Missing Minna: Giggles and Trust

We lost my dearest cousin, Minna, a year ago. Her death caused great grief among her siblings and their families. I have no words to express how I myself felt then, and how I feel now. 

She was not only a cousin, she was my BFF. 

We grew up and went to school together in the hometown of our mothers, who were sisters and each other’s BFF, as well. They gifted us with twin watches on our grade school graduation day. In those years, “inseparable” was how we were described. 

We went our separate ways after college. She immigrated to the US, but when I was there briefly for my master’s degree, I took a 26-hour Greyhound bus ride from Chicago to meet her in New York one summer. 

There were many intervening years when we didn’t see each other, but whenever we did, the years slipped away. I can’t remember a day without giggling when I was with her. We’d find humor in almost everything. 

Each time she came home for official busines, it was an unwritten rule that she’d stay in our place, with me and my family. I’d take a leave from work, cancel all appointments, and postpone my book deadlines, so we could go shopping (she was an incorrigible shopper!) have a massage, go to the spa, visit a dermatologist, swing by the coffee shop, and watch movies. We’d hire a van so we could travel to our little town and visit loved ones and the graves of our parents. 

“I have to open some bank accounts,” she declared in one of those visits. To my utter shock and surprise, she put them in both our names, and left the passbooks with me.

“What?! You trust me with your money?!” 

“I trust you with my life!” she said, and we giggled. 

Minna had formidable credentials under her belt—a postgraduate degree from a big university, where she lectured; EVP in a huge NYC bank; plus, plus, plus. But when we were together, we regressed to those innocent days when we had nothing.    

In 2016, Tony and I flew to California to visit son #2 and his family. Without my asking him, JB booked our flight to New York to visit Minna. What a precious gift! She took us around and we recorded our excitement in photos. 

Little did I know that this would be my last time to be with her.  

Staring at the above photo today, I could hear her voice, “I trust you with my life!” 

That life ended last year—but only on Earth. I will meet her again in the home of the God we trust. There we will giggle the hours away and enjoy our unending life, teeming with unending grace.  

Couch Potato? Not!

"Couch potato” joined our idioms list in the 70s, when a man named Tom Iacino from California, USA, nonchalantly mentioned the phrase to his friend, Bob Armstrong, a cartoonist.   

Bob asked if he could use the phrase to describe his two inert and lazy cartoon characters who idled their time away watching TV. So there. 

That idiom was one of my greatest fears.  

I had just arrived from the US, where I finished degrees in communications and performing arts, to be Tony’s bride. After we settled into a cozy apartment unit, I was raring to put to use my degrees: communicate and perform! 

But Tony (this I did not expect) said, “No wife of mine is going to work.” He uttered words I don’t remember, but sounded like, “You be the homemaker and I be the bread winner.” 

A tyro wife does as told, so I was resolute in perfecting our home.

Ooops.

One day was unbelievably long. Even if I read a book or two, scrubbed the bathroom twice, did general cleaning daily, there was an aching vacuum for idleness. I stared at our new TV, and it stared back at me. “Oh, no, you don’t!” I warned both the idiot box and me. 

Ergo, I had no favorite TV show. My boob tube time was as long as the 6 o’clock news. A few shorts months later, however, before I could learn to cook, Tony saw through my feigned-martyrish look, relented, and allowed me to take on a corporate job . . . but I digress. 

ooo

The pandemic came, carting along more time than we will ever need, and upending even my toughest resolve. Well, I have not morphed into a full-time couch potato (thank heavens, I am surrounded with books and the will to write more). But. 

After supper, every night (every single night!), Tony, son #3, and I head to the master’s bedroom to watch, laugh, and enjoy several episodes of “Everybody Loves Raymond” before we call it a day. (Years back, during a rare simultaneous break, this was our favorite family fare, which everyone enjoyed. But that was short and sweet. Our busy routines resumed.)   

Busyness took on a new meaning and a new place while under quarantine: WFH (work from home). So wow, we're back to this fave—with a vengeance. Four to five spidodes per night! I have succumbed to being a part-time bed potato. 

This sitcom about an ordinary family with an extraordinary cast was a hit on American TV and it is again a hit for me! Aside from eliciting loud guffaws, the show's characters are certainly familiar:  overbearing mom-in-law, ornery dad-in law; laconic husband with a blob of an envious brother; narrow-eyed wife, and adorable kids. Stellar!

“Everybody Loves Raymond” was hailed by critics as well—62 nominations and 15 Emmys! 

To date, we have watched all episodes (including bloopers, deleted scenes, anniversary events, media interviews, all edits to promote the show) and now re-watching some, but the pandemic hurdles on, going beyond one year now. 

So this part-time bed potato badly needs another TV show for her after-supper idle hours. 

Among Tony’s still unopened DVD collection is the complete series of another multi-awarded and much-hailed old sitcom, “Frasier.”  

Yes! 

The Rituals of Our Lives

 After I had posted my blog on Mother’s Day, I received another gift. This one comes every year like clockwork: a dozen lovely flowers!  

Tony takes my photo to serve as our receipt for this bundle of beauties.   

This year, however, this gift—from son #2, his wife, and son in the US—is extra special. Amidst the  chaotic pandemic, this annual ritual makes everything seem normal. It affirms the relationships we value; they do not change with any crisis. 

I borrowed my blog title from Robert Fulghum’s book From Beginning to End because this annual gift does not only mark time; it creates time. Rituals particularly interest me because one college course that I taught, Consumer Behaviour, proved that most purchasing activities are for rituals. 

If I added the numbers of all our holiday observances (Easter, Christmas, Independence Day, etc.), family gatherings (births, anniversaries, graduations, weddings, reunions, etc.), and all the commemorative dates (World Health Day, Down Syndrome Day, etc.), the sum would be more than half a year! Think of all the goods bought on those days. 

Undoubtedly, rituals are essential, whether for pleasure, for dealing with pain, for peace during uncertainty, or for building stronger faith in God’s grace. 

Rituals become even more significant because of their artefacts: toga for graduation; bouquet for weddings; champagne for victory; fireworks on New ear’s eve, etc.  

