The Seed

The mustard seed fell
It died, bearing
a hundred other seeds...
a thousand...
ten thousand...
a hundred thousand.

And so the story goes,
a story from of old.
But one day someone tried to
change the ending.
>>>>>We need DDT.
>>>>>Insecticides and fertilizers, he adds.

The seed does not have to die.

It can bear more fruit: a hundred...a thousand...ten
thousand...a hundred thousand...five hundred thousand...
a million.

We can do this: Build bigger barns, use sophisticated
gadgets to keep the seeds warm. Germinating, he called it.

We'll show the entire kingdom
That seeds need not suffer much
to bear enough fruit.
Too old-fashioned, too outdated.
Buyers can't wait that long.

We'll use modern technology.
The results will be:
>>>>>better harvest
>>>>>more money.
More bucks to buy
>>>>>more DDT, more fertilizers, more tractors
to build
>>>>>more barns, more special equipment
>>>>>more bridges.

Song of the Thirsty Ewe to Her Shepherd

For years I drank, cup overflowing
Not begging but feasting
Every drop a thirst-quenching sip
Every word a life-giving dip
Into the River of Life.

"By grace...
Through faith...
In Christ...
Alone."

And now with much uncertainty I graze
On new pastures velvet in the haze
Of precarious, wavery sketches

National perdition
Character pollution.
Japanese excellence.
Global competence.

I fear.
Might we go too far?
Might we run ahead and stray
From safe, tested waters
And miss the Ancient Way?

I fear.
We might lose our steady grip
on the one, true Rock
as we search for more flock
......and cross dark ravines,
......climb steep cliffs,
......battle strong currents.

I feel:
your passion for the lost
your disdain for cacophonic bleating

I wish:
I could be one faithful partner

But you are stronger, swifter
More sure-footed, nimbler
Hardly can my spindle legs
Keep the frantic pace

I, too, have young to raise and tend
They demand much from me, days on end
I look to you for encouragement
That never truly comes.

My heart quietly strains to hear
The word that would not come.

I, too, have sheep to feed and cuddle
I give them milk on sore, cracked nipples
When I am drained, I wobble
Panting for more water
Yearning for a nibble
From grasslands undefiled.

I hunger.
I thirst.
I have young.

So when, at last, the hunt is over
And favored rescuers shout "We have conquered!"
When trumpets blare,
And flags wave,
And sounds of rejoicing echo
Through valleys, hills, and meadows

Remember me.
I once was sturdy and wide-eyed
But now I lie by the roadside
Weeping, waiting, longing
For comfort that would not come.

There is No Peace for the Wicked

There is no peace at all for the wicked.

Stinging, ruthless words that pierce through mind and heart
Swiftly, precisely, from lips of clay depart
Arrowheads dipped in green poison find their way
To an unwary target, without delay.

There is no peace at all for the wicked.

The tongue is a sinister, crushing weapon
Who dares resurrect one fatally bludgeoned?
"He deserves my verdict!" Rage seethes in defense.
"He smashed my fortress with the least reverence."

He is without excuse.

Yet the comely victim-prince says, "Follow me..."
He with the sad, compelling eyes
And nail-scarred hands offered gently, steadily
To a soul vanquished by frantic, chaotic "I"

He whose dazzling raiments from the throne hang
unused
Willfully submits to slight, beating, abuse
As leather sandals cushion dusty, wounded feet
He weeps; Fallen creatures smite head and side--they bleed.

Still the comely victim-prince says, "Follow me..."
Now, therefore, beyond excuse,

Man is guilty.

C O L O R S

Fjords
Cairns
Blue mountains
Stone hills
Rushing water
Quicksand
Glaciers
Zebras
Coyotes
Grass
Palaces
Empty rooms
Rusty typewriters
Old pages

Are a poet's palette.

Wee Hours

Listless
Ears ringing
Eyes straining
In the dark
To see
meanings

Clanging noise
Keeps mind alert
Heart quieted by words
From an old manuscript
For life.

A writer Thinks
Feels
Lives
In a self-made
Closet
He wonders
What lies dusty
On bookshelves
In Cupboards
Keychains
Dried leaves
Soiled sheets
Bedsores
Furuncles
Dead ants
Beating hearts

And seeks to find
Letters
syllables
Sounds
to paint
Visions
Images
Of life.

Sayang, Pangulo

Sa iyong pagbaba ay may kurot sa pusong
Nadama ang isang nagmasid sa paghayo
Hindi naman kapanalig, hindi rin dumepensa
Ano't nagdalamhati, nagluksa sa pagkawala?

Sa gitna ng mga tinig na nag-udyok ng pagbagsak
Ng isang nagpakitang-gilas sa mahihirap
Yaong mga saksi di naawat sa pagluha
Nang mamasdang tumila sa pagkislap ang tala

Bansa'y nahati, bato sa bato
Mayroong nagbunyi, may pag-asang nasiphayo
Nalansag ang mga kawal sa datihang hilera
Mapait ang paghabol ng sisiw sa ina

Sa iyong paglisan, panalangin ang pabaon
Na pakaiingatan itong pagkakataon
Bumangon muli't ngalan ay linisin
Sala'y pagsisihan, kabiyak ay pakaibigin

Kapayapaan ng puso ang hangad ko para sa iyo
Kapayapaan sa lahat ng bagong namumuno
Kapayapaan sa iyong mga tapat na tagasunod
Kapayapaan ng Diyos ang sa bansa ay magbuklod.

