Great Grace (Part 3)

This post completes my trilogy on the Manila International Book Fair (MIBF).

From the opening day to closing time, I tried to be there. Lynnie, my friend from OMFLit Cebu said at the last hour, “You're the last author standing.”

I didn't plan on going there daily, but friends had called that they were coming to see me. And so I tarried at the OMF booth as much as I could—running to the bathroom and cafeteria only when necessary.

Sure enough, friends and family appeared—to say hello and buy books. I figured, the MIBF happens only once a year and being there was such a small price to pay for readers who made time to have a book/s signed.

The president of the university where I teach, together with our HR head, turned up. A group of friends from my previous workplace popped in. A niece and nephew dashed to the booth before it closed on the second day.

Friends of friends showed up, expecting me to be there. My brother Earl and his family (who had arrived days earlier from Australia) re-arranged their schedule to be at the MIBF.

Still, I missed some friends when I sneaked out to have a late lunch and when I left early on the fourth day to say good-bye to JB, Gianina and Adrian who were heading back to the US.

 
  
And so . . . on the last day, I was last in line to the cashier, carrying less books than I intended to buy. I waited too long—my choices were all gone by the time I decided to do my shopping. 

No matter. I had a heyday trying to cart much of the great grace at the MIBF, to save for a rainy day.

Rainy day came the day after.

My grandnephew Ronell, 15 years old, was rushed to the hospital due to extreme pain. After a battery of tests, he was diagnosed with acute leukemia. The slew of frantic emails and FB messages appealing for blood and funds would have been enough to crush the spirit and plunge one into panic.  

But the spillover of great grace at the MIBF kept me calm and confident about God's comfort where needed. I went on my knees, with the rest of our clan, to ask God to hug Ronell tightly. I did my own phone marathon to relatives who have not heard of the news.

Help rushed in.    

As of this writing, Ronell is being prepped for his third chemotherapy, and I believe that our loving God will do what is best for him. Right now, what the Lord wants may be fuzzy to those who love Ronell, but in time we will see it clearly and be grateful for it.

More Great Grace

It takes more than one blog post to write all about the grace that inundated the Book Fair. So here's another one.

Day 3: OMFLit booth

Day 4: DZAS booth

A lady with three sets of Gifts of Grace (books 1, 2, and 3) said, "You don't have to write any message on these books.  I just need your signature."

"Early Christmas shopping!" I exclaimed.

"No-occasion shopping!" she replied. "I have already lost several sets—well, not lost, really.  I lent them to friends and they asked if they could keep them."

"Oh."

"I am buying three sets now, anticipating more borrowers," she laughed.

"You're very generous," I said.

"God never scrimps on His grace. We can never duplicate that, but we can try—in our own small way," she replied, then took her newly signed books to the cashier.

Before I could recover, a young man in a tie asked me to sign a copy of Solo Flight.

"Gift for a sister or . . . an aunt?"

"Gift for my girlfriend. I want her to know all the angles of singleness before I ask her to marry me. She has to be very, very sure before saying yes.

I ached to say a rejoinder about his thoughtfulness, but a young mom carrying a toddler and looking troubled cut in and and asked, "Ms. Grace, do you have any book on losing a father?"

"Oh, not a book, no. But I may have an entry in Super Devos (365 devotions for energized kids) that speaks of losing a loved one."

"I lost my husband last year and my seven-year-old son can't seem to cope. Daytime is no problem; he has many distractions.  But when he goes to bed at night, he cries."

I cupped her hand for lack of words. "Maybe I should write about that issue sometime soon," I wished aloud.

She hurriedly left and when she came back, she had with her a copy of Super Devos. “Will you sign it? I will read this with him whenever he goes to bed at night.”

I wrote on the first page:

Dear Joseph,

God, our heavenly Father loves you and watches over you every moment. Your dad can't  not be with you anymore, but Jesus can.  In fact, your father and Father God are together in heaven. From that wonderful place, God feels everything you feel and He knows your every need.  Talk to Him every night and trust Him to make things right for you."

"Ms. Grace," the lady said after reading what I had written, "you just made me very happy!"

The bright look on her face was grace so great my eyes pooled.

In celebration, I am changing my header:

 

A new one takes its place:    

Great Grace at the Book Fair

This was the experience of the Early Church: "And with great power the apostles gave witness to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus. And great grace was upon them all." (Acts 4:33)

I might have experienced the same at, of all places, the noisy Manila International Book Fair. As people swarmed and buzzed like bees inside the OMFLit booth, I signed copies of my books, particularly the two new ones: Solo Flight (Embracing the Single Life and Discovering God's Purpose), co-authored with Francie Castaneda-Lacanilao; and Tree for All (book #13 in the Oh, Mateo! series), illustrated by Beth Parrocha-Doctolero.

But the signing took only half of the time. Posing for photos and conversing with readers took the other half.  

Through these two activities, great grace also came upon me.   

"Your photo with my kid last year—I had it framed.  It's on his bed headboard," one dad said.

Then while I was signing about two dozen books for an eight-year-old boy,  I exclaimed, "I see you're buying most of my books.  I hope you enjoy reading them!"

