So Where's the Book? (Part 1)

After I announced that my sister Aie was converting our parents' old house in the province into a public library, friends and relatives from everywhere have been sending me boxes and boxes of books. My friend, Lucy, from Palm Springs, California, mailed a big balikbayan box of her own collection.

Trouble is, I have first access to all these books and unable to help myself, I take a few (okay, heaps) to read before sending them to Aie. It feels like bookstores are suddenly sprouting in my house and I “own” them all!

I never doubted the endlessness of grace, but this is like unprecedented manna storm from heaven!

One of the books I took from Lucy's box was The Miracle of the Christmas Box by Richard Paul Evans.

The title intrigued me. Unfortunately, it was not about The Christmas Box at all! It was the backstory of The Christmas Box.

It tells of how The Christmas Box book was written by the author as an expression of love for his daughters. He made 20 photocopies of it as gifts to other members of his family and close friends. It wasn't meant to be published. But before he knew what hit him, his relatives who read the story, and relatives of relatives, and relatives of friends, and friends of friends were photocopying the story and sending them to many others. Their common comment: they were inspired by the story.

Quickly, he decided to self-publish through a small-town printing shop. The sales moved faster than lightning, and soon, the book made history by becoming simultaneously the #1 hardcover and paperback book in the US! There was a great deluge, not unlike the time of Noah, of orders, letters and calls. The national press and the town's public officials got into the fray, and the latter erected a monument that relates to the story.

Since then, more than ten million copies of The Christmas Box have been printed. It's the wildest-dream-of-every-beginning-writer-come-true.

But where is the book? I rummaged through Lucy's box but The Christmas Box wasn't there. Frantic, I called Lucy but she thought I was talking Greek!

I combed all the bookstores in my neighborhood and in the neighborhood of others—nada, nada, nada. I emailed friends and foe to lend me their copy, but nobody seems to have heard of the book. I have a trauma from online purchasing.

In this country, we call this bitin! Rough translation: cliffhanger.

So where's the book? (to be continued)

A Canister of Dreams

This canister contains 27 lofty dreams. I have it in my possession because I want to pray for each of them as often as I can. The canister is in a place where it can always be a part of my repertoire of daily tasks.

Goal Setting Theory was the last tool in Time Management (TM) which I discussed in the workshop I facilitated in Laguna. It was the third and last day, last hour, and my “class” was ready to wrap up. I told them to write down their time-bound goal—on which they would base the other TM tools we have learned.

They were not meant to be discussed; the exercise was done simply to focus on their measurable goal so that they could cut their time into workable segments to achieve it.

But the writing took longer than I expected. Before we broke up, I asked them to leave their papers in a canister I earlier used as an illustration prop.

At home, before throwing the whole canister away, I decided to read one paper. It so moved me I went about reading all of them. On those pieces of papers are dreams, lofty dreams, zealously written. And it dawned on me that I have gotten so smug over the years I have forgotten how it is to dream.

These 18-year-old kids, Compassion International scholars, are struggling in poverty, but they believe in the fullness of grace, and therefore, are infinitely richer than many moneyed brats I know. Their papers are full of hope, so poignant in their honesty and simplicity.

Praying for the dreams in the canister is the only way I can help my 27 kids beyond a three-day TM workshop. What a privilege to do so!

LDP Batch 13

Middle of Nowhere

Grace found me in the middle of nowhere.


Who would have thought there'd be a hotel right smack on a rice field dotted with horses and cows?

This was where we I stayed for four days and three nights in Laguna, the venue for Compassion International’s Leadership Congress nicknamed, LAMBAT.

My workshop on Time Management was scheduled in the mornings at the Rizal Recreation Center, a five-minute drive away. So in the afternoons, I would be ensconced in my room, which had a fabulous view of more stretches of farms. I’d never have found a more idyllic place for writing. To my surprise, I was able to meet deadlines with so much time to spare for napping and reading my Chronological Bible.

I brought my laptop with no illusion of doing any work. But the place was so peaceful and time was so slow, I was able to do in three days what I couldn’t do in three weeks elsewhere. Right, I managed my time well because the place calmed my earlier fear of being the wrong facilitator for a workshop on Time Management.

