Water Paradise (1)

Water Paradise Resort—that’s the name of the place where I'd be staying for five days in Tagbilaran City, Bohol (for the LDP Congress of Compassion International, where I was invited as a resource speaker).

Before I got there, I imagined a place floating in water, water, water. Mental note, pack swimsuit.

But between packing my notes, flash drive, computer, clothes for various sessions, camera, chargers—plus other tiny details one needed for a long trip—I totally forgot about my swimsuit.

I berated myself repeatedly for this omission—on the plane and on the bus which brought me to the resort.

I should not have bothered. What greeted me at the entrance was this water fountain, with no water!

When I asked where the water was, front desk pointed to this pool.

“Where’s the rest of the water?” I asked.

She waved to the water dispenser in the dining hall.

Around Water Paradise was land and paved roads. That is not to say I found grace wanting in Water Paradise. Grace, as always, came in full force.

There were beautiful flowers. Food was great and varied. The 65 college students—sponsored scholars of Compassion International —showed me how vibrant praise, worship, and thanksgiving should be. They were in awe, especially because it was their first time in Bohol. For most of them, this was also a first in plane travel. I couldn’t get over the excitement on their faces.

I kicked myself for being so critical.

My room is in the “mansion,” originally the home of the owners. It’s ten steps (right side) from this living room.

The air conditioning was brrrrr and the flat-screen TV had cable channels. I didn’t miss watching American Idol!

Water Paradise was a paradise in everything—but water. Well, names do not really matter, do they? Where's the dog in hotdog? Or the cat in catsup?

Clock Watcher (2)

It was in the middle of a wet market, between the shrimps and the crabs, where I found the reason why I have been too much of a clock watcher lately.

It’s not really the deadlines—I thrive on them—or the appointments. It’s being there, in that wretched place where I’d never be if Ate Vi (my househelp of three decades) were around. She has been on vacation for the past two weeks and won’t be back till another five days! The job of marketing fell on . . . who else but me?

Everything in that space was simply over my head. I could stand with my empty basket beside the milk fish and tuna for hours and not know what to do. I have nothing against marketing. I think it is a very noble undertaking. But it has everything against me!

“Did you want your fish cut into pieces, or would you like me to scale them?” the vendor asked.

Huh?

I headed to the vegetable section. As I stared at the onions (white? red? green?), confident hands of veteran shoppers darted in and out of the baskets, knowing their onions by heart—what color and what size.

And now I have too little time to pack for my early flight to Bohol tomorrow. And I still haven’t finalized my slides!

And I am squandering whatever time I have left whining on this post!

Ta-ta! I will be back in six days (there is no internet where I am going). By that time, Ate Vi should be here and I will have all the time to blog again.

Clock Watcher (1)

These days, I am a clock watcher. I am always running out of time.

If I don't finish this on time, I won't be able to start that on time . . . it's a vicious cycle. So when I saw this humongous clock (I couldn't fit in the frame) in my cousin’s house, I wanted to bring it home! The bigger the better—to remind me of the ticking of the hours.

One time I was hurrying to an appointment and to my horror, I didn’t have a watch on. I hyper-ventilated or hypo-ventilated—couldn’t exactly tell the difference at a time like that.

I know, I know I need to pause and smell the flowers, but there are crazy days and there are crazier days and the craziest days are yet to come.

At our weekly prayer meeting, my friend Sonia said, “You know, it’s only by God’s grace that I am able to get through the day. There are just too many things that need my attention.”

I asked, “Are you talking to me or about me?”

We laughed, we prayed, and we agreed: only by sustaining grace . . .

My Once-in-a-while Workroom

It’s the first week of April, four months after the Christmas season.

When I entered my husband’s boardroom (more like a meeting room that connects to his office), this was what greeted me: A drawing by one of the account executives’ little daughter.

Was it an April Fool’s Day joke? Or, has the boardroom been unused for four months?

It is the latter.

“Business must be bad,” I told Tony.

“On the contrary,” he said, “it has picked up in 2008.”

“Where do you hold your meetings?” I asked curiously.

“Mmmmm, coffee and fast food shops, diners, or clients’ office,” he said.

With the advent of cell phones and e-mails and the sprouting of coffee shops and new fusion eateries, I guess boardroom meetings have gone out of style. Well, good for me. Now I have a space all to myself when I go to Tony’s office. I can spread my manuscripts, side-by-side with the dailies’ crosswords, and still have enough room for my laptop and the few books I am reading.

This is my work room in Makati, which is something like a once-a-week event these days. Not bad, it’s the biggest room in the whole office, and it is grace-lit.  

To the Rightful Owners

My brother Dave and his wife, Glad, are in town from American Samoa for the university graduation of their daughter, Dazha. It is always an exciting time for family when some of its members, absent for sometime, are around. No email or phone call can ever make up for presence.

This visit also means one other thing.

My painting, which I have reserved for Dave and Glad on the right side of this site (for months), will now move from there to here, until its final exit from my grip when I write a new post in three days or so. “Yellow Flowers” has finally been given to its rightful owners.

I hope they behold it not with wonder and awe (this being no art master), but with the same sense of warmth and affection that I put into that canvas.

These flowers will never wilt, not even in this sweltering summer heat. They will continue to bloom as God’s grace blooms in our lives when the heat of daily living threatens to weaken us.

When the Lights Went Off

In observance of Earth Hour on March 29, the world turned off its lights for 60 minutes. We happened to be in Serendra at The Fort for dinner. We had just picked up JR from school.