For me, artefacts are a dozen flowers on Mother’s Day!  

Robert Fulghum deepened the meaning of rituals when he wrote, “Rituals do not always involve words, occasions, officials, or an audience. Rituals are often silent, solitary, and self-contained. The most powerful . . . are reflective—when you look back on your life again and again, paying attention to the rivers you have crossed and the gates you have opened and walked on through, the thresholds you have passed over . . .” 

Writing this post has been one such ritual. 

When a Challenger Backs Out

“Modern Lapu-Lapu,” Harry Roque gushed, referring to his boss. 

In Philippine history books, Lapu-Lapu is the first Filipino hero. He bravely fought and thwarted Ferdinand Magellan when he tried to conquer the island of Mactan, of which Lapu-Lapu was the datu (head). This courageous hero is an epitome of patriotism, unwilling to cede the country to foreign rule. 

“Like Lapu-Lapu,” Roque rhapsodized, “President Duterte has an independent foreign policy.” What the Spox omitted was that the president has been tiptoeing around China, the aggressive claimant to the West Philippine Sea (WPS). 

In fact, Duterte admitted in one speech that he is ‘inutile, cannot do anything against China’s aggression at the WPS.”  

Then, in a state of pique, the president also said in his curse-laden weekly Talk to the People, “[translation mine] This Carpio, he keeps writing decision for his brain only . . . He is stupid . . . Supreme Court justice. We are both lawyers. Do you want to debate this?” 

(Antonio Carpio, 71, a former Associate Justice and acting Chief Justice of the Supreme Court four times, works "to protect and preserve Philippine territorial and maritime sovereignty specifically in the WPS.” In 2015, he presented our historical and legal case on the dispute before think tanks and universities in 30 cities covering 17 countries. Two years later, he published an eBook titled "The South China Sea Dispute: Philippine Sovereign Rights and Jurisdiction in the West Philippine Sea." ) 

Immediately, Justice Carpio accepted President Duterte’s challenge for a debate on the WPS. The Philippine Bar Association volunteered to host the event for free. 

Adrenaline hit me and I posted on social media that I will cancel all appointments to watch this high-powered event!  

Suddenly I was deluged with messages and memes from well-meaning friends. Each note was incredulous:   

“Grace! You believe this president?!” 

“Are you naive? This won’t happen.” 

“Don’t you know yet that this president has no word of honor?!” 

“He lies! What he says today is different from what he’ll say tomorrow.” 

My reply: “Hope springs eternal.”  

My hope was dashed. True enough, two days later, the challenger backed out, and pushed Roque as proxy—but not on the WPS.  Roque said, "The president would not stoop down to the level of a regular lawyer."

But, but, I thought. It was the president who dared Carpio to debate! He is the challenger!   

Below is just one of many news reports on the president's backing out: 

It got a whopping 128 thousand laughing reactions, 21K comments, and 52K shares! Incredible. All the comments echoed my friends’ stinging messages to me. 

Why did I not see this coming? 

One part of me did, but the bigger chunk of me, as a writer on grace, had hoped that my country's president is the modern-day Lapu-Lapu, a man of honor, a defender of his people, and will shun cursing to follow the basic rules of debate. 

Sob. 

Lapu-Lapu LaughFest

Tony loves history and so do our sons. I don’t. But grace equips me to understand its significance in the context of Philippine independence from foreign rule. This post, then, tackles history—with hilarity.  

European history books celebrate the expedition of Ferdinand Magellan (a Portugese explorer) as the first Spanish voyage—with 270 men on five ships—to circumnavigate the Earth.

Filipino history books, on the other hand, celebrate the victory of Lapu-Lapu, hailed as our first Filipino hero, in ending Magellan’s life and his expedition on its third year. 

Background: Magellan reached our country in March 1521 and used both diplomacy and force to convert local leaders to Catholicism and submit to the authority of the Spanish king.

Rajah Humabon of Cebu and other local rulers formed an alliance with Magellan. To widen his territory, Magellan wanted to conquer the island of Mactan as well. But Lapu-Lapu, the island’s datu (head), refused to negotiate.

Magellan and his men joined forces with Humabon and attacked Mactan at dawn. Lapu-Lapu and his indigenous warriors met them on the beach. The fierce battle, which lasted within an hour, saw Magellan and most of his men killed. Only one ship and 18 survivors limped back to Seville. 

That was on April 27, 1521, 500 years ago. 

Every year, we commemorate this important day—The Battle of Mactan—when Filipinos resisted a foreign colonizer. In particular, we remember how Lapu-Lapu roused his band of warriors to trounce the Spanish threat to their independence. 

Early this year, the Bangko Sentral ng Pilipinas (Central Bank of the Philippines)  unveiled the commemorative banknote and medal of Lapu-Lapu’s heroism. 

The 500th anniversary of the Battle of Mactan—organised by the National Quincentennial Committee—paid tribute to Lapu-Lapu’s unique bravery and leadership with a series of celebratory activities.   

Lapu-Lapu left quite a legacy. The Declaration of Philippine Independence refers to him, and at the center of the island of Mactan today is a statue of this great combatant who fought for our autonomy.  

Those are the historical facts.    

Then came the speech of Harry Roque, spokesperson of our president. He declared: “President Duterte is my modern-day Lapu-Lapu.”

Huh? 

Friends and foe often hear Duterte openly profess his love for China—and therefore tip-toes around its president, Xi Jinping. “We are a province of China,” he said in one speech, and allows Chinese ships freely fish (loot?) and roam the West Philippine Sea (a part of our exclusive economic zone).  

The collective response was 34,000+ Haha emojis! I have never seen an FB post with just one type of reaction clicked by everyone who read the post. 

Without meaning to disrespect Lapu-Lapu, I clicked the laughing emoji, too. 

Photo credits: Inquirer.net and Rappler

Mouse, Mousse, and Moolah on Mom’s Day

A week before Mother’s Day, two of my three sons each decided to give me a gift. 

Son #3 had a mango mousse delivered because it was on special sale that day. He said, “That’s for Mother’s Day.”

