Easter Fun

There is no stopping the trend—Christian holidays are becoming more and more commercialized, products of astute marketing minds.  

To some people in the US, thanksgiving is now a day of unabashed gluttony and very few actually think about the sacrifices made by the Pilgrims who were grateful for what they were blessed with.

The same thing can be said about Christmas. In many parts of the world, it is one big party—a time for revelry; to shop, give and receive gifts, decorate, and pig out. 

And Easter, the day Christ conquered death and offered forgiveness to all who will accept it, has taken the same route.

On Easter this year, Hiyas (my children's books publisher) was invited to partner with Manila Bulletin at Sofitel Hotel's big day for kids. Hiyas had a booth to display its children's books and a time slot to tell one story to the kids.

To capture the significance of the occasion, and to guide the children on how they should view their activities that day, Hiyas chose “The Secret Ingredient” (Oh, Mateo Book 9), which Mars Mercado of Alitaptap (organization of storytellers in the Philippines) read to kids ages 5-12.

The book focuses on doing one's best for the Lord. “Whatever you eat or drink or whatever you do, you must do all for the glory of God.” 1 Corinthians 10:31.

After the storytelling, Mars centered the mini contest on this verse. Alternately giggling and roaring, the kids stood in attention to answer all questions, wanting to win for themselves free books from Hiyas and goodies from Manila Bulletin.

Book signing  and gift giving

Hiyas booth (left); Entry to the hotel (bottom right)

Contest;  On stage with Mars of Alitaptap and Claro of Manila Bulletin

Kids, kids, and more kids

As in all the contests we've mounted after storytelling sessions, I wished we had a gift for everyone. But that would be logistically impossible.

I saw several kids crying and being appeased by their parents in that big, big hall crowded with approximately a thousand bodies. Either they failed to find eggs or lost in a game/contest.

But I pray that God's grace will enable them to have happy memories of that day, when, in their growing up, they will learn and find the true meaning of Easter.

Flower Arrangement

One thing that baffles me is finding something new about yourself even when you are already fossilized by chronological time.

I recently found out something new about me.   

I love (adore!) flowers—looking at them, picking them, painting them, receiving them, buying them, and giving them away as gifts.

But this I discovered: I loathe arranging them!

Now, I also love flower arrangements and always marvel at how ingenious florists are on occasions such as weddings, debuts, anniversaries and other events where flowers play a major role.

My friend Mabel is a florist extraordinaire and I always gush over her spectacular works. Another friend, Lucy, likes drying flowers, painstakingly arranging them in baskets, and calling her shop (when she decides to have one) Lucy's labor of Love.  

So when my friends in church scheduled a seminar on flower arrangement, the day before Easter, I couldn't wait. 

Our teacher, who actually has a PhD, but is gearing up to be a florist when she retires, was an engaging speaker, complete with electronics that showed the color chart and principles of flower arrangement. She had for each student (10 of us) a bundle of flowers, foam, and a vase.

As soon as I got my share with which to apply what we have learned, I balked. Okay, I got cold feet. Either I didn't think I could do it or didn't like the tedium (soaking the sponge, cutting the stems, measuring the width and height, etc.). Whatever. 

I didn't even try, I simply spent my time kibitzing and encouraging each one to keep going. In fact, I gave away my flowers to someone.

The results were outstanding. All nine students (minus moi) came up with beautiful arrangements we drooled over. 

 

What a waste, you might say. Why would anyone even attend such a session when she wouldn't put it to use anyway?

Oh, but the company! The joy of being with friends, who wished to pretty up our place of worship on Easter, was grace arranged as beautifully as the flowers in the vases—and the next day, at the altar.

Why couldn't I bring myself to arrange flowers? That is a puzzle, the same way that I've been trying to figure out why I can't cook when I love (adore!) food. 

I am consoled by the fact that in the Bible we are told (Romans 12:6): “We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us . . .” 

