The Baguio That I Knew

The Baguio of my youth smelled of pine trees, not of diesel. It was thick with fog, not with smog. It had old low-rise buildings, not new high-rise condominiums. The weather was chilly, not iffy. Burnham Park teemed with flowers and trees, not with vendors and vagrants.

When I looked for someone, all I had to do was wait in any part of Session Road, and in a few minutes, I'd spot her strolling along.

There was a sea of sunflowers that faced east, saying "hello" when I walked to school, and faced west, saying "good-bye" when I walked home. Every single day, they stood there waiting. Where might they have gone?

Why am I reminiscing about Baguio?

Well, I am right here, celebrating the grand homecoming of our high school class in the 60's, with 50 or more classmates who drove/flew in from all parts of the world.   

That's me, extreme right

Except for friendships forged in those early years, which can never be broken by time nor space, and the school building where we played patentero, sang and danced for school programs, and laughed with gay abandon, there is nothing left of the Baguio that I knew.

But for three days with former classmates—now proudly sporting white hair, wrinkles of wisdom, scars of life battles, bulges of blessings, and cellphones loaded with photos of grandchildren—we are recreating the beautiful, glorious Baguio of our salad days.

And we are discovering that this Baguio, which we all enjoyed, shared, and owned, is not a physical place. It is a memory. It is grace.

The Good Euro

The word "euro" gave this country a bad name when it became a prefix for General.

If you recall, the Euro-Generals' scandal involved the Philippine National Police (PNP) generals and officials who went to Russia with their spouses in October 2008 to attend the International Police Conference.

A shockingly large sum of undeclared euros were found in the possession of the retired comptroller (with the rank of Director) and his wife. The amount came up to a whopping 105,000 euros or P6.9 million in cash!

Back home, we covered our faces in shame. A senate committee had recommended the criminal prosecution of these Euro-Generals. As you and I know, nothing came out of this except the putrid taste it left in the mouth of God-fearing Filipinos.

Now four of these Euro-Generals are running for public office! "Some police officials called the group’s participation in the party-list elections as a 'mockery' and a 'travesty' of the Constitution." (PDI 2-5-10)

I will say nothing more because this is not a blog on disgrace. So I'll speak of the good euro—the grace that this word brings.

One is the Euro Massage which my husband frequents and to where he treats me once in a while. Here, all the cares of the week (especially frustration over earthly justice) are rubbed, pressed, and kneaded away by skillful hands of the sight impaired.

I always feel like a million euros when I step out the door!

Two, the excellent, gigantic ensaymada (bread cake) of Malolos which JR brings home when he goes to that place for a court hearing. Because it is so big and easily spoils, we eat the ensaymada as quickly as we could and give away the rest to friends.

I always feel exceedingly blessed after binging on it.

Euro is a good word. But, somehow, the PNP Generals managed to turn it into a word of international embarrassment.

Not a Flower? Pityriases Rosea

This sounds like the scientific name of one of these exotic flowers, doesn't it?

Well, Pityriasis Rosea isn't a flower, it's a skin rash caused by a virus that has chosen to lodge in my system.

I woke up to a few roundish red spots on my arms and legs one day last month. I thought nothing of them—probably just mosquito bites, or allergy to the wind (as diagnosed by friends). Two days later, the spots multiplied exponentially. The odd thing was, they didn't itch. They just stayed there looking gross and unsinkable.

So I consulted a doctor. After asking many questions, she said, Pityriases Rosea. "It's viral and the red spots (welts? rashes?) will go way in two to three months."

That long?!

For a month now (two more to go), I've been attending functions and going around with these little red round mounds (which I try to cover with long sleeves and long skirts or pants).

They look awful and alarming, but thankfully, grace has made the initial paralyzing fear vanish—way, way ahead of the time the horrid red spots could leave, eventually.

I Remember Mama

After my mother was laid to rest, my siblings and I were not surprised to find that she hardly had any material wealth in her home—only the necessities of everyday living. Just enough linens, dinnerware and glassware, toiletries, and groceries for her and her househelp. Even her paste jewelry was sparse.

