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”