It was literally a get-away from the noise of the city and of the soul. Yes, somewhere out there, where grains were countless, countless grace found me.

Time Mismanagement

I’m on my way to Laguna to conduct/facilitate a three-day “Time Management” seminar. What I have is a slew of theories. Lately I have been having time management problems myself and the theories I have banked in my head for years are sometimes unworkable.


JR tried to simplify the root cause of my problem: “Mom, a large part of Time Management is saying no to some of the things you do.”

I have doubts if he is right.

All my activities and deadlines are calendared. But along the way, the unforeseen happens.

An activity is moved earlier and it overlaps with another event. Then deadlines become shorter. An event is postponed, and again, it overlaps with another event. It will take extraterrestrial travel to attend both.

Suddenly, too, a close friend gets very sick. Everything takes a backseat. I feel presence and relationships are far more important than non-life threatening activities.

How does one manage time? Theories can only go so far. But grace allows you to get it done right, in the proper order of priority.

Here’s the core of the seminar: which comes first, the “urgent” or the “important”?

I am looking forward to learning from my “class”—all 27 of them (third year university students).

Creative Celebrations

The first order of the day was to have a thanksgiving lunch in church on the first Sunday after the results of the bar exams were published. JR won’t have it any other way. This church is our spiritual family, where everyone is a prayer warrior for everyone, where JR grew up worshiping God, and where we are one in a circle of grace.

The food was nothing fancy, just our usual potluck fare plus, of course, the traditional lechon (roasted pig) which adorns Filipino tables on important occasions.

Then the day after, the family took a trip to the North—San Fernando, Pampanga.

It was a two-hour drive to Everybody’s Café, the benchmark of the famous Capampangan Cuisine, for lunch. There was hardly any space for parking. We were beaten to the draw by fellow foodies, most of them Manila residents.


We vowed to order only the exotic food this restaurant is famous for. Buko (young coconut juice) for me and Sugar cane juice for the boys; Camaru (mole crickets); Betute (frogs); Ulang (giant shrimps); Kambing caldereta (goat stew); and murcon (beef roll). For dessert, sweetened saba (native banana).


I had the biggest burp in years! Bar none.

This is not a food blog, so here’s what happened after lunch. Tony and JR—two peas in a pod—wanted to indulge their passion in old, old structures. We trekked to the old, old church (1600’s) in Bacolor, which was half buried in the 1991 earthquake.

Before the earthquake (from the book, Angels in Stone) and after the earthquake (by my Kodak camera):


From there, we went around all the towns of Pampanga along the way and admired more old architectural treasures—most of which, unfortunately, have been restored haphazardly. Sigh. No matter, it was like a trip down a world way before ours.

Again, this is not a building/architecture blog.

So I will end with what this blog started out to do: document the two-day celebrations creatively touched by grace.

The Bar Exams Results Are Out!

My old header comes down because I am celebrating.


We have a second Attorney in the house!

The first one is our dog.

And the second one is: JR.

JC downloaded the September 2008 bar examinations results just now. I had a choice whether to scream or cry. I did neither. I closed my eyes in thanksgiving for this moment of grace. Then I texted and texted and texted and e-mailed and e-mailed and e-mailed and called and called and called family and friends.

And changed my header to this: 

I'll think of more creative ways to celebrate tomorrow. It's way past my bedtime. Good night.

Book Talk with SAS

“Sa Aklat Sisikat Foundation”(SAS)—roughly translated, books make you shine—is a non-profit professional Philippine organization that promotes the love and habit of reading in Filipino children.

To do this, SAS runs a 31-day Reading Program for all 4th grade students in partner public schools. “We donate 60 of the best Filipino children's storybooks to every Grade 4 classroom included in the program.” What a blessing that among the 60 books, some are mine.

After 31 days, these students are then required to show their parents, through a play or any kind of creative presentation, what they have learned from these books.

I have always been charmed by SAS' advocacy because “love of reading” is what I advocate, too.

The photos show the public school teachers representing NCR, Regions 1, 2, & 3 who participate in the SAS program.

They were grouped for a seminar one Saturday by SAS and in this event, I was invited to give an inspirational talk on how I write for children. I took the chance to speak on how grace enables me to do what I do.  

