Splurging on "Like"

If the “like” on FB had a price tag, I'd be spending a lot of money daily on the one page that keeps me riveted (“addicted,” my friend Boyp calls this new phenomenon) and sufficiently awed: “Come Visit My Philippines” (CVMP) 

There are just too many breathtaking photos of our country that lure your fingers into clicking “like” practically every second.  

What started "Come Visit My Philippines?"

An idea.

But an idea so big the page has grown in just a month to over 25,000 members, who have posted almost 7,000 stunning photos of and about the Philippines!

Mon Jimenez, our new Tourism Secretary, said upon accepting his new role, “Tourism is the people’s business . . . so if you believe that as I do, help me achieve that.”  He likewise exhorted all Filipinos, “Believe in the beauty of your country. You deserve a visit from the world.” 

Hearing Mon, friends Bessie Padilla and Alex Baguio (both photography buffs) started uploading their photos on their individual walls. They wanted to show the world that they “believe in the beauty of their country.” 

The overwhelming response was unprecedented.  Promptly, another friend, Francois Medina, joined the two to start an FB page for Filipinos who share their pride of country. 

Thus, “Come Visit My Philippines” was born. The guidelines are simple: post a photo (anything Pinoy); briefly describe it; and punctuate it with the tagline, “Come Visit My Philippines.”

Because of the exponential growth of membership, more friends have been invited to help as administrators.

I have not posted one photo yet, because each time I prepare do so, I gawk at the mind-blowing masterpieces of others, and I spend an inordinate amount of time imagining the places where they were shot—taking all attention away from mine.

Here are a few which I randomly chose from thousands of spectacular photos on the page. These cut-and-paste collages are not as fascinating as the original ones, so please go to the FB-CVMP page and marvel at the individual photos as posted by the owners.

But oh, if you aren't a member yet, ask a friend who is. Adding your name will take only a second. I must warn you, though, you will be splurging on “like!”  

P.S.
Let me thank my wandering friend, Boyp, who travels around the country as often as he blinks, for inviting me to enjoy the magnificent vista of grace bestowed upon the Philippines on CVMP!

A Father Remembers

Today, as a tradition in our country, most Filipinos will trek to the cemetery to visit the graves of their loved ones.  Many of them may already be there since the break of dawn. 

I will not be one of them.

My reasons are neither the traffic nor the hassle to stay under the heat of the sun in a memorial park packed with the whole of humanity. 

When my newly born son, Adriano, was buried by my husband, a couple of relatives, and a pastor-friend at the cemetery, while I stayed in my hospital bed nursing my grief, I knew that my little boy would never be lying in dirt six feet under the ground, he would always be in my heart. 

I went to visit his grave a few times, albeit perfunctorily, with my husband and three other sons as a rite of remembering.  But those were just a part of another lovely family outing. 

I kept the attitude when years later, my dad then my mom were laid to rest in my hometown in a plot they bought years earlier. On November 1, every year, my siblings trek to that plot while I stay home in Manila pondering the grace I continue to receive through memories of them, in black and white.

The only way I know how to deal with death is write about it.

All of Tony's family also passed away one after the other (dad, mom, brother and sister) and again, I chose to swim in memories by writing about them—in my books, blog, journal, and diary.    

There are many other loved ones—close aunts, uncles, friends, kith and kin—to whom I said good-bye as they were interred in their graves, but never visited again.

Tony is of a different mind.  He has his own way of remembering.

Every year, sensing perhaps that I do not share his thoughts, goes alone to visit the tomb of our son—two days before November 1.  I request him to take a shot of the tomb, for reasons I can't explain. He humors me. While there, he also takes photos of our close friends' tombs.

 

Not one of these photos ever shows a flower or a candle—traditional gifts to the departed.  So in a way, he is different from others, too.

Once a year, on a different date, Tony also makes time to visit his family—all four of them—in one crypt in a Chinese Temple.  He tells me he does paypay,  a common Chinese practice of lighting a few sticks of incense and swaying them like a fan with both hands.  He doesn't understand what it means, but he does it anyway.  

People differ in how they view this day. While many feel the need to go to the cemetery, some stay home.   

Two quotes come to me now as I imagine all the people in all cemeteries nationwide honoring their dead. One is the poem, “Do not stand at my grave and cry,” attributed to several authors.  Here are the first two and last two lines:

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

And the other was coincidentally quoted by my friend, Cherry, on her Facebook wall.  It was what a mother, who lay dying, said to her son, St. Augustine: "Lay this body anywhere, let not the care for it trouble you at all. This only I ask, that you will remember me at the Lord’s altar, wherever you be.”

My thoughts of my own son today: I do not need to go to your graveside to remember, you're in my middle and there I visit you all the time.

But Tony, despite his busy schedule, travels the far distance to visit our Adrian's grave. Perhaps it's a father thing, a father's way of grieving—and healing.

(Photo by the graveyard maintenance man)

A Short Life Well Lived

Why would God allow a 15-year-old boy to die?  

This was the question in our mind when Ronell, my grandnephew, died of Leukemia after only a month from diagnosis of the dreaded disease. 

A whole family, a whole clan, a whole country, a whole world prayed, “Lord, please  heal Ronell.”

The news of Ronell's sickness went viral after it was announced by an uncle on Facebook, Twitter, and e-mail. The message called for help—prayers, blood, and funds, in that order.  And people from all walks of life rushed to the hospital, financial help poured, netizens from many countries twitted and sent messages of comfort and concern.

