Mateo Goes to America

The invitation to read one of my Mateo books in a school in America was a pleasant, very pleasant, surprise. But it also frightened me a little. Would American kids relate to Mateo?

He is the eight-year-old character in the Oh, Mateo! series of 15 books. In second grade, he lives in a small town in the Philippines and his environment (place, people, activities, and things) are purely Pinoy.

Mateo’s father is a poor farmer who works with his hands, so different from the wealthy, landed farmers in developed countries where farming is totally mechanized.

Putting dread aside, I read “Half and Half” to 30 fourth graders. The book uses tropical fruits to illustrate sharing. To my extreme delight, the kids listened with rapt attention and raced each other in asking questions.  

One of them said, “I know two Philippine fruits—rambutan and atis!”

“Ooooh,” the class gushed.

In our group picture, the photographer (my daughter-in-law, who graciously acted as my adjutant) asked for sour faces. Half-listening, I thought she meant “wacky” as we like to do in this country. Uh-oh.

The event must have turned out so well, the principal invited me to also read to the third graders—and then to the first graders, too.

It was “The Secret Ingredient” (a story about doing one’s best in any task) for the third grade class. The response was just as enthusiastic. I must confess that I was expecting a noisy group—my impression of American kids from TV shows—but these 10-year-olds listened so well they asked all the right questions.

And last, the first graders. I didn’t think they’d have attention span long enough for a story, so I read them one of my concept books, “God’s Favorite Color” instead. It was much appreciated, but could I please read them a story? Ooops, wrong assumption again.

For these little ones it was “Angel with One foot” (a story about gratitude). And what do you know? I got total listening silence and a “thank you” note from each of them.

The lovely photos below tell the story of that one special day in the US of A when Teo made friends with 90 American kids.             

Never could have I imagined grace to pour like it did.

Old Town, Old Me

In the late 60’s, it was hip to be seen in Chicago’s Old Town, a historic district in the north side of the city. A home to many Victorian-era buildings, this place teemed with bars frequented by  university students and intellectuals of foreign origin.

I’d go there with classmates at the Art Institute of Chicago. It sort of gave us bragging rights.

I have forgotten all about that part of my life, but it all came back when recently, son #2 treated Tony and me to the Old Town State Historic Park in San Diego.

These two Old Towns differ in character, but they both boast of old things. And my beloved old husband love old anything—that should include me (a laughing emoticon here).

Old Town San Diego is like old Mexico, particularly the Mexican-American period in the mid-1800s. It offers authentic Mexican food, clothes, trinkets and works of art. The place engaged me because it was bursting with vivid, happy colors reminiscent of the Philippines.

Unfortunately, I (old me!) lost all the photos I took with my phone. I was trying to edit one of them when I accidentally erased them all. I hope that by grace, my memory holds long enough to remember the exhilarating time I had there, including our trolley tour around San Diego and Coronado Island and visits to about a dozen museums—ranging from an old courthouse to an ancient cemetery.

These, similar to what I had, have been gleaned from the Internet.      

  

But really, what made Old Town San Diego more significant was: were it not for son #2, Tony and I would not have thought of going there.

Now I realize that, aside from a Chinatown (which we make time to visit), an Old Town is a must-see in every place where it exists.

Purple Splendor

“Repeat after me,” the jolly trolley bus driver said over his microphone, “Ja-ca-ran-da.”

“Jacaranda!” we echoed in unison, gasping with collective awe.

He would repeat these words over and over again as we passed through roads and roads lined with purple splendor. It was jaw-dropping!

 

I suddenly remembered my late mom who loved purple more than any other color. I wondered whether she passed this way when she visited California moons ago—maybe not, she was here in autumn. Otherwise, she’d have gushed over it non-stop. 

Jacaranda is probably the most exotic tree in California and one of the most beautiful, next to fire trees, that I have seen in my lifetime.

Californians, however, have a love-hate relationship with this purple splendor, the flowers of which are sticky.

“They are impossible to clean or wash off, especially if they get on one’s car.” Some also complain that Jacarandas near homes litter patios and choke spa filters.

But to a visitor like me, I felt nothing but pure delight and happy remembrances of mom.

It made our trolley bus tour of San Diego not only refreshing but idyllic. Eden must have had rows and rows of these trees, too!  

The images of Jacaranda, still on my mind one month later (am home now), makes me sing this old, joyful hymn (words by Charles Wesley, 1739):

Oh for a thousand tongues to sing   
My great Redeemer’s praise,
The glories of my God and King 
The triumphs of His grace. 

Red Slippers

Of all the things to forget, it had to be my pair of house slippers. That, despite a two-month-long packing for a one-month US trip, checking my luggage daily whether I had all I needed.

My ever-thoughtful daughter-in-law, G, was quick on the draw. With no prior knowledge of my memory lapse, she had a lovely pair of red slippers waiting for me by the entrance door. She had a similar pair, in black, for Tony, too.

I loved it at first sight and from day one, we were inseparable. I even brought it to our trips in California. It provided the warmth I needed for the spring weather, much too cold even with three layers of clothing.  

There were warmer days, during which Californians instinctively turn on the centralized air-conditioning, so then it was still cold for a tropicanian like me.

"Red Slippers" is the title of one of Amy Lowell’s (1874-1925) poems. I marveled at her use of words, when I was trying my hand at poetry—but eventually turned to writing prose on grace.

One year after her death, she was posthumously awarded a Pulitzer Prize for her collection of poetry, What's O'Clock?

Lowell wrote in polyphonic prose, which employs devices of verse such as alliteration and assonance—two literary devices I try to use in my prose, where I can.

I quote her first two stanzas below:

Red slippers in a shop-window; and outside in the street, flaws of gray, windy sleet!

