Music to My Ears...

Today I was asked to temporarily cover a Beginning Guitar class whose teacher had run into car trouble.  I was told it was only for a few minutes, for which I was glad, since I hadn't the foggiest idea what to do with a guitar class.  I was to take attendance, pass out guitars, and have students practice what they already know until the teacher got there.

Some of the students were a little more than Beginning level, and I heard them playing the intro to "La Bamba", so I sat at the piano, uncovered the keys, and began playing the intro with them, and then went on to the rest of the song.  I don't read music, I don't REALLY play the piano, but I do know chords, and if I knew the tune I could play a passable accompaniment, so for the next ten minutes, students would play some of the songs they learned while I accompanied them on the piano.

Still without lesson plans, I was glad when the replacement sub came in.  "I'm doing YOUR job today," announced the resident sub, "and you're covering all Mrs. H's classes."  Then she handed me the rest of the roll sheets, the classroom keys, and the sub folder.  "And no, she there are no plans."

I looked at the rosters and noticed familiar names of former students, and heaved a sigh of relief.  Then panic ensued when I realized I had 4 more Beginning Guitar classes to cover, and two Beginning Choirs.  I prayed that the Lord would give me the wisdom to figure out what to do, and lo and behold, I saw the week's objective on the board:  "The students will be able to name the parts of a guitar and their functions."  I smiled and I knew God had ordained this day.

Back in July, my husband, my eldest daughter, her husband and daughter, and I were blessed to have been able to fly to Anchorage, Alaska to visit my son and his family for my grandson's first birthday.  While we all stayed at his house and enjoyed a holiday, my son couldn't join us in the day due to a Leadership Class that he was taking.  One of the things he had to do for the class was to teach a 15 minute lesson on a topic of which he believed himself to be an expert.  

The night before his presentation, he asked me if I would listen to his lesson and provide some feedback.  For the next two and a half hours, he gave his lesson over and over, as I listened attentively again and again, until I almost has his entire presentation memorized.  His topic?  The Guitar, including the parts and functions of the parts of the guitar.

So, for the rest of the day, I gave the lesson on the parts of a guitar.  I have never enjoyed teaching classes more for which I didn't have lesson plans from the teacher than I did today.  Today, I didn't need lessons plans from the teacher -- I got them from the master.  And The Master.

"For I know the plans that I have for you..."  

11 Megapixels

One day God sent me a picture, and I opened it.  It was all a blurry blob, so I closed it and kept doing what I was doing.  He said to open it again, and I did, but it was not only blurry, it was also out of focus and pixelated, and so I left the page and went back to what I was doing.  He instructed me to open it again, and this time, He also said to watch and wait.  So I did. 

I clicked the picture, and watched as a blurry blob became blurry squares, which soon clearly became thousands of pixels, which shortly fell into place to form a beautiful picture of my life at that time. 

Yup, when the Blurry Blob finally loaded, the Big Picture was as clear as can be, with perfect resolution, and no editing required.  11 megapixel resolution, Jeremiah 29 style.

Today I received another picture, and at first glance, it's just one ugly, blurry blob.  But I know my God.  I know it's another 11 megapixel picture, Jeremiah 29 style.  I'm looking forward to the Big Picture.

For the Record...

For  the record, and for all the world (well, my facebook world, anyway) I want it to be known that I love my dad. I may not tell him as often as I should, but I want him to know it, and that I love that I have lovely memories of growing up with him. For some reason, I was never allowed to call him Dad or Daddy, but that's O.K. I call him Tay or Tatay, which means dad or daddy.

I love that when I was a little girl, Tay would take my sister and me to play hide and seek among the trees at the golf course on Sundays. I love how he could never find my sister Dee or me whenever he was the seeker. I love that Tay would sing us kids to sleep with “O Danny Boy” and “My Grandfather’s Clock”. I loved that he would whistle "Yankee Doodle" to signal that he was home, and to this day, whistling Yankee Doodle gives me a feeling of warmth and comfort. I love that because of Tay's whistling, my own family developed our own family whistle: the Jim Hammer variation of Yankee Doodle. My children could be spread out throughout a church sanctuary or a basketball court, or Costco, and one of us whistle our tune, and the kids would stop what they were doing or saying to find the source of the whistle. They respond to "The Whistle" to this day.

 I love that I grew up in a household full of people, related or not. If you were a cousin of the wife of the vegetable lady at the market, and you were in town for a couple of days and needed a place to stay and you knew my dad’s name, you were welcome to stay with us and sleep wherever you found space in the house. I love that Tay invited strangers to stay with us...indefinitely. One time, we even had an entire family of Hookers live with us -- five of them. No, seriously. HOOKER was their last name. I love that my children grew up in a home that also welcomed strangers, only they didn't stay strangers for long.

