GOHAS Redefined

 It took less than five hours—inclusive of an hour for lunch and coffee, plus several pit stops for bladder breaks—for my ading Dave to leisurely drive GOHAS from Quezon City to Pangasinan. Without those stopovers, it would have taken only three short hours! 

The NLEX ang TPLEX made it all possible. 

Tony, the boys, and I hardly visited my hometown anymore since my parents passed away. On those rare occasions that we did, time was too short, so my high school alma mater was not in our repertoire.

That’s why last month, I stepped inside my high school campus for the first time in 65 years! Please do not do the math. The place has morphed into a new world. Memories are all I have now of those ancient years.   

After high school graduation, I left for UP Diliman, then taught in a university in Baguio for a year, before I flew to the US for my master’s degree. Coming home, Tony and I got married and resided in Manila. 

Back to GOHAS. 

It turned out to be a kakabsat (siblings and their families) reunion and a nostalgic glimpse of our now decrepit ancestral home.  

My ading Aie was my roommate, my sis-in-love Glad was my compleat hostess, and I was surprised when my ading Matt and family came all the way from Baguio to join us. He volunteered to drive me back to Manila—from there, niece Dazha took me home to Las Pinas. She was instructed to document the conclusion, at our doorstep just before midnight, of the brief but my forever-treasured GOHAS pampering. 

Had ading Earl (in Australia) been with us, the kakabsat reunion would have been complete.

GOHAS was not so much a role I had to play for my old school, but a refreshing family kunol-kunol after my two months of moaning and groaning. Grace rescues. Grace comforts. Grace restores.  

“. . . give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” 1 Thessalonians 5:19 ESV

Photos: Thanks Dazha and Teo! 

GOHAS?!

In a digital world now peppered with acronyms, it takes vigilance—if one wants to be on the ball—to know the new ones coming in droves. 

BFF, YOLO, FOMO, ATM, FYI, IMO, IDK, etc. I know them all. 

But GOHAS?! 

I first read it on my ading Dave’s message to our family GC. "We will bring GOHAS to Pangasinan on the 22. Lunch along the way. Drive back GOHAS the next day."

The dates he mentioned coincided with my trip to and from my high school alma mater where I was invited to be guest of honor and speaker on its commencement exercises. Huh?! 

I am a bit slow, but I finally caught on. Well, only after searching the Net. 

These photos explain GOHAS (Guest Of Honor And Speaker):  

It was a nostalgic and meaningful school homecoming after 65 years. And I thank my amazing ading Dave for volunteering to take GOHAS there and for my sister-in-love Glad for taking care of this weeping and doddering old widow.   

(To be continued . . .)  

Maundy Thursday Is Family Day

For the longest time, Maundy Thursday has been a Family Day in my home church. While other churches re-enact what happened thousands of years ago, we make time for kindred souls (adults and children alike) to bond, get to know each other, in a place where we share the same food, enjoy the same place, and worship the same God, Jesus.   

We begin with a thanksgiving service which includes songs of praise, exhortation, and testimonies. 

Then the kids, and kids at heart, splash down the swimming pool while the adults play games, sing songs, or chat, committing to help and pray for one another.   

But what exactly is Maundy Thursday? 

This was explained (to remind us anew) by son #3 in his exhortation. “Maundy”  is a shortened form of the Latin Mandatum, meaning “mandate” or “command.”  

It was on the Thursday of Christ's final week before His crucifixion that He mandated a commandment to His disciples after breaking bread (the Last Supper) with them. 

Jesus’ command was a poignant statement while he did the unthinkable: wash his disciples’ feet. It was about radical humility and servanthood. 

“So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. (John 13:34 NLT).

He raised love to the highest level: love even the unlovable and forgive them of their wrongdoing. The tallest order ever for man! 

So our family day is a way for us to get to know our brethren more intimately so we can guide each other in our spiritual walk. It is a day to demonstrate to the children that family means: God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit, and all believers who are adopted children of God.

”I am in them and you are in me. May they experience such perfect unity that the world will know that you sent me and that you love them as much as you love me.” (John 17:23) 

All photos boirrowed from Pilar Village Gospel Church brethren.   