He replied, "Oh, I have read them all.  My mom wants a new set to give away to my friends and cousins!"

Next in line was a pretty teenager who asked me to sign Tree for All.  Sheepishly, she said, "I am 16 years old, and you might think I am too old for children's book. But I love reading the Oh, Mateo! series and I bought this to complete my collection."

“Nobody is ever too old for children's books,” I assured her.  The Little Prince is a required reading for my college students in English class."

"I heard you talking about Solo Flight on DZAS, so I rushed over to buy a copy," a middle-aged single lady said.

"May the Lord bless you a thousandfold as you continue writing about His grace," a Pastor whispered in my ear so I could hear it over the noise.  

"The lines to all the four cashiers are too long, so would you sign my books now—I promise not to abscond with them!" an elderly lady said.

"I need four copies of Solo Flight," a yuppy remarked as he took them from the pile on my table.

"Christmas gifts?" I asked.

"No, I am going to leave them at the nurses' station in the hospital where I work, so they'd be available for anyone who goes there," he said.

"Oh, you work in a hospital—as what?" I asked.

"I am a doctor," he replied.

All this great grace at  the book fair!   

I prayed right then and there that by this same grace, I can keep writing for and about the Source of it all.

Day 1: Book Signing for SOLO FLIGHT 

Day 2: Interview on DZAS

Cushioned Fall

Is there a place in this life where nothing hurts?  Even if you stumble or slip, you won't feel any pain?

There is. I was there with Adrian.

 

It's one of those play centers, where, for a sum, children could exert all their energy jumping, screaming, skipping, tumbling, falling and nothing will ever make you sad. Everything has been padded to cushion every fall.  

What a wonderful world it was.  It was mine, too, when Adrian spent a few days with us, while his parents took a much-needed respite in Bangkok.

It was a world loaded with fun, laughter, and adventure. Everyday cares vanished; weekly chores waited; appointments slumbered; and schedules hibernated.

It was a world wonderfully turned upside down, in four short days. (At this writing, he and his parents are back in Michigan.)

Alas, the real world isn't as safe.  We experience everyday bumps and humps. We hurt and ache from some quirky turns and risky rides.

And yet, life is worth living and exploring—this is the lesson I learned when I saw life through the eyes of a four-year-old. 

With much verve and energy,  Adrian taught me that for one to fully appreciate the gift of life, one must, without fear, keep trying, exploring, experimenting, discovering with all the varied gizmos God has given us, over which we have dominion.

Although we may grieve in the process, we can echo David in Psalm 16:8 (NLT), “I know the Lord is always with me. I will not be shaken, for He is right beside me.

Adrian's “no fear” attitude and David's confidence are what we need to have a wider view of and truly feel the many layers and dimensions of grace.

Beside Still Waters

What can the first three verses of the Shepherd Psalm mean but this?

This is being made to lie down in green pastures. 

This is being led beside the still waters. 

This is when the soul is being restored. 

This is being gifted with one marvelous hour of rest.  

This is quiet grace in loud abundance.  

Thank you, Lord, for a day such as this. 

(Taken one early Saturday morning at a resort club south of Manila, while waiting for the rest of the family to stir for breakfast.)     

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. 

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. 

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. 

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; 

Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. 

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.  Psalm 23 (KJV)

Compartment Bags

Finding a needle in a haystack is easier than shopping for the bag (purse) I like.

This nugget of wisdom came to me on the 2nd hour inside the 5th store and I haven't found the bag. (I need a bag like I need a hole in the head!  But the search continues.)

I actually found it in the fund-raising auction of our clan reunion. Unfortunately, when I reached my price ceiling, I stopped bidding.  Naturally, I was outbid by a cousin.

What sort of a bag is it? One in a bright neutral color; with a sweeping view of all its contents when zipped opened, zero weight, 10-inches height; and has a 2-inch-wide straps that would hang just so from my shoulders.

No bag organizer please—it's additional weight.

Little Ones Need Words

“Cambodia is beautiful!” my son JR gushed after a four-day tour of the country's sights.

I was in Phnom Penh in 2007 and stayed double the time JR was there, yet I hardly saw anything except the sights along the main road and an orphanage hall where I conducted a workshop on writing for children.

But I agree with JR, “Cambodia is beautiful!”

I saw the nation in the heart of its people who, despite help from the UN and other countries, are still reeling from years of pillage and plunder by a cruel regime.     

When I say people, I mean 14 budding Christian writers who attended the workshop, with the help of two translators. There was still no children's book written by a Khmer for Khmer children.

Media Associates International (MAI), an organization of which I am a member, made it possible for me to be there.  In partnership with a local publishing house, MAI “helps satisfy local children’s hunger for stories that nourish their hearts and fan their imaginations.”

I shared with the attendees all I know about weaving magic in stories. Saddened by their country's tragic history, I was surprised by their enthusiasm. Only the themes of their drafts revealed their fears.

From that workshop, an engaging story entitled Miknia's Doll was published a few months later—the first-ever book for children written in Khmer!