I love that Saturdays meant bank day – we would get our allowances -- prorated by age, with a 25-cent difference between us by birth order (but you got a 25-cent raise every year, so that we all got a set amount at 10 years old, at 11, et cetera) – on Saturday morning after my dad paid the bills, and then we would all head over to the bank to make deposits, then to “Uncle Mike’s” to spend. I love how my dad always made us save some, spend some, and give some away.

I love that Tatay taught me to love words and how to use them effectively. I love how he made up codes based upon our experiences. For example, one Christmas season in Guam, he took the family to go shopping at Town House. While the rest of us shopped, he and my younger sister Jean got bored, so he took her to get some ice cream. From that time, whenever he would say, "Let's go get bored," it meant let's go get ice cream. Another time, while driving at night around Oxnard, we got lost and ended up on Hemlock Road, where there was a Foster's Donuts. From then on, "Let's go get lost" meant let's go get donuts. I love that inasmuch as he taught me to love words, he taught me to me to love The Word even more.

I love that Tay fought with my mom in front of us kids, and I love that they also made up in front of us. I love that he smooched with my mom in front of us, to our disgust, and I love that Jim and I smooch in front of OUR kids, to their disgust.

I love that Tatay isn't perfect. I grew from his triumphs and learned from his mistakes. I love that he's weathered storms, survived crises, endured hardships. I love that bullets whizzed by him as he crossed a bridge in WWII, just before it blew up, and that a terrorist's gun jammed just as he pointed it at Tay and pulled the trigger.

I  love that after fifty some years, my dad still flirts with my mom.

 Happy Father's Day, Tay. I love you . For the record.

Grilled Tuna Melt Sandwich

Someone at work asked me one day  the secret to the  success of my 30+ years of wedded bliss for a total of 35+ years with the same guy.  My initial response was my personal relationship to Jesus Christ as my Savior and Lord, but she wasn't satisfied with that answer.  She wanted a more specific response.  Something more believable.  More ACT-ON-able.  After three months, I've finally come up with one good response:  Grilled tuna melt sandwich.  I'm not too crazy about making a grilled tuna melt sandwich (GTMS).   

At first I counted making a GTMS a privilege.  When we first started dating and Jim told me he really liked it, I learned how to make it by watching his mom prepare it for customers at the cafe his parents owned.  Then I would go home and try it out on my brother and his best friend, who were more than happy to be my tuna melt guinea pigs.  Once I perfected my technique, later in our relationship, I would make it and take it to his work for his lunch.  I made it for him at least once a week for at least a year.

After we got married, and I was working two jobs and going to college, my tuna melt making days dwindled to once or twice a month until the kids came.  Then I would make them for the whole family.  One day I noticed that the kids would scrape off all the tuna, and it was then I realized that I could actually shave a few steps AND a few minutes in prep time by altogether foregoing the tuna and just making grilled cheese sandwiches, which the kids seemed to like better, and Jim didn't seem to mind.

One Saturday, as I was making grilled cheese sandwiches for the kids, Jim asked, "Could you make mine a tuna melt?"  At first I was irritated, because it required dirtying a bowl,  a grilling pan, and several utensils; two slices of perfectly buttered-on-both-sides bread, a can of drained albacore tuna, mayonnaise, and a slice of American cheese.  It also involved making sure one side of each slice is grilled just enough to melt the butter, while the other side is grilled to just to the right golden crisp, while making sure the tuna is not too hot, but the cheese is melted just right.  Annoyed as I was, I made it anyway.  From that day, whenever the kids got grilled cheese sandwiches, Jim got a grilled tuna melt sandwich made JUST the way he liked it.

One day, about ten years into our marriage, Jim did something that hurt me, and he knew it, but he didn't do anything about it right away.  He just went about his usual chores, as if nothing were wrong.  After a few (ok, MANY MANY) minutes of seething, stewing, and storming, I did what I usually do after many many minutes of seething, stewing, and storming:  I sought Scripture,  and to be honest, I did NOT like what I found.  In essence, I was supposed to PRAY FOR the person being mean to me, be kind to him, do something nice for him without expecting anything in return, use a soft answer, and use words fitly spoken.  NOT WHAT I WANTED TO HEAR, LORD!  

Then, in a what sounded like a whisper, I heard, "Make him a grilled tuna melt sandwich."

"I don't think I heard you right, Lord.  That, or YOU didn't hear me right.  HE was mean to ME, for no reason.  I am the victim here, God."

