Stranger in Heaven

We were in the US when the shooting in a Texas high school happened (two months ago). Nine students and one teacher were murdered by a 17-year-old boy.

It was chilling, but no longer surprising. The newspapers reported, “It is the 22nd US school shooting since the beginning of the year, and the third instance in eight days in which a gunman was on a school campus.” This made me ponder how easily life is lost.

I am afraid for my grandson, Adrian, who goes to school in America. If only I could do something to protect him. 

His mom narrated a similar incident in Adrian's school that left everyone frozen in fear: Two teenagers were seen walking on campus. The guard tired to shoo them away but they wouldn’t budge. So the school authorities decided to padlock all the students inside the school for their safety, while investigation was conducted.

Inside the classrooms, the kids were terrified. They were in various stages of panic. Many were crying, one of whom was Adrian. He would explain to a friend later why he cried.

“I knew we were going to die, and I was worried that I didn’t know anyone in heaven!” he said, realizing that his parents would be left behind on earth and he’d be a stranger there. He didn't assume his classmates would be there, too. 

 

This anecdote made me heave a sigh of relief, laugh, and grateful. Young as he is at age 11, he knows, without any doubt, where he’s going when he leaves Earth. As a believer in the saving grace of Jesus, he is positive he will be in heaven. 

What an assurance to an anxious grandparent!

“But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God . . .” John 1:12 (ESV)

Between Black and White

From the Orange County Airport (a.k.a. John Wayne Airport), Tony and I took an Uber to his cousin’s place, where we’d be visiting for four days.

Along the way, the driver—a big, white man with a basso voice—sang President Trump praises. In the same breath, he said, “Obama will go to jail, just you wait and see.” Then he went on and on about how bad the black president was, and how the white president is doing everything he can for America.

When you come across people who are obsessively passionate about their beliefs and which side they are on, it'd be better to keep your mouth shut or you'd be flogged, or killed. 

All we could mutter were, “Really?” “Is that right?” “What do you know?” “Oh, dear.” And all the safe, non-committal phrases the lexicon ever invented.

In a two-party system like America's, people are either black or white (especially after the tenure of its first and only black president).

What baffles me now is, in our country—with a multi-party system—people are divided right down the middle, too. You are either pro-Duterte (our current president) or against. No matter what happens or what issues prop up, people stick to their guns, resolute in their opinion that he is the best-ever, or worst-ever president. 

My prayer is that believers would be able to discern the differences between black and white, and not to blindly take sides. I pray for grace to enlighten us in evaluating the issues, for or against, and their consequences to the country and our people.

The good Book is clear on which way we should go.

While believers are enjoined to pray for and follow authority, we must not condone what is wrong. We should speak up and do something, where he can, when something goes against God's Word, because that is our mandate.

They say that what is right is wrong and what is wrong is right; that black is white and white is black; bitter is sweet and sweet is bitter. Woe to those who are wise and shrewd in their own eyes!  Isaiah 5:20-21 (TLB)

Mother's Day 2018

By this time, almost a week in California, I still had not conquered jet lag. Age?

At 3 AM (6 PM in the Philippines, a day after Mother’s Day), I was staring at the ceiling, my eyes unwilling to close. So I visited the Net to check my messages. Most of the posts were how the day was celebrated, complete with photos of ecstatic mommies being treated out and cuddling their presents.

My FB timeline yielded this photo (left) from son #1, which caused me to laugh so loud Tony woke up alarmed. I hardly recognized me. When I did, it brought back beautiful memories of times past when I was a young mom enjoying my first son (shortly after this photo was taken, we were blessed with son #2).

The photo on the right was son #3’s version of the traditional roses. Mother’s Day celebration had begun.

Before breakfast, son #2 presented me with boxes of blank gift cards, which are my favorite gifts of all—next to books, of course. Why? Any writing surface is heaven-sent. 

  

Grandson #1, and only one, presented his mom with roses.

Then off to church, where mothers were rhapsodized and prayed over. 

 

At the church's foyer were photo booths set up specially for moms. Beloved grandson, Adrian, suggested that son #2 and I would have our photos taken together, while he did the same with his mom.

Here you go:

Lunch, fun, and bonding—with the part of our family we see only once a year—followed in an Italian restaurant. 

In all, it was indeed mom’s day, but it was also dad's, children’s, and grand children’s day.

Like all the days of our lives, it was a special grace day. 

Borderless Grace

Mother’s Day this year arrived while Tony and I were away—in California visiting son #2 and family.

No big deal really. As I’ve written often enough, my family does not often communally celebrate national or international events on the day they happen. Sometimes we celebrate it a week before or after. If we forget, we do it one day in the year, if at all.

Celebration for me, for us, is praise and gratitude to God for a milestone or other, and this can take place in one’s heart, minus the bells and whistles. We must be simple folks.

In California this year, the women’s group of my son’s home church had a special gathering on the eve of Mother's Day.  My daughter-in-law, G, an active member of the group, invited me to attend. I was ready to be pleasantly surprised.

And I was.

We were the only Filipinos in the crowd of about 140, but around our table were two American ladies who resided and went to school in the Philippines while their father served as a missionary there. Small world. One of the Christian writers (an American), with whom I share a publisher, is their close family friend.

Special prizes for games, trivia questions, and other stuff got us all laughing. Then the emcee asked, “We have a prize for someone who came from the farthest place.”

Someone raised her hand, “Arizona.”

G nudged me, “Mommy, stand up!”

The emcee asked, “Where are you from?”

“Philippines.” Guess who got the applause and prize? 