And although each of us is individually created, we are all fearfully and wonderfully made!

Graduation Dreams

There are as many differences in graduation rites as there are schools.

I've attended several as a graduation speaker over the years, but this last one—at Agapeland Christian Academy—stands out in my mind. I witnessed, ringside view, the graduates' confidence about their future.  

When I graduated from grade school, I was clueless about where I was headed—except, of course, high school. But the Agapeland students were encouraged to dream, to see in their heart where they want to go. After receiving their diplomas, each of them took the mike: 

“Fifteen years from now, I shall have become . . .

. . . a lawyer, helping victims of injustice.

. . . a pediatrician to help children whose parents couldn't afford medical fees.

. . . a chef so I can build a mansion for me and my family.

. . . a pastor!”

Grounded on Christian precepts, these graduates will certainly continue to be God's delight (“Becoming God's delight” was the theme) in the years to come.

Whether these dreams, or something better, will come true is immaterial. God in his infinite love and wisdom will guide these children who love Him to wonderful places they could not begin to imagine. They just need to be humbly open to God's unfolding of their future.

I was drenched with grace that day just by watching and hearing the children speak their minds and hearts—so clearly, so purely, so candidly.  

One day, when time permits, I'd ask the teachers of Agapeland how they inspired the children to do it.

Marketing in the Morning After

It's ironic that in the morning after (or after turning my back on marketing), I get invited to be one of two speakers—the other is a celebrity entrepreneur—at the Philippine Marketing Association.

“Frankly, I was a bit apprehensive in inviting you,” Vince said, smiling impishly.  “I've heard many inspirational speakers before and sure, they make you feel good, but . . .”

Vince, whom I met in another event where I also spoke, took a leap of faith. Touche. I didn't think I'd be qualified to talk about marketing again either, but . . .” 

I did—and didn't.  

I spoke of my morning after—that defining period in my life when I turned the corner, took up my old love for writing, walked to the opposite end of my lifestyle, and became an author totally dependent on grace.

This is detailed in a book on retirement, I told the marketing men and women in the room, that I just finished writing (hopefully to be launched at the International Book Fair in September).  

Used to speaking directly to a crowd, in a brightly lit room where you could look people in the eye and react to them, I felt like a trying-hard-would-be diva on stage, washed in spotlight, unseeing anyone in the audience—just a black, blank vast space with spotty shadows. So this is what Taylor Swift sees every time she performs, I thought. I decided I won't be a diva when I grow up.

There was no way then for me to have even a glimpse of whether the talk added value to the audience's day,  but it sure added value to mine.

In preparing  my slides, I thought hard about marketing again, remembered much, and gained new knowledge while doing research.

At the event I met old clients and collected new friends.  I was delighted at the many impressive projects the PMA has undertaken in the past and will continue to undertake under the leadership of Gwenn, the incumbent president.

I have always suspected that marketing men are the most vigilant and observant people in the world, continually improving upon their last acts and reinventing the wheel. 

That day at the Intercontinental Hotel, my suspicion proved to be correct. Wherever you find marketing people (in the boardroom where I used to wrangle with brand managers) and in a general meeting like this one, they are one step ahead of the consumer and know where he is going—the day before or the morning after.  

How can an ex-marketing gal not be inordinately blessed?

Mommy

Deciding what my children would call me before I even had one was a tedious process: Mommy? Mummy? Mama? Mamsy? Nanay?

Real Mommies with real babies

I weighed the pros and cons in the same way that hubby and I grappled with whether Filipino or English would be the language in our home.

Filipino it was (a good cross between my Ilocano and Tony's Chinese). And we didn't want them saying “mon” for “moon,” or “ples” for “please” or “Yaya, I want to make ligo na.”

Mommy, I (hubby pretty much left me on my own here) decided. It has a tinge of  childlikeness and respectfulness all at once. It can be shortened to an affectionate “Mom.”

