I Have Turned Two!

I was all set to blog about my Gifts of Grace 3 book launching when it suddenly dawned on me that today is my 2nd blogging anniversary.

At this very hour, I complete my second year. Reviewing my past posts, I am surprised that I have been blogging consistently—an average of one every four days. The only times I lapsed were when I was out of town or abroad. Not bad for a grandma, huh?

Well, it helped that I chose blogger.com. It is simple enough for simple me to manage; it allows me to concentrate on blogging, instead of uploading photos and the like. I've said it often enough that if there's anything I like doing tenaciously for hours on end, it's writing.

To celebrate my 2nd year, I am re-posting my very first entry, Why Leaves of Grace? as a word cloud.

You don't want to read it again, do you? In case you do (I can be delusional), click here.

My friend Socky introduced me to word clouds through her site. I was instantly hooked and before long, I was doing my own word clouds. I saved the one that I liked most and it seems like today is the best time to share it with you.

I also would like to show you my visitors' map for one year (maps are wiped clean after 12 months and begun again).     

            
The bigger the dot, the more frequent the visit. This map is the other reason I am glued to blogging. To date: 110 countries have come a-visiting. My statistics are modest—37,376 hits (peaking on Fridays and when the blog’s about three topics: food, Adrian, and our dog), but that’s 1000% more than the readers of my books. I still have to figure out why.

To all my dear friends on blogosphere, thank you for dropping by. You have all been an e-conduit of grace.

Flowers for or of?

The launching of the third book in the Gifts of Grace Series (published by OMF Literature) happened last night at the Executive Lounge of the Marajo Tower.

I still can’t think of how to record every single miracle that happened due to lack of sleep. I will, after I have napped long enough—that would be in two or three days (?)

For now, I’ll talk about the flowers, the gay profusion of colorful flowers!

The greeting cards read, Flowers for Grace. But I am changing the preposition to of. (Flowers of grace.)

The series of books is after all about His grace, not about me.

Psalm 115:1 “Not to us, O Lord, not to us, but to Your name give glory, for the sake of Your steadfast love and Your faithfulness!”

The launching was too marvelous for words (at the moment). It was above and beyond what I imagined it to be. Little faith?

Well, as my friend Yna said in jest, "Your name is Grace, not Faith."

To God be all the glory!

Pursuing God's Agenda

(In two days, my "Gifts of Grace Book 3" will be formally launched; "Gifts of Grace Books 1 and 2" will be re-launched. How do I feel? This article which I wrote for Evangelicals Today, the official magazine of the Philippine Council of Evangelical Churches, says it all.) 

“I don’t believe in writer’s block,” I’d tell young writers whom I encourage to write. “If you want to write, you must write—every day. If you feel like you have nothing to write about, write about why you think you are stumped.”

Up here in cool Chiang Mai, Thailand, where I’m one of the resource speakers for new Christian writers, I am eating those words.

I sat staring on my computer screen for an hour earlier and no word came. Overwhelmed by this new place? Worried about the workshop? Blog instead?

Then I realized that what stumps me is when I am asked to expound on the scriptures. Philippians 3:7-11, I was told. I have always felt inadequate to do that. I am neither a theologian nor a Bible scholar. And I’ve always been wary about preaching.

What qualifies me then as a Christian writer? One who has written to date devotionals for children, books on Christian values, and books for adults on grace? Why am I here, attending the first Asia Christian Writer’s Conference?

I can only write from and within the realm of my experience—snippets of my life, my darkness and light, my brokenness and wholeness.

But reading the above verses, I realize the words are deeply personal. Paul speaks of following God and turning away from what he thought were important. He says that nothing else is more important than the Word, and being servants of Jesus. I am throwing away everything I used to take credit for, Paul says.

Why, it sounds like the story of my career—that which I left behind and the new assignment I embraced since the year 2000. Everything I once thought defined me is gone from my life.

The corporate world gave me no choices. I either had to toe the corporate line or get out. I toed the line for over 20 years, up until I pursued my ancient dream—writing.

Often asked in my book talks how I became a published writer, I would tell this story:

The multi-national advertising agency where I was EVP started merging with another biggie. And we in management were being lured into early retirement with a juicy offer. I balked.

About this time, two of my young writers, knowing how I loved writing, prodded me to join the Palanca awards. They gave me a copy of the contest rules. I was charmed by the Short Story for Children category. Between meetings and at night, I worked on a story; turned it in as my entry. Months later, I froze for eternity when I was told I won first prize.

That made me turn the corner. “There is life after advertising.”

After advertising, there was no “life”—no rush and no deadlines. So I kept busy by writing and writing, and rewriting the manuscripts I had written as a closet writer for years.

Came the International Book Fair which I now had the luxury of visiting. One of the hundreds of booths was OMF Literature’s. There I found a copy of its brochure. My eyes spotted item one in Prayer Concerns: Praying for young and fresh writers.

I am not young but I am definitely fresh, I chuckled. So the next day I sent OMF some manuscripts. From that day forward, I have been writing—no longer about shampoos, toothpastes, refrigerators, or other consumer goods—but about God’s grace.

It was never in my agenda to become a full-time writer. It wasn’t in my agenda to turn my back on the career that trained me to communicate to various markets.

It wasn’t in my agenda to be in Chiang Mai, teaching would-be writers all I know about writing, so they—in their own way—may unleash words that will bring light to the stronghold of darkness.

I never imagined I’d one day partner with a Christian publisher to pursue God’s agenda. But I might have taken a cue from Paul. I have gone miles away from the things I used to take credit for.

