ron Capili; Editor, Lawrence Fajardo; and Sound, Mike Idioma.

The only hiccup in my litany of praises (at the risk of being branded a prissy prude) is: the bed scene.

Snipping away some 60-seconds of overt footage will not diminish the art nor the drama. All one needs is a few seconds to get the point. Overstating the creative intent often drags fluid storytelling.
 

Squatting in line for the next movie    

We Are All Interconnected

Carl Sagan, et. al., and most writers of extra-terrestrial intelligence, have written about our interconnectedness, how the cosmos is within all of us.  The atoms and all the tiny elements of the universe are somehow borne from stars to people, from asteroids to clouds, and from us to us.

I wouldn't go as far, or as deep, as that. When I speak of interconnection, I simply want to write about four friends, and how they became so, in various timelines.

Here they are, after enjoying a low-salt, low-cholesterol, low-sugar Filipino dishes.

 
I met friend no. 1, Ellen, when I was a copywriter trainee at a multinational ad agency—then the biggest in the country.  She was likewise a trainee in audio-visual production.  Both wide-eyed newbies, we went through a steep uphill climb under the wings of our demanding and exacting bosses.

Years later, now as a Creative Director in another ad agency, I met friend no. 2, Tere.  She joined our company as a concept writer and, together with the staff of the Creative Department, we braved mini duels, medium-sized battles, full-scale wars, and uneasy pacts with clients—and survived. She left the place to see to less stressful matters before I did.  

A few more years later (my life these days), I met friend No. 3, Yay, in a milieu totally different from the corporate world—the academe.  She was teaching Marketing and I, Advertising.  As both subjects fall under the same department, we would bump into each other often—corridors, cafeteria, and library.  We soon found a common passion and love—writing about God's amazing grace.   

In this age of cellphones and e-mails, Tere—from out of nowhere—invited  me to speak before her students in creative writing. In that event,  I found out that Yay was her close friend way back in college!

Meanwhile,  Ellen (who now lives in Arizona) finds me on Facebook.  After a few exchanges of notes, she is surprised to discover that her former church mate, Yay, is my friend! 

One day last week, Tere emails me with a heading, “Serendipity.”  Ellen (her long-time friend!) is in town and since friend no. 1, 2, 3 and I all knew each other in various eras, she said nothing could be grander than a get together. 

A lunch date is arranged quickly and so all four friends from different time zones meet face to face for the first time.

Happy ending?  Not yet.

During our loud and rowdy catching-up-on-the-in-between-years chat, we discover that many of my friends are also theirs and vice-versa.  

How's that for interconnectedness? 

God peppers the universe with people who interconnect at some point in time to become dear friends, in preparation for the eternal interconnection with Him in that glorious place where He lives.

Yes, the cosmos, the cosmos of grace, is within all of us.

No Fishy Tale

After my three sons' seventh or eight birthday parties, the rituals of our small family have always been spartan, if not austere.

This no-frills tone must have been set at our wedding moons ago.  I wore a pant suit (the trend in those days) and something on my head, which was too puny to be called a bridal veil. I held a yellow rose instead of a bouquet. Although Tony and both our dads wore coat and tie, they couldn't wait to take them off after the 15-minute ceremony.

The 12 people in church, immediate members of our families, then proceeded to a Chinese restaurant for an informal, noisy lauriat.

Many years later, what does a couple, who prefers shorts to slacks and an intimate supper to a formal dinner, do to celebrate a wedding anniversary?

The Trouble with Video Calls

Video calls are uninspiring. 

Please don't think I am whining.  We have enough whiners (and bellyachers) in this country. 

When I speak of video calls, I am simply thinking of its ancient counterpart, audio call: the good-old telephone, which I feel is a tad more inspiring than seeing an image that is a poor copy, a warped poor copy, of the living, breathing original.   

Last night, JR rang me up while I was seriously revising a book chapter. We haven't heard from him for at least a month and a call, any kind of call, would certainly be met with no less than New-Year's-eve thrill, watching fireworks, and awaiting another year of grace.

His face popped up on my monitor.  And as soon as I answered the ringtone, my own face popped up on a smaller frame by his chin. I hit the maximize button and my workroom felt like it suddenly had two doppelgangers from some galaxy alien to ours.    

Oh, what faces!

An Early Surprise

It's a Saturday, the only day of the week when I allow myself to loll in bed and contemplate nothing. There are no scheduled appointments, and I had done my umpteenth (and hopefully last) revision on my forthcoming book's manuscript before I hit the sack last night. 

An hour of idleness is all I could take, though, so I rise to visit the World Wide Web. 