"Make him a grilled tuna melt sandwich."

"But Lord, I am so mad at him, I don't even want to be in the same room with him, let alone make him his favorite lunch!"

"MAKE HIM A GRILLED TUNA MELT SANDWICH."

So I made him a grilled tuna melt sandwich.  In the process, I recalled the other times I made it for Jim:  the first few times when he came over for lunch, on Saturdays when he worked at the tennis courts, at the beach while camping...as I gathered the ingredients, put them together, and prepared them over the heat of the stove, I was reminded of all the great times I risked throwing away if I chose to let my anger control my actions. By the time each side was just the right touch of golden crisp and the cheese was melted, so was my icy heart.  

I made a grilled cheese sandwich for myself, and then I took both sandwiches and two glasses of Kool-Aid on ice out to where Jim was.  His eyes lit up in surprise when he saw the GTMS.  He set down his rake, took the tray and set it on the nearby picnic table, and held open his arms.  I walked into them, and he wrapped them around me, and said, "I'm sorry for being a jerk."

From then on, whenever we would get in a fight and it was CLEAR that Jim was in the wrong, I would make him a GTMS.   It helped me move the focus from feeding  MY anger and to feeding HIS hunger.  The process gave me time to cool down, and helped me remember what was important. 

So, if she were to ask me again today the secret to the longevity of my marriage, I would say without hesitation:  Grilled tuna melt sandwich.

Eighth Period

This year, for the first time ever, my teaching assignment was at a middle school.  I had taught 6th grade before, at an elementary school site, and I taught 7/8 grade summer school, but neither experience prepared me for the middle school environment.  I walked in confident that with 18 years of teaching under my belt, I got this.  I GOT this.

Boy, was I wrong.  I walked in to first semester MYP Technology class seven weeks into the school year.  When I accepted the assignment, I thought, "YES, TECHNOLOGY!  That's just up my alley!!!"  Uh, no.  I learned very quickly that technology, by definition, is solving problems using human ingenuity, and does not necessarily involve the use of computers.  Besides, the computer carts and computer lab were being used by the more important (i.e. state tested) academic disciplines like Math, Science, Language Arts, and Social Studies.  My class was a mere VAPA, although why they thought Technology was Visual and Performing Arts, I'll never know...

Eighth period that first semester was my smallest class and was also the most responsive and productive.  I looked forward to 8th period everyday, not only because of the students, but because it also meant the end of the work day.

Second semester was a little more, let's just say, challenging.  Eighth period lost quite a bit of independent time due to behaviors of 6 out of 36 students.  It was also during 8th period that I learned that I knew a whole lot less about middle school classroom management than I thought I did.  It was also then that I learned I had a larger repertoire of cuss words than I thought I had, even though none of them escaped out of my mouth.  I was at my wits' end with 8th period.  So I told stories, usually on Fridays.

I told stories of my events in my life.  I told them about my high school stalking days, about why I don't eat ravioli and why I don't cuss, near-death OD of a loved one, how technology save my life through a pair of 3-inch titanium screws...I shared with them heartaches and triumphs, and somehow always tied it in to technology.

Some days I would go home in tears, feeling like I failed that day during 8th period because I had to stop in the middle of a lesson to deal with an unruly group.  Some days I wished I had THAT class first, so that the rest of the day would make up for the bad morning.  Most of the time I DREADED the end of the day.

One day during my quiet time, I told the Lord I was done -- DONE -- with period 8.  Know what HE said?  He said, "Good, because now maybe you'll let ME do MY thing..."  Then I was reminded of what Mordecai once said to Esther:  "And who knows whether you have not attained royalty for such a time as this?"

From then on, whenever anyone in 8th period "got my goat" I would take a deep breath, walk to the whiteboard, softly bang my head against it three times, muttering "for such a time as this...for such a time as this...for such a time as this..."  and then turn around, face the class, and calmly address the issue at hand and then go back to the lesson.  Once independent work began, I called on the offending party to the door, and discussed what the unacceptable behavior was, and then offer him or her the choice of a referral now or the rest of the period to make me change my mind about the referral. More often than not, they opted for the latter.

By the end of this semester, I actually looked forward to 8th period.  Yesterday, I received an anonymous note from an 8th period student, written on a 4x6 note card.  Instead of banging my head on the whiteboard and muttering "for such a time as this," I raised my heart in song and sang "FOR SUCH A TIME AS THIS!!!"

Thank you, 8th Period!

The Perils of Learning a New Language

Just after we started dating, I invited my boyfriend, blonde, blue-eyed 6'2 cutie of German descent, to attend a family reunion.  I warned him that he would probably be one of three or four non-Pinoys, but I assured him that I would be his personal interpreter and that I would never leave his side lest the elder aunts converge upon him...

