What Color Am I?

Color has played a big part in our political scene.

During campaign time, parties become brands; they choose a particular color to distinguish them from other brands. Red, yellow, blue, green, purple, orange—each for a political party or a candidate. 

This color phenomenon was birthed when Ninoy Aquino, then a political exile in America, came home and was killed at the Manila International Airport (now known as Ninoy Aquino International airport).

For this grand homecoming of Martial Law's most vocal foe, people tied yellow ribbons all over. Taking off from the song “Tie a Yellow Ribbon,” pro-democracy Filipinos tied yellow ribbons not just around tree branches but around their car's antenna or anything that resembled a branch. Metro Manila blossomed with yellow ribbons.  

In the next three years, yellow would be the color of protest against the dictatorship. And yellow became the color of people power and those associated with it: yellow is the color of our president, PNoy; yellow army is how his supporters are called.

Today, there are issues on grand-scale corruption, involving the Priority Development Assistance Fund (PDAF) handled by our law makers. Nicknamed the PDAF scam, it has stoked anger among tax payers, prompting them to mount an anti-PDAF campaign at the Luneta.

I attended that massive rally, together with an estimated 200,000 people of all political colors. Result: PNoy suspended the PDAF; the Department of Justice and the Senate Blue Ribbon Committee are conducting investigations and inquiries into the issue; the alleged facilitator of the scam, Jeanette Napoles, is in jail awaiting judicial process, etc.

Because the scam involves moneyed and powerful politicians, who can manipulate the hysterical media, the issue has morphed into a dozen derivatives. A second rally was mounted: anti-PDAF; “oust PNoy, he's involved”; down with the government; close the senate and congress; damn the Philippines.

This rally, which became a clash of colors instead of being united against one issue, I skipped. About 3,500 people attended it.

So what color am I?

One of the organizers of the Million People March at Luneta, Peachy Rallonza-Bretana (who disagreed with the multi-intent of the 2nd rally), captured my thoughts on FB through a poster by Betty Abrantes.

(English translation: I am not yellow. I am not green. I am not red. I am not blue. I am not orange. I AM A FILIPINO. This is my color.)

On the issue of corruption, my color is Filipino.

As such, ranting and raving are out of the question. Instead, I pray for grace to help my color live these verses, “So then, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath;  for the wrath of man does not produce the righteousness of God.” (James 1:19-20)

May every Filipino who dons this color be granted this grace.

Silent Saturday

Photo credit: Pinterest 

Who Killed Kae?

Death of a loved one is not something you can put behind you—ever. The ache will dull in time, but it stays; it throbs intensely on some days and faintly on others.

I've had my share of deaths in the family—son, father, mother, mom-in-law, dad-in-law, aunts and uncles, and many more. It is like being trapped in the darkest cavern, not knowing how to get out. But grace pokes a hole into the darkness and light streams though.

That's why I am on the same page as Kae's family, especially because of the manner in which she left us all.

The crime has been neatly tied up by the NBI, case closed, punishment will come to the cheap thugs who murdered her. But it is precisely the neatness of the wrap-up that perplexes us—those whose lives Kae touched at one point in her short journey.

Neat.

That word brings us to how the NBI re-enacted the crime. So neat that we, Tony Calvento (veteran columnist and broadcast journalist) among us, question:

“Random act of robbery.” Why leave Kae's engagement ring and watch intact? Why not just run off with her car and its contents instead of dragging her into it? Why ply a gated subdivision, risking the guardhouse, instead of prowling through main streets for victims? Why kill her with such passion? Why burn her car instead of selling it for a sum?  

Reading similar questions on FB's “Justice for Kae,” a wall administered by Kae's loved ones, is like dredging the deep pain they already feel. But questions need to be asked; the investigation leaves gaps even an amateur sleuth can see. 

Digging up the truth worsens the torment, but I think that in our search for justice, grace will help us bear it all, so the mastermind/s can't go scot-free, laughing all the way to bank with 2.5 million pesos. 

Where is justice for Kae?

This reminds me of the Lord's admonition to the Israelites, which might well be His admonition to the NBI and the police—and the perpetrators of this unconscionable murder:

“You shall not distort justice; you shall not be partial, and you shall not take a bribe, for a bribe blinds the eyes of the wise and perverts the words of the righteous. Justice, and only justice, you shall pursue, that you may live and possess the land which the LORD your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 16:19-20)

Lord, help us find justice for our dear Kae. Help us have Your “gift of land.”

Photo credit: FB Justice for KAE

The Indies

Four out of the five independent films were great; however, they were 10 minutes too long, which kept them from moving up to excellent.

That, in one sentence, is my personal review of the films we chose to watch on the last day of Cinemalaya 9 at the Cultural Center of the Philippines this year. The 5th one, which I will not name, should not have been filmed.