Behind the polished glass the slippers hang in long threads of red, festooning from the ceiling like stalactites of blood, flooding the eyes of passers-by with dripping color, jamming their crimson reflections against the windows of cabs and tram-cars, screaming their claret and salmon into the teeth of the sleet, plopping their little round maroon lights upon the tops of umbrellas. 

Gripping words, aren’t they?

Now, let me borrow her next line and configure it for my own:

Lowell’s: The row of white, sparkling shop-fronts is gashed and bleeding, it bleeds red slippers.

Mine: The spread of white, fluffy, shaggy carpets is gashed and bleeding, it bleeds red slippers.   

But ooops, history repeats itself—I forgot to bring my red slippers home with me!  

Hashtag #GoldtoForever

“I am done with travelling," I promised my aging-and-no-longer-agile self when Tony and I came home from our one-month US vacation last year.

I spoke too soon.

Early this year, son #2 called up his dad, "You have to be here for Tito Peding's 50th wedding anniversary."

Tito Peding is my Manong (older brother), a retired Pastor, who lives in the US with his family.

"Okay," my husband immediately agreed for both of us.

In these turbulent and troubled times, rarely do couples celebrate their 50th anniversary anymore. They either split up or don't live long enough to reach it. A milestone it certainly is. And son#2 wanted us to be a part of it—also to represent all the other members of Manong's family in the Philippines.

Armed with our maintenance pills and liniments, we took our 12-hour-non-stop flight (more like 20 if you add the traveling to and waiting time at the airport.) 

Manong's guests flew in or drove from faraway states—a demonstration of their affection for the couple, whose long years of ministry touched their and many others' lives. The 10,000+ miles Tony and I traveled were a small price to pay to witness this:     

The look of love at 50!*

"What therefore God has joined together, let not man put asunder." Mark 10:9 (KJV)

The renewal of vows took place in a lush, sunny garden, with the couple's children, daughter-in-law (who saw to every detail) and two grandchildren, with several pastors from different Christian churches, participating.

At the reception (indoors), there was much music, laughter, time for connections and re-connections, and reminiscences over Filipino food like lechon.

I was asked to say a few words during the program. Instead, I showed a video of how Manong Peding came into our lives, when he was fifteen. A distant relative of my father, he sought out my dad to help him go to school—the least of his blood family's priorities. From that day forward, he became my and my four siblings' Manong.

That’s all in the past. What of the future?

I think that when a husband and wife have been together for 50 golden years, it is certain they will be together as they promised, "Till death do us part."

Then after earthly death, to those who believe in the saving grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, forever will be the ultimate promise fulfilled.  

 

*Captured by G, my daughter-in-law

Aaah, Art!

It has been said that art is the most potent form of emotional communication. Well, it is.

The purpose of artistic expression is to create an intense experience (for both artist and beholder) that indulges the senses.

Centuries before modern neuro-science came into our consciousness, painters’ works had been capturing beholders’ emotion—resulting in poetry, song and dance. These ancient works of art profoundly affect us even today, just as the newer ones do. They transport us to our imagined places somewhere out there.

That’s what happens to me when I see a piece of artwork, especially an original one that was caressed and touched by the artist’s brushes and hands, at close range.

When #2 son treated Tony and me to the San Diego Museum of Art, I gasped when I saw two of Georgia O’Keeffe’s paintings, one of which (in magazines or the Net) has always blown me away. And now it was right in front of me.

I gawked at it for uncounted minutes; were it not for the strict museum do-not-touch rule, I would have traced her shapes and lines with my fingers.

For the classics, I have always been taken with Juan de Pareja’s paintings of Jesus. This one was unsigned but art critics attribute it to him. A host of angels serve a visibly exhausted Jesus after  fasting for 40 days/40 nights, then led to the wilderness where the devil tried, but failed, to tempt Him. Pareja's interpretation gave me goose bumps.

One of El Greco’s was there, too.

We could only spend two hours there as we still had a long drive to go. The emotions in my reservoir were far from depleted, so I reserved them for future art exhibits.

Master painters are blessed with senses keener than normal beings. But I think beholders who appreciate their works are also gifted with the same. These make the emotional communication complete: a sender, a receiver, and a feedback, such as this post.

In this emotional communication, we acknowledge the grace of mirth we all feel when beholding the depth and breadth of art, drawn from God’s creation.

“Lift up your eyes on high and see: who created these? He who brings out their host by number,
calling them all by name; by the greatness of his might and because he is strong in power,
not one is missing.” Isaiah 40:26 (ESV)

What You See Is What You Get

This was the title of Richard Deacon’s first major museum survey in the United States. And we were able to view it!

I’ve heard of this contemporary sculptor’s works before and being an art enthusiast, I wished for a chance to gape at (not just on the internet) some of those masterpieces.

Wish fulfilled. 

 

My husband, son #2 and I caught this exhibit at the San Diego Museum of Art, Balboa Park. It included about 40 of Deacon’s works from more than 30 years of his oeuvre.

While I was sputtering with excitement, Tony (who prefers only classical art), quietly moved around with his signature deadpan look, probably wondering where the “real ones” are.

My thought balloon, Ggie and Caloy [excellent artists both, and two of my dearest friends] would enjoy these.
  
Multi-awarded Deacon, who calls himself "fabricator," uses everyday materials such as laminated wood, linoleum and limestone. His abstract forms, with their unusual structures, have made him a renowned British sculptor.

This summarizes the exhibit’s literature: “The show’s title What You See Is What You Get is a tongue-in-cheek nod to Deacon’s style—while the title can appear literal, his works are often meant to invoke a range of metaphors, and mythological and literary allusions.”

Some of the pieces are from a series dubbed Some More for the Road. It was a fitting stop-over in our road trip. Some more grace, I thought.

Behold a few of his works which awed me:        

Three for the Road

Among my three sons, #2 has been away from home the most.