My heart danced.  

Son #1 was going to have his computer serviced in the mall, and I requested him to buy me an extra mouse in case mine conked out. He gave me the mouse, and naturally I asked, “How much do I owe you?”

He replied, “None. It’s a Mother’s Day gift.” 

My heart danced again.  

Son #2, who lives abroad, sends me moolah for “expenses” any day of the year. I take that as another Mom’s Day gift—and another chance for my heart to dance whenever I receive it.  

It’s true what people say: boys are not into frills, fuss, and rituals. Neither are they effusive. I live without peripherals; Mother’s Day, for me, is all days of the year. 

Here they are celebrating their own birthdays, that special day when each was delivered, not by a stork, but by the Father of all. 

Ahhh, I am waxing nostalgic. Grace weaves in and around me during this pandemic. 

“Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb is a reward.” (Psalm 127:3 NKJV)  

At 14, No Doters Allowed

Our only grandson, Adrian, turns 14 today. 

At this age, according to psychologists, teenagers may feel embarrassed by their family—especially by those who dote on them in public. And yet, that is exactly what I am doing and risking. Gosh. 

A beloved grandchild turns 14 only once. His growth spurts and suddenly, he towers over the dwarfs in the family (me). 

Let me flex how handsome he looks in his latest photos.  

I am now singing the same tune I blogged about when he was a baby. Link here.  

His first photo was inside his mother's womb. 

Although he lives abroad and would come home for vacation only once a year before the pandemic, those short visits allowed us to dote on him as he was young, unaware, and wink, wink, bribable. I have tons of his photos, which I keep in an album of grace.   

To Adrian, Angkong and Amah (Chinese honorifics for father of your father and mother of your father) wish you a blessed 14th birthday! 

You’re probably cringing while reading this post, but hey, doddering grandparents are allowed some folly, right? 

"Children’s children are a crown to the aged, and parents are the pride of their children." (Proverbs 17:6 NIV) 

Photo credits:  (Adrian's solo shots above) Gianina Chong

Is Peace Possible?

“Elusive” was how Pastor Cole described peace in his virtual message one Sunday. 

Spot on, I thought. 

The whole world has always dreamed of peace, but there will never be a day without war. Man has invented symbols for peace, but none has paved the way for global peace. The world will always be in turmoil, until the Lord comes again. 

More than ever, that’s how it is today. 

Many of my friends, relatives of friends, and loved ones who tested positive for Covid-19 had lost the battle.  Daily, we read online about patients hopping from one hospital to another but couldn't be admitted because of full occupancy. Our frontliners are overworked and tired; many of them had joined the casualty statistics. Facebook now seems like an obituary. 

There aren’t enough vaccines, mass testing is not possible, and the lockdown in whatever level of “Q” is causing the uptick of mental health problems (among all ages). Our government operates on a day-to-day basis, depending on numbers. The economy is on its knees. Many of us have lost our jobs and closed our businesses. Book publishing has collapsed. 

We go to bed at night and wake up to a new day asking ourselves, What now? 

Is peace possible? 

What now? must have been the question in the minds of the disciples when the resurrected Jesus was bidding them goodbye on His way to back to heaven. Here they were with the Man, for whom they abandoned their homes, jobs, and all they had, about to leave them. They felt helpless, hopeless, bothered, bewildered—plus more adjectives describing anxiety, which we are similarly experiencing  today as we trudge through the pandemic. 

Peace is "elusive.” 

But Jesus said, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” (John 14:27 NIV)  

"These words are both a promise and a command," our pastor added. Jesus bequeathed to them His peace, which is not how the world defines it. He promised them a personalized, inner, spiritual peace. Then he commanded them not to be individually anxious because His peace will never leave them. 

It is in the command that we need enabling grace. 

For and by ourselves, we cannot attain peace unless we seek it. And finding it depends on the depth of our personal relationship with Jesus. If we focus on Him, only Him (instead of where we are today and tomorrow), He will empower us to have peace.    

Yes, peace is "elusive.” It is possible ONLY if we fix our eyes upon the One who bestows it.   

Ode on Lugaw

Lugaw is the Philippines’ generic term for soupy boiled rice. It is our version of: gruel, porridge, bubur, or congee. It belongs to the family of thick broth, which we usually serve to sick loved ones in bed—like a healing potion.  

Considered to be a poor man’s dish in the old days, lugaw in recent years has been elevated to real food as classy restaurants now serve their fusion version of it.  

We have other nicknames for lugaw: champorado (flavored with chocolate), goto (with innards and tripe), and arroz caldo (with chicken meat). 

Arroz caldo has a special place in my heart . . . 

Before my eldest son was born, I never experienced a traditional noche buena (midnight dinner on Christmas eve). Growing up, I would attend with family the Christmas vesper service, after which, the youth group would come to our house for a fellowship: Christmas carols, games, yummy arroz caldo prepared by Manang Ibay (our longtime househelp), ending with a thanksgiving prayer. Everything was over by 9:00 PM, and we would all retire to bed.

Years later, now with a family of my own, Tony and I would create traditions for our kids—noche buena is one of them.

In the last five years, lugaw has become a derogatory tag for Vice President Leni Roberto (a vocal critic of lapses in governance) hurled by die-hard fans of President Duterte. Lugaw Leni meant: lightweight, brainless, and spineless.

Uncowed, VP Leni, in partnership with the private sector, has continued actively helping with calamity and pandemic problems: ride for frontliners, swab tests, donation of PPEs, food packs, plus more. She never took issue with the monicker; instead, she claimed it with good humor.  

One day last month, a lugaw delivery boy was prohibited by a Barangay official to enter a village because of safety protocols. She said, “Lugaw is not essential food,” and read a list without lugaw. 

This incident caused a great furor among netizens; the tragic incident has gone viral, prompting the presidential spokesperson to announce that “Lugaw is essential food.” 

That turned the tide for lugaw. 

Thousands of communications content—hashtags, messages, comments, and editorials—picked up the line, “Lugaw is essential.”

