The White Shoes

As a young reader, I hated authors writing about their books' back story. I wanted to keep books pure in my mind.

But in later years, I started reading reviews. Now I read reviews before I buy a book.

When I became an author myself, I had learned to google and in the process, discovered that back stories actually make books even more interesting! 

So now I am about to write one. It is not my intention to turn off readers who, like I once did, hate back stories.  

“The White Shoes” came to me like a flash flood. I was busy threshing out book ideas piled in my head, and I had just decided never again to join any writing competition—it is a stressful preoccupation. (This will be explained in a separate blog post.) 

But Rose, my friend and co-teacher, and I were idly chatting one day about our uncomfortable high-heeled shoes in school. She mentioned her friend, Eva, who was so poor she only owned a grubby pair of black shoes. So Eva had to scrounge around for her graduation white shoes.

Deeply affected by the story of Eva's youth, I scribbled on my little notebook some key words. As soon as I got home that night, I fleshed out those words.

From that day, I wrote and re-wrote a story now begging to be told. I took liberties with Eva's shoes—twisted, turned and tangled details—and got my first draft done. (It takes a long time for my writing lamp to burn. Unlike some writers who are able to whip up a story in a day, I agonize over every character, scene, and word, sometimes for months.)

When I finally had the guts to let Rose read my draft (5th or 6th), she sniffled, “I love it!” I wasn't prepared for that reaction; her tears bothered me. I wanted the story light, not mushy or a tear-jerker. I simply wanted children to be grateful for what they are blessed with. 
 
I revised the story many more times and again, showed it to Rose. She smiled through all the pages—but still wiped a tear. One tear, I thought, isn't so bad. Kids are less generous with their tears anyway.

That was also a moment of decision—I sent the manuscript (probably my 56th revision) to the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards 2012. More flash floods, like flash grace, came after that:

It won first prize; it would be published by OMF Lit who chose Sergio Bumatay III as illustrator. I am a fan of Serge, who has, to date, reaped many international awards.

Serge, however, couldn't work on “The White Shoes” till after five months. Joan, my editor, and I decided to wait . . . and wait . . . and wait.

                                                  ooo
                                                         
Seven months later, inside the OMF Lit booth at the Manila International Book Fair, I saw for the first time the printed book, in “Kraft” paper, symbolic of shoe boxes. I caressed every page, seeing how much of Serg's heart is in the story:  

Eva poignantly looks down all the way till the end when she finally looks up, surrounded by shoes of all kinds, and smiles.

I likewise looked up, surrounded by books of all kinds, and smiled to thank the Source of books and shoes. I prayed that young readers would always be grateful for their blessings. 

Dad's Unsent Letter

My dad was not a letter writer.

He delegated the task to my mom who loved writing  anything, everything, and anytime to anyone in her circle, especially her children—and in her later years, her grandchildren. If she were alive in this electronic age, she'd be writing a hundred emails a day.

I lived in the US for a few years, and in all those times, dad wrote me only once. I rhapsodized about that letter in an essay published in two newspapers there. 

Today would have been his 101st birthday had he lived long enough to celebrate it. But cancer snatched him, at age 70, away from us years ago.

I remember him now because on my birthday last July, my sister Aie gifted me with a letter written by dad on my birthday when I was still single and in Chicago—a letter I never received. Aie said she found it buried among our mom's old file in our old home just recently. (He called me May.)

I believe it was his response to my letter about my decision to get married—to a stranger they had yet to meet—asking for his and mom's blessings. 

What I remember vividly is that my mom wrote me a lengthy letter saying how delighted she and dad were about my decision to have a family of my own (“It's about time,” she assured me) and that I had their blessings.

It puzzles me no end why dad decided not to send this letter.

Did he forget to mail it? Was he averse to expressing his feelings? Did he find his letter mushy? Was he against my decision after all? Why even write on a lovely stationery my mother never used? Questions, questions.

Over the years, I have experienced unexpected grace in unexpected circumstances in unexpected forms, which I will treasure to my grave. But this letter tops the heap.

Now I know that my father, who was loathe to show his affection, was once affectionate, never mind if it was only on a letter that was never sent.

For this, let me change my old header and in its place, a new one—in thanksgiving to the our heavenly Father who surprises me with grace beyond retelling.

Daddy, “I thank my God every time I remember you.” Philippians 1:3 (NIV)

Circle of Compassion Launched

Can I do this? I repeatedly asked myself midway through the first draft of the first chapter.

My writing voice, according to my editors and readers, is light and breezy—sometimes funny, sometimes perfunctory, often reflective, but never heavy.

So how can one do the same for the heavy hand of poverty? There is nothing light and breezy about it, neither is it funny nor perfunctory, and one cannot be reflective without feeling and sharing the pain.

Poverty cannot be sugarcoated.    

Circle of Compassion is about destitute children, born under the worst living conditions, but who have grown wings through Compassion International (CI), whose ministry is to release children from poverty in Jesus' name.

I had heard all about these stories before as a member of CI's consultative five-member advisory group for the last nine years. But seeing the children's heart in the raw, up close, hearing the details of their growing-up struggles, I was ready to step on the brakes and call it quits.

