Seven Days in Mindanao

General Santos, Koronadal City, Sultan Kudarat, T’Boli, Lake Sebu, Tacurong, Maguindanao—once just dots in the Philippine map for me—have now come to life. For seven days, I lived and breathed Mindanao.

As soon as I disembarked from the plane, the first thing I noticed was the weather—warmer than Manila’s. Even while I was taking a shower, I could almost feel sweat beads forming. The pace of living is slower this side of the world; there were not too many people in a hurry. The nearest mall to our homebase closes at 7:30 pm and the roads are virtually empty by 9. The silence of the place is calming, a stark contrast to the frenetic lifestyle in Manila—a welcome change for me.

But then again, it was not a vacation (though we had a day for rest and recreation at Lake Sebu) for me and thirteen other short-term and two full-time missionaries from Manila. For days, we became the hands and feet of Jesus to the T’boli tribes people and Muslims in South Cotabato. We would cram into a rented jeepney, endure the long and dusty travel on bumpy roads, and provide medical-dental and social care to our needy countrymen.

It was not easy, to say the least. But I’m not talking about the inconveniences we had to live with nor the service we had to do.

It was not easy for me to see our people in such a state of deprivation. I know that our country is poor but only recently realized how poor. While city dwellers like us complain of things like traffic or rising costs of commodities, our countrymen in far-flung areas contend—daily—with lack of food, treatable diseases which become fatal due to the unavailability of medical care. Lack of purpose. Lack of hope.

Majority of the population in the areas we visited is into farming. While dispensing medicine to an elderly Muslim woman, I asked her what her husband did for a living. Planting corn, she replied. Probing deeper, I learned that her farmer-husband sells a kilo of corn for seven pesos and that he only harvests once every three months. I dared not ask how much they earn every harvest time but I surmised that unless they sold more than six thousand kilos of corn, it won’t be enough to last them the three months up to the next harvest. Multiply this scenario hundreds, thousands of times, and you will get a portrait of poverty. And I haven’t started on their spiritual poverty yet.

Today I was back to my desk job. I was insulated from the heat and pollution in our air-conditioned office. The biggest struggle for me as soon as I sat down my chair was deciding what to do first, with the tons of work nagging for attention. Days from now, my Mindanao experience will probably fade into memory, until all I can recall are blurred images of faces, faint sounds of need. But may I not lose the grip of compassion. May I not lose faith in my God whose heart is big enough to accommodate each and every person. May I not lose sight of the fact that one day, someday, every tear will be wiped away by the nail-scarred hands of my Savior.

Our Makati II OJ Team

with some locals at Barangay Halilan, a few hours(and three inches of dust!) away from our homebase in Koronadal City

Having Dessert

It's past 8 pm and all of my teammates have left for home. Only Norah Jones is keeping me company. Her relaxed voice wafting through the air as if lulling me to sleep. But no, sleepy I am not. I can never be sleepy for dessert.

Writing--this is dessert. While editing can tax my mind sometimes, writing energizes me. Writing just because I want to, not an article due for a newsletter nor an overdue letter to an author, gives me a high. It's like scooping vanilla sundae dripping with thick chocolate syrup with marshmallows on top. Like feeling the soft flesh of the sweetest mangoes in my mouth. (Did I tell you that writing makes me hungry? I wonder why.)

I've been delaying this gratification for days now. I made a pact with myself not to write anything until after my emceeing stint at our booklaunch; promised to finish my parttime editing project before I write another non-work related word again. So here I am, enjoying my dessert, at last. Guilt-free.

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Three days from now I will fly to Koronadal City and stay there for a week. Funny because I feel my heart has already left ahead of me. During odd times of the day, as my mission adventure draws near, I think of the people I will meet. How do they look like? What do they think of Manilans like me? Will I stick like a sore thumb in a crowd? Can I really blend in with the Muslim women with my purple pashmina, which I hope, could pass for a decent head covering? Could I communicate with members of the T'boli tribe and ask them what life is like? How will I tell them about a real and personal God who they mistake for an unreachable deity?