Concerned about the unity of the Christians in Philippi, Paul spoke of his travails in prison, challenging them to seize the high privilege of working together to serve Christ.

Paul was Paul, and nobody could ever duplicate the great things he had done for Jesus. But he empowers and pushes. Reading his letter, I stand in awe at the vast amount of grace Jesus poured upon Paul’s life—and to those who stay united to lift up God’s name.

Clearly, I want to unite with all Christian writers in Asia, and around the globe, to experience the gift of grace that comes with embracing Christ, and being embraced by Him.

A Dog Is a Dog Is a Dog

Since the death of our last dog Brady (a Labrador), and the death of our dog before him—Gordy (a Dalmatian)—we had no desire to have any other dog. We feared going through another period of grief. Our dogs before them (German Shepherds all) had died of old age.

We have been dog-less for over a year. Well, pure-bred dogs can’t be bought from the store. Okay, we have not been looking hard enough.

Then the early morning knock at our gate:

“Would you like a dog?” One of our neighbors asks, holding a brown puppy not much bigger than a rat. “Our pet dog gave birth to six puppies two months ago and every one, but this one, has already been adopted. She’s yours if you want her. Oh, she’s unlike your other dogs before—this one’s a mutt.”

That much I know. Every morning when I go for my daily walk, this mutt’s mother runs out of their gate and follows me, barking incessantly, till I turn the corner to another block. I have learned to suffer her presence and noises. And now we are being offered to adopt her puppy?! And the runt of the litter!

The puppy looks at me with soulful eyes and raises one little paw.

“Yes!” I yelp, deciding for the household. The household wakes up and upon seeing the runt, and being told of the adoption, they grin and race to cuddle her.

Naming our new pet dog is quick. We all agree on “Attorney.” Why not? A mutt is as respectable as any other pure-bred dog.

Our Attorney—like the over 150 dog breeds and millions of mongrels in the world—is God’s creation, and therefore another drop in our daily rainfall of grace from the heavens.

My 200th Song:

Change has come to this site

Avid bloggers like me (that’s how people think I am these days) have the compulsion to celebrate tiny milestones. I say “tiny” because they’re not as earthshaking or historical as President-elect Barrack Obama’s victory in the US polls.

This is my 200th post.

There will be no violins or champagne. But, just like in America, change has come to this site. If you’ve been a frequent or an occasional guest, you’ll notice the new header. Fresher leaves! My old one comes down.

I am replacing it with this:

Blogging has been a big blessing for me. When I am tired, I blog. When I am stressed, I blog. When I am bored, I blog. When I am busy, I blog. When I am angry, I blog. When I am happy, I blog. When I celebrate, I blog. After publishing one post, I feel renewed and soaked in grace.

If you think that all I do is blog, well, you haven’t seen my tiny notebook.

The one I carry in my purse all the time; the one where I jot down practically every thought; the one where my un-posted blogs are—“cast-off blogs” I call them.

As part of my celebration, I am allowing myself a “tiny” discourse on blogging.

I believe the beauty of blogging is—choice. That’s a euphemism for censorship. Because you have the potential of being read by anyone—of a different persuasion, interest, creed, opinion, or thought—you write gingerly, you hedge, you keep private things private, you self-censor.I used to think that blogging is baring oneself. But after reading hundreds of sites, I now know that isn’t true. Writing in a little notebook is.

With a pen in hand, you write down your lowliest angst, deadliest fears, bitterest opinions, harshest criticisms, boldest predictions, silliest indecisions, deepest frustrations, and loftiest dreams. Never mind if they’re in unfinished sentences and fragmented phrases, or in inspired prose and energized verses.

Only the writer and a forgiving God know about what is written in the privacy of a journal.

Blogging is the glossy, techno part of a private journal. It is a lot like writing a book. The author tackles only what the book title says for the world to read. The only difference is, in blogging you’re on your own. You are your own editor, layout artist, and typesetter; you are your own publisher. As publisher-editor-writer in one, you self-edit and self-guide.

A decision I made when I started blogging was to keep to “Leaves of Grace.” Any state of un-grace or disgrace stay in my little notebook. Those are between me and the grace Giver. Those are my private prayers needing assurance and comfort and strength and mercy.

Lest I be accused of duplicity, may I quote my covenant with myself and my Creator in my very first post:

“. . . every letter, punctuation mark, and word that come together in a cohesive paragraph, will eventually sit proudly in a leaf... and then, leaves.

“These are leaves of grace.

“. . . as you e-flip through my leaves, you'll find nothing but songs of grace.”

Yes, this is my 200th song. Nothing’s really changed except the fresh, new header!

Voices from the Next Room

What can this tiny phone gadget do?

It allows me to talk to my cousin Minna and Auntie Pat in New York—and friends Lucy in California and Amor in Michigan—for hours on end. Toll free.

They are like voices coming from the next room. Our chats range from our health woes to what has happened to this and that, or anything under the sun (Philippines) or the moon (USA), or vice versa.

It also allows me to listen to Adrian say his new words.

Adrian’s mom: “How does a lion sound?”

Adrian: “Rrrrrrrr.”

Adrian’s mom: “How does a dinosaur sound?”

Adrian: “Rrrrrrrrr.”

Adrian’s mom: “How does a dog sound?”

Adrian: “Rrrrrrrrr.”

Those wonderful sounds, courtesy of this thingamajig, are like caffeine that keeps one wide awake while working.