Although  the 14 new Christian writers still had to understand happiness, in eight days they learned about giving hope to children born in turbulent times.

Aside from Cambodia, many more hard countries are parched from a dearth of children's books written in their heart language.

MAI has been helping, but the organization subsists on grace—on funding from organizations and aid from individuals who share its vision.

May I ask you to help? How? 

MAI hopes to win a grant from “Giving of Life,” an organization ready to give funding to ministries that can garner the highest votes.  Please click and vote for MAI.

Your vote will help MAI equip writers to make little ones know—through excellent literature—that children are wonderfully made, and to them the Kingdom of God belongs.     

Captain America is Here!

Adrian came home to a rousing welcome by two sets of families (his dad's and mom's), with a midnight snack and a Captain America cake.

Unlike last year (exactly 16 months ago) when he wasn't in perfect mood to meet strange faces, he didn't disappoint this year. Despite lack of sleep and fatigue from an 18-hour or so flight, he gave out two cards he made himself—one for each family—tight hugs and kisses.

This writer has misplaced words that describe the feelings of seeing one's absentee grandson in person again.  (That is not to say we excluded his parents from the excitement, but the little superhero took the lion's share of the mass delirium).

As his other (maternal) grandpa aptly said, “Our boss is here.”

 Please excuse me while I spend short precious moments with Captain America.

Bad news and Good News

Life is a quick succession of bad news and good news.

It doesn't take brain surgery to figure this out. One simply has to wake up in the morning and a surprise can either startle you or make your sparkle.

This week, I sparkled just thinking of the much-postponed meeting with an old friend whom I see only on Facebook. We made time for coffee. During our non-stop chat, she startled me with the news that her husband's cancer, on remission for many years, has recurred and soon he will go through chemo. 

Later in the day, I sparkled bumping into a friend in a hotel lobby. She looked much better than when she lost her son a few months earlier. After some pleasantries, she startled me with what had happened to her husband—he was diagnosed with liver cancer and is recuperating from surgery.

Double Delight, Year Two

It's been a year since our little seven-year-old twins stepped inside a school for the first time in their lives. Then they had zero knowledge about the ABCs, colors, numbers, and shapes.   

What a difference a year makes!

Now eight years old, here they are—about two inches taller, a few pounds heavier, and many notches smarter.

 
They now know their alphabets, arithmetic, all shades of the rainbow, and all the animals in the forest.  They can read both English and Filipino, and write quickly and legibly.

Captain America is Coming!

This superhero—together with Green Lantern, Spiderman, Iron man, and Batman—is coming to Las Pinas on the 30th of August!

Our whole household, composed of four adults, are more than excited—we are in a tizzy; if we don't take time to breathe we'd burst. 

All five heroes come in one neat little package called Adrian—my four-year-old grandson.  He moves from one super hero to another in a span of hours and couldn't quite make up his mind who he really is. 

His mom calls it recycling.  One minute, he's making like Captain America, the other minute, he's asking me and Tony for a Green Lantern thingy—as a belated gift for his recent birthday.

Fear of Growing Old

In a coffee shop sometime ago, I overheard two teenagers chatting:  

Girl 1: “My mom is sooo old, she'll never understand what I am going through.”

Girl 2: “If you think your mom's old,  mine's worse—she just turned 47!  Ugh, I can never talk to her about anything!”

It took colossal effort to keep myself from yelling, Hey, 47 is sooo young, you hear! 

Too Much, Too Little

My friend ALB (whom I love dearly) and I enjoy the same things—especially the arts, crafts, music, and exotic places.  We both gush and drool over art books and travel brochures in unison.  We could talk for hours about the many wonderful places and beautiful things we've seen.

“You and I have the same taste,” I tell her, “the only difference is, you have the money and I have the looks.”  She loves the joke.

Two Missing Semicolons

One print ad that I helped write was published this morning. To my horror, it has two missing semi-colons!  In their places, I had erroneously typed commas. Shoulda, woulda, coulda!

You are probably laughing at how anyone could be so distraught over two missing inky-dinky semicolons!  

Well, I also laughed when . . .

my friend G, an art director, was furious when her artwork came out on a tarpaulin with a lighter magenta than she specified;

Brainstorming Again!

One of the things that charmed me most (and which I now miss) about advertising was brainstorming.

Looking for a big idea, two to six people clump together—usually in a small corner or the corridor—to pick each other's brain. The rules: “No censorship. Say what's in your mind, no matter how stupid.” 

It usually begins slow, then, like building blocks, a blah thought is tossed around like a ball. Before it is passed back to the originator, the ball has already taken a different shape.

Paid Hacks

Among friends and students, I remain the only one with a Jurassic mobile phone. It's four years old, and I have no plans of buying a new one.

Aside from being frugal, of course, I keep my phone because I use it for only two reasons: calling and text messaging. My prepaid card of P500 lasts me three months. I receive very few text messages, I have a separate digi-cam, and I avoid calling anyone because of tinnitus—I hear hiss and buzz over voices—so I use the land line.

One-way Ticket to the Unknown

Over an early lunch, I said good-bye to a client of many years, one who has become a dear friend in the process.