What's so amazing about grace, however, is that it urges you on and you can't retreat to the pit stop, not even for tire repairs.

Story after story, I felt as though Someone had taken the wheel from me and kept my engine running. He gifted me with people at CI who rigged me up for more. I flew to Cebu to interview a goon-turned-Christian, a drug lord-turned-CI volunteer, a communist-turned-pastor, a social worker-turned-CI leader—they made their way to the book, enriching the children's stories. The draft took on a shape of its own.

After the manuscript went to my editor, I got terribly sick with gastroenteritis that knocked me out for three days, sapped of strength to reach the finish line.    

But here it is, in printed form!

It was launched on the first day of the 2013 Manila International Book Fair. The event was attended by the Country Director of CI and some of his department heads. Our photos below tell the story of how, in the writing process, I (held up by the OMF Lit's publication team) was ensconced in God's circle of compassion so I could join the happy occasion to celebrate the work of His hands.

"The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands.” Psalm 19:1 (NIV)

Conversations at the Book Fair 2013

The 2013 MIBF is in full swing. And all my days are packed with punishing schedules and energizing joy.

I haven't had time to shop, but let me post some of the things that made me roll on the floor laughing.

Three 6-year-old kids hovered around just smiling at me, saying nothing. Then one of them probably wanted to break the quiet conversation and whispered in my ear.

Kid: I am almost finished with my book.

Me: Say that again, please? (I whispered back, making sure I heard right.)

Kid: I am writing a book. It's a very good one and I am almost done.

Her friend: What did you tell Grace D. Chong?

Kid: Nothing.

Me: It's a secret she can't tell you yet.

More smiles all around.

 

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A little girl runs to me followed by her parents.

Little girl: Hello, Grace D. Chong!

Me: Hi! What's your name?

Little girl: You forgot my name?! she gasped, with matching big incredulous eyes.

Her mom: Honey, she saw you last Book Fair. That was a year ago.

Little girl (to me): You don't know my name?!  She wouldn't let me off the hook. I offered my little notebook where I request people to write the name they'd like written on the books I sign.  

Me: Here, honey, write your name, I might misspell it.

Little Girl: You can't spell my name?!

Me: Well, I sometimes make mistakes.

Little girl (writing on my notebook): It's B-E-R-N-I-C-E!

Me: Oh, yes, Bernice! Of course!

Little girl: What's my mom's name?

Oh, dear.

These are some of the grace thrown my way at the Book Fair. I wouldn't trade them for any conversation in the world.

More Book Fair posts as soon as it is over this Sunday. Meanwhile, I have to run.

Justice for Kae

Whoever created this movie title, “The Good Die Young,” in 1954 would have to be thinking of someone like Kae, our dearest Kae.

Everything about Kae was good. I can say that with authority; she was my student in two college subjects (Advertising and Business English).

Checkmate

It was going to be my checking day. Meaning, I reserved the day to check my students' papers—not at home, but in the posh ambiance of the mall lounge, a sneezing distance away from where I live. 

(An aside: that huge shopping mall has been one huge grace. It is now my extension living room, where I can roam around or park myself anytime I please in shorts and tees.)

My Happy Place

It's that time of the year again!

Behind the (Bad) Behavior

Every act displayed in public has a back story; we can't take what we see at its face value. Often, if not always, we react to what our peepers witness precisely because we are not privy to what happens behind the scene.

This I have to remind myself, because I forget, or I mistakenly focus on what I see, based on GMRC (Good Manners and Right Conduct), which my generation takes seriously. 

A Million People March

Four days after the event: Everything that has to be said has already been posted online. A blog seems superfluous now, especially because the march has been overtaken by other big news headlines:

Pray for the Corrupt

The massive and shameless corruption involving a number of people in government, in partnership with swindlers, has hogged the headlines for days.

Billions of taxpayers' money for infrastructure projects and calamity ravaged areas, according to the Commission on Audit (COA) report, went to private pockets through bogus Non-Government Organizations (NGO). 

Lord, Teach Us to Pray

A gust of refreshing grace came to us through a preacher from the US one Sunday. He was not only a riveting speaker, he was also funny, and had us in stitches while he hammered in only one point—a most important act of Jesus, and therefore, every Christian's.

Prayer. 

Wordless Wednesday

Millionaires' Club

Each time I watch my students march onstage to receive their university diploma, this thought visits me, “Welcome to the Millionaires' club!” There were over two dozens of them in black cap and gown last Saturday.

Prescription Glasses

For years I was deluded by the thought that I had 20/20 vision. Except for reading glasses, which everyone needs upon stepping beyond the age of 40, I needed nothing else.

Interrobang?!

The origin or parents of the interrobang, a.k.a. Interabang, are my favorite punctuation marks. Why? Well, first, what is interrobang?

It is a nonstandard punctuation mark meant to combine the functions of the question  mark  (interrogative point) and the exclamation mark (known in printing as “bang”). Put them together and you get: 

Some dictionaries define it as a punctuation mark in the form of a question mark superimposed on an exclamation point, used to end a simultaneous question and exclamation.

