Hugs for St. Scholastica

"Ladies with blue sashes will meet you at the entrance parlor," texted my friend Louie, a professor at St. Scholastica's College, who had invited me for a book talk before college students in the Department of Languages and Literature.

They were there all right, warmly welcoming and handing me a beautifully made program. Although I was early for my 2 PM schedule, they whisked me up to the Little Theater on the fourth floor where students were beginning to gather.

My eyes were immediately riveted to the stage where two humongous paintings of Oh, Mateo! characters* were hung. These were not tarpaulins printed by a machine, these were honest-to-goodness paintings done by hand! My jaw dropped. I have never been so hugely honored with such huge labor of love.

That set the tone for my afternoon with about 400 students and four professors in a program dubbed, "The Mind behind Oh, Mateo! and Other Stories."

It took only a few minutes to set up my books on a table, my slides and CD in a computer—all timed to be within an hour. I had a total of 50 slides (from an original 150). A stickler for promptness, I had to keep to my one-hour allotted time, allowing another half hour for Q and A.

I revisited with the audience how I wrote many of my books (from ideation to execution), a process that varies with every story. And I got questions that ranged from a writer's inspiration to frustration.

Interacting with readers in Q and A is both uplifting and thought provoking. On the spot, one is pushed into summoning snippets long forgotten, or theories no longer in one's stream of consciousness. But each question gives new leads to how readers think and to how a writer must find new ways to nurse them with words on the printed page.

The book signing was an added grace, with rare moments of brief chats with those who brought their books for signature. I had to part with my own copies—they were purchased on the spot, with Louie doing the job I couldn't do in a million years: add and subtract numbers in pesos and cents.

From there, we moved to a cozy board room where early dinner was served. I had a chance to chat with the professors (one I met in a similar event before, and another who knew me through one of my readers—her son) and the ladies with blue sashes. The topics were, well, the wonderful world of books and literature.

The afternoon ended with the ladies with blue sashes escorting me to the parking lot.

"Thank you, I was abundantly blessed," I texted Louie later.

"We were likewise blessed," she texted back. And added, "The ladies with blue sashes were thrilled that you gave each of them a hug."

When the heart is full, and the mouth can't find the right words, one could only hope that hugs might say it all.

(*The illustrator and book designer of the "Oh, Mateo!" series is Beth Parrocha-Doctolero)

Thoughts at the 60th Palanca

Generally an early bird, I am hardly late for any event. For the 60th Palanca Awards Night, I was an even earlier bird. One hour too early, in fact.

When I got to the venue's door, a large flock of similarly eager birds were already taking pictures there. My turn, click.

Somehow, this event always brings out the rush, adrenaline rush, in people.

I spotted F. Sionil Jose, who was swarmed with fans and peers. Mental note—bold, all caps: have a photo with him. Nothing occupied my mind more. When I finally worked up the nerve to approach him, after the awarding, he was gone. Sob, sob.

Greg Brillantes, the guest of honor, was still lolling about, though. Click.

When I was young and fearless, I marched to his office at Graphics to turn in a manuscript—an essay I sweated over for a year. He gave me a cursory glance, took my manuscript, and threw it into one of the editors' cubicles. It would have been the end of my writing dream, but that one single act challenged me to slog it out.

Krip Yuson was at the table beside ours. He read two award-winning poems, bravo, bravo! He's one literary star I read often and was I pleasantly surprised to discover he chaired the board of judges for my category. I had a chance to tell him, after receiving my award, "You judged me!" He laughed.

JC was kind enough to escort me (only one guest per winner). He usually drops the duty on JR's lap, but JR was nursing a 39.5-degree fever. JC said, "Bravo!" after Krip Yuson read the first poem. Most of the time, though, he was fiddling with his cellphone, maybe reading his e-Bible (?).

 

Tony joined us much later, after he had feasted on food elsewhere, which he claimed was "better than Palanca's buffet." He was my alert and willing photographer and I owe him the images on this page.

Luis, my dear friend, was one of the judges (not in my category). I should have sat at his table. I would have quintupled the number of photos Tony took.

Writers, writers, writers everywhere. If Rolando Mendoza hijacked the Manila Peninsula Ballroom instead of a tourist bus, he would have wiped out or held the country's literati captive.

A great equalizer, literature is. Two of the winners were, at the very least, uh, centenarians: a respected Professor Emeritus and a Ph. D. holder. Three were in their teens and one was a 12-year-old! The day I'd stop writing would be the day my fingers could no longer press the keyboard because my mind would have forgotten what a keyboard is.

Going up the Palanca stage, even for the 5th time, is always an unnerving, first-time experience. You don't know what to do, how to walk up, how to smile, how to receive the certificate, how to walk away. I guess it has something to do with expectations of oneself—how to raise the bar, and where to go from there.

The hundred steps from our table and back were one prayer walk, thanking God, with every stride, for this unmerited favor spelled like my name—grace.

Passion for what man calls literature, can it ever be quenched? For 60 years, the Palanca Awards has been honoring writers who churn out manuscripts bearing and baring heart and soul. Masterpieces, they are called.

A book that lists all the winners since 1951 was handed out to this years' awardees; it shows varied names—some known, some unheard of, but all with one common thread: love for writing. I looked once, twice, thrice, many times over, to believe my name is actually on the list.   

(My winning piece was "I Am an Apple" in the Short Story for Children category.)  

She Enjoyed the Sunset

Evelyn Miranda-Feliciano was like a light from afar—among the women in the church where I grew up.