Despite the worldwide chorus of prayers, God chose not to heal Ronell.  He took him instead.   

Why???

At his wake, I hugged and asked Ronell's older brother, “Are you okay?”

“No, I am not okay,” he murmured.

It will take sometime before he and we will be okay.  But his mom and dad put on a brave face as they thanked the hordes of people that packed the chapel, many of whom volunteered to speak during the necrological service: 

“Ronell made me realize how important God is in our lives. He brought his Bible to school to tell me about the Savior.”

“I was never close to my parents, but from Ronell I learned the importance of family—and God.” 

“He became a surrogate brother to my only son, who is so finicky about the people he goes with.”

“Always thoughtful, always gracious, always generous with his time in helping me and others.”

“He made me laugh, made me feel that everything was okay with the world because of God.” 

“He never whined, not even when in pain.”

From the Pastor, who delivered the Memorial Service sermon, “Ronell, weak and drained in the hospital ICU, asked me if God really forgives sinners.  When I said yes, his mouth twitched into a smile, despite his pain.  That was a most beautiful moment.”

From an uncle, “I used to be reluctant in sharing God's word with friends.  But after knowing what Ronell had been doing, young as he was, I am now emboldened to speak about salvation with anyone—even strangers.”

During his brief journey on earth, grace shone through Ronell and changed many lives—of friends, family, and strangers.

Someone said, “God spared Ronell from the landmines of evil forces on earth.”      

It's all too clear—our heavenly Father plucked Ronell from his mortal coil to the peaceful place where He lives, because the boy we loved belongs there. Not tomorrow. Not next year. Not in the future.

Now.

Second stanza of the gospel song, The Greatness of Our God (Hillsong)

Death of Latte . . . and Gadhafi

Our own rodent, Latte—one of JC's two guinea pigs—died about the same time Gadhafi did. 

Brown like coffee with milk, and just as delightful, Latte suddenly refused her staple grass and after a couple of hours, she stopped breathing. 

JC put her in a box and our househelper dug her grave, again—like all our other pets—beside all the flowers in our garden.  Today we (I say, we, because although they're technically JC's, we love them just as much) only have one rodent, Earl Gray, who, we wish, will stay healthy. 

I am drawn to the stark contrast of people's emotions between an insignificant rodent and an infamous strongman.   

Gadhafi was a feared leader who died like a rat in a sewer.  Latte was a precious  rodent who died like a treasure in a home.   

In a family of writing enthusiasts (husband, wife and sons), it isn't unusual to find pieces on God's grace written about something or other lying around. This time, JC wrote one about Latte.  Sharing it with you . . .

You always were the brave one. Even before I bought you, there you were in that small cramped cage with your brothers, looking at me in the eye. Dehydrated and weak, your tiny feet sore from walking on that wire floor meant for birds, you reached out while I took a video of you.

You annoyed me to no end, blocking me every step of the way, every time I spot-cleaned your cage. Bigger isn’t always braver. You always swiped food from your much larger brother’s mouth every meal time. You never failed to push him aside each time he was at the water bottle.

You figuratively and literally stood tall for both of you, wheeking for food or attention. Truly, you were always more vocal, unafraid to speak your mind. EG has recently taken up the cudgels for you, but it’s just not the same.

Loud and brave, that was you. The one thing you were deathly afraid of was being picked up. You’ve always been skittish and uncooperative every time I tried to do that, but during your last week, you finally let me pet you without running away. Tough on the outside, there was a side of you that others hardly saw. You loved chin-rubs, and always looked like you were in a trance while I did that, thoroughly enjoying yourself.

It was a relatively busy and stressful week for me, and God gave you a little more strength to not show what you were really feeling, till the last moments, since that would have stressed me out. Even then, you bravely showed your trademark spunk, defiantly boxing the air and wheeking as you lay there.

Somehow, I knew you didn’t have long when I finally managed to carry you from your cage unaided, without so much a fight.

I thank the Lord for lending you for a little over a month. It reminded me that if a small, frail creature like you meant a lot to a sinful, finite being like me, how much more I, created in God’s own image, mean so much more to Him?

Goodbye Latte. We’ll miss you. 

Latte (left) and Earl Gray

Gadhafi Did Not Die Like a Dog

"He died like a dog,” many newspapers wrote on how the former strongman—one of the most vilified leaders in recent history—died.

I say he didn't die like a dog; our dogs die better.

About half a dozen of our dogs over the years were buried deep in our garden under tall trees and beside flowering hedges. Our Vet put them to sleep, and we stayed silent as we awaited their last breath.  Then we thanked God for their lives and for the joy they brought us.

This has been the ritual of dying for our—and I guess most pet lovers'—dogs.  We do not parade them around town, bloodied, half naked, gasping for air, while we gloat and shout a slew of curses.  

Gadhafi didn't die like a sewer rodent, either.  Rodents die better. (JC wrote a beautiful piece on  this, which I am tempted to include here—on second thought, it deserves a solo post next time.) 

Did Gadhafi deserve the way he died? After all, he did the same thing, or worse, to many of his own people.

Well, did my 15-year-old grandnephew, Ronell, deserve the way he died?  He suffered extreme pain, strapped to a dozen tubes, endured numerous blood transfusions, and was sapped with energy every day till the last fateful hour.

