Why Butterfly?

After reading my post on her love for butterflies, my sister Aie messaged her answer to my unasked question of why she loves them.  

"It all started when I got me a picture book [Hope for the Flowers] written by Trina Paulus in the early '70s. God's Word in another language. It takes a lot of butterflies to make a world full of flowers!"

Boom! That jogged my memory; details came back. I have that same book. Aie and I would discuss it with our late friend, Daisy, during the "flower power" era.  

This book resonated with us then because we were still trying to find our place in the sun: moving from a seeming rut to a dynamic, fulfilling life. 

"Hope for the flowers" is categorized as a children's novel, but for me—like the books Jonathan Livingston Seagull and The Little Prince—it is a fable, an allegory, that is more for millennials today and upwardly mobile young professionals, rather than children. 

The main character, Stripe (a caterpillar), does not truly know what he wants. All he desires is to escape from the humdrum of perpetual crawling and leaf-eating. 

When he sees many caterpillars climbing towards the clouds, he decides to climb with them to reach the top, too, even if he has no idea what is there. 

In my encounters with millennials, many have no plans or goals for the future, because they don't know what they want and where they want to go. 

They embody Stripe, who follows the crowd, leaving the dull life behind, and blindly hoping for the best. In the climbing, he steps on others, but he does not care on whom he steps as long as he can inch up ahead of them.  

Then he meets Yellow, and Stripe's perspective changes. 

Although they share the same doubts and uncertainties, Yellow and Stripe decide to live a peaceful life away from the climbing crowd. 

But Stripe soon becomes restless again and decides to yet again climb the mountain of caterpillars. 

Meanwhile, left behind, Yellow experiences something glorious and wonderful. He becomes a hope for the flowers. 

Boom! No wonder, Aie, who has left her cocoon to be at her rightful place (serving the Lord), loves butterflies. 

". . . Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God’s Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don’t know how or what to pray, it doesn’t matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That’s why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good."  Romans 8:26-28 (The Message)    

Is it an Egg? Or a Plant?

Definitely, an eggplant is a plant. That answer I got right.

Now, is it a vegetable or a fruit? Vegetable!  Or is it? 

For the longest time, I have been telling those who care to listen that one of my favorite vegetables is the eggplant. That encouraged our househelp to plant one in our garden. A few months later, here it is! 

It’s purple and long, the way I thought all eggplants looked like. (My interest in the kitchen is not the issue here.) However it’s cooked—sautéed, fried, baked, boiled, roasted, broiled, singed—I’d gobble up whatever is served on the table. 

Now that I have my own eggplant plant, I took extra interest in it and researched (there is extra time for all kinds of research while Covid-19 remains untamed) on it. 

This shocked me: 

“Way back in the 1700s, early European versions of eggplant were smaller and yellow or white. They looked like goose or chicken eggs, which led to the name ‘eggplant.’  

“The eggplant has been around for a long, long time. It’s native to India and Southeast Asia. In fact, the first known written mention of eggplant comes from a Chinese book on agriculture written in 544.”

This shocked me even more:

Eggplant is not a vegetable. It is a fruit! And it comes in many shapes, sizes, and colors.

This shocked me most:  

Not a soul ever corrected me when I gushed over it, “Oh, I so love this vegetable!” Meaning, nobody  among my family, friends, and acquaintances knows that basic fact either. Or perhaps no one loves it as much as I do and he/she does not care what it really is. 

No matter. This vegetable, which is not a vegetable, and this eggplant, which is not an egg, remains one of my favorite . . . whatever.  

Anything edible that romances one’s tongue is gastronomical grace. 

ooo

Photo credit: My eggplant header was grabbed, with gratitude, from the FB page of Carla, a friend and faith sister, who has joined the ranks of plantitas during this pandemic. 

Uh-oh! #5

First chapter of "What, Me Retire?"   

*Continued from previous post

(Covid-19 has forced many people to retire and, as expressed in their social media posts, home 24/7 is such a lonely place. Perhaps by sharing my own retirement story, they can find humor in their change of pace, and may even discover that retirement is a blessing in disguise.)                                                 

Scene 4: A New Life Beckons 

More changes made me feel like Methuselah, but the barnacle that I had become wouldn't budge. By this time,  it had been two years since Tin Man entered the scene. Inasmuch as my working hours were now my free time, I took seriously what two of my young writers had been badgering me about: Join the Palanca Awards. I dredged up an old idea from my writing chest and worked on a short story for children. I felt like I resurrected from the grave, writing all day and night, and couldn't stop. 

Then the coup the grace—my Palanca entry won, first prize. 

There is life after advertising, I mused, and began to think that being a barnacle minus Mses. Ego, Authority, Courage, Stature, Spunk, Guts, and Passion for almost two years was worse than being retired, or dead.   

Just in time, a big news came.    

Tin Man summoned the remaining VPs (the three whose scribbles were enshrined in my little notebook had left) to a meeting and dropped a bombshell: The company was splitting with its partner and there were talks of new mergers. “Since the retirement age has been officially reduced to 50, you are all more than qualified to leave. I am asking you all to take advantage of a retirement package by the end of this year.” Uh-oh.

The rumor mill started grinding. “Grace, we heard you're retiring.”  

“Who told you?” 

“The boss!” 

I felt like Margarito-Mosley-Marquez-all-in-one, after being pummeled by Pacman. So I threw in the towel and cried, Uncle! 

HR computed my unused vacations leaves accumulated over the years: Four months! It was the middle of August, exactly four months till the prescribed retirement day at year-end. 

I pasted on my face a big smile for Tin Man, “I'd like to push my retirement date to April next year. I wish to attend the Christmas Party, to end my career with a carol!” 