Persevering with Joy

Every time I am invited to speak in a school event (such as Moving-up or Graduation) I take the opportunity to talk about Christian values. 

When the occasion involves children, I do not deliver a speech; I tell a story on the gathering's theme. Time and again, I have proven that even in a classroom full of inattentive college students, stories draw better attention than a lecture. 

“Persevering with Joy by the Grace of God” was our church’s grade school Moving-up/Graduation theme. 

Immediately, the book that came to my mind was “Coming Home,” the first book in the Happy Home series (published by Hiyas and illustrated by Leo Kempis Ang).  The story is about Ped, the main character, who perseveres to achieve his goal. 

Ped graduated with honors from sixth grade and was excited to move up to the higher level. But his parents were adamant. They were dirt poor and a job, not education, was their priority. 

He ran away from home, hoping to earn for his educational expenses. He toiled on the city streets but earned a paltry sum only for his daily food. Undeterred, he found another way—look for a relative who can give him a job. He found one and his life turned around. 

He learned more than what a school could teach him. He found a new home, and learned about the right way to live life—and that is to persevere joyfully, not through his own efforts, but by the grace of God. 

My unexpected rewards came in the form of words from parents/guardians in the audience: 

 

“That story made me tear up. It seems to be my own story.” 

“Nothing is impossible if only we persevere.” 

“God makes a way for us to achieve our  goals—to honor Him.”  Etc. 

My prayer is that the children were just as moved by the life lesson as their elders were.

Huddles Are Cuddles

Reunions are great. But huddles are even greater. 

It evokes images of a close-packed group curled up and cuddling around a campfire. That’s what this poster from Hiyas of OMF Lit made me feel when I received it. How can one not wish to be a part of it? 

But before I went up to the huddle on the 4th floor, I had my photo taken beside my latest book, to remind me why I was invited to the campfire. 

The huddle involved all authors of Hiyas-OMF Lit through the years, including those who are abroad via Zoom. 

Conversations revolved around . . . one guess: keep the writing flame burning to honor and spread the word about huddling close to the Source of grace. ­

"The Lord is close to all who call on him, yes, to all who call on him in truth." Psalm 145:18 

Now You See Me, Now You don’t

This phrase is familiar to those who have gone to a circus at least once in his life. It’s what the magician says when he performs a vanishing act. One minute we see a dove, the next minute, he makes the dove disappear. He can actually make anything (including himself) go “Pooof!” 

“How did that happen!?” we cry. Only the trickster knows the answer.   

“Now you see me, now you don’t” emphasizes the element of surprise and the fleeting nature of an object's presence. 

Magic? Not in real life. 

Our existence on earth is precisely that. One day we are healthy; the next day, the vehicle we are on  figures in a fatal accident. Today, an athlete wows the audience; the next day, he suffers a heart attack. 

Moses prayed in Psalm 90:10–12 (NLT):

Seventy years are given to us!  Some even live to eighty. But even the best years are filled with pain and trouble; soon they disappear, and we fly away . . . Teach us to realize the brevity of life, so that we may grow in wisdom.“

Many of my close friends and family recently went to their glory so suddenly that we are left in a state of shock and lingering grief.  

Two of my dearest cousins, whom Tony and I visited in New York sometime ago, had flown away from this mortal coil. Tony, who took this candid shot, had vanished from our life as well. 

A vanishing act should not come as a surprise, but we are surprised every single time. The good book, as penned by David, is explicit. 

“Psalm 39:4-5, “Lord, remind me how brief my time on earth will be. Remind me that my days are numbered—how fleeting my life is. You have made my life no longer than the width of my hand. My entire lifetime is just a moment to you; at best, each of us is but a breath.” 

What to do? 

(Note to self) Realize the brevity of life; thank Him for life's transcience, which is more than enough span of grace for anyone to dwell in His presence.   

We All blink, God Doesn't

A blink happens too quickly: 0.1-0.4 seconds. Thus, the idiom, “in the blink of an eye.” 

Despite its speed, a blink can cause living things to miss important things and wonder why suddenly things have changed.   

What a blessing that . . .

