Tita Nene Grace

In the hot, summer month of April, I found myself coming home to a quaint house, the transported childhood home of my Mother. Inside the house was the memory of my youngest Tita, Tita Nene Grace, cooking escabeche in the kitchen.

At the time, she was a sophomore in college, taking up Political Science at Central Philippine University. For a while, we stayed at my grandmother and grandfather’s house, while Papa and Toto Carbon—not yet a Pastor that time, but who decided to journey with us from Davao del Norte, and who dedicated his life into full-time ministry—were tasked to build the second reiteration of our house at Mama’s inherited parcel of land.

During our free time, Tita Nene Grace and I would complete relatively large jigsaw puzzles. I remember, we worked on a complicated landscape of a picture of vines and flowers and a house. Other times, as we did not have a working electricity at our newly constructed house, we would also spend our time watching TV at night, when all the tasks were done—like fetching water to and from the poso, or in Hiligaynon, bomba gathering firewood from the vast acres of land, and cooking meals for the family. She emphasized early on how to relax and have fun, when all the house chores were checked off.

As an adolescent, at a time when there was no Internet connection yet, no Friendster, no Facebook, and no YouTube yet, our pastime were mostly spent at watching the television, especially on Sundays after church. The family would bond over ASAP, and even towards Tabing Ilog. LOL.

Most importantly though, our Sundays were always spent at church. I grew up with women who made it a point to sacrifice their time to worship Jesus on Sundays. There was even a moment when I was absent from church because I went with Tita Lourdes to help in their carinderia, that Mama reminded me of Colgate’s (yes, the toothpaste brand) story—the emphasis of which was to seek God first on Sundays, and throughout one’s life. After that story, I made it a point that even if I helped with Tita Lourdes in their carinderia during Saturday and Sunday, I would go home early Sunday and go to church with the family.

When I was in high school, and I quietly decided to stay at my grandmother’s house, while our entire family moved to Antique for a pioneering work in one of the southern coastal towns, Tita Nene Grace would help me in my Greek and Roman Gods and Goddesses assignment. We had no Google back then, but she owned a gigantic encyclopedia, and we would research together the names of the Greek Gods and Goddesses. In a way, Tita Nene was instrumental in my desire to excel in my classes because she would come home with college friends like Anne or Loren (of which the only ones who I could remember), and I would talk to them for hours about their lives as university students. I would sit with wide-eyed wonder and my brain would just listen intently while her college friends would talk about their travails and their experiences in taking university classes. One of her college friends, a reader, introduced me to The Bridges of the Madison County, and it was probably one of the reasons why I was encouraged to read voraciously.

But my love for reading did not start when Tita Nene Grace would come home on weekends together with her college friends. As a child, I already had an affinity towards books, as revealed by Manang Ging-Ging Escobar. Talking to Tita Nene’s college friends affirmed my love for books, and the life-changing experience that one goes through as readers journey through the life, or death, of the book characters.

Interestingly, Tita Nene Grace was one of those who were put on a pedestal by a lot of people in the family because of her wit and beauty. She joined pageants and there were pictures upon pictures as proof that she won these pageants. She was also the school’s declamation champion, trained by, as far as I could remember, Ma’am Patricio, who I met briefly when I transferred to Millan Elementary School, from Fundamental Baptist Christian Academy in Davao del Norte.

I also followed Tita Nene Grace’s footsteps, even though my background was oration, and won the municipal literary contest for English Declamation. I would often practice in front of my relatives, including Tita Nene Grace, as one of the de facto coaches. I did not place in the provincial literary and musical contest, but I could not care less. I’m not sure what classical conditioning did I receive from my relatives to be able to expose myself to stage fright and to nerve-wracking situations, but as long as I had my parents as my cheerleaders and supporters, I would take the stage.

Aside from being an achiever, one of the most noteworthy characteristics that Tita Nene Grace exemplified in her life, was her steadfastness and conscientiousness in her personal duties as a person and as a member of the church. I loved spending time at church when I was starting my adolescent years, because we would visit church members and we would have Bible studies, together with my cousins and my Titas. She made it a point to exemplify what Matthew 6:33 meant.

But the journey called life was never a walk in the park—there were also challenges and boulders that we faced as a family. As someone who experienced outright rejection from my grandfather, after I tried to take his hand to “mano po”, there were also moments when I witnessed Tita Nene be caught in between these familial conflicts. There was a time when, weeks after arriving at Talangban from Davao del Norte, I saw Tita Nene Grace talk to Lolo Oyo. After a while, she locked herself in her room on the second floor of the house and, I felt at that time, that she wept in silence.