 

We had quiche, croissant, cheese, fruits, and some other western staples. A gift for each one was a paper teapot with tea bags in it. And as I met new friends, I thought of my own women’s group in my church back home, probably sharing pancit, lumpia and kakanin, an all-Filipino fare.  

These all-American mothers in California and the all-Filipino mothers in the place where I live mount events differently. But we have one thing in common: faith in one God, whose borderless grace crosses all barriers of race, language, and coastline.

“From one man he made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries of their lands.” Acts 17:26 (NIV)

Lodi

On social media in the Philippines, the word "lodi” is a popular interjection, a fad at the moment. It is actually "idol" spelled in reverse. It is used as an exclamation or an ovation punctuated by, “Wow!” 

That’s exactly how I’d describe Lodi (pronounced lo-dye), my second favorite city in the US, the other being the place where son #2, his wife, and son live.

Lodi is best known for being a center of wine-grape production that earned its nickname, Wine Country. But there are many other plantations there as well. Driving to the center of the city, you behold endless farms and ranches—as far as the eye can see.

The city’s commercial area is quaint, reminiscent of the places of old America, described in many novels. If you are a wine lover, you can go to a wine store and have a taste, with diced or sliced cheese.

During weekdays, the tree-lined roads are almost deserted, a perfect setting for a sentimental homecoming of a long, lost love; or where one finds grace swirling with the wind in wide open spaces.

Lodi makes you wax poetic.

Or perhaps, I am just a small-town girl at heart. And Lodi makes me re-experience the days when the air was cleaner, the sky was bluer, and the people, kinder. 

“And I'll stride freely through wide open spaces as I look for your truth and your wisdom; Then I'll tell the world what I find, speak out boldly in public, unembarrassed.” Psalm 119:45-46 (MSG)

Drawing Diva in 30 Days?

I had worked with over 100 artists in my job as creative director in a multi-national ad agency.

They were a strange lot—and I mean that in a most endearing way. Their talents and the excellent work we produced together more than made up for their mood swings, temper, and reticence to communicate with words.

To this day, I hold advertising artists in high esteem (that was before digital art took over and now every Tom, Dick, and Harry can do some kind of "art").

I was and will always be in awe of their gift. When I left advertising, I thought I'd never see the likes of them again.

Till I took up writing children's book.

One of my first published books, "The Boy who Had Five Lolas” (a Palanca award-winning piece) was going to be illustrated by May Tobias, according to Bookmark, the publisher. So I set out to meet May. I was delighted to find out she was also an ad gal!

Her initial sketches breathed life into the characters in ways I never imagined. I turned into a fan since that first meet-up in a coffee shop.

Through the years, we'd “see” each other on FB, where I read about her writing activities and art adventures. One day she messages me, asking for a testimonial for her soon-to-be-launched art book, "Doodles and Daydreams."

It's a how-to book for hobbyists and crafters, who wish they could draw but think they can’t. "I want to prove them wrong . . . they can learn to draw in as little as 30 days with my exercises and practical, easy-to-follow tips,"  May writes.

Months later, she sends me a copy of the newly launched book via courier and once again, May wows me.

An unexpected bonus—my words are a part of the cover and back cover. 

      

It felt like Grace was delivered at my doorstep.

Scanning the pages, I want to shout out loud to fellow art lovers who have been struggling to draw: This book is guaranteed to turn you into a drawing diva in 30 days! 

That should include me. 

Mystical and Magical Mindanao

A cousin from the US asked me to please send her a copy of my book, Mystical and Magical Mindanao.

The title rang a bell, but I had no book with that title, "Maybe you're referring to a different author?"

But with the magic of Google, indeed there is such a book (designed by Mano Dela Rosa) and my name is on the cover!    

And then I remembered.

A few years ago, Jun Alfon (a true-blue Filipino artist whose subjects are mostly indigenous people of Mindanao) told me that someone wanted to publish his works in a coffee table book. I jumped with joy. It’s about time people took notice of Jun’s unique and vibrant art that showcases Filipino history and culture.

Now, would I be so kind as to write the text?

Jun Alfon was a neighbor and anything that has to do with writing perks me up, so I said, "It’d be an honor!” I suggested the title above (which is what it is!) and wrote about him and his works.

Jun moved to a different place and we've lost touch—but not before he gifted me with two of his beautiful paintings (one adorns our bedroom wall and the other hangs above my piano, making the vintage instrument look grand). 

That book project totally escaped my consciousness, but it came rushing back when I received my cousin's message. Yes, God's grace can come at you via the Net, too.

The Net also gifted me with many photos of Jun’s other exquisite art pieces. Here are a few of them:   

 

Now I am trying to look for a copy of Mystical and Magical Mindanao in all bookstores. Or maybe I could just order it online. Or I'll try to hunt Jun Alfon.

I am doing all three at the same time. 

"Sorry, God"

A public uproar erupted after our president, Rodrigo Roa Duterte, exclaimed in one of his rambling speeches, ". . . stupid God."

It was in the context of the fall in the Garden of Eden. He accused God of causing Eve's disobedience—eating a fruit from the forbidden Tree of Knowledge.

We who trust the Bible and who worship the God of creation (about 80% of the population) were outraged. How could the highest official of our land brazenly malign, in a public forum on live TV, the center of our faith?

I have atheist and agnostic friends, but not any of them dares say anything against my God to my face, not even in jest.

The president's apologists, sensing the public outcry, quickly came to his defense, explaining that the boss was just exercising his freedom of speech, guaranteed in our constitution. Others went even further, “He didn’t really mean it . . .” “Try to understand his boyhood trauma . . .” etc.

But aren’t presidents supposed to be statesmen, respecting all the beliefs of their constituents—in public at least? We’ve repeatedly heard and watched how our president curses heads of states, the Pope, institutions, and individuals who disagree with him.