Vonage was sent to us from the US by Adrian’s parents through a nephew. Tony didn’t really want it. Let me rephrase that—he didn’t think it was necessary. Neither did the boys. When they wish to speak to someone somewhere in the world, they use the VOIPs available in the net. “In this day of computers, there is hardly any need for the phone,” they said.

But the Vonage had arrived, and I saw in it countless possibilities. So I did what I couldn’t do before it came to our lives. I called Minna and Auntie Pat and Lucy and Amor and of course, the gift givers, JB and Gianina, with the big bonus of talking to Adrian who will, in no time, progress from sounds to words. I was in no hurry to hang up. Neither were they.

Week after week, I glance at this thingy and still can’t get over the thought that I can lift the phone anytime, talk to loved ones in some place yonder, and fret not about phone bills.

It is a gadget of grace.

The Shoes, the Bag, and Black Coffee

When I left the workplace and embraced writing, I vowed to spend less. Okay, much, much less. I repeated to moi my frequent admonition to my kids, “We’ll scrimp on everything but food and books."

For my personal things, I deliberately stayed away from expensive shops and visited only flea markets.

But came the ides of March. In a show window, a beautiful, beige fabric bag (purse) with matching shoes caught my eye. I drooled. Somehow, the gravity shifted from under me to inside the store. The saleslady said, “Ma’am, they’re on special sale—20% off.” Hmmm . . . It would still cost me an arm and a leg, but I closed my eyes and mumbled the famous last words, “Just this once.”

I ignored the verse I had memorized to help me ward off the shopping bug: Matthew 6:19-20, "Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal."

I took care of these beige items like the devout would the Holy Grail. I’d wear them only on special occasions.

Today:

Tony and I bring JR to a very early seminar at TESDA.

“After dropping off JR, let’s have breakfast somewhere,” Tony says. It promises to be a special, relaxing day after weeks of running around. It deserves a special bag and shoes.

I carefully place my bag on the seat beside me so I can watch it as I eat while Tony reads the morning paper. Then the rock of my life turns the page—and wham! His hand hits his coffee cup and the coffee spills down the table to my special bag!

In seconds, my treasure gets bathed in black coffee. I jerk it up. And the pool of black coffee drips down to one shoe! I have no energy to cry. Or even gasp.

The waiter immediately replaces the coffee. And my voice resurrects, “Will he replace my shoes and bag too?”

I wiggle my toes in my wet shoe and carry my dripping bag, both properly stained, to Tony’s office where I wash them with soap and water. Tony offers a box of the miracle product, baking soda. But a miracle doesn’t take place.

My shoe and bag story doesn’t end happily ever after.

I recite from memory the verse above and replace the words moth, rust and thieves with black coffee.

Live and learn, they say.

Live by grace, I say.

Singing in Tongues

You’ve sung “Amazing Grace” before, I know. Written by John Newton way back in 1776, it is the world’s most familiar hymn today—partially because famous singers like Elvis Presley, Aretha Franklin, Joan Baez and many more have recorded it. And mainly because the lyrics have a profound message for those who want to turn their wretched lives around.

You’ve probably heard it sung in many different languages as well.

But have you heard the hymn sung by 14 different nationalities all at the same time? In one room?

I have.

There were 14 countries represented in the recent conference which I attended. Although most of us spoke English, we were encouraged to lead prayers in our own language. And so when we sang “Amazing Grace” we did so in our own tongue.

Awe inspiring.

Imagine a 45-voice choir singing a tune so familiar, but in accents so disparate and strange. Yet you feel as though the words are coming from your own mind; your own voice is praying aloud, and your own soul is connecting to the same Source of divine grace.

Based on 1 Chronicles 17:16-17, the lyrics are a prayer of King David in which he marvels at God's choosing him and his house.

Then the same lyrics in the same tune are a prayer over 3,000 years later in a function room occupied by about 45 people somewhere in Chiang Mai, Thailand.

The experience taught me that       many different languages we may have, but when we speak to the One who made races, tribes, nations, and people different from each other, He hears only one language—that which is spoken by our heart.

While I Was Away

I was gone for eight days and on those days (above) I had no time to watch television; neither could I read Thai newspapers. It was like being in limbo, not knowing what was happening in beloved motherland.

“So tell me all about the news I missed,” I asked Ate Vi, my long-time househelp who can put newscasters to shame.

“Oh, those Filipino generals!” she said, smirking. “They were on their way home from Russia with their wives and brought our country great shame! One of them had in his possession, undeclared, over six million pesos (105,000 euros) in cash. They were detained by top Russian police.”

“Not possible,” I said. “How could they have spirited out that huge amount of money? I had just gone through our airport twice and I was frisked thoroughly. I was asked how much dollars I had ($202). I was told to take off my shoes, and even my little notebook had to go through the x-ray machine! I signed a custom’s declaration, attesting I had no more than $10,000."

“Well, you are a law-abiding citizen,” she said.

“And those generals aren’t? They are the defenders of our constitution,” I countered, saddened by her story.

“Money and power corrupt,” she said tersely. “You have neither.”

Ate Vi’s tells it like it is.

“One other thing,” she added. “Our president gleefully announced that the IMF was giving us a ten-billion-dollar aid. IMF denied it.”

“My president wouldn’t lie,” I said, getting sadder and sadder.

“Well, believe what you want. Stay naïve,” she said and left for the kitchen.

I will review old copies of our newspapers, hoping she misread the news. But Ate Vi tells the truth. People with money and power don’t get punished for their excesses and abuses. They get investigated for a week or two then nada.

Well, justice, as we know it, will not come in this lifetime. No wonder a growing number of people in this country are finding it more and more difficult to be optimistic.

