Two Left Feet, Take 2

Two blogs with the same title may be stretching it. But this second one is about a more serious, more worrying issue.

It's about my grasping toes and how they’ve kept me in pain when walking for a year now. No doctor (neuro, ortho, rehab, and wellness) could solve it, so I have to solve it on my own or forever hold my peace.

“Have special shoes made,” suggested many friends.

What kind of special shoes? Are there shoes that can prevent toes from curling and grasping—and aching? 

Grace came in an unexpected way. One day last month, while I was resting in bed, the phone rang. I rushed to answer it as our phone is quite a distance from our bedroom. In my haste, my flip flops went on the wrong foot—the right for my left, and vice versa.

Surprise, surprise, my right toes did not hurt as much as they used used to. Upon investigation, I realized that wearing the left flip flop on my right foot deprived two of my toes from a grasping surface. Ergo, only two toes did the grasping. Ergo, I only felt 50% of the pain that immobilizes me. 

Immediately, I went to buy another pair of the same flip flops so I could wear the left on my right foot.

Getting confused yet? Here—two left flip flops for one relieved me.

The bad news is, these flip flops are only for places that don’t require shoes. Sometimes people notice, “Ma’am your slippers are on the wrong foot.”

What do they know?

But two left flip flops are not the ultimate solution for all occasions. I still need special shoes where my toes won’t have any surface to grasp.

Now, how things pan out is another story.  

Gatecrashing a Stag Party

Due to hubby’s unforeseen health issues in the US, our vacation timetable went awry. All my scheduled meet-ups with old friends were cancelled.

“Would you like to join us?” Tony casually asked, as a matter of courtesy, when two of his friends (grade school classmates) in LA called, wanting to see him.

This was not part of my own itinerary, but since I already had zero itinerary to speak of, I joined them. This, I suspect, surprised Tony.

From the time one of them, P, picked us up from our host’s place to the time he drove us back, I listened to “little boys” talking: unguarded, unpretentious, unaffected, and nothing highfalutin' (not about career nor business), just mindless chatter and merry laughter.

The other one, O, met us at a Vietnamese diner for lunch—and the group was complete. More chatter of the same kind, but with louder laughter. Here were two hard-core businessmen and one veteran physician, and all they talked about were inconsequential trivia, the polar opposite of rocket science.

The banter would have been similar with my own close friends, I mused. And I wished, if only people would let their guard down, be little kids again, and run free from all charades, this would be a happier place to live in.  

After lunch, one suggested to have halo-halo (“mixed together” shaved ice, evaporated milk, sweet beans, coconut, agar jelly, tubers, fruits, and ice cream) at Pinoy-Pinay, a Filipino cafe. 

 

Then we moved to Leelin, another Filipino café for coffee and ensaymada (sweet butter bread).

We got excellent, special service in both since the owners/servers are patients of P.

All too soon, five hours of grace later, the stag party ended.

Try gate-crashing a stag party sometime. It’s fun!

"So I recommend having fun, because there is nothing better for people in this world than to eat, drink, and enjoy life. That way they will experience some happiness along with all the hard work God gives them under the sun.” Ecclesiastes 8:15 (NLT) 

Philippine Diaspora: Fish Balls in America

The term diaspora originally referred to the Jews, exiled from Israel by the Babylonians. It comes from an ancient Greek word meaning "to scatter about."

In these modern times, diaspora also describes the many people from different countries who are scattered all across the globe—Filipinos among them. As of this writing, about 15% of our population are permanently or temporarily living and working abroad. We are one of the largest diaspora in the world, spanning over 100 countries.

A huge number of our countrymen are in California, USA, judging from the many Filipino commercial areas in major cities.

While enjoying the grace of spring there, we visited several and, minus the biting cold, we thought we were back in the Philippines. All the goods, restaurants, shops, music, posters, and ambiance felt undoubtedly Filipino.

We even found a statue of Jose Rizal, our national hero, and our famous street food, fish balls!  

A friend in the US said, "Whenever I feel homesick, I visit a Filipino store and make like I never left home."

What could the Philippine diaspora mean in the future?

According to scholars, diaspora in general can transcend man-made boundaries and bring people of different cultures together. In the process of inter-mixing, "people's needs will change and the concept of diaspora will change with them."