My mother, who was an active member of the women's group, would often encourage holding seminars on love and courtship for the younger members. And always, the seminar conducted for several sessions at different times, would be based on Evelyn's book with the same title. These women were in awe of Evelyn as God's anointed authority on the subject.

That was how Evelyn figured in my mind for years—a well-loved and respected author on man-woman relationship. Until one day, the light from afar flashed right before my eyes . . .

Omflit had just published my first book and I was invited to join the OMFLit corporation meeting. Evelyn was there as one of the members of the board of trustees. The love-and-courtship lady herself! I gushed silently.

Evelyn had many other books published by then, on many other issues, but that book loved by the women in my home church remained a bestseller for many years.

Now in the same milieu of Christian literature, I'd cross paths with Evelyn often—conferences, trainers seminars, and board meetings.

When her book, Enjoy the Sunset: Living Fully, Ageing Well was launched in Cebu, I was privileged to be her roommate in a hotel where we were billeted for two days and two nights. Together, we guested the "She Day" and talked about our experiences as authors.

I got to know her up close and as a newbie in writing, I was blessed with a ringside view of her wisdom. Over meals and before bedtime, we had all the time to talk and talk, mostly about God's grace in both our lives.

She told me about her near-fatal stroke in Cambodia two years earlier. She went into a coma for a couple of days, but after some weeks of rest and medication, she was back to her old self. "This is my second life. God wants me to enjoy the sunset."

Those were not her exact words but by the way she talked, she made me feel and see the joy of working for God even, or specially, in one's senior years.

She continued to write . . . and write . . . and had two more books written (one with Senator Salonga, to be launched at the book fair; and another one to be launched early next year). Then, while busy on the fourth chapter of another book, she was summoned home. The Lord said, "Enough; come."

And she went, due to another stroke—after two weeks in the hospital and two weeks at home, plenty enough time to text friends and loved ones about how, despite the indescribable pain, she was basking in God's presence and peace.

Evelyn's light on earth flashed, and will continue to sparkle on many more readers, inspiring them to embrace life, and when the time comes, to enjoy the sunset.

Evelyn, thank you.

GRAND Homecoming

(For some mysterious reason, I never got to post this blog. I found it in my archives and I decided to upload it now or it'll forever be covered with dust and cobwebs.)

It certainly was dubbed to a tee. Everything about our homecoming at Baguio City High School (BCHS) was GRAND.

What could be grander than meeting high school friends you haven't seen for several millennia? What could be grander than surviving all the grueling activities unscathed, but for leg muscle cramps?

"Mom, get a Botox treatment," my boys suggested facetiously weeks before the event.

"I am going with what the Lord gave me," I retorted. I had become portly (a term we liked to use in high school to sound scholarly)—ten pounds heavier, at least—while undergoing medication for my tummy trouble a few months back. No cosmetics nor clothes could hide the bulging facts.

So to Baguio I went with Tony and in three days, we went through a dizzying itinerary unfit for the chronologically gifted. My niece, Agatha, couldn't stop laughing at our three-page program.

But we hung on and thankfully, I (Tony begged off at some point, giving the excuse that he is just an adjunct, not an alumnus) lasted—not without 24/7 grace transfusion—with over 350 photos (please refer to my FB page) to document the grand milestone.

Here are a few representative shots:

Grand overnight at Palm Grove Hot Springs, Asin     

Grand get-together, AJ Pension, Jungletown 
Grand back-to-school meals and presentations, BCHS gym      
Grand Parade, Session Road        
Grand homecoming ball, Baguio Country Club      
I salute the patient and persevering organizers and all those who were involved in mounting the successful 81st grand homecoming of BCHS.

I am now gearing up for the next one, 25 years from now. But first, let me rest my aching legs . . . aaahhhh.

New Eyes

When I say I am a painter, it is more of chutzpah than of talent. My very first painting on canvas elicited these comments:

"Mom, they look like objects from outer space."

"What on earth are they, Mom?"

My life has always been intertwined with visual arts. My school, the Art Institute of Chicago, was a huge art complex. With a student ID, I could go to and from school through a spectacular shortcut route—the museum. Then when I took on a job in advertising as a concept writer, I worked closely with artists.

Unfortunately, one can't be a painter through osmosis.

One slow writing day, I left my computer, bought brushes and paint, and unleashed my energy on canvas. What my children see as creatures from twilight zone are actually lilac bougainvillea, lush and fresh, swaying with the nippy wind.

Painting gave me new eyes. It has made me look at a zillion things to which I never paid enough attention before. Now I see patterns, shadows, shapes, rhythm, rhyme, reason. I see love coming from above.

So how come my handiwork doesn't come close?

Well, you can't expect more from hands made for the keyboard rather than the canvas. And this isn't about being a great painter. This is about new eyes seeing more grace than the old pair ever did.

“To you I lift up my eyes, O You who are enthroned in the heavens.” Psalm 123:1

(The above is an excerpt from my defunct e-column, "Gifts of Grace: the Column," which I suddenly remembered while window shopping for acrylic paints.)

Creative Non-fiction

From out of the blue, Tere emailed me.

She is now a part-time teacher in journalism and was wondering if I had a window in my schedule to meet with her and her students. I pushed and pulled a few of my commitments and found a window!

Frankly, I was more interested in meeting Tere again after all these years. Kindred spirits we were, in the ad agency where we created ads. She, plus a few more writers, and I were pals, more than co-workers. We had something deep in common: love affair with words.