Tin Man didn't even blink: “I am sorry, Grace, but the retirement package specifies 'out by December 31.'” 

That means . . . if I take my leaves, I’d have to go . . . TODAY?! I asked myself.  

It would have been the perfect time to tear his ear off about the changes, but he had no ears, and I had nothing left of me. Ms. Chong, where have you gone? 

That night I wrote my resignation letter: short and sweet. It confirmed my retirement at year-end, and my going on leave starting TODAY. It was as though someone who possessed nothing of my persona wrote it for me. There were no official files to attach, Tin Man already had taken them all. 

He might have been on his way to see the Wizard of Oz the next day, so I left my letter with his secretary. Then I waited till most of the people in my department had left for client calls and TV shoots before I invited the few who were at their desks to my office. 

 “I have decided to retire,” I intoned. 

“When?” 

“End of the year. But today is my last day.” 

You could hear a pin drop. After I had blubbered my “thank yous,” they clinkity-clanked out of my room—like miniature Tin Men. 

It was 2 o'clock PM; I left everything as-is-where-is in my room, ran out to the parking lot, and told my driver (rather, the company driver assigned to me) to bring me home for good. 

The End

Cast of characters scroll up. 

That done, the last frame—a slogan—pops up on screen: 

"Retire from work, but not from life." – Dr. M.K. Soni, Homeopathic physician 

Links:

Uh-oh! #1  

Uh-oh! #2  

Uh-oh! #3  

Uh-oh! #4  

Uh-oh! #4

First chapter of "What, Me Retire?"   

*Continued from previous post

(Covid-19 has forced many people to retire and, as expressed in their social media posts, home 24/7 is such a lonely place.   Perhaps by sharing my own retirement story, they can find humor in their change of pace, and may even discover that retirement is a blessing in disguise.)                                                   

Scene 3: Mr Roche returns 

All I was left doing was reading the newspapers (including obituaries), and appeasing irate clients over some young ones' work that never passed through me. If you're keeping score, I still had not lost Ms. Title. I was still Executive Vice President, Creative, who still had the plush office (a huge corner room with a view; the only one with a bathtub in the whole building).   

This five-star office morphed into a rock and I became a barnacle. Despite a series of tidal waves, I  clung stubbornly to where I was. 

In my constant talk with God, I asked for patience to respect the new style of management. He granted me that to overflowing.   

One day I made the mistake of entering the boardroom, where our IT person was preparing slides for a major client meeting the next day, about which I was not officially told. On the big screen was the account's organizational chart. Inside the top box, where my name should be, was another name, Mutch, a young hotshot from another agency. 

“Grace!” the IT person exclaimed. “Are you retiring?” 

Startled, I replied, “Guess!” and hurried out.    

In major presentations for this account, the top gun from New York, Mr. Roche, flew in to Manila. The night before this, our company usually hosted a welcome cocktail party.  

Back in my desk, Tin Man's secretary rang, “Grace, the boss wants your file of Mr. Roche's account.” 

I came upon Tin Man on the phone,  “Welcome back!  See you at the cocktails tonight-”  

Mr. Roche, I thought. I grew up being challenged by this formidable New Yorker, whose account I'd handled from day one. When he entered a room, the walls trembled and everybody inside them. But not me. Back in my youth in the US, I survived living with a daunting American aunt who was the world's toughest talker, with a voice to match.    

Tin Man glanced in my direction and fiddled with the phone cord, “Grace? Grace Chong? Of course, she'll be there tonight. Yes, bye!” 

Turning to me, Tin Man said, “Oh, Grace, is that Mr. Roche's account file? By the way, ride with me to the cocktail party for him tonight.”   

Cocktail parties were a part of my job so I responded with my now second favorite word (next to “Guess”), “Sure.”  

I prepared for a heart-to-heart (rather, heart-to-metal) talk with Tin Man in the confines of his car, but he napped. Ms.Guts, come back!    

At the cocktails, Mr. Roche came straight to me, bellowing, “Grace!” He lifted me up and swung me around like papa bear would to baby bear. Jaws dropped; one clanged. When my feet touched the ground, he asked, “So, will I see you tomorrow?” 

A metallic voice beside me replied, “Of course!” 

Before I left the party, Tin Man took me aside, “Be at the presentation tomorrow.” 

“B-but . . . ”  I stammered. 

“Nine o'clock!” he said, walking to his car.    

Guess! I thought. “Sure,” I murmured. Ms. Spunk, you're leaving, too?  

The meeting opened with Mr. Roche challenging the agency anew. “Give me excellent work  all, the, time!” he roared. “And now, show me my creative team.”  On the screen flashed the organizational chart being worked on by our IT person the day before. Inside the top box was . . . ready for this? My name. 

“Good!” Mr. Roche rumbled. “Same old group!”   

That chart was ignored soon after Mr. Roche flew back to New York. Mutch headed the team anyway, and I was out of the box, and I let it ride! Ms. Passion, where art thou? 

To be continued next post

Uh-oh! #3

First chapter of "What, Me Retire?"   

*Continued from previous post

(Covid-19 has forced many people to retire and, as expressed in their social media posts, home 24/7 is such a lonely place. Perhaps by sharing my own retirement story, they can find humor in their change of pace, and may even discover that retirement is a blessing in disguise.)                                                   

Scene 2:  The Tin Man strips the EVP of authority plus more 

I armed myself against the many changes Tin Man instituted in the company. 

First change: The people reporting to me started working on their own and reporting directly to Tin Man. Something in me suddenly crashed — Ms. Ego!Uh-oh. Now, nothing pushed me into storming Tin Man's office anymore. I was disabled for assault.  