“Do you now the significance of this day?” JR asked.

“Earth Hour!” I replied.

“It’s our last day in law school,” JR said, referring to the three of us. Then he reminded us how, four years ago, he, Tony and I were busy preparing for his four-year “exodus” from home.

For several weekends, the trio of dad, mom, and son went round and round looking for a condo unit near his new school. And in all of four years, we had to schedule our lives around his comings and goings. Home on weekends with dirty laundry and a stack of law books, back to the condo on Mondays with clean linens and a whole week worth of food.

“It isn’t our last day,” I insisted. “It’s six months to the bar exams.”

Well, it was as good a time as any to celebrate. JR has survived four grueling years by God’s glorious grace. So we entered Balducci, an Italian restaurant where we had, ooops the lights went off!

We could hardly see the carpaccio for antipasto, and the main entrée—pasta with truffles, pasta with clams, and roasted chicken. (My photos don't do them justice.)

“Definitely not inedible,” JC would say if he were around, but he was busy at work; we missed him.

From there, we walked off all that heavy stuff to the end of the long Serendra stretch and what do you know, Tony bumped into Elvis!

When twins meet, they simply have to pose for posterity. It was dark—half of the common lights were still off—but nothing ever stops my husband from an Elvis moment.

So where were you when the lights went off?

Flawed Mom Wears Lipstick

“You are looking at a flawed mother . . .” is how I often begin my book talks when I have moms in the audience. I want to start on the right foot, lowering (or totally erasing) their expectations of an author who writes mostly on family values.

Having been a working mom all the years my children were growing up, I have no authority to preach on good parenting.

“Aside from being flawed, I also wear lipstick,” I say, alluding to my book, “No Lipstick for Mother,” which is a story about a mother who stops wearing lipstick because she has better things to do—earning a living for her daughter. I use lipstick to symbolize people's definition of beauty—that which one can see with his eyes.

These usually put the audience in good humor and the interchange after the talk takes on a new, energized spirit. “Despite being a flawed mom who wears lipstick, my children turned out wonderfully well—only by God’s wonderful grace.”

That elicits laughter, like a collective sigh of relief. When mistakes or misadventures happen in parenting, our heavenly Father comes to the rescue. He promised in 2 Corinthians 12:9, "My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness . . ." It never failed when I did. It was there when I wasn't.

Having said that, I think you will understand that when I receive letters from mom-readers such as the one below, I get misty-eyed. Let me summarize what she wrote:

Dear Grace,

My children love reading . . . I purchased your book, “No Lipstick for Mother” . . . Would you believe that I have read that book for, I think, 60 times? Every night, my son will not sleep until I read it. I hope you can have many more stories like this. Thank you for helping me become a good MOM through your stories.

Moi?! Helping one mom become a good mom?!

I am humbled, and encouraged to write the stories I should have read to my children but couldn't.

The Towering Feeling

I have just finished writing the first draft of my book, Gifts of Grace 3—all of 15 chapters, including an Author’s Note!

If I weren’t so exhausted, and looking like a dozen elephants trampled on me, this would be a wonderful Kodak (indulge me, the other more techno-advanced camera brands came way after my time) moment. But no matter how dark my eye bags and how stiff my fingers and how achy my joints are, I am actually experiencing euphoria.

Oh, the towering feeling!

I am not claiming credit for anything. If not for God’s enabling grace, I would never have had the strength and confidence to write. This will add to the many books on limitless grace written by many seasoned authors through thousands of years and being written by younger, braver authors today.

I want to celebrate.

Unfortunately, the euphoria in my heart is happening when everything is at a standstill. During Holy Week, in the Philippines, beginning on Thursday, every place fit for some kind of celebration is closed!

My husband suggests a quiet and restful day at the movies—on DVD in our bedroom.

“Your choice,” he says, going over the stack of DVDs he had been buying like they’d soon go out of style, but had not had time to watch.

“Something that could match my towering feeling,” I say, lying down on the choice seat of the bed.

Tony can be very literal. He plays “My Fair Lady” (the old version with Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn). And the moment the song “I have often walked” is sung, he joins in with the lyrics, “And oh, the towering feeling . . .”

I have, as the musicale sings, a towering feeling, even as the manuscript will still go through spit and polish, then on to improving it with my editors and book designer. But I am over the hump. In a month or two we should be able to put it to bed.

And already I am all revved up to write my next book. I have scheduled April 1 as the first day of writing my new, exciting assignment.

Is This My Bedroom?!

As soon as the 4' x 4' oil painting of Jun Alfon, a well-known advocate of Philippine tribal groups, was up on my (and my husband's) bedroom wall, I blinked not just once, but a hundred times.
    
Is this my bedroom? With that colorful work of art occupying all of the only wall this room has, I thought I was in some unknown place elsewhere.

Jun surprised me with this painting when I went over to his place to personally deliver and discuss with him the first draft of his art book, which he asked me to write. I was speechless. His walls, from ceiling to floor, were covered with paintings, but he chose this particular painting, took it down and give it to me. I’d have chosen it myself.

I should have told him what we usually say when we receive a gift, “You should have not bothered.” But I was so overwhelmed  I could only gasp.

From the beginning I made clear to Jun, a noted impressionist who has had 28 solo art exhibits to date, I will not accept payment for all the little things he had requested me to write—brochures, press releases, leaflets, invitations, and titles for his past art exhibits. "First off, anything about art gives me adrenalin rush. And between friends there are no peso values."

So Jun turns around and gives me no cash; just a beautiful canvas that has his soul in it.

