Back to Basics: CAMACOP

Worshipping the Lord in the same church, Christian And Missionary Alliance Churches of the Philippines (CAMACOP), for the past 45 years, I can recognise its logo miles away. In fact, I can name what those four symbols mean. The Fourfold Gospels they are called.  

Through all these years, however, I never found out how those symbols were birthed. I had assumed they have everything to do with my faith walk and that they are, and will always be, the basics of our church.  

Then one recent Sunday, our guest preacher, Pastor Sam Carino, focused on that logo. He spoke of the vision of A.B. Simpson, who founded CAMACOP in 1887. 

He left out the many teeny details about the founder’s inspiring work, but one thing is crystal clear: it is a story of grace. And that the central theme of the logo is what we should uphold: 

Christ is sufficient. 

This theme A.B. Simpson lived and carried to his grave. His epitaph?  “Not I but Christ.”  His wife Margaret’s? “Jesus only.” He likewise encapsulated this theme in a hymn (it never fails to move me) he himself wrote. The first stanza and chorus read like the nucleus:   

Jesus only is our message,

Jesus all our theme shall be;

We will lift up Jesus ever,

Jesus only will we see.

Jesus only, Jesus ever,

Jesus all in all we sing,

Savior, Sanctifier, and Healer,

Glorious Lord and coming King

Those of us who attended the worship service that morning were fed with a most meaningful message—the core, the basic pillar that holds our faith together and up. 

It was made more meaningful when Pastor Popoy, our young interim pastor, sang "Jesus Only" with heart and soul. 

A Crowd of 100

One of the events on writing I was invited to this month of November gathered a crowd of 100, composed of college students taking up education, some professors, book enthusiasts, and would-be authors.   

It was online so it freed me from travelling to Laguna (with the threat of bad traffic and Covid-19 still in the air). The organizers sent me one of my photos from my timeline and asked if they could use it for the poster. I cringed! That was taken ages ago, when the pandemic was not even a premonition.  

So I sent them my blurry photos (I have nothing better) taken online by friends during webinars. The layout artist must have cringed as well and did something about it quickly. Result?  

A 20-year-younger-and-20-times-prettier than my old photos in my FB timeline. When Tony saw it, he asked, “Who’s that?” 

The audience must have asked the same question when they finally saw me online. But this was overtaken by animated and free-flowing exchanges. There were tons of questions—no dead air—which is what I enjoy most when conducting seminars or teaching. 

You can tell by looking at the photos that I immensely enjoyed myself. It was one of those times the Lord crowded my day with so much glee that gratitude for His grace cannot stop.  

What’s Up, November?

To the delight of children’s book authors, the Department of Education (then headed by Secretary Armin Luistro) in 2011 declared, as one of its programs, November as National Reading Month. It is to promote the love for reading among school children. 

The celebration of Reading Month focuses on both reading and reading comprehension. This has been my advocacy from day one of my writing journey.  So the Reading Month, which I actually consider  a ministry, is grace beyond telling. 

November is one of my busiest months, because all schools hold reading/book events and I am privileged be invited to quite a few of them. 

This month is no exception. Because of the continuing threat of Covid-19, however, book events are still online. The upside is, from the comforts of my working nook, I can actually attend them all.  

One that particularly charmed me was an invitation from my hometown, the setting of 16 of my books (Oh, Mateo! series). The Umingan National High School has a worthy Project called: Reading H.A.B.I.T. (Hold a Book; Be in Touch). They go out to the community and establish reading hubs for younger children. 

In all my book talks, I stress the importance of reading. But I do not have the luxury of time to explain its endless rewards and benefits. 

That’s why this cartoon, which I downloaded years ago, caught my eye. It explains in images, with simple and sparse words, the bountiful blessings one is flooded with from reading. 

Happy reading month! 

Dead Air

“Miss, we can’t hear you!” a loud voice from one of my online students boomed, startling my face-to-face class. They roared as though it was the funniest thing on earth. 

On the contrary, it was the most tragic thing I ever heard. A hybrid class is worse than an online one. 

I declared, “Aside from being terrified of technology, what I hate most about it is dead air.” 

“Dead air?!” they chorused.  

“Yes, dead air,” I stressed. “In my time, dead air was a heinous crime.” 

The pandemic brought in the spectre of technology for which I would never be ready. An online class needs human acuity; a hybrid class requires superpowers to engage both face-to-face and online students, anticipate glitches such as the screen going blank, my headphone going mute, or my clicker going pfft, plus a million other things.  

“Miss, what is dead air?” they pressed.

“It is a period of silence in radio broadcast. When I was your age, I had stints in radio and when on air, I had to keep talking, because if I paused even just for two seconds, the listeners would hear only dead air. As the radio host, I could be fired. Having that mindset, I see dead air as anything that interrupts any presentation.”  

“Ohhh.” 

“In the middle of a spirited lecture, a ‘Miss, we can’t hear you!’  is dead air.” 

“Ohhh?” Their faces mirrored an unspoken, So what's the big deal? 