She picked me up on schedule and was I surprised to find her whole class in her van. I imagined a slew of students; unfortunately, not too many kids these days share our passion for the printed page.

It was familiar territory; I usually have the same number of students in each of my classes, too.

"Where are you going?" were Tere's first words when she saw the handcarry-on-wheels I lugged behind me.

"With you!" I replied, explaining that the thing contained my props—my books.

The cafe, which was our venue for the next two and a half hours, was still empty. After ordering our breakfast, the gabfest was on.

We discussed anything and everything about writing: how one's heart should be in each written piece; why a writer should have a unique voice; what a writer should bring into his work not found in others'; who the writer should tap from his many resources; when the writer needs to work (all his waking hours, including sleeping, when necessary); where the writer can work (anywhere, noisy or quiet); and what the writer's rewards are (imaginary or monetary).

In short, when one comes into the altar of writing—be it fiction or non-fiction—his vow of love must be explicit, "For better or for worse."

My audience of six scanned my books as they asked questions, expressed assumptions, and verbalized apprehensions. Palpable was their earnestness in seriously going into writing.

In between the writing seminar/lecture/forum, Tere and I talked shop and tried to catch up on the years we had lost touch. We discovered we had become grandmothers, and traced mutual friends.

My morning turned out to be a double treat: I had not only met Tere again, I also met six new young friends who have now entered my special inner sanctum named "writing pals."

Talking to young, would-be writers, especially those who are into non-fiction, always poses a challenge. I came into the writing field with absolutely no formal training. All I had in the beginning was the unquenchable passion (since birth, I guess) to write.

But then, I think, that is where it all begins. Then grace comes and helps you get cracking.

How Did It Grow So Tall?

There is a tree beside our front gate—lush and tall. It was not always so.

Once upon a time it was a tiny plant in a tiny green ceramic pot. It was given to me as a gift by a reader after I spoke to a group of book lovers about my reading advocacy. After a few weeks, my husband made the sublime decision of uprooting the tiny plant from the tiny pot and planting it on the ground.

How did it grow so tall? Where did it get its sturdy branches and big leaves?

Quite simply, people would explain that sunshine and rain has been nourishing the soil on which it is rooted. But, for me, there is so much more to it than that—it's a living testimonial of the awesome power and grace of the One who created it.

Looking at this tree every time I enter and exit our gate, and pondering its exceptional growth from a small plant in a small pot, I can't help but be amazed at His marvelous handiwork.

Look around you—there are trees and trees and trees, lush and tall. They all were, sometime ago, just seeds or tiny plants from tiny pots.

“LORD, how manifold are Your works! In wisdom have You made them all; the earth is full of Your creatures.” Psalm 104:24

Winning a Palanca

Very, very vividly, as though it happened only yesterday instead of years ago, I remember the first time I won a Palanca (Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, a much-coveted prize among the literati).

Together with around 30 of my bosom buddies at Dentsu, Young & Rubicam-Alcantara, I was at Lucy's home (20 miles away from my own)—having a raucous time in her terrace, eating and bantering and wishing Lucy good wishes for a safe trip to the US in a few days.

Her house helper called from the sala and said I had a call from JR. My heart went lub-dub, lub-dub. My family calls only when there is an emergency.

"Mom, we received a notification. I won a Palanca," JR announced.

My lungs went on overdrive and my scream reached the next city.

"Mom, first prize!" he added.

My next scream reached the heavens.

"Mom, you won a Palanca, too!"

Now my scream must have broken a million eardrums.

"First prize!"

One last scream and my lungs, throat, larynx and other body parts snapped.

Everyone came in from the terrace, "What's wrong, Grace? Are you okay?"

"I'm okay, very okay, absolutely okay," I said, now totally dysfunctional with a hoarse voice not louder than a whisper.

That was a life-changing moment; grace found me in August, on Friday the 13th. That was when I finally made the decision (see-sawing in my mind for over a year) to quit advertising and take up creative writing.

ooo  

Just two days ago, I went through the same lub-dub, lub-dub experience for the 5th time. I was solving a crossword puzzle after a long day in school when Ate Vi entered my bedroom.

"Did you join the Palanca again?!" she said, brandishing the familiar yellow plastic courier envelope containing the congratulatory letter and formal invitation to the awards night.

My throat and other body parts are no longer as spry as they were that first time. But I screamed anyway—silently—and wiped a tear that flowed down unbidden.

Winning a Palanca, for me, is always a moment of surprise. At that precise, precious second when grace finds me, I ponder my nothingness.

"I wonder why You care, God—
why do You bother with us at all?
All we are is a puff of air;
we're like shadows in a campfire."
Psalm 144:3-4 (The Message)

Umingan Forever

(I have blogged about how Baguio has changed for me. And now, here is another post on changes. Bear with me. When you reach a certain age, you tend to long for the days of old.)

Going home isn't the same. Nothing is the same in the little town where I grew up.

I had successfully conditioned my mind to the absence of my mother at home. But coming face to face with a structure that had fallen into decay—now, that crushes the heart to smithereens. It's a 48-year-old house, with my mom's stamp all over it, which sometime in the future has to go, especially because nobody regularly lives there anymore, but not now.

Not this soon!

The flood in November, which almost wiped out Umingan from the face of the earth, hastened the house's decline. That catastrophe of epic proportions was thrown in the hands of my sister, who tried to salvage what was left of the public library which she was trying to put up.

