Missing the Best of Cinemalaya 2010

There are 365 days in the calendar but somehow, activities manage to clump together on the same dates. Choosing where to go is often a tug-of-war of decisions.

This happened again one Saturday this month. My boys and I had planned on watching as many movies as we could at the annual Cinemalaya (Independent Film Festival and Competition) at the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP), which we do every year. We even invited my sister and a niece to join us.

Suddenly, two other important activities crowded in—book signing at a Book Expo and graduation rites of the university where I teach. It was like being ripped in three different directions all at once. Each affair was important to me.

“How does one decide in a squeeze like this?” I asked my younger sister who always has older wisdom.

“Pick the one where you are most needed,” she said without missing a beat.

Cinemalaya 6 went out the window, so did the graduation ceremonies. To the book expo I went and although I was drooling over the activities I skipped, I thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon with kids.

“You're too late!” My friend Lilit exclaimed when he saw me at CCP one week later. “You missed the best ones.”

We missed our first three choices: Two Funerals, Donor, and Halaw. My boys and I settled for other three full-length movies and five short features with snacks, lunch, coffee, and dinner in between.

No, we didn't exactly miss all the good ones—Ang Paglilitis ni Andres Bonifacio (The Trial of Andres Bonifacio) was both poetic and symbolic. It made us peek into a part of history not often told.

A theater aficionado, I was delighted over the theatrical garnishing the director, Mario O'Hara, boldly incorporated into the historical drama. It has to be watched again, to take in all the many symbols and deliberate details (too many, my sons said) the director put into every scene.

The short films I relished. Harang was well-written and particularly riveting in its simplicity. Scooter was rib-tickling and surprising, and P was very creative and heartwarming in a funny sort of way.

The Cinemalaya is a venue for interaction between alternative filmmakers and those in the mainstream. The Cinemalaya Foundation website reads, “It supports other projects such as national outreach, seminars and workshops on production, marketing and distribution of independent films. It hopes to strengthen the presence of Filipino independent films in foreign festivals and competitions, encouraging Filipino filmmakers to enter and be part of the international film circuit.”

Being a part of art development in the Philippines, albeit as a spectator (an avid one!), is a privilege and full-length grace.

Orange for Happy Harvey

Harvey was always funny. Ha-ha-happy! Hi-hi-hilarious!

What would sound nasty from others would be rib-tickling from Harvey.

He colored his world a joyful, cheerful orange.

Harvey was ailing for sometime, bad kidneys from diabetes, but he continued—always looking like a walking box of crayons—to create great ads, and cracked jokes as though he was rehearsing for the grand finals of the “Ultimate Laff-down” comedy competition.

Even in ICU, according to those who went to visit him, he woke up from coma like a Tony Award winner, “Thank you Dr. so and so, thank you nurse so and so, thank ma'am so and so, etc.” When Lucy called him up from the US, it was Lucy who was bawling and Harvey chirping.

It was no surprise that Harvey left word with someone that should he move on to the great beyond, he'd like friends and family to wear orange at his wake.

And so hundreds of us, wearing orange, trooped to say our final good-byes to Harvey. There were soft sobs, whispered prayers, and silent hugs, but bold, bright orange filled the small chapel at Sto. Domingo church, spilling over to the courtyard.

It was exactly how happy Harvey, 44, wanted everything to end—and begin—for his journey to forever future.

Arrivederci, Harvey.

Thank you for consistently demonstrating, in life, God's grace of laughter. It strengthens resolves to endure, in this mortal coil, every kind of pain.

Amazing Maze of a Home

The place where I live is better than a maze. I say “better” because I and its inhabitants can still find our way around—with ease and comfort.

Ease and comfort. Those are twin words which define my home, or the home which I have continued to build over the years.

For me, building a home is a continuous process. And building the structure that makes a home can even be longer.

It all started when my husband and I were trying to find a house we could call our own in the early part of our marriage. Our elder son was five years old, and the younger one was just born.

The owners of the big house (high ceiling, three bedrooms, two spacious living rooms and a dining room which could double as a concert hall) that we were renting suddenly wanted it back, requesting us to vacate the place in three months. We bargained and tried to beg for extension but, no deal.

So we looked around. Our budget, however, was much too small to afford the places we liked. So we decided, upon the prodding of both our mothers, to look for a house we could purchase.