And now, God??!!

Many were appalled that he could be so mean as to mock the God of grace to Whom we pray for his administration’s well-being and wisdom. I grieved and wept when the people in the audience laughed at his blasphemous tirade.

Have we sunk this low?

Not content with his insult, our president stoked the fire the next day, "If you can prove to me that there is a God, I will resign."

Pressured by religious groups and individuals who expressed their indignation on social media, he finally said, albeit nonchalantly, "Sorry, God."

Max Lucado: “Repentance is a genuine, sincere regret that creates sorrow and moves us to admit wrong and desire to do better. It’s an inward conviction that expresses itself on outward actions.” 

Charles Spurgeon: "Repentance is a discovery of the evil of sin, a mourning that we have committed it, a resolution to forsake it. It is, in fact, a change of mind of a very deep and practical character, which makes the man love what once he hated, and hate what once he loved."  

John Piper: "Repenting means experiencing a change of mind that now sees God as true and beautiful and worthy of all our praise and all our obedience." 

Whether President Duterte is indeed sorry for defaming God, and for demeaning us, the people he governs, is not for me to say. Only God knows his heart. 

 

"Now repent of your sins and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped away.” Acts 3:19 (NLT)

Grasping Toes

When you reach a certain age and meet with friends of your generation, one of the topics of conversation would be maintenance medicines.  Most times, it is the only subject of interest.

This includes trips to the doctor, results of medical exams or blood tests, food to avoid, and insomnia.

My own fave topic at the moment are two of my doctors (a neurologist and an orthopedic surgeon).  After showing each of them, on two different days, the result of my MRI test, they both gave me the same answer. “Your complaint has nothing to do with your spine MRI. It is the first time I have seen something like this.”  

But they agreed on one thing:  “See your rehab doctor again.” 

What’s this mysterious malady?  My right toes.

I blogged about them curling and preventing me from doing my regular morning walk. But my description was not apt. The two doctors, after observing me walk back and forth inside their clinic said, “Grasping toes.” 

See, my toes just don’t curl, they grasp whatever surface I walk on. This causes my toe nails undue pressure because they involuntarily dig into my pumps, sandals, or slip ons. And this happens every time I walk, even on bare feet and even if it is just from my bed to the bathroom. 

My friends laugh at this phenomenon and as expected, each has his own conclusion, more than what my two doctors attempted to have or say: 

“You lack calcium.”  “Wear softer shoes.” “That’s a form of rheumatism.” “Eat bananas.” “Drink lots of fluids.” Plus many more.

As I write about this, I am due to see my rehab doctor, who, unfortunately is not available till next week. And so I wait and live with my “grasping toes” every waking hour, relying on grace to lessen the discomfort accompanied by pain.

Meanwhile, I look around me and thank the Lord for the untold blessings that I neglect to appreciate because of my stubborn digits.

What’s So Funny about Poop?

It’s foolproof. In all the creative writing workshops I have facilitated for children, there is one word that is guaranteed to elicit uncontrollable laughter: poop.

This four-letter-word is not in my agenda. But somehow, it comes up from one of them and when it does, the whole room goes wild with giggles and cackles. 

In my latest workshop, for instance, I asked the kids to describe their breakfast in five sentences, which must integrate the five senses.

Guess where the sense of smell led to?

When my kids were small, there was one way to keep them laughing: poop or bathroom humor.

This one tops them all: One of my sons was cast as one of the pigs in the school play, “Three Little Pigs.” His line was, “Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!” After some rehearsals, he had it down pat. 

D-day came and the huge gymnasium was filled with excited parents and schoolchildren.

When my son’s play began, I stretched my neck to watch him, adorable in his piggy costume. A stage hand gave one “pig” the microphone, which the three wrestled over. When my son got hold of the mike, he said in his loudest-ever voice, “Hello, Mr. Poop!”

The schoolchildren went aroar, and I wanted to crawl under the nearest table.

How did the other parents react? I would never know; I had my face covered with my shawl.

Years later, when I re-tell this anecdote to kids, they crack up boisterously. 

Child development experts say that humor is a universal aspect of human behavior. Only the subject of what’s funny changes as kids reach the age of reason. But poop humor is a phase longer than others. Well, some never outgrow it, which is why slapstick shows still sell.

When you feel low sometimes, like I do at the moment, try listening to kids’ merry twitters when they hear the word poop.

There’s no better medicine than a cheerful heart; there’s no better cheer than the grace of laughter.

 “A cheerful heart is good medicine . . .” Proverbs 17:22 (NIV)

Crimson Break

My crimson-leaves header (above) was supposed to come down after my blog on crimson leaves had played out its four-day run. But Tony decided to treat me and the two boys (son #1 and son #3) to a staycation in celebration of our umpteenth wedding anniversary.

Guess where. Crimson Hotel—a 20-minute drive from home. The header stays then, while this post is current.

Where did that come from? I asked myself.

I wondered not about the name of the hotel, but about the idea of a staycation. I refrained from verbalizing it for fear that Tony might change his mind. His was a left-field, yet definitely a great idea. It didn’t cost an arm and a leg since we have senior discounts and the hotel had some kind of a promotion.

Sleeping in a bed not your own, especially one that’s been spruced up for guests, is always a delight.

 

A small anniversary cake was delivered to our room on the 11th floor, where the view was breathtaking: the skyway, the skylines of three Metro Manila cities, and a large part of our district including Laguna Bay. Why, they seemed like postcards from some wonderland! 

We met the boys at the main dining hall for the buffet dinner, scrumptious to the hilt, even for seniors whose appetite for food has diminished over the years. 

