How to Choose a Restaurant

My sons go to a lot of trouble reading food and restaurant reviews. Based on their research, they conclude that a restaurant with consistently good reviews is excellent.       

                                      I am not that scientific. If the choice were up to me, I only have one criterion for picking a great eating place.

I take a peek from the outside. If it is a Chinese restaurant and I see many Chinese dining there, then the food must be yummy!

A Japanese restaurant, if frequented by Japanese, should be worth every bite!

Korean, Thai, Spanish, Greek, Indian, Mexican, Hungarian, Persian and what-have-you—they are excellent when their own nationals outnumber the locals. They know whereof they eat.

And so there is this unimposing Korean restaurant in Alabang tucked behind a premier car shop, unseen from the outside world, far from the maddening crowd, and situated nowhere near a mall. It is always filled to the rafters with Koreans.

That is where I like to go for authentic, glorious Korean Food.

To order, I also have just one criterion. Spy on the next table and ask the waiter for exactly the same dishes! And you just know you made the right choice—your taste buds burst with pure delight. Nevermind what those dishes are called.

The restaurant is named Sogamiga. There, God's grace comes—up to the last morsel of food and conversation with family.

Davao She Day 2010

The event gathered over 600 women of various persuasions in one room—the Grand Ballroom of the Apo view Hotel.     

 

The invitation for me to be one of two speakers read, "It's for women who are feeling overworked, over-scheduled and overwhelmed. It's for the woman of today whose life is complex and demanding. . . we know you have a lot of rich stories to tell as you encourage and inspire women to be transformed in the different facets of their lives."

Rich stories about life's grace I do have—millions of them. Some of these are already in my books. But talking about them in a ballroomful of women posed a different kind of challenge and so I took a day off from grandmothering (Adrian is here on a three-week visit) and headed out to Davao. I was armed with an 11-page manuscript, 29 slides and a clicker.

The jampacked ballroom spooked me at first (crowds always do in all of my talks), but the warm smiles of the women were very encouraging. Writing about grace is one thing; talking about it is another—at many points it chokes and wrings the heart. But God's faithfulness never falters and so one can go on with whatever He allows one to say.

Timmy Cruz was a welcoming host; she set the tone with three of her inspiring songs. That helped greatly to calm my nerves. After the event, many of the women lined up patiently and cheerfully for their books to be signed and to have our pictures taken. They quoted parts of my talk which they said touched them deeply, or reminded them of a lesson learned. And I was humbled by every remark.

I thought that the blood, sweat, and tears that the staff of OMFLit (led by Lynnie of OMFLit Cebu, with the help of dear friends Mai-Mai and Carol; and ably executed by Eileen of OMFLit Davao, with a bevy of women volunteers in black and hot pink) was well worth every second. Madel, assigned to pamper me, went way beyond the call of duty.

It is I who have been transformed.

To Davao and Back

Just flew back in from Davao, with a suitcase filled, crammed, and tamp-packed with grace.

I left Manila early yesterday morning and came back less than 24 hours later. Just had enough time in that big, bright city to land, lunch, look, then talk before over 600 women at the She Day 2010 held at the Apo View Hotel Ballroom.     

 

Immediately after the program was the book signing and informal interaction with readers, then dinner with the organizers. After quick chit-chats and good-byes, I hurried back to my room to pack for my early morning flight today.

Will have more strength to write a postscript blog tomorrow. Meanwhile . . . y-a-w-n.

Three Bonuses

When my book signing events fall on a holiday, I get three bonuses in the form of three escorts: a husband and two grown-up sons. I honestly think they want to be supportive, and make me feel they appreciate the work that I do. Even if they get bored in the process.

It was Easter Sunday and OMFLit Bookshop in Pergola Mall was open on a Sunday for the first time. I was invited by the mall management to sign my books after the story telling (part of the Easter activities) of my latest book, "The Crying Children."

Somewhere in the crowd were my escorts. Surreptitiously, I took these triple shots while they weren't looking. They were there all right, but they were also elsewhere. (I suspect they have all read about, and taken to heart, the ministry of presence.)

And me? Well, bored escorts notwithstanding, I always take my time and enjoy myself. I even dress for the part—in contrast to their weekend garbs.

At the end of it all, usually after two hours, we join up for a meal around a table in a nearby restaurant, and their wandering spirits return to their bodies. Then all's well that ends well. They get their food, and I get my escorts.

After dessert, the two boys hurriedly go back to their own lives, probably heaving a silent sigh of relief.

Grace does come in all manner of things.

Wordless Wednesday

Honorable Mention

I have always been a fan of Rina Jimenez-David, who regularly writes about women and other pressing issues in her column "At Large" with the Philippine Daily Inquirer. You'll most likely hear thousands of other readers say the same thing.

In one survey among the youth and yuppies, she ranked as the most-read opinion writer in the country.

I believe it's because she walks her talk. She is actively involved in organizations which promote the rights and health of Filipino women and children. The awards for her leadership and written works are many.

I met Rina personally once, long ago, in one of those noisy advertising functions where people said "Hi" and "Good-bye." I doubted whether she'd remember me if ever we bumped into each other again.

But months later, she briefly reviewed a chapter (on marital relationship) of my book, "Gifts of Grace" Book 1 in her column. That took me by surprise. To this day, I call it my honorable mention—for it is such an honor to be mentioned by a lady whose readers are legion.

Again, one Sunday last month, she gave my latest book, "Flying on Broken Wings," another honorable mention (let me also call it grace in black and white). My cellphone almost burst that day, and the day after, with text messages from friends who had read her column.

This honorable mention advanced the cause of People with Disability (PWD) about and for whom I wrote the book; it brought to the fore the need for society to take notice of this marginalized group that needs laws and attention to make them enjoy the same rights able-bodied people enjoy.

