Bea, Cara, Niccolo and I are in the car driving to Tali where we will spend New Year’s Eve with the Lago family. Their daughter, Mandy is Cara’s best friend from St. Scholastica’s College, and they have invited us to their lovely beach home.
We’ve traditionally spent New Year’s Eve with family at home. After attending mass, we would gather the family and our househelp together in the dining room for Noche Buena, with the usual fare of chicken relleno, homemade ham, and queso de bola. Over dinner, we would play High-Low, where each one of us would share our high and low experiences for the year. We would then thank God for our many blessings, especially the gift of family and friends. After dinner, we would head for the balcony to watch the fireworks around us. At the stroke of midnight, we would toast to the New Year with champagne, hurriedly eat 12 grapes for good luck in the coming year, and hug and kiss each other. And then the children would go off to see their friends.
Two years ago, we did the usual New Yea’s Eve celebration, but it was so sad because Mike was no longer with us. We resolved then to have a different experience each year. Last year, we went to Palms Country Club, and this time we will be spending it at Tali.
Looking back at work, TeamAsia has had its best year in more than two decades under the able leadership of Bea as managing director, with the help of our committed and strong ManComm, and our growing family of enthusiastic, innovative, and young TeamAsians. We’ve organized several conferences like Arangkada, the 7th International IT-BPM Summit, the Zomato Restaurant Summit, the IMMAP Conference, and the Pacific Insurance Conference, as well as, supported various APEC events and the inaugural Madrid Fusion Manila. We’ve brought the delegate experience to a higher level with our event mobile apps, audience response system and B2B matching, and our digital and social media marketing. We’ve continued to work with stellar clients like Capital One, Globe, Pepsi, Chevron and Google. And we are so very thankful for staunch partners like Mart Miranda, Vince Feliciano, and Manolet Tobias who have been the wind behind our wings. It’s also been a year of strengthening operations and cleaning house.
On the family front, our Dada is just as beautiful and charming as ever, a rock for all of us, but more frail than usual. She is now 81 years old, and still threatens to travel to the US to visit her children and grandchildren and to Madrid to visit her sisters, already hatching travel plans.
My first born Bea has blossomed into a strong leader, inspiring everyone to do their best, working with each director to ensure everything is on track, gaining the confidence of clients, and bringing sunshine and sparkles to the office each day. She has attended the wedding of two of her best friends, one in Texas and the other in Hawaii, and will be going to another one in India next week. One day, a very lucky man will be able to win her heart, and I pray that he will take care of her and love her with all his heart.
Cara has left her beloved Boracay to come to Manila and work on slow food research for Chele Gonzalez of ArroZeria and Gallery Vask fame. This gives her the freedom to pursue her entrepreneurial dream. A week ago, she launched her online swimsuit line Diwata Swimwear, creating cheeky bikinis for young women who, like her, love to explore islands and oceans (www.diwataswimwear.com). I remember scouring the streets of Trastevere in Rome two Decembers ago with Cara looking for a shop that sold Lycra fabric for her bikini line, and trying to communicate in Spanish to the Italian shopkeeper what she needed. Watching her doodle on her drawing book, contact possible suppliers, search for a suitable seamstress, and travel to different islands for inspiration with Ramon to take photos for her website, has revealed a whole new dimension of my once shy little girl.
Now a strapping young man and all of 20 years old, Niccolo is working through his double degree of Applied Economics, major in Financial Economics, and Marketing Management at De La Salle University. He is buffed from regular visits to the gym, and still goes biking sometimes, but spends most of his time with Sam, his girlfriend, who has gotten him interested in baking cookies and exploring the art world. While he’s grown to be a young man, Niccolo continues to be sweet and caring.
As for me, I started the first day of 2015 in Hong Kong with my then boyfriend Rollie Gosiengfiao. We talked about a future together, but it was not meant to be for by the third week of January, he was gone, taken suddenly by a massive heart attack. This came on the heels of a crisis in my professional life. Grief-stricken, I was once again thrown into deep depression, and escaped to Madrid and Rome to be with kin and lick my wounds. Coming back, I arrived too late to see my dear aunt Julia alive. I focused on work and my various commitments to associations. I’ve visited Bangladesh three times for a World Bank related project, and learned how life is in that part of the world. Visiting other places in the world and experiencing their cultures have made me appreciate life even more, and whetted my appetite for adventure.
This December, I’ve closed the chapter on my three-year stint at the Tourism Promotions Board (TPB) as director representing the Meeting, Incentives Travel, Conventions, Exhibitions & Events Services & Facilities Sector. I’ve also graduated from being president to chairman of the Philippine Association of Convention/Exhibition Organizers and Suppliers (PACEOS), and continue to be chairman of Hopkins International Partners, and trustee and board secretary of the League of Corporate Foundations (LCF). I’m very proud of the organizations I am part of as I believe these have a positive impact in the industries they represent.
I’m also very happy with our yearend CSR project, My Dream in a Shoebox Year 7, where we encourage volunteers to donate a used shoebox covered in festive Christmas wrapper and filled with school supplies. Jointly organized by TeamAsia and the Information Technology and Business Process Association of the Philippines (IBPAP), the annual project has helped thousands of children continue with their education. From 200 boxes collected in the first year, we’ve breached 35,000 so far this year, and with the help of volunteers from various BPM companies and the Armed Forces of the Philippines, have organized several outreach activities, distributing the shoeboxes where they are most needed. I’ve also done storytelling about the beauty of love, friendship and giving to 300 children at the Payatas Orione Foundation, to 1,000 children at the San Pedro Calungsod Quasi Parish, to 60 children at SOS Village, and to 500 children at the Ascension of Our Lord Parish. And through all of these, I realize that we actually gain more than the children, as we leave with hearts full of joy that we have made them smile.
Challenging times have a knack of revealing who your real friends are, the ones who stay with you through thick and thin. I am happy and grateful to learn who they are. I’ve also made new friends, like my Gee Whiz Girls and my L2C group, and my Bible Study Fellowship group that has kept me grounded in the Lord. And wonder of wonders, I’ve met a farmer who has turned out to be a great friend, bringing light and laughter into my life again. It’s been a challenging year, but as it turns out 2015 has been good overall, and I look forward to an awesome 2016.
As we close the year and greet 2016, I wish you all a long, happy, healthy, prosperous and wonderfully meaningful life.
I’m a sucker for love stories, and I was enthralled when Raymund Javellana, great grandson of Mariano Lacson personally toured me around his family’s ancestral home in Talisay City, Negros Occidental. Acclaimed as one of the 12 most fascinating ruins of the world, The Ruins is a monument to the undying love of Mariano Lacson and Maria Braga.
Don Mariano Ledesma Lacson
It was my second night in Bacolod City, and Mrs. Josefina Puentevella (Tita Paching) was taking me around. She brought me to Talisay to see The Ruins. She said it was a house that was bombed during the Japanese occupation so that the invaders would not use it as headquarters. I told her about my own ancestral home in San Sebastian that was actually used by the Japanese commander as his headquarters. I was thus quite interested to see the house she was referring to which had belonged to Don Mariano Ledesma Lacson, a sugar baron in the early 1900s.
Maria Braga
The youngest of ten children of Lucio Lacson and Clara Ledesma, the dashing Mariano fell in love during one of his frequent visits to Hong Kong with the beautiful Maria Braga, a Portuguese lady from Macau, daughter of a ship captain. He proposed to her and brought his young bride home to Negros. There, they lived happily together and had ten children.
When Maria was pregnant with her 11th child, she suffered a bad fall and began to bleed heavily. Alarmed, Mariano quickly drove his horse-drawn carriage to the next city to summon a physician. It took four days of travel traversing different sugar plantations, asking permission to pass from the landowner each time. I can just imagine how distraught he was throughout the trip. By the time he got back with the doctor, Maria and her unborn child was dead.
Grief-stricken, the heartbroken Mariano decided to build a mansion to commemorate his love for his beloved wife. With the help of his father-in-law who sent over workers from Hong Kong, Mariano built an elegant two-story mansion in the midst of his sugar plantation. Here, he lived with his children with the rule that once any of them got married, they would have to leave the mansion.
Two Ms facing each other, standing for the initials of Mariano and Maria, are forever etched into the posts.
No expense was spared in building the structure made of oversized steel bars encased in solid concrete. The walls were finished in cement mixed with egg whites, lending a marble-like finish to the mansion. Each post of the house was emblazoned with two letter Ms facing each other, initials of Mariano and Maria.
There were four rooms downstairs for his boys, and four rooms directly on top of them for his girls. A wide staircase led directly from the side entrance to the second floor. This way, Raymund explained, Mariano could go up to the master’s bedroom without disturbing any of the guests in the living room. The family could enjoy sunsets through the bay window of the belvedere facing west.
The main entrance to the mansion
A wide porch wrapped itself around both floors of the house, reminiscent of the mansion in the movie “Gone with the Wind.” Twin columns lined the porch with graceful arches in between. Colorful Machuca tiles from Spain lined the veranda, while thick meter-wide, 20-meter long wooden planks served as flooring for the various rooms. Starkly silhouetted against the dark sky was the scalloped roof.
On the eve of World War II, this beautiful mansion was razed to the ground by guerillas during the Japanese war upon the orders of the United States Armed Forces in the Far East or USAFFE, to ensure it would not fall into the hands of the Japanese forces and made into headquarters. They say it took three days for the house to burn, engulfing all the beautiful wooden floors and ceiling, leaving behind the shell of the once beautiful mansion.