He was in medical school for five years, in hospital internship and review for the medical board exam for another two years, then two more for some medical requirement I can’t remember. Shortly after that, he flew to the US thrice for job interviews and such, then got married and moved with his wife to the US, where my only grandson was born, and where they have been residing for over a dozen years.

It was therefore a rare, if not delicious, treat for Tony and me to be with him for six days on a road trip to different cities of California, going through one route and coming through another.

In San Diego, he treated us to the Old Town, where we took in museums after museums, and a trolley tour around the city and another city, Coronado.

We paused for meals in exotic restaurants, one of which was the Taco Mafia for authentic Mexican food.

 

We also tried a French-Basque restaurant where his dad feasted on frog legs and I pigged out on beef tongue. Both of which, we found out later from his wife, almost nauseated him as they bore strong resemblance to the specimens dissected in his Anatomy classes in medical school. To his credit, he showed no hint of disgust.

San Miguel Arcangel mission, the last of our stop-overs was in a bad state of decay and could fall apart anytime. Unlike the other missions, it has no funding and relies only on volunteers to keep it open to he public.

Tony was grateful, however, that we walked on its grounds before it could have the money for reconstruction.

Nothing compares with seeing something of the past in its original state through the eyes of a hopeless history-hound of a husband, indulged by his second son.    

    

Our conversations were few and far between. Having been blessed with all-boys for children (I am not complaining), I do not expect conversations; I am used to one-word replies to my mile-long questions.

As a result, I have mastered the art of conversations in my own mind, which is not a bad thing, as writing requires that of an author.
  
Three for the road. No adjective could accurately describe our full six days together. But there is a noun that says it all: grace.

California’s Flora

Easily, the charm of California, for me, stems from its flora.

Wherever we go—from county to city—beautiful and colorful flowers make huge, spectacular gardens. They are all over, as far as the eye can see.

 
They creep on roadsides and hills, climb up walls, embrace fences, look up toward the sun, dance with the wind, shoot out of bushes, hang from trees, bow to the ground, simply stand tall like sentries or sit like princesses on their thrones.

In truth, there are many things to appreciate in sunny, scenic California, but those that first get my attention (and adulation) are its flora. Maybe because when we visited last year, there was a drought and the flowers could not bloom. This time around, I turn into an inveterate photographer at every turn.

When I get back home to the Philippines, I will try, although I may not succeed, to capture their splendor on canvas. My fascination with flowers made me try out painting some 10 years ago, which is one of the things I immerse myself in—next to writing.

After tours of art museums and research on flower paintings, I can’t think of any artist, not even Georgia O’Keeffe, who has ever captured the fullness of grace in these jaw-dropping blossoms.

In all the five missions we have visited so far (San Luis Obispo, San Juan Bautista, San Luis Rey, San Miguel Gabriel, and San Diego Tolosa), I take to the flowers, while Tony contemplates the relics. There is a garden and a courtyard in every mission where one can meditate and reflect on how God created such magical magnificence.

I’ve read that the early friars from Spain who brought Christianity to California hauled in flower seeds and seedlings of every kind and planted them as directional signs to the structures they built for the natives, or American Indians. So did the early migrants, who strewed them around dwelling places, when they came for the gold rush.

Whether they were aware of it or not, they brought in joyful wonders, making people like me gush with gratitude three centuries later.

Tri-Tip Steak

One of the countless blessings of traveling is being able to eat unique or unknown-to-many dishes. In California, Tony and I were treated by our daughter-in-law, G, to tri-tip steak salad in a restaurant by the Marina called  Garlic Brothers.

 We’ve never heard of it before. What could it be?

We were told that tri-tip is a small, triangular cut from sirloin. It was popularized in Northern California but is now becoming widely marketed. It is also known as a triangle steak or bottom sirloin steak. I looked it up and I got more details:

The tri-tip is a cut of beef from the bottom sirloin subprimal cut. It is usually 1.5 to 2.5 lbs. (675 to 1,150g) per side of beef.

Its scientific name is m. tensor fasciae latae, inserted in the fascia lata, the connective tissue covering the quadriceps extensor, a group of four muscles which in turn insert in the patella, or kneecap, of the animal.

Except for the balut (also called feathered egg, a Filipino delicacy), which I love, I have never researched any food I eat as much as I read up on tri-tip.

That’s what traveling does—it frees your mind from your daily passions and leaves enough space for you to relish what may be perceived as banal or mundane. And there lies grace.

And there lies tri-tip steak salad with taste no less than magnifique.    

Photo credit

Soap with a Role

My love affair with bath soaps persisted as son #2, his dad, and I resumed our road trip. From Hilton Hotel in San Diego, we hopped to Bakersfield, a city nestled in the southern Central Valley of California. It was our halfway stop toward home in Stockton.

This time, our overnight resting place was Marriott Hotel. Here, as I researched on odd bar soaps, I stumbled upon (perhaps because of guilt) a soap with a role:

Me: Are you taunting me?

Soap: Writer’s Block!

Me: I refuse to have writer’s block. It’s just that I haven’t had time to write because my husband  and I are having too much fun bonding with son #2 and on a long road trip, there are just so many distractions and so little time.

Soap: Writer’s Block!

Truth to tell, I came to the US with the printed manuscript of my latest book. While packing all 12 chapters (so far tweaked and almost as good as finished) with my laptop, I told myself that it would be a cinch to write in California where the climate is cooler. 

 

But I still had a 13th and last chapter to polish before finally sending it to my editor. Every time I attempted to work, however, something came up—like an invitation to try out a new restaurant, visit a museum or a historical site, go to the library, etc. etc. And now, because of all the scheduled hotel hopping, I was preoccupied with bath soaps?!

And a special one to taunt me?!

The deadline given by my publisher was the month of May, and the month was about to end. Yet I refused to listen to the voice breathing inside my mind, Beg for a deadline extension. 

