7/17/2012
2012 National Children's Book Day
Highest Blog Hits
Don't fall for statistics . . . don't fall for statistics . . . don't fall for statistics . . .
This I repeat to myself whenever I post a blog. I really (really!) want to focus on why I am blogging, and not worry whether only one reads it—Tony, only because I beg him to.
Who am I kidding?
Occasionally I wonder why some blog sites can generate 54,000,000 unique visitors per month and why mine gets only 4,000. Then I quickly shake off the errant thought and concentrate on my blog at hand.
But curiosity always gets the better of me and I click on “stats” today. What it reveals about my all-time top-five blog posts baffles me.
No. 1: “Prayer as a Lifestyle,” October, 2009
No. 2: “Man and Woman,” May 2012
No. 3: “Shelf Life,” May 2011
No. 4: “Upside-down Umbrella,” January 2010
No. 5: “Why Leaves of Grace?” my very first blog post, November, 2006
“Why Leaves of Grace?” I like to think that my new visitors want to know why I named my blog Leaves of Grace.
“Upside-down Umbrellas” is literally that. It features the marvelous interior design masterpiece of my friend L using upside-down umbrellas. Maybe people google it because upside-down umbrellas are good omen to the superstitious?
“Shelf Life” introduces one of the many concepts on retirement—a book I have recently finished writing—that explains our dread over the expiry date of our usefulness. Maybe people click it for information on perishable items?
“Man and Woman” is a very recent post but it climbed up to the No. 2 spot in my hit chart pretty quickly, dislodging many much older posts. It discusses the differences between genders and nurturing them. Maybe people google the three words for different reasons, and my post is a beneficiary?
“Prayer as a Lifestyle” is by far the top blog on my hit chart. It's a very old post but still gets over a dozen hits a day. Maybe people are searching for answers and have turned to prayer? Or maybe, like me, they want to deeply understand and live the multi-dimensional essence of prayer?
For whatever reasons, I am grateful to my blog guests for dropping by to read about the amazing grace that comes to us in our big and small daily chores.
We stand in awe of the God who untiringly dispenses this grace, from sunrise to sunrise.
This I repeat to myself whenever I post a blog. I really (really!) want to focus on why I am blogging, and not worry whether only one reads it—Tony, only because I beg him to.
Who am I kidding?
Occasionally I wonder why some blog sites can generate 54,000,000 unique visitors per month and why mine gets only 4,000. Then I quickly shake off the errant thought and concentrate on my blog at hand.
But curiosity always gets the better of me and I click on “stats” today. What it reveals about my all-time top-five blog posts baffles me.
No. 2: “Man and Woman,” May 2012
No. 3: “Shelf Life,” May 2011
No. 4: “Upside-down Umbrella,” January 2010
No. 5: “Why Leaves of Grace?” my very first blog post, November, 2006
“Why Leaves of Grace?” I like to think that my new visitors want to know why I named my blog Leaves of Grace.
“Upside-down Umbrellas” is literally that. It features the marvelous interior design masterpiece of my friend L using upside-down umbrellas. Maybe people google it because upside-down umbrellas are good omen to the superstitious?
“Shelf Life” introduces one of the many concepts on retirement—a book I have recently finished writing—that explains our dread over the expiry date of our usefulness. Maybe people click it for information on perishable items?
“Man and Woman” is a very recent post but it climbed up to the No. 2 spot in my hit chart pretty quickly, dislodging many much older posts. It discusses the differences between genders and nurturing them. Maybe people google the three words for different reasons, and my post is a beneficiary?
“Prayer as a Lifestyle” is by far the top blog on my hit chart. It's a very old post but still gets over a dozen hits a day. Maybe people are searching for answers and have turned to prayer? Or maybe, like me, they want to deeply understand and live the multi-dimensional essence of prayer?
For whatever reasons, I am grateful to my blog guests for dropping by to read about the amazing grace that comes to us in our big and small daily chores.
We stand in awe of the God who untiringly dispenses this grace, from sunrise to sunrise.
7/13/2012
Jungle on Facebook
To say that Facebook is like a jungle may be accurate. In one reading, as you scroll down “Home,” you get snapshots of all forms of inhabitants.
In a page, you read messages that reflect people's varied characters, traits, politics, dispositions, spirituality or the lack of it, activities, and status (this is the most volatile of all).
They represent the depth and breadth of the animal kingdom—from the tamest to the wildest—and all types in between: gentle and ferocious; loving and angry; mushy and gritty; optimistic and pessimistic; orderly and messy; intelligent and dense; profound and inane; sweet and bitter; inspiring and disparaging; generous and greedy; fair and prejudiced; enthusiastic and sarcastic; deep and shallow; spiritual and profane; etc, etc.
As I read the posts, I am alternately inspired and disappointed. And I ask myself these four questions:
1) Why do we choose to be nasty when it is better to be kind?
2) Why do we choose to be angry when there is so much to be thankful for?
3) Why do we choose to destroy when it is more productive to build?
4) If we can't write anything good, why write at all?
These are the same questions I ask myself when I read the dailies.
Then I turn introspective and go back to our Biblical history: From “The Fall,” the day God sent Adam and Eve out of the peaceful Garden of Eden, everything has been a like a jungle, where vultures and victims co-exist.
So as not to fall prey to the dangers of ravenous beasts (or becoming like them), and losing ourselves, we need to be armed every day. Ammo can only come from a God who gives us His grace of protection through our conscience and discernment, if we humble ourselves and seek Him out.
“ . . . whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.” Philippians 4:8 (KJV)
Images: http://slodive.com/inspiration/funny-pictures-of-animals/
In a page, you read messages that reflect people's varied characters, traits, politics, dispositions, spirituality or the lack of it, activities, and status (this is the most volatile of all).
They represent the depth and breadth of the animal kingdom—from the tamest to the wildest—and all types in between: gentle and ferocious; loving and angry; mushy and gritty; optimistic and pessimistic; orderly and messy; intelligent and dense; profound and inane; sweet and bitter; inspiring and disparaging; generous and greedy; fair and prejudiced; enthusiastic and sarcastic; deep and shallow; spiritual and profane; etc, etc.
1) Why do we choose to be nasty when it is better to be kind?
2) Why do we choose to be angry when there is so much to be thankful for?
3) Why do we choose to destroy when it is more productive to build?
4) If we can't write anything good, why write at all?
These are the same questions I ask myself when I read the dailies.
Then I turn introspective and go back to our Biblical history: From “The Fall,” the day God sent Adam and Eve out of the peaceful Garden of Eden, everything has been a like a jungle, where vultures and victims co-exist.
So as not to fall prey to the dangers of ravenous beasts (or becoming like them), and losing ourselves, we need to be armed every day. Ammo can only come from a God who gives us His grace of protection through our conscience and discernment, if we humble ourselves and seek Him out.
“ . . . whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.” Philippians 4:8 (KJV)
Images: http://slodive.com/inspiration/funny-pictures-of-animals/
7/09/2012
Don't Smoke, Please?
Knowing I teach Advertising/Marketing, a friend emailed me a link to images of vintage cigarette ads.
I did a few ads for a cigarette company in my time (shoot me), and I experimented with smoking in college (shoot me again), but these old ads smack of . . . um, uh . . .
Babies as endorsers?
Doctors/Nurses encouraging smoking?
Santa Claus puffing and huffing?
Women becoming more attractive through cigarettes?
We've come a long way. Today, ad claims are regulated and cigarette advertising is banned in most countries, including the Philippines. Many buildings now prohibit smoking and in many offices, there are limited areas for smokers.
Our own Metropolitan Manila Development Authority (MMDA) has gone into an aggressive anti-smoking campaign. It recently unveiled a mobile smoking cessation clinic: a converted bus deployed in many areas to counsel and suggest lifestyle change to smokers.