“God Never Blinks.” That’s what author Regina Brett, a journalist, titled her book about 50 Lessons for Life’s Little Detours. 

Most reviewers of the book say the lessons are life changing. As a believer in God’s watchful grace,  I say, “Amen.”  God is indeed in the details of our life.

These life lessons, when previously published in Brett’s newspaper column, went viral.   

Every chapter touched my core, but two of them resonated most with me: 

Don’t take yourself so seriously. No one else does.

If you don’t ask, you don’t get it. (I first learned this from my American aunt when I was a teenager in the US. She used to prod me in her Bronx drawl, “You ain’t ask no question, you ain’t get no answer.”)

My dauughter-in-love discovered this book on a tiny shelf in the house where our family (a rare time that we were complete) spent a staycation last summer.

 

The title intriquued me, so I tried to speed-read it as our stay in the house was too short. I could only go as far as the middle of the first chapter,  

I am glad I found it in a bookstore months later. It is one of those books that I read very slowly. Every episode, which is based on Brett’s life, including surviving cancer, made me pause and reflect on my own life.  

Brett suggests just focusing on the next right step.  If you want to be writer, write every day a line or two (I heard myself speaking those words to would-be authors). Breaking things down into small steps, instead of taking big leaps, simplifies life. 

My net take away—as now a widow and still a writer on grace and a Sunday School facilitator—is: God sees every move we make and every thought we have. He rescues us in the blink of an eye, before we could scream, “Help!”  

He sees every teardrop of grief. 

Unlike mortals who blink up to 19,000 times a day while awake, God never does. 

I passed on the book to my Ading Aie, hoping she would pass it on to someone after reading the last page.  

Grief: Antonymy

What is grief? 

That’s a question I tried to answer in many blog posts. But now it seems that those answers are not what it really is since I lost the father of my sons. I can't define it at all because it is a series of antonymy, a word I just learned while solving a crossword puzzle. 

Suddenly, this new word (by coincidence, Tony's name is smack in the middle) in my vocabulary explained my complex moods and feelings after my roommate of 54 years left for home. 

Antonymy is defined as the semantic relationship between words that have opposite meanings; the "oppositeness" or contradictory nature of words. 

Grief is an antonymy that runs from one end to the other at fluctuating speed. Sometimes it is slow, sometimes it is instant, sometimes it stops midway. 

    • Push Pull 

    • Make Break

    • Cry Laugh 

    • Give Take 

    • Start Stop

    • Begin End

    • Destroy Build 

    • Close Open 

    • Enter Exit

    • Ask Answer

    • Come Go

    • Lose Win 

    • Join Leave

    • Keep Release

    • Hide Show

    • Eat Fast

    • Sit Stand 

      

The preposition “from” precedes the word where we are.  “To” precedes the contrasting word where we should be.  

Thankfully, between “from” and “to,” grace comes to speed up the process. 

To my dear friends and family out there who might have recently lost a loved one and are likewise in grief, let us be comforted by the Lord’s promise:    

“The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” Psalms 34:18 (ESV) 

Shared Sister

My ading (locano honorific for younger sister) Aie was Tony’s too. Like an older brother, he had been, in words and in deeds, supportive and protective of her.   

Tony and I got married amidst a turbulent time in our country.

 

Tony and Aie (lower left photo);Tony with my family (lower right) before the wedding ceremony (above).  

The early 70s was a period of civil unrest: relentless demonstrations, protests, and marches against the administration of then President Ferdinand Marcos were mounted by students, supported by workers and the urban poor. 

Aie’s dorm on the UP campus was teargassed. This was later followed by the bombing of the opposition party’s rally at Plaza Miranda, causing deaths and injuries. Marcos suspended the writ of habeas corpus, the precursor to Martial Law in 1972. 

I knew Aie to be fiercely independent, a warrior, but times were harsh. Tony would always remind me, “Find out how Aie is doing.” “Send her some spending money.” “Convince her to live with us.” 

Through the years, Aie’s job took her to many places in the world. Still, Tony would treat her like a helpless little girl and orders me, “Don’t forget to send Aie pocket money.” 

Even in our senior years, Tony would ask how Aie was spending her birthday. His ading could do no wrong, except when she forgot to turn off the light, lock the door, or leave things lying around, and other odds and ends. Then she would hear from him. 

