Five-word advice for tomorrows

I pity the angels. Tonight, their immaculate-white clothes will be covered with soot. What with all the fireworks dotting the night sky, there's bound to be some dust that will pierce through the clouds and make their way to heaven. I should tell them,

"Sorry for the dirtied clothes. It's New Year, you know, and the Philippines. Well, here one can't drive past one kilometer without seeing at least ten enterprising persons eager to make a few bucks selling cheap pyrotechnics. Do you have extra angel clothes tucked somewhere? By the way, how are your ears?"

Right this moment, three hours before it's officially another year, I could already hear the non-stop noise. A part of me wonders why some people would do a trial-run of their fireworks. Just to make sure they weren't duped by the smooth-talking man at the corner who promised they'll be burning their money for a visually-spectacular cause? I try to drown the noise with two buds in my ears playing Freestyle's music: "But baby, before I let you go, I want to say..."

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New Year's Resolutions? No, I ain't got any. I probably made a list or two sometime ago but what do you know? Even before the second month of the year rolled by, I couldn't find my list. Or maybe even forgot that the list even existed at all. No, I'm not pinning it to lack of discipline. More like to my poor memory. Here's me doing a self-talk: Oh, I made a list? What kind? About what I'd like to change about myself? You're kidding! There can't be anything I want to change about myself. Oh there's one. I think I'm too humble but shouldn't I be proud of it?

Seriously now, the turning of the year is more like a metaphor. Like a rainbow is a visible representation of the promise of hope. New Year. Fresh start. Beginnings. All the warm, fuzzy words you can put together that can make you sleep and wake up with a smile plastered on your face. New Year. Like a new notebook waiting for you to scribble words on them. I like the look and feel and smell of new notebooks. And new years too. The idea of a new year, at least.

Yes, I like December thirty-ones and January ones. But there's a day I always look forward to more passionately. It's the day named tomorrow. This day doesn't have to be sandwiched between years. It could be any day. Any day that could make you believe you're up for another shot at the ball. Another day that could find you mumbling, "Lord, I'm sorry about yesterday. I messed up bigtime. But thank You for today. Thanks for waking me up and thinking I deserve another chance."

Tomorrow, which incidentally happens to be the first day of a fresh year, I'm giving myself an advice that will hopefully last me the next 365 tomorrows. My self-advice--simple. Five words. "Worry less, trust God more." No scholar needs to dissect it; only a humble heart needs to believe it. And believe it with abandon, as if life is hinged on these five words. Interestingly, this advice capsuled in five words aren't really my own. A Carpenter from Nazareth two thousand years ago went up the mountainside and urged His disciples,

So I tell you, don't worry about everyday life--whether you have enough food, drink, and clothes. Doesn't life consist of more than food and clothing? Look at the birds. They don't need to plant or harvest or put food in barns because your heavenly Father feeds them. And you are far more valuable to him that they are. Can all your worries add a single moment to your life? Of course not....So don't worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today's trouble is enough for today. (Matthew 6:25-27,34, NLT)

Two-and-half-hours from now, I'll be needing a new calendar. But I'll be needing more than a piece of paper to help me navigate through the 24 hours in a day. Tomorrow, like today and my thousands of yesterdays, I'll be needing the Lord who can make me worry less. Oh, if I could only learn how to trust God more.

Perhaps I could... Tomorrow. And then all I'd have to think about are the todays.

cakes and closets

Last night, at Mexicali's, I had a cute Goldilocks' chocolate mousse courtesy of my DG--savvy group of women whom I meet at least twice in a month to learn and have fun with (two of them are in the US right now, enjoying their first White Christmas). They surprised me with a 5-day early birthday celebration.

Before giving me their words of encouragement, we shared what about our lives this coming year would we like to change. If our lives were a closet, what would we discard? Are there any paradigm shifts we'd like to make? While one spoke of trying to rid herself of flab (which is hardly noticeable I'm suspecting it might be imaginary), another spoke of taking more risks and developing herself in other areas of interest. She is, after all, more than a number cruncher. She is a music lover who will finally buy guitar and teach herself how to play it (Go for it, girl!).