That’s saddest of all.

But I believe that all the money and power that corrupt the revered leaders of our land will all turn to nada. Only divine grace gives us hope.

When the Lord returns, justice will be meted out; and by His grace, God’s people will bask in nothing but righteousness—and will never feel sad again.

Last Trip abroad?

This is going to be my last trip out of the country, I told myself as I packed for my eight-day trip to attend the Asia Christian Writers Conference in Chang Mai.

I had just recovered from two successive illnesses, throat infection and UTI, both debilitating, confining me at home for what seemed like years. They were traumatic! The thought of getting sick abroad spooked me.

I spoke aloud (within Tony’s hearing distance) that I needed travel insurance in case I fell ill in faraway Thailand. He laughed, of course, but encouraged maybe by being my beneficiary, he got me one.

With friends Ramon, Chair of MAI Asia (sponsor of the event), and Tito Dok, multi-awarded children’s book writer, I lugged my overweight bag in three airports: our own NAIA, Bangkok’s and finally Chiang Mai’s.

I imagined the place to be as cool as Baguio so I packed five thick coats, plus heavy pants and blouses. I also threw in a copy each of my books to show and give fellow writers. Those were, yes, over 20 kilos! I had heard about traveling light but I have senior moments.

I slept through all the hassle and delayed flights, except when Tito Dok took pictures and asked Ramon and me to pose before every conceivable matter or moving object. I’ve met photography buffs in my life but Tito Dok beats them all by a thousand mile. I didn’t have to bang my head for forgetting to charge my own camera.

Arriving at Suan Bua Resort, I was totally charmed—by every noun known in English: place, people, thing, categorized into common, proper, abstract, collective, etc. I should come back here with my boys . . .

I itched to post one blog after another but internet connection was non-existent. Journal writing, I thought, is different from blogging. Keyboard clicking and wrist flicking somehow capture peak, fleeting moments better.

Looking at it another way, though, the unconnection was unexpected grace. It allowed my fellow writers and me to soak in moments. We had time to look in each other's eyes and see the stories behind them.

Stories, powerful stories, would turn into verses or prose in novels, magazine articles, devotionals, children’s story books—and many more types of writing—telling of God’s righteousness; of His grace that saved Christian writers’ (and mankind’s) soul.

(P.S. Now that I am home, my insurance policy turned out to be an unnecessary expense, and not having enough faith.)

Unconnected in Chiang Mai

“I'm breaking out in cold sweat. My hands are trembling. My heart is racing. I am puffing and panting even while doing nothing. And I feel like I am going to pass out.”

These are what characterize withdrawal syndrome, according to someone I know who has battled an addiction successfully.

If I were not in fresh, airy Chang Mai, Thailand the past five days, I should be feeling these symptoms as well. There has been no internet connection and I feel like I had been cut off from my lifeline, the net, particularly Leaves of Grace.

And there's this article due for submission. I couldn't shoot it out.

But just now, while waiting for the van that will take us to the airport for Bangkok, I turn on my lap top, and bang. Connection! Ooops, the characters are in Thai.

Let’s see if I can post this one with my first photo at the Chiang Mai airport . . .     

Ha-Ha-Hah! Ha-Ha-Hah!

You’re a caricaturist,” my new friend, Sam, said after reading my just re-launched book, Gifts of Grace Book 1.

“I am?” I blanched, unsure whether it was a compliment or a criticism. It was a word not once used to describe me.

“Ha-ha-ha-hah!” he laughed as though someone was tickling him.

“Ha-ha-ha-hah!” I echoed, snared by his contagious laughter. I am an easy prey—when someone laughs, I laugh; when someone cries I cry.

“Your son, JC, ha-ha-ha! The way you described him as a logo, ha-ha-ha! What a riot!”

“Oh, that,” I said, remembering my thoughts when I wrote it. “Ha-ha-hah!”

“And your husband, Tony, ha-ha-hah! You know, when I met you at our faculty meeting last month, I thought you were prim and proper. I didn’t know you are so funny, ha-ha-hah!”

(Sam is a new member of the faculty of the university where I teach part-time.)

“Ha-ha-hah!” he roared as he recalled one scene after another. Not much later we both had tears in our eyes. He was wiping his with a white handkerchief. I was wiping mine with my sleeves.

“You are amazing, Grace! You have a way with words. Ha-ha-hah! How do you do it?”

“Ha-ha-hah!” Now we were both in a laughing fit that couldn’t be stopped, not even by the Security Guard who shushed us by the door of the faculty room where we were waiting for our class hours. The exhilaration I felt as I wrote Gifts of Grace Book 1, eight years ago, swirled over me like tsunami.

“You take one facet of a person, and make it larger than life! Ha-ha-hah!” Sam sputtered between gales of laughter.

Caricaturist. It suddenly seemed like a rave review, and a word of privilege and honor.

And laughter is grace that comes even when the newspaper headlines read: World markets plunge.

“You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; you have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness, that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent."  (Psalm 30: 11-12 ESV)

The Colors I Eat

Colors perk me up. They liven up even the bluest of days. But like anything on terra firma, colors are relative.

Brown, for instance, looks good on vases, floors, shoes, and tree trunks.

Green, on the other hand, looks good on leaves, grass, clothes, and accessories.

But on food?!

I recently had dinuguan (blood stew) in the ickiest of browns. But, but. It was the best dinuguan I ever had in my life.

The pork was crunchy (very crunchy!) even if it was swimming in, yeah, icky brown sauce. Yes, it’s unlike any dinuguan I ever tasted. The place which serves it is called Kanin Club (kanin is boiled rice).

