Rolls Royce and The Salvation Army

I first visited Hongkong in 1984. My American boyfriend wanted me to meet him there for the weekend because he was working in Guangzhou and I was living in Manila. It was my first trip outside of the Philippines and yes, I was 27 and never been away from the farm. Jerry made all the arrangements and you bet, it was always the best money can buy. I know that now.

Jerry told me to just follow the sign after I clear immigrations and customs and he would be outside the door waiting. I was so nervous I just wanted to see him and know he was there. And there he was just as he said. We headed towards a black car with a uniformed driver opening the door for us. He told me we were staying at the Peninsula. Ok, I have been to the Pen in Manila, but what do you call this car? I have not seen one like this. Rolls Royce, he said.
When we arrived at the hotel, he mumbled something about afternoon tea. I was not interested in tea or the afternoon --I was mesmerized by the "grandeur" of the hotel lobby. But back then my vocabulary was very limited I could not have used mesmerized and grandeur at the same time. It was more like “Wow! Damn, look at this sh..”
We got to the room, and the first thing Jerry said was " don't pack that robe in your suitcase when we check out, I am not paying for it" I did not notice the robe hanging in the bathroom until he mentioned it. Jerry is just so romantic that way.

Our room was overlooking the water with the view of the buildings across in the Hongkong side. Jerry took a picture of me looking out the window. He gets tickled, he says watching my eyes grow big from excitement. We ate and shopped. And after seeing all the Chinese trinkets on the sidewalk, the pearls and the 24 carat gold chains and bangles in every corner and no money of my own to buy, I hinted to Jerry that I needed a blender. See? It’s only 35 Hongkong dollars. But he said I don't need it. Then he bought me a Hermes scarf from the Hermes store. I never wore it, but I still keep it, just to remind me the difference between need and want.

In 1986 I married someone else, also an American, and in November 1997 for our 10th wedding anniversary, Don and I came to Hongkong. It was the first for Don but this time it is different because Don did not have money like Jerry. We stayed at the Salvation Army’s Booth Lodge. We checked in around 2 a.m. wide-awake, Don started humming Amazing Grace while I checked out the bathroom. Definitely not The Pen. Don’s always happy anywhere; we sat in bed singing hymns until we fell asleep. The lodges’ cafe was its’ redemption because it was like having a meal in your porch. One time while out shopping, we found ourselves sitting in a restaurant where no one spoke English but we did not want to leave because the food on other people’s plates made us salivate. We managed to order using our hand pointing at other people’s food. Food and shopping in Hongkong we love but the elbow-to-elbow crowd of people made me feel claustrophobic. In fact, when 9/11 happened, the pandemonium on the street of New York reminded me of one afternoon when Don and I were walking back to the lodge and people packed every street you could not walk fast if you wanted to. The first couple of days we were in Hongkong we learned to just duck into an eating-place, which is everywhere whenever the crowds overwhelmed us. One time we ducked into a jewelry store and came out with pearl earrings.
Don loved Hongkong but he loves the flight attendants of Cathay Pacific more. Even flying cattle class, Don always acted like he was eating in a Michelin-star restaurant. He would run the flight attendants rugged asking for this and that. I would remind him we were at 32000 feet- under the mercy of a pilot not pampered by a chef. He loved the Cathay Pacific attendants "because they are always pleasant and gentle unlike other airlines" is his standard line when he brags to our friends. "And they are sooo pretty." Now, that part ticked me off.

Don really enjoyed his first trip to Hongkong, that even during the SARS panic, he refused to fly on another airline. When we flew in 2003 to supposedly retire in Cebu, he was not well. As soon as we boarded, Don immediately flopped into his seat making the other seats next to him his own. We were told at the Cathay Pacific counter the plane was almost empty because people were afraid to fly because of the SARS.

In 2005 my daughter Chat and her husband John honeymooned in Asia with Hongkong as their jump off city to get back to the US. Chat liked Hongkong because of the shopping – she bought all kinds of imitation anything ( she gets the flu if she does not buy) and she loved the train system. She would love the horse and buggy too as long as it would take her to the mall. And John? He crinkles them lips and rolls his eyes. Yes, even with his almost real Rolex.