So I shrugged off my bar-soap-with-a-role-to-taunt-me fixation and trashed my trivial thoughts. Odd or ordinary in shape, structure, or name, a bar soap is a bar soap is a bar soap.

Next stop (two hours from Bakersfield) would be San Miguel de Tolosa mission.

Meanwhile, I curled up under the all-white comforter for a restful sleep and I woke up refreshed, grateful for the grace the new day would bring.

“I lay down and slept, yet I woke up in safety, for the LORD was watching over me." Psalm 3:5 (NLT)

Carlsbad

In California, everything about Carlsbad is good. Extremely good.

Well, except for the weather (15°C at this time of the year, Spring). To someone used to an average of 36° in the Philippines, this is very brrr cold.

Carlsbad is a seaside resort city occupying a seven-mile stretch of Pacific coastline in northern San Diego County, California.

It is also where Legoland is.

A virtual oooh-and-ahhh paradise for an adult like me (who in childhood thought Lego was the ultimate toy and joy, in the same league as jig-saw puzzle) and children like Adrian, our only grandson whom we love to (gazillion of Lego) pieces.

There we celebrated his 10th birthday.

Imagine all the animals and flowers (big and small), buildings, people of various persuasions in the world, all interesting movie characters, and anything you could imagine shaped with Lego bricks!

I couldn’t click my camera fast enough. Even if I did in freezing weather, I had no gigabytes left to store all the photos and grace that emerged with every shot.

Here are some of them:

 

 I am in awe of Lego artists.

They remind and make me wonder how the Lord knitted all the billions of inward and outward pieces that comprise one breathing and living human being.

“For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.” Psalm 139:13-14 (ESV)

Soap with a Sole

I thought I had seen the oddest when I blogged about the soap with a hole. What do you know?

From Legoland Hotel in Carlsbad, we hopped to Hilton Hotel in San Diego. There I was greeted in the bathroom by a soap that bears a strong resemblance to the non-slip sole of my sneakers.

Why would a soap bar have a sole?

Just like sneakers, this bar soap’s equipped with non-slip embossed dots. They give you a good grip while washing your hands or taking a shower. If wet and placed in the soap dish, the water drains quickly, preventing the bar from being soaked and melting.

It’s some kind of soap engineering to solve a consumer problem. What will they think of next? (smile emoticon here) When you’re on a rare, month-long vacation, you are licensed to be think and act hollow and shallow—but deeply grateful.

I find myself blogging about soaps and other little thingies I ordinarily don’t pay attention to on a busy, stressful day (when sometimes I intend to pick up my phone but pick up a book or a plate instead). 

Isn’t that what busyness does? It makes you ignore the grace that comes in small packages.

“Since everything God created is good, we should not reject any of it but receive it with thanks. For we know it is made acceptable by the word of God and prayer.”  Timothy 4:4-5 (NLT)

Santa Gracia

Son #2 took a break from his patients and patiently took his dad and me on what his GPS said was a seven-hour road trip to Carlsbad, California.

Knowing his dad to be a history buff, he said we’d drop by the San Luis Obispo de Tolosa mission (founded 1772) along the way. It was going to be our second tour of an old Spanish mission, the first being San Juan Bautista (founded in 1797) during our vacation in California about this time last year.

The red clay roof tiles we see all over California today were first made at the San Luis Obispo mission. Going through the photos and artifacts in the museum, we went back over 200 years.

This was how Christianity was brought to California and how the American Indians were converted and therefore called Mission Indians.

The tour took an hour, with plenty enough time to get to Carlsbad before supper.

But we were assaulted by bad traffic in some areas.  The better for me to enjoy the breathtaking scenery: beaches, forests, valleys, plains, deserts, farms, landscaped cities, and mountains so high we were up in the clouds, making one think of having reached heaven.

We passed along many santa places: Santa Barbara, Santa Paula, Santa Clara, Santa Fe, Santa Monica, Santa Ana, Santa Gertrudez, and because we were still a long way to our destination, I counted myself in—Santa Gracia.

And why not? I mulled over the Bible’s definition of saints.

In Paul’s letter to the Corinthians (1 Cor. 2-3 KJV), “Unto the church of God which is at Corinth, to them that are sanctified in Christ Jesus, called to be saints, with all that in every place call upon the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, both theirs and ours: Grace be unto you, and peace, from God our Father, and from the Lord Jesus Christ."

Indeed all female believers are santas, just as male believers are santos.  

All told, our road trip took 14 hours instead of seven—more than the length of a plane ride from the Philippines to San Francisco.

Although the travel was overly long, the joy was overly longer.

Soap with a Hole

It looked a bit weird at first.  What's this doing in our bathroom? I thought it might have been a bone of some strange animal I have yet to meet. But it was sitting on a soap dish in our room at Legoland Hotel in Carlsbad, California.

On closer look, you can sniff its fresh scent. It actually is a bath soap! Curious, I looked for the box and there I read the rationale for its strange shape.    

 

It's ergonomically shaped to reduce waste—to eliminate that unused, leftover sliver at the center of a traditional soap bar we have bathed/washed with for years. Ingenious!

While travelling with my husband, big and little things never cease to fascinate me. Even while still packing our luggage for our vacation in the US, I vowed to treat each day like the first day of my life: look out for new things and re-visit old ones with new eyes.

First days are always the most unforgettable; they stay in your memory for life—like a stunning, in-your-face encounter with grace that makes you endlessly grateful.

"Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you." 1 Thessalonians 5:18 (ESV)   

Art on Resurrection Sunday

Celebrating Resurrection Sunday with a solemn worship service at dawn—followed by a fellowship breakfast, then a painting session—has been a tradition in our church for a few years.

The art session is usually done on one side of the church’s sprawling lawn. About 50 children, men, and women participate—the rest walk around chatting, gawking and gushing over the progress of each canvas.  Many (or all) of us are amateurs who probably touch brush and canvas only this one day of the year.

