The (Non) X-(Rated) File

I’m thinking about sex.

You can recover from your shock now. Heave a sigh of relief or wipe that silly grin from your face because (thankfully) it’s not what you think.

Percolating in my mind lately is this talk on sexual purity I’m giving to the young people’s group of a Chinese church tomorrow. (I got invited by the virtue of my being a True Love Waits [a sexual abstinence campaign] trainor and a Sunday School teacher for college students in my church.) For the past several days I've been logging in hours reading reference materials, archived notes, internet articles. Also, clipping newspaper ads to prove that ours is a sexually charged society using the lure of the flesh to sell almost everything—from health food to cameras, to slippers even!

How can a fish swim against the current? And how can a person keep his way pure while living in a world that promotes instant sexual gratification? How can one overcome the carnal struggles to feed romantic fantasies or to entertain lustful thoughts? Difficult? Yes. Impossible? No. For how can a person not trust an All-powerful God for battles he cannot win on his own?

But make no mistake: I have learned that God is pro-sex. The idea was His; this masterpiece designed in His own drawing board. God's Word celebrates sexual love. For tell me, why else would Song of Songs make it to the Bible's table of contents? Or how could a sentence like "May your kisses be as exciting as the best wine, smooth and sweet, flowing gently over lips and teeth" be found in the same Book where we could read "I am the LORD your God; consecrate yourselves and be holy, because I am holy"?

When I said that I am thinking of sex, it’s not that there’s an X-rated movie playing in my mind. It means that I’m thinking, and thanking the All-Wise Creator who officiated the first ever wedding, of Adam and Eve, in a garden named Eden, and who spared nothing in ensuring that a husband and wife enjoy the most intimate relationship a man and a woman can have on earth.

Day 12

It’s everywhere. I watch TV and I see this Goldilocks ad with a woman taking out a black forest cake from the ref. I scan through today’s Philippine Starweek and a feature on The Last Chocolatier greets me. Why is it that after you’ve decided to swear off something, this very thing taunts you and makes its presence felt as if saying, “Hey, don’t you miss me?”

And if I may answer back, “You know I do.” Like crazy.

The first few days after I’ve declared my self-imposed 30-day choco fasting were peanuts. For two consecutive days, I’ve had opportunities to sink my teeth into two varieties of chocolate and I’ve turned my back on them. How hard can that be? After all, my tongue can still remember the taste of the three months’ worth of chocolates that has passed its fibrous road. Now, on my twelfth day, I’m miserable. Miserable enough to wonder, “Why did I ever decide to give it up in the first place? Is there anything inherently sinful about chocolates? It’s not as if I’m taking Ecstasy or smoking marijuana. Did God even want me to do this chocolate fasting?”

I count the days, like a little girl counting the days till Christmas. Day 12 of 30! I’m not even halfway through. How will I possibly make it through the next eighteen days when thoughts of McDonald’s hot fudge sundae, Nestle crunch, chocolate cake—any kind, and other eatable chocolates dance in my head like John Travolta doing his signature moves in Saturday Night Fever? (Now where did that metaphor come from? I plead temporary insanity, your honor.)

Forgive my ranting. Withdrawal symptom, I guess, alongside the headaches and depression. Yet my fleeting doubts notwithstanding, I know I am still convinced why I'm doing what I'm doing. If this small sacrifice can help me honor God with my body, then I know He will honor the heart behind it and give me the strength to make it. I love God more than all the chocolates in the world.

So when you see me in the hallway and you’ve got a chocolate, do me a favor: Don’t let me see it. :-) I’ve got a serious chocolate battle to win.

when words shouldn't be like gold

beautiful, loving words
are as precious
as a chest full of gold
or an endless string of pearls

but . . .

the analogy of words and treasures
should end with their worth.

for words,
unlike a chest full of gold
or an endless string of pearls,
should not be kept hidden
in a cold, impenetrable place
where they are
unseen,
untouched,
untold.

so how could you ever be happy
until you free your fingers
to glide across the keys,
to let words precious to you show
for all the world to see?

and how could i be writing about a "you"
when this is really about me?

About a boy

What is the national food of the Philippines?
a. Turon
b. Adobo
c. Chickenjoy
d. None of the above

If that question was asked of me five months ago, I wouldn't know how to answer. But now, courtesy of a five-year-old nursery student, I can. It's D, none of the above!