So then, this is where we should go: "There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus." Galatians 3:28 (NLT)

A Glimpse of Home

No matter how grand or perfect one’s vacation has been, there is always something magical about coming home.

From our airport of origin—San Francisco, USA—my husband had to be in a wheelchair as he was nursing bad knees, a cough, and a fractured wrist. He had the doctor’s certificate to prove his state of health. He was one of only two people (the other was a Caucasian woman in her 90s with poor eyesight) who got the privilege.

Traveling mercies and grace saw us through an uneventful flight from the US to the Taoyuan International Airport, Taiwan, for our connecting flight to Manila. Again, Tony had to be wheeled from our first plane to the next, while I tried to keep pace with my sore, aching toes.

Was I startled when I saw over 40 other Filipinos in wheelchairs, too! Many of them were much younger than I. This shot is only half of the many more people from other connecting flights that were added to this group minutes later.

It was a glimpse of home. 

According to someone from our own airport, able-bodied Filipinos (sometimes more than 100 in one flight!) take advantage of the wheelchair privilege to be first in line and get preferential treatment.

True enough, majority of the above were hale and healthy to walk briskly, pull their heavy luggage, and run to hug their loved ones outside the terminal.

This glimpse of home came even before I actually caught sight of our Motherland from the plane.  

 

Coming home is magical, until one sees the warts on wheels that make one wince and cringe, and the spell is broken.

Lily’s Long and Lively House

It is not easy to take a photo of Lily’s house, where Tony and I stayed for five days and four nights last year (the same length of time we stayed in L.A. California the other year and the year before that)—not with my phone. It is sooo long, one needs panoramic camera lens to do the job. So I had to shoot one part at a time for a composite photo. 

The picture below is the result of four shots, yet it does not capture the length and the width of it.

This one-story house, with a huge and packed attic, is beautifully sprawled on a half-acre lot. Once a week gardeners arrive to see to the plants outdoors, and a cleaning lady comes to see to the rooms indoors. 

There are all kinds of fruit trees and flowering plants in the gardens, and there are all sorts of collection (paintings, porcelain, glass, etc.) hanging on walls and sitting on glass-cased shelves.

What makes the house so interesting is that it bears the warm, personal imprint of Lily (Tony’s cousin) and her husband, who make guests feel so much at home. All the pieces kept there are either gifts from loved ones or items they both carted from different parts of the world.

Lily’s house is not only long in size, it is also long in happy history. She and her husband bought the property about 60 years ago. Through those years, the house saw Lily’s two children, plus some young nephews and nieces, grow up into adults now living their own lives.

All past and temporary inhabitants of that house (including Tony and me) still come to visit often. Not for its structure, but for the grace of memories long to be enjoyed and remembered.

"By wisdom a house is built, and through understanding it is established; through knowledge its rooms are filled with rare and beautiful treasures." Proverbs 24:3-4 (NIV)

Our Very Own Space Shuttle

Invented over 80 years ago by Ole Kirk Kristiansen, Lego is an abbreviation of two Danish words "leg godt," meaning “play well.”  It is now one of the largest toy brands in the world, and named Toy of the Century twice.

Its products have undergone extensive development over the years—but the foundation remains the Lego brick which can be anything when the imagination runs wild while at play.

But for me, Lego is not just a toy you build but a toy that builds children’s character. Educators who include Lego in their classroom activities say that kids’ experiences with these interlocking bricks bring learning concepts to life.

Children who play with Lego create, configure, and craft intricate designs. In the process, they develop: creativity; persistence to see a vision realized; problem-solving skills (even mathematical skills as they fit little parts into a big ones); and self-esteem as they show what they have completed; plus many more.

I saw all these values in my grandson Adrian as he patiently interconnected big and small Lego bricks to form many intricate individual designs. Lego bricks offer unlimited building possibilities, which awed me in Legoland when we celebrated Adrian’s 10th birthday there last year. Anything with a shape can be formed with Lego bricks.

In California last year, Adrian built a space shuttle! It’s complete with an opening payload bay, a robotic arm, a satellite with fold-out wings, and a mini-figure cockpit—including an astronaut.

He said it took him two days, after he had done his homework, to finish it. Like a work of art that it was, the artist signed his name on it and presented this 285-brick masterpiece as a present to his grandparents.

It can't be anything but a gift of grace that we will treasure forever. 