What filled her closets were mementos of family and friends—scholastic medals of her children, letters, scrapbooks and little knick-knacks she received as gifts.

In life, my mother was a giver. Nothing was too precious to give away to someone in need. One look at her things and we decided to give them all away, too—to the needy people whom she had helped all her life.

"You can have this," my sister said, handing me mom's wrist watch with tiny rhinestones, and with a matching bracelet.

Mom won that watch as a door prize in our clan reunion. When mom opened the box, I gasped with admiration. She smiled and immediately said, "Here, you can have it."

"No, it's yours!" I replied.

Now, with mom gone, I was saying the same exact words to my sister, "No, it's yours!"

We didn't put it into words, but my sister and I both wanted to remember our mother for the way she lived, not for what she left behind.

We commemorate Mom's death anniversary every Easter. But it was on a Good Friday, April 18, seven years ago, when Jesus took her to live with Him and His angels for eternity. She was 83.

So today I remind myself of what I always say to friends who have lost a loved one, "Remember her/his life, not her death."

(My siblings and I smile, remembering God's boundless grace in Mama Chit's long life.)

(Flowers sent from the US by best cousin, Minna, and her siblings)

Two Left Feet

This time it's not Tony's kind of dancing I am describing. It's my kind of shopping. I have totally lost touch or control.

I was in a building in The Fort for a meeting with client. I was too early, and one of my friends excitedly nudged me, "Grace, there is a Nike sale on the 10th floor, all at 70% discount! If you're interested, I could take you there."

She took me there.

Sure, I needed another pair of rubber shoes for my morning walk. The five pairs I already have are not enough, are they?

The whole room was filled with heaps of shoe boxes. Unfortunately, or fortunately, every single pair in my size had been snapped up hours before!

So I walked over to the male slippers. My boys, I thought, would thank me for thinking of them. I didn't know their sizes, but did it matter? I bought two pairs.

I was very happy with my purchases—a steal, they were. So when I got home, I opened the boxes with flourish—ta da!

"Mom, this is perfect for Goliath!" It was four sizes too big.

And the second pair? "Mom, these are for two left feet!"

"What?!"

There may be a lesson being taught here (?)

Grace stepped in.

I went back to the Nike's offices days later with my two boxes of slippers. The receptionist, with perfect customer-service smile, said. "No problem, ma'am. Please wait here."

In less than a minute, she came back with two perfect pairs of slippers in perfect sizes. "If you have any more problems ma'am, please come back within four days while the sale is still ongoing."

"I won't be back," I promised. I won't be back to any sale again, I wished.

Books of My Childhood

Someone asked me what sort of books did I read as a child. I mentioned over a dozen, but the first one that came to mind was The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Maybe because I recently purchased a reprinted edition from a second-hand book shop.

Two different movie versions of The Secret Garden have been produced and neither came close to how I imagined the unfolding of the stories. Well, no movie (to my mind) is ever better than the book. Books let you enter the hearts and minds of the characters; movies can't.

In almost the same breath, I also mentioned The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. Also because I treated myself to a second-hand reprint of this childhood favorite last year. My level of understanding of this book then was different from what it is today, but the level of joy is the same.

C.S. Lewis was a bigger-than-life name in my tiny brain in those days. That's why every so often I still I re-read him (Chronicles of Narnia). Again, I was able to buy on sale a complete set, which I share with my grown-up children.

Hans Christian Andersen was a great source of girlie sighs and swoons. I couldn't afford to buy his books with my meager allowance, so I'd go to a small market stall where books were rented out. I'd sit on the ground for hours after classes and read as much as my 20 centavos could take me.

My uncle Joe in the US was a vital vessel of grace—most of the books above plus classics like Huckleberry Finn, and series like Nancy Drew and Dr. Seuss, plus hardbound Bible parables, were fillers in his balikbayan packages that bore clothes, linens, and toys.

What I forgot to mention, and which was my first reading staple, was Pepe and Pilar, a first grade textbook which I could declaim from memory at age three, according to my mom. I may no longer find a copy of this book today.

Oh, the marvelous readings of childhood! Undiluted memories that purify the sullied soul of adulthood.

Why Footbridge?