Courage

What is courage?

Romeo and Juliet

This tragic play by William Shakespeare is the most famous love story in the English literary tradition. It focuses on the intense passion that springs up at first sight between Romeo and Juliet, who belong to rival families.

Oh, to be in love . . . 

Naming a Baby

It took a few days before the royals (William and Kate) of England could name their newborn.

I think they might have consulted so many people (or were pressured by even more people) and reviewed history to finally decide on George Alexander Louis, who will be known as Prince George of Cambridge.

A Death in the Family

James Agee, author of A Death in the Family said this in the book:

I Am an Apple

My latest book, which will be in bookstores soon, was inspired by a little girl (daughter of two dear friends, at whose wedding I stood as a sponsor), who is as pretty as she is smart.

Happy Birthday

All through the day today, I am not being presumptuous when I say that people will be singing me the most famous English song in the whole world: Happy birthday to You.

It is my birthday (which I, typically, forgot when I woke up this morning) and in a couple of hours, I should be attending a seminar in church, which will gather about two dozen people.

Unclaimed Grace

“I am claiming it!” my friend Margie, who has been praying for a child for years, exclaimed with bravado. “The Lord will give me a baby soon,” she added.

I feel uneasy with the word “claim” when talking to God. I always have.

To my mind, nobody has any right to claim anything from the Lord; only He has the right to decide what to give us—and when. He owes us nothing. In fact this is what His grace is all about; we deserve zero, but He heaps blessings upon us anyway. 

I verbalized my aversion to the word “claim” to an old pastor friend.

He laughed and said, “Christians who 'claim' are simply exercising their faith. They just want to show that they trust God 100%.”

“I trust God with the same percentage,” I argued. “But to 'claim'?!”

In my head I turned what he said around, but still couldn't grasp it. Not until I read a small coupon attached to an ad in a newspaper.   

“Clip this coupon to claim your FREE eco bag at a designated booth at . . .”

The word “claim” hit me between the eyes.  I looked for a catch in the ad—in the fine prints—but found nothing. It required nothing, all I needed was the coupon to claim my prize.

Ah, so, I thought, grace is like coupons upon coupons of free gifts strewn everywhere by God.

Many of these coupons are left unclaimed because we can't find them—we are either too busy with worldly persuasions, or distracted elsewhere, or are not looking hard enough. So when we finally find one or two (many more if we wish), we can claim our prizes because they're ours—free.

“From his abundance we have all received one gracious blessing after another.” (John 1:16 NLT)

Despite my new understanding, I still won't say 'claim' when praying, but I no longer flinch when I hear it from others.

Thoughts on Dying

Death is a universal fear.

That statement isn't mine; it is a research datum, the exact percentage of which escapes me now. This documented fear stems from dread of the unknown—what happens after death.

I like to think I have no such fear.

In my conversations about earthly death with my friend Yay, who shares my faith, my imagination has painted scenes so spectacular they can't be written in words. It will be a beautiful time—the most beautiful time—to finally see Jesus face-to-face and experience the splendor of heaven and the grandeur of grace for eternity.

My dread is more about being a burden to my children, who now lead their own lives, or caregivers in my last days. So while the going is good (meaning, my faculties are still well-oiled for using my gifts to serve my Creator), I will wake up singing a song of thanksgiving every morning till my designated last book shall have been written and my last breath snuffed out.  

Let me segue to José Martí, a Cuban patriot, freedom fighter and poet. Although he never lived to see Cuba free, he is considered the national hero. This quote is attributed to him:

“Three things you need to do before you die: Plant a tree, write a book, have a son.”

In reverse order, I have done all three.

I gave birth to not one, but four sons (my second, Adrian, was flown home by angels to Jesus soon after he was born); I have written not one, but a few books, as you can see on this site; and I have planted . . . well, just one tree.

I couldn't do it alone, so someone came to my rescue. It was caught on camera for posterity and, yes, proof that I had indeed planted one tree!   

Right now I fondly remember my uncle Billy. On his deathbed, he held my hand and said in his inimitable humor, “I am all packed, honey, ready to go.” I have never been blessed with an uncle more excited about meeting his Maker.

Jesus said in John 11:23-26 (NLT), “I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying. Everyone who lives in me and believes in me will never ever die . . .”

Love Is Thicker Than Blood

"Our family never shared the same last name, 
but our family was a family the same.
And they say blood is thicker than water, 
but love is thicker than blood.”

This is from a song composed and written by country singer Garth Brooks, which never fails to bring tears  to my eyes. It's about his family—how his parents each had children of his/her own when they married, then together, they had Garth. Theirs is a home of his, hers, and ours.

But in that family, the children were never allowed to use the words “half brother” or “half sister.” They were all told to regard each other as brothers and sisters.

This brings to my mind the many adopted children in our midst, who came into parents not related to them by blood. These children grow up with the stigma (except for those who were told early in their childhood) of being adopted.

 
Adoption is a recurring theme in the stories that I write for children. 