When Mariano died, the plantation was subdivided amongst his ten children, and later further subdivided amongst the grandchildren. No one wanted the portion of land on which the burnt out shell stood. After all, it was thought to be useless since sugarcane could not be planted in it. For six and a half decades, The Ruins remained just that, a sad reminder of the opulent lifestyle of the sugar barons, slowly succumbing to the ravages of time.
That is, until Raymund Javellana, a scion of the prominent Lacson-Javellana and Lopez-Heredia families, inherited the land with the burnt mansion and pondered what to do with it. Just like his ancestor Mariano, Raymund was widely traveled and had been to many interesting historical places in Europe. He toyed with the idea of developing The Ruins into a tourist attraction.
One day, Raymund saw children climbing up and playing at the four-tiered fountain fronting the house. Looking closely, he noticed how strong and beautiful it was and decided to rehabilitate it, along with the expansive garden surrounding the house. In its heyday, the mansion’s garden laden with imported lilies was maintained by a Japanese gardener under the supervision of Angelina, Mariano’s daughter. This same gardener turned out to be an informant of the Japanese Military.
Raymund installed lights in the house, running the electric wires through the original pipes embedded in the ceiling. I asked him if the globes were made of capiz, but he said they were made from sturdy resin to withstand the strong wind from storms. He showed me where the living room, dining room, kitchen and kitchen preparation areas had been, and pointed to the thick cement flooring underneath where the wood-fired ovens were located.
It’s a pity there are hardly any photos of the house as it was in its prime. Raymund remarked that the old photos were kept by one of the children but they were lost in another fire. “There’s something about our family and fires,” he said.
Tita Paching and me
Walking with us around the beautifully landscaped gardens surrounding the house, Raymund invited us to have a picture taken in front of an outside glass table. He said that most everyone who comes has their photo taken there with the house silhouetted behind, as the glass of the table reflects the house and it appears magical. Naturally, we just had to do this too.
And as I looked around I saw in the distance what seemed like a tree sprouting from a column. I learned that this was the simborio, or smokestack of the sugar farm’s mill where they heated the juice of the sugarcane before allowing it to cool and crystalize into what we know as muscovado, unrefined brown sugar imbued with the strong flavor of molasses.
Tita Paching and me with our personal guide, Raymund Javellana.
Just as we were leaving, we passed by the café that Raymund had built and bought piping hot piaya or unleavened flatbread filled with muscovado and glucose syrup. What a treat it was to bite into the delicious piaya! Closing my eyes, I was once again transported to the very first time I had tasted piaya, savoring its goodness, and for a fleeting moment, imagined how beautiful life must have been for Mariano and Maria. And thanks to Raymund, the story of their love will continue to inspire generations to come.
When I first met Cathy, she was dark, skinny and had a haunted air around her. It was the 27th of April 2012. I was in dire need of a maid, and so was my mom, and she was referred by the helper of a neighbor. Interviewing her, I learned that she had run away from her husband and come to Manila to look for a job. She said her husband’s family had a history of mental illness, and he had started to beat her up. Her husband’s family was well-to-do, she said, and they looked down on her as she came from humble beginnings.
Her father had left them when she was young and had taken up with someone else. Later when he was ill, he returned to their family so that they could take care of him. She told me he used to be quite violent when drunk and would beat up her mother. This scarred her for life. Her mom, on the other hand, is very religious and serves the church. Her sole source of income came from donations from people who would ask her to pray for their dead. Cathy could not understand why her mother took her father back after abandoning them, and even nursed him until he died.
The eldest in her family, Cathy graduated with top honors in high school, while working as househelp for relatives. She was studying to be a teacher when she fell madly in love with the man she would eventually marry. They eloped and she got pregnant. Living with him, however, soon became a nightmare, as relations with her in-laws was strained, and her husband began exhibiting disturbing tendencies. She suffered silently until she got beaten up in front of her daughters. She could not bear inflicting the same hurt on her daughters that she had suffered as a child, and she planned her escape.
Cathy left her daughters with her mom for safekeeping and got on a bus to Manila, showing up at our home the day after she arrived in Manila. We agreed that if she stayed a year working for us that I would buy her a ticket home so she could visit her children.
Cathy had two daughters, a year apart. The eldest was barely two when she left them. She missed them terribly, and transferred her motherly love to Niccolo. At first, she was worried about communicating as Mike and Niccolo spoke only English. Nosebleed, she would say. But later, she was able to adjust quickly, and soon became the interpreter of the other househelp.
Helping me make Christmas ham, a yearly tradition.
Cathy had an amazing zest for life, and was always upbeat. She loved to learn new things, and would watch me as I cooked, asking questions as to how things were done. I encouraged her to read my cookbooks, and essentially gave her free reign in the kitchen to experiment various recipes. Sometimes, it was hit and miss, but she soon mastered the art of pasta. She learned my recipes by heart and could whip up any dish I asked her to make. She specially enjoyed helping me prepare Christmas ham.
Cathy was my rock at home. Here she is with me, one Christmas eve. Bugsy refused to be left out of the photo.
Long before the Kasambahay Law came in, I enrolled her in SSS, Pag-ibig and HDMF. Each Christmas and New Year, it was our family’s practice to celebrate Noche Buena together with our househelp around the dinner table. We would invite their close family members to join us. In Cathy’s case, it was Jay-R, her younger brother, who would come.
Hardworking and diligent, Cathy soon became indispensable to our household. She endeared herself to everyone, including my mom. They would spend hours chit-chatting about everything under the sun. Dada would teach her how to take care of the house and of us and give her advice on life. Cathy reciprocated by taking care of Dada whenever she would visit us, and making sure Dada took her medicine properly. When Dada was in Quiapo, Cathy would call to check on her. They were phone pals. Niccolo too was dependent on her for almost everything, from his clothes to his food. Even Bugsy transferred his allegiance to her, as she was the one who fed him, bathed him and took him for walks.
When Mike took ill with cancer in October 2012, Cathy helped me take care of Mike, especially when he stopped going to work and I had to do double time at the office. She and I would take shifts at the hospital when he would have chemo, blood transfusions or stem cell injections. She prepared his meals while I was at work and would cajole him to eat. When Mike died, Cathy was there too, crying with the family. And she was a tower of strength during that dark period after Mike died, making sure I ate, and keeping me company. When I hurt my back and was in terrible pain, Cathy would help me get up from bed and put on my back brace.
With Malie and Cathy, a year before Mike died.
When Malie, my other maid left, Cathy offered to be the sole kasambahay, saying she preferred to be alone. Anyway, she argued that she only had Niccolo and me to take care of since Bea was away in the US and Cara was in Boracay. I agreed and gave her a hefty raise. She ran the house well, and gained our full trust and confidence. We loved her, and we believe she loved us too.
Lectors’ Christmas Party. That’s Cathy in the center seated on the floor.
Knowing how intelligent she was, I asked Cathy if she wanted to serve in our parish after Mike died. She accepted eagerly but was worried how she would be accepted by the village. I took her under my wing and taught her how to become a lector. We would practice her delivery of the English readings before the mass. At home, we would pray the rosary and I would let her lead. Soon, she gained enough confidence and was at ease in front of the congregation. She was warmly welcomed by our lector family as an equal, and was even chosen to head the secretariat for the last Parish Renewal Experience (PREX). The kasambahays in the village looked up to her, and wanted to emulate her. She was their star, the most popular househelp of the village.
When Yolanda hit Leyte, Cathy was beside herself with worry. Her family lived in Carigara, near Tacloban. There was no news of her family as communication lines were down. We searched on the Internet and TV for news of her children and posted their photos on the portal for survivors. A week later, Jay-R said he could not stand it anymore and would go home and look for them himself. We sent him off with money and supplies. For days, Cathy worked non-stop to get over the fear of not knowing what happened her family. We were overjoyed when Jay-R texted to say he had found them unharmed, other than the house which had lost its roof and kitchen. We sent funds to help them rebuild, and offered for them to come to Manila and stay with us. But Cathy’s mom refused to leave as there were so many dead who had to be prayed for.
Cathy’s children were her pride and joy. Her eldest was studious and got good grades, but it was her spunky and strong-willed youngest who kept Cathy in stitches. The first time Cathy went home, she felt so bad because her children did not recognize her. By the time she was going to return to Manila, the eldest had started calling her mama. I remember the second time she went home, she had huge dolls for her daughters. Cathy always timed her home visits to make sure she was there when her daughter would receive her medals.
When the Kasambahay Law came into being, Cathy began to take leaves more often and not come home for the night. There was nothing I could do as this was the law, but I cautioned her to be careful and to keep safe. I noticed that she started putting on make-up and nail polish. I chalked this up to her youth.
When she came back from her last trip to the province, Cathy was often sick. Worried, we sent her for a check-up but she said she was OK. We noticed that she started slacking off as the house was no longer as spic and span as it was before, and clothes would not get washed or ironed right away. We hired someone to come in and help her.
When I got home late from work one night in June, I was surprised to see the house completely dark. I never brought my keys with me as Cathy was always there to open the gate and greet me. Worried that something had happened to her, I called the guardhouse. The security officer said Cathy had left in the morning and not returned. I waited until Bea got home with her keys so we could enter the house. We were surprised to find all her clothes missing. I felt stabbed in the heart. How could Cathy do this to me? I sent a message to Jay-R, asking if he knew why she left.