Off-stage Character Goes Onstage

In ancient times, the theater had me only in the wings—either as a stage manager or assistant director. Most of my classmates at the Art Institute of Chicago, Goodman Theater, chose to be onstage, but I eluded the limelight by remaining off-stage, like a character mentioned in the play but never seen.

Decades later, during our last vacation in the USA this year, my daughter-in-law, G, requested me to be the subject of her lighting test shots for her next photo shoot (when she took up photography as a hobby, one day she found herself  doing it professionally).  I thought it was about time I went onstage to experience the glare of spotlight.     

“From all the photos we will shoot today, you can pick a head shot for your next book,” she said.

“But I already love the photo you took of me with your cellphone in the Chinese restaurant,” I countered.

“Oh, no, no, no!” she said vehemently. “That wouldn’t do!”

So we trekked to a farm, rustic and full of charm, reminiscent of my birthplace, except for the brrrr California spring weather. Click, click, and click.

“That’s good, very good, Mommy!” she’d encourage me.

We headed next to a Japanese garden—serene and quiet, disturbed only by the cawing and chirping of birds and the whispers of wind. Click, click, and click.

She took a total of over 400 shots (more than all the photos in my whole life combined!), but which she reduced to only 80 after fierce and merciless editing.

These are the photos G posted later to her Instagram account. 

 

Looking at them, I was drawn to how she captured the magic of nature—how softly it hovers over the subject, like grace lingering even with shifting shadows. A good photographer is blessed with eyes to see the subtle nuances of light, resulting in photos that delight the beholder.       

As for the cellphone head shot I wanted (left) for my new book, I agree that G’s choice (right) deserves the space.

Going onstage for one morning did not hurt—I enjoyed it in fact—but I think I was born to be an off-stage character and so I am back to that role.

Perry’s House (Again)

Nine years ago, I was invited to a party held at Perry’s house. An unforgettable event it was—not only for the fun I had with Tony’s friends, but for the joy of gaping and gasping over Perry’s overwhelming art collection. I was awestruck all night.

Writing about his house then was a struggle. It was difficult keeping my blog post within my self-imposed word count. Too many items to gush about!

Then last weekend, Tony said Perry was hosting a party at his house for his Rotary friends and, “Would you like to come along?”

Hah! Would I pass up the chance?!

I will skip speaking about the party and proceed to writing about his house (again!). It has changed from the last time I saw it—bigger with many more art things in it! A globetrotter, Perry has shipped home treasures from all over the world. My photos are just of the ground floor. I missed going up the 2nd and 3rd floors. 

What stunned me was an air conditioned room of chefs-d'oeuvre by Filipino master painters: Amorsolo, BenCab, Malang, Magsaysay-Ho, Manansala, HR Ocampo, Zalameda, etc. There were also prints of masterpieces carted from the Louvre. The cost of that room alone could easily translate to the price of a high-rise building. 

  

Totem poles, all sizes of sculptures in bronze, ceramic, terracotta, alabaster, marble, glass, etc. by famous names were strewn all over, some hanging from and sitting on exquisitely hand-carved walls and tables. Plus antiques galore! No space was spared, not even the ceiling. 

 

“Your house has changed from nine years ago,” I babbled.

“It changes every year,” he laughed. 

The house may have changed, but not Perry. He still is a gift of grace, with that huge tenor voice (he hired a jazz band) singing Broadway favorites that delight his audiences.

He still is a most sought-after neurologist as evidenced by hundreds of patients who fall in line and wait for hours to see him. I’d have gone to see him, too, for my errant toes, but his clinic is a five-hour drive away (or more with the horrific traffic) and my bladder can no longer bear the time frame.

Perry’s house is a museum-cum-art gallery extraordinaire—with a difference. The curator/owner has his heart in every exquisite piece.

Must We Take Sides?

There are many heroic people in history who spoke against tyranny. Two come to mind.

One, Elie Wiesel. At age 15, he was a part of the holocaust which killed six million Jews in Auschwitz. Having survived that reprehensible genocide, he wrote his memoir in a book initially titled And the World Would Remain Silent. The abridged version became a bestseller and translated into many languages, and considered a groundbreaking work on the terrors of the Holocaust.

Wiesel’s personal suffering with the Jewish people has become a symbol of repressed people anywhere in the world.

