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”