One day, We will all be

I have finally set up my office --right in the middle of my living room. I liked this apartment because it was brand new when I moved in, I also liked the niche that served as computer/office space. The smallness of it did not make me feel cramped but rather secure, yet, regardless of the things I like in it, it just don't feel homey. But today I am going to tackle the task of trying to make it one. I will attempt to make it look like someone actually lives here. But I will not be at peace til I share this article I have filed away more than 5 years ago. This was written by a physician and published by Focus on the Family; the brain-child of Dr. James Dobson. It still touches me.

“The Golden Rule, Revisited”

They lie there, breathing heavy gasps, contracted into a fetal position. Ironic, that they should live 80 or 90 years, then return to the posture of their childhood. But they do. Sometimes their voices are mumbles and whispers like those of infants or toddlers. I have seen them, unaware of anything for decades, crying out for parents long since passed away.

I recall one who had begun to sleep excessively, and told her daughter that a little girl slept with her each night. I don’t know what she saw. Maybe an infant she lost, or a sibling, cousin or friend from years long gone. But I do know what I see when I stand by the bedside of the infirm aged. Though their bodies are skin-covered sticks and their minds an inescapable labyrinth, I see something surprising. I see something beautiful and horrible, hopeful and hopeless. What I see is my children, long after I leave them, as they end their days.
This vision comes to me sometimes when I stand by the bedside in my emergency department, and look over the ancient form that lies before me, barely aware of anything. Usually the feeling comes in those times when I am weary and frustrated from making too many decisions too fast, in the middle of the night. Into the midst of this comes a patient from a local nursing home, sent for reasons I can seldom discern.
I walk into the room and roll my cynical eyes at the nurse. She hands me the minimal data sent with the patient, and I begin the detective work. And just when I’m most annoyed, just when I want to do nothing and send them back, I look at them. And then I touch them. And then, as I imagine my sons, tears well up and I see the error of my thoughts. For one day, it may be.

One day, my little boys, still young enough to kiss me and think me heroic, may lie before another cynical doctor, in the middle of the night of their dementia, and need care. More than medicine, they will need compassion. They will need someone to have the insight to look at them and say, “Here was once a child, cherished and loved, who played games in the nursery with his mother and father. Here was a child who put teeth under pillows, and loved bedtime stories, crayons and stuffed animals. Here was a treasure of love to a man and a woman long gone. How can I honor them? By treating their child with love and gentility. By seeing that their child has come full circle to infancy once more, and will soon be born once more into forever.”

This vision is frightful because I will not be there to comfort them, or to say, “ I am here” when they call out, unless God grants me the gift of speaking across forever. It is painful because I will not be there to serve them as I did in life, and see that they are treated as what they are: unique and wonderful, made in the image of the Creator, and of their mother and me. It is terrible because our society treats the aged as worse than a burden; it treats them as tragedies of time. It seems hopeless because when they contract and lie motionless, no one will touch them with the love I have for them, or know the history of their scars, visible and invisible. I am the walking library of their lives, and I will be unavailable. All I can do is ask, while I live, for Gods’ mercy on them, as they grow older.

And yet, the image has beauty and hope as well. Because if I see my little boys, as aged and infirm, I can dream that their lives were long and rich. I can dream that they filled their lucid years with greatness and love that they knew God and served Him well, and were men of honor and gentility. I can imagine that even if they live in their shadow land alone, somewhere children and grandchildren, even great-grandchildren thrive. I can hope that their heirs come to see them, and care, and harass the staff of the nursing home to treat Grandpa better. I can hope that they dare not allow my boys to suffer, but that they hold no illusions about physical immortality, and will let them come to their mother and me when the time arrives. And best, I can know that their age and illness will only bring the day of that reunion closer.

My career as an emergency room physician has taught me something very important about dealing with the sick and injured, whether young or old. It has taught me that the Golden Rule also can be stated this way: “Do unto others as you would have others do unto your children.” I think that this is a powerful way to improve out interactions with others, not just in medicine but in every action of our lives. And it is certainly a unique way to view our treatment of the elderly. For one day all our children will be old. And only if this lesson has been applied will they be treated with anything approaching the love that only we, their parents, hope for them to always have.
++++++++++++++++++O++++++++++++++++