Later we discovered the letter she had left us. She asked for our forgiveness and said she had to leave because she was pregnant and didn’t know what to do. I was so angry and disappointed! She could have told us, and we would have been the first to help her. We learned that she had planned her escape, sending sealed boxes in the car whenever my mother would go home to her house in Manila. I spoke to Manang, my mom’s maid who was Cathy’s townmate, and she admitted that Cathy had sent boxes of her things to be sent to the province and that they had all been collected by another of their friends. What a cowardly thing to do!
I asked my caretaker in the farm to come with his wife and help us out while we searched for a new maid. His wife learned from the village kasambahays that Cathy had said she was not being paid well and that’s why she left. This incensed my caretaker’s wife, as she knew how well we treat our helpers. I decided to cut clean and removed her from my contact list.
Last Saturday, when I visited my mom, Manang told me that Cathy was very sick. She started to cry, but since Manang was prone to drama, I told her to stop crying and not to tell me anything about Cathy as she had made her decision to leave us. Sunday night, an FB message popped up from Jay-R. Cathy was dead. He said she had died of typhoid fever in their province, her unborn child with her. I felt stricken to the core.
Jay-R told me that she had been ill for weeks, going in and out of the hospital, and since he could not take care of her as he worked, she decided to go home to the province and get well there. It was not to be. She became gravely ill in Carigara. He told me too that while she was delirious, she kept on saying she loved me and Niccolo and was sorry she had hurt us.
Reflecting on what happened, I guess Cathy did not know how to face the community when she learned she was pregnant, especially as she was a lector. We were always told to give a good example. How could she explain that she was pregnant when everyone knew she was separated from her husband? It is sad, but Cathy had a pattern of failling in love, and then running away when the situation became difficult.
On August 9, 2014, I posted this pciture of Cathy and me on my IG and FB: “Cathy is my super woman. She takes care of my home, my children, and me. We all love her! Oh, I forgot! She takes care of Bugsy and the kois too. And she serves at the parish as a lector.”
Our last conversation before she ran away was about second chances. She had always wanted an annulment from her husband so that she could begin life afresh. She wanted a second chance at love, just as I had with Mike. I told her to start writing down her life story as this would be needed, and promised to help her get that annulment. How, I wish I could have helped her!
I write this now to honor Cathy. Yes, she had hurt us deeply, but what I choose to remember is the love we had shared. I trust that she is now in heaven, where there is no pain and only the everlasting joy of being with our Lord. Thank you, Cathy!
I was cleaning up my soft files just now, and came across a five-day journal written 20 days after we rushed Mike to Asian Hospital. I can never forget that day, the 10th of October, 2012. After a leisurely lunch at Palms Country Club, we returned to the office to work. Mike came out of the toilet trembling and ashen-faced. He was unable to pee. At the hospital, they put a cateter and fresh blood came out. They admitted him for observation and a biopsy. More than a week later, we were told he had cancer. Life as I knew it stopped.
Those were tumultous days. We didn’t know where and who to run to for advice on how best to handle the situation, what kind of doctors we should approach, what treatment to take. His urologist Dr. JV Prodigalidad recommended that Mike have a colonoscopy to determine if the cancer had spread. We followed his advice and Mike was admitted to St. Luke’s Hospital for the procedure. Meanwhile, the biopsy samples were sent for additional testing.
Everything was a blur, except for one thing that was crystal clear. I knew I had to be strong for Mike, and for the family. Bea was in Boston taking up her masters, Cara in Boracay working, and Niccolo was in 4th year high school. I had a business to run, client commitments to fulfill, and employees who relied on us. I held on to God’s hand tightly.
I cry as I re-read what I had written almost three years ago.
October 30
St. Lukes. Mike has his scheduled colonoscopy with Dr. Cua. I wait at the reception area, working on the IOS final report. A nurse comes and hands me Mike’s watch and wedding ring. I look at my phone, and it’s JV Prodigalidad apologizing that he has not been feeling well and was thus not able to respond to my text messages. I ask him if he already has the results of the bone scan and the additional steins. He says yes, and that it is not good. He says, “Stage Four, Monette.” The world stops turning. I ask him how much time I have. He says he doesn’t know, and says he prefers to tell Mike himself at his clinic. I break down and cry, with everyone looking at me, some with sympathetic eyes.
Then, Karla calls to say there’s a problem with the office doors and no one can go in. She hears my breaking voice and asks me why. I can’t talk, except to say I will send Jonathan with my keys. Jonathan arrives, saying he doesn’t need to go to the office anymore because the staff has solved the problem. I ask him to watch my things, and go to the chapel to pray and sob uncontrollably. While there, my phone rings and Jonathan says they want me to see the doctors who are working on Mike’s colonoscopy.
With my heart in my throat, I run back to where Mike is. They let me in to the operating room, and I see Mike on his side, peacefully sleeping on the operating table, while holding on to the bed’s bar, with a team of doctors and nurses surrounding him. Dr. Cua shows me a cyst on the screen and says he will excise it and have it biopsied. He says other than small ones, this was the only one they found. I beg to stay, but am told to leave and just wait until the procedure is over. I couldn’t help myself but bend over and kiss Mike, to the doctors’ surprise.
When Mike was done, we have a quick lunch at Becky’s Kitchen. Oh, how my heart ached while I sat with Mike. In the car, I check my mail and notice an email from Myla Reyes asking Sab and me to attend an exhibitors’ meeting in the afternoon. I call the office to check on things, and talk to Sab who is at her wits’ end because HIMOAP had scheduled the meeting suddenly for 3pm and she had tons of other work to do for the event. I told her I would handle the meeting and to send me the report. I then asked Jonathan to drop me off at BPAP, to bring Mike home to rest, and to get the biopsy slides for Arnel.
At BPAP, I worked furiously at the TeamAsia Room on the IOS report. Raymond was coming in at 2pm and I intended to discuss the financials with him before the HIMOSC exhibitor meeting. All the while, there was a big gaping hole in my heart. How can anyone not see it bleed?
I called Arnel and told him what I had learned from JV. I told him I didn’t know how to tell Mike. He said JV should do it, not me. I called JV’s secretary and she set us up for 8pm.
October 31
Mike is set to meet Dr. Gary Lorenzo, the oncologist recommended by our friend, Dr. Arnel Diaz. I want to go with Mike but can’t because I have a Handling Difficult People seminar with nine people signed up. It is the most difficult teaching assignment I have ever had to do.
November 1
At St. Luke’s again for Mike’s CT scan by 7:45am. The test is scheduled at 10am, but he has to start taking barium two hours before. Poor Mike hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since last night. I bring the slides to Pathology for a second reading by Dr. Zamuco. The test ends by 11 and we go to have a hearty breakfast at Bizu. A quick trip back home and we leave for our hideaway in Alfonso with Niccolo and Bugsy who is beside himself with excitement at the prospect of a car ride. At Alfonso, Mike is so tired, he falls asleep almost the whole afternoon and night. I break down while preparing dinner, burning a panful of garlic and onions. I watch him sleep and feel that he is slipping away.
November 3
We’re on the way back to Southbay with Niccolo and Bugsy. Mike insists on driving the E150. We did a quick stop at Mahogany Market so I could buy two guyabano trees that I intend to plant in Southbay for their leaves, as well as some herbs for cooking. Then Niccolo decides he wants buko tart at Rowena’s. Next stop: Robinson Nuvali for a pit stop.
For lunch, I whipped up a quick creamy mushroom pasta. Mike was tired from the long drive, and settled himself in front of the TV. Niccolo has been asking us to put up the Christmas décor early this year, and since Cara is arriving on the 16th, I decided to go ahead and put up the Christmas tree. After opening the boxes, I discover that only half the rice lights were working and my lovely angel was broken. Niccolo didn’t want to go with me to the store to get lights. I made a few calls to friends, but no one was free. I found myself going to my neighbor Lily White, who very kindly agreed to go with me. We prayed together and I felt at peace waiting for her in her quiet prayer room.
When I got home, I noticed that Mike was quieter than usual. Over dinner, Niccolo was bugging us to allow him to go to Boracay in April with his batchmates. Mike said we need to know if there will be parents around and who he would be with, as he would most probably not be in any condition to go. When Niccolo left the table, Mike told me that I should be prepared in case things did not work out as we wanted. I could no longer hold back my tears, and I broke down in front of Mike. Oh, God, why? Why?
It’s been three years, and yet re-reading this journal, it feels like yesterday. The pain is always there, sometimes numbed, at other times, palpably fresh and throbbing. I read somewhere that pain is the price one pays for having loved. Yes, it is a steep price, but I am forever grateful to have loved and been loved by Mike.
July 17, 2015. Taywanak, Alfonso. “Take time to do what makes your soul happy.” This post on Pinterest caught my eye yesterday morning, and I reposted it immediately, determined to carve out me time from the busyness of work and commitments. And then, I got to thinking. What makes my soul happy?
The first thing that entered my mind was I’ve always been happiest loving someone. Love makes my heart sing. With Mike and my children, life was perfect. When Mike died, I died too, going through the motions of life with a big dark hole where my heart used to be. That is, until Rollie came barging into my life and for a blissful and exciting six months, I felt alive again. But then, God took him away too. Once again, I burrowed into work. The busier the better, so I would not have time to dwell on my unhappiness. Time and again, though, grief would make its presence felt. Yes, my beloved children are there, but they are now grown up and have their own lives to lead.
One thing Rollie taught me was that I was responsible for my own happiness. When he lost his wife to cancer four years ago at the same time he turned 60 and retired from work, he coped with his grief by keeping busy, writing a book, traveling, biking, meeting people, helping develop young leaders at AIESEC, and more.
And so, I’m back to thinking what makes my soul happy since the two people I’ve loved are both gone?