Each time we drive past this footbridge with this streamer, questions rush in to confuse my mind.

1. Why are we thanking the highest official of the land for a tiny footbridge?
2. Did she donate it/spend for it?
3. Did she build it herself?
4. Doesn't she have bigger projects to do?
5. Did we elect her to build footbridges?
6. Shouldn't this be a municipal project?
7. Can't our municipal officials do it?
8. Why do our municipal officials have to depend on our president for this?
9. Does this happen in other countries?
10.Can you imagine Pres.Obama or Queen Elizabeth being thanked for a footbridge?
11.Shouldn't the tax payers be thanked for this footbridge instead?

I could go on. But this blogsite speaks only of grace.

In contrast to this footbridge, the most powerful One and grace Giver does not order nor obligate us to display streamers to thank Him. He only requires quiet faith to let Him be the sole God of our life.

One Reason for Writing

A friend and fellow writer, Marlene, called my attention to this photo on Facebook. The little girl, Bea, is seriously reading, studying, reflecting on (her quiet/devotion time?) the Word in What's for Breakfast? Book 1.

Every so often, grace allows me to discover scenes such as this on the net, blowing away uncertainty that comes and goes with the unpredictable winds of book publishing, which are beyond a writer's control.

My reasons for writing are irrefutable. This is one of them.

He Is Not Here

"He is not here; He has risen, just as He said. . ." Matthew 28:6

And to mankind came an undeserved windfall: the grace of salvation to anyone who invites Him into his/her heart.

Alleluia!

Happy Easter everyone!      

Earth Hour 2010

My family was in the middle of action (or darkness) during this year's earth hour, not by choice but by circumstance.

We were in Shangri-la Hotel enjoying the gift certificates sent by JB and Gianina (in celebration of her acceptance to the University of Chicago for MBA).

Our pick was smorgasbord at the Circles restaurant.

While gorging and chatting, we saw out the window, just below our table, a crowd of men, women and children wearing black t-shirts bearing "Makati Shangri-la" prints. They were getting ready for the Earth Hour parade. After a few minutes, the lights went off.

At the entrance to the Ayala Museum, across the street, was a dramatic sea of flickering candles. Then the parade began—ati-atihan, clowns, drum and bugle corps, etc. in luminous clothes and accessories—amidst the blinding darkness. I tried to take photos but my camera was not up to the task. The parade was non-stop for one hour, and so was our eating.

The next day, on the front page of PDI was the photo of the Earth Hour parade participants! It was taken at the very same place where we walked, laughed, and heartily dined, in celebration of a family milestone brought to us in the glory of His grace.

Booked

In October last year, I began writing my latest book with approximately 118,000 words, due March this year. It's been more or less six months of relentless thinking, typing, reflecting, and praying, and what do you know? The book is booked.

Meaning, I finally mustered enough courage to send my fourth and last draft to my publisher. All the words have been squeezed out of my heart and soul into stark black and white manuscripts.

For whatever is left of March (four days exactly), I simply want to stretch my tired muscles and rest my aching back and raise my head up to the sky and thank the Author of life for the guidance, 24/7 on every leaf, 375 in all!

As in writing my past books, there were countless hurdles. I fell ill for what seemed like a life-threatening tummy problem. Then my computer crashed. Then my internet connection blinked on and off (mostly off) on the homestretch.

By God's sustaining grace, I am still intact, and smiling.

Please celebrate with me.

(Oh, that is just step one in book publishing. There will be another long stretch of editing and, hopefully, not too much rewriting, and polishing, then lay-outing, then designing, then printing, then proofing, then proofreading, then binding—oh, you don't want to be in on all those details do you? Barring any more snags, the book should be in your hands by September. Or, there is always that possibility it might altogether be scrapped. Pray with me?)

Every Thursday

Every Thursday I don my respectable look (blazer, high-heeled pumps, and a knowing smile) and hie off to the transnational university where I teach. Before or after my two-hour class, I say "hello" to our dean, co-teachers, librarian, and then go out for lunch and coffee with friends.