Jun’s painting, which captures the essence of our forgotten brothers up in the mountains, speaks more about friendship than I can ever paint with words.

(I have other artist friends whose paintings adorn the other walls of our small home—those are gifts of grace I have written in my heart long ago and will post here someday soon.)

JR's Magic

As he makes the text of one whole book disappear before 70 children (from the slums near our church), JR says, “I have absolutely no power, no magic. I just have quick hands.”

“Ooooh,” the children are impressed.

“Watch my hands, you might see them slip,” JR continues.

“Woww!” the children chorus, seeing nothing amiss.

He bites into a five-peso coin and the coin breaks. He then puts the broken coin back into his hands, “One, two, three, four, five!” Voila! The coin is whole again!

He displays a few more stunts then ends with the coup de grace. He takes a chopped wood from his magic box and tries to balance it in one hand.

“This is heaven—that perfect place where God lives. He offers it to all of us so we can live there, too, forever. How do we get there?” The wood is heavier on one side so it falls to the ground. “Ooops, I have to do something to keep it in my hand.”

He picks it up and puts an object on the lighter side. “Do we go to heaven by doing good works?” Again, the wood falls to the ground. “No,” he says.

Everyone echoes, “Noooo.”

He picks it up again and puts another object to balance it. “Do we go to heaven by going to church every Sunday?” The wood falls.

The children chorus, “Noooo!”

“Do we go to heaven by smiling at all the people we meet and being kind to them? The wood falls.

The children give out a louder, “Noooo!”

He then takes off his belt and puts it on the wood. It balances well! “Do we go to heaven by accepting Jesus in our hearts—as our Lord and Savior?”

Everybody gets excited and says, “Yesssss!”

JR raises his hand with the well-balanced wood for everyone to ponder. The children swarm around him and look at the wood in awe. At this point, JR talks about the good news of salvation a bit more, explaining it to the children in their language. Then he ends the magical session with a prayer.

Seeing the children all sitting still, their eyes tightly shut and repeating after JR the prayer of acceptance, my eyes well up as I praise the Owner of heaven for this afternoon of magic only He can make possible through His grace.

Walking in the Rain

Unless I am out of town, I wake up at five in the morning to walk. Nothing stops me from this daily one-hour exercise. Not even rain.

After quickly donning my rubber shoes, walking shirt and pants—I grab an umbrella.

How refreshing it is to walk in the rain! Dust, dirt and grime are washed away while the rain drums on my rain shield and my socks get soaked. And everything (the street, trees, flowers, leaves, roofs, water tanks, cars parked on open air) is rinsed clean.

There are a few things I miss though: the sound of my footfalls and air conditioning units, water hoses and sprinklers, stray cats (mostly black) and dogs, and the morning greetings of regular walkers. When it rains, everyone stays indoors, except me. Vehicles on the road are suddenly sparse.

There’s a nice, indefinable feeling to being alone, walking in the rain. It seems to be the best time to talk to and thank the Giver of grace and Maker of rain.

On Being a Woman

I am off to talk on "The Revolutionized Filipina" as a keynote speaker in the celebration of International women's Day of one multi-national company.

I had difficulty writing my speech as I don't usually define myself as a woman. I define myself as a person, more particularly a creative writer dependent on God's grace.

The speech, then, is more for me than it is for the audience. I realized a lot of things about being a woman.

From there, I will attend the last party that will ever be thrown for the ACRC, the entity of Adboard that screens advertising before they are aired or published. After March 31, ACRC will cease to exist and it its place is a group which . . . that I still have to understand.

Then off, with JR, to Umingan for the funeral of my cousin Esther. It's going to be a loooong day.

And I still can't fathom what all this has to do with being a woman.

My mind seems not functioning today.

A Quiet Day

I would like to spend the day quietly. My eldest cousin, Esther, just left to be with the Lord. In our last clan reunion, which I chaired, Manang Esther came. She was in a wheelchair (having just undergone surgery) but she came anyway, and participated in all activities for three days.

Never would have I guessed it would be her last reunion with us on earth, as she is now attending a grander reunion with other loved ones in that perfect place where Grace reigns and where we will also be, someday, when our appointed time comes.

February Blessings

In two days it will be March.

February has been an unusually busy month for me.    

I’ve been mostly at home—in my little corner pounding on my keyboard non-stop—writing the third volume of my book, Gifts of Grace. 

It’s coming along fine, thank you.

At the end of each day, I am spent—heart, body and soul—but happy. I realize that this feeling comes not so much from a sense of fulfillment as from a higher Source, for whom I do what I do. “And from His fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.” (John 1:16)

In February, too, we found a reason to celebrate. My one and only grandson (nine months old now) was dedicated to the Lord, officiated by my older brother, Pastor Fed.

Although 13,000 miles away, we were with Adrian through photos sent by his parents. “Isn’t he lovely?” Grace upon grace indeed.

What an Ad!

Once in a while, a print ad jolts me. What I do is clip it and discuss it with my students in my Contemporary Advertising class.

Today, there is a controversy over a big government deal with China, now cancelled. Our country is in a deep moral dilemma. There have been accusations of high level corruption in government and Jun Lozada, a government man consulted about the deal, was summoned by the Senate—literally surrounded and protected by nuns—to tell what he knows about the corruption.

Those pro President GMA say he is a liar. Those pro Jun Lozada say he is telling the truth.

What does the Pontifical University (The University of Santo Tomas), the oldest university in the country, alma mater of Lozada, have to say about it? This is where the ad comes in.