Painting. One of my earliest memories is sitting on the floor drawing and coloring, and my mom commenting that I was just like her sister Conchi, a talented artist. I treasured my coloring books, read and reread my art books, and hoarded my art supplies. I was chagrined when my art teacher in elementary declared I had no talent at all. This didn’t stop me from spending recess time in first year high school drawing on the chalkboards at the empty music room. The manang was probably wondering who the culprit was who left the drawings and used up all the colored chalks.
I desperately wanted to take up Fine Arts in college, but we didn’t have the funds for this. Nevertheless, I took the entrance exam, which required us to draw still life. Dean Faustino passed by, looked over my shoulder at what I was drawing, and told me I must take up FA as I had the gift of drawing. Unfortunately, we simply could not afford it so I ended up instead taking up AB Psychology. I was overjoyed when my Aunt Jill enrolled me one summer in Art Classes at CHS. Learning how to use charcoal, watercolors and oils, and do pen and ink drawings, I was in seventh heaven!
This helped me earn funds to buy my college textbooks. Summers, I taught young children drawing lessons. My aunts’ co-teachers at CHS would commission me to sketch their family members. When I had an oil painting framed at an art shop, the proprietor told me that a customer wanted to buy it. I refused to sell it, as I wanted to keep that painting. It is still hanging in my mom’s house.
One day, acting on my Aunt Jill’s request, I drew a young child with big round black eyes. She loved that drawing so much that she had it framed and hung in her office, and later, when she retired, in her home. I had forgotten about that drawing until I visited her almost two decades later with little Bea in tow. I was amazed that Bea looked almost exactly like that child in the drawing.
At 25, I went to Spain and lived with Tia Conchi and Tio Mariano. While they were at work, I would paint. Tia Conchi mentored me in watercolors and oils, her forte. Weekends were spent in the Museo del Prado. I learned that the best art was in churches, and so while my aunt and uncle prayed, I soaked in the art of the masters, and marveled at the beauty around me. When I visited my aunt a year ago, I was pleasantly surprised to see all the paintings and sketches I had done during my apprenticeship framed and displayed in her house.
Painting requires a lot of time, and this I had in short supply when I started work and more so, when I was raising a family. It seems that the only free time I had to take up my pencils and brushes was when I was pregnant and had to stay at home, or much later, when we had our family vacations in Club Paradise. No wonder then that most of my paintings are of beaches and the people I love.
Rollie got me painting again, or should I say we encouraged each other. We had painting sessions together. Once, I sketched him and emailed him the sketch. He was so proud of it that he had it enlarged, framed and hung in his living room. For Christmas, he gave me a box of oils. I have yet to open it. Someday, when I can bear to open it without crying, I will. For now, though, I will stick to another thing that makes my soul happy.
Writing. I never thought I could write until second year college when my English teacher asked me to take the exams to join the editorial team of Veritas and Action, the school papers. We were instructed to write an essay on whatever topic we wanted within half an hour. My mind was a blank. Where to start? Listless, I moved my chair, and promptly got bitten by a little ant. And then, I saw the procession of ants crossing in front of me, resolutely carrying tiny bits of food that had crumbled on the ground, some seemingly bigger than they were. And suddenly, it dawned on me. I was just like that little ant. Feverishly, I started writing about ants, their resoluteness, their tenacity, their work ethic, their sense of community and teamwork, and their strength in numbers. Apparently, I nailed it, as I was appointed as Associate Editor.
Taking up my masters at the Asian Institute of Management, we were required to do voluminous reports and analyze case studies. I once got back a report with my professor’s comment that it was a joy reading my work. When I started corporate work though, creative writing took a back seat. Business English was the order of the day. Besides, I was married to a brilliant writer who wrote effortlessly on far ranging topics from business to management, economics, current events, social issues, human nature, information technology, and the like.
Mike authored several books, some together with Professor Philip Kotler, the marketing guru, and wrote a regular column for the Manila Bulletin. Mike could string words together so beautifully while making perfect sense, like pearls forming a perfect necklace, and I felt wanting in his presence. He did, however, ask me to edit his writing and comment before submitting it to his editor. Another pair of eyes to spot mistakes that crop up when writing.
Mike encouraged to me to write but I didn’t take it up until I was on a plane enroute to Spain nine months after he died. And then, it seemed like the floodgates opened, and I started to write. And write. All the pent-up emotions just came rushing out in my writing, and I started a blog. I wrote for myself, but it was heartwarming when people would come up and say then enjoyed reading what I wrote, or that I had helped them cope with their own situation by reading about mine.
For my mom’s 80th birthday last year, Rollie suggested I write a book about her. He had written one on his wife Isabella three months after she died, and he said it was great catharsis. He gave copies to all her friends, and said they loved him for it. I was intrigued and excited with his suggestion but didn’t know where to start. He offered to collaborate on the book project, and promised to scan all the pictures I could find. And so we did work on it together. My mom loved the book, and I gave copies to each of my siblings for Christmas, so that their children will have a memento of their grandmother.
Rollie then encouraged me to write a book on Mike, before the memories disappear. He said it would be a beautiful and lasting gift for our children, plus it would help me move on, and we could then begin our own story together. That was what I was working on the long weekend when Pope Francis visited the Philippines.
It was hard going as I wept most of the time I was writing it. Rollie called from Hong Kong to check how I was doing. When I told him I had spent the better part of the weekend crying and that I was only half way done, he praised me, saying “Keep going, my courageous girl. I love you,” Just a few days later, he was gone. Forever.
As for poetry, I never knew I had it in me until I met Rollie. For some reason, he unleashed the poet in me. I would wake up in the wee hours of the night and start penning. He was overwhelmed with what I wrote and eager to receive the next one. When he died, this gift seemed to have died as well.
But I continue to write, feeling this connects me to people even when I feel so alone. And then I come to my next passion.
Cooking. My love of the kitchen was nurtured in my paternal grandaunt’s warm kitchen, watching her prepare meals for the family and for feasts. I would eagerly wait for Lola Teta to come back from the market in a calesa, and take out the wonderful goodies from her market basket. I guess that’s why I get excited seeing plump and colorful vegetables and fruits and nice smelling herbs growing in farms.
Inevitably, my lola would bring home two or three live chickens, which she would later kill and dress. She would let me play with the stomach lining, which I would blow up like a balloon. And the myriad little yellow eggs that had not yet come out were prepared as adobo as a special treat for me. All these happened before my 7th year when a beheaded duck started my phobia with all things feathered.
Summers growing up were spent in that kitchen. My aunt Jill would teach my brothers and me how to bake, decorate cakes, and then let us experiment in the kitchen. I loved watching her cook, and I was her designated assistant, though not allowed to wield a knife. My brothers and I would fight as to who would clean up the leftover fudge in the bowl.
I remember crying when my cake didn’t rise because I had forgotten to put baking powder in the mix. Or the time my chocolate cake caved in because I had taken it out of the oven prematurely. My brothers mercilessly teased me about this, and called it my chocolate volcano. And now, chefs brag about their chocolate lava cake. I should have had it patented then. Or that time I tried to make lemon squares and forgot an ingredient so they came out really hard. Lemon cardboards, they were called. I guess all that teasing made me stop kitchen experiments, and I concentrated instead on studying.
Later, when my boyfriend asked for my hand in marriage, my mother asked him if he was sure about me as I was hopeless in the kitchen and all I knew was to study. I was flabbergasted, made my mind up that I would learn, and bought several cookbooks.
There were some hiccups along the way. In the early days of marriage, I decided to make coffee and wondered why the coffee machine wouldn’t work, only to find out I had not plugged it in. Another time, I was at Farmer’s Market and was convinced to buy stingray. The market vendor told me it was delicious as adobo, and taught me how to prepare it. Well, it was so bad that even our dog refused to eat it. I confided my travails in the kitchen to a friend at work, and she agreed to help me. She put together a menu for my house blessing with detailed instructions on how to prepare it: chicken a la king presented in puff pastry and vichyssoise. It was a hugh success!
One of the first things I learned was to make spaghetti bolognese and I would do this a lot until I perfected it. I did not realize that my poor sister developed a strong dislike to spaghetti because she had to eat it a lot while I was practicing. This was a huge disincentive to her moving to Rome, but luckily she has learned to make peace with pasta, though she still shys away from bolognese to this day, and makes sure she rubs this in each time we eat pasta.
My work in publishing entailed a lot of travel, and I was exposed to different cuisines. All these left their mark on my cooking. I was comfortable with different spices. Soon, I stopped referring to cookbooks and ventured into experimenting in the kitchen. I enjoyed going to the market, checking out the fresh produce, and interviewing the vendors how best to prepare them. If I liked the food I ate at restaurants, I would start guessing what went into it, already planning how to do it at home. Mealtimes, I would look at what was available in the pantry and ref, and start imagining the dish I would concoct. Invariably, my family would love it. Their happy smiles and comments were well worth the hours I would put in the kitchen.
Over the years I developed some family favorites, like adobo which my children swear by, different pastas, stuffed peppers, Christmas ham, chicken relleno (though someone else had to do the stuffing and the sewing), and paella. My love affair with paella started when Mike bought me a paellera for our anniversary. I had learned how to make it from my Tia Conchi, who gifted me with a hundred-recipe paella book. I would have so many requests for paella during family gatherings and especially during the Christmas season. For years, my paella was a staple at the Cyberpress yearend party. From one small pan, I have now graduated to various sizes of paella pans, even some big enough for a barangay.
