This past Sunday’s worship really grabbed me to a point of lingering.  And I loved every moment of it.

From the song “O The Deep Deep Love of Jesus” are the words: “O the deep, deep love of Jesus – vast, unmeasured, boundless, free!”

From Psalm 103:11-12: “For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love for those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.”

From the song “My Song Is Love Unknown” are the words: “Oh, who am I that for my sake my Lord should take frail flesh and die?” 

From Romans 5:8 – “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

Again from the song “My Song Is Love Unknown” are the words: “This is my friend in whose sweet praise, I, all my days would gladly spend.”

From John 15:15 – “I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you.”

From the song, ‘Tis So Sweet To Trust In Jesus” are the words: ’Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus and to take Him at His Word;  Just to rest upon His promise and to know, “Thus saith the Lord!”

From Matthew 14:27 – “But Jesus immediately said to them: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.”

From the song, “Made Me Glad” are the words: “You have made me glad and I’ll say of the Lord: You are my shield, my strength, my portion, deliverer, my shelter, strong tower, my very present help in time of need.” 

From Psalm 121: 1-2: “I lift up my eyes to the mountains – where does my help come from?  My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.”

Thankful for words that affirm this crazy-love that God, the Maker of heaven and earth, has for me, His child, whom he also calls His friend.  It brings joy to my heart that makes trusting in HIM all the more sweet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Music was an ever present part of my life growing up.  There was one time when a bunch of relatives, whom I have not met until their visit to our town from the city, gathered round at my Grandma’s house for a singing.  That day, we’d gone hiking to a smaller village literally sitting on top of a mountain called Maligcong.  This place boasts of mountain layers of rice fields that very much rivals the more famously known Banaue Rice Terraces in the Philippines.  To get to the village, we had to get past three mountains.  The reward, for me, is really in the process of getting there, not so much seeing the village itself, for in the hiking is where the grandeur of God’s creation, contrasting my smallness, affirmed the crazy-love of a God far more powerful than I can ever imagine yet still cares for the little details in my life.  Anyway…there we were, immersed in the beauty of nature, taking in the expanse before our eyes, feeling close enough to touch the sky yet still far away.  The young rice seedlings, only about a foot tall sticking out from the mud field, softly danced with the breeze.  And then it was time to go home.

After getting all bathed and fed, our company gathered ’round Grandma Herminia’s house and an uncle picked up the guitar.  Out came some Peter, Paul, and Mary classics – “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “If I Had a Hammer” and “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”  On and on they sang.  I was about nine or ten years old at the time and very much enjoying the sounds.  Then I heard a tune that stuck with me since that first time I heard it:

“…it grieves my heart so,
Won’t you let me go with you?
No, my love, no.”

Oh the voice of my Auntie Rhonda singing that song…I heard the pain in her voice, the sadness.  And the harmony from the other guys in the circle, especially at the oh-ooohing at the end – ah!  That just brought me goosebumps!  I thought the tune and the way it was sang was just beautiful and haunting at the same time.  Perhaps for this very reason, those exact lyrics stayed with me for so long.  I looked up the song on the internet (what can we do without it now?) and eventually found it:

Cruel War
Peter, Paul, & Mary

 

The Cruel War is raging, Johnny has to fight
I want to be with him from morning to night.
I want to be with him, it grieves my heart so,
Won’t you let me go with you?
No, my love, no.

 

Tomorrow is Sunday, Monday is the day
That your Captain will call you and you must obey.
Your captain will call you it grieves my heart so,
Won’t you let me go with you?
No, my love, no.

 

I’ll tie back my hair, men’s clothing I’ll put on,
I’ll pass as your comrade, as we march along.
I’ll pass as your comrade, no one will ever know.
Won’t you let me go with you?
No, my love, no.

 

Oh Johnny, oh Johnny, I fear you are unkind
I love you far better than all of mankind.
I love you far better than words can e’re express
Won’t you let me go with you?
Yes, my love, yes.