In this crisis, we pray for a massive dose of grace to make us do what is right in God’s sight.

In the big rally planned for tomorrow, February 25 (anniversary of EDSA 1), may the Lord protect the pure in heart and may His will, alone, be done.

Star Gazing

It was like having a dream where you want to wake up but can’t. You’re blinded by the twinkling of a galaxy of stars in one big, but suffocating, space.

I am not talking about movie stars or the celebrities whose lives we dig up in gossip columns. I am referring to a different kind of ilk—stars in politics, diplomatic corps, military, and judiciary. Stars that make it to newspaper headlines and the 6 o’clock news.

The occasion was the 108th anniversary of The Manila Bulletin, a major newspaper these stars love most or can never hate.

When all Philippine newspapers scream with headlines like, “Massive Cheating in the South,” or “Wire Tapping Scandal Angers GMA” or “Destabilization Plot Uncovered,” The Manila Bulletin writes, “Pope appoints Papal Nuncio.”

So everyone was there—from the Justice of the Supreme Court, the Speaker of the House, the Senate President, Ambassadors of different countries, the Executive Secretary, Ex-Presidents, to the current President of the Philippines.

After imbibing too much juice of varying kinds, I rushed to the comfort room only to be shooed away, “Ma’am, that cubicle is reserved for President GMA.”

I decided to enjoy the event by asking Tony to take my photo with some of them. “Let me take a shot of you with Joe de Venecia,” he suggested.

“No way,” I said, and walked instead to where US Ambassador Kristie Kenney was having a tete-a-tete with Carlos P. Romulo’s widow.

Tony, who always had a nose for news said the next day after reading the newspaper headlines (not The Manila Bulletin), “You missed the chance to have a photo caption that says, ‘Me and the Speaker before the ax fell.’”

Why were Tony and I there in the first place? Well, veteran advertising people get invited to media functions; this particular newspaper just happens to attract all the stars.

Star gazing isn’t as nightmarish as it sounds. Most of the stars, especially those who figure in corruption, deception, wheeling and dealing and cheating, and cover-ups are a frequent fare in our church’s prayer concerns.

A simple folk like me just can’t seem to get used to the glare of all the constellations—sparkling and falling stars among them.

After that night, I cried over this verse, “If My people who are called by My name humble themselves, and pray and seek My face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and heal their land . . .” 2 Chronicles 7:14

Please help us pray for the healing of our land.

Confused Heart

Another Valentine’s Day has come and gone and I am still unsure about what it means. I know it is a stroke of marketing genius—when flowers, chocolates, restaurants, and other wares make huge commercial profits.

But what is it really? What exactly are we celebrating? Or for whom is it celebrated?      
 
Going back to its history, Valentine’s Day long, long ago was a pagan tradition; and in later years, was made a part of Christian celebrations. There is not just one but several legends on how this happened.

My personal feeling is, love can’t be pigeon-holed into one day. The Scriptures tell us that love is long-suffering and forever; it never looks back, but keeps going on till the end. And without it, we are nothing.

Okay, that’s a different kind of love, you may say. Valentine’s Day is all about calf love or romantic love. But ah, there’s the rub.

Romance is not bound by schedules. Let me try to remember what some authors have said about romance—“It is a roller coaster ride, it has its ups and downs.” Shakespeare’s Romeo said, “It’s a madness most discreet.”

Romance is unruly, spontaneous and improvises—it is a sudden burst of inspiration, a sleepless night, a note written at a whim, a poem, a giggle in a middle of a lecture, goose bumps and tears, flowers and chocolates for no reason, and many, many more.

It is always a joy for me to delight the people I love, freshen friendships, and send an e-mail or a text message of love. But that can and should happen anytime one feels like it.

It is the sense of duty—of giving someone you love something that is quadruple the cost on Valentine’s Day because he or she expects it—that confuses this day’s purpose.

Pardon the philosophizing; many of you may not agree.

Let me then simply end with 1 Corinthians 14:1 (The Message): "Go after a LIFE [emphasis mine] of love as if your life depended on it—because it does."

Mystery No More

When man landed on the moon on July 20, 1969, something in me died. Sure, it was a leap forward in science but it was step backward in music and poetry—the end of the moon’s mystery.

Suddenly, the soft, beautiful feelings evoked by songs such as Fly Me to the Moon, Moon River, By the Light of the Silvery Moon, Moonlight Becomes You, and Blue Moon had been reduced to the hard reality of rock samples, molecules, spacecraft, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin.

This was exactly how I felt, again, after the mystery behind the identity of “Mona Lisa” was solved early this year.

Leonaro da Vinci’s magnum opus is arguably the most famous painting in the world. Few other works of art have been subject to as much scrutiny, study, and parody. Historians have wondered whether the smiling woman may have been da Vinci’s lover, his mother, or the artist himself.

Enabled by grace to visit the Musée du Louvre in Paris, France a few years ago, I was able to view the cordoned-off painting two meters away. My hair stood on ends. Oh, that mysterious smile, that mysterious woman!

Back in Manila, when I told my artist friends about it my experience, their eyes misted.

Well, those goose bumps and tears are gone now. German academics at the Heidelberg University Library believe they have solved the centuries-old mystery of the "Mona Lisa." They say dated notes scribbled in the margins of a book in October 1503 confirm that Lisa del Giocondo was indeed the model of this famous portrait. The notes were made by a Florentine city official Agostino Vespucci, an acquaintance of the artist.