Did our loved ones—like my dad who fought an agonizing battle against cancer for four years—deserve the way they died?

Did those criminals, burned in electric chair, or those accused with treason, beheaded in public view, deserve the way they died?

Did those 19 young soldiers, killed by MILF in a fierce battle, deserve the way they died? 

And to go on, did Marcos, who lived with debilitating Lupus for years, deserve the way he died? Or did Ninoy, whose life was snuffed out as soon as he set foot on his homeland, deserve they way he died? 

Then the ultimate death that changed our world and all our lives, did Jesus deserve the way He died?

Except for the death of Jesus, which is so clear in the Scriptures why sinners killed Him in that manner, we can only speculate on ordinary mortals' way of dying.

Gadhafi's was just one in billions of earthly passing that had, has, and will come to every man. 

We will not know the whys and the wherefores of death, but when we entrust our life to the sovereign God, believe in His power over every powerful dictator and powerless citizen the world over, He gives us grace to accept why death happens the way it does.

Solo Flight Launched

“This is the most difficult book I have ever had to write,” I said in my short remarks at the launch of Solo Flight.

And the reason is, it was no solo flight for me, as it usually is when I write, till the manuscript reaches the editor(s).     

For Solo Flight, I had a co-author. 

It seemed like an accident at first, but reflecting on the events where Solo Flight began, I believe an unseen Hand led us all to it. 

Teacher Francie, a nodding acquaintance for years, had a wonderful story to tell. In one of our chance encounters, she began to tell me this story, which left me unblinking.  Unfortunately, the narration was cut short by the activity we were both attending. A brief  thought came to me then—it would make an interesting book. 

What do you know, Yna, OMFLit's Director for Publications, emailed a few months later, asking me if I wanted to partner with Teacher Francie in writing her love story. I jumped at the chance—to hear the ending of it—and as the say, the rest is history. 

How does one deal with joint authorship? Deb Bataller of CBN Asia said it best, “Teacher Francie is the storyteller and Grace is the story writer.” 

Writing someone's story from her point of view is deceptively easy.  But the writer has to enter that someone's innermost thoughts—and fears.  That's where the difficulty lies—having disparate feelings and opinions about issues.  Teacher Francie was single for almost as long as I have been married! 

Grace came to the rescue—it turned on the sunshine, so that both ends would see where to walk together towards the same destination.   

As the writing went along, grace also brought in new dimensions and texture to give the story depth and relevance to singles. It branched out to other related stories. Then Yna and our editor, Beng (both singles), threw in fresh insights that enriched the writing even more.  

On September 15, 2011, Solo Flight (again, not solo, but in tandem with a book of Teacher Francie's husband) was launched. 

The book launching was a story in itself.  In one roof were as many singles as couples. Prepared by my co-author's staff, the ceremony was flawless (read: no dead air) and the mood, worshipful, turning festive at the reception!

This time, I will let the pictures tell the book launching story. But let me end this post by saying, grace makes everything possible—even the meeting of two most unlikely friends. 

The Anklung Ensemble of the Learning Tree delighted all,

(Family from as far as American Samoa, Australia, US, and Baguio)   

Angry Birds

The first time I heard these two words was about a week before Adrian arrived from the US.  My friend G and I were shopping and she yelped when she found the perfect pair of ear phones for a little nephew.  She uttered three unfamiliar syllables I couldn't catch. 

“Antsy Birds?”  I asked.

“Angry Birds!” she replied.

“Hardy words?” I asked again.

“Angry birds!” she replied, louder this time. 

“Wordy curds?”  I was really trying mighty hard to understand.

“A-N-G-R-Y, B-I-R-D-S!”  she spelled them out, loud and clear. And she went on to explain what they were.

Not a fan of computer games, I had zero knowledge of these cyber creatures' existence.

Then Adrian, a cannonball at four, landed on our shores. He was to be left with Tony and me for four days while his parents took off somewhere.

On his first day alone with us, we brought him to a toy store.  “What would you like Amah (Chinese word of respect for grandma) and Angkong (grandpa) to buy you, Adrian?”

“Angry birds!” he said excitedly

“Antsy birds?” “Hardy words?” “Wordy curds?” These series of questions came not from me but from his Angkong. 

I patiently explained to the clueless senior what they were. To say he was shocked would be accurate. Not at Angry Birds, but at  how well I knew what was supposed to be Greek to our generation. 

It was a cinch from hereon.  Wherever we went—to the playground, the restaurant, the mall, the video arcade, the flea market, Rizal's hometown, a provincial farm, a resort—my technologically challenged roommate and I could spot Angry Birds miles away. 

Angry Birds mimicked grace—they were to our left, to our right, above us, below us, all around us. Countless. Endless.

We had not realized till then that these characters inhabit every single place and space these days—handbags, backpacks, umbrellas, hats, pencil cases, t-shirts, toys, ear plugs, posters, decals, you name it, Angry Birds are on it.

By the time Adrian's mom and dad were packing their luggage back to the US, they had to allocate one suitcase for Angry Birds—from both sets of grandparents.

Here's the thing. Adrian planed in as Captain America (and Green lantern, and Spider Man, and Iron man, and Captain Marvel, and everyone in the League of Super heroes), but flew out in less than three weeks as Angry Birds.

Whew!

Lord, thank you for the grace of a grandson who keeps us in the loop. Amen.