 

Yes, My Love, Yes.

The singing went well into the night – all aunts, uncles, and cousins just simply enjoying the music and each other’s company.  There were many more occasions such as this in my growing years, especially when a relative from the city or abroad comes to visit.  Permanent imprints in my memory that I so cherish.

Music is the one thing that most of my family, immediate and distant, all appreciate.  Doesn’t matter if the person plucking away on the guitar or drunk or not…eventually someone else took over.  Doesn’t matter if the song is good ol’ swingy Sinatra, folksy Peter Paul & Mary or Jim Croce, rockin’ Beatles, or aged hymns of the faith…the singing kept going.

Thankful for the music…what other folks refer to as the soundtrack of our lives.  I love this line from the movie, August Rush:

“You know what music is? God’s little reminder that there’s something else besides us in this universe, a harmonic connection between all living beings, every where, even the stars.”

Our pastor mentioned twice on separate occasions that he learned somewhere that stars do have natural vibrations, much like a sound wave from a musical instrument.  Isn’t that just mind-blowing?  But really, hear this from Psalm 19, “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.”  How cool is that?

Ah!  Life would be colorless without music.

“The music is all around us; all you have to do is listen.” – August Rush

 

Yesterday, our family had dinner at our house with one of my quick becoming soul sisters.  After dinner, Hubby put our little guy down to sleep.  Meanwhile, us girls gabbed about life.  And laughed.  Oh, the joy of just being and laughing.  It’s very refreshing to the soul.  Thankful for these moments of friendship building.  It’s a beautiful thing.

 

This is part two of two, a grateful note to my Dad’s siblings.  Yesterday I talked about the first two girls in the family.  Today will highlight my Dad’s three other siblings.

Auntie Borah.  Her official name is Deborah but she’s known by her peers as Borah.  She’s also called Debbie by some.  The only single sibling in the family.  But fully blessed with many, and I mean many nieces and nephews.  She is also one of the constants in my life…there from my early years through high school and beyond.  She’s the easygoing laid-back kinda gal who certainly knows how to have a good time.  A great cook and entrepreneur when she puts her mind and heart to it.  She taught me the ins and outs of starting a street food business.  I have fond memories of my successes from those endeavors in my younger elementary years, thanks to her.  She has a stout heart where family dearest to her heart are concerned.  When she loves, she gives her all.

Auntie Borah, grateful to you for being a big sister to me.  You weren’t all verbal about feelings, but I felt and knew then that you cared and that was enough for me.  I know you still do and I am thankful for you.  I’m hoping it ain’t too late yet for you to come upon a partner in life that can be your number one cheerleader and spurn you on to creative cooking endeavors.

Uncle Eric.  Charm.  Wit.  A few of the words that describe him.  He has a thirst for learning.  I often saw quotes carefully written in beautiful penmanship on a piece of paper protected by a piece of plastic and taped on the walls.  He knew deep words and I remember wanting to learn deep words, too, and use them in school.  Later in my school years, I’ve learned to befriend the dictionary and thesaurus.  He is also the cleaner in the family.  I was not aware how dirty we kept Grandma Herminia’s house until he came back to town after years of living in Batanes with my Aunt Abigail and Uncle Dan and family.  He took charge, making the floors look spotless for the first time in ages.  There was order.  And it felt good.  That inspired me to take on some deep cleaning rituals on weekends.

Uncle Eric, thank you, too, for willingly loaning me some bus fare to visit my Dad in the city back in the day.  I am thankful for your encouragement to me over the years to dream big.

Uncle Bobot.  His name means “the last child.”  But his real name is Albert, named after his Dad whom he saw only during the first six months of his life.  He was pretty young when I was growing up and I didn’t really see much of him.  He was with his peers a lot.  But after getting married young and settling down, he’s brought to the family a wife, an aunt to me who was very kind and soft-spoken, still is.  When they started having kids, I was entrusted with many chances to care for their brood and love on them.  And how grateful I am for the experience of caring for those young children who, now, aren’t so young anymore.