   

The teachers were gung-ho about books, about inculcating the love of reading to their students. They were collectively grateful for what SAS is doing for them in this area.

I was just as grateful for being invited to participate in this worthy endeavor.

Interviews on 702 DZAS

DZAS is at the other end of the world—from where I live. On a good day, it would take me two and a half hours to get there. On a bad day, well, forever.

But the long trek caused by infuriating traffic is worth it. As soon as I arrive, I get lots of smiles and looking after. “Are you comfortable?” “Can I get you anything?” “Coffee?’ “Juice?” “Tea?” “Newspapers?” And then my friend Tito Dok, Bing, representative of the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP), and Misha of OMFLit arrive with goodies.

DZAS always teems with grace.

“Wan Dey, Isang Araw” is the reason I go there. It is a children’s program—aired every Saturday from 9 to 9:30 in the morning—jointly mounted by CCP and the Philippine Board on Books for Young People (PBBY). First there is a storytelling by a member of Alitaptap (Association of Philippine Storytellers) of the featured book. Then Tito Dok, host of the show, interviews the author.

That particular day, I was interviewed on three books to be featured for three Saturdays.


While I waited for my schedule, I was invited to hop over to another booth for another program. March is International Women’s Month so I was asked questions about women issues.

What I enjoy most about taped radio interviews is that you have the latitude to speak your mind. Plus you can re-tape moments which turn awry. Plus, plus you need not worry about how you look. Nobody sees you.

Okay, in this case, someone took photos. So my friends in cyburbia . . . here’s how those interviews took place. Just a few mikes and people talking to them.

The excitement is not in the booth, it’s on the air.

Soon to be a Butterfly

How does a caterpillar turn into a butterfly? Science can explain it in great detail, with flawless logic.


How caterpillar Adrian (at one year and 10 months) will turn into a butterfly will defy logic. Everything is, and will be, by grace. And it is also by this same grace that we (although far away) can be a part of this metamorphosis.

Painters in the Family

I keep wishing a day had more than 24 hours so I could paint. At the moment (and most of the time) my plate is full with writing. I am not complaining; nothing delights me more than writing. But painting is wonderful, too. So although I am not a very good painter, I enjoy splashing and dabbing colors on canvas.

My problem is time, the lack of it.

That's why when I received these photos of Adrian, I was thrilled. Not quite two years old, he seems to love painting as I do. And he has the time that I don't have. With Adrian, I can now paint vicariously.


When he comes for a visit in April, I will make sure he and his grandma will have some time to jointly paint a masterpiece.

Genghis Khan's gone?

Tony treated me to Mongolian barbecue at lunch today and, it never fails, with this dish I remember the legendary Genghis Khan.


For me, he was (past tense) the face of Mongolia. Plus, of course, our own Mr. Shooli (the fictitious Mongol, performed and made famous by TV ad director/actor Jun Urbano in the movie Mongolian Barbecue).

My image of Mongolia morphed into something nice and new when I met the three Mongols who wanted to be writers and therefore came to the same writers’ conference I attended in Thailand.

They were nothing like Genghis Khan or Mr. Shooli. They looked like the old friends I keep—warm, earnest, with a sense of humor that brings sunshine to a stormy day.

They ate the same food, sang the same hymns, prayed to the same God, spoke of their families, and shared their grace experiences.

Over breakfast, they regaled us with Mongolia's horrendous cold weather, which could go 56 below zero! They spoke of their government’s effort to encourage their small population of 2.7 million to grow faster: free lands for every citizen and other eye-popping incentives.

Mongolia is a real nice place with real nice people.

Born at an ancient time (1100’s), Genghis Khan has no photos. But the art piece above, currently in the National Palace Museum in Taipei, Taiwan, is the closest depiction of him that is generally accepted by most historians. It is also how people like me imagine him, and all Mongols, to be.

He is unlike my new friends—Timothy, Dugermaa, and Pastor Mojic—in every way, but they have one thing in common: they are all warriors.

Genghis Khan fought for and won lands and people. My three new friends from Mongolia are soul warriors.

After they shall have become honest-to-goodness writers (their written works published), they will win more hearts for our Savior.