No more guilt in saying No. This is what I had to say. If you knew me, you'd know that if you asked me to cross over a high wire, I won't say No. I'd say, "Give me time, I'll learn it." But from now on, I don't have to worry myself to death about pleasing every one. I have this dress patterned after paranoia and I'm taking it out of my rack. Another piece of clothing I don't want to wear anymore is the pants of pragmatism. Between trusting God and doing something to solve my problems, the former doesn't always win. I can get pretty impatient waiting for God to work and answer my prayer that sometimes I'd rather find the answer myself. And I thought I had the gift of faith.

I'll be updating my wardrobe. Next year, I'd wear more pinks than blues, more reds than blacks. I just hope those colors fit me. *wink*

wishes on colored paper

Got some short wishes written on colored paper last Monday. During our company Christmas program, each one was encouraged to make a Christmas wish for somebody else—anybody else—in the room. Sheepishly, I admit that I got more wishes than the few I gave away.

It wasn’t surprising for me, really, to know what most of these people (six out of eight, to be exact) wish for me: a love life. Quite appropriately, the author of the book Love and Courtship (the revised edition of which incidentally was one of the first projects I took on as a novice editor many years ago) said: “I wish you joy and wisdom, a love life that is satisfying and from the Lord.”

As my eyes run through the words scribbled, I couldn’t help but smile. But something else touched my heart during this thoughtful exercise. Another dear and respected author, a pastor, whose most recent book on crisis I edited, wished this for me: “Wish ko lang na gumaling na ang sister ni Beng.” Two more, along with their wish for a relaxing year and a lovelife, also wished for my sister’s recovery.

Thanks. Thanks for caring enough for me to care for the people I love.

I am thrilled to say that God is granting a wish. Just recently Nang called to update me about her condition. Psyching herself for a mastectomy next month, was she glad to be told by her doctor that she would have a lumpectomy plus radiation instead. “I just got my best Christmas gift for this year!!! Praise God!,” she emailed me later. “Yes, Nang, it’s also God’s best Christmas gift for me too,” I emailed back.

Prayers aren’t just spoken out loud, with hands clasped together or even raised upward towards heaven. Prayers aren’t always silently said, or mumbled to an unseen Deity by lowly creatures groveling for a morsel of mercy.

Words hastily written on tiny sheets of paper. A wish written for another. Maybe God reads them too and recognizes each one as a prayer—maybe not eloquent as a minister would say it yet sincere as a child would write it.

Sleepless in December

Even in my dreams, I was giftwrapping. No wonder I woke up tired, with wrists hurting. (Or at least, that’s my hypothesis. But then again, maybe a more telling reason could be that I barely had four hours of sleep before rushing to work today after burning the past-midnight oil with scissors and tape in my hands).

But no whining here, I promise. This giftwrapping gal is too sluggish to snarl and too weak to whine (but bitten by the alliterating bug bigtime!).

With the same passion as Albert Einstein’s while he was working on his Theory of Relativity, I am driven by my superb mathematical skills (or so, I wish)—divide the number of gifts by the number of remaining workdays, factor in the attire for the day and the size of bag needed (laptop bag or shoulder bag? Handbag?). My goal this morning: Bring as many boxes as I could carry to the office without looking like an undernourished female Santa. (Not much of a challenge, really, as no reindeer-drawn carriage was waiting for me outside our gate.)

And so I made it to the office, in one piece, with all my giftwrapped boxes all accounted for. My reward for my indefatigable spirit came in the form of a wide smile of a treasured author who dropped by unexpectedly. When I saw her, I suddenly forgot how sleepy I was and remembered to snatch the gift with her name under my table.

There should be a study made on how much sleep people get on the average per month—with December probably getting the lowest average. What with the countless parties to attend, reunions to enjoy and, of course, the giftwrapping duties to fulfill. “Sleepless in December” sounds like a good title for a documentary on it, don’t you think?

