Covid-19 Stared Me Down; I blinked

We all blinked; our whole household blinked. 

Like many Covid victims, we continue to wonder how the virus got into our super-safe enclave. It will remain a mystery.  

Our corner house has windows all around and the terrace abuts the wide, airy garden. We followed, bordering on obsession, health protocols to the letter. Tony and I, both seniors, never went out in 1.5 years, but for my 20-minute trip to the bank last year to close an account.  

Except for food deliveries, all packages and bags are sprayed or wiped with alcohol. We leave them in the terrace overnight before opening them. 

Sons #1 and #3, who both work from home go out rarely, with masks and face shields on. They bathe when they come back. Mother Teresa, our househelp, sometimes buys this and that from the corner store, but washes her hands thoroughly before entering the house. 

Our driver Sam, who does the errands for us, lives with his wife in a house away from the crowd. When he comes around, we don't talk to him. He leaves the receipts and change on a tray outside the main door. 

Over two weeks ago, Tony started coughing and developed a slight fever. Our doctor, an angel sent by God, immediately prescribed cough medicine and hovered over virtually. Three days later, I had itchy throat and a low-grade fever that threw me into a pit. The next day, we made arrangements for home-service swabbing for the whole household. We alerted our friends and loved ones who went down on their knees to pray for us. Except for JC and Sam, we all tested positive.   

We sent Sam home—on call for any emergency. JC isolated himself. 

And my punishing and exhausting saga battling Covid continues till today, my 14th and supposed emancipation day. JR is fully recovered. Tony still has cough, and Mother Teresa is back to her if-I-don't-move-I-will-die self. 

Completing our vaccine doses months back was grace beyond measure, or one of us would have been hospitalised or gone to glory.  

Pant, pant. This simple act of blogging has sapped my energy. I could not summon enough passion to do what I loved doing best—writing. I think Covid stole something away from me; I don't know what it is exactly.  To echo Job, "God gives, God takes."  

My prayer then and now is to breathe and live this verse:  

"Always be joyful. Never stop praying. Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus."1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 (NLT)  

A Yummy Book: Lumpia Lane

Smooth would be the adjective I'd use to describe the creation of Lumpia Lane, a children's book published by Hiyas of OMF Literature about Chinoy (Chinese-Pinoy) culture, which I co-authored with Caitlin C. Wu of Cebu and illustrated by C.R. Chua. 

From the time it was envisioned up until it was written, everything went according to schedule.

It began with the two-day creative writing workshop that I conducted at the Philippine Christian Gospel School (PCGS) in Cebu, and which I blogged about thrice in a row! The 20 talented participants (from grades 7-10) were handpicked by their English teachers because of their interest in both reading and writing.

Our task was to come up with stories, the most outstanding of which would be published by Hiyas—the  very first book authored by a young writer in partnership with an old (very old) one.  

At the end of the second day, there was an avalanche of ideas. Credit goes to PCGS for training them to think out of the box. Their individual manucripts had to be further polished, based on our one-on-one critique session, and emailed to me after a week. Yes, the onus was on me. 

How does one choose from the pool of endearing stories? 

One, however, stood out: Lumpia Lane. It dwelt not only on values but also on Chinoy culture, which is so much a part of us.

From there, Caitlin and I exchanged ideas online on how to make it more compelling. After several revisions, we finally had the draft down pat.  I sent it to the editors of Hiyas of OMF Lit, who polished it further. After rigid scrutiny from the publications department (yes, books pass through the eye of a needle), it was ready to go to press. 

Then clonk, clop, and clank! The pandemic took center stage. Smooth slinked away. 

Many months later, Hiyas found a way to have it printed! And by God's surprising grace, it was launched online with Julia, her parents, C.R., PCGS's department head, the head of school, and me.  

I call it a yummy book because everyone who has read it says the lumpia makes them drool.

Also, when asked what part of the book she spent most of her time on, the illustrator said, making the lumpia scrumptious. 

But the lumpia in this story is more than a tasty treat. Its variety of colors, ingredients, and meticulous preparation symbolize everything good about a family on a fresh new day!  

Jonah’s Prepositions

Among all the parts of speech, prepositions are the most difficult to learn for Filipinos writing in the English language. It’s because Filipino prepositions (pang-ukol) are few and therefore not meticulously studied in Filipino subjects. 

It is always a challenge for us, therefore, to choose from among many English prepositions such as: in, on, at, from, with, etc. Almost all translate to “sa” and “ng.” 

Our pastor piqued my interest when he started saying “preposition” from the pulpit during Missions month. Grammar lesson? 

In a way, yes. He mentioned three prepositions that encompass prophet Jonah’s attitude when he was being sent out by God on a special mission to Nineveh. 

Jonah was to convince the people to confess their evil deeds to God, or the Lord would destroy the nation. Nineveh was an enemy of Jonah's country, Israel, so he refused to go there. 

First preposition: from     

Jonah ran away from God. He traveled elsewhere, by ship. But there was a terrible storm, The sailors decided that Jonah was to blame so they threw him overboard and the storm suddenly stopped. God sent a large fish to swallow Jonah so he would not drown. In the belly of the fish for three day and three nights, Jonah realized that his troubles arose from resisting God. He asked for the Lord’s forgiveness and thanked Him for rescuing him. God then caused the fish to throw up Jonah to the shores of Nineveh.  