There were also moments when I came home from volunteer work with Save the Children that the family, including He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, were gathered, and were discussing complicated things. It felt very awkward for me while I was listening to this certain visitor talk about her opinion and her point because she seemed confrontational and crass. As a minor, and as someone who was not part of the conversation, I sat there in the huddle, in support of my Aunt, my Mother’s youngest sister, whom I felt during that time, was being verbally attacked.

In the many milestones that I had, from graduating Valedictorian in grade school, to finishing Salutatorian in high school, Tita Nene Grace’s presence, together with Pastor Gideon, was felt and, at the same time, seen. She was always very supportive with her nieces and nephews, and I for one, am very blessed to have seen her never waver in prayer and support to all of our dreams.

I’m actually glad, and blessed, that I have access to her, and that I can share with her my, our struggles, as a family and as a person. From solving jigsaw puzzles as a kid, to reading thrillers, then listening to easy-listening music, and ministering in whatever way we could, growing up with someone to look up to and someone whom I could aspire to be like, made my life more meaningful.

In the two deaths that we experienced as a family—first, my grandfather Lolo Oyo, and second, Mama Melanie—we never made it a point to be ashamed of our tears. Although the family dynamics were affected when we lost Lolo Oyo and Mama, we understood the process of our grief and we respected each other’s moment in the storm.

There was even a time when it was hard for me to understand the ripples of events that were created after Mama’s death, and that I was grasping for someone’s beacon of light and guidance, that Tita Nene Grace and Pastor Gideon came rescuing with the Sword of the Spirit, “which is the Word of God”. They emphasized that in God’s grand design, respect should still be given, even though we do not comprehend the actions anymore.

For what it’s worth, I am actually very proud that I get to call Tita Nene Grace, my Tita, as cheesy as it may sound. More than the pedestal that she was put in—her being an achiever and role model, her conscientious and steadfast stance on duty towards family, and her genial and conciliatory approach towards her relationships with those around her—it is because of her genuine love towards others, and even to us her family first, and her undying devotion and love for Jesus, the Author and Finisher of our Faith, that I appreciate the very life that she lives.

I do understand the struggles and the joy of serving in the ministry as a Pastor’s Wife, because I have seen the example and the magnificent story in the life of Mama as a minister of grace. And with Tita Nene Grace, her name Grace, is the very definition of her and mine, our, salvation—unmerited favor.

We do not deserve, and I do not deserve, Tita Nene Grace. But her life is a testament that when everything points towards the pursuit of intentionally knowing Christ, our lives become blessings to the very people around us, including our families. After all, what is life but a mist—it appears and then it’s gone. Such is the brevity of life.

Despite life being short, I’m glad to have memories of and with Tita Nene, in this lifetime.

*Blessed Birthday, Ta!

*Thank you for teaching me the true meaning of purpose and passion. Through your life, I have found these, only in Christ alone. #

Boracay Circa 2019 | With Mama and Tita Nene Grace, and the family

Process of Coming Home

When I lost my Mother on January 13, 2021, I was clueless as to how I would move on from the staggering defeat that I felt. I had room for nothing else—night after night, I felt like I was the one who deserved to die.

I didn’t know how I would celebrate birthdays in the family. I felt like I was being a traitor to my grief when I would think about my own happiness, about celebrating my own life, and the lives of the people that are closest to my heart.

When I received a Messenger Chat that Mama peacefully died, I felt as if I lost a part of me—and it hurt deeply, like that of a jagged, double-edged knife piercing my innermost soul. Hours prior before I received the news, I had nightmares—that I was being chased by the undead, and that my soul was being sucked by a Dementor. Right after I knew of Mama’s death, I wept inside my room—I could do nothing else; it was the most visceral thing that I could do. Death finally took control and I surrendered to Death’s caprice.

I have been repeating over and over again in my blog entries that it was my promise on my Mother’s deathbed that we were going to stick together as a family. A promise that, after two years, seemed more of a burden than a duty.

But even if it was difficult to fulfill that promise, I did live up to my responsibilities and duties because it was the ideal thing to do. We are only here in this world for a moment—even Gretchen Rubin said that “the days are long but the years are short”. And so with every breath and every struggle to continue, I looked at my family’s biggest picture.