Surprise! I come upon the number 100,000—my blogsite hits thus far.

I might have sworn off numbers, because they don't represent the real readers (who stay and come back and sometimes leave a comment), but a figure reaching six digits can't be ignored.

What shall I do next?  Well, like I always do when I celebrate a blog breakthrough, I change my old header: 

Here's my new one:

Thank you, everyone, for contributing to this awesome number.

Thank you, Lord, for the grace of 100,000 friends in cyberspace.

One Man's Meat Is Annother Man's Poison

This idiom has not surfaced in my consciousness for years, till yesterday.

My friend G and I were having lunch in a Japanese restaurant after a client call.  I looked through the glass panel and saw rain pelting the road.  Ahh . . . I never felt so divine!

I've always loved rain—as an innocent child and now as a wise (okay, atrophied) woman.  “Oh, I wish it would keep raining,” I thought aloud.  The sound of rain on the roof is my lullaby. 

“Ugh!” G grimaced. “Rain is out and out noise; it keeps me awake at night so I turn on the air-conditioner.”

I pondered the things that I love, which other people hate; and the other way around. 

Snakes unnerve me; they are kept as pets by a friend.     

Movie stars love crowds; writers relish solitude.

A Kiddie Pact

At right, in this photo taken a month ago, is my Manang Nieves.

She's three years my senior and she's been my friend since forever.  After my graduation from grade school, however, we hardly ever saw each other—she stayed put as a housewife in the town where we grew up, and I wandered to various places.  

But when I go home to Umingan, we see each other in church.  She has remained an active member of that place of worship, where we both used to sing in the choir. She still sings soprano (or tenor, in an all-female chorus) and is a driving force of the women's group.

Nieves was a huge part of my childhood. 

Her mother, Manang Ibay, helped my mom in caring for my little brothers and with the household chores for almost 40 years—till her last breath on earth. Since Manang Ibay was in our home 24/7 on weekdays, Nieves would be there at daytime, too (after school), before she went back to their house in the farm for the night.

First Day Jitters

This school year has begun.

On my way to class, I double-checked my big tote bag to make sure I had everything—flash drive, check; syllabus, check; work scheme, check; two sandwiches, check; sachet of three-in-one coffee, check; red pen, check; confidence, well . . . 

Jitters always accompany me on my first day anywhere. I've been teaching for ages, but first days always spook me—new students can spring unsettling surprises.

I got an amalgam of foreign students and local ones: some shy, some aggressive, some smug, some enthusiastic, some indifferent, and some with special needs. The first and only order of the day for me was to get these varied species collectively interested in the subject, English.

Budik and Ygo (and Me)

Budik is a new father. And Ygo is his son.

On Father's Day in church last Sunday, Budik made a testimony so moving it left almost everybody thinking, “I wish my father would speak that way about me.”

He spoke of gratitude to God for this gift of life.

He spoke of his joy and excitement when Ygo was born.

He spoke of a new resolve to work harder.

He spoke of giving up the spontaneous “gimik” (night out) that used to fill his carefree days.

He spoke of wanting to be with Ygo more than anything in the world. 

He spoke of his special bonding moments with him—the same quality time Ygo's mom spends breastfeeding him.

So where do I come in?

Real Vacation

Vacation is a word I rarely use. It's because I never allowed myself to have one—I mean, a real one.  

Except for the occasional weekend or holiday dinner-out/coffee or an overnight stay at Canyon Woods in Tagaytay with my family, I couldn't recall a time when I had an honest-to-goodness vacation, when I wasn't on the computer catching up on self-imposed deadlines or all over the house rustling up self-inflicted chores. 

Well, for the first time in years, I had a two-week vacation. It was unplanned, but it came at a perfect time.

As I have experienced again and again, that's how grace works—it comes even when you least expect it and when you need it most.

My best cousin, Miss B, had to come home to bury her mom, my aunt. It was a rushed and heart-breaking affair, something we thought we were ready for, but when it suddenly came, we realized we were  not ready at all. It's like the rug was suddenly pulled from under our feet, only worse. For nothing can prepare you for grief.

Doing Right

Disappointment, or even frustration, comes when you try to do something for others with the best of intentions, and you get criticized—or castigated—for doing it.

In a nutshell, that's the story of our lives.

There are always pros and antis to anything anyone does.

I once had an extra TV set which I hardly used. One day, a relatively new member of our staff mentioned that she'd been saving up for a TV set.  Immediately, I offered her my extra one. My reward for this good deed was a grateful face, all aglow.

The Forgiving Father

One of my favorite parables of Jesus is “The Prodigal Son,” which many call instead,  “The Forgiving Father.”  This story shows the depth of forgiveness fathers have in their reservoir of love for their children. 