Last Thursday was sort of different. Our new president invited a few faculty members for discussion of some academic concerns over lunch. We met at the Bistro Lima (called thus because it is on our Lima Rd. campus), which is totally run by our students in hospitality management, and supervised by their professors.

Everything was impressive and impeccable, if I may brag. It's like dining in a special place where one pays oodles of money to get the kind of food and attention that we were served. But the prices are well within this teacher's reach.

Rating: The food, the company, the ambiance, the exchange of ideas and forward plans—A plus.

Thursdays for me are always a treat and a change of pace. This last one was a luncheon of grace.

Faith of a Child

During last Sunday's sermon, one-year-old Elijah (grandson of one of our church members) went straight to the front pew and listened to our minister for a few minutes without moving. It was as though he stood waiting for his share of grace.

This shot reminds me of what Jesus said in Matthew 18:3 (NLT), "I tell you the truth, unless you turn from your sins and become like little children, you will never get into the Kingdom of Heaven."  

The Last Days

In my travels, I always bring a book—aside from my Bible—with me. I am an early riser so after my quiet time, and while waiting for the world to stir and before boredom sets in, there is plenty of time to read. One also has to be armed for those ultimate time-wasters: waiting lounges.

To Bangkok I tucked inside my tote bag Joel Resenberg's "The Last Days" (his second novel).

I was unprepared for what it put me through; nobody warned me.

From a while-waiting read, it became a take-in-two-pages-quick-while-there's-a-lull read. Stopping was like a sin.

That's precisely the reason why my roommate Eli said, "I don't bring a book to any trip."

To say it was a page-turner would be untrue. It was a hair-raising, breath-holding, heart-thumping, pulse-raising page-turner.

The book is a gift from the Christian Writers Fellowship. (Thank you, Yna!) And it is a gift that keeps wanting . . . to grab the rest of the Rosenberg novels.

Rosenberg fans know that his books' best parts are the fast-paced and action packed scenes. But my favorite part, and which sucked the air out of my lungs, was when the tempo went from largo to lento. Page 407, or the last page of chapter 45.

Why? I can't tell you why.

Because friends who read this post and who are planning on reading the book would call me a cheat.

Just a hint though: grace.

 (This was taken at the Grand Diamond Hotel Lobby as I rose to surrender my room key on our way to catch our plane back to Manila.) 

Red Rage in Bangkok

The red flag was up. About one million protesters and supporters of fallen Prime Minister Thaksin were supposed to march while we were there.

Well, our first day was peaceful—and fun. We decided to tackle the shops first, then the sights and sounds the next day. Nine people alternately bumped into and lost each other in a huge mall. Lunch at 3 PM was very Thai, very good.

We capped the day with another luscious Thai dinner in a place called Beach Banana and dessert at Swensen's (I deserve 40 lashes for succumbing to the lure of a scoop of creamy coffee ice cream).

The second day.

There was no second day. Every place worth going to was closed. The red march was ready to erupt. But the eruption was a dud. It didn't turn out the way the organizers touted it to be. Nevertheless, the damage was done to poor tourists like us.

Panic time. Where to find Bangkok's soul for re-telling back home? Where to buy those pasalubong? (coming home presents). The goods in the sidewalk around the hotel were not very promising. No tamarinds, no lanzones, no nothing.

In the nothingness, the gift of company came to the fore. An adequate spin around town. Long stretch of bonding in one of our rooms (complete with two TV sets, a receiving room, and all the acouterments one would ever need), and more gorging on luscious and spicy Thai food in the hotel, plus excited tamping of our colorful handcarry luggage (a gift for each of us from the big-hearted big boss, on top of the whole trip, that is).

At the airport at midnight, we reminisced over our authentic R&R, undiminished by the red heat.

For me, Bangkok is always an interesting place to be. On this last trip, it's where I found the grace of clients-turned-friends.

Could we have postponed the trip to a more peaceful date? We could have, but the fun, the blessings wouldn't have been as unique.

Bangkok Bound

Together with eight of my clients cum friends, I am off to Bangkok. My netbook will be safely left behind so I can soak in the sights, sounds, and shops—all of them grace in another land.    

I am temporarily closing shop. My next post will be, hopefully, about the Bangkok adventure four days from today.