"Ang pambansang pagkain ng Pilipinas ay lechon!" Well, at least, that's what my nephew Pong tells me. But when I follow up with a trick question, "Anong klaseng lechon, baboy o manok?", he just shrugs and says, "Di ko alam."' How irrational of me. Of course, he wouldn't know. They learn that in Kinder. It's unbelievable what they teach kids nowadays. (I'm suspecting that Aling Mila and Mang Tomas are somewhat involved in cooking up this national fact.)

Pong also loves knock-knock jokes. Here's a sample:
Knock, knock(which sounds more like nak, nak).
Who's there?
Titanic.
Titanic who?
"Tay-ta-nik ay di biro, maghapong nakayuko. Di man lang makatayo . . . "
(The joke gets lost in transcription. Believe me, it's funnier listening to it.)

This rice-loving, basketball-playing fella is one of the few people who can make me do what I don't want to do. Like play catch football when I should be finishing a parttime editing job. Or make me watch TV with him when I'd rather be catching up on much-needed sleep. But you can't really blame me. For how else can I discover that lechon is the national food of the Philippines? :-)

* * * * * * * * * *
I actually asked some people if they knew about this national-food-fact. Surprisingly, two out of three answered in the affirmative. Maybe I just wasn't listening when this was discussed in my preparatory school class light years ago.

*picture taken very recently at the Enchanted Kingdom.

Chocolate Chronicles

“So you can’t eat ice cream?”
“No.”
“And you can’t eat chocolates?”
“Nope.”
Gasp! “What kind of life is that?” I smiled and rhetorically asked D whom I spent five days with in our most recent conference. What elicited my shock was her declaration: "I'm allergic to sugar." I enumerated all the sugar-laced food I can think of, leading me to mention ice cream and chocolates. Ice cream, I can manage not to see for a month or two but chocolates. Now, that’s a different story.

On top of my desk is a bank of chocolates that allows me to make daily withdrawals. This bank, in the form of a canister, currently holds the following assets: a mini-Nestle crunch (the last piece from the bag of chocolates my sister gave me), a tiny bar of Hershey’s milk chocolate, generic chocolate bites wrapped in foil, Harry and David’s chocolate almonds, and the chocolate raisins I bought from Toby’s house of nuts last night.

Since I came back from my month-long vacation in the US and reported back to work in January, I have not missed a single workday when I did not eat chocolates. Not one. It’s March already. You do the Math, and figure out how much chocolate has tickled brown my tongue. By the way, did I tell you that I couldn’t donate blood? With the amount of chocolate I’ve ingested, the RBC, the WBC, the hemoglobin and all the other components of blood officially adopted cocoa as one of them and made it the leader of their team. So now my blood type—C (for Chocolates)—wouldn’t match anybody’s.

But I don’t intend to let chocolates rule my life this way anymore. I am declaring Proclamation 0-choco-30. No chocolates for one month. Thirty days, I think, is long enough to convince my brain that this body is not made for and of chocolates. Thirty days can help me clean my palate of the sweet, smooth taste of this brown piece of heaven. With God’s help, I know that I’ll survive the thirty chocolate-less days. In fact, I can’t wait to be free of my addiction that I’ll start not eating chocolates—tomorrow.

As for today, I will seize the day. I have some serious clearing of assets to do.

Unbloggable

The common apprehension I hear from people who I know would make good bloggers is this: "I don't think I can share personal stuff about myself."

And I tell them, "That's how I felt too." If I had time, and their interest, I would tell them that I once compared blogging to stripping. That is, peeling off layers--but this time, not clothes that cover your body but pieces of armor that protect your heart. With a hundred or so keystrokes, you suddenly become vulnerable. Open to understanding or misinterpretation, admiration or ridicule. Risking to be thought of as wise or foolish.

I have taken eighty-six risks, the number of posts which have appeared on this site. And so far, the risks have worked in my favor. Save for a single post I unposted because I felt it wasn't true anymore, I have not regretted any single article I have written. Yet I have this one regret.

That there are unbloggable topics. That there are still places in my life I could not lead you into to take a peek. That there are still emotions I could not bring myself to share. That I am, still, after a year of "stripping," guarded and careful. The "S" in my middle name should stand for "Safe."