One day in a year, my sons, close friends, and I make time for indie films during the week-long Cinemalaya Festival. It's a time for re-connecting with old friends, supporting the film industry, and seeing life the way it is.  Indies show us the harsh realities of life which we gloss over the rest of the year.

Through five to eight films (including shorts), we zoom into the world we live in—in the raw, uncloaked by showbiz glitz.

This year we waited for the last day, after all the reviews had come in, instead of the first, which had been our tradition.

What we missed were speeches of the directors and producers and photo ops with various cast on opening night.

What we gained were the picks of the lot—noteworthy films that won most of the recognition on Awards Night.

“Great” indeed would be the adjective I'd stick to for four of the films: Transit, Babagwa, Ekstra, and Quick Change. Casting, acting, cinematography, directing, and over-all impact, two thumbs up.

Again, my only beef is the extra “10 minutes” that made each film drag in parts. Had the editor cut a few seconds here and there in some scenes, the flow and tempo would have been crisper. 

For instance, there was that scene where the camera followed the actress all over the room and into the bathroom . . . that scene where the players walked from one end of the river to the other . . . those scenes repeated a few times to make a point, but still had the same length each time . . . those prolonged explicit sex gymnastics.

Our collective thoughts: these drawn-out scenes had nothing spectacular to say further, except to hold the plot at a standstill, so why dwell on them?

Long scenes are not new in cinema, but the exceptional films that employed this technique had something important to dramatize, adding texture to the over-all concept (Ingmar Bergman and Akira Kurosawa are famous for those).

My “10-minute” discontent notwithstanding, I remain a viewer of Cinemalaya—it adds dimension to the arid and cruel landscapes of life that remain so because grace is ignored or unrecognized.

I hope to learn more in year 10 next year. 

Throwback Thursday

This photo was unearthed from an auntie's (the lady with the "x") old album, and sent via email to our clan e-groups. My nephew, Mutch, who lives in the US, considered it an irreplaceable treasure and had it restored and enlarged.

What would have been unthinkable in the past is now a cinch to do. Courtesy of modern technology, here's the photo we have today:

It shows my maternal grandparents and their nine children, taken way before the third generation (mine) came to be. My mother (third from right, second row), seventh in the order of sibling succession, must have been in her twenties.

We bring the framed photo to our yearly reunion, now on its 69th year.

Growing up, I had the privilege of receiving counsel and learning important values from them before they all went to glory, and probably now singing old hymns of worship at Jesus' feet. 

Funny that Throwback Thursday (hashtag #TBT), an invention of social media users of this generation, can make people of bygone times scramble for photos of yesteryears and connect the ancient humanoids with the modern cyberoids. 

This trend has caught on, and some netizens have expanded the content of TBT to include songs and videos from the past.

There can be no telling where grace will continue to take me as I grow in years—but now I can quickly shuttle between then and now with clear, sharp photos such as this, and make the link between roots and wings.

Shine and Zoom

With a stubborn flu virus keeping me in bed for days, I couldn't shine nor zoom, even if I tried. So this post about the children's party I got invited to is awfully late.

The party was mine—well, only in the sense that the invitations were issued in my name by Church Strengthening Ministry (CSM), publisher of my two devotionals for children, “Shine” (for girls) and “Zoom” (for boys), launched at the Manila International Book Fair. 

“Shine” comes from Matthew 5:16, which is actually my life verse. I quote the KJV version because that's what is stored in my brain's RAM drive: "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven." 

“Zoom” comes from Philippians 3:12, “I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us.” (NLT)

I don't get invited to children's parties anymore. So you can imagine my excitement to be a part of this one.

It had everything I remember about every children's party in my past life—balloons, a puppet show, storytelling, raffle prizes, games, food, emcees—a celebration of God's goodness.   

The kids came with their moms, dads, grandparents, and yayas. Young and old had a riotous time.

After the unveiling of the books, I got a beautiful bouquet of roses and a cool sign pen from CSM, then the chat with the children began. This part of the party included photo ops with every friend who came around.

They don't make parties like this anymore—not in my world, not since I got my senior discount card. The event even had Pastor Reuel and his six-year-old daughter, Mika, thrown in as super emcees.

Grace also came in a neatly wrapped package. It had in it a publishing team that shines and zooms in bringing God closer to kids through these devotionals: Faye and Nadz, illustrators; Daff, project editor; Joy, editorial manager; and Abner, CEO.

Can a recovering flu victim ask for happier memories?

The Color of Flu

Blue is the color of flu. The bug got to me—and it seems to be the stubborn, thorny variety. 

The bed is not exactly the best place to be, but grace doesn't choose the spaces where it goes. I keep finding it there. 

Meanwhile, my shop is closed today.

Photo: by Dhara Shah

The White Shoes

As a young reader, I hated authors writing about their books' back story. I wanted to keep books pure in my mind.