Budget and time were two ruthless arguments which won over our plans; and so we chose the place where we now live—a newly built suburban dwelling place with low ceiling, slightly bigger than Barbie’s house. It had three bedrooms, a teensy weensy living room and an even tinier dining room which was a step away from a cubbyhole masquerading as a kitchen.

But on a wide, airy corner lot it stood and the promise of ease and comfort lured us. We said, “It has endless possibilities!”

First off, it was a miracle that we were able to move in all our appliances and furniture which seemed to float in our earlier “house.”

That was when the urge to do home improvements hit us. A few months later, the many constructions begun. Not all at the same time—just one after another, as our savings would allow us.

Our initial act was to knock down a wall to join two bedrooms and to add a space to the cramped kitchen. It was euphoric. But euphoria dies down, especially since we still felt like sardines in a can. We then built a roof over the wide space connecting to our front door. Having a lanai was like owning a resort hotel—exhilarating! The wind could visit us freely even on a hot summer day.

Exhilaration withers, so we knocked down another wall and built a master’s bedroom at the back.

And a couple of years later, with the addition of a third son, we spent our savings to put up a second floor for our three boys. Without touching the main house, the carpenter (an architect was always way beyond our expense priorities) found a way to build a staircase to the boys’ room.

As they grew up, we needed an additional car which wouldn’t fit our one-car garage. So we built a more spacious garage which ate up some of our garden.

Now I can’t count how many times we have expanded our dollhouse, but what I remember is that during every construction, I had unbridled joy thinking of all the possibilities—a new coat of paint here and there, an additional wall on which to hang some art pieces, an exotic throw rug for the new area, a repaired stool and a sculpture in a corner, and new shelves to house the books we continue to acquire with alarming consistency as a family.

When I decided to stay home and write full time, there was a space that I thought would make a good office. More carpentry for shelves and drawers continued—and before long I really had a nook of my own!

I don’t know when these home improvements would stop, if they will stop at all. In my head, there is always a new possibility somewhere; and it will present itself anytime.

Ideally, one should move into a house with all the family’s needs in mind. But circumstances are not always ideal.

In my case, moving into a house was a case of necessity, if not panic. But looking back, and looking at the amazing maze of a home where my family and I live with ease and comfort, I would not have it any other way. With every home improvement came the excitement one can only experience in an adventure.

I guess that’s how stories with happy endings are written—they start out with a conflict that is resolved little by little, for as long as we all shall live.

(A reprint of my regular column “Happy Endings” in “Moms and Kids” magazine. If you are in similar straits, let me assure you that grace fills in the gaps between possibilities.)

Celebrating Grace

While everyone was still asleep at dawn today, as I got ready for my morning walk, this greeted me at the dining table. Even sons can be sweet.

Today is a perfect time for me to celebrate the grace I have received from the time God breathed life into me inside my mother's womb and up to this day when I am still strong enough to gorge on a smorgasbord breakfast courtesy of dear friends.

Ggie will pick me up in a few minutes and at Bellevue Hotel, we will meet other old-time friends.

Oh, I checked my email inbox and glimpsed a hundred thousand greetings from family and friends! I will read them one by one, ever so slowly, as soon as I get back.

What a happy, grace-filled day it's going to be!

“Grace and peace be multiplied unto you through the knowledge of God, and of Jesus our Lord.” 1 Peter 1:2

Short Sentences

One of my colleagues in the university where I teach is a distinguished British gentleman in his 80's.

He loves writing as much as I do, so each time we bump into each other, our topic naturally goes to what we are currently writing. He has a book published in Great Britain and he contributes regularly to British newspapers.

We exchanged manuscripts one day and as soon as we saw each other again, he exclaimed, “My, your sentences are short, Grace! I haven't read a book written in such a manner before!” I couldn't tell whether he was complimenting or criticizing me.

It doesn't really matter; I can take both.

His writing style (formal and scholarly) and themes (history and world economy) are the opposite of mine. Obviously, he does not read Max Lucado.

In the aftermath of typhoon Basyang, which left us twiddling our thumbs—no electricity, no internet, no phone, no water—I revisited Lucado's “3:16 The Numbers of Hope.”

The title is explicit; it is the verse in the Bible that summarizes the essence of the Christian faith. For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. (KJV)

This 26-word verse is encapsulated by the author in four short sentences, in four short paragraphs:

"He Loves.