When JC was able to babble Mommy for the very first time (he was seven months old) I thought I had won the lotto and a free luxury cruise on the Caribbean. 

Even when my three sons started having lives of their own, Mommy still made me feel the electric current that ran through my fingertips the first time I heard my first son say it.   

Then one day last year, I had to see a new obstetrician after two decades of ignoring my own (who has since died of old age). As I entered the clinic, the secretary exclaimed,  “Mommy, come in!” I looked behind me, thinking she was greeting her mother. But there was no one there, and she was looking directly at me. 

Then a series of questions, “Mommy, do you have a record na here?” “Mommy, do you --” She began every statement with Mommy! Try as I might, I couldn't remember giving birth to a daughter. Neither could I recall using the word for anyone other than my Mommy, not even when I was fresh and young.

A few days later in a boutique, I was deciding to buy a pricey blouse. “Mommy,” the saleslady said, "that will look good on you!” She was no daughter of mine either.

I was on my worst behavior that day. Smiling my biggest, I said, “For calling me Mommy, you just lost a sale,” and walked away leisurely.

Then like a deluge brought about by Typhoon Ondoy (or maybe that of Noah's time), it came:  “Mommy!” From the tricycle driver, the cashier at a deli, the new hairdresser in the salon, the masseuse in a spa, the ice cream man, the mailman, etc. And soon even from my own gastroenterologist. (Note to self: scout around for someone less sacrilegious.)  

The next time JR called from Singapore and said Mommy, my fingertips went limp—the electricity had a short circuit; the power source went kaput. Now when JC, JB, and Gianina call me Mommy, too, the tingle's gone.

I know I am now totally grace (and SSS) dependent, advancing in years and looking it, but strangers calling me Mommy? That term was a painstaking decision, an electric spark, a privilege handed on as a precious legacy to my offspring.

How did this phenomenon start? What made people desecrate this once-hallowed, exclusive honorific that turned on my light? When did these aliens and odd-looking creatures, who neither resemble me nor hubby, nor any of my forbears, usurp the privilege for themselves to call me . . .?

See,  I can't even say the word now without feeling a bit of a shudder (akin to that of watching a horror movie that sends insects crawling down your spine).   

Well, as I like telling friends who complain of their woes (other than being called . . . ), “We all have our own cross to bear.”

I guess I will have to bear the weight of being the . . . of every Tom (Tomas), Dick (Carding), and Harry (Henring) till they collectively bring my ears (or my mind, whichever comes first) to total ruin.  

(Photo credits: www.gettyimages.com)

Sunflowers for Easter

What a glorious day Easter is! 

Truth was slain and buried in a grave, but It didn't stay there. Three days later, Truth resurrected for the whole world to know.

For this special day, I am changing my header to sunflowers in celebration of Easter. My old New Year header comes down.

The sunflower has always fascinated me, as it had Paul Gauguin, Vincent Van Gogh, Paul Klimt, Claude Monet and a host of famous artists.

Paul Gauguin

Vincent Van Gogh 

Gustav Klimt

Claude Monet

Such an illustrious company I keep! 

In the morning, sunflowers face east as the sun rises, then they follow the sun, stretching up to the heavens until they end the day facing west, at sunset.

Many children draw a sunflower when asked to draw the sun. The bright yellow petals are likened to, or mistaken for, the sun's rays.

In high school I used to pass by a field of sunflowers on my way home.

Those daily walks defined Baguio City for me—a field of sunflowers.

I should be in Umingan today, attending the memorial service for my mom's ninth death anniversary. I made time for it last year. All my siblings (except one who is in Australia) are there now.

But I am home in Manila, after attending the sunrise service in our village church. I couldn't leave because I have committed to attend a children's event/book signing at the Sofitel Hotel in a couple of hours.

Should I feel guilty? 