Q & A in a state of emergency

“State of emergency signed by GMA.” A text read which I received 11:39 am of February 24. I was then in a building somewhere in Makati, attending the second day of a two-day forum. Mixed with the alarm over the state of our country was the alarm I felt over an event I was supposed to attend that night. Will it push through or not?

“It” was a post-valentine event sponsored by a professionals group based in Quezon City, a good one hour away (sans traffic) from where I was. I received the invitation to sit on a panel weeks earlier; the panel consisting of a married couple, a single guy and me. To help remind me in the future that this is how I once felt about love and the single life, let me post and abbreviate a few of the Q & A's:

How would a guy know if it’s the right time to court?
Do you know enough about the girl to say what makes her happy and sad; what makes her laugh and what makes her cry? Think of yourselves as a student of the girl. If an exam was given about her, would you pass? If not, then it might not be the right time. We women want to be loved for who we are; not for who you think we are.

Previously you had a relationship (and a close friendship) . . . was it a good closure? What important lesson did you learn from it?
You enter into a relationship with the hope that it'll be for keeps. But in our not-so-perfect world, breakups do happen. What I learned from these aborted attachments is simply this: what it means to love and be loved. I’ve realized that the best way to learn how to love is by actually doing it and not just by reading about it. When the relationship ended, it doesn't have to necessarily mean that the other is a bad person. It's just that the relationship didn't work out. I was telling somebody who broke up with his girlfriend that it was okay to still talk with her. Time and a forgiving heart can help you sift through the rubble of a failed relationship.

What advice can you give to unattached singles?
Don't spend your days thinking,"If only I'm married, I would..." Refuse to live your lives on hold. Jim Elliot said, ''Wherever you are, be all there." Fully engage yourself in the moment and don’t be halfhearted about life. Married people sometimes envy us because we have a lot of time in our hands. Let's put this privilege to good use: develop ourselves, discover what we're good at, learn new skills, polish our character, make a difference.

Thank God for making me "me," and not the president of a crises-crazy country such as ours. In a state of emergency, this is the state of my heart. Life's still good after all.

MAI-Asia Train the Trainer Conference

"On this site in 1897 nothing happened." Thus reads the sign at Kusina ni Salud, the oriental-themed restaurant of Patis Tesoro hidden in a town in San Pablo, Laguna. This was where we had our Friday dinner. "We" are 27 publishing professionals from countries such as the Philippines, Malaysia, Nepal, Myanmar, Bangladesh, Indonesia, Australia, Singapore, Hong Kong, India, Thailand, Cambodia and the US of A.


In the cool and candlelit night (the electricity was out when we arrived; Muriel, of Hong Kong, thought that the candles were part of the dinner package), we feasted on Filipino fares such as Ubod roll, Pinakbet, Tilapia, Lechon Kawali, Turon and Buko juice. Yummy! (May ilaw man o wala, masarap talaga pagkain natin!)




Who can resist the charm of our jeepney? To travel to the resto, we rented a jeepney so many of the foreign delegates could ride our unique mode of transport for the first time.



But we did more than eat and have fun. It was five days of intensive training--learning styles, understanding codes, tuning our listening skills, preparing workshops, delivering presentations. Dr. Richard Crespo, a specialist in adult education, coached us into flexing our teaching muscles (and literal muscles too!He led early morning Pilates session. Shame on me, though, for not participating in it when others twice my age gamely joined the sessions.)

Rizal Re-Creation center, with its landscape dotted with coconut trees, was the perfect place for us to learn. I enjoyed walking in the grass, feeling the cool breeze, and inhaling the fresh air! (Here is the official class picture. Being the youngest, I volunteered to be the whiteboard cleaner and errand-runner. But it's okay. After twenty years, it's going to be somebody else's turn!)

"Help us, Lord, to continue to publish words that will lead people to turn to The Word."

loving thoughts

While clothes are left lying on my bed, waiting to be packed for a five-day training, I’m in front of the screen, writing. The call for my fingers to glide across the keyboard is just too irresistible to ignore. So please indulge me as I metaphorically steal a few bites of my dessert before I eat my vegetables.

As I push my fingers on the square keys, it’s now officially Valentines Day. Last year I greeted the occasion in the same way, by blogging at midnight. And why not make this Valentine blogging an annual tradition? I should consider making a pact with myself that I will write every time February 14 swings by. This writing I will do regardless of the state of my heart. Let’s see how long I could keep the “same time, next year” exercise. Will my views on love and relationships evolve throughout the years? Will I quit being dreamy and start being cynical? And will I . . . ?