With these questions in mind, I will pack my carefully-chosen clothes, toiletries, beddings, my Bible, some other books. As I zip my backpack, I'll make sure that with my bottle of Centrum, I'll bring an extra bottle of understanding (just in case the reserve in my heart runs out). They say a spoonful of this a day will make me extra-compassionate and sensitive to the needs of my countrymen I call strangers. As I slip the rechargeable batteries in my bag's side pocket, I'll pray that God will keep me going with His love, keep me singing with His joy.

My ticket indicates I'll be taking an economy seat via Philippine Airlines. But I could very well be flying on hope.

Seeing through the Window of Movies

Art, music, and literature all come together in a movie, and when they all come together just right, something beautiful happens. A window opens, and you glimpse something in yourself that has been hidden from you for maybe all of your life. Or you glimpse something in someone else. Or, in a rare moment of transcendence, you glimpse something beyond.

. . . Movies give you the opportunity for a couple of hours to look at somebody else’s life. And sometimes that can change you.

Ken Gire
Windows of the Soul

There are “feel-good” movies—usually starring big celebrities with cute and syrupy plots that make you wish you’re the girl (or the boy) on the screen. And then there are “think-hard” movies—movies that stay with you long after the last image has been projected on screen. Movies that will make you think before you sleep, think when you wake up, and think when you’re in the middle of doing another task.

I can count with the fingers of one hand movies that have made such an impact on me. The latest: Million Dollar Baby.

As I think of Maggie, the female 31-year old wannabe boxer, struggling to convince veteran trainer Frankie to take her in, I think of the last time I felt as passionate about something. Is there a dream I should be pursuing? When was the last time I was willing to risk everything in exchange for one thing? Will I ever feel the surge of ambition run through my body and consume my soul once again? Or could it be that I am already living that ambition as I punch in my timecard day after day?

As I think of Frankie, the lonely father who tries to reconnect with his estranged daughter by writing her letters weekly (all of which were returned to sender), struggling to make peace with God, I think of my own standing with God. Is there something I need to forgive myself of, a sin that makes me think God is sometimes far when He is actually near? Why am I, at times, so stubborn in believing that I am unlovable, unforgivable when God thinks otherwise?

Ken Gire believes God can show Himself through the window of movies. He can speak to us in unconventional ways. I agree. The dolby surround sound was faint compared to the sound of God’s voice I heard—asking me something about myself—through the story.

The poster shows Clint Eastwood and Hillary Swank. She with her body poised like a boxer, he with eyes piercing through her. But Million Dollar Baby is not just about boxing. It’s about following your dreams, risking it all, taking the chance, living with regret, forgiving yourself, loving till it hurts, making peace with God.

I walked away from the darkened cinema with a heart heavy with emotions and a mind full of questions. But being transfixed by the movie for a couple of hours did something to my eyes. Somehow, it made me see more clearly. No wonder, I was seeing through a window to my soul.

Kinda Chinese

Food
I suspect that I have more than a drop of Chinese blood (yes, there’s a drop in here) running through my veins. For how else could I explain my huge appetite for Chinese food—siopao, sweet and sour pork, tofu, mami, kikiam, yang chow and (drumroll please) siomai? For the rest of my life, I can survive not eating another serving of Italian pizza, American cheeseburger, Mexican taco, Mediterranean shawarma or Japanese maki. But please pass me my siomai with soy and chili.

My fascination for Chinese food extends to the glutinous kind: tikoy. During the most recent Chinese New Year week, I ate fried tikoy almost everyday. While I was still chewing a forkful in my mouth, my mind was already thinking of who will feed me my next tikoy. On hindsight, I should have sung Lionel Richie’s Stuck on You while eating it.

Next year, Chinese friends, I will remember to greet you “Kung Hei Fat Choy!” Just give me some tikoy.

Fashion
I bought a Chinese-inspired blouse from UK in Baguio yesterday. It’s a ¾ sleeved aqua blue blouse with pink piping on its sleeves and around the neck. The last time I UK-ayed, I bought a silk mint green one that I occasionally wear to work. The last time I wore it was Chinese New Year’s day (occasionally nga kasi).

My collection of Chinese clothes is growing so fast that Rosebud, threatened I’ll take her place, is putting me under surveillance.