(There is a travel advisory not to take a trip to Thailand at this time because of some unrest, but we can be stubborn.)

Sawadika!

Where is My song?

He was a cute little boy, only about six years old, when he started playing the drums in our church's praise and worship team. At first, we thought he'd bungle it. But he played like a pro, and everyone in the pews were delighted no end.

Vincent is musically gifted. Aside from drums, he also plays the guitar and the keyboard. And he has a great singing voice, too! Sunday after Sunday, Vincent grew up wonderfully before our eyes.

But one day, he wasn't there. Nobody could get in touch with him.

This is Vincent's (now 20) story from the pulpit where he shared his testimony:

I was looking for song that would touch my heart and would make my role in church meaningful. I had played and sung songs for burial, baptism, wedding—but not one song had what I was searching for.

So I decided to stop singing and playing—for three years. 

One day, while in a queue for a tricycle ride, behind me was a mother with her little boy. The boy couldn't talk but he was emitting an eerie sound, like a moan. Alarmed, I asked the woman, 'Why is your son making those sounds?'

The woman smiled and replied, "He is singing!"

"Singing what?"

"I don't know," she said, "but I know he is singing about hope. Someday, in my lifetime, I wish to hear the lyrics of his song. If not, I will definitely hear them when he sings with the angels in heaven!"

 When Vincent got home, he cried himself to sleep. He found his song—many, many songs, countless songs, about hope. Now Vincent sings and plays his songs as a part of our Praise and Worship Team again—with more vigor than ever before!   

Amazing Grace: one of Vincent's countless songs 

The Writing Habit

(I was requested to upload my talk at the Christian Writers Fellowship. Sharing with you an abridged version.)

No generic writing habit exists that can be used by all writers as a template. Each of us has a different rhythm. Some are allegro, some are staccato, some are lento, some are slightly or greatly in between. 

A writing habit, therefore, cannot be mandated. But we can learn from each other. Tonight, I hope you learn from mine. From these personal principles, you may realize that you already have your own—and it's even a better one.

Creative writing, as we writers know it, is not about words or grammar. Otherwise, all grammarians and English teachers would all be writers. I don't remember who said this, but it is a thought I share: "Writing is about heart and soul, about life. It's bringing the unique experiences in our life to the writing table for others to examine their own lives."

Having said that, let's look into the writing habits of some prolific writers:

Stephen King writes 10 pages a day without fail; Ernest "Papa" Hemingway wrote 500 words daily, starting early in the morning; Truman Capote had to write lying down, whether writing in longhand or using his typewriter; and Philip Roth paces around as he thinks, walking half a mile for every page he writes.

Philip Yancey—40% goes toward getting ready to write (research, interviews, travels, and outlining), 20% toward writing (the burden of composition), and 40% toward cleaning up (he enjoys this because he was once an editor); and Max Lucado constantly writes because he is a pastor and has to work on his sermons. He has written over 50 books since 1985.

It is awesome to talk about these authors and knowing their writing habits. Unfortunately, they're different from mine.

Busyness and procrastination—those are two of the biggest battles we writers face. The busyness I have solved by leaving the paid workforce. Now 80% of my time is spent on writing and the rest of the 20% to other things like teaching, reading, book talks, and conducting seminars on creative writing.

Procrastination—well, that comes and goes, with any job, in various forms. And writers are no exception.

By God's nurturing grace, I have picked up Seven Writing Habits (with apologies to Stephen Covey) in the workplace which help me write books today. The advertising world was my learning lab. There I imbibed habits that have stuck like leeches: 

1. Play deaf. As an ad writer, I was in a big room with seven other writers. Imagine the droves of loud people who came in and out of there! I put on imaginary ear plugs, played deaf, and got my work done. Today, I can work in the noisiest of places.

2. Finish everything yesterday. When you asked anyone who gave you job, "When is this due?" he'd say, "yesterday." Work had to be done on time or you'd be 1) penalized by publications or TV networks; 2) lose the account; 3) lose your job. Today, I thrive on deadlines. If my editors don't give me a deadline, I give myself one.