I forget that students today have embraced dead air. They are the “undo” generation. With a button, they can delete anything and start over. If one site does not interest them, they go to the next one. Being unable to connect immediately or being cut off in an online class is trivial.  

 

Seamless, flawless presentations are a thing of the past. This I need to accept or have a nervous breakdown. 

I exaggerate.

But really, my generation and my students’ are polar opposites. I need the grace of understanding (tolerance?) to take theirs on as a fact of life.  

16 Was Unforseen

 These leaves complete their 16th year this month. I didn’t plan it that way. 

When I started blogging in November 2006, I thought I couldn’t maintain the rhythm (twice a week) I ambitiously assigned myself. A year was all I thought I could manage. 

Writing, however, has become a huge part of me. 

There are just too many things to write about—24/7 is hardly enough.  Between book and article writing marathons, and reading the Word, which require a lot of musing and reflecting, I’d use the idea overflow on a blog or two. 

What I called on day one as “leaves of grace” has remained unchanged, because indeed, leaves are those pages upon pages of words about a Saviour Who is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. 

But technology has taken a quantum leap upward and forward: new complicated features, new layout and art styles, new sites, new information, new attachments for gadgets, plus many more. This torrent of breakthroughs I have embraced, with joy and gratitude.   

It’s been like joining the big league of techies. Although I could never keep up, I relish trying. 

“Wow, did you actually do the collage in your last blog?!” my artist friend asked, with unhidden skepticism. 

Hah! I suprised her with many more after that. 

Seriously, blogging about grace keeps me renewed, despite the increasing struggles of aging like joint aches and pains, insomnia, indigestion, failing eyesight, plus waning interest in shopping. 

“. . . we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.” (2 Corinthians 4:15-16 NIV)

Oh, my numbers? 

    • Over 1,650 blogs 

    • About 1.2 million guests 

    • Unnumbered change of headers 

    • 16 years of daily grace 

Photo credits: shutterstock.com and unsplash

Neck and Neck

How’d you like the chicken cooked? 

Neck. 

What’s your favorite chicken dish? 

Neck. 

Should we order fried chicken? 

Neck.

However you rephrase a question about a chicken dish, my answer would be “neck.” It matters not how a chicken is served or cooked—broiled, roasted, grilled, poached, braised, sauteed, steamed, fried, boiled, etc.—I’d go for the neck. 

You can have all the other parts, but leave me the neck is an unverbalized plea at home that my family knows so well. 

Consider these facts: 

    • Chicken necks have high levels of phosphorous, which is vital for bone health, as well as moderate levels of zinc, copper, magnesium, and iron. They likewise  contain glucosamine and chondroitin which are both linked to healthy joints. 

      

    • A stretch of land (about 22 kilometers) around the city of Siliguri in West Bengal, India is called Siliguri Corridor, but more popularly known as Chicken's Neck. It connects the seven states of northeast India to the rest of India.

      

These astounding data have nothing to do with my astounding love for chicken neck. 

So why indeed do I love chicken neck? Because.    

“And God is able to make all grace abound toward you, that you, always having all sufficiency in all things, may have an abundance for every good work.” 2 Corinthians 9:8 NKJV

photo credit (top): istockphoto.com

Rainy, Lazy Day

Every morning after breakfast, Tony and I have this ritual (not by choice, but by force of circumstances) at our terrace. With our piping-hot coffee, we read the morning papers, chat about some columns and the news, watch the birds that come to visit, then solve the puzzles. 

On Nov. 1, the rain was pitter-pattering on our roof and the wind was wafting softly. It’s the kind of weather that makes one lazy.  

Ah, but we had an assignment from Irene, a niece, who is in charge of our coming 78th clan reunion, happening at the end of the year. She sent t-shirts for us to wear for a video message. She also sent two mugs, which we decided to use as props while being shot. 

The only person available to do the task was Mother Teresa, who is as technologically challenged as Tony and I. And so we spoke our lines to the camera—a few, no, many times—but the videos turned out jerky and blurred. 

This went on for almost an hour (endless trials and errors), till son #3, who was rushing to somewhere, heard the ruckus and volunteered to do it with his camera. The video was done in 19 seconds and off he went. 

But the morning epic production was not all for naught. Mother Teresa’s experiment with the video button surprisingly turned out passable still shots. Here they are: 

As for the video, I sent it to Irene ("okay na okay!” she wrote) as soon as son #3 got back home. 

If you think we’re lazy, there are two others far lazier: Judge (left) and Attorney.

My LSS that day:  

“Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, 
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.”

By Robert Robinson (27 September 1735–9 June 1790) 

Never a Mary Grace

 After leaving the super-stressful-and-strenuous workplace, I thought nothing could get my goat ever again. 

Nary a thing (not even paid trolls, Covid-19, and lying politicians) did, not for over 20 years, till a few months ago. 

The culprit is Mary Grace. 

It’s a lovely name. But it wreaked havoc upon my placid, peaceful place at the departure lounge, waiting for my flight home to forever land.