In 1986, Wiesel was awarded the Nobel Peace prize as “one of the most spiritual leaders and guides in an age when violence, repression and racism continue to characterize the world.” These memorable lines were part of his acceptance speech:

Two, Martin Luther King. A third-generation pastor in the family, Martin Luther received his doctorate degree in Theology from Boston University.

Having experienced race segregation in school, Dr. King was a passionate worker for civil rights for the Negro race, and quickly became leader of the first great Negro non-violent demonstration of contemporary times in the US.  

He led the famous bus boycott (requiring segregation of Negroes and whites in buses) that lasted 382 days. The US Supreme Court eventually declared unconstitutional the laws requiring such segregation. During this boycott, Dr. King was arrested, his home was bombed, he was subjected to personal abuse, but he emerged as a nonpareil Negro leader.

Dr. King spoke over 2,500 times denouncing injustice in massive non-violent protests and peaceful marches.

At the age of 35, Dr. King was the youngest man to have received the Nobel Peace Prize. He donated his prize money of $54,123 to the furtherance of the civil rights movement. Three years later, an assassin ended his life.

Our voice may not be as loud as the two great men's, but we have a voice nonetheless. It is grace given to us so we may speak up against what is wrong.

We cannot remain neutral.

We cannot be bystanders forever watching the tyranny parade—of injustice, lies, murder, treason, blasphemy, slander, insult, and all manner of oppression—marching by. As Elie Wiesel and Martin Luther King showed the world, and as written in Scripture, we need to take the side of good.

We must take sides. 

“. . . hold on to what is good, reject every kind of evil.” 2 Thessalonians 4: 21-22 (NLT)

A Débutante at 80

One of my older cousins, a grandmother many times over, was turning 80; her eldest daughter sent us an invitation, RSVP, to her birthday party. I immediately confirmed our whole household's attendance (husband, sons #1 and #2, and me).

With all the new diseases spawned by pollution, chemicals in food, and modern-day stress, it’s becoming rarer for people to reach their 80’s, strong enough to weather a party. We had to be there.

When D-day came, however, Tony was still recovering from a three-day hospital confinement. So we left him at home in the care of a househelp. Two sons and I rushed to reach the venue on time.

But with the famous mad Manila traffic, the celebrator was already marching toward her throne when we huffed and puffed our way in. Yes, there was a throne on stage, complete with all the trimmings of a posh debut party! Yes, there were also eight roses (one representing each decade), eight candles, and eight dances with eight different partners (sons and grandsons). Yes, there was a tall cake with eight wishes, etc. etc. etc.

And yes, the débutante changed gowns twice!   

She was radiant and beaming, indulging her children and grandchildren who orchestrated it all. And she was stunning in both outfits—complete with false eyelashes, perfectly arched eyebrows, red lipstick, and bling-bling.   

“Mom when you turn 80 . . .” son #3 started to tell me.

“You do something anywhere near this, and I will walk out!” I threatened him.

He shut up, grinning. An off-stage character I am. My idea of a party is dinner around the table with close kin, feasting on filling food and boisterous banters.

But I rejoiced with my cousin on her special day of grace. She was blessed with verve to weather the feast and ceremonies, making the guests marvel and cheer with excitement.

I have attended many 18th debut parties through the years; this 80th for a grandma was, by far, the grandest yet.   

The Land Not Our Own

My only sister Aie and I get into discourses on anything and everything whenever we have a chance to be together. A chance came at the end of last year when she took a rare “leave” from her church work in the place of worship put up by our forefathers. 

She has taken on many jobs—preparing Sunday school materials, conducting the choir, helping with the youth ministry, preparing the weekly liturgy, some janitorial work where needed, assisting with fund raising to rebuild the decayed parsonage (Project Nehemiah), assisting the pastor, etc.

“A bit daunting for a senior,” I grimaced.

“They’re for the Lord, and I enjoy doing them,” she replied with no intention of shaming her manang (older sister).

I was chastened just the same.

“So what happens to your pieces of land?” I asked. She and her late best friend, Daisy, purchased two in different areas. “You have no time left for them.”

Thirty years ago, she and Daisy planted many trees on both. Today, the branches of one mahogany tree will be used for the construction of the parsonage.

“You can’t leave lands idle—they need nurturing,” I pushed.

Silence.

“Assign someone in your place,” I nagged.

Silence.