"He gave.

"We believe.

"We live."

These few words say everything I would have wanted to say about John 3:16.

Short sentences stuck to me like velcro when I overstayed in advertising. I fell in love with the period, the punctuation mark. I couldn't wait using it. Now I often say to my students, who choose cutting and pasting verbose platitudes from the internet, “Love your period. It protects you from making horrendous paragraphs unclear to everyone, including you.”

I respect writers who ignore the period like my British friend and many preeminent literary authors do. (Ernest Hemingway didn't use a period till after 424 words in Green Hills of Africa.) I love reading them, too, but I have a soft spot for writers like Max Lucado.

I particularly like his “3:16” book because in short, uncomplicated sentences, it explains the reason why I live: grace.

Crazy Calendar

The second half of my June was crazy. All my appointments and things-to-do got jumbled, scrambled, and muddled up, overlapping here and there. What I thought was Saturday was actually a Sunday and so on and so forth.

I missed a few business meetings, social luncheons, and deadlines.

Am I going crazy? Am I having early signs of Dementia? I kept asking myself.

I peered closely into my calendar again and, pow! It wasn't I; it was my calendar!

Take note that after June 18, the next day is June 17 (again!), instead of 19. The 19th day is therefore moved to a wrong day!

I don't know how many more people got this calendar as a gift last Christmas (I hope mine was a fluke), and how many of them got confused as I was.

Proofreading is a tricky and risky business. I should know, I came from advertising where one typo error could have a domino effect and endanger the whole account.

I am not sure if the proofreader of this calendar has realized his mistake yet and if he has, he must be banging his head on the wall and wishing he could undo the "crime." It's a feeling nobody would wish upon his worst enemy.

It's the same queasy, nauseous feeling one gets when he sends a private email to an egroup by mistake. Aaaargh!

On this note, should you spot a typo error on this blog, please find it in your heart to also laugh it off and forget about it.

The crazy calendar typo sunk me deep in a mire of troubles, but hey, I came out whole with a bonus of forgiveness from the people whose schedules I bumped off because of erroneous dates.

If this isn't the essence of grace, what is?

Time to Say Good-bye

These four guys were six years of my life.

One is a lawyer (our chairman), one is a pastor, one is a trainer and executive director of a large campus Christian youth organization, and one is executive director of a movement/fellowship of Christians in government. And there's me.

In these capacities, we were all individually invited to form the five-member National Advisory Committee (NACs) of the Leadership Development Program (LDP) of Compassion International in the Philippines.

We had various duties but primarily, we helped identify young Compassion-assisted men and women who have shown potential to become Christian leaders. Through the LDP, the chosen ones (around 35 every year) receive the opportunity to get a college degree and develop Christian leadership skills and abilities.

The five of us were thrust into this role with different perspectives, coming as we were from disparate backgrounds. Once a year, we listened to an average of 60 heart-rending stories of poverty from hopeful scholars—and chose who would join LDP.

Those interviews had been weepy for me, but I always emerged more compassionate and determined to partner with Compassion International in "Releasing children from poverty in Jesus' name."

Three to four times a year, the NACs passionately brought to the discussion table our expertise in our individual fields, which were always miles apart from the other! We laughed, we cried, we argued, we ate, we cracked lawyer jokes, we quoted from the scriptures, we cited facts, we narrated personal experiences—but always, we ended each discussion on any controversial issue with a consensus.

In the process, from each other we learned things we never knew before—and became dear friends.

We also shared the joy of seeing those whom we picked for LDP graduate with a degree, and changed for life—some with honors, and some hugged by their sponsors who'd fly in from distant shores for this milestone.

Each time we met—to review some students' progress—I always felt a see-saw of emotions. Being released from poverty is a painful process, needing prayers and perseverance to keep going. This we recognized as a group, and we shared the pain.

Now six years have passed; and life has phases which have beginnings and endings. And so this phase of my life with LDP has reached the finish line.

It is time to say good-bye.

The NACs was a place of great honor, for which I would like to thank God, whom Compassion International serves. The road forks for NACs—to meet again, surely, at some points in the future.

Meanwhile, I think of the LDP scholars, as though I birthed them myself, and continue to pray for them as I would for my own children.

And knowing we share the same faith—in Christ's saving grace—I am positive that my past fellow NACs will do the same.

First Anniversary Gift?!