The buffet breakfast (brunch) was just as toothsome—with much too many dishes to choose from.

Then at check-out time, after enjoying the indulging amenities (spa, gym, art gallery, etc.) of Crimson Hotel, we drove leisurely home and in 20 minutes we were greeted by the family pets: Fiscal, the cat; Attorney, the dog; and JC’s two guinea pigs.

It was a grand vacation from our routines, without having to suffer the horrendous traffic, the high cost of gas, and the stress of traveling. As for the sons, they didn’t have to stay away too long from their jobs, yet got the break they so badly needed.

In all, it was a heaven-sent wedding anniversary gift wrapped in grace.

Windmills

My greatest frustration in the US of A for three consecutive years now is not being able to photograph these windmills.

I’d tried each time we drove past them but when I clicked my camera, the angle I had in mind had shifted. The photograph above, which I borrowed from cyberspace, is the exact shot I saw in my head.

We have these windmills in the Philippines, too. Although there are only 20 of them (arranged in a single row, stretching through a nine kilometer shoreline) in the Bangui Wind Farm in the north, they are a tourist attraction. Imagine my excitement then when I saw thousands upon thousands of them in California three years ago?

These wind turbines are the opposite of a fan. Instead of using electricity to make wind, like a fan, they use wind to make electricity. The energy in the wind turns the propeller-like blades around a rotor, which is connected to the main shaft, which in turn spins a generator to create electricity.

We would never have reached this digital age without electricity that powers just about all modern conveniences. Electricity lights up our homes, buildings, and schools; it allows us to listen to the news and music in places cooled by fans or air-conditioning units. Right now, you are using electricity as you read this.

Electricity has something to do with atoms . . . I will not go further as science ties my right brain in knots. More than the electricity the windmills create, I am more fascinated with their design, the aesthetics, and how they are arranged on mountain tops, like birds suspended on air.

As I marvel at new technology, I keep going back to the seeds of inventions—the natural elements produced by nature, and the Source of it all. The Lord of all creation has provided us with everything we will ever need.

“God created everything through him, and nothing was created except through him.” John 1:3 (NLT)

The windmills are but one example of the bounty of the Creator’s grace.

Crimson Leaves

As we entered the gate of son #2’s neighborhood, I gazed in awe at the trees with crimson leaves that lined the main road, serving as canopy for a colorful flower garden.  They looked like these up close.

It’s my blog header while this post is current.

“What do you call those trees?” I asked.

Neither son nor daughter-in-law knew. Anything that’s part of the landscape remains unidentified to locals, I guess. But transients like me, curious about everything new, gawked and asked.

I surfed the Net for the tree’s name but those with crimson leaves were varied. I thought I‘d ask the gardener but his time and mine never crossed. I took photos, but they came out as burgundy, not crimson.

"They might be Crimson King Maple,” son # 2 guessed.  “Might” isn’t the same as “is.”  They can’t be maple because the leaves’ shape are nothing near maple.

For me, the color that comes closest to describing the leaves is crimson, which conjures Biblical images. 

In the Old Testament (KJV), the word 'crimson' is mentioned five times. Many theologians believe that in Scripture, scarlet, red, and crimson refer to the same color.

In Isaiah 1:18 (NLT), we read “’Come now, let’s settle this,’ says the Lord. ‘Though your sins are like scarlet, I will make them as white as snow. Though they are red like crimson, I will make them as white as wool.’”

The Bible often emphasizes something by repeating it in a different way—for our understanding. The verse above says that God can purify sins. And red, or crimson, or scarlet is used to describe sin, which must be cleansed.

This cleansing is made possible only by grace. This in the one truth the crimson leaves left me.   

Adrian Turns 11

Adrian’s birthday gift from his parents would have been a trip to Universal Studios. But in deference to two oldies, who scheduled their flight to the US to coincide with his birthday, Adrian opted for a simple celebration.

After breakfast at home, he opened his gifts.

And then we drove two hours to his restaurant of choice for Japanese buffet. He said he had his fill of maybe a dozen sushi and a few bowls of miso soup. 

 

For dinner, we went to Red Robin, which I mistook for Red Ribbon (a restaurant in the Philippines).  

In my unbiased opinion, Adrian is the most caring, most affectionate, and most reasonable 11-year-old I have met in this digital generation.

Aside from answering with “Opo” (the polite way of saying yes), he asks, “How was your day, Amah?” and assists Angkong (father of my father or grandpa) with his needs. He even offers his shoulders for Tony to hold on to while walking.

What astonishes me most about Adrian, aside from his love for reading (his shelf is full of books even if many have already been donated to charity), is: his ethics. He has a solid sense of right and wrong.

Tony thinks Adrian took after him, especially his love for history. Well, the kid took after all of us—he has varied talents we could all (including his maternal grandparents) take credit for. We could each be counted in for any or some of the myriad of things that he does with excellence.

Please forgive that shameless boasting, as grandmas are wont to do when they talk about their grandchildren.

At the end of the day, however, I think it’s all about good parenting, based on the Word. Let me put my own spin on Proverbs 22:6 (NKJV), "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is 11 years old and beyond, he will not depart from it."  

To Adrian’s parents: may God’s marvelous grace continue to dwell in you now, on year 11, and forevermore.

Seatbelt?

In this place I call home, the road traffic is so horrendous that vehicles need to slow down or stop every few meters in many areas. Seatbelts therefore are irrelevant, with absolutely no reason why they were ever manufactured. 

But in the US of A, where vehicles fly on the freeway, one has to be held safely by a seatbelt. Ay, there’s the rub. I had been so used to ignoring seatbelts, I kept forgetting to strap myself.