Rosy and her husband, plus four children, will soon fly to Canada and will reside there permanently. 

There is always FB, of course, and the email to keep us in close touch, but the thought of not working with her ever again makes eyes well up.   

“Do you have relatives there?” I asked. Many of my friends who have chosen to live abroad have relatives waiting for them. 

“None,” she replied.

“None, as in --”

Tinnitus

That sounds like a horrible word.  It even rhymes with the equally horrid tetanus.  

Tinnitus IS horrible.  It comes from the Latin word that means “ringing.” 

Nothing horrible about ringing, really. Not when it comes from bells, alarm clocks, and the telephone.

But when it happens 24/7 within the human ear, mine particularly—its' @#$%!

After reading my friend Yay's blog about her migraine woes, I wrote her: “We are all going through some kind of pain, Yay. Quitting is a cop out. Easier said than done, but in our noisy moments, when we debate with ourselves, we hear another voice that says, 'Be still and know that I am God.'"

Travel to the Perfect Country

I made it to the cover of TraveLife Magazine, July 20 special edition!  How many copies in circulation? One.  

It didn't go on magazine stands—it came straight to me via email from an artist friend, Ryan.

Why would anyone go through the trouble of making me a beautiful TraveLife cover on my birthday? I ask myself that question whenever I receive a gift painstakingly done.  And then I look at me and what I joyfully go through to give my friends and loved ones a gift I labored on. (When I handed my friend Rose a faux pearl necklace I designed and strung myself, her eyes misted. Oh, but that's another story.)   

Amok Runs Amok

I am running amok with superlatives; I am raving over the indie movie, Amok.

Now showing at the 7Cinemalaya 2011, Amok was one of three full-length movies we (JC and three friends) watched last Saturday.  By far, it was the fairest of them all.

Going to Cinemalaya has been a yearly birthday grace for me through my boys.  In all those years, there have been films that really stand out —films that raise the bar and make me proud to be a Pinoy. 

This year, Amok, makes me immensely proud.  (I still have not watched some of the movies like the much-touted Ang Babae sa Septic Tank and Patikul in the competition, but thus far, Amok is already in a class by itself.)     

The theater was crowded so we took seats separate from each other, but when we finally got together after the movie, we were one in our squeals of excitement: “Excellent!” 

It was directed by an idealistic young man, Lawrence “Law” Fajardo, who has yet to perfect his spoken Filipino.  He hails from Bacolod so that explains the language difficulty. But that's only when you hear him speak (he and the production staff took time to take questions after the showing).  Watching his film, you know he is a master of Manila's soul.

 

My main complaint over Filipino films, in general, is the pacing. Editors love to linger and dawdle on a scene, over-explaining and making it a tad too—well, boring.  

But Amok cuts and cuts—at the right places, just when your emotion is on a high gear. The first half is a series of vignettes reflecting real people's heart and soul, and I say to myself, “How on earth is the director ever going to put all these riveting—but totally unrelated—mini conflicts together?” 

Fajardo does.  He seamlessly puts them all into a powerful, unified whole. Little wonder, he himself is the editor, who is deep into TV ads.   

All the elements in the movie contribute to making it gasp-enducing: 1) Cast.  “Acting,” as Stanislavski puts it, “is believing.”  All the characters (Mark Gil, take a bow) are believable;  2) Concept.  Every frame—close-up, medium shot, and long shot—enhances the temper's quick rise to boiling point;  3) Framing. Never dull, never predictable; 4) Editing. Fierce, fast, and fiery; 5) Direction. Sensitive and incisive;  6) Tonality. It deftly combines suspense, gore, and humor.

And oh, what a charming creative touch on the graffiti: I  AM OK.

In addition to the director (the long-haired man in red whom we sought out for this photo op), kudos goes to: Screenplay, John Bedia; Script Consultant, Paul Sta. Ana; Executive Producer, Krisma Fajardo; Director of Photography, Louie Quirino; Producers, Tessa Aquino and Lawrence Fajardo; Asst. Director, Jobin Ballesteros; Production Designer, Lawrence Fajardo; Production Managers, Philip Buena and Ron Capili; Editor, Lawrence Fajardo; and Sound, Mike Idioma.

The only hiccup in my litany of praises (at the risk of being branded a prissy prude) is: the bed scene.

Snipping away some 60-seconds of overt footage will not diminish the art nor the drama. All one needs is a few seconds to get the point. Overstating the creative intent often drags fluid storytelling.
 

Squatting in line for the next movie    

We Are All Interconnected

Carl Sagan, et. al., and most writers of extra-terrestrial intelligence, have written about our interconnectedness, how the cosmos is within all of us.  The atoms and all the tiny elements of the universe are somehow borne from stars to people, from asteroids to clouds, and from us to us.

I wouldn't go as far, or as deep, as that. When I speak of interconnection, I simply want to write about four friends, and how they became so, in various timelines.

Here they are, after enjoying a low-salt, low-cholesterol, low-sugar Filipino dishes.

