A Cover Story

In many advertising agencies years ago, each of those in the creative department would be assigned a partner. A writer would be paired with an art director, and they were called a concept team.

One of my first partners was Lydia.

Each frame of her storyboards was like a masterpiece—the figures were drawn with such flair they moved, and their faces spoke a thousand words. "When I grow up," she used to say, "I'd be a painter."

"You could be one right now," I'd reply, meaning it. 

"But I need a regular income," she said.  Her kids and my own were still of school age then.

I teamed up with other art directors through the years, till I I found myself solo as the department head. Lyds finally took the risk and mounted a one-man show, where I fell in love with one of her mother-and-child paintings.

"Why don't you take that?" she suggested.

"I can't afford you," I said.

"I'll give it to you at half the price, on installment."  Deal!

From then now, the works of Lydia Velasco are some of the more recognizable art pieces in the country. Her impressionistic renderings of the human form with expressive faces (women especially) hang in many mansions, homes, art galleries, and museums; some had been auctioned at Sotheby’s.

She fell ill recently, and I visited her—what a grand reunion it was at her huge art studio! Then an idea hit me as I swooned over her chefs-d'oeuvre. Would Lydia lend me one of her faces for the cover of The Other Cheek?

“Sure,” she said. “Choose!”

I took close-up shots of many faces and after saying our good-byes, I sent all photos to my publisher, explaining why.

 

 The cover artist and editors gushed over her images and tada!    

    

I thank the Lord for the grace of Lydia and her art—specially for this book on forgiveness.

“. . . If someone slaps you on the right cheek, offer the other cheek also.” Matthew 5:39 (NLT)

Lyds and I at her studio 

The Other Cheek: The Backstory

(An excerpt from my latest book, "The Other Cheek")    

Back cover                                                   Front cover 

One of my friends, Ggie, had nagged me about writing a book on forgiveness. “I have a gripping story for you,” she said, dangling a carrot. When that didn’t work, she pricked my conscience, “The number of hard-hearted people is alarming and growing every day. We need to learn how to forgive. As an author, you can help.”   

This went on, with predictable consistency, for over five years.  But each year, I'd write a book on another subject. She might have wondered why I never seemed to consider it—forgiveness being one of the hardest, if not the hardest, acts to bestow upon anyone who had deliberately done you wrong and deeply hurt you.

I have considered it; I have been turning it over in my mind since that day Ggie first raised the idea. However, I met three roadblocks.

One, there are far too many books already published about forgiveness—by authors with more authority than I will ever have.

Two, I could not put a finger on what forgiveness is exactly. Is it saying “I forgive you” or “I have already forgiven you” to someone who has caused you profound pain? Or is it simply moving on, ignoring the wound.

In the Old and New Testaments, there are many illustrations of forgiveness by different  characters in various timelines. Their formats and plots are not the same. Jesus also never spelled out the meaning of the term for us. 

Three, the astonishing, blanket forgiveness that was graphically demonstrated to us on the cross is inimitable. It. Cannot. Be. Matched. Only the Son of God, bleeding and in the throes of death, could spare all evil men with a sweeping statement, “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing." Luke 23:34 (NLT)

How can humans even come close to such an immensely selfless act?

During one of my quiet times, while meditating on Matthew 5:39, I sat up and glimpsed a flash bulb. “But I say, do not resist an evil person! If someone slaps you on the right cheek, offer the other cheek also.” 

The other cheek?!

This concrete image suddenly nailed it for me, like an “aha!” moment. Forgiveness, instead of hitting back, was mandated by Jesus Himself, and must therefore be humanly demonstrable. I started seeking out real-life stories for affirmation. To my surprise, aside from Ggie’s story, there are many. Too many, in fact, for one book alone. 

So, what does it take to forgive?

From story to story, this book takes snapshots of forgiveness moments among ordinary people in everyday life. These grace moments differ from person to person. But they all happen at that precise, although often imperceptible, instant when we are able to look at the circumstances leading to or surrounding the offense with clearer vision—finally understanding the big picture.

In Scripture, it all boils down to: what offering the other cheek means; what it takes to forgive.

 * * *

The above excerpt was inspired by and based on a  blog I posted last year, when I was still toying with the idea. I did not realize it then, but I was already writing the book's Foreword. And here it is! Grab a copy of The Other Cheek at the Manila International Book Fair (MIBF),  Sept. 11 to 16 at SMX MOA, Church Strengthening Ministry (CSM) booths. I will be there for book signing on the 11th at 3:PM.

Whom is Dead

Over fern-and-tomato salad, my friends Yna, publications director of OMF Lit; Yay, a fellow author; and I talked about our favorite topic: books. Yes, books—and the elements of books: words.

“Did you know that whom is dead?” Yna asked. “You can now use who in its place—and it has become correct in many publications.”

What?!

But, but I take pains in teaching my students the difference and although it takes grace for me to remain calm wading through a mighty long explanation—resorting to mnemonic devices for them to remember—they eventually get it. And now I never have to mention whom ever?

Not that I didn't believe Yna, but as soon as I got home, I went to work and researched the bombshell. These I have culled from various readings:

“In practice, most people never use whom in speech because it sounds extremely formal. Or they don't use whom at all, and instead use who in all contexts.

My personal opinion: they don’t use it because they can’t tell how it differs from who. Figure these:

Who should we support?

Who do you wish to speak to?

These are utterly wrong in grammar. But now they are correct?! Let’s take some famous lines with whom and change it to who:

For Who the Bell Tolls (novel by Ernest Hemingway)

To who it may concern.

From who is this?