"A sewing machine?!" My friends were incredulous, eyes wide with disbelief, followed by prolonged laughter.

They didn't actually say, "yuk," but I glimpsed it on their faces.

Instead of the usual bouquet of flowers, or perfume, or anything as closely romantic, Tony gifted me with a sewing machine on our first wedding anniversary.

I remember it fondly as we celebrate today yet another anniversary. I took a shot of this gift—now looking its age but which, with proper maintenance (regular oiling and cleaning), has served me exceedingly well, and never once failing, for many, many years. 

"If I were not a writer," I often quip in Q and A fora, "I'd be a seamstress." People laugh, but in truth, I do love to sew. Whenever I feel a need to de-stress, I sew, alter, or create anything—from ill-fitting clothes bought on sale to a doodad for an appliance and furniture. I always have a pile of fabric on stand by.

I sewed the gown I wore to the first formal affair (Rizal Day in Chicago) I attended with Tony before we were married. In fact, I sewed all the clothes I wore to every important event he and I went to after that.

For one thing, on my meager allowance as a student, I couldn't afford to buy party clothes in dollars. For another, fashionable clothes patterns were aplenty in the US for a song. I must have mentioned it to him (I don't remember), and he must have remembered even one year after our wedding.

The only other person who rejoiced with me on my receiving a sewing machine was my mother. She, too, loved to sew and from her I learned the craft.

On my umpteenth wedding anniversary, today, I raise my head up to God for the umpteenth additional year He has blessed us with. Likening my pace with my now aging but still whirring sewing machine, I celebrate the grace which has maintained me.

I feel I am still whirring as I did on that long-ago July 4 when I got my first wedding anniversary present nobody appreciated, but my mom and me.

Going . . . Going . . . Gone

This three-word phrase came to me as I woke up early this morning. And I feel the need to write about it.

Today, the nine-year-old administration will be gone. President Noynoy will take over as the duly elected, by landslide, President of the Philippines after he takes his oath, not before the Chief Justice of the Philippines (recently named by the outgoing president in what many believe as a midnight appointment) but before a lady associate justice, the lone dissenter in the hurried and controversial appointment of the Chief Justice.

This signals a change in a big way. We are entering a new era of hope. With our collective prayers for grace, this country can get back on its feet again, wobbly at the moment, but will walk again, and heal again.

To mark this change, I am replacing my old header with a new one. So my old header is going. . . going. . . and after today, gone.

Meet my new header: I took a shot of our yellow bells, the first things one sees as he approaches our home. These lovely blossoms are a welcome sight after a tiring day elsewhere. But they, too, will soon be gone.

In the summer, they bloom and brighten up those who pass them by, but the rains have come. Somehow, yellow bells thrive under the heat of the sun, but wilt under the rain. My new header will see them blooming even if they don't.

And God, in His infinite mercy, will shine His blessings upon this nation—so that, like my yellow bells in the next summer, we as a people will bloom once more.

P.S. five days later . . . my sister wrote to ask me whether these flowers are really yellow bells (?) or hibiscus (?) Well, I've always called them yellow bells, my very own yellow bells. 

Unshaken Father

Father’s Day, as many of us already know, was started by Sonora Dodd of Washington, USA in 1910. She lost her mom at a very young age and it was her father who took care of her and her five other siblings. After listening to a sermon in church on Mother's day, she worked at having one day in one year also declared as Father's Day.

As we celebrate Father’s Day this month, I ponder the word “father.” It has evolved and mutated from what it originally was. In the old days, a child lived with a father he was born to.

Today, a child may live with his stepfather; orphans may live with a relative who acts as their father; an adopted child may live with an adoptive father; and many more permutations.

A father’s role is no longer fixed on the birth father. It is on someone who is willing to be a father. It is in this light that I want to share with you stories of three fathers I admire greatly: Butch, Joe, and Paul.

Butch. He is a successful production designer and a bachelor. Years ago, a baby was left at his doorstep with a note, “I am so poor I cannot take care of my baby. Please take care of him for me.”

Butch says that was the happiest day of his life. After profusely thanking the Lord for this unexpected blessing, he went about being a father to the child whom he named Eman. He read parenting books, consulted with real fathers, and most of all, he taught Eman to love God.

Eman has been a consistent honor student and will soon enter college to pursue a career.