Friends
Many years ago, fresh from college, I insisted that Terry, my fellow mover at UST-CCC, take me to their house. Reason: She’s Chinese and I wanted to see an authentic Chinese house (as if I was expecting to find a relic from the Chi dynasty or a welcome mat in Chinese characters). She obliged and graciously led me around the streets of Divisoria, the alleys leading to Melchor Cano and the rooms of their house that was actually a multi-story building housing two families.

I can still recall the stack of imported goods near the door (they have a dry goods stall in Divisoria), the huge sepia photograph of her mother on the wall, the ubiquitous old piano she and her sister Yasmin can play.

Though Terry and I regularly ran into each other during our four-year CCC involvement, it was only after we’ve walked away from UST that we became more than batchmates. After college, our unlikely friendship (we had different interests), rooted in our shared faith, was watered by constant togetherness (at one time we even became officemates), and was nurtured under the shade of understanding and acceptance.

Through the years, we’ve shared countless meals—from sandwiches to siomais, in Jolibee and Le Ching and many other restaurants. Between the two of us, many jobs, heartaches, birthdays and other occasions have come and gone. Yet it’s funny what all these years did to me. For instance, I have ceased to notice that Terry’s eyes are narrower than mine, her skin fairer and that she could speak Fukien. To me, she’s now just “Terry,” period. I might be able to bring to mind her qualities as a Chinese but her nationality has become secondary to me.

When I think of her I remember happenings—the time we weaved our way in Quiapo on our way to the LRT station, our late-night viewing of The Wedding Singer at SM North Edsa, our Christmas afternoon in a second-rate carnival in Las Pinas. Good and (a few) not-so-good times, we had our share of these.

At first I was just interested in seeing an authentic Chinese house. Little did I know my heart would find a home.
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Today, Aleks, another Chinese friend, is celebrating his birthday. He’s a walking jukebox (but no need to feed him coins, he sings for free!), caffeine-dependent (in almost all its forms: coke, coffee, tea), chocoholic (if Esau sold his birthright for stew, maybe Aleks will sell his for chocolate), a techie (my PDA consultant). A tall package of delight, he can impress you with his wit, tickle you with his humor, warm you with his words, and blind you with his neon orange polo shirt. He speaks with his mind, writes with his heart, tap dances with his fingers.

Silly and serious you, God must have been smiling when He created you.

Terry and I at Cafe by the Ruins in Baguio City. It was her birthday, March 5, when this picture was taken.  

Labels:for canned goods only

A stocky bald man in his forties with a beard and a tiny golden cross dangling from his left ear. A twentysomething guy with shoulder length hair tied in a ponytail wearing a black polo, black cargo pants and sandals. Both walk with an attitude. Actually, if you see them on the street, you would think they're rowdy rock-and-rollers or weird post-modern artists filled with I-hate-the-world angst or just plain misfits of the society.

They’re not.

I encountered them while attending a two-day conference on doing theology in the Philippines. Both were presenters of their papers, one a candidate for a master’s, the other for a doctorate. Judging from what I heard them say, both love people. And God. Sure, they do not fit the mold of how proper Christian men in a seminary should look like. They were not wearing the seminarian’s uniform: crisp polo (preferably long sleeves, no bold colors please); short to medium length hair neatly parted in the middle; loosely-fitted khaki, black or gray pants; buffed and kiwi-shiny leather shoes. There was even no trace of the required pious smile plastered on the face as if saying, “I have just been with Jesus.”

Looks, I’ve learned, can be deceiving.

For a time, the way I saw things was being filtered by my see-the-world-according-to-its-standards-colored shades. For instance, I sometimes judged people by what they wore (Oh, she’s wearing such huge hoop earrings. Aren’t those too big for Christian women to be wearing? Hmm...Maybe she’s a backslider!) Worse, my faulty shades has even made me assign greater value to people who look better or dress better or has a more "stable" personality. Unconsciously, I was plastering labels on people.

But God loves me so much that He doesn’t let me stay as I am. He reminded me of what He once said to a prophet: “The Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” God asked me to take off my shades and see people differently. When I did, I realized how myopic I have been. The eccentric woman with an equally-eccentric wardrobe actually has a heart of gold. The seemingly happy-go-lucky guy is actually melancholic and deep.With the revelation, I wondered, "How many treasures have I missed simply because I did not see them glittering?" Lord, how many people have I still yet to see, really see?