Palanca Awards 2011

This year's September 1 is a season of smiles, I thought, noticing for the first time that everyone I met inside the ballroom of Manila Peninsula Hotel had a grin glued on his face.

Well, the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards Night is a happy occasion. The winners are given their certificates/medals on stage.

Now on its 61st year, the Palanca Awards remains, as written on its website, “The country's most prestigious and longest-running literary contest.”

Receiving your certificate/medal takes no more than two minutes.  But it makes you feel like you're floating on air far more than that.

I glimpsed some of the biggest smiles that night on stage where I stayed for two minutes—times six. As chair of the jury for the Kabataan Essay category in both Filipino and English, I was privileged to hand out the first, second, and third awards in both divisions.

 

My friend, Dr. Luis Gatmaitan, a Hall of Fame Palanca awardee and who had been invited to judge a number of times, whispered as I hurried up the stage, It's more exciting to go up there as a winner than as a judge.

I couldn't agree more. When I went up the stage for my awards on several Sept. 1's, I nearly tripped and my lips twitched here and there. But now having the reverse view on ringside seat, I saw how those near-trips and twitches really looked like—a glow that rivaled the spotlights. 

But a judge had her share of excitement, too—of an unusual kind.

I felt humbled to be a part of a judging panel whose job was to separate the great from the excellent: a herculean task.  After reading the entries over and over again, reveling in full adrenaline rush, you begin to doubt whether you are up to the task or are being fair.

Judging is personal taste. Put three judges together and there will be three points of view. 

This is when one needs the grace of discernment.  Human blinders make you lose your way.

After writing down my choices' strengths and weakness, I brought my notes to the judging table. Two other judges and I, after a lengthy discussion, agreed on the first, second and third prizes in both English and Filipino divisions.   

I was blessed with two gentlemen peers who were as objective as objective can be. There were no names on the entries, just numbers, and the judges' identity were kept confidential. Every name was revealed only on September 1. 

All below 18, the winners brimmed with optimism and idealism. (To read their winning pieces, please click.)

A bonus for me that night, aside from meeting the literary greats whose works I drool over and a huge souvenir medal, was talking for the first time to one of my revered Filipino authors, F. Sionil Jose, the guest speaker.

But just when I wanted to have a photo with him, my camera batteries conked out. Luis came to the rescue (95% of the photos on these page were taken by him).

“I pass through your town, Rosales, on my way to my own, sir, ” I babbled as an opener. “One time we drove around looking for the balete tree in your Rosales Saga.” 

He laughed and rattled off in Ilocano, “Awan didiay! [That tree is non-existent!]” A fact I had already known from write-ups of him, yet it made for good conversation with a National Artist whose literary achievements stun.

So I got my pictures, which I am sharing with you.

Looking at them, I think I imbibed the winners' smiles—especially because when Tony and I left the hotel that night, this verse illumined my mind anew:

“. . . as God’s grace reaches more and more people, there will be great thanksgiving, and God will receive more and more glory.” 2 Corinthians 4:15 (NLT)

Steve Jobs and Manong Arsenio

While the world is grieving the passing of Steve Jobs, I am privately mourning the death of someone nobody knew but his family and friends.

I called him Manong (Ilocano honorific for an older male) Arsenio—he who married my childhood friend and worked with his hands all his life on an insignificant farm, hidden in the middle of nowhere.

Steve never heard of Arsenio, neither did Manong Arsenio ever hear of Steve.

(Left) Steve Jobs with one of his babies on stage; (left) Manong Arsenio with his wife at his home

The cyber community is abuzz with beautiful words—tribute after tribute—for Steve. No techie worth his pixels can ever say enough about this modern icon, dead at 56.

No words will ever be written about Manong Arsenio, 71. His friends and family can't write prose nor poetry.

Steve was the reason millions of people joined the computer industry, or even care about technology at all. Yes, he made the computer personal, and the smartphone fun.

Mankind always awaited with bated breath another revolutionary product from Steve—the iMac, OS X, the iPod, iTunes, the iPhone, the iPad.  These products have made their homes in many work rooms, family rooms and bedrooms.

Manong Arsenio didn't own a computer, simply because he had no need for one. To communicate with someone, he walked the distance. On Sundays, he donned his best for the worship service, where he awaited with bated breath the next lesson about Jesus from the pastor and his Sunday School teacher. On weekdays, he helped with odd jobs in church.  

While Steve walked on the spotlit stage with his iMac in a brown envelope, Manong Arsenio toiled under the heat of the sun with a spade, mixing cement for his church's walkway.  

While Steve addressed raucous crowds to launch the latest invention of his extraordinary brain, Manong Arsenio rallied a small group of timid elders and deacons to make do with available funds to re-build the church ravaged by Typhoon Ondoy.

When Steve was diagnosed with cancer, he got the best medical care from the best physicians in the best hospitals; Manong Arsenio opted not to undergo further treatment because he couldn't afford the expensive dialysis and medicines.

Many of Steve's fans are cursing—in unprintable words—the disease that killed him. All of Manong Arsenio's family and friends, although in grief, are praising God for the blessed life he lived.

This is a world of contrasts.

Without meaning to cast judgment on the two men, who both touched my life, I think the difference lies not in their status in society—how much money they amassed, how much education they earned, or how many people lionized them.

It's in how they acknowledged the Source of what they were and what they had.

From what I read, Steve Jobs (or the people who admired him anyway) believed he had it all in him—a creative genius.