It all began when my youngest brother Dave started looking into the property papers left by our departed parents without any of their heirs’ names. These properties are not worth a fortune, but they have to be legally documented for any action. 

The first step to documentation is to prove that we are indeed the heirs. And each heir has to prove his birth and true identity.  

Our late dad left me an original copy of my birth certificate with documentary stamps. However, the Philippine Statistics Authority (PSA) now has the mandate to consolidate all government recording systems for the centralized data repository. 

Alas, the PSA has no record of my birth.  

So Dave, with supportive family members, went to the town of my birth to get a copy of my certificate to be forwarded to the PSA. 

Aaaargh!! 

My name on record is Mary Grace?! Upon seeing my original birth certicate, the person in charge said, “That’s too old!” In short, he went by Mary Grace to be sent to PSA. How that happened is beyond human comprehension. 

I’ve been called many names: mommy, manang, nakkong, ate, Ms., na’am, nanay, lola, but NEVER  Mary Grace!  

And now I have to prove that I am not, and never was, a Mary Grace.  

At my age, having lived in two continents for decades (birthed three sons, traveled the world with legitimate visas, studied in schools abroad, opened various bank accounts, purchased some properties and insurance plans, etc.) and used nothing but the name on my authentic birth certificate, would you smile and take it all? 

What are the government requirements to prove I am who I am?  

Police clearance, NBI clearance, tons of affidavits from employers, baptismal certificate, government IDs, letters from people who can vouch for the true personna I have lived all my life. 

 

There. I got it all out of my system. But not without globs, chunks, clumps, and slabs of grace at every turn. 

Whether the ‘gods that be” guarding birth records will believe those documents I slaved over for months on end remains a big question mark. 

End of rant. 

Back to blogging about grace.  

Sunday School Saga

Since I began attending Sunday school (SS) as a little girl in our small church in the province to this day, the Lord has guided my growth beyond numerical age. 

From attending, I transitioned to teaching.  

I was first appointed to teach adult SS in ancient days, when my family moved to this village before son #3 (our youngest) was even born. I was given a book, on which the lessons were based. That lasted a few years, till our new pastor implemented a new program.   

Then I found myself teaching SS again—this time, the women’s group—as assigned by another pastor. All church groups were given the same book to follow. One day, however, one of the younger women in our group volunteered to do it for me. I gladly bequeathed the role to her, knowing she will be as blessed as I was in handling the class. 

Zzzoink. At some point, the virus scrambled our lives. The volunteer teacher continued with online Sunday school, which I attended without fail, sated with God’s Word each time. 

Zzzoink. Our teacher left, and son #3, who is now an elder in church and the chairman of the board, made a snap decision: “The women’s SS can’t stop. Mom, take over. I am sure many others will volunteer to  teach on some Sundays.” 

Nobody did. Technology tricks terrify them. Except for two Sundays when I sort of arm-twisted a goddaughter to do it (our family went out of town), I continue to mine the Bible for God’s lessons and summarize them in slides, good for an hour. Then I document the session with a group collage, patterned after that Sunday's slides:   

This time around, I made two decisions: 1) lessons will be based not on just one book; 2) they will be delivered in Tagalog (a foreign language to an Ilocano). 

They turned out to be the best decisions I have ever made. Thousands of new doors sprang open for me to see more closely the God we serve. “. . . my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways” (Isaiah 55:8-89). The Tagalog words add soul to what I thought I already knew.   

Yet, the Lord cannot be throughly known down here. Only up there, where every day is Sunday, will we experience the wholeness of His grace.   

The number of attendees dwindled when the health protocols eased up and allowed face-to-face gatherings. My audience rushed to get ready for the worship service. I experimented with conducting the class in church, but nobody made it—8 AM is too early. 

I told son #1 that my audience was getting smaller. “It’s time to stop.” 

He was vehement, “No, Mom! Continue even with only one.” 

If this were a novel, this now is the last chapter of my saga as SS teacher.  Nearing the age of Methuselah, I am hanging on to this nugget of wisdom—growth is not about numbers.  

Photo credit: (Top) Adobe Stock 

Covid-19: Take Two

Had I written a blog two days ago, as I itched to do, it would have been a piece of disgrace. My mood was mercurial; a low-grade fever and sore throat kept kicking my sanity away. 

Not even a negative antigen test could dig me out of the dumps. So Tony called our doctor, who said I needed to take another antigen test after two days. Meanwhile, she ordered me to isolate and prescribed no medicine except an anti-fever. 

Son #3 offered his room; he moved to son #2's vacant room, where his doodads are set up for his online meetings. 

My second antigen test—positive?!  Why would this pest assault me twice?! Had I not followed all health protocols to the letter?!

Naturally, everyone has to be quarantined. 

Here I mope, with everyone at home 24/7 for the first time in years, yet couldn’t sociliaze with anyone except through my phone and laptop. 

What to do? Even with my Bible on my lap, JR’s books for the taking from his walls, crossword puzzles sent by Tony (these I devour on better days), my eyes and mind refuse to focus. 