Many stories have been spawned from this  parable, including one that I wrote, Look for the Star.  It is a tale about a couple in a remote barrio who make parol (Christmas  lanterns) for a living.  Despite their guidance and love, their only child fell into all sorts of trouble. He kept the company of the town’s rascals and scamps. 

While his parents were trying to talk some sense into him one night, he stormed out angrily and never came back.

Now Na!

These days we use a Taglish phrase to stress urgency, Now na! Translation: right this minute!

This is the phrase I use when people who desire to become published writers ask me,  “When is the best time to start writing?”

“Now na!”

Let me explain.

Mothers of Moses

The story of Moses' two mothers intrigued me when I first heard it in Sunday school.  May I re-tell it?    

When Moses was born, the Pharaoh ordered that all newborn Hebrew boys should die. But Moses’ mother, Jochebed, disobeyed the king. Despite the danger of being caught by Pharaoh's soldiers, who searched everywhere, she hid Moses for three months. 

Then she made a basket of bulrushes and placed baby Moses there. She laid this tiny boat-like basket in the bank of the Nile River.

Missing Birthday Boy

He's missing this year and we're missing him.

Adrian turned four last May 5, and for the first time, he did not fly home to the Philippines to celebrate his birthday with us.  For the past three years, his parents usually scheduled their yearly vacation to coincide with Adrian's birthday, so we had been blessed to have him on his first, second, and third birthdays. 

This year's different. Vacation leave schedules have gone haywire due to  a series of fortunate events. And so we celebrated the birthday boy's special day via the internet—through crisp and clear photos taken by his mother.  We greeted him on the phone and heard his voice, which is somehow different from the way it sounded a year ago.

Home Again for Auntie Pat

When I came to Umingan, my dear little hometown, on Easter for my mother's 8th death anniversary, I thought that would be it. I had not planned on coming back anytime soon.

But just one month later, here I am again.

This time, for another very important event—to welcome back the remains of mom's best friend and younger sister, my Auntie Pat.

 

Four year's ago, Auntie Pat (who had Alzheimer's) was brought to the US by her children who reside there. They wanted to be with her and take care of their mom themselves.

Outrageous Yellow

Waiting in line for a doctor, which takes forever, is reading time, writing time, or when the clinic is in a mall, window-shopping time.

So I walk about, looking at display windows, with no interest whatsoever in buying anything. Then from a few meters away, it catches my eye. Amidst the shelves and shelves of rubber shoes,  it  beckons me, “Come closer.”

When Is Mother's Day?

Two of my most respected writers, Chitang Nakpil ("Mother's Day is for sissies.") and Rina Jimenez-David ("Unless my children make an effort, Mother’s Day passes like any other weekend."), do not go gaga over Mother's Day as many people do. 

Reading their articles on this event that is celebrated almost worldwide, I heave a sigh of relief.  I am in good company.

I have lived with males all my married life and so I march to a different drummer. The oldest male is a dyed-in-the wool adman, who creates and hypes up interest for special days, so he is cynical about occasions like  Mother's Day or Valentine's Day.

Shelf Life

This morning I threw away a can of pineapple juice and a bottle of Ventolin Expectorant.  They're both way past their shelf life or "Best before" date.

Shelf life . . . I've been deeply thinking about it the last few days as I begin to write my next book on, guess what, retirement.

A Letter to My Cyber Friends and Guests

This site's server took down all posts of all bloggers from May 11 to May 13 for maintenance work.

My last blog, "Angie's Silence and the RH Bill" (below) was off the page for one and a half days. Now it's back, but I lost all your comments!

Sob, sob.  I know technology has its pitfalls, but grace abounds and enables us to rebound. 

Thank you for visiting again, despite the hiccup.

Blessings,
Grace

Angie's Silence and the RH Bill

Angie, portly at 36, lives in the slums, and is a workaholic. She is in perpetual motion, sometimes forgetting to breathe, but never forgetting to smile.

What a joy to have her at home! She comes in before breakfast and leaves after supper, three times a week, to help Ate Vi with the household chores.

"Angie, come sit down for some chat," I called out one day to give her a break from the umpteenth job she was doing.

She refused to sit down. She just stood there smiling while I asked her questions. "I am not trying to pry, I just want to get to know you a little better."

She talked as she worked, non-stop.  She has four children, three are with her mom in the province; only Neneng, 10, the youngest, is with her in Manila.  With her income from houskeeping, she could only afford to keep one child with her.