Mike loved to eat, especially if it was spicy, and preferred beef and seafood over pork. He bought a huge barbecue grill for our home, and would grill steaks often. This was men’s work, and so I was relegated to preparing the sauces and sidings.
When we had our farm in Alfonso, I was excited to finally have my very own herb garden. Weekends with Mike in Alfonso were spent in the kitchen. We would cook together, and it was such a joy! We would walk around the farm early in the morning, and pick vegetables and fruits that would go into the meal. His last project was building an outside grill. I thought he meant a small barbecue grill but I should have known better, as it turned out to be a stone-walled double oven and grill, wood-fired and gas-fired. Sadly, it has not been used as often as we would have wanted.
So there you are, the top three things that make my soul happy. Tell me, what makes you happy?
Taywanak, Alfonso. July 12, 2015. On a whim, I decided to escape Southbay and come to Alfonso yesterday afternoon with Jeovanie and Bleng, our caretaker couple from the farm who have been helping me clean up the house. My girls allowed me to drive since I had company in the car. Besides, they all had Saturday night plans, which didn’t include mom. Funny that I always had to ask Mike for permission whenever I wanted to go out, and when he died, I have to ask my children.
No longer used to driving long distances, it took awhile to get to Alfonso in the rain. It was dark when we arrived. I had agreed to have dinner with a friend in Tagaytay, so I left right away. Jeovanie was worried as it was dark and raining and I was alone, but I told him I would be all right. I promised to text when I headed back so he could open the gate.
Arriving at Bag of Beans, I was surprised to find it full of guests. The main dining area was welcoming, brightly lit and warm, but quite noisy. Looking for a quiet corner where I could write while waiting for my friend, the waiter led me to a lone table outside, and I took that. I was not sure if she would show up, and I was pretty hungry by this time, so I ordered soup and started to write.
Challenge taken. Solo at Bag of Beans.
And just for posterity, I asked the waiter to take my photo so I could post it on Instagram, as a response to a challenge made to eat alone in a restaurant. I actually enjoyed the solo experience. No one bothered me, and I was able to concentrate on writing. To top it all, the broccoli soup with warm bread was delicious and filling on a cold, wet night. Soon my friend showed up, and as usual, our lively conversation ran the gamut of family, friendships, pets, work, and current events.
As BoB was about to close, we paid the bill and left. On the way out, she teased me about bringing my laptop as a clutch to the restaurant, saying I was not really alone. Baby steps, I told her. My friend insisted on driving tag to make sure I got back safely to my farm. I was thankful for this kind gesture as the fog was thick enough to slice in Tagaytay, and I could hardly see, and in Alfonso, the provincial road was very dark and wet. Knowing she was driving behind me made me feel safer, like having a guardian angel behind the wheel.
Back in Alfonso, I looked up at the sky and there was nary a star in the dark sky. Normally, I would look up and enjoy the stars twinkling like diamonds as I walked the long red brick road to our house. This time they were hidden behind the heavy dark clouds.
Snuggling into my bed, I prayed with my wooden holding cross in hand, a Christmas gift from a dear friend. The cross fit snugly in the palm of my hand, calming me down. I asked the Lord to watch over my children, my family and friends and keep them safe. I am usually not scared of being alone in the farm, but another talk this week about malicious spirits and exorcism which I had with another friend, played havoc on my mind. I woke up early this morning, still holding on to it.
The fierce rustling of the leaves outside my window warned me the weather was still cross. Nevertheless, I put on my bright yellow parka to tour the farm. Hugging the tree beside the house, which had the first station of the cross, I whispered an “I love you” to Mike, remembering all the lovely memories of time spent in the farm with him. There was a big butterfly with pink-tipped wings that stayed in the veranda the whole morning I was in Alfonso, as if loath to leave. ‘Twas Mike, I believe, keeping me company.
Walking around the farm, I once again marveled at the awesome beauty of God’s creation. Everywhere I looked, it was lush and green. I was worried that the wind had toppled over some trees, but luckily they had held their ground, though some were bent over slightly. The stepping-stones were covered in moss, reminding me I had not visited in awhile.
I saw fallen mangoes on the ground forming a carpet under the trees, and spied some green santol that had suffered the same fate. Ah, santol season has come! I asked our caretaker to pack some for me to bring home to Southbay. Near the gate, the champaca tree was in full bloom, its fragrance wafting through the air. Herb seedlings nestled in the rudimentary nursery.
Walking by the caretaker’s cottage, I didn’t notice the chickens nesting in the trees. Suddenly, a flurry of cackles and feathers greeted me. I don’t know who was more surprised, the chickens or me, but I was ready to run away.
After a hearty breakfast and some writing on the veranda, I drove to town to hear 9am mass with Bleng and her children. I was pleased when the parish priest introduced the parish youth leaders. There were so many of them! The church was packed full with the faithful, with latecomers forced to stand at the back.
Back at the farm, we packed ready for the long drive back to Manila. I would have stayed longer except my girls and I agreed to have lunch together. And the spotty Internet connection was unnerving. It was a very short visit made on a whim, but well worth the trip. I’m looking forward to the next one. I wonder who I can cajole to come with me next time?
This week, there has been a slew of posts about Father’s Day, and I feel somewhat cheated that I only had my dad with me for a very short time. Earlier this week, I viewed a post of a father giving away his beloved daughter at the altar. His speech was funny yet so heartwarming I cried. It was obvious how much he adored his daughter. And I wondered what my father would have said if he had been alive when I got married, or when my marriage broke up and I filed for annulment, or when I got married again, happily this time. I wonder if he would have been proud of me when I graduated with honors, or when I got my first job, or got promoted, when I was first published, or when I set up TeamAsia. That father in the video obviously was very proud of his daughter. So many unanswered questions. So many what ifs.
My father died when I was but ten years old. All these years, I’ve wondered how my life would have turned out if he had not died early. How I wish I had more time with him! I even wrote a blog about it one Father’s Day (https://monettehamlin.com/2014/06/15/how-i-wish-i-had-more-time-with-him/). While thinking of the many conversations I wish I had enjoyed with my dad, a memory long forgotten popped up.
Do you believe in angels? In 2003, I met a woman by the pen name of Avi Maria at the home of a friend. She told me she had died one day, and gone to heaven where she met angels and Jesus Christ. She described her experiences in heaven, and said it was beautiful beyond imagination. What she thought of first as gentle rain, turned out to be shimmering glitters of all colors and hues. When she asked her guardian angel what it was, the angel said the glitters were all the answered prayers of the faithful.
Avi Maria wanted to stay in heaven, but she was told she still had many things to accomplish on earth and a son to take care of, and was thus sent back. She told me about seeing her baby son about to fall from the bed unnoticed, while her whole household was crying over her dead body. She rushed back into her body and woke up. All these had happened in the span of an hour during which time she was thought to be dead by her anguished family.
When she came to, she started seeing angels. One day, she ended up in a bookstore and bought a lot of painting materials. When the cashier asked if she was a painter, she said no and wondered why she had done this. From that day on, she started to paint guardian angels of people she would meet, even if she still had not met them by the time she painted. Before this happened, she had never even used a paintbrush.
Avi Maria’s paintings were sought after; in fact, my friend had several in her home. She confided in me that each angel painting had a designated owner, and she could only sell it to that person. She once sold a painting upon the insistence of someone who wanted it, and by the time the person brought the painting home, the angel in the painting was gone. It was returned to her, and the angel once again appeared when she finally met the rightful owner. She was compelled to paint, as if she were a puppet in the hands of a master. I didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but it was quite an interesting story.
I didn’t think much of it, until several months later when I got a call from her, saying she had my painting ready. I protested that I had not commissioned anything, but she insisted I get it because she had made it for me and it could not be owned by anyone else. Besides she said, it was different from all the other paintings she had made. I asked her why, and she said that a big handsome man had sat beside her and asked her to paint it. It took her just 20 minutes to paint it, a mean feat considering its size.
When she had finished painting, he asked her to tell me that I was not to worry anymore, that everything would be all right, that I would never want for anything again. He also asked her to tell me he was sorry that he wasn’t there physically when I needed him most, but that he was always there, watching over me. I asked her to describe the man, and she described my father exactly. By this time, I was gripping the phone tightly and crying, prompting Mike to ask what was wrong. Needless to say, I bought that painting and it is hanging in my home.
My angel painting by Avi Maria, circa 2003
The painting is that of a beautiful angel coming out of what seems to be a dark blue tunnel. At her feet are three angels, and a little to the side is another angel. I asked Avi Maria what the painting meant. She told me that the angel was my guardian angel; the tunnel was all the hardship and pain I have gone through, and is now behind me. The angel’s wings are spread over the children, protecting and taking care of them.
My first born, Bea.
The slightly larger angel to the right represents Bea, my first born. Avi Maria said Bea would always be there for me, watching and taking care of me. And this is exactly what is happening now. Bea came back from the US after finishing her masters with honors to take over the reins of TeamAsia. She is doing a wonderful job at it too.
Cara bonita
The quiet little angel in front of me represents Cara, my middle child, who we’ve always called Cara bonita, being so fair. Avi Maria said that Cara would always be close to me. I’ve wondered about this because Cara has the wanderlust and loves to travel and explore. But it is true that she comes home often, and would call out “Marmee” the minute she enters the door.
Niccolo
The little angel flying around to the left represents Niccolo. Avi Maria said he was a happy angel. Niccolo was just five when the painting was done. He is now in the United States visiting kin and learning to be more independent.
Mike
Mike was the one to the left, seemingly engrossed in something, yet always there to keep me company, making sure I was safe. Little did I know that just ten years after I got that painting that God would claim back Mike. But I know in my heart that he is there, still watching over me.