My views on love this year is not much different from last year’s. I still think that love is not the fireworks that illuminate the sky every new year’s eve; it is the constant, steady light from a lamp that brightens a room every night. It's not being blown away by the music of a symphony orchestra; it's being warmed by the strains of a familiar tune from the radio.

And love, more than being about passion, is rather about grace. For isn’t this the same way we are loved by God—that we are loved, not because we deserved it (we didn’t and we don’t) but because He simply chose to? That we didn’t have to pay Him with good works for us to be declared worthy of love? For if that were the case, wouldn’t that be another form of barter system, “my good works in exchange for Your love”? Will it ever be right for love to be cheapened to mean an obligatory gesture by the other party because of the services to whom it was rendered? No. A thousand times no.

With this train of thought, I could go on and on and not be able to pack a single shirt in my bag before this decade ends. So let me stop. And think about love some other day.

* * * * * * * * * * *
In my book, this beats Jerry McGuire's "You complete me" line:

(Harry, realizing that he can’t let Sally slip away, follows her to the New Year’s Eve party. There he matter-of-factly states that he loves her. She dismisses him, saying, “You just can’t show up here, tell me you love me…and expect that to make everything all right.” She tells him that it doesn’t work “this way.”)

"How about this way? I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a crinkle up on your nose when you look at me like I'm nuts. I love that after spending the day with you I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you're the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely and it's not because it's New Year's Eve.
I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

A year of Shades of Grace

It’s been a year since I wrote my first post and published it under Shades of Grace. Several days—or was it weeks?—before that day in 2005, I was mulling over the idea, debating with myself about this blog thing. Initially, I was content with just visiting the blogs of my more technologically-savvy officemates. Yet as I read their posts and enjoyed the slices of their lives, it has eventually lured me into thinking, “Maybe this is the right time.”

And so I took the plunge and tapped my first ever post. Here’s how "Bike, Swim, Blog" read:

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.

Fast-forward to 2006, this space in cyber-universe now feels like home. Here I can immortalize feelings and events. When I look back at a particular time, I think about what I wrote in my blog. Just two days ago, while talking with friends about how I’ve been learning to forgive, I recalled a post about stone and sand. When I mentioned to somebody about my trip to Mindanao, I told her about a post entitled "Seven Days in Mindanao." Eighty-two entries can help me do that as these posts remind me of joys and pains, people and places, small delights and grand ideals.

Not having the patience to do a scrapbook, I’m delightfully surprised to realize I’ve maintained a scrapbook of sorts—a scrapbook decorated with words, each page arranged with the gentle tapping of the computer keys. Today, on my blog anniversary, I'm thanking the Creative God who enables me to interact on life with my words. Here's wishing that these words will continue to be true to what they wish to reflect: Shades of Grace, not mine, but His.

Saturday Stampede

How heartbreaking it is to see our countrymen die while trying to get into a gameshow in the hopes of winning money. Ganito na ba tayo kahirap? 61 people died in a stampede in ULTRA, hopefuls for Wowowee, celebrating its anniversary, offering big prizes. This tragedy is doubly heartbreaking—for its result and cause. :’{

Thus reads the text message I sent to friends this mid-morning. The supposedly quiet and lazy Saturday morning was jarred by news of the tragedy in Pasig. With no appetite for breakfast, I stayed glued on the TV screen the rest of the morning. I see the Vice-President and a Secretary helping with the rescue operations. One footage shows a lifeless woman being lifted on an army truck already loaded with corpses. A camera scans through one area where several more cold bodies lay. A few hours before, they were still alive, with blood pumping with excitement. If they get inside the auditorium, they’ll have their one in a thousand shot at big bucks. Now, not only is their chance lost. All is lost.

I couldn’t help but shed some tears for these people because these are my people. Filipinos, suffering the kind of poverty that makes them endure hours, some, days even, of waiting, wishing for a single gameshow ticket, one out of the 17,000 printed. This ticket was not just paper with words; it represented the promise of a better life. It dangled the hope of their being snatched out of the pit of poverty. How much was at stake? Probably a million pesos—money they could never earn otherwise, not in a decade, or probably not in their lifetime.