Rina, thank you.

Count Me In

It's all over but the proclamation of Noynoy Aquino as the 15th President of the Philippines. It won't be long now.

I decided to visit the Noynoy Aquino Official Website (which had pages and pages of information and photos) one last time. I was surprised—felt sad and happy at the same time—to find only a page of it left.

But this one page eloquently summarizes what the Noynoy campaign was all about—People Power. Many old and young unknown souls worked quietly in the sidelines. Volunteers. Doing what they could to help in a movement for change. I had not done much, except buy from the fund-raising Tindahan ni Noynoy campaign materials which my family and I gave away to neighbors and friends.

Now this website, which clarified a lot of kinks in my mind, and which made me decide to support Noynoy's platform, is down and gone forever:

 This official campaign website was created and managed by the New Media Bureau of the Sen. Benigno “Noynoy” S. Aquino III Presidential Campaign.

The New Media Bureau was composed of volunteers that committed their time and contributed personal resources as their expression of ardent support of the candidacy of Sen. Noynoy.

The New Media Bureau is grateful for the privilege of having been part of this historic people's campaign for meaningful change. We thank all the people who have, in one way or another, contributed to the success of this website.

We are officially ending the operation of this website which will be transitioned into the Official Website of the President of the Republic of the Philippines at the appropriate time, with the sincere hope that as president, Noynoy Aquino will continue to use this website to reach out to the ordinary online Filipino.

If you wish to continue interacting with other Noynoy supporters, please visit:
http://facebook.com/noynoy.aquino

***

My own little pledge to our new president's invitation to continue the fight for a better Philippines: "Count me in."

Continue to discover God's boundless grace in your watch, Mr. President.

My Vote Will Be Counted

(This day must be pretty special. This is my second post in less than seven hours.)

Consider this a prayer—an ardent one—and hope, rather than confidence: my vote will be counted.

Just before the polls opened, Tony, JC and I trooped to our precinct. The whole of humanity, already soaked in sweat since 6 AM, was already there.

There were multiple queues; we didn't know where we belonged. We asked the volunteers of the PPCRV (Parish Pastoral Council for Responsible Voting) strewn all over, but they were each giving contradictory information over the noise of the unprecedented crowd.

Past elections were different. Then, the precincts of our barangay were in several places. But now, with the automated counting, COMELEC consolidated it in one sardine can, masquerading as a school.

And so finally we found our assigned room, but the queue was about a kilometer long. My temper, which has lain dormant for years, lurked just beneath my breath. But seeing the determination on the faces of people to make their voices heard, I doused my raging volcano by taking shots of everything around me.

After one long hour, we were ushered into our room. The teachers were a picture of patience, all smiles and oh-so-helpful.

The voting itself took only five short minutes—from the signing of my name, making a thumb mark, to the time the PCOS machine lapped up my ballot and flashed, "Congratulations! Your vote has been registered!"

All told, the whole process took 1½ hours. Just a wee bit shorter than queuing in my bank.

As the voting in every part of the country continues today, I pray that God will give every voter the grace of patience to go through what I've just been through.

Everything seemed to be above board. BUT. What's bothering me up to this minute is what I saw in the voting register. My son JB, who has been in the US for five years, had a thumb mark opposite his name in the last voting! Someone voted in his stead. How long has this been going on? How many thousands of absentee voters in Las Pinas were cheated?

I'd have questioned it right then and there, but it was the wrong time and venue to do so. There were hundreds in the queue and they had to take their turn.

Now I don't know know whether to celebrate or mourn the voting exercise.

Yet I will continue to pray for better tomorrows for this country, under the watchful eye of the One who generously dispenses grace.

Please Go out and Vote

The whole country has been on tenterhooks the last couple of months, especially in the last two days.

There have been many—far too many—glitches in the preparations of our first-ever-automated polls. Faulty memory cards, undelivered ballots and machines, overpriced folders, untrained teachers and poll watchers, gross programming negligence and incompetence, malfunctioning LCD lights, discharged batteries, uninstalled CF cards, and oh, the list is very long.

Many have been hysterical, crying to go back to manual count, or at least a parallel one.

Despite suspicions of massive fraud and organized cheating, I am giving this new system a chance, and COMELEC the benefit of the doubt. We need to go out and be counted. Whatever happens next . . . well, that's for another day. But today, in about half an hour, when the polls open at 7 AM, I will participate in this democratic process.

Let us not give up on this country. God's grace will uphold us—as it has, despite corrupt and untrustworthy officials—and give us wisdom on how to re-build a crumbling democracy with new leaders who have the heart to serve, starting now, May 10, 2010.

I Am Ready to Vote

In less than 48 hours, those who care for the future of this country will go to the polls and vote. I have chosen candidates who I personally think will lead us out of the dark ages.
The members of my family and my friends have likewise chosen theirs. In a democracy, we can vary in opinions and have the right to express them.

But for all believers of grace, we need to have one single prayer: That God's will, not man's, shall prevail.

May the Lord grant us peaceful and credible elections (and counting) we can all be proud of.

Adrian's 3rd Visit and 3rd Birthday

This little fellow, the apple of all our eyes, and who can twist us around his little finger, arrived from the USA with his parents for a three-week vacation at midnight today. Photos show him unpacking his own little bag (filled with his books and toys) for our benefit.    
                   
We see him only once a year, on the week of his birthday, so you can imagine the excitement and joy that comes with his every visit.

As it was in his last two trips, he will spend half of his time with his maternal grandparents and the other half with us.

It is my prayer that he grows up in the path of grace, and never be waylaid by the lure of new, modern, and worldly tricks.

May the Lord bless you and keep you, Adrian. Welcome home and happy birthday!

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