I’ve considered my actions an all-encompassing Venn Diagram that connected me to my siblings—Mama’s request that we help Keith in his studies, and that no matter the cost, he gets to finish his dream university program which is Architecture; that Alpha and Omega get to finally finish their thesis and wear their Sablay; and that in Mama’s habilin to me, when she’s gone, I must continue my life.

As a person living with manic depression—where I have mania, hypomania, and depressive episodes that come and go according to the seasons of my life, and that I need to take a pill to function highly—my Mother understood that I would grapple at the thought of her absence at a time in my life when my dreams are slowly being realized. For one, I was able to finish my degree from the University of Philippine Open University in 2020 while Mama was undergoing chemotherapy, and two, I was already able to vanquish my demons and manage my condition because of psychotherapy and cognitive behavioral therapy with Doc Victor Amantillo since 2015.

It took medications, therapy, the strongest support systems in my circle which are my friends, plus the prayers of my parents, church family, and community, which led to my recovery—a season and a moment of my life that my Mother would have been proud of me.

But in my human perspective, she left for heaven, early.

And as a perpetual people pleaser, and someone who needed constant validation from a Mother, I could not process the loss.

In my mind, I understood that when Christians die, they go to heaven, and that someday I’m going to see Mama in the pearly gates—that I would be reunited with her.

But in my heart, I was hurting.

I was hurting because through the years and through my attempts at self-cancellation, self-revocation, and self-extinguishment, I expected my mortality rate to be less than that of a mother, my Mother.

In my grief and hurt, I turned to my family for comfort—to feel the pride of my brother JM being called an MD, all because of God’s redeeming grace; to be able to give and provide for my siblings; and to be able to fulfill the habilin of Mama to be one-fourth of the sibs who could send my brother Keith to a private university.

But there are times when I feel tired and burdened with the promise to Mama especially when I have my own dreams to live. And yet I understand that families need to help one another because it takes a village to raise a child. It takes a community to solve systemic problems of inequality and injustice. With my siblings’ education, it would be the “fangs and claws” against poverty, says a quote from when I was doing Extemporaneous Speaking in high school.

I wanted my family to have better chances in life.

As someone who was raised poor, and who got cold feet when my Nursing classmate way back in 2004 called me a breadwinner, I wanted to undo the life that I chose to live in the past—to care only for myself, to be too comfortable in my own bubble, and to be apathetic and myopic to my community.

I guess there are certain events in my life that deeply hurt me like when someone, a used-to-be friend, called me a loser and it painted the trajectory of my life—self-destruction.

But a tweet by @mitski struck a chord: “I used to rebel by destroying myself but realized that’s awfully convenient to the world. For some of us, our best revolt is self-preservation.”

Some people may want to see you fall, may cheer when you’re slain and ruined—and sometimes they’re called family—but a mother only wants the best for her children.

I guess this is why I miss Mama on my 36th birthday, which I celebrated with family on June 24th. I miss her because she was the one who would cook sunny side up eggs before I travel to Iloilo City to take my face-to-face final exams;

she would ask how much remaining units did I have before I could graduate from UPOU, which I finally did while she was still alive;

she wept in moments when I had the courage and the clarity and would speak in front of a wedding reception as the cousin of the bride, or in February 2019, I sang I Knew He Was Love in the Sunday Worship Choir for the first time after a long while;

and finally she would ask whether I still had remaining medications and when I had none, she would go to San Jose to buy my medications, which are, as what K used to say, my lifelines.

In spite of the grief that comes and goes, and the terrible longing to be with someone who gave birth to me, I’m living my life because Mother wanted me to continue living my life each day—as her favorite hymn says “Day by Day and with each passing moment, Strength I find to meet my trials here.”

So yes, this life is a revolution. And I continue to revolt, until I no longer could.

But for now, in this reality, in this moment, and in the seasons of my life that my Savior and Creator gave me, this life that I now live is because of Christ’s redeeming grace.

And I’m going to live it abundantly, selflessly, and without apologies.

Mama may have died at a time in my life when everything about me was getting better—but the best is yet to come.

In the promise of Heaven, and in the assurance that the Lord is a giver, I rest my life in the belief that every death, hurt, and sacrifice is worth doing because together, we’re all in the process of coming home—some just went Home earlier.

So did Mama.

LIVE LIVE LIVE

Father, And The Roles He Take

As an introverted, INFJ, perfect melancholy, and conflicted child, how do you come to terms with a sanguine, talker, and preacher of a father?

I don’t come to terms with it. I grew up with it.

And though I don’t reconcile our—my earthly father and I—differences, I have always gravitated towards the talkers and the storytellers.