Before the reunion, said boyfriend asked me to teach him some appropriate Tagalog phrases, as the ones he had learned from neighborhood Pinoy friends might have been a tad sketchy.  So, I taught him the basics:

Magandang uMAga = Good morning.
Magandang HApon = Good afternoon.
Magandang gaBI = Good evening.

He proudly pointed out that they all began with MAG and would not be too hard to remember.

I also emphasized the importance of adding PO after every greeting to signify a sign of honor and respect.

On the day of the reunion, the aunts and female cousins were gathered in the living room, ready to meet the new boyfriend, who stood there confidently while I made introductions.  I held my breath as he began his well rehearsed greeting; I assumed his momentary hesitation was due to his trying to remember which one he needed to use for the time of day, which was a little after noon.

"Mag..." he began, "Mag...mag..." he slowly recited...and then suddenly with a bright smile, "Maghubad ka!" he beamed.  I gasped, and he turned and saw the look of horror on my face.

"Po!" He immediately recalled.  "Maghubad ka PO!"  He corrected.

Thereupon the aunts and cousins exploded into raucus laughter and advised me to hang on to this one.

He had just told one of them to take her clothes off.  Po.

On Stepping Back

“The Pilot’s transmission is out, it’s going to cost $5k to repair it.  The Accord is leaking radiator fluid, mechanic says all the hoses need replacing, it’s going to cost $400.  The kids are totally without transportation, but Pastor Ron sent out an email asking for help…”  I announced to my husband Jim after talking to my daughter.    I knew what I was going to do about it; now to just get him buy into what I wanted to do about it.

“What are we going to do about it?”

“We wait,”  he says. 

So, while HE waits, I pray.  I tell God, “Lord, we have four vehicles in our driveway, and two and a half drivers.  It’s really a no-brainer, but he needs to hear it from you.”

The next day, I asked him to call our daughter Jennifer, knowing that when he hears her voice, God will use it to whisper to him, “Let them use the silver car.”

“What’s new?”  I ask.

“Pilot’s getting towed back to their house, Accord is at the mechanics but will be back at their house shortly.  Email’s been sent out asking for help.”

By this time, my patience was starting to run out.  Why should the pastor have to send out email asking people to loan a car to perfect strangers (O.K., so church members aren’t exactly perfect strangers, but they may as well be, compared to immediate family) when we have a perfectly working car sitting unused in the garage? 

So, as gently as I could, I ask, “Why should Ron have to solicit help from church members when we have a perfectly working car sitting unused in the garage?”  He just looks at me, and then wordlessly gets out of the car to get some milk, while I wait in the car stewing.

While I stew, I talk to God.  Conversation goes like this:

Lord, You’re going to have to talk some sense into him.

Try again.

Lord, he’s not listening to you.

Not even close.

What... I’m [emphasis on I’m] not listening to You?

Now, you’re talkin’.

So you’re saying I’m the one with the problem of not listening to You? I’m the one who’s been praying and talking to you from the start?

That’s the problem.  YOU’ve been doing all the talking.

Then it hit me.  I’d been doing all the talking, telling God what to do, what to say, when to say it.  I wanted US – Jim and me – to be the heroes, to be the good guys, the ones to save the day for our kids.  That was our job – or so, I thought, until God gently reminded me that is HIS job. 

Good thing He knows me and knows that eventually, I’d come around, sometimes quick enough to where no one has to get hurt.  So my prayer changed.  I thanked Him for keeping my mouth closed, for keeping me from doing what I wanted to do.  I thanked Him for keeping Jim from doing what Jim wanted to do.  Then I asked Him to help me trust Him – to trust that He is doing something bigger than providing the kids with a means to get around town.

This morning we received word that a couple from the church answered the help call.  They had just bought a brand new car, and had a much older one just sitting in their garage.  They decided to drive the older car and loan the new one to the kids.

The loaned car is a 2012 Ford Focus.

My Tummy Hurts

After not seeing her for seven weeks, I finally got to spend some one-on-one time with my granddaughter, Josselyn.  I still cannot get over how much her almost-three-year-old vocabulary has grown.  Yesterday, much of our conversation included three words: "my tummy hurts"

In the car:  
She:  Are we going to Nanna house? 
Me:  Yes we are. 
She:   Mommy and daddy coming later? 
Me:  No, baby, you'll see them tomorrow. 
She:   Oh.   (Silence).  My tummy hurts. 
Me:   I'm sorry your tummy hurts.  Do you need to throw up? 
She:  No.
Me:  Why does your tummy hurt?
She:  Me don't know.