He never allowed Aie to pay for her share in family reunions. He’d nag me to pay for Aie’s, too. When she joined our Chong dynasty celebrations, he wouldn’t take a cent from her for expenses. 

The turnaround (a part of Aie’s eulogy during Tony’s wake) . . . 

  

“For our take-out dishes last Christmas, I told Manong Tony, ‘This one’s on me.” 

“’No way!’ he replied.” 

“‘Manong, I can now afford it!’ I stood my ground.”  

“When our orders arrived, Manong Tony gave me the receipt, allowing me to pay for it. He came back to hand me my exact change.” 

Tony's rare solo photo (left) is the same one we used for chapel and memorial services requirements. Aie's (right), one seat away, was taken a few minutes later--before the Chong boys sat down for our Christmas noche buena.  

I can’t recall Aie’s exact words, but she felt that Tony's silent acquiescence meant that he was finally confident she can go it alone. It was a foreshadowing of his departure from her life. It was Tony’s last Christmas.   

Tony and I got engaged in the US with plans to marry in the Philippines. He came home months ahead of me 

This is the part of Aie’s narrative that I never knew till then (a feast of grace surprised me, eulogy after eulogy, through the four-day wake):  

He went to her UP dorm to introduce himself. He drove a high-end car and treated Aie to a plushy restaurant, “hoping to impress me.” 

“I was not impressed,” Aie said. "But it was a thumbs up that he took time to meet me." 

Another turnaround for Tony:  He realized that my family and I were exactly like him in values: no glitz, no frills, no fanfare; simple and down-to-earth. 

The next time he visited Aie, he drove his own rickety old car. 

"Manong Tony was family before my sister Grace came home to marry him."  

Accidental Missions Tour

Sometime in 2017, Tony and I visited son #2 and his family in the US of A. All we wanted was to be with them for a month since we hardly saw each other. 

But they had plans to treat us to adventures we never experienced before. One of these was a six-day road trip around California with son #2 driving his dad and mom. He took time off from his punishing schedule as ICU/Pulmonary physician for this trip. 

It was a leisurely drive, stopping for food when the tummies growled. And a bonus to this bonus trip was passing through missions, which was right up Tony’s alley as a history buff. He had read all about the 21 missions the Spanish Franciscans established in Alta California from 1769–1833. These missions are a 6000-mile stretch from San Diego to San Francisco (eventually known as the California Mission Trail).  These facts were supplied by Tony.  

One of those missions was San Juan Bautista (founded in 1797) in San Benito County. Naturally, we had to walk through the halls of this very old structure. I took photos and so did son #2. 

Eight years later, grace takes me by surprise. Son #2 sends me this photo from his camera. Tony would have loved to see it. 

I researched on this mission immediately and remembered what Tony said, which I conveniently  archived (or sent to my trash bin). Mission San Juan Bautista was the 15th of the Spanish missions established in present-day California. 

So am I now a student of history? Not in the same league as Tony was. Okay, no.   

But his knowledge of and love for history (inherited by all three sons and my only grandson) never failed to awe me. 

Not Late, Just Delayed

That title is, for me, the essence of son #1’s eulogy (fond remembrances) at Tony’s wake.

He was six years old when Voltes V, a Japanese anime TV series, became popular in the Philippines. He and his friends (who were at the wake) became fans of this new craze. Tony thought it would be a perfect motif for his birthday cake.  

As son #1 reminisced, his friends must have gone into nostalgia as they nudged each other. 

Voltes V grew into a cultural phenomenon in the Philippines and pretty soon tiny replicas of this crime buster was sold in stores. Tony would buy them for his panganay (eldest son).  Then marketing men thought of making more money—a 24-foot replica was a marketing novelty. 

From that day forward, panganay narrated, he would nag his dad to buy him one. Son #2 kept reminding him, “That’s expensive!”  Still panganay was persistent, almost daily.  

Many months later, Tony came home with the 24-foot treasure! “It was a day of rejoicing,” panganay said. He proudly showed it to his friends and for the following weeks, they enjoyed playing with it. 