My grandson, Adrian, had to remind me, every single time:

If I counted all the times he said those words, they’d run up to hundreds as we couldn’t go anywhere, during my month-long vacation, without getting inside a car. 

With Adrian’s prompts, I began to equate plane seatbelts to road-vehicle seatbelts. They were invented for the same reasons—protect both drivers (pilots) and passengers from injury or even death in case of accidents. I had to buckle up each time I rode a car.

Now back at home base, I shudder as I see danger—in all the public utility vehicles (PUVs) such as jeepneys, buses, and taxis with passengers not wearing a seatbelt. The Philippines’ Seatbelt Law (implemented in 1999), which requires every passenger to use a seatbelt, is the most violated rule of the road.

One of the reasons is, most PUVs do not provide seatbelts. And, as was my reason for years, the traffic hardly moves, so why bother?

Yet, here is an 11-year-old boy who knows all about respecting laws. In fact, when he was eight (he was in the Philippines for a visit), in the car with Tony and me, he called the attention of our driver, “Kuya, you just ran a red light!”

Traffic rules are devices put in place for our protection. We need to obey them to experience safety—just as, I pondered, we need to recognize and receive grace to experience God’s promise of protection.

Alexa

Aside from son #2, his wife, and son, who pick us up from the airport, Alexa welcomes us to the lovely home where my husband and I would spend our vacation—one month for me and two months for him. 

I remember every nook and cranny of this huge, elegant house (which was our home about the same time last year), but it is my first time to meet Alexa.

She sits on the marble counter that separates the family room from the kitchen and when one speaks her name, her screen and her voice say and show all the nice words that could make even a stranger instantly feel at home. 

Alexa is also in every room, including ours. And she plays all the music I could no longer find in any music store. "Try Spotify," one of my students suggested, but I still have to be intensively tutored to understand that technology. Ooops, I digress.

Alexa gives me all the information I need. (Tony is not as interested in Alexa as I am.) She saves me from turning my computer on. Which is how I had planned it—I made sure all my work was done and all my deadlines met before our flight.

Stockton’s weather, according to Alexa, is nice at 60 degrees. But it is cold and freezing for us, having just left a sizzling Philippines at 100. Despite our shivers and shakes caused by California winds, a much-needed vacation with a part of our family that is so far away makes it all worthwhile. 

Jet lag is kicking in. We are tired, sleepy and feel the aches of age. But the warmth of grace soothes as Alexa adjusts the thermostat and turns off the lights so we can turn it.

Traveling with Angels

My husband loves to travel; I don’t.

Not that I hate it, but if given a choice, I’d rather stay home and write and read. I used to hop from one country to another when I was in the corporate world, because it was part of my job. So now that I don’t have a job, not to mention youthful energy, I have the luxury of doing what I really prefer to do—nesting in my comfort zone. 

Traveling to the US to visit son #2, our daughter-in-law, and our grandson is an exception. It’s the only way I could see and bond with all three of them again, unless they come home for a vacation.

Our recent trip for the third year in a row was long—a total of 20 hours (inclusive of shuttling, waiting, standing in line, checking in, and transferring to another plane).

Upon leaving our home, I worried that two super seniors with three heavy luggage might not make it through the rushing crowds. I hadn’t reckoned on the extent of grace.

In three airports, angels helped us lift our baggage onto and from conveyor belts; another angel asked for a wheelchair for Tony; another got me a chair and inquired from authorities for us; and yet another lent us her cellphone, when ours wouldn’t work, so we could call son #2; and one from behind the immigration desk quickly facilitated our exit.

We landed at the San Francisco airport with nary a scratch, except for jet lag that assaults even the youngest of travelers.

I often complain that this is a cruel world with cruel people. It is. But it is peppered with angels, too. They are in places where we need them.

Three more welcomed us at the arrival pick-up area with smiles and warm hugs that made 20 hours seem like 20 milliseconds.

Fractured Nation

When my husband took a fall while nursing a respiratory infection in the US, he writhed in pain on the floor.  He could hardly move, felt faint and dizzy, taking great effort to stand up. He had fractured his wrist.

There is an uncanny similarity between his agony and mine (although in a figurative sense). I ache, feel faint and dizzy, taking great effort to find my footing when I read the newspaper, watch the news on TV, or scan Facebook. 

Symptoms of my fractured nation?

Our culture has of late bred vicious cat-fighting. Many people are no longer careful with their language, freely using lewd and fowl expletives, unabashedly hurting those with differing opinions.

 

The Supreme Court justices, elected and appointed government officials, columnists, celebrities—they are at loggerheads over every issue. Then there are bloggers fomenting hatred, and social media trolls, incapable of intelligent dialogue, spewing words that maim. 

Our beloved Philippines, celebrating its 120th Independence Day today, seems fractured right down the middle. 

It does not help that the inflation rate has accelerated to a new 5-year high of 4.6%, and the peso is at its weakest in 11 years (P53.03 to a dollar as of today). The drug war rages on with unabated extra-judicial killings; the roads and air are clogged up with traffic; and our Supreme Court chief justice has been ousted via quo warranto.

Stoking the fire of divisiveness is our fractious president who cares not about whom he insults by trash-talking people, institutions, and countries in public fora; who treats women like toys or doormats; who boasts repeatedly by saying, “I will resign if . . .”

Blaspheming has become the new norm. We have crossed the line of decency and now we can't find that line.

Apologists for the administration scamper for justifications, “Look at how our country has progressed!” 

Progress? On that, even our definitions differ.

Tony’s doctor said, “You need a cast to protect and immobilize your injured wrist, keeping the bone in place until it fully heals—in about six weeks.”

