NanayNette on Shelfari

By the way, people, have you checked out Shelfari yet? It's quite cool, sort of like Facebook or MySpace but for bookworms. If you've got time and broadband, I do suggest you take a look round, see who else you know is a Shelfarian and perhaps even build your own bookshelf. If you're one of the ten people on this planet who reads my blogs, you might also be interested in looking at the books I've read or are currently on my reading list. Just right-click here to open in a new window.
I don't normally pay attention to casual invites to join online networks since I'm already having trouble remembering my various usernames and passwords, but Shelfari sounded different, so I joined up. It's nice to be connected to fellow booklovers and to get ideas on what books to read next. Sometimes I just dip into my friends' bookshelves and see what books they like, what books they recommend, what books we like in common. The whole concept behind Shelfari is so simple, I'm surprised no one thought of it before.

Autumn Rocks

Fall's coming, I can feel it.

I always know when Autumn is around the corner when the wind starts to nip my fingers and ears, and this morning, bright and early, it nipped. Autumn is coming, with Winter soon on its heels, and when it comes it will never be, to my mind, too late. I guess I never want Summer to end. Who does, right?

But having my birthday right bang in the middle of the Autumn Equinox is kinda cool, I think, as it signals a change in the seasons, a new beginning. Hasn't always been so. At first, for the past two years, I thought of it as depressing for my birthday to annually be the necessary herald of the stark frozen winter days to come, but now I think of it coming, not at the end of summer, but at the beginning of fall. The beginning of the most beautiful and colourfully awesome time of the year, when the leaves turn gold and yellow and orange in a bright rage of mature defiance. Not languishing for a raw spring or a green summer that's come and gone too quickly, but rejoicing in the rich, triumphant kaleidoscope which the passing seasons have brought quietly on.

All this is sort of like me at my time of life: the now-quiet, more-pensive, mellowed-down, middle-aged (!) thirtysomething Me I never thought I'd be. But truly, given a choice, I'd much rather be 36 than 16 or 26. So I'm determined to enjoy this stage of my life and revel in it, rejoice in it, embrace it, cherish it while it's here. Like everything around us, it too is fleeting.

Autumn rocks. I love it. It's so me.

Trusting and Asking

If you want to make God laugh, said Fr. Chris at Mass this morning, tell Him your plans.

I had to smile at the thought. It's true, though. All our best-laid plans, our hopes and dreams, our short-term and long-term goals, all are nothing but crude, unsystematic impulses of thought and emotion when compared to God's elegant, infinite, all-encompassing tapestry of blessing and fulfillment, His masterplan for each living individual, brought together in His all-seeing will for the whole universe.

What an awesome thought. Too big for my tiny brain to comprehend. Much too big, especially on a warm, lazy Sunday afternoon.

But really, it's true. No matter what I plan for myself, for my life, my future, God still manages to outdo me in securing the best possible outcome. His plans for me turn out so much better than my own pathetic attempts at goal-setting. Not that I should stop organising my life, setting three-year goals and having a mission statement and all that. But it is sort of wonderful to know that if and when I bungle it up, as all mortals are wont to do at some point or other, if I overlook something, botch my plans, forget to factor in something unexpected, then His plan is still there to save the day. As long as I don't struggle against it, that is. As long as I submit my will to His, and abandon my desires to His plan for me. As long as I trust in Him to lead me, and not to impose what I want, or what I think I need, on His unfolding plan for my life. As long as I don't wrench the steering wheel away from Him and foolishly insist on driving in unknown territory.

Trusting God. If there is something I need to master before I finally become worthy enough of heaven, this is it. Someday I hope the Church will assign one of Heaven's citizens as the official patron saint of all stubborn-but-hopefully-getting-there disciples who find it hard to trust God or other people. When that happens, I will be first in line in asking that saint for help! Trusting the Lord with all my heart, by far, is the most difficult act, the most impossible feat that He has ever asked me to do. It's not that easy for me to strip my defenses away and make myself vulnerable to Him, to submit my tomorrows, my dreams, into His hands, to be led, often blindfolded, over unfamiliar terrain, towards a mysterious and unseen destination, without even an estimated time frame for pitstops or our final arrival!And just when I think I'm beginning to get the hang of this whole Trust issue, something happens, and bam!... I'm back to square one. Well, not really square one, but on the same x-axis point in the spiral from which I started, but one level higher on the y. Pardon the gobbledegook, been brushing up on maths lately. Anyway, hopefully you guys know what I mean about the spiral, about going up from one level to another in the matter of Trusting.

For instance, just when I thought I was getting pretty good at Trusting God for His plan for my life as a single woman, and everything was calm and peaceful, and the universe was "unfolding as it should" under the tender eye of God, all at once I find that I'm a wife and mum, and that it's a gazillion times harder to entrust the lives of my husband and children into His hands, as well. To believe that He loves them and has a perfect plan for them, too. It's easy enough to accept it in my mind, but it's harder to make it actually sink into my heart, to make it a daily, practical reality, this Trusting thing. And I'm well past the theory of Trusting, I think. I've heard all the talks, read most of the stories, heard how others have done it. Now I'm in experimental laboratory work already. I've thunk it all out, now I've got to actually do it.

I was struck by something else in the Gospel today: Ask and you shall receive. The whole idea of Asking is one of my character weaknesses. See, I think I don't ask enough. Like Trusting, Asking has always been an issue for me. As a child, I was never one to ask for toys or books or dolls. Somehow, the "bilmoko" gene must have gone missing from my DNA at birth. But before you build me a pedestal and praise me for my virtue, let me tell you why I consider this more of a fault than anything else. Not Asking is one of my defences. If I don't ask, I don't owe. It's not a virtue, I think, but rather more of an insidious form of pride and self-reliance, a desire to be free from anyone's good will and generosity, and to strive for things on my own.

But the Lord is my Father, and He delights in hearing me ask from Him. He takes pleasure in my reliance on Him. I give Him joy when I come to Him with my needs, saying, "Lord, I need this, but I can't get it myself, only You can do it for me. Can you please help?" Not that He glories in His power over me, absolutely not, although He is entitled to do that, if He wanted to. But He's not that sort of parent. Asking doesn't demean the Asker by glorifying the Asked. Asking creates an invisible link which bonds both the Asker and the Asked in a true and loving relationship, a commitment, a covenant. Asking removes my defences from Him, makes me vulnerable to Him, exposes my desires, opens my heart to His loving kindness. It's not about being greedy, about wanting blessings, about seeking prosperity. It's about putting God