On the plus side, I had less work to do. But more changes: Tin Man ordered Human Resource to instruct new hires in my department to report directly to him, bypassing me.

I came close to waging World War III, but when I looked inside of me, I realized that Ms. Courage had likewise scampered away.  Am I too old for combats?

Two new young hires, artists, were walking down the corridor the next month. They were  both sporting uncombed long hair and jeans with holes. Once upon a time I interviewed their kind before they could set foot in my department. 

“Hi!” I said, “my name is Grace. Welcome to the agency!” 

“Hi, Grace!” they replied, and asked in a duet, “ From what department?” 

“Guess!” I said, slinking away.  

Farewell, Ms. Authority.  

Changes, changes, changes. “Hey, Grace!” a friend from a competing agency called up another day. “Your new boss attended the meeting last night. Where were you?”  

“Meeting?” I asked.  

“Don't miss the next one tonight, and join the Ways and Mean Committee.” 

“Ways and Means Committee?” I was out of the loop. 

Ms. Stature, are you leaving, too? I had lost my place in the industry. Uh-oh. 

To be continued next post

Uh-oh! #2

First chapter of "What, Me Retire?"   

*Continued from previous post

(Covid-19 has forced many people to retire and, as expressed in their social media posts, home 24/7 is such a lonely place. Perhaps by sharing my own retirement story, they can find humor in their change of pace, and may even discover that retirement is a blessing in disguise.)                                                    

Why I upped and left in four scenes 

Scene 1: The Tin Man Cometh 

Unlike doctors, lawyers, and professors who get more respect as they age, oldish (40s and up) advertising practitioners are reviled. Growing old is taboo. Advertising is an arena for the young with edgy ideas  at much less pay and perks. So when one reaches a certain age, pay, and perks like I did, fresh, young talents swagger their way in. 

Retirement? It was a constant push and pull when I was pushing 50. “I am old; I am young; I am old; I am young.” In denial? My friend Oski, who is a joker and jumbled quotations, had the answer, “Age does not matter, so long as matter doesn't age.” 

Then like a stray bullet from nowhere, a new boss pinged our comfy nest. My shaken, mind went into overdrive. His reputation as a non-nonsense man preceded him, so my brain's eye saw him as the Tin Man in human form.

Nothing wrong with the Wizard of Oz character who had no heart, but this Tin Man of a boss looked at the world in black and white—you were either in or out, young or old. So when we, members of management, came face to face with him in the boardroom, it was obvious he was a left-brainer, as opposed to me, a right-brainer from birth. 

Looking around, I saw my reflection on the faces of the other VPs — my dearest friends through the years: coiffed hair, crinkle-free suit, a demeanor of maturity way past young and daring.  

Closing my eyes, I listened to Tin Man and heard cling-clang instead of lub-dub. The ex-boss he just replaced, who retired at 50, had a humongous heart so big you could hear his lub-dub a mile away. On top of that, he had two giant ears that listened to what you had to say, careful not to break your spirit. 

I tried to delete the Tin Man metaphor from my brain, but the VP on my right furtively took my little notebook on the table and wrote on it, then the next VP beside him took the same notebook and wrote on it, too, and on to the next. When I got my notebook back, I read these scribbles, Uh-oh, What now? and I'm outta here! 

Now, now, that's not a nice way to welcome Tin Man, I thought. I glared at the three of them and mouthed, “chicken!” These three guys and I had fought the fiercest client wars and survived, with battle scars as our badge of courage. 

As affirmed by the three notes, the mindset of our new boss was obviously different from ours but I psyched myself for what was coming. Like David, the shepherd boy in the Old Testament, I was facing my giant Goliath (only figuratively, for he was slight in stature). He was poised to change the rules; I was poised to stick to them. 

To be continued next post   

Uh-oh! #1

First chapter of "What, Me Retire?"   

(Covid-19 has forced many people to retire and, as expressed in their social media posts, home 24/7 is such a lonely place. Perhaps by sharing my own retirement story, they can find humor in their change of pace, and may even discover that retirement is a blessing in disguise.)                                                                                                         

Retire from a dream career? No way.    

Well, I upped and left—without packing my bags—never to return to that place where I did what I loved to do for over 25 years! I dared not look back, afraid I might, like Lot's wife, turn to salt. 

Not your typical retirement scene, is it?  It's more like a movie sequence. 

Company retirees are usually sent off with a ritual: speeches of accolades and gratitude; food and drinks; hugs and tears; a small parting gift (in an envelope), and a wild applause. I had mounted those rituals myself (with the help of my staff) for esteemed officemates who reached the retirement age and, by law, had to go.  

In contrast, here I was, ritual-bare, a 54-year-old ex-EVP, sitting alone like a petrified driftwood in the middle of the Dead Sea instead of the car that would take me home for good.

As the building that housed my advertising life grew smaller and smaller from the car's rear view mirror, I heard a grandiose music soundtrack swell to crescendo. Then when the building was out of sight, in sync with the last chord, the screen turned black and the words “The End” appeared. 

Tragic ending? Well, I lamented the fact that nobody would ever know whether I just left for coffee or took a spin around the block.  

* * * * *

Written in most of my books today: “Grace left the workplace to try new things.” New things mean everything outside of advertising, but primarily, they mean writing. Nothing new, really, as I might have begun writing in my mother's womb. I’ve been writing  letters, plays, nursery rhymes, greeting cards, speeches for aunties and grannies, among others. But along the way, my mind, not my heart, led me to other persuasions.   

Just a week after fleeing my place of work, I rekindled my dormant love for writing and took on where I left off. I seized writing with a focus so ferocious I pounded on my keyboard almost 24/7, more hours than any day I ever spent at work. I asked myself then, Retiring isn't so bad, is it? 