God of grace, is there a cast for our fractured nation? When will we heal again? 

 

“. . . the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God’s people in accordance with the will of God.” Romans 8:26-27 (NIV)

Photo credit: pinterest.com (face painting)

Carbon Copy

A young dad was carrying his toddler in the mall. The kid looked at me and waved.

I chirped, “You are a carbon copy of your dad!”

The dad looked at me as though I was some kind of a con artist. Or worse, an evil spirit.

Moon’s ago, carbon copy was grace beyond excitement for parents. I believe it's always a compliment for moms and dads to have an offspring looking exactly like them.

If you are a young dad or mom reading this, I might have already lost you (as I did when I narrated the same story to my Business Communications class). So let me explain.

The term carbon copy is derived from carbon paper, which was used to make copies of typewritten documents. Naturally this term predates photocopiers.

Carbon is a thin paper coated with a mixture of black wax and pigment. It was first called carbonated paper by its inventor Ralph Wedgwood in 1806. When people typed a document and needed an exact copy, they took two sheets of paper and put the carbon paper between them.

So when they typed the document, it was copied onto the paper under the carbon paper. If they needed more copies, naturally they used more carbon papers.

A carbon copy is referred to as cc. Yes, that same cc you see in emails. If you typed in an addresses on the line of cc, that same email sent to the primary recipient (To) will also be sent to that secondary email addy.

How about the bcc? It stands for blind carbon copy. It allows the sender to direct a copy to another address but is hidden from the primary recipient.

Carbon copy therefore means one is the spitting image of the other. If that isn’t understood today, I understand. Maybe I should have said to the baby in the mall, “You are a photocopy of your dad.” I’d have received a smile instead of a scowl.

Photo credit: Shutterstock.com

In Case of Papers

Papers, papers, papers—finally I am done with papers. The semester has ended. The next time I’d see them again would be in August, the beginning of another school year. What a relief.

Don’t get me wrong, I love papers. It’s what I do. My books and blogs are, in essence, papers. They have a purpose; a beginning, middle, and ending.

But some of those papers turned in to me by my students, for grading, were not written like papers. At best, they were a hodgepodge of phrases, words, and paragraphs cut and pasted from the Net.

That’s where coffee came in—a booster, a waker-upper for me to give these papers sensible comments and fair marks.

One of my outstanding students, R, who writes good papers, must have read my thoughts. She gave me this gift last Christmas, the first one I received during the season. I broke it open each time I received a paper.

By coincidence, this became empty at the end of last school year. Exactly when I didn't need coffee to perk me up anymore.

I teach in a university that delivers UK diplomas and degrees. If you’ve gone through the British educational system, you know that it centers on writing papers that require critical thinking based on research, called academic underpinning.

Unfortunately, this digital age of brevity, one-liners, and short attention span has made writing, thinking, and researching tedious—requiring focus and lots of time—and therefore a challenge for students who loathe all of the above.

Result: badly written papers. Or should I say, very long “unwritten” papers.

I am writing another book during this lull between the last school year and the next. It’s a kind of paper that needs no coffee. My cup is already brimming over with grace.

It's been a bright and breezy break!

Only for Young Writers

Due to the dreadful traffic condition, which has worsened from nasty to nastiest in the last year, I  vowed never to travel outside of our district anymore.  My decision has led to missed reunions, art shows, special events, etc.

My last trip to Makati (45 km from where I live) took me four hours and that was cruel punishment for someone whose bladder was close to bursting.

But my friend Neni, to whom I cannot say no, invited me to facilitate a workshop for precocious kids who love to read and write. Double whammy! I can never say no either to encouraging kids who have the potential to be the next generation of writers.

It took my driver—who incessantly complained from the time he revved up the engine to the time we reached the venue—more than two hours to navigate what could have been a 20–minute drive. As a peace offering, I treated him to a lip-smacking lunch in a Japanese restaurant where his scowl turned to, well, something akin to a smirk.

His smirk finally turned into a smile when he realized that the workshop venue would be in a bookstore—and with a coffee shop! Knowing him all these almost 50 years of traffic and non-traffic togetherness, I had no doubt I could leave him there for hours—if not forever. There is something about books and coffee that make a good mistress.

The children, ages 7 to 12, at the Writer's Hang Out (of Where the Write Things Are)were everything I wished every kid would be. I asked if they had read this book and that. All hands went up with every title mentioned.

 

These bookworms excelled in all the creativity exercises. They were alert (I never once lost their attention) and wrote with gusto. 

“Writers see old, tired things with fresh, new eyes," I said. In a blink, they went to work. Reading their pieces later, I knew we were on the same page.

On our drive home, the traffic was even worse. It was the perfect time for passenger me to complain or even curse (forgive me, Lord). But looking back to the one-and-a-half hours I spent with the kids, whose bright writing future awaits, I could only think of grace.

I’d do it again—but only for young writers.

Seasons of Sleep

Sleep-deprived. that's how I’d describe me after last night’s tossing-and-turning episode at three in the morning till it was time to get up. This isn’t unusual; I get these kinds of nights often these days.

Once long ago, I could sleep anywhere, anytime, in any position. That was when I was still in the stress-filled workplace. Sleep was my panacea.

Between client meetings, as soon as I had stepped inside the car, my eyelids would shut off the world and I’d be in dreamland until the client’s parking lot—fresh and ready for another word-and-psyche war.

On the drive home late at night, after a long day of production meetings and ad shoots, I would immediately snooze away the one-hour trip. 

Behind my desk, after I had discussed a storyboard with a concept team, I’d cat nap before the next team entered my office door. 

No wonder I survived the corporate pressure cooker for 20 years! 