Not quite right, but now they are?! Well, for the longest time we’ve all been singing “Who Can I turn to?” and never found it wrong.

As a writer and a teacher, however, today I mourn the demise of whom. But I will still use it in loving memory of its correct usage in all my books.

Malachi 3:11 Pest Control

Son #1 pointed out to me the shop of the pest control company in our village. Its name? MALACHI 10:11.

Strange.

“Why would a pest control firm use a Bible verse for its name?” I asked.

“Look up the verse, Mom, and find the answer,” he replied.

Malachi 10:11, "‘I will prevent pests from devouring your crops, and the vines in your fields will not drop their fruit before it is ripe,’ says the Lord Almighty." 

Hmm. You can interpret this in two conflicting ways: it is sacrilegious; it is pious. And a third one might come from admen: ingenious.

If I were still an ad gal, possessed with an out-of-the-box mindset, I would probably cheer its irreverence. My peers would gush, "Wow, brilliant!"

But now as a writer on grace, an earnest student of the Word, I don’t know what to think.

I niggle myself, “Have you lost your sense of humor?” Yeah, have I become dull and boring?

Mulling this further, I think this has to do with the copyright/plagiarism issues we authors (and teachers) face in today’s digital world. Try using a phrase or an image from the Net, and you get accused of using a creation not your own—to make money for yourself.

This Malachi 3:11 Pest Control is a commercial firm, advertising itself to gain customers in growing the business, for profit. Is there some kind of ethics violated then? Is this a moral issue?

Questions, questions. Scads of questions about what are acceptable today: same-sex marriage, for one; cursing people in public places, for another. Sigh, my space limits me to list more.

For me, Malachi 3:11 is simply an offshoot of verse 10, which is often quoted at church during offertory.

Here’s how Malachi 3:10 segues to Malachi 3:11, “10‘Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. Test me in this,’ says the Lord Almighty, ‘and see if I will not throw open the floodgates of heaven and pour out so much blessing that there will not be room enough to store it.' 11 'I will prevent pests from devouring your crops . . .’”  

Is the firm’s name an over-promise?  But aren’t most advertisements?

Rant and Rave

A few years back, after I started this blog on grace, I also put up its polar opposite, where I was to rant and rave—you know the kind where all you do is complain and whine about anything. I thought that what I shouldn't say on this site, I'd freely write there.

I had four posts, which I struggled to compose. First off, I couldn’t find words nasty enough to make the post boil with rage. Unlike on this site where I couldn't stop writing, that angry site left me panting. I purposely forgot about it till its memory all came back when I reviewed my three most visited posts on leavesofgrace.  

Ewww! Did I write those?!

Conclusion? My most visited posts are those where I spouted venom—pieces that, in hindsight, are about disgrace. 

Conclusion? I have ceased to be a rant-and-rave person. Rather, even if I see things to rant and rave about, grace yanks out my blinders and fixes my vision on the vista of blessings.

Conclusion? Many people shun tame posts because they get excited over reading—and agreeing to—those that spew malice and insult.

Conclusion? Rant & rave is in.

Well, there are just too many blood-curling issues today that incite blustering. So this is the time I need to revisit . . .

My dad saying, “You can disagree without being disagreeable.”

My boss/mentor saying, “You get things done faster with friends rather than enemies.”

King Pyrrhus of Epirus (who defeated the Romans at Asculum in a.d. 279, but lost his best officers and many of his troops) saying, "Another such victory and we are lost." To him is attributed the popular adage, “Win the battle but lose the war.” Ranting and raving can win small battles, but the bigger picture is—the war. It's what should be won.

The Scriptures saying, “Stop being angry! Turn from your rage! Do not lose your temper—it only leads to harm. For the wicked will be destroyed, but those who trust in the Lord will possess the land.”  Psalms 37:8-9 (NLT)

Swimming Seasons

Seasons change with time; so do our swimming seasons.

There is this one resort club of which we have been members since over two decades ago, before it was even fully constructed. It is literally between mountains and overlooks the country’s smallest volcano within a lake, Taal.

Whenever we had guests from out of town, we’d take them there for swimming—just an hour drive away. It was convenient to take our then growing kids there for a swim, too, almost every month. 

And because it is up in the mountains, you could whisper to the clouds. Embraced by tall trees and various flora, the air is cool and the view (especially of the volcano) is breathtaking.

My late mom loved it there. She could do one lap, swimming backstroke or breast stroke, in her 80s without panting. My foster brother from the US loved it so much, he wanted to buy a house there.

The kids have grown up and son #2, after getting married, left to live in the US. But each time he and his family—now with our beloved grandson, Adrian—visit, we’d spend sometime up in he clouds.

In fact, we just arrived home after an overnight stay in what used to be our favorite R&R place. I say “was” because “progress” has mangled it. The one-hour drive has stretched to three hours because of horrible traffic. The view along the way is blocked by monstrous condominium buildings. And the place itself now has a tall hotel, instead of quaint cottages with winding stairs carpeted with green grass.

The saving grace is of course Adrian, whom his parents left with us for a week as they visit other places. He and I enjoyed swimming in the pool where he used to float on a plastic raft. Now he’s a swimmer far better than his aging Amah.

Sons #1 and #2 were elsewhere, perhaps having a massage or traipsing the hills. Tony, with his frail health, is now unable to navigate the pool and the jacuzzi, once his favorite haunts, but enjoyed our room with a book.

It was at meal time when we got together, treasuring the time and having fun while watching Adrian enjoy exotic Philippine dishes like inasal, kare-kare, and bibingka. He is still lapping it all up—not having visited the place in three years, a mighty long time if one were to consider his physical changes and ours.