At the launching of this bus, a survivor of throat cancer gave a moving testimony about how he lost his voice to smoking.
I have grieved over a dozen close friends who died of lung cancer in the past five years. Four of them were non-smokers, but they were in the company of heavy smokers in their home or place of work. That's why I am thankful that many forms of anti-smoking crusades have sprouted today.
And yet, the death toll and economic losses from cigarette remain alarming. Ten Filipinos die every hour from illnesses caused by smoking, while the country loses nearly P500 billion annually from healthcare costs and productivity losses, according to an anti-tobacco group.
Fortunately, cigarette advertising has evolved through the years, and these powerful ads today may yet save a friend's life. Grief, without grace, is a bottomless pit.
May we remember the Scriptures' admonition for us to keep our bodies free of toxins (tar and nicotine are but two of these) that snuff out our precious God-given lives.
“Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.” 1 Corinthians 6:19-20 (NIV)
Don't smoke, please?
Photo credits: thechive.com
I did a few ads for a cigarette company in my time (shoot me), and I experimented with smoking in college (shoot me again), but these old ads smack of . . . um, uh . . .
Babies as endorsers?
Our own Metropolitan Manila Development Authority (MMDA) has gone into an aggressive anti-smoking campaign. It recently unveiled a mobile smoking cessation clinic: a converted bus deployed in many areas to counsel and suggest lifestyle change to smokers.
At the launching of this bus, a survivor of throat cancer gave a moving testimony about how he lost his voice to smoking.
I have grieved over a dozen close friends who died of lung cancer in the past five years. Four of them were non-smokers, but they were in the company of heavy smokers in their home or place of work. That's why I am thankful that many forms of anti-smoking crusades have sprouted today.
And yet, the death toll and economic losses from cigarette remain alarming. Ten Filipinos die every hour from illnesses caused by smoking, while the country loses nearly P500 billion annually from healthcare costs and productivity losses, according to an anti-tobacco group.
Fortunately, cigarette advertising has evolved through the years, and these powerful ads today may yet save a friend's life. Grief, without grace, is a bottomless pit.
“Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.” 1 Corinthians 6:19-20 (NIV)
Don't smoke, please?
Photo credits: thechive.com
7/05/2012
Quiet Celebration
Yesterday was a quiet day, a wordless day, in fact. If you've been cleaved unto your husband for over four decades (more like forever) like I have, words need not be said.
I received many email and text greetings plus shout outs on FB, mostly from younger friends and much younger couples—proof that the younger generation celebrate and look out for a lasting relationship.
To commemorate the occasion (meaning, so I don't forget!) I uploaded yesterday on this site images of hearts, which in many cultures, including ours, represent undying love. I exaggerate—it is symbolic of love, not necessarily undying.
I also changed my header . . .
to something that reminded me of the huge, pale yellow, long-stemmed roses I used to receive before the undying (forgive me, I'll use this adjective liberally as I please today) love was sealed on paper.
They don't come anymore (Barbara Streisand sings, "You don't bring me flowers anymore”) simply because they were sold in Chicago where the undying love began and bloomed.
Yes, after the passing of time, what remains are not necessarily words that are formed with a string of letters, but a life that is marked by peace that passeth our mortal understanding.
Years teach us that undying love cannot be defined. It can be shown through flowers, sweet nothings, surprises, or other feel-good gestures planned and splurged on (oh, those were the days of yore), but most significantly, through the wordless act of believing that marriages are, as God meant them to be, "for as long as we both shall live."
Mark 10:9: "Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.”
I think he might have murmured an obligatory "Happy anniversary" upon waking up, and I might have slurred back, "Same to you" in a still sleepy yawn. Other than that, it was all, for me, a quietly intense thanksgiving to the God Who blesses us with the grace of forever marriages that stand the test of life-threatening diseases and mind-altering crises.
I received many email and text greetings plus shout outs on FB, mostly from younger friends and much younger couples—proof that the younger generation celebrate and look out for a lasting relationship.
To commemorate the occasion (meaning, so I don't forget!) I uploaded yesterday on this site images of hearts, which in many cultures, including ours, represent undying love. I exaggerate—it is symbolic of love, not necessarily undying.
I also changed my header . . .
Yes, after the passing of time, what remains are not necessarily words that are formed with a string of letters, but a life that is marked by peace that passeth our mortal understanding.
Years teach us that undying love cannot be defined. It can be shown through flowers, sweet nothings, surprises, or other feel-good gestures planned and splurged on (oh, those were the days of yore), but most significantly, through the wordless act of believing that marriages are, as God meant them to be, "for as long as we both shall live."
Mark 10:9: "Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.”
7/04/2012
7/03/2012
Point of View
My husband, first son and I were to dine in a pricey place, courtesy of second son and daughter-in-law who reside abroad. It was a Father's Day gift, which dad graciously extended to JC and me.
The restaurant was empty (sign of the economic downtrend?), except for a white-haired, bent old lady in a wheel chair and a young man. They were midway through their meal. Grandma and grandson, I thought.
While surveying the array of food, I overheard the conversation between lola and apo. It wasn't much of a dialogue; it was more of a monologue.
The young man was very solicitous, “This is really good, try it.” “I am sure you'll enjoy this other dish, it's the restaurant's specialty.” “Taste it, they're, delicious, right?” “Have some more.” “Let me scoop some for you.”
What a fine, young man! I gushed silently, a hint of tears fogging my eyeglasses. To husband and first son I verbalized my thoughts, “I wish my own sons and grandson would be half as good to me when I am that old.”
Reply of husband: “He just wants to extract some money from the old woman.”
Reply of first son: “The old lady forced him to escort her here.”
Two pails of cold water doused my spirit.
I am sure that if there were one other person with us, he would present a different perspective, too.
Points of view are like that; they are as varied as people, with individual hypothesis and conclusion.
My boss in the workplace used to say, “Try to reduce your meetings to just one client. If there were 12 clients in a room, you'd get 12 different points of view. And then you'd have an ad going in 12 different directions.”
Now, as for the grandmother and grandson, one of us might have been correct—or maybe not. But in this instance, I wish husband and first son were wrong.
As my contemporaries and I continue to advance in years (this is discussed at length in my new book, What, Me Retire? to be launched in September), I wish young people were as kind as the young man in the restaurant to their elders.
I wish they'd heed the words of the good Book, found in 1 Peter 5:5: “Likewise, you who are younger, be subject to the elders. Clothe yourselves, all of you, with humility toward one another, for 'God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.'”
When we left the place, the young man was wheeling the old lady toward a shiny limo where a uniformed driver was opening the passenger door.
Image: http://home.netcom.com/~swansont/
The restaurant was empty (sign of the economic downtrend?), except for a white-haired, bent old lady in a wheel chair and a young man. They were midway through their meal. Grandma and grandson, I thought.
While surveying the array of food, I overheard the conversation between lola and apo. It wasn't much of a dialogue; it was more of a monologue.
The young man was very solicitous, “This is really good, try it.” “I am sure you'll enjoy this other dish, it's the restaurant's specialty.” “Taste it, they're, delicious, right?” “Have some more.” “Let me scoop some for you.”
What a fine, young man! I gushed silently, a hint of tears fogging my eyeglasses. To husband and first son I verbalized my thoughts, “I wish my own sons and grandson would be half as good to me when I am that old.”
Reply of husband: “He just wants to extract some money from the old woman.”
Reply of first son: “The old lady forced him to escort her here.”
Two pails of cold water doused my spirit.
I am sure that if there were one other person with us, he would present a different perspective, too.
Points of view are like that; they are as varied as people, with individual hypothesis and conclusion.