Only two familiar items remained on the wall: the six-foot Vergara family tree (mom's side) which greets every guest at the front door,

and my very first painting (stamping on wood) which I bequeathed to Aie.

The house's decay is irreversible and unless something major is done, the structure will soon tumble down like a deck of cards.

Going out of the decrepit house, I walk a few meters to Burubor, the river where we used to swim as children. If our bar soap, then, happened to slip through our fingers, there was no problem diving for it. One could spot exactly where it was. This is how Burubor looks today.

I lament the changes in my hometown, the once-serene and refreshing Umingan where Mateo, the eight-year-old hero in my "Oh, Mateo!" book series, lives happily with friends and family.

But I realize that Mateo's and my Umingan could stay that way forever only in my books. Because everything on this planet changes; nothing remains constant, except God's grace.

Shorty

We have a new member in the family. She is not young, but still much younger than Ate Vi, whom she is charged to help with the household chores I am too busy (or too lazy?) to do.

Her name is Pandak (Shorty). It is not her real name, of course; but when she was a little girl, in grade school, she was the shortest in class. So everyone started calling her Pandak, and the name stuck.

The funny thing is, Pandak is much taller than the women in our home, namely Ate Vi and me.

Labels. We live in a world preoccupied with people labels. Since time immemorial, man has separated people into categories. We have labels for all types of behavior, labels for all sorts of personalities, labels for all sorts of people.

Is it the way we're wired? Is it the way we make sense of things?

People tend to judge other people—consciously or unconsciously. Although this judgment is unfair, it is a reality which is constantly present on earth. We have impressions about people we see for the first time, predict the way they are, and label them—weird, nerd, goth, racist, bigot, pandak—the list is endless.

Sociologists say that labeling someone may actually change his behavior, adapting to the label. Fortunately for Pandak, her genes didn't allow her childhood name to stunt her.

Labeling people is not necessarily a bad thing. Not all of it dehumanizes. I once met someone whom everyone called Einstein because he could answer every question. Now a successful scientist, he has lived up to that label.

We are encouraged to label anyone, for as long as the label is positive and encourages him to live up to it. The Bible labeled Jesus many names—Savior, Emmanuel, Salt, Light, Lamb, Prince of Peace, Bread of Life, Truth, etc.

Think of all the greatest words ever invented. Those are labels for Christ.

The Scriptures likewise exhort Christians the world over to take the straight path of Jesus and so, eventually, they will have all the positive labels they could ever wish for, though undeserved, through grace.

My Student Sam

Let me call her by a different name—Sam. I don't think she'll take kindly to being identified on cyburbia.

Because of Sam I broke a university rule, something I feel half guilty of. I will do it again—off campus, if necessary.

Sam had been having difficulty in my subject. She always had furrowed brows when I lectured. She stuttered when she was called upon to discuss an issue.

Reading her first exam paper one day, I was appalled that she had no understanding of the topic we had discussed and debated ad infinitum in class.

My confidence in my ability to teach took a nose dive. Where could have I gone wrong?

I talked to her in private after class. "Sam, tell me how I could be a better teacher to you."

"Miss, it isn't you. It's me. I am not very good in English."

"You mean, you are not very good writing in English?" I said, holding up her test paper.

"I mean, I am not very good in understanding spoken English, especially when there are strange terms. The high school where I graduated from spoke mostly Chinese and Filipino."

I quickly looked around. Students were busy doing their thing, unmindful of the two of us.

As a gut reaction, I decided to break the speak-only-English-in-campus rule! With best effort, in my less-than-perfect Filipino (I am an Ilocana), I explained the topic in question.

Her furrowed brows went back to normal and her lips broke into a big smile. Then, after thirty minutes of my Filipino soliloquy, she echoed back to me exactly what I said—in better Filipino! And with examples of her own to illustrate every point.

She was not as dense as I perceived her to be. She was smart, very smart, in fact.

"Now that I clearly understand everything," she said, "I will re-do my exam, if you will allow me."

I allowed her.

What I read later made me proud; proud of Sam, proud of being given a second chance as a teacher.

It made me think of how grace seeps into our lives through every person sent our path. It made me marvel at how we are moved to see things more clearly than we ever did before.

Missing the Best of Cinemalaya 2010

There are 365 days in the calendar but somehow, activities manage to clump together on the same dates. Choosing where to go is often a tug-of-war of decisions.

This happened again one Saturday this month. My boys and I had planned on watching as many movies as we could at the annual Cinemalaya (Independent Film Festival and Competition) at the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP), which we do every year. We even invited my sister and a niece to join us.

Suddenly, two other important activities crowded in—book signing at a Book Expo and graduation rites of the university where I teach. It was like being ripped in three different directions all at once. Each affair was important to me.

“How does one decide in a squeeze like this?” I asked my younger sister who always has older wisdom.

“Pick the one where you are most needed,” she said without missing a beat.

Cinemalaya 6 went out the window, so did the graduation ceremonies. To the book expo I went and although I was drooling over the activities I skipped, I thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon with kids.

“You're too late!” My friend Lilit exclaimed when he saw me at CCP one week later. “You missed the best ones.”

We missed our first three choices: Two Funerals, Donor, and Halaw. My boys and I settled for other three full-length movies and five short features with snacks, lunch, coffee, and dinner in between.

No, we didn't exactly miss all the good ones—Ang Paglilitis ni Andres Bonifacio (The Trial of Andres Bonifacio) was both poetic and symbolic. It made us peek into a part of history not often told.