On the flip side, I knew I had to go through that made-only-in-movies dramatic exit to make me appreciate “new things.”  

Here now is a sneak peek of how the plot thickened for two years before it moved toward the scene when the screen turned black for “The End.”  

To be continued next post 

Unimaginable Imagination

Visual artists see lights, shadows, lines, colors, tones, shapes, spaces, and textures that ordinary eyes can’t see. 

I am privileged to have many friends in this field. And I am in awe of the master artists whose magnum opuses are in famed museums all over the world and whose works command millions of dollars.

Wow, what imagination! 

Yet Plato asserted that when artists are using their imagination, they are simply imitating. In his Theory of the Forms, Plato wrote that art imitates physical things (mimesis), and physical things imitate forms. Therefore, “art is a copy of a copy.”  

How so? Plato explains through the metaphor of the three beds:

One bed is an idea created by God. The second bed is created by a carpenter who imitates God’s idea. The painter than imitates the carpenter’s bed by painting it. Ergo, the artist’s bed is twice removed from the truth.

Artists, therefore, can only imitate so much, because our God of grace, the original Artist, has endless ideas. This I found out with great reverence while Googling images of flowers. (Yes, I will dare paint flowers again while the pandemic rages on.) 

We are all familiar with many blooms in our garden and in flower shops. But do we even know how many rare flowers there are in the world? I discovered more than a hundred (I am sure there are more in some hinterlands somewhere) and I am sharing with you a few that kept me gushing till I ran out of breath.

There aren't enough adjectives to describe them so I came up with one all-inclusive phrase: 

“Unimaginable imagination!” Our Creator’s lights, shadows, lines, colors, tones, shapes, spaces, and textures are indeed out of any artist’s league and out of this world. 

These are just my personal picks. There are many, many, many more on the Net. 

“Great and marvelous are your works, O Lord God, the Almighty. Just and true are your ways, O King of the nations." (Revelation 15:3 NLT) 

My Sister and Her Butterflies

As I watch the butterflies in our garden, I smile thinking of my only sister, Aie. She loves butterflies! She has them (decal, drawing, photo, ceramic, plastic) on most of her doodads like fans, eyeglasses, notebooks, pens, umbrella, flip-flops, etc. 

Why? I don't know. Come to think of it, I never got around to asking her. 

They are in the Bible! I say to myself, because during this pandemic, most (if not all) of her days are focused on our home church in the province. In the absence of a pastor, she seems to have naturally slid into the role. 

Actually, butterflies are not found in God's book, but their life cycle is an uncanny illustration of the transforming work of Jesus Christ in the lives of believers. In 2 Corinthians 5:17 (NKJV), we read, ". . . if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new." 

The same God, who changes a caterpillar into a butterfly, transforms a sinner into a saved soul. 

The metamorphosis from caterpillar to butterfly has striking parallels to a Christian's life: conversion, resurrection, and transfiguration. The word transform is metamorpheo in Greek, the origin of the English term metamorphosis—the  change a caterpillar undergoes to become a butterfly. This very same word is used to explain Christ’s transfiguration: a complete transformation. 

At Jesus’ transfiguration, his physical appearance metamorphosed from an ordinary Human to a divine Being in all His glory while three of His disciples (Peter, James, and John) watched:  

". . . He was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun, and His clothes became as white as the light." (Matthew 17:2) Just like a caterpillar emerging from its cocoon to become a butterfly! That must be why Aie loves this remarkable marvel.  

I am no theologian and cannot articulate it in greater detail, but to me, it seems that our cocoon stage as Christians is when we die to sin. 

What a mind-blowing grace!  

Blast from the Class

 Last-class days are usually ho-hum. I expected only two or three students to come and listen to my instructions for a future online exam. 

I was shocked to see them all! 

Perhaps because it was the last day, even those who chose silence through the term put their larynx to work. And since I had no formal agenda, except for the instructions that were spelled out in a few  minutes, the talkies were free-wheeling. 

We talked about their plans, the weather, some politics, nuggets of wisdom, past lessons, and countless inanities that needed no brain surgery. 

Then when the final minutes came, I nonchalantly said, “Okay, goodbye for now. See you when I see you! Let’s take one last class photo.” 

And suddenly, a blast rocked my screen. From each frame sprang out faces and words that knocked me over. 

I didn’t know whether to cry, laugh, babble, or snivel. I did all. 

See, online classes are frustrating, if not heartbreaking. A teacher, who exhausts all bags of tricks to engage her students, never knows whether she is connecting or not. Body language and facial expressions that usually guide a teacher's tempo in a classroom, are non existent. Closed cameras show only grinning photos. 

That was why on this last day, I expected yawning. 

The shock wave triggered by that blast from the class blew up my senses and turned my throat into a fist. That night, like a weeping willow, I bowed down in thanksgiving for this burst of grace.   

Freak of Nature

This noun phrase is the simplest explanation for anything we see that is unusual or abnormal in creation. Man is supposed to have only one head, but when someone has two (conjoined twins), it’s a “freak of nature.” Then we think of the circus, which features a freak show.     

It is so convenient to use this wholesale, catch-all summary of things that go beyond the norm. 

Roses, for instance, come in all colors today than years back, because gardeners scientifically graft them. And yet, “freak of nature” happens. 

My niece, Vinya, uploaded this photo of a rose on her FB page.  Burgundy and white in one?! 

They are supposed to bloom separately. 

Quickly, I searched the Net to find out how this could have happened. (Man has this unquenchable thirst for an explanation behind any rarity.) To my delight, I find multi-colored roses that had been tinted and dyed by humans hands.  