The comments say da Vinci was working on three paintings at the time—one of them a portrait of Lisa del Giocondo, the wife of a wealthy merchant, Francesco del Giocondo. She has long been suspected as the most likely model for the 16th century painting but was never proven till now.

Art experts say this discovery is a breakthrough. "There is no reason for any lingering doubts that this is another woman," Leipzig University art historian Frank Zoellner said. “Mona Lisa” is also known as "La Gioconda" (joyful woman in Italian). These two titles both have the woman's first name and married name!

My miniature print of "Mona Lisa" had been delicately wrapped and stowed away like it was the original itself. After the discovery of the model’s identity, I brought it out. Somehow, it is not as precious as it used to be.

With my shades on, I look more mysterious.

A Flower for Leni

Yesterday, two days after I posted my blog on death in which I mentioned his name as an honest doctor, our good friend Leni (Dr. Lenito Gatchalian) quietly passed away. He died in his sleep, in his bedroom, of cardiac arrest.

Leni wasn't only honest, he was one of the most caring doctors I have ever known. He often volunteered his services to those who couldn't afford medical care. And he was a member of a group of CBers who answered the call of those in distress.

Although he wasn't very sick, he had been suffering from emphysema for the past couple of years. “A result of my heavy smoking,” he admitted.

He was my husband’s surgeon when Tony was diagnosed with colon cancer 14 years ago. Tony was in bad shape, the tests were not very good. But Leni (the husband of my close friend Delma) was very optimistic and after the surgery, before chemotheraphy could even begin, he told Tony, “I want us to go to the beach ten years from now.” They never made it to the beach because he was too busy and so was Tony but the two of them kept in touch—every day.

They were each other’s text mate. They would exchange jokes and inspirational messages every single day! Yesterday being Chinese New Year, Tony sent Leni a Happy New Year greeting early in the morning. It was the first and only day Leni didn't text back—and will never again.

What can I say? I have said all I wanted to say about death in my last post.

But perhaps this is what needs to be said over and over again—to my husband, myself, our children and his children who have learned to live without their mother for over ten years now—the Lord’s promise in times of pain and loss, fear and uncertainty:

"I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.” John 14:18

Please join us in prayers for the Lord’s grace to sustain those who are mourning Leni's passing—especially his children (Lendell, Lester, and Leanne), in-laws, grandchildren, and loved ones.

We will miss you, Doc. Please say "hello" to Delma.

O Death, Where Is Your Sting?

Medical science has a lot to say about how people should lead their lives to stay healthier and live longer. Time Magazine had an article on a recent breakthrough study on how to prolong life.

Doctors have statistics to prove why a person gets sick of some disease at some point in time and why he will perish when some parts of his organs don’t function the way they should. They say that based on their present understanding, one has probably x months or years to live.

But I have met a few honest doctors—my son JB and our friend Leni among them—who admit that they don’t know for sure. There is always an element of mystery on when life will end.

One of our neighbors has been bedridden for almost 20 years. And yet, other neighbors have kicked the bucket at their prime.

I just got word that an acquaintance suddenly died at age 42. Stroke. He never smoked, never drunk, and was a gym habitué.

Two very close friends, Christians both, were diagnosed with breast cancer at almost the same time. One has long perished while the other is still going strong, with no sign of the disease.

My nephew, 29, was just promoted in his job, about to move in to his first condo unit, and had just left a celebration party. He was on his way home and got killed in a car accident.

An uncle (a couch potato, with cholesterol-sugar-heavy diet) who was supposed to have died at age 75 due to stage four prostate cancer, didn’t—not until he was almost 100, of heart failure.

We’ve heard of stories about malignant cysts suddenly disappearing or people, proclaimed clinically dead, suddenly waking up as though nothing happened.

My cousin was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. One doctor said she only has six months to live. Another doctor said her tests show only borderline malignancy and therefore treatable.

Dulce Saguisag survived cancer for 10 years and suddenly, coming home from a ballroom dancing session, her van got hit by a speeding truck. She died on the spot.

A friend who underwent surgery for cancer was nursed by his young wife. Years later, his wife also succumbed to the same disease and passed on, way ahead of him.

The list is endless.

I believe that Medical Science may offer an opinion, but only God knows. “You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.” Psalm 139:16

Beyond this, God invites us to join in His mysterious work by asking us to pray for the sick. “And the prayer of faith will save the one who is sick, and the Lord will raise him up. And if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven. Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person has great power as it is working.” James 5:13-14.

And so we do pray for our ailing friends and loved ones. God is all-powerful. Therefore He will heal or do something more important. And we will abide by His decision.

Fact is, unless Jesus returns very soon, our mortal bodies will all return to dust. Most of the time we ignore our mortality. But when someone dear to us dies and we come face to face with death, we suddenly review our priorities and concentrate on the things that matter most.

After so many deaths (friends and family's) in recent months, I am reviewing—or re-aligning—my priorities and concentrating on the things that matter most. May God lather me with His grace as I try to do so.

Grace by the Sea

My family and I, bibliophiles in varying degrees, are perpetually poised to pounce on a bookshop.

As soon as MV Doulos—the biggest floating bookshop in the world—anchored on Manila Bay, JR and I were there like a shot.

The charm and lure of MV Doulos, aside from the books she carries, is that she’s the world's oldest active ocean-faring passenger ship. There are plans to decommission her because she is just a tad younger than Titanic!

MV Doulos is purposed deeply: she visits port cities throughout the world to encourage inter-cultural understanding and share a message of hope in God. The bookshop was full and most of those who were there had filled up their baskets with books.