Her husband, whom she had to marry at age 17 because she was pregnant, left her for good after Neneng was born. “He has had so many girlfriends,” she revealed.  Before his final exit, "He kept leaving for months on end, living in with his flavor of the month.”

Since she was being candid, I was emboldened to ask, "So why do you have four children if he's been cheating on you since day one?"

Medals of Motherhood

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To Makati,” I reply.

“Where in Makati?” he pushes.

“Greenbelt.”

"What will you do there?” he probes.

“Have lunch with my old friends from my old office,” I say.

“What time are you coming home?”

“Before five PM,” I estimate.

“Okay, please make sure you're home by five.”

In Love with David

In my youth I was in love with David, the young, handsome shepherd who slew Goliath, the much-feared giant warrior. Michelangelo’s sculpture was how I saw his face.

Well, the description of David in 1 Samuel 16:12 (KJV) is thus: “. . . Now he was ruddy, and withal of a beautiful countenance, and goodly to look to. And the LORD said, Arise, anoint him: for this is he.”

A House Is Not a Home

A house is just a shell, I know.  A structure isn't a home. 

So why should anyone weep over rotting wood, and leaking roof?

Yeah, why should I? 

I went home to the nondescript town where I grew up over the Easter weekend to commemorate my mother's 8th death anniversary with three of my four siblings and their families.  I usually don't make time for this occasion because I want to remember my mother's life, not her death.

For the past seven years, only my sister Aie and brother Matt (and family) made the annual special trip (two of my brothers are abroad) to our town, to be with the church people who were my mom's family when all her children left home.

Why Easter Sunday?  Mom died on Good Friday and it seemed like a good idea that her death anniversary be on Easter.

Let Loose, Let Go

Twice a day I visit my FB account and while there, I greet birthday celebrators, click “like” on some messages, and type one-liners on others. In ten minutes, I get to know what's up with the world among my cyber friends.

One wall post particularly hit me hard one day.  It was by motivational speaker and author, Francis Kong: “Missing my baby. My 24-year-old Hannah Kong will be going to Paris to continue her studies in Fashion. Our kids, no matter what age they are will always be our babies . . . but got to let them go to pursue their dreams.”

I clicked on “like” and typed, “My thoughts exactly.”

My own baby, JR, will leave early tomorrow for abroad to take up his Master of Laws (LLM) degree.  After that, who knows where his dreams will take him? 

Most Eloquent Message

On Easter (last year), my email in-box got clogged with so many messages and commentaries.  The most eloquent for me came from the mouth of a special child. Let me summarize it.

At age 10 James was still in kindergarten; his motor skills and speech were way below everybody's.

That day, James’ teacher spoke about Easter and what it means to Christians. "Jesus rose from the grave," she said. "The only one nailed on the cross who did so. He lives." She also spoke of eggs, bunnies, white lilies, and all the symbols of Easter familiar to children.

From Chili to Coffee

The upside to living with three men (two sons and a husband) is you don't do groceries, nor drive.

The downside is, you never get to choose where to eat.  In group activities, the majority rules. 

Hey, I am not complaining. It so happens that all these men love to cook  (I don't) and are food connoisseurs (I am not).  I claim to be a foodie because I am basically adventurous when it comes to food; I gobble up everything served on my plate.     

Except hot cuisine and brewed coffee. 

First, the hot cuisine.  They have a favorite Chinese restaurant on a side street just off Makati Ave. called LSQ.  It serves northern Chinese food, mostly Beijing home recipes. Meaning, very, very hot.

 

Yes, those red things are chili peppers.  I choke and cough just by looking at them. Most, if not all, of the dishes are so hot you have to nag the waiter to please beg the chef to go easy on the chili.

Are Wedding Vows Eternal Love?

We attended another wedding again today.  I was expecting the vows to be unique, since this seems to be a trend. 

Young people in this digital era often shun traditions, because they have their own minds and they want their own words on this important day of their lives to be immortalized. 

Today, too, it seems easy to write one's love for a would-be spouse, because there are many primers and tutorials on the Net: How to write your own wedding vows. These even include a choice of moods: funny, witty, sentimental, happy, wishful, you name it, you can find one online. 

But no matter how they are beautifully written or said at the altar, wedding vows are about eternal love.  During that part of the ceremony, guests sit up in attention, straining their ears to hear what those words are. 

Unfortunately, despite all these love avowals, the number of divorces and annulments are heartbreaking. Researchers estimate that "41 percent of all first marriages end in divorce, and 8.6 percent of second marriages end in divorce." Alarming and heartbreaking. 