 
I met friend no. 1, Ellen, when I was a copywriter trainee at a multinational ad agency—then the biggest in the country.  She was likewise a trainee in audio-visual production.  Both wide-eyed newbies, we went through a steep uphill climb under the wings of our demanding and exacting bosses.

Years later, now as a Creative Director in another ad agency, I met friend no. 2, Tere.  She joined our company as a concept writer and, together with the staff of the Creative Department, we braved mini duels, medium-sized battles, full-scale wars, and uneasy pacts with clients—and survived. She left the place to see to less stressful matters before I did.  

A few more years later (my life these days), I met friend No. 3, Yay, in a milieu totally different from the corporate world—the academe.  She was teaching Marketing and I, Advertising.  As both subjects fall under the same department, we would bump into each other often—corridors, cafeteria, and library.  We soon found a common passion and love—writing about God's amazing grace.   

In this age of cellphones and e-mails, Tere—from out of nowhere—invited  me to speak before her students in creative writing. In that event,  I found out that Yay was her close friend way back in college!

Meanwhile,  Ellen (who now lives in Arizona) finds me on Facebook.  After a few exchanges of notes, she is surprised to discover that her former church mate, Yay, is my friend! 

One day last week, Tere emails me with a heading, “Serendipity.”  Ellen (her long-time friend!) is in town and since friend no. 1, 2, 3 and I all knew each other in various eras, she said nothing could be grander than a get together. 

A lunch date is arranged quickly and so all four friends from different time zones meet face to face for the first time.

Happy ending?  Not yet.

During our loud and rowdy catching-up-on-the-in-between-years chat, we discover that many of my friends are also theirs and vice-versa.  

How's that for interconnectedness? 

God peppers the universe with people who interconnect at some point in time to become dear friends, in preparation for the eternal interconnection with Him in that glorious place where He lives.

Yes, the cosmos, the cosmos of grace, is within all of us.

No Fishy Tale

After my three sons' seventh or eight birthday parties, the rituals of our small family have always been spartan, if not austere.

This no-frills tone must have been set at our wedding moons ago.  I wore a pant suit (the trend in those days) and something on my head, which was too puny to be called a bridal veil. I held a yellow rose instead of a bouquet. Although Tony and both our dads wore coat and tie, they couldn't wait to take them off after the 15-minute ceremony.

The 12 people in church, immediate members of our families, then proceeded to a Chinese restaurant for an informal, noisy lauriat.

Many years later, what does a couple, who prefers shorts to slacks and an intimate supper to a formal dinner, do to celebrate a wedding anniversary?

The Trouble with Video Calls

Video calls are uninspiring. 

Please don't think I am whining.  We have enough whiners (and bellyachers) in this country. 

When I speak of video calls, I am simply thinking of its ancient counterpart, audio call: the good-old telephone, which I feel is a tad more inspiring than seeing an image that is a poor copy, a warped poor copy, of the living, breathing original.   

Last night, JR rang me up while I was seriously revising a book chapter. We haven't heard from him for at least a month and a call, any kind of call, would certainly be met with no less than New-Year's-eve thrill, watching fireworks, and awaiting another year of grace.

His face popped up on my monitor.  And as soon as I answered the ringtone, my own face popped up on a smaller frame by his chin. I hit the maximize button and my workroom felt like it suddenly had two doppelgangers from some galaxy alien to ours.    

Oh, what faces!

An Early Surprise

It's a Saturday, the only day of the week when I allow myself to loll in bed and contemplate nothing. There are no scheduled appointments, and I had done my umpteenth (and hopefully last) revision on my forthcoming book's manuscript before I hit the sack last night. 

An hour of idleness is all I could take, though, so I rise to visit the World Wide Web. 

Surprise! I come upon the number 100,000—my blogsite hits thus far.

I might have sworn off numbers, because they don't represent the real readers (who stay and come back and sometimes leave a comment), but a figure reaching six digits can't be ignored.

What shall I do next?  Well, like I always do when I celebrate a blog breakthrough, I change my old header: 

Here's my new one:

Thank you, everyone, for contributing to this awesome number.

Thank you, Lord, for the grace of 100,000 friends in cyberspace.

One Man's Meat Is Annother Man's Poison

This idiom has not surfaced in my consciousness for years, till yesterday.

My friend G and I were having lunch in a Japanese restaurant after a client call.  I looked through the glass panel and saw rain pelting the road.  Ahh . . . I never felt so divine!

I've always loved rain—as an innocent child and now as a wise (okay, atrophied) woman.  “Oh, I wish it would keep raining,” I thought aloud.  The sound of rain on the roof is my lullaby. 

“Ugh!” G grimaced. “Rain is out and out noise; it keeps me awake at night so I turn on the air-conditioner.”

I pondered the things that I love, which other people hate; and the other way around. 

Snakes unnerve me; they are kept as pets by a friend.     

Movie stars love crowds; writers relish solitude.

A Kiddie Pact

At right, in this photo taken a month ago, is my Manang Nieves.

She's three years my senior and she's been my friend since forever.  After my graduation from grade school, however, we hardly ever saw each other—she stayed put as a housewife in the town where we grew up, and I wandered to various places.  