Memories

I parked next to a white Kia at the farthest end of the library parking lot. I needed a place to hang out while waiting to see if my Guyana boys can get me in and fix my car. Raj said to come back later that day or bring it in on a weekday. "Today is just too crazy" Mahesh said with an embarrassed smile. Mahesh and Raj are brothers who work the shop while going to college. Mahesh also sells real estate on top of all that. Both boys are so so polite. I love them, I want them to succeed but I fear that if they get their college degrees they might not fix my car anymore. Who can I trust then?
The sun has not come out and it was starting to rain. Not wanting to go in the library and not wanting to go home, I decided to read the Dalai Lama's biography I had carried in my bag. I would read a page then I would close my eyes, romanticizing the few raindrops that escaped into my left arm. Oh, the raindrops! it transported me back to my childhood when I would sleep on top of the pile of the newly harvested corn which occupied our little house. The tin roof had holes and rusty too-the rust would fall with the raindrops. The corn without the husks, felt cool on my little body, but it was the dribble of the raindrops on my skin that left me poetic.

Then the rain stopped. I looked towards the Kia and I noticed that there was an elderly couple sitting inside. The woman in the drivers seat was reading a newspaper and the man was slouched on the seat with his eyeglasses on, asleep. I continued reading for another 20 minutes then decided I should leave and check on my Guyana boys, but something about the couple on the Kia made me reflect. Sadly. She was no longer reading the paper but was staring out. Her head cradled on the headrest, she would move her head once in a while then stare out again. The man was now awake but they were not talking. He, too, was staring out but comfortably. So why don't they go home?
I lingered because I needed answers. Then I remembered. For the same reason why Don and I did the same thing before. So many times.

My need to reconnect

I have a special attachment to foods or memory of foods. Before science found a way to spoil my dinner, foods really tasted like food. I say this with nostalgia because I remember my childhood in Cebu. Our house was surrounded with fruit bearing trees and they grew and produced without any aid of fertilizer or pesticides. I remember fruits oozing of the ripe smell. We had several mango trees and to make them bloom, we would burn fresh tree leaves under them. To protect the fruits from insects, we wrapped them individually with used newspaper. We bought the newspaper from the rich people. When it was time to make the mangoes bloom, my dad and I would hike up to the mountain to cut down some trees for burning. We dry the lower trunk and use them for firewood and the upper trunk with fresh leaves to smoke the mangoes. I learned to transport them with my bare hands and pull them efficiently; hold on to the biggest trunk and piggy back the smaller ones on top. Those were special times with my dad because he would buy sweet bread for my lunch while his is the poor mans meal of rice wrapped in banana leaves. Also, along the way he would let me climb and pick up some wild berries. One particular berry is the "lomboy". It is violet with white flesh and a hard seed. When ripe it gets real dark in color, plump and sweet, but leaves your tongue dyed in black-purplish color.
Now, everytime I am in Cebu, I would try to find them in the street market but I seldom find them and when I do, they are not plump nor are they sweet. So are the mangoes. I look for them not to eat, but mostly out of longing for the past. The "lomboy" has become almost extinct, while the mangoes are now grown abundantly and made to produce commercially.
A lot of grocery stores in Dallas sells mangoes, but I don't usually buy them because they are not the same variety as the one's I was used to--they are fibrous and does not turn yellow orange in color. The Asian market carries the Philippine variety but they are expensive and I only want it more out of nostalgia than wanting to eat it.
I like to take long walks by the creek behind my apartment. Thick cluster of trees and bushes with berries unfamiliar to me meanders with the creek. I look up to God, thank Him, and I smile to myself. The sight is my opiate for the day -regardless that I come home with swollen eyes and raw nostrils from the allergens.
Whenever I pass by the display of mangoes in the store (even when I am not buying) subconsciously I always stop- to stare or to touch. It is nostalgia, but, I have this need of wanting to romanticize the past.