In the living room:
She:  Me want Dayday and Dodo.
Me:  We left them at your house, baby.  You'll see Jayjay and Jojo tomorrow.
She:  Me want them now.  Me want to up-up them now. Me want to tuddow Dayday and Dodo.
Me:  I know baby, tomorrow you can pick them up and cuddle them.  Tonight you can pick up and cuddle Lulu and Lula.
She: Oh.  (picks up Lulu and Lula).  My tummy hurts.
Me:  I'm sorry your tummy hurts.  Do you need to throw up?
She: No.
Me:  Why does your tummy hurt?
She:  Me don't know.

At bedtime:
She:  Me lala Auddie.
Me:  I love Auggie too.
She:  Me want up-up Auddie. Me want tuddow Auddie.
Me:  I want to pick up and cuddle Auggie, too.  But we can't.
She:  Why?
Me:  Because they live too far away.
She:  Why?
Me:  Because Uncle Jimmy's work is in Alaska, so they have to live there, and we have to take an airplane to go see them.
She:  Auntie Dattee and Unca Beeday live faraway too!
Me:  Yes, they do. 
She:  Oh. (silence) My tummy hurts.
Me:  I'm sorry your tummy hurts.  Do you need to throw up? 
She:  No.
Me:  Why does your tummy hurt?
She:  Me don't know.

At breakfast:
She:  (Running into my bedroom) PAAAAPAAAAH!!!
Me:  He's not there.
She:  Where Pappah dough?
Me:  He went to work.
She:  Me want to lick his teek.
Me:  You can lick his cheek the next time you see him.
She:  When I shee him?
Me:  I'm not sure, baby.  Maybe Saturday.
She:  When is Shatday?
Me:  Four more sleeps.
She:  Oh. (silence) My tummy hurts.
Me:   I'm sorry your tummy hurts.  Do you need to throw up? 
She:  No.
Me:  Why does your tummy hurt?
She:  Me don't know.

In the car, on the way to her home:
She:  Nannah stay my house?
Me:  No, baby, I'm only dropping you off.
She:  Nannah play a lidda bit?
Me:  I'll come in for a little bit.
She:  Then?
Me:  Then I have to leave you with your mommy and I have to go to work.
She:  Then you come back my house?
Me:  No, then I go back to MY house.
She:  Me want go back YO house.
Me:  Not today, sweetie.  Another day.
She:  Why?
Me:  Because I need to work, and your mommy and daddy need you so they can hug you and cuddle you.
She:  Nannah stay at my house.
Me:  I can't.
She:  Why?
Me:  Because I belong with Pappah, just like you belong with mommy and daddy.
She:  Oh. (silence) My tummy hurts.
Me:   I'm sorry your tummy hurts.  Do you need to throw up? 
She:  No.
Me:  Why does your tummy hurt?
She:  Me don't know.


And then it hit me.  All these tummy hurts --  I noticed she gets silent just before she announces them...she gets them just before she turns her head to one side or just before she looks away, just before silent tears fall.  There is no crying sound, like when she's hurt, or when she's angry, or when she doesn't get what she wants when she wants it.  Only silent tears that she doesn't really even want me to see.

Gone are the carefree days of nothing but pure joy and laughter, when crying was merely an audible indication of a physical discomfort, and a drink, a cracker, a boo-boo ice, a tic-tac, or a snuggle could make it stop almost immediately.

My almost-but-not-quite-three-year-old granddaughter's tummy hurts when she is sad, really sad, and there is really nothing I can do about it.  She will experience many more of these tummy hurts, and eventually, she will experience her first heartbreak, and there is really nothing I can do about it.

My tummy hurts.

Six Weeks of August

     I met him exactly six weeks ago today, and it was love at first sight.  I spent every day of the last six weeks with him, and I watched him develop a personality that will forever be etched in my mind.
     He likes his sleep and his meals, in that order,  much like his Auntie Jacky.   He gets  cranky, makes frowny faces, and snarls when awakened, much like his dad.  He makes contented grunting noises when one  rubs his back, much like his Auntie Jhen.  He makes faces in his sleep, looking innocent and angelic much like his cousin Jossie.  He kicks suddenly when you touch his ankle, much like his pappah.  He smiles and drools when in deep sleep, much like his mama.  He snores and snorts even when he's awake, much like his Nannah.
     Six weeks ago I didn't know this little one, and now I cannot imagine this world without him.  He is a living, breathing example of the phrase "against all odds".  Born at 37 weeks and 5 days, his entry  -- or rather, exit -- into this world was not without incident.  His dad had just finished texting me that his mama's weekly OB appointment went well, and the plan was to induce labor on July 29, with the hope that he would be born on July 30th.  Within ten minutes of his last text, his dad texted me again, saying they are en route to the hospital to be induced.  Needless to say, but I'll say it anyway, my flight for July 30th was changed to July 21st.
     While his mama was well into her labor and as the medical staff had just administered an epidural, the 3'x4' decorative metal grill directly over her hospital bed suddenly and unexplainably snapped off the ceiling.  For some reason, it did not fall directly her, but rather at an angle, the corner of which hitting and bruising her knee.  Little mama didn't feel it for the epidural, but dad and the medical staff were shaken, and a couple of them had to leave the room to gather composure.