Uncle Bobot, thank you for teaching me how to cook.  I remember when I was about to saute aromatics and you schooled me on starting with onions and garlic first, always, before tomatoes, if using tomatoes.  That’s a very practical skill that, to this day, I use every time I cook.

*These are my Dad’s five siblings in order.  My Dad is second in the family order but the first to have a child and marry; hence, my being sort of considered as the last child in the family.  Thank you all for your love and care and the many practical help you offered and gave me during my growing up years.  We miss you and love you all!*

 

Aunts and Uncles to me are like an extension of my Mom and my Dad.  They have filled in different roles that were parental in nature.  After all, we had lived in one house at one time or another – in my Grandma Herminia’s house.  More than once, I heard one, if not most of them, consider me the youngest sibling in the family.

This is just a first part of two, a grateful note to my Dad’s siblings, with the first two sisters of my Dad highlighted today.  Tomorrow will spotlight my Dad’s three other siblings.

Auntie Abigail.  I think of her as an embodiment of the song, “Take My Life And Let It Be” by Frances Havergal.  A woman of substance.  One with incredibly lasting imprints of a Christ-like life to those she’s known for a lifetime and for a short while.  She fiercely loves her Abba and she’s dedicated her life and her household to His call.  She also fiercely loves her husband.  She told me once, “I know some wives can learn to live without their husbands…they have to, when the husbands have to work outside of the house so much for a long period of time.  But when your Uncle Dan leaves, even for just a week, I can’t stand it.”  I’ll never forget her words.  Now that I am married, I realize even more the value of what she’s told me then.

When I was growing up in my Grandma Herminia’s house, there is a corner part of the house stacked with piles of boxes up to the ceiling.  I never dared touch that thing because I was afraid of getting reprimanded but I was always curious.  Across from it was also a little space with a trunk where my Mom’s college books and recipes, scribbled in notepads, were kept.  On top of the trunk were more boxes with who-knows-what’s-inside of them.

One day in high school, I finally summoned the courage to tackle those boxes.  After all, I was cleaning house so I had valid reason to look through that pile of junk that had been sitting there for years, collecting dust.  I opened the first box and, to my delight, I found a treasure trove of letters neatly tied together with a rubber band, addressed to my Uncle Dan from my Aunt Abigail.  Love letters!  I suppose I should have asked before delving into reading but I didn’t know any better.  Mind you, they were good ol’ fashioned courtship letters, day to day events written to her beloved during their time of physical separation because of work, one year prior to their wedding.  I was struck by the depth of her love for him, expressed in the simplicity of her words.  She must have sent at least one letter a week.  There were three boxes full of love letters, written by hand!

Reading those letters made me feel like I was a part of their courtship and marriage.  And because they eventually moved away from town and went to live in an island way north of us, I did not often see them.  but from afar I have admired their marriage, though imperfect (for whose is?), and secretly desired, in my then young heart, a courtship and marriage just like theirs.

As an aside…I really was, in a way, part of their courtship.  I was two when my Aunt Abigail was back in town during their time apart before their wedding and she wrote several accounts of me learning my alphabet and some nursery rhymes and songs.  She was my teacher, of course.

Auntie Abigail (and Uncle Dan), thank you for imparting with me some life lessons about love and marriage and faith and service.  May God bless your ministry and increase your tribe a hundredfold.  (Hint hint, Gea!!!)

Auntie Carol.  She was there when I was a teeny weeny little thing.  She was there when I was in my elementary days.  She was there when I was a teenager.  And she was there when I was in College.  Literally.