Joe. He left for the US to marry his American girlfriend. Unfortunately, they never had any children. One summer, when Joe came to the Philippines for a vacation, he met Sandra (aged seven), daughter of his distant cousin who was addicted to alcohol and jobless.

When Joe got back to the US, he regularly sent Sandra money for her education and other needs. He likewise often wrote her—encouraging her to dream and to always love her father no matter how he is. Sandra is now a nurse and working in a US hospital. She supports her father and regularly writes him about how much she loves him.

Her father has stopped drinking and serves as a janitor in the village church.

Paul. Although he was not related to Timothy by blood, he referred to Timothy as “my true child, my beloved child, my dearest son.” His letters to Timothy are now two chapters in our Bible.

Paul has said so many encouraging words to Timothy but this particular verse always touches me: “Kindle afresh the gift of God which is in you through the laying on of my hands. For God has not given us the spirit of timidity, but of power and love and discipline.” 2 Timothy 1: 6-7

What do these fathers—Butch, Joe, and Paul—have in common?

Unshaken love for their children. It is the same unshaken love we have been promised by our heavenly Father in Isaiah 54:10: “For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed," says the Lord, who has compassion on you.”

I looked up other Bible translations and here’s what I found:

- My steadfast love shall not depart from you. (New KJV)
- My unfailing love for you will not be shaken. (English Standard)
- I will remain loyal to you. (New Living)
- My loving kindness will not be removed from you. (NEB)
- My love for you will never end. (MSG)
- My kindness shall not depart from thee. (King James)

My own translation: “No matter how many times you have wronged me, I still love you. You disowned me, but I bled and died for you. Through storms and tsunamis and earthquakes, my love for you is unshaken.”

Everyone therefore—orphans, adopted children, children abused by their father, and children of fathers who have left the home—has a Father.

This, to me, is what Father’s Day is all about. It’s about all the fathers out there who are trying hard to emulate the unshaken love of the Father of all.

Can any ending be happier?

(This is a reprint of my regular column “Happy Endings” in "Moms and Kids" magazine. It is my own celebration of the grace of our unshaken Father upon fathers on terra firma.)

Overheard on Father's Day

Around the dining table, while munching on this cake from JB and Gianina, specially ordered from the US, Tony drones his yearly statement: "Father's Day is a marketing ploy."

"Year after year you keep saying that," JR retorted.

A dyed-in-the-wool marketing man, Tony replies, "It's true."

"Well, it's a good marketing ploy," JR replies. "It give us—your children—one opportunity to honor you."

"You can do that any time of the year."

"Yes, we can, but we forget. Father's Day reminds us, in a big way, of such worthy endeavor."

"Hrrmph."

"You get treated to a free meal for once and receive a cake like this," JR said, taking another slice.

"Hrrmph."

Later in church, JR was the worship leader, and before calling on the fathers to stand up to be prayed for by the congregation, he said:

"Sons and fathers are not very overt about their feelings to each other. Maybe it has something to do with gender, but not too many sons say, 'I love you' to their fathers—nor fathers to their sons—as often as daughters do. So let's take this opportunity to honor the fathers among us.

"Through this simple ceremony of praying for them and giving them tokens of appreciation, we communicate how much we do love our father—for everything he does for us, and for standing true to being the gift of our Father in heaven to his children.

"My father says Father's Day is a marketing ploy. Well, ploy or not, am I glad marketing men thought of inventing it." 

We raised our hands and prayed over all the fathers, and asked God to to help them model, and live, the special grace of fatherhood not only on Father's Day but all through the year.

Pages of a Magazine

What am I doing in two pages of Working Mom, a glossy magazine? (May 2010 issue)

"Behind the scenes" is a place I enjoy and would rather be. I took up Theater Arts, major in directing. I was in the creative department all my years in advertising. On the side, I wrote articles for newspapers and magazines. In all these roles, I was never in front of the audience nor the camera.

Now, what would make me do a turnabout?

I got a phone call from the editor saying excitedly that I was going to be featured as one unusual mom, doing unusual things. That got me thinking for a second. Today, I am mostly writing books, and occasionally teaching in college. What is so unusual about that?

Well, she explained, it was the transition from then to now. I got out of a glamorous career and decided to do something so different it begged for a totally different lifestyle (or the lack of it, as I now work at home sans make-up and power clothes).

I said okay (it seemed like a perfect venue to talk about my books), and forgot all about it.