“Remember your old love: piano hymns,” my fevered mind rasped. I search for videos on the Internet, and put on my ear phone.

  

Magic? Bliss? Grace. Healing grace. I now alternate piano hymns with tabernacle choirs. The lyrics have become my own, and God’s, reaching my core.  

From the lowest level of soil, my spirit lifts up, defying boundaries, and reaching  the clouds. I don’t know how to draw grace being everywhere, so I play around with images borrowed from the Net, hoping to describe the depths of feelings I could not put into words. 

I am not an artist (just a poor copy of one), but this “art” illustrates, for me, where the piano hymns of my youth have been taking me while I am by my lonesome.   

Title? “Breakthrough” (from the cage of ungrace, even before the next antigen test)    

How Many Lolas Do You Have?

To celebrate The International Day of Older Persons on October 1, I wiped the dust off an old column I wrote for The Freeman newspaper (Cebu). Here’s an excerpt of that article:    

“In my book talks, I ask ‘How many Lolas do you have?' before I read my book on role reversal: All Aboard with Five Lolas (illustrated by Beth Parrocha and published by Hiyas of OMF Literature).

“It’s about Teo, the eight-year-old hero in the Oh, Mateo! series of 16 books, who was treated to a cruise by his five lolas. Why five and not two?

“In truth, a person only has two lolas—one is the mother of his/her mother, and two, the mother of his/her father. But in the Philippines, most children call all the sisters of their lolas and all the wives of their lolos—on both sides—lola.

My mother had four sisters with whom she was very close. They were pals, and I called all of them auntie. But when they became grandmothers, I referred to them as the five lolas, the way our children did, especially when they got together and chatted till the wee hours of the morning.

“This book was written in their honor.   

“In one event, I asked my young audience, ‘How many of you have two lolas?’

“All of them naturally raised their hands. Then my publisher offered to give away free books to the kid or kids who had the most number of lolas. About a dozen kids came forward.

"’I have five!’ ‘I have six!’ ‘I have seven!’ ‘I have eight!’

“Then one of them cried at the top of his voice, ‘I have 38!’

“‘Huh?’ Everyone in the audience shrieked in unison, ‘38?!’

“I asked the kid, Ziggy, who was about eight, ‘You really have 38 lolas?!’

"Opo," Ziggy replied, smiling widely.

“His mother explained Ziggy’s answer, ‘We have a huge clan that meets every year for a grand reunion. I have 37 aunties in that clan (including in-laws), plus my mother—a total of 38. He calls them all lola.’

"’Ahhh!’ the audience looked at each other and applauded. 

“Ziggy got free books as his prize for having so many lolas. 

“In the Philippines and other Asian countries, the family is very important. A family includes parents, their children and extended family members ranging from grandparents to uncles, aunts, and cousins—sometimes even relatives from other places who happen to have the same surname. In many cases, a family even includes godparents.

“So what happens in the cruise ship to Mateo and his five lolas? Plenty, and all them exciting.” 

Being a grandmother (a category to which I now belong) is grace so grand that  every time someone takes my hand for mano (all the kids in Sunday School!), I can’t even begin to count my blessings. 

Heritage Tour

Next to Mathematics, History was my least favorite subject. I loathed memorizing dates and people’s names. 

On the other side of the spectrum, my husband, three sons, and only grandson, Adrian, love History. That’s why whenever Adrian comes home to the Philippines for a visit, we take him on a heritage tour. His dad thinks it is important for Adrian to know his roots. 

During his last visit, we took him to the Apolinario Mabini Shrine, the bamboo organ museum, and the place where the Philippine Independence was proclaimed in Kawit, Cavite. In every place, he would read all the literature and posters with rapt attention. 

These tours have made me realize the value of knowing our past. History provides us with a record of both successes and failures of those who lived before us. It widens our perspective, broadens our knowledge, and helps us make wise choices to avoid mistakes.   

Paul also saw the value of history. By recounting the story of the Israelites and their wanderings in the wilderness, he showed the folly of disobedience and wrong choices, which led to ruin. By refusing to trust God, it took the Israelites 40 years to enter the Promised Land (Numbers 14). 

In 1 Corinthians 10:11, Paul warned the believers, “These things happened to them as examples for us. They were written down to warn us who live at the end of the age.” 

The Book of grace, the holy Bible, contains both examples and warnings to guard us against our rash tendencies and to lead us into wiser living. We need to learn from the lessons of history so we don’t commit the same mistakes. 

Musings: By examining the lives of people in the Old Testament, what valuable lessons have helped me make wise decisions? 

Prep, Prep, Prep

Like any professor, I impress upon my students that for any class work, preparation is non-negotiable. 

“There are three ways by which you can improve your oral presentations,” I advised my Marketing Communications  class. My students are post-millennials who have embraced quick fixes sourced online. Their visuals are impressive, but they lack depth and critical thinking. “Take these down.” 

They grabbed their gadgets. Only one out of 18 had a notebook and a pen.  

“One, prep. Two, prep. Three, prep.” 