I don’t know why or how but for some reason, I had this idea as a young kid that my Auntie Carol was a bit of a tightwad.  But the truth is that whenever I was around her, she really had a very generous spirit.  She fed me each time I went to her house.  When she learned that I had a project in school, she was quick to offer her help because she knew I didn’t always have money for what was required to complete the project.  She was willing to loan me bus money whenever I needed or wanted to visit my Dad in the city, even for just a quick 24-hour round trip.  (My Dad worked in the city, a 6-hour bus ride away, while I went to high school in our town.)  Later, when I went to college in the city, she was there on some weekends for her masters course and every time I saw her, she’d buy me lunch even at 3:00 in the afternoon and slip me fifty or more pesos in my hand without saying anything or expecting to be paid back.  The extra cash and free meals were very much needed by a cash-strapped college student.

Auntie Carol is an English teacher at the public high school in the town where I grew up.  When I was entering high school, she made a decision to not ever be my English teacher.  She felt awkward about it and so did I.  She managed to not be one of my teachers in all four years of high school but she did have a large influence in me with everything related to English.  I mean, really, when your Aunt is an English teacher, you better make sure you’re pretty good at it!  Yes, I know now that people have different strengths but I really always liked English anyway so all I did was worked hard to make sure my English grades were in good standing.  I think I did okay on that.  As for English speaking…well, she probably didn’t intend to be my coach but she took on that role for me.  Growing up, she corrected my enunciation of words when I read out loud or when I spoke in English through songs and nursery rhymes, etc.  I didn’t think it offensive…I was glad she cared to correct me.  I heard her speak in English and thought her enunciation was just how English speaking people do it.  And I aspired to that level.  I currently live in the land of the English speaking people and I cannot be more grateful for those early years of corrections from her.  Often I hear compliments about my English speaking ability along these lines : “Wow!  Your English is good,”  “You sound like you’ve lived here all your life,” and my favorite one, “You don’t have an accent!”  Truth is, I want to learn how to speak with the Southern accent, an English (British) accent, and an Irish accent.  Apparently and according to my husband, I sound like all three when I am trying to speak British – a very baluktot (mangled) mix of accents!  Oi!

Auntie Carol, thank you for your patience in correcting my English – it has paid off quite well!  Thank you for your generosity that was really beyond just money.  Sharing life with you when I was growing up had its ups and downs but I learned more about persisting in a relationship with you than with other relationships I had growing up.  You didn’t give up on me and I am glad to be friends with you.  Grateful for your stern warnings with boys – I appreciate them now more than before, of course.  I know now you really were just looking after my welfare and I am very thankful for you being there, bold to speak your mind.

 

Grace.  “But God shows His love for us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” – Romans 5:8

Grace.  “It’s a name for a girl.  It’s also a thought that changed the world.
And when she walks on the street You can hear the strings.  Grace finds goodness in everything.” –  ‘Grace,’ U2

Grace.  She brought us many many meals after our little guy was born.  She sensed the prospect of a wall being put up.  But she persisted.  She pursued.  She was quick to say, “Don’t be a stranger!”  She has a very generous heart and an empathetic spirit about her.  There’s probably not a family in town under new and often difficult circumstances as birth, death, or sickness who haven’t been a recipient of her frequent meal delivery.  She cares.  A lot.  She loves.  A lot too.  She listens.  She grows a beautiful flower garden in the Summer and shares its bounty to anyone she sees is in need of perking up…or just because.  She sees.  She really sees you and still loves you for who you are.  She’s one of my heroes.  And I am thankful to call her my friend.  Manang Grace.  You are beautiful inside and out, a woman Christ-becoming.  Grateful for you.

Six minutes before the day is gone.  Well…everyone in our house is accounted for at the close of the day and I am thankful to our good Lord for that.  Good night, world!

“I’m so excited to go to class!” tweeted my just-awoken-but-already-peppy three-year-old at 6:20 this morning.  He was referring to his Sunday school class.  As we were driving to the church, he beamed about going to class today and said, “I’m so excited,” and on and on he goes about his teachers and the machines and everything else on his three-year-old planet.