I hate it that our country is desperately poor. I hate it that hundreds had to face days of hunger and sleeplessness, not in their own shackles but outside a huge building in Pasig. I hate it that many survivors of today’s stampede didn’t even have enough money to make their way back home. I hate it that one grandmother is appealing on national TV because her 5-year-old granddaughter was snatched away from her by another in the midst of the confusion.

And I hate it that all I can do, aside from watch news on TV and say a prayer, is blog about how awful I feel.

Supersidetracked me

“Superman…Superman…”

A tiny voice calls out. I turn around and see the owner of the voice: Flash Gordon himself. But how could that be when I’m nowhere near the Justice League headquarters? Instead, I’m here in the living room, in front of the computer, planning to spend a productive hour. In fact, for the past fifteen minutes or so, I was thinking ("it's the thought that counts")of writing and meeting my self-imposed deadline (tomorrow) for a promotional article. Now, with two superheroes a few feet away from me, can you blame me if I am held hostage by their cuteness and write about a different thing altogether?

"Superman" (aka Pong, 5) asks me to tie his cape, turns on the electric fan and simulates flying. "Flash Gordon" (aka Robyn, 3) takes off his mask; he doesn’t need his disguise around here—he’s home. It’s past eleven and I’m wondering, with a smile on my face, why did they suddenly feel the urge to don their alter-ego suits? Is there an urgent call somewhere—a building about to collapse, a fire ravaging a town? My guess: with their adrenaline still high, they heard the irresistible call of late-night adventure, and wanted to rescue themselves from boredom. And let me say, they’ve rescued themselves rather successfully.

After several minutes of flexing their mini-muscles and strutting around, the superheroes decide they’ve had enough of their powers and needed to recharge. “Flash, halika na. Akyat na tayo (C’mon now. Let’s go up).” Flash, true to his name, goes up in a flash while Superman lags behind, asks his Tita Beng to untie his cape. I figured he didn’t need it anymore because he’d rather step up the stairs than fly over it.

Now, I’m really the one who needs rescuing—from my procrastination and lack of determination. But I'm trying to ease my guilt over my non-accomplishment of my primary goal with this rationale: It’s not every night that I can write about superheroes. Supersidetracked me is just seizing the moment. :-)

Tired

Tired. No, I did not run the marathon nor did I go shopping—two things I can think of that can make me tired (Not that I ever did the former, but had various experiences doing the latter). The kind of tiredness I’m feeling now stems from spending the day pacing the kitchen and visiting a family four different rides away.

My sister Chayen texted me yesterday, asking if I could cook something—anything—for her when she comes to visit today. Of course she knows I’d say yes. It wasn't surprising, therefore, that this was my first thought upon waking up: “I need to go to the grocery store.” And so I did and then spent the rest of the morning keeping my hands busy with the knife, the rolling pin and the frying pan.

A tricycle, a bus, a train, and a jeepney—I rode them all four hours after my stint in the kitchen to reach a house in Project 6. A quote I remember vaguely says, “The road to a friend's house is never long.” It was time to see a missionary family close to my heart but far from my place. Minutes after my arrival, the kids, aged eight and four, formally introduced me to their pets—two rabbits, a dog, several fishes, an iguana, two turtles, birds (and the rest of those who made it inside Noah's ark, or so you might think). The couple, my long-time-friends-slash-mentors, served me a delicious dinner. But what was more filling for me was the conversation we had in between mouthfuls of food. And the best condiments, as I've tasted, do not come from jars of spices but bottles of laughter, friendship and trust.

My energy might have been depleted but my spirit was full. I’m tired, but it’s a “good kind of tiredness.” I’m slowly realizing what makes life truly meaningful. It’s probably not what I have—or don’t have—in my pocket. It’s who, and what, is in my heart. And of late, I've been asking God to teach me how to sift through my life. By His grace, I'm learning.

But for now, I'm going to sleep tired...and happy.

In-between days

Right smack in the middle. Of in-between days. This is where I am now.

Do you have any of this kind of days? You’re not particularly happy. No cause for rejoicing. No surprises. You’re coasting along the shores of status quo. On the other hand, you’re also not particularly sad. You've kept your heart safe, and you've done your best to be undisturbed. You've succeeded because most of the time, you are. When you look up the sky, it’s a clear day. There might be no dark rain clouds foreboding a storm but it’s not summer-sunny either.