They laughed. First, because I used their word “prep” instead of the word “prepare” that belongs to my generation. And two, because they did not believe that a long preparation for one project is important.  

Oh, but it is. And preparation or being ready is no laughing matter either. 

In 2 Timothy 2:21, we read, “If you keep yourself pure, you will be a special utensil for honorable use. Your life will be clean, and you will be ready for the Master to use you for every good work.” 

1 Peter 3:15 says,“. . . you must worship Christ as Lord of your life. And if someone asks about your hope as a believer, always be ready to explain it.”  

In 2 Corinthians 9:5, Paul reminds us, “. . . I should send these brothers ahead of me to make sure the gift you promised is ready. But I want it to be a willing gift, not one given grudgingly.” 

There is wisdom in being prepared in everything we do. May the Lord give us ample grace to guide us as we prep, prep, prep to tell others about Him.

It has been said that the best preparation for tomorrow is the right use of today. Hmmm, how am I using my today?    

Seven Thank-Yous

“Have you written a book on gratefulness?” an old friend from Childlink Learning Center and Childlink High School, Inc. in Cebu messaged me.   

“Yes, I have." Angel with One Foot immediately came to mind.

“May we invite you again to read virtually the story to our students, their parents and teachers as part of our Leadership Development Program?” The school has intensified this program for positive character development. 

(Last year I read Lumpia Lane.) 

“What a privilege!” I replied. 

As I prepared my slides for D-Day, I ached for those times I was in Cebu visiting different schools, talking to my readers about reading and writing. But, Hey, being online is as much grace as flying there, the sane part of me reminded me.   

One sunny Friday morning, I turned on my screen and there they were! Grade school and high school children of various ages, plus their teachers and parents. 

No matter how often I have re-read or re-told the story, I hear a catch in my voice. The book, loosely based on a real incident shared with me by my husband, speaks of the value of gratitude that must be a huge part of us.   

Let me paraphrase a nugget of wisdom from a book: "What’s great about gratefulness is that the more you choose it, the easier it gets. The more you are thankful, the more you notice things to be grateful for.” 

Yes, it is a most beautiful mindset. 

Before reading the story, I asked, "Have you ever seen angel?" 

Angel with One foot is about a lady on crutches because she had only one foot. She helped a poor little girl in need by buying all her seven unsold newspapers with cash far more than their cost. 

Unfortunately, the little girl failed to thank her because she had left too quickly. Since then it has been the prayer of the little girl, as she grew up, to meet the lady with one foot again so she could thank her.

Many years later, with the help Mateo, she met the angel and finally was able to say seven thank-yous, one for each of the newspapers the angel with one foot bought from her. 

The book defines an angel as anyone who does someone a good turn. So, “Have you ever seen an angel?” 

We all have. And the more we are grateful, the more we see more of them.    

Critical Thinking: Present!

Critical thinkers are curious and reflective. They ask questions—a battery of questions.   

I am oversimplifying it. But if those are the qualities of a critical thinker, then my online students—on a scale of one to five, five being the highest—would rate zero. After passionately explaining a theory about their interests, I’d ask, “Any question?” 

Silence. 

Am I glad that lasted only a few weeks, or I’d have turned comatose from frustration. So I accepted a short-term teaching load for a face-to-face class with 15 students.  It’s easier to engage Gen Z’s when you are mask-to-mask. 

Since this is the “me, me, me” generation, I thought they should learn to be aware of their environment, so they can think and write critically. 

“This book, ‘Present’ is about students being absent even if they are present,” I announced.

“Huh??” That got them.

“This book is all about you. It will be the basis for your exam next week. I wanted to give them to you as a present, but my grandmother used to say that people never treasure anything they receive for free. So I am selling them for P100 per copy.” 

“Aaaah?” 

“But I am giving you a 99% discount. Pay me only one peso.” 

“Oooooh.” Immediately they each gave me their one peso coin. 

“Now I have P15. I will add P200 to the kitty, then ask for volunteers to give this money as a present to the first janitor you see on the hallway.” 

Spontaneously, most of them drew bills from their wallets and pockets, saying in almost unison, “I’d like to add to the kitty!”  

To say I was floored is an understatement. The kitty suddenly ballooned to P600! 

“Okay,” I decided, “we can afford to give two janitors. Volunteers, make sure you observe his/her reaction and share it with the class.” 

The janitors were in tears, and so were the volunteers (and frankly, so was I). The rest of their observations might be too sappy for you, so I will end it here. 

But that was the day my 15 students gave me a present: they learned to be present. In addition, they became curious and reflective.  

\

The Book Fair's Back!

Many things can change in one day. Imagine then the slew of changes in 1,095 days, since the last Manila International Book Fair (MIBF 2019) was unceremoniously halted by the pandemic. 

The early days of Covid-19 forced me to do nothing but write (three books*), read, solve puzzles, watch feel-good videos, listen to music, chat with friends and family on social media, watch the flowers bloom and the birds fly, and attend memorial services—often simultaneously online.  