Second preposition: to  

Jonah finally went to God. He warned the people that they should confess their wickedness within 40 days so the Lord would spare their land. The people obeyed Jonah and God saved them all from being wiped out.  

Third preposition: with  

Now Jonah was with God. In the Christian world, this symbolizes new life after three days and nights of death in the fish's belly. This would be reflected in the death and resurrection of Jesus. 

 

Simply put, if we are with God, we will bask in His grace and His love forever and ever and ever.  

Happened by Happenstance

It was by happenstance that I came across happenstance early in the morning. I don’t usually use it. The word I choose is either coincidence or accident because they are shorter.  

While solving the Jumble Words, one of my favorite anti-depressants, in one of the newspapers (which Tony buys for their puzzles, primarily, and for the news and editorials, secondarily) happenstance jumped at me. 

At first, my mind refused to form the word from the alphabets I had. No matter how much I tried to rearrange them (anagramizing is fun!), there was no other word but that. 

As an advocate for short words and short sentences in writing workshops, I usually stress, “If you find several synonyms for a word, try to use the shortest one.” What I don’t verbalize is, Think short, until words become like a second skin; only then should you dare write long sentences that hit the right notes.” Hence, my ambivalence in using happenstance. 

Ironically, long (prolonged, is more like it) has been the word that describes our pandemic life. It’s been over 500 days since seniors were locked down. 

It’s been that long since I had a haircut in a salon, a leisurely shopping day, a date with my girl friends, and a lazy afternoon in a coffee shop reading books with Tony. It’s been that long since I taught in a classroom, worshipped with faith brethren inside our church.

Ironically, again, the long 500-plus-day quarantine, which many have found off-footing, has actually been a looong grace period for discovering and reflecting on new wonderful things at home, most of which are recorded in uploaded and scheduled-for-upload blogs, or in a new book, to be launched hopefully within the year.  

This long stretch of grace did not happen by happenstance (there, I used the word!). My chronological Bible, which occupies my daily quiet time, affirmed the constant presence of God’s Spirit, whatever the circumstance (that’s the cousin of happenstance).    

“I can never escape from your Spirit! I can never get away from your presence!” (Psalm 139:7 NLT)

Baffling Bananas

Is this for real?! I was baffled when I saw this photo posted by a niece. 

Her reply to someone who typed this same question: “I took this photo myself in Umingan, Pangasinan, my parents’ hometown.” 

I went bananas for close to a minute. So I researched. 

(In the ancient days of my youth, we had to wait for the next edition of the encyclopedia, which took two to three years, depending on my parents’ budget, to know more about a topic of interest. One other way was to find a library with the latest books, which was nil.) 

Simply typing “Banana plant images,” I found these:  

The bananas photographed by my niece are also found in many countries.  Although this is phenomenal to someone like me who had no interest in bananas, it has been a regular occurrence among farmers and arborists. 

Technology has brought the world to our fingertips, and because the pandemic has forced us to stay home, we now have limitless time to be tourists and researchers without having to ride a plane—and gain knowledge faster than we ever did before.  

My laptop and mobile phone have also led me to discover the inexhaustible variety and magnitude of God’s grace. 

On the topic of bananas alone, did you know that they come in many colors and varieties? Here are some of them:   

Baffling, isn't it? 

God’s works are great and his thoughts deep, every new generation uncovers things nobody ever thought existed or could exist.   

“O LORD, what great works you do! And how deep are your thoughts.” (Psalm 92:5 NLT)  

Where is Heaven?

Whenever a kid asks me this question, usually in my book talks, I always remember my late big boss whom I preferred to call Mr. Sev, but known in the office as SCA.  

Mr. Sev didn't care where he sat in meetings. He would go to any chair. So when we pointed to the head table, which was his rightful place, he would retort, "Where I sit is the head table." 

Cool.

That's how I reply to the question, "Where is heaven?" 

"Heaven is where Jesus is." 

The Bible tells us that it is a place, but not some immovable address as we know it—north, east, west, or south in a land far away. It is the place where Jesus is. Period.

And in that place, "righteousness is at home . . ." (2 Peter 3:13) Jesus calls heaven, "My Father's House." (John 14:1-3) 

But those are too abstract for children to understand. So I try to make it more concrete, "In Jesus' dwelling place, everyone is happy, a friend of everybody, and loved by all. Everything is beautiful." 

"No bullies?" 

"Bullies don't live there. No cursing, no fighting, no shaming, no crying, no name-calling, no blaming, and no dying exist in that perfect place."  

The conversation goes on and on. In the end, they chorus: 

"Oooh, I want to live there!" 

Those who believe in and have accepted Jesus as his/her Lord and Master will definitely live there, all because of His saving grace   

So where is heaven? 

In Revelation 21:1-5 (the Message), John wrote: 

"I saw Heaven and earth new-created. Gone the first Heaven, gone the first earth, gone the sea.

"I saw Holy Jerusalem, new-created, descending resplendent out of Heaven, as ready for God as a bride for her husband.

"I heard a voice thunder from the Throne: 'Look! Look! God has moved into the neighborhood, making his home with men and women! They’re his people, he’s their God. He’ll wipe every tear from their eyes. Death is gone for good—tears gone, crying gone, pain gone—all the first order of things gone.' The Enthroned continued, 'Look! I’m making everything new. Write it all down—each word dependable and accurate.'”

When is this going to happen? 

Nobody knows. What we do know, by faith, is that it will happen—and (my personal wish) soon. 

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)