A theater aficionado, I was delighted over the theatrical garnishing the director, Mario O'Hara, boldly incorporated into the historical drama. It has to be watched again, to take in all the many symbols and deliberate details (too many, my sons said) the director put into every scene.

The short films I relished. Harang was well-written and particularly riveting in its simplicity. Scooter was rib-tickling and surprising, and P was very creative and heartwarming in a funny sort of way.

The Cinemalaya is a venue for interaction between alternative filmmakers and those in the mainstream. The Cinemalaya Foundation website reads, “It supports other projects such as national outreach, seminars and workshops on production, marketing and distribution of independent films. It hopes to strengthen the presence of Filipino independent films in foreign festivals and competitions, encouraging Filipino filmmakers to enter and be part of the international film circuit.”

Being a part of art development in the Philippines, albeit as a spectator (an avid one!), is a privilege and full-length grace.

Orange for Happy Harvey

Harvey was always funny. Ha-ha-happy! Hi-hi-hilarious!

What would sound nasty from others would be rib-tickling from Harvey.

He colored his world a joyful, cheerful orange.

Harvey was ailing for sometime, bad kidneys from diabetes, but he continued—always looking like a walking box of crayons—to create great ads, and cracked jokes as though he was rehearsing for the grand finals of the “Ultimate Laff-down” comedy competition.

Even in ICU, according to those who went to visit him, he woke up from coma like a Tony Award winner, “Thank you Dr. so and so, thank you nurse so and so, thank ma'am so and so, etc.” When Lucy called him up from the US, it was Lucy who was bawling and Harvey chirping.

It was no surprise that Harvey left word with someone that should he move on to the great beyond, he'd like friends and family to wear orange at his wake.

And so hundreds of us, wearing orange, trooped to say our final good-byes to Harvey. There were soft sobs, whispered prayers, and silent hugs, but bold, bright orange filled the small chapel at Sto. Domingo church, spilling over to the courtyard.

It was exactly how happy Harvey, 44, wanted everything to end—and begin—for his journey to forever future.

Arrivederci, Harvey.

Thank you for consistently demonstrating, in life, God's grace of laughter. It strengthens resolves to endure, in this mortal coil, every kind of pain.

Amazing Maze of a Home

The place where I live is better than a maze. I say “better” because I and its inhabitants can still find our way around—with ease and comfort.

Ease and comfort. Those are twin words which define my home, or the home which I have continued to build over the years.

For me, building a home is a continuous process. And building the structure that makes a home can even be longer.

It all started when my husband and I were trying to find a house we could call our own in the early part of our marriage. Our elder son was five years old, and the younger one was just born.

The owners of the big house (high ceiling, three bedrooms, two spacious living rooms and a dining room which could double as a concert hall) that we were renting suddenly wanted it back, requesting us to vacate the place in three months. We bargained and tried to beg for extension but, no deal.

So we looked around. Our budget, however, was much too small to afford the places we liked. So we decided, upon the prodding of both our mothers, to look for a house we could purchase.

Budget and time were two ruthless arguments which won over our plans; and so we chose the place where we now live—a newly built suburban dwelling place with low ceiling, slightly bigger than Barbie’s house. It had three bedrooms, a teensy weensy living room and an even tinier dining room which was a step away from a cubbyhole masquerading as a kitchen.

But on a wide, airy corner lot it stood and the promise of ease and comfort lured us. We said, “It has endless possibilities!”

First off, it was a miracle that we were able to move in all our appliances and furniture which seemed to float in our earlier “house.”

That was when the urge to do home improvements hit us. A few months later, the many constructions begun. Not all at the same time—just one after another, as our savings would allow us.

Our initial act was to knock down a wall to join two bedrooms and to add a space to the cramped kitchen. It was euphoric. But euphoria dies down, especially since we still felt like sardines in a can. We then built a roof over the wide space connecting to our front door. Having a lanai was like owning a resort hotel—exhilarating! The wind could visit us freely even on a hot summer day.

Exhilaration withers, so we knocked down another wall and built a master’s bedroom at the back.

And a couple of years later, with the addition of a third son, we spent our savings to put up a second floor for our three boys. Without touching the main house, the carpenter (an architect was always way beyond our expense priorities) found a way to build a staircase to the boys’ room.

As they grew up, we needed an additional car which wouldn’t fit our one-car garage. So we built a more spacious garage which ate up some of our garden.

Now I can’t count how many times we have expanded our dollhouse, but what I remember is that during every construction, I had unbridled joy thinking of all the possibilities—a new coat of paint here and there, an additional wall on which to hang some art pieces, an exotic throw rug for the new area, a repaired stool and a sculpture in a corner, and new shelves to house the books we continue to acquire with alarming consistency as a family.

When I decided to stay home and write full time, there was a space that I thought would make a good office. More carpentry for shelves and drawers continued—and before long I really had a nook of my own!

I don’t know when these home improvements would stop, if they will stop at all. In my head, there is always a new possibility somewhere; and it will present itself anytime.

Ideally, one should move into a house with all the family’s needs in mind. But circumstances are not always ideal.

In my case, moving into a house was a case of necessity, if not panic. But looking back, and looking at the amazing maze of a home where my family and I live with ease and comfort, I would not have it any other way. With every home improvement came the excitement one can only experience in an adventure.

I guess that’s how stories with happy endings are written—they start out with a conflict that is resolved little by little, for as long as we all shall live.