From what I know, Manong Arsenio (or the people in his circle anyway) believed that everything is by grace. And he was exceedingly grateful to the Source of this wondrous grace all his life, till his very last breath.

Goodbye, Steve;  till we meet again, Manong Arsenio.

Simple Folks

JB called from the US a week before his and his family's short three-week trip to the Philippines.

"Mom, what would you want me to buy you from here?"

He gave me the perfect opening to ask for the moon.

Without missing a beat, I said, "Philip Yancey's latest book, What Good is God?" (I have all of this author's books, each one of them signed by Yancey himself.)

Pause.  "That's it?!" he asked, surprised.

"That's it," I replied.

"But you could easily download that to your Nook [his gift last Christmas]!" 

"It would be nice to have this book in print."

Resigned sigh. "Anything else?" he pressed.

"Nothing else."

A more audible resigned sigh, “Ok.”  

Days earlier, he chatted with JC, asking him what their father might want.

JC typed, “Prince Valiant comic book.”  

JB:  Huh?! How about an iPad 2?

JC: No, Prince Valiant.  He's been nagging me to order for him the Vol. 3 collection from Amazon.”  

JB: How about a high-tech razor?

JC: Prince Valiant.

Tony and I—we're simple folks.  When generous cousins from abroad ask for what we want when they visit, we say, "Splenda."

"Splenda?! That thing available in any supermarket?!"

"Yeah, but we want the freebies on the plane."

"Huh?"

Over the years, and more than ever now that we are headed toward the sunset, the Lord has helped us pare down our expensive wants so we can enjoy the free things He has given us—the sky and all that's in it; the earth and all that's in it; the air and all that's in it; ample breaks to use the talents sent our way, and doing what we love doing; relationships, friends, family; the time to praise, worship, and thank Him for every blessing—most especially His greatest gift of all:

The grace of redemption.

Great Grace (Part 3)

This post completes my trilogy on the Manila International Book Fair (MIBF).

From the opening day to closing time, I tried to be there. Lynnie, my friend from OMFLit Cebu said at the last hour, “You're the last author standing.”

I didn't plan on going there daily, but friends had called that they were coming to see me. And so I tarried at the OMF booth as much as I could—running to the bathroom and cafeteria only when necessary.

Sure enough, friends and family appeared—to say hello and buy books. I figured, the MIBF happens only once a year and being there was such a small price to pay for readers who made time to have a book/s signed.

The president of the university where I teach, together with our HR head, turned up. A group of friends from my previous workplace popped in. A niece and nephew dashed to the booth before it closed on the second day.

Friends of friends showed up, expecting me to be there. My brother Earl and his family (who had arrived days earlier from Australia) re-arranged their schedule to be at the MIBF.

Still, I missed some friends when I sneaked out to have a late lunch and when I left early on the fourth day to say good-bye to JB, Gianina and Adrian who were heading back to the US.

 
  
And so . . . on the last day, I was last in line to the cashier, carrying less books than I intended to buy. I waited too long—my choices were all gone by the time I decided to do my shopping. 

No matter. I had a heyday trying to cart much of the great grace at the MIBF, to save for a rainy day.

Rainy day came the day after.

My grandnephew Ronell, 15 years old, was rushed to the hospital due to extreme pain. After a battery of tests, he was diagnosed with acute leukemia. The slew of frantic emails and FB messages appealing for blood and funds would have been enough to crush the spirit and plunge one into panic.  

But the spillover of great grace at the MIBF kept me calm and confident about God's comfort where needed. I went on my knees, with the rest of our clan, to ask God to hug Ronell tightly. I did my own phone marathon to relatives who have not heard of the news.

Help rushed in.    

As of this writing, Ronell is being prepped for his third chemotherapy, and I believe that our loving God will do what is best for him. Right now, what the Lord wants may be fuzzy to those who love Ronell, but in time we will see it clearly and be grateful for it.

More Great Grace

It takes more than one blog post to write all about the grace that inundated the Book Fair. So here's another one.

Day 3: OMFLit booth

Day 4: DZAS booth

A lady with three sets of Gifts of Grace (books 1, 2, and 3) said, "You don't have to write any message on these books.  I just need your signature."

"Early Christmas shopping!" I exclaimed.

"No-occasion shopping!" she replied. "I have already lost several sets—well, not lost, really.  I lent them to friends and they asked if they could keep them."

"Oh."

"I am buying three sets now, anticipating more borrowers," she laughed.

"You're very generous," I said.

"God never scrimps on His grace. We can never duplicate that, but we can try—in our own small way," she replied, then took her newly signed books to the cashier.

Before I could recover, a young man in a tie asked me to sign a copy of Solo Flight.

"Gift for a sister or . . . an aunt?"

"Gift for my girlfriend. I want her to know all the angles of singleness before I ask her to marry me. She has to be very, very sure before saying yes.

I ached to say a rejoinder about his thoughtfulness, but a young mom carrying a toddler and looking troubled cut in and and asked, "Ms. Grace, do you have any book on losing a father?"

"Oh, not a book, no. But I may have an entry in Super Devos (365 devotions for energized kids) that speaks of losing a loved one."

"I lost my husband last year and my seven-year-old son can't seem to cope. Daytime is no problem; he has many distractions.  But when he goes to bed at night, he cries."

I cupped her hand for lack of words. "Maybe I should write about that issue sometime soon," I wished aloud.