* * * * * * *

My life seems lighter—literally—now that several inches of my hair have been chopped off. For some time now, I’ve been so used to having long hair that my locks have become my security blanket. But three days ago, I bravely walked inside a salon and let a hairdresser snip it. It’s shorter than I envisioned it to be. Blame it on my affinity with the printed page. While seated on the chair, I spent more time browsing through magazine pages than looking at what the hairdresser was doing. Next thing I know, when I looked up and stared at the mirror, I suddenly felt cold. The security blanket has become a towel. To the hairdresser’s defense, “a little vague” best describes my instructions. He did the best his skilled hands allowed him to do. And to his credit, although many were initially surprised to see me with shorter hair, most of them think it’s a good kind of a change.

It’s common knowledge, or maybe an unspoken fact, that some women do something to their hair to make a silent statement. Statements like “My self-esteem is sliding down and I need a make-over to help me recover,” or “I can’t control most of what’s happening in my life but at least I can control my hair.” Or, “How could that guy break my heart?” Several female friends have cut their hair because they were depressed. Or heartbroken. Or sad. I’ve had my share of these emotion-driven haircuts. And the statements I’ve tried to make with these hair alterations range from the pathetic to the plausible. My statement this time is nothing dramatic. Just this: “Let’s see if I could live without my long hair for the meantime (well, at least for the next two months until it grows technically long again).”

* * * * * * *

During these in-between days, I’m using my time reading. Two posts ago, I told you about a book. Hurray! I’ve finished that book last weekend. Since I am in the C.S. Lewis mode, I’m reading his other books, non-fiction this time. I’m also considering doing the following to redeem the time: dab into some serious writing, go back to playing Badminton, rearrange my room.

I think I better start before the calm waters of my in-between days get stirred again.

More than just a carpenter's hands

Maybe he could help us, thinks the grieving father. And so he wastes no time and seeks him out. With the rest of the curious, here I am waiting outside the ruler’s house. A commotion ensues; he’s arrived. I hear him tell the noisy crowd, “The girl is not dead but asleep.” They answer his claim with laughter. Unperturbed by their disbelief, he goes to the lass who lays lifeless. He takes her by the hand and she gets up. His hand becomes the channel through which warmth flowed once more to her cold body.

I follow him through the dusty roads of Galilee. But I am not alone. A crowd swells for many long to hear him speak. I watch from a distance as he stops and delivers a sermon and shares a few parables. The people in rapt attention don’t realize they’ve been listening to him for hours until their rumbling stomachs signal them this. Ask them to go home, someone from his group suggests. He disagrees, afraid that the people might faint when sent away hungry. “Sit down on the ground,” he asks the multitude. Taking the bread and the fish, he thanks God for the food and breaks them into pieces. Piece by piece, he distributes sustenance. The few pieces of bread and fish, made to fill the thousands. How could it be? But how could it not be when he held them in his hands?

What’s so special about this carpenter’s hands? How could his hands, dark and calloused, carry so much power? Aren’t these the same hands that lifted planks and chiseled wood? And then I remembered. These are no ordinary hands—for these are the hands of the Miracle Worker. Hands that, when raised, can hush the violent winds at sea. Hands that, upon touching a blind man’s eyes, can restore sight. Truly, there was nothing ordinary about his hands.

And now, I wonder: Could these same hands wipe away the tears from the hurting one’s eyes? Could these same hands put back together the pieces of a broken heart? Could these same hands lift the body sagging in sorrow?

I stop my wondering and fold my own hands in prayer: Prayer to Him, who is the Miracle Worker and not just a carpenter. And prayer for the one whose spirit needs mending and whose soul needs healing. And afterwhich, I will unfold my hands, believing that there's nothing that He, with the powerful and nail-scarred hands, can't do.

About a book

How could I miss it? Upon entering Powerbooks at Shang-rila, the first table that greets me was stacked with piles and piles of books--all of which were, as if you didn't know what the current movie fare is, Narnia-themed. Narnia activity book for kids. The boxed collection of seven individual books. Narnia comic books. And this.

Lest you think I'm an impulsive buyer, let me say that I am not. I can ignore tempting purchases and delay (or forego) gratification. Just recently, I've let go of two books I wanted so badly because I thought they were too expensive. But when I saw this 767-page volume, a good buy at 20% discount, I suddenly imagined myself to be a lawyer and rattled off in my mind plausible reasons why I needed to have it. And being the "great lawyer" that I am, I won the case. And oh, it helped too that I stood as the judge.