Now, as for the grandmother and grandson, one of us might have been correct—or maybe not. But in this instance, I wish husband and first son were wrong.
As my contemporaries and I continue to advance in years (this is discussed at length in my new book, What, Me Retire? to be launched in September), I wish young people were as kind as the young man in the restaurant to their elders.
I wish they'd heed the words of the good Book, found in 1 Peter 5:5: “Likewise, you who are younger, be subject to the elders. Clothe yourselves, all of you, with humility toward one another, for 'God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.'”
When we left the place, the young man was wheeling the old lady toward a shiny limo where a uniformed driver was opening the passenger door.
Image: http://home.netcom.com/~swansont/
6/29/2012
Laughing with Nora Ephron
Nora Ephron makes (I re-read her books) me laugh, but now she's dead. Should I still laugh?
She was known as an intellectual, a journalist, an accomplished woman, a celebrity, a novelist/essayist, film director/screen writer, but for me, she was someone who, like a confidante who lived next door, told me so many truths about myself that would have been tragic had she not made them hilarious.
By writing about herself in her bestselling books, she was also writing about others who saw themselves in her adventures, in turn of phrases that make one guffaw in near tears. She could write about the bitterest experiences with such unpredictable wit they become funny quirks.
When my day becomes unreasonably tight and stressful, I turn to Nora Ephron's books and in a few minutes, the tight knots in my neck begin to loosen and disappear. She has (I talk about her in the present tense because her works will be around long after the tears of her passing shall have dried) a way of bringing on the ha-ha-ha. Her Sleepless in Seattle and You've Got Mail are two of my favorite feel-good movies.
She poked fun at aging, the bane of women over 40. She went as far as taking her illness (a six-year battle with Leukemia) and fading memory with a spoonful of sugar. Her thoughts on being a woman influenced and were enjoyed by many women who admired her works.
To die at age 71 is young in my book. Losing one who has been a part of your reading life at her age makes one sad.
So I did myself a favor and took down from my bookshelf her “I Feel Bad about My Neck,” bought on sale in a second-hand book shop years ago, and re-read a chapter or two.
What she did in life, she does exactly in death: make me laugh.
Lord, thank you for bringing into our lives people like Nora Ephron who could lighten our days with your grace of laughter.
She was known as an intellectual, a journalist, an accomplished woman, a celebrity, a novelist/essayist, film director/screen writer, but for me, she was someone who, like a confidante who lived next door, told me so many truths about myself that would have been tragic had she not made them hilarious.
By writing about herself in her bestselling books, she was also writing about others who saw themselves in her adventures, in turn of phrases that make one guffaw in near tears. She could write about the bitterest experiences with such unpredictable wit they become funny quirks.
When my day becomes unreasonably tight and stressful, I turn to Nora Ephron's books and in a few minutes, the tight knots in my neck begin to loosen and disappear. She has (I talk about her in the present tense because her works will be around long after the tears of her passing shall have dried) a way of bringing on the ha-ha-ha. Her Sleepless in Seattle and You've Got Mail are two of my favorite feel-good movies.
She poked fun at aging, the bane of women over 40. She went as far as taking her illness (a six-year battle with Leukemia) and fading memory with a spoonful of sugar. Her thoughts on being a woman influenced and were enjoyed by many women who admired her works.
To die at age 71 is young in my book. Losing one who has been a part of your reading life at her age makes one sad.
So I did myself a favor and took down from my bookshelf her “I Feel Bad about My Neck,” bought on sale in a second-hand book shop years ago, and re-read a chapter or two.
Lord, thank you for bringing into our lives people like Nora Ephron who could lighten our days with your grace of laughter.
6/27/2012
Fat Cops
This photo had me in stitches one early morning:
Ate Vi rushed to see what was wrong. She was sure I had snapped, not having heard me laugh that loud in a long time. A great way to start another extremely hot day. How refreshing it was to LOL!
I found this so funny because it hit home. Once I also couldn't bend from having a waistline as wide as my hips. That was when I suddenly found myself out of the workplace, unprepared for an early retirement.
My new pace in slomo and change of lifestyle made me eat more, sit around more, and sleep more. Before I knew it, I was thirty pounds overweight! My doctor found everything wrong with me after that and made me go through a daily-walk regimen.
Ah, how I wish I were a fat cat instead, but the loss of steady income had reduced me to a fat mess and mass.
It took many months and daily grace to shed off the unwanted pounds. And today, maintaining the ideal weight is still a constant battle for me. And I am not alone.
Back to fat cops: According to the Philippine National Police (PNP), one in 10 policemen are obese and will have to undergo a slimming program.
The findings prompted the PNP head to warn the 145,000-strong nationwide force they could lose their jobs if they were not physically fit.
Well, Philippine cops are not alone either. Obesity is a global phenomenon:
Now, how about fat superheroes?
Well, I won't go into alien territory. I'll stay close to home.
In my own ongoing war against weight gain and other excesses, I reflect on what Paul said in his letter to the Romans (Chapter 12:1-2 KJV), “. . . present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service. And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and perfect, will of God."
Top photo: Philippine Daily Inquirer, June 21, 2012 issue
I found this so funny because it hit home. Once I also couldn't bend from having a waistline as wide as my hips. That was when I suddenly found myself out of the workplace, unprepared for an early retirement.
My new pace in slomo and change of lifestyle made me eat more, sit around more, and sleep more. Before I knew it, I was thirty pounds overweight! My doctor found everything wrong with me after that and made me go through a daily-walk regimen.
Ah, how I wish I were a fat cat instead, but the loss of steady income had reduced me to a fat mess and mass.
It took many months and daily grace to shed off the unwanted pounds. And today, maintaining the ideal weight is still a constant battle for me. And I am not alone.
Back to fat cops: According to the Philippine National Police (PNP), one in 10 policemen are obese and will have to undergo a slimming program.
The findings prompted the PNP head to warn the 145,000-strong nationwide force they could lose their jobs if they were not physically fit.
Well, Philippine cops are not alone either. Obesity is a global phenomenon:
In my own ongoing war against weight gain and other excesses, I reflect on what Paul said in his letter to the Romans (Chapter 12:1-2 KJV), “. . . present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service. And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and perfect, will of God."
Top photo: Philippine Daily Inquirer, June 21, 2012 issue
6/23/2012
My Atheist Friend
John (not his real name), a Caucasian, was my client for about five years in my other life. He was the fair-haired boy of his multi-national company. Although he was young (30s), he was promoted by the US head office to Marketing Director in its Philippine subsidiary (the biggest in Asia in those days).
He headed the huge department that had a workforce of a dozen bright brand people and over 200 aggressive sales agents.
John was exceptionally smart, aggressive, and perceptive; he towered over most of my clients in our eyes. He could grasp ad concepts just by glimpsing tiny thumbnails (doodles), and we in the creative department did not have to go through elaborate presentations to make him see our point.
It was always a joy meeting with John in the board room. He was never rude and had a dry sense of humor.
He became a friend when he and I traveled abroad one day to see to a post-production of one of his products. Thoughtful and gentle, he was the epitome of GMRC (good manners and right conduct)—saying all the proper things, careful not to offend anyone.
That's why I almost choked on my sashimi when he mentioned that he was an atheist. In the same breath, he said in words to this effect, “I may not believe in the existence of a god, but I have a deep appreciation of what is right and wrong.”
I was not about to debate the subject. First off, an ad person is cautioned never to antagonize her client, especially one whose ad budget pays the salaries of everyone in the agency.
Like a turtle, I retreated into my shell and lost the golden opportunity to share my faith.
But my thought balloon was crowded with, How can you have a conscience and not believe in God? How can you, who have been incredibly blessed with so much, not see God's hand? I changed the subject to how well our TV ad had turned out.