She hurriedly left and when she came back, she had with her a copy of Super Devos. “Will you sign it? I will read this with him whenever he goes to bed at night.”

I wrote on the first page:

Dear Joseph,

God, our heavenly Father loves you and watches over you every moment. Your dad can't  not be with you anymore, but Jesus can.  In fact, your father and Father God are together in heaven. From that wonderful place, God feels everything you feel and He knows your every need.  Talk to Him every night and trust Him to make things right for you."

"Ms. Grace," the lady said after reading what I had written, "you just made me very happy!"

The bright look on her face was grace so great my eyes pooled.

In celebration, I am changing my header:

 

A new one takes its place:    

Great Grace at the Book Fair

This was the experience of the Early Church: "And with great power the apostles gave witness to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus. And great grace was upon them all." (Acts 4:33)

I might have experienced the same at, of all places, the noisy Manila International Book Fair. As people swarmed and buzzed like bees inside the OMFLit booth, I signed copies of my books, particularly the two new ones: Solo Flight (Embracing the Single Life and Discovering God's Purpose), co-authored with Francie Castaneda-Lacanilao; and Tree for All (book #13 in the Oh, Mateo! series), illustrated by Beth Parrocha-Doctolero.

But the signing took only half of the time. Posing for photos and conversing with readers took the other half.  

Through these two activities, great grace also came upon me.   

"Your photo with my kid last year—I had it framed.  It's on his bed headboard," one dad said.

Then while I was signing about two dozen books for an eight-year-old boy,  I exclaimed, "I see you're buying most of my books.  I hope you enjoy reading them!"

He replied, "Oh, I have read them all.  My mom wants a new set to give away to my friends and cousins!"

Next in line was a pretty teenager who asked me to sign Tree for All.  Sheepishly, she said, "I am 16 years old, and you might think I am too old for children's book. But I love reading the Oh, Mateo! series and I bought this to complete my collection."

“Nobody is ever too old for children's books,” I assured her.  The Little Prince is a required reading for my college students in English class."

"I heard you talking about Solo Flight on DZAS, so I rushed over to buy a copy," a middle-aged single lady said.

"May the Lord bless you a thousandfold as you continue writing about His grace," a Pastor whispered in my ear so I could hear it over the noise.  

"The lines to all the four cashiers are too long, so would you sign my books now—I promise not to abscond with them!" an elderly lady said.

"I need four copies of Solo Flight," a yuppy remarked as he took them from the pile on my table.

"Christmas gifts?" I asked.

"No, I am going to leave them at the nurses' station in the hospital where I work, so they'd be available for anyone who goes there," he said.

"Oh, you work in a hospital—as what?" I asked.

"I am a doctor," he replied.

All this great grace at  the book fair!   

I prayed right then and there that by this same grace, I can keep writing for and about the Source of it all.

Day 1: Book Signing for SOLO FLIGHT 

Day 2: Interview on DZAS

Cushioned Fall

Is there a place in this life where nothing hurts?  Even if you stumble or slip, you won't feel any pain?

There is. I was there with Adrian.

 

It's one of those play centers, where, for a sum, children could exert all their energy jumping, screaming, skipping, tumbling, falling and nothing will ever make you sad. Everything has been padded to cushion every fall.  

What a wonderful world it was.  It was mine, too, when Adrian spent a few days with us, while his parents took a much-needed respite in Bangkok.

It was a world loaded with fun, laughter, and adventure. Everyday cares vanished; weekly chores waited; appointments slumbered; and schedules hibernated.

It was a world wonderfully turned upside down, in four short days. (At this writing, he and his parents are back in Michigan.)

Alas, the real world isn't as safe.  We experience everyday bumps and humps. We hurt and ache from some quirky turns and risky rides.

And yet, life is worth living and exploring—this is the lesson I learned when I saw life through the eyes of a four-year-old. 

With much verve and energy,  Adrian taught me that for one to fully appreciate the gift of life, one must, without fear, keep trying, exploring, experimenting, discovering with all the varied gizmos God has given us, over which we have dominion.

Although we may grieve in the process, we can echo David in Psalm 16:8 (NLT), “I know the Lord is always with me. I will not be shaken, for He is right beside me.

Adrian's “no fear” attitude and David's confidence are what we need to have a wider view of and truly feel the many layers and dimensions of grace.

Beside Still Waters

What can the first three verses of the Shepherd Psalm mean but this?

This is being made to lie down in green pastures. 

This is being led beside the still waters. 

This is when the soul is being restored. 

This is being gifted with one marvelous hour of rest.  

This is quiet grace in loud abundance.  

Thank you, Lord, for a day such as this. 

(Taken one early Saturday morning at a resort club south of Manila, while waiting for the rest of the family to stir for breakfast.)     

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. 

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. 

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. 

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; 

Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. 

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.  Psalm 23 (KJV)

Compartment Bags

Finding a needle in a haystack is easier than shopping for the bag (purse) I like.

This nugget of wisdom came to me on the 2nd hour inside the 5th store and I haven't found the bag. (I need a bag like I need a hole in the head!  But the search continues.)

I actually found it in the fund-raising auction of our clan reunion. Unfortunately, when I reached my price ceiling, I stopped bidding.  Naturally, I was outbid by a cousin.

What sort of a bag is it? One in a bright neutral color; with a sweeping view of all its contents when zipped opened, zero weight, 10-inches height; and has a 2-inch-wide straps that would hang just so from my shoulders.