But in later years, I started reading reviews. Now I read reviews before I buy a book.

When I became an author myself, I had learned to google and in the process, discovered that back stories actually make books even more interesting! 

So now I am about to write one. It is not my intention to turn off readers who, like I once did, hate back stories.  

“The White Shoes” came to me like a flash flood. I was busy threshing out book ideas piled in my head, and I had just decided never again to join any writing competition—it is a stressful preoccupation. (This will be explained in a separate blog post.) 

But Rose, my friend and co-teacher, and I were idly chatting one day about our uncomfortable high-heeled shoes in school. She mentioned her friend, Eva, who was so poor she only owned a grubby pair of black shoes. So Eva had to scrounge around for her graduation white shoes.

Deeply affected by the story of Eva's youth, I scribbled on my little notebook some key words. As soon as I got home that night, I fleshed out those words.

From that day, I wrote and re-wrote a story now begging to be told. I took liberties with Eva's shoes—twisted, turned and tangled details—and got my first draft done. (It takes a long time for my writing lamp to burn. Unlike some writers who are able to whip up a story in a day, I agonize over every character, scene, and word, sometimes for months.)

When I finally had the guts to let Rose read my draft (5th or 6th), she sniffled, “I love it!” I wasn't prepared for that reaction; her tears bothered me. I wanted the story light, not mushy or a tear-jerker. I simply wanted children to be grateful for what they are blessed with. 
 
I revised the story many more times and again, showed it to Rose. She smiled through all the pages—but still wiped a tear. One tear, I thought, isn't so bad. Kids are less generous with their tears anyway.

That was also a moment of decision—I sent the manuscript (probably my 56th revision) to the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards 2012. More flash floods, like flash grace, came after that:

It won first prize; it would be published by OMF Lit who chose Sergio Bumatay III as illustrator. I am a fan of Serge, who has, to date, reaped many international awards.

Serge, however, couldn't work on “The White Shoes” till after five months. Joan, my editor, and I decided to wait . . . and wait . . . and wait.

                                                  ooo
                                                         
Seven months later, inside the OMF Lit booth at the Manila International Book Fair, I saw for the first time the printed book, in “Kraft” paper, symbolic of shoe boxes. I caressed every page, seeing how much of Serg's heart is in the story:  

Eva poignantly looks down all the way till the end when she finally looks up, surrounded by shoes of all kinds, and smiles.

I likewise looked up, surrounded by books of all kinds, and smiled to thank the Source of books and shoes. I prayed that young readers would always be grateful for their blessings. 

Dad's Unsent Letter

My dad was not a letter writer.

He delegated the task to my mom who loved writing  anything, everything, and anytime to anyone in her circle, especially her children—and in her later years, her grandchildren. If she were alive in this electronic age, she'd be writing a hundred emails a day.

I lived in the US for a few years, and in all those times, dad wrote me only once. I rhapsodized about that letter in an essay published in two newspapers there. 

Today would have been his 101st birthday had he lived long enough to celebrate it. But cancer snatched him, at age 70, away from us years ago.

I remember him now because on my birthday last July, my sister Aie gifted me with a letter written by dad on my birthday when I was still single and in Chicago—a letter I never received. Aie said she found it buried among our mom's old file in our old home just recently. (He called me May.)

I believe it was his response to my letter about my decision to get married—to a stranger they had yet to meet—asking for his and mom's blessings. 

What I remember vividly is that my mom wrote me a lengthy letter saying how delighted she and dad were about my decision to have a family of my own (“It's about time,” she assured me) and that I had their blessings.

It puzzles me no end why dad decided not to send this letter.

Did he forget to mail it? Was he averse to expressing his feelings? Did he find his letter mushy? Was he against my decision after all? Why even write on a lovely stationery my mother never used? Questions, questions.

Over the years, I have experienced unexpected grace in unexpected circumstances in unexpected forms, which I will treasure to my grave. But this letter tops the heap.

Now I know that my father, who was loathe to show his affection, was once affectionate, never mind if it was only on a letter that was never sent.

For this, let me change my old header and in its place, a new one—in thanksgiving to the our heavenly Father who surprises me with grace beyond retelling.

Daddy, “I thank my God every time I remember you.” Philippians 1:3 (NIV)

Circle of Compassion Launched

Can I do this? I repeatedly asked myself midway through the first draft of the first chapter.

My writing voice, according to my editors and readers, is light and breezy—sometimes funny, sometimes perfunctory, often reflective, but never heavy.

So how can one do the same for the heavy hand of poverty? There is nothing light and breezy about it, neither is it funny nor perfunctory, and one cannot be reflective without feeling and sharing the pain.

Poverty cannot be sugarcoated.    