In contrast, here I am today enjoying the things I had no time for—writing, blogging, reading, teaching some, and idling some—at my own time and I could not get the same quality of sleep that used to come unbidden.

“You don’t need that much sleep anymore, Mom!” son #3 says to stop my incessant whining. 

He means, of course, you’re old.

And, of course, I am. It’s been years since I left the workplace and there have been changes, changes as many and as much as the grace that comes with them.

So why complain? Well, a friend happened to upload one of my old blogs, written a decade ago, and it is about the joy of sleep, storied sleep.

This made me wonder, what happened?

I looked up another old post,  “A Thousand Sleepless Nights,” and that shut me up—for now.  

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens . . .” Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NIV)

Photo credit: (top) 

Forty Days

It's been two months after Easter, and our pastor is still at it—preaching about Christ's resurrection. For good reasons. The most important of which is, “Resurrection is not a one-day celebration. It should continuously take place in us as we walk through life.”

Instead of ascending immediately to heaven after His resurrection, Jesus stayed on earth for 40 days.

During these important times, He demonstrated to His followers that the greatest miracle on earth had taken place. 

Jesus is alive!

After Jesus’ death on the cross and his body was sealed in a tomb, they grieved, totally devastated. Desperate and fearful, many of them went into hiding. They had believed Jesus was the promised Messiah – but now He was gone.

They had totally forgotten His promise that He would return from the grave.

Jesus had to appear before various groups to prove beyond any doubt that he had been raised from the dead by God's power. Although He appeared to them in the same form that they had seen, He was no longer trapped in that earthly body.

He exhibited to all that He was already omnipotent (all powerful with no limitations), omniscient (all knowing), and omnipresent (He could be everywhere at the same time).  So He appeared here and there, knowing exactly what was happening, and had been able to enter any place, even a room locked from the inside. 

By appearing to His disciples and believers, He was preparing them for the task of evangelism, of the Great Commission—of telling others about what they had witnessed: That Jesus had conquered death, He is alive, and that by grace, we, too, will resurrect from our earthly death if we believe in Him.

 “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.” John 1:14 (ESV)
Photo credit

Et tu, Supreme Court?

One word is missing from this old phrase dating back to 1707: judge, jury, and executioner.  Please add: accuser.

That’s what the Supreme Court of my beloved Philippines has become: accuser, judge, jury, and executioner. The judges ousted Maria Lourdes Sereno, the Chief Justice (CJ), via quo warranto* (QW) in vote of 8-6.

The role of the Supreme Court, the last time I looked, is judge—final judge in all cases involving laws of Congress, and the highest law of all, the Constitution.

Accuser?

Some of the judges, on live TV, testified against the CJ in a house impeachment hearing. It was my first time to see Supreme Court justices up close so I was riveted to the boob tube. From the replays, which I again watched closely, it was obvious that some of them had personal gripes against the CJ.

Judge?

The CJ therefore asked that these judges, who appeared on air, to inhibit themselves from the voting in the QW. They did not. These same accusers acted as judges, and predictably, they voted in favor of the ouster petition. Judges, as universally defined, are impartial decision-makers in the pursuit of justice.

Jury?

Same as judge, since the Philippines has no jury system. 

Executioner?

Universally, again, an executioner is defined as an official who carries out a sentence of death on a legally condemned person. The Supreme Court judges legally condemned the CJ, and carried out their sentence of death by ousting her.

From the point of view of ordinary citizens—who oppose the manner in which the CJ was ousted—the death sentence was on the whole judiciary, because it was executed by the country’s highest judicial court. 

 

In a world of betrayal and bitterness among ordinary citizens, I can only ask “Et tu, Supreme Court?”

A pall of doom has been cast upon our democratic system. As a believer of grace, however, I have absolute faith in the justice of the one true Judge.

“For the LORD is our judge, The LORD is our lawgiver, The LORD is our king; He will save us . . .” Isaiah 33:22  (NLT)

*QW can be filed against a “person who usurps, intrudes into, or unlawfully holds or exercises a public office, position or franchise.”

The Lost Mystique

Being a non-lawyer, I had somewhere in my subconscious that judges of the Supreme Court were isolated from the rest of mankind. It was not important to know who they were.

Their position required them to be cautious in their appearances and behavior in society—avoiding any impression of indecorum. 

They were clothed in mystique. They were not supposed to support any cause nor take sides. 

In recent months, however, they suddenly stripped themselves naked of this mysterious aura.  They took sides, one even displaying personal bitterness.

We met them on national television, live (replayed many times over). And what I saw were mortals, just like you and me, prone to raving and ranting. My jaw dropped when, on close up, Associate Justice Teresita de Castro spew controlled vitriol during the legislative hearing on the impeachment complaints against Chief Justice Maria Lourdes Sereno (CJ). The camera caught her and Court Administrator Jose Midas Marquez exchanging whispers.

I suddenly realized that these revered beings are like regular social media netizens who can let it all hang out, and freely rant and rave, albeit with restrained language and demeanor.

There have been talks that in the hallowed halls of the Supreme Court some are being paid by gods-that-be and therefore their decisions are predictable. I filed those rumors in the trash bin of my heart.

But more. Social media was abuzz again when Rep. Vilma Santos (a popular movie star on the side) said OMG! This was during the annual meeting of Philippine Women Judges Association where CJ (on indefinite leave) was the invited speaker, after which Santos would speak. But because the CJ touched on the impeachment case against her during her talk, de Castro, president of the association, beat Santos to the podium and rebuked the CJ publicly.

OMG indeed.

This caused many netizens to baptize de Castro as “Pambansang Ampalaya” (The National Bitter Gourd).