"Roel, Lost Child No Longer"

I was in a foul mood that evening. I left the house at around 6:50 P.M., in a gigantic hurry to catch the bus that would take me to the small group leaders' meeting at my home church in Mandaluyong City. I chided myself for always being late for meetings, a fact that my husband perennially complained about.

It was December 11, 2006: 2 days before my daughter's high school Christmas play, 5 days before my birthday, 6 days before the gift-giving activity in an urban poor community, 7 days before our Bible study group's Christmas party which was to be held at our house, 14 days before Christmas, 18 days before the deadline for the submission of all of my husband's accounting books to BIR, 20 days before New Year's Eve, and approximately 30 days before the scheduled audition of our first batch of music scholars from Barangay Botocan. Somewhere in between all these I had to whisk my kids off to Cavite to visit their favorite "tita" who had just given birth to her first child. And then, there were two truckloads of dirty laundry waiting to be noticed at home.

I simply had too much on my mind. My daughter would often tell me that she always knew whenever I left my body and "plunged into the thought river" as she called it. I would stare into space and absently nod my head as if I was talking to somebody invisible. She once demonstrated to me how I looked during those "plunges" and I nearly fell off my chair laughing.

But that December night, I didn't want to laugh. I was tired, I wanted to get to the meeting, listen to whatever it was that I had to listen to, and then go home. That was my plan. So when the bus I was riding in refused to budge from its position after 15 minutes of lingering half-empty at the Ortigas intersection, I sprang from it and sprinted like mad. I found the pavement nearest to the portion of EDSA where flying versions of the one I had just escaped from were picking up passengers. I mourned the loss of an extra ten bucks but I at least had the chance to catch whatever remained of the meeting. I would at least have something to report to my husband, I thought.

The elevator door of the Ortigas MRT station was already closing when I got off my second bus. Being at least 50 pounds overweight, I dreaded the alternative of climbing up those stairs. Nope. Depressed and tired I was, and certainly in no mood to aggravate the condition of my already frazzled nerves by engaging in unwanted strenuous exercise.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, he emerged. Dressed in a dingy, soot-black oversized T-shirt that ran down to his knees, a small boy pressed the "Up" button with a right index finger that looked like it had been dipped in coal for three hours. In fact, it wasn't just his finger. The boy's whole body was covered with hair-raising grime and filth.

He was jingling some coins in a soda can at me so I dropped a one-peso coin into the slot. Another commuter did the same. I had expected the boy to leave after that but surprisingly, he didn't.

"O, may pera ka na. Ba't di ka pa umalis?" I curtly told the boy. The man behind me in the line spoke a little bit more kindly to him than I did and he said in a light and cheerful manner. "O, alis ka na...Tinatakot mo 'yung mga tao, e."

The boy still refused so I asked why. It was then that I was really able to look at him and I was not prepared for what I saw.

I saw intelligence in those little brown eyes.

"Sasakay po ako kasi tatawid ako sa kabila," he said in a straightforward manner, but with respectful earnestness.

"Nasaan ang tatay mo?" asked the man with the kind demeanor.

"Patay na ang tatay ko."

"Patay na? Sino'ng kasama mo rito?" It was my turn to probe.

"Wala. Ako lang."

So when the elevator door opened once more, in went two awkward creatures. One was dressed in rags, barefoot, and trying to carry an unjust world with dignity on his small, bony shoulders. The other was a mother-ministry worker combo who, barely able to keep her head above water, was fighting to stay afloat and sane in her harried "Christian" world.

I wanted to ignore the boy but found that I could not. So when the elevator door opened and we both got off on the same floor side by side, I finally decided to stop in my tracks, bend down, and talk to him again.

"Gusto mong pumunta sa church?" I asked him more gently now.

"Sa church?" His eyes brightened up with excitement and expectation. "Saan?"

"Doon, o." I smiled as I pointed toward the SM Megamall area. "Sa likod niyan ang church namin."

"Sige, sama ako," he replied.

I didn't know exactly what it was then, but I am now convinced that no one else but the Holy Spirit could have prompted me to say exactly what I said next.

"Sige. Pero bago tayo pumunta sa church, dadaan muna tayo sa Megamall. Bibili tayo ng damit mo tsaka tsinelas."

I had no budget for the extra expense. The only funds I had that night were for transportation and the money that my husband had just given me for new clothes. He specifically insisted that I use it for what it was intended--because he was tired of hearing me whine about my 18th century wardrobe and my sole surviving six-year-old pair of black shoes.

"Hindi ako papapasukin doon," Roel said, worried about the guards at Megamall.

"Papasok tayo, anak. Ako'ng bahala."

So we walked down the overpass all the way to the mall. At times I would ask him to walk on a little bit ahead of me, so that I could keep him in sight. I was quietly shocked by the way he stepped right into murky, spit-filled puddles without making any effort to avoid them.

"Boy, does he need those slippers," I thought.

We went inside Megamall and, as expected, drew stares from practically every person we passed by. Even the guards were hesitant about letting him in. "Bibili lang kami ng damit," I said. So they let us through.

We bought the stuff Roel needed and, thanks to the professional assistance of the sales clerks, the little boy walking beside me started to look exactly what he should look like: a little boy. No more stares from the public after that.

We headed for the exit and crossed the street toward St. Francis Square. I was going in the direction of the CCF entrance when Roel stopped. He was riveted to the spot, starry-eyed.