(A reprint of my regular column “Happy Endings” in “Moms and Kids” magazine. If you are in similar straits, let me assure you that grace fills in the gaps between possibilities.)

Celebrating Grace

While everyone was still asleep at dawn today, as I got ready for my morning walk, this greeted me at the dining table. Even sons can be sweet.

Today is a perfect time for me to celebrate the grace I have received from the time God breathed life into me inside my mother's womb and up to this day when I am still strong enough to gorge on a smorgasbord breakfast courtesy of dear friends.

Ggie will pick me up in a few minutes and at Bellevue Hotel, we will meet other old-time friends.

Oh, I checked my email inbox and glimpsed a hundred thousand greetings from family and friends! I will read them one by one, ever so slowly, as soon as I get back.

What a happy, grace-filled day it's going to be!

“Grace and peace be multiplied unto you through the knowledge of God, and of Jesus our Lord.” 1 Peter 1:2

Short Sentences

One of my colleagues in the university where I teach is a distinguished British gentleman in his 80's.

He loves writing as much as I do, so each time we bump into each other, our topic naturally goes to what we are currently writing. He has a book published in Great Britain and he contributes regularly to British newspapers.

We exchanged manuscripts one day and as soon as we saw each other again, he exclaimed, “My, your sentences are short, Grace! I haven't read a book written in such a manner before!” I couldn't tell whether he was complimenting or criticizing me.

It doesn't really matter; I can take both.

His writing style (formal and scholarly) and themes (history and world economy) are the opposite of mine. Obviously, he does not read Max Lucado.

In the aftermath of typhoon Basyang, which left us twiddling our thumbs—no electricity, no internet, no phone, no water—I revisited Lucado's “3:16 The Numbers of Hope.”

The title is explicit; it is the verse in the Bible that summarizes the essence of the Christian faith. For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. (KJV)

This 26-word verse is encapsulated by the author in four short sentences, in four short paragraphs:

"He Loves.

"He gave.

"We believe.

"We live."

These few words say everything I would have wanted to say about John 3:16.

Short sentences stuck to me like velcro when I overstayed in advertising. I fell in love with the period, the punctuation mark. I couldn't wait using it. Now I often say to my students, who choose cutting and pasting verbose platitudes from the internet, “Love your period. It protects you from making horrendous paragraphs unclear to everyone, including you.”

I respect writers who ignore the period like my British friend and many preeminent literary authors do. (Ernest Hemingway didn't use a period till after 424 words in Green Hills of Africa.) I love reading them, too, but I have a soft spot for writers like Max Lucado.

I particularly like his “3:16” book because in short, uncomplicated sentences, it explains the reason why I live: grace.

Crazy Calendar

The second half of my June was crazy. All my appointments and things-to-do got jumbled, scrambled, and muddled up, overlapping here and there. What I thought was Saturday was actually a Sunday and so on and so forth.

I missed a few business meetings, social luncheons, and deadlines.

Am I going crazy? Am I having early signs of Dementia? I kept asking myself.

I peered closely into my calendar again and, pow! It wasn't I; it was my calendar!

Take note that after June 18, the next day is June 17 (again!), instead of 19. The 19th day is therefore moved to a wrong day!

I don't know how many more people got this calendar as a gift last Christmas (I hope mine was a fluke), and how many of them got confused as I was.

Proofreading is a tricky and risky business. I should know, I came from advertising where one typo error could have a domino effect and endanger the whole account.

I am not sure if the proofreader of this calendar has realized his mistake yet and if he has, he must be banging his head on the wall and wishing he could undo the "crime." It's a feeling nobody would wish upon his worst enemy.

It's the same queasy, nauseous feeling one gets when he sends a private email to an egroup by mistake. Aaaargh!

On this note, should you spot a typo error on this blog, please find it in your heart to also laugh it off and forget about it.

The crazy calendar typo sunk me deep in a mire of troubles, but hey, I came out whole with a bonus of forgiveness from the people whose schedules I bumped off because of erroneous dates.

If this isn't the essence of grace, what is?

Time to Say Good-bye

These four guys were six years of my life.

One is a lawyer (our chairman), one is a pastor, one is a trainer and executive director of a large campus Christian youth organization, and one is executive director of a movement/fellowship of Christians in government. And there's me.

In these capacities, we were all individually invited to form the five-member National Advisory Committee (NACs) of the Leadership Development Program (LDP) of Compassion International in the Philippines.

We had various duties but primarily, we helped identify young Compassion-assisted men and women who have shown potential to become Christian leaders. Through the LDP, the chosen ones (around 35 every year) receive the opportunity to get a college degree and develop Christian leadership skills and abilities.

The five of us were thrust into this role with different perspectives, coming as we were from disparate backgrounds. Once a year, we listened to an average of 60 heart-rending stories of poverty from hopeful scholars—and chose who would join LDP.

Those interviews had been weepy for me, but I always emerged more compassionate and determined to partner with Compassion International in "Releasing children from poverty in Jesus' name."

Three to four times a year, the NACs passionately brought to the discussion table our expertise in our individual fields, which were always miles apart from the other! We laughed, we cried, we argued, we ate, we cracked lawyer jokes, we quoted from the scriptures, we cited facts, we narrated personal experiences—but always, we ended each discussion on any controversial issue with a consensus.

In the process, from each other we learned things we never knew before—and became dear friends.

We also shared the joy of seeing those whom we picked for LDP graduate with a degree, and changed for life—some with honors, and some hugged by their sponsors who'd fly in from distant shores for this milestone.