3. Be a vendo machine. In meetings, clients demanded that you'd come up with ideas quickly, or a smart one-liner, like you were a vendo machine 24/7. Today, I always write down thoughts that invade my brain.

4. Begin with a big idea (or concept). Again, writing is about ideas. If you have a solid idea, the words will come. Today, I write words only after I have the big idea down pat.

5. Look at old things in a fresh way. "Expect the unexpected" "Resist the usual" were some of our buzzwords. Practically everything has been said before, so the challenge is to say it in a fresh new way. Today, I continually self-edit, rewriting phrases I've already said before.

6. Write wherever you are, every day. Writing didn't happen only when our hands were on the keyboard. The writing process was ongoing in every space we occupied. Today, I write in my head in supermarkets, book stores, buses, classrooms, etc. every single day. 

7. Do a Creative Strategy. Before any creative work was ever begun, one had to be guided by a strategy. Otherwise, everything was off-strat and trashed. Today, I write down a one-page strategy for every book that I write.

My creative intent has changed. From selling shampoos, toothpastes, and sanitary napkins, I have moved to . . . selling hope. And therefore, I have felt it necessary to change HABIT, a very inert word, into a series of action words, or verbs.

H—Heed your heart, write about what it tells you about hope.

A—Accomplish your daily goal, one day at a time.

B—Break the barriers that block your writing by writing. 

I—Internalize the big idea. Let it swim in your soul, in your core.

T—Trust God to give you wisdom. Every word is for Him and for others to know Him. 

(Some of the attendees: all writers [and editors], including the little ones)

The Child in Us

For five days, grace made me remember the joy and magic of being a child again. The Hiyas School Tour brought me to five grade schools, each with hundreds of children, aged 6 to 12.

They were adorable and fun; they washed away all the frustrations I had over my malfunctioning DSL connection. According to their teachers (who were gracious and welcoming), majority of these children are readers and therefore, they had that wide-eyed excitement to listen to a writer on why and how books are created.

The program format was the same in all schools. But each place gifted me with a one-of-a-kind experience. Children are after all individuals—each with his own unique personality. Misha of OMF would begin by giving away prizes. That got the kids all keyed up. Then a storyteller from the Alitaptap Storytellers Philippines would read one of my books. Percy, Ray, and Waco each told a story in his own unique style as well.

And then the hard part: my talk. It was daunting. As you and I know, children are honest and frank—they'd say straight to your face what they think. I didn't need to encourage them to ask questions. Most of their questions required tough answers.

"Do you ever get stressed?" "Who taught you to write?" "Where do you get your ideas?" "When will you stop writing?" "Can you write about me?" "How old are you?"

Some of their comments were surprising.

"I've been reading your books since I was six years old." " My sister goes to sleep with your devotional." "My mom likes giving your books as presents." "When I grow up, I am going to be a writer like you."

Aside from these photos, I have amassed precious happy thoughts that are the rewards of writing for children, "to whom the kingdom of heaven belongs." (Luke 18:16)

St. Claire School

Poveda College

Hope Christian School

Miriam College

Victory Christian School 

Difficult Days

Writing these past three weeks has been difficult. MyDSL has been acting up. On, off, on, off.

Despite daily calls to PLDT, nada. Some PLDT guys came once to check the problem, and while they were here, the problem seemed to have been solved. But after they left, MyDSL came and went again. It's a miracle I am able to blog at all.

Just when I am about to send an email, pffft. Or when I am about to upload a manuscript, blink. Or while looking up a Bible passage, ooops. In the middle of a conversation on Vonage, dut, dut, dut.

What makes this problem even more frustrating is the very heavy advertising of PLDT MyDSL to entice new users: "Instant connection!" Now, how about faithful users like me?

An OMF Lit School Tour came to the rescue. Instead of fuming and whining before my computer monitor, I went to four schools in a row and shared my experiences as a writer to large crowds of energetic children.

One last school tomorrow, after which I have to attend the Christian Writers Fellowship where I was invited to talk about “The Writing Habit.” Below is the e-poster that the organizers prepared for this purpose.

As I've always believed—grace comes just in time to save one from drowning in the river of difficult days.