Any Number will Do

"We know how old Martin was when the Japanese killed him" my uncle said it almost without emotion, "but the rest of us, we don't know our birthdays." My uncle was referring to his siblings. Martin is their oldest brother who was killed by the Japanese during world war II. My mom's name is Valentina , she told us her birthday is on Valentines day. When we asked how old she was she would give us an approximate. No one bothered to question her, because we don't celebrate hers or her kids birthdays anyway. I sure did not remember celebrating my own until I had a job. In the Philippines, the birthday celebrant is expected to treat people to food, unlike in America.
"Money is so tight to just spend it in one day" she would explain. She would inculcate in our heads to be glad just to have food on the table every day.
In our household Christmas and birthdays were just the same as any other day. Last August, I gathered my aunts and uncles (2 aunts, 2 uncles living) and I asked them about their birthdays. All four of them don't know! "How old do you think you are?" I asked in disbelief and amazement. "Well, our parents told us to count 2 years apart from the oldest and 4 years to the youngest one." I said that is fine, "but what year do you start with?" They believed Martin was born in 1911. As we were talking, I was amazed at how unimportant or unsymbolic their birthdays meant to them. Since nothing special is done on anyone's birthday, why care? "So how old was my mom when she died? " All four of them started talking at the same time and giving their best guesses. Their best guess was what they had come to accept. So we figured 80 is about right. She would have been 39 when she had me. I am the youngest of 5 siblings and I came 7 years after the 4th one. They did not expect to have another baby. Make sense why I was called a "precipitate" in the family.
"So how come my mom knew her birthday is on Valentines day?" I pressed on. "It was later in our adult years that we made it up, because her name rhimes with Valentines day." They said matter-of-factly. My grandparents did not believe in them sitting in the shade learning how to read and write when they should be growing food in the field. None of them were born in the hospital and none of them went to school, so that eliminated the need for a birth certificate. They did have a baptismal certificate because every Catholic baby has to be baptized or the witch will snatch the baby away from your house. My grandparents were not church-going people but the long arm of the Catholic law had a chokehold on them.

When I first got married a baptismal certificate was required as I did not have a birth certificate. I went to the church registrar where an old lady flipped through this black book with yellowed pages and edges that looked like it was chewed on by some bugs. She could not find my records so I told her when I was told I was born and when I was baptized. (Catholic baptism) Back then, before computers, a bribe was cheaper. It did not bother me that they could not find my records. I never was one to put a special meaning on birthdays anyway- my parents attitude must have rubbed on me.
But lately, as my 50th birthday is approaching, I ponder. Not pondering because I suddenly think birthdays are special, but because ,I feel turning 50 is. Also, after my sister died at 45, every year after I turned 45, I considered it to be a bonus from God. I used to question my being born at all, but now I am confident that I have a purpose built in me by God. As He told Jeremiah in the Old Testament, "Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you." So before they carve my tombstone and inscribe my date of birth and my date of expiration, I want to make sure I fill in the dash. Not with wishes but with accomplishments. And 50 is as good as any number to start with.

Amen Corner and ....

"Some emotions cannot be endured with a golf club in your hand" - a quote from Bobby Jones regarding his temper and club-throwing. I know what he meant because as we were approaching the Amen Corner, (hole 11, 12 and 13) the emotions bubbling up inside me could only be endured with tears, as no words were good enough to justify what I felt.

I feel embarassed by my reaction, but, it was like entering heaven and saying, " I made it, I am saved after all." Almost like a religious experience. And I am not alone in thinking that because the next day when we met with some touring pros from Asia, a guy named Chua expressed the same feelings and observation without me even telling him about my own experience. In 1958, Herbert Warren Wind, a journalist with Sports Illustrated coined the word Amen Corner in search of a perfect name for the location where the critical action was taking place that year. A poetic moment in golf and all a journalist could do is borrow an old jazz recording title "Shouting from Amen Corner" to describe it.

In the early 80's, while still in Manila, my friend NJ and his friend JC would fondly banter about "green jacket, amen corner and tee time." I knew what tee time meant, but did not relate green jacket and amen corner to golf. Augusta,I presumed was another racehorse.

So you can imagine, when 25 years later, my pumas walked the grounds of Augusta, surveyed Amen Corner and the men in green jackets. "When you see men in green jackets, it means they are members of this club." NJ relayed the trivia to me almost in a whisper. And NJ is not one to waste saliva on things that he himself is not impressed with.I noticed a few more "green men" strategically scattered along the course and I watched them almost with a reverential awe.

Those men walked around in that jacket like how the Pope strut in his mitre. That jacket sure did something because there's this man who was square,round and not tall--we would easily call him fat and ugly, were it not for the reverence of the jacket. But watch my lips on this, I will not bend a knee for that Gucci spectacled, Prada footed man in the Vatican regardless how many Roman numerals are added after his name. But I will with both knees for those men in green jacket. Square or round.

