hating winter, learning trust

Life is unpredictable. Sometimes the best gifts come in the unlikeliest packages. The best lessons, from the unlikeliest teachers. For instance, who would have thought I’d relearn something as central to my faith as trust from three little boys?

For the past few weeks, I have been feeling that the chilly air is freezing my faith too. The prayers have been short and shallow while the doubts and fears, lingering and deep. I could almost touch with my hand the nagging sense of wrongness about what I have been feeling. I hate winter—not what’s outside the window but what’s inside my heart.

And then, it hit me. This word, trust. How much do I really trust God? Is my trust in Him strong enough to withstand the cold winds of life’s uncertainties? Enough to keep me feeling safe and secure when I am not sure which roads to follow, or if, in fact, there are still other roads to take?

And then, it hit me. This childlike kind of trust, theirs. Ian, who sometimes is jolted awake by bad dreams, can be hushed back to sleep by a simple stroke on his back. I should know, I have been sleeping next to him for the past few weeks. I tell him everything’s going to be alright with me by his side. And no monster, make-believe or otherwise, can harm him. Noah, when we are out at the mall or some other place, holds my hand and lets me take him wherever I lead him. He isn’t worried that I don’t exactly know if we should be turning left or right. With me walking with him, even without his parents in sight, he doesn’t panic. His hand is firmly grasped in mine. Ethan, the two-year old toddler, of my sister Rae, lets me bring him up in the air with my feet. No fear can be traced on his face as he lets go of a hearty giggle. He doesn’t care, even for one second, that I might drop him or break any of his fragile bones with one wrong move from me. He knows I wouldn't just let him go. Such trust. Unbelievable, yet real.

And so last night, I prayed.

Give me a faith like theirs, Lord. I want to trust You like they trust me. If they, in love, could trust a finite, limited, and faltering mortal like me, how much more should I be able to trust an infinite, powerful and faithful God like You?

I see the snow thawing. Winter—mine—will soon be over.


He (Jesus) said to them, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as there. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." And He took the children in His arms, put His hands on them and blessed them. (Mark 10:14-16)

Season's greetings

and a Happy New Year!
We, Ian and Noah, greet you on behalf of Tita Beng. She wishes that you experience that true meaning of Christmas with the Celebrant Himself, Jesus Christ.

Another day in NY

I could pitch a tent here. Here is a 42nd street bookstore, Coliseum Books, with an in-house cafe serving Kobricks coffee. Waiting for the clock to strike 11, when the New York Public Library across the street opens, I browse through its extensive collection of books. The sign which reads "Limit 2 books in the cafe" is hard to be missed so I find two interesting titles by the counter. With my medium-sized house blends coffee, time whizzed by me as I grew more and more comfortable in my spot. I could have stayed here the whole morning except that outside there was so much happening.
Ancient. This word best describes the glass-encased books being displayed at the New York Splendor of the Word: Medieval and Renaissance Illuminated Manuscripts, baits bibliophiles to marvel at a collection of pages dating back between the 10th and 16th century. Impressive is the next best word. Now if I could only find the room with a fireplace I saw in The Day After Tomorrow.
Times Square is easily the busiest area in NY. Even in the brightness of the day, blinking lights and tickers flash and command attention. Gigantic billboards and signs dwarf even the tallest of New Yorkers. While waiting for the NJ-bound bus, I notice the traffic. A massive transport strike cripples New York. No city buses, no subways. I didn't feel its effect; I was walking the whole time. My feet temporarily expanded one size bigger to accomodate the stress they were taking. As for my keeping warm, extra layers of fabric helped me cope better with the chill this time. And they say it's just another NY day.

My temporary career shift

After many years of editing books, I’m trying my hand in a different career. It’s a short-term employment and I get paid in hugs and kisses: being a nanny. Of Ian and Noah, six and four, respectively. Last night, their parents and grandma had to leave for somewhere and I volunteered to stay behind and watch over them. I assure their mother that the kids will be fine with me. My sister’s eyes betray her doubt that I had to remind her that I once was left with them last year. For two hours. Well, this time, I’ll be logging in five.

Two hours since they've left, the phone rings. My sister Nang greets, “O kamusta na (So how are things)?” I answer, “Buhay pa sila (They’re still alive).” She laughs and retorts, “At buhay ka pa din (And you’re still alive too).” My turn to laugh out loud.

It’s amazing how many things can happen in the span of five hours—my longest five hours ever. I cook and feed them. Wrestle and play with them. Clean up after them, and at one point, stand as a referee in their toy feud. Some moments stand out in particular:

I ask Ian if he’d like me to sing for him. His song of choice: Feliz Navidad. And so I sing. “...I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heaaaaart...”

Was he satisfied? I ask, “So Ian, did you like my song?” He answers, “Umm…a little bit.” What? I complain, “Just a little bit?” He thinks again and says, “O—kay! When you sang ‘heart,’ it was good.” He gets up from the couch where we were lying and comes back a couple of seconds later. Written on bond paper: 100. He tells me, “This is your score, Tita Beng. But only for the ‘heart.’” O—kay. I’ll take it.

Meanwhile, Noah is up and about, running around, doing his puzzles. I load the Jollibee VCD and he joyfully dances and sings, “Jolly, jolly, Jollibee, jolly, jolly.” Just when I thought everything is fine, he comes to me, takes my hand and leads me to the bathroom. Now, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to decipher what needs to be done. And so I did it—assist him in doing his “thing.” Twice, in a thirty-minute interval. My baptism of fire. Quite appropriate because “baptism” and what I did required water.

I think I’ve managed quite well. There were no dirty dishes left on the sink. No toys were lying around. No blood, no broken bones. As I tucked myself to bed, I felt a heightened sense of respect for mothers and guardians who do 24/7 what I did for five hours.

Seeing royalty

Today I’ve seen royalty—the kings and queens of Narnia: Peter and Edward, Susan and Lucy. And of course, the real king of Narnia before the children of Adam arrived, Aslan. My “royal” experience coincided with the first time I’ve set foot on a Stateside movie theater.

So what was it like? The grandest thing about my moviewatching experience was the movie itself. The moviehouse this side of the world is not that different from the ones we have back in Manila. In fact, many of the Ayala cinemas are bigger than this one I entered. Only one-sixth of the approximately 150-seater moviehouse was occupied. It was a small community cinema, housed inside a one-floor building. The low ticket sales could probably be attributed to the fact that the movie was already running for a week now.

I won’t go into the details of the movie. Many of you who’ve read the book know how the story’s going to turn out anyway. But let me just say that there’s always something magical about letting your imagination run loose: You wouldn’t know where it would take you. I say that for C.S. Lewis and the creative people behind The Chronicles of Narnia, the movie.

Mrs. Beaver asks the fox who has seen Aslan, “So what is he like?”
“Like everything we’ve ever heard.”

A Day in NY

Wearing layers of clothing to brave a day out walking the streets of New York, I thought, "This should be enough to keep me warm." I was the epitome of confidence, posing for the camera for a minute while waiting for the Coach bus to take us to NY. Now, I think I'm as accurate in my prediction as the local weatherman with an accuracy rating of negative ten.

It was to be my first day during this 2005 visit to the Big Apple. Destination: Broadway. My sister Nang graciously treats me to a musical which bested others in the Best Musical category. With eight Tony awards, this should be good. Hairspray is a fun, entertaining visual and auditory spectacle about a plus-size protagonist Tracy Turnblad, a teen who dreams of making it to the Corny Collins show and be noticed by the singer/dancer dreamboat Link. It was 1962, in Baltimore, when towering hairdos rule the world. And what better else to help the beauty-conscious women than a can of hairspray? And so there were lots of singing, dancing and yep, cans and cans of hairspray. In fact, near the end of the show a giant hairspray figured in the center of the stage which turned out to be a trojan horse carrying the hard-to-be-missed Mrs. Turnblad (actually played by a man, John Pinette). And what started out as a teen romance story turned out to be a tale of the fight against segregation, during a time when "coloreds" were separated from the "whites." The company of players, after delivering a seamless performance, was honored by the audience as it rose to its feet for a standing ovation and non-stop applause.