Unfortunately, all of them (except one that won a Palanca Award: I Am an Apple*) keep being rejected by publishers. That, however, doesn't stop me from writing more.

The idea of adoption stirs me. If not for circumstances that got in the way, I would have loved to take care of needy children whose parents are unable to bring them up.

That's probably why I continue to write about the issue—to encourage adoptive parents to bare the truth to their adoptive child early on. I think it is a marvelous thing for a child to know that he is loved, even if he didn't come from his adoptive mother's womb.

I have seen, ringside view, how a hidden truth can ruin the best of families.

Man says, “Blood is thicker than water.” But our God of grace has demonstrated that love is thicker than blood. Ephesians 1:5 (NLT) reads, "God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure." 

Garth Brooks speaks of this love in this song he sensitively crafted, some parts of which I now quote: 

“And if blood is thicker than

Water

Then what are we fighting for
We're all sons and daughters
Of something that means so much more

“I see it on my TV but I can't understand
Lord, it's one big contradiction to me
How in God's name we love thy neighbor
with fists in our hands
And kill each other when we just don't agree

Why can't we see the walls we can't see through
And see what God's been telling me and you
(and that is) Blood is thicker than water
Oh, but love, love is thicker than blood” 

* I Am an Apple cover:

Photo credit 

Grace Walks

Today, July 4, is a red-letter day in the calendar of the USA and the Philippines (Fil-Am Friendship Day). And so it is in mine.

This is my wedding anniversary. Another year has passed by—smoothly on some days and roughly on others. So what's the big deal? 

Plenty.

Not many marriages last long anymore. That's why, according to a psychologist, the monthsary has been invented—and celebrated—by the new generation. If a relationship can hurdle a month, then it's a big deal; to reach a year has become extremely difficult or just a dream. 

I believe that grace walks with every marriage that lasts. It gives you just enough patience, understanding, concern, and trust that you need for the day. Then it walks with you again the next day and the next and the next—before you know it, grace has walked with you for years and years.

I now remember my old walking stick—the one that I used every walking day for twelve years. I lost it a few days ago and texted my husband: Mourning the loss of my walking stick . . . sob.  

He went back to where I said I left it, but it was gone. He posted a note on the wall of that place, but zilch.

For several days I walked with an unopened umbrella in lieu of my stick.

When I woke up at dawn this morning, I saw a walking stick where I used to park my old one. It comes in the colors of our flag—red, white, blue, and yellow. It has the right grip, the right length, the right weight, and an outrageous look that matches my outrageous taste.

Upon closer look, it is nothing but a PVC water pipe discard, which the hubby wrapped in electrical tapes. I call it perfection, 43 times better than my old one.

My new walking stick is how I see my marriage to this man, who forgot to greet me and whom I also forgot to greet this morning, and who will be busy all day and will come home late tonight because he will attend a Rotary meeting. I will likewise be busy self-editing a storybook I had just written.

Perfection personified.

And grace continues to walk. Today, it got me the perfect walking stick and a perfect family news I am not yet privileged to divulge. 

God's gentle grace walks with arms wide open to embrace our failings and frailties, turning them into marriages that last—"in sickness and in health."

ooo

This calls for a new header: 

The old one comes down: 

Morning Has Broken

Any time of day either shines in the glow of sunlight or dims with the blessing of rain. Whichever way, we bask or soak in the glory of God's grace.

For me, however, the most glorious time of day is when the morning breaks, minus the rain. The night quietly leaves and daylight eagerly comes to rouse and keep us going. This in-between hour is when I choose to walk, usually alone in the first 30 minutes, then met by others in the next.

This is also when I try hard to imagine that very first morning a long time ago when the Lord almighty created the world , but can't. For no imagination can ever recreate that very first day when our world was made.

What I am sure about, though, is that when the sun kisses the last of darkness, there are similarities, as captured in words and notes by this old Christian hymn, which I also often sing to praise the God who makes me experience the breaking of morn:   

Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlight from heaven.
Like the first dew fall, on the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden,
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning.
Born of the one light Eden saw play.
Praise with elation, praise every morning;
God's recreation of the new day.

Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.

(This was set to the tune of a Gaelic song, Bunessan; written by Eleanor Farjeon in 1931. Cat Stevens popularized it 40 years later.)

Photo: by Karen

A Thousand Sleepless Nights

Even the most placid existence can sometimes be wracked by a turbulence so fierce it gives one a thousand sleepless nights.

If you're going through a storm in your life at the moment, try listening to "Blessings" by Laura Story, an American contemporary Christian music singer-songwriter.

This song was soulfully rendered in a duet in our church last Sunday by our Praise and Worship team, and I was blown away. The lyrics say that life's disturbances that cause us so much pain, "remind the heart that this is not our home."

"Blessings" might well be Laura's own prayer. When she was just married in 2006, her husband was diagnosed with a brain tumor and contracted meningitis during the delicate surgery. Imagine the fear and uncertainty the young couple have had to face together—up to this day when total healing has not been granted.  

Life-altering struggles—a family broken, health snuffed out by a dreaded disease or accident, savings of a lifetime lost, a business gone bad, a loved one's life cut short, friendships betrayed, a dream crushed, a reputation soiled—make us ask God plaintively:

"What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know You're near?
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise?"