This has been our latest swimming season, hopefully not our last. But hearing Tony, the boys and I pine for what was—well, it might be our season’s end.

Seasons change with time, so do we. Only One endures forever.

“The grass withers and the flowers fall, because the breath of the Lord blows on them. Surely the people are grass. The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God endures forever.” (Isaiah 40: 7-8 NIV)

Mang Bino: Bespoke Shoes

Marikina used to be famous for bespoke shoes. But the flooding of China-made shoes caused Philippine shoemakers to fade into irrelevance.

It took over an hour of driving all over Marikina to find one: Mang Bino.

My friend Ggie, who accompanied me, and I were led to him by one of the workers of a huge shoe store. He saw my pitiful limp, and said that one is still living, “Very old but very good.” 

From the main road, the good Samaritan showed us a dark, narrow alley that was so creepy I almost turned around. But my toes, digging into my flip-flops, said, This is your last card.

We turned left when we hit the wall and in a corner was (photos below)—a heap of garbage swarmed by flies, a decrepit table with two chairs, and a little boy hovering about.

Then Mang Bino, unshaven and half asleep, materialized with a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“What kind of shoes do you want?” he rasped.

As I described my troubled toes, Ggie sketched Mang Bino on the little boy’s notebook. The old man smiled and showed us photos of unusual feet with the bespoke shoes he made for them. He also mentioned famous politicians as clients. “I was abroad making shoes for a long time.”

We did not ask why he came back and settled in the dump he calls home (starred last photo above).

In sum, he measured my feet, made sketches which I approved, and the deal was on. Two pairs—one formal and one casual, for pick up in two weeks.

Two weeks later . . .

The shoes caressed my feet, and so we said our goodbyes, and profusely thanked Mang Bino.

When I wore one pair for walking, however, my toes had tantrums—the same hysteria I feel with every shoes or slippers I wear. I tried on the other pair. Same result.

Two years ago, when I started having these grasping right toes, I had been whining every day.

But after my “last card,” my attitude took a U-turn. Because when I prayed to the Lord—for the nth time—to make this “torn in my flesh depart from me,” He replied, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Cool Coincidence

What are the odds that this could happen?

Our wedding anniversary (Tony’s and mine) falls on the same day as that of the anniversary of the in-laws of son #2, who lives in the US with his wife and son. His wife posted this on her FB wall:

"In a world of coincidences, this is the best! My and my husband's parents share the same wedding anniversary. How cool is that? It is also convenient for us because we can’t forget saying Happy Anniversary to our parents! Here’s to more anniversaries!"

So one grace day every year, Tony and I and the parents of our dear daughter-in-love receive twin greetings and twin gifts from abroad.

Yeah, how cool is that?

R.I.P. Pinky

We had five and a half fruitful years, Pinky and I.  Together we travelled, rushed to beat deadlines, received both good news and bad news from the Internet, researched, prepared over a dozen syllabi, wrote over 500 blogs, and worked on eight books.

And now, Pinky, my tiny but trusty laptop, is gone.

Every year, son #1 (a techie and therefore my in-house IT) would tell me, “Looks like your laptop is still going strong. It’s over five years old.”

A blessing Pinky was.

 

My laptop Blackie lasted only three years. In essence, Pinky lasted almost twice longer.  Who was I to complain?

Two month’s ago, old Pinky’s screen was going, going—then totally gone.

But I was unperturbed. After all, I have a separate huge monitor. But I recently received invitations to conduct writing workshops—how would I  manage without Pinky's laptop screen? 

And finally on the 13th of July, Pinky signed off. While I was typing a sentence, it went blank. And then, zippo.

I panicked, not having saved almost two chapters of the book I am writing. I have the habit of saving, but somehow, I was on a roll the past month—just writing, writing, writing,  and doing nothing else. 

So when finally Pinky went into a coma, I cried aloud to the Lord, “Please, give me grace to retrieve my files.” I called up son #1 at work, narrating my problem.

“That’s it, you need to buy a new laptop.” Then he instructed me to take photos of the different parts of my big monitor, bottom and rear.  In my effort to take clear shots, I turned the monitor upside down.

Then, like a second coming—after I had taken the photos—Pinky came alive and stayed alive!  Immediately, I saved all my drafts into my external hard drive. After everything had been saved, Pinky shut off. Just like that. And it was gone for good.

Such is one of the miracles I experience when writing a book. Problems arise, but in time, the Lord solves them for me.

Believe in miracles. Believe in the Savior Who makes them happen. And someday, we will rest in eternal peace in His presence—computer glitches and anguish all gone. We’ll simply enjoy forever life with the Miracle Worker.

Meet Silvee, my new partner.

Camouflage Cane

"This is my last card," I told my friend Ggie, who accompanied me to have special shoes made in Marikina (the city famous for shoe making in the Philippines).

I have tried everything to solve my grasping-toes problem: four doctors—specialist in bones, in muscles, in wellness, and in nerves. I also went through countless therapy sessions. I wore two left flip-flops.  I bought exercise gadgets, prescribed by my therapist, and an expensive brace. When someone mentioned  Apak-Apak, a magnetic stepping-mat invented by an enterprising man to ease aches and pains, I bought that too. 

Zilch.

So, my last card really was Marikina. The two pairs that I ordered (one formal and one casual) are made of the finest kid leather. They are so soft they pamper your feet when you put them on. But once I start walking, my toes, as usual, scream!

Walking cane. I knew this would help, but I am not prepared to use them—yet. Vanity gets in the way sometimes. Then Ggie told me there are canes that masquerade as umbrellas available in Divisoria (a Metro Manila district where goods are sold wholesale and therefore cheap).