I did not appreciate the trees we had in our yard when we lived in a house, because spring means raking in dead leaves and tons of them. I like trees as long as I don't have to clean up after them. And walking around the course were young men in yellow overalls and green cap-you would think they were caddies badly needing attention, but their backs says "Litter". Yes, they were cleaning up after the people..... and the trees. Arranging pine needles.

The most abundant tree at the course is the pine and around 1600 azaleas of about 30 varieties landscaped hole number 13 from tee to green. Each of the holes are adorned with a plant after which it was named . It could not be more appropriate because the course used to be the site for Fruitland Nurseries. Since the course was built and formally opened in 1933, an estimated 80,000 more plants of 350 varieties have been added. I was awestruck at the landscape I did not even notice the Tiger approaching the 11th tee. And just as he was a spit away from me, my camera battery died on me. I cried again.

On my flight back to Dallas I read in the paper about some woman protesting about Augustas' exclusionary policy against women. I understand there are merits to this so-called feminists' movement. But all I am asking is, are we ready to see men waltzing into the womens restrooms and let them use the sink as a urinal, while we are powdering our high noses next to them? Equal opportunity ---I think I am going to cry again.

The Masters

To say I had the best time in Augusta is only half the story. I don't remember why or how I fell in love with golf. As a young girl, part of my house chore was to take our carabao to pasture. It is important that the carabao eats well because it supports the family by plowing the field. I would be perched on its back feeling tall with the wind blowing in my face as it took me to a greener pasture, the Cebu Country Club. We lived next to the only golf course in the island and I would take my carabao there because the grass next to the fairways were always green and abundant. Most days, when I found stray golf balls, (mostly from the Japanese golfers) I would collect them and take them home for my brother to break open and pry out the small bouncing rubber ball inside. We had no use for the golf balls as we didn't have any friends who played golf-we had no rich friends. But we could play with the bouncing little rubber ball.
Fast forward to a few years later, I got a job, moved to Manila and acquired an American boyfriend to boot. Besides drinking, he loved to scuba dive but talks and breath golf most of the time when he was not talking about a "racehorse." Translation : good looking women.
One afternoon he took me to this country club called Wack-Wack, to claim his prize; a thermos bottle. My first time inside a country club so I tried to act like how people act in a country club. Like I'm used to it. It did not feel right --feeling tall even without the carabao?

Twenty five years later, the now ex-boyfriend, ex-golfer, took me inside the grounds of Augusta National for the 2007 Masters. I was overwhelmed with emotions I could not come up with the right words to justify what I felt. I was elated for the experience of being inside, but also, there was this tinge of emotion that was hard to discern. When he put his arm over my shoulder to point my attention to the pine needles neatly raked in to an almost decorative pile, I felt a different surge of emotion. The momentary weight of his arm on my shoulder was comfortable. I felt at home.

It was great watching the pros'- the heralded and the unheralded do the practice rounds . It was fun eavesdropping on peoples conversation too. One woman asked her husband what Tiger Woods babys' name was. He didn't remember, he said. Came to find out, Tigers wife is not even due til July. As we got to our seats at the bleachers, 2 men sat in front of us. I got hungry watching them eating eating an egg salad sandwich and pimiento cheese sandwich. But then the other guy started talking out loud about everything; from his homosexual neighbor to global warming. If they pay him 150k, he would find global warming, he assured his buddy. I did not know you are supposed to find global warming. His annoying subjects turned my hunger into anger, but in that environment I found it hard to really be angry and mean it.

Inside the Augusta National, there was much to savor. My eyes could only look at so much and my heart can only feel so much. I am just now beginning to describe them in my minds eye and gently trying to preserve the pitter- patter in my heart. Gently, least I wake up.

I flew in to Atlanta and drove to Augusta on a rent a car. This whole experience was (for lack of a better word) like a "booster shot" for me. You see, I have always wanted to go to another State outside of Texas and rent a car. To a lot of Americans, that is nothing, but to me that is something more like jumping out of the plane and operating a parachute for the first time. Driving is not the problem, I can drive in any kind of traffic and in any kind of freeways...using a map to direct me was the hurdle. Reality is what you perceive it to be, right? I perceived it to be a big problem. .. but only in my mind, because the whole experience was really a breeze. And this brings home the point that "defeat starts in the mind, of the things we worry about, less than 1% of it really happens".