Four Kisses and One Heart

I got those on Valentine's Day this year.

But first, let me tell you about one February 14 years ago.

We got caught in a three-hour traffic jam looking for a restaurant without the whole mankind in it. We finally saw one but we waited half an hour, while enduring the overworked air-conditioning units, before we got a table; waited another half hour for a waiter to attend to us; and waited for yet another half hour to have our first dish served.

I tried to shush up three wailing little boys who were too hungry and too irritable from the oppressive heat, plus other misadventures you don't want to know.

Since that year on that day, we vowed never again to eat out on Valentine's Day!

We broke our vow this year. February 14 was a Sunday, which happened to also be Chinese New Year, which we celebrate. And as a matter of tradition, the family always lunches out after the church service.

Our restaurant choice was narrowed down to: 1) a place so unromantic Valentine's celebrators will evade it; 2) a place where the Chinese don't go to for celebration.

The place: Good old Chicken Bacolod. It was not bad at all. We were the only guests. Food was like the grace that comes to us at home through Ate Vi's cooking.

And now, for the four kisses and a heart.

For dessert, the waiter handed over to Tony four freebies: Kisses chocolates for each of us. Tony gave them all to me. "Now you can't say I didn't give you a Valentine's gift," he said grinning.

Then at the small coffee shop beside the supermaket, the rock of my life ordered a heart-shaped silvana and said, "You can have my heart."

Yup, on Valentine's Day I got four Kisses and a heart. Who can ask for anything more?

Heady and Hungry at Hunan

Hunan province is located in the south central part of the Chinese mainland.

Hunan is also the name of a nameless restaurant that serves authentic Hunan food in Makati, Philippines.

I say nameless because you can't find a sign on any of the four square walls of the town house's exterior that says, Hunan. The facade looks just like any ordinary, nondescript apartment door. But as you enter the small area crammed with tables and chairs, the aroma from the kitchen gives you a heady and hungry feeling.

So you sit down and stare at a menu written entirely in Chinese characters. And then you are told that the place's name is Hunan and that they serve Hunan food, shown in photos. Get it?

We got it.

This was our early celebration of Chinese New Year, rather, one of our celebrations of the New Year celebrated for generations by my husband's and children's forefathers. Our chosen dishes didn't disappoint. All of them a bit spicy—but yummy nevertheless.

We had to wash them down with coffee. So to Max Brenner (Israeli chocolate chain with a JC look-alike as logo, and where all waiters are bald!) at Trinoma we went. It was JC's treat. He had received gift certificates from JB and Gianina as birthday gift. He spent them all in one blow.

From China to Israel. That just proves, once again, that grace chooses no culture nor palate.

What a blessed family day it was.

Perry's House

I met Perry for the first time when Tony brought me to a Rotary function. Perry sang the Philippine National Anthem and I was dumbstruck. His voice was a powerful tenor that needed no microphone.

At dinner, Perry was seated beside me and I discovered he loves Broadway musicales as much as I do.

I bragged that I had over 200 CDs of original Broadway recordings. I showed him my list which I kept in my wallet. After scanning it, he started writing titles of what I still didn't have (which he had!). The additional list was four times more than my list, and he still had many more to add but we had run out of paper.

His memory was beyond anything I had ever encountered. He could recite all the musicales that had won a Tony Award, the year they won, and who directed them. Incredible?

And oh, he doesn't stop at musicales. He knows music of every genre in any year and could sing them all from memory! Tony and I run to him for certain songs we could no longer find in music stores.

That was years ago. Since then, Perry has also become a close friend. In my book launches, he gives me a bouquet of flowers, and he never fails to invite me to any occasion held in his house.

His house! That is another story. It boggles the mind. He has collections of everything—from A to Z! Pianos, jukeboxes, eagles, mangers, key chains, CDs (my own collection is now smaller than a lilliputian, compared to his), horses, LPs, laser disks, you name it he has it: in all four floors of his impressive, unusual dwelling place!

I took pictures but pictures don't capture the magnitude of those collections (plural many times over).

Oh, by the way, Perry is also a doctor. A famous neurologist. And a gift of grace.