So, do I believe in angels? Yes, I do. Do I miss having my dad around? You bet I do. But then, I have him in heaven watching over me, as I do Mike and Rollie. And I am sure all other dads in heaven are doing the very same thing. So Happy Father’s Day to all!
Siblings, five years apart, on an unplanned Coron adventure.
May 16, 2015, 5:30am. Coron. The city is waking up, and so am I, wondering why my entire body seems to ache. For a second, I am unsure as to where I am, and then I remember yesterday’s adventure.
This was a sudden, unplanned trip. My Seattle-based brother Jean Pierre (Johnny) breezed into Manila for a dental visit and to stay a few weeks. This time, he was alone. During breakfast last Sunday, we talked about places we’ve always wanted to explore: Vigan, Batanes, Banawe, Coron, and more. I told him I would love to visit them. Well, he took it seriously, bought the tickets, booked a hotel he found on the Net, and called me to say the deed was done.
Just three days ago, I was running all over town busy with meetings. It was a hectic and interesting day, starting at 6:00 am when my driver’s wife called to say he wasn’t coming to work. With an 8am meeting in Ortigas and staff to pick up at the Alabang office at 7am, I quickly changed to flats and drove my car, with Wayz guiding me to meetings in Ortigas then Alabang, then to Makati, back to Alabang and finally to Paranaque in time for the 8pm mass to celebrate the feast of Our Lady of Fatima. I imagine there were quite a few white-knuckled moments and fervent prayers said. Sometime in between these meetings, Johnny called to announce we were confirmed for the 8am flight to Coron the next day.
I readily agreed to go. The last time, Johnny and I traveled together was 30 years ago. We went to Iligan for his ‘pamanhikan’ and wedding to Tita. I figured a sibling trip was long overdue.
With bags packed, we were off on our adventure! Arriving at the Busuanga airport, I was surprised to see the Cabuslays, friends from our village who were also visiting Coron. Sharing a van, we dropped them off at their resort and proceeded to Coron town where One Averee Bay Hotel was. The hotel was in the midst of town facing the plaza.
Courtesy visit to Fems Garcia, fellow CHSian and mayor of Coron
My friend Wilma Leagogo who owns Julie’s bakeshop came by to greet us. First off, we paid a courtesy call to Hon. Clara “Fems” Reyes, fellow CHSian and mayor of Coron. We then had lunch at Lolo Nonoy’s, then hurried back to the hotel for my 1pm concall with a client. After that, Johnny and I walked around town, looking for tours to take. The umbrella Wilma lent us came in handy as the fierce sun was beating down on us.
Wth my friend, neighbor, fellow servant parish leader, CHSian and all around nice person, Wilma Leagogo. Wilma owns the Julie’s Bakeshop in Coron and took very good care of us.
Coron Town is a sleepy laid-back municipality. We visited small stores, mostly run by Muslim traders. An ancient looking sungka in the shape of a crocodile caught my eye but the proprietor refused to sell it. We ended up at Julie’s Bakeshop, and Wilma treated us to the most delicious freshly-baked pan de coco. It was so good I ate two of them. The poster said it was nakaka-loco and I wholeheartedly agree! Goodbye, figure. Oh well, I may end up shaped like a dugong later, but the food is hard to resist when it is this good.
The lobster was so fresh and delicious I almost cried while eating.
After freshening up and taking a stroll by Lualhati Park, we had dinner at Lobster King, as guests of Mayor Fems. The lobsters in kalamansi butter sauce were divine! Many thanks, Fems!
After dinner, Johnny and I decided on DCC’s tour package and went there to sign up. According to Mr. Kim, the Korean proprietor, we would share the boat with another couple who was going diving.
Back at the hotel, I stationed myself at Breakfast at Sydney’s, the hotel’s restaurant, to work. It was the only place with wifi and I had to complete some forms online for GCG. The website was not very friendly and I was getting frustrated whenever it would suddenly refresh and everything I had written was erased. Finally, by11pm, I was shooed off as they were closing.
That night, Johnny put on a movie entitled “Into the Woods.” The musical was quite interesting and had great actors but sleep took over quickly.
We woke up with much anticipation for the boat trip we had signed up for. But first we had a hearty breakfast of lamayo, Coron’s version of danggit, tapa and eggs. The brewed coffee was surprisingly robust. Wilma came by with a bag of Julie’s Spanish bread and bottles of water for our trip. What a thoughtful and kind gesture!
After last minute shopping for clear plastic ziplocks for my phones and slathering ourselves with sunblock, Johnny and I were ready to go. We met up with a young couple from Washington who were going diving: Matt who works for Starbucks in the US and handles their airport outlets and his friend Mihee who is a nurse. Matt and Mihee turned out to be from Seattle, so they had a lot of things to talk about with Johnny.
Our first stop was CYC Island which was chockfull with tourists. Donning my snorkeling gear, I went swimming but noticed there were so many black sea urchins around with scary looking spikes, so I turned back not wanting to be impaled. I didn’t realize I had gone so far and had a difficult time swimming back to our boat.
Skeleton Wreck
Next stop was Skeleton Wreck, named after the remnants of a Japanese supply ship. I’ve never seen a wreck before and was a bit nervous as it was in deep water, but with a life vest on, felt pretty safe.
Hearty meal by the shack with our guide.
We had lunch in a tiny hut on Skeleton Wreck. It was a simple meal of steamed rice, cucumber salad, grilled liempo and mackerel. While eating, I noticed a young couple paddle to the shore then climb onto a tall bamboo hut.
Members of the Taganua tribe, guarding Skeleton Wreck.
We walked over to say hello and they turned out to be from the Tagbanua tribe. They were assigned by their grandfather to collect fees from the boats that docked there. They told us there were 13 lakes on the island, and they had only seen two of them.
We transferred to Twin Lagoon, which required us to swim underneath some rocks to get to the hidden lagoon. The guide warned us it was brackish water, where fresh water from the lake mixed with salt water from the sea. Johnny and I snorkled, circling the lake’s perimeter. We were amazed at how the water would turn alternately hot and cold. It was exhilarating!
Barracuda Lake was up next. Our boat navigated between forbidding grey cliffs, with hardly any vegetation. It was eerie. Johnny commented that it seemed that anytime King Kong would make an appearance. The boat docked and we entered a break in the cliffs, walking on a slim bamboo walkway flanked by tall jagged rock formations on either side. Holding on to the flint-like rocks for support, I found them brittle and sharp.
After a short walk, we were greeted by an amazing sight. I gasped at the beauty of the lake. It was serene and still, hidden from view by the jagged cliffs. We jumped from the bamboo platform into the cool blue waters below. I looked down and hardly saw any fish swimming. However, there were black dots everywhere, as if someone had sprinkled too much black pepper on white spaghetti sticks. Curious, I picked up one of the black dots and it turned out to be a black spiral shell, much like what my grandmother used to cook as ginataang kuhol.
I relaxed and floated on my back, looking up at the cliffs and the blue sky above, thinking of my loved ones and thanking God for them. My companions and other tourists jumped from the cliffs, laughing and enjoying themselves, but I tuned them out. It was so peaceful! Soon, our guide told us it was time to go Kayangan Lake.
Kayangan Lake
Kayangan Lake was the best of all, he promised, with caves to explore, a fantastic view, a beautiful lake, and a mountain to climb. Three hundred steps, he said: 150 up and a 150 down. Just 300 steps, I thought. I should be able to climb that. Johnny warned me not to count the steps saying I would just get disheartened, but that’s exactly what I did. I started counting, and by the 50th step was wondering as I tried to catch my breath if I would make it to the top. And when we reached the top, we realized that the guide was right, there were another 150 steps down to the lake. We hurried down, excited to get into the water.
A bamboo platform ringed half of Kayangan Lake and it seemed that there were people everywhere. We walked to the very end and stationed our things there. We checked out the cave which was but a short one. I started getting claustrophobic as more people entered the narrow cave, and escaped fast. Our guide boasted there was another subterranean way out. He dove into the water and came out a few seconds near the entrance. I heard Johnny saying he was going to do the same thing. I waited outside and when Johnny didn’t come out after several minutes, I started to worry, imagining him stuck in the rocks under water. How will I ever explain to his wife and children that I had not taken care of my brother? I was about to go back in to check on him when he appeared. Thank goodness!
Because of this incident and the fact that there were too many people around, I did not enjoy swimming in Kayangan as much as I did Barracuda or Twin Lagoon. But the guide was right. It is a beautiful place and one I would like to visit again during the lean period.
The view from the bat cave
Once again, we had to climb the 300 steps to get back to the boat but not before a quick picture at the very top where the bat cave was. Our last stop was Twin Peaks where our companions were going to dive.
Donning our snorkeling gear, Johnny and I jumped into the water, discovering a most amazing world down under, with verdant coral, teeming with a myriad of fish in all shapes and sizes, colors and hues, nibbling at the coral. I wanted to take out my paints right then and there and capture the beauty of the seaworld, with its vibrant colors that would put any palette to shame. Various schools of fish passed us by, like ribbons of pulsating color, from matte to brilliant neons. I could have stayed there forever. Oh well! Back to reality. We returned to Coron Town, where we met up with Wilma for dinner and to make reservations for the next day’s tour.
Walking to Julie’s, we wondered why the streets were dark. Apparently, there was a brownout which had been going on for four hours. Luckily, electricity came back on as we made our way to Bistro Coron. Dinner was pizza, pasta and Hungarian sausages. I must say that their crusty French bread was very good. Tired, we went back to the hotel and promptly fell asleep.