I decided beforehand that I would only buy books and CDs I couldn’t find in Manila. So I skipped the baskets and lanes with familiar titles. I looked instead through the old-edition areas, hoping I would discover rare finds.

I did.

I found the one book of Max Lucado which I still don’t have, "Turn."

Serendipity one after another . . .

Also beneath a stack of hardbound books were two copies of Beatrix Potter’s "Peter Rabbit!"

I thought I’d never find it anywhere except on e-bay where the price is forbidding. I got them both, thinking one would make a perfect gift for Tony, a closet artist who loves Potter’s style. And the other copy, I will keep for my children’s book collection.

I also discovered Maurice Sendak’s old book, “Bears.” Again, another one for my collection!

These four books were three hours of my time on board. One additional hour I spent looking for CDs of old hymns. I rummaged through shelves after shelves of gospel CD’s but ended up finding none. Nada. Nil. Are they really gone for good? I couldn’t find them in Manila either.

It was way past sunset when JR and I decided to call it a day. After saying good-bye and thank-you to the men and women of various races, the friendly young missionaries of MV Doulos who were giving away tracts on grace and salvation, we decided to enjoy our purchases over alfresco dinner on a floating restaurant at the edge of Luneta Park.

It was a day of grace by the sea.

On a Magazine Cover?!

Great news it was indeed! JB was featured on the cover of a medical magazine in Michigan, USA. His wife, Gianina, took his photo reading this magazine and sent it to us with the caption, “JB’s 15 seconds of fame.”

In truth, JB (upper left corner) shares the spotlight with 13 other doctors. “What is mysterious,” JB wrote, “is that there is no story inside the magazine about us at all. We are not even identified. I wonder why.”

Elementary, my dear Mr. Watson (I suspect young blog readers won’t remember Sherlock Holmes). America, smitten with reality shows, equality, and being politically correct (or careful not to offend viewers from various sectors of society), always features people representing different nationalities in mass media. Notice how group scenes in movies, TV shows and advertisements show Asians and other races together with Americans in one frame?

In this particular magazine cover, if you look closely, you’ll find both male and female doctors of varying ages: Indian, European, American-Indian, African-American, and of course, a young, good-looking Asian (indulge his mom). It’s a neat cover that is not prejudiced against age, gender, or race.

That is not to say that we aren’t proud of JB. I am posting his photo for all of you, my on-line family and friends—and the world—to see!

Night Out with the Big Boys

Some students had wanted to interview me for their class assignment on authors. So we set a date, time, and place.

It was the exact date and time Tony was scheduled to meet his classmates in grade school (yes, grade school!). It was their monthly (yes, monthly!) big boys’ night out.

He suggested that I joined them for dinner after my interview was over so I could have a ride home. I had the option of being the only girl in a big boys’ club or of taking public transportation during rush hour.

It was a difficult choice.

What could I contribute to the conversation?

I have nothing in common with these men, well, except Tony.

I could always concentrate on the food and allow my mind to wander, which isn’t difficult.

Or I could listen and learn a thing or two from men who go back a long, very long, way.

I listened.

And I laughed. I was amused and amazed at the same time. Here were eight oldish men (one of them is now a congressman; one is a DJ; a lot of them entrepreneurs; four or five couldn’t make it but they kept calling and wanted updates on what was happening) talking like little boys without a care in the world.

Their topics ranged from the old shops they used to pass by on their way to school, the pretty teacher who was their common crush, the bullies and the nerds among them, how the political situation is still the same even after so many years, and oodles of other topics that kept me mesmerized.

They talked as though I wasn’t there. But I picked up one great nugget of wisdom: nothing—not age, not political affiliation, not religious beliefs, not time, not tragedies and comedies—can break up friendships forged in early life.

On our drive home, I told Tony: “The dinner was great but the jokes and conversation even better.”

“Same topics and jokes month after month,” he said, snickering.

I wanted to ask why, then, would he always look forward to attending those dinners if the topics and jokes were the same month after month for, uh, ten years now.

I bit my tongue; I knew better.

Old men (and women, for that matter) must never really grow old. They are able to weather life’s earthquakes and quicksands only because they keep the carefree little boy they once were in their hearts.   

Funny Days are Here Again!

From day one, I have been a fan of American Idol. Go ahead, laugh. It’s probably the only TV show I watch consistently. Unless I am in a prayer meeting or out on an errand, I watch every show.

I don’t care much for TV anymore, not since I left the workplace where all I did was watch TV ad nauseum to get a feel of trends and mass media advertising.

But American Idol—which is airing again for a new season—is an exception. Why? Well, a show like this doesn’t have to be analyzed or synthesized. It’s just plain fun. And funny!

I am extremely amused at the combination of the three judges who share no similarity except for their love for music. Simon is acerbic and curt, reminding me of my high-handed clients of yore. Paula is effervescent and spontaneous, typical of a person in creative—a perfect foil to a client. And Randy is both soul and technique, knows his notes and pitches to the last vibrato.

And oh, there’s Ryan Seacrest who’s always quick-on-the-draw, parrying, bantering, sparring with words and turns of phrases that leave one in stitches.

It’s a casting coup. Together, they are a riot.

And then, you hear music, music, music and watch expensive extravaganza, set on a glitzy stage with high-tech production values, interspersed with human drama.

I said I wasn’t going to analyze the show, but by force of habit, I have just listed what I think makes American Idol the no. 1 show in the US for several seasons now.

