Till Next Year, Adrian . . .

Our little guest is now en route back to Michigan with his parents. Two weeks ended all too soon. During his very brief stay with us, the sun was brighter, the air was fresher, and the days were shorter.

May the God of grace wrap them in His arms as they travel back to the land which they call their temporary dwelling place.

Angkong, Adrian and Amah

Amah (Chinese honorific for mother of my father) may not be in any of the pictures, but I sure was an eyewitness to all the big events between Angkong (Amah's counterpart: father of my father) and Adrian. As you can see, I have been preoccupied snapping grace after grace after grace.

Surfing Grace

Idle web surfing brings surprising grace. I found this on the net, in a blog called The Book Buzz. It’s an interesting, incisive site that focuses on reviewing books. One of the books reviewed was Half and Half, the first in the Oh, Mateo! series.

The blogger does not identify himself. But I want him to know how deeply I appreciate every word written here. Borrowing his words, I am “armed with nerves of steel” to not “crumple at the occasional emotional havoc wrought by this heartwarming book" review:

"The truth is, I'm weak-kneed when it comes to children's books. I can handle epic novels and violent plot twists and literary whodunit cliffhangers... but I crumple at the occasional emotional havoc wrought by that rare, outstanding book written for little readers.

"And I think this first of Mateo's stories in a series by Grace D. Chong is simply one of those for me.

"It tells of an endearing boy, Mateo, who everyone can easily think of as a kid brother or best friend or the-son-you-never-had. His teacher asks their class to draw their favorite fruits, all for a big inter-school contest. So they all draw their hearts out, including our little Mateo.

"But his drawings, although exceptional, are only halves of fruits. A smart aleck!, the teacher thinks. The teacher is incensed (as we all probably would be, as grown ups--we easily forget that we once saw the world as children, too) and calls Mateo's attention. Is this his idea of a joke? Did he not understand the instruction? Which is, plainly, to draw your favorite fruit... not half of your favorite fruit!

"And what did Mateo have to say to all that? He explained that no, he wasn't fooling around; and yes, those indeed were his favorite fruits... and he drew them exactly as he has always had them at home. You see, his father brings him home fruit whenever he has any extra left from what little he earns. And Mateo shares it half-and-half with him. That's the kind of fruit he likes: shared with a loved one.

"I realize now I'm giving you the whole story, but I feel this urge to justify the kiddy tears that brimmed my grownup eyelids as I read Mateo's simple explanation to what is probably one of the more complex values our society has yet to fully grasp and practice. Love that cannot contain itself, and overflows into unselfish giving.

"I look forward to reading the rest of the series, armed with nerves of steel this time, so Mateo will not have me wound up around his little pinkie...!

"Oh, what the heck. He's so cute anyway, I'd gladly let him take me on a ride into his world any time, tears or no tears—and let me see everything through the eyes of a child again :)"

Adrian Turns Two

This little birthday boy is in town for a short visit. Naturally, I am closing shop, for at least two weeks.

Last year was a time of firsts for us and for him.

Together with his papa and mama, he came home from icy-white Michigan to red-hot Philippines so we can take turns pampering him, and be all witnesses to his dedication to the Lord. The ceremony was officiated by the same minister who officiated his parents' wedding four years earlier.

We also celebrated with him his first birthday. “We” means his mother's family (lolo, lola, and two titos) and his dad's family (Angkong Tony, Amah Grace [moi], JC and JR). That's a total of 10 people plus this special little guy who is our bundle of grace, and who turns us into mush—the first grandchild of both his maternal and paternal families. In less than three weeks, he flew back to Michigan.

One year later, today, we celebrate his second birthday. It's not a time for seconds, though. Everything seems new again.

During his party (two days ago), he played basketball (his mama's sport), and played the guitar (his papa's musical instrument).


He gobbled up noodles, proof of his Chinese heritage; and entertained everyone, proof of his Pinoy psyche. He speaks fluent Filipino and some English.

And, yes, he can ask me for anything he wants. Ooops.

So Where's the Book? (Part 2)

When my friend Eli announced she and her husband were leaving for the US for a medical check-up, I grabbed the chance to plead, “Please, please get me The Christmas Box.”