Even though I booked my car through the web, I had to stop by their counter at the airport to sign some papers. The male clerk, had a wedding ring on, but acted so gay...not gay as in "happy". He kept suggesting that the car I had rented through the web which was a compact, was too small, making a gesture with his fingers like a salt pinch and squinting his eyes at the same time, describing the car as "very small to drive long distance". "GS6 is very nice, sporty" he says this with a gay smile. I don't like sporty, what else is there? He could not come up with any other model but mentions Corolla then taps his head with that gay hand gesture again and apologetically says he needs coffee to remember the other kind of cars they have. Don't under-estimate the power of suggestion; I drove out of there 90 dollars poorer. I got on the shuttle and as we drove in to the lot, I saw the different kinds of car spread across the property. I had to stop by the office to pick up my GPS. Yes, no map. Global Positioning System, that's what I should use, my boyfriend insisted. I am 2 continents away from being a techie, but my boyfriend is. At 12 years old when he was laid up in the hospital for an appendics problem, he got hold of an electronics magazine and a rush of enzymes whispered and burned in his heart the passion that God had placed in him from his mothers womb. Electronics Engineer, is not his title; that is who he is.

Out of the many choices of cars in the lot, I drove out of the lot in a silver GS6-- sporty, yes, but not "middle age crisis" sporty. I asked the exit clerk how the GPS works, she said as soon as I start driving it will start talking to me. But it kept quiet even after I turned the corner from the exit booth. I turned right and had no choice but turn left at the end, then it started talking. It directed me out of the airport complex to the main highway and out into I-20. As I was driving and wondering when the voice would come on next, I realized that driving with a GPS in a totally new environment, is like driving blind while able to see. Or doing something like a robot would. I then understand why God created us with a free will and promised that He would not violate that free will. Not knowing any other way to get to Augusta, I had to follow the voice. When I started, I did not know if I could really trust the GPS, but after the voice in that box got me out of the airport maze and put me on I-20 heading east, I started to let go and let the GPS direct me to 2799 Henry Street in Augusta. During those 2 hours drive, I was listening to the voice of my boyfriend on the cell phone while the female voice of the GPS would come on intermittently. The 2 voices comforted me immensely, but I worried that the battery of my cell and the GPS would die out on me. When I surrendered my will and my life to God 12 years ago, I did not fully trust God either. I don't always hear Gods' voice, and when I do, I still question it, if it is really Him speaking. But one thing I know; on my best day He gives me great joy, on my worst day, He walks me through it. "Turn right and stop at final destination" the female voice echoed again. I have arrived! Both batteries lasted but I know it was neither of the audible voices that got me there.

The Lawyer

He is 65 years old, she is 19. His skin touching yellow, dragging so slow as he walks and with sunken eyes you would think that he is on his death bed were it not that he is sitting up in his office chair talking loud, peppering his speech with bits and pieces of curse words.
" I used to think Angelina Jolie is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, but not anymore, she fell on the wayside compared to my baby in the Philippines" He was not in the least bit interested in talking about my friends legal case. My friend hired this lawyer to defend him, but anytime my friend asked him legal questions, he would dismiss it with a shrug of the shoulder. All he wanted to talk about was this 19 year old girl that he met when he went to the PI three weeks ago.

When my friend hired this lawyer in November, they got to talking about Filipino women. The lawyer got very interested, did not waste time and got on the plane for the Philippines to meet the 2 women that my friend introduced to him through email. I know both of the women, one is 30 years old the other 24. I had not met this lawyer but only heard about him through my friend so when the 2 women asked me about this lawyer, all I said was " see for yourself and pray about it."

One of them is about to become a whirlwind mail order bride. The women are desperate to come to America, the lawyer is desperate for a wife. He is on a liver transplant waiting list. Whoever he would choose between the 2 will be ok, no hurt feelings, my girlfriends told me. He arrived and they met him. The 30 year old was the one who met him first.
"Eeewww, he is gross, and he is very demanding." First email.
"Everybody laughs at us, he is disgusting, I am too sexy for him." Second email.
I tried to be funny in my response, "can you lower your standard a little bit, your age is about to get out of the calendar range," " No way, I will just stay in the Philippines and be an old maid, or I will go to Saudi Arabia, work as a maid." Last email.

