Proud Grads

In the Philippines, when the youngest child graduates from college, the parents also graduate.

Unlike other cultures, ours sees every child through all stages of school—until college. Or in our case, post-graduate school. Children are not expected to leave home at age 18; they stay till they’re married. (And in some families, they stay forever.)

Youngest son JR recently graduated from Law School with a degree called Juris Doctor.

It was a time for rejoicing. The joyous occasion was made even more special by the presence of middle son JB who was in the country for a vacation. JB took the chance to be with the whole family to watch baby brother receive his hood and diploma.

The event, held at the Meralco Theatre, was celebratory. There were confetti of tears from choked-up mothers, and flashes of bulbs that could light up a whole town from proud fathers.

Since it was also the graduation day of many other schools, restaurants were filled to the rafters at dinnertime. We chose the glass-encased Chateau 1771 at Greenbelt 5, where Gianina and baby Adrian joined us. Adrian unfortunately was asleep in his pram all throughout the long, chatty dinner and was not within camera range.

It was an enchanting culmination of eight grueling years for JR who (my eyes are welling as I write this), despite the pressure of schoolwork, still managed to be active in his church ministries: every summer, mission work in far-flung places; and every Sunday, Sunday School in our village church as teacher to tweens.

JR will have a fit if he found out his mom has been tattling on him. Well, it’s my graduation too!

He is 0.0003% short of making it to the honors roll; I am 3000.0% short to the honors mom (should they decide to award such a wonderful thing).

And it is my opportunity to praise the Source of grace who made all these things possible in all of JR’s university years. To Him be all the glory.

Nasty Or Nice

Two contrasting masks—sad and happy, tragedy and comedy—represent the theatre.

 

I’ll borrow them for now to show the contrasting reactions of people to those who are nasty and to those who are nice.

Since I joined a cyber group that reviews member-sites, my own has been reviewed almost 300 times. These reviews have been very uplifting and immensely helpful.

I thought all reviews were as positive as these because I have made it my personal policy to review only the sites I like. If I don’t fancy a site, I quickly exit and promise myself never to go back again.

But I happened to visit some members’ sites and was appalled at some of the nasty reviews posted there. Discouraged and downhearted, some of them lamented, “Why can’t people be more encouraging?”

My feeling is, if I don’t agree with a site’s beliefs, I have no right to impose my own. All my opinions are freely written in my own site anyway—whether visitors like it or not.

That, for me, is the essence of blogging. I think of a personal site as a home in a community, the blogosphere. It is the blogger’s home. He can decorate it any way he pleases. He can put anything in it—art or junk. He can turn it into a pig sty or a sanctuary. I’ve decided to make mine the latter. It is a place where grace is discovered, received—and shared.

Putting it simply, every blogging day, a blogger—like a citizen of a country—has two choices. Be nasty, or be nice. Here’s what some of my friends say about that:

“Why waste energy on being nasty when it is so much easier to be nice?”

Or, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t.”

That’s nice.

The Gift of Second Motherhood

“Second Motherhood as Book Author” was how Carina Roncesvalles, writer/journalist of Philippine Star, defined what I am today. It was very kind of her to write about me in the newspaper’s Mother’s Day issue.

I am honored . . . and humbled.

Motherhood is such a noble role that to become one is a privilege of the highest order. Mothers are celebrated the world over on Mother’s Day. And on any ordinary day, we are probably the most lionized group of human beings this earth has ever seen.

To be a mother twice in a lifetime, now that’s what I call . . . double grace.

“Second careers have been heard of. But motherhood can take a second turn, too,” was how Carina began the feature story.

“When her army of three young men graduated from her cudgels, motherhood for Grace took a second challenge as she writes children’s books.

“In writing books for children, Grace presents her learning as a mother when her kids were growing up. She has become a second mom to the kids who reads her stories.”

Despite being a flawed part-time mom when my children were growing up, I had not realized how this role could be given twice in a lifetime. Indeed we have a God of second chances! For this second act, the Lord has gifted me with all the time I need in a day and as many children as my books can reach.

I’d like to thank Carina for making me see myself in this new light.

The article has a photo of my family in my “first” motherhood; and a photo of my “second” motherhood with some of my “children.” Here are the two photos in bigger size. They look like nits in the article reduced many times over to fit this post.

I am keeping a copy of the clipping (actual size: 1/3 of a newspaper page) because it will remind me that on Mother’s Day 2008, I was made aware of the grace of motherhood granted me twice.

My Stress Buster

For the past three days, I have been shuttling (literally running) between my computer and the TV set. I’d type in a paragraph during commercial break. And last night, being Sunday, I totally abandoned my computer. I just sat before the TV set for hours and hours, from late afternoon to way past my bedtime.

Now I know how it feels to be a couch potato.

What kept me glued on TV? American Idol Marathon. World Star channel ignored its regular programming and had been showing nothing but American Idol episodes one after the other, with very minimal ads.

American Idol has been the only show I watch consistently, except on those days when I am not at home. This has been solved by the marathon. Now I have seen every single show of season seven. Now, what to do with strained muscles and eyes . . .