“No promises, Grace,” she apologized. Theirs was going to be a very brief trip.

I was hopeful. Eli is a fellow book lover and I just knew she would yield to the call of at least one bookstore.

Exactly two weeks from the day Eli left, she calls.

“I’m back! And I want to thank you for asking me to buy you The Christmas Box.”

 “You got it?”

“Yup, plus more!I also got you Timepiece.”

(Timepiece is the prequel/sequel of The Christmas Box.)

I was right. Eli could never resist the lure of a bookstore. She squeezed in an hour of her crammed schedule to visit one. And when she got out of there, she was lugging over a dozen other books, which she hand carried, and which, I am afraid, caused her a major arm injury.

“How much do I owe you?” I ask, when I finally get hold of my two new books.

“Forget it,” she says. “Those are my books. After reading them, I felt thoroughly inspired and blessed. And I am more than happy to bequeath them to you.”

I have written three books on grace (received through people). About my friend, Eli, I think I will write one more.

So Where's the Book? (Part 1)

After I announced that my sister Aie was converting our parents' old house in the province into a public library, friends and relatives from everywhere have been sending me boxes and boxes of books. My friend, Lucy, from Palm Springs, California, mailed a big balikbayan box of her own collection.

Trouble is, I have first access to all these books and unable to help myself, I take a few (okay, heaps) to read before sending them to Aie. It feels like bookstores are suddenly sprouting in my house and I “own” them all!

I never doubted the endlessness of grace, but this is like unprecedented manna storm from heaven!

One of the books I took from Lucy's box was The Miracle of the Christmas Box by Richard Paul Evans.

The title intrigued me. Unfortunately, it was not about The Christmas Box at all! It was the backstory of The Christmas Box.

It tells of how The Christmas Box book was written by the author as an expression of love for his daughters. He made 20 photocopies of it as gifts to other members of his family and close friends. It wasn't meant to be published. But before he knew what hit him, his relatives who read the story, and relatives of relatives, and relatives of friends, and friends of friends were photocopying the story and sending them to many others. Their common comment: they were inspired by the story.

Quickly, he decided to self-publish through a small-town printing shop. The sales moved faster than lightning, and soon, the book made history by becoming simultaneously the #1 hardcover and paperback book in the US! There was a great deluge, not unlike the time of Noah, of orders, letters and calls. The national press and the town's public officials got into the fray, and the latter erected a monument that relates to the story.

Since then, more than ten million copies of The Christmas Box have been printed. It's the wildest-dream-of-every-beginning-writer-come-true.

But where is the book? I rummaged through Lucy's box but The Christmas Box wasn't there. Frantic, I called Lucy but she thought I was talking Greek!

I combed all the bookstores in my neighborhood and in the neighborhood of others—nada, nada, nada. I emailed friends and foe to lend me their copy, but nobody seems to have heard of the book. I have a trauma from online purchasing.

In this country, we call this bitin! Rough translation: cliffhanger.

So where's the book? (to be continued)

A Canister of Dreams

This canister contains 27 lofty dreams. I have it in my possession because I want to pray for each of them as often as I can. The canister is in a place where it can always be a part of my repertoire of daily tasks.

Goal Setting Theory was the last tool in Time Management (TM) which I discussed in the workshop I facilitated in Laguna. It was the third and last day, last hour, and my “class” was ready to wrap up. I told them to write down their time-bound goal—on which they would base the other TM tools we have learned.

They were not meant to be discussed; the exercise was done simply to focus on their measurable goal so that they could cut their time into workable segments to achieve it.

But the writing took longer than I expected. Before we broke up, I asked them to leave their papers in a canister I earlier used as an illustration prop.

At home, before throwing the whole canister away, I decided to read one paper. It so moved me I went about reading all of them. On those pieces of papers are dreams, lofty dreams, zealously written. And it dawned on me that I have gotten so smug over the years I have forgotten how it is to dream.

These 18-year-old kids, Compassion International scholars, are struggling in poverty, but they believe in the fullness of grace, and therefore, are infinitely richer than many moneyed brats I know. Their papers are full of hope, so poignant in their honesty and simplicity.