Each time we met—to review some students' progress—I always felt a see-saw of emotions. Being released from poverty is a painful process, needing prayers and perseverance to keep going. This we recognized as a group, and we shared the pain.

Now six years have passed; and life has phases which have beginnings and endings. And so this phase of my life with LDP has reached the finish line.

It is time to say good-bye.

The NACs was a place of great honor, for which I would like to thank God, whom Compassion International serves. The road forks for NACs—to meet again, surely, at some points in the future.

Meanwhile, I think of the LDP scholars, as though I birthed them myself, and continue to pray for them as I would for my own children.

And knowing we share the same faith—in Christ's saving grace—I am positive that my past fellow NACs will do the same.

First Anniversary Gift?!

"A sewing machine?!" My friends were incredulous, eyes wide with disbelief, followed by prolonged laughter.

They didn't actually say, "yuk," but I glimpsed it on their faces.

Instead of the usual bouquet of flowers, or perfume, or anything as closely romantic, Tony gifted me with a sewing machine on our first wedding anniversary.

I remember it fondly as we celebrate today yet another anniversary. I took a shot of this gift—now looking its age but which, with proper maintenance (regular oiling and cleaning), has served me exceedingly well, and never once failing, for many, many years. 

"If I were not a writer," I often quip in Q and A fora, "I'd be a seamstress." People laugh, but in truth, I do love to sew. Whenever I feel a need to de-stress, I sew, alter, or create anything—from ill-fitting clothes bought on sale to a doodad for an appliance and furniture. I always have a pile of fabric on stand by.

I sewed the gown I wore to the first formal affair (Rizal Day in Chicago) I attended with Tony before we were married. In fact, I sewed all the clothes I wore to every important event he and I went to after that.

For one thing, on my meager allowance as a student, I couldn't afford to buy party clothes in dollars. For another, fashionable clothes patterns were aplenty in the US for a song. I must have mentioned it to him (I don't remember), and he must have remembered even one year after our wedding.

The only other person who rejoiced with me on my receiving a sewing machine was my mother. She, too, loved to sew and from her I learned the craft.

On my umpteenth wedding anniversary, today, I raise my head up to God for the umpteenth additional year He has blessed us with. Likening my pace with my now aging but still whirring sewing machine, I celebrate the grace which has maintained me.

I feel I am still whirring as I did on that long-ago July 4 when I got my first wedding anniversary present nobody appreciated, but my mom and me.

Going . . . Going . . . Gone

This three-word phrase came to me as I woke up early this morning. And I feel the need to write about it.

Today, the nine-year-old administration will be gone. President Noynoy will take over as the duly elected, by landslide, President of the Philippines after he takes his oath, not before the Chief Justice of the Philippines (recently named by the outgoing president in what many believe as a midnight appointment) but before a lady associate justice, the lone dissenter in the hurried and controversial appointment of the Chief Justice.

This signals a change in a big way. We are entering a new era of hope. With our collective prayers for grace, this country can get back on its feet again, wobbly at the moment, but will walk again, and heal again.

To mark this change, I am replacing my old header with a new one. So my old header is going. . . going. . . and after today, gone.

Meet my new header: I took a shot of our yellow bells, the first things one sees as he approaches our home. These lovely blossoms are a welcome sight after a tiring day elsewhere. But they, too, will soon be gone.

In the summer, they bloom and brighten up those who pass them by, but the rains have come. Somehow, yellow bells thrive under the heat of the sun, but wilt under the rain. My new header will see them blooming even if they don't.

And God, in His infinite mercy, will shine His blessings upon this nation—so that, like my yellow bells in the next summer, we as a people will bloom once more.

P.S. five days later . . . my sister wrote to ask me whether these flowers are really yellow bells (?) or hibiscus (?) Well, I've always called them yellow bells, my very own yellow bells. 

Unshaken Father

Father’s Day, as many of us already know, was started by Sonora Dodd of Washington, USA in 1910. She lost her mom at a very young age and it was her father who took care of her and her five other siblings. After listening to a sermon in church on Mother's day, she worked at having one day in one year also declared as Father's Day.

As we celebrate Father’s Day this month, I ponder the word “father.” It has evolved and mutated from what it originally was. In the old days, a child lived with a father he was born to.

Today, a child may live with his stepfather; orphans may live with a relative who acts as their father; an adopted child may live with an adoptive father; and many more permutations.

A father’s role is no longer fixed on the birth father. It is on someone who is willing to be a father. It is in this light that I want to share with you stories of three fathers I admire greatly: Butch, Joe, and Paul.

Butch. He is a successful production designer and a bachelor. Years ago, a baby was left at his doorstep with a note, “I am so poor I cannot take care of my baby. Please take care of him for me.”

Butch says that was the happiest day of his life. After profusely thanking the Lord for this unexpected blessing, he went about being a father to the child whom he named Eman. He read parenting books, consulted with real fathers, and most of all, he taught Eman to love God.

Eman has been a consistent honor student and will soon enter college to pursue a career.

Joe. He left for the US to marry his American girlfriend. Unfortunately, they never had any children. One summer, when Joe came to the Philippines for a vacation, he met Sandra (aged seven), daughter of his distant cousin who was addicted to alcohol and jobless.

When Joe got back to the US, he regularly sent Sandra money for her education and other needs. He likewise often wrote her—encouraging her to dream and to always love her father no matter how he is. Sandra is now a nurse and working in a US hospital. She supports her father and regularly writes him about how much she loves him.