"Ate, ang ganda!" he said to me. "'Yung tubig pabalik-balik lang, ano?"

"Oo, anak. Pabalik-balik lang."

I had passed by that fountain several times in my life and it was only at that moment that I had really seen it.

Lesson learned: To be able to see the beauty of the world around you, you need to look at things through the eyes of a child.

I allowed him to drink in everything for as long as he liked. When he was ready to go, I led him toward the CCF entrance.

Roel rode with me in the elevator, fascinated by the newness of it. Everything was all so bright and shiny to him.

I then showed him the worship hall which was already filled with people. The small group leaders' meeting was already going on and I, obviously, wasn't going to be able to attend. I then started looking for someone from the Backstreet Kids Ministry so that I could turn Roel over to him. I found no one.

And then right at that moment these words, which I now believe to be from the Spirit of God. crept into my brain: What are you doing? Why are you looking for someone from Backstreet Kids? Your are the head of a ministry to the urban poor. YOU take care of Roel yourself.

I became frantic after that realization so what I did was to call for help. The first face that popped into my mind was my friend Leah's.

Lei, may napulot akong bata. Puntahan mo kami dito sa Megamall. God blessed that text message and within minutes, Leah arrived. We quickly brought Roel to MacDonald's, ordered food for him, and asked him about his background. Then we started talking to him about Jesus.

And lo and behold. After Leah shared the Gospel with Roel and asked him if he wanted to accept Jesus into his heart, the little boy said yes. Roel closed his eyes tightly, repeated every word that came out of Leah's mouth, and emerged a new creation.

It was just awesome. The power of God to transform attitudes and change destinies is just something beyond words. A few hours before, I had dreaded standing next to the boy. But as I sat across him and watched him turn his life over to Christ, I wanted to hug him and take care of him forever. My heart ached with the longing to bring him home and raise him as one of my own.

"Anak, makinig ka," I said to him. "Tatandaan mo ito: Kahit ano'ng mangyari sa buhay mo, kahit gaano kapangit ang nakikita mo sa paligid mo, may nagmamahal sa iyo. Naiintindihan mo ba? Mahal na mahal ka ni Jesus. Huwag mong kalilimutan."

Roel nodded. I then thought of all the things he told us. He left home because his stepfather enjoyed beating him up whenever he came home from school. His mother had had three "husbands" and bore children from each. Roel wanted to stay in school but he could no longer endure life at home in Bulacan. So one day he rode on a bus and made the trip to Manila. He survived those long months alone by begging from commuters, selling plastic bottles at junk shops, and sleeping on sidewalks.

Leah and I brought Roel to ABS-CBN's Bantay Bata 163 office. It was almost 11 o'clock at night. At first the social workers there didn't want to take him in. "We only accept physically abused children, not street kids," one of them said apologetically. "You should have brought him to the police station nearest to the area where you found him."

"But he told us that he was afraid of policemen," I explained. "We only want to make sure that he doesn't run away again and that he has a decent place to sleep in. Can you not take him in temporarily and then turn him over to DSWD in the morning?"

After much pleading and after we introduced ourselves as Christian ministry workers, the Bantay Bata staff finally agreed to take Roel in. They asked us to sign some forms and within minutes we got a certificate that said we had just turned over to them that night a lost child named Roel.

We were not allowed to say goodbye to Roel anymore. His next stop the following morning was DSWD Pasig's Bahay Aruga. I was able to visit him there after a month but did not like what I saw. He was practically dressed in rags and he didn't look happy at all. We talked, read a children's book together, and then finally walked toward the door. It was then that he told me of his one wish.

"Gusto ko pong mag-aral," he said. There was much sadness in his voice. I looked around me. The house parent on duty was busily rounding up the other kids for what seemed like a tutorial class. Her voice was not very kind. I immediately sensed what Roel was trying to tell me.

"Makakapag-aral ka," I reassured him. "Babalik ako. Hintayin mo ako, ha?"

Roel nodded.

"O sige, alis na 'ko." I gave him a hug, determined to do what I could to get him out of that place.

"Sino iyan, nanay mo?" Another "inmate" broke the silence between us. Roel said nothing. I could not help but notice the uncertainty that was written all over his face.


I spent the next couple of weeks working with a DSWD social worker towards the acquisition of a license to temporarily adopt Roel as a foster parent. But before things could go any further, I received the sad news:

Roel had bolted from his prison of a children's home and was nowhere to be found.

I was on the phone for days, trying to get help in locating him. I walked through streets and dark alleys at night, asking for information about him, hoping that I might meet some little boy who knew where he was. None of my efforts were fruitful.

To this day, I still pray for Roel. I sometimes worry that he might have fallen into the wrong hands. It's been three years. I put my hope in the fact that one night in
December 2006, Roel prayed a little prayer with me, asking Jesus to come into his heart. I may have tried to save him from the blackness of street life and failed. But I know Someone who can never fail. That Someone came into Roel's heart one night and brightened up the boy's eternal future. I believe He will be true to what He says in His Word.

The LORD Jesus will neither leave nor forsake my little boy; not now, not ever. That divine promise is what keeps me hopeful during the day, and sleeping soundly at night.


Sleep tight, Roel. I shall see you again one day; if not in this life, then surely in the next. I promise you that there will be no more fear, no more pain, no more tears for you in the place where we are going. Everything is going to be all right.