What makes a little boy so excited to go to class at 6:20 in the morning?  Well…doesn’t take a genius to figure that he must be having tons of fun while there.  This now, from a year ago when just the idea of going to church makes him cry, even to a point of saying,  “I don’t want to go to church!”

But fun he must be having!  And who facilitates the fun?  His teachers!  He loves them so much he’ll even pretend on most days to be a teacher himself and do things teachers do, like telling us a story that starts with, “Okay, here goes…” or reading us a book.

I am ever so thankful for you, Sunday school teachers.  You have your own set of circumstances, some perhaps brought with you on Sunday mornings, yet you give of your time to care and love on our little kiddos.  Thank you for your tireless, selfless acts of love.  Thank you for caring for them much that you put up with stinky diapers, sticky fingers, random and/or intense crying, snot, and some craziness that little ones are, for some reason, capable of. Thank you for investing in the lives of our little kiddos.  Already, my little guy is so enthralled with the whole teacher idea and loves being one.  That tells me that he’s loved on a lot in his classes.

Thank you! Thank you!  Thank you!

Slightly awake but still sleepy, I felt my little boy’s lips touch mine and then heard the words, “Good morning, Mommy!”

Eyes still closed, I replied, “Good morning, sweetie.”

“You’re my sweet Mommy,” came the response, quite unexpected for me but certainly clear.  Then I was fully awake!  My heart swell…as always happens when my sweet little boy declares unabashedly and eloquently his feelings through words.

“Awwww…Honey, you’re my sweet boy, too.”  I grabbed him and gave him the tightest hug I can give a weeny little boy.

“I love you, Mommy!”  My heart’s bursting!

“I love you, too, Baby!”

I am so thankful for this morning’s early morning wake-up.  I’m finding out that one of the amazing things about being a parent is witnessing our son’s language development, from those early days of grunts and weird noises to those first mumbling sounds to what is now a most clear conversational kind of talking.  It’s amazing, really, that this all has happened in the first three years of his life.  And what’s even more amazing and beautiful is his way of expressing what I call his love feelings – without any expectation of returns, though not returning the love feelings would be kind of ba-hum-bag.  He also almost always says “I love you, Mommy” at the most unexpected times but always the right time to me.  Like this morning, for instance.

In the early morning hours, the little guy, for some reason, started crying on and off.  I thought he may be having a bad dream because his cries were just a few seconds long with a few minutes of break.  After about 20 minutes of this back and forth crying and settling down on his own, he cried again, and this time, he sat up and starting just bawling.  After about 10 minutes of trying to calm him down, he finally settled.  Realizing that he may be too hot under the blanket, I took off his footed pajama.  Then he slept and snored until the sun broke through.  About an hour prior to the first cry, he’d asked for lotion to slather around and behind his knee where his eczema is acting up again.  Half an hour later, he asked for more lotion, this time on his arms.  Then the crying.  I did not have a good sleep, if any, after midnight.

So, you see, his kisses and sweet words this morning really were just the thing much needed by this zombie sleep-deprived Momma.  That’s the other thing about parenthood I am discovering – the sleeplessness.  But, no matter.  I still won’t trade anything for this – the tenderness of a sweet little boy who knows quite well how he feels and thinks about his Mommy to express it in words.

Grateful for beautiful moments such as this.

Today, I am grateful for tupig.  

What exactly is tupig (pronounced ‘too-pig’)?  It’s a taste of home.  A real treat.  A Filipino delicacy made from sweetened ground sticky rice and coconut shreds, rolled in a preheated banana leaf and grilled over hot coals.  It’s been at least six years since I tasted them last.  I had two of them this morning with coffee.  And it was bliss!

Special thanks to a friend’s brother who bought it all the way from the Philippines to Washington, D.C. to Knoxville.  Some world-trotting tupig, they are.  Ha!

And today, I am also grateful for friends.  What can we do without them?  Rare are those that make time to be together, be intentional about living and sharing life together.  Thankful for these special people God has placed in my life.