But it is always an exhilarating experience. We try to replicate God’s creation the way we individually see it, and in our own minds, we are successful.

This one’s mine this year. I didn’t do it with the group as I forgot my apron at home (I am a sloppy "painter"), but I took the rest of the day romancing it at my painting space by our terrace. It’s a futile attempt at abstract painting and a stubborn fascination with flowers and butterfly. 

     

But ah, many of those who behold it say, “Wow!” My husband says, “. . .”

So, yeah, I’ll take the “Wow!” Thank you.

The “Wow!” rightfully belongs to the original flowers and butterflies created by the One Who resurrected three days after dying on the cross for us, but His grace allows me to borrow it once a year.

Wow, it was a joyful Sunday!

"He isn’t here! He is risen from the dead! Remember what he told you back in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be betrayed into the hands of sinful men and be crucified, and that he would rise again on the third day.” Luke 24:6-7 (NLT)

Turning 80

Eighty is considered a very old age in these modern times. Many people in their 80s are practically doing nothing, suffering from ailments, and depending on caregivers to take them around.

This wasn’t so in Bible times. The good Book is littered with old, active people doing rigorous jobs for God—Moses and Noah are just some of them.

I wish it were the same for my friend Ate Miriam. On her 80th birthday, her children threw her a big party with her old-time friends as guests. That night, she was totally made up, dressed to the nines, and looked her best.

Eight of us were requested to pray for her. In my prayer, I thanked the Lord for her once-vigorous life—encouraging times when she modeled for us how to serve God.

I say vigorous because she always found the energy to do something for our faith brethren. Every Sunday, she would donate and cook the snacks for Sunday school students. She drove the women’s group around the village for visitation of members. She was never absent in prayer meetings and other church activities.

And every time she had extra cash, she would either treat out the pastoral staff or ask each one what he needed. She also was an indefatigable donor of church needs—pews, equipment, etc.

Ate Miriam’s biggest dream was for her grandson Moses to become a pastor and to hear him preach from our church’s pulpit.

Alas, before Moses could graduate from Bible School, dementia assaulted her astute mind. Moses is now a full-fledged pastor and a powerful speaker, but sometimes—in her prayers—she would seek God’s favor to please help Moses become a pastor.  

We remind her that her beloved grandson is now serving the Lord full-time and she brightens up. 

A day after her 80th party, she saw her big birthday poster on her wall. She asked, “When is my birthday?”

She no longer recognizes many of her kin and friends. By grace, she still remembers me; I dread the day she won’t anymore.

But I look forward to that glorious time when she and I, plus the rest of those whose names and faces she has forgotten, will meet again. In that future time, her mind will be as keen as ever—in a world without end. 

^{". . .} He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ . . ." Philippians 1:6 (NKJV) 

Simplify

I got into advertising (my career for over 20 years) not by choice.

Uprooted from home base for almost five years (I was in the US for school, then work), I came back to everything new. Tony and I got married within the month, and took residence in Manila.

A totally different world! I had a new surname, a new home in a city, new neighbors, a new roommate, and new responsibilities.   

My new husband envisioned me to be a full-time housewife, waiting for him to come home from work, with the house all tidied up, and the food warmed.

I was a miscast.

Seeing me so bored after two months, he suggested applying for a teaching job. So I sent out a dozen resumes to different schools. Not one replied.

On our 5th month, I was a certified kitchen fiasco. Housework refrigerated my brain. 

So then he had this brilliant idea, "You love to write, right?"

"Write!"

He said he’d recommend me to Lyle Little, the American CEO of then the largest ad agency in the world. Grace, I said silently. 

Lyle made me go through a battery of tests, after which I was hired. More grace.

I had no idea what the job entailed, except that it had something to do with writing.    

On my first day, my boss asked me to write a five-minute story about a fertilizer. After poring over piles of references, I had a story. 

"Excellent!” my boss said. “Now, prune it down to two minutes without losing your creativity and the information.”  

"You're kidding me!" I laughed.

"Nope, that's copy writing," he grinned.

After another hour, I had my magnum opus. Why, I actually enjoyed the exercise! 

"Excellent!" my boss said it again. "Now, chop it down further into a 30-second radio commercial."

"Thirty seconds?!" I screeched, thinking it was mission impossible. But I was excited to try it.    

"Excellent!" he said for the third time.

On day one, I got my job description down pat.  

Albert Einstein was right when he said, "If you can't explain it simply, you don't understand it well enough."

That, in essence, was my first lesson in advertising.

Then, after leaving advertising, that was my first rule in writing books about grace. 

Oh, Math!

One of the editors I work with, Beng, posted on social media about waking up from a nightmare: being unable to solve a Math problem!

That could have been my post. Math always brought me nightmares—whether I was awake or asleep.     

In college, I was in danger of failing my Math 101. I had to do something fast. I asked a Math major, my dorm mate, to please tutor me. She said, "Okay, but you'll have to pay me per hour."

It was a gargantuan problem. I did not have extra money and I couldn’t tell my parents about it. So I decided to skip snacks for three months and to walk, instead of ride, to every place in our huge campus so I could save my transportation budget.

Since I was paying my tutor an hourly rate, I forced myself to learn quickly.

I passed! My barely passing mark, however, brought my average grade down. Well, small price to pay for not failing.

My brain shut off whenever I encountered anything that had to do with numbers. I couldn't balance my checkbook and I shunned from making counting (even money) my problem. 

Like a big joke, I was elected treasurer in our small church. I couldn't make my Math-impaired system an excuse. So Sunday after Sunday, I’d struggle with numbers. A good thing it was just plus (offerings and tithes) and minus (expenses). Sixteen years later, the church grew so big the job became complicated—SSS, Pag-ibig, Philhealth, petty cash, vouchers, etc. came into the picture.