It was nearly five pm when we got out of the Neil Simon theater but it could have been eight--it was already dark. As we walked briskly, my face started to feel numb. My nose could freeze and fall off and I wouldn't even notice. And it wasn't just me, a non-New Yorker, who thought so. Even my sister who has gone through countless winters already quipped, "Oh man! It's cold--and I live here!"

I'll be back to New York. But next time, I'll be as tightly wrapped as a lumpiang sariwa from Goldilocks. With that thought, why am I suddenly missing the Philippines?

Not Narnia

"I stepped into this wardrobe and was surprised to see this from the other end."

That's me wishfully thinking that I'm cast in the C.S. Lewis's masterpiece-inspired movie and Narnia is where I found myself in. You won't find the White Witch from where I am but from the previews of Narnia movie, this almost looks like it. It's winter--when the landscape is covered in a cold white blanket.

Snowflakes, when they fall from the sky, feel like cold specks of powder. But snow, when it has settled after a few days, feels like the accumulated ice on the sides of the freezer. I'm mighty glad that it doesn't snow in the Philippines. Many of our countrymen would freeze to death, not just because of lack of heating but lack of houses.

*This picture taken a few minutes ago is the view from the back of the house where I am staying in New Jersey.

Jetlagged Thoughts*

Zero.
That was the amount of sleep I had before boarding the first of the three planes that took me here in the US. While still at the NAIA, I had to run on pure adrenaline during the whole, almost complicated process, of checking in for my flight. At 5:45 am, while queing to get my boarding passes, I suddenly wished to be the president of the Philippines. With the kind of privilege PGMA's position affords, she doesn't have to face this airport nightmare. But then again, with the state our country is in, she's probably got enough nightmares to keep her awake every night. And so I take back my wish. One-time stress versus six years' worth of it: nah. I'll take being an ordinary mortal anytime.

Buy it. Read it. Return it. And get a 50% refund.
An airport bookstore in Detroit (where I took my connecting flight to New Jersey), Heritage Borders, makes this offer. Coming from the book business, I knew it was a great deal. No wonder people in the US have become booklovers; they're spoiled! I see people in the airport lounges reading while waiting for their flights. Reading, with a sandwich on one hand and a paperback on the other. I did my own share of reading, while up in the air and down at the terminal: Fearfully and Wonderfully Made by Dr. Paul Brand with Philip Yancey (which I highly recommend). Another book tucked in my luggage somewhere is an ancient copy of Elisabeth Elliot's Shadow of the Almighty.

Like earning a masteral degree in self-denial.
That is how parents must be feeling while taking care of their kids. I'm not in the program yet but I can already imagine its demands. My nephews gladly tell me this, and in non-verbal terms too. Case in point: I catch some precious sleep on the couch while watching Madagascar with them (this was probably about an hour of my arrival). While in the REM cycle of my sleep, I suddenly hear a loud voice reverberate in my ear, "Tita Beng, wake up. Wake up! The movie's over. Let's play." I had to remind myself that in my dictionary, the word "they"-- these thousands of kilojoules of energy contained in tiny bodies--comes before "me." And that they're the primary reason why I've willingly allowed myself to be sleepless.

*These 3:30 am thoughts canned after my body couldn't tell if it was day or night and prodded me to write instead of sleep. I'm hoping to recover from this confusion-slash-jetlag soon. :-)

Feels like my day

I was running late coming to work. As the clock ticked away, I was already thinking of tasks which needed to be done today—my last day at work for 2005. I gasped for breath and pictured the day’s challenges. Ready to be stressed. Bring it on.

But on my last step up the stairway leading to our room, I wondered: “Is everybody late? Why are the lights still not on?”

As I turned the door knob, another question entered my mind: “And why is the door locked?” After a couple more seconds, I discovered why.

And oh, what a discovery! A dark room greeted me, illuminated only by the light from candles atop a Red Ribbon mocha cake. My teammates offered me a heartfelt rendition of the Happy Birthday song while I grinned from ear to ear as a bottle-ful of exhilaration was spritzed on me.

The Publications team didn’t miss the chance of celebrating my birthday before I left for the US. Nobody seemed to have minded, well, especially not me, that we are celebrating my birthday sixteen days early. My boss, Ate Yna, thoughtfully bought a cake the night before. The same thing Ian, an editor, did who handed me a bouquet of pink roses. The cake tasted sweet but the euphoria I felt over the pleasant surprise was infinitely sweeter. The flowers were beautiful but do not compare to the beauty of kindred spirit we share.

It’s not everyday when I feel like it’s my day. Today is one of those days. Wow.

PS: Before the day ended, another friend, Gracia, handed me a slice of cake and a can of coffee. For the coffee time we couldn't share anymore, she gave them to me instead. Now, who needs coffee when you've got great friends like these to perk you up?! :-)

Blinders

Racehorses have them, and I wish could wear them too: blinders.

This random thought visited me this morning while singing a Praise song with the line which says, “You’re altogether lovely, altogether worthy. Altogether wonderful to me.” Now how could an earthly thought such as this come to me while singing a song directed to the heavens?

Why the wish?

Because I am afraid that I am missing out on how lovely, how worthy and how wonderful He is. Sadly, I am often consumed by what I can see with my naked eyes. Most of the time I think only about the here and now. I should pick up my passport from the travel agent. Will that package fit my luggage? What astringent best lightens pimple marks? Yes, my being nearsighted and not having 20/20 vision makes me feel bad. But what makes me feel worse is my nearsightedness that cannot be remedied by a pair of prescription glasses.

Now, add to my nearsightedness my unbelievably strong tendency to get distracted by what or who are in the sidelines. I would easily get rattled when I catch a glimpse of the regrets of the past, insecurities of the present, fears of the future. Now, if I had blinders on, my focus will remain steady, set as flint. And that is, on Him who is the Author and Perfecter of my faith. On Him who thinks I'm special enough for Him to give His love and life to. On Him who tells me, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

To keep my eyes fixed on Him I need to give all of me: Exert every ounce of my strength, unravel every shred of my faith, and squeeze every drop of my self-will. Either I do that or God gives me blinders.

And I still have a long way to run in this track called life.

"So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen
is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal (2 Corinthians 4:18)."

12 days before take-off

Details of my upcoming trip to the US have been occupying almost every available disk space in my hard drive of a mind these several days. I’ve been planning how I could manage to buy all the stuff my sisters and mother want me to bring them: La Visa Loca VCD. Latest Martin Nievera CD. Cashew polvoron from Goldilocks. Bag from Greenhills. A capiz, blinking parol. Ad infinitum. To date, I have completed only 30% of their purchase requirements. With only twelve 24 hours left—with most of these days to be spent in the office, promised dates with friends, an early Christmas party—I’m imagining extra-stressful days (and nights) ahead.

I decided to fly early October when I learned about the Northwest airlines promo of 50% discount with their cash and miles promo. I saw the figures and thought that it was a great deal. I won't be able to fly to the US at a cheaper rate than this! And so I ask permission from my boss for the extra-long December leave, book my flight, and renew my passport.

So why am I flying? Here are the reasons, according to level of importance:

1 Ian, Noah and Ethan, my US-born nephews, won't be little kids for so long. Soon they will leave home, go to college, have their own families. Okay, so I'm overreacting. They're only 6, 4 and almost 2. But if you'd see them, you'd understand why I'm willing to endure the 18-hour travel to be with them.
2 The change of pace and location will do me good. I don’t love the US the same way I love the Philippines but since half of my family is there, then half of my heart is there too. Besides, the wealthiest nation in the world is never wanting in its offering of sights, tastes, and experiences.
3 I’m taking advantage of my US visa. I got mine pre-9/11; the consul then felt extra-trusting and gave me a multiple entry one. But there’s no assurance that the US of A would let me enter their backyard again after my visa expires.