There is another episode coming up in a few hours. I will abandon my keyboard and the book chapter I am about to finish and for 60 minutes, I’ll free my mind from writer's angst.

Googleganger (2)

I tried to google myself again for the second consecutive day (vanity is endless). This time I was even more curious as to what I would discover further.

Alas, I didn’t find any more interesting googleganger. But I uncovered a few things written about me. One is in a blog of an 18-year-old girl. She listed me as one of her favorite book authors, alongside legends! She wrote . . .

“(my name) . . . is a local author in the Philippines and I really love her works. She wrote the "Oh Mateo!" Series, "Hello God!" Prayer books for kids, and "The Magic of Apo Mayor". Yes, I know I'm too old for these books but I really cherish her works.”

My heart leapt to my throat.

And her other favorite authors?

“J.K. Rowling - Hello?!?!? Do I have to say more? She's absolutely, positively amazing!

“C.S. Lewis - He's practically a legend at his game! All his works are written greatly.

“Lemony Snicket - He specializes in the drama category and is a real master. He may write about gloomy stuff but he rocks!!”

I came off my perch—“absolutely, positively” humbled. I may never earn my right—not in a zillion years—to be in the same league as these super authors, especially C.S. Lewis who is my all-time favorite children’s book writer, but I am “absolutely, positively” grateful that in the mind of an 18-year-old I have.

There are a few other blogs that mention my work, but my eyes are smarting and I feel so inadequate to key them in. I will simply write them in my heart and relish the beat of God’s glorious grace there.

Googleganger (1)

I can’t get over this new word in my vocabulary in 2008! Thanks to the American Dialect Society which voted it as the most creative word in the year that was:

Googleganger.

It’s defined as, "a person with your name who shows up when you Google yourself.”

I have always wondered about my namesakes—who might they really be. With this new word, I googled myself again (vanity, vanity) and what do you know? One of them really shocked me. She holds a world record for something so notorious I can’t even print it.

There aren’t too many of us. And what we have in common is just our name. One is young enough to be my granddaughter, one lives on the opposite side of the planet, and another one is some kind of a science genius.

Why not try discovering who your googlegangers are? You’re in for a lot of surprises.

Photo credit

Over-the-top Generosity

Amazon is slipping. It was three weeks delayed in delivering JC’s gifts for his parents.

My husband and I were not really bothered. Gifts that come late are gifts nevertheless; their value is never diminished. Both with heavy marketing background, we know that dates are simply merchandising hoopla.

But JC was livid.

He’d have wanted to give us these gifts on Christmas. I could hear him chewing off the ear of whoever was on the other line. His voice sounded like gunshots.

The package, which arrived on our doorstep only yesterday, was worth the long wait. Tony got two seasons of “Everybody Loves Raymond” (his favorite TV show, next to . . . uh, Desperate Housewives?).

Me? I got not just a book, but The Word on the Street!

“I couldn’t find it in any bookstore here,” JC explained.

The Word on the Street by Rob Lacey is a retelling of the scriptures from Genesis to Revelation, although it has a qualifier on the cover –

“Purist alert: This is not THE BIBLE (capital B) . . . but it might just get you reaching for one.”

It is not meant to replace your Bible (mine is KJV); it simply brings to life, in today’s language, the gripping stories and the passionate voices found in God’s Word. I love reading it (with my KJV beside me) because it is theatre, song, e-mail, web page, storytelling, and reality show all in one.

JC scrawls on the first page, “Mommy, combining your two loves: the Word of God and the theatre.”

Turning to the chapter on love, 1 Corinthians 13, here’s what kept me smiling (verses 4-8):

What is love anyway? Not the tripe you’ve been force-fed! No, love gives people space and time; it does people good. It’s not jealous, loud-mouthed or big-headed. It’s not vulgar; it doesn’t look after No. 1. It’s not got a short fuse—it forgives and forgets. Love doesn’t smile when dark stuff goes on, but throws a party when the truth gets out. It protects more than a blockbuster hero; it trusts more than a toddler. It’s always positive; it always hangs in there. Love doesn’t let you down.

If the book is gripping, the story behind its creation is even more so. Lacey was diagnosed with terminal cancer when he started writing the book in the year 2000. All through the three years that it took him to finish it, he was in and out of hospitals, in between chemotherapy and surgery, pain and remission, anger and stupor.

He lived to see it chosen as the Book of the Year (2004) at the Christian Booksellers Convention Ltd. UK. After another two years, Lacey joined the One for whom He lived his life as a writer and a performer.

This book’s blurb says, “For those who’ve never read the Bible, and for those who’ve read it too much.”

I don’t know if I fall within the second category, having in my possession at least a dozen translations which I refer to often. But what Lacey says about grace keeps me thinking I have not read enough—can never read enough.

“Grace is too big a word to define: favour, forgiveness, salvation, regeneration, love of God – all these don’t quite make it. Hence my struggles to define it.”

Ditto.

The Word on the Street’s phrase to mean grace, "over-the-top-generosity,” is way over the top, but it doesn’t even come close to defining it fully, even in today’s street-smart super lingo.

6989 Steps

Tony’s gifts to me are never a surprise. I pick them out myself and he simply pays for them. I know that inwardly he winces when he sees the price tag. But that’s a small price to pay (pun intended) for him having to search the stores himself. He abhors shopping.

Last Christmas season, however, I was too busy chairing the committee for our clan reunion. Before I knew it Christmas eve was upon us. For the very first time, Tony’s gift surprised—floored may be a better word—me.