Fortunately, one branch happens to be in our neighborhood. To dine there, you have to make an early reservation because the place is always packed with gourmands. Many don’t mind waiting (I don’t) in the lawn outside for their turn to be seated.

Two friends invited me to Flavors of China in a mall on my birthday. They said the spinach soup in that place is super scrumptious. They did not lie. The soup came in yucky green but it was truly divine.

These two dishes remind me of the turkey we had at home one Christmas. Tony was the chef (this was before JR took over) and as such, he liked to improvise. He threw away recipe books and relied on his “ear” for cooking.

What do you know? We had a purple turkey! Instead of white wine, he generously poured red wine over the bird. I refrained from taking any photo.

It wasn’t bad, the turkey that is. But the color was.

“Christmas is supposed to be a colorful occasion,” Tony deadpanned.

Someday I may find an indigo lumpia (egg foo young), fuchsia fried chicken, or a aquamarine milk shake. And they’ll be oooh-la-lah!

Severe September

“Now I have no excuse to be grumpy, bossy and self-centered,” JR says on the evening of September’s last Sunday.

His lids are droopy, his skin sallow, and his body stooped, but he is never more relaxed and nice and kind—a look alien to us in the past four months while he reviewed for the bar exams.

The bar took all of his September Sundays—and ours, too. He pored over his law books, while we (kith and kin) prayed for him night and day. We never (or so we tried) as much as tell him any news that might distract his focus.

And now it is all over. We welcome him back. And the long wait for the results begins.

Every Sunday afternoon, the mood on Taft Ave. (La Salle is the venue of The Bar), cordoned off from vehicles, is festive and delightfully chaotic. Professors, students, relatives of the bar takers are there in droves, chanting and cheering the harassed, spent examinees as they emerge from the exam rooms. Whoever started this age-old tradition called Bar Op (operations) must be awarded a medal for creativity.

The night before that, the bar candidates are served hand and foot by their schoolmates and concerned friends in the hotels where they are billeted. In Ateneo’s case, it’s Sofitel Philippine Plaza. Then on the morning of the bar, the examinees are pampered with breakfast, last-minute legal opinions summarized on paper, and sent off in a special bus with prayers, blessings, and words of encouragement.

Back on Taft Ave. on that last Sunday afternoon: bands played, balloons danced, hands clapped, cameras flashed, banners waved, and people leaped and laughed. Waiting for JR on the sidelines, squashed between energized people of all kinds, I find God’s grace—sustaining all of those around us and those bar tortured souls before us.

“There’s JR,” JC nudges me. I look around to remind Tony to take his picture but he is lost in the crowd.

JR walks slowly with the rest of his compatriots, relief written all over his face. He animatedly talks to a similarly relieved, and refreshingly cute, girl to his left. He doesn’t look around. Like the rest of the examinees walking with him to the exit, he is in no hurry to go anywhere. He simply strolls. Again I find ample grace to savor the moment.

Severe September it might have been, but God’s merciful grace ended it all with anticipation of many good nights’ sleep, serene days, more smiles, and being our simple selves once again.

Name for a Dog

A dog’s name is infinitely harder to find than grace. Grace, which I continue to write about week after week on these e-leaves, is in every breath we take and every blink we make.

But a dog’s name? It should be there somewhere.

I am not talking about this dog.

This friendly biggie just happened to walk to where I was. I posed long enough for a friend to take my photo because this is easily the biggest dog that came within petting distance. The real big ones are untouchable on  National Geographic, the pages of Encyclopedia, and the internet.

For one of my writing projects for children, I am creating a dog character. And this huge dog seems like a good benchmark for a pet that kids (or kids at heart) would love to play with, and talk with, and discuss things with.

The dog in my imagination is white as clouds, with a spot of black shaped like a heart. It's a bit bigger and furrier than this one and just as cuddly.

Now, if only I could find a name for it!

Two Books, Two Sleepless Nights

“Buy it,” Anna Banana said when she spotted A Thousand Splendid Suns on the shelf. “I couldn’t put it down,” she added.

A cursory reading of the rave reviews on the back cover (second book by Khaled Hosseini) didn't bite. I wasn’t keenly interested. I avoided books with depressing subjects. What has happened and been happening at Afghanistan is, at best, disturbing.

But I trusted Anna’s taste. By taste I mean, she likes many of the books I like and she shares the values I hold dear. Anna is a fellow believer of unlimited grace coming from everywhere, books among them. But, “couldn’t put it down”?! I have a great appetite for sleep; I catnap all the time.

In short, I bought it. 

After supper that night, I decided to read just the foreword and one chapter—like a sampler—as I am wont to do when I buy books. The rest of the pages I usually savor slowly over the next few days.

That was my undoing. After the first chapter, I rushed to the next, and the next, and the next. Suddenly, my clock said 3 AM, and I had an 8 AM class the next day! It took gargantuan will power to put it down in favor of what was left of the night.

Every bit of the rave reviews is true. The book is riveting, with excellent story-telling that weaves together characters and events in a seamless, surprising manner. Nothing is predictable. And the emotions it elicits are raw and unsettling.

I rushed to the nearest book store the day after I finished A Thousand Splendid Suns and bought myself Hosseini’s first book, Kite Runner. Only on page 104 and already, I had cried 104 buckets of tears.
Two books—worth the dark circles around one’s eyes. And I have to thank my friend Anna for my misery; I mean, ecstacy.  

The Egret in My Garden

When you’re sick and you have no energy—or desire—to move, you stare into space.