John was promoted to a bigger subsidiary two years later, and today, he is the president of the entire conglomerate!
I have always believed that our conscience is a gift from a loving God, who likewise gave His only Son to save us. When we accept His Son's love, He guides us closely through our many weaknesses by heightening our conscience. In the process, we see God’s holy ways.
Our conscience is God’s way of saving us from further temptations, making us realize we need to cling to Him to see right from wrong.
On days when my conscience pricks me, I think of John.
I pray that one day, he will come to know that his “deep appreciation of right and wrong” is grace that could only come from a living God, who exists from everlasting to everlasting.
Photo credit: http://debunkingatheists.blogspot.com/2010/07/atheism-is-religion.html
He headed the huge department that had a workforce of a dozen bright brand people and over 200 aggressive sales agents.
John was exceptionally smart, aggressive, and perceptive; he towered over most of my clients in our eyes. He could grasp ad concepts just by glimpsing tiny thumbnails (doodles), and we in the creative department did not have to go through elaborate presentations to make him see our point.
It was always a joy meeting with John in the board room. He was never rude and had a dry sense of humor.
He became a friend when he and I traveled abroad one day to see to a post-production of one of his products. Thoughtful and gentle, he was the epitome of GMRC (good manners and right conduct)—saying all the proper things, careful not to offend anyone.
That's why I almost choked on my sashimi when he mentioned that he was an atheist. In the same breath, he said in words to this effect, “I may not believe in the existence of a god, but I have a deep appreciation of what is right and wrong.”
I was not about to debate the subject. First off, an ad person is cautioned never to antagonize her client, especially one whose ad budget pays the salaries of everyone in the agency.
But my thought balloon was crowded with, How can you have a conscience and not believe in God? How can you, who have been incredibly blessed with so much, not see God's hand? I changed the subject to how well our TV ad had turned out.
John was promoted to a bigger subsidiary two years later, and today, he is the president of the entire conglomerate!
I have always believed that our conscience is a gift from a loving God, who likewise gave His only Son to save us. When we accept His Son's love, He guides us closely through our many weaknesses by heightening our conscience. In the process, we see God’s holy ways.
Our conscience is God’s way of saving us from further temptations, making us realize we need to cling to Him to see right from wrong.
Listening to our conscience is like listening to the voice of God; our conscience is His Holy Spirit in our heart day and night, showing us the way of truth. We are safe there.
On days when my conscience pricks me, I think of John.
I pray that one day, he will come to know that his “deep appreciation of right and wrong” is grace that could only come from a living God, who exists from everlasting to everlasting.
Photo credit: http://debunkingatheists.blogspot.com/2010/07/atheism-is-religion.html
6/19/2012
Emperor Chicken: a.k.a. Beggar's Chicken
This ancient dish, which originated in China, is prepared by wrapping chicken in clumps of mud or soft dough made from wheat flour and then cooking it over fire. It was a poor man's (or beggar's) food.
But a story is told that an emperor who happened to taste it took a fancy to this poor man's food and had it cooked in the palace, eventually becoming his favorite dish. With the addition of some herbal and fancy concoction fit for an emperor, the dish was baked in an oven for hours, and became the Emperor Chicken.
I speak not as a big cook but as a non-cook with a big appetite, which we call in my family the Chong palate.
True to this tag, JR came home from Singapore with a luggage half-filled with packed marinades of all kinds, one of which is for Emperor Chicken.
So to the kitchen he went, and with the enthusiastic help of Ate Vi, our resident empress and chef, he whipped up (by adding some herbs freshly picked from our garden) one of the most delicious chicken recipes a food beggar like me has ever tasted.
Tada!
Through all generations, the grace of palate encompasses both beggars and emperors.
But a story is told that an emperor who happened to taste it took a fancy to this poor man's food and had it cooked in the palace, eventually becoming his favorite dish. With the addition of some herbal and fancy concoction fit for an emperor, the dish was baked in an oven for hours, and became the Emperor Chicken.
I speak not as a big cook but as a non-cook with a big appetite, which we call in my family the Chong palate.
True to this tag, JR came home from Singapore with a luggage half-filled with packed marinades of all kinds, one of which is for Emperor Chicken.
So to the kitchen he went, and with the enthusiastic help of Ate Vi, our resident empress and chef, he whipped up (by adding some herbs freshly picked from our garden) one of the most delicious chicken recipes a food beggar like me has ever tasted.
Tada!
6/15/2012
Older Women
"Older women have an important role in church," spoke a much younger woman (a lawyer whom I have known since she was a toddler in Sunday School), not much older than my youngest son.
In one statement she catapulted me into a specific echelon, and handed me my job description. There were other older women in the room, but somehow, I took the jolting remark personally.
"It is in the scriptures that you have to teach the younger women," she was relentless. Then she turned the pages of her Bible and read Titus 2:3-4.
"Older women likewise are to be reverent in behavior, not slanderers or slaves to much wine. They are to teach what is good, and so train the young women to love their husbands and children . . ."
I had read those verses before (many times), but God chose that day in a small group meeting and Atty. Karen to dig it in.
Reviewing my hurriedly written notes later, I read her points loud and clear.
“Teach and train young married women to:
"1. Love their husband;
2. Love their children;
3. Have discernment over what is right, and self control over what is wrong;
4. Keep the marriage honored by being pure;
5. Be busy at home—ministry in the home should be their top priority;
6. Do good deeds and be kind to others;
7. Submit to their husband.”
Tough job.
I have not done any of the above—not consciously anyway. Not once had I sat down with any of the young married women (most of whom are my godchildren in either child dedication or wedding rites). Many of our chats had centered on . . . maybe I had, one way or the other?
“Older women,” she added, “should model for us a life that honors God. From your lives, we can learn to give glory to our Creator with ours,” she continued. She and the young moms in our circle seem to be doing pretty well—happy and well-adjusted in their marriages. I guess their mothers (my friends) taught them well.
And maybe they likewise saw a thing or two in me and learned from it . . .
Karen was just a toddler when I first met her parents, now dear, forever friends who have big ears that listen and giant hearts that love God.
A distinguished lawyer, loving wife, and caring mother, Karen today has the gall to say to me, her mom, her titas in church, about what we might have forgotten to focus on—but thankfully, still have every chance to do so.
“This is not for us, neither is it for you,” she said to conclude her short talk. “You must do it so no one will malign the word of God.”
This job description is a document of grace, my heart spoke. And in total submission, it signed the conforme, pledging to the beat of a Titus 2 woman.
In one statement she catapulted me into a specific echelon, and handed me my job description. There were other older women in the room, but somehow, I took the jolting remark personally.
"It is in the scriptures that you have to teach the younger women," she was relentless. Then she turned the pages of her Bible and read Titus 2:3-4.
"Older women likewise are to be reverent in behavior, not slanderers or slaves to much wine. They are to teach what is good, and so train the young women to love their husbands and children . . ."
I had read those verses before (many times), but God chose that day in a small group meeting and Atty. Karen to dig it in.
Reviewing my hurriedly written notes later, I read her points loud and clear.
“Teach and train young married women to:
"1. Love their husband;
2. Love their children;
3. Have discernment over what is right, and self control over what is wrong;
4. Keep the marriage honored by being pure;
5. Be busy at home—ministry in the home should be their top priority;
6. Do good deeds and be kind to others;
7. Submit to their husband.”
Tough job.
I have not done any of the above—not consciously anyway. Not once had I sat down with any of the young married women (most of whom are my godchildren in either child dedication or wedding rites). Many of our chats had centered on . . . maybe I had, one way or the other?