It'll be my first time to go to the US as a blogger. I’ m looking forward to writing while I’m freezing in the snow or getting lost in New York. While playing with the boys or reading them stories. But an early warning is in order: My blog will probably read like a travelogue or the nanny files.

Hope you'll still be around to keep me company then.

the new kid on the block. . .

. . . is a girl.

I was never good at Math but it's inevitable that I do some division. You see, my Tita-Beng-heart, once divided into five to make room for five nephews, should now be divided into six. The occupant of the additional room is a 6.5-lb. niece who moved in last November 15.
The miracle of birth is one of God's greatest. So I wasn't with Moses' group to see the parting of the Red Sea, didn't see Lazarus come out his tomb when Jesus called him out. But I need not have been there during those times to believe in the awesome display of God's power. For I am a woman of simple faith. Just the wonder of birth is enough to blow my mind away.

So here I am, still smiling, at the remembrance of a baby--still wrinkly, with eyes shut, fragile and helpless baby. My sister Chayen and her husband Regie's baby. Awesome.Hello to dolls and ribbons. Hello to frilly dresses and everything pink. And hello to you, Sophia Maureen. Feel at home in my heart. Welcome to my life.

*I finally had a picture with Sophia. Here she is, barely two months old. Taken January 8, 2006.

finding my own alabaster jar

“How wasteful,” the other guests whispered among themselves. Yet even after hearing their muffled protest, still, she was undeterred. Yes, she knew that the jar contained no ordinary oil. But this she also knew: He was no ordinary man.

Now, the precious alabaster jar is empty. Yet her heart has never been so full.

Mary of Bethany stands on one side of the room, her long hair still damp. Her eyes, though puffy from weeping, sparkles with joy. The corners of her mouth upturned to reveal a smile. The oil from the jar she has just broken seemed to have seeped through her skin. Its fragrance, distinctive, yet not overpowering.

What could have prompted her to offer such a lavish sacrifice? It was, after all, worth more than a year's wages. What does she know about this itinerant Preacher who walked for days on end, with a ragtag group of men? Did she listen to Him speak or see Him heal? . . . marvel at His miracles or taste His compassion?

I walk towards her while considering which of these many questions to ask. Upon learning of my intent, she smiles and tells me I could ask just one. But what do I really want to know? Ah, not one of those questions but this.

“Where do I look for an alabaster jar filled with oil, like yours, to offer Him?”

“My oil was my most precious possession, for I am a woman of modest means. When I learned that Jesus was coming to Simon the leper’s house, I knew I had to look no place else to find what I can give Him. The oil in that alabaster jar was my treasure, it was my everything. And He deserved every single drop.

"You ask me where you could look for an alabaster jar like mine. But you have asked a question only you could answer. Look around your house. Or better yet, look inside your heart.”

She picks up a piece of the broken pottery and hands it to me. I walk away, feeling the hardened clay between my fingers. Wishing, that I could soon find the answer to my own question.

For my Savior deserves nothing less, nothing else, than my own alabaster jar of love.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

And I’ve come to pour my praise on Him like oil
From Mary’s alabaster box
Don’t be angry if I wash His feet with my tears
And I dry them with my hair
You weren’t there the night He found me
You did not feel what I felt
when He wrapped His loving arms around me
You don’t know the cost of the oil
In my alabaster box
-From the song of Cece Winans, “Alabaster box”

Haircut: 90. Smile:Toothless

Last Saturday, on a whim,I beg my five-year-old nephew Pong if I can tag along when he gets his haircut. He obliges and lets me stand by his side. But before the barber’s first snip, I take out my camera phone and ask him to smile. The picture on the left will probably not land him a toothpaste commercial deal but it’s good enough to be posted on his doting aunt’s blog.

Now what good is a “before” picture without the “after”? This time I join him for this shot in the mirror.

There’s really nothing profound or poetic about this post. If this post were food, this must be cotton candy—high on sugar but low on nutritional value. Please let me. I like having cotton candy every now and then.

Like now. :-)

My Grip on Gadgets

My typical day includes interaction with different kinds of gadgets. For instance, this non-working Friday, I surfed with my laptop (resurrected after a handyman-slash-officemate repaired the broken adaptor), sent and received texts with my cellphone, and listened to MP3 music while having dinner at a fastfood. And before retiring to bed tonight, I’m thinking of checking my schedule for next week and keying in some reminders in my year-old PDA.

Sure, my gadgets have made life easier for me. My MP3 player, only a few centimeters bigger than a matchbox, so light sometimes I even forget it’s hanging on my neck, assures me that I will enjoy the songs coming from the earplugs. No DJ will pester me with his/her sometimes incoherent banter. My PDA helps me carry around details of my schedule, important contact info, quotes from my favorite books, unfinished essays, ebooks I don’t have time to read save for the Wizard of Oz I already finished. It even entertains me with a few (okay, sometimes not just a few) rounds of Bejeweled. As for my laptop(a gift from my bro-in-law), I’m connecting with you with this black contraption with its eighty-nine keys. I’ve written hundreds of pages using this old Dell model. Some published on paper and on the web, some to be hidden in its hard drive memory forever, or until the hard drive crashes. As for my Nokia, today I exchanged texts with an acquaintance, my sister, an author, a psychologist/soon-to-be-writer.

But am I being swallowed by technology?

This self-assessment prompted by a Reader’s Digest article, entitled “Me Me Media,” I pored over earlier. Have these technological tools become so important to me that I will feel that my life will be less meaningful without them? Have these gadgets become mini-gods in the sense that I have already been worshiping them and am drawing significance from them? And have I, in a way, been subconsciously assigning price tags on people based on the gadgets they are tinkering on with their hands?

A part of me is thinking of loosening my grip on these things. Yes, I will continue owning these tools but I will not let them own me. With you as my witness, let me stick this mental post-it: I will not lust after the latest Nokia model, the slimmest laptop, the PDA with more features than I can use, or the MP3 player which could store thousands of songs.

God has already blessed me by allowing me to have what I have. But I need not let these gadgets, and the desire for flashier ones, consume me. For now I would have to teach myself to be thankful. And to be content with what I have. And to spend more time with people than on my gadgets.

I guess I still have a lot to learn. Maybe a day-long gadget fast is in order. Now, if I could just fish out my PDA from my bag and write when that day should be....Uh, er, yes, obviously I still have a lot to learn.

Three days in Tagaytay

My three days of this four-day long break were spent with a group of more than seventy people, men and women, from different professions and persuasions. All of us enjoyed the cool Tagaytay weather while billeted at Sunrise Holiday Mansion. “Rest, Security, Hope in Him” was the theme of this year’s convergence, an annual conference organized by Influencers International [Picture of Makati II delegates, the largest group represented].

It was a welcome change for me, not having to think about work for several days. My soul and body were nourished. My body was fed with an array of delicious food, relished over stimulating conversations. As for my soul, spending time with God and listening to His messages were enjoying feasts. As the theme suggests, I learned about rest, security and hope. The gifted speaker, in three sessions, reminded us about our need to take care of our bodies through proper attention to rest, nutrition and maintenance. Then came the challenge for us to reconsider where we base our security. Is it money, relationships, success? And lastly, the message of waiting expectantly, which is the essence of hope.

And, lest I forget, there was the “disturbing” message, from another resource person, about biblical manhood and womanhood.

- - - - - - -
Am I a nice girl, tough girl or an emasculating controller? (Three other kinds of women were in the list of manifestations of control: the helpless controller, little girl and busy girl).

Pierre, seated on my left, asked me if I fit the mold of the tough girl. I took no offense, smiled and replied, “That’s just what most people think.” After the session, Wendell, my one-time verbal sparring partner, approached me and half-seriously (I hope) tags me as the emasculating controller. This time I took offense and playfully answered back, “Hindi ah! Nice girl ako, NICE GIRL!” After I twisted his arm, Wendell relented and agreed that I, indeed, am a nice girl (And a joker too. Incidentally, the first part of the previous sentence was a joke).

Why the categories?