Quite a few of the marriages where I was a ninang are now broken—and  children are always the helpless and innocent victims. Most of the well-publicized unions which ended in divorce are those of celebrities. There are very few that last "for as long as we both shall live."

One of these lasting and well-celebrated marriages is Princess Elizabeth's (now known as The Queen).  She married Philip Mountbatten, a former prince of Greece and Denmark, in November 1947; they have been married for 64 long years.  

It's heartbreaking that wedding vows are no longer taken seriously. 

Well, many who marry and express eternal love at the altar may not actually believe that marriage is a holy union. It's not God Who unites them but the law. Therefore, their vows to each other mean little to nothing.

The Bible does not explicitly mention wedding vows for the groom or bride as requirements in a marriage. But it says in Hebrews 13:4 (NLT), "Give honor to marriage, and remain faithful to one another in marriage. God will surely judge people who are immoral and those who commit adultery." 

"Faithfulness to one another" is more than a vow. It is eternal love.  

 

Photo credit: POPPERFOTO/GETTY

Teach and Die a Little

I am speaking for myself as a college teacher—a tiny part of me that dwells in a heart that is largely occupied by writing and book talking.

Although I teach only twice a week (total of six hours), this calling, for me, is rejuvenating grace, and I therefore take it seriously—so seriously I die a little when a student fails.

It feels like I have not given my best.   

This is a far cry from my experience as a student in UP, where some professors never cared whether I attended their class or not.  It never bothered them if the whole class failed.   

When I mope about a student in danger of failing, I hear these wise counsel from concerned co-teachers who are also my friends:

Storming Heaven

My friend Louie texted me this frantic message about her husband, “Hi, all! Please help us storm heaven with prayers.  Rey admitted to hospital after five weeks of recurring pain, diff. meds and tests.  This is the third hospital we've been to and doctors can't diagnose!”

This text message was oh-so-familiar! I sent a similar one years ago (via landline and email; cellphones were not yet in vogue) when Tony went through a colon cancer surgery, and again years after, when he had a quadruple heart bypass. 

Send a message like that and immediately, friends, friends of friends, relatives, and relatives of relatives go on their knees to storm heaven for God's mercy.  

The next text message from Louie came three days later, just when Tony and I were on our way to visit Rey in the hospital.  

“Hi, all! God continues to show His mighty healing power and love for Rey.  These past days, doctors continue to express amazement @ this latest miracle . . . we know it was all your prayers that pulled him through.  He's now walking, taking liquid food, and two more tubes were removed—praise God!  Please continue to help us pray for full recovery.” 

Song of Mateo

At the height of  the ruckus caused by six-year-old Jan-Jan* on Willling Willie, my friend Rose sent me a refreshing note on FB, reminding me of my song in Oh, Mateo! Book 11, “Crying Children.”   The reminder came at a perfect time.

Music is not my strongest suit, so I wrote the lyrics with some vague, forgettable tune in my head, hoping someone would compose the song for me.  

I asked a young friend to do it, but he was busy and was taking a mighty long time.  So when I bumped into Rose, who eats notes for breakfast, I dared ask her to please compose it in time for the book launch.

Must Children Beg?

When a six-year-old child is pushed to beg in the streets by his parents, what could he be thinking? 

1. I wish I could play with my friends instead.
2. I love doing this; there's nothing I'd rather do!
3. I need to do this so I can earn some money to buy food. 

This child couldn't speak for himself, so I wish to speak for him in this forum where I  hope I won't remain the sole speaker.  Please feel free to share your views.        

My guess is, answer no. 1.  Kids are wired to play and be kids.  
As for for number 2, I do not know of any kid born a workaholic. 
And 3, earning a living is an adult concept, not yet a part of a kids' psyche.

Long-distance Love

I talked to Adrian on the phone this morning (evening in Michigan, USA) and I was surprised to find his voice “grown-up.”  His tiny-tot rasp is gone.  What I heard was a clear, crisp voice of a little boy turning four, in four and a half weeks.  

My first question was, “What are you doing, Adrian?”  I keep forgetting his parents' request for us to speak to him in Filipino.

He replied, “Ano po?”  (Rough translation: What was that again, po?)  Po is a Filipino word of respect for an older person.

I almost fell off my seat.

Recovering, I asked the same question in Filipino, “Anong ginagawa mo, Adrian?”

Heaven's Corner

Somewhere in Baguio City is Heaven's Corner—a cozy place where one can commune with God or with the people He has assigned to write about Him.  With a flip of a page, here and there, you could read all about His grace and His mighty acts in many books.

Heaven's Corner is a Christian bookstore that opened its second branch on Saturday at SM.  It was the reason I went up to Baguio where I enjoyed the cool air that doesn't come from consoles powered by electricity but from nature powered by the Almighty.