Stand Up for Down (Syndrome)

About five years old, she has a shy smile on her guileless, innocent face. But she cuddles up to me when her mom asks that we both pose for a picture.


She stays on my lap for a few more minutes until a man, about 35, comes forward and wants his picture taken, too.

Then a cheerful boy, wearing sunglasses like a rock star's, comes to the Big Brother booth and shows me his fake tattoos, all over his face and arms. When he spots the books, he looks over the cover, beams, takes a copy, and walks away. His grandmother runs after him.

These kids (and adults) with Down Syndrome, over 300 of them, are participants in this year’s Happy Walk—a yearly affair of the Down Syndrome Association of the Philippines to commemorate the Down Syndrome Consciousness Month.

“Stand up for Down,” is how the event (now on its 7th year) has been dubbed. Activities include a 5-km walk around Megamall which culminates in a program that features a talent show, and a storytelling (by Regs of Alitaptap) of my latest storybook, Big Brother, illustrated by Beth Parrocha-Doctolero and published by OMF Literature under its Hiyas imprint.













I feel honored to have been invited to meet the participants and sign copies of the book, based on my personal encounter with someone dear to me with Down Syndrome—my cousin Tinoy.

In the book I wrote, “I have always believed that people with Down Syndrome can understand and feel more than we think they can.”

This belief has been reinforced after Happy Walk. People with Down Syndrome have the grace of innocence which we all lose at some point in our lives. They remain children, who—as our Savior said in Matthew 19:14b—“to such belongs the kingdom of heaven."

(Note: "Big Brother" is a Palanca-award winner in the Short Story for Children category.) 

Drums

David worshiped God with trumpet, harp, timbrel, and cymbals. That was the argument used by the advocates of drums in our church in the early 90's.

The older members were adamant, “Drums are too loud.”

But the youth group was growing and the pressure to purchase drums grew to such an extent that the conservative (okay, aging) minority finally cried, "Uncle."

Now, I sit in the last pew at the back to save the drums of my ears from total ruin.

The call of drums is not exclusive to city slickers. Country folks have embraced the musical instrument with as much zest. As you can see, this kid—half blind—plays the drums he made himself.


When this photo was flashed on screen by our pastor during his sermon on "Worship," I was chastised. It haunted me for days, and made me reflect on how, settled in the back pew, I worship the Lord—He whose grace saved me from eternal death.

How should we praise and worship God? On our knees with our eyes closed, in a solemn manner? Or on our feet with our hands raised, in a celebratory manner? Churches are debating this. David’s way in Psalm 98:4 is, "Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth; break forth into joyous song and sing praises!"

Had I seen this photo when we were quelling the clamor for drums, I'd have purchased the drum set myself.

But then, again, worship is not about drums or ear drums, is it? It's all about being one with God—and the spirit (as shown by this boy) we bring into it.

P.S. I have since moved to the second pew up front.

Another Book Review: One Smart Heart

  
 
(This review by Rufino Pamaran III, 7, was published in the Fun Page of The Manila Bulletin on February 7 this year. Reading does wonders to children. And children who write reviews such as this do wonders to writers who believe that wonders come as a part of the package of grace.)

"I am a big brother. I have three brothers: Carmelo, who is 3 years old, Matteo, who is 2 years old, and now we have Alejandro or Ali who just “came out” from my mama (5 months old). Because I am the big brother, I have a lot of responsibilities. It is very hard to be the kuya (big brother), because my brothers are very malikot (antsy) and they don’t follow me.

"But I love them anyway because they help me sometimes. And I have fun when I play with them my favorite game of “where’s kuya?”.

"But there’s this book, where the smaller brother is the one who is like the kuya to his older brother. It is called Big Brother. I read it and I liked it a lot. Bunsoy is the smaller brother. And he is really small. He is 10 years old, thin, and small—not like me—but he is also smart and is going to be the valedictorian of his class. His kuya Tinuy is big and round but thinks like a baby even though he is almost grown up.


"There are kids like Tinuy in my old school, in a class that they call SPED. They are older than me but they are a little different when they talk or play. Tinuy can only say a few words like Nay (Nany), Nuy (Tinuy), Soy (Bunsoy), tory (story),and Da Best (the best), and likes just one book read to him over and over again called The Smelly Black Dog. And well, he likes playing with smelly dogs too.