Labels are great for cans of corned beef and fruit cocktails. But not for people.

Lovestruck

This was the title of the post-valentine fellowship I attended last night. A friend invited me as early as the first week of February. And so I did come—as one of the panelists. (Hard to believe, I know. I laughed when I first learned it will be about marriage and singleness. I’m still wondering when I became an authority on singleness.)

So there I was, sitting with a wife of 16 years to my right and another slightly older single lady to my left. Two men joined us—the husband of my seatmate, and a bachelor who said he fasted for three days for three consecutive years while praying for a girl.

The organizer earlier sent us an email listing the possible questions. Knowing my tendency to experience mental blackouts in public, I wrote down my answers. How long should a lady wait to make the first move? If she’s a lady, she won’t make the first move at all. The patron saint of single ladies, Elisabeth Elliot, believes this too. View on Premarital sex? No, I go for sex within marriage. Virginity is the best gift a person can give to his/her mate. It’s OK to be awkward on the first night. Qualities of your ideal man; view on relationships via internet, texts, chats; things I liked most about being single—I had ready-made answers to these all.

But while I was ready for most of the questions, the first question one of the emcees asked wasn’t in the list at all. The question: “What makes you an ideal person?” (WHAAT?!) I had to ask her to repeat the question, wanting to make sure I heard her right. I did hear her right. She added: “What makes you saleable? What makes you the right choice for a man? What are your ganda points?” Uh-huh. Major embarrassment happening in the next few seconds.

I wish I had a clever quip to avoid answering the question. I said it was the first time I was asked this. With the mike on my hand, I realized I had to give them an answer—fast! My mind automatically went searching for files in my brain: Are you Ms. Right and Why? File does not exist!(World Peace! Can’t I just answer world peace?!) The first (note the adjective—I said 3 qualities. The nerve, MY nerve! Well, maybe I said 3 because I am a 3-points-outline Baptist!) quality I claimed was that if he’s the right man, I can assure him that I will be submissive to him. God has commanded women to submit to their husbands and that is what I intend to do. (Was that a good answer? I hope so! At least I was biblical—but biblical was not the second quality I said).

I will spare you the two other qualities I volunteered lest this blog read like a personal advertisement. The other single lady answered too, more confidently than I. But what struck me is what the wife next to me said: “Ladies, you don’t have to try to be somebody else to please a man. A man should love you for who you are.” True. I wish that were my answer instead.

More questions followed, revolving around the issues of love, purity, marriage. I said something about not living life on hold, shared a little about my experience with a guy who years before kept me guessing about his intentions, commented on how I cope with the frustrations of singleness. Did they even remember what I said? I realized only one thing matters. The audience can forget about everything I said but I hope not these two words: God’s grace. I testified that it is only by the grace of God that I am sustained, especially during times when I feel that life is unfair. God continually, patiently and gently reminds me that He is greater than my needs, more powerful than my longings.(Yes, I believe all these and more to be true, although admittedly there are some days when I have to say it over and over again to drown out the haunting sound of loneliness.)

Not surprisingly, the guest couple also points to the same grace of God that has kept them together all these years. They admit that theirs is not a perfect marriage but they are quick to reveal how beautiful married life is—albeit the occasional bickering, nagging unpaid bills, minor differences. With the wife inches from me, it was impossible to miss the tenderness in her husband’s eyes whenever he faces her. Dear couple, I think married life is beautiful. You didn’t have to say a word to convince me.

The husband concluded that Q&A panel discussion explaining, in the gentlest (yet still powerful) voice I have heard, how we all search for love. How we could only find deep fulfillment in the arms of God alone, not in a marriage or any other kind of relationship. How God first loved us, even when we were (and maybe still are) unlovable. I’ve heard these lines more than once before but this truth never fails to tug at my heart. God forbid that a day would come when the truth about His love won’t affect me anymore.

The title of the fellowship did justice to the night. I came away from Weekdays café lovestruck.

Chayen

The make-up washed off but my hair still feels sticky with hairspray even after numerous washings. I can now breathe more easily as my midsection is free of the constricting one-strap gown. I performed my duties fairly well as the maid of honor. I did not trip while walking down the aisle, remembered to have the contract signed.