*****

"Rosas o Tsinelas?" (Kuwentong pang-Valentine's)

'Kakainis. Buwan na naman ng mga puso.

Tandang-tanda ko pa kasi. Nasa kolehiyo pa ako noon at sa tuwing sasapit ang Valentine's Day ay parang bumibigat ang pakiramdam ko. Kung pupuwede lang ay hindi ako papasok sa eskuwela. Paano ba naman, sa araw na iyon ay nagkalat sa kampus ang mga lalaking may dala-dalang pulang rosas para sa kani-kanilang mga iniirog, samantalang pakendeng-kendeng naman magsilakad sa pasilyo ang mga babaeng nabigyan na ng bulaklak.

"Ang yayabang!" pagngingitngit ko sa sarili. At paano namang hindi ako mangangasim sa inggit e isa ako dun sa mga walang bitbit. Sa totoo lang, lagi-lagi iyon. Walang mintis. Mula first year hanggang fourth year ko 'ata sa U.P. e hindi ako nakatikim na maabutan ng bulaklak! Kaya 'yung antigong salamin namin noon sa bahay, halos mabasag na sa kakatingin ko sa mukha ko. Tsinetsek ko noon lagi kung pangit ako. Ang sagot naman ng salamin ay laging isang pampalubag-loob na "Oy, hindi ah."

Pero ba't ganu'n? Walang nagbibigay sa akin ng bulaklak? Di ako nagkaboypren nung college. 'Yung tanging medyo naging crush ko noon dahil pogi, La Sallista, at matiyagang makipag-usap sa akin e nakabuntis naman! Ngiks. Wala talaga. Tatanda akong dalaga nito, sabi ko.

Nu'ng nagkatrabaho naman ako, kasagsagan na ng tambalang Pops and Martin. Naku, kaming mga magkaka-opisina e wala nang ginawa tuwing Lunes kundi ang magtilian habang nagkukuwentuhan tungkol sa napanood naming "Penthouse Live!" 'Yun 'yung hino-host nilang variety show noon sa Channel 7 tuwing Linggo ng gabi.

"Ang cute-cute nila, 'no?"

"At ang sweet-sweet! Magkaholding-hands habang kumakanta."

"Nagtititigan pa sila!"

"Sila na nga kaya? Naku, sana nga."

Iyan. Iyan ang mga dayalog namin noon. Siyempre, dagdag-kilig pa rin kada umaga 'yung pag-aabang namin sa pagdating ng guwapung-guwapo naming boss. E pa'nong hindi guwa-guwapo iyon e kapatid ni Martin Nievera, 'no? Kaya nu'ng mag-outing ang opisina sa Baguio, sabay tulong na rin nang konti sa 'backstage' habang rumaratsada ang "On the Right Track" concert ni Martin doon, e talaga namang 'heaven' kaming lahat. Kasama na namin si Boss Luigi, may Martin pang bonus. Pagbaba namin mula sa Baguio, magkakasama rin kami sa iisang tourist bus. Tapos, heto pa ang maganda. E di nasa may Cubao na kami. Pababa na ako't papuntang estribo nang bigla akong tapikin nang marahan ni Martin sa likod at sabihan ng "See you, Carol! Take care!"

Halos himatayin ako. Sabi sa inyo, isang linggo sana akong hindi maliligo noon, e. Huwag lang mabura 'yung tatak ng palad ng Nievera sa likod ko. Iba talaga ang sikat na artista. Parang dino-diyos ng ordinaryong tao. Lalo na nu'ng mga walang ibang magawa sa buhay. Lalo na nu'ng mga naghihintay magka-boypren. Lalo na nu'ng mga hindi nakatikim na mapadalhan ng rosas.

Kaya itong si Pops Fernandez, mahal na mahal namin iyan noon. Kasi naman, siguradong hindi kami seryosong kakantahan ni Martin ng "Be My Lady" o kaya "Forever". Kaya nakiki-identify na lang kami sa kanya. At nu'ng ikinasal 'yung dalawa, pakiramdam namin parang kami na rin 'yung ikinakasal.

Sa paglipas naman ng ilang taon, ang natutulog kong Beauty ay biglang bumangon. Natuklasan kong hindi naman pala ibinasura ng Diyos 'yung mga hiling ko. "Sige na, Lord. Please! May manligaw man lang. Kahit isa, maligaya na 'ko." May kasama pang iyak iyon.

Napadalhan ako ng tatlo. Sabay-sabay. 'Yun 'yung pormal na umakyat nang ligaw, ha? Di pa kasama diyan 'yung mga palipad-hangin. 'Ika nga, "Wen it reyns, it pors."

So 'yung isa, madumi ang talampakan. Parang naglalakad araw-araw sa uling. Out agad. 'Yung isa, naku dear. Super-romantiko. Lagi akong me rosas tsaka tsokolate. Balita ko pa, inilalagay niya ang mga ito sa loob ng ref ng simbahang pinagtratrabahuan niya noon, at pagkatapos ay sasabihin sa lahat ng magdadaan: "O. Huwag ninyong gagalawin iyan. Ke Carol iyan." O di ba naks talaga? Nabura ang pait ng mga araw ko noon sa kolehiyo.

Kaso lang, si kolokoy e laging nakapulang polo tsaka puting gabardine na pantalon pagka dumadalaw sa bahay namin. E ayoko sa laging nakapula. Parang nanay ko. Ayoko rin sa laging nakaputi. Parang Elvis. Ang lakas pa kamo uminom at pasuray-suray maglakad. Bah, di siyempre out!