Aside from being exceedingly generous, my mother had one other  endearing trait, which I remember today. She was always careful not to impose on anyone, not even on her children. I missed a few important family occasions, including the funeral of my dad, but she was quick to dismiss the failing. And never dwelt on it.

If she were alive today, would she begrudge me for not going home to attend the Easter service in our little home church? No. So why is it pricking my conscience?  

Sunflowers. Easter. Mom. Grace. They somehow fit so well together.

When the Lord took my mother on Good Friday nine years ago, it was so natural for our family to decide that her death anniversary be remembered on Easter, the day hope for eternal life with God was given free to mankind. 

Let's all celebrate Easter with the warmth and glow of sunflowers, and the warmth and glow of our loved ones, near or far. 

“For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in Him.” 1 Thessalonians 4:14 (NIV)

Free Taste Test

If you are cheap, as I am, you don't have to spend for lunch on grocery day.

In the supermarket where we shop every Sunday, there are all kinds of free taste tests.

Upon entering the main lobby/front aisle of the supermarket, you see a generous spread of food and beverages from wall to wall—at a glance.

Like grace, they're free and yours for the taking!

New brand or brand extension of spaghetti, pork leg, pickles, Snickers, fruit-flavored ice-tea, coffee, hotdog, ham, cheese, popcorn, cookies, sardines, corned beef, fruit cocktail, juices, etc. etc. come  in little cups or bite sizes:

 

I try them all.

Before you know it, you're burping and brimming with an amalgam of food having a spirited summit in your stomach.   

“Where would you like to have lunch?” Tony asks.

“Nowhere. That was lunch!” 

The only downside to this is, you end up buying a piece of everything that perked up your palate.

In my case, it's practically everything since we go to the supermarket after 12 noon, way past an early breakfast—on a growling tummy.

For Grandparents Only

Parents are  not allowed to read this post. 

After a very early blood chem test in a hospital, I walk over to a nearby McDonald's for my breakfast.  It is still empty, except for a grandmother and her grandson in one corner and another grandmother with a granddaughter two tables away.

Both are intently seeing to the breakfast of their wards. Not knowing each other, the grandmas are both doing the same thing—shredding fried chicken, mixing it with rice, and feeding their grandchildren (about 4 years old), who are doing everything except sitting down, spoon by spoon. Subo is the term we use for spoon feeding.

I am more fascinated with what they're doing than with my own breakfast. O, grand parenting, Filipino style!

I'm guilty (I'd rather call it a privilege) of doing the same for 4-year-old Adrian when he was left with Tony and me for three days last year.

His parents have two meal rules: 1) he is to eat by himself, and 2) not watch TV.

Now comes the first mealtime; Adrian refuses to eat. He says he isn't hungry and continues playing and running around with Attorney, our dog. After much cajoling and promising him the moon, he sits down at the dining table but wiggles around. So what does grandma do?

Subo.

He now goes down his chair and crawls under it, making sounds like a superhero, but he finishes the first subo. So Amah is exceedingly encouraged and makes another successful subo.

Then she breaks the second rule! 

She motions Ate Vi, hovering just a breath away, to turn the TV on.  Adrian takes his seat and his eyes are riveted to the screen. After more subo after subo, his plate is clean!

Comes next mealtime.

Adrian: Amah, subo?

Amah: Sure, Adrian.

Adrian: Amah, TV?

Amah: Sure, Adrian.

When his parents arrive, they remark, "Adrian gained weight!"  Ate Vi (my loyal co-conspirator) and I look at each other, both trying hard not to look guilty.

O, the grand grace of grand parenting!

Come to think of it, we didn't break any rules, did we? When it comes to Adrian, Tony and I have absolutely no rules.

We just want to love this sweet, adorable boy, whom we pray will grow up loving and serving the same God who created him to be a part of our family.

A Test of Patience

God might have given me Shoo (not his real name) as a student to test my patience. He knows I have very little of it.

Shoo is not a Filipino, 6'4" at age 17, and like a gangly teener that he is, he has a stoop, especially when he talks to me.