For me, AI is unadulterated fun and entertainment, a family show at its best—delighting people in all life stages. It doesn’t take brain surgery to enjoy it. It’s full of laughter and good-natured bantering. And it’s all about music. It’s a perfect stress buster.

Three days from now, all this will end at the finals—to resume again next year. My TV viewing will go back to what it has always been—sporadic. Which isn’t a bad thing, really. Now that I am out of advertising, I don’t need to watch ads anymore, nor am I compelled to be updated on the shows which fit which ads.

Meanwhile, who will win in the battle David vs. David? I think David Cook should win. But David Archuleta will.

It doesn’t really matter. The show’s been my gift of grace—sent by a creative God through the boob tube so I may receive it on certain days to relieve the incessant stress brought on by a world getting wearier every day.

The Grandest Grin

We are told that our mind’s hard drive can store all the memories of our lives. Trouble is, we can’t retrieve them all, no matter how hard we try.

But the memories of our “firsts” can leap out of our subconscious at will. They’re bookmarked as our favorites, easily and quickly accessible. Here’s a short list—first airplane ride, first love, first cell phone, first award, first paycheck. I know your imagination is now on overdrive just thinking of all your other “firsts.”

I remember my first published book . . .

The Lord gifted me with the grandest grin and I allowed nothing and no one to diminish nor take it away. That stayed on my face for days, or maybe weeks. And it comes back when I hear of a new published author:

This time, it's my friend and colleague, Yay.

Her book “Sorry to Burst Your Bubble (Life Leadership Lessons from the Greatest Dreamer)” will be launched on Friday, May 16 at Power Books, Greenbelt, 5 PM. Published by New Day, it is an inspirational book for young adults/yuppies.

 Yay and I teach in the same university so we encounter young people often. We both feel their struggles and dilemmas. But it is Yay (she heads the school’s mentoring program) who decided to play a continuing role in their lives: be their mentor in a book that may help them make crucial decisions through crossroads and dead ends.

She has been typecast for this role. She speaks their language.

“Sorry to Burst Your Bubble” is anchored on the Word (the life of Joseph), and written in a bubbly and vibrant style, almost staccato, tailor-made for the target readers.

Yay gave me a signed copy fresh from the press over cappuccino this week!

I read it again when I got home. I say again because she made me read her first draft. I was convinced that the book could help young people who may not have a map in looking for directions. (True enough, Yay has been invited to conduct a series of seminars on this book before it even went to press.)

To Yay, may God’s grace continue to shine upon you as you celebrate this first book! There will be many others, but the “first” will always give you the grandest grin.

Two Hands-off Moms

Although I have always believed that mothers should not be honored only today, Mother’s Day, I would like to pay tribute to two great moms whom we sorely miss.

At first blush, they were poles apart. Mama Chit (my mom) loved to talk and Amah Alice (Tony’s mom) loved to listen.

Mama was pure Ilocana and Amah was pure Chinese. It was a big, wild wonder how they got along so well together, and held each other with affection and respect.

Mama lived in the province and Amah lived close to us in Las Pinas. So they never really saw each other often. But during the times my mom would visit my family, she would walk over to Amah’s house, every afternoon, and they would have a one-way chat.

But peering closely, one would see that they were very similar in the things that really mattered.

They both left my husband and me alone, respecting our decisions and never blaming us for our mistakes. They gave "hands-off" a new, wonderful dimension. Although they were always supportive of our plans and were there when we asked for help, they never imposed any rule; never obligated us to do anything we hadn’t planned on doing.

Mama had one strong advice for me though: “You may pick a fight with me, but never, ever with your mother-in-law!” This I heeded to the letter.

I suspect—and I have every reason to believe—that Amah had the same advice for Tony.

Two great moms, two great mothers-in-law. Now that they are both ‘beyond the sunset’ or on the other side of the pearly gates, I am sure they are conversing. Rather, one is talking and the other, listening.

Is there any other way to describe how they were to us but acts of grace?

Where is Adrian?

On baby Adrian’s last day with us (eighth day), I took tons of photographs.

Since I am behind the camera, there is hardly any shot of me. But these photos bare all of our (Tony’s, JC’s, JR’s and mine) hearts—including Ate Vi's and Jen's (our doting househelps) and Sam, Tony’s driver.

The whole neighborhood asked this same question when I resumed my daily dawn walks after Adrian and his parents had left, “Where is Adrian?”

According to his mom’s text message, “We are back in Michigan. Adrian slept most of the way.”

Adrian is once again far, far away; but he has never left our hearts.

 "Love me tender, love me sweet," croons Elvis' twin.
 One last squeeze from Ate Vi and Jen while Elvis' twin looks on . . .
 Thanks for the visit, Adrian.

Four Men and a Baby

In jest (and in dreams), I call our family the Chong Dynasty. It used to consist of one man and three boys who became men in a blink of an eye; and now, in a blink of another eye, there is a new baby boy.
 