He gave me something I wouldn't dream spending a cent on: a pedometer. It's a small gadget you tie around your neck and it measures your steps. I’ve been walking without one for seven years and it can’t make me walk any more than I already do.

I think he gave me a pedometer because he knows how obsessed I am with walking; or, among all the stores in a mall, the sports shop is the least crowded. Ooops, I should be thanking him instead of speculating on why he bought it.

I have always been tentative about my answer when someone asks, “How many kilometers do you walk in the morning?” My guess: seven kilometers, considering I walk one whole hour at a very brisk pace.

My new pedometer confirmed that: 6989 steps.

At 1,000 steps per kilometer, I do walk approximately seven in one hour! I wear the thingy the rest of the day to confirm having made 10,000 steps at day’s end (what some doctors recommend to help maintain good health). Now I know how much walking I do during the day—a lot.

This same pedometer was what my sons had in mind when they were shopping for my gift. They did a turnabout when it was beyond their budget (which mothers have to share with pretty young things). One of them bought me instead a blouse on sale and the other, a book which has not arrived. Amazon has made the holiday mail traffic a perfect excuse.

I have tried to suggest—not very subtly—to these boys that a nice letter telling me what a good mother I am would make the best gift, without them worrying over budgets. Obviously they’d rather spend precious cash than wrongly butter up their mother’s ego.

"I hope I don’t lose my pedometer the way I lose my cell phones and umbrellas," I said to nobody in particular.

“How can anyone lose anything tied around her neck?” JC asked.

Children ought to work harder at getting to know their mothers. I've lost flash drives, ball pens, pendant watches, IDs, necklaces, you name it. They were all neatly tied around my neck.

Taking Down the Tree

End of the merry season.

As I was taking down our tree early this year, I kept rewinding in my mind what our pastor said about Christmas trees. I’ve always been half guilty about making such a big fuss over a tree every December.

Without knowing what I go through to spruce up our 6-foot-tall green tree, he said, “Christmas trees are symbolic of the celebration we do at Christmas. However, we must not forget that it is just the beginning of the unwrapping of the greatest gift to man.

"The unwrapping continues and finally, the gift is fully opened and given at the cross. Go ahead, have a Christmas tree, but focus on the cross. From the tree to the cross—that is the total gift package.” 

My eldest brother Peding in the US gave us a crystal cross on his last visit. I took a shot of that cross overshadowing our office tree to remind me of the most selfless gift in Calvary for all of mankind . . . including undeserving me.

Oh, what grace!

Reunion 007: A Time to Bond!

The clan reunion that kept my pulse over-speeding all of December came through! It exceeded all our expectations, trashed all our worries, and proved all our apprehensions wrong.

We knew we had a winner in the venue. Tucked away in some forgotten place, “The Lord’s Garden” is so close to Laguna Bay.

It was difficult to get there, though. One had to navigate narrow roads clogged with tricycles and sidewalk vendors. But once you’re there, you get a whiff of bygone days.

Clean air caressed us and all around were wide open spaces with lots of trees, flowers, grass, birds, frogs, and—a giant chess set.

But that was about the only ace we got. Anything could go wrong with over 170 reunionites (or clanistas, as we have nicknamed ourselves; more than half live overseas)—aged 7 months to 89.

Nothing did. We realized that nothing ever goes wrong when family gets together to strengthen relationships and renew old ties. Oversights are forgiven.

Things went on as planned, plus more. James Bond numbers, parlor games, sports, talent and quiz shows, board games, kiddie activities, raffle, Bible-lympics, and other fun activities one can think of kept us laughing and bonding for 3 days and two nights. It was organized chaos, so to speak. One could participate in any event of his choice.

But two activities were non-negotiable: the opening worship service and the “friendship circle” where we were locked together in a hand chain while we prayed to await the end of the old year and the beginning of the new year. Everybody had to be there.

As a clan, we believe that everything is up to God. We could meet every year—running 63 years now—as a family only because of His grace. We therefore must give thanks together before we do anything else. In this worship service, which began Reunion 007: A time to Bond!, we remembered the clanistas who have gone ahead—all 42 of them. As they lit our way, may we—those who are left behind—also learn to light the way of those whom we will likewise leave behind.

May the Lord find us always faithful.

What gives me the right to chair this reunion?

My grandparents on my mother’s side had nine children. All nine branches of the big clan is assigned a reunion. As the eldest in my mother’s branch, I get to head the reunion committee every nine years. It is an awesome responsibility which I could never go alone.

This year, we were short-handed—13 of our sub-clan members are abroad. They all shared in the work in terms of creative ideas and donations, but the execution was left to the 11 of us.

The older among us (me and my husband, my sister, my brother and his wife) watched the "shaken and stirred" younger ones, our children, do the tasks we couldn't do ala Bond, complete with his espionage music in the background. Boy, was that dizzying!

Four days after the closing ceremonies, I am still exhausted from the overdrive. Well, I have nine years to recover. By then, I'd be nine years older and the clanistas in the group photo below would spill over the frame even more. But by His grace, I will be all fired up—again.

Happy New Year!

I said I was coming back on the 2nd of January, but it is now the 3rd. I am lagging behind in my writing (both blog and book). I was submerged in too many activities in December and couldn't come up for air, till now.

Today I took the chance to join my friends Bezalie and Yay for a long, chatty lunch, occasionally marred by a sneezing spell. I quickly took an anti-allergy pill and now I am woozy and my eyelids are heavy as lead.

Tom . . . or. . . row . . . zzzzzzzzzzz . . .