No bag organizer please—it's additional weight.

Little Ones Need Words

“Cambodia is beautiful!” my son JR gushed after a four-day tour of the country's sights.

I was in Phnom Penh in 2007 and stayed double the time JR was there, yet I hardly saw anything except the sights along the main road and an orphanage hall where I conducted a workshop on writing for children.

But I agree with JR, “Cambodia is beautiful!”

I saw the nation in the heart of its people who, despite help from the UN and other countries, are still reeling from years of pillage and plunder by a cruel regime.     

When I say people, I mean 14 budding Christian writers who attended the workshop, with the help of two translators. There was still no children's book written by a Khmer for Khmer children.

Media Associates International (MAI), an organization of which I am a member, made it possible for me to be there.  In partnership with a local publishing house, MAI “helps satisfy local children’s hunger for stories that nourish their hearts and fan their imaginations.”

I shared with the attendees all I know about weaving magic in stories. Saddened by their country's tragic history, I was surprised by their enthusiasm. Only the themes of their drafts revealed their fears.

From that workshop, an engaging story entitled Miknia's Doll was published a few months later—the first-ever book for children written in Khmer!

Although  the 14 new Christian writers still had to understand happiness, in eight days they learned about giving hope to children born in turbulent times.

Aside from Cambodia, many more hard countries are parched from a dearth of children's books written in their heart language.

MAI has been helping, but the organization subsists on grace—on funding from organizations and aid from individuals who share its vision.

May I ask you to help? How? 

MAI hopes to win a grant from “Giving of Life,” an organization ready to give funding to ministries that can garner the highest votes.  Please click and vote for MAI.

Your vote will help MAI equip writers to make little ones know—through excellent literature—that children are wonderfully made, and to them the Kingdom of God belongs.     

Captain America is Here!

Adrian came home to a rousing welcome by two sets of families (his dad's and mom's), with a midnight snack and a Captain America cake.

Unlike last year (exactly 16 months ago) when he wasn't in perfect mood to meet strange faces, he didn't disappoint this year. Despite lack of sleep and fatigue from an 18-hour or so flight, he gave out two cards he made himself—one for each family—tight hugs and kisses.

This writer has misplaced words that describe the feelings of seeing one's absentee grandson in person again.  (That is not to say we excluded his parents from the excitement, but the little superhero took the lion's share of the mass delirium).

As his other (maternal) grandpa aptly said, “Our boss is here.”

 Please excuse me while I spend short precious moments with Captain America.

Bad news and Good News

Life is a quick succession of bad news and good news.

It doesn't take brain surgery to figure this out. One simply has to wake up in the morning and a surprise can either startle you or make your sparkle.

This week, I sparkled just thinking of the much-postponed meeting with an old friend whom I see only on Facebook. We made time for coffee. During our non-stop chat, she startled me with the news that her husband's cancer, on remission for many years, has recurred and soon he will go through chemo. 

Later in the day, I sparkled bumping into a friend in a hotel lobby. She looked much better than when she lost her son a few months earlier. After some pleasantries, she startled me with what had happened to her husband—he was diagnosed with liver cancer and is recuperating from surgery.

Double Delight, Year Two

It's been a year since our little seven-year-old twins stepped inside a school for the first time in their lives. Then they had zero knowledge about the ABCs, colors, numbers, and shapes.   

What a difference a year makes!

Now eight years old, here they are—about two inches taller, a few pounds heavier, and many notches smarter.

 
They now know their alphabets, arithmetic, all shades of the rainbow, and all the animals in the forest.  They can read both English and Filipino, and write quickly and legibly.

Captain America is Coming!

This superhero—together with Green Lantern, Spiderman, Iron man, and Batman—is coming to Las Pinas on the 30th of August!

Our whole household, composed of four adults, are more than excited—we are in a tizzy; if we don't take time to breathe we'd burst. 

All five heroes come in one neat little package called Adrian—my four-year-old grandson.  He moves from one super hero to another in a span of hours and couldn't quite make up his mind who he really is. 

His mom calls it recycling.  One minute, he's making like Captain America, the other minute, he's asking me and Tony for a Green Lantern thingy—as a belated gift for his recent birthday.

Fear of Growing Old

In a coffee shop sometime ago, I overheard two teenagers chatting:  

Girl 1: “My mom is sooo old, she'll never understand what I am going through.”

Girl 2: “If you think your mom's old,  mine's worse—she just turned 47!  Ugh, I can never talk to her about anything!”

It took colossal effort to keep myself from yelling, Hey, 47 is sooo young, you hear! 

Too Much, Too Little

My friend ALB (whom I love dearly) and I enjoy the same things—especially the arts, crafts, music, and exotic places.  We both gush and drool over art books and travel brochures in unison.  We could talk for hours about the many wonderful places and beautiful things we've seen.

“You and I have the same taste,” I tell her, “the only difference is, you have the money and I have the looks.”  She loves the joke.

Two Missing Semicolons

One print ad that I helped write was published this morning. To my horror, it has two missing semi-colons!  In their places, I had erroneously typed commas. Shoulda, woulda, coulda!

You are probably laughing at how anyone could be so distraught over two missing inky-dinky semicolons!  

Well, I also laughed when . . .

my friend G, an art director, was furious when her artwork came out on a tarpaulin with a lighter magenta than she specified;

Brainstorming Again!