In fact, VP Leni’s 56th birthday was dubbed by her supporters as National Lugaw Day, serving lugaw to poor communities. Photos of lugaw cooked in many homes populated social media.  

All this celebratory lugaw hoo-ha makes me hark back to my growing up years when arroz caldo was our special food to celebrate the symbolic birth of our Savior. 

Long before lugaw was officially declared essential by the government, it has always been essential for me.  

24/7 Roving CCTV

Watching police stories on TV makes one wonder how these crime busters could operate without a CCTV (closed-circuit television). They rely on this equipment heavily when tracing the movements of a murder suspect or anyone who violates the law.  

Unfortunately, many suspects are able to escape and disappear because CCTVs can’t be everywhere—not in: dark, narrow alleys; spaces between buildings; or a wide parking lot. The elusive and tricky culprits know how not to get caught. And they certainly know that they can commit a crime over and over again and walk away scot-free.  

Ah, but they will definitely be caught and be held accountable. The divine Audio-video Roving 24/7 CCTV hears and sees all. 

God sees everything we do and hears everything we say every moment of the day. Hebrews 4:13 (NLT) says, “Nothing in all creation is hidden from God. Everything is naked and exposed before his eyes, and he is the one to whom we are accountable.” 

In Proverbs 15:3, we are told that “The LORD is watching everywhere, keeping his eye on both the evil and the good.” 

With Him, every crime is solved and judged. What’s even more reassuring is that the reverse is true. God sees and hears all the good things we do. “. . . the Lord watches over those who fear him, those who rely on his unfailing love. He rescues them from death and keeps them alive in times of famine.” (Psalm 33:18-19) 

God protects and rescues His children who may be in trouble.  

Reflect and pray: 

I take comfort in knowing that God sees everything that happens in the world—no bad or good deeds escape Him. How do I thank Him for being with me all the seconds, minutes, and hours of my day? 

ooo 

Reading to a Sibling

Six years ago, I received this inspiring note from a girl named Jasmine, whom I have never met. It was sent by her mom via private message. 

Jasmine: “I love Oh, Mateo series. I love collecting them, but I still don’t have #2 and #13. They’re not available in bookstores. Mateo is my favorite character; thank you for writing. I am now reading those books to my baby brother.”  

Me: “Thank you for reading to your baby brother. By this wonderful gesture, you are making sure he will be a book lover like you!  Where in Manila do you live? Maybe OMFLit  bookstores would have those two missing books. Thank you again! Hope to meet you and your little brother soon." 

Jasmine: "Thank you very much po for your reply. I also want to meet you in person.” 

ooo

Six years later . . . 

Jasmine: “This time, he’s reading on his own.”  

Me: “Oh, wow! What a pleasant morning to wake up to! Thank you for sending me this photo! I will treasure it forever!” 

Jasmine (after two weeks): “Done with 15 books—15 nights of bedtime!” 

Their mom also posted these photos on her FB page, which I saw after she had accepted my friend request. Her added message delighted me even more:  Her little boy had read the stories to her! 

With her and her husband's permission, I am privileged to blog about it all.  

This has to be triple grace for a reading advocate like me: 1) my last post was about dads (not moms) being better story readers to children;  2) this post is about a sibling reading to a younger sibling; and 3) the younger sibling, reading on his own at age 6, is now a book lover too! 

In my book talks, I explain the reasons why I write for children. Now I have a special reason added to my list: Jasmine. 

When I first received her message in 2015, I thought it was just a passing fancy for her. 

It's 2021, and I am told of the harvest! She consistently read to her younger brother, now aged 6 and a bookworm, too. To say it is a bountiful harvest is an understatement. It is unprecedented. 

With the pandemic, however, it could be replicated in many households.  

Parents could emulate Jasmine’s by encouraging their older children to read to the younger ones. The reader, aside from feeling a sense of responsibility by helping with her parents’ role, aids the listener in boosting his knowledge, enriching his vocabulary, and kickstarting his comprehension and communication skills—while improving hers in all those areas as well. 

Virtual schooling today has been a mixed bag: kids at home thrive without the pressures of face-to-face classrooms; others have struggled without facilities and the social environment. Educators were unprepared—it’s been a year of trial and error and forced flexibility for online learning. 

But with a child like Jasmine, parents may have found the perfect model for love of reading. 

Like a broken record, I reiterate that reading books is incredibly rewarding. It encourages kids’ imagination to go into overdrive, honing their creativity and critical thinking. 

And most important of all, kids who read can mine and find gems in God’s book, the Bible. 

ooo

This book, commissioned by the Philippine Eagle Foundation (and published By Caltex Philippines) inspired my reading advocacy.  

Written by son #3, JR (then 10 years old), and moi 

Illustrations by a dear friend, Longlong Pesquira, gratis et amore. 

When Dad (not Mom) Reads

Since the year 2001, when my first children’s book, Fly, Malaya, Fly! (originally written by my then 10-year-old youngest son and therefore my co-author) was published, I have become a reading advocate. 

What's a reading advocate?

"Someone who values literacy and therefore actively pursues it by encouraging children to read." As they grow up, these children will love reading and understand its importance in their development—and success—as adults. 

A reading advocate, therefore, helps build a literacy-rich environment. To this end, I continue writing books with Christian values that children will enjoy reading and learning from.  

In my book talks, before Covid-19, I emphasized the importance of reading aloud to children every day, until the kids are able to read on their own. Although I know a few fathers who read to their children, the image in my slides was of a mother-and-child, which is the norm.  

Then the pandemic forced both parents to work from home. An image I never used before came via social media. My niece sent me these delightful photos of her husband (not her) reading my book to their child, Praise.  

This pushed me to read up on father-and-child, and woohoo! There have been concluding research data over the years: “When dad reads, he helps improve kids' development more.” 

More?  

“A study involving 400 fathers found that kids benefit more when fathers read bedtime stories than when their mothers do it.” 

The results showed a huge impact on the kids’ language development after a year, and their literacy, two years later. The mothers' reading had no such significance.   

Why?  

Fathers used more “abstract and complex language,” often linking events in the book to their own experience. For example, when a cave was in the book, many fathers narrated the time they entered one and how amazed they were. On the other hand, mothers focused more on the book’s details, often asking children to count objects or identify colors. 