Then one day, the doorbell rang. From a huge van came down four people. They turned out to be a writer (to do the interview), a photographer (to make me say "cheese"), a make-up artist (to do me over), and an all-around production assistant (PA). They were all sincerely nice and extremely efficient.

"Do whatever you have to do," I said, making it easy for them. I had worked with prima donnas and I know all about reining in one's rage.

The PA turned my house and garden upside down. The photographer plugged in all his huge lighting gadgets and chose my outfits. The make-up artist slapped and splashed goo and gunk all over my eyes, nose, cheeks, chin. All this happened simultaneously while the writer asked me questions, the answers to which I had to dig in my mind since they happened a hundred years ago.

They made all the decisions with nary a peep from me. If I were still behind the scenes and I had to feature someone like docile me, it would be a dream. I wanted it to be a dream for this magazine team.

Maybe it was. Everything was done their way in a record one hour, including snacks and tete-a-tete.Three months later, I got a text message from the editor saying the issue was out in the stands. I also got dozens of text messages from friends saying they had read the feature, entitled "Amazing Grace," at their beauty parlors. When I got my copy, I gasped.

JR said my photos look like Vicky Belo did a major work on me.

Manang Vi laughed, "Those look like someone else!"

"Who?" I needed to know.

"Anybody but you."

Now you know why "behind the scenes" is where I should stay.

(Seriously, this lighthearted post should not in any way diminish the admirable work the Working Mom team put in—the two-page article made me look better than I think I am—and the grace I received, and continue to receive, through these magazine pages.) 

Adrian on My Mind

This little three-year-old tyke is still on my mind, almost one month after he and his parents flew back to Grand Rapids, Michigan.

We had him for nine days (four days and three nights, all to ourselves) and what footprints he left behind! I could still hear the pitter-patter of little feet; squeals of delight; shrieks of giggles; hissing of Ironman; swishing of Spiderman; soaring of Superman; and one-liners in Midwest twang.

While his parents were on vacation in Batanes, Adrian was the center of our world. Tony took a three-day leave from work and I locked my computer. At first we were anxious—what if he cried non-stop looking for his parents?​ What if he got sick? What if, what if?

We need not have worried. He was a big little man. It was as though we had an adult guest, not a baby. He'd wake up with big smiles, climb out of his crib and walk around the house greeting everyone, "Good morning!" Then he'd run to the garden where Attorney's cage is and chirp, "Good morning, Attorney!" He made no demands; just asked questions.

"Are you taking me to a toy store?"

"Yes, Adrian."

"Are we going to the carnival?"

"Yes, Adrian."

"May I have some ice cream? Watch TV please? Can we go pasyal? Carry me? Can I wear my Spiderman costume?"

"Yes. Yes.Yes."

We left "no" in the freezer.

Then one morning, while having noodles in the terrace, he asked nonchalantly, without looking at me, "Where is my papa and mama?"

"In the office," was my quick reply. It was a script written by his parents.

And then, even more nonchalantly, he asked, "Are they coming back?"

"Of course," I shrugged.

"I'll hug them then," he said and took another spoonful of noodles. He never asked again, but he repeatedly asked for noodles.

Once, Tony spoke to JR and me in Filipino so Adrian wouldn't understand (he was busy watching Elmo on TV). "Have you heard how Adrian says, Grand Rapids? Exactly how Americans say it: Grend Re-pids! Just listen to him." Tony then asked Adrian, "Hey Adrian, where do you live?"

Adrian smiled mischievously and said, "Peelipins." Exactly how Filipinos say it.

To this day, Tony and I wonder about those three nights and four days with our solo guest. Who was regaling whom?

Confident, considerate, affectionate, and careful not to give any trouble, he neither whined nor cried. He ate, he napped, he conversed, he asked to be taken to the toilet, listened to our bedtime stories, and went to bed on time.

He even conducted a meeting among Tony's staff in the office, casting each one in a superhero role. When everyone was seated around the conference table, he announced, "Super friends, you are all invited to my birthday party! When I am four."

When he turns four, he will be back. I wonder what surprises of grace our Father will throw our way when Adrian comes again.

Till then, God carries him in His loving arms. Till then, Adrian is on my mind.

Noynoy: A Fresh, New Day

Yesterday was historic. And euphoric.