Reluctantly, I said, okay. I'd buy them in all colors to match my outfits.

Before I could go to Divisoria, Ggie sends me four, tied in a red bow and with a birthday card. It wasn't yet my birthday, but hey, with a gift like this, who needs birthdays?

I call my new umbrella canes camouflage because, confidentially, they are unwanted at this point in my life (they stereotype ageing), but they are the grace that I need so I could walk a little better after two years, since this malady encroached upon my active life and put a stop to my daily walks at dawn.

Last cards are never the last.

Barrettes Are Back!

Barrettes are hair accessories that were in vogue when I was a little girl. My mom would always clip onto my hair a barrette that matched my dress.

Now they’re back! And I see them not just on little girls’ hair but on young ladies’, too. 

While in the mall one day, I saw beautiful ones in all shapes and colors displayed on a sale rack. I had in mind to buy a dozen, but got distracted by other items.   

That night, Ricky, a dear friend and former colleague—funny and religiously irreverent—in the workplace, posted on his FB wall in huge fonts: "Te, there is an age limit to barrettes!" (Te is short for Ate, an honorific for older women.)

I quickly typed in my reply, “Whew, am I glad I didn’t buy them.”

His comeback, “You’re just 35, aren’t you Grace?” 

Another friend replied, “Oh, no! I have so many of those. Should I just throw them away?”

His retort, “You’re a few years younger than Grace, keep them.”

Yet another friend wrote, “How about me? Am I beyond the age limit?”

His riposte: “The age limit is 95, you still have some years to go.”

Ha-ha-ha-ha! 

Not only are barrettes back, the grace of kinship we enjoyed in the workplace is back as well. In fact, it visits me now and then as I approach my sunset years. I hope Ricky and the rest of the “smart alecks” keep it going. 

Barrettes may have an age limit, but friendship lives on, defying age.   

Corridor Conversations (4)

(Scene: at the drinking fountain, where a student waits for her turn.) 

Student: “Hmmm, hot water, Ms. Grace! For your coffee fix?” 

Me: You know me so well.

Student: Hahaha. I’ve always meant to ask you—how many times do you rewrite a story?

Me: Before or after I send it to my publisher?

Student: Before.

Me: Countless times. Back and forth, forth and back. There’s always a better word, a better turn of phrase, a better paragraph.

Student: (Shocked) What?! Me, after writing a story, I don’t want to go back to it anymore.

Me. Why not?

Student: Because that’s the best I could do. I already gave my all. Besides, if I rewrote the story, it might change and go off tangent from my original intent. 

Me. You have absolute control over how your story would go. You could stay put, or stray, or totally turn around.

Student: If I rewrite, what happens to my original story?

Me: Like I said, you could do either one of three ways: 1) stay—just tweak it here and there to improve the language or syntax, making it more interesting; 2) stray—adding new facts, new voices, new sounds here and there, giving the original storyline added dimensions; 3) spin—write the story in a totally different style or format, but retaining the essence.

Student: See, I was right, rewriting is tricky!

Me. It is in the rewriting, or revising, that you win or lose your reader. When you finish a story, that’s called the first draft, where you use your heart. Then when you look at it again, that’s when you use your head—how to make it worth the readers’ while. And that requires rewriting and rewriting and rewriting until it sings!

Student: I guess I need to look at my story again.

Me: Yes, please. You’ll be surprised at how much rewriting you want to do.

Corridor Conversations (3)

Student: “Good morning, Ms. Grace! Do you have a minute?”

Me: For you, I have two!

Student: I am almost finished with my first novel. I just don’t know how to end it yet. Can you give me tips on how to do it?

Me: Your genre?

Student: Romance.

Me: Ooooh. In your outline, how did you end your story?

Student: Outline? Do I need an outline to write a story?

Me: Well, beginning writers, including me, always need one so we don’t get lost along the way.

Student: But I read an author who said a good story writes itself—no outline necessary.

Me:  Well, there are no absolutes in creative writing. For instance, if your novel is a deep character portrait, where the narrative is driven by psychological and emotional forces rather than events, then you only need to jot down their character traits—so you know how they react to a situation. However, if your story is plot-oriented, then an outline clearly shows you where the conflicts are, big or small—and how they are resolved in the end, like putting together a puzzle.

Student:  (Furrowing her brows) Mmmm . . .

Me: So is your novel character heavy or plot heavy?

Student: A little bit of both.

Me. Hmmm, it’s difficult to straddle in between. Your reader might get confused. Make a decision where you want to go, then rewrite to arrive at an ending—traditionally, where you resolve the conflict.

Student: Conflict?

Me: Yup, the struggle between opposing forces. Usually, the main character struggles against a force, internal or external. You know of course that conflict is what drives a story. Without it, your story would have no point.

Student: (Murmuring) Conflict . . .

Me: (Teasing) Your two minutes are up!

Student: Oh, yes, of course. Thank you, Ms. Grace!

Me: Anytime.

Corridor Conversations (2)

“Ms. Grace, Ms. Grace!” one student called out from behind me. He was brandishing sheets of paper.

Student: May I ask you a big, big favor?

Me: Okay, ask away!

Student: I printed out one of my plays. I am a playwright, you see—unpublished as yet. But one of my plays has already been staged during our clan reunion. Can you please read it, and tell what you think? I am sure I will learn a lot from you.

Me: (To myself) I used to write plays in college because I was taking up drama, but I have not written one in eons. (To him)  Sure, let me read through it. I will give it back to you, with my comments, on my next teaching day—three days from now.

Student: Ohhh, thank you so much, Ms. I really appreciate it.