But when I go home to Umingan, we see each other in church.  She has remained an active member of that place of worship, where we both used to sing in the choir. She still sings soprano (or tenor, in an all-female chorus) and is a driving force of the women's group.

Nieves was a huge part of my childhood. 

Her mother, Manang Ibay, helped my mom in caring for my little brothers and with the household chores for almost 40 years—till her last breath on earth. Since Manang Ibay was in our home 24/7 on weekdays, Nieves would be there at daytime, too (after school), before she went back to their house in the farm for the night.

First Day Jitters

This school year has begun.

On my way to class, I double-checked my big tote bag to make sure I had everything—flash drive, check; syllabus, check; work scheme, check; two sandwiches, check; sachet of three-in-one coffee, check; red pen, check; confidence, well . . . 

Jitters always accompany me on my first day anywhere. I've been teaching for ages, but first days always spook me—new students can spring unsettling surprises.

I got an amalgam of foreign students and local ones: some shy, some aggressive, some smug, some enthusiastic, some indifferent, and some with special needs. The first and only order of the day for me was to get these varied species collectively interested in the subject, English.

Budik and Ygo (and Me)

Budik is a new father. And Ygo is his son.

On Father's Day in church last Sunday, Budik made a testimony so moving it left almost everybody thinking, “I wish my father would speak that way about me.”

He spoke of gratitude to God for this gift of life.

He spoke of his joy and excitement when Ygo was born.

He spoke of a new resolve to work harder.

He spoke of giving up the spontaneous “gimik” (night out) that used to fill his carefree days.

He spoke of wanting to be with Ygo more than anything in the world. 

He spoke of his special bonding moments with him—the same quality time Ygo's mom spends breastfeeding him.

So where do I come in?

Real Vacation

Vacation is a word I rarely use. It's because I never allowed myself to have one—I mean, a real one.  

Except for the occasional weekend or holiday dinner-out/coffee or an overnight stay at Canyon Woods in Tagaytay with my family, I couldn't recall a time when I had an honest-to-goodness vacation, when I wasn't on the computer catching up on self-imposed deadlines or all over the house rustling up self-inflicted chores. 

Well, for the first time in years, I had a two-week vacation. It was unplanned, but it came at a perfect time.

As I have experienced again and again, that's how grace works—it comes even when you least expect it and when you need it most.

My best cousin, Miss B, had to come home to bury her mom, my aunt. It was a rushed and heart-breaking affair, something we thought we were ready for, but when it suddenly came, we realized we were  not ready at all. It's like the rug was suddenly pulled from under our feet, only worse. For nothing can prepare you for grief.

Doing Right

Disappointment, or even frustration, comes when you try to do something for others with the best of intentions, and you get criticized—or castigated—for doing it.

In a nutshell, that's the story of our lives.

There are always pros and antis to anything anyone does.

I once had an extra TV set which I hardly used. One day, a relatively new member of our staff mentioned that she'd been saving up for a TV set.  Immediately, I offered her my extra one. My reward for this good deed was a grateful face, all aglow.

The Forgiving Father

One of my favorite parables of Jesus is “The Prodigal Son,” which many call instead,  “The Forgiving Father.”  This story shows the depth of forgiveness fathers have in their reservoir of love for their children. 

Many stories have been spawned from this  parable, including one that I wrote, Look for the Star.  It is a tale about a couple in a remote barrio who make parol (Christmas  lanterns) for a living.  Despite their guidance and love, their only child fell into all sorts of trouble. He kept the company of the town’s rascals and scamps. 

While his parents were trying to talk some sense into him one night, he stormed out angrily and never came back.

Now Na!

These days we use a Taglish phrase to stress urgency, Now na! Translation: right this minute!

This is the phrase I use when people who desire to become published writers ask me,  “When is the best time to start writing?”

“Now na!”

Let me explain.

Mothers of Moses

The story of Moses' two mothers intrigued me when I first heard it in Sunday school.  May I re-tell it?    

When Moses was born, the Pharaoh ordered that all newborn Hebrew boys should die. But Moses’ mother, Jochebed, disobeyed the king. Despite the danger of being caught by Pharaoh's soldiers, who searched everywhere, she hid Moses for three months. 

Then she made a basket of bulrushes and placed baby Moses there. She laid this tiny boat-like basket in the bank of the Nile River.

Missing Birthday Boy

He's missing this year and we're missing him.

Adrian turned four last May 5, and for the first time, he did not fly home to the Philippines to celebrate his birthday with us.  For the past three years, his parents usually scheduled their yearly vacation to coincide with Adrian's birthday, so we had been blessed to have him on his first, second, and third birthdays. 

This year's different. Vacation leave schedules have gone haywire due to  a series of fortunate events. And so we celebrated the birthday boy's special day via the internet—through crisp and clear photos taken by his mother.  We greeted him on the phone and heard his voice, which is somehow different from the way it sounded a year ago.

Home Again for Auntie Pat

When I came to Umingan, my dear little hometown, on Easter for my mother's 8th death anniversary, I thought that would be it. I had not planned on coming back anytime soon.

But just one month later, here I am again.