I was a candidate for mental exhaustion. So I begged an accountant friend, S, to take over. After turning over the cash left with me, S said, "You have an overage of P4,300.16 [she counted to the last centavo!].”

That was an accrual of all the cash I put in for fear of shortage. 

How did I ever manage those 16 years? With oodles of grace and guidance of the Holy Spirit, no less. As I tried to be a good steward of the Lord's money, I learned to be a good steward of my own. Now I spemd time counting loose change. 

My brain still shuts off when numbers are discussed, but am I blessed that they’re out of my hands, as I now work with words full time. 

(In the university where I teach, our grades are in letters, not numbers. Whew!)

Packing: An Epic Production

I have been busy packing for a month-long trip in the last two months. Yes, packing takes me that long. It's always like an epic movie production.

First, I pile all the things I think I need inside my luggage: several shirts; several pairs of pants; several scarves; several etc. Of course it bursts and belches.

In movie making, nothing is left to chance. Every possible angle is shot: safety shots after shots after shots. It's in the editing where choices are made and extraneous shots, or outtakes, are thrown away.

So then I take one shirt away one day and arrange those that are left. Still the luggage belches. I take another scarf away the next day and again, re-arrange what are left. Then I repeat the process the next day, till everything is sitting comfortably in all the compartments.

Naturally, the editing never ends. I continue to take things away one after the other, as the days run out on me. 

And to finally complete the packing, I ask the Lord to throw in grace, because I can’t travel without it.

"You'll travel safely, you'll neither tire nor trip. You'll take afternoon naps without a worry, you'll enjoy a good night's sleep. No need to panic over alarms or surprises, or predictions that doomsday's just around the corner, because God will be right there with you; he'll keep you safe and sound." Proverbs 3:23-26 (MSG)

Happy Resurrection Sunday

If I followed my blog rhythm, my next post wouldn't be due until two days from now. However, this day is too important to pass up.

This is the day we remember and celebrate the resurrection of Jesus, three days after He died on the cross for us.

Happy Resurrection Sunday!

On this special occasion, worship is the first order of our day. We are up now. By 6 AM, and before the sun rises, we should be singing our first worship song with our faith brethren in church.

This year, our pastor earlier said he'd focus on the empty tomb and what it means. Scriptures say (Matthew 28:6-8), “He isn’t here! He is risen from the dead, just as he said would happen. Come, see where his body was lying.  And now, go quickly and tell his disciples that he has risen from the dead . . .” 

Four action words are in those verses:

•    Come

•    See

•    Go

•    Tell 

These verbs are significant because they are what Jesus' resurrection is all about—so mankind can conquer death as well. Come to Him. See that He has risen. Now, go and tell everyone the good news—we, too will have our own resurrection day after we’ve turned to dust.

And then, forever.

Grace that never ends . . .   

A Teacher’s Lament

The school year 2016-2017 has ended. While encoding my final grades, I felt happy and sad at the same time. 

Out of 25 students, seven got excellent grades. That’s a remarkable 28%. I was expecting eight, which would have jacked up my percentage to a high 32%, but one had a plagiarism issue, so I slid her down to Fail.  

This failing mark saddened me, because the student’s (let’s call her Alice) performance all through the term had been exemplary.  She is a good writer, a deep thinker, and articulate.

But stealing someone's words is non-negotiable. This was discussed in class ad infinitum especially because they were writing academic papers.

In Alice's case, it shouldn’t have happened. Her paper was written, organized, and researched well (and properly referenced), except for one short paragraph that she lifted en toto from another classmate’s work, submitted three days earlier. 

(The peril of having a writer for a teacher is that in checking papers, I read every word, and notice every misplaced punctuation mark. That short, copied paragraph did not escape me.)

Our university’s policy on plagiarism among students is to sanction both—the copier and the source. But before that, I gave them the benefit of the doubt. I talked to Alice the next day, and asked her to explain the errant paragraph.

Immediately contrite, she owned up to copying it. “X lent me her paper and I didn’t have enough time to flesh out one topic, so . . .” she sputtered. 

“Both of you will fail,” I said.

“Please, Miss Chong,” she begged. “Please do not penalize her. She doesn’t know I copied from her paper. She lent it to me with the best of intentions. I could never face her again if she found out.”

“Alice's grade then is an F,” I intoned stoically, my heart bursting into smithereens.  

“I know, Miss, no excuses. I deserve it."

Silence.

"But, er, Miss, would you give me a s-second chance? I will revise my paper just to get a Pass," she said with great difficulty.  

What you did was totally senseless! I would have wanted to scream but that would be digging it in. She is an intelligent, persevering young lady; I only wished she had learned her lesson. 

She did. Before she left the room, I received encouraging grace through her whispered words, I will never do it again, Miss; I promise. 

I called her back and handed her paper, "You have 24 hours to revise it."  

She smiled.

(Note: Timelines have been slightly modified to protect the identity of the students.) 

Sheer Grace

Eleven years ago, Medical Transcription (MT) was the in thing, a sunrise industry. It had become a law in the US—all doctor-patient encounters should be recorded or printed in readily-available documents. That opened a plethora of jobs here and abroad.

Our family jumped on the bandwagon and put up a school (Optimum TransSchool, Inc.) to train would-be transcriptionists. There were already many schools in our area, but what's one more?

Our vision was to be the leading MT Training Center, delivering an excellent industry-based program for our students to be job-ready upon graduation. We bought chairs for the waiting area in preparation for the influx of enrollees.

On our first day, despite massive advertising, we had one inquiry. He wasn't too sure about enrolling, but with the magic of our persuasion, he became our first student. And the only one—till two weeks later.   

Our chairs in the waiting area remained empty. And during our first, second, third, and fourth years, enrollment was sparse. Meanwhile all the other MT schools closed one after the other. Meaning, MT was not as hot as originally touted.