Praying for the dreams in the canister is the only way I can help my 27 kids beyond a three-day TM workshop. What a privilege to do so!

LDP Batch 13

Middle of Nowhere

Grace found me in the middle of nowhere.


Who would have thought there'd be a hotel right smack on a rice field dotted with horses and cows?

This was where we I stayed for four days and three nights in Laguna, the venue for Compassion International’s Leadership Congress nicknamed, LAMBAT.

My workshop on Time Management was scheduled in the mornings at the Rizal Recreation Center, a five-minute drive away. So in the afternoons, I would be ensconced in my room, which had a fabulous view of more stretches of farms. I’d never have found a more idyllic place for writing. To my surprise, I was able to meet deadlines with so much time to spare for napping and reading my Chronological Bible.

I brought my laptop with no illusion of doing any work. But the place was so peaceful and time was so slow, I was able to do in three days what I couldn’t do in three weeks elsewhere. Right, I managed my time well because the place calmed my earlier fear of being the wrong facilitator for a workshop on Time Management.

It was literally a get-away from the noise of the city and of the soul. Yes, somewhere out there, where grains were countless, countless grace found me.

Time Mismanagement

I’m on my way to Laguna to conduct/facilitate a three-day “Time Management” seminar. What I have is a slew of theories. Lately I have been having time management problems myself and the theories I have banked in my head for years are sometimes unworkable.


JR tried to simplify the root cause of my problem: “Mom, a large part of Time Management is saying no to some of the things you do.”

I have doubts if he is right.

All my activities and deadlines are calendared. But along the way, the unforeseen happens.

An activity is moved earlier and it overlaps with another event. Then deadlines become shorter. An event is postponed, and again, it overlaps with another event. It will take extraterrestrial travel to attend both.

Suddenly, too, a close friend gets very sick. Everything takes a backseat. I feel presence and relationships are far more important than non-life threatening activities.

How does one manage time? Theories can only go so far. But grace allows you to get it done right, in the proper order of priority.

Here’s the core of the seminar: which comes first, the “urgent” or the “important”?

I am looking forward to learning from my “class”—all 27 of them (third year university students).

Creative Celebrations

The first order of the day was to have a thanksgiving lunch in church on the first Sunday after the results of the bar exams were published. JR won’t have it any other way. This church is our spiritual family, where everyone is a prayer warrior for everyone, where JR grew up worshiping God, and where we are one in a circle of grace.

The food was nothing fancy, just our usual potluck fare plus, of course, the traditional lechon (roasted pig) which adorns Filipino tables on important occasions.

Then the day after, the family took a trip to the North—San Fernando, Pampanga.

It was a two-hour drive to Everybody’s Café, the benchmark of the famous Capampangan Cuisine, for lunch. There was hardly any space for parking. We were beaten to the draw by fellow foodies, most of them Manila residents.


We vowed to order only the exotic food this restaurant is famous for. Buko (young coconut juice) for me and Sugar cane juice for the boys; Camaru (mole crickets); Betute (frogs); Ulang (giant shrimps); Kambing caldereta (goat stew); and murcon (beef roll). For dessert, sweetened saba (native banana).


I had the biggest burp in years! Bar none.

This is not a food blog, so here’s what happened after lunch. Tony and JR—two peas in a pod—wanted to indulge their passion in old, old structures. We trekked to the old, old church (1600’s) in Bacolor, which was half buried in the 1991 earthquake.

Before the earthquake (from the book, Angels in Stone) and after the earthquake (by my Kodak camera):


From there, we went around all the towns of Pampanga along the way and admired more old architectural treasures—most of which, unfortunately, have been restored haphazardly. Sigh. No matter, it was like a trip down a world way before ours.

Again, this is not a building/architecture blog.

So I will end with what this blog started out to do: document the two-day celebrations creatively touched by grace.

The Bar Exams Results Are Out!

My old header comes down because I am celebrating.


We have a second Attorney in the house!

The first one is our dog.

And the second one is: JR.