“The dads’ abstract thinking is better for kids' brains because it's more challenging.” 

With time on my hands, I dug into the Internet for more data. I was gifted with heaps of heartwarming images:  

As  a reading advocate, I resolve, from now, to include fathers in this cause. As they begin to read a book to their kids, they will discover that sowing a few seeds of reading will reap a million grace. 

Look closely at the photos above—salute the new reading advocates called "Dad."  

Photo credits: Doreen (collage above); the Net (collage below)    

Young Ones, Young Once

My memory is selective (okay, spotty). There are those I remember vividly and those that I don’t at all. 

This is one of them.

It was my cousin Luding’s wedding and I was the flower girl. Perhaps the reason I can’t recall this occasion is that I was a flower girl in too many weddings (forced to wear itchy and fancy gowns), I chose to forget them all. 

What I do remember are the other events that involved most of the people in the photo. 

The ring bearer was my cousin Boying, who figured in a vehicular accident with my younger brother, Matt, and another cousin, Gadong, in their early teens. Boying was the most banged up, and did not make it to the hospital alive. This tragic event is one chapter in my book, The Other Cheek.  

The best man, uncle Johnny, eventually married the maid of honor, Auntie Nenet. Although we don’t see each other anymore, we sometimes meet up on Facebook with their children and their families.  

Uncle Romy (behind the groom), the main sponsor, was like my second dad. I lived with him and his wife, Auntie Ruth, when I went to high school in Baguio City. When I was told he succumbed to heart attack —I was away in the US for my post-graduate degree—I cried for days. A rock in life, he left dear Auntie Ruth (who joined him years later) and their four young children bereft.   

The groom, Manong Gallo, did not live long enough to meet his sons-and-daughters-in-law and dote on his grandchildren. 

And the lovely bride, Manang Luding, is now the oldest-living member of our huge clan. She’s had many ailments, but she still looks lovely today, with a lucid mind, at age 90.  

How did I find a copy of that tattered wedding photo featuring two young ones (the female one being me)? 

It was uploaded by a niece to Facebook (a grace-rich melting pot), and as I downloaded it, I realized I was young once.  

". . . Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day."  (2 Corinthians 4:16 NLT)

Photo credit (below): Vinya

Let Sleeping Dogs (and Cat) Lie

Every morning at six, since the pandemic started over a year ago, I wake up to this sight at our terrace. Same spot (despite the wide space around the house), different positions. Morning grace. 

I tiptoe so as not to wake them up. After all, they must have spent the whole night guarding our home and us from danger. 

Seeing them sleeping soundly, I remember the still popular old proverb that goes back to the 13th century. It actually alludes to waking up a fierce watchdog and causing trouble. 

Meaning?  

- leave a situation alone because disturbing it might cause trouble

- do not make a fuss to avert disagreement

- avoid bringing up memories of a bad situation that people have already forgotten

Our mother-and-son dogs, Attorney and Judge, do not mind being awakened. They are the opposite of this proverb. They are wonderfully affectionate and always enjoy a prolonged petting. If anyone in the household wakes them up, they wag their tails and immediately give obvious signals that translate to, “Please, pet me quick!” 

After which, they nap again. 

And then there is our cat, Fiscal. It is always asleep as well and when awakened, meows, begging to be carried by son #3 and taken inside the house for sightseeing.

Why is there so much sleeping these days? 

Why not? Their family (us) is forever at home—lolling about mostly. Unlike in the old days, prior to the coronavirus attack, all humans would be out at work or elsewhere and coming home would bring excessive excitement to our dogs-and-cat welcoming committee. Often, we’d take them out for a walk or let them out with their kind in the neighborhood.  

But the Covid-19 changed all that. 

And so they sleep—for lack of other things to do.   

And so we let sleeping dogs (and cat) lie.   

Awash with Cash

"Poor country." " Developing nation." "Third world." "Republic with poverty rate higher and more persistent than any country in Southeast Asia." 

Those words that economists use to describe our beloved Philippines are devastating. But facts are facts. And so we acknowledge our sorry state of affairs.  

Imagine my shock when I read one issue of last month’s newspaper. It came with a seven-full-page listing of our lawmakers’ salaries and expenses. My advertising mind immediately totaled the cost of the pages—more than P5 million in ad rates. Reading the items, audited and signed by one Isaiash C. Reynoso (OIC – supervising Auditor), I almost had a seizure! 

We are supposed to be poor.   

But if this is how our lawmakers spend the taxpayers’ money, why, we’re awash with cash!  I wished it were an April Fool's Day joke.   

There are 243 representatives and 24 senators, and not one of them receive an annual salary below P1 million! Their other expenses? 

    • Foreign travel 

    • Local Travel 

    • Contractual consultants 

    • Representation 

    • Chairmanship allowance 

    • Public Affairs fund 

    • Central office staff

    • Equipment, Furniture, and fixtures 

    • Extraordinary and Miscellaneous expenses

    • Meetings and conferences 

    • Supplies and materials

    • Rental of motor vehicles and equipment 

I am bad with figures; I can’t crunch numbers accurately, but common sense tells me that these run into billions of pesos. 

And for what? Only for crafting laws that many of them, especially those who have lost their conscience on the road to perdition, violate anyway (and get away with it). 

With all that cash, I can’t imagine why 44% (World Bank figure) of our population live in shanties without toilets, make-shift homes packed with adults and children suffering from incest, rape, malnutrition, and unhealthy environment. Well, those are why we are still classified as a poor country. 

Words fail me. 

May the Lord of all grace fill our heart with compassion, and rid our life of greed for cash. 

“For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil. And some people, craving money, have wandered from the true faith and pierced themselves with many sorrows.” (1 Timothy 6:10 NLT) 

Photo credits: top photo; bottom photo 

A Pandemic High

Coinciding with the highest one-day tally of coronavirus cases in the country (almost 10,000) was an equally high level of excitement in our household. 