But the undyed and untinted two-colored rose is surprising grace; not a work of man, but a gift of God. There is nothing freakish about it. There is a twin of Vinya’s photo online! Gasp.   

Just when we think we know how God acts to show His love for us, we behold something unexpected. 

Theologians say that the Bible bares everything about God’s love. He revealed Himself in creation (Romans 1:20) and in Jesus (the Gospels), and through the prophets and apostles. Unfortunately, our finite mind cannot grasp it all.

“Freak of nature” is one of those ungraspable—and unknowable and unmeasurable—acts of the Lord. That’s why for the Ephesians (chapter 3:19), Paul prayed, “May you . . . grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ . . .” 

The roses and all of God’s creation manifest His love for everyone. My eyes cannot see it all, so I depend on faith. 

Martin Luther once wrote, “God our Father has made all things depend on faith so that whoever has faith will have everything, and whoever does not have faith will have nothing.”

Divided Heart

Posts about losing a loved one or getting sick with Covid-19 always leave me wordless. So I reply with the broken-heart emoji, hoping it would convey exactly how I feel. I have been using this emoji too often lately, a clue that the catastrophe the coronavirus crammed into our chests has not ceased since last year. 

Then just like that, it is the middle of year again. I am also midway in reading my chronological Bible. 

Here we see King Solomon now building God’s house, which his father David dreamed of doing himself—he had all plans drawn, including the details. 

But God instructed David that it would be his son, Solomon, who will build the Temple and its courtyards . . . and if Solomon continues to obey God’s commands, his kingdom would last forever (1 Chronicles 28:6-7). 

Solomon uses the finest of materials (costly precious gems, metals, and stones; trees transported from other places), put in place by the best of artisans and hundreds of skilled workers. 

Simultaneously, however, Solomon builds his own palace and another palace for one of his concubines, the Egyptian pharaoh’s daughter, causing delay in the construction.  

While reading, my broken-heart emoji took a despicable dimension. It suddenly became the illustration of Solomon’s divided heart! 

His heart is not wholly for God; it is fractured by other loves.

Solomon’s heart starts to fragment during the building of the temple. It further splinters when he, in later years, start worshipping the idols of his foreign wives. 

When God’s temple is completed after 13 years, Solomon’s two other personal temples are completed as well. During the consecration of God’s Temple for worship, the Lord warns him of the dangers of a divided heart: 

If he and his children cease to follow the Lord and His commandments by worshiping other gods, the Lord will cut off Israel from the land given them, and God’s Temple will be destroyed (1 Kings 9:6). 

From a whole heart to a divided heart; from grace to disgrace. Now, isn't that heartbreaking?

Is That You?

That question is not an insult per se, but when it is asked while someone is looking at your old photo and then his eyeballs pivot toward you, he is actually being polite. What he means—but bites his tongue— is, What on earth happened to you?! 

Even if that unasked question were yodeled on a mountain peak, I take no offense. In fact, I am laughing while writing about it—as I hear that question more often these days. 

Any reference to my youth is relevant only as far as the vibrant memories are concerned, but what has happened to my facade is of minor importance. Beauty regimens are a thing of the past when one reaches a certain age—think of all that money and time saved for prettying oneself!  

The question, “What on earth happened to you?” can be answered by one word: age. 

And as sure as “the sun will come out tomorrow,” age carts along with it a carry-all that contains a multitude of things: illnesses, tragedies, failures, losses, and disappointments. 

Rescuing grace lightens the load on the road, but the cargo piles up through the years, and its increasing weight takes a toll on one’s skin, eyes, ears, hair, muscles, posture, veins, organs—name it. Every living and non-living matter on earth atrophies over time.  

Youth is ephemeral. 

Despite my aches, pains, and discomforts today, I can honestly say, without meaning to boast, that I am comfortable in my own skin.  

If someone asks, “Is that you?” 

My reply, “That I was, then. This I am, now.” 

A perfect example of a comparative ad.  

"Is not wisdom found among the aged? Does not long life bring understanding?” (Job 12:12 NIV) 

o o o

P.S.

Tony and I exchanged marriage vows 51 years ago, today, with our immediate family members as witnesses. 

Geen’s Gone

 Before I check social media these lockdown days, my heart seesaws between anticipation and apprehension.  

I look forward to hearing from friends and family—about the exciting things they are into. And yet, I dread the bad news, which has been overwhelming: deaths, illnesses, financial woes, and mental anguish. 

Many of my dear ones document their struggles on their pages, asking for prayers, and suddenly, one day, you see a black empty frame or a lit candle on common friends’ pages. Collectively we mourn and lift each other up with words of comfort.  

But one friend, Geen, left without warning. She had always been a very private person and spurned social media. I like to think, however, that she was open with me—as I with her—when  we became co-teachers and friends in a university. 

Geen had awe-inspiring credentials earned from the business sector, where she had been a commanding force in a multi-national company. She brought her expertise and sharp mind to the university; these she shared with her students and me, in the faculty lounge, selflessly. No wonder she was loved by her students and had a fan in me.

Among other things, she taught me how to do systematic records so that nothing is left to chance. She would simplify strategies in plain diagrams, and interconnect even disparate syllabi. 

I knew we’d meet again, but she took off even before we could see the finish line of this crisis. 

Geen’s gone, but the things she left me are legacies of grace that will last till I, too, would be . . . well, gone.  

"Everyone who lives in me and believes in me will never ever die." (John 11:26 NLT)

Why Don’t You Have a Boyfriend?

The world has turned upside down while I was busy getting old. 

Now I hear some single girls lamenting why titas and friends of their moms always ask,  “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?  

The question suggests a tragedy; the reaction suggests hurt pride. Both puzzle me.  