JC downloaded the September 2008 bar examinations results just now. I had a choice whether to scream or cry. I did neither. I closed my eyes in thanksgiving for this moment of grace. Then I texted and texted and texted and e-mailed and e-mailed and e-mailed and called and called and called family and friends.

And changed my header to this: 

I'll think of more creative ways to celebrate tomorrow. It's way past my bedtime. Good night.

Book Talk with SAS

“Sa Aklat Sisikat Foundation”(SAS)—roughly translated, books make you shine—is a non-profit professional Philippine organization that promotes the love and habit of reading in Filipino children.

To do this, SAS runs a 31-day Reading Program for all 4th grade students in partner public schools. “We donate 60 of the best Filipino children's storybooks to every Grade 4 classroom included in the program.” What a blessing that among the 60 books, some are mine.

After 31 days, these students are then required to show their parents, through a play or any kind of creative presentation, what they have learned from these books.

I have always been charmed by SAS' advocacy because “love of reading” is what I advocate, too.

The photos show the public school teachers representing NCR, Regions 1, 2, & 3 who participate in the SAS program.

They were grouped for a seminar one Saturday by SAS and in this event, I was invited to give an inspirational talk on how I write for children. I took the chance to speak on how grace enables me to do what I do.  

   

The teachers were gung-ho about books, about inculcating the love of reading to their students. They were collectively grateful for what SAS is doing for them in this area.

I was just as grateful for being invited to participate in this worthy endeavor.

Interviews on 702 DZAS

DZAS is at the other end of the world—from where I live. On a good day, it would take me two and a half hours to get there. On a bad day, well, forever.

But the long trek caused by infuriating traffic is worth it. As soon as I arrive, I get lots of smiles and looking after. “Are you comfortable?” “Can I get you anything?” “Coffee?’ “Juice?” “Tea?” “Newspapers?” And then my friend Tito Dok, Bing, representative of the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP), and Misha of OMFLit arrive with goodies.

DZAS always teems with grace.

“Wan Dey, Isang Araw” is the reason I go there. It is a children’s program—aired every Saturday from 9 to 9:30 in the morning—jointly mounted by CCP and the Philippine Board on Books for Young People (PBBY). First there is a storytelling by a member of Alitaptap (Association of Philippine Storytellers) of the featured book. Then Tito Dok, host of the show, interviews the author.

That particular day, I was interviewed on three books to be featured for three Saturdays.


While I waited for my schedule, I was invited to hop over to another booth for another program. March is International Women’s Month so I was asked questions about women issues.

What I enjoy most about taped radio interviews is that you have the latitude to speak your mind. Plus you can re-tape moments which turn awry. Plus, plus you need not worry about how you look. Nobody sees you.

Okay, in this case, someone took photos. So my friends in cyburbia . . . here’s how those interviews took place. Just a few mikes and people talking to them.

The excitement is not in the booth, it’s on the air.

Soon to be a Butterfly

How does a caterpillar turn into a butterfly? Science can explain it in great detail, with flawless logic.


How caterpillar Adrian (at one year and 10 months) will turn into a butterfly will defy logic. Everything is, and will be, by grace. And it is also by this same grace that we (although far away) can be a part of this metamorphosis.

Painters in the Family

I keep wishing a day had more than 24 hours so I could paint. At the moment (and most of the time) my plate is full with writing. I am not complaining; nothing delights me more than writing. But painting is wonderful, too. So although I am not a very good painter, I enjoy splashing and dabbing colors on canvas.

My problem is time, the lack of it.

That's why when I received these photos of Adrian, I was thrilled. Not quite two years old, he seems to love painting as I do. And he has the time that I don't have. With Adrian, I can now paint vicariously.


When he comes for a visit in April, I will make sure he and his grandma will have some time to jointly paint a masterpiece.

Genghis Khan's gone?

Tony treated me to Mongolian barbecue at lunch today and, it never fails, with this dish I remember the legendary Genghis Khan.


For me, he was (past tense) the face of Mongolia. Plus, of course, our own Mr. Shooli (the fictitious Mongol, performed and made famous by TV ad director/actor Jun Urbano in the movie Mongolian Barbecue).