It was the day son #3 defended his dissertation for Doctor of Juridical Science. It was held online, open to the public, but I decided to avoid watching to preserve my composure. Tony wasn’t vocal (never vocal) about his reason for staying away.  

At our perch in the terrace, we could hear son #3’s voice and the voices of the panel of distinguished justices and college of law deans. It seemed longer than two hours, but as soon as it was over, JR nonchalantly announced, “It went well. I was awarded Magna Cum Laude distinction.”  

“Say that again? Say that again?!” I shrieked. 

Tony and I went into an exceptional high, way above cloud nine, while still nailed to the ground.   

In minutes, the dean of JR’s school uploaded on social media the result of the defense of the paper, "Convergent Streams: The Common Law and Civil Law Traditions, the Magisterium, and Sola Scriptura."  

“What does that mean?” Tony wondered.

“Nobody has to understand,” JR replied with a straight face. “That’s how dissertations should be.”  

He narrated that about the only negative comment he received was, “Some parts are too literary.” 

(JR is a two-time Palanca awardee. I know how difficult it is to abandon one’s love for literature.)  

In the comment thread of the above post came this accolade from one of the panelists:  “Dr. JR, your treatise is far more comprehensive than any thesis some of our seminarians have done in our formation as priests. You contributed not only in the field of civil, but of canon, theology and history as well . . . Your book deserves a space in all seminary libraries in the Philippines.”  

“Ah, so!” Tony remarked, like the light suddenly turned on. “The paper is about how human laws and God’s laws meet.”   

Whatever, I said silently. This mom ignores details when grace suddenly shines through the darkness of a one-year old pandemic.  

“If not for the pandemic, I would never have had the time to finish that paper,” JR said, as though rebuking my thoughts.  

Ulk. That sounds like an April Fool’s Day joke.    

Your Money’s Worth

Once upon a time, a brilliant idea came upon my husband. That fairy-tale-opening phrase is an apt beginning for this story . . .   

His medium-sized advertising agency was thriving, and I was earning well as EVP in a multinational ad agency, yet he had this brilliant idea to make it big as a retail king, ala the owner of SM and other big store chains.

He found a number of apparel suppliers of seconds and production overruns that had tons of rejects from big department stores. After negotiating for a space in a new neighborhood mall, the owner of which was his client, he decided to sell the goods he could get for a song, at rock-bottom prices.  

My meager contributions to the project were my excitement, its name and the logo, which one of my art directors designed—for the love of Grace. 

“Your Money’s Worth.” 

Both busy full-time, we hired people to man the store and see to the day-to-day operations. We would go there after office hours and bask in the sight of a crowd of bargain seekers. 

They’d grab items, priced in big stores for P250, sold for only P25 in ours. Soon, wholesale buyers, such as store owners in the provinces, would regularly flock to the shop.  

Just over a year later, however, the suppliers suddenly refused to sell to Tony,  with the excuse that stocks were scarce. They never revealed the real reason why this happened, but my husband suspects to this day that SM, who sold the “perfect” goods, found out about the idea and bought all the imperfect ones as well for its own.  

Tony’s vision of becoming a retail king was quashed before it could take off. 

Was it a coincidence that SM set up its own “Your Money’s Worth” and called it Surplus Store, a few meters outside its main department store? Although the prices are not as cheap as our old shop’s, it is booming and has made the big retail king who owns the department store a bigger retail king.

Whenever I see our old store sign, which we have kept as a corner décor in our home, I tell Tony, “You were ahead of your time.” 

Immodestly he replies, “Always.” 

A fairy tale it was. The end.  

"We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps." (Proverbs 16:9 NLT)

GUEST BLOG: Cars, Cars, Cars

(For the first time in my 15 blogging years, I am sharing a guest post, originally published in Storyworth. The writer has not given me his permission, but I am sure he won;t mind. He was my first boss, and eventually, my husband. With feminism going strong, there is a debate on who is boss. Wink, wink. Seriously, I am posting this because I share his core values.)  

Being a practical person, I’ve never been fussy about my lifestyle, and cars.  Probably because of my Chinese roots, I’ve always looked at things from a functional point of view. For me, a car is for utility, a conveyance that can give me mobility. Period.   

Unlike some of my colleagues when I was just starting out in a multinational ad agency, I never craved for flashy or expensive cars. Aside from the fact that I could not afford them, I’ve never felt the need to keep up with my friends who show off expensive things for image. 

I’ve always liked being casual. So the first car I ever owned was a second-hand Renault R-6 from France. This was in the late 60s when people were sporting big American cars such as Chevy,  Rambler, and Ford. Mine was a small but sturdy car that could get me to Baguio City and back to Manila on a full tank, which cost about 35 pesos!

Being a compact car, the R-6 was a mechanical wonder. It hardly required maintenance because it had few parts that needed changing. All the care it needed was regular oil-change. It served me well in my bachelorhood as it brought me safely to Umingan, a three-hour drive over rugged roads from my home in Quezon City to visit future in-laws and asked for the hand of their daughter in absentia, because Grace was then still finishing her studies in the USA.

The R-6 served me well into married life. But the drive to Umingan was becoming more challenging because it seemed that the rugged one-hour stretch from the main highway into the old lazy town was becoming more rugged with stones flying all around and into the car which had no air-conditioning. When our first son was born, I told my wife I needed a better car with air-conditioning because I didn’t want my first born to be inhaling all that dust every time went to Umingan, which happened once every month.

It was then that I bought a used Toyota Corona. It had air-conditioning and a small refrigerator in its trunk. It would have been an ideal car because it was fuel efficient and was roomy enough for a small family of three plus one yaya. Our trips to Umingan became more comfortable and tolerable despite the deteriorating road condition. 

But alas, one day it was bumped from behind by a truck. The truck owner happened to be a friend and not wanting to incur my ire, offered to exchange cars – my Corona for his brand-new Dodge Colt. I agreed and this time I had changed cars without intending to.  I soon found out that the Dodge Colt, with its overhead cam drive, was expensive to maintain.  Aside from this, it was a gasoline guzzler. This naturally made me suspicious why my so-called “friend” offered me a deal I couldn’t refuse. Bah!