This time, for another very important event—to welcome back the remains of mom's best friend and younger sister, my Auntie Pat.

 

Four year's ago, Auntie Pat (who had Alzheimer's) was brought to the US by her children who reside there. They wanted to be with her and take care of their mom themselves.

Outrageous Yellow

Waiting in line for a doctor, which takes forever, is reading time, writing time, or when the clinic is in a mall, window-shopping time.

So I walk about, looking at display windows, with no interest whatsoever in buying anything. Then from a few meters away, it catches my eye. Amidst the shelves and shelves of rubber shoes,  it  beckons me, “Come closer.”

When Is Mother's Day?

Two of my most respected writers, Chitang Nakpil ("Mother's Day is for sissies.") and Rina Jimenez-David ("Unless my children make an effort, Mother’s Day passes like any other weekend."), do not go gaga over Mother's Day as many people do. 

Reading their articles on this event that is celebrated almost worldwide, I heave a sigh of relief.  I am in good company.

I have lived with males all my married life and so I march to a different drummer. The oldest male is a dyed-in-the wool adman, who creates and hypes up interest for special days, so he is cynical about occasions like  Mother's Day or Valentine's Day.

Shelf Life

This morning I threw away a can of pineapple juice and a bottle of Ventolin Expectorant.  They're both way past their shelf life or "Best before" date.

Shelf life . . . I've been deeply thinking about it the last few days as I begin to write my next book on, guess what, retirement.

A Letter to My Cyber Friends and Guests

This site's server took down all posts of all bloggers from May 11 to May 13 for maintenance work.

My last blog, "Angie's Silence and the RH Bill" (below) was off the page for one and a half days. Now it's back, but I lost all your comments!

Sob, sob.  I know technology has its pitfalls, but grace abounds and enables us to rebound. 

Thank you for visiting again, despite the hiccup.

Blessings,
Grace

Angie's Silence and the RH Bill

Angie, portly at 36, lives in the slums, and is a workaholic. She is in perpetual motion, sometimes forgetting to breathe, but never forgetting to smile.

What a joy to have her at home! She comes in before breakfast and leaves after supper, three times a week, to help Ate Vi with the household chores.

"Angie, come sit down for some chat," I called out one day to give her a break from the umpteenth job she was doing.

She refused to sit down. She just stood there smiling while I asked her questions. "I am not trying to pry, I just want to get to know you a little better."

She talked as she worked, non-stop.  She has four children, three are with her mom in the province; only Neneng, 10, the youngest, is with her in Manila.  With her income from houskeeping, she could only afford to keep one child with her.

Her husband, whom she had to marry at age 17 because she was pregnant, left her for good after Neneng was born. “He has had so many girlfriends,” she revealed.  Before his final exit, "He kept leaving for months on end, living in with his flavor of the month.”

Since she was being candid, I was emboldened to ask, "So why do you have four children if he's been cheating on you since day one?"

Medals of Motherhood

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To Makati,” I reply.

“Where in Makati?” he pushes.

“Greenbelt.”

"What will you do there?” he probes.

“Have lunch with my old friends from my old office,” I say.

“What time are you coming home?”

“Before five PM,” I estimate.

“Okay, please make sure you're home by five.”

In Love with David

In my youth I was in love with David, the young, handsome shepherd who slew Goliath, the much-feared giant warrior. Michelangelo’s sculpture was how I saw his face.

Well, the description of David in 1 Samuel 16:12 (KJV) is thus: “. . . Now he was ruddy, and withal of a beautiful countenance, and goodly to look to. And the LORD said, Arise, anoint him: for this is he.”

A House Is Not a Home

A house is just a shell, I know.  A structure isn't a home. 

So why should anyone weep over rotting wood, and leaking roof?

Yeah, why should I? 

I went home to the nondescript town where I grew up over the Easter weekend to commemorate my mother's 8th death anniversary with three of my four siblings and their families.  I usually don't make time for this occasion because I want to remember my mother's life, not her death.

For the past seven years, only my sister Aie and brother Matt (and family) made the annual special trip (two of my brothers are abroad) to our town, to be with the church people who were my mom's family when all her children left home.

Why Easter Sunday?  Mom died on Good Friday and it seemed like a good idea that her death anniversary be on Easter.

Let Loose, Let Go

Twice a day I visit my FB account and while there, I greet birthday celebrators, click “like” on some messages, and type one-liners on others. In ten minutes, I get to know what's up with the world among my cyber friends.

One wall post particularly hit me hard one day.  It was by motivational speaker and author, Francis Kong: “Missing my baby. My 24-year-old Hannah Kong will be going to Paris to continue her studies in Fashion. Our kids, no matter what age they are will always be our babies . . . but got to let them go to pursue their dreams.”

I clicked on “like” and typed, “My thoughts exactly.”

My own baby, JR, will leave early tomorrow for abroad to take up his Master of Laws (LLM) degree.  After that, who knows where his dreams will take him? 

Most Eloquent Message

On Easter (last year), my email in-box got clogged with so many messages and commentaries.  The most eloquent for me came from the mouth of a special child. Let me summarize it.