I was sick all right but I didn’t stare into space. This egret kept my fevered eyes transfixed for, oh, maybe a few hours for three straight days . . .   
                               
Instead of staying in the bedroom cooled by a humming air conditioner, I decided to stay in the veranda cooled by whistling, and sometimes cooing, fresh wind—and marvel at this man-made egret.

Sometimes it spun around quickly, sometimes it swiveled from side to side, and sometimes it just turned slowly with the tempo of the wind. This graceful bird was hand-carried by my sister Aie all the way from Germany. She said it is no ordinary bird. It was painstakingly made by people with Down Syndrome.

As I stared at this simple representation of creation, I Imagined how it must have been so slowly drawn, cut, planed, smoothened, and painted by bare, unprofessional hands. And how it magically landed in my garden.

It’s like getting sick and getting well, I thought. It takes time to get to the promise of the ending we hope for. Each critical, small step has to be fueled by grace.

Book Fair Fever

Fever indeed! Literally.

Two days after the wonderful book fair, just when the second semester begins, I am down with a fever. Not too high, not even 38 degrees centigrade, but fever nevertheless. And those .7’s and .8’s can really bog you down. Enough to keep you so lethargic you don’t want to do anything but lie down and sleep.

So here I am, still in bed for three straight days. The cough has loosened, and the headache has dulled, but the fever is a tad too stubborn.

And so I stay in bed, as my doctor advised, take my fluids and fruits and now, anti-biotics—and rest. How much rest can one have?! I just have to post this one blog and then back to sleep.

I will be better tomorrow. My prayer warriors have been begging heaven to heal me. And grace never fails.

Youngest Fan

Fan?! Now that’s a word I am not very comfortable in using. It is a bit too presumptuous for someone who went into writing with no illusions of coming into fame or fortune.

Instead, I refer to those who like my books as readers. Even if some of them say when I meet them, “I am a fan.” To which, I cringe.

But at the fair, I don’t think I can refer to a six-month-old baby as a reader, can I? So let me refer to him as a “fan.” His name is Sebastian and he came with his parents, grandparents, uncle and auntie. In short, he came with the whole family! And this whole entourage bought for Sebastian my latest children’s book. Easily he was the youngest, er, fan who came to the OMFLit booth.

Until the fourth day. A young father came to the OMFLit booth looking for me, and wouldn’t leave till he met me. (I was on what we call in this country, a CR break, or a short trip to the bathroom.) He had earlier heard me on radio extolling the benefits of reading. So he bought all my children’s books and wanted my signature on each one of them.

“It’s for my baby girl,” he said.

“What’s her name?” I asked, my hand poised with my signing pen on the air.

“We don’t know yet. She will be born in November, two months from today,” he said grinning.

“O,” I said. It’s the best word that comes to mind when I am overwhelmed.

“I want your books to be my wife’s and my gifts to her when she is born.”

“O.” My eyes pooled.

Now, can a “fan” come any younger? There is only one word that can take the place of “O.”

Grace. Overwhelming grace.

Busy Book Body

I'm headed to the Book Fair for the 4th straight day. Can't have any post till after tomorrow when the Book Fair closes.

More Shameless Plugging

Big Brother, a story of two brothers (one with Down Syndrome) will also be available for the first time at the International Book Fair. Palanca award winner. For children ages 8 to 80.

Come to the OMFLit booth for big discounts even on new titles.

See you there! September 12-16, 2008. SMX, Mall of Asia.

Book signing and book reading:

* September 14, from 2:30 PM
* September 15, from 10:00 AM 

Shameless Plugging

Here I go again inviting everyone to come to the International Book Fair (Sept. 12-16, 2008) where my new books will be released for the first time.

Two days to go! I am resisting the call to be modest at this time, mea culpa. I am posting a portion of the header of my publisher’s website.

Gifts of Grace 3 Is Born!

Joins 1 and 2

My third book in the Gifts of Grace series will be off the press in time for the International Book Fair on September 12 to 17. It went through the eye of a needle.

Let me change that to a metaphor that is closer to home: It’s like giving birth to a child, thrice.

First, writing. You go through months of uncontrollable writing—akin to an insatiable food binge. Everything seems scrumptious and you can’t pause lest you miss out on the whole spread. In the case of Gifts of Grace 3, there are chapters that have been written and re-written for years. Finally, after the last chapter is done (deadline, not appetite, completes it), you send it to your publisher.

Second, publishing. In the publisher’s office, the manuscript goes through review, review and more review, then finally, editing. The details you are not privy to, but you know. The references have to be triple-checked, and the subheads, blurbs, and paging have to be just so. And the cover! The templates, the photos—they need to be re-worked and re-analyzed and researched by committees. Before it goes to press, there are four to five layers of proofreaders, including you.

Third, launching. Here, a marketing guru, or a magician, has to have his head on broad shoulders, not necessarily his. He has to have a magic wand. Books are unlike your shampoos and soaps which are part of the repertoire of daily living. Books are, well, books. Out of 85 million Filipinos less than 2% read them on a regular basis.

And so here it is! Together with its soft launching at the fair (there will be a scheduled formal launching, to be announced later) is the re-launching of Gifts of Grace Books 1 and 2:

Published in 2002 and 2003 respectively, they will sport a new look and a new section called “Reflections.”

"How does it feel to have a book published?"