Many of my students in the foreign university where I teach come from different countries, where English is hardly spoken. But after a month of English class, they come around quite easily. Before long, they gain many friends, excel, and become part of the here and now.

But Shoo is different. For him to understand me, I have to drawl (much slower than the allowed speed limit), use extravagant gestures, and put on histrionics. Sometimes I sing and dance.

Most of the time, Shoo asks what this or that word means. I'd tell him to look it up in his dictionary.

That's not what's frustrating about mentoring Shoo. In the beginning I thought his thoughts were elsewhere, and so I kept trying to bring him back to terra firma.  But he is  actually nowhere.  And that's a harder place to come from.

Each time I ask him a question, he answers, "I don't know." Or, "No." Or, "Nothing." His favorite, and probably his only, gesture is the shaking of his huge head.

I don't want to give up on you, I thought. But I said, “I don't know what to do with you!”

I've asked him all possible questions: What is it you really want to do? Do you have friends? Do you want to go back to your country? How do you want me to teach you? Did you read the reference book? Did you do your assignment? What are the things you want to know? What interests you? What is your favorite activity? Subject? Topic?  

Because of his difficulty with English, or his indifference to everything, or both, he is on a one-on-one tutorial program, where he has all the attention of the teacher, who adjusts to his learning pace.

Now I'm afraid that if our department chair asked about Shoo, I'd reply, "I don't know.” “No.” “Nothing.” 

Giving up? Or is my patience still holding?

I remember wild, unmanageable, deaf-mute-blind Helen Keller, who became the luminary that she was because of her teacher, Annie Sullivan (dubbed "The Miracle Worker" in a play and movie of the same title).

When I decided to teach part-time after leaving the corporate world, I dreamed of likewise becoming a miracle worker.

Shoo is nowhere near Helen Keller. He has all his faculties intact: hearing, seeing, talking.  He is as tame as she was fierce. He is as polite as she was bratty. Alas, there is only one teacher of note with godly patience: Annie Sullivan.

My dream has shrunk into a wish: a tad more grace to stretch my patience till the end of this term (which is next week).

All I  want is to continue encouraging Shoo to leave the nowhere land—and find himself where the rest of us are.

Elvis Madness

Elk's Club. Family. Nostalgia. Buffet dinner. Elvis music. Laughter.

This is the recipe for a yummy treat, courtesy of my cousin Faith and her husband Win. It was a bonus that Minna, my BCF (best cousin forever) from New York is in town; my sister Aie is in a rare lull from her dizzying travels around the globe; and my brother Dave and his wife Gladys are visiting from American Samoa. 

And then there was Tony, of course, who has been nicknamed “Elvis is alive” by our close kin.  

It was "Elk's Elvis Night for a Cause," a fund-raising project to support the Cerebral Palsy organization in the Philippines. 

Not one, but four Elvises showed up to regale us with numbers from Elvis' beginnings to his end. And what a riot it was!

As could be expected, we sang along, making people remark, “This table knows all the words!”  

 

We took countless photos,  and remembered the king of Rock 'n Roll who died 35 years ago, on August 16, 1977, but still very much alive in the many Elvis wannabes (from a 2-year-old toddler to seniors, male and female) all over the world.

It's a phenomenon that never ceases to amaze me. How can countless Elvis impersonators or ETAs (Elvis Tribute Artists), many of them born before his time, keep popping up, trying to duplicate his one-of a-kind tremolo and wearing his outlandish stage costumes and sideburns?

Is it because of the unique iconic status of Elvis that the ETAs have invaded socio-civic causes, literature, stage plays, film, television, and academe? 

Well, nobody knows for sure. But Elvis madness has not ebbed from the time he died over three decades ago until today.

What I personally think is that Elvis, the compleat entertainer, has left a legacy to his fans—wholesome entertainment with no expiry date. After all, he spent his entire life making people feel good and forget their cares, despite his own personal problems and pain.