At age 10 James was still in kindergarten; his motor skills and speech were way below everybody's.

That day, James’ teacher spoke about Easter and what it means to Christians. "Jesus rose from the grave," she said. "The only one nailed on the cross who did so. He lives." She also spoke of eggs, bunnies, white lilies, and all the symbols of Easter familiar to children.

From Chili to Coffee

The upside to living with three men (two sons and a husband) is you don't do groceries, nor drive.

The downside is, you never get to choose where to eat.  In group activities, the majority rules. 

Hey, I am not complaining. It so happens that all these men love to cook  (I don't) and are food connoisseurs (I am not).  I claim to be a foodie because I am basically adventurous when it comes to food; I gobble up everything served on my plate.     

Except hot cuisine and brewed coffee. 

First, the hot cuisine.  They have a favorite Chinese restaurant on a side street just off Makati Ave. called LSQ.  It serves northern Chinese food, mostly Beijing home recipes. Meaning, very, very hot.

 

Yes, those red things are chili peppers.  I choke and cough just by looking at them. Most, if not all, of the dishes are so hot you have to nag the waiter to please beg the chef to go easy on the chili.

Are Wedding Vows Eternal Love?

We attended another wedding again today.  I was expecting the vows to be unique, since this seems to be a trend. 

Young people in this digital era often shun traditions, because they have their own minds and they want their own words on this important day of their lives to be immortalized. 

Today, too, it seems easy to write one's love for a would-be spouse, because there are many primers and tutorials on the Net: How to write your own wedding vows. These even include a choice of moods: funny, witty, sentimental, happy, wishful, you name it, you can find one online. 

But no matter how they are beautifully written or said at the altar, wedding vows are about eternal love.  During that part of the ceremony, guests sit up in attention, straining their ears to hear what those words are. 

Unfortunately, despite all these love avowals, the number of divorces and annulments are heartbreaking. Researchers estimate that "41 percent of all first marriages end in divorce, and 8.6 percent of second marriages end in divorce." Alarming and heartbreaking. 

Quite a few of the marriages where I was a ninang are now broken—and  children are always the helpless and innocent victims. Most of the well-publicized unions which ended in divorce are those of celebrities. There are very few that last "for as long as we both shall live."

One of these lasting and well-celebrated marriages is Princess Elizabeth's (now known as The Queen).  She married Philip Mountbatten, a former prince of Greece and Denmark, in November 1947; they have been married for 64 long years.  

It's heartbreaking that wedding vows are no longer taken seriously. 

Well, many who marry and express eternal love at the altar may not actually believe that marriage is a holy union. It's not God Who unites them but the law. Therefore, their vows to each other mean little to nothing.

The Bible does not explicitly mention wedding vows for the groom or bride as requirements in a marriage. But it says in Hebrews 13:4 (NLT), "Give honor to marriage, and remain faithful to one another in marriage. God will surely judge people who are immoral and those who commit adultery." 

"Faithfulness to one another" is more than a vow. It is eternal love.  

 

Photo credit: POPPERFOTO/GETTY

Teach and Die a Little

I am speaking for myself as a college teacher—a tiny part of me that dwells in a heart that is largely occupied by writing and book talking.

Although I teach only twice a week (total of six hours), this calling, for me, is rejuvenating grace, and I therefore take it seriously—so seriously I die a little when a student fails.

It feels like I have not given my best.   

This is a far cry from my experience as a student in UP, where some professors never cared whether I attended their class or not.  It never bothered them if the whole class failed.   

When I mope about a student in danger of failing, I hear these wise counsel from concerned co-teachers who are also my friends:

Storming Heaven

My friend Louie texted me this frantic message about her husband, “Hi, all! Please help us storm heaven with prayers.  Rey admitted to hospital after five weeks of recurring pain, diff. meds and tests.  This is the third hospital we've been to and doctors can't diagnose!”

This text message was oh-so-familiar! I sent a similar one years ago (via landline and email; cellphones were not yet in vogue) when Tony went through a colon cancer surgery, and again years after, when he had a quadruple heart bypass. 

Send a message like that and immediately, friends, friends of friends, relatives, and relatives of relatives go on their knees to storm heaven for God's mercy.  

The next text message from Louie came three days later, just when Tony and I were on our way to visit Rey in the hospital.  

“Hi, all! God continues to show His mighty healing power and love for Rey.  These past days, doctors continue to express amazement @ this latest miracle . . . we know it was all your prayers that pulled him through.  He's now walking, taking liquid food, and two more tubes were removed—praise God!  Please continue to help us pray for full recovery.” 

Song of Mateo

At the height of  the ruckus caused by six-year-old Jan-Jan* on Willling Willie, my friend Rose sent me a refreshing note on FB, reminding me of my song in Oh, Mateo! Book 11, “Crying Children.”   The reminder came at a perfect time.

Music is not my strongest suit, so I wrote the lyrics with some vague, forgettable tune in my head, hoping someone would compose the song for me.  

I asked a young friend to do it, but he was busy and was taking a mighty long time.  So when I bumped into Rose, who eats notes for breakfast, I dared ask her to please compose it in time for the book launch.