Why would Tony delay giving it? Son #1 realized years later that the replica cost P700. And Tony’s salary at that time was P600. 

He surmised that his father would never deny him what he wanted, but it took time for him to save for it. 

I bawled.  

I remembered the growing-up years of our three sons. My album of photos are my memories of grace, but my boys remember more through their close encounters with their father.   

Again, as with all the other eulogies, this was one more facet of Tony’s heart I glossed over, because he never belabored any issue.

It took a wake for son #1 to share his fond memories of his father "who never failed to provide" (his words, not mine).

P.S. 

That Voltes V replica had long been thrown away because it got mangled by the boys beyond recognition. Now, guess how much a pre-owned one would cost today? P71k! 

PBF 2025: A Blast

Ten hundred thousand superlatives can’t possibly describe my two-hour stint at the Philippine Book Festival. 

The OMF-Hiyas booth, managed to a tee by the dedicated staff, teemed with readers who asked questions while I signed my books.

 

I grabbed the chance to tell them the backstories, which my BFF Yay (a fellow author) said are more interesting than the stories themselves. 

Aside from long chats, photo ops took most of everyone’s time. Those moments of grace at the OMF booth provided an oasis and a refuge for the arid and horrid terrain my family and I just journeyed through for two long months since the New Year.    

Here are photos that show the joy I cannot begin to write in words. 

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble."  Psalm 46:1

Photo credits: Hiyas

Wake: Travelling Back (Part 2)

As announced, we opened the door of Chapel 506 at 3 PM on January 22 to begin Tony’s four-day wake. 

A man, whose face was vaguely familiar, stood outside, waiting to come in. He extended his hand and said, “Aboc po, Ma’am,” he said, trying to conceal his tears.

Then I remembered. Aboc was the loyal messenger of Tony’s company for over 20 years! I didn’t see him often, but whenever I did, he was always gracious. 

Sam, our driver, cried, “Aboc!” And they hugged as long-lost friends would. 

Aboc volunteered to deliver the eulogy (fond remembrances) during the memorial service, and he was the last guest to leave at dawn.     

What he said made me weep all over again. Not of grief but of hearing for the first time another facet of Tony’s heart. 

“Kind,” he said repeatedly. He enumerated many times when Tony came to his rescue and helped him, even with his personal problems. He spoke of how "boss Tony" personally called Aboc’s future boss (Aboc resigned when he found a job closer to his home), vouching for his character and endorsing him. 

Another guest offerred to give the eulogy: Nora, a faith sister. I was a principal sponsor at her wedding so she and her husband call me Ninang. 

Whenever she and Tony met, their chats were long, centering on their common passion, food. Nora can whip up a yummy dish at any time. For years till Tony was hospitalized, Nora would send Tony every Sunday a plate of her cooking.  

There was that one Sunday when I came home without it. Tony asked,  “No food for me?"  

“Nora is in Singapore.” 

Every Christmas, Nora would gift us with Tony’s favorite queso de bola. (It was no surprise when she took on the food-prep job completely--from wake to funeral. Photo below: 4th night.) 

I couldn’t imagine how Tony, better known as a no-nonsense businessman who neither pulled no punches nor minced words, could be soft, chatty, and caring!?  

Grace overwhelmed me that night through two most unlikely, but special, volunteer speakers. 

Wake: Travelling Back (Part 1)

Every night, through the four-day wake of Tony at the funeral parlor, we had a memorial service where we were fed with God’s Word and prayed over. In each of those services, at least two people delivered a eulogy (which my brothers preferred to call “fond remembrances” because “a eulogy is a formal oration"). 

These remembrances showed me facets of Tony's heart that I never knew or glossed over, but were held dear by those who spoke. 

They said it in beautiful words I can never echo, but this is how they touched me. 

My brother Matt spoke about Tony taking him under our roof (we had just gotten married) as part of the household when Matt’s job brought him to Manila. "No questions asked."  Matt lived with us till he got married. 

My brother Dave said the same thing about Tony who wanted ("no questions asked") him to stay with us when he came to Manila for college. Dave added that Tony brought them to international shows like the “Lettermen” at the Cultural Center of the Philippines and often treated them out. Dave lived with us till he graduated and found a job. 