     When he finally made his appearance with the help of forceps, the staff was ready to whisk him away to NICU, and this little one was only 4 pounds, 5 ounces.  Because of his size, he was considered a preemie, even though he was term, and machines were in place to ensure he could breath outside the womb.  This little one surprised the staff by his immediate and make-no-mistake-about-it-I -am-not-a-happy-camper wail of protest that could be heard by the entire unit.  The NICU team went back to NICU empty-handed.
     They expected him to have a heart problem, as he had fluid in his heart sac in utero.  Cardiology said he was fine.  They expected him to have little to no muscle tone.  They were wrong.  His arms may have been "floppy" at birth, but he was soon flailing and kicking, and even raising his head off the cribette in search of food.  They expected him to have a name, but they were wrong.  It took his parents the entire pregnancy and six days after his birth to deliberate and come up with the perfect name for this little guy -- August -- inspiring reverence or awe; impressive; honorable.  And they were right.
     And now, six weeks later, he and his parents have established somewhat of a routine.  They're still in the process of learning to distinguish his cries:  the hungry from the hurting, the angry from the annoyed, the "burp me" from the "hug me".  They're still working out the kinks of being new parents, but those will get ironed out in time.  They have the love, support, and prayers of friends and family.
     In two more days,  I can go back home and leave August in the hands of his mom and dad.  Let me rephrase that.  I can go back home and leave August in the CAPABLE and loving hands of his mom and dad.  I am grateful for the six weeks I've had to get to know August.  I look forward to regular communications and updates, thanks to technology.  And I'm excited for the next time I get to spend time with him and witness awe-inspring and impressive changes that make him August.  Not against all odds.  FOR one God.  Through one God.  Because of one God.  And that makes all the difference.

International Day of the Disappeared 2012

Well, I done did it.  I disappeared from the face of Facebook for 18 hours.  A few people noticed.  Some of those who did -- well, they didn't really care.  After all, it's only Facebook, and there are other ways to get a hold of me.    I appreciate the efforts of some who tried to investigate, who sent me emails, who sent text messages.  But in the end, my friends knew that there had to be a reasonable explanation for my sudden disappearance from my usual stomping grounds.  And since Facebook life went on as usual for my family, people knew I'd be back eventually, and they are right.  I'm back.

Alas, around the world there are thousands who disappear everyday, and their  lives and the lives of their loved ones are turned upside down and shaken to the core, with little to no hope of ever seeing their missing loved ones again.  EVER.  Some are "enforced disappearances" of enemies of powerful people.  Others are emergency disappearances due to natural disasters. Still more are disappearances due to the ever growing demand for human "services".  More often than not, these sudden disappearances become permanent, unexplained, and unresolved.

August 30 was originally declared International Day of Enforced Disappearances to promote awareness of the increasing numbers of people missing as a result of political conflicts around the world.  Today the title has been modified to International Day of the Disappeared, to include those missing after disasters and those abducted for human trafficking purposes. The purpose remains the same:  to promote awareness of and provide support for the plights of those affected by these disappearances.

I'm back.  They're not.  Not nuff said.  Never nuff said.

Don't Let Them Win

Originally written 29 August 2010

Some people, when they hear a story or watch  a scene in a movie, or see a place that takes them back to a traumatic experience in their life, they freak out.  The first time that happened to me, I was 17. 

 I was watching an afternoon talk show with my boyfriend, and the topic was incest.  I didn’t even know what the word meant.  As I watched and listened, I was horrified as the girl on the program described similar things that had happened to me.  I ran outside and my bf followed me and asked what was wrong.  In a rush I told him what happened, how before today I thought everything was just a part of life, but after seeing the show I felt ashamed, dirty, evil, soiled.  I told him I would understand if he wanted to break up with me.  My boyfriend put his arms around me and hugged me for a long time, without saying anything.  Then I noticed he was shaking from crying. 

