Ching's after Sunday worship service

Nanay and I headed to a Chinese restaurant to treat Pastor Henry for lunch after the church service. It was my mother’s idea. Without asking me first, she had already invited him over. I told her I forgot my card and didn’t have any cash with me. She told me, “I don’t have money, either.” I could drop by the house to retrieve my money, or stop by an ATM to withdraw cash for lunch—but those felt like a lot of work. And perhaps, Pastor Henry—the 77-year old man who many years ago founded the small local church I and my brothers grew up in, whose life was used by God to minister to my parents the story of grace and forgiveness and faith—was already probably hungry. 

I figured I could use Gcash to pay the restaurant. I had my phone with me. Driving along the city,  we ended up in a Chinese restaurant along Abad Santos Street.  

Earlier in church, after the benediction and closing prayer, Pastor Henry spoke briefly about the work he was doing in Kulaman, Sultan Kudarat. “The harvest is plenty, but the workers are few,” he said. He rallied support for the training of pastors and teachers among the Manobo communities. He was not weakened by age or disease. He looked and sounded just as strong as when we were growing up. I felt something move in my heart while listening to him. The gospel is expanding, in small, lowly communities away from the limelight. And there are people like him who toil, day and night, to reach communities, one person at a time.

As we waited for our food, Pastor Henry asked us about Manong and Sean, and would they be coming home soon? He remembered us well, having seen us grow up in Sunday school and recite memory verses and perform in Vacation Bible School during school breaks. He talked about his grandchildren, Hans and Haley, bright children who loved playing with Paul whenever they dropped by the house to visit.

In the same restaurant, I spotted my high school teacher’s family a few tables away from us. I realized it was Sir Gershon’s burial that morning. His wife and daughter, whom I’d met just a few days ago at St. Peter’s along National Highway, were laughing and eating with what seemed like four or five other people, as if they had not just buried their dead. But such is real life, isn't it? An existence marked by happiness and grief, a certain "day-to-dayness" where one is "stuck between living and being alive," to quote Spencer K.M. Brown in his brilliant novel, Hold Fast.

I walked towards their table. I told the other people on the table that I was one of Sir Gershon’s students—he was my research adviser. We competed in Manila in an investigatory project contest, a big deal in those days. I asked Duchess, Sir Gershon’s daughter, what she’d like to take up, if she was eyeing a specialty. She said, “Pulmo.”

“Ah, you could go to critical care.”

“Yes!” She said, as if I’d just read her mind. Her father would be so proud.

In another table was my patient, an petite and gracious lady who worked overseas as an engineer. She dropped by the clinic a few weeks ago to give me pasalubong. I greeted her husband and daughter—familiar faces I’d often meet during consults. They had just been to church. Her daughter was studying medicine in Manila. They were surprised to see me. After hugs and pleasantries I said I’d better keep going.

I’m writing this on our front porch on a quiet Sunday afternoon, after a particularly refreshing nap, one of life’s underrated pleasures. I’m sure people of my generation would agree. I'm calling to mind  Rosaria Butterfield’s article, “Your Lord’s Day Might Be Someone Else’s Way of Escape.”

How do we “remember” this, what we now call the “Lord’s Day”? The best way to remember anything is to do it collectively. God is calling me to remember the Lord’s Day not just for myself, for my own personal holiness, but also to live in such a way that I enable others to do so as well. I am called to create a place at the table for others, to be available to the hurting and the lost.

It is wise to take things slowly, to rest, and to unwind on Sundays, but not only for me but so I could serve others. If not for my mother, who thought it best to extend hospitality to a beloved pastor and teacher and friend, I would have rushed to the hospital after church to see my patients. I would have missed the chance to reconnect with people in their time of joys and sorrows. I would have missed Ching's sweet-and-sour lapu-lapu fillet. 

I must remind myself to bring cash all the time.  

*** 

I took the photo above from a vineyard in Drakenstein, Western Cape, a few minutes away from Franschhoek, South Africa. I had a great time there.

Eternal perspectives

Twice last week I got asked how I cope with my life, the grief and pain and sorrow I encounter regularly. People who know me seem to consider my schedule exhausting, which is partly true, because life has its seasons. I reassure them, and myself, that most days I get good sleep and rest, and it’s not as bad as they make it out to be.

My aunt asked me, as I was about to fall asleep on a Saturday afternoon in Polomolok, after eating lunch she had lavishly prepared, if I ever cry. She does not recall seeing me cry. I said, “I schedule special moments for them.” She laughed. I added, “Why? Can’t you?”—a rhetorical question, really, because I could make Tita Beb cry simply by asking her if she misses her older brother (my father), her sisters (my aunts), and her parents (my Lolo and Lola). Tita Beb is the only surviving sister in my father’s side of the family.

On the evening of that same Saturday, my classmates Willie and Angeli (with husband Mau) asked about I handle the sorrow that inevitably comes with a career in oncology. Caring for patients with cancer does involve mental, spiritual, and physical strains but someone has to do it. It is a calling. One does not do it for fame or fortune. I argue that opening a business or a career in finance is an easier path to take. I told them, “It’s all about perspectives.” I wish I had elaborated on this, while we ate the most delicious burger in Tupi at 8 pm, when the restaurant kitchen was getting its final orders for the night. What I wanted to tell them, what I really meant, was the framework of Christian history: “Jesus will return; He will complete God’s eternal plan of salvation, and He will usher in God’s perfected kingdom. He will make all things new and perfect,” to borrow Alistair Begg’s words. 