I was not a great fan of Elvis (Frank Sinatra was my first boyfriend), but my husband and other people close to my heart, like my cousin Minna, are. 

Nevertheless, I enjoyed the evening listening to his danceable, singable songs, and remembering the way he performed them through the four ETAs.

Elvis madness gives a new dimension to the new e-term: viral.  His music infects his fans, who then infect his non-fans with pandemic joy that makes for a carefree bonding time.

A get-together with people in my generation allows one to act silly and be childlike, diminishing the cynicism that has crept into this world-weary planet.  

On an Elvis Night for a cause, grace finds its way to creep back into our hearts.

Hot n' Cold

Summer came rushing to assault and oppress us. 

Grrrr. The sweltering heat is not very good for the health. I've had this lingering sore throat for the past few days. And so do my friends.

I probably get the same amount of sweat while typing as when I am walking early in the morning.  I don't think I am exaggerating when I say:  you sit down, do nothing, and you sweat;  you look to your left and right, cross the street, and you get sunburned; you walk a few meters, rest awhile, and you get a heatstroke; you stay under the sun for an hour and you get hyperthermia or melt.

One radio announcer spooked me this morning when he said, "This summer, the elderly are prone to have a stroke, sunstroke, or heatstroke." He meant well, he was advising seniors to stay under the shade and drink plenty of fluids. 

Which are what I am trying to do, but failing. I have too many errands these days to keep me under the sun, and too little time to drink plenty of fluids.

Then I saw these photos on JB's blog. Beautiful, cool shots that make me miss Adrian (and of course his parents, too) and the cold weather.

This tiny 4-year-old can ski better than his parents.
 

Brrr. In that freezing landscape, there is also the danger of suffering from frostbite.

Now I am going to state a prosaic (or profound, depending on how you look at it) statement: there are pros and cons to every situation on earth, where a concept exists because it has an opposite. Bright and dark. Tall and short. Beautiful and ugly. Hot and cold. Pro and con. Grrr and brrr.

The only places where there are no pros and cons are not of this planet: heaven and hell. In heaven, everything is good and grace. In hell, everything is bad and disgrace.

That's probably why the Hon. Senator Miriam Santiago said that hell is not a geographical place. Going there is unthinkable. So the Hon. Senator explains further, it is a metaphor, which means the absence of God. And if it were a place, there is no one there.

Here's what the Bible says. Hell is:

“A place of outer darkness where there will be weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth.” (Matthew 24:51; 25:30)

“A place to be avoided even if it means losing the physical members of your body. (Matthew 18:8-9)

“A place where the fire is not quenched.” (Mark 9:43-48)

“A place of regret, torment in fire and no water.” (Luke 16:19-31)

I can't possibly win an argument over the Honorable Senator without sweating. Hell is a terrible geographical place.

And summer in geographical Philippines? Compared to hell, no sweat.

A Reason to Live

This year has brought on so many news I wish I didn't have to hear.  

Three close friends passed on one after another, and three more close friends have fallen into life-threatening illnesses. My prayer time has never been more fervent; my prayer for grace has never been more urgent.

Grace found me in a devotional I wrote two years ago with the same title—Grace Found Me. I was leafing through the book, which I intended to give as a gift to a friend, when this page spoke to me:

Reason for Living 

During my childhood, my uncle Astring told many stories of  World War II.  He would entertain us, nieces and nephews, complete with big gestures and sound effects, about how he had been tortured by the enemy, and how he had escaped death many times. 

"But God was with me and never left my side. We marched side by side to Bataan," he would say of the death march, which was the highlight of his war tales.  

As we grew up, his faith in God never wavered. When he reached his late seventies and felt the symptoms of aging, he kept saying, "I long to go home. Jesus is waiting for me."

His children and we would shush him up saying, there is still so much to live for. 