This left me no choice but to shop around for another car. This time, I looked for a brand new car just about the size of my old Toyota and as fuel-efficient. This was how I landed my first brand-new car, a Mitsubishi Lancer. 

I’ve since been changing cars or adding new ones into our garage. 

Guest blogger: Tony Chong

Flash Post

Urban dictionary defines “flash post” as something uploaded on social media that is quickly deleted if the person posting it does not get any "likes" or positive comments. 

This “flash post” (my first on this blogsite) is the opposite. It got a mind-boggling 653 thumbs-up, heart, and laughing emojis!  

I say mind-boggling because I never got this many well-wishers—not even when I posted about my Life Achievement Award in Children’s Literature, a bestowal beyond my belief! Surely this recognition is so much bigger than the Duterte administration’s spox refusing to reveal his Covid-19 test result after he had already announced he caught the virus?!   

It’s a mystery. Why would someone occupying a high government position of responsibility keep his test result a secret?   

We can only guess. And so I guessed, and 653 (and counting) people agreed with my guess when I took a screenshot of the post.  

So why am I rushing (it will be deleted after 24 hours) when it got tons of positive replies? Well, the news report reeks of disgrace—an attitude that has to be called out, but also called off quickly. 

Back to writing about grace. 

Days Are Long

In the summer, days are long. (Like this photo collage I learned to create for the first time.) 

When the North Pole of the Earth is tilted toward the Sun, we in the Philippines receive more sunlight. The sun rises earlier in the morning and sets later at night. 

Summer or not, however, days have been long for more than a year now, and it has nothing to do with the sun. It has everything to do with the coronavirus pandemic that immobilized us in our homes. 

We’ve been blessed with sooooo much extra time that was, pre-Covid 19, spent on dressing up, preparing our bags/brief case, traveling to and from wherever, grabbing a cab or squeezing into a bus or jeepney, traffic snarls, queuing for services or food, waiting for people to show up for appointments, walking from one place to another, etc.   

These activities and hours spent on them are gone. What does one do with a long day? 

A lot. 

“More” has never had so much meaning for me. More time to write, to read, to nap, to do crossword puzzles, to watch and enjoy nature, to pray, and to get in touch with family and friends over the phone and through the Internet. 

And the biggest bonus for me—more time to learn and play around with technology, which has been my stress point for years because of lack of time to fiddle with apps and the keyboard. 

One of these is image editing. 

While watching a replay of the launch of Memories of Grace,  I accidentally hit a key that paused the video. And after hitting another key, my image was frozen. I did this a few times and what do you know?  

I was rewarded with multiple head shots—more than I ever had in my lifetime! 

Now I don’t need to reply, “Sorry, but I don’t have a recent photo of myself.” 

Here they are: multiple grace—the Grace that is my name, and the grace that is always dropped from above exactly when I need it. 

I can now give my photos a new look (this one’s supposed to symbolize every long day) that has eluded my blogsite for 14 years.     

"This 

is the day 

that the Lord 

has made; 

let us rejoice 

and be glad in it."  

Psalm (118:24 ESV)

My Childhood Bedroom

In our nipa hut (bahay-kubo), which stood in the compound that included our church and my grandparents’ house, I shared a bedroom with all my four younger siblings, and our househelp, Manang Ibay. 

Yup, the house I remember when I was little was a hut. My description may not be accurate as I didn’t pay attention to details, but I am sure it was made of materials people refer to as a nipa hut. 

One had to take six steps of wooden stairs to the porch that opened to the living room, with bamboo slats for floor and nipa for walls. The thatched roof was made of anahaw, a local plant.  

That hut had another bedroom for my parents, a dining room cum kitchen, plus a roofless space called bangsal, which my sister called “bathroom under the stars.” It was for bathing, washing clothes, and storing water that had to be manually pumped. Under it was a haven for our pigs and alternative coop for our chickens. 

A few years later, however, my parents decided to replace the hut with a two-story, concrete-and-wood house. At that time I was away in the city for high school. When I went home during the summer break, the new house was halfway up. Because I was turning 13 in another year, my parents surprised me with a room of my own. 

It was small, with just enough space for a slim bed and an aparador (clothes bureau) with a slender mirror. 

But it had a wall where I could hang three framed photos. It also had two huge windows where I could look down, see movements and hear noises: the pigs would be eating or rolling in mud; the chickens, pecking grains they could find on the ground; and the water pump, creaking and squeaking when used. If I looked up, I could behold a tall coconut tree and the sky above it. 

Before my room could warm up to me, however, a husband-and-wife American missionaries, who were on a long journey, came by to say “hello.” My parents, solicitous and caring to faith brethren and God’s workers, convinced them to stay the night, so they’d be rested to continue traveling the next day. 

They offered my bedroom. 

That was the day my bedroom transformed into a guest room, a most logical place for stranded pastors and church workers to rest—and where delegates to a church conference would feel most comfortable. 

Me? I didn’t mind sleeping in the double-deck beds in my siblings’ bedroom.  

Then one day, our church decided to welcome a deaconess (a lady church worker, who had just graduated from the seminary, to lead the youth group for the year.) She was from a faraway town, so she needed a permanent lodging while she performed her assignment. 

Guess what place was offered her? 

She moved into my bedroom; I had to empty my aparador and migrate my clothes to my siblings’ bedroom. My photos on the wall stayed, however, as though staking their claim to the place. 

My bedroom, to my mind, was just on lease (for free) to someone who had an important ministry. Pretty soon I went to college and stayed in a dormitory (for four years). Whenever I went home for vacation, I would visit my bedroom, occupied by another guest (a church worker, no less), and find my photos on the wall smiling back at me.  

So what was my childhood bedroom like? 

It was a sanctuary for the stranded, for church guests, for God’s servants who needed to rest their head for the night, so they can continue laboring for the Lord through the day. 

Looking back now, years and years later, I would answer that same question with words borrowed from the Bible, “Not mine, but Thine” Lord. 

(Note: This article was originally published in Storyworth; photos were borrowed from the Net to represent my bedroom view; only professional photographers owned cameras then.)  