Because, my father is one.

When I was a kid, my memories of my earthly father were almost in the creative, cultured, and practical sense—him patrolling the vast expanse of Camp Nikos while we were left to fend off for ourselves as children; chipping the side of the ground to form WELCOME, as a way to “welcome” campers in Camp Nikos; driving the motorcycle where I was bound to him by his jacket; and in Sto. Tomas, Davao del Norte, studying at his study table days before Sunday; preaching in the pulpit; and using his camera to take group and family pictures.

Plus, who would forget his skill at strumming the guitar?

In one of the conversations that we had as a family, as each of us children were given specific gifts and talents, he would proudly say that no one could beat him, amongst his children, in playing the guitar. This was probably the reason why we learned the guitar on our own—and in a way write songs.

As a poet and as someone who’s fond of writing Binalaybay, my earthly father’s love for the book of Psalms, and his fascination with the apostle John the Beloved, made him name us, the first three boys with John in our names—Alfred John, Harold John, and John Mark. By the time Melfred Keith was born, he probably had enough of John as first or second name, that Keith was chosen as Melfred’s (a combination of Melanie and Wilfredo) second name. Interestingly, Keith means “wood” or “from the battleground”.

I wonder what wooden battleground did Keith arise from.

As a preacher and as a church minister, I grew up listening to my father preach about being victorious and not being a victim. And as someone who values routine, and order, I’ve always appreciated his alliteration when it comes to his outlines.

In my conversations with my mother—while she was undergoing chemotherapy, and after she was diagnosed with breast cancer stage 3C—in one of our breakfasts together, she shared how father invited her and Ma’am Letty Doliente-Casiple, to have snacks at The Summer House, in front of the used-to-be Amigo Terrace Hotel, now Citadines Hotel. When father expressed his desire to be in a relationship with Mama, they were eating spaghetti. After hearing my father pour out his love and devotion, Mama said to him: “Kaon da ah.”

A rather apt response, seeing how my father was nervous and excited at the same time during that time, according to Mama. I even laughed at the passive-aggressiveness of Mama, and how she did not directly respond to father’s expression of his emotions.

But, Mama revealed that she already had an inkling what father was up to when she was invited with her best friend, Ma’am Letty, to have snacks at The Summer House.

As a basketball coach, I have no interaction with my father in this regard as I am clueless how to play basketball. I know the rules, in theory, but I never did play in a league, or played against my father. It was Harold, the ever-outgoing people-person of a talker like my father, who joined father’s basketball games.

As a cook, my father’s ultimate love language to us, his family, and even to visitors and beloved friends, is to dress and cook a chicken. Although I’ve learned how to dress poultry during Boy Scout Jamboree in grade school, I have never really perfected that life skill, unlike my father who, I think, feels that sacrificing the life of a chicken means showing his love for those whom he cares deeply.

In 2020, and in the months when Mama was undergoing chemotherapy, father would wake up early in the morning and prepare cooked rice. As someone who loves breakfast, as both an important meal of the day and as a way to activate my senses, it was up to me to decide which dish would be paired with father’s cooked rice.

There was a time when my sister and I had an argument in front of Mama because I wasn’t sure how to cook the broccoli that we bought from the grocery, and my sister kept on insisting instructions which aggravated my temper. In order to resolve the task assignments of the family, I had to create a color-coded table of tasks, and in that document, father’s early morning ritual of cooking rice, was included.

As a father, I’ve written somewhere on my blog, The Prodigal Kid, and here on Facebook, that he’s not perfect, and that I, we, sometimes forget that he’s human. All my life, I’ve looked up to father because, literally he stands a few feet above us, during church services as the stage and the pulpit are elevated. And figuratively, there’s a certain level of respect, reverence, and weird but appreciative look when people ask what your father does for a living.

Growing up a Pastor’s Kid, and an eldest living child (because the eldest daughter died), I felt it was my duty to inherit his role—gather the flock, care for the sheep, pray for the family and the church family, and love the unloveable. To be honest, it was tiring. It’s true what Aibee would say: “Sunday is not a Sabbath Day for us Levites”.

But through the years, and through circumstances and events, that shook the family from routines, and from mere duty, I was reminded again and again how my father took the role not just because of a desire for fame, honor, or wealth, but because it was his calling.

Sometimes, I forget that his calling also involves being human—a friend, an earthly father, a husband, a leader, a brother, a son.