One of the things that charmed me most (and which I now miss) about advertising was brainstorming.

Looking for a big idea, two to six people clump together—usually in a small corner or the corridor—to pick each other's brain. The rules: “No censorship. Say what's in your mind, no matter how stupid.” 

It usually begins slow, then, like building blocks, a blah thought is tossed around like a ball. Before it is passed back to the originator, the ball has already taken a different shape.

Paid Hacks

Among friends and students, I remain the only one with a Jurassic mobile phone. It's four years old, and I have no plans of buying a new one.

Aside from being frugal, of course, I keep my phone because I use it for only two reasons: calling and text messaging. My prepaid card of P500 lasts me three months. I receive very few text messages, I have a separate digi-cam, and I avoid calling anyone because of tinnitus—I hear hiss and buzz over voices—so I use the land line.

One-way Ticket to the Unknown

Over an early lunch, I said good-bye to a client of many years, one who has become a dear friend in the process.

Rosy and her husband, plus four children, will soon fly to Canada and will reside there permanently. 

There is always FB, of course, and the email to keep us in close touch, but the thought of not working with her ever again makes eyes well up.   

“Do you have relatives there?” I asked. Many of my friends who have chosen to live abroad have relatives waiting for them. 

“None,” she replied.

“None, as in --”

Tinnitus

That sounds like a horrible word.  It even rhymes with the equally horrid tetanus.  

Tinnitus IS horrible.  It comes from the Latin word that means “ringing.” 

Nothing horrible about ringing, really. Not when it comes from bells, alarm clocks, and the telephone.

But when it happens 24/7 within the human ear, mine particularly—its' @#$%!

After reading my friend Yay's blog about her migraine woes, I wrote her: “We are all going through some kind of pain, Yay. Quitting is a cop out. Easier said than done, but in our noisy moments, when we debate with ourselves, we hear another voice that says, 'Be still and know that I am God.'"

Travel to the Perfect Country

I made it to the cover of TraveLife Magazine, July 20 special edition!  How many copies in circulation? One.  

It didn't go on magazine stands—it came straight to me via email from an artist friend, Ryan.

Why would anyone go through the trouble of making me a beautiful TraveLife cover on my birthday? I ask myself that question whenever I receive a gift painstakingly done.  And then I look at me and what I joyfully go through to give my friends and loved ones a gift I labored on. (When I handed my friend Rose a faux pearl necklace I designed and strung myself, her eyes misted. Oh, but that's another story.)   

Amok Runs Amok

I am running amok with superlatives; I am raving over the indie movie, Amok.

Now showing at the 7Cinemalaya 2011, Amok was one of three full-length movies we (JC and three friends) watched last Saturday.  By far, it was the fairest of them all.

Going to Cinemalaya has been a yearly birthday grace for me through my boys.  In all those years, there have been films that really stand out —films that raise the bar and make me proud to be a Pinoy. 

This year, Amok, makes me immensely proud.  (I still have not watched some of the movies like the much-touted Ang Babae sa Septic Tank and Patikul in the competition, but thus far, Amok is already in a class by itself.)     

The theater was crowded so we took seats separate from each other, but when we finally got together after the movie, we were one in our squeals of excitement: “Excellent!” 

It was directed by an idealistic young man, Lawrence “Law” Fajardo, who has yet to perfect his spoken Filipino.  He hails from Bacolod so that explains the language difficulty. But that's only when you hear him speak (he and the production staff took time to take questions after the showing).  Watching his film, you know he is a master of Manila's soul.

 

My main complaint over Filipino films, in general, is the pacing. Editors love to linger and dawdle on a scene, over-explaining and making it a tad too—well, boring.  

But Amok cuts and cuts—at the right places, just when your emotion is on a high gear. The first half is a series of vignettes reflecting real people's heart and soul, and I say to myself, “How on earth is the director ever going to put all these riveting—but totally unrelated—mini conflicts together?” 

Fajardo does.  He seamlessly puts them all into a powerful, unified whole. Little wonder, he himself is the editor, who is deep into TV ads.   

All the elements in the movie contribute to making it gasp-enducing: 1) Cast.  “Acting,” as Stanislavski puts it, “is believing.”  All the characters (Mark Gil, take a bow) are believable;  2) Concept.  Every frame—close-up, medium shot, and long shot—enhances the temper's quick rise to boiling point;  3) Framing. Never dull, never predictable; 4) Editing. Fierce, fast, and fiery; 5) Direction. Sensitive and incisive;  6) Tonality. It deftly combines suspense, gore, and humor.

And oh, what a charming creative touch on the graffiti: I  AM OK.

In addition to the director (the long-haired man in red whom we sought out for this photo op), kudos goes to: Screenplay, John Bedia; Script Consultant, Paul Sta. Ana; Executive Producer, Krisma Fajardo; Director of Photography, Louie Quirino; Producers, Tessa Aquino and Lawrence Fajardo; Asst. Director, Jobin Ballesteros; Production Designer, Lawrence Fajardo; Production Managers, Philip Buena and Ron Capili; Editor, Lawrence Fajardo; and Sound, Mike Idioma.

The only hiccup in my litany of praises (at the risk of being branded a prissy prude) is: the bed scene.

Snipping away some 60-seconds of overt footage will not diminish the art nor the drama. All one needs is a few seconds to get the point. Overstating the creative intent often drags fluid storytelling.
 

Squatting in line for the next movie