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.

- - - - - - -
Am I a nice girl, tough girl or an emasculating controller? (Three other kinds of women were in the list of manifestations of control: the helpless controller, little girl and busy girl).

Pierre, seated on my left, asked me if I fit the mold of the tough girl. I took no offense, smiled and replied, “That’s just what most people think.” After the session, Wendell, my one-time verbal sparring partner, approached me and half-seriously (I hope) tags me as the emasculating controller. This time I took offense and playfully answered back, “Hindi ah! Nice girl ako, NICE GIRL!” After I twisted his arm, Wendell relented and agreed that I, indeed, am a nice girl (And a joker too. Incidentally, the first part of the previous sentence was a joke).

Why the categories?

The premise was that after the Fall (read: Adam and Eve disobeyed God, listened to the cunning serpent and each took a bite out of the forbidden fruit), men and women ever since have not been true to God’s original design. This explains the different categories women (and men: the little boy, macho boy, good boy, and distant boy) fall into. Men have been avoiding courageous movement by violence, immobilization, compensation and massive denial. While we, women, have long ceased to follow the man’s lead and instead have been taking matters into our hands and control men and our world. So what was God's original intent for man and woman?

God’s design was for man to move in sacrificially, courageously, risking for the well-being of other. But because of the Fall, man has now become avoiders in relationships both as initiator and as the one responsible for it.

God’s design was the woman to trust even when there’s no reason to; to give her soul to encourage someone else, to be soft and vulnerable. But because of the Fall, she has become more concerned about how she could least be damaged and hides her tender responsiveness.

I agree on both counts.

It will take a kilometric article for me to detail my interaction on the subject. Besides, I am still thinking(and thinking hard at that) about my response to the challenge of biblical womanhood. How can I truly grasp the essence of femininity, be securely aware of my worth and able to make others feel welcome? Can I be truly beautiful, that is, have a heart of faith and rest in God alone? What does it mean to be soft and vulnerable? Will I take the risk and learn to be inviting enough to give room for others to come into my life?

Can we, daughters of Eve, change from being manipulative, controlling women to valiant women? To borrow Shakespeare's words: "To be or not to be[this kind of woman]: That is the question."

It will take one great leap of faith, and the enabling of an infinitely greater God to help me answer that question. But deep inside, I know I want it to be a "yes."

"I'll take care of you"

With barely three hours sleep, I let the cold shower jolt awake my senses. I donned the long sleeveless floral dress which I accentuated with a pearl necklace and pearl earrings. After about thirty minutes on the road, I saw the sign to the entrance. My feet in 2-inch sandals hurriedly walked towards the Orchidarium. It was an early morning wedding. How early? 6am early. My only consolation is that my friends, the bride and the groom, will only do this once.

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

The groom in his crisp barong lovingly crooned to his blushing bride. Both his arms enveloped her; his left arm around her left shoulder, his right by her right hand. His singing accompanied by acoustic guitar, his soft albeit tentative voice wafted through the air. The electricity was out so he had no microphone to amplify his voice. But he didn't really need a microphone or anything else. All he wanted was for her—only her—to hear his song.

I'll take care of you
Don't be sad, don't be blue
You can count on me,
your whole life through
Coz I'll take care of you.

There was no promise of plucking the moon and the stars from the galaxy to lay at her feet. Nor did he commit to diving the depths of the ocean in search of a treasure from a sunken ship. Simply and wholeheartedly he offered what he knew he could do: I'll take care of you.

Now I find myself liking that song. It took a man who desperately loves his woman for me to appreciate it. There was nothing in the lyrics which was especially literary. Any listener would tell you that the song is ordinary. What made it beautiful aren't really the lines in the stanza. For me, it's the fact that a new husband borrowed these lines to make a promise to his beloved wife. "l'll take care of you . . . "

I hum the song.

And pray.

For the couple on their first of endless days together as lifetime partners. That their union will stand the test of time and trials. And that they will continue to give me a reason to believe that in this part of earth, there still exists a kind of love made in heaven.

Savoring my best meals

What’s the best part of a meal? Is it the appetizer, salad or piping-hot soup? Is it the main course, made exquisite with the choicest ingredients, the most succulent meat and the most exotic of spices? Or could it be the sweet and (usually) sinful dessert?

It has never been what’s on my plate; it’s always who’s on the other side of the table. Even a dish fresh out of the French chef’s kitchen is no match to the taste of warm and enjoyable company. It’s the long and meaningful conversation, peppered with laughter, seasoned with affection, richly thickened by shared ideas. Ask me to recall my best meals and I will hardly remember what I ate. But I can easily tell you who I was with, what we talked about, how much fun I had. And so it is possible for me to enjoy a meal sitting on a wooden stool by the corner eatery in the same way, or even more, than say, a six-course dinner in an upscale restaurant in Makati.

Last night I had a great meal. It was with a friend who was into numbers, into music, into writing. Over a Thai dinner, we scooped on each other’s plates the latest offerings of life and had a buffet. We blabbered on, listened intently, clarified thoughts, shared sentiments, laughed heartily. It was a filling andsatisfying meal—even if the two dishes we ordered had portions left on them when we stood up to leave.

A meal I’m still relishing even after the taste of curry has long passed my lips.

Trust God, my heart

Not all that glitters is gold
Not everything flashy is worth our fancy
For all we know, its attraction is but momentary
We should beware lest we miss out on the extraordinary

If a woman could give herself only once
May it be to the one who truly deserves the chance
She must guard her affections, take her time
Before she lets someone say, “You’re mine”

She can ask the Lord to give her eyes to really see
To go beyond the surface and see more clearly
The real treasure hidden inside of a man
That will outvalue everything another holds in his hand

So hush, my heart, and let wisdom be your friend
Let her walk with you through your journey’s end
Do not let the whisperings of the false mislead you
Trust God and wait to give you a love that’s true