This song, which  won a Grammy Award in the Best Contemporary Christian Song category in 2012, must have resonated with millions of people, it reached No. 1 on the Billboard of Christian Songs chart.  

I am borrowing parts of Laura's lyrics as I ask for grace today. Pray with me? 

“We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering
And all the while, You hear each spoken need
Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things

“'Cause what if your blessings come through rain drops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know You're near
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise . . .” 

Lord, please spare me from any more sleepless nights to make me know you're near.

Amen.

(To listen to the whole song, click this link.)

Photo credit

Double Delight, Year Three

The twins, Maika and Nikka, now 9, are growing up really fast. Pretty soon, they will be taller than I am—as all the people in my circle are.

Tony has slackened his pace in tutoring since he heard from the twins' school principal that these little dynamos are both doing well.

One won in a Tula (Poem) Contest and the other is acing her math subjects. Their 3rd grade report cards, which they and their mother (their father had recently passed away after a lingering illness) showed us with pride just before classes begun, prove good performance.

What makes them such a delight is their wide-eyed enthusiasm in learning anything new. I pray that hubby and I will still have enough strength be able to afford their schooling upkeep. Otherwise, they should be on their own sooner than later.

This doesn't worry me as much as it did when they were still in first grade. At age 7 then, they still couldn't distinguish A from Z, nor name any animal except cat and dog.   

After three years in a good school (Alliance Christian School and Tutorial Services or ACTS), with nurturing and caring teachers who believe in the power of grace, they can now read with ease, speak English, know Bible stories and the animals of God's creation.

I am sure that our heavenly Father has instilled in these two little clones the solid values they should grow up with in the years to come.

Thank you, Lord, for giving us the privilege and joy to help, in our own little way, two children whom you love. Amen.

My Father Mateo (Part 3)

(Conclusion, continued from yesterday's post; you may scroll down for Parts 1 and 2)

As I write this chapter about my father, everything seems so anti-climactic. Thus far, it is like a badly-said joke without any punch line. Psychologists term it "coming to terms." Old folks say, growing up. Close kin say, bouncing back. Friends say, thicker hide. I say, answered prayers.

My father didn't change. I did.

Where I used to have blinkers and saw only his drinking, now with hindsight, I could see all the other sides of him too—clearly, objectively, sans the callowness of my youth.  

Sometime  between JC's  third and fourth birthday, my father finally kicked the alcohol habit totally, cold turkey. Maybe because he was already feeling the early pains of cancer, which claimed his life a few years later, or because he didn't need it anymore.

Whatever. At that point, it didn't matter to me one way or the other. My father and I—well, he was  my father. The stranger was gone forever.    

And today, as I recall those years I spent with my father, my memories of him dwell wonderfully on the redeeming sober moments and all of his latter years: his frequent trips to my own home where he planted fruit-bearing trees in the yard, how he played with my sons, how he chatted away with my husband, how he braved those radiation therapies and surgeries, and how he left with incredible valor. I felt no trace of the agony that dogged me for years.   

In fact, it took time before I could write the details about that debilitating syndrome which crippled me in my younger life. I had to look at pictures of snow to make me remember the depths of my feelings during that one last eventful attack in Chicago. It took quite an effort to describe the ghosts which terrified and hounded that little girl who, upon turning into a woman, escaped from home because there lurked a stranger.  

Again, why am writing this at all?

I recently dug up a twenty-five-year-old, tattered little book entitled  It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown by Charles Schulz. It is about this little kid Linus who, every  Halloween, waits for the Great Pumpkin. Linus believes that the only way to celebrate Halloween is to sit in a sincere pumpkin patch and wait for it to come.

A person has to be very sincere in his waiting so the Great Pumpkin will not pass him by. In the book, it doesn't arrive, but  Linus—whose childlike faith in someone greater, kinder and more powerful than anyone he has ever known—says with conviction, "Next year, he'll come. Just you wait and see!"   

On the first page of the book is a handwritten message of my father, a confirmed book enthusiast till the end, to son #1, JC.

"When you will be grown up and I will be gone, you will know what the Great Pumpkin is.  Lolo Mateo."

I feel that the message was scrawled for me. I am grown up (well, how else would you call a golden girl?) and he is gone (fifteen years now), and I certainly know what a Great Pumpkin is. Like a Linus, I may have sat sincerely in a pumpkin patch for many years, waited, and kept the faith. Because one day, God rewarded me not in the way I wanted Him to, but in a much bigger fashion I never imagined possible.

My one regret is, I wasn't able to say this to my father before he left us all to be with our heavenly Father, "Thank you for the lesson of the Great Pumpkin, Daddy."
   