“Dave has done wonders with GraNaMED [the acronym created by our parents for the land they left us. It combines our names—five siblings]."   

 

Using his engineering savvy from two degrees, Dave personally took on GraNaMED two years ago after he retired from corporate work abroad. He has multiplied the produce, laggard for decades under two tenants. Now the land teems with life—rice, corn, all kind of vegetables, etc.   

 

“Dave has your passion for land and the only one who makes time to develop it, hands-on. Why not leave yours to him?” 

My thought balloon: The land is God’s, not ours, not even with a Title to show for it. By grand design, the land outlives us, the way it outlived Abraham and our Bible heroes to whom they were earlier bequeathed. We should, therefore, be good hands-on stewards of the land we can never own, so that it will continue to serve the generations to come.

“Decide soon,” I repeated.

Meanwhile, I will continue tilling my own land: pages of books that speak of the grace of our Master Landlord.   

(My header is a photo of the corn that Dave planted on GraNaMED. It will stay current only for four days, the duration of this post.)    

Circle of Life

Inspired by the Disney movie, Lion King, the hosts (nicknamed Ruth sub-clan) of our 74th annual clan reunion at the end of 2018 and beginning of 2019 chose one of the film’s songs as the theme, Circle of Life.

In the movie, this symbolic phrase refers to the series of events that unfolds on earth, then repeats itself again and again: from beginning to end, from cradle to grave, from birth to death. Simba grows up, learns about life, and becomes the Lion King—and then his son will likewise grow up, learn about life, and become the Lion King.

In the Bible, animals and people exist together and both go through the circle of life. Ecclesiastes 3:19-20 (NLT) reads, “ For people and animals share the same fate—both breathe and both must die . . . Both go to the same place—they came from dust and they return to dust.” 

With this theme, how does one honor the clan members who have gone home to Jesus? We found an old hymn, “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” written in 1907 by Ada R. Habershon (music by Charles H. Gabriel). The lyrics hope for the circle to remain unbroken—that we who are left behind will follow in their footsteps and emulate their great faith so that one day, we will all be together in the great beyond for a grand reunion.  We used this hymn in a slide presentation remembering and thanking the Lord for our forebears during the memorial/thanksgiving service.

Will the Circle Be Unbroken? 

One by one their seats were emptied.
One by one they went away.
Now the family is parted.
Will it be complete one day?

The photos below tell the story of our clan’s circle of life—how its members have celebrated the grace of family, pioneered by my maternal grandparents 74 years ago. 

First family reunion, 1945  

Our grandparents with their 9 children, my mom among them

In 2018, we breached the 400 mark, with majority of clan members scattered all over the world. But a good number—150 to 200—make time to attend the reunion every year. 

Half of the family circle to end 2018 and begin 2019

74th clan reunion attendees 

Christmas Crafts

After finally convincing myself of the irrelevance of Christmas trees in December 2016, I threw away our old tree, except for two branches. These went into my centerpiece, a tall flower vase, in the living room. Old and dusty pink petals from silk flowers broke the monotony of green pine needles.

But habits and cravings die hard.

I’ve always been fascinated with crafts and love doing them. The Christmas season had been my time to indulge myself by creating thingies for my Christmas tree.

Since the tree had long gone into the garbage can, I carted the two tree branches left from the storage again, sat them inside my tall vase. This time I tackled origami, folding tiny paper butterflies to make  the tree branches look like they’ve been swarmed by these flying wonders of nature.

I also retrieved from a drawer the colorful turkey platter—since the turkey tradition is also gone for good—to the terrace to have a semblance of décor, which I didn't even attempt to have. In seconds, it was appropriated by our cat, Fiscal, who must have thought I brought it out especially for her.

Come to think of it, It seems like a cat, not a turkey, belongs there.

No tree, no turkey, no special décor. No distractions. Just a soundless time spent on crafts to soundly reflect on Christmas, the birth of Grace, as the Gift for all mankind.  

". . . when the right time came, God sent his Son, born of a woman, subject to the law. God sent him to buy freedom for us who were slaves to the law, so that he could adopt us as his very own children."  (Galatians 4:4-5 NLT)  

Someone Else’s Turkey

Two Christmas celebrations ago, we ended our tradition of preparing our own turkey dinner.