Ask any mom about how it is to give birth to one’s precious child. Now, triple that wondrous, glorious feeling! Why, it calls for a triple thanksgiving. Please come to the Book Fair and celebrate with me.

ooo

For more details please check out the announcement at omflit.com. Let me post the ongoing promotion of OMFLit’s new titles:

Just post this image in your blog, Multiply, or Facebook with a link to www.OMFLit.com and send the webpage link to Promo@OMFLit.com.
 We'll randomly select 5 winners who will each get to pick one newly released book of their choice.

How Not to Get a Passport

From green (old) to maroon (machine-readable, new):  

It wasn’t going to be an easy day. I’d be dealing with the government—the Department of Foreign Affairs (DFA). I had to renew my passport, the one that got hacked in Philippine Immigration during my last travel abroad. It therefore needed changing. A new system required one to appear personally; I prayed for a good amount of grace to sustain me.

(For the record: I am a good citizen. I pay my taxes, vote, and rise when the National Anthem is sung, cross the street only on pedestrian lanes, and don’t badmouth my government among foreigners or in foreign countries.)

I donned my crispiest blazer. By experience, if I dressed up like a CEO, the usually grumpy guards doffed their hats, stressed salesgirls smiled, and taciturn tellers said, “Ma’am.” True enough, the guards didn’t inspect my bag and I was ushered to the right gate.

The DFA building is old and decaying, and always packed with a sea of humanity. With or without blazer, one isn’t spared of the heat and crowd and the musty smell—a lethal combination of dust, sweat, damp rag, and toilet bowls that don’t flush.

One is also not exempt from the three long rows of creaking, chipping chairs reserved for passport applicants.

My travel agent was solicitous, totally deserving of his fee. He reserved a seat in the middle row. Then like an explosion, an old man, directly behind me, started berating the young man in front of me. “I don’t owe you anything! I don’t have to do this! I am only doing it because of your grandmother! You are taking too much of my time. And you don’t deserve it! Bang, bang, bang!” He seemed ready to run amok.

The young man blanched and said humbly, “Yes, I’m sorry sir.” But the older man spewed more lava like a raging volcano that had been dormant for a hundred years. I rose and moved as far away as possible. My agent ran after me and begged, “Ma’am, please stay in line. It’s almost your turn.”

When my name was called, despite my blazer, the document officer behind the jail-like bars said very respectfully, “Sorry, Ma’am, your passport photo is unacceptable. Your bangs are covering your forehead.”

Of course! They’re called bangs, aren’t they? I’ve been wearing bangs since the creation and now you want to get rid of it! I screamed, silently of course.

My agent quickly said, “I’ll go with you to the Rush-ID booth, Ma’am. It won’t take long.”

Inside the Rush-ID booth, there were more people than there was room. Soiled, once-dark blazers hung from nails for those who didn’t look like a CEO. I refused to do anything with my bangs—the photographer patiently brushed them up. And as coup de grace, he said, “Please take off your earrings, Ma’am.”

First my bangs and now, my earrings!—the two things I can’t leave home without. And the horrid photo cost twice that of my original photo with bangs.

Getting out of the booth was harder than getting in. I was shoved and pushed by now fellow CEO-looking frantic passport applicants chasing deadlines. My sneezing fit had gone from worst to impossible.

A-choo!

At the finish line one hour later, I peered again at the face in my new passport photo and I knew I had lost me. Someone said, “Ma’am, your new passport will be ready in ten working days.” That important little book, which will take me outside the country, doesn’t have me!

A-choo!

“I’ll see myself out,” I told my agent who couldn’t keep up with my brisk pace, the result of daily morning walks.

A-choo!

I had to break free from that torture chamber masquerading as DFA.

By grace, I lived to blog and laugh about it.

Duck, Cover, and Hold!

I am no stranger to earthquakes. This country has had so many of them—small, medium, large—during my lifetime. By grace, the devastation doesn’t overstay.

But I am a stranger to earthquake drills!

So when I get this one-page “Job Responsibility” for the faculty one day this month, I read it over a dozen times.

I am to instruct my one dozen students to “duck, cover, and hold” once the bullhorn sounds (the start of the make-believe tremor). Then I herd them down from the 5^th floor (top floor in our school) to safety—in the parking lot in two minutes, or less.

We are the last priority. We have to wait for all the students in the lower floors to go down before we do.

How did it go?

Well, the power shuts off on cue. But instead of cries of dread, I hear cries of delight. Not one cowers in fear; everyone swaggers with cheer. All, including me, defies the order to “take off your shoes!” High heels click in lazy cadence as though they are headed to a ball not to safety. Indeed, the world of make-believe is blind to fear and dread.

We make it to the open space in six minutes, triple the original intended time. If we had a real earthquake, we would have been buried in the rubble.

So everyone gets to the parking lot under the bright morning sun. The fair-skinned ones immediately get a tan, while brown-skinned moi rushes under the nearest tree.

It takes a while—a lot more laughing, chattering, and ribbing—before the building is “declared safe” and we file in, exactly the way we strolled out, my students and I tailing the boisterous pack.

Duck, cover and hold? It was more like shake, rattle, and roll!

Last Salute

From the General's daughters, his faithful driver while still in the service, and fellow generals, one last salute.

 ". . . even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ— by grace you have been saved—" Ephesians 2:5 (ESV)

March on, General

Our well-loved cousin whom we simply called “The General” (aged 80) accepted his marching orders from our heavenly General (“The real General,” he used to say), a few days ago.

A man of God, he was interred today with full military honors at the Libingan ng mga Bayani (Heroes’ Cemetery).

Survived by his four daughters and their families, he was a hero in combat as well as in peace. And he had medals of valor to prove it.

More than these decorations and distinctions, The General was a gift of grace to many people as I witnessed with my own two eyes in his three-day wake. Together with relatives and friends, burly soldiers wept openly and saluted crisply.