'Yung isa naman, tinamaan talaga ako. Ayoko ng pulang polo pero pulang labi okey lang. E nagkataong meron siya no'n. Kaya "oo" agad ang Carolina. Problema nito, pagkaraan ng apat na buwan, nadiskubre kong bukod sa pulang labi e meron din siyang asawa at dalawang anak! Di kasi halata sa bebente-dos-anyos na binatilyong mahilig humawak ng electric guitar. Ang sabi ko tuloy sa kanya, "Ayoko sa manloloko." So out din siya agad-agad.

Mga anim na buwan ko ring pinagdusahan iyon. Nagkulong ako sa kuwarto. Namayat. Pakiramdam ko, para akong pinutulan ng braso at hinayaang maubusan ng dugo. Ganu'n kasakit.

At para ring mga talulot ng tuyot na rosas, isa-isang nalagas ang mga manliligaw ko. Pero siyempre, naka-rekober agad. Me dumating na isa pa. Intelihente. Disente. Responsable. Galing sa magandang pamilya. Kahit na-polio 'yung isang paa, inaalalayan ako kapag tumatawid kami sa kalye. Masayang kausap. Mga tatlong oras lang kami sa telepono, nagkukuwentuhan tungkol sa buhay. At siyempre, walang asawa.

Okey na okey na sana. Kaya lang, nu'ng mga panahon ding iyon, nakikipagsulatan naman ako sa isang kabarkada namin sa simbahan. Nagpunta kasi siya sa Saudi. At nanligaw 'yun sa best friend ko pero nabasted din. Sayang nga, e. Cute naman at okey pumorma. Laging naka-T-shirt na puti, kupas na maong, 'topsiders'. Mabantot lang ang apelyido, ganu'n. Pero dahil mukhang okey namang kasama, 'di ko na masyadong napansin iyon.

Mga halos isang taon din 'yung sulatan. Nang umuwi siya sa Pilipinas, ewan ko kung papaano nagkagulu-gulo 'yung mga pahina ng pang-komiks kong buhay. Sa madaling salita, sa kanya ako nauwi.

Tapos, heto. Nawala ulet 'yung mga rosas. 'Yun kasing may-ari nu'ng mabantot na apelyido, ayaw ba naman akong bigyan! Korni raw kasi at sayang ang pera. Kesa bumili ng rosas, pakakainin na lang daw niya 'ko sa labas. Na siya ngang nakagawian namin. Jollibee. McDo. Kenny Rogers. Pizza Hut. Shakeys. KFC. Chowking.

Talagang 'binusog' ako sa pagmamahal.

Nu'ng bagong kasal pa lang kami, ganito 'yung dayalog niya: "Ma, masyado kang konti kung kumain. Ubusin mo ito, o." Sabay dagdag ng ulam sa plato ko. Siyempre, ang mabait na asawa, masunurin. Natuto akong ibuka nang malaki-laki ang bibig ko.

Mga pagkaraan ng labing-apat na taon, ganito na ang dayalog niya sa akin: "Kakain ka na naman?! Ang lalaki na ng mga pata mo, a!"

Panay ang reklamo ngayon. Naka-ilang aerobics video na kasi ako, wala pa ring mangyari. Mabuti na lang, kahit para akong lumba-lumba, ang asawa ko'y nariyan pa rin. "Parang lumang tsinelas."

Napulot ko ang linyang iyan du'n sa isang pelikula ni Regine Velasquez. Katambal niya du'n si Richard Gomez. (Di ko na masyadong pinagpapapansin 'yang Pops en Martin na iyan kasi na-onse nila 'ko, e. 'Kala ko tunay 'yung pa-flowers-flowers nila noon. Ayun. Nauwi rin sa hiwalayan.)

So anyway, balik sa tambalang Regine-Richard. Una, medyo dragging 'yung istorya. Di masyadong na-develop 'yung karakter nu'ng dalawa. Me mga parte pang nagmukhang hindi manang kundi luka-luka itong si Regine. Nakakaloka.

Pero ang saving grace ng pelikula e 'yung mga eksena nina Richard Gomez at Jaime Fabregas. Babaero kasi ang papel ni Richard do'n at tinanong niya minsan 'yung tatay niya kung papa'no malalamang tunay ang pag-ibig na dumapo sa iyo, at hindi tunayntipayb.

Ang sagot ni Fabregas: "Alam mo, 'yung totoong pag-ibig, parang tsinelas na luma. Magsuot ka man ng iba't ibang klase ng sapatos, pagdating mo sa bahay, 'yung lumang tsinelas pa rin ang hahanapin mo. Masarap isuot kaysa bago kasi lapat na lapat sa paa mo."

O di ba ang ganda? Heto ka pa. May pang-huling hirit.

"Ang tunay na pag-ibig ay talagang parang tsinelas kasi walang silbi 'yung isa kapag nawala 'yung kapares."