"I am homesick. I want to be in that beautiful place where Jesus lives with your Auntie Felicing [his wife], Nanang and Tatang [his parents] and . . . " he would name all the people in the clan who had passed on. 

Uncle Astring was one of the few remarkable people I have met who joyfully anticipated  dying. 

Paul, in his letter to the Philippians, had the same attitude about death. He said that the wonderful hope of dying kept him alive.  (Philippians 1:21) “For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”

The hope of seeing Jesus gave meaning to every moment of Paul's and my Uncle Astring's life.    

So many of us are afraid of dying. When we face a grave illness, we say with much dread, "I don't think I am ready to die yet."  How much better if we look at dying in the way Paul and my Uncle Astring did!
 
(Father, thank You for giving mankind the opportunity to be with You for eternity.  Help me look at dying the way the apostle Paul did.) 

FEAR: The Long and Short of It

The person I feared most, the person who made me tremble during face-to-face encounters, will no longer have to face me either.

I should be heaving a long sigh of relief, but I suddenly miss her.

I am speaking of my dentist, my husband's dentist, and my children's dentist of many, many years—Dr. G.

Her children finally prevailed upon her to retire after poking into patients' mouths for over 60 years. She is 80 something today.

One day last month JC went to see her but he was turned away with a warm good-bye. To my family, it was the end of an era.

Looking for a new dentist was like looking for a needle in (let me revise the idiom) a hectare of haystacks.  Thankfully, JC remembered, and sought out, his friend whose wife is also a dentist.

As I entered the new clinic, I thought I was zapped into Oz and Narnia.

Little did I know that dental clinics today are bright; seats become beds; drilling does not take forever; soothing music fills the air; laser lights are pointed into your teeth; and bibs and rinsing glasses are disposable. No whirring sounds, just a high-pitched extra-terrestrial tone, and the dentist has little time to hum or narrate how life has been.

When our new dentist Dr. P filled my cavity, she asked me who did my bridge. "Well done," she said. I thought it was a wonderful tribute to our 80+ old teeth doctor that a new generation dentist, reared on the latest in technology, would still marvel at something done without modern doodads years ago!

Who is better, our old dentist or new?

The new one scares me too, not less, but in much less time.

The old one scared me much, but she spent gentle time making the fear go away by telling stories of life and humming a familiar tune—in the process, she became an instrument in drilling in grace that enables us to build relationships. 

Old Dr. G will forever hold my deepest affection. Well, for as long I have teeth (those I have been born with and those I paid for).

Titanic and Singapore's Past

Museums take us back in time. They give us clues on how people came to be the way they are.

And that's where we spent most of our brief stay in Singapore. It was a bonus that seniors get a 50% discount and students (JR) are free. 

First stop was the Chinatown Heritage Centre, which houses a wealth of memories and untold stories of  migrants from China.

It traces the difficulties of the early settlers. The four evils—opium, prostitution, gambling, and drinking—that plagued the community are  presented so graphically the images had the power to shake us centuries after they happened.

Swinging to the opposite end of the spectrum, we visited the Peranakan Museum.  It shows remnants of an opulent lifestyle and traditions that are unheard of in this informal, anything-goes world today.

The Peranakans (Malay term meaning 'locally born') was a unique community of acculturated Chinese in Penang, Malacca and Singapore.

These affluent families, with a unique hybrid culture and customs, left behind a rich legacy of antiques, cuisine and language that are still part of Singapore’s living heritage.

Last stop was the “Titanic Artifact Exhibition” where we relived the grandeur and tragedy of the world's largest ship. It was held at the unusual, lotus-shaped building of the ArtScience Museum at Marina Bay Sands.

The exhibition features 275 artifacts recovered from the ship's wreckage. (Unfortunately, no photos were allowed here.) They are housed in galleries recreated to resemble iconic sections of the Ship. We went through key milestones in the Titanic's story—from conception, construction, and life on board.