Meanwhile . . . many got the virus (including our whole household); those who were fortunate to get a room in a hospital languished and expired there. It would have been so easy to curl up, cower in terror, and cry, but the presidential campaign was a shot in the arm, a surprise grace.  

It brought joy and renewed vigor for ideas, projects, and collaboration with former colleagues here and abroad. Passion for a rosy future was ablaze once more.  

The kakampink period was a season of hope. 

Alas, the election outcome, which many believe was a massive fraud, dashed that hope.

Then the announcement came: MIBF will happen this year! 

That disoriented me big time. In years past, I’d shop for new outfits, and plan my daily trek to the venue (from opening to closing time) months before the event. There I’d walk around ceaselessly with my sister Aie or my friend Yay, hunting for books, stopping only in my publishers’ booths to sign my books and chat with readers till the last day, up to the last hour. 

This time around, Tony and my sons reminded me a million times to be careful, bring my vaccination card, observe social distancing, handrub with alcohol often, and never take off my mask.  

On the day of my book-signing assignment at the OMF Lit booth, I snatched Tony’s pink sweatshirt from his closet, donned my most comfortable jeans, and didn’t bother to wear shoes.  

Those were wise decisions. I was unaware (because I lived in rubber flip-flops at home) that my foot malady has worsened; I would never have walked one meter in shoes without writhing in pain.  

For one hour, I signed books fiercely and vigorously, then headed home. Why didn't I go around as I used to? Perhaps the virus took a toll on my body; or age is rearing its ugly head; or the inertia of rest had my system resting still; or health protocols and family's strict warnings have prevailed. 

Whichever. I must have run out of gas.  

The photos below are from OMF Lit and the FB walls of various friends.   

These big changes in three years addled my brain, but enriched my heart. Now these verses in Scripture are more meaningful than ever: 

“. . . we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. . . So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”  (2 Corinthians 4:16 and 18 NIV)

*Memories of Grace, Lumpia Lane, and The Teacher in Me

 

Black

Martial Law has but one color: black as black can be.  

The lights went off on September 21, 50 years ago, when Martial Law (ML), through Proclamation No. 1081, was declared by then President Ferdinand E. Marcos, Sr. (branded by the world as a dictator for this act). 

Fifty years is a long time. But we, who experienced its abuses and atrocities, will never forget that darkest time in our democracy. And we pray it will never happen again.  

The numbers ML produced are daunting: 

Around 70,000 people were imprisoned, 34,000 were tortured, and 3,240 were killed, according to human rights group Amnesty International. Many of those are friends, once young, and kin. 

“Never look back to the dark times,” my grandma used to say when she saw me moping as a little girl. “Forget them; they will only hound you, and torture you all over again.”  

If she were still around, she’d most likely re-word that nugget of wisdom.  

Thirty one million people (if the results are to be believed) either chose or were paid to forget ML and voted for the dictator’s son, Ferdinand Marcos, Jr (Bongbong), to be our president today. This election has made us look back and remember—opening old wounds and rubbing salt into them once again, more vigorously this time.

Beyond mere remembering, we have learned hard lessons that we need to pass on to the next generations. 

It’s ironic that during Bongbong’s first 100 days, we would be commemorating the 50th year of ML’s proclamaton. 

It’s even more ironic that the relentless campaign to revise history by his supporters—to deodorize and eventually erase ML from our heart and mind—is paid by people’s money. 

Unless there's honesty and humility to admit that crimes during ML happened, and debts are paid per court decisions, there will never be a closure.

Professor Emeritus Clarita Carlos, appointed by Bongbong as the National Security Adviser, said these on national television prior to the election:  (I took the liberty of translating her Taglish into English): 

“If I were Bongbong, I’d admit that there were military and police atrocities because those are documented. They’re not anything contrived or imagined.  I have many colleagues and classmates in UP—they just disappeared Their parents could not even grieve properly. So admit it. Then make a categorical declaration, ‘These things will not happen in my administration.’ How difficult it is to say that?”  

“If my people who are called by my name humble themselves, and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and heal their land.” (2 Chronicles 7:14 ESV)

Then black will be no more. 

Anci with an E

This lovely little girl spells her name without an E, but in my heart of hearts, I see the E—three E’s in fact, and all in caps: Engaging, Extraordinary, and Excellent. 

AnciE wote and illustrated a book when she was only seven years old! Two years later, today, she has an extraordinary portfolio of art and design, and she continues to write.  

I was (and still am) one excited recipient of two of her works when she and her parents visited the booth of OMF Lit at the Manila International Book Fair (MIBF) last Sunday.

I wish I had time to talk to her, but the booksigning for Lumpia Lane and my other books nailed me to my seat for more than an hour. 

Her book, Valerie's Life Lessons, is engaging. It is about values many people thrice her age will never learn in their lifetime. 

When AnciE's mom first uploaded to social media a photo of the first page of this book, with my name on it, my hands froze, unable to type a word of response. And when AnciE gave me a signed copy at the MIBF, I was tongue-tied. See, I drew an arrow to my name to flex it!  