I have been blogging in my head but couldn't find the time to type and upload them, because we’ve been trying to cram so many activities in eight days—the only time in four years that the dynasty is complete, and with a new, tiny addition who can wrap every grown-up around his little finger.

You’ll be surprised at what you can do and enjoy in eight days:

A whole day drive to Laguna higlighted by a visit to the underground cemetery beneath a chapel in Nagcarlan (the meeting place of the early Filipino revolutionaries in the 1800's), an overnight stay in Canyon Woods, Tagaytay with stop-overs for lunch and coffee.

Every second is an adventure—including packing and unpacking. Taking down and putting up a play pen, a pram, a high chair, a car seat, not to mention the diapers, toys, and formula bottles, etc. etc. take one whole hour and one whole van.

I asked my daughter-in-law, Gianina (who was a true-blue corporate citizen before Adrian was born), “How do you do it so well?”

Indeed, how can one mom (with very little help from a full-time-physician dad) do it?

“Just do what you have to do,” she said beaming.

Eight days may seem like a short time, but as we do what we have to do, we thank God for blessing us with family. Through His grace, we've been brought together these eight days to enjoy the gift of dynasty.

Sssssssh, Adrian is Asleep . . .

Our cup this week is filled to the brim with grace.

Our hours revolve around an 11-month-old baby—Adrian. The whole household is extra alert, extra happy, extra thrilled, extra careful, extra everything.

Adrian is with us while his parents are away on a much-needed vacation. What a blessing to have him!

He's a very happy baby, so adorable, and is always smiling but I couldn't capture it in photos, sigh. I should stop blaming my camera for my inadequacy as a photographer.

The people who are at Adrian’s beck and call are: Tony, who comes home extra early from the office; JC, whose first question when he comes home is, “How is Adrian?”; JR, who is taking time off from his bar review; and two househelps—Ate Vi, who slaves over Adrian's yummy home-cooked meals, and Jen, who does her housework at record speed so she could take care of Adrian.

And then there’s Sam, Tony’s driver, who has been assigned to drive our little guest anywhere or to Gymboree where Adrian attends classes or simply plays. And of course the people in the whole neighborhood, who now call Adrian by name when we stroll with him early mornings and late afternoons; and last but not least, his Amah (moi), who closed shop for Adrian's visit.

The downside is, I think we may already be spoiling him.

We tip-toe and don't breathe when he’s asleep. We race in trying to carry him—and now he doesn’t want to be in his stroller or playpen anymore. He whimpers and raises both hands to signal he wants to be carried. And then he points to the door to say he wants to go out. And we are all more than willing to oblige!

My prayer is that he goes back to his regular schedule when he flies home to Michigan. Otherwise his mommy, who has been doing a great job as a SAHM (left her job for Adrian), will have a difficult time juggling her schedule.

Who Are You?

 
Who are you? Adrian seemed to be asking when Tony—this man who is the older version of his father—carried him.

To Adrian, our first and only grandson, we are strangers. Since he was born almost one year ago in Michigan, USA, he had never seen us.

But we’ve seen a lot of him through the photos which his parents regularly send.

So when my son JB, and his wife Gianina, announced they were coming home to the Philippines for a two-week vacation, we were more than excited, we were euphoric. At last, an . . . eyeball!

They were scheduled to arrive at 12 midnight and so there we were—Tony, JC, JR and me—our eyes riveted on the video that monitored the movement of passengers.

As soon as we saw the image of two adults and one baby in a pram, we rushed to the arrival area. It was hot and humid and the crowd was like that of a night market's on sale (a contrast to cold and peaceful Michigan at this time of the year).

Adrian looked bewildered and confused. Where on earth am I? He must have been thinking.

He was not aware that he and his parents have just completed the picture of a family set apart by space and time. It was a Kodak moment, yet my camera couldn't even begin to capture the depth and breath of joy and its synonyms.

But God’s grace made us record this moment in our hearts, forever.

Someday I will tell Adrian how it felt like when we saw and touched him that very first time.

Water Paradise (2)

On my second day at Water Paradise Resort, I decided to look for the missing water—outside the premises. See, the few times I was in Bohol, I had all the water I needed and wanted to enjoy.

At 5:30 at dawn, I donned my walking clothes and went past the resort gate. I asked the guard if it was safe to walk alone that early. He was half asleep but managed to nod.

A few meters from the gate, I was met by these dogs.

They were earlier asleep on the road so I thought I could take their photo. The flash woke them up and they snarled at me. I shook in my rubber shoes.

The rustic scene had a few paths that led to somewhere. I took one and saw these:

After one hour, still no water. I walked back to the resort with a resolve to try again tomorrow.

Tomorrow  gave me great company. My friends in the National Advisory Committee are also avid walkers—Sito, Pastor Bong, and Atty. Arni. Gary, the 5th member of our group didn't believe in the benefits of walking as much as he did in the benefits of sleeping.

A bit more adventurous with three bodyguards, I followed their lead.

We saw water! A sea of water! A few fishermen were enjoying their fresh catch for breakfast, reminders of God's abundant grace.

This is the Bohol I know and love: a place abundant with water, a water paradise.

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.