We kept our ground, despite non-revenue. On our seventh year, we agreed with our partners that capital infusion will be stopped. We likewise agreed that at any time we (those who are manning it) feel it's time to close shop, we should—and declare bankruptcy. 

Now on our 10th year, we're still here.

Not earning oodles of income (far from it), but gaining self-fulfillment and a sense of purpose. Our vision is fulfilled with our every graduate. About 98% are employed and are leaders in their offices. In fact, before our students could finish their course, they already have assured posts somewhere.  

MT companies call up, "What are you teaching your students? They are excellent! Can you give us more?"

MT company executives have come to our school to convince our students to join them as soon as possible.

Why are we still here?

Our school is a happy place. Graduates come and visit with boxes of goodies to tell us stories of success. Some students enroll because they have personal problems—but see their days studying medical transcription at our school as calming respite. Graduation days are bitter-sweet affairs; some regret leaving, but they must, because a job is waiting elsewhere.

Why are we still here? Sheer grace.

A Day of Rest

A Nation Bewitched

A phenomenon that never ceases to baffle me is the nation’s adoring love for our new president, Rodrigo Duterte. Since assuming office in June last year until today, the fervor of people’s  adulation has not waned.

Today, we are witnesses to how millions sing him hosannas. 

He laces his speeches here and abroad with expletives never-before-heard behind a presidential podium. “Oh, those are minor fringes. Look at his actions not his words.”

He mounts vitriolic attacks against long-time country allies, the EU, and calls them sons of whores. “Oh, it’s about time someone stood up to these big-wheels who think they can bully small ones like us.” 

He curses the Pope and the Catholic Church for criticizing his war on drugs. “Oh, come on, the Catholic Church is not exactly lily white.” 

He admits he has ordered the killing of criminals and of drug addicts. In fact, he said he had killed some with his own hands.  Statistics show that in his eight months as president, 8,000 drug addicts or pushers (all of them poor) have been slain. “Oh, they deserve to die. Those addicts are not human, they cause us so much grief.”

He allows the burial of the late Ferdinand Marcos, who pillaged the country, at the Cemetery of Heroes. “Oh, move on, the guy has been dead for years; he was a soldier so he deserves to be buried there.”

He fires the elected Vice President from his cabinet. “Oh, you perform, he retains you. You don’t perform, well, he fires you!”

He has not solved crime and corruption which he promised he would in three to six months. “Oh, in six years, that will all be solved; the country is in the right direction.” 

He brags that he had a sexually transmitted disease when he was younger. He has three girlfriends; he is taking Fentanyl for a malingering disease. “Oh, hahaha! [amused laughter]”

He appoints a bold, sexy dancer known to perform lap dances on stage to the Movie and Television Review and classification Board. “Oh . . .”

He can do no wrong. You get lynched if you as much say anything negative about him. He has us all wrapped in his macho fingers. The nation is enraptured, bewitched.

His Christians fans are quick to quote Romans 13:1(NLT), “Everyone must submit to governing authorities. For all authority comes from God, and those in positions of authority have been placed there by God.”

Is submission to authority the same as adoring love? For how do we make of this: 

“What sorrow for those who say that evil is good and good is evil, that dark is light and light is dark, that bitter is sweet and sweet is bitter.” (Isaiah 5:20)

Lord, please give us grace to understand this baffler that has gripped our nation.   

Mothers and Child

Over a few years, my friend Yay and I have had practically the same college students because we teach in the same university (albeit different subjects) offering UK business degrees.

Many of these former students now have families of their own, and the others are successful leaders or executives in the places where they work, here and abroad.

We take pride in their achievements; we like to think we had somehow helped in their development as noteworthy individuals.

Once in a while, some of those students seek the both of us out, treat us to a cup of coffee, or come and attend our book events. 

One of them is Carla.

She used to be a topnotch writer in a Manila publication before she decided to be with her husband in the US. She came to one of our twin-book-signing activity at OMF Lit, bought our books, and gave us each a gift. To this day, I keep the pair of earrings shaped like tiny sparkling ribbons she chose specially for me. 

Another one is Ryan.

In Yay’s class, he had heard about our Savior and has since accepted Him as his own. Now he is a youth leader and serves Jesus in a growing community church. He has put up his own design shop while moonlighting as a designer in a bigger shop. Knowing perhaps that teachers carry too many doodads, he gave Yay and me each a tote bag. 

Many others mention both our names on social media, or make time to send us twin messages. 

This made Yay quip, “Mothers and child.”

The blessing of having a co-teacher with whom you share your faith—aside from sharing classrooms, students, and academic complexities (with a bit of grumbling sometimes)—is that you have someone to enrich and support you through discussions of the Word, on occasions when the load is too heavy to carry alone. 

Teaching is only five or ten percent of my time, but it reaps me 100% of grace through students like Carla and Ryan.  

Project Author

I sometimes meet people who so love writing, they think of nothing else. I know the feeling. Seventeen years ago, after leaving the workplace for good, I only had one thought: Write. There I was, jobless for the first time in years, and the only thing I ever wanted to do was write.

Now a published author for as long as my exit from the corporate world, I want to help writers, where I can, in being published. That's why I accept invitations to speak before writing enthusiasts in the hope of encouraging them to hasten their steps toward having a book ready for their intended readers.

The latest gathering of writers to where I got invited was Project Author—an ongoing advocacy of my friend, Ardy Roberto (a best-selling author, an award-winning entrepreneur, and sought-after motivational speaker). A few years back, he invited me to speak in one such gathering. The attendees then were business executives, some of whom already had manuscripts, but did not know how they could be published.

This time around, Project Author was billed: Ministry Edition (Writing to evangelize, equip, and inspire). “An exclusive, by invitation only, class for Christian leaders, influencers, workers, ministers, pastors who have a burden to write a book to spread the good news, equip the church, or inspire people to become closer to God,” wrote Ardy in his website. 