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Last night I slept on the same bed (in the hotel) as Chayen, my youngest sister. The last time I slept next to her was four years ago when we visited our sisters in the States. Actually, I grew up with her as my roommate (at least from age 10 up. I spent most of my childhood in the province—near the beach and far from my family). Chayen and I shared the same room, double-deck, cabinet, and sometimes, even the same pambahay. As adults, we also shared stuff with each other—bags, shoes, shirts, name it, we shared it (and fought about it. Haha. I/she: “Why did you use my shirt? I was gonna wear that today!” “Where’s my bag?”)

Today, she gained a new roommate, her mild-mannered husband Regie. Life will be different for her from this day forward. In addition to the roles she play as a daughter and sister, she will now play a more major role: somebody’s wife. Wife—my little sister is all grown up now. Time flies so fast.

The contrasting emotions—happiness and sadness—flip-flop in my heart. Happy that she’ll be starting a new home; sad that she’ll be leaving our house. Have I come to grips with the fact that I will be seeing less of her?

Chayen just calls me “Beng” but that doesn’t hinder me from acting like her “Ate Beng.” Though my love for her is veiled under my protective-to-a-fault, disciplinarian behavior, I know that she knows how much I care about her. Yes, she knows me well enough to know that. (Hey sis, if by divine intervention you are led to this site, I hope you'll agree with that last statement!)

Chayen: Daughter, sister, wife, and hopefully later on, mother. But even after many of her July 4 birthdays have passed, even when she’s humped and wrinkled sixty, I will look at her with the same older-sister eyes. I will still see her as the cute, chubby girl, the center of everyone’s attention. As for me, I will always be her “Ate Beng”—critic, friend, supporter, mall-and-other-places companion. . . former roommate.

My former roommate (Chayen) with her new roommate, Regie (and my third brother-in-law!) 

SCQ (Some Crazy Questions)

if i could suddenly speak zoo language, i'll have a grand time trying to find the answer to these questions:

1. did a horse ever tell a zebra, "if my brothers and i play basketball, could you be our referee?"
2. how would a horse feel about getting his mane permed?
3. do giraffees ever get sore throats? and if yes, from what?(being out in the cold for so long?)
4. if an owl doesn't sleep for a week, will he be tempted to sleep during the day?
5. are there thin pigs? if yes, do they get insecure?
6. can elephants use their trunks to scratch their backs?
7. how come fish nibble at the worm on the hook?how do they know they'll like it when there's no worm underwater?
8. did a turtle ever wish he had a new "house" on his back?
9. when bears hibernate and sleep for months, what do they dream about? is it like a whole season of "meteor 'bear' garden"?
10. if a lion suddenly becomes a vegetarian, will he still be considered as the ''King of the Jungle"?

so many questions, so many animals. when i get to heaven, maybe i could ask God. :-)

V-day

As I’m typing this line, it is now officially Valentine’s day. For single, uncommitted people like me, it’s another day to be reminded about what is (apparently) missing in our lives. But on the second thought, it doesn’t have to be February 14. It could be any day in March or August or December. Who needs a date (February 14) when you have friends and family members constantly asking you, “So, how come you’re still unattached?”? Now, let me rethink that last line—even strangers, I've experienced, can ask you that.

After almost a month-long stay in Uncle Sam’s place, I thought I’ve already escaped friends and family’s speculating (and planning) my lovelife—“maybe it’s this guy she’s meeting in NY” or “there’s this nurse from Brooklyn” or “you should stay longer to meet Eddie.” On my flight back home, I sat next to a fifty-ish man who engaged me in a conversation about books and life in the US and Philippines. In the middle of the conversation, he asked, “Are you married?” I blushed when I said, “No.” “You know I have a son who . . . ” my seatmate rattled on about the incredible qualities of his son. Oh no!You too?! Well, I decided to just take it as a compliment, a man who just met me wanting me for his son. :-)

Going back to V-day, I haven’t really dreaded this day to the point of wanting to take an extra-large dose of sleeping pills on February 13 to wake up on February 15. As far as I am concerned, it’s just an ordinary day.

I will not go around cursing businesses raking in big bucks with their special for-couples-only-promo. I will not look at couples in red and mutter under my breath how baduy they are. Even if it’s just an ordinary day for me, it’s a special day for them. And the least I can do for them—businesses and couples alike—is to be happy.
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True love makes a man want, not a woman, but one particular woman—the beloved herself, not the pleasure she can give.