Three days later . . .  

Student: Sooo, Ms. Grace, did you read my play?

Me: (Handing him back his script) I sure did.

Student: What do you think?

Me: Well, I have questions and wrote them down on the margins.

Student: Questions like what?

Me: Well, your language is bold—a lot of cursing—and your sex scenes are explicit. Who is your audience? I mean, for whom did you write this play?

Student: (Gesturing wildly and proudly) Everybody!

Me: Anybody at all?

Student: Yup.

Me: Including pastors, priests, and nuns?

Student: Uh . . .

Me: How about an 80-year-old grandma, would she relate to it?

Student: Uh . . .

Me: And kids, grade school kids, would they understand it?

Student: Uh . . .

Me: Think through those questions and get back to me. After you've answered them, I will give you my comments.

Student: (Perplexed)  Uh . . . Uh . . .

Me: See you around!

Corridor Conversations (1)

Our school corridors, all four of them, are where I say “hi” and “goodbye” to students. Once in a while, someone starts a conversation and I linger a little.

Student: Hi, Ms. Grace!

Me: Hi!

Student: I heard you publish books.

Me: No, I write books. I have a publisher, well, publishers actually.

Student: You see, I am a writer too and I want my book published soon. How do I go about it?

Me: Go to publishers’ websites and try to get to know their structure, find out what type of books they are inclined to publish. After you’ve chosen a particular publisher, download the book proposal form and fill it up—just follow the simple instructions.

Student: I want my book published not here, but abroad. I mean, internationally.

Me: Oh, in that case, try to look for an agent. He/she will do the ground work for you—scouting around and guiding you as you go along.

Student: I see.

Me: What is your book’s genre?

Student: Genre!? What’s that?

Me: Ooops, gotta go, I'm late for my class. Have a good day!

Once Long Ago

My foray into blogging began in November 2006, six years after my first books were published. I therefore had not been able to blog about those books.

Since that was so long ago—19 years to be exact—I had not looked back to the events around them until last week when I googled “grace” and out came this: 

It’s a news item about the launching of the second book (hardbound) in the Gifts of Grace series. What made it noteworthy is that it stood side-by-side with the biography of then President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo (GMA) by no less than the Nick Joaquin.  

Indeed it is history.

Nick Joaquin had passed on. GMA has reinvented herself many times over: she ran for congress and won; she was arrested for various crimes (electoral fraud, bribery, misuse of funds, etc.) committed during her regime; she was portrayed as ailing during her incarceration; and eventually, she was freed by the Supreme Court when Rodrigo Roa Duterte became president, whose campaign—according to some news items—she heavily supported financially. And now GMA wields great power again as the Speaker of the House of Representatives.

Changes, changes.

Whatever they are or will be, I will remain unchanged in my life choice highlighted by that book launching. I will continue writing about the saving grace that changes the course of anyone’s life who comes to Jesus.

Since the Gifts of Grace series (my first non-fiction books for adult readers), I have launched quite a few more. I upload their images as they come on this site to remind me of the path that I took once long ago and, with new strength every day, I will continue to walk on till my last breath.

“But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength. They will soar high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint.” Isaiah 40:31 (NLT) 

What Moves You?

As of last year, 2018, there are 505 million bloggers in the world.  That number is huge. But I wonder how many of those consistently and persistently blog? 

After being persuaded by two of my three sons, I started blogging in November 2006. I got hooked. Thirteen years later, today, I am still blogging—yes, consistently and persistently, uploading one piece every three to four days. At any given time, I have a dozen blogs scheduled for publication. 

A fellow blogger, Y, is an excellent writer. However, whenever I visit his site, I read the same blog he had posted two months earlier. Once we met in a gathering and I told him, “You should blog more often. Your posts are always interesting to read.” 

“I can’t,” he said, “because I can only blog about things that move me.” 

I found that odd. "Oh. But everything m-moves me,” I stuttered.  

And I mean, everything. The sun, moon, stars, flowers, trees, animals, artwork, people, events, politics, malls, food, social media, etc. etc. etc. they all move me in a thousand different ways.

 In fact, many of my blogs come in a series, because there are just too many angles to a certain topic or issue.  

That's why I continue blogging. Sometimes, because of book deadlines/talks, part-time teaching, and church ministries, there isn’t enough time to write all the thoughts and feelings I have in my head. So I find time—during short coffee breaks in school, nap hour, car trips between places, before breakfast, or any time that gives me some minutes to write. 

“You’re odd,” Y said, laughing. 

“That’s what I thought,” I replied. Yet I kept thinking, maybe I am odd in that way because I have chosen to write about grace, which is all over the place—here, there, and everywhere. In fact, I don’t have fingers fast enough to type them all, nor eyes sharp enough to see them all.  

Now let me ask, my cyber friends, what moves you? 

Gentle Annie

Out of nowhere, someone messaged me asking for some of Annie’s photos.

“We are putting together a commemorative book to celebrate our graduation batch’s 50th anniversary at St. Theresa’s College [STC]. Each one will have her own page.”

Annie, my sister-in-law and Tony’s only sister, had been gone for over 15 years. She succumbed to complications of rheumatoid arthritis at age 52. Now where would have I kept her photos?

I visited old drawers and voila! I found albums and loose photos of many people—friends and family. I didn’t realize I had so many photos kept and forgotten.

It took hours to find photos of Annie. She had more letters than she had pictures. She was not your selfie kind of person. In fact, she shunned the limelight. I used to describe her as “a woman for others.”

A gentle soul, Annie was not predisposed to long conversations. But she wrote me many letters, putting words to her thoughts and feelings, mostly about my husband, me, and our three sons, whom she doted on.