I had previous plans, but I felt this was top priority. So I made quick arrangements to be with faith brethren and once again, re-tell my author story.

“Being published was not on my horizon,” I began, “not while I was busy in the workplace. But I believe that the series of events [more like serendipity] that led me to where I am today was no accident.”

It was a spirited group of 35 people who never ran out of questions, even while we were running out of time.  

But the main message I wanted to leave them was, “Write. NOW. As in, right now! We can’t dilly-dally any longer. Tomorrow is no longer an option. By grace, you can.”

P.S. A few days later, Ardy blogged about my talk.   

  

The way he ended it warmed my heart: “By the way, remembering what Grace said to ‘just write,’ I wrote most of this blog post on my phone, using the WordPress app, while on the nice air conditioned point to point bus from Alabang to Greenbelt . . . Decided to write instead of watching the Warriors NBA game on my phone. That was the hardest part. The trip took half an hour. Just write, right?)   

The Piano

Years ago, when my family and I moved into the small house we bought with our savings (where we still are, till the Lord calls us to our real home), we combed the village for a church. We found one—a warehouse lean-to. The sign said “Gospel Church” so we decided it was going to be our spiritual home.

On our first Sunday in this small church, with no more than a dozen people (including children), my eyes were riveted to the old piano in the corner, which nobody played. We sang all the hymns a cappella.

The pastor later asked if I could play the piano; that was my first ministry in the church. 

  

I'd practice at home the hymns to be sung the next worship service and would play that piano Sunday after Sunday for years and years.

But change came into churches and ours was not spared.

As our building structure and membership grew, the singing switched to gospel songs. Then with the energetic youth came their guitars, drums, cymbals, beat box, and yes, an electronic keyboard—minus the piano, which has grown even older like I have.

Now, hymns would occasionally be sung, but accompanied by the musical instruments that make people clap their hands and sway their arms.

One day last month, the old piano was wrapped in a cloth, a sure sign that it will no longer be played,  ever.

Call me maudlin, but I sort of felt nostalgic. Not because I no longer played it, but because of what it symbolizes—the changes that have happened in Sunday worship. My three sons and their contemporaries may no longer remember all the hymns we used to sing, but I do.

Being a student of the Word and believer of Grace, I know that worship is not about format or musical instruments, or outside trimmings. It’s about what’s in our heart, about worshiping Him in spirit and in truth.

Yet that piano, a reminder of what once was, in its current state, somehow tugs at the heart.

“Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all ye lands. Serve the LORD with gladness: come before his presence with singing. Know ye that the LORD he is God: it is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.” Psalm 100:1-3 (KJV)

Silent Treatment

One of the most frustrating responses to those on the receiving end is the silent treatment. It can make them feel powerless, invisible, insignificant, guilty, and worst, angry. It can provoke even the most patient person. 

Psychologists say that it is a method of control, punishment, manipulation (in short, a form of emotional abuse) used by individuals as a weapon to get what they want and to inflict pain upon the object of their silence.

 

Silent treatment, then, is not only deafening, it is lethal.   

If you've ever been the object of silent treatment, you know how devastating that feels, especially when you care a lot about that person ignoring you. Now, silent treatment can be retaliatory. I know of a lady who was so hurt by what her older brother did, she stopped talking to him.

The older brother tried hard to talk to her, ask for forgiveness, and make amends, but the offended one wouldn’t budge. Suddenly, the older brother died. At his funeral, his sister was inconsolable. If only she could turn back the time.

Do we sometimes feel like the spurned older brother when we talk to God and He does not answer? 

Habakuk felt that way (1:2 NLT), “How long, O LORD, must I call for help? But you do not listen! ‘Violence is everywhere!’ I cry, but you do not come to save.”

The Psalmist moans (22:2), “Every day I call to you, my God, but you do not answer. Every night I lift my voice, but I find no relief.”

Job laments (30:20), “I cry to you, O God, but you don’t answer. I stand before you, but you don’t even look.”

In reality, God wasn’t absent nor indifferent to Habakuk, David, or Job. He never left them, us, alone. It just felt that way—a warped perception when we are in the valley of tears.

He speaks to us at all hours in Scripture: through the beauty of His creation around, beneath and above us; with every breath we take, and each morning when we wake up to new grace.

  

Credit Grabber

It is a fact of life: credit grabbers are everywhere.

Indira Gandhi, the only female Prime Minister of India once said, “There are two kinds of people, those who do the work and those who take the credit. Try to be in the first group; there is less competition there.” 

Truth is, we all belong to both groups. Some work harder than others, but we are all wont to take the credit for our accomplishments. 

“I was able to buy this due to hard work.”

“I got an award for my excellent performance.”

“I have written several books in only ten years.” 

“I have been persevering; I will reward myself with a shopping binge.” 

“Because of my idea, we got the account.”

We go on and on.

Our pastor’s message last Sunday reminded us that we cannot take credit for anything. All our noteworthy traits that make things happen and make us successful come from a Source. “We can do absolutely nothing without grace. Everything is God’s, from God, and by God.”

Many famous people in history have been credited with discovering this and that, pioneering this and that, leading this and that, revolutionizing this and that, winning this and that, and championing this and that.

“Where did their courage, wisdom, guts, strength, and all other attributes come from?” he asked.

Our Bible heroes’ stories ended up the way they did because of God’s intervention. Every single story has been woven together in intricate patterns to show us an awesome tapestry with the splendor of GOD.

He Who tells the rain to fall, the sun to shine, the winds to blow, and the nose to breathe must get the credit.

“When we take credit for something, we glorify ourselves. The only One Who should be glorified is El Shaddai, Adonai, Yahweh, Jehovah Rapha, Elohim, El Olam, etc.—our God of power and might."  
May we resolve to thank Him for all that we have and what we could do.

"I, yes I, am the Lord, and there is no other Savior." Isaiah 43:11 (NLT)