My brother Earl (who flew in from Australia one week sfter the wake) reminisced about the same thing—invitation to be a part of our home. He recalled that his first job was to go to many places in a private jet to assist Tony with his duties for an advertising campaign. Earl lived with us till he found a job that took him out of Manila. 

There were many more. But as I rued, much as I try, I can’t write them better than how they felt and narrated it. 

Now traveling to many years back through blog posts . . . I realize, there were many poignant scenes I missed, or took for granted. But by the grace of hindsight, I was given a chance to see them, high res in slomo, at the wake. 

Tony treated my brothers like they were his own—bound and closely related in everything but blood. 

Let me quote the last two lines of Garth Brook’s song: 

"And they say blood is thicker than water,
But love is thicker than blood." 

Philippine Book Festival 2025

C’mon over! The PBF is in full swing! It opened yesterday and will end on Sunday. 

If you’re into books, this place is for us. 

Today, I will be at the Hiyas booth for book signing, beginning at 11 AM. I am on my way, and should be there before then.  

This ad (below) was created and uploaded by Hiyas on social media. Friends have commented that I look young and fresh. Well, that photo was taken when . . . I can’t even remember. 

So I took liberties with the ad (sincere apologies to the artist) and changed the  photo with the real me today—the opposite of young and fresh. Otherwise, people might skip the Hiyas book if they don’t see that young-and-fresh human above.  

Kidding aside, I’d love to see you there, kindred souls. Writing about grace has been my life for years and years and meeting readers in person is grace magnified. 

C’mon over to our wonderland!  

Show Proof of the Proof

Tons of paper work requiring a long stretch of time and a longer stretch of patience pummel a grief-stricken family after a loved one breathes his last. 

Death certificate. This is signed by the doctor on duty, who could not be contacted by the staff the day after. Before that, one needs proof of paid hospital bills that take hours to compute only during office hours. This is required by the funeral home before any action is taken. 

Permits. From three municipalities--the hospital's, the funeral parlor's, and the cemetery's.  

Contracts: For the wake. funeral services, and plot.  

SSS: For burial and pension benefits. One has to prove one’s legal relationship with the deceased through heaps of documents, not to mention hours of waiting in line. 

More! And this takes the cake:  

INSURANCE--as the beneficiary, I have to prove I am the legal spouse. But after presenting an original, certified true copy of a Marriage Certificate, the insurance company requires a PSA (Philippine Statistics Authority) record, which does not have a perfect filing system. Naturally, none is found. 

Son #3, a lawyer, cites the law to the insurance company:   

Republic Act No. 11909: "Section 3. Permanent Validity. — The certificates of live birth, death, and marriage issued, signed, certified, or authenticated by the PSA and its predecessor, the NSO, and the local civil registries shall have permanent validity regardless of the date of issuance and shall be recognized and accepted in all government or private transactions or services requiring submission thereof, as proof of identity and legal status of a person:…"

The insurer remains unmoved.

And so with the help of my brother Dave and his wife Gladys, another certified true copy of the same marriage certificate had to be requested from the QC Civil Registry, to be sent to the PSA who will likewise unearth microfilms of ancient records. 

I try not to complain, but going through these at a time when our hearts are bleeding and our spirits are breaking require gargantuan will. 

I pray for extra dollops of grace to internalize these verses: 

Romans 5:3-5 ESV, “. . . we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” 

Why White?

It is my only choice. 

I wear white during death rituals for a loved one. In the study of psychology and research analysis, “White is clean, simple, and pure, signifying new beginnings.” 

For me and my family, white is the color of hope, not mourning. It stands in stark contrast to black light, which is the absence of all colors.  White light contains all the colors of the spectrum—an inclusive color, favoring no single hue. 

In the Bible, which is my daily reading staple, the color white also symbolizes resurrection, eternal life with God, much like the imagery in Matthew 17:2 (ESV), “And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became white as light.” 

So white clothes we all (family, kin, and kindred spirits) wore to the wake and the funeral rites, or what we would rather call: celebration of Tony’s life on earth and a time to say our goodbye. 