My image of Mongolia morphed into something nice and new when I met the three Mongols who wanted to be writers and therefore came to the same writers’ conference I attended in Thailand.

They were nothing like Genghis Khan or Mr. Shooli. They looked like the old friends I keep—warm, earnest, with a sense of humor that brings sunshine to a stormy day.

They ate the same food, sang the same hymns, prayed to the same God, spoke of their families, and shared their grace experiences.

Over breakfast, they regaled us with Mongolia's horrendous cold weather, which could go 56 below zero! They spoke of their government’s effort to encourage their small population of 2.7 million to grow faster: free lands for every citizen and other eye-popping incentives.

Mongolia is a real nice place with real nice people.

Born at an ancient time (1100’s), Genghis Khan has no photos. But the art piece above, currently in the National Palace Museum in Taipei, Taiwan, is the closest depiction of him that is generally accepted by most historians. It is also how people like me imagine him, and all Mongols, to be.

He is unlike my new friends—Timothy, Dugermaa, and Pastor Mojic—in every way, but they have one thing in common: they are all warriors.

Genghis Khan fought for and won lands and people. My three new friends from Mongolia are soul warriors.

After they shall have become honest-to-goodness writers (their written works published), they will win more hearts for our Savior.

Stand Up for Down (Syndrome)

About five years old, she has a shy smile on her guileless, innocent face. But she cuddles up to me when her mom asks that we both pose for a picture.


She stays on my lap for a few more minutes until a man, about 35, comes forward and wants his picture taken, too.

Then a cheerful boy, wearing sunglasses like a rock star's, comes to the Big Brother booth and shows me his fake tattoos, all over his face and arms. When he spots the books, he looks over the cover, beams, takes a copy, and walks away. His grandmother runs after him.

These kids (and adults) with Down Syndrome, over 300 of them, are participants in this year’s Happy Walk—a yearly affair of the Down Syndrome Association of the Philippines to commemorate the Down Syndrome Consciousness Month.

“Stand up for Down,” is how the event (now on its 7th year) has been dubbed. Activities include a 5-km walk around Megamall which culminates in a program that features a talent show, and a storytelling (by Regs of Alitaptap) of my latest storybook, Big Brother, illustrated by Beth Parrocha-Doctolero and published by OMF Literature under its Hiyas imprint.













I feel honored to have been invited to meet the participants and sign copies of the book, based on my personal encounter with someone dear to me with Down Syndrome—my cousin Tinoy.

In the book I wrote, “I have always believed that people with Down Syndrome can understand and feel more than we think they can.”

This belief has been reinforced after Happy Walk. People with Down Syndrome have the grace of innocence which we all lose at some point in our lives. They remain children, who—as our Savior said in Matthew 19:14b—“to such belongs the kingdom of heaven."

(Note: "Big Brother" is a Palanca-award winner in the Short Story for Children category.) 

Drums

David worshiped God with trumpet, harp, timbrel, and cymbals. That was the argument used by the advocates of drums in our church in the early 90's.

The older members were adamant, “Drums are too loud.”

But the youth group was growing and the pressure to purchase drums grew to such an extent that the conservative (okay, aging) minority finally cried, "Uncle."

Now, I sit in the last pew at the back to save the drums of my ears from total ruin.

The call of drums is not exclusive to city slickers. Country folks have embraced the musical instrument with as much zest. As you can see, this kid—half blind—plays the drums he made himself.


When this photo was flashed on screen by our pastor during his sermon on "Worship," I was chastised. It haunted me for days, and made me reflect on how, settled in the back pew, I worship the Lord—He whose grace saved me from eternal death.

How should we praise and worship God? On our knees with our eyes closed, in a solemn manner? Or on our feet with our hands raised, in a celebratory manner? Churches are debating this. David’s way in Psalm 98:4 is, "Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth; break forth into joyous song and sing praises!"

Had I seen this photo when we were quelling the clamor for drums, I'd have purchased the drum set myself.

But then, again, worship is not about drums or ear drums, is it? It's all about being one with God—and the spirit (as shown by this boy) we bring into it.

P.S. I have since moved to the second pew up front.