Because in a spectrum of possibilities, he could have been somebody else—someone who climbs the coconut trees to harvest tuba, or something else. Yet, in my father’s testimony, it was because of him following Christ’s leading in his life that allowed him to finish his Bachelor of Religious Education studies at Doane Baptist Seminary, and serve in the full-time ministry, which changed the trajectory of his life.

Even if it means pain, conflicts, resignation, loss of financial support because of his principles, and in the last three years of his life, death of a wife.

Throughout the years, we looked to father for guidance when it comes to storms that we could not weather on our own. For me personally, it was forgiveness, even before I asked for it, that compelled me to appreciate and love my father.

And yet I could not reconcile before, the fact that people die—way ahead of us. I’ve always considered my parents a package deal—one could not exist without the other.

But when Mama died, the dynamics of the roles changed and each of us veered on different tangents of our lives—existing in various space and time, connected by blood, but scattered in the wilderness of grief. I, for one, had a hard time looking for a father who’s an encourager, and a glue.

In spite of the pedestal that I’ve put my father in, and the expectations that I’ve placed upon him, which, having realized now, seem unfair and unrealistic, I’m thankful that I get to be reminded of this verse from Psalm 27:5 which states: “I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.”

This is probably why my father loves the book of Psalms so much. The 150 chapters in the book of Psalms speak so much about “praise”, as it was originally named Tehillim, meaning praise songs.

And, in my father’s 67th year on this earthly plane, I pray for nothing else: that no matter what role he plays in this life, may he find time to praise Him no matter where he is in his journey of healing and worship.

I am only a child, welcomed by my father so long ago, after I squandered my own so-called ‘possessions’ and thus branded myself The Prodigal Kid.

And in the roles that my father played, for me—because I can’t speak in behalf of my other siblings—it was enough that he took on the role of Mama’s husband, friend, partner, and lover.

It was enough.

And yes, he also took on the role of my earthly father. For this, I am forever grateful.

Blessed 67th birthday, Father!

Love, Light, and Prayers from the heart that only comes with The Prodigal Kid.

[Papa in his youth, © Photo by Manang Ging2 Escobar]

Lessons From My Kindergarten Teacher

When I graduated from kindergarten, I remember there was a larger-than-life airplane. It was probably the metaphor of our (the graduating class’) life’s journey. It was made out of bamboo and old paper—news print, used calendar, etc. I’m not sure who constructed it but my parents took a photo of me, and my innocent face together with Harold and JM. I graduated at the top of my class.

But it was not just my own doing that made me finish my kindergarten. The reason why I learn fast and I love to read, was because I enjoyed kindergarten. 

I was taught by Manang Ruth Escobar to those who formally know her. To us, she is Manang Ging-Ging. She taught me phonics, the alphabet, and kindergarten Math. I have no vivid memory of my classes with her but I distinctly remember sitting at the back of the parsonage of the church in Ayangan during the time when we were about to graduate. I was wearing my toga, and I was praised for having a tucked-in shirt. I was always the formal kid when I was a child.

There were also moments when Manang Ging-Ging and I would walk, with her umbrella, from the barangay in Ayangan, treading an uphill slope towards Camp Nikos where Ma (when she was still alive) and Pa worked. Papa was tasked as a caretaker of the grounds of Camp Nikos by Sir Mike Selorio. It was my playground, with cashew, Gemilina, lomboy, and so many more trees lining up beside the red-orange path that leads to our house—the caretaker’s house where a gigantic, at my age, generator is housed beside it. 

As much as I want to share the narrative of my memories with Manang Ging-Ging, I only have a few in a hundred days, or even a thousand days, that she lived with us as a family, while working as a kindergarten teacher and as a church worker in Ayangan and Camp Nikos. 

During JM’s thanksgiving fellowship at Cagay, after JM passed the Physician Licensure Exam, she was able to relate that when we were kids, because of deep poverty, my parents would cook munggo beans and then feed the concoction to us, which, according to her, was probably the reason why we grew up, ehem, smart. 

Lola Narda, Mama, and Manang Ging-Ging

Although, these memories are supplied by Manang Ging-Ging, I have memories of my own. Some of the ones that are very vivid are not that happy.

I remember the layout of the caretaker’s house in Camp Nikos. It was a three-bedroom affair, with sala, dining area, and because my father loves to improvise in building houses and structures, he, with the help of church members, constructed an extension of the kitchen, which was the dirty kitchen. I loved spending time in the kitchen and watch Mama cook. I would even climb up on a chair and check the process of how my Mama would cook our meals. I was interested in the process, the procedure, and the finished product.