I believe in the kingdom that Jesus brings in. The perfected kingdom. It’s a kingdom where suffering and pain no longer exists and where all the saints sing and rejoice in their salvation, and in the One who loved them from before the beginning of time until eternity, a love that will never pass away.   

New gym

In the new gym I enrolled in, the coach, a petite lady in her late twenties or early thirties, wearing close-fitting gym clothes, asked me what I wanted. Her statement felt like a scripted goal-setting question she often asked clients who walked in to enroll. I said, “Strength training. I want to build muscles for health.” I did not, at that point, discuss with her the importance of maintaining sufficient muscle mass, and the association between sarcopenia and longevity and quality of life. I also didn’t tell her I didn’t want to be inconsistent. I couldn’t tell my patients to exercise when I myself didn’t. I would reserve my confessions for later. It was 7 am, the start of the week, and the people were still having breakfast at home, getting ready for work.

She looked at me closely and said, amid the blaring 90’s upbeat music, “Oh, toning.”

“Yes, yes, that.”

“And maybe . . .  this?” She pointed at my soft flabs, my father's genetic legacy, and she made a circular motion in the air. “Charis.”

She smiled and put me to work.

I liked her instantly.

Alunan Avenue during T'nalak 2026

My aunts and uncles and my cousin Don from Banga joined me to see the bahay kubo displays. Cars and tricycles inched their way through Judge Alba Street; the traffic flow looked like Metro Manila side roads on good days. We walked from the house to Alunan Avenue, which had been closed to motor vehicles for a week. Auntie Net was excited: at least she could reach her target her daily step count. 

After going through routine security check, where military personnel checked bags for weapons, we joined the growing throng of people. The street was alive and joyful. 

T'nalak Festival wasn't a big deal then. It was a simple affair when I was in high school: some street dancing, then a beauty pageant (where two of my classmates won, if I'm not mistaken), and store displays. It is certainly quite the big deal now—a proper festival where people work their schedules around the carefully curated events. Some people living abroad go home to South Cotabato to join the celebrations. 

Friends from high school, or from work, or, like me, family members, meet up, finding time to listen, eat, and observe. Everyone accepts the fact of life slowing down during one week in July. 

 

My favorite is the bahay kubo display in front of the Provincial Capitol. At night the Philippine traditional houses, one for each town, become jewels of light and artistry. 

Banga. Of course, Aunties Net and Bebet had to get their pictures! 

Tantangan. 

Surallah. This won the competition. 

Tupi, which won second prize. My favorite actually. 

The ternate-inspired (Clitoria ternatea) lampshades was beautiful. What an interesting scientific name, by the way!

Norala.

Koronadal.

Tboli.

Sto. Niño.

Polomolok.

Lake Sebu.

The crowd and their phones!

Balloons! 

Ate selling the traditional T'nalak cloth. 

Ate just bought something to take home. 

Kuya and the kids. 

Sawsawan. 

Cotton candy. The stuff of my childhood!

Fresh sour mangga. 

Chicken, rolling in the heat. 

Then we went home!

About my Olivetti Lettera 32

My new typewriter is an Olivetti Lettera 32. It arrived by mail last week.

The brilliant Gerald dela Cruz restored the machine. He even added an extra—an old typewriter case that he painted over.

This Olivetti model sparked my interest years ago. I had read that the writer Cormac McCarthy had used one for most of his novels and screenplays. I looked up the model online. I liked how it looked—a certain quiet elegance and a pragmatic design seemed to emanate from it. Maybe I was being melodramatic.

Holding the machine and typing away random thoughts on old paper lying around the house, I realized I had not been exaggerating at all. This Olivetti is a truly gorgeous machine.

Why do I choose to collect typewriters anyway? I have several computers at home. I have several printers as well. But unlike these machines, they all run on electricity. Word processors are fine things, but they don't quite capture the beauty of typed letters, the carriage moving forward, the intelligent yet rhythmic sound of the keys soothing the mind as it figures out what thoughts to verbalize. The process is hypnotic.

I saw a YouTube clip of Woody Allen showing off his old typewriter (an Olympia Portable).The cover had been lost, but the machine seemed built to last forever. He also demonstrated the analog way of copying and pasting. He would literally cut portions of the manuscript and paste them wherever he wanted, say, for a paragraph to appear. He used a stapler, a pair of scissors, and glue. It is still fascinating to watch.

I don't really know where I'm going with this. But that's the thing with typewriters. Deleting a word or a line is inconvenient. I saw a YouTube tutorial that discouraged the use of correction fluid—or "Touch and Go," in my generation—because it could destroy the machine's type slugs. I suppose the alternative is to avoid errors altogether or simply accept that they can appear anywhere in the document.

The Olivetti Lettera 32 is a precious addition to my typewriter collection, which already consists of a Smith-Corona, an Underwood, an Erika Weinrich, and a Hermes Baby. I put them on rotation. I use them as often as I can.

I write stories and essays and lists with them. They bring me so much joy. To see them and to work with them—I'm amazed at human ingenuity.

But on a more specific note about the Olivetti:

First, I like its size. It is portable. The old journalists and writers used to carry this around. One of these days, I might just bring it to a café.

Second, I like its functionality. The keys are beautiful. The carriage moves smoothly. The bell is soft but still satisfying to hear.

Third, I like how it looks. The color is a shade of green—closer to olive, I suppose. I should look that up. It's true: it is indeed elegant to look at. But it also gives off a very serious vibe.