Annie had a successful career as Department Administrative Officer, reporting to the Sr. VP of a now defunct giant bank, but she turned away from all that to take care of my aging mother-in-law, who had lost both husband and youngest son in succession.

Tony and I got them a cozy house a block away from our home. And I would cross the street and visit both of them daily.

After Annie passed, we took her mom home to live with us. Every waking hour, she would call Annie’s name, sorely missing her. And one month after, in her grief, she fell ill and joined Annie.

I thank STC and her batch mates for remembering her. Through them, we are once again celebrating her life, thanking God for the grace of a sister-in-law and friend whose gentleness touched many.

Grateful eyes

The artists whose works I love are those that reflect the beauty of God’s creation: Georgia O’Keeffe, Claude Monet, Winslow Homer, Paul Cézanne, Carlos Trinidad*, Lydia Velasco*, Jun Alfon, to name a few. I am sure you have your own list of favorites.

Their paintings are so arresting, they evoke happy emotions from this beholder. What’s even more beautiful is that these magnum opuses do not come from nothing; they mirror our God-given lives as grateful eyes see them.

Carlos Trinidad, for instance, illustrates happy people enjoying various activities in images that seem to move vigorously (see photo below); Lydia Velasco demonstrates the warmth and love between mother and child, and kinship among women; Jun Alfon makes members of a marginalized tribe come alive in vibrant colors. 

"Catch the Pig" Oil on canvas 48 x 48 by Carlos Trinidad

If we, non-artists, could only try to see the beauty in everything as well, we can get a glimpse of the perfection of God’s creation, and experience unbridled joy with which He intended to gift us: a baby gurgling; grandchildren playing; old friends coming together to celebrate anything; showers pelting the roof after a long, hot summer; the sun shining after three days of rain; flowers blooming; vines covering walls; plus many more.

Remember Ecclesiastes 3:11? “. . . God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.” 

The grace we behold with grateful eyes in this life is just a foretaste of the eternal beauty yet to come in the eternal life of those who believe in Him.

*Some of their works are posted on ArtThrobs, Facebook page. 

Envelopes in My Head

"Can you lend me P100?" asked Rico, a friend at work. "I have no money for my ride home."

He was not asking for a million bucks, so the vulnerable side of me wanted to immediately hand him the money.

But my sane side said, "Don't." For how could anyone not leave enough money for his trip home?

On payday, this friend splurges on good meals in posh restaurants. He likes buying snacks for everyone. On his birthday, he throws a lavish party. Loaning from others has become a habit. Guess who's his favorite go-to pushover?

I suspect he hasn't heard of budgeting.

This was taught me by my mother before my wedding day.

"Envelopes," she advised. "Put the money you receive in them before even thinking of spending a centavo. Label each envelope with your monthly expenses—rent, food, utilities, emergency, amortizations, and oh, don't forget tithe. After filling those envelopes, only then can you spend the money left in your hands."

I did just that. It was tight, yes, but I was never short on cash till my husband's next paycheck, which was a pittance in those days.

Years later, those envelopes moved from my drawer to my head. It had become second nature to me. I could instinctively allocate what cash I had for essentials without physical envelopes. As I matured in my faith, tithe was the first envelope I put money in. 

"I am sorry, Rico," I replied. "My P100 is earmarked for something."

"How about P50?" he haggled. "Just to get me home."

"Sorry." I saw envelopes in head.

On my ride home, I passed by a reedy, old man with a dirty, small kid rummaging through a trash can. I stopped to give them my hard-earned P100.

"Don't squander God's grace—budget," mom stressed moons ago. She didn't cite a particular verse, but this one has suited me fine:

"Careful planning puts you ahead in the long run; hurry and scurry puts you further behind." Proverbs 21:5 (MSG)

Pen Pal

In its original form, pen pal is a term used for a person with whom you become friendly by exchanging letters—written with a pen and sent via postal mail (snail mail we call it today)—especially  someone in a foreign country whom you have never met.

It was sometime in the 1930s that the concept of pen pal began, evolving from its original term, pen-friend.

Just when I thought pen paling has become extinct, my son #2, who lives in the US, wrote Tony that his son (our one and only grandchild), Adrian, aged 11, was taking up creative writing and would Tony and Adrian be pen pals by exchanging stories? 

It’s not the authentic pen paling concept, of course. They would use the email to write each other.

And so they have become pen pals, 21st century version, with Adrian writing stories about the future with bizarre beings and places, products of his fertile imagination. Tony writes stories about the past, his ancient days as a young boy, when computer was still a dream and writing letters was an art. 

I was given the privilege to take a peek at their exchanges and was I blessed with grace borne out of disparate times and spaces. I must say that at his young age, Adrian is an excellent writer. To which Tony would retort, “He has my genes, after all.”   

So, do people still write letters with their pens and send them via postal mail to someone out there? Well, not in the strictest sense.

I know of church groups who write encouraging handwritten letters to inmates with no access to technology.  There are websites that encourage pen paling. My brother in Australia and Tony’s cousin in the US still send us Christmas cards with notes in their handwriting.

New, modern pen paling is still alive and well.

Banana Bonsai

I must have seen close to a million banana trees in my lifetime but none as small as what BoyP (my former colleague and friend) has in his beautiful garden. It’s two feet tall and I have wondered how to eat its fruits—if ever it would bear some.

BoyP, an outdoor-and-travel-loving person, retired much too early from being one of the top honchos in the ad industry.  He said he wants to have time to freely do what he wants to do at his own pace. 