Kaya hayun. Pag-uwi ko sa bahay, hinubad ko 'yung step-in ko sabay hanap du'n sa kulay grey kong mumurahing tsinelas na de goma. Ininspeksiyon ko sandali. Uka-uka na ang mga gilid dahil puro ngatngat ng aso ang inabot. Isinuot ko sa paa ko. Okey pa naman. Kumportable. Mahabang panahon na ang pinagsamahan namin. Nailusong ko na siya sa baha, sa putik, naitapak sa dumi ng aso, pero heto, buhay pa rin. Matibay talaga. Nakalusot nga sa matatalas na ngipin ni Jack, e. Nakalusot sa mga matitinding dagok ng buhay na pinagdaanan namin nitong nakalipas na labing-apat na taon. Kaya heto, suot-suot ko pa rin hanggang ngayon.

Ang dasal ko, sana'y patuloy pang patibayin ng Diyos ang aking lumang tsinelas. Sana'y masulit nang husto ang pagsasama ng pares na iyon. Para pagdating ng araw na talagang pudpod na pudpod na ang mga talampakan nito't niyari na ng paglipas ng maraming taon, wala kaming pagsisisihan. Lilingon kami pareho't magpapasalamat sa magandang buhay na ibinigay sa amin ng Panginoon.

Da best talaga ang tsinelas na pinaglumaan. Hindi iyan kayang tapatan ng pinakamahal na klase ng rosas. Ω


(Inilathala sa Light Touch Magazine, 2002)

Him Whom My Soul Loves (Meditations on the Song of Solomon)

"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine." (Song of Solomon 1:2 )

To speak of Him in such an intimate manner is something some (or most) would find sacrilegious. And yet how else am I to view God's purpose for inserting the Song of Solomon into His most beloved collection of books? Can it be possible that the God I love desires me to embrace His affection with equal passion? I cannot even dare to imagine the depth of His love for me.

He carries an old wooden cross on His shoulders, up a hill known for death. His face is unrecognizable, covered with blood. Streaks of it are coming down from the puncture wounds made by the thorns on His forehead. Everything about Him is red. No one can measure how much fluid He has already lost. He stumbles time and again but gets up, prompted by the urgent need to finish His journey.

He can barely see now. Scarlet is everywhere. He struggles again with His cross, mindless of the jeers and taunts.

"You're dead!" they chant. And the evil one screams with playful glee.

"Save yourself if you are God!"

"He will not because he cannot. He is just a man."

He is groping for something. No. It looks like He is looking around for someone. He quietly searches the faces around Him. The heat is unbearable. Sweat mingles with blood. Still, He looks and looks and looks, ignoring the tiny pebbles that make it painful for Him to walk.

He looks and looks and looks, then finds what He is looking for. It is me.

The joy of instant recognition flashes across His face as His gentle eyes meet mine. We are locked in time, and my heart is stabbed by a thousand knives.

He says nothing to me. He just smiles--weakly. But I know what it means. It means a million priceless things.

"Don't worry."

"Everything will be all right. You'll see."

"I am dirty and bleeding. But you will be purified and healed."

"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine." His love, indeed, is much better than wine. It knows no boundaries--not even time. He loved me then, He loves me still, He will love me always. I know, for I have seen His blood-smeared footprints down the path that I walk. He has gone the way of death ahead of me, to abolish it with His own body. I shall see Him, face to face, one day: Him whom my soul loves.

The Piolo Pascual Pandemic (or what James Bond never had to deal with)

My daughter lost it.

Not her sanity but the photo she took of Piolo Pascual during his visit to the Bench Ali Mall branch last July 23, 2009. Or, to be more accurate, the photo she tried to take.

We had to buy his signature perfume just to get in line for the autograph signing; which we did at around five that afternoon. Piolo came in a good two hours later and all hell broke loose. There were cameras clicking everywhere. Elbows were flying in our faces and out of frustration, my teenage girl blurted out later: “Puro kili-kili ang katabi ko!” A profusely sweating, ever-beaming Piolo Pascual patiently made his way to the little blue table where he was supposed to sign little glass bottles.

It was a great line-up of photographs that we were looking at a couple of hours thereafter. An eerie, pinkish, blurred image of a display mannequin. People crowding the escalators right across the Bench outlet. (The same faces were going up and down the stairs shouting “Hi, Piolo!” every time they reached the spot that was right across the area he was sitting in. They’d go up, they’d go down. They’d go up, they’d go down. All the while smiling like their lives depended on it.) There was also this nice picture of Ali Mall security guards trying to hold back a bulging, unruly crowd.

“Mas artista pa ang dating nu’ng mga security guards kaya sila na lang ‘yung pinikchuran ko,” my teenager commented wryly.

“What were you thinking?!” the very weary, very frustrated mother-slash-magazine-writer finally said to her equally frustrated, equally weary daughter-slash- photographer. “You took no clear shots of Piolo!”

“Mama, I obviously lost control of the camera!” my daughter said in a slightly elevated tone of voice. She was tired of the whole thing. That was the end of her very brief stint as a Pinoy paparazzi. It lasted fifteen minutes.

But what we were really mourning for was the accidental deletion of a photo of somebody else’s ass blocking Piolo’s face. It would have been the perfect banner photograph for this article. It would have said everything I wanted to say. “James Bond never had to put up with this sort of ______.” (You’ll have to watch “Notting Hill” to be able to complete that sentence. The missing word is unprintable, anyway.)

I shall forever be amazed at how media people live their lives; those in front of the camera, and those behind it.