It was no surprise then that when Manang Ging-Ging fell from the motorcycle in barangay Ayangan, and hit her head on the concrete, her cries for pain was very vivid when I took a peek at her room, the furthest from the dirty kitchen, and the first room from the main door. I remember she kept crying because she was in pain and my Father and Mother would console her. I wondered why.

I think that memory stayed with me even up to now because I’ve always observed from a distance and would see a Manang Ging-Ging who’s happy, full of wisdom, and filled with laughter. So, when it was my first time to watch her cry in pain, it made me realize as a child the shades of emotions a person would feel in various circumstances and events in their lives.

There were moments when I would see Manang Ging-Ging and Mama wipe tears from their eyes while watching the classic Maalala Mo Kaya (when my parents finally decided to get a television that’s powered by a gigantic rechargeable battery). But the tears she shed when she fell from the motorcycle, and her cries for pain, lingered in my memory a little bit longer and even up to now, because I realize now that in one of her most vulnerable and painful moments in her life, I couldn’t help but be part of it.

Because, in totality, Manang Ging-Ging, is a big part of our lives, specifically my life for that matter.

When she brought with me to their house in Bacolod City, I remember that I was shocked, and was scared, when I experienced the first time that the toilet bowl flushed in one of the houses of her sisters/brothers. I also remember crying beside the steps from their house beside the river back then, because I missed Camp Nikos, and Mama. But as the days progressed, I adjusted to the city life of Bacolod City, and the difference between the farm life of Camp Nikos to the more affluent environment that I was invited to.

Aside from having my first experience of the severance of connection between mother and child when I was brought in Bacolod City, Manang Ging-Ging also would bring me to Iloilo City. I remember this moment when we went to SM Delgado, the first SM in Iloilo City. Thinking that the fast food joint was also Jollibee, we sat on the table across it. It was not Jollibee. It was Wendy’s. When we went home, she relayed the information of what happened to us, to Mama, and ever since then, Wendy’s has a special place in my heart.

I may not have experienced Jollibee’s spaghetti meal or Chicken Joy but the thought that Manang Ging-Ging wanted me to bring to Jollibee warms my heart every time I think about it. She filled my childhood with so much butterflies and sunshine.

These core memories—pain and tears, travel, and food—are all probably the reason why my kindergarten teacher, in one way or another, is also my friend. I would not consider her my heroine, because when she fell from the motorcycle, I realized right then and there, that she’s no hero. She bleeds. She feels pain. She’s just another human being—and she functions to the best of her ability because of grace alone.

I remember one time when I decided to spend one semester at Doane Baptist Seminary, and we met at Tibiao’s Bakery in front of Atrium in Iloilo City. She handed me a certain-peso bill that made me smile. It was not really how much the amount was at that time. It was because, at the time in my life, when I was confused at what I really wanted to do with my life, she reminded me that kindness could light up a room. It doesn’t matter whether you’re beset by crossroads in your life. What matters is that the people who open their hands to you are the ones who know what it is to live through the confusion and the noise, and yet could still offer a hand, an anchor for support.

In 2004, when I already graduated from high school, and I was at a loss on what to do with my life, but eventually decided to study BS Nursing at Central Philippine University, she visited Papa’s sisters at Loblob. It was the 2004 national elections season. Early in the morning, she asked me what my memories were as a kid, and at what age do these memories date back to. I remember telling her that the vivid memories date back to when I was six years old. I had no memory of my life when I was five years old and under. She validated my answer with her experience and studies as an early childhood education teacher. That, indeed, childhood memories become clearer at around five to six years old, upwards.

She also talked that time about her plan to work abroad, but in her Bible reading and personal devotions, she would encounter the word stay. It struck me as a personal experience of how the Lord speaks to His children in different ways—where she probably learned every step of the way since the time when she became my kindergarten teacher up to the moment when we had conversations about my childhood memories as a fresh high school graduate.

When we would see each other during vacations, it always amazed me to hear how Manang Ging-Ging would share animated stories about the update/s to her love life, and the memories that she had with us growing up. She would relate these stories with fondness and affection and just listening to her, I feel loved as a child and as a kindergarten student growing up.

Losing Mama, and the family grieving through everything in the process, made me realize that, in so much more than we know, the memories of Mama and with Mama, and with Manang Ging-Ging are intertwined.