Full Page of Grace

My books, and how I write them, have been featured in various magazines and newspapers—blessings beyond measure. When one article occupied one-half page in a Manila newspaper sometime ago, I almost fell off my seat. I was ecstatic.

Now, in my shoes, what would you do if you saw your face and your works occupy one full page, in full color?

Please pick me up from the floor; I fell off my seat.

In The Freeman newspaper in Cebu, where I have a bi-weekly column in the Kid Stuff section, I found this:

It was written by the Kid Stuff Editor, Ritchie Salgado, who prefers to be called Tribo. I met Tribo in person for the first time when I flew to Cebu in December for some book talks and signing. We had a long, wonderful chat. And that chat found its way to this page!

Tribo, if you are reading this, I want to thank you for the honor of being featured in your newspaper. Let me congratulate you and all the people you work with for all the work The Freeman does for children.

The “Most Outstanding Newspaper Section" you won in the 6th UNICEF/Phil. Press Institute Child-friendly Newspaper and Journalist Awards affirm your commitment to excellence.

Let me end my post with this verse:

“Jesus said, 'Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the Kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.'” Matthew 19:14

Hidden House Treasures

Tying-loose-ends day is how I call those rare, extremely rare, days I can set aside for doing the teeny odd jobs that I put on the back burner.

You're familiar with some of these: a seam in the drapes that needs re-stitching; press releases that need clipping; notes and receipts that need filing; little gift items that need sorting; little plastic bags that need unloading; cabinets that need cleaning; buttons that need re-sewing; a nail mark on the wall that needs painting over; oh, so many more!

So I finally had my long-delayed and much-postponed tying-loose-ends day.

After doing all of the above, I opened my sewing machine cabinet and what did I find? An unusually heavy pouch, the look of which I don't remember.

I untied it and guess what I saw? Coins! Lots and lots of coins!

How or when they got there, who put them there (chances are, it was I), why they were there—well, my mind was blank.

Counting them took so much time because they were in five-and-ten-peso denominations. They totaled over P3,000 (US$66)! I furiously looked for more hidden treasures in that tiny cabinet and found many small plastic bags containing . . . that's for the next tying-loose-ends-day.

The phone rang and the sun had set. The boys came home one after another, and then it was time to thank the Lord for His grace at the dining table.

Obscure Town

My storybook series, Oh, Mateo!, takes place in an obscure town called Umingan.

“Is it a real place?” “Where is that?” These are some of the questions my readers ask.

“It is a real place; and it's the place where I grew up,” is my reply. For Umingan is really on the map. Unfortunately, it is not one of the more popular places which people have heard of at least once in their lives.

In my books, Umingan is the quiet, serene town that I remember—and love. That was before the advent of computer, fast food, cellular phone, and tricycle. It has changed, as did many towns. But in my mind, and in my books, it remains the Umingan of my youth.

With typhoons Pepeng and Ondoy, Umingan was ravaged like it never was before. And suddenly, Umingan had its one brief shining moment. It was half of the front page of Philippine Daily Inquirer (PDI)—in the form of a handmade thank-you card by the students of an Umingan school for the help extended to the town by PDI.

If I may, this heartwarming card might have been done by Mateo, a thoughtful, caring Umingan boy who is grateful for the outpouring of grace at a time of great danger and devastation.

Upside-down Umbrellas

The first thing I did was to let out one loud gasp. Followed by even louder gasps.

The sight of hundreds of white umbrellas hanging down the ceiling of this room of “Le Jardin de Gabriel” (the 23rd floor of Lita's building at The Fort), was breathtaking, to say the least. But then, again, Lita's interior designing ideas always are.

Lita has a book chronicling thirty years of inspired work. While putting this book together with her, I was blessed to see the depth of her passion for her career. She has been born and blessed with eyes to see what looks good—and in this case, gasp-inducing—for any structure's interior.

The huge room allows a beautiful view of the whole of Makati, Ortigas, and of course, The Fort. From the outside, the view of this room is even more beautiful, as though the world turned upside down to catch the grace that poured from the heavenlies.

On my way home after I saw that umbrella room, it rained heavily. Irony of ironies, I had no umbrella!