“This exhibition has to have an iceberg!” Tony said while we toured the Class A quarters. “Otherwise, it isn't worth its salt.”

There was an iceberg! And there was a part where it simulated the sinking and underwater experience.

All told, the exhibitions cost us a bundle, but each one was worth its salt. The fun was great and  grace was free.

Master of Laws

JR's LL.M. graduation from New York University School of Law (NUS campus) was the reason Tony and I went to Singapore. But here I was, blogging about everything but the purpose for the trip.

Finally I get around to it.

The graduation, or convocation as it was called, was almost austere. There were 44 graduates from 24 countries, plus four university luminaries, a handful of aides, and about the same number of parents.  Except for the sporadic noise of a three-year-old who came with her grandmother, you could hear a pin drop. 

All the professors from NYU flown in to Singapore during the year had a short, meaningful message on video, and the Singapore Chief Justice made a brief, inspiring speech.

It was after the simple rites that the bedlam began. If you're thrown into a roomful of aggressive lawyers, you could hardly put a word in. It's just as well. With pride, the parents watched their children revel in their accomplishment, raring to spread their wings.

The dinner was formal but loud, and photo ops were all around.

We had a chance to chat with young lawyers from China, Germany, Uganda, Australia and all the other countries represented.

And my feet ached from my killer heels. Fashion and comfort are never allies. 

Food, drinks, and grace flowed, even up to the time we got back to the hotel, exhausted. (I speak only, of course, of seniors like Tony and me. JR stayed up finishing an NUS paper that was due the next day.)

Because he finished a double degree, JR says there will be other graduation rites, this time with NUS and another one in New York,  but those will just have to happen without us. The pocket is dry and so is the reservoir of energy. But grace springs eternal.

Thank you, Lord, for the gift of children.

Out to Lunch—Abroad

True story. We were out of the country, and in that country, we took a trip to yet another country just to have lunch!

That seemed like the height of over-indulgence and decadence, but we got invited by JR's wonderful “family” in Singapore (my niece and her husband, who brought along their three-year-old son) to do just that.

It was an invitation that thrilled us. We were to dine in a restaurant in another country (Malaysia), which required us to bring our passport, take two long train trips, four buses and two taxi rides, plus a total of four immigration documents for entry and departure (in both countries).

"JR tells us that as a family you often go out of town just for a meal,” our host said, "so why not go out of the country?"

Why not indeed?

The only snag would be JR's graduation ceremony at 5:30 PM that same day.

"Oh, we'll be back in good time,” JR said when we left the hotel at 9:30 AM.

Now in Malaysia, we pigged out on indescribably delicious dishes: Paper-baked chicken (incomparable to any bird I have ever feasted on); some spicy leaves; some baked seafood; some fried concoction; and a beverage of mixed longan and fungus.

Every morsel was polished off in minutes.

Spicy but yummy.

Melt-in-your-mouth goodness.

 

The trip was absolutely worth every step and stride, including a brief brush with immigration for Tony taking my photo. I'd never gone out of any country for lunch before, and this very first time was an adventure never to be erased from the memory of my mind's hard disc and external drive.

JR was right, we got back to our hotel in good time—3:30 PM.  All told, the whole escapade took only six hours. We had two comfortable hours left to gussy ourselves up for his graduation (or convocation, as New York University School of Law calls it).

Nothing ever runs amiss in Singapore, probably the most efficient country in the world. You can actually plan your day up to the last second. Everything is precise; even the flora and fauna along the way seemed to have been landscaped in clockwork fashion.

All toilets flush, have tissue paper, and are impeccably clean; a train comes every three minutes; and no electric wires nor eclectic billboards block the view of cookie-cutter structures with newly-painted look.

“Why, even the trees are trimmed exactly the same way!” I told Tony.

The experience opened my mind to the gamut of encounters this planet has to offer; and the gamut of grace that makes one enjoy it all.