(“Gifts of Grace” Book 1, from where this chapter My Father Mateo was lifted, is now an e-book. So are “Gifts of Grace” Vols. 2 and 3) 

ISBN: 978-971-009-146-1

Format: Ebook

No. of pages: 129

Available worldwide 

My Father Mateo (Part 2)

(Continued from yesterday's post—you may scroll down for Part 1;  lifted from a chapter of my book "Gifts of Grace" Vol. 1) 

And so the disturbed, alcohol-phobic young lady nurtured the perpetual hope that one day soon,  if she was good and sincere, her father would turn away from alcohol; or he'd stay the way he really was, at least,  when her friends were around.  Year after year, she prayed. And she waited and waited and waited for the answer. Either the father didn't know how his daughter felt or he just couldn't help himself. 
    
From that cold winter night in Chicago,  the distressed lady settled into a comfortable home-away-from-home with her foster parents—a childless uncle and his doting American wife.  She made new friends, in all colors.  She saw prejudice at close range—the contrast between the city's north white side and the south black side, where the ghettos were. On her way to and from school, she walked by bums in the park and celebrities at Sak's Fifth Avenue.
    
On weekends, she joined a church singing group. By day, she  read glossy magazines and drama books.  By night, she directed and rehearsed plays, then finished two more degrees. She wrote for a Filipino newspaper in Chicago and got engaged to her editor-in-chief.  

In all those times, she didn't  have another attack. So after five years in a foreign land, she came into her own and decided  it was safe to go back home.
    
When she came back to the Philippines, the first order of the day was to marry her fiancè  in Manila where they decided to make their home.  But before she could get married, as a dutiful daughter, she had to breeze through her family home in the province, where there was a small get-together. Alcohol was served, a few toasts were exchanged. She braced for an attack. But none came.
    
At her wedding, her father donned his best barong, and was in his best behavior throughout the reception where alcohol flowed generously.  She thought that maybe she was too in love to notice otherwise.   
    
A new home, a new life, a new job—they all kept her busy and happy.  Then her first son, JC, was born. Predictably, her father was the first guest.  He took the bus all the way from Dagupan, where his office was.  He had in his arms a blue life-size toy poodle for his first grandson. 

Since then, he and his wife, would visit the baby most weekends.  The new grandparents loved playing with and taking care of JC. Although there was no rule against drinking at his daughter's home, he would, every so often, go to the small sari-sari store nearby and when he'd come back, he'd smell of gin or San Miguel beer. But the young mother was distressed no more.

Finally I've come to the part of my story which I could clearly remember.

From that time, his change of mien—from the daddy I loved  to the stranger I loathed—after a few gulps of alcohol did not trigger in me any adverse reaction anymore. Not even a slight symptom. The panic attack in the snowstorm near Chicago's Old Town  six years earlier seemed  too remote to remember. Before long,  I could attend a party and banter with people in various stages of inebriation.

What was even more surprising was, I could already openly talk about my father's love affair with alcohol, without a tinge of the embarrassment I had felt in those dark years. And the most surprising of all was, my new friends half listened, like they did  to a ho-hum small talk about the weather.  I could almost read the word "So?" written on their faces.

My younger sister's reaction was even more perplexing. She looked at me like someone who just landed from Mars. Was my father's drinking binges then so insignificant that it was peremptorily dismissed? Was it not even passable material for gossip or scandal? 

I think it was at those precise moments when I finally broke free from the remaining shackles of a self-imposed bondage. Everything that ate me up about the sot, the not-so-respectable stranger was no big deal to everyone who knew him well or didn't know him at all. No... big... deal!

So now,  I ask myself, what was the fuss all about?

(Part 3, or concluding post, tomorrow) 

 

My Father Mateo (Part 1)

(There was that one and only time when I wrote and finally talked about my father. It became one chapter of my book "Gifts of Grace” Vol. 1. Today being Father's Day, let me share that chapter with my friends on blogosphere. Here's the first of three parts.) 

It was one of those bleary, snowy, and windy Chicago weather.  Night had fallen and on the aisle of the crowded bus,  I was squashed in between damp, bulky coats.  Knowing the route by heart, I could tell we were approaching the second to the last  bus stop  before reaching the famous Old Town where I was to meet a friend.  My estimate was another half hour before we got there.

A gaunt, rawboned middle-aged man came up the bus. In a gruff, froggy  voice, he slurred his expletives about the piling snow, extinct taxicabs, and the crowded bus. He reeked with alcohol. 

Suddenly it happened again.  I couldn't ignore the sensations. My heart thumped beyond speed limit, my hands were clammy despite the below-zero weather, my knees turned to jelly, my stomach churned, and my lungs gasped for air.  I was on the verge of collapsing. In seconds,  I jumped out of the bus before the doors closed.  The only way to survive this all-too-familiar panic attack was to get out of that bus, away from that ghastly man, away from the nauseating smell of stale gin. 

I didn't care if I'd be stranded in the middle of a deserted side road or buried in the swiftly piling snow, or suffered from frostbite.  Any of these would be a fate better than being within the same breathing area as a ghoulish, croaking drunk. 

I was, as far back as I could remember, unreasonably horrified of anyone who had imbibed  alcohol.  

I knew exactly why. 