In the Jurassic world where I grew up, values were different. If you belong to my generation (baby boomers), you know where that is. But if you are of this age (Gen X, Y, and Z), well, you may take this as a lesson in history or humor, whichever is more hilarious.  

Let me summarize our elders’ “words of wisdom” that my cousins and I often heard at home and in family gatherings. 

“Choose your boyfriend very carefully because you’ll eventually marry him.” Meaning, your boyfriend will not propose marriage; it is understood that he will be your husband. From the moment he says, "I love you," his fate is sealed. 

“If a man tries to touch you, he does not respect you.” Meaning, intimacy is not allowed in a relationship. It is reserved for marriage. 

“Why commit yourself to one man when you can cherish the company of others?” Meaning, if you are not in a relationship, you are free to enjoy yourself minus the restrictions of a commitment to only one. 

“If you break up with your boyfriend, the world will look at you as a stained woman.” Meaning, a lady who has had a boyfriend is a second-hand merchandise. 

“A wise, smart lady is complete; she is not a part of a whole. Meaning, those who are aching for a boyfriend feel insufficient or inadequate.     

Now, if you have or had a boyfriend/s, go ahead, ROFL.  

In my time, being a virgin bride was a badge of honor. The groom had valor. And the question, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” was never asked. 

So if people ask this today, I suggest five bold counter questions for that one eerie query. 

(On a sentimental note, I remember my mom, my titas, and their friends. They were a guiding grace for my choices in life.) 

P.S. This blog post's alternative title: Why don't You Have a Girlfriend? 

ooo

". . . whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things." (Philippians 4:8 NIV) 

Thank You, Pnoy

WHAT?! 

That was the reaction of everyone when we heard (a rumor at first; then a confirmation later) that former President Benigno “Noynoy” Aquino died in the early morning of June 24.

Even his family, close friends, and immediate associates, who knew of his ailments, were shocked when he died peacefully in his sleep. 

He left exactly the way he was in life, averse to calling attention to himself. That’s why during his six-year presidency, he found it unnecessary to defend himself against detractors who used the vilest words to defame him: lazy, addicted to video games, and “abnoy” (short for abnormal, or special).

Worse, he was mutilated beyond recognition when he stepped down. Fake news have peppered social media for five years. Only those who read the newspapers or understand economics knew that he made the Philippines the rising tiger of Asia; upgraded credit to investment rating; increased GDP; reduced unemployment and poverty; built schools; got K-12 going; and defended our exclusive economic zone (EEZ), our jurisdiction over the exploration of marine resources at the West Philippine Sea. 

Those are grand feats by any standard, and appreciated by those in the know. The masses, about 85% of the population, lapped up fake news that his administration accomplished nothing compared to the new dispensation under President Duterte. 

Suddenly Pnoy dies. 

And the outpouring of accolades, stories, narratives of his successes and excellent work ethics as president flood mass media and the Internet. Mind boggling! And yet, Vergel Santos (Trustee for Media Freedom and Responsibility) said, "Those are embarrassingly insufficient.” 

Let me add, incredibly ironic.

With PNoy's death, the country is seeing the polar opposite of what his detractors had cast off as dish rag. 

I cannot cram here all the sterling details that I now know about this extraordinary man and his achievements, but those that touched me most were his (words borrowed from several sources): dedication, decency, dignity, and diligence. He had a non-negotiable moral compass. 

Aren’t those what the Lord expects of us? 

“. . . ‘Do what is just and right. Rescue from the hand of the oppressor the one who has been robbed. Do no wrong or violence to the foreigner, the fatherless or the widow, and do not shed innocent blood in this place.’” (Jeremiah 22:3)

o o o 

Aside: people have been putting meaning to the atmospheric changes on the day PNoy died:   

1. The yellow (his protest color against the Marcos dictatorship) moon appeared. In June, the moon is lowest in the sky, which we see through a thick atmosphere that turns it yellow. 

2. The skies wept. Again, June is the beginning of the wet season.  

Nobody (not his family or doctors) and nothing (not dialysis or kidney transpal) could have delayed his leaving. Only the Lord decides when life ends: new or full moon; rain or shine; now or tomorrow.  

Photo credits: CTTO/borrowed from the Internet

So Long, PNoy

As one of your bosses, I will not say goodbye—just “So long.”   

Today is a sad day for those who respected you for modelling the values we hold dear: decency, honesty, and transparency as the 15th president of our republic.

While I deeply grieve with them, I prefer to celebrate your life. For your legacy—strict adherence to the rules of law for the greater good, no matter how unpopular, and done with humility and sincerity—I am deeply grateful.  

You brought dignity and civility to the position with your statesmanship. You gave us space to call you out for decisions we thought were wrong, over which you were never defensive nor angry. Many have maligned you, often falsely and mercilessly, but God must have given you the grace of restraint for keeping your silence . . . until your last breath.  

Maraming salamat, PNoy. Salute! 

o o o 

Someday, there will be a day of reckoning, a time when our transgressions are finally laid bare before the great Judge who sees every heart. 

“ . . . when our dying bodies have been transformed into bodies that will never die, this Scripture will be fulfilled: 

‘Death is swallowed up in victory. 
O death, where is your victory?
O death, where is your sting?’

“For sin is the sting that results in death, and the law gives sin its power. But thank God! He gives us victory over sin and death through our Lord Jesus Christ.” (1 Corinthians 15:53-56 NLT) 

A Googolplex of Colors

“What's the color of grace?” a young boy asked, as I signed his books during one Manila International Book Fair. 

Me: Green, that’s my color, my favorite. 

Boy: No, I am not talking about you! I am talking about God’s grace. 

Me: Oh. (long pause) None. No color. It just comes, and we find it . . .