Circle of Compassion is about destitute children, born under the worst living conditions, but who have grown wings through Compassion International (CI), whose ministry is to release children from poverty in Jesus' name.

I had heard all about these stories before as a member of CI's consultative five-member advisory group for the last nine years. But seeing the children's heart in the raw, up close, hearing the details of their growing-up struggles, I was ready to step on the brakes and call it quits.

What's so amazing about grace, however, is that it urges you on and you can't retreat to the pit stop, not even for tire repairs.

Story after story, I felt as though Someone had taken the wheel from me and kept my engine running. He gifted me with people at CI who rigged me up for more. I flew to Cebu to interview a goon-turned-Christian, a drug lord-turned-CI volunteer, a communist-turned-pastor, a social worker-turned-CI leader—they made their way to the book, enriching the children's stories. The draft took on a shape of its own.

After the manuscript went to my editor, I got terribly sick with gastroenteritis that knocked me out for three days, sapped of strength to reach the finish line.    

But here it is, in printed form!

It was launched on the first day of the 2013 Manila International Book Fair. The event was attended by the Country Director of CI and some of his department heads. Our photos below tell the story of how, in the writing process, I (held up by the OMF Lit's publication team) was ensconced in God's circle of compassion so I could join the happy occasion to celebrate the work of His hands.

"The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands.” Psalm 19:1 (NIV)

Conversations at the Book Fair 2013

The 2013 MIBF is in full swing. And all my days are packed with punishing schedules and energizing joy.

I haven't had time to shop, but let me post some of the things that made me roll on the floor laughing.

Three 6-year-old kids hovered around just smiling at me, saying nothing. Then one of them probably wanted to break the quiet conversation and whispered in my ear.

Kid: I am almost finished with my book.

Me: Say that again, please? (I whispered back, making sure I heard right.)

Kid: I am writing a book. It's a very good one and I am almost done.

Her friend: What did you tell Grace D. Chong?

Kid: Nothing.

Me: It's a secret she can't tell you yet.

More smiles all around.

 

                                               ooo
A little girl runs to me followed by her parents.

Little girl: Hello, Grace D. Chong!

Me: Hi! What's your name?

Little girl: You forgot my name?! she gasped, with matching big incredulous eyes.

Her mom: Honey, she saw you last Book Fair. That was a year ago.

Little girl (to me): You don't know my name?!  She wouldn't let me off the hook. I offered my little notebook where I request people to write the name they'd like written on the books I sign.  

Me: Here, honey, write your name, I might misspell it.

Little Girl: You can't spell my name?!

Me: Well, I sometimes make mistakes.

Little girl (writing on my notebook): It's B-E-R-N-I-C-E!

Me: Oh, yes, Bernice! Of course!

Little girl: What's my mom's name?

Oh, dear.

These are some of the grace thrown my way at the Book Fair. I wouldn't trade them for any conversation in the world.

More Book Fair posts as soon as it is over this Sunday. Meanwhile, I have to run.

Justice for Kae

Whoever created this movie title, “The Good Die Young,” in 1954 would have to be thinking of someone like Kae, our dearest Kae.

Everything about Kae was good. I can say that with authority; she was my student in two college subjects (Advertising and Business English).

Checkmate

It was going to be my checking day. Meaning, I reserved the day to check my students' papers—not at home, but in the posh ambiance of the mall lounge, a sneezing distance away from where I live. 

(An aside: that huge shopping mall has been one huge grace. It is now my extension living room, where I can roam around or park myself anytime I please in shorts and tees.)

My Happy Place

It's that time of the year again!

Behind the (Bad) Behavior

Every act displayed in public has a back story; we can't take what we see at its face value. Often, if not always, we react to what our peepers witness precisely because we are not privy to what happens behind the scene.

This I have to remind myself, because I forget, or I mistakenly focus on what I see, based on GMRC (Good Manners and Right Conduct), which my generation takes seriously. 

A Million People March

Four days after the event: Everything that has to be said has already been posted online. A blog seems superfluous now, especially because the march has been overtaken by other big news headlines:

Pray for the Corrupt

The massive and shameless corruption involving a number of people in government, in partnership with swindlers, has hogged the headlines for days.

Billions of taxpayers' money for infrastructure projects and calamity ravaged areas, according to the Commission on Audit (COA) report, went to private pockets through bogus Non-Government Organizations (NGO). 

Lord, Teach Us to Pray

A gust of refreshing grace came to us through a preacher from the US one Sunday. He was not only a riveting speaker, he was also funny, and had us in stitches while he hammered in only one point—a most important act of Jesus, and therefore, every Christian's.

Prayer. 

Wordless Wednesday

Millionaires' Club

Each time I watch my students march onstage to receive their university diploma, this thought visits me, “Welcome to the Millionaires' club!” There were over two dozens of them in black cap and gown last Saturday.