The premise was that after the Fall (read: Adam and Eve disobeyed God, listened to the cunning serpent and each took a bite out of the forbidden fruit), men and women ever since have not been true to God’s original design. This explains the different categories women (and men: the little boy, macho boy, good boy, and distant boy) fall into. Men have been avoiding courageous movement by violence, immobilization, compensation and massive denial. While we, women, have long ceased to follow the man’s lead and instead have been taking matters into our hands and control men and our world. So what was God's original intent for man and woman?

God’s design was for man to move in sacrificially, courageously, risking for the well-being of other. But because of the Fall, man has now become avoiders in relationships both as initiator and as the one responsible for it.

God’s design was the woman to trust even when there’s no reason to; to give her soul to encourage someone else, to be soft and vulnerable. But because of the Fall, she has become more concerned about how she could least be damaged and hides her tender responsiveness.

I agree on both counts.

It will take a kilometric article for me to detail my interaction on the subject. Besides, I am still thinking(and thinking hard at that) about my response to the challenge of biblical womanhood. How can I truly grasp the essence of femininity, be securely aware of my worth and able to make others feel welcome? Can I be truly beautiful, that is, have a heart of faith and rest in God alone? What does it mean to be soft and vulnerable? Will I take the risk and learn to be inviting enough to give room for others to come into my life?

Can we, daughters of Eve, change from being manipulative, controlling women to valiant women? To borrow Shakespeare's words: "To be or not to be[this kind of woman]: That is the question."

It will take one great leap of faith, and the enabling of an infinitely greater God to help me answer that question. But deep inside, I know I want it to be a "yes."

"I'll take care of you"

With barely three hours sleep, I let the cold shower jolt awake my senses. I donned the long sleeveless floral dress which I accentuated with a pearl necklace and pearl earrings. After about thirty minutes on the road, I saw the sign to the entrance. My feet in 2-inch sandals hurriedly walked towards the Orchidarium. It was an early morning wedding. How early? 6am early. My only consolation is that my friends, the bride and the groom, will only do this once.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The groom in his crisp barong lovingly crooned to his blushing bride. Both his arms enveloped her; his left arm around her left shoulder, his right by her right hand. His singing accompanied by acoustic guitar, his soft albeit tentative voice wafted through the air. The electricity was out so he had no microphone to amplify his voice. But he didn't really need a microphone or anything else. All he wanted was for her—only her—to hear his song.

I'll take care of you
Don't be sad, don't be blue
You can count on me,
your whole life through
Coz I'll take care of you.

There was no promise of plucking the moon and the stars from the galaxy to lay at her feet. Nor did he commit to diving the depths of the ocean in search of a treasure from a sunken ship. Simply and wholeheartedly he offered what he knew he could do: I'll take care of you.

Now I find myself liking that song. It took a man who desperately loves his woman for me to appreciate it. There was nothing in the lyrics which was especially literary. Any listener would tell you that the song is ordinary. What made it beautiful aren't really the lines in the stanza. For me, it's the fact that a new husband borrowed these lines to make a promise to his beloved wife. "l'll take care of you . . . "

I hum the song.

And pray.

For the couple on their first of endless days together as lifetime partners. That their union will stand the test of time and trials. And that they will continue to give me a reason to believe that in this part of earth, there still exists a kind of love made in heaven.

Savoring my best meals

What’s the best part of a meal? Is it the appetizer, salad or piping-hot soup? Is it the main course, made exquisite with the choicest ingredients, the most succulent meat and the most exotic of spices? Or could it be the sweet and (usually) sinful dessert?

It has never been what’s on my plate; it’s always who’s on the other side of the table. Even a dish fresh out of the French chef’s kitchen is no match to the taste of warm and enjoyable company. It’s the long and meaningful conversation, peppered with laughter, seasoned with affection, richly thickened by shared ideas. Ask me to recall my best meals and I will hardly remember what I ate. But I can easily tell you who I was with, what we talked about, how much fun I had. And so it is possible for me to enjoy a meal sitting on a wooden stool by the corner eatery in the same way, or even more, than say, a six-course dinner in an upscale restaurant in Makati.

Last night I had a great meal. It was with a friend who was into numbers, into music, into writing. Over a Thai dinner, we scooped on each other’s plates the latest offerings of life and had a buffet. We blabbered on, listened intently, clarified thoughts, shared sentiments, laughed heartily. It was a filling andsatisfying meal—even if the two dishes we ordered had portions left on them when we stood up to leave.

A meal I’m still relishing even after the taste of curry has long passed my lips.

Trust God, my heart

Not all that glitters is gold
Not everything flashy is worth our fancy
For all we know, its attraction is but momentary
We should beware lest we miss out on the extraordinary

If a woman could give herself only once
May it be to the one who truly deserves the chance
She must guard her affections, take her time
Before she lets someone say, “You’re mine”

She can ask the Lord to give her eyes to really see
To go beyond the surface and see more clearly
The real treasure hidden inside of a man
That will outvalue everything another holds in his hand

So hush, my heart, and let wisdom be your friend
Let her walk with you through your journey’s end
Do not let the whisperings of the false mislead you
Trust God and wait to give you a love that’s true

Exodus

Days from now will be our exodus. The whole office will be transplanted from our Boni avenue corner Pinatubo location to another building in Mayon St, a stone’s throw away. There we, all 60 plus of us, will cram ourselves for the next six months while our 2-storey building is being converted to a 4-storey one. It’s just about the right time. We’re already bursting at the seams, with some staff in other departments almost elbowing each other while occupying their desk space.

Am I thrilled with the idea of temporary relocation? A part of me says, “no.” Moving out and setting up a work station somewhere else means work hours lost to setting up, fixing the files, figuring out where this-and-that is, among many other things. I am dreading the momentary disruption in my already otherwise tight work schedule. Besides I also have to grapple with walking at least 50 more steps than usual to and from Edsa where I get off and ride the bus.

But amidst all those minor problems, I know I should be excited. For one thing, I’d still serve the God I love through the publishing we do. For another, I’d still enjoy the warm company of brilliant, happy people I call my officemates. That is, see, talk to, and work with the best publishing professionals in the world(!). Together, as we endure the inconvenience of the temporary office, we’ll be joyfully anticipating the day we’ll move into our bigger, better building.

The Israelites had to wander in the wilderness for 40 years to reach the Promised Land. Compared to that, several months would seem just like a few minutes. They had to cross the Red Sea. While we, for the meantime, just have to cross Boni. So hand me the boxes and let the exodus begin.

Nang, my pretty sis

That's how Nang identifies herself when she makes a comment on my blog, my pretty sis. Of course, my two other sisters will probably disagree but since they seldom visit this site, I just have to let Nang, my eldest sister, claim that honor. But before I continue, let me come to her defense and say that she is not in any way conceited. We siblings are just a funny, playful bunch.

Of all my siblings, she's the one who first knew about this blog. I can't recall how I told her, most probably over the phone. But ever since, I'd be thrilled whenever I'd see her leave a comment. These comments are few and far in between but nevertheless, I know she's reading. Sometimes she'd confirm about something I wrote over the phone, or through our occasional email exchanges. I guess it's one of the greatest benefits of blogging--that connection you make with people. People you otherwise won't be able to get in contact with through conventional means. Some people you don't see everyday--like friends far away, and like thousand-miles-away Nang. Especially like Nang.

How I wish she'd get her own blog too. So I could read about what happened to her day. How Ian probably drove her crazy with his cute antics. How Noah charmed his way to her heart. How her date with her "Babs," my cool brother-in-law, went. If she had her own blog, I'd probably be her number 1 visitor. Well, maybe number 2, next to "Babs."

But since that day has yet to happen, I figured I'd just blog about her. Today I got an email from her saying that she'd give me Northwest 2K miles points in exchange for a post on her. She wrote it in jest and wouldn't have expected that I'd take her offer. Well, I did. Except that she doesn't have to keep her end of the bargain.

Hey Nang, my pretty sis.I can glady write a post for you--for free! See?! :-)

Painting Gratitude

Question: How can a dancer help a painter?
Answer: By making the painter a banner.