“Older women,” she added, “should model for us a life that honors God. From your lives, we can learn to give glory to our Creator with ours,” she continued. She and the young moms in our circle seem to be doing pretty well—happy and well-adjusted in their marriages. I guess their mothers (my friends) taught them well.
And maybe they likewise saw a thing or two in me and learned from it . . .
Karen was just a toddler when I first met her parents, now dear, forever friends who have big ears that listen and giant hearts that love God.
 |
| That toddler is now a lawyer . . . |
 |
| . . . and a mother. |
“This is not for us, neither is it for you,” she said to conclude her short talk. “You must do it so no one will malign the word of God.”
This job description is a document of grace, my heart spoke. And in total submission, it signed the conforme, pledging to the beat of a Titus 2 woman.
6/11/2012
Robber Caught on Camera
Shamelessly and hurriedly, she robbed.
She crammed three, four, five copies of books into a bag. It was a steal! She was rabid, uncontrollable.
The R.O.B. Us! (Raid Our Bookshop: Ultimate Sale) of OMF Lit had turned her into a ferocious ROBber.
You can't be giving your books away! she half-whispered to Gracia, the lady in charge of OMF Pergola. Gracia laughed heartily despite being slumped over the cash register for two hours straight, serving the mile-long queue of equally unrestrained ROBbers with bags brimming with books.
There are actually several exciting sale permutations in celebration of OMF Lit's 55th anniversary this year.
The sale is ongoing till the 27th of June, but this blog is about that one single day before the official sale began. That was the day one woman turned into a big-time robber.
On OMF Lit's Facebook shout out, this woman had read that for only P550, she can stuff all the books she wants in a bag. That she did, ravenously—and she was caught on camera with her loot.
Here's more.
From all the receipts on that day, a winner will be chosen from each OMF Lit Bookshop branch for the “Most Stuffed Bag” and will be awarded a prize by end July. The prize? A special book pack!
Yes, in addition to all the ROBbed books, OMF Lit will give away more books!
This particular robber's receipt says she ROBbed a total of 29 books, with a whopping savings of P6,700! That's an average of P19 (!) per book.
I had to talk about me in the third person, and blur my face like they do on TV when they present cons, because I am now suffering from guilt pangs for being such an insatiable ROBber and for being slapped with an incredible discount.
What is it about the printed page that makes book lovers become book ROBbers? Not a book, nor a book series, can answer that question adequately.
So let me answer it with one word, “Because!”
Turning book readers into book ROBbers on sale days helps OMF Lit fulfill its desire to disseminate as many Christian books (short of giving them away) as it could to readers in every part of the country.
But if truth be told, the volume of books that are pushed out on said days cannot begin to match the volume of God's grace that has yet to be written, shared, ROBbed, read, and believed.
Meanwhile, you still have a chance to ROB until June 27.
She crammed three, four, five copies of books into a bag. It was a steal! She was rabid, uncontrollable.
The R.O.B. Us! (Raid Our Bookshop: Ultimate Sale) of OMF Lit had turned her into a ferocious ROBber.
You can't be giving your books away! she half-whispered to Gracia, the lady in charge of OMF Pergola. Gracia laughed heartily despite being slumped over the cash register for two hours straight, serving the mile-long queue of equally unrestrained ROBbers with bags brimming with books.
There are actually several exciting sale permutations in celebration of OMF Lit's 55th anniversary this year.
On OMF Lit's Facebook shout out, this woman had read that for only P550, she can stuff all the books she wants in a bag. That she did, ravenously—and she was caught on camera with her loot.
From all the receipts on that day, a winner will be chosen from each OMF Lit Bookshop branch for the “Most Stuffed Bag” and will be awarded a prize by end July. The prize? A special book pack!
Yes, in addition to all the ROBbed books, OMF Lit will give away more books!
This particular robber's receipt says she ROBbed a total of 29 books, with a whopping savings of P6,700! That's an average of P19 (!) per book.
ooo
I had to talk about me in the third person, and blur my face like they do on TV when they present cons, because I am now suffering from guilt pangs for being such an insatiable ROBber and for being slapped with an incredible discount.
What is it about the printed page that makes book lovers become book ROBbers? Not a book, nor a book series, can answer that question adequately.
So let me answer it with one word, “Because!”
Turning book readers into book ROBbers on sale days helps OMF Lit fulfill its desire to disseminate as many Christian books (short of giving them away) as it could to readers in every part of the country.
But if truth be told, the volume of books that are pushed out on said days cannot begin to match the volume of God's grace that has yet to be written, shared, ROBbed, read, and believed.
Meanwhile, you still have a chance to ROB until June 27.
6/07/2012
Most Relaxing Place
The most relaxing place in the world, for me, is the hammock. The spa comes a poor second.
What sets a hammock apart from a spa is people. There is nobody in the hammock but you and there you can allow life to really slow down.
An hour in a hammock frees mind and soul from the disappointments and frustrations of days past.
Maybe the neurons in our brain take us back to those nine months we swam in our mother's womb or to those days of infancy when our mom rocked us to sleep humming a lullaby.
No wonder people have been making all sorts of hammocks—some elaborate, some simple, some in-between.
This one's ours: a simple rattan hammock handmade in my province, Pangasinan.
It's a recent purchase. The family was driving home from out of town when Tony spotted a caravan of vendors on cart-bearing oxen. He got off and bought this quickly. He'd always wanted one but he neither had the time nor knew where to find them.
I had in mind the exact place for our new hammock—between two coconut trees in our garden. I was beginning to imagine me in the great outdoors enjoying the song of birds, the smell of grass, and the breeze of the hour swaying me gently.
Hammocks, however, are not the easiest to install. One has to have the strength and courage to climb trees to hang the ropes. Tony no longer possesses both, and neither do I. Our boys have no interest in this ancient invention so they didn't figure in the plan.
We settled for a semi-outdoor place of the house where the ropes can be secured with minor effort. It's not the place I imagined, but hey, a hammock is a hammock is a hammock.
The first try was tragic—the ropes lacked strong enough knots, causing Tony to land on his rear. The second try was an exact repeat of the first. A sore tush twice over is twice tragic.
Past that, I can now have wordless Wednesdays and silent Saturdays.
How does one explain God's peace beyond understanding? Well, how does one explain the grace of rest?
“…Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:28-29
What sets a hammock apart from a spa is people. There is nobody in the hammock but you and there you can allow life to really slow down.
An hour in a hammock frees mind and soul from the disappointments and frustrations of days past.
Maybe the neurons in our brain take us back to those nine months we swam in our mother's womb or to those days of infancy when our mom rocked us to sleep humming a lullaby.
No wonder people have been making all sorts of hammocks—some elaborate, some simple, some in-between.
Hammocks, however, are not the easiest to install. One has to have the strength and courage to climb trees to hang the ropes. Tony no longer possesses both, and neither do I. Our boys have no interest in this ancient invention so they didn't figure in the plan.
We settled for a semi-outdoor place of the house where the ropes can be secured with minor effort. It's not the place I imagined, but hey, a hammock is a hammock is a hammock.
The first try was tragic—the ropes lacked strong enough knots, causing Tony to land on his rear. The second try was an exact repeat of the first. A sore tush twice over is twice tragic.
Past that, I can now have wordless Wednesdays and silent Saturdays.
How does one explain God's peace beyond understanding? Well, how does one explain the grace of rest?
“…Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:28-29
6/06/2012
6/03/2012
Guessing Game
Three young women in the campsite office, where I dropped by to request for supplies for our cottage, met me with warm smiles. “Are you Ms. Grace Chong?” they asked.
Wow, you know who your guests are, I thought, delighted. Our group of 200 had about 10 speakers, including me.
“Are you a doctor?”
“No,” I replied, glad I wasn't mistaken for a patient.
“A pastor?” one guessed.