Son #3, who inherited the task from Tony years ago said, “I can’t do it alone.” Not without Manang  Vi, whom we asked to rest due to unexplained ailments (she loathed seeing a doctor) before Christmas 2016.  We ordered one from somewhere and tried to enjoy it as much as we relished our turkeys all the years before that.

It was not the same.

One year later, just before Christmas 2017, we lost Manang Vi forever. I guess, along with her passing, we passed up the tradition of having turkey on our own dinner table, ever. Son #3 suggested we have the bird in a hotel nearby.

And so we did.

Came 2018, and son #3 (the turkey point-person) had this brilliant Christmas gift idea for Tony, me, and son #1. “I’ll treat you to a staycation in the same  hotel that serves turkey for dinner.”

And so he did.

Yes, the dinner at 6:30 PM included a turkey, someone else’s turkey. It didn’t come with memories of raucous and laborious preparations, but it served as a neat photo background.   

“Isn’t this a great idea?” Son #3 wanted affirmation around our dinner table. “No pots, pans, and plates to wash; no kitchen mess; no left overs; no fuss.”

By 8:00 PM, the rich buffet for the first batch of diners ended. We took the elevator to Tony’s and my room, exchanged gifts for about 10 minutes, some photo ops (through my prodding).

And off the boys went to their own room.

In the silence, I took the chance to meditate on God’s Word, c/o JC’s Christmas gift—and thank Him for JR’s staycation treat, for giving Tony respite from what has been ailing him the past months, and for the gift of family, friends, and life itself.   

The Message 100, page 1383, reads:

The story of Jesus doesn’t begin with Jesus. God had been at work for a long time. Salvation, which is the main business of Jesus, is an old business. Jesus is the coming together in final form of themes and energies and movements that had been set in motion before the foundation of the World. (Eugene H. Peterson)

John 1:1-5 . . .

"The Word was first,
the Word present to God,
God present to the Word.
The Word was God,
in readiness for God from day one.

"Everything was created through him;
nothing—not one thing!—
came into being without him.
What came into existence was Life,
and the Life was Light to live by.
The Life-Light blazed out of the darkness;
the darkness couldn’t put it out."

And all thoughts about turkeys and such came to pass.

Births on Christmas Eve

Attorney, our seven-year-old dog, suddenly decided to give birth around mid-morning on the 24th of December. It’s a first for her, so she was edgy and nervous.

When the first puppy was birthed, all soaked and wrapped in a thin, translucent filament, Atty. was clueless about what to do. Son #3, JR, who is the rightful master of Atty., had to make like the obstetrician/veterinarian to help our first-timer do her job.

She even went hiding in the bushes, before she birthed the next two a couple of hours later—perhaps to be alone. Still, Atty. wasn’t the mother she was meant to be; she whimpered and whined with discomfort. 

 

It was at this point that Tony, sons #1 and #3 and I had to leave because we were booked in a nearby hotel for our Christmas dinner and overnight stay.

Coming home the next day, Dec. 25, we were told by Korina, our chirpy-and-treasure-of-a-househelp, that Atty. birthed two more just before midnight. And at last, JR's dog was free! Back to her old, peppy self—wagging her tail and wiggling all over her master.

Sans Motherhood 101, Atty. learned how it is to be a mom in those 12 hours and now the five puppies are quiet, being fed by her with no fuss, and hopefully, they are all content.

How awesome it is to witness the way grace wonderfully fashions nature! 

Tips for Word People at Christmas

Social media can sometimes do wondrous things. 

My friends’ posts about our OMF Lit Christian Writers’ Fellowship (CWF) Exchange Books Christmas Party were read by other friends in the US. One requested for a copy of my message—to share with other writers in the world.

I sent it faster than I could blink; I seize every opportunity to encourage others to write about The Word.

Media Associates International chose 777 words from the 2,400-word message. I am delighted to share it with you, my Leaves of Grace friends.

Tips for Word People at Christmas

By Grace D. Chong, the Philippines

For over 20 years, I worked in a company that arranged words in garden-fresh, creative ways to sell products—I was a creative director.  Every day I’d work with creative writers, art directors, and producers to develop commercials for products and services from A to Z, literally. A for airline, B for bank, C for clothing, D for detergent bars to MSG, pizza, soaps, to a zoo. It was an endless wordsmithing—re-arranging words, words, words.