The next day we were up early once more. This time around we were joiners at the JY tour. The trike picked us up and brought us to the Pantalan where we boarded our boat and met our companions for the tour.
New found friends who warmly welcome us into their group.
Ryan and Michelle are psychiatric nurses at a Riyadh Hospital on vacation. With them was Kaycee, Michelle’s sister who is a home-based software programmer and their cousin Knarf who was visiting from Canada. Then there was Randy and Abby who were celebrating their 12th wedding anniversary, and a young couple April and Ryan who were honeymooning. This was the second tour of our companions together so they were pretty friendly with each other already and warmly welcomed us to the group.
Henderson, our amiable tour guide, briefed us on what to expect. He was much more knowledgeable than our guide on the first day. He pointed out the sleeping giant, asking us to hazard a guess as to whether the giant was male or female. We all agreed it was a “she.”
Johnny and I perched on the side of the boat, trading stories of our childhood.
The boat ride to Malcapuya was and hour and a half away. Johnny and I sat by the side of the boat with our toes touching the me water, reminiscing childhood memories.
Malcapuya has a long stretch of white sand beach, perfect for lazing around. The beach was dotted with nipa huts. Our group settled on the farthest nipa hut, set down our things, and went straight into the water. Johnny showed me a bed of giant clams, their membranes opening and closing, each one different from the other. Some were tiger striped, others had green or blue or red mouths.
Try and get me out of this hammock.
We had a veritable feast for lunch, with sinigang na lapu-lapu, grilled mackerel, grilled squid, chopsuey, adobong pusit, steamed rice, and an amazingly delicious salad of apple, mango, banana and Chinese petchay prepared by our guide. Henderson refused to share his recipe no matter how much we begged. Fresh coconut in their shells and sweet mango rounded up the meal. We were ready to hit the hammocks after lunch, but was given only a few minutes, so we tredged back to the boat. We must have all eaten so much as the boat refused to budge when we were all on it. The poor men had to disembark to push the boat out into deeper waters.
Banana Island was our next destination, but on the way there, our boat’s engine sputtered then died. Henderson asked us to help him call for help using our mobile phones, but there was no signal where we were. I texted the situation to my chidren and Wilma, hoping they would ge the message. Somehow, we were able to reach Banana Island’s bamboo raft, and we all disembarked to ride the bamboo raft to shore, while the boat captain and his assistant tried to fix the engine while waiting for help to come.
On the hill at Bulag Dos
Luckily, the other boat was at a nearby island and they came over to check on us. Soon, we were on our way to our last stop, Bulag Dos. Our guide warned us that we had lost too much time and that we could only stay half an hour. This was enough time to have pictures taken and check out the beach. We climbed the little hill for a better view of the surroundings.
As we were about to board the boat, we learned from our companions that there were a lot of clown fish popularized by the movie “Nemo” in the area. We just had to take a look at them. While we were all hunched looking at the clown fish swimming in and out of their stone house, I noticed a much larger fish circling the stone, seemingly agitated. It suddenly attacked me, nipping me in the leg. Apparently, it is a territorial fish intent on defending its stone house which it shared with the family of Nemos.
Sunset on the way back to Coron
We headed back to Coron. Wilma was patiently waiting for us at the dock with a trike that would bring us to Maquinit Falls. We were glad we went, despite being terribly tired. Wilma had packed a picnic dinner of grilled liempo, roast chicken and pinakbet from Lolo Nonoy’s. It was dark by the time we reached the resort, but there were still a lot of people there. We ate at one of the rustic picnic tables and made friends with the people at the next table who reveled us with stories of hidden treasures discovered in Palawan.
Basking in the warm waters of Maquinit Falls, I felt all the pains and aches slip away.
Maquinit Falls has three pools, catching the hot spring water from Mt. Dalara, a dormant volcano. They say the 40-degree Celsius water has healing powers, and that an egg left there will actually get cooked. I enjoyed dipping into the pool and letting the hot salt water ease away my aches and pains. I
Johnny walked around and came back saying it was beautiful at the other end of the resort. Curious, I went around to the other side of the pool, and walked on the bridge by the mangroves. It was dark and I was alone. True enough, when I looked up, I saw the vast expanse of the sky, twinkling with an array of stars, arranged by constellations. A shooting star crossed the skies. Moved by all this beauty, I praised the Lord, and thanked Him for all the many blessings I’ve received, praying for all the people He had sent my way, for those I have loved and have gone ahead, and most of all, for my family. And at that very moment, I felt one with all the generations of people everywhere who have looked up to the sky and felt an upwelling of emotions. We have an awesome Creator!
That night, Johnny and I put on the movie, Into the Woods, again, intent on finishing it. As you can imagine, we both fell asleep from being so tired. Someday, I will finish this movie, but for now, I’m glad I took this sibling trip to Coron with Johnny. There is still so much to discover about Coron and more adventures to experience, but those I will keep for another day.
April 4, 2015. Moalboal Fam Trip. It’s 6:00 am, and I am all alone in the lanai, waiting for my children. We’ve reserved a banca for a 7am trip to Pescador, an atoll where they claim the marine life swim in abundance. I’m excited yet apprehensive, not being a strong swimmer. The lifeguards told us that the drop off is quite steep so I was undecided about joining the children.
I get nervous when I can no longer see the bottom while swimming. When Mike and I would snorkel in Club Paradise, he would always hold my hand and lead the way. I felt safe with him always. Now, he is no longer here. Still, I’ve decided to go with the children, especially since Mama Becky told me I should go and that she would take care of Dada while we were exploring.
When Mike died, I vowed to do the things I’ve always wanted to do but never had the chance or the courage to do so, like wearing a bikini, jumping off a cliff, riding a bike, going paddle boarding, traveling by myself. And that’s what I’ve been doing these past two years.
Hale Manna where we are staying is true to its name. Hale in Hawaiian means good energy, and Mana means home. So it means home of good energy, of which there is much in abundance. Mama Becky Pestano-Smith, its owner, wanted to praise and thank God for His many blessings by spelling Manna with a double n. My children were right in deciding to spend Holy Week in this place. I feel at peace and happy.
Months ago, Bea and Cara were backpacking in Cebu and chanced upon Hale Manna as they were exploring the beach. They said a nice lady called out to them from the cliff, inviting them over. They accepted the kind invitation of the lady who turned out to be Becky Pestano-Smith, the owner. The girls said they immediately felt at home as the kindly Mama Becky enveloped them in her warm embrace and treated them to merienda. They vowed they would return, and so we are here now.
Arriving at Hale Manna Thursday afternoon, we were welcomed warmly by Mama Becky. She had prepared hot cassava chips drizzled with honey and the most delightful lemongrass tea to soothe our thirst from the long drive. Ravenous, we feasted on the lechon and puso, which we had bought at the Carcar market on the way here. Our spacious room has eight comfortable beds covered with colorful quilts, which beckoned us to sleep. And that we did since all we had was a couple of hours sleep the night before.
Just as we were going for dinner, there was a sudden brownout. We were worried about the trip because super typhoon Chedeng was expected to hit the Philippines the next day. Also, Bea had just finished regaling us with stories of how she and her barkada ended up one summer vacation in an island in Cebu when there was a massive brownout, and they had to survive for days without electricity and mobile phones and with just one vat of water for all of them to bathe in.
Using our cellphones as flashlights, we walked over to the lanai where the other guests were already having dinner. It was quite romantic, with just candles lighting up the place. Halfway through dinner, the lights came back on. Bea commented that she had enjoyed the candlelit dinner more. Still, I welcomed the return of electricity.
The beach at Hale Manna is rocky, not sandy, but there are kayaks to bring you to a floating raft where you can swim. I did this the first afternoon we were here, but preferred yesterday morning to just write at the Inspiration Point, the highest part overlooking the water while the children swam in the waters.
Hale Manna has several secluded areas facing the sea with bright red lounging chairs where you could laze all day. There are also cabanas, with mattresses and large soft pillows, set far from each other so that you could enjoy the serenity of the place. Despite several vehicles at the parking area, we hardly bumped into anyone, except for meal times when we would all congregate at the lanai.
Yesterday morning the children were bitten by jellyfish, so they came back early and we decided to go for an early lunch at Club Serena, two resorts away. CSR boasts of a sandy beach and more modern amenities, but there were a lot more people around. I prefer the quietness of Hale Manna as the houses are far apart from each other. We took a tricycle going there, and it was bumpy and dusty, an adventure in itself.
Arriving at Club Serena, we were warned that they were full and we would have a long wait. We decided to stay as the girls who had been there before were adamant we should try the suman with tsokolate and mango. It was well worth the wait, though it was way past 2pm before we had our first nibble. While waiting, the children played Places, Animals, Names and Things (PANT) while I sketched Niccolo and his girlfriend Sam from a photo I had snapped a week ago. Earlier that morning I did quick sketches of Bea and Cara at the house.
It was almost 3pm, and we wanted to pray. I tried accessing my mobile bible, but unfortunately, CSR did not have wifi and Globe Internet was spotty. I walked over to the bar and asked our amiable waiter Rolan if they had a bible we could borrow. He had one, he said with a smile, except it was in Bisaya, which only Cara would have understood. I went back to the table sad, but when I checked my phone, there was my mobile bible online!