Prescription Glasses

For years I was deluded by the thought that I had 20/20 vision. Except for reading glasses, which everyone needs upon stepping beyond the age of 40, I needed nothing else.

Interrobang?!

The origin or parents of the interrobang, a.k.a. Interabang, are my favorite punctuation marks. Why? Well, first, what is interrobang?

It is a nonstandard punctuation mark meant to combine the functions of the question  mark  (interrogative point) and the exclamation mark (known in printing as “bang”). Put them together and you get: 

Some dictionaries define it as a punctuation mark in the form of a question mark superimposed on an exclamation point, used to end a simultaneous question and exclamation.

Courage

What is courage?

Romeo and Juliet

This tragic play by William Shakespeare is the most famous love story in the English literary tradition. It focuses on the intense passion that springs up at first sight between Romeo and Juliet, who belong to rival families.

Oh, to be in love . . . 

Naming a Baby

It took a few days before the royals (William and Kate) of England could name their newborn.

I think they might have consulted so many people (or were pressured by even more people) and reviewed history to finally decide on George Alexander Louis, who will be known as Prince George of Cambridge.

A Death in the Family

James Agee, author of A Death in the Family said this in the book:

I Am an Apple

My latest book, which will be in bookstores soon, was inspired by a little girl (daughter of two dear friends, at whose wedding I stood as a sponsor), who is as pretty as she is smart.

Happy Birthday

All through the day today, I am not being presumptuous when I say that people will be singing me the most famous English song in the whole world: Happy birthday to You.

It is my birthday (which I, typically, forgot when I woke up this morning) and in a couple of hours, I should be attending a seminar in church, which will gather about two dozen people.

Unclaimed Grace

“I am claiming it!” my friend Margie, who has been praying for a child for years, exclaimed with bravado. “The Lord will give me a baby soon,” she added.

I feel uneasy with the word “claim” when talking to God. I always have.

To my mind, nobody has any right to claim anything from the Lord; only He has the right to decide what to give us—and when. He owes us nothing. In fact this is what His grace is all about; we deserve zero, but He heaps blessings upon us anyway. 

I verbalized my aversion to the word “claim” to an old pastor friend.

He laughed and said, “Christians who 'claim' are simply exercising their faith. They just want to show that they trust God 100%.”

“I trust God with the same percentage,” I argued. “But to 'claim'?!”

In my head I turned what he said around, but still couldn't grasp it. Not until I read a small coupon attached to an ad in a newspaper.   

“Clip this coupon to claim your FREE eco bag at a designated booth at . . .”

The word “claim” hit me between the eyes.  I looked for a catch in the ad—in the fine prints—but found nothing. It required nothing, all I needed was the coupon to claim my prize.

Ah, so, I thought, grace is like coupons upon coupons of free gifts strewn everywhere by God.

Many of these coupons are left unclaimed because we can't find them—we are either too busy with worldly persuasions, or distracted elsewhere, or are not looking hard enough. So when we finally find one or two (many more if we wish), we can claim our prizes because they're ours—free.

“From his abundance we have all received one gracious blessing after another.” (John 1:16 NLT)

Despite my new understanding, I still won't say 'claim' when praying, but I no longer flinch when I hear it from others.

Thoughts on Dying

Death is a universal fear.

That statement isn't mine; it is a research datum, the exact percentage of which escapes me now. This documented fear stems from dread of the unknown—what happens after death.

I like to think I have no such fear.

In my conversations about earthly death with my friend Yay, who shares my faith, my imagination has painted scenes so spectacular they can't be written in words. It will be a beautiful time—the most beautiful time—to finally see Jesus face-to-face and experience the splendor of heaven and the grandeur of grace for eternity.

My dread is more about being a burden to my children, who now lead their own lives, or caregivers in my last days. So while the going is good (meaning, my faculties are still well-oiled for using my gifts to serve my Creator), I will wake up singing a song of thanksgiving every morning till my designated last book shall have been written and my last breath snuffed out.  

Let me segue to José Martí, a Cuban patriot, freedom fighter and poet. Although he never lived to see Cuba free, he is considered the national hero. This quote is attributed to him:

“Three things you need to do before you die: Plant a tree, write a book, have a son.”

In reverse order, I have done all three.

I gave birth to not one, but four sons (my second, Adrian, was flown home by angels to Jesus soon after he was born); I have written not one, but a few books, as you can see on this site; and I have planted . . . well, just one tree.

I couldn't do it alone, so someone came to my rescue. It was caught on camera for posterity and, yes, proof that I had indeed planted one tree!   

Right now I fondly remember my uncle Billy. On his deathbed, he held my hand and said in his inimitable humor, “I am all packed, honey, ready to go.” I have never been blessed with an uncle more excited about meeting his Maker.