This problem, ridiculous as it might have sounded, stemmed from the man who, in essence, was closest to me—my father.  He was, to my mind, addicted to alcohol. Nobody seemed bothered enough (not my mom, nor my siblings, nor my close kin) to suffer the way I did.  Which was  why it was only I who wanted to fly the coop, so to speak.  With "The American Dream" as a convenient excuse, I flew to the US shortly after college graduation so I could be miles and  miles away from home. I thought that if I didn't see him I'd be cured of this irrational fear. 

But tonight, after one whole year in a far-flung foreign land,  I was  just proven wrong. 

In the Philippines, I had some kind of a radar.  I could spot a person who had drunk a little bit too much a hundred meters away. If he came any closer,  I'd fold up, crumple and faint. It was an affliction  I managed to conceal quite perfectly. I didn't know in whom to confide. More accurately, I was afraid I wouldn't be understood.

I remember vaguely how it all started. 

Once there was this self-conscious, onion-skinned, precocious little girl who tried to excel in almost everything she did.  To her, it was extremely important for people and her friends to think highly of her.  So she wanted nothing more than a picture-perfect family, with parents she could be proud of and introduce to everyone. A smiling mother, who was a  caring pharmacist, and a respectable father, who was a brilliant lawyer. 
 
The mother was all she was meant to be.  But the father wasn't one she could put into a frame, not when he partied with friends (for a part of him was  footloose and fancy free) and had one too many. When he was his sober self, he was exactly what the little girl pictured in her mind—quiet, self-effacing, dignified and yes, respectable.  

He would write beautiful speeches and letters.  And he would talk about the poetry of Robert Frost and the ideology of Karl Marx.  But during a party, in the girl's eyes, the respectable man turned into a loquacious, garrulous stranger who sang off-color songs, off key.  
 
It wasn't that bad in the early days.  The parties  were few and far between.  But as the little girl bloomed into a young lady, even more self-conscious than ever, especially now that she had new friends with fame, fortune, and picture-perfect families, the respectable father came and went.  

In the mornings, at home, as he worked on legal briefs and pleadings, he was his ideal Daddy self,  talking in hushed, polite tones.  At night, coming home from a neighborhood get-together, he'd be a stranger.  He'd smell of beer or  rum or brandy or gin, trip over his own shoes, cussing at no one in particular. That was when the symptom of her affliction became more palpable: A little bit of a heart leap, until it progressed into a chilling, asphyxiating, and deafening knell.

Anger? Fear? Frustration? Shame?  It was all of those things. 

(To be continued tomorrow) 

 

Good Fathers, Bad Sons

The world will celebrate “Father's Day” tomorrow. But JC is treating his dad for lunch today and he has invited JR and me to be equal beneficiaries of the freebie. So I think I ought to pay tribute to dads now before the crowd does.

I've been scouring my Bible looking for good fathers—well, good fathers with equally good children. Instead, I found really exemplary dads with, alas, bad children. 

Wake Up

To my shame, embarrassment, and frustration, I sometimes morph into Eutychus.

Eutychus was the young man in the Bible who fell asleep and fell from the window ledge while listening to Apostle Paul do a lengthy presentation that began in the early evening and lasted till midnight.

This accident caused a major commotion and disrupted Paul's discourse.

Cat and Dog (2)

Who's afraid of whom?

Are dogs afraid of cats? Or is it the other way around?

I've read of both, but in our household, our Attorney II is terrified of one cat. And our dog has reason to cower in fear—even if it is in her very own doghouse.

We don't know who owns this cat, but he sometimes manages to invite himself to our garden and once, to Attorney II's own cage. He's definitely so much smaller than our pet, but he can truly be alarming.

Boo or Applause

Tim Tebow, 24, an American football player in the National Football League (NHL), is a Christian, and very vocal about it with fans, in clinics, hospitals, market places, schools, and orphanages.

He gets down on his knees and prays before every game. He had admitted being a virgin, and is willing to wait for marriage. He'd wear biblical references on his black eye paint.

ooo

Fierce Love

Have you heard of Rizpah?

She's one of the least known women in the Bible, not in the same league with the popular Ruth, Esther, Mary, Eve, Sarah, and Hannah. In fact, she was mentioned only four times in the Old Testament, KJV (2 Samuel 3:7; 21:8; 21:10-11).

But zooming in on what Rizpah had done as a mother, a fellow mom like me can't help but be stunned.

Breakfast Eggs

Whatever Ate Vi serves on the breakfast table, I eat.

But my boys are different. They are all good cooks, so they relish cooking their own breakfast. Sometimes Tony makes a Spanish omelet; sometimes son #1 prepares pancakes; sometimes son #3 does French toast or a new concoction of last night's leftovers. All dishes are always well presented (like those I see on TV) on each of their plates. 

Mount Everest, Here I Come

As a card-bearing, 60-something senior, I often ponder my mortality. The thought that the Lord may soon take me home visits me now and then, especially when I am down with an ailment or feel aches and pains.

After all, the kids are grown, the mortgages paid, and life's loose ends tied up (well, almost).

I am now, as I wrote in my book, What Me, Retire? . . .

#Hashtag #Ignorance

See this punctuation mark? #.  For the longest time, I called it "Number."      