C.S. Lewis

Surprise, surprise

I love surprises. The most recent one I've enjoyed was conceived almost a month ago when I saw the poster of a show.

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Gladys. Gladys is a twenty-something officemate whose love for music is evident. She can sing with the passion of an opera singer, even if her petite frame will make you wonder how. Not only can she belt out songs, she also, naturally, enjoys listening to music. Her ears are glued to the earphones of her Sony MP3-audio-playing-enabled PDA (For non-techies, it just means her digital organizer can play songs—in style). One particular singer, I’ve learned, catches her fancy: Christian Bautista.

I’ve been supportive of her admiration for this singer. I would lend her a magazine with a feature (and glossy picture) of him; text her even late at night when I see Christian’s concert being shown on TV. I try to recall if I’ve ever felt this way for a celebrity. No. Never. [Did I just hear a rooster crow? OK, so I once stayed up all night to watch episodes of Meteor Garden. But I only watched it because I admire the scriptwriters, able to churn out interesting twists in the plot. Did the same rooster crow again? OK, so I like the cinematic shots of the director, which almost made me want to go to Taiwan when I saw the lush scenery on screen. Is there a roosters’ version of Star in the Million? The rooster outside is crowing like crazy the third time! OK, so I liked—note the past tense of the verb— Dao Ming Szu. End of story of defensive me. :-) ]
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It was supposed to be a girls’ night out date composed mainly of Aileen, Ivy, Gladys and I. I told Gladys and Ivy (Aileen was an accomplice) that we will be having dinner somewhere in Glorieta but didn’t tell them what we’ll be doing after. After a carbohydrate-and-lycopene-rich dinner at Sbarro’s, with a quick stop-over at Tickles, we were headed to our ultimate destination. I told them we’ll be having dessert in a hotel (which wasn’t really a lie. It’s just that the dessert wasn’t food ).

It was amusing how Gladys didn’t see the huge sign of the show when we drove past the front of the venue, how she still didn’t have an idea after we’ve sat for an hour in the balcony. In fact, she was clueless until after the main performer, Kuh Ledesma (having already sung 3-4 songs) introduced her guest. When Gladys heard his name, she stared at me—disbelief and delight dancing in her eyes. She pushed me with all her might and screamed some. Even her other seatmate, a stranger, noticed her exhilaration.

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We all enjoyed the show last night. The acoustics was superb , set in a classy and intimate lounge. But what made me enjoy it even more was the fact that a girl grinned from ear to ear while watching the singer of her dreams. She thanked me afterwards but, really, that is to no credit to me. I’ve been surprised many times myself too—with unexpected gifts and lavish acts of kindness. From friends and family, and more so, from the generous God who is the Giver of every good and perfect gift. I am just passing it on. :-)

Bike, Swim, Blog

I’ve never learned to bike and to swim for exactly the same reason: fear. Fear of not learning (yes, I can be irrational at times), fear of experiencing discomfort—scraping my knees and swallowing salt water, fear of disappointing whoever will be patient enough to teach me.

This same fear has almost kept me from setting up this blog. Friends have been prodding me to try my writing hand on this fairly new technological phenomenon. Most of the time I just smile and mutter, “I will,” not really saying when. My mind says, “You can do it. You love to write.” But my heart counters: “What if you make a major grammatical error? People would wonder how you could have kept your job all these years! What if your words and experiences are too boring? Not interesting enough? Or worse, what if nobody reads your blog at all?”

The paranoid in me shouts like Goliath taunts young David. Good thing I know my way around my Bible and read how David struck down the giant with one smooth stone from the stream. Maybe, just maybe, I could hush the paranoid in me with one heartfelt, sincere entry.

So here I am, tentative but thrilled, scared but sure. I may never learn how to pedal a bike or swim in the sea. I may never be able to skid through rough terrain or glide gracefully in the water. But I can try to warm your heart, make you smile, challenge your mind. Maybe I can make new friends or reconnect with old ones by bridging the chasm between my keyboard and your screen.

All I can offer are my words.
Come, be my guest.
Welcome to my world.