He then told me that what happened to the little JoAnn was horrible, unforgivable, unfair, and just wrong.  He said there was nothing to be ashamed of – that THOSE men were evil, dirty, and soiled, not the little JoAnn.  He told me it was OK to cry for the little JoAnn, to feel for her and to be angry for her, but he also said I shouldn’t let what happened then control the present and the future.  He said that Little JoAnn had no control over what happened, but THIS JoAnn can take steps to control what SHE will do with what she just learned.  Then he said something I will never forget:  “Don’t let the deeds of stupid, wicked men take away the joy of what happens between a husband and wife.  If you do, they win.  Don’t let them win.”

Then he said this wasn’t over – this 17-year-old high school senior with no psychology background said to me, “You will have days when memories will come pouring out, and you’ll wonder if they really happened.  People might deny things happened to cover their backsides.  Events will happen that will take you back to a bad place.  These things will happen, and I want you to know I will ALWAYS be there for you.  I would NEVER break up with you.”

That night, I prayed that if there were more bad memories to come, that He will give me the strength to endure them and not to go crazy.  God did better than that – He sent people my way who listened and understood, who didn’t judge but only prayed, who didn’t accuse but only hugged.  He still does that to this day.

Oh, by the way, that 17-year-old boyfriend was true to his word.  I’m still married to him.  I win.

How Do You Deal With It?

How do you deal with your mate of 60+ years who doesn't remember you or any part of the last 60 years, and wants nothing to do with you? 

Or the dad, who worked 18-hour days so he could provide a life for you that's better than the life he lived, and then one day doesn't remember his son's name?   

Or the grandpa who never forgot the day, date, and hour you were born, never failed to give an 'attaboy' and would drive four hours in the I-15 just to be at your soccer game finals, and then one night doesn't know you ever existed? 

Or the father-in-law who stood beside you and watched you negotiate the price of a Honda Civic sedan and then pats you on the back and says "I couldn'ta done a better deal.  My son was smart to give up golf." and calls you his favorite (albeit the ONLY) daughter-in-law, and then one day turns to you with a puzzled look and asks, "Are you the maid?" 

How do you deal with all that?  First you pray that he made his peace with God before all this. 

Then you remember the good times,  you talk about the old times, good and bad, and you tell your kids and grand kids and great grand kids about what a great and loving man Grandpa Red Hammer was. 

Then you start letting go, so that when the time comes, you can say goodbye to the body with the hope that his soul is resting in peace. 

We love you, Dad.  Even though you don't know us anymore, may you always know that you are loved all the rest of your days.

Learn to Let Go

Mood:  Meloncholy
Music:  "Learn to Let Go" by Mark Schultz

I'm holding this picture
You drew when you were four
It was one we proudly hung 
On our refrigerator door 
I found it in the attic 
In your old dresser drawer 
By a pillow that we made you 
And a blanket that you had 
When we learned to chase the monsters 
From underneath your bed 
And I remember
How I learned how to hold you when you cried 
I learned how to let you be strong 
Learned how to calm you in the dark 
Learned how to listen with my heart 
I learned how to watch you grow 
But how will I learn to let go
And when I walk in your bedroom 
The memories that I keep 
Are bedtime stories 
And rocking you to sleep 
And as I held you 
You'd drift off to dream 
And I know it might sound crazy 
Now that you are grown 
But yesterday still feels 
Like the day we brought you home 
And I remember

June 24, 2006

     Last night,  at 7 PM we took my 19-year-old daughter to LAX to catch the 11:20 flight to Brisbane, where she will take another flight to Townsville.  She flew alone.  Why would seemingly reasonable parents send their daughter ALONE to the other side of the world for an entire year?
     This morning we left the house at 3 to get my 16-year-old son to the airport to catch the 7:10 flight to Miami, then to Jamaica. When he got to the airport,  he started helping out his group by checking in cases of Bibles.  He and another took a cartload of cases to be screened, and they were supposed to come back with the group, but the guards wouldn't let them and had them go on up to the gates.  My husband and I never got to hug him goodbye and pray with him.  We didn't even get to wave goodbye.
     Both Jax and Jimmy are on mission trips -- Jax to serve on staff for a year with YWAM and Jimmy to share the love of Jesus to the people of Jamaica through drama, drums, and personal testimony.  They are doing what we have raised them to do -- to be obedient and do whatever God asks them to do.  So why does it feel like I have a hole in my heart?
     Why does it feel like I just got kicked in the stomach whenever I pass by their empty rooms?  Why do I cry when I hear "How Great Is Our God" or anything by Joy Williams?  Then Mark Schultz's "Learn to Let Go" gets played on the radio and now I am just a blubbering idiot.
     I don't have to learn to let go -- I already know how to do that.  The problem is I DON'T WANT TO! But I know that's what I have to do -- to let go and allow God to work in their lives and in mine as we rely on Him for comfort and for peace. 
     I think of how the Father must have felt on the very first Christmas Eve, the last day Jesus was in Heaven before He left for His mission trip, one that would lead Him to His crucifixion.  The Father knew it, and He still let Him go. So I will do the same. 
     