In 2 Corinthians 5:8 we read,  “Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord." (to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord). 

White is a testimony to ourselves, family, and friends that we believe our deceased loved ones are not in the casket.

ooo

It is my only chocolate choice: white or bust. 

This has something to do with the palate I was born with. So when my brother Earl and his wife Tess wrote they were coming home for a visit, I had a ready answer. 

“What would you like us to bring home from Australia?” they asked. 

My unequivocal reply, “White Chocolate!”

Their first and only request was for us to visit Tony's grave. 

As of this writing, they have gone back to Australia. More than—much, much more than—the white chocolate, I (my sons and the rest of our brood) badly needed that visit. It enabled us to take a leap of faith out of the pit of grief to new beginnings. 

White light is like grace—it comes in all colors of the rainbow. 

What’s with the #40?

Many cultural traditions and religious groups observe a memorial service on the 40th day after death. The belief is that 40 days signify a period of transition for the soul.

While my family does not observe this, it was “serendipitous" (my sister Aie’s term) that on day 40, March 1, after Tony bade us "So long," there was an amazing confluence of events. The Chit-Chat (our nickname for our clan, derived from Mom's name, Chit) scheduled a staycation in an Airbnb out of town. 

It was a kunol-kunol as one of my three brothers and his wife are here for a short vacation from Australia. It was also a time to meet at a happier place and time, in contrast to a wake and a funeral. 

That same morning, before my sons and I drove to the meet-up, I blogged about Tony’s quirk in reading the last 40 pages of a book. The night before, I had to rush proofreading the last 40 pages of the draft of my new book. 

I once blogged about the #40 in a different context. I am revisiting it now because it suddenly piqued my interest.  Many Bible scholars see #40 as a way to express an important period of testing or preparation before a new beginning.  There are many examples, but let me just cite a few: 

    • The rains fell in Noah’s day for 40 days and nights (Genesis 7:4)

    • Israel wandered in the wilderness for 40 years (Exodus 16:35)

    • Moses was with God on the mountain, 40 days and nights, without eating bread or water (Exodus 24:18, 34:28)

    • The spies searched the land of Canaan for 40 days (Numbers 13:25)

    • 40 lashes (stripes) was the maximum whipping penalty (Deuteronomy 25:3)

    • David reigned over Israel for 40 years (2 Samuel 5:4, 1 Kings 2:11)

    • Solomon reigned the same length as his father, 40 years (1 Kings 11:42)

    • Elijah had one meal that gave him strength for 40 days (1 Kings 19:8)

    • Jesus fasted 40 days and nights (Matthew 4:2)

    • Jesus remained on earth 40 days after the resurrection (Acts 1:3)

Other scholars, however, believe that 40 is just a metaphor for “a long time.” 

Whatever. A day by any other name would still be grace.  

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart,  and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.” Proverbs 3:5-6 ESV

Last 40 Pages

A voracious reader, Tony could devour one book a week. After he closed his company of over 30 years, just before the pandemic, he spent most of his time reading. His favorite haunt: Book Sale, where he’d buy books by the dozen. 

He always took a book with him wherever he/we went—to the mall, a resto, a coffee shop, etc. I took the photo below in a bistro before our food was served. 

In between reading, he’d solve puzzles that came with the newspaper we bought daily, or play chess on his cellphone. Before bedtime, he’d watch historical, war movies, and travelogues (“Because I can no longer travel there.”) 

At any time during those activities, I could disturb him with my inane prattle about anything that popped in my head while writing my next book. He would indulge me. Whether he listened or not, well, that is irrelevant.  

But.  

When he was on the last 40 pages of his book, no disaster—not even of a world-ending magnitude—could make him stir. We had to tiptoe around him.  

I was not surprised when he brought a book (crime fiction) when we rushed him to the hospital on New Year’s day. Every day, in bed through the first week, he would ask for it alternately with his cellphone. But my gut tells me he never reached the last 40 pages, because we could disturb him anytime, unless he was asleep. 

As I proofread the last 40 pages of my new book yesterday (my deadline is February!), I profusely thanked the Author of life for love of reading, a comforting grace not only for readers like Tony was but for grieving writers like I am. 

   

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18