"Bunsoy’s mama is going on a long trip and Bunsoy has to take care of his kuya. But Bunsoy is a little angry because he has no time to study after taking care of his kuya at night. It is just like when my mama leaves me at home with yaya and my brothers when she has work or errands.

"But then his kuya surprisingly started sleeping early every night. Bunsoy was able to study. He was eventually named Valedictorian and will get a medal on his graduation. Maybe, Bunsoy thought that his kuya understood what he needed to study and went to sleep early. Maybe his kuya is smart too, after all! Then his graduation day was a big surprise for everyone!

"I like the book, and my mama liked it too. It is a good book for kuyas like me, she says. It is also a good book for kids who don’t know what SPED kids are like. They can be different from us. But they can be smart too in their own way.

"Points I like:
• Bunsoy became valedictorian.
• It talks about SPED kids having a smart heart.
• It shows all the hard work involved in being a responsible kid."

Rufino, if you happen to read this post, I want you to know how happy this review has made me feel. Big thanks, big brother, from the bottom of my heart.

Six-hour Chat

We manage to break our own record—my friends (former peers in the ad agency where we met) and I. We get together on a whim—a rare time when we are all free—and spend six hours chatting, non-stop, in one place!


Six hours is the length of about four movies, or one complete night’s sleep, or a road trip from Manila to Baguio with bad traffic.

It is our longest chat yet. It starts at lunch and ends just before dinner. The only reason the waiters at Friday’s do not throw us out is, we keep our orders coming—from a heavy lunch to a sumptuous snack, to fancy drinks during Happy Hour.

There seems no end to topics, four months since we last met. We've all been buried deep in our own varied persuasions. Julia just arrived from a month-long tour of Europe. Gi vacationed in the US. And By had tourism and real estate projects in Luzon and Visayas, traveling from South to North on frequent intervals.

And me? I travel from my work corner at home to the kitchen, particularly the fridge, and back, then back again—caught in a frenzy of rapt marathon writing.

They had photos and photos to show. I could have shown my new manuscripts had I remembered to bring them.

My eyes pop as I notice Julia’s pewter earrings. “Oh, you are wearing silver leaves of grace!” I exclaim.

She takes them off and says, “They’re yours. Leaves of grace belong to you.” She got them at the Bangkok airport while waiting for a connecting flight back to the Philippines.

“Oooooh,” I swoon and wear them quickly.

“Oooooh,” they swoon in unison.

Julia orders a double chocolate fudge cake, which instantly raises our sugar levels. A couple of hours later, French fries, then one more hour later, margarita for the three of them, and for this blogger, another glass of ice water.

For me, these restful, joyful six hours away from the computer are a boon to tired muscles and strained eyes. To laugh and giggle and talk inanely about everything and anything all at once, now, that’s what I call R&R.

The dinner crowd starts to file in, so we file out. We promise to see each other again. The date is movable. In another four months, or more, or less—maybe.

Plans between friends are best when dates are unscheduled, and hours are unmeasured.

Towel Me Dry

My love for towels is not unique. I have seen some of my friends’ linen closets. They’re filled with towels from floor to the rafters! One of them even has a whole room of towels—every row a different color. If you’ve been to Rustan’s linen section, you know what I mean.

My linen closet is nowhere near those.

But despite my fondness for towels, I never had to buy one in my life—none that I remember. Somehow, I always get them as presents from relatives and friends who come home to the Philippines for a short vacation.

Last December, however, I thought I had to take advantage of the linen sale in a mall. My towel collection was running dry. I hadn’t received a towel gift in, what, a couple of years, or more. Reluctantly, I bought four—thinking twice, thrice, whether I wanted to part with that kind of money (nice, fluffy towels in this country could cost you an arm and a leg!).

Then Christmas came and what do you know! Wrapped grace in the form of towels! And during our clan reunion, we won door prizes in the form of towels. Then a month later, some more friends came home for a vacation and we got pasalubongs (coming home presents) in the form of towels!

You might think towel is too insignificant a topic to even write about. Well, every good and perfect gift comes from above. Nothing is insignificant about grace. Nothing is insignificant about the terry cloth that keeps us dry after a nice, brisk shower or a lazy, lingering bath.