“Okay! We’ll take care of this!” The woman in yellow yelled to everyone within hearing distance, referring to the letter I had just asked Piolo to read. It was from my poor editor who was hoping that I would at least get a 10-minute Q&A session with the silver screen supernova. “Please pray,” I had texted her earlier. She probably knew by then that I was no expert in badgering showbiz personalities for interviews. So she texted back with an equally brief, equally serious “Praying, Carol.” Those were the only words I needed to read to be able to realize how badly they wanted him on the cover of their magazine. I felt guilty even more.

Piolo was kind enough to briefly take a look at the letter and pass it on to somebody else who had to make decisions for him in life-and-death situations such as the one we were in. So when I was immediately shoved aside like a nonentity having no “business” being there, all he could do was flash that wide, expensive smile of his.

I had no choice but to stand there and wait while everybody bullied everybody else just to get close enough to shoot photos of the famous actor-singer-model. Not that I minded the fact that for some strange reason, when it was my turn to have my photo taken (I was entitled to one picture with him because I had bought a bottle of “Pure Passion”), the erstwhile very sweet and accommodating Bench staffer I had been talking to earlier suddenly screamed to everybody, “Okay, okay! No more pictures! Just autographs!” (Which did not really happen, of course, because the people around her were wide-eyed, stoned, and deaf. The cameras continued clicking.)

So there I was. Alone in a screaming stream of nobodies, quietly standing with a brown Bench bag in one hand and a Piolo picturebook in the other. No interview, no photo shoot. I had spent more than a thousand pesos trying to get that story. It looked like the only one going home happy that evening was an unsuspecting husband who had a blue fragrant bottle waiting for him on his computer desk.

“Mamah! Promise me that this is the last time we’re ever gonna do this.” My teenager’s tone was menacing. Our stomachs were growling and before I had the chance to answer, three pairs of feet (mine, my daughter's, her best friend's) were already careening towards the nearest MacDonald’s outlet. Hot fudge sundae always lifted our spirits whenever they sagged.

So when life hands you a lemon, make lemonade. Who says good things can’t come out of bad situations? There were lessons to be learned, things to be cherished, a precious gift to be thankful for.

The lessons learned: Never underestimate the difficulty of crossing unfamiliar, untested waters. Never think that just because a famous person shares your faith, you can just pop out of nowhere and say, “Hi, there. I’m also a believer in Jesus. Would you like to sit down with me and talk about what makes life tick? We need it for the next issue.”

Next: Never assume that just because you know certain people at his church, getting to him will be an easy task. Churches are places of refuge for spiritually hungry persons. Not for paparazzi. No pastor in his right mind will ever entertain people belonging to that dangerous species. Like the good shepherds they are meant to be, true-blue pastors will and should protect their own flock.

Next: Always be honest with yourself. Immerse yourself only in work that you are truly happy doing because you were called to do it. That way, it will cease to be work and the frustration level will be nil. Don’t chase after professing Christian celebrities if it’s not really your cup of tea. Not even if the whole idea started because you sincerely wanted to make two wonderful, God-fearing colleagues in the publishing ministry extremely happy.

The things to be cherished: Value your anonymity. Value the fact that you have a homely face only your mother would die for. Cherish the idea of walking around Cubao tomorrow in an old shirt, faded jeans, and rubber flip-flops; of buying your favorite newspaper at your favorite newsstand and staying right there for a few minutes while you read the day’s headlines; of eating a great breakfast of pancakes and coffee and writing in your diary early in the morning while you, from time to time, watch a colorful parade of working class people as they hurry towards the nearest LRT station.

Value your humble existence, your gentle freedom. Value the fact that you can do all of the above without somebody else’s camera being shoved up your nose whether you like it or not.

The gift to be thankful for: A precious promise from someone truly divine. Jesus says that He will be coming back like a thief in the night. Just when nobody’s watching, the skies will blaze with the fiery splendor of His countenance. Which means, you won’t have to wait in line for two hours just to catch a glimpse of the King. Every eye will behold Him. And if heaven is forever breathtaking in grandeur as the Bible pictures it to be, who needs photo shoots?

For Piolo: I wish you a good and meaningful life. May the Lord Jesus constantly persuade you and enable you to model for His people the right use of their bodies for His higher purposes (John 3:30; Romans 12:1).

For two sisters in the writing profession: I love you both, but this is as far as I go. May you have a great magazine relaunch.

For the sunflower lady and her little seed: I wish you both a good night’s sleep. The nightmare is over.

I Shall Not Grieve ( a poem for Anneli and Awie)

I shall not grieve

as one without hope

Of ever holding you,

hugging you,

pinching you

on those fine pudgy cheeks

and staring into

fire-warm eyes

But I shall surely miss you.

I shall not grieve

as one forever robbed

of friendship’s beauty,

dazzling white,

of laughter like

a thousand stars

falling,

breaking into

tiny prisms

of dancing light

But I shall surely miss you.

I shall not grieve

as one forever bound

to earthly sorrow

while you, dear friend,

soar above clouds

on eagle’s wings

to gaze upon your true Love’s face

But I shall surely miss you.

For why should I grieve

when clouds shall one day part

to reveal my Beloved’s glory

and you along

with ten thousand

of His saints

Why should I grieve

when He has promised

Life

to whoever receives Him

believes Him

trusts and obeys Him

HE is the God of the living

not the dead

He is your God

And one day this veil of parting

shall be removed

And I shall once more

hold you,

hug you,

pinch you

on those fine pudgy cheeks

stare into those

fire-warm eyes

But for now I must shed these tears

Because until then

I shall surely miss you.