I am glad that in moments when, sometimes (not out of volition but of necessity), I seemingly forget the life that Mama lived, and the struggle to live life to the fullest, even if there’s searing pain, heartbreak, and grief, a life lived in glorious surrender to the obedience of the Master—the one WHO created our memories—makes life worth living.

I’m thankful to have been a student, a cousin, and a relative of Manang Ging-Ging in this lifetime.

I’m beyond grateful that I get to have these memories of you, Manang Ging-Ging, even if it means it allowed me to look deeper into myself and believe that, with kindness and grit, this life is beautiful.

Happy 52nd years of God’s faithfulness, wisdom, and grace!

Thank you for teaching me ABC. Now, I get to write this birthday memoir.

My Kindergarten Teacher, Manang Ging-Ging, and I

Of July, Davao, and Super Ferry

In the dry month of July, the very same day today, twenty-eight years ago, Mama was brought to the hospital. At first, you two would not come out of this world—and take the reins of your lives. Tita Nenen, Josie Galacgac nee Jordan would accompany Mama in the ambulance that sped off going to Iloilo City to a hospital with better facilities. That’s when, as legends say, Alpha was born. In the ambulance. The ambulance came back to Guimaras Provincial Hospital and that was when Omega, was born. In the hospital.

Living with three other kids in the family seemed fun, with Harold, JM, and Mae Lann. When we lived in Camp Nikos, Guimaras, I really had no memory so much of how I was dealing with your birth thereafter. All I can vividly remember was that, it took extra effort for Mama to take care of the two of you. And so, most of the time we were left to fend for ourselves, to play in the green grounds of Camp Nikos, and sometimes, visit relatives in Millan.

In 1995, our parents decided to move to Davao del Norte. You both were less than a year old. You probably had no memory of the travel via Super Ferry from Iloilo Port and how Tita Neneng Pet accompanied the family as we embarked on a new adventure as a family. Mama, and Papa, had a difficult time looking after the six of us. But I remember that Papa would join us—Nonoy, Harold, JM, and Mae Lann—and we would roam the seemingly, at that time, gigantic ship. Tita Neneng Pet and Mama would care for the two of you as we sailed for two (or was it three?) days towards our new destination.

_{My God Is So Big}

When we arrived in Davao City, it was early in the morning. Papa hired a porter to help him with the baggage that we’ve brought from Camp Nikos, Guimaras. But, the goodbye started in the house of Lola Deding Gantala Jordan. I distinctly remember Lola Narda and Lola Apa were one of those who sent us off, and when I looked down from the passenger level of the ship as Super Ferry’s massive horn toots as a signal that it’s sailing away, I could see Lola Narda wipe a tear from her eyes. Or was it my imagination?

I could not remember in detail what kind of transportation we took from Davao City to Davao del Norte. To be fair, Mama probably never had a hard time dealing with the two of you, as young and innocent as you two were during that time. You were probably thrilled that we were traveling as a family. I only remember that we were very tired.

When we arrived at Feeder Road 3, Sto. Tomas Davao del Norte, we stood at the the red gate of the compound which separates the neighboring house of Abigail’s and her siblings. In the compound stood the church and the old two-story school building. We were brought to the place where we would reside for the next year. It was a one-bedroom with a kitchen, a front door and a back entrance, with stairs that lead to the second floor of the building, and the room where Tita Neneng Pet would occupy. Ma and Pa would sleep inside the room, together with the girls, while the rest of us, would sleep in the sala.

It was forgivable. It was quaint. But we were together.

There also came a time, when our parents hired yayas for the two of you. One of those, I remember, was a recommended friend, who’s religion is a 7^th-Day Adventist, and who almost influenced me to not eat pork and blood, and to go to church only on Saturdays. She was not the best yaya out there, but she cared. She did not last.

One of those who lasted was the daughter of the member of the church, who’s already in the United States. Her name is Nang Baday, and I was close to her family. She loved the both of you like her own siblings. I remember their house is located going to Marsman, an estate plantation of bananas and sometimes we would drop by at Nang Baday’s house and we would feel that we would always be welcome.

If I’m not mistaken, it was 1996 when Lola Tata Demit died. Lolo Tata was one of those who put value on education. Whenever we would visit Tigbi, at Lola Deding and Lolo Robing’s house, I felt like I was in the presence of someone great—like my childhood hero. Lolo Tata always said that education is important because no one could steal it away from us.