Jesus said in John 11:23-26 (NLT), “I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying. Everyone who lives in me and believes in me will never ever die . . .”

Love Is Thicker Than Blood

"Our family never shared the same last name, 
but our family was a family the same.
And they say blood is thicker than water, 
but love is thicker than blood.”

This is from a song composed and written by country singer Garth Brooks, which never fails to bring tears  to my eyes. It's about his family—how his parents each had children of his/her own when they married, then together, they had Garth. Theirs is a home of his, hers, and ours.

But in that family, the children were never allowed to use the words “half brother” or “half sister.” They were all told to regard each other as brothers and sisters.

This brings to my mind the many adopted children in our midst, who came into parents not related to them by blood. These children grow up with the stigma (except for those who were told early in their childhood) of being adopted.

 
Adoption is a recurring theme in the stories that I write for children. 

Unfortunately, all of them (except one that won a Palanca Award: I Am an Apple*) keep being rejected by publishers. That, however, doesn't stop me from writing more.

The idea of adoption stirs me. If not for circumstances that got in the way, I would have loved to take care of needy children whose parents are unable to bring them up.

That's probably why I continue to write about the issue—to encourage adoptive parents to bare the truth to their adoptive child early on. I think it is a marvelous thing for a child to know that he is loved, even if he didn't come from his adoptive mother's womb.

I have seen, ringside view, how a hidden truth can ruin the best of families.

Man says, “Blood is thicker than water.” But our God of grace has demonstrated that love is thicker than blood. Ephesians 1:5 (NLT) reads, "God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure." 

Garth Brooks speaks of this love in this song he sensitively crafted, some parts of which I now quote: 

“And if blood is thicker than

Water

Then what are we fighting for
We're all sons and daughters
Of something that means so much more

“I see it on my TV but I can't understand
Lord, it's one big contradiction to me
How in God's name we love thy neighbor
with fists in our hands
And kill each other when we just don't agree

Why can't we see the walls we can't see through
And see what God's been telling me and you
(and that is) Blood is thicker than water
Oh, but love, love is thicker than blood” 

* I Am an Apple cover:

Photo credit 

Grace Walks

Today, July 4, is a red-letter day in the calendar of the USA and the Philippines (Fil-Am Friendship Day). And so it is in mine.

This is my wedding anniversary. Another year has passed by—smoothly on some days and roughly on others. So what's the big deal? 

Plenty.

Not many marriages last long anymore. That's why, according to a psychologist, the monthsary has been invented—and celebrated—by the new generation. If a relationship can hurdle a month, then it's a big deal; to reach a year has become extremely difficult or just a dream. 

I believe that grace walks with every marriage that lasts. It gives you just enough patience, understanding, concern, and trust that you need for the day. Then it walks with you again the next day and the next and the next—before you know it, grace has walked with you for years and years.

I now remember my old walking stick—the one that I used every walking day for twelve years. I lost it a few days ago and texted my husband: Mourning the loss of my walking stick . . . sob.  

He went back to where I said I left it, but it was gone. He posted a note on the wall of that place, but zilch.

For several days I walked with an unopened umbrella in lieu of my stick.

When I woke up at dawn this morning, I saw a walking stick where I used to park my old one. It comes in the colors of our flag—red, white, blue, and yellow. It has the right grip, the right length, the right weight, and an outrageous look that matches my outrageous taste.

Upon closer look, it is nothing but a PVC water pipe discard, which the hubby wrapped in electrical tapes. I call it perfection, 43 times better than my old one.

My new walking stick is how I see my marriage to this man, who forgot to greet me and whom I also forgot to greet this morning, and who will be busy all day and will come home late tonight because he will attend a Rotary meeting. I will likewise be busy self-editing a storybook I had just written.

Perfection personified.

And grace continues to walk. Today, it got me the perfect walking stick and a perfect family news I am not yet privileged to divulge. 

God's gentle grace walks with arms wide open to embrace our failings and frailties, turning them into marriages that last—"in sickness and in health."

ooo

This calls for a new header: 

The old one comes down: 

Morning Has Broken

Any time of day either shines in the glow of sunlight or dims with the blessing of rain. Whichever way, we bask or soak in the glory of God's grace.

For me, however, the most glorious time of day is when the morning breaks, minus the rain. The night quietly leaves and daylight eagerly comes to rouse and keep us going. This in-between hour is when I choose to walk, usually alone in the first 30 minutes, then met by others in the next.

This is also when I try hard to imagine that very first morning a long time ago when the Lord almighty created the world , but can't. For no imagination can ever recreate that very first day when our world was made.

What I am sure about, though, is that when the sun kisses the last of darkness, there are similarities, as captured in words and notes by this old Christian hymn, which I also often sing to praise the God who makes me experience the breaking of morn:   

Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlight from heaven.
Like the first dew fall, on the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden,
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning.
Born of the one light Eden saw play.
Praise with elation, praise every morning;
God's recreation of the new day.

Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.

(This was set to the tune of a Gaelic song, Bunessan; written by Eleanor Farjeon in 1931. Cat Stevens popularized it 40 years later.)

Photo: by Karen

A Thousand Sleepless Nights

Even the most peaceful existence can sometimes be wracked by a turbulence so fierce it gives one a thousand sleepless nights.

If you're going through a storm in your life at the moment, try listening to Blessings by Laura Story, an American contemporary Christian music singer-songwriter. 

This song was soulfully rendered in a duet in our church last Sunday by our Praise and Worship team, and I was blown away. The lyrics say that life's disturbances causing us so much pain "remind the heart that this is not our home."

Blessings might well be Laura's own prayer. When she was just married in 2006, her husband was diagnosed with a brain tumor and contracted meningitis during the delicate surgery. Imagine the fear and uncertainty the young couple have had to face together—up to this day when total healing has not been granted. 

Life-altering struggles—a family broken, health snuffed out by a dreaded disease or accident, savings of a lifetime lost, a business gone bad, a loved one's life cut short, friendships betrayed, a dream crushed, a reputation soiled—make us ask God plaintively:

"What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know You're near? What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise?"

This song, which  won a Grammy Award in the Best Contemporary Christian Song category in 2012, must have resonated with millions of people. It reached No. 1 on the Billboard of Christian Songs chart.  

I am borrowing parts of Laura's lyrics as I ask for grace today. Pray with me? 

“We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering
And all the while, You hear each spoken need
Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things

“'Cause what if your blessings come through rain drops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know You're near
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise . . .” 

Lord, please spare me from any more sleepless nights to make me know you're near.

Amen.

Photo credit

Double Delight, Year Three

The twins, Maika and Nikka, now 9, are growing up really fast. Pretty soon, they will be taller than I am—as all the people in my circle are.

Tony has slackened his pace in tutoring since he heard from the twins' school principal that these little dynamos are both doing well.

One won in a Tula (Poem) Contest and the other is acing her math subjects. Their 3rd grade report cards, which they and their mother (their father had recently passed away after a lingering illness) showed us with pride just before classes begun, prove good performance.

What makes them such a delight is their wide-eyed enthusiasm in learning anything new. I pray that hubby and I will still have enough strength be able to afford their schooling upkeep. Otherwise, they should be on their own sooner than later.

This doesn't worry me as much as it did when they were still in first grade. At age 7 then, they still couldn't distinguish A from Z, nor name any animal except cat and dog.   

After three years in a good school (Alliance Christian School and Tutorial Services or ACTS), with nurturing and caring teachers who believe in the power of grace, they can now read with ease, speak English, know Bible stories and the animals of God's creation.

I am sure that our heavenly Father has instilled in these two little clones the solid values they should grow up with in the years to come.

Thank you, Lord, for giving us the privilege and joy to help, in our own little way, two children whom you love. Amen.

My Father Mateo (Part 3)

(Conclusion, continued from yesterday's post; you may scroll down for Parts 1 and 2)

As I write this chapter about my father, everything seems so anti-climactic. Thus far, it is like a badly-said joke without any punch line. Psychologists term it "coming to terms." Old folks say, growing up. Close kin say, bouncing back. Friends say, thicker hide. I say, answered prayers.

My father didn't change. I did.

Where I used to have blinkers and saw only his drinking, now with hindsight, I could see all the other sides of him too—clearly, objectively, sans the callowness of my youth.  

Sometime  between JC's  third and fourth birthday, my father finally kicked the alcohol habit totally, cold turkey. Maybe because he was already feeling the early pains of cancer, which claimed his life a few years later, or because he didn't need it anymore.

Whatever. At that point, it didn't matter to me one way or the other. My father and I—well, he was  my father. The stranger was gone forever.    

And today, as I recall those years I spent with my father, my memories of him dwell wonderfully on the redeeming sober moments and all of his latter years: his frequent trips to my own home where he planted fruit-bearing trees in the yard, how he played with my sons, how he chatted away with my husband, how he braved those radiation therapies and surgeries, and how he left with incredible valor. I felt no trace of the agony that dogged me for years.   

In fact, it took time before I could write the details about that debilitating syndrome which crippled me in my younger life. I had to look at pictures of snow to make me remember the depths of my feelings during that one last eventful attack in Chicago. It took quite an effort to describe the ghosts which terrified and hounded that little girl who, upon turning into a woman, escaped from home because there lurked a stranger.  

Again, why am writing this at all?

I recently dug up a twenty-five-year-old, tattered little book entitled  It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown by Charles Schulz. It is about this little kid Linus who, every  Halloween, waits for the Great Pumpkin. Linus believes that the only way to celebrate Halloween is to sit in a sincere pumpkin patch and wait for it to come.