And so I boarded the bus that took me home with a heavy load on one arm but with a light feeling in my heart. I've long wanted to visit the world of Narnia but been postponing the trip. This time, with nowhere else to go, no particular book to read in my list, I bought the ticket. And off to Narnia I went.

And so for the past two days, I've been meeting fauns and dwarves. Listening to talking trees and mice. Tagging along with the Pevensies wherever their battles call them. And Aslan--being terrified and awed by Him. I've not completed the trip yet. In fact, my skin still feels sticky as one can expect after being at sea with Prince Caspian's company whom I was on board with on the Dawn Treader.

I'll make a poor travel agent who uses big words to draw people in so take this advice from a friend instead: Don't think twice about visiting Narnia. You can postpone going alright but after setting foot on this magical land, you'd feel bad about not making the trip sooner. You might not like it as much as I do but take the risk and make the trip. Yes, take more risks and have less regrets.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Yesterday, a male friend was asking me about a book we might have at our bookstore (I work in a publishing house with a bookstore on the first floor). I texted him back and inquired how many copies he wanted. A few minutes later he texted back, saying it was for his mom, who, incidentally, changed her mind and didn't want it anymore. He quips with a smiley face, "Why is it that women easily change their minds?" It was more of an observation than a question. Amused, I replied, "Now at least you know from experience that it's true." I assure him I won't mind in case his mom wanted it, again. Several hours later, back to Narnia, I come across this line said by Rabadash: "For it is well known that women are as changeable as weathercocks. . . " I took no offense and laughed out loud. Two strikes in one day.

Now, this seeming changeability of women's minds, in varying frequency of occurences, is universal--crosses races, generations, worlds. Maybe it's one of the things we, daughters of Eve, couldn't help. Like the fact we women have more delicate features, or that we can bear children. But that doesn't make us incapable of being certain about something we feel strongly about. Of that I am sure. Well, kinda.

On that note, I think I better get back to Narnia.

Having my cake (and eating it too!)

I’ve have always wondered out loud to some friends how having an ordinary-day birthday must feel like. And so last night, they decided to put an end to my wondering. Several friends from the professionals group I am involved in gave me a surprise treat and asked me to imagine that yesterday was my birthday and not sixteen days ago, Christmas day.

All elements that make up a celebration were there. A banner, decorated with small balloons, posted on the wall reads my name as the celebrant. Gifts in red wrappers revealed sleep-themed surprises. A lone candle atop a tiny but delicious chocolate cake heard my secret wish when I blew out its flame.

The small room at IO in Jupiter (the street, not the planet) became the virtual stage where we sang songs for more than four hours. If not for the fact that it was a Tuesday, that we had offices to report to the next day, we would have sung until the computer processing the songs broke down or we lost our voices—whichever came first.

Yes, we left no song unsung, no nacho uneaten. The stress from the hard day’s work was melted by the sweet but powerful concoction of laughter and music. I thank God for good times. And friends. Friends, whom I consider angels on covert assignment, can decorate our lives in a way no accolade or treasure can.

Life is not a piece of cake. But some days, it sure tastes like it—and a birthday cake at that.

On canned replies and trivial concerns

My bed and the computer are in the middle of a tug of war, pulling me in two opposite directions. One beckons me to sleep off the remaining jetlag in my body; the other draws me to pour what’s percolating in my mind. The fact you’re reading these words gives you a hint who’s pulling harder.

* * * * * * * * * *
Don’t you want to stay in the US for good?
I’ve been asked this question countless times already. By well-meaning friends and just-plain-curious acquaintances. My canned replies sit on the shelf of my mind. I pick the can to open depending on who’s asking and how much time we both could spare. As I tap these keys, I’m considering if I have enough mental energy to open the big can with the label which reads, “the top ten reasons why Beng prefers to stay in the Philippines.” Better not. It’s too late into the night to recover from the possible indigestion.

* * * * * * * * * *
Does God have an automated queuing machine that arranges prayers according to their level of urgency or say, the fervency with which these prayers were uttered? For instance, after I shoot a quick prayer for a lost CD, will that get relegated to the back of the queue because a mother’s plea for a sick daughter just came in? Should we feel embarrassed about coming to God with our trivial concerns? If yes, then which of our concerns are trivial to Him who highlights the sky with brilliant colors in the middle of the day just to make us smile?