No, Virginia, there’s no Santa Claus who stays awake at night delivering gifts. But yes, Virginia, there are people out there who stays awake at night wrapping them.

of baking bread and distilling thoughts

No warm, freshly-baked white bread yet.

Coming home from work, with my loot from Sweetcraft, I initially planned to use my new Breadmaker for the first time. I've searched long and wide and worked hard enough for this moment. I've combed through the aisles of baking products in three supermarkets, in three separate days, before I realized that the right shop was just P7.50 ride away from my office. [I've been trying to find bread flour. Incidentally, all our supermarkets offer are variations of the All-Purpose Flour.]

Any kind of cooking is therapeutic and relaxing for me. In fact, last night I texted a guy friend, when he asked why I cook, that I actually find joy in culinary activity. It's an extension of my creative self--instead of stringing together words, I mix together ingredients.

Now, I'm on a baking mode. Last night my hands were busy making chocolate chip cookies (which my teammates devoured this morning). But tonight, I changed my mind before cutting open the package of the all-important flour.

And so why am I denying myself this pleasure now?

Let me tell you about Dr. Izzie Stevens. She is a fictional character in Grey's Anatomy who, after experiencing a major heartbreak, retreated to the kitchen. There she built a fort. There she whipped as many muffins as the kitchen (and Joe's Bar, and Seattle Grace hospital) could hold. Unstoppable. It was as if in every bowl of batter she prepares, an anesthetic would seep through her hands and find its way to her heart. I understand. For while cooking, she didn't have to think of a dead boyfriend, or her expulsion from the internship program in the hospital.

I ask myself if I am being Izzie Stevens. Am I trying to numb myself of whatever pain it is I am feeling by doing something that will at least deaden it, albeit temporarily?

Not like the pretty doctor's reasons for sadness is how I would describe mine. Nevertheless, I am still sad. Primarily, for and because of my sister. [And until my sister gets healed completely, I will carry this lingering sadness in my heart. Yet please do not mistake this sadness for loss of hope. I know, and I am sure, that God is much bigger than the cancerous tumor in Nang's breast. But for a second, hear me out: Isn't it normal for us human beings to at least feel a pang of melancholy upon knowing that there's this shadow of uncertainty hanging over our loved one's life?]

There are other reasons for sadness. A text received the other night, exposing an inadequacy on my part to fill a role I realized I wasn't qualified enough to fulfill. I ask myself over and over: How does one overcome the guilt of having hurt someone she had no intentions of failing? How will she make things right?

And so I don't bake. And refuse to touch any cooking utensil that will provide artificial happiness. Instead, I distill my thoughts using words I can form. And later on, I will be using more words-- to voice my sadness to the One who can clearly hear the emotions behind them.

The baking pan can wait another day.

Tales from Thailand 2

Finished!

My boss, Ate Yna, and I can finally breathe a sigh of relief. Lest you think that I am in Thailand exclusively for leisure, let me say, not really. We were invited by a Christian publisher with a new editing team to teach its staff about the various aspects of book publishing. The teaching ended around lunchtime today and so after another lunch, off to sightseeing we went.

Katie Holmes might have her Tom Cruise, but I have my Tom Yum

Presenting to you the most delicious food in the world (drum roll, please), Tom Yum! This is my fourth serving of the famous dish since we flew in last Sunday. I’m considering buying Tom Yum mix from the supermarket tomorrow just so I could try to duplicate the experience when I return home.

Mirror, mirror on the wall
How many are there of you all in all?

If you’re asking the mirror(s) at the Grand Palace in Wat Phra Keo, Bangkok, the answer must be millions! Now I understand where the inspiration of the intricate and ornate designs of Thai fashion came from! I have never seen anything made by man that was as grand and as beautiful as the structures inside the Grand Palace.

Sunset in Bangkok

Tonight we ate inside the market near the port. While waiting for our meal, I looked to my right and looked at the sunset. I suddenly missed our very own Manila Bay.

I better turn in now. Big day tomorrow. Chatuchak, the biggest outdoor market in Asia (or so Jannie, one of our hosts, said) is waiting for me.