Niccolo wanted to go back to Hale Manna to pray because CSR was a bit noisy, but we insisted to stay as the hour was near. Reverently, Niccolo read the book of Mark from the Last Supper to Christ’s death. As I listened intently, all the ambient noise drowned out, and I was there at Gethsemane witnessing Christ’s agony as the apostles slept, beside the anguished Peter as he realized he had denied the Lord three times, amongst the angry crowd as calls for crucifixion rang loud, beside Simon of Cyrene who was tasked to carry His cross, at the foot of the cross as Christ gave up His spirit, and beside His mother as she embraced His dead body. We were all quiet as Niccolo finished reading, each engrossed in her own thoughts.
We were aghast when we learned there were no more tricycles available for the return trip to Hale Manna. They had all gone home to observe Good Friday. We were worried about how Dada would be able to walk back to Halle Manna. Kind Rolan offered his vehicle, which could not carry all of us, so Niccolo and I walked back along the seashore. It was good to be with him alone, and we talked about plans for summer.
We slept siesta, then went back to the beach intent on going swimming by the raft, but the lifeguards refused to let us go, warning us that the current was very strong. Instead, we plopped down in one of the comfortable cabanas and shared stories, as we are wont to do when together. Soon, we were joined by Niccolo and Cara’s boyfriend Ramon who had arrived from Iligan. We stayed at the cabana until sundown. As we watched the sun go down, Bea asked, “with such beauty around you, how can anyone not believe in God?” We all agreed.
We turned in early because of the planned boat trip. And now, I have to stop writing and pack up as the boat has arrived.
12:00 nn. We’re back, and we just finished a delicious brunch of Arroz a la Cubana, Paksiw na Isda, and Ampalaya. The children and Dada have gone back to the house to sleep, and I once more have the lanai to myself.
I am so glad I joined the boat trip. There we were in the middle of the vast sea, basking in the early morning when the boatmen pointed to dolphins far away. We went nearer, and the playful dolphins decided to put up a show.
As the boatmen tethered the boat at Pescador and we were getting ready to jump in, I realized that in our excitement, we had forgotten to bring along life jackets. Cara, Niccolo and Ramon are all strong and confident swimmers and don’t need the life support. On the other hand, I am a floater, meaning I have a very difficult time diving, and I get nervous swimming in the open sea without a life jacket. Luckily, the boatmen were able to borrow two life jackets from another boat, one for Bea and another for me.
Once in the water snorkeling, I was lost in the beauty of the marine life teeming around me, sporting a myriad of colors unseen on dry land. Truly, there is a God, I thought! After Pescador, we traveled to another place where they said the turtles could be found. I was told to put on my life jacket as we would have to swim to where the turtles were.
As we were quite far from the shore, I worried about the drop off. As the bottom kept dropping and the water became darker and colder, I began to feel afraid, but then the kind boatman took my hand and led me swimming along the drop off, spotting turtles and pointing them out to me. Once in a while, he would let go of my hand, and Niccolo would take over. Soon, the excitement of seeing the huge turtles overcame my fear of the deep, and I happily relaxed, even getting over the sharp stinging I would feel once in a while as jelly fish brushed against me.
Our final destination was where the sardines were. Oh, and it was amazing! The school of silver sardines, why, there must have been millions of them, was like a gigantic ribbon undulating and pulsating in the sea as far as I could see. The water would alternate between very cold to warm as the sardines swarmed around us. It was truly an exhilarating and awesome experience! Mama Becky was right. It would be a pity to come to Moalboal and not see the marine life. Next time, I intend to swim with the whale sharks.
April 2, 3015. Here we are at NAIA 2, waiting at Centennial Airport. We woke up at 2am to make it in time for our 5am PAL flight to Cebu. Checking in was a breeze, a delightful surprise since we thought there would be a mad rush at the airport because of the long weekend.
It’s Holy Thursday. For the past 13 years, I’ve spent the Holy Week in Manila, serving as a lector in our parish. This time around, however, my daughters decided that we should all go on a fam trip to Moalboal. So here we are, Dada (my mom), Bea, Cara, Niccolo and me, off to a new adventure. My thoughts wander over to the church activities I would miss.
The Paschal Triduum, or the three days from Thursday morning to just before Easter Sunday is the busiest time for servant leaders. All the church bells are silenced, votive candles extinguished, and images of saints and the crucifix are removed or hidden behind violet cloth. The Paschal Triduum begins with Chrism Mass early Thursday morning when the Holy Oils are blessed and all the priests of the diocese renew their vow. After Chrism mass, it is customary for parishioners to have breakfast with their parish priest to show their gratitude and love for him. Later that day, we would celebrate the Mass of the Last Supper where priests go down on their knees to wash the feet of parishioners. This commemorates Christ’s actions on the night before he died, when he washed the feet of his 12 apostles, in so doing teaching them humility and servant leadership.
When I was a little girl attending mass at San Sebastian, I watched the Spanish parish priest wash the feet of 12 fellow priests, and wondered why. Are their feet dirty? Later, as the church became more inclusive and priests scarcer, common parishioners took on the role of the apostles. When we first moved to Southbay, our family was chosen as one of those to be washed. It took some convincing for Mike to agree, but Niccolo was excited to have his feet washed.
After the Mass of the Last Supper, we would do the Bisita Iglesia, a Catholic tradition of visiting seven churches and praying the Stations of the Cross, ending with spending time at the Altar of Repose to keep the Lord company in His time of agony. We always enjoyed this time, choosing which seven churches to go to and comparing the different altars of repose they put up.
At dawn on Friday, we would have the Community Way of the Cross, walking through the different Basic Ecclesial Communities (BECs) of the Ascension of Our Lord Parish, from Villonco to Southbay to Waterfun, Estrada 1 & 2, Aratiles, Mangga, Silangan, then Goodwill. When we first did this about ten years ago, I was a bit worried having to walk and pray in the developing communities, then genuflecting on the dirty streets, beside dogs and chickens. But this also opened my eyes to the circumstances of how other people lived, and I became more thankful of our many blessings, and also more open and understanding of the people around me.
At 3pm, we would have the Veneration of the Cross, the symbol of Christ’s suffering and love for us. We used to call this rite the Seven Last Words. This is a solemn rite where we relive the last hours of Christ’s passion and death on the cross. When the priest enters the church with the cross, stops three times and unveils it partially, he sings a biblical phrase. Fr. Didoy Molina, our beloved parish priest then, was absent when God gave the gift of beautiful voices, so when he attempted to sing, we all cracked up and started giggling.
There is no more consecration of the bread and wine at the mass that follows, but we would partake of communion with hosts blessed the night before during the Last Supper rites. We would then go home, but some of us would stay and keep the image of the Cristo Muerto company.
Black Friday, as we call the day that Christ died, is supposed to be a day of fasting, quiet and reflection on this passion and death. I still recall a time, I must have been three or four years old then, when Pepito and I were playing rowdily by the avocado tree in the backyard. Our mom came out and roundly spanked and scolded us to keep quiet. “Don’t you know that Jesus Christ is dead?,” she screamed at us in Spanish. We kept quiet, wondering who this Jesus Christ was and why he died. To a young child, the concept of death is difficult to grasp, more so when it is someone we don’t know.
Black Saturday is still supposed to be hush hush but come night, we would have a grand celebration as we celebrate Easter, or the resurrection of Jesus Christ. In our parish, we would congregate in the pitch black court outside the church. The bonfire is lighted and the priest would bless and light the Paschal Candle, saying “You are the alpha and the omega.” These words never fail to touch me, and bring home the message that God is our all in all, the beginning and the end, our Creator, the Almighty to whom we owe everything. And once again, I would be humbled as I am reminded of my nothingness and yet the grandness that God loves me and holds me in the palm of His hand.
The Easter Vigil mass is long and dramatic. It begins with us entering the dark church following the priest holding up the lighted candle. We listen to several readings followed by Psalms which are sung. The readings begin with Genesis, the story of creation, to when Abraham willingly follows the Lord’s command to sacrifice his only son Isaac to God. He is about to kill his son when he is stopped by an angel and told that God has blessed him for showing his faithfulness to the Lord. God then makes His solemn promise to bless Abraham with descendants more numerous than the stars of the sky or the sands along the beach, descendants who will be a blessing to all nations. The readings proceed to Exodus, or the triumphant flight from Egypt when the Israelites under the leadership of Moses and the guidance and protection of God cross the Red Sea and all of the pursuing Pharaoh’s chariots and charioteers are drowned.
I am usually assigned to read one of these first readings as they are the longest and most dramatic. But it is the second one I love the most. I put myself in Abraham’s shoes, and wonder if I would be as obedient as him. Imagine being told to kill your only son, the beloved son of your old age, and to offer him as a sacrifice to God. Give up Bea, or Cara or Niccolo? Arghhh! And yet, this is exactly what God did: send His only son, Jesus Christ to live and die on the cross to save us from our sins.
The following readings from Isaiah, Baruch and Ezekiel chronicle God’s faithfullness over the centuries to His covenant to take care of His people. We then have the Epistle and the readings from the Gospel. I love it when we sing the Gloria with all of the lights turned on, as we wave our white flags and ring our bells. Oh, what a glorious time it is as we rejoice that the Lord has risen!
The next day we would have the Easter Egg Hunt in our village. When my children were young, they would join the other children in the village and see who could collect the most eggs, especially the prized Gold and Silver eggs. Similarly, when we were young, my siblings and I would also go Easter Egg hunting in our yard. What fond memories Easter brings!
Oh, I will miss all of these rituals this Holy Week, but then I will be with my children and my mom. It is high time we have some family bonding. The children are grown up and soon they would have their own families. I hope and pray that we would still be able to celebrate Easter together in the years to come.
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