I did not hear from her anymore or from the 24 year old. We waited til the lawyer got back and I went with my friend to see him. My friend went to ask some more questions about his case for the coming trial, and I went with him because I am nosy.
My friend was mostly talking to the secretary and making sure things were noted as they should. It was a good idea because the lawyer was sitting there but I really think he was not all there. " I want to show you pictures of my baby, I am in love!" he blared, turning for affirmation from his secretary, " tell them, have you ever heard me say that I am in love in the 26 years you have worked for me? never, right?" His secretary tried to summon the right words, but could not. "Aahh, yes."

My friend and I never really asked the question, who the girl was, we were waiting for him to tell us but my friend could not stand it anymore, he had to ask because neither one of us knew about this new development and our now obviously rejected 24 and 30 year old friends did not tell us about this either. Maybe they were just glad to get him off the island. Not only was he foul mouth and cocky, he makes you think that his money buys him the license to be.

The secretary handed us a lot of pictures of the lawyer and our 2 friends and some other people they were having meals with. I asked which one is his "baby" and the lawyer or the secretary had a hard time pointing to which one in the group. Finally we got to the solo picture of the 19 year old. " She is pretty," my friend and I chorused. " She is very beautiful and I am in love."
We found out she is a cousin to the 24 year old. I got curious, " how are you going to get her here? It is very hard for her to come here unless you petition her to become your wife."
His answer floored me. " I am not going to marry her, I don't believe in marriage, but I am a multi-millionaire. I will bring her here and send her to language school."

I tried to be funny -"You mean accent school?" He did not like that I have to correct him, or perhaps his sense of humor went down with his liver. "No, I am sending her to language school, so she can speak big words." I don't know when to shut up, so I continued, "Naah, just let her sit in front of the tv, she will learn big words real quick that way" "No, I am sending her to language school, I have money." I knew he would not let me have the last word, so I shut up.

But honestly she really will not need language school. I figured after a week of sitting next to the lawyer watching tv, she would come up with big words or maybe a full sentence like " That's retarded. Stop bossing me or I unplug your oxygen."
And after 6 months, she will move on to learn bigger words and use it in a sentence like, " Yes, your honor, I am the wife and beneficiary. And no, he did not commit suicide."

February 14

It has been a few weeks that I have not had the inspiration or maybe I should just admit - no energy to hit the keys and pound on my brain to blog! But tonight I want to write a few words to summarize my night. Today is February 14!!! And no - I do not have a Valentine, so after work, I came home and ate dinner from left overs of a week ago and went to church. I have stopped going to Wednesday night service but tonight I have signed up to help in the children's ministry. I often said that I don't do kids, but since my experience with the kids in Cebu last year, I felt that God wants me to serve here too. I arrived just in time to meet Angel and Jackie, the husband and wife team who leads the Childrens ministry. They let me observe first then asked me to help with little things like giving out the toys or checking their work about the bible. In the beginning, during the worship and singing, I noticed that the kids are very well behaved inspite of their being typical kids; active and loud. There were more than 30 kids but one boy in particular I think had a sack of sugar for dinner. He was using his thighs as drums then he would jump then beat on the chair and was really enjoying himself. The boy next to him, caught some of his energy too but was pretty mild compared to him. They sang a song that was written by this boy named Ezekiel, and the drummer and the guitarist really produced a good melody to it. You can tell Ezekiel was pretty proud after they sang the song.
I was pretty proud of myself too, because I found myself really enjoying the kids, when I used to be annoyed with their noise and chatter. I am not maternal and I don't think I am good with kids, but more and more I am now beginning to understand why God gives us kids---to help us understand why inspite of our disobedience He still loves us. One kid was trying to cheat his way to get a reward and demanded what I should give him while another kid was very meek and tried to explain to me that he did his homework but could not find the book, could he please get his reward. As I stood back during the break and observe silently, I realized that if God can be so patient with us adults, why are we so easily mad at kids misdemeanor?
My adrenalin was pumping from the chattering and shouting of the kids in that room but as I was leaving, one boy shyly asked me if I wanted a valentines card. Before I could even say yes, he put it in my hand and ran away. It was not even a valentines card, but a sports card and he wrote his name on it. I did have a Valentine after all..thank you, Andrew.