Now, imagine a life without towels. We’d be all wet.

A Book Review:

Full of Grace

(One of the perks of being an author is getting encouraging book reviews. Here’s one— published in the Sunday Inquirer Magazine—that put sunshine in my steps that day.)

"They’re probably the best antidote to the creeping dread one feels when reminded, once again, that 2009 is bound to be a difficult, crisis-logged year.

"The three slim volumes of Gifts of Grace promise just that—with their collection of heartening encounters between the author, former advertising whiz, Grace Chong, and the assorted folk who define her circle: her mother, cousin, neighbor, mentor, boss, sister, aunt, client, brother, teacher, pastor, and so on.

"Reading the short conversational vignettes, one is struck by how Chong’s circle of family and friends seem to be extraordinarily kind and generous with their time and resources, how uniformly inspiring each fellow is and how each encounter bequeaths a blessing. Now why can’t we have a neighbor like that? How come Chong gets all the good ones, while we’re stuck with cranky acquaintances and ornery relatives? Are these people even real?

"But they are, and one soon discovers why the author seems to have cornered a major chunk of these made-for-TV commercial personalities. The answer, quite literally, lies in the eye of the beholder. It’s Chong’s guileless perspective and open-hearted acceptance of people—their flaws, merits and circumstances—that have made the difference. Yup, the usual half-empty or half-full glass point of view.

"Chong’s attitude towards life’s sudden changes illustrates this.

"The former EVP of a multinational ad agency recalled how she balked at the offer of early retirement when their company merged with another biggie. It took a major win at the Palanca Short Story for Children category for her to turn the corner.

"'There is life after advertising,' Chong discovered. At the same time, she shrugs, there was no life after advertising: no rush, no deadlines. 'So I kept busy by writing and rewriting the manuscripts I had written as a closet writer for years.'

"It was at an International Book Fair where she found a brochure of OMF Literature and read about its need for fresh and young writers. 'I am not young but I am definitely fresh,' she chuckled, and forthwith sent the Christian publishing company some manuscripts. 'From that day forward, I have been writing—no longer about shampoos, toothpastes, refrigerators, or other consumer goods—but about God’s grace,' she declared.

"In her three-volume collection, Chong introduces us to people who, in their unique way, have touched her life. Out of everyday encounters with people from all walks of life, she has crafted inspiring stories—at times funny, sharp and witty, often heartwarming and honest.

"'I hope that the people I have written about will make you remember a gift of grace you have likewise received but may have failed to celebrate,' says this author of over 20 children’s books.

"The three volumes, according to their publisher, 'should help you recognize your part in the circle of grace—receiving extraordinary everyday blessings and passing them on to others.

"'Whether you know it or not, you are likewise a channel of grace—healing, inspiring, teaching, pushing, empowering, and disciplining others.'"

Purple Flowers from Mom

After my mother passed on five years ago, I have found no compelling reason to visit the town and the house where I, my four siblings and foster brother, grew up.

Without her, that wooden house with open doors—which she filled with chatter and clutter, and guests of all kinds dropping by and staying overnight or days—is now just a shell, decrepit and decaying.

In its current state, the only things worth saving are bags and bags of photographs of family and friends, diaries, letters, plaques, certificates, and medals of her children which she treasured. A widow for 23 years, she had my dad’s love letters neatly filed still. This was discovered by my sister, who is turning the concrete part of the house (mom's old pharmacy) into a public library, only recently.

Yesterday, however, my foster brother, Peding, and his wife, Carmen, who are visiting from the US, wanted to visit our parents’ gravesite.

And so we trek to that little town’s cemetery. In a sea of stark, cold tombs, we gasp when we see this.


A canopy of beautiful flowers in mom's favorite color—purple! It shades three marble slabs: dad’s, mom’s, and Manang Ibay’s (our househelp of many years).

The flowers are lovely reminders of how grace crowned and blossomed in her life—and how much of that same grace, from the God whom she served, was shared with others.

Mom saw to the planting of that vine with purple flowers, maybe to leave us an imprint of her temporal life with us, and now, her eternal life with Him.

One-chapter Book!