Boy (taking his signed books): Thank you! 

I could have explained, but the next kid in line was asking me another question. 

ooo

We’re on our second year of lockdown due to the coronavirus, and I have been blessed with ample time to use my five senses with no interruptions. 

For one, I’ve been bird watching—both live and online. Many birds visit our garden everyday. Some dawdle to eat orts from our cat and dogs’ plates. They sing lovely tunes. 

The birds online are something else. They leap out of the screen with their grandiose colors.

The first time I saw these mandarin ducks (above) and these other birds (left), I remembered the young boy at the book fair years ago. By now, no thanks to me, he should have discovered that God’s grace is infinitely colored, more than the largest named number to date: googolplex.  

How large is a googolplex? Just write the number one followed by one thousand zeroes. 

These birds' incalculable colors are beyond counting. 

A normal 20/20 vision, according to scientists, can see hundreds of colors. An artist can see quadruple that number. 

And those are just the colors of birds. How about the colors of flowers? And the rest of God’s creation?

Multiply that with the colorful (nothing drab or dull) life we lead with every trial and tribulation that the googolplex of grace see us through. 

Do I need a bigger number to believe there is a God?   

“How many are your works, Lord! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures.” (Psalm 104:24 NIV)

Photo credit: worldatlas.com

Raising a Reader

“Make sure you are raising a reader." This usually ends my talk in my book tours.  

Often, a young parent approaches me afterwards and complains, “My seven-year-old son dislikes reading.” 

“Do you buy him books?” I ask.

“Oh, yes, tons of them!” she replies proudly.

“Have you read all those books yourself?”

“No, they’re for children.”  

“Have you ever read any book aloud to him when he could not read yet?” I push.

“No . . .” 

“Does he see you reading your own books?” 

“No, too busy with . . .”  

o o o

The many benefits of reading in a child’s development can't be over emphasized, as documented by psychologists and pediatricians. Among them are:   

1. Exercises the brain
2. Develops critical thinking
3. Enhances imagination 
4. Expands vocabulary
5. Relieves stress and tension 
6. Decreases depression
7. Improves memory and focus
8. Strengthens writing skills
9. Boosts sleep

And yet, many busy parents do not encourage reading. Instead, they give their active child a gadget to make him sit still. 

Raising a reading child is not a painful, rigid process. “If you want to raise a reader, be a reader” are wise words of grace from child development experts who research heavily on the subject. 

I know of a couple who takes these words seriously. An ex-colleague and friend sent me this photo of his two-year-old Marty. He said that since the kid was born, he and his wife would read to her a story at bedtime. 

Marty now has over 100 books, read to her many times over. But her excitement still peaks with every re-telling. Marty is also given her own “reading" time. She repeats the stories page after page in her own language, and prefers books to toys! 

This illustration borrowed from the Net says it all: 

My parents did not force reading on me or my siblings. They modeled it. We’d see dad reading early in the morning and late at night and would give us interesting tidbits about his current read at mealtimes. He and mom read the newspapers together every day. We all grew up to be readers.

When our three sons were small, my husband and I limited their TV time (gadgets were not born yet) to two hours per week—and only on weekends. Instead, we encouraged them to pick the books they liked in the store; we also invested on book sets/collection: art, science, dictionary, classic stories for kids, and a Childraft Encyclopedia.  

Their bedroom walls are lined with shelves bursting with books. 

Young moms and dads, if you are reading this, won't you consider raising a reader?  

Torture and Tyranny

The rains have come. After all, it is June, the beginning of the wet season in the Philippines. 

There were those two months (April and May) when all days and nights were too hot in Las Pinas and in many parts of the country.  For two straight months, the daily temperature had ranged from 36°C to 37°C, which is a person’s normal body temperature! 

This torturous and tyrannical heat felt even hotter when I looked up the heat index—the combination of the actual temperature and humidity. In short, the heat that is felt and perceived by our body. 

In one of those wickedly warm days, I incessantly whined, "Hot, hot, hot! This is not only torture, it's tyranny!" 

"Weren't you born in this country?" Tony asked, laughing. "The Philippines is in the . . . read my lips, tropical zone!" 

I found out later that the heat index that day was 51°C! It was 54°C somewhere in my home province.  

It wasn't this bad before the pandemic—retired people like us could spend the whole day in the mall or take a dip in a resort swimming pool. The working crowd would be in their air-conditioned workplaces. But now?  

Electric fans and air-conditioners do help, but if your house is not centrally air-conditioned (which is 95% of homes, including ours) then you'd have to spend all hours in a bedroom.

What’s even worse is that the electricity during summer is unstable (intermittent brown-outs) due to insufficient power generation capacity amid soaring usage. All cooling appliances go pffft. 

My moping took a halt when I scrolled through FB and read a post by my former boss, ABAJA, then always a fount of wisdom.      

It rebuked this writer on grace, who allowed the heat index to inflame her, instead of keeping cool and being grateful for the gift of a summer day. Now with a spirit of gratitude, I zigged to what the late author Charles Bowden, with whom I shared the same birthdate, wrote: 

“Summertime is always the best of what might be.” 

The hottest summer ever, for me, is gone now, but it left a stinging scolding. The gallons of sweat it inflicted upon me were nothing compared to my barrel of blessings, for which I must never fail to ernestly say, "Thank you."  

Blood Moon

Almost everyone I know had been abuzz over the full moon to happen that Wednesday night (May 26, 2021)—for a wonderful reason. It’d  be the year’s biggest “supermoon” to feature the first total lunar eclipse in over two years! 

Son #1 and I got our cameras ready at exactly 7:10, eight minutes before the moon would pass through the Earth’s shadow. It would appear red—a blood moon—because light would be scattered through the Earth’s atmosphere, mimicking a sunset.