 

I first met AnciE when I spoke at one of her school’s events, which the teachers and children her age attended. It was online, so there was no time for chats. 

On that grace meet-up I heard my adrenaline rushing, carrying an extra drop of grit to answer the children’s incisive, candid, and difficult questions. 

It is to the credit of her school, The Learning Tree, that talents such as AnciE’s are encouraged and honed for excellence. Many events that showcase the students' God-given gifts are mounted often so that other children (with the support of parents) who view/hear them can likewise be inspired to never rein in their creativity. 

Writing for (and with children like AnciE) is a ministry I will latch on to till the Lord whispers in my ear, Time's up. 

000

". . . whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me." (Matthew 18:5 NIV) 

My Cup Overflows

If I were to express that, it’d be, “My cup runneth over,” the King James Version of Psalm 23, which I memorized as a little girl, and still could recite without blinking today, decades later.

Yesterday, one very important celebration in my life happened after a two-year hiatus because of Covid-19:  the 47th anniversary of our home church (my family shares 45 of those years), with the theme, “My Cup Overflows."   

I should be shouting with joy over its success. But why do I weep? 

Because “my cup runneth over.” 

Our Sunday School was where my children grew up, imbibing the values my husband and I echoed at home. Now my youngest son chairs the board, empowered by an excellent, hard-working team composed of his VBS classmates years ago. He makes me toe the line when age gives unsolicited advice, and assigns me jobs, such as handling the Women’s Sunday School, when we lost our teacher. 

Through 45 years, we hurdled a succession of church workers, the comings and goings of members, and the many other hiccups that threw us into a tailspin—but God keeps filling our cup. 

While watching the children perform an action praise song, I saw on their faces my sons’ and their friends’. The Pillar of Praise, spirited youngsters all, kept us singing our hearts out.  Angels from above sang "Overflow" with the euphonious PVGC ensemble.    

Beautiful flowers filling the sanctuary, arranged by the women the day before, bloomed with God’s multi-colored grace. The physical arrangement was impeccably done by the men.  And the church’s musical instruments, screens, video equipment, and other technical doodads, installed by the youth, enabled everyone to “taste and see that the Lord is good.” 

Inside, God’s church was packed to the rafters!  Outside, the yard, kitchen, rooms, and offices, were areas of celebration.   

All of these—from 45 years ago, when we first set foot inside a small, dingy bodega that has  metamorphosed into this church structure—were nothing but prayers. 

“My cup runneth over.” 

Then our guest preacher, the first pastor who shepherded my family 45 years ago, declared in a strong voice that belied his cancer-abused body on its 5th punishing year, asked, “When our cup runs over, what do we do with the overflow?” 

Tears blur my eyes. Let me continue when my sight clears up . . .

Photo credits: borrowed from posts of PVGC brethren on the PVGC FB page. Thank you all.  

Entrance Fee

Tennis enthusiasts know all about Wimbledon, the oldest tennis tournament in the world, and is regarded by many as the most prestigious. One Wimbledon fan is Mabel, who never misses any tournament. 

She planned on going to the latest one (2019) but was complaining, “The entrance fee is too steep at P85,000! And the seat for that fee is too far away—the players would just be the size of my thumb!” 

“Just watch it on TV,” suggested her aunt, Sol. “You won’t spend a thing and you can watch the games up close.” 

“Oh, but there’s nothing like being surrounded by the roaring crowd!”  

“P85,000 entrance fee, plus plane fare and hotel accommodations could buy a car!” Sol added.  

There is a steep entrance fee to the venue/place of any important event. Some are higher than others, but one has to pay for the privilege of watching or participating.  

In contrast, the most important place of all—the kingdom of God—has no entrance fee. It is FREE. Jesus paid the price for us on the cross. The cost is on Him, and by His grace alone.  

“For everyone has sinned; we all fall short of God’s glorious standard. Yet God, in his grace, freely makes us right in his sight. He did this through Christ Jesus when he freed us from the penalty for our sins.” (Romans 3:23-24 NLT)

Without any entrance free, can everyone simply enter the Kingdom of God? 

Individually, we first need to acknowledge our spiritual drought and accept, by faith, God’s forgiveness for our sins. Then we are guaranteed a new life in Him—and when the time comes, eternal life with Him in that kingdom.  

Anybody in the world (regardless of race, language, country or culture) can enter a new life today because, by Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross and His resurrection from the dead, Jesus has paid our entrance fee! 

Empty Canvas

“What is most satisfying for me about painting,” remarked Calvin, a Christian landscape painter, “is looking at an empty canvas. Then, when your hand starts swishing and swooshing your brush on it, this white space begins to be filled with shapes and colors that form into something beautiful!” 

Where do you get your ideas?" asked an art enthusiast. 

“Why, from Scripture and creation, of course!” he replied. “Just looking around, I see God’s amazing works. When I read my Bible, I see images that come to life for me. There are not enough canvases to capture all of nature's grace!"  