At the launch of Gifts of Grace 3, some friends asked for a copy of the one-chapter book written by JR, “My Mother Grace,” which he read as a part of the program. This number was kept from me by OMF Lit and, therefore, to say I was shocked is way off the mark.

"Your son stole the thunder from you!" friends said as they guffawed the rest of the evening. (Pray tell, from whom did my sons inherit their irreverent sense of humor?)

I promised I’d post it on my site. But what was given to me was the book, and not the soft copy; I never got around to asking JR for his file. Finally I did, and so here it is. It's a couple of months late—sorry about that.

To those who know me well, this one-chapter book is guaranteed to vanish the blues and the blahs.

My Mother Grace

By JR Chong

“What’s that smell?” My upturned nose was in protest as I reluctantly approached my parents’ room.

“Tiger Balm,” my father beamed with delight, as he and my mother excitedly slathered the stuff all over their limbs.

“Smells like ‘White Flower’ to me. You know, what old people use?” I taunted. At that very moment, my life flashed before my eyes. It hit me hard: I was living with seniors and I wasn’t getting any younger myself.

I’m the youngest son of baby boomers who get a 20% discount with a flash of a card. Half of my quirky existence I owe to my mother, Grace, an author.

When my mother became a full-fledged author, I was drafted into service. I’m usually at her book launches, signings, interviews and what-not, shadowing her or hovering around conspicuously with a camera on standby. And occasionally when she says “This is my son JR,” I flash a ready smile.

In these affairs, I also keep busy by looking at the faces of her readers when they approach her, watching for varying expressions—ranging from unabashed adulation to so-this-is-what-an-author-looks-like. Sometimes it even surprises me how complete strangers know her through her books.

When everything’s said and done, and the last of the support staff file out, the author is no longer a celebrity. She’s back to her role as my mother, plain and simple. A mother who sleeps at a drop of a hat, often open-mouthed, with her head thrown back as if comatose, exposing her turkey neck while snoring. A mother who would probably gorge on a bowlful of cheese-flavored ice cream everyday if I didn’t fuss over her above-average sugar levels. A mother who still covers my books with plastic--probably the only task to which she consents for my laziness.

I suppose my mother Grace is just like all good mothers, the way GOD designed them to be: loving, nurturing, self-sacrificing and “all that jazz.”

So this brings me to an important question: Apart from her idiosyncrasies and avant-garde taste in clothes bordering on Cher, what makes her so special?

Some people might think writing’s a cinch after reading her books, toying with the idea they could do the same feat in a jiffy. Any Tom, Dick and Harry can jot down a string of words that makes some sense. Bite off and chew a mouthful of nouns, verbs and adjectives and regurgitate them into a decent phrase or sentence. No sweat.

But real writers are one in a million.

My mother’s co-teacher once told her she was an excellent caricaturist. A caricaturist, you see, is more than a person who draws and exaggerates the peculiarities of a subject. An excellent caricaturist is actually an artist who sees what others normally don’t. They capture the essence of a subject—the heartbeat—and amalgamate this into their work for all the world to appreciate. True-blue writers are, in a sense, caricaturists.

My mother’s so special because she’s exactly that.

It doesn’t stop there however. Not only does she see the beauty in people and things, she makes it a part of herself.

I’m an eyewitness to the different phases of my mother’s life. And I realize this is but a fraction of what she’s experienced because mothers are not born mothers after all. From being a gutsy advertising executive, juggling career and family, to being an inspirational/children’s book author, which is perhaps her most fulfilling role, she continues to learn, grow and move on to the next phase. Not static at all.

She is a gift of grace. A person who, by example, teaches me how to cherish and make the best out of what GOD has given me and embrace life’s changes.

Poised for my late twenties, with people calling me kuya (older male) increasing every year, having a “quarter-life crisis” seems to be all the rage with my age group. My mother used to have the same allergic reaction to getting older.

Contrary to her announcement many years back that she would fight aging every step of the way, she is no longer 50 years old for the nth consecutive year. Now a card-carrying senior citizen, she relishes every single centavo saved with every designer coffee purchase. She blogs about her grandson, accepts the fact that her oldest college student is probably younger than her bunso (youngest child), and shares the perfect ratio for that natural hair color look. And yes, she now reeks of “Tiger Balm.”