As Mama was extremely close to Lolo Tata and Lola Bandi, Pa and Ma, together with the other siblings went home to Guimaras when the family received a telegram that Lolo Demit passed away. As the eldest child in the family, I was tasked to take care of the two of you for a week, together with Nang Baday, because we could not all go home together as a family, and we couldn’t afford the fare going back and forth.

Ma’am Carol, my 2^nd grade adviser, even announced to the whole class that I would be taking care of my younger twin siblings. I didn’t care that she had to make known to my other classmates the reason as to why I would be absent in class for the whole week. I thought of that one week as play—free from the rigors of the school.

It came to a point where the two of you would get sick often. It was probably because Davao del Norte is a different environment altogether than Guimaras. So, when Tita Neneng Pet decided to go home to Guimaras and get married, Ma and Pa brought the two of you. Omega lived with Lola Narda, and Alpha lived with Lola Deding. You were separated but you would see each other during church, and during family functions.

Back in Davao del Norte, we would receive letters from Tita Bucay how Alpha has learned to turn on the electric fan, how she learned how to sing, and all the progress that she made, and how during one time, Omega had to cry outside the church building during the wedding of Tita Nenen because she was not included as one of the flower girls. I could not imagine how unfair that would be, and how privileged the other was. There were also updates from the letters how Tita Libeth would visit Lola Narda’s house in Talangban and would demand to take Omega and Alpha with her.

Reading these letters from a distance seemed like it was happening in a totally different dimension, in a totally different universe, and yet I could not feel anything. I could not imagine how Mama and Papa felt that time—reading those letters from Tita Bucay—and realizing that they missed out on the growth and your firsts. But, I felt like it was also difficult for them to hear about the updates of their two youngest daughters during that time and they could not do anything about it because Mama teaches High School Science and Math and Papa, a Senior Pastor of the church at Feeder Road 3. We had to get by.

I felt like, the separation, and the seeming abandonment, had to happen in order for our family to survive. And although during field trips in the Crocodile Farm in Davao City, and the time when we went to Samal Island, the two of you were not in the pictures, when we were asked by Mama’s students and other acquaintances during church fellowships how many of us were in the family, we would always answer 6—the youngest are twins and they’re back in Guimaras.

When we finally went home to Guimaras in the summer of 1998, and we were reunited, and we would spend our summers in Loblob together with Lolo Narding and Lola Auring, it was one of those times when I felt like our parents were the happiest. Despite the fact that after a few months, Lola Auring died from leukemia, and years after, when I was in third-year high school, Lolo Narding departed this world. Coming home was what brought us back together again, albeit in a non-traditional way.

The months with Pastor Toto Carbon, when he went with us from Davao del Norte to study at Doane Baptist Seminary, and helped in the construction of our old house in Mama’s lot during the summer of 1998, made these memories as fresh as though they happened just yesterday.

How Mama taught kindergarten within the church at Millan, the two of you became her Nursery and Kindergarten 2 students, together with Mae Lann. It was the same Mother who homeschooled Keith, and who made use of my drawing skills by having me drew objects that start with the first letter in the alphabet.

As someone who lived with Lola Narda, and spent the last two years of my high school with the family in Talangban, I could understand your abandonment issues, if there were any.

But it was never really abandonment issues that made you, Omega, became full-time caregiver for Mama when she was undergoing chemotherapy. It was love from a daughter. It never really was about duty when you sing, Alpha, at Antique Medical Center, while Mama was sitting at her chair oblivious to the praise and worship song that you belt—glorifying our Creator amidst pain and suffering. It was because, despite the heartbreak and the inevitable end, you knew that you are going to be reunited with Mama someday, even if death is, at that time, her destiny.

There are issues that we don’t talk about in the family. There are disappointments and struggles that we live through alone, even if you have been with each other since birth.

And although these familial, relational, and intergenerational traumas were not talked about as a family, I’m quite proud that in one way or another, you rose up from the choices that our parents made for us as a family and you became the unique versions of yourselves—you became readers and lived, and continue to live a thousand lives; you came to know how to think independently; and you two are about to finally wear your Sablay—a flimsy reminder of the struggles and the hurdles that you had to endure but an enduring testament to the grace of THE Father, who was with you both when you were born, in the most interesting of circumstances.

Happy 28^th Birthday, Alpha and Omega! We cheer in the sidelines. Every step matters.

^{Ma, Alpha, and Omega}

“Then He said to me, “It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give to the one who thirsts from the spring of the water of life without cost. He who overcomes will inherit these things, and I will be his God and he will be My son.”

Revelation 21:6-7

Blessings and Light,

The Prodigal Kid