He is doing it now—with a passion, or more graphically, with a vengeance. He grows bonzai, and again, more graphically, he’s a bonsai nut.

(Bonsai is an Asian art form that uses growing techniques to produce small trees in containers that mimic the scale of full-size trees. Bonsai nuts say it symbolizes peace, harmony and balance, demonstrating the dogged fight of a tree against the elements to create a miniature replica; it teaches us to remove clutter from our lives.)

BoyP’s bonsai collection (hundreds of them), particularly his banana bonsai, illustrate for me what he wants to do with his days—declutter and concentrate only on what’s important.

I can never grow bonsai, much less grow anything, but decluttering charms me and it’s what I have been trying to do, in my own way, since I left the workplace in the year 2000. I have not been completely successful—yet. But grace will soon show me how to totally embrace the simple life:

“Make it your goal to live a quiet life, minding your own business and working with your hands, just as we instructed you before.” 1 Thessalonians 4:11 (NLT)

#UnstoppableWomen

To celebrate Women’s Month, March, my publisher OMFLIt, featured their women authors under the theme or hastag #UnstoppableWomen.

For the write-ups, they asked me two questions. The first was,  Name one woman who inspires you and why?

My reply:  My daughter-in-law, Gianina. Nothing could stop her (not a distinguished corporate career nor an MBA from Booth, University of Chicago) from deciding to take care of my grandson, Adrian, full time—a noble and courageous act that can unsettle many women, including me.

She was not a difficult choice, even among big-named, famous women who have left indelible marks in our history. In this modern, complicated world, I believe everything should go back to the basic unit of society,  the family.  If things do not start right, things will not end right either. Children are therefore every married woman's priority.  Any woman who recognizes this knows her purpose.

Alas, in my time, I did not recognize this. Shame on me. Back then, managing a household and a career seemed simple. There were less complications, no distractions such as technology, and nannies were aplenty. But in today's chaotic world, with indiscriminate landmines and traps of all kinds that lure and harm kids, a mother no longer has a better choice than staying home and arming her child to navigate his way through life.   

I salute all women who took the route Gianina did.   

The second question was, What makes a woman unstoppable? 

My reply:  Purpose. A woman who knows exactly who she is in Christ can—let me borrow this Biblical hyperbole on what faith, the size of a mustard seed can do—move mountains.

Matthew 17:20 NLT reads, "You don’t have enough faith,” Jesus told them. “I tell you the truth, if you had faith even as small as a mustard seed, you could say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it would move. Nothing would be impossible.” 

From Him comes enabling grace so we could do what we were meant to do.

May I ask my women friends this same question: What makes you unstoppable?

Why VBS?

Way back in 1894, a Sunday school/public school teacher, D. T. Miles, in Hopedale, Illinois, felt that time spent on teaching Bible to children was too short. So, she started a daily Bible school during the summer.

Four years later, Virginia Sinclair Hawes, director of the children's department at Epiphany Baptist Church in New York City, started a summer "Everyday Bible School" for neighborhood children.

The idea caught on and so all over the world, churches (including our own PVGC) mount a summer VBS. I vaguely remember all the many VBS I attended when I was a kid, but the memory of getting to know Jesus has been inscribed in my heart.

Every year, PVGC uses the themed curriculum prepared by CSM Publishing. Inc., in  partnership with Philippine Children’s Ministries Network (PCMN) this year. CSM is my publisher, so I have seen how much time they take to prepare the curriculum every year.

This 2019, the kids enjoyed the Shield Squad: Secure in God’s protection. 

Aside from new activities and songs, they met the God who takes care of them, keeping them safe and secure. They learned about having the heart of a superhero, saving those who are in danger. 

I took a peek at the SRO graduation ceremonies and was awed by how our youth worked as a team to make the whole program unforgettable. Most important, they had planted the seed of God’s redeeming grace to 130 plus young minds.  

Why VBS?

Statistics: One-quarter of all people reached by any given church anywhere in the world are through VBS!

May all those who support the VBS in whatever form (time, effort, talent, snacks, budget, materials, prizes, presence, etc.) burst with blessings.

777,777

This number caused me to wake up at dawn so I could freeze it in time. I knew it would come sometime in the morning so I went to bed early so I could wake up early and wait for it. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

Then, there it was! Screenshot.

I am euphoric, of course, just as I was when I reached 555,555 and 666,666. But this post will remain only for one day because euphoria is temporary and short-lived. On the other hand, seconds and minutes, where grace lives permanently, will keep rolling along.

Thank you to all my guests who dropped by to read my posts these past 12 years and a half. This number is about you—and about the joy that visits me with every post. 

Saving Lives

Many Christian churches have outreach ministries—usually in communities where poverty-stricken people live. Our church has quite a few, mounted on an ad hoc basis.

But starting last year, a group of younger people/couples with a heart for children started one. It has since become a weekly activity that brims with life. Held in one of our village’s clubhouses, the children go through, to my mind, Sunday School (SS) curriculum.

This reminds me of my SS days where we prayed, sang, listened to Bible stories, learned about Jesus, and were served snacks. The only difference is that, today, the children are treated to digital images.

I was privileged to attend one, when my book on sharing was read to the children. What delighted me was their rapt attention and their quick answers to questions about the story. The outstanding ones were each awarded a book.

In my experience, outreach ministries have brought many lost souls to Jesus.  No wonder Pastor Jeremy Norton calls this church activity: Saving lives . . . eternally!  “Jesus was all about outreach ministry,” he said. 

Our Bible tells us that Jesus indeed moved from community to community, reaching out to throngs of people of every kind, bringing the lost to God so that that all may be saved. 