Psalm 104:24-25 (NIV) mentions some of God’s spectacular creation. “How many are your works, LORD! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. There is the sea, vast and spacious, teeming with creatures beyond number—living things both large and small.” 

As a beholder moves her eyes across Calvin’s paintings, she marvels at the work of God’s hands: oceans rolling with bigger-than-life waves; fields teeming with crops below and birds above; mountains and clouds embracing; animals cavorting under the skies; flowers meeting bees and butterflies; and waterfalls cascading to boulders on the ground. 

“He holds in his hands the depths of the earth and the mightiest mountains. The sea belongs to him, for he made it. His hands formed the dry land, too.” (Psalm 95:4-5)

Calvin’s paintings, amazing and astonishing, are all inspired by our Creator. And yet, it will take all of Calvin’s lifetime to capture perhaps only one percent of God’s magnificent creation.  

How do we contain and reflect on God’s creation in the canvas of our heart?  

(Three of many paintings of God's creation by various artists; free downloads from the Net)  

Bodyguards

A bodyguard is usually armed and works as a personal security officer who protects his client from such threats as assault, kidnapping, and stalking. His job includes planning routes for his ward. 

In this country, an armed bodyguard may also serve as a driver for his client. 

High-ranking government officials, wealthy businessmen and their children, and those who feel that their lives are in danger hire a bodyguard (or more, if necessary) to protect them. 

Ordinary people have bodyguards, too. But they are unseen and unpaid. They are grace from our loving and protective God. 

They are called angels, celestial beings who protect and guide human beings, and carry out tasks on behalf of the Lord. “. . . angels are only servants—spirits sent to care for people who will inherit salvation.” (Hebrews 1:14 NLT)

In the Old Testament, God said to the Israelites as they left Egypt for the Promised  Land,  “See, I am sending an angel ahead of you to guard you along the way and to bring you to the place I have prepared.” (Exodus 23:20)

God’s host of angels praise and worship Him. They are described in detail in Revelation 4. We hear their voices in verse 8, “Day after day and night after night they keep on saying, ‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God, the Almighty—the one who always was, who is, and who is still to come.’”

Just as a mayor  or a millionaire has bodyguards, believers are blessed to have them as well—God’s heavenly protectors and ministers, armed with His anointing.  

“Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it!” (Hebrews 13:2) 

Proxy

Any corporation with a scheduled election of new officers usually sends all members a formal notice. It states the date, time, and place of the event. Attached to the letter is a proxy form, where a member, who cannot attend the meeting, can designate someone—a substitute—to take his place. 

The member has to brief his proxy thoroughly, so he would know how to act and what to say during the meeting. 

Proxies, however, usually don’t say anything—they are just a warm body who will vote for the pre-chosen candidates of the member they represent—because they are not privy to all the issues in the organization.  

Corporation members are valued in an organization. But no matter how dependent the organization is on them, they cannot always be there. Sometimes they are busy elsewhere or abroad. Sometimes, they are indisposed. Or sometimes, they have lost interest in the organization altogether and have moved to a new one.  

As is often said in the business circuit, “No one is indispensable.” This means, nobody is special. We can easily be X’d out by anyone who is just as qualified. Someone will always be available to take our place.  

But there is One who is indispensable. He can never be replaced or X’d out. 

He is never busy elsewhere, never indisposed, and never loses interest in you and me. He does not send any proxy to care for and guide us either. He is the only One Who dispenses grace to sustain us. 

“I can never escape from your Spirit! I can never get away from your presence! If I go up to heaven, you are there; if I go down to the grave, you are there.”  (Psalm 139:7-8) 

Corporation-member proxies are dispensable. So are corporation members in any organization. But God is indispensable in our life.

When is the best time to cling to God? Every moment, every day of our life. 

Almost there!

“Almost there!” is an optimistic cry, triumphant even. It celebrates the fact that we are about to complete a job, solve a problem, or reach a destination.  

After decades on earth, we know that there is a destination—a place where grace is strewn around for the picking, a place more beautiful than a garden full of fragrant flowers, and a place more refreshing than the first rain after a drought.  

We read of numerous promises in the Bible, many of which have already been fulfilled. We know that the rest of what we are waiting for will soon be fulfilled as well. Believers  know that the greatest of these promises is coming soon. 

“. . . the Lord himself will come down from heaven with a commanding shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trumpet call of God. First, the believers who have died will rise from their graves. Then, together with them, we who are still alive and remain on the earth will be caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. Then we will be with the Lord forever.” (Thessalonians 4:16-17)  

Almost there! The signs are everywhere. “We will be with the Lord forever.” 

 

We also find this promise in Mark 9:9 when Jesus said, “‘I tell you the truth, some standing here right now will not die before they see the Kingdom of God arrive in great power!”

In John 14:3, Jesus said it succinctly, “When everything is ready, I will come and get you, so that you will always be with me where I am.”  

Although we have not been told of the exact day and time, we know we’re almost there. Let’s encourage each other as we await that glorious day! 

Challenge to self:  Be ready, be all set to go!