To our dismay, the clouds wouldn’t budge, not till after eight minutes, ever so slowly, when the glory of the red moon was no more. 

I still clicked away. If you call this bad photography, please blame the clouds, not the camera nor the photographer. I am uploading it here to save in my mind’s hard drive the day the world saw the “blood moon.” 

In contrast, many photographers captured its magnificence. This one’s my favorite (by Anthony Mungcal), which passed through my FB wall hundreds of times.  

The “blood moon” appears in many Bible verses (ESV, highlights mine): 

“The sun shall be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood, before the great and awesome day of the Lord comes . . .” ( Joel 2:30-31)

"The sun shall be turned to darkness and the moon to blood, before the day of the Lord comes, the great and magnificent day." ( Acts 2:20)

“When he opened the sixth seal, I looked, and behold, there was a great earthquake, and the sun became black as sackcloth, the full moon became like blood . . .” ( Revelation 6:12)

Many theologians and Bible scholars believe that “the end is near.” How soon is that? 

Scripture says that one blood moon will not be the only heavenly sign. “. . . the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens will be shaken.” (Matthew 24:29)

While the sun and moon are still shining, and the stars, twinkling, I am poised to enjoy the grace that brightens astronomical wonders. 

THE Last Supper

The article “the” is a must when one refers to the final supper Jesus had with His disciples. Without “the,” it could refer to any last supper one had yesterday or with others.  

“The last supper” is so essential that all churches anchored on faith in Jesus re-enact it in holy worship as a vital sacrament (a ceremony regarded as imparting divine grace). 

Here’s how Scripture describes that event (1 Corinthians 11:23-26):  

“The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, ‘This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.’ 

“In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.”

There is a caveat in verses 27 to 29: 

“So then, whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty of sinning against the body and blood of the Lord.  Everyone ought to examine themselves before they eat of the bread and drink from the cup. For . . . without discerning the body of Christ eat and drink judgment on themselves.” 

People in our predominantly Christian country are familiar with Leonardo da Vinci's 15th-century mural (at the refectory of the Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan, Italy). In fact, many dining room walls have a picture of this painting. 

In our church, we partake of the bread and wine (communion) at the Lord’s table every month. Not even a pandemic can stop this holy ritual. 

Each time we do (virtually for over a year now), we remember what it stands for. It was given to us by Jesus Himself, so we would remember His great sacrifice for us on the cross and look forward to His return. 

May we then never forget that He gave His body and blood for our sins, so we could ask for forgiveness when we do wrong. 

"The Lord’s Supper," our pastor always reminds us, "is also a time to be in communion, not only with God, but also with all members of Christ’s family to find comfort and support, just as the disciples did." 

Photo credit: https://news.artnet.com/art-world/true-hidden-message-da-vinci-last-supper-581756

Silent Saturday

Vaxxed but Taxed

“Any brand but Sinovac!” Tony scrawled on the Barangay form we filled up for our anti-Covid-19 vaccine. 

This has nothing to do with racism; his and my children's forebears are from China. 

We were alarmed because  our president has been ramming this brand down our throats, despite the FDA being cautious in using it for frontliners; despite people’s clamor for Pfizer, Moderna, and Johnson & Johnson; despite unpublished clinical trials. In fact, he kept repeating in his speeches that we are indebted to China for Sinovac; he personally went to welcome the shipments. 

Our alarm progressed to anxiety when the president chose to be inoculated with China's Sinopharm (smuggled; still unavailable; not FDA approved) over Sinovac. Why this was shrouded in secrecy and mystery was disturbing.       

Then the statement of our foreign Affairs secretary that the Covid-9 task force “dropped the ball” while negotiating with Pfizer increased our unease. We asked ourselves why our government officials are falling all over themselves to offer Sinovac. 

Tony informed his cardiologist that he’d wait for a brand other than Sinovac. 

She vehemently replied, “I am not comfortable with that!”

Son #2, a physician in the US, ordered, “Take what is available. Waiting is risky.” 

Strong, frightening words from two doctors.

So when the Barangay called us for our first jab, we hurried without knowing what brand awaited us. 

One guess: Sinovac. 

Never mind that weeks earlier FDA announced, "Not fit for seniors." Suddenly, the gods that be said it was OK—yet, again, why did the president, aged 76, eschew Sinovac in favor of Sinopharm?!  

The vaccination site was packed and hot. But the staff was helpful to our all-senior batch. Vaxxing took 4 hours—painfully long for hunchbacked oldies held up by canes and walkers.   

Exactly 21 days later, we were called for our 2nd jab. The crowd was bigger and the day was hotter. Every few seconds, we were asked to move to the next chair—sit and stand, stand and sit. 

The whole event taxed our patience, our strength, and our knees. Many growled in silence but some chose to chat—and how! They exchanged illness stories and lifted their face masks so they could be heard. 

Worse, there were initially two jabbers, but one left to attend a government seminar. What?! The only nurse left had to make a call before injecting me. “Ma’am,” she apologized, “I need help from the head office. I can’t do this alone till 3 PM.”

After the painless prick on my arm, I prayed and thanked God, “Grace it is! Thank you!”   

“You’re welcome po," the jabber replied, “but my name is Vivian." 

Our clothes now soaking in sweat, our joints crying “enough!” and our eyes tearing up from the glare, we walked—limped, rather—out of there. 

All told, we were victoriously vaxxed, but thoroughly taxed.

* * * * *

Addendum: Two weeks after our second jab, today (June 2, 2021), WHO approved Sinovac as one of the brands that may be administered in the vaccination drive. Whew!