That trivia will hardly be true in planet Earth. But in the www galaxy, it actually describes what happened to this one [word] painter.

She needed a new frame to display her works. After finding one she could use, she realized it could be enhanced. With very limited frame-polishing skills, she turns to someone she knew could help: the dancer. The dancer lives in the same www galaxy (was already occupying a blogspot home long before the painter went real-estate hunting around the neighborhood). To make the weeklong story short, the painter had to find a new frame for the dancer to work on. And oh, how the frame was creatively carved and varnished. She loved it.

And so goes the story behind the redesigned Shades of Grace. And though metaphorical, the story is far from fictional.

This very grateful painter says,

“Thank you, tapdancin’ Aleks. Your effort deserved a painting.”

God in a Box

“You have ordered love, wisdom and power for your God. Would you like to add some patience and understanding to go with it?”
“Why would I want patience and understanding?”
“Well, knowing your God will have a helping of patience and understanding will make you feel less guilty of your sins.”
“OK.”
“Thank you, Ma’am. You may proceed to the next window to get your order. Enjoy your God.”

While this divine drive-through counter is fictitious, the idea behind it, sadly, is not.

Most people would have their custom-made version of God. For those who desire the flashiest car, the biggest house, and the latest cellphone model, God is a vending machine. You don’t need to feed coins to this Holy Vending Machine, just say the right prayer and it will automatically drop your requests in the vending slot. For those who wish for the most financially rewarding career, the most good-looking (and intelligent) spouse, and the sexiest figure, God is the Great Genie in the Sky. Upon hearing your cry for help, He will come to your side and turn the dreary existence you call life into an exciting adventure—with the snap of His fingers.

I have nothing against people thinking of God only as a kind of merciful and benevolent God, the Heavenly Father who desires what is best for His children. Jesus Himself after teaching the disciples how to pray prodded them to come to God when He said, “Ask and it will be given to you, seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you (Luke 11:9).” What I am against, however, is the proliferation of this selfish belief among people in our generation that makes us think that God’s ultimate purpose of being our God is to give us what we want.

We live in a consumer society being entertained by the sound of ringing cash registers. Today more than ever before we are being offered every kind of product, every kind of service, every kind of convenience. To boost sales, every business’ guiding principle for service is “ The customer is king.” For who wouldn’t want that kind of royal treatment? If I am in a department store looking for the perfect shoes and willing to pay good money for my purchase, I know I deserve to be treated as I if I were Imelda Marcos. But shouldn’t that perception of self-importance be left within the premises of the mall and not be flashed around like a limited edition Gold Mastercard? Do we expect to be served hand and foot wherever we go?

Unfortunately, this spirit of consumerism has not just invaded our ego but has stealthily crept into our concept of God, in general, and our religion, in particular. One pastor-writer had some misgiving about a book that tells church leaders how they could “sell” their churches (and God) to the unchurched. I agree with him when he says that it is a reflection of how some Christians are using worldly gimmicks to accomplish a heavenly cause. But this pastor-writer is walking on a lonely road because not everyone feels the same way. The sad question is this: Have we put God in a box and hope that He is packaged attractively enough to be bought?

I am incapable of diving into the deep ocean of theology on the attributes of God. I would need a seminary degree, a master’s and a doctorate (plus 40 more years added to my age) to be able to do that. Rather, I am just wading through the puddle of people’s concept of God. Why is it that some of us try to fashion God according to our convenience and conscience? Can we really create our own individual versions of God? Can we confine God to the four sides of a box and expect Him to stay there and not act until we ask Him to?

I try to recall if there’s anybody who tried to size up God and succeeded. The Old Testament Job comes to mind. No, he wasn’t able to figure out who God really is and why He works the way He does. But he did get an answer from God in the form of questions. In the next four chapters after Chapter 37 of the book of Job, God challenged Job to answer His questions: “Brace yourself like a man; I will question you and you shall answer Me. Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation? Tell me, if you understand. Who marked off its dimensions?” (Job 38:3-5) Job wasn’t able to answer any of God’s questions. But he came away with a more accurate understanding of who he is and who God is. In humility he admits, “I know You can do all things….Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things to wonderful for me to know” (Job 42:2-3).

I don’t want a Holy Vending Machine, or a Great Genie in the Sky, and I definitely don’t want a God I can put in a box. I would like to know the God who created the billions of stars in the galaxies and the almost invisible cells in my body. I would like to know the God who powerfully parted the Red Sea, who closely cared for His people in spite of their grumbling, who emphatically expressed righteous anger at the disobedience of His children. I would like to know the God who can span the universe with the breadth of His hand and with the same hand, heal the broken hearts of men.

A God small enough to fit into a box could never be big enough to deserve my reverence.

Weak Week

If somebody offered me a pitcher of blenderized vegetables, with the promise of cure for my weeklong malaise, I would have gulped it down before I could finish this sentence. Now, if you knew of my notorious non-love for vegetables, you’d understand that I have turned desperate (But to my defense, I am not averse to everything leafy, green-yellow-and-other-colors vegetables. There are several I eat and actually enjoy. Potatoes, in French-fries, for instance. Yeah, right!) But no such offer came so I am left on my own to find a way to get out of my lingering weakness, colds, and fever.

I’ve voluntarily subjected myself to self-exile in my room this weekend. Except for the thirty minutes I had to get out today to buy myself medicines and food, I’ve stayed in my tiny room and been on my lone company. Partly because I don’t want to spread the virus, in case this is really a viral disease. Mainly because I also needed catch up on the much-needed sleep I’ve deprived myself. (I’ve actually been sleeping before midnight the past couple of days, another sign, if you will, of desperation. I’m also notorious for sleeping so late—or should that be so early in the morning?)

Times of weakness forces taking-my-body-for-granted-me to rethink my lifestyle and habits. Yes, during my period of illumination, that is, while rubbing my temples to provide momentary relief of my terrible headache, I’ve decided to do the following:

1. Avoid strenuous activities for the next seven days. (But how will I ever get
better with my badminton strokes? That can wait.)
2. Get enough sleep and forget being nocturnal. At least, until I get better.
3. Religiously take my vitamins (Centrum, Vitamin C, and Ferrous Sulfate. Pretty
soon I’ll have enough drugs on my body to set up a drugstore!)
4. Try to train my palate to befriend more vegetables (I can’t believe I’m writing this. I think I’m suffering from temporary insanity. Repeat the mantra: Vegetables
are good for me. Vegetables are good for me. Another line deserves to
be repeated: So are chocolates. So are chocolates.)

I’ll be facing another week. Hopefully, this will be unlike the last weak-week. Maybe if I take my medicines with a glass of discipline, while shooting up a fervent prayer to our Divine Physician, I’d finally get healed.

I can’t wait to see better (and stronger me) days ahead.

Time for a cool change

Seven months. That’s how long I enjoyed my first ever template background(Dots Dark designed by Douglas Bowman). I chose it because I thought it was the most colorful among the many templates offered by blogger.com. Now, I’m sensing that it’s time for a cool change. And so this new template. I can’t say (at least, not just yet) that I already like it as much as I did the first one but I’m sensing I’ll warm up to it. For what heart is not easily taught when it has already decided?

Welcome to my new “look.” Hope you’ll still stick around as I continue to paint shades of God's grace.

SOS: Any HTML literates reading this post? Please help. I would like to use a different picture for the banner. Any help will be greatly appreciated, even rewarded. That is, if a bar of chocolate is tempting enough. :-)

Planting a Legacy

I just planted a tree--well, two trees to be exact--last Saturday. Together with a third of my officemates, we embarked on a three-hour trip to San Miguel, Bulacan where we all desperately wished we had a green thumb. With a theme, “Planting Roots, Shading Generations” (a spoof of our corporate theme, “Publishing Truth. Shaping Generations.”), we broke the hard ground, dug holes, mashed soil, carried seedlings by their trunks, watered the ground, and planted mahogany and coconut seedlings.