Her father has stopped drinking and serves as a janitor in the village church.

Paul. Although he was not related to Timothy by blood, he referred to Timothy as “my true child, my beloved child, my dearest son.” His letters to Timothy are now two chapters in our Bible.

Paul has said so many encouraging words to Timothy but this particular verse always touches me: “Kindle afresh the gift of God which is in you through the laying on of my hands. For God has not given us the spirit of timidity, but of power and love and discipline.” 2 Timothy 1: 6-7

What do these fathers—Butch, Joe, and Paul—have in common?

Unshaken love for their children. It is the same unshaken love we have been promised by our heavenly Father in Isaiah 54:10: “For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed," says the Lord, who has compassion on you.”

I looked up other Bible translations and here’s what I found:

- My steadfast love shall not depart from you. (New KJV)
- My unfailing love for you will not be shaken. (English Standard)
- I will remain loyal to you. (New Living)
- My loving kindness will not be removed from you. (NEB)
- My love for you will never end. (MSG)
- My kindness shall not depart from thee. (King James)

My own translation: “No matter how many times you have wronged me, I still love you. You disowned me, but I bled and died for you. Through storms and tsunamis and earthquakes, my love for you is unshaken.”

Everyone therefore—orphans, adopted children, children abused by their father, and children of fathers who have left the home—has a Father.

This, to me, is what Father’s Day is all about. It’s about all the fathers out there who are trying hard to emulate the unshaken love of the Father of all.

Can any ending be happier?

(This is a reprint of my regular column “Happy Endings” in "Moms and Kids" magazine. It is my own celebration of the grace of our unshaken Father upon fathers on terra firma.)

Overheard on Father's Day

Around the dining table, while munching on this cake from JB and Gianina, specially ordered from the US, Tony drones his yearly statement: "Father's Day is a marketing ploy."

"Year after year you keep saying that," JR retorted.

A dyed-in-the-wool marketing man, Tony replies, "It's true."

"Well, it's a good marketing ploy," JR replies. "It give us—your children—one opportunity to honor you."

"You can do that any time of the year."

"Yes, we can, but we forget. Father's Day reminds us, in a big way, of such worthy endeavor."

"Hrrmph."

"You get treated to a free meal for once and receive a cake like this," JR said, taking another slice.

"Hrrmph."

Later in church, JR was the worship leader, and before calling on the fathers to stand up to be prayed for by the congregation, he said:

"Sons and fathers are not very overt about their feelings to each other. Maybe it has something to do with gender, but not too many sons say, 'I love you' to their fathers—nor fathers to their sons—as often as daughters do. So let's take this opportunity to honor the fathers among us.

"Through this simple ceremony of praying for them and giving them tokens of appreciation, we communicate how much we do love our father—for everything he does for us, and for standing true to being the gift of our Father in heaven to his children.

"My father says Father's Day is a marketing ploy. Well, ploy or not, am I glad marketing men thought of inventing it." 

We raised our hands and prayed over all the fathers, and asked God to to help them model, and live, the special grace of fatherhood not only on Father's Day but all through the year.

Pages of a Magazine

What am I doing in two pages of Working Mom, a glossy magazine? (May 2010 issue)

"Behind the scenes" is a place I enjoy and would rather be. I took up Theater Arts, major in directing. I was in the creative department all my years in advertising. On the side, I wrote articles for newspapers and magazines. In all these roles, I was never in front of the audience nor the camera.

Now, what would make me do a turnabout?

I got a phone call from the editor saying excitedly that I was going to be featured as one unusual mom, doing unusual things. That got me thinking for a second. Today, I am mostly writing books, and occasionally teaching in college. What is so unusual about that?

Well, she explained, it was the transition from then to now. I got out of a glamorous career and decided to do something so different it begged for a totally different lifestyle (or the lack of it, as I now work at home sans make-up and power clothes).

I said okay (it seemed like a perfect venue to talk about my books), and forgot all about it.

Then one day, the doorbell rang. From a huge van came down four people. They turned out to be a writer (to do the interview), a photographer (to make me say "cheese"), a make-up artist (to do me over), and an all-around production assistant (PA). They were all sincerely nice and extremely efficient.

"Do whatever you have to do," I said, making it easy for them. I had worked with prima donnas and I know all about reining in one's rage.

The PA turned my house and garden upside down. The photographer plugged in all his huge lighting gadgets and chose my outfits. The make-up artist slapped and splashed goo and gunk all over my eyes, nose, cheeks, chin. All this happened simultaneously while the writer asked me questions, the answers to which I had to dig in my mind since they happened a hundred years ago.

They made all the decisions with nary a peep from me. If I were still behind the scenes and I had to feature someone like docile me, it would be a dream. I wanted it to be a dream for this magazine team.

Maybe it was. Everything was done their way in a record one hour, including snacks and tete-a-tete.Three months later, I got a text message from the editor saying the issue was out in the stands. I also got dozens of text messages from friends saying they had read the feature, entitled "Amazing Grace," at their beauty parlors. When I got my copy, I gasped.

JR said my photos look like Vicky Belo did a major work on me.

Manang Vi laughed, "Those look like someone else!"

"Who?" I needed to know.

"Anybody but you."

Now you know why "behind the scenes" is where I should stay.

(Seriously, this lighthearted post should not in any way diminish the admirable work the Working Mom team put in—the two-page article made me look better than I think I am—and the grace I received, and continue to receive, through these magazine pages.)