I am deeply grateful to—their names off the top of my head—Anne, Aaron, Carla, Ely, Esther, Joseph, Kit, Malou, Rhiza, Ric, Ruth,Tes, Twinzel, Yvonne, plus many more. They spend time, effort, and resources so that this ministry will stand strong week after week after week. We who are older, and therefore sapped of their kind of energy, can only watch in the sidelines.  

On my wobbly (and sometimes aching) knees, I pray for grace to rain on these faithful outreachers and the children—close to a hundred now—they minister to, so that more and more lives may be saved.

#anyareCOMELEC?

In the language of millennials, this Facebook hashtag means: what happened, COMELEC?

It begs for answers to explain the multiple mishaps and irregularities that took place on May 13, mid-term Election Day. This ignited opposition groups to join forces in mounting a protest rally in front of the Philippine International convention Center (PICC) where the COMELEC (Commission on Elections) are still canvassing the votes—as of this post.    

Various groups of protesters marched from different parts of Metro Manila to call on COMELEC to bare what transpired during the seven-hour delay in the transmission of results from the transparency server—aside from glitches such as “961 malfunctioning VCMs, 1,665 defective SD cards, and 1.02 million bleeding markers.”

Photos and videos of people pre-marking heaps of ballots have also been doing the rounds on social media.

#anyareCOMELEC?

Weeks before the election, the National Citizens' Movement for Free Elections (NAMFREL), a credible election watchdog since 1984, opted out of the polls because COMELEC—for the first time—prohibited access to data that would be published on NAMFREL’S website for transparency. On this website, we read, “NAMFREL’S commitment to clean elections was best shown during the 1986 snap presidential elections with over 500,000 volunteers who offered their time, energy and even their lives, to preserve the sanctity of the ballot.”

#anyareCOMELEC?

Because serious suspicions of massive deception resulting in the wholesale loss of opposition senatorial candidates, Neri Colmenares, one of them, refuses to concede.

Many rallyists stressed, “Seven hours of silence is anomalous!”

On the same day, the opposition Liberal Party (LP) asked the COMELEC to identify the areas where defective voting machines held up balloting for hours, “possibly disenfranchising some 500,000 voters.”

Some groups also urged the COMELEC to conduct a special random manual audit of the elections to erase fears of manipulation.

Whether COMELEC will give coherent answers is uncertain. Up until then, #anyariCOMELEC? is a question I (and many others) will continue to ask again and again.

“No one who practices deceit shall dwell in my house; no one who utters lies shall continue before my eyes.” Psalm 101:7

Photo credits: Inquirer.net; Rappler; CNN Philippines; Twitter; and various posts on FB

“It is Difficult to Love This Country”

It’s been six days since our mid-term elections, and the grief I feel is still lodged deep in my heart. I share this grief with many friends who have the courage to vent it on social media.

All the eight senatorial candidates I voted for lost. It was a straight win for the administration’s bets. If the results were the choice of the people, I would have said, so be it. 

But there were big, major glitches that could not be explained: over a thousand voting machines conked out; thousands of voters were disenfranchised; there was massive vote buying. And worst of all, there was a seven-hour blackout after the initial results were released where all the administration candidates (some of whom have zero platforms and experience in legislative work; some have been accused of plunder) were leading by a mile.

People stayed up all night waiting for partial results—zilch. Seven hours later, we got the same trend as those initially released.

Reading today the column of an esteemed author and national artist for literature, F. Sionil Jose, whose hometown is next-door to mine, I felt grace woven into his moving prose. He titled it, “It is difficult to love this country, so we leave.” He articulates what I could not begin to express.

May I quote him?

“It is difficult to love this country. But it is easier to do so if we think of her as our motherland, the way our mothers nurtured us, embraced us, and gave us their warmth, their loyalty, and caring . . .

“And so I go to the old hometown often, to look at immemorial vistas of well-cared fields and a people made enduring by work. I go there to listen to a language to which I was born but which I don’t really use anymore. Listening to it, I wallow in memory and I feel alive, keen to the sound of living, of memories of the past that I have read about which I know are now entwined with every fiber of my being as a writer who belongs to this unhappy country.”  
                        

"My Sad Republic" by BenCab*

Yes, it is difficult to love this country, and I will leave it someday. Not to other lands, but to where my citizenship belongs.

"But we are citizens of heaven, where the Lord Jesus Christ lives. And we are eagerly waiting for him to return as our Savior."  Philippians 3:20 (NLT)

*BenCab, short for Benjamin Cabrera, is another Philippine national artist (visual arts-painting).  

Puppy Love

That intense feeling of attachment to someone that usually visits young people does not last long. It is romantic love that is transitory, as the world defines it. It fades away as he/she becomes older. That’s why it’s called puppy love.

Our puppy, Judge (born on Christmas eve), was so cute and so cuddly we all loved him to pieces. We were so intensely attached to him so much so that he began and ended our days.  We raced to put him in our lap, pet him, and play with him.

That was just six months ago. Too fast, he has grown into a real dog, no longer a puppy, and has ceased to be cute and cuddly. Where has puppy love gone?     

Judge sleeping with his mom, Attorney

Don’t get me wrong; we all love Judge still, but that feeling is no longer as intense as when he was little.

Thank God, grace isn't like puppy love. It is love everlasting. It is there for us from the womb to the tomb. It does not diminish. In fact, it grows as we mature spiritually. In a way, it matches our faith. It remains as intense as the awe, wonder, and gratitude with which we receive it.

"Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my live, and I shall dwell in the house of the LORD forever." Psalm 23:6 (KJV)   

Judge (middle) on Christmas Day 2018