The last time I displayed my agricultural skills was for a gardening class when I was in Grade six. If my memory serves me right, I together with my groupmates, planted tomato and okra seeds. Did our project “grow”? I can't remember but all I know is that we passed! Now if we planted mangoes, my favorite fruit, I would have checked on our lot everyday.I am not sure how many years it’ll take for the two mahogany seedlings with my name on them to grow. But this I know, with a little help from the sun and rain and the God of all creation, not too long. I can wait. Among many roles, this booklover-cum-treeplanter is also a tree-waiter.

Writing on Stone and Sand

Sometimes I do a different kind of writing
But not the kind using ink and paper
I find myself busy etching and scribbling
On stone and sand—two different matters

I stop my hand from mixing them up
Not scribble on stone, not etch on sand
You should know what it is I’m writing
So my cautiousness you'll understand

I should be etching on stone
Kindnesses people show to me
I should be scribbling on sand
Offenses that cut deeply

The etched words on stone will last
Even after many decades have passed
And tomorrow, the tide can quickly wash away
On sand the scribbled hurts and tears of today

“Dear God, guide my hand where I should write
As I choose which memories I'll forever set
Give me the stone, show me the sand
Help me to remember, help me to forget”

If Life were a Dance

Don’t worry about what you don’t know.
Life’s a dance.
You learn as you go.

John Michael Montgomery, Life’s a Dance

I am safe, content with where I am—by the bleacher, watching, cheering others on. The fluid movements of the dancers enthrall me as I wonder how the rhythm of their bodies beautifully matches the music. The way they completely abandon their self-consciousness and capture their ten minutes of glory amazes me. The music stops; the dancers walk away.

The dance floor is now empty. As I stand to leave, a Voice calls out. “It’s your turn.” Another melody rings through the air. “It’s your song.”

It can’t be me. Ask me to watch everyday, and I will. You will find me here—right on the dot, and sit on the same spot. But me, on the dance floor? Just the thought of being warmed by the klieg lights freezes me. I can’t. Or I won’t.

But what if? What if for a moment I disrobe myself of my self-consciousness and take on the dance floor? What if I take—careful and tentative—steps, from the bleacher to the center? Sure—I might make the wrong step, trip on my own feet but what if for ten minutes failure didn’t matter?

I am now where the Voice asks me to be. I don’t immediately move and sway to the beat. I’m taking my time and feeling the music. Hoping that my feet, my arms, my body obey what my heart tells me to do. Will I ever learn to dance as gracefully as the dancers I admire? Can I risk being away from the safety of the sure and known?

The music is playing.
The dance floor, waiting to be caressed by my feet.
Life's a dance. I will learn as I go.

*This post inspired by the challenges I'm anticipating. One of which involves me stepping out of my comfort zone and doing something new. If and when I do it, you'll read about it--soon.

A Poem for Ian

Once there was a boy named Ian
Who loves to laugh and have fun
He likes his ice cream vanilla white
And with his necktie is quite a cool sight

He’s the sweetest boy you’ll ever meet
How could I tell, you might think
With his skinny arms he’d hug me tight
And ask if he could stay by my side

He’d say out of the blue, “I love you”
Now if you were me, what would you do?
What else but smile and wonder out loud
How of him his parents must be so proud

Over the phone I ask him one day
“May I come on your birthday?”
He says, “Okay, just ride a big airplane”
Now, if it were only that simple and plain!

So I’m giving him this poem instead
He’d be thrilled upon seeing our picture posted
“Ian, as you turn six today, stay as cool and sweet
Of all the Ians in the world, you’re my favorite!”

H A P P Y B I R T H D A Y, Ian!

Thinking of Seven

Seven things that scare me
1. Getting a really bad haircut
2. Mice / rats
3. Offending people, especially those who mean a lot to me
4. Missing a deadline/failing at my responsibilities
5. Losing my students’ respect because of a bad choice(I teach a College Sunday School class)
6. Reckless driving (that’s why I don’t drive)
7. Breaking God’s heart

Seven things I like the most
1. Talking with my nephews
2. Reading a good book in my bed, on the bus, in front of a hotsprings in Banaue (anywhere, actually!)
3. Watching a good movie
4. The privilege of making a difference through what I do
5. Making people smile/laugh
6. Having unhurried, meaningful conversations with friends (usually one-on-one)
7. Listening to music

Seven important things in my room
1. Bed
2. TV
3. Pillows
4. CD player/radio
5. Books
6. Drawers where I keep all my stuff
7. Me when I’m inside(Hehe!)

Seven random facts about me
1. Kabalo ako mag-Bisaya, di ako mabaligya
2. I share a Christmas birthday with a twin brother
3. I enjoy surprising people with unexpected treats
4. I’m nocturnal but not insomniac
5. When I order chicken, I specify to give me any part except the leg (ma-masel kasi. Lagi kasing naglalakad ang chicken. Explain ko na lang sa inyo ng personal kung gusto ninyo)
6. I can delay gratification
7. I can trust God even when things do not make sense

Seven things I plan to do before I die
1. Join the Palanca and win
2. Take a short course at a culinary school
3. Love like I have never loved before
4. Have a family and put my cooking, budgeting, child-rearing and other skills to use
5. Tell all my loved ones about Jesus
6. Go to Israel and see where Jesus walked
7. Discover all I could about God and give Him all the love, praise, service I am able to give

Seven things I can do
1. Sing
2. Cook
3. Teach
4. Use different voices when storytelling to kids
5. Risk looking silly just to have fun (I once made and wore a giant watermelon slice costume during our fun night in our company retreat!)
6. Go to an unfamiliar place on my own
7. Be faithful to God, my calling, the one I will choose to love

Seven things I can’t do
1. Act
2. Bike
3. Dance
4. Drive (I can drive pala but I won't)
5. Swim
6. Eat balut
7. Deliberately disobey God

Seven things that attract me to the opposite sex
1. Love for God
2. Strength of character
3. Ability to communicate
4. Gentleness and kindness
5. Sense of purpose
6. Wit
7. Hair

Seven things I say the most
1. Talaga?
2. Shocks!
3. Ngii!
4. Kiss muna! (said only to my nephews. Well, at least, for now. Hehe!)
5. Gusto mo ng ________ (fill in the blank with whatever I have at the moment)?
6. OK lang
7. Yaiiks!

Seven celebrity crushes
1. Philip Yancey (What a brain!)
2. Jim Elliot (kaya lang patay na siya. Pero gusto ko pa rin siya, based on what his wife tells about him)
3. Jerry Yan (kaya lang di ko siya maintindihan)
4. Piolo Pascual (kaya lang di siya book reader)
5. Steve Martin (he’s so funny!)
6. Beast of Beauty and the Beast (I love the way he shed off his rough exterior, figuratively, and loved her)
7. Donald Duck (just to make a list of seven)

Seven people I want to take this quiz
1. Gina
2. Jenny
3. Karina
4. Pstr. Bong
5. Nechie
6. Olive
7. Anjou

To Ivy and Aleks, I had a great time reading your lists (and learning more about you) too!:-)

Three Whens

"When do you stop loving someone?*"

I was asked this question several weeks ago by one of my closest friends. I didn’t have an answer for her then, in that split-second instant she cornered me, but I’ve been letting it simmer in my mind ever since. I think better when I write so here’s me thinking about it:

When do you stop loving someone?*
Let me answer with three whens. When it will cost you more pain to continue loving him. When using your dwindling supply of energy into keeping him is not just draining strength but the life out of you. When nights of you crying are outnumbering the days of you smiling.

Selfishness? Not really. Self-preservation? Probably.

But while you’re in this stage of indecision and uncertainty, know that just like all other heartaches, this too shall pass. All heartaches do. And as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, God will wipe away your sorrow.

So trust God and let the tears flow.

"The LORD is close to the brokenhearted;he rescues those who are crushed in spirit." Psalm 34:18 NLT

- - - - - - -
*Not in the context of marriage

Sweet dreams are made of these

Like a top girl scout anxiously anticipating her first camp, I was prepared. I knew I was going to crave for chocolates so I entered the cinema with two Kitkats in my bag (I didn’t eat both though. I gave the other one to my officemates). But the explosion of sweetness in my mouth was no match for the burst of delights popping right before my eyes.