A person has to be very sincere in his waiting so the Great Pumpkin will not pass him by. In the book, it doesn't arrive, but  Linus—whose childlike faith in someone greater, kinder and more powerful than anyone he has ever known—says with conviction, "Next year, he'll come. Just you wait and see!"   

On the first page of the book is a handwritten message of my father, a confirmed book enthusiast till the end, to son #1, JC.

"When you will be grown up and I will be gone, you will know what the Great Pumpkin is.  Lolo Mateo."

I feel that the message was scrawled for me. I am grown up (well, how else would you call a golden girl?) and he is gone (fifteen years now), and I certainly know what a Great Pumpkin is. Like a Linus, I may have sat sincerely in a pumpkin patch for many years, waited, and kept the faith. Because one day, God rewarded me not in the way I wanted Him to, but in a much bigger fashion I never imagined possible.

My one regret is, I wasn't able to say this to my father before he left us all to be with our heavenly Father, "Thank you for the lesson of the Great Pumpkin, Daddy."
   
(“Gifts of Grace” Book 1, from where this chapter My Father Mateo was lifted, is now an e-book. So are “Gifts of Grace” Vols. 2 and 3) 

ISBN: 978-971-009-146-1

Format: Ebook

No. of pages: 129

Available worldwide 

My Father Mateo (Part 2)

(Continued from yesterday's post—you may scroll down for Part 1;  lifted from a chapter of my book "Gifts of Grace" Vol. 1) 

And so the disturbed, alcohol-phobic young lady nurtured the perpetual hope that one day soon,  if she was good and sincere, her father would turn away from alcohol; or he'd stay the way he really was, at least,  when her friends were around.  Year after year, she prayed. And she waited and waited and waited for the answer. Either the father didn't know how his daughter felt or he just couldn't help himself. 
    
From that cold winter night in Chicago,  the distressed lady settled into a comfortable home-away-from-home with her foster parents—a childless uncle and his doting American wife.  She made new friends, in all colors.  She saw prejudice at close range—the contrast between the city's north white side and the south black side, where the ghettos were. On her way to and from school, she walked by bums in the park and celebrities at Sak's Fifth Avenue.
    
On weekends, she joined a church singing group. By day, she  read glossy magazines and drama books.  By night, she directed and rehearsed plays, then finished two more degrees. She wrote for a Filipino newspaper in Chicago and got engaged to her editor-in-chief.  

In all those times, she didn't  have another attack. So after five years in a foreign land, she came into her own and decided  it was safe to go back home.
    
When she came back to the Philippines, the first order of the day was to marry her fiancè  in Manila where they decided to make their home.  But before she could get married, as a dutiful daughter, she had to breeze through her family home in the province, where there was a small get-together. Alcohol was served, a few toasts were exchanged. She braced for an attack. But none came.
    
At her wedding, her father donned his best barong, and was in his best behavior throughout the reception where alcohol flowed generously.  She thought that maybe she was too in love to notice otherwise.   
    
A new home, a new life, a new job—they all kept her busy and happy.  Then her first son, JC, was born. Predictably, her father was the first guest.  He took the bus all the way from Dagupan, where his office was.  He had in his arms a blue life-size toy poodle for his first grandson. 

Since then, he and his wife, would visit the baby most weekends.  The new grandparents loved playing with and taking care of JC. Although there was no rule against drinking at his daughter's home, he would, every so often, go to the small sari-sari store nearby and when he'd come back, he'd smell of gin or San Miguel beer. But the young mother was distressed no more.

Finally I've come to the part of my story which I could clearly remember.

From that time, his change of mien—from the daddy I loved  to the stranger I loathed—after a few gulps of alcohol did not trigger in me any adverse reaction anymore. Not even a slight symptom. The panic attack in the snowstorm near Chicago's Old Town  six years earlier seemed  too remote to remember. Before long,  I could attend a party and banter with people in various stages of inebriation.

What was even more surprising was, I could already openly talk about my father's love affair with alcohol, without a tinge of the embarrassment I had felt in those dark years. And the most surprising of all was, my new friends half listened, like they did  to a ho-hum small talk about the weather.  I could almost read the word "So?" written on their faces.

My younger sister's reaction was even more perplexing. She looked at me like someone who just landed from Mars. Was my father's drinking binges then so insignificant that it was peremptorily dismissed? Was it not even passable material for gossip or scandal? 

I think it was at those precise moments when I finally broke free from the remaining shackles of a self-imposed bondage. Everything that ate me up about the sot, the not-so-respectable stranger was no big deal to everyone who knew him well or didn't know him at all. No... big... deal!

So now,  I ask myself, what was the fuss all about?

(Part 3, or concluding post, tomorrow)