Words were my staple for breakfast, lunch, supper, and meriendas (snacks) too. I breathed words every hour of my life. And I counted every one of those words. To sell a brand, we had to distill a lifetime worth of research on consumer insight into a 30-second commercial—which is no more than 40 words.

But one day, I, a wordsmith of the world, by divine intervention, suddenly had an epiphany moment. I turned the corner and faced words of a different kind—The WORD. I left writing words for a living; from that day forward, I started writing about how grace found me. My view of ordinary and mundane things, as though by magic, has turned extraordinary and surprising.

When you decided to be a writer, you transformed into WORD PEOPLE as well. We may have come from different wombs, different eras, and different experiences, but we are all now WORD people—you and I. Our one goal is to produce and market that one special commodity, or in Marketing, “product.” And that product is The WORD.

This product was launched on CHRISTMAS. It was on this symbolic day that the world witnessed an astonishing self-humbling: God almighty made Himself in the likeness of man. The greatest act of grace.

Jesus Christ became flesh in a manger. Through this human birthing, God revealed this truth: only through Jesus can man go on living in a glorious eternal home. No WORD PERSON of this world can ever fathom or write enough about this astounding act of grace delivered on Christmas day.

Grace remains the greatest mystery of all time.  In fact, His birth was not explained. The angel simply said, ” . . . Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.” (Luke 2:10 KJV)

But Scripture, THE WORD, gives us wonderful clues—clues like believing in our Savior, born on Christmas, also births a new spirit in us.  “But as many as received Him, to them gave He power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on His name . . .” John 1:12 (KJV)

Like in a manufacturing firm, we wordsmiths develop this product by using our individual voices for various demographics: preschool kids, grade school children, Gen Z’s, millennials, working people, middle managers, Baby Boomers, church workers and retired seniors.

But Ernest Hemingway said this of writers, “We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” If I may add, since Christian writers have a master goal, we must try to be masters of our craft—because we write about the Master of all.

How? I read up on tips from various published authors on how to be a better writer, and I am surprised that I share with them these seven attitudes:

Be simple. Einstein said, “If you can’t explain it to a six-year-old, you don’t understand it yourself.”  The Bible is for all ages to understand.

Be clear. The difference between a writer and someone who writes is that a writer enlightens the reader, while someone who writes confuses the reader.

Be excited. Nothing should bore nor stump you when arranging words.

Be perceptive. More than having a rich vocabulary, word people must know the nuances of meaning that distinguish, say, “scriptural” and “Biblical.” Or the difference between a relevant idiom and an empty cliché.

Be open. Let’s handle criticism professionally. Editors always criticize draft copy. If the editors feel they must walk on eggshells when dealing with writers about edits, productivity suffers mightily.

Be precise. The devil is in the details of grammar, punctuation and syntax. From a careless writer, readers see a careless author.  We must not let editors do all the clean-up work for us.

Be your own editor. There is always something—a word, a phrase—that could have been said better after the book has been published.

WORD people—we all are, we are one in our goal of turning readers to THE WORD.

And this is what makes Christian publishers unique, different from all publishers. Our raw materials, for the only product we produce and sell, come from only one Supplier—the Supplier of Truth, which is The WORD, birthed on Christmas.

Merry Christmas!

What Roads to Take

Where am I going this New Year 2019? 

I don't know. But I hang on to God's promise found in Isaiah 42:12-16. Let me quote from this Bible translation, The Message 100, a Christmas present from son #1. 

“I’ve been quiet long enough. I’ve held back, biting my tongue. But now I’m letting loose, letting go, like a woman who’s having a baby—stripping the hills bare, withering the wildflowers, drying up the rivers, turning lakes into mudflats. 

“But I’ll take the hand of those who don’t know the way, who can’t see where they’re going. I’ll be a personal guide to them, directing them through unknown country. I’ll be right there to show them what roads to take, make sure they don’t fall into the ditch. These are the things I’ll be doing for them—sticking with them, not leaving them for a minute.”

Thousands of new years later, the promise still holds—for you and me. Each of our roads will be strewn with grace every square inch of the way.

Happy New Year!

What Next, Santa?

After Christmas, and at the end of the year, Santa Claus bows down to the Reason for the season, and bows out—to appear again next year when December comes.

This being my last post for 2018, I wish to thank portrait artist Gaye Frances Willard for this poignant and worshipful painting entitled “Every Knee Shall Bow,” uploaded and shared on the Net many times over all through the Christmas season. For me, this is one of the most gripping images exchanged this year.