Chocolate waterfalls. Candy foliage. A chocolate factory transformed into a whole universe where a glove-wearing eccentric man with perfect teeth (not necessarily perfect smile) is king. Sweet dreams are made of these. And this dream flashed before my eyes—uninterrupted, and in full-color too! It was an eye candy, literally and metaphorically speaking. Oompa Loompa danced, Willy Wonka strutted, and Charlie melted my heart with his cute smile and innocent soul.

Oh what fun to be a kid again! I did not have to hop into a time machine to go back to my carefree days of childhood. I simply suspended my rational, logical judgment for two hours, and imagined myself as a young child again. My eyes got misty when Charlie opened the first two Willy Wonka bars and didn’t find the golden ticket. My heart skipped a beat when Willy Wonka ushered the children into rooms painted with the colorful strokes of imagination.

It was an excellent tale by Roald Dahl, masterfully brought to life by Tim Burton. While the images of their creation are still replaying in my mind, thoughts about life and wishes for us all are providing the backdrop.

"May the worries of adulthood not cloud our sight. May we not trade our bright reds for the drab grays. May we never lose the sense of wonder of discovering the new. Because even when we’re wrinkled and eighty, in our hearts we can be forever eight."

Freezing Ice Candy, Learning Patience

How long does it take for a tube of ice candy to harden in the freezer? Tell me please because for the past ten minutes, my nephew Pong has been asking me if he can have one.

"Tita Beng, pwede na?"
"Hindi pa."
(Pong, whining) "Pwede na. Tingin ako."

I lead him towards the refrigerator and take a tube out of the freezer. I tell him it’s still juice and that we have to wait a little longer. The four-year-old, three-foot fellow squeezes the tube, finally believes me and goes up their room. Meanwhile, while I am trying to surf the internet, he comes down the stairs, almost every two minutes, to ask me:

“Tita Beng, gusto ko ng ice candy. Pwede na?”

I laugh out loud. Can I blame my persistent nephew? He is still mastering his ABCs and there’s no way he will understand the concept of freezing point, of how it takes time before liquid turns into solid. Besides, even if by some stroke of genius his brain allows him to understand, will I be able to explain it to him? I’d rather coach him on writing an essay detailing the link between ice candy and world peace. It’ll be quite a stretch, I know, but hey, I can try. I’ll find that easier than explaining how the movement of molecules causes the change of a matter’s state.

Going back to Pong, I realize he is starting to exhibit the inherent male quality of having a focused mind. The conqueror in him has been awakened. He has a goal (the ice candy) but its fulfillment is not yet within reach. Nevertheless, that doesn’t stop him from channeling every ounce of his mental energy thinking about a tube filled with flavored liquid in the freezer. He wants his orange-colored ice candy NOW. I hear heavy footsteps. . .

“Tita Beng, okay na ba?”
“Hindi pa. Tatawagin na lang kita.”
“Okay.”

I’m making progress here. At least he’s starting to take my word for it and doesn’t feel the need to touch the ice candy himself. Ah, my nephew is displaying faith. Learning patience.

While I’m checking in on his ice candy, I’m considering giving him some words of wisdom. “It's not always easy to wait for something but if it means so much to you, it will be worth the wait. Trust me. God is teaching me the same.”

* * * * * * * * * * *
Epilogue: Pong didn't have to wait until the next morning to enjoy his much-coveted treat. Shortly after I finished writing this post, the ice candies were ready and I gave him and his brother a piece each. And since I did my own waiting on it too, I figured I also deserved one, a red one, as my prize. Just in case you're wondering, let me confirm, "Yes, it was worth the wait."

Girls' Talk

My throat is still sore. I blame it not on a virus but on my XX chromosomes.

Sugarhouse Megamall, August 4; 6 pm. I take the table by the glass wall and wait patiently for one of my closest friends since college whom I’ll identify as Girl 1. She arrives after several minutes and the talkathon officially starts. She is still as cute and as effusive as I remember her to be. A working mom, she tells me how she has been looking forward to this long-delayed get-together. I think I haven't seen her in a year! Only after seeing her did I realize how much I missed her too.

Her husband follows her shortly. We exchanged how-are-yous and the husband-and-wife team tells me how family life is. I tell them a little about my life but keep from talking about myself too much. Between spoonfuls of our rice meals, we talk about career and health issues. Other friends and each others’ parents and siblings.

After the husband reached his quota of 200 words, he excused himself and let his wife and me use our remaining 2,250 (a conservative estimate, really). By 8 pm, the third member of our 4-member peer group, whom I’ll identify as Girl 2, shows up. She was initially non-committal about the meeting but decided to surprise us by dropping by. Halfway through her mango torte, she laments about her LQ with her boyfriend. We listen and give not-so-few unsolicited advice.

We could have put Boy Abunda and Kris Aquino to shame with our endless chatter. In fact, the other diners have already left! The waiters putting up the chairs and clearing the tables give us the cue that we should be going. And so we stand and leave. But not yet for home.

From Sugarhouse, we turn left and walk towards the parking area. When we get there, the three of us search for Girl 1’s silver car. After five minutes, which seemed like eternity, the case of the missing car remains unsolved.

Girl 2: "Saan ka ba nagpark?"
Girl 1: "Mega A. Mega A ito, di ba?"
Beng: "Hmmm...Di ko sure."
(The three of us go back inside the mall to consider the situation.)
Girl 2 to security guard: "Manong, ano po ba ito, Mega A or Mega B?"
Security guard: "Mega B po."
Girl 1: "Sure kayo?"
Beng: "Malamang sure siya. Dito siya nagtratrabaho eh.:-)"

We just laugh the whole thing off. We take easy strides from Mega B to Mega A while, yes, talking. After finally finding the car, we speed off to Racks in El Pueblo. Over fried chicken and potato wedges, our talk turns to relationships and expectations, boundaries and friendships. Funny experiences and beauty tips.

It’s fun being a girl and having the excuse to talk non-stop with friends. Good for the heart but bad for the throat. :-)

To Noah

You’re turning four today, Noah. And how my heart wishes that New Jersey is not as far as an eighteen-hour plane ride away. I terribly miss your smile, your bright smiling eyes, the warmth of your hugs. What I wouldn’t give to have you in front of me. You’d probably look at me with mischief in your eyes and playfully reach for my ear and then giggle—something you enjoy doing for some inexplicable reason.
I am waiting for the day when I could finally talk to you—ask you what you did at school or why you like listening to Barney, or how come you are fond of touching my ears. I will ask you about your favorite book, what you dreamt of the previous night, how you like your hot chocolate—with or without marshmallows? I will talk to you until you tire of Tita Beng pestering you with so many questions. But while that day has yet to happen, let me think about you and tell the whole world how crazy I am about you. Happy birthday, NOAH!

Writing at Midnight

I’ve written more than a few pieces, beaten more than a few deadlines, kept vigil in front of my Dell more than a few midnights already. If Cinderella leaves the ball lest her gown turns to rags at the strike of midnight, then I follow the reverse order. I could slip on my gown, enter the ballroom, and dance, figuratively that is, when the short hand and the long hand of the clock meet at the number 12.

So what letters do my short fingers gently tap? What thoughts will my mind allow me to make public? What feelings will my heart allow to surface? A line flits by my head . . .

"Above all else, guard your heart for it is the wellspring of life.*"

This verse from Proverbs is highlighted in my Bible. I couldn’t recall the exact time and under what circumstances the felt-tipped yellow marker slid across the page. But the wisdom of this verse is as precious to me now as when I was first confronted with its truth. For what else needs constant guarding than the seat of our emotions, the spot where daily battles are being fought? Daily battles between right and wrong, lust and purity, pride and humility.