Like GOD’s grace, my very own gift-of-grace of a mother can perhaps never be fully figured out. Gifts of grace after all are undeserved but we receive them anyway. All we need to do is be thankful.

ooo

Attorney Is as Clever as Her Name

We used to have a succession of dogs—a German Shepherd, a Dalmatian, a Labrador—but none quite as smart as Attorney, a mutt.

All these dogs were sheltered under a fairly big dog house. Attorney gets locked up there too when there are strangers around.

But guess what? Immediately after the strangers leave, Attorney would come out without waiting for anyone to open the latch. Somehow, she has taught herself to turn and push the latch exactly how it should be done. And what's more amazing is, she knows exactly when she is supposed to come out!


Yes, Attorney is as clever as her name. I wonder how she learned the trick and I am wondering even more why the other dogs (all with pedigree) were unable to do the same!

At five months (she was born on September 1), she had to have her shots. And these days, she doesn’t wiggle her tail. It will take another five days before she probably would—when she is allowed to take another bath.

Attorney, the puppy, makes everyone peppy in this household.

Grace comes in various forms. And Attorney is one such form. Yup! I mean, yip!

Scrapbook: Made with Heart and Hand

Scrapbooks fascinate me. I noisily gush over them and I have the deepest admiration for those who make them. Sadly, though, scrapbook making isn’t one of my few assets.

I keep mementoes but I do so very quickly with no regard for symmetry nor beauty. They’re just there, in Clear Books, filed for my occasional peek and posterity.

That’s why when I was given a scrapbook of the Gifts of Grace 3 book launch weeks after the event, but just in time for Christmas, I made an exhilarated leap to the sky.


It was painstakingly made by Gladys (who led the mounting of the event) of OMF Lit and it contained all the things one would want to put in a scrapbook: warm notes from the attendees, ID tags, cards, program, and all the tiny memorabilia that make you play the event in your mind over and over again.

What makes this scrapbook one-of-a-kind is, aside from its contents, the effort that went into choosing and placing every teeny item there, one by one.

It is in this spirit that I remind the young readers of my books that the best presents are not those bought from stores but those made by their own hands, because their hearts are in it.

How many presents do we receive with the giver’s heart and hand? Not many.

But one of them is offered us, over and over again, with every breath we take. This present comes with a name: grace.

When Is a Writing Moment?

“When is your writing moment?” Adie, my new friend—who will soon see her first book published—asks as I am about to down a corn muffin at Kenny Rogers.


Writing moment . . . writing moment . . . I roll the phrase in my mind and the muffin in my mouth. I think of all the times I am hard at work in my computer or when I scrawl a fleeting thought in my little notebook.

“Is it all the time? At special hours? In a certain place?” she follows up her question because I take a mighty long time showing any semblance of intelligence. “Or only when you’re in the mood?”

I mumble, “I don’t know about writing moment. I seem to love to write at all moments.”

“As in, all the time?! Even now?!”

“Even now as I speak,” I say. “I want to write down what you’re saying and why it is affecting me and why I think it is important.”

She gives me that keep-talking-and-make-me-understand look.

“Writing is a never-ending quest for me,” I say, sounding like I'm improvising.

“Quest?”

“Yeah, quest. Like looking for something to reach, poke, disprove, study and investigate.”

And then something whacks me and I exclaim, “Writing takes place in your soul!” I laugh because I seem to be horribly pedantic.

Adie is young and wants to be a writer. And all she wants are tips on how to write from someone who, years ago, was starting like her.

“My writing moment is any moment,” I say, trying to come back to earth. “I mean, all moments are writing moments. When I was in advertising, we had fierce deadlines and I had to keep writing to meet them. That attitude is in my bones. The only difference is, today as a book author, I keep writing because I want to keep writing—not because I am racing against deadlines.”

She smiles.

“Well, some moments are better than others. But whatever the moment is, always remember that you can write only because grace enables you to.”

She moves her mouth and it breaks into a smile. I move mine to ask about her oncoming book.

Adie’s text message one hour later is, “Ma’am, thanks. It was a grace-filled meeting.”

Adie is a quick study. In case she reads this post, she’ll know that I was indeed writing at that precise hour when she and I were talking about my writing moment.