May she find grace in all her canvases and paint brushes.

(From her website: "This painting is being offered as a signed and numbered limited edition print. This is one of the most heartwarming paintings of Christ in the manger with a kneeling Santa available anywhere.")

As midnight strikes tonight, another year will swing in. May we end our 2018 contemplating these Bible verses:

“Turn to me and be saved. All the ends of the earth! For I am God, and there is no other. By myself I have sworn; from my mouth has gone out in righteousness a word that shall not return: To me every knee shall bow, every tongue shall swear allegiance.’ Isaiah 45:22-23 (KJV)

The Christmas Party I don’t Miss

Christmas parties seem to multiply every year.

This December, I got invited to a dozen. Yes, 12. Instead of just one party for one organization, smaller groups now throw their own. Take our school, for instance. I remember attending just one party in past years. This year, there was one for the students and their teachers, one for our department, one for another department, one with the Board of Directors, one for an outreach program, etc.

It was no different in my home church: women's group, young couples' group, youth group, men's group, etc.

In the office where I used to work, there was a get-together out of town, one up north, one down south, etc.

I begged off from most of them, but there was one I didn’t, shouldn’t, couldn’t miss: The Christian Writers’  Fellowship (CWF) of OMF Lit. It was announced early:

But even without this assignment (the 3rd variation of the same speech Turn to the Word), I would never miss it for the world. Here, grace overflows. Word people of The Word worship and fellowship as one. 

  

Then the evening’s highlight: exchange books. 

This year, several budding authors attended the party for the first time. They surprised their older counterparts with the spoken word, emotive poetry read from their phones.

The exchange books was a riot, as usual. Each one gave an intro of the book he was parting with—usually dramatic or hysterical—and drew a name from a box. Mine was a gift from my cousin Lorna (below left). I hesitated letting it go, but the urgent message had to be shared. It went to my editor, Joan, who exclaimed, “Yey, I love Lutzer!” 

I got The Writer's Mentor (above right) from a poet/editor, Michelle.

Now all ecstatic over the books we received, we wolfed down the food and dove into conversations about—one guess—books.

Unspeakable Gift

December 25. Today, Christians all over the world celebrate Christmas, or the birth of Christ.

But the date is inconsequential, really. It could be on the 12th of September or the 29th of February, or any day. Nothing changes the fact that one day long ago, the King of all creation gave man a Gift nobody could ever fathom nor deserve.

On Christmas, in a lowly manger, God became a mere mortal, so that 33 years later, He would die on the cross in place of sinful me—to have the chance to live with Him for eternity.

He did this in such an incredibly humble manner that is contrary to what He owns and can do. 

 

Since it is not about the date, it is not about the trimmings we fuss over either: not the angels, the shepherds, the magi plus all the things invented by modern man—the trees, wreaths, blinking lights, wrapped gifts, Santa Clauses, parties and reunions that define revelry.

Many songs (such as the one below sung by the Ball Brothers and the Go Fish band) and books have been written to describe Christmas, but it remains—to this day—an unspeakable Gift.

It’s about the Cross

It's not just about the manger 
Where the Baby lay 
It's not all about the angels 
Who sang for Him that day 
It's not all about the shepherds 
Or the bright and shining star 
It's not all about the wise men 
Who traveled from afar 

Chorus: 

It's about the cross 
It's about my sin 
It's about how Jesus came to be born once 
So that we could be born again 
It's about the stone 
That was rolled away 
So that you and I could have real life someday 
It's about the cross 

It's not just about the good things 
in this life I've done 
It's not all about the treasures 
or the trophies that I've have won 
It's not about the righteous that I find within 
It's all about the precious blood 
that saved me from my sin 

The beginning of the story is wonderful and great 
But it's the ending that can save you 
and that's why we celebrate 
It's about the cross 
It's about my sin 
It's about how Jesus came to be born once 
So that we could be born again 

It's about God's Son 
Nailed to a tree 
It's about every drop of blood that flowed from 
Him when it should have been me 
It's about the stone that was rolled away 
So that you and I could have real life someday 
So that you and I could have real life someday 
It's about the cross 
It's about the cross 
It's about the cross 

“Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable gift.” 2 Corinthians 9:14 (KJV)