In the short dedication ceremony, the pastor reminded us that Heaven's Corner is a blessing from God, who is the Source of all good gifts.  It must therefore exist to honor and give glory to Him.  We do not own anything, we are simply caretakers of any business He entrusts to us.

We prayed that every reader who enters the place may likewise be blessed by Him.

A kiddie show followed.  Teacher Cynthia, owner (rather, caretaker of God's bookstore), read “Half and Half” to the children gathered there.  And then, a surprise! Mateo, the puppet, appeared and spoke his lines in the story!

 
Mateo then interviewed me, to the delight of the kids and their parents.  Free books were given away to brave kids who came forward to answer questions and introduce themselves.

For the first time since the “Oh! Mateo” series was launched, four Mateos were in one place all at one time:  Mateo, the puppet, traveled all the way from Manila in the OMF van; my nephew Mateo who inspires the adventures of Mateo, the book hero; my brother from whom my nephew got his name; and then  my late father, the original Mateo, who was very much in my mind that day.  

The event had the same scenes that are re-enacted in many places in the country —wide-eyed kids lined up for their books to be signed, parents assisting them in the process, 'hellos' from new friends introducing themselves, and the OMFLit staff making sure everything is done in clockwork precision. 

But there was something awe-inspiring about the idea of a corner in heaven. 

In my imagination, it's an airy place with clean, crisp wind caressing your cheeks as you converge with the little children Jesus loves; and in the same tableau are parents standing in the periphery, grateful for being chosen to play important roles in these children's lives.

Oh, in heaven's corner—how awesome it would be to there someday!

Bladder Control

My trip back to Manila from Baguio began with what seemed like a violent rebellion, similar to what is ongoing in Libya. 

When people started filing into the deluxe bus—with comfort room—the stewardess announced, “Sorry, Ma'am, Sir, the comfort room is out of order.

“WHAAAAT?!”  “x*&x+*#z!!!” A loud howl from all the passengers.

“Victory Liner will refund P100, Ma'am, Sir . . .”

“x*&x+*#z!!!”  in accelerating crescendo. 

We were helpless at that point.  The buses on schedule that day and the next were already fully booked. 

“Okay,” one sensible man suggested, “the bus should stop by a gas station whenever necessary!”

Everyone agreed and so we, seething still, took our seats.  I put my tired feet up and tried to be as comfortable (!) as possible.  

But it was my misfortune (more like a cruel joke) to be seated in front of the comfort room and all through the five-hour ride, the “out of order” sign was right smack at my eye level.

 

Traveling on a public bus takes a lot of bladder control, if you are taking prescription pills with diuretics.

Well, everyone who took the bus for the same reason I did, managed pretty well. Two pit stops and the groaning stopped.

It was a safe, scenic ride all the way and every once in a while, I'd softly sing the hymn printed on the UCCP Church Bulletin which I kept after the morning service before my trip. It was to remind me that there are more important things in life than fretting about a sudden hiccup. 

“O Jesus, Thou hast promised to all who follow Thee,
That where Thou art in glory, there shall Thy servant be;
And, Jesus, I have promised to serve Thee to the end;
O give me grace to follow my Master and my Friend!”

It was comforting (pun intended) to find Tony at the bus depot, who, as usual, half listened to my impassioned narration of the passengers' woes about the busted comfort room. 

"So how did the affair in Baguio go?"  he asked instead.

(Oooops, I should really be blogging about that, not this. Next post, I promise.)

Road Treat to Baguio

In two hours I should be in a bus to Baguio to attend the opening of a new bookstore there. 

It's going to be a long five-hour ride; it would take a couple of hours more if I rode an ordinary bus. 

Thankfully, there is now what they call Victory Liner de-luxe, non-stop, with a comfort room, TV, a stewardess who serves free snacks, and free wi-fi.  For a few additional bucks—much cheaper than going by car—this ride will afford you time to go through a gamut of activities and still relax a spent body and mind. 

 

I am actually looking forward to it—the bus ride, not Baguio (this deserves another post). I know exactly what to do with five hours—some crosswords, some net surfing, some snoozing, some eating, some sightseeing, some reflecting, some Nook reading, and some editing.

Yes, editing.  Self editing.

I have recently finished a book on "singlehood" (if you need to know more, please leave a comment or e-mail me)  which I am about to discuss with my publisher.  Before I could have the nerve to do that, the manuscript has to go through some more tweaking and twisting.