 

Then came touch phones and cellphones and people gave it an alias and another usage: "Pound."

Now here's a newer monicker with yet another usage: "Hashtag."

I don't do Twitter so I missed Hashtag's birth. But on FB, which I do daily, I began noticing the "Number" or "Pound"  or now "Hashtag" appear in a number of messages, especially photo captions.

For instance, a young friend posted a photo with his family. Before the photo were these gobbledygook:

Conceit

Conceit has reigned within mortals, past or present. We have developed excessive belief in ourselves because of our abilities or riches or achievements or fame.

Today, the thinking, “Believe in yourself” is a campaign, or maybe even an ideology, to raise one's self-esteem, which is seen to have paramount importance in building a person's confidence.

How Do You Spell Your Name?

Spelling is kind of complicated. Especially now that we have developed new, appalling habits of misspelling everything in text messages (which also often take the form of email and FB notes).

Yet we have the compulsion to make it even harder.

Cirio is a simple enough name. But it can still get mangled along the way:

Now, think about the confusing ones. 

Mute Monday

So You Want to Be an Atheist

The intense, oppressive afternoon heat made me closet myself in our bedroom with the air-conditioner full blast. 

I visited a cabinet unopened in over a decade. Surprise! There sat manuscripts, clippings, and files I had stashed away for reasons I can't remember. One of them is a copy of a letter dated July 1999, which I wrote to the 15-year-old daughter of a family friend. 

My friend was extremely distressed when her daughter joined the Atheist Society. A faithful Christian, my friend cried on my shoulder. Since her daughter was quite close to me, I decided to write to her: 

Dear Sarah*,

A wise old man told me when I was your age, “The day you stop questioning is the day you die.”

I choose not to die before my time, so at age 54, I am questioning still—no longer about the existence of God, but about other things: 'If I ate 12 peanuts instead of eight, will my joints ache?' 'Have I taken my maintenance pill?'

Want to Know Your Future?

The fiesta was probably the most exciting time in our town. The rides, game booths, and circus came—so did the fortune tellers.

I was ten and in 6th grade, and after class, my friends and I decided to spend our allowance that day on knowing our future. We had heard that the seeress had beautiful fingers and a crystal ball that gleamed. 

Five giggly girls heard all we wanted to hear. She told me I'd marry a foreigner and that I would have a stormy marriage. At age 10, nobody worries about marriage, but I was excited to meet the foreigner I was to marry.

Special Sunday

Today, we thank the Lord for the grace of an active little boy who has just turned six.  

We haven't seen him for 771 days, but he is in our prayers every day. May he continue to grow up knowing and loving Jesus more and more. 

Our thanksgiving offering to Him who keeps us from falling:    

 

For Adrian, this is what the Lord said about little ones: Mark 10:14 (NIV) “. . . Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.” 

Happy birthday little one!

Top photos: Gianina Chong 

Why Go to Church?

Some people don't like going to church.

“I can pray or worship God anywhere,” they would argue. In fact, some of them just turn on the TV set in their bedrooms, sing hymns, and pray with the people in the show, which is “exactly the same as being in church.”

There are many verses in the Bible that remind God's people to get together and build relationships. One is found in Hebrews 10:25 (NLT), “And let us not neglect our meeting together, as some people do, but encourage one another, especially now that the day of his return is drawing near.”

But the most surprising reason for going to church for me came not from the Bible but in a testimony of one of the members of our youth group in church.

In a halting voice, Olim said in words that I now paraphrase: 

Standard of Giving

Frequently asked questions on tithing and rarely given answers: 

Q: Do you tithe?

A: Yes.

Q: Where does it say in the New Testament that we should tithe?

Storytime Sunday

What are you doing this afternoon?

Here's an invitation for all kids to come and listen to the story of a great flood in Mateo's town—and how great grace flooded our little hero instead.

Mateo, the puppet, and I will be there to welcome you and listen to the story as well. Please bring all your friends so we can have a noisy chat while I sign your books. If you wish, I can also let you in on my about-to-be-released new book.

It'll be fun!

A Plea for PWD

It must have been something I ate which rendered my total being totally useless in the last two days. I was a Person With Disability (PWD). 

I missed an important event that I looked forward to for one whole year (gown all pressed), missed writing my column for a magazine, missed reading my daily Bible, missed my appetite, missed my computer, and missed my humor.

There was this constant sick feeling at the gate of my tummy, aggravated when I so much as moved vertically. So I had to lie flat, except for those hurried trips to and from the bathroom. Only by grace, sent through a kindly doctor name Perry, a solicitous Ate Vi, and a supportive family, was I able to pull through this energy-sapping ailment perilously close to life-threatening dehydration.

Junior Moment

I just had a junior moment.

Huh? How can that be possible when you're a senior, Mom! My sons are most likely saying in their minds.

Before I speak of that embarrassing episode, let me just say that I've been having senior moments for as long as I can remember. A senior moment is defined as, “A momentary lapse in memory, particularly one experienced by a senior citizen.”

Half truth. Senior moments are not the sole domain of older people; my young sons forget their cellphones, shades, people's names, and other details as often as I do.