As JC (who looked up to him greatly)—and I guess all his comrades—would say, “Mission accomplished, sir.”

Alone Again and No More

I wrote about this lovebird sometime ago, about how it came rapping at our chamber door and refusing to leave. Tony went out of his way to buy this lonesome yellow chirper a partner and a complete supply of birdseed.

The pair became a source of shrieks of delight from our household. But after a few weeks, we found its partner dead, just like that. We didn’t know what happened and we went around with sad faces for two days.

So this yellow lovebird was once again alone.

Months passed by and one day, we found it also unmoving in its cage. It was gone as well.

A bird expert said our yellow pet was bound to die, it was too old.

Now we know why it never wanted to fly away when we saw it rapping at our chamber door. It had no energy to flap its wings anymore. And all along we thought the bird loved us so much it stayed.

I am back to watching the many brown birds that land and chirp on the plants and grass in our garden every day. They make me praise our Creator for making so many of them (of varied kinds) up in the sky.

They make me look up and thank Him for granting us grace even before we could ask.

The Theatre I Missed

Once upon a time, many lifetimes ago, I was into theatre. I feasted on Konstantin Stanislavski, Bertolt Brecht and Eugene Ionesco.

To graduate from the Goodman Theatre (Art Institute of Chicago), I had to direct several plays, one of which was Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot,” a play about waiting . . . and waiting, and hope.

Those who know me today would raise their eyebrows and say, “Really?” For there is no trace of the theater in me. Let me revise that statement: there is seemingly no trace of the theatre left in me.

The Lord had led me to a different path, a path where a young, wide-eyed girl will not starve or end up bewildered. He showed me the way to advertising where I trained to do what I do today, late in life though it may be—write.

But once in a rare while, the familiar burst of sunshine in my middle when we were rehearsing backstage, or stage managing a play by the theater wings, or hearing the audience’s audible sigh or laughter, springs back.

Mama Mia! did just that.

And then once more over the weekend when I watched two DVDs in a row: Passion (2004 Tony Award for Best Musical) with its original Broadway cast; and Being Julia, a movie about theater people which won for actor Annette Being tons of nominations and awards.

Two lines struck me from Passion and Being Julia.

"I didn’t choose to love you—love knows no reason."

And, "The stage is all there is; the outside world which people call reality does not exist.”

These are what theatre people feel. These are what make them stay there for life.

Why did I stay away? We’ve heard it all before: life is about choices and I have chosen other things. Maybe I was not as in love with the theater as I thought I was. But I shall always hold in deepest esteem theatre people in whose circle I no longer belong.

It was grace that allowed me to briefly embrace this consuming world of theater, so that I can relive the experience sometimes, and use it to power up what I love doing today.

Painting on a White Board

Our Medical Transcription School has this huge white board which looks impressive if it faces you. But the minute you turn it around, the back part shows uneven wood that is so ugly it should always face the wall.

Unfortunately, this white board has to be moved around now and then and there is no way one can hide the back side.

So last Saturday, I decided to paint over the unsightly back expanse. I opted for one of God’s most beautiful creations, calla lily. But good intentions don’t always make good endings. This is the result of a four-hour painting session.

It isn’t finished, and it’s nowhere near a calla lily, but the white board looks infinitely better than how it was before I started slapping my paints over it.

Why am I so bold as to be posting an unfinished painting? Well, I guess I want to be affirmed that I still have the spirit (and the gall) to effect change; and more importantly, to be reminded that I have unfinished business, which I can finish only with the boost of grace.

I sometimes (okay, often) fall into the manana (tomorrow) habit. By having this not-yet-a-calla-lily here for all guests to see, I should be pressured into making it look like the way it was created—soon. And hopefully break my predisposition to procrastination.

"Teo's Cockatoo" Reviewed

My 10th book in the “Oh, Mateo!” series was recently reviewed by an 11-year-old reader, Alexia Bejasa, in the Junior Inquirer Magazine.

It was a peaceful Sunday morning—I was quietly reading the dailies—when I came upon her review. Without warning my heart went boing, boing, boing, and the silence was broken.

My pulse always goes berserk when I get feedback from readers. Aside from the euphoria I feel over unexpected grace, I am always amazed at the insight of children.

Alexia’s review:

"The remarkable storybook adventure is a fictional tale about a cockatoo with a lovely yellow crest that was caged and maltreated for a very long time. Its owners, Puto and Pako, were very mean and would always make fun of the cockatoo.

"Luckily, a day came when Puto accidentally left the cockatoo’s cage open. The bird flew to Teo, a kind little boy. Teo taught the bird how to say good things and how to be polite. Towards the end of the story, the smart cockatoo proved to be a big help for the whole barangay!

"Teo’s Cockatoo teaches a lot about caring for pets and treating them well. This story affirms that our pets reflect who we are.

"I enjoyed reading the book because of the descriptive style of the author. She characterized the two owners very well and gave a clear picture of how the poor cockatoo stayed still in his cage.

"Artist Beth Parrocha-Doctolero’s illustrations were creatively done, as she used all sorts of shapes and colors to enhance the scenes. My favorite drawings were of Teo and the cockatoo spending time together.

"Although the book may have some nasty words, I would still recommend it for children my age. Another good thing about the book is that it contained a Filipino translation of the story which would help readers appreciate and understand it."

There’s that noise in my heart again—boing, boing, boing!

Thank you, Alexia. 

(Published by Hiyas and illustrated by Beth Parrocha-Doctolero)