"Gently" (a poem for mama)

Gently touch her, gently care,
For the day may come — swiftly when
That endless cruel knocking
on doors bolted from the inside
Dies down and turns into
gray silence.

She, irksome as it is,
goes round and round in circles
Looking for the missing pair
She wears the other one, anyway,
And sits down in grief.

She says, “I want to go home.
Let me go home.”
“Mama, you are home,” you answer.
Vexation rears its ugly head
And you force each horn,
one at a time, to recede:
To vanish from sight.

Then gaining composure you say:
“Mama, let’s pray.”
God hears, and you are healed. Set free.
Instantly.
Of the agony of bearing about
in your own body
The weight of selfishness
And sin
And sheer ignorance of
what it feels like
To have Time snatch away Memory
From you and those you love

The sheer helplessness of this
bent, white creature
With veined hands and bony feet
Reminds you of your own
Utter helplessness.
Mortality.

Poems for Lazy Afternoons

S H O W O F F

i hear you

piercing the silent

clinking of champagne

glasses

with the laughter of a

thousand waterfalls

for my benefit.

**********************************************************************

WHO I AM

who am I?

I am not a wife.

for if the grave calls

and my love follows

then I shall cease to be.

I am not a mother.

for if the ground breaks open

and swallows both my infants whole

God forbid—

then I shall cease to be.

I am neither poet nor writer

for if the tide of thought, word,

feeling

ebbs,

and the well of inspired speech

dries up

then I shall cease to be.

who I am:

I am but one who follows

Life, Light, Truth.

I am but one who walks

the dusty, well-worn path

left by a good and kind

Teacher.

I am a bamboo reed

bending in the wind.

I am a calf

nursing at her mother’s nipples.

I am a pencil

drawing lines on a page.

I am a cluster of rhododendrons

nourished by the canopy.

I am a badger

finding shelter in the rocks.

who am I?

I am but one who follows

Life, wherever He leads.

*****************************************************************************

WEE HOURS

Listless

Ears ringing

Eyes straining

In the dark

To see

meanings

Clanging noise

Keeps mind alert

Heart quieted by words

From an old manuscript

For life.

A writer Thinks

Feels

Lives

In a self-made

Closet

He wonders

What lies dusty

On bookshelves

In Cupboards

Key chains

Dried leaves

Soiled sheets

Bedsores

Furuncles

Dead ants

Beating hearts

And seeks to find

Letters

syllables

Sounds

to paint

Visions

Images

Of life.

Miracle Workers

If I had words and rhyme enough to show

That when on thirsty soil my roses grow,

In stinging, ice-wrapped cage my songbirds sing

A lilting tune that ushers in the Spring.

Then such a poem will, of course, prove true

That God has worked His miracles anew

Through friends so dear as life from life renewed,

Such sweetness, oh, such blessedness reviewed!

In mind and heart they’re two: Nenette, Andrew.

Though years of service each have taken toll

On weary shoulders, cares and burdens fall

But Love-lit eyes and smiles keep such as veiled

As fragrance from the heel-crushed violet.

Praise Him who made you both as beautiful

As summer rain.

December Mornings in Manila

The best mornings here are those in December. They’re cold, but not like those that make you want to hide under a thick blanket forever. Here in Manila, mornings are not always about smog covering the skies like thick grey clouds. Mornings here can be about a family of sparrows perched on an old clothesline, singing their hearts out. Or, three immaculate doves sitting on a hot roof made of galvanized iron and watching you as you, in turn, watch them. Or, a black Australian Kelpie “sunbathing” in the yard at an hour when there’s barely a ray of sun in the sky to sunbathe in.

The best mornings, really, are cold December mornings. Like that morning in 1963, when a nurse at the children’s hospital decided to bring home a newborn babe, given up by its mother who had earlier that week professed inability to give it adequate care.

“I trust you,” said the weary barefoot mother to the nurse. “You can give her an education. I don’t want her to grow up poor.”

The nurse, ecstatic beyond belief because she was finally going to be a mother herself, pulled out five pesos from her wallet.

“This is for you,” she said, handing the money to the woman who had borne the child that was now to be hers. “Use it to buy slippers. I don’t want you to leave the hospital barefoot.”

“My daughter is not for sale,” said the woman, insulted by the offer. “She is yours, only because I do not have the capacity to keep her.”

“I understand,” said the nurse apologetically. “I will give her the care that you expect me to give her, and raise her as my own.”

And so the baby girl arrived at her new home on Christmas eve, to the joy and surprise of every member of the household. She grew up, not without a few tears here and there, but often surrounded by the love of a mother and a father. She managed to complete her studies at a good university. A few more years down the road and she found herself a wife, a mother, a teacher, and a student once more. God had been very good indeed.

One of the greatest miracles of this life is how a small seed can germinate in the bosom of the earth and at the appointed time push itself up, break the ground above it, and reveal the tender beauty of a small shoot; a shoot destined to become a strong acacia tree one day.

Unborn children of dirt-poor mothers are such seeds of fragile beauty. It takes the combined effort of people endowed with sensitivity, compassion, and selflessness to rescue a child from the ravages of extreme poverty and give it a good future. Only people who can truly love will commit themselves to investing a huge portion of their lives in the rearing of something born under the most pitiful and depressing circumstances. Love recreates, love is indeed the greatest miracle.

The world needs more cold December mornings made warm by the kiss of affection on a sleeping baby’s cheek.