“No.” Maybe I look a little holy.
“A lawyer?”
“No.” Maybe I have some of Cuevas' chutzpah.
Teacher?”
“Well, partly . . .” I replied.
“And mostly . . .?” another pushed.
“An author.”
“Ooooh,” a chorus.
At this point I was sure one of them would say, “Yes, I've read one of your books!”
Instead, one asked, “What does an author like you do?”
My bubble burst.
When I came to, I rationalized that this campsite is at the end of the earth, a valley ensconced between mountains, and bookstores are miles away.
I scribbled my website on a sheet of paper and said, “If you have time, please visit this url and you'll find what I do." And I stressed before walking away, "Only if you find time."
Wow, you know who your guests are, I thought, delighted. Our group of 200 had about 10 speakers, including me.
“No,” I replied, glad I wasn't mistaken for a patient.
“A pastor?” one guessed.
“No.” Maybe I look a little holy.
“A lawyer?”
“No.” Maybe I have some of Cuevas' chutzpah.
Teacher?”
“Well, partly . . .” I replied.
“And mostly . . .?” another pushed.
“An author.”
“Ooooh,” a chorus.
At this point I was sure one of them would say, “Yes, I've read one of your books!”
Instead, one asked, “What does an author like you do?”
My bubble burst.
I scribbled my website on a sheet of paper and said, “If you have time, please visit this url and you'll find what I do." And I stressed before walking away, "Only if you find time."
www.leavesofgrace.blogspot.com
“May we invite you to be a speaker in the staff camp we are planning for next month?” they called out.
Without knowing what I do? “I suggest you visit my blog first before you decide!” I beamed.
“But she said she is a part-time teacher, didn't she?" they might have asked each other.
People know exactly what doctors, pastors, lawyers, and teachers do. But an author?
“May we invite you to be a speaker in the staff camp we are planning for next month?” they called out.
Without knowing what I do? “I suggest you visit my blog first before you decide!” I beamed.
“But she said she is a part-time teacher, didn't she?" they might have asked each other.
People know exactly what doctors, pastors, lawyers, and teachers do. But an author?
Sob.
5/31/2012
Wi-fi Free
Try going to a place where there is no internet connection and staying there for four straight days.
On the first day, you get disoriented.
On the second day, you go insane.
On the third day, you have no choice but to take stock of who you are.
On the fourth day, to your shock and disbelief, you find your authentic self—the self you lost in the noise of mass media and the electronic world.
For four days I was cloistered in a Wi-fi free zone. Note: the word “free” comes after, not before, Wi-fi (which is the norm in my and many urban neighborhoods today).
I discovered how much time FB, youtube, blogs, e-mails, e-bay, e-news, e-columns, and other web sites, where I overindulge and overstay day after day, have taken away from my writing, reading, and quiet/prayer time.
At the leadership training conference of Compassion International, where I facilitated one of its modules, I lived in an Eden-like valley surrounded by Laguna mountains, and far away from the cement jungle—and Wi-fi.
There I learned once again how to LOL (not Laugh Out Loud, but Live Out Life) the way it should be: the exact words are found in 1 Corinthians 6:19-20, the theme of the gathering.
Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with you body.
It was no coincidence that I roomed with a physician, another speaker and a new friend, who survived terminal cancer 10 years ago by deeply studying and putting into practice what the Scriptures say about nutrition—the regimen of the ancient Bible men and women who lived hundreds of years.
From her I am learning what nature has to offer our body which controls our mind.
When she decided to forgo the rest of her treatments in favor of natural diet and supplements, her doctor was appalled. “I am dying anyway, Doc,” she argued. “If I die, then you're right. If I live, God healed me.”
She lived.
She has since then been studying the molecular structures of trees, fruits, and plants freely given to us by the Creator who extended her life, sharing her findings on TV interviews, and being in constant awe of their wonders to man.
“We came from dust,” she explained. “There is a connection between us and food that grows in dust.”
It was also no coincidence that I forgot to bring along my cellphone charger. My only lifeline to the world had become mute, mimicking me—the better to really hear myself.
Our body, defiled by the alluring call of Wi-fi, sometimes needs a long stretch of silence to be drained of chatter and sounds—and be re-charged with the calming grace of nature.
On the first day, you get disoriented.
On the second day, you go insane.
On the third day, you have no choice but to take stock of who you are.
On the fourth day, to your shock and disbelief, you find your authentic self—the self you lost in the noise of mass media and the electronic world.
For four days I was cloistered in a Wi-fi free zone. Note: the word “free” comes after, not before, Wi-fi (which is the norm in my and many urban neighborhoods today).
I discovered how much time FB, youtube, blogs, e-mails, e-bay, e-news, e-columns, and other web sites, where I overindulge and overstay day after day, have taken away from my writing, reading, and quiet/prayer time.
At the leadership training conference of Compassion International, where I facilitated one of its modules, I lived in an Eden-like valley surrounded by Laguna mountains, and far away from the cement jungle—and Wi-fi.
Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with you body.
From her I am learning what nature has to offer our body which controls our mind.
When she decided to forgo the rest of her treatments in favor of natural diet and supplements, her doctor was appalled. “I am dying anyway, Doc,” she argued. “If I die, then you're right. If I live, God healed me.”
She lived.
She has since then been studying the molecular structures of trees, fruits, and plants freely given to us by the Creator who extended her life, sharing her findings on TV interviews, and being in constant awe of their wonders to man.
“We came from dust,” she explained. “There is a connection between us and food that grows in dust.”
It was also no coincidence that I forgot to bring along my cellphone charger. My only lifeline to the world had become mute, mimicking me—the better to really hear myself.
Our body, defiled by the alluring call of Wi-fi, sometimes needs a long stretch of silence to be drained of chatter and sounds—and be re-charged with the calming grace of nature.
5/27/2012
An Alien in Our Midst
Laymen like me say Dementia for Alzheimer's disease and vice-versa. I never really understood the differences or similarities.
Not even when people I love were or are afflicted with one or the other, or both. Medicine has not come up with a cure for these conditions. There are ways to retard them, but in the end, the afflicted person will lose his/her memory, cognitive ability, and worse, the person that he/she once was.
Ate Miriam is the older sister I never had. A fellow believer of grace and a neighbor, she had been there for me since my family and I moved to the village where we've lived for years.
She was always the wise one.
In my book Gifts of Grace 1, I called her the three ghost busters in one. She would drop everything and come when I needed reminding, help, and whatever else you can think of. I paid my real estate tax on time every year because she made sure I did. She was as generous with her time as with her advice.
Today, she still lights up when she sees me in church, and gives me a hug. But sometimes she doesn't say my name. She asks a question a hundred times over and tells an anecdote the same number of times, or more. She just turned 75.
She now shuttles between her children's homes. But always, she pines for her own home in our neighborhood.
I learned that she was in her eldest daughter's house in QC last week—and would be there for two weeks, but suddenly she was back home in just three days.
She tells the story her own way, which she finds hilarious, but the real story is everything but. It was a cause of mini heart attacks in many homes.
The truth is, she escaped.
She hailed a cab and told the driver to bring her to Pandacan—the place where she grew up. She said she was going to pay him P4,000.
In Pandacan—the terrain of which has totally changed from when she was a little girl—the cab driver went round and round, even after finding one church that she said was adjacent to her residence. There are now three churches in that same area and it was one o'clock in the morning.
The Lord's protection came forth. One of the men—still outdoors having a good time with friends—recognized her. He turned out to be her nephew. He quickly asked her to get down, but not after she paid the cab driver what she thought was P4,000, but which was actually only P40.00.
Relatives brought her home immediately to our village to make sure she was safe and sound.