* * * * * * * * * * *

The thoughts are coming in trickles now. I guess it’s time I let the bed win.

Picture these!

A slice of heaven fell and this is what it looked like: a table at Coliseum Books. A book and a chocolate, two of my favorite things, are on this table. As for the coffee, I'm warming up to it (pun intended).
"The length of paragraph isn't a measure of its intellectual depth. A paragraph expresses a train of thought, and some trains are longer than others. When one gets too long, it should probably be two. If the engine is too far from the caboose, it's handling too much freight." From Words Fail Me, Patricia T. O'Conner
The picture on the left partially shows Ronald McDonald hanging himself after losing the case filed against his company for allegedly fattening burger-loving Americans. Unbelievable, I know. Now, are you ready for another incredible tale? Notice the plate of Caesar salad? This is what I, a non-vegetable fan (to put it mildly), ate for lunch. (PS: Only one of the previous statements is true.)


A slice of Mango in the Big Apple: The Philippine Embassy along 5th Avenue. Serendipity is finding this while I was trying to go someplace else. Ten seconds upon entering, I felt like I was in a government office in the Philippines. The front desk officer, busy with a personal phone call (I could hear him so I could tell), was oblivious to me. I had to wait for five minutes before I could ask if I could take pictures. Nevertheless, my heart swelled with love for my country. I'm missing the Philippines. But after the next two days, I won't be.

glancing at my gallery

My first keystrokes should be directed at tapping the keys that will make me retrospect--look back on the year that was. List realizations, recollect adventures, admit mistakes. Initially, I thought that my weakness (read: bad memory) will get the better of me. How could I possibly remember the twelve months past when I'm sometimes having trouble remembering where I left my jacket five minutes after taking it off? Ah, my blog.

Thank God for allowing me to use this space in the cyber universe to erect memorials in the different places of my life. Glancing through the titles of the seventy-plus posts I have written, I make this observation: My most meaningful writings are those wrapped in metaphors. Because sometimes to describe things as they are is too plain. Or risky. Or simply, just not enough.

And so as a word painter, I spent more creative energy than I usually spend, used bolder strokes on my canvass making these paintings. Revealed to you what my kite was. Warned you about the land of what-could-have-beens. Challenged you to wear your words as you do your clothes. Shared how I've been learning to forgive by writing on stone and sand. Revealed how tentative dancer I am if life were a dance.

But wait. Lest you think I'm always an introspective, mood-driven artist, I'm fondly recollecting blogs I wrote with a silly grin on my face. Bragged about my spelunking experience in the Sagada cave. Told you I was kinda Chinese that could be attributed to many things, my love for tikoy in particular. Relished with delight my surprise for a friend who adores a singer. Shared to you how one day felt like my day.

This new year, I'm joyfully anticipating making similar paintings and then some. Will continue to not love in slices. Still ask my heart to trust God. Keep on learning how to have more Mary than Martha moments. And hopefully, the next coming months will see me finding my own alabaster jar. Because this is what I've been wanting to do. To love God more, myself less. To constantly remind myself that I am not the center of my universe (because if this were the case, then I pretty much have a tiny galaxy).

To all of you who deliberately visit my gallery, thank you. Just by dropping by--and not just by accident--you're making me feel like Picasso. Your time is a valuable ticket. As long as God gives me the colors, I'll be splashing shades of His grace. I can't guarantee that what's on the canvass will always be good but I can promise that it will always be real.

May we all have a colorful year ahead.

hating winter, learning trust

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

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

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

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

And so last night, I prayed.

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

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


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

Season's greetings

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

Another day in NY

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

My temporary career shift

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seeing royalty

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

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

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

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

A Day in NY

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

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

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

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

Not Narnia

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

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

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

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

Jetlagged Thoughts*

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

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

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

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

Feels like my day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blinders

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

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

Why the wish?

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

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

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

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

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

12 days before take-off

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

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

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

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

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

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

the new kid on the block. . .

. . . is a girl.

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

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

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

finding my own alabaster jar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haircut: 90. Smile:Toothless

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

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

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

Like now. :-)

My Grip on Gadgets

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

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

But am I being swallowed by technology?

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

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

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

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

Three days in Tagaytay

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

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

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

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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.

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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