Still in my complete "professor" gear at 10 minutes before 5 PM, I sat before the TV set, and was riveted to the man who would be our leader for the next six years. He was answering tough questions from the media in his first news conference. He didn't miss a beat; he answered all questions immediately and directly, citing statistics where necessary.

He was spontaneous, transparent, earnest, straightforward—and in control. This wasn't the Noynoy his mudslingers painted him to be during the campaign.

(Tony and I walked over to Noynoy's house [a very short block away from my brother's] just before the elections. It didn't look like the house of a future president. No guards, no fuss, just makeshift posters and streamers made by neighbors.)

By 5:30 PM, watching Noynoy's proclamation replayed over and over again, I heaved a loud sigh of relief. We will be in good hands.

A fresh, new day for all of us.

Our new president, in his own words, acknowledged his dependence on a sovereign God, whose grace has and will sustain P-Noy even in his darkest hours.

Hail to the chief!

Batanes, Part 3

Our third day in Batanes took us from Basco, the capital of Batanes, to another island, Sabtang. We woke up at dawn for an early boat ride with about 20 other tourists.

In Sabtang, we climbed up the highest mountain then went down to the lowest white beach. In half a day we discovered and received more grace than we ever thought possible.

By this time I couldn't recognize myself, tanned from head to foot. At two Ivatan communities, we marveled at pathways and houses made of shells and lime stones. I tried on a vacul, which I purchased without blinking or haggling.

Lunch was lobster and other native dishes, washed down with coconut juice. (Click to find out how these dishes are cooked.) It took sometime before our boat was ready to go back to Basco and so we napped, sung to sleep by the lullaby of the sea breeze. We had to wait for the tide to rise a bit.

As we sailed from one island to the another, somewhere out in the big, blue yonder—between the sky and the sea, embraced by the sun—I felt the Force, the Power, making me sing over and over again, "How great Thou art, how great Thou art!"

An exclamation point to another grand adventure was the sunset. It was followed by our last supper at the Ivatan Pension Restaurant for more local cuisine. On the fourth day, we said good-bye to what my most traveled friend, Boy P., claims, "The most beautiful place on earth."

Batanes, Part 2

There was no bad news in Batanes. We couldn't find a copy of a newspaper—not when we were there anyway.

Our hotel receptionist said newspapers are ordered and reserved by the locals. Well, we didn't want any bad news ruining our idyllic four days.

Most of the news and features were coming from Taiwan on cable TV. And we missed the finals of American Idol, season 9.

But immense was the measure of our Father's grace in the stunning sights, which are better told by over 1,000 photos taken by Tony, JC, and me. Sharing with you a few of these shots:

Batanes, Part 1

I thought I had Eden down pat in my imagination, until our little plane, whirring like a giant electric fan begging for oil, landed on Batanes, the northernmost and the smallest province of the Philippines—both in population (16,000) and land area.

I had imagined paradise to be flat land, and walled with all manner of trees, foliage and flowers. It isn't—it is so much more.

Eden perks up and sates all five senses—deep green from side to side, with mountains and hills of different heights jutting in and out of South China Sea; deep blue above and below, with sculptures of clouds, rocks, sand, and boulders; and 3-D paintings of seascapes and landscapes.

As one gets a whiff of rain, breeze, and salt, one is treated to split-second magic when the ocean waves become fragile green glass before they break into millions of bubbles forming pristine white froth.

"Even the photos of the most amateurish photographer will look like postcards," JC remarked as he clicked away with his cellphone.

And the irony of it all—even the best photographs of a professional photographer can't do justice to the breathtaking spectacle of beautiful Batanes.

The only living things missing were Adam, Eve, and the varied animals of creation. For God's signature was everywhere—in every blade of grass, every petal of wild flowers, every pebble on the ground, every fruit on trees, and every drop of rain. We could hear His love in the songs of birds, bleats of goats, mows of cows, and roars of waves.

God's presence was palpable in very cave, hill, mountain, valley, and cliff He landscaped Himself. The boulder beach, the rolling hills, Marlboro country, stone structures, and relics of a past era nestled in nature—they were awesome. We were soaked both in the rain (the first in Batanes this year) and in the wonder of our Father's world.

"When God dispensed His grace of grandeur, you caught most of it," gushed one of our tour mates to our guide.

"Yes," she said, flashing that friendly smile we saw in every local, as she brought us to another place more grandiose than the last.

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.