Abandoned Rooms

These photos were posted by a colleague and friend, Ailene, on social media. As soon as I saw them, my heart was smashed to smithereens. 

These were my twice-a-week classrooms, where I bantered, joked, chatted, and learned with my students for years before the pandemic crushed everything that physical interactions stood for. 

I remember the last day I was in these rooms . . . 

Classes were abruptly suspended, until further notice, because of a government advisory that the coronavirus has entered our shores. We all didn’t realize that such ordinary and normal day would be the beginning of extraordinary and abnormal changes in all our lives. 

Had I known that it would be my last day with my students, I would have at least hugged each one or gave them my one-liner to which they would let out a huge guffaw, “Now, listen, don’t do anything I won’t do!” 

They would retort: 

“Miss, that’s like saying ‘Go into a coma!’” 

“Kill me with a knife, not with boredom, Miss.” 

“Then I might as well go back to my mother’s womb!” 

“Miss, don’t be cruel!” 

Those rascals! 

That was exactly one year ago, today. I don’t know how much longer until I could step into these classrooms again. I pray it would be soon—before my last batch of students would all have children of their own and will totally forget about these places of grace.  

Empty rooms are one thing—they could be filled up anytime. But abandoned rooms? They stay vacant till there is a safe reason for them to be occupied again. 

“Abandoned” must have been how the disciples initially felt when Jesus was about to ascend to heaven. 

But He promised them, “. . . you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you.” (John 16:22 ESV) 

Humorous Memes

Born only in 1976, the word meme (coined by Richard Dawkins in his book The Selfish Gene) has become so popular that almost every netizen knows what it is or can even do one himself. 

It was Dawkin’s attempt to “explain how ideas replicate, mutate, and evolve [memetics].”  

Today, we all understand meme as a humorous anything: photo with a caption, a short video, witty phrase, etc. that is posted and re-posted (often with slight variations) rapidly on the Internet. Many become viral. 

Although meme is fairly new, its origin is old: mimema, a Greek word meaning “imitated.” 

Some of the funny memes are satires about what the pandemic has dumped on us; they make me enjoy the grace of laughter. 

This series, for those who are familiar with American celebrities, dramatizes—by using two famous names in one photo—what has happened to our demeanor as we drudge through the pandemic mud, or even just to survive. 

This other meme (below) focuses on our land—how the meme creator sees our president, who goes online once a week for his Covid-19 report to the nation, and perhaps what he does the rest of the week. 

It features a familiar photo of the president sleeping under a mosquito net, uploaded by people close to him to show what a simple life he leads. But the meme creator has found a way to make it funny and to editorialize on the president’s work ethics. 

“Humor can be one of of our best survival tools.” Allen Klein 

Chatting about Reading

There’s nothing more nerve-wracking than a video chat—live. 

I have to be totally focused and erectly seated within camera range because any sudden movement can push me off screen or distract the audience. I also have to be extra attentive to my chat-mate’s questions or the audience would click away from mindless non-sequiturs. 

Here’s the chat that vanished all those fears. 

It's called the National Library of the Philippines (NLP) Book Cart Project, aimed at encouraging  children to read, and hosted by Ate Melai, a well-loved and outstanding storyteller. 

She had invited me to some other NLP activities in the past. Unfortunately, these overlapped with my other events. 

The pandemic has souped up everything—as though flying in a Lockheed SR-71 plane or a race car at full speed. Without having to leave my workroom, I could participate in virtual events on books and reading anywhere in the globe. 

The interesting thing about a chat is that it is non-linear. There are no rules. It frees chatters from the constraints of any crisis. You can begin with the end and end with the beginning. On and on, we talked about the 13 W’s. Thirteen? Well, there are more actually, if you include whenever, whichever, wherever, whereupon, and whatchamacallit.  

She asked me about Mateo, the main character of my Oh, Mateo! series of 16 books, and I had a chance to show her the three Mateos of my life: (from right to left) my dad, my brother and his son, whose endearing qualities as a growing boy found their way into many of the stories.   

And then Ate Melai told the story of “Gone?” in Filipino (as translated by Dr. Luis Gatmaitan), complete with gestures only she can do. I guess a book for younger kids such as this needs histrionics that I have yet to learn. 

It was a one-and-half hour of laughter and fun—not nerve-wracking as I unfairly assumed.

In fact, it was  liberating grace that left me with this thought: being cloistered at home (almost a year now!) unlocks a world of possibilities.  

All You Need Is Love

“What did Uncle Bruno give you on Valentine’s day?” Little Lannie asked. 

“Love,” her Aunt Joan replied. 

“No flowers?” Lannie insisted. 

“Love,” Aunt Joan repeated, laughing. 

“Not even chocolates?” Lannie was incredulous.

“Dearie, why do husbands have to give their wives flowers and chocolates? 

“Because it’s Valentine’s Day. They say it’s the day of love!” 

“Say that last word again, dearie.” 

“. . . Love?” Lannie was confused. 

Special days created by marketing men naturally require consumers to buy goods. And on Valentine’s day, flowers and chocolates should sell. “Say it with flowers” is one such slogan that has created demand for what now seems to be the “symbols” of Valentine’s day. 

The Bible does not say anything about a husband giving his wife flowers or chocolates to show he loves her. We read something more important. 

Ephesians 5:25-33 (NLT) says that husbands must love their wives “. . . just as Christ loved the church. He gave up his life for her.”    

Scripture further tells us (v. 33) that "each man must love his wife as he loves himself . . .” 

After God created Eve from Adam’s ribs (Genesis 2:23-24), He brought her to Adam, who exclaimed, “At Last! This one is bone from my bone, and flesh from my flesh!’” The Lord called her woman because she was taken from man. This explains why a man leaves his father and mother and is joined to his wife, and the two are united into one. 

Aunt Joan explained, “Between a husband and wife, all we need is love. When you are older, Lannie, you will understand what that means.”  

Reflect and pray: 

Since I am not obliged to give (or receive) flowers on Valentine’s day, how can I make the “day of love” significant between me and my spouse?  

ooo