I'll need a lot of grace to wade through 20,000 words or so, and to make sure each one is in place.  The hardest part of being a writer is when you try to put yourself in the shoes of the reader and hear a question in your mind: 

"What do you mean by this word/sentence/paragraph, Grace?" 

I believe that the first responsibility of a writer (before he can even begin to inspire, encourage, or excite) is to make herself  understood.

So do you understand me this far?

I hope you do, because I am about to upload this blog, log out, and run to the bus station. 

And oh, please help me pray for traveling mercies.

Chivalry is Alive

"If Chivalry is dead, women killed it,” said Dave Chappelle, an American comedian, and many others who might have quoted him or had the same idea. 

Chivalry as we used to define it in my time is gallantry, courtesy, and readiness to help the weak—noble qualities of the knight in shining armor who saved women in distress.

Then, men opened doors for women, offered their seats and jackets, walked on the danger side of the street, and paid for all the bills on dates and parties. 

These are different times. 

The most common scapegoat for the death or near-death of chivalry (as an aside, my family is of the old world in this respect) is the feminist movement. Many laws have been passed in many countries since the 70’s on the equal rights of women, and many old habits have been altered. 

The other scapegoat is the abolition of ROTC that taught young men good manners and right conduct in society.

And the universal scapegoat is, of course, technology, which has kept us in our own little bubble.

The days of scented love letters have been taken over by ungrammatical, hastily written emails.  Visits to ladies’ dorms and homes (including the late-night serenade) have been replaced by hurried text messages and phone calls.

The smaller the world is becoming, the easier it is to communicate, and therefore the need to reach out to others personally has drastically fallen to the bottom of priorities.  

I had this frame of mind when I boarded a bus for Makati last week.  It was SRO but I had an appointment to catch, so I thought standing from Las Pinas to Makati was the better deal than being late.

There were burly, able-bodied young men seated all around, some looking out the window, some  riveted to the TV set, and some feigning sleep.   

Then a young, slight lady, maybe in her early 20’s, suddenly stood up and tapped my shoulder.  “Ma’am, you may take my seat.”

“Oh, no! I can’t do that.  But thank you anyway,” I said, surprised by her kindness.

“Please,” she said, giving me a sweet, lovely smile.

The men heard nothing, saw nothing, said nothing.

So I took her seat, and thanked the Lord for this unexpected grace. 

“You are an angel,” I told her.

Now that I was comfortable, I looked around.  There was a pregnant lady and another lady carrying a toddler at the back, both trying hard to balance themselves as the bus driver hit the brakes.

Then an elderly, stooped man came into the bus.  He joined the rest of humanity who were in the bus aisle trying to live with what is. 

So is chivalry dead?

Our world is going into a new direction and we seem to be powerless to stop it.  But I believe that my angel that day was taught about chivalry.  Not chivalry as we define or defile it, but chivalry as good parents know it, and teach it. 

Children who learn the right values at an early age—in homes that live by Bible truths and follow the ways of Jesus—carry these with them as they grow up, whether they're men or women.

In them, chivalry is alive.

Earthquake and Tsunami? Love Conquers All

I was putting on my party dress when the Japan earthquake crumpled buildings, swept away cars, and swallowed up homes.  Hours later, when the party was in full swing,  tsunamis rampaged over coastlines and wreaked havoc on anything that was on the way.

And I was oblivious to it all.

Switching my cell phone to mute so I could savor the 25th wedding renewal of vows of two dear friends, I was deaf and dumb to the  danger, disaster, and devastation that was happening in another part of the world.

If a wedding can bring tears to one's eyes, the renewal of wedding vows can grip one's heart to goose bumps.  In this era of divorces, separations, and annulments, a 25-year marriage is big reason enough to celebrate. 

The “bride and groom” read the scripted words “I am renewing my . . .” but they also read new words from their heart, like: “If I were to live my life all over again, I would still love and cherish only one woman—the mother of my three daughters, my wife of 25 years.”

There were moments of tears—when their own marriage's earthquakes and tsunamis were confessed to the crowd of family and close friends.  But most of all, there was much rejoicing for and toasting to a grace-filled married life.

It was only this morning when I woke up, and watched the world news, that I found out what had happened the night before. 

The horrific images feel like it's the beginning of the end of the world!  It may well be.

We are experiencing the wrath of nature never before seen in our lifetime.  And there are predictions, based on scientific studies, that we should brace ourselves for more.

In these turbulent times, we can no longer just sit passively and let nature take its course.  We need to celebrate God's love in our lives, and believe in the one true God who is more powerful than what we are witnessing today with our human eyes.

He said in Deuteronomy 7:9 and in many parts of the Scriptures, “Understand, therefore, that the Lord your God is indeed God. He is the faithful God who keeps His covenant for a thousand generations and lavishes His unfailing love on those who love Him and obey His commands.” 