Battles. I wish I could say I’ve always won these battles. More than a few times, which is an understatement, have I let my self-will dictate my actions. These are the times when God’s voice is drowned out by the enchanting noise of my own desires. When I should have known better and done it—or should not have done it—yet acted otherwise. Arrogantly coasting through life with my I-know-what-I’m-doing-I-can-handle-it days. Oh, don’t we all have one of these days? When we shamelessly believe we could ask God to take a 15-minute break and let us run the universe for the meantime?

I’ve always had a problem with my heart, and it’s not the medical kind. Even after I’ve given my heart to God, I’d still find myself creeping to His side and wonder if He’d let me have it again. To let me chase after false sources of happiness, and wander to desolate places of rest.

I find this business of guarding my heart getting harder and harder. I find this exercise of weighing my motives getting more and more frequent. But I am not about to give up just yet—in fact, not ever. If I would just learn to trust God with all my heart, then there will be no more battles to lose. I may be a slow and reluctant learner but I have the Most Patient, Most Wise and Most Loving Teacher.

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.**"

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*Proverbs 4:23
**Proverbs 3:5-6

Two Questions

I got tagged!

So here I am, keeping my word to Karina (www.blogwhisperies.blogspot.com)by answering the two questions she asked, which incidentally, she thoughtfully answered herself. I told her we had a few things in common, and in the next few sentences, she is about to find out.

What are the things you enjoy, even when no one around wants to go out and play? (I take this question to mean activities which I do on my own, without the participation of any other human being)

Reading. If I were marooned on an island and I had 50 books with me, it’ll be on the 51st day when I will start gathering wood to make fire and send smoke signals.
Sleeping. I am not an insomniac but I usually sleep late (Huh? Here’s the difference: Insomniacs “can’t” sleep, while I, when my mind is still alert and my body can cope, “won't” sleep. That is, until I am able to do every single thing I fancy). But I make up for my sleep-deprived days during weekends and extended vacations. And when I am able to do this, I savor every minute of it, like a bear hibernating in a cave for months. And during these times I could confirm that I really like to sleep.
Writing. Given the inspiration (or the deadline), I could get lost in my writing. Case in point: This post. I should be going home by now. . . but hey, I'm having my "dessert (see March 17 post)."

What lowers your stress/blood pressure/anxiety level?

Chocolates.When I’m depressed or tired, I try to make myself feel better by eating chocolates. Not too long ago, after a particularly tiring day at work, I just had to buy Kitkat to appease myself. I immediately unwrapped it as soon as I was seated on the bus. I rode the bus in Boni, took my first bite in Guadalupe, and by the time the bus loaded passengers along EDSA-Buendia, the chocolate was gone.
Two kids.
Pong and Robyn. My 4 and 2-year-old nephews, respectively, calm me. Wait, let me restate that. My nephews, when they are not hanging precipitously from our stairs or standing by the edge of the bed, calm me.
Silence. I rarely rattle off complaints or causes of my anxiety. Silence to me is therapeutic as I take stock of what is happening around me and inside me. It works everytime. But let me add that it’s not just silence per se. It’s being silent and talking to God. And I'm discovering that I need not be in my room to enjoy these times of solitude and communion with God. I could be crossing a busy street yet still feel that God is as near me as when I am all by myself.

Thanks, Karina, for this game of tag--21st century, tech-savvy, literary style.:-)

If words were clothes

If words were clothes,
Then what do we always wear?
Are we usually garbed in kindness and courtesies,
In pleasant how-are-yous and thank-yous?
Or are we often shabbily dressed in verbal attacks and gossips
In loud how-could-yous and whispered did-you-hear-abouts?

If words were clothes,
Then how could the most beautiful ones—
Made of the silky fabric of love,
stitched with the thread of tenderness—
Be sometimes tucked away and kept hidden
In the closet of fear and indecision?
There they remain hung, day after day,
Gathering dust while we say,
“I will wear these clothes someday”

But what if someday never comes?
What if after days turn into weeks,
Weeks into months,
Months into years,
We realize that these clothes—
Left hanging and unworn,
Don’t fit us anymore?
Why did we not wear them
Even just once, instead of never at all?

If words were clothes
Then I would examine my heart
As I would inspect my wardrobe
No tears will be shed over unworn clothes
It’ll be a different story with unspoken words

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My first attempt, in my blog, at poetry. I don't know the rules--about lines and meters and ryhmes. I'll probably cringe when I read this again after many years but I just felt like wearing, I meant writing, this today. :-)

Rain on Me

Yesterday it rained so hard a part of me was worried that it wouldn’t end—at least for the next four hours or so. I was scheduled to go to Valenzuela that afternoon and I was thinking if I’d have to swim on my way back home to Paranaque. I shoot a quick prayer—more like a quiet wish, really—and ask God to please make the rain stop (Quite audacious for me to ask when I don’t feel I’m particularly “good” lately. But then again, isn’t that the essence of grace? Getting what we do not deserve?). The Lord graciously hears my plea and turns off the heavenly sprinkler system switch. I arrived at my destination safe, sound—and dry.

But in ordinary days, that is, days when I don’t have self-serving motives, I welcome these tiny drops from heaven. The sound of rain—falling drops on the tin roof, like the rhythmic pounding of drums—echoes feelings of peace. And contentment. As if every drop whispers to me, “Life is good.” Most of the time I agree and mutter, “Yes, it is.” And add, “Thanks to God.”

Yet I have this one disappointment. Of all the many rainy days that have come and gone lately, not once have I seen a rainbow slash across the sky. While typing these lines, I am trying to recall when was the last time an arc of color swept past my eyes. Too long ago, I’m afraid. It must be the location, I surmise. For how could I see a rainbow with my view obstructed by the buildings and billboards of the city?

This disappointment, fortunately, is canceled out by one realization. That is, though rainbows shyly hide from me, God reminds me why I need not see one for me to believe it’s there. It is there. Likewise, He affirms to me that hope—what a rainbow represents to me—is always within my reach, though not always within my sight. For isn’t that what a rainbow is made to do—to serve as a sign of God’s promise of love, mercy and kindness?

Life is good. Thanks to God. Let the rains come.

A Culinary Piece

Today I inspected vegetables, weighed dressed chicken, read the label on a bottle, decided between buying four 270-gram packs of vermicelli noodles or buying two 500 gram-packs. Three plastic bags and thirty minutes later, I’m back home. In no time, my figurative chef’s hat is on top of my head and my hands are ready to work.

I chopped, boiled, sliced, diced, sautéed, mixed plus almost all the verbs you read in cookbooks. A confession: I fall into a trance while cooking. Our neighbor could be shouting “Fire!” and I probably wouldn’t even notice. I barely spoke a word while I stayed in the kitchen, with my mental and physical energy funneled into the pots and pans.

In the heat of the kitchen, I made three discoveries: (1) My eyes have already grown immune to the sulfuric acid in onions. Surprisingly, they didn’t sting anymore while I was chopping onions (“Look Ma, no more tears!”). (2) I need to buy a can opener soon. I searched our drawers and couldn’t find a working one. I had to open a can of pineapple chunks using a knife (Successfully, if I may add. “Look Ma, no blood!”). (3)Two hours of ingredients preparation plus 30 minutes of actual cooking time will make me secrete a gallon of sweat which is probably equivalent to three hours of weightlifting, using the treadmill and stationary bike, and doing aerobics in a gym.

Cooking, in some ways, is like writing. A creative pursuit, cooking also demands an investment of passion and critical thinking. Even before the cashier scans the code of the first ingredient, I should already have committed myself to the completion of the piece er. . . dish. If I am mindful about including a sentence in a paragraph, then I should be equally vigilant about an ingredient making it into the pan.

Several hours after my trip to the grocery, I finally enjoy the sight of my family eating. We’re celebrating my sister’s birthday two days early and I offered to cook for her. On hindsight, I realize it’s been a while since I last cooked (That is, not counting the three-minute instant noodles I occasionally “cook” for my nephew Pong).

If in my dreams Martha Stewart would ask me what’s the best seasoning I’ve ever used, I wouldn’t say salt and pepper. Not even curry, oregano or ginger. I’d tell her anybody could make a spectacular dish, just add a generous sprinkling of love.