UPDATE 2012:  
     Jax ended up serving in Australia for 5+ years.  She also ended up married to an Aussie (a drummer!), whom she met at Discipleship Training School back in 2005.  We LOVE him and his family!  She lives in Australia now.  
     Jimmy went on to serve on the worship team and student ministries at Whittier Area Community Church, where he met Jennifer, whom he married in 2009.  Jimmy is in the Air Force, and is stationed here in Alaska.  Jennifer safely delivered my grandson two weeks ago.  That's why I'm here.  I will once again have to let go on September 3.  It will be difficult, but it will be worth it.

Because Facebook Took It Off

Claim to Fame on The Filipino Channel

 

In 2006, I was able to go back to the Philippines for the first time in 34 year.  Courtesy of TFC, I was also able to meet my sister for the first time.

From Jhen: On Just a Little Taste

Just A Little Taste

The following Sunday after Jhen, my five-year-old little lady was baptized, she taught me another big lesson.  It happened at my parent’s church, where the Lord’s Supper was being served, and she would be allowed to partake for the first time.  She had seen the covered table and knew what was about to take place.  She sat beside her little sister on the pew in front of me and was quite subdued and well-behaved throughout the message.

When the time came for the bread to be served, she sat up tall, and I remembered my first Lord’s Supper.  I had picked out the piece of cracker I could find in the two seconds the plate was in front of me, then passed the plate on, over my younger sister who looked longingly at the plate, wanting to but knowing she couldn’t take a piece.  I remembered squaring my shoulders in a self-important way, but I kept my head bowed because that’s what the grown-ups were doing.

When my younger daughter, her face full of disappointment, scooted as close to her sister as she could, I was sure the older one was doing the same thing I did many years before, because that’s just the way little kids are.  When they began to whisper to each other, I tapped them both on the shoulders and shook my head disapprovingly, and they sat still.

When the instruction came to “Take, eat,” I watched as my first-born put the wafer in her mouth, and then handed a tiny crumb to her little sister, who then proceeded to chew like everyone else, her eyes filled with gratitude to her sister.

“Oh, no,” I groaned inwardly -- people had seen the whole thing!  Hadn’t I explained many times before that not everyone that’s there got to share  in the Lord’s Supper, and hadn’t I explained why?  Didn’t they know the rules?  It was bad enough that some people hadn’t approved of Jhen’s “early” baptism, and this just seemed to prove their point.  Embarrassed, I leaned forward to reprimand my daughters but something held my words back. 

Then I heard my little lady gently and lovingly explain to her little sister – not in a self-righteous or superior way, as I would have done at her age, but as tenderly as she could, “Jax, (a nickname reserved only for when they are best buddies) that was just a little taste.  You can’t have the whole thing until you ask Jesus into your heart and let people know it.”

“Yes, Jhenny,” Jax nodded softly.

I sat back and thought about what had just transpired.  Sometimes people are like Jax, and get a little taste of what Jesus has to offer, knowing they can never have the “whole thing” until they make a commitment .  Even life here on earth is but “a little taste”  and we can’t have “the whole thing” – Eternal Life – without Jesus.

But more than that, my little lady taught me that sometimes we are so caught up in rules and regulations that we lose sight of our purpose.  Yes, my little ladies broke a rule, but they taught me a great lesson in doing so.  The Lord’s Supper represents what Jesus did for us, and the bread and wine are the symbol of Jesus Christ.  So, when Jhen broke the rules and shared her wafer, she symbolically shared Jesus with her sister in the most innocent, unselfish way.  Jax didn’t take the wafer from the plate, she got a taste of it when her sister shared it with her.  Jhen willingly offered part of her most prized possession at that moment – her first Lord’s Supper wafer – to her sister.

When the time came to serve the cup, the usher paused before offering the tray to my little lady, and looked at me inquiringly.  I nodded slightly, giving my approval.  Jhen took her cup, held it with her head bowed, and drank it when everyone else did, but she left a tiny drop for her little sister, who put the cup to her lips to get a little taste.

I am forever thankful that God allowed my little ladies to teach me a lesson, and in doing so I was able to witness the first time my little lady shared Jesus, and it was  with her little sister.