Let us put our trust in this love, for nothing is greater:  “ . . . so we will not fear when earthquakes come and the mountains crumble into the sea.” (Psalm 46:2)

Relish God's love on your 25th, Congressman Cesar and Lala!

Where the Action Was

To reading advocates, one of the most delightful habits anyone could ever have is, reading. That's why I often write about it.

We've read in our history books that Gen. Douglas McArthur (World War II) left the Philippines for the USA, but vowed, "I shall return."

On October 20, 1944, he indeed returned and landed in Palo, Leyte to lead the drive against the Japanese forces.

When I read about this in my own history textbook as a little girl, I imagined how this dramatic coming back was like.

The many photos showing Gen. MacArthur and his team when he marched through the sea water to the shore, in full uniform, paled in comparison with the photos in my mind.

Yes, any book (which allows one's imagination to enter every impenetrable wall, including the characters' mind) is exceedingly better than any movie version.

Now how about if you saw the real thing? I mean, saw something you've only read about in textbooks, imagined, seen in photos, and re-enacted in movies?

I had that one-of-a-kind experience recently.

I was at the spot where Gen. McArthur landed to fulfill his promise, "I Shall Return."

Approaching the place, I could see giant bronze statues. They looked exactly like the photos I'd seen as a little girl. But as soon as we got close to the giants, I started gasping.

They are huge (much larger than the giants in my imagination), and because they are three-dimensional, they look almost in motion!

I am sharing with you (below) one of the dozens of photos I took.
 

Reading, as I keep saying, is a wonderful thing. But, then, when you get the chance to be at the same spot where people, places, and events you've only read about actually are, it's grace beyond imagination.

(Excerpted from my column, "Big Little People,"  The Freeman, February 17, 2011 issue.)

Oh, to be in places where Jesus walked! 

Slave to Statistics

When at last "The Little Prince" lands on planet Earth (Antoine De Saint Exupery's well-loved novel of the same title) in Chapter 16, the author cites many crazy numbers, to dramatize that this place where we live is different from other planets in the universe. 

We earthlings like to count, a habit that has become a full-blown science called Statistics.

Statistics are now indispensable in all disciplines, because they add credibility to any pursuit. We like to measure productivity or success in terms of numbers.  Statistics are undeniably useful—we are able to chart future occurrences (global warming, for instance) or behaviors based on previously gathered data. 

The trouble is, I think I may have become a slave to statistics.

Gosh, I had just blogged about my grammar affliction, and now I have another malady.   

My early symptoms: I subscribed to an electronic counter which tracks the number of my blog guests—how long they stayed, how often they returned, and where they come from.

Every day I visit this counter and it always determines my delight index. When the number of hits leaped from one (mine) to nine, my heart leaped as well.

Then two days ago—four years later—my leaping heart did a somersault over my extraordinary number—88,888!  Never mind if most of those hits were stray or a result of erroneous googles. 

Although this number is smaller than those of food, travel, dating, celebrity, and political blogs, it's still far beyond my book readers' total. How can one not get delirious?

Suddenly last Friday, Dr. Melba jolted me out of my delusion.

As our speaker at the Christian Writers Fellowship at OMF, she reminded us of our responsibilities as authors:  

"Use your gift so it can speak for those who can't speak for themselves." 

"The ability to verbalize what others can only perceive, or half understand, is a calling."

"Words can protect; words can put men on their feet."

"Writing opens windows for children."

"Writing should be used to critique abuse of power."

"Writers should stand on the side of the oppressed."

"Do justice, love kindness, walk humbly with God." Micah 6:8

"Bear witness.  Writers should be like Joseph, Daniel, Esther—instruments of blessing in the diaspora."

"Many people feel there's something wrong. Writers should discern, have insight, and tell them why."

In short, writers should not count; they should write. 

Two or two thousand may read my writings—that should not bother me nor butter up my ego. 

I revisited my first post (I should do it more often) to make me remember why I decided to blog.  I wrote:   

"As you e-flip through my leaves, you'll find nothing but songs of grace. For I know deep inside of me—in  that place where I often look—everything good and potentially good, big or small, that I see, hear, smell, taste and touch are what I am keen on writing about."  

A comment came in:  "This is my first time to visit your blog. Our dear professor actually recommended it. As a graduating student who's been into a lot of stressful situations lately, your entries instantly refreshed me. And I know they always will. Expect my frequent visits, then."

Now, that one hit isn't just a number.

(Lower photo, borrowed from Ruth, second from right on second row)