And more! The CJ asked that de Castro and the five other judges, who had appeared on TV accusing CJ of misdemeanor, inhibit from voting in the Quo Warranto (QW) case. Nobody inhibited. Hence the vote of 8-6 granting the QW petition to oust the CJ.

Immediately, countless memes such as this flooded the Net:

Other memes showed this photo of all judges who voted for and against the CJ’s ouster.

So now we can put faces to the names we only used to peripherally remember. Now we can recognize them on the streets, in the mall, or any place at all. Now, we can track their failings and feelings. Now I know that one of them owns the mansions I pass by almost daily.

The mystique is lost, and respect for the Supreme Court, diminished.

There is indignation—and celebration. People have taken sides; there is war. We are passing through the rivers as a divided nation. Will the grace of peace unite us ever again?   

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you . . .” Isaiah 43:2

Supremely Sad

While I am 12,000 miles away from Motherland, something supremely sad happened in the country that is my home.

The Philippines’ Chief Justice, Maria Lourdes Sereno, was ousted in a vote of 8-6. The ruling of the supreme court judges: “She is found disqualified from, and hereby adjudged guilty of unlawfully holding and exercising, the office of the chief justice.”

Brief background: A quo warranto (QW) petition was filed by Solicitor General Jose Calida with the intent of ousting Sereno. QW petition is defined in the Rules of Court . . . It can be filed against a “person who usurps, intrudes into, or unlawfully holds or exercises a public office, position or franchise.” 

On March 5, 2018, Calida accused Sereno of “failing to meet the integrity test when she only filed three of her Statements of Assets, Liabilities and Net Worth [SALN] in 2012.”

(Contrary to this, these particular SALN were not required by the Judicial and Bar Council [JBC], the body that screens candidates for judicial posts.)

The Rules of Court further says that a QW proceeding may be commenced within one year after the cause of ouster. But only two months after Calida filed the petition, the Chief Justice was ousted today, Friday, May 11.

There are many dissenting opinions penned by justices, lawyers, and legal organizations. There have been protests and prayer vigils among Christians, pleading for God not to allow this to happen.     

Yet it happened. While I do not question God’s sovereignty, my heart bleeds.

I will not go into details, for fear of hemorrhage, as I recall all that had happened—and will continue to happen—in “Pilipinas kong mahal” (my beloved Philippines).  This has been an extremely divisive issue, tearing apart further an already uncertain nation.

But I am certain that our God of grace will still hand down His own verdict at His own perfect time.

Meanwhile . . .

I will follow what was blatantly dishonored by Calida and the eight supreme court justices: Romans 13:1 (NLT), "Let everyone be subject to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God." 

Middle photo: by Bullit Marquez/Associated Press

Perks

Perks are those special benefits—in addition to the big money one is paid—that comes with the job. The more important the position is, the more impressive those freebies are.

But what if you are no longer employed and therefore have been stripped of any title that commands a high basic pay and an impressive coterie of people under your control?

Will perks still apply?

Sure they do.

From the day I chose to be an author, a complete turnabout from the corporate world which consumed me, I knew I was no longer entitled to perks. For one, there is no pay to speak of.

But receiving affirming letters and hearing oral testimonies—of how God has used my books to encourage a troubled someone, or uplift a grieving spirit, or heal a broken heart—have become my basic pay, much more than I ever thought possible.

Beyond that, do I still deserve perks?

No, but I get them anyway. Here' one of them:

This was sent from the US by someone I have not met, so it is more than a perk. It is a windfall. 

It is grace. 

The Other Cheek

My friend G nags me no end about writing a book on forgiveness. “I have an interesting story for you,” she dangles a carrot in front of me. “I have friends who have other heart-rending stories,” she dangles more carrots.

This has been going on for five years.  But each year, I'd write a book on another subject. She’s probably wondering why I have not considered it, forgiveness being a brave act every person on earth agonizes over.

I have considered it. In fact, I have been chewing it in my head since that day G broached the idea. However, I could not put a finger on what it is exactly. Is it saying “I forgive you” to someone who has deeply hurt you? Or is it moving on and ignoring it with these idiomatic attitudes? 

“Swallow the bitter pill.”
“Sweep it under the rug.”
“Leave him/her ‘out of the picture.’” 
“Treat it like an ‘elephant in the room.’”

Forgiveness was demonstrated to us on the cross, and it is inimitable. Only the Son of God  could say to betrayers, sadists, punishers, executioners, jeerers, haters, and corrupt judges, “Father forgive them for they know not what they do.”

So how can humans do even a semblance of this selfless act?

The Bible has the answer: Turn the other cheek. “But I say, do not resist an evil person! If someone slaps you on the right cheek, offer the other cheek also.” Matthew 5:39

This metaphor nailed it for me. Forgiveness can be humanly demonstrable.

Let me cite Q, a battered wife. Through her married life (25 years), her husband humiliated her by openly flaunting his girlfriends to the world, unmindful of her feelings. One day he left her and lived with a string of beautiful mistresses, one after the other.

Now with his nth mistress, he fell ill, diagnosed with a degenerative disease that needed full-time caring. Guess who offered to give him exactly that? Not any of his mistresses, but Q. She nursed him through his sickness, without rebuke nor reproach for what he had put her through. 

On his deathbed three years later, he sobbed, “Will you ever forgive me?”

“I already have.”

He slapped Q on her right cheek and yet she offered the other.

Her friends sneered, “Martyr complex.”

Q thought otherwise. She saw the essence of forgiveness: offering the other cheek.

This forgiveness story ended the way my childhood books did. And Q “lived happily ever after.”  A life of  peace, soaked in grace.