Dementia (or is it Alzheimer's?). It's like a UFO that abducted the real Ate Miriam, and in her place brought home a look-alike alien whose moods, personalities, and thoughts are totally different from the Ate Miriam I have known and loved for years.
Everyone tries hard—especially her children—but we can't seem to find the reasonable, helpful, fun-loving, take-charge, and gracious Ate Miriam anymore.
Our collective prayer is that God will give us a bigger heart, with many rooms for patience, understanding, kindness, and love to deeply care for this special guest in our midst—the way we did for the original Ate Miriam.
Not even when people I love were or are afflicted with one or the other, or both. Medicine has not come up with a cure for these conditions. There are ways to retard them, but in the end, the afflicted person will lose his/her memory, cognitive ability, and worse, the person that he/she once was.
Ate Miriam is the older sister I never had. A fellow believer of grace and a neighbor, she had been there for me since my family and I moved to the village where we've lived for years.
She was always the wise one.
In my book Gifts of Grace 1, I called her the three ghost busters in one. She would drop everything and come when I needed reminding, help, and whatever else you can think of. I paid my real estate tax on time every year because she made sure I did. She was as generous with her time as with her advice.
Today, she still lights up when she sees me in church, and gives me a hug. But sometimes she doesn't say my name. She asks a question a hundred times over and tells an anecdote the same number of times, or more. She just turned 75.
She now shuttles between her children's homes. But always, she pines for her own home in our neighborhood.
I learned that she was in her eldest daughter's house in QC last week—and would be there for two weeks, but suddenly she was back home in just three days.
She tells the story her own way, which she finds hilarious, but the real story is everything but. It was a cause of mini heart attacks in many homes.
The truth is, she escaped.
She hailed a cab and told the driver to bring her to Pandacan—the place where she grew up. She said she was going to pay him P4,000.
In Pandacan—the terrain of which has totally changed from when she was a little girl—the cab driver went round and round, even after finding one church that she said was adjacent to her residence. There are now three churches in that same area and it was one o'clock in the morning.
The Lord's protection came forth. One of the men—still outdoors having a good time with friends—recognized her. He turned out to be her nephew. He quickly asked her to get down, but not after she paid the cab driver what she thought was P4,000, but which was actually only P40.00.
Relatives brought her home immediately to our village to make sure she was safe and sound.
Dementia (or is it Alzheimer's?). It's like a UFO that abducted the real Ate Miriam, and in her place brought home a look-alike alien whose moods, personalities, and thoughts are totally different from the Ate Miriam I have known and loved for years.
Everyone tries hard—especially her children—but we can't seem to find the reasonable, helpful, fun-loving, take-charge, and gracious Ate Miriam anymore.
Our collective prayer is that God will give us a bigger heart, with many rooms for patience, understanding, kindness, and love to deeply care for this special guest in our midst—the way we did for the original Ate Miriam.
5/23/2012
Footprints
Once in a blue moon, my old friends and I plan a get-together—meaning, a dinner in one place at a specific time. It is probably one of the most difficult events to mount on planet earth, bar none. It takes weeks, or months even, before we finally agree on a date.
Then something comes up, and so it gets postponed.
Deciding on the venue is another story; getting a headcount is next to impossible.
If one thinks he already has a number of attendees a week before, he's dead wrong.
Every day the number changes. One calls to cancel and another calls to confirm—in and out, ad infinitum.
But miracles happen, and one such plan pushed through (whew!) one evening last week to celebrate the birthdays of two of us (as you might have guessed, the birthday dates have lapsed because of the umpteenth postponements, but no matter). Nothing wrong in celebrating a May 1st birthday on the 16th, is there?
Now, how about those who would have wanted to come but were not informed? Ooops, but that's another story. We all lead busy, busy lives in a busy, busy world, and because we are all getting on in years, we inadvertently forget.
The night brought together 12 people (out of a possible 200). I bussed familiar faces again after a long time, and I remembered a popular quote from Flavia Weedn in her book, Forever. “Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for awhile and leave footprints on our hearts. And we are never, ever the same.”
These are some of the people who stayed for awhile in my life.
“What you taught me is coming in handy in all my talks,” I told Norbert, seated to my right.
“And what's that?” he asked.
“Don't you remember? You taught me how to do power point presentations!”
“I did?”
“We worked on a few together,” I tried to jog his memory.
“We did?”
People don't remember the things they unselfishly do for others. But the beneficiaries of these gracious acts remember them forever.
I was a recipient of many kind acts from these 11 friends in the past (one blog on grace won't do them justice), which I am sure they don't remember either.
But I do. They're the footprints on my heart.
Then something comes up, and so it gets postponed.
Deciding on the venue is another story; getting a headcount is next to impossible.
If one thinks he already has a number of attendees a week before, he's dead wrong.
Every day the number changes. One calls to cancel and another calls to confirm—in and out, ad infinitum.
But miracles happen, and one such plan pushed through (whew!) one evening last week to celebrate the birthdays of two of us (as you might have guessed, the birthday dates have lapsed because of the umpteenth postponements, but no matter). Nothing wrong in celebrating a May 1st birthday on the 16th, is there?
Now, how about those who would have wanted to come but were not informed? Ooops, but that's another story. We all lead busy, busy lives in a busy, busy world, and because we are all getting on in years, we inadvertently forget.
The night brought together 12 people (out of a possible 200). I bussed familiar faces again after a long time, and I remembered a popular quote from Flavia Weedn in her book, Forever. “Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for awhile and leave footprints on our hearts. And we are never, ever the same.”
“And what's that?” he asked.
“Don't you remember? You taught me how to do power point presentations!”
“I did?”
“We worked on a few together,” I tried to jog his memory.
“We did?”
People don't remember the things they unselfishly do for others. But the beneficiaries of these gracious acts remember them forever.
I was a recipient of many kind acts from these 11 friends in the past (one blog on grace won't do them justice), which I am sure they don't remember either.
But I do. They're the footprints on my heart.
5/19/2012
Duck Watching
In the early morning of our occasional family get-away, while waiting for the boys to wake up for breakfast, Tony and I walked to the lake just behind our casita and watched the ducks.
The lake looked so different the night before through our window.
There must have been about 40 white ducks—swimming, walking around, eating grass, and going about their business. Some three to five yellow ducklings were trailing the big ones everywhere.
I grew up with a bevy of ducks in our yard and surroundings in the province. My grandmother who lived next door had all sorts of animals. She also had honking geese and snorting pigs, plus a number of cackling chickens and crowing roosters.
And I took them all for granted.
Because they were always there, I never bothered to look closely and know more about their behavior.
Life uprooted me from the province and now I reside in Manila where there are no ducks nor any of the animals my grandmother so lovingly cared for.
That's why on that early morning by the lake, I was surprised to discover that ducks can fly! 
They flew above the lake and effortlessly landed on the water where they glided gracefully from bank to bank.
It was my first time, too, to see ducks mating; first time to watch how a mother duck takes care of her ducklings; first time to notice that they eat fresh grass.
"Were have you been?" Tony asked. He is a Manila boy through and through but knows everything about ducks, geese, pigs, chickens and roosters.
Well, I know more about tigers and predators in the wilds, which National Geographic regularly shows on TV. But domesticated animals? I should really spend time knowing them more, and knowing how much grace the Lord sent my animal-loving grandmother who, in the absence of her married nine children, spent precious time with her pets.
Grandma was a fiercely loyal woman of God who, in her best baro at saya, was always the earliest in church Sunday after Sunday. Now I know the source of her joy in her twilight years. She delighted in those animals till her last breath.
Like the little, trivial acts we do outdoors in this electronic age that cages us indoors, duck watching is illuminating.
The lake looked so different the night before through our window.
And I took them all for granted.
Because they were always there, I never bothered to look closely and know more about their behavior.
Life uprooted me from the province and now I reside in Manila where there are no ducks nor any of the animals my grandmother so lovingly cared for.
That's why on that early morning by the lake, I was surprised to discover that ducks can fly!
It was my first time, too, to see ducks mating; first time to watch how a mother duck takes care of her ducklings; first time to notice that they eat fresh grass.
Well, I know more about tigers and predators in the wilds, which National Geographic regularly shows on TV. But domesticated animals? I should really spend time knowing them more, and knowing how much grace the Lord sent my animal-loving grandmother who, in the absence of her married nine children, spent precious time with her pets.
Grandma was a fiercely loyal woman of God who, in her best baro at saya, was always the earliest in church Sunday after Sunday. Now I know the source of her joy in her twilight years. She delighted in those animals till her last breath.
Like the little, trivial acts we do outdoors in this electronic age that cages us indoors, duck watching is illuminating.
5/15/2012
Reversal of Fortune
Gaunt, toothless, with a full head of white hair, and wearing a loose mid-calf house dress, she is a familiar figure in the neighborhood.
Early in the morning, she rummages through every garbage can with a long stick that also serves as her cane. Then she puts her finds inside a sack.
In the beginning she would do it on the sly, when nobody was looking—usually very early in the morning when everyone was still in bed, or at noon when people were having lunch.
Then she dared doing it openly and everybody pretended not to notice. But now, every morning she does it as if it were her birthright, and people greet her as they would a neighbor gardening or jogging.
“Good morning, Mrs. Galvan!” I say. Sometimes she greets me back, sometimes she doesn't hear, or pretends not to hear, and goes about her morning routine.
Years ago, Mrs. Galvan* had it all.
She was the wife of a CEO in a big company; a lady of leisure whose only job was to see to her children who went to expensive private schools, and oversee her coterie of maids and drivers in her family's private motor pool.
But suddenly, her husband, who seemed infallible, had a stroke. He was rushed to the hospital where he stayed for months on end, going through every conceivable tests, surgeries, and other expensive medical procedures to stay alive.
When all hope was gone, he was brought home, where he lingered a few more months, draining the family of all its resources.
Because the kids were still in school and Mrs. Galvan never worked a day in her life, there was zero income. The maids and cars had to go, and the children enrolled in public schools.
“I sometimes earn as much as P1,000 from what I find in the trash,” Mrs. Galvan proudly tells friends. She uses the money for her share in the pay of the village security guards and the homeowner's dues.
Neighbors stockpile things that are still recyclable—crates and cartons, newspapers, wood scraps, etc. I, for one, don't shred my reams upon reams of drafts. All these go on top of the heap of our garbage cans, waiting for Mrs. Galvan to “find” them and sell to junk dealers.
She lives alone in the big house now, but her children (all married) visit her often. I am sure they could afford to make her a lady of leisure once more, but Mrs. Galvan neither begs or nor compels anyone to help her. No dole outs, please.
Her children, in fact, have all been persuading their mother to live with one of them. But Mrs. Galvan is defiant, “This is my house; here I am free to do anything I want.”
They have also been dissuading her from doing what they call an embarrassing preoccupation. But the moment they leave for their own homes, to the trash bins Mrs. Galvan goes.
“I am doing nothing wrong. This is a way to earn my keep. It's nothing to be ashamed of!”
Mrs. Galvan has found dignity in what people look down upon as the lowliest of “jobs.” And a community has found in her a worthy project, without waiting for a Typhoon Ondoy to make neighbors come together. Mrs. Galvan now wears rubber gloves, a gift from a family, when she does her morning routine; she has enough sacks, given by other families, for her treasures.
And nobody dares stop her—not even the security guards to whom she gives a part of her earnings—from what she feels is honest work for honest living.
Right on, Mrs. Galvan.
Through you, God teaches a neighborhood lessons in fortitude—a village, lessons in courage . . . and in grace.
“Teacher, which is the great commandment in the Law?” And he said to him, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments depend all the Law and the Prophets.” Matthew 22:36-40 (ESV)
*not her real name
Early in the morning, she rummages through every garbage can with a long stick that also serves as her cane. Then she puts her finds inside a sack.
In the beginning she would do it on the sly, when nobody was looking—usually very early in the morning when everyone was still in bed, or at noon when people were having lunch.
Then she dared doing it openly and everybody pretended not to notice. But now, every morning she does it as if it were her birthright, and people greet her as they would a neighbor gardening or jogging.
“Good morning, Mrs. Galvan!” I say. Sometimes she greets me back, sometimes she doesn't hear, or pretends not to hear, and goes about her morning routine.
Years ago, Mrs. Galvan* had it all.
She was the wife of a CEO in a big company; a lady of leisure whose only job was to see to her children who went to expensive private schools, and oversee her coterie of maids and drivers in her family's private motor pool.
But suddenly, her husband, who seemed infallible, had a stroke. He was rushed to the hospital where he stayed for months on end, going through every conceivable tests, surgeries, and other expensive medical procedures to stay alive.
When all hope was gone, he was brought home, where he lingered a few more months, draining the family of all its resources.
Because the kids were still in school and Mrs. Galvan never worked a day in her life, there was zero income. The maids and cars had to go, and the children enrolled in public schools.
“I sometimes earn as much as P1,000 from what I find in the trash,” Mrs. Galvan proudly tells friends. She uses the money for her share in the pay of the village security guards and the homeowner's dues.
Neighbors stockpile things that are still recyclable—crates and cartons, newspapers, wood scraps, etc. I, for one, don't shred my reams upon reams of drafts. All these go on top of the heap of our garbage cans, waiting for Mrs. Galvan to “find” them and sell to junk dealers.
She lives alone in the big house now, but her children (all married) visit her often. I am sure they could afford to make her a lady of leisure once more, but Mrs. Galvan neither begs or nor compels anyone to help her. No dole outs, please.
Her children, in fact, have all been persuading their mother to live with one of them. But Mrs. Galvan is defiant, “This is my house; here I am free to do anything I want.”
They have also been dissuading her from doing what they call an embarrassing preoccupation. But the moment they leave for their own homes, to the trash bins Mrs. Galvan goes.
“I am doing nothing wrong. This is a way to earn my keep. It's nothing to be ashamed of!”
Mrs. Galvan has found dignity in what people look down upon as the lowliest of “jobs.” And a community has found in her a worthy project, without waiting for a Typhoon Ondoy to make neighbors come together. Mrs. Galvan now wears rubber gloves, a gift from a family, when she does her morning routine; she has enough sacks, given by other families, for her treasures.
And nobody dares stop her—not even the security guards to whom she gives a part of her earnings—from what she feels is honest work for honest living.
Right on, Mrs. Galvan.
Through you, God teaches a neighborhood lessons in fortitude—a village, lessons in courage . . . and in grace.
“Teacher, which is the great commandment in the Law?” And he said to him, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments depend all the Law and the Prophets.” Matthew 22:36-40 (ESV)
*not her real name
5/13/2012
Mother's Day 2012
Celebrating God's enabling grace.
Sing this hymn with me?
A Mighty fortress is our God,
a bulwark never failing;
our helper He amid the flood
of mortal ills prevailing.
For still our ancient foe
doth seek to work us woe;
his craft and power are great,
and armed with cruel hate,
on earth is not his equal.
(Text by Martin Luther; Translation by Frederick H. Hedge )
Up goes the new header:
A Mighty fortress is our God,
a bulwark never failing;
our helper He amid the flood
of mortal ills prevailing.
For still our ancient foe
doth seek to work us woe;
his craft and power are great,
and armed with cruel hate,
on earth is not his equal.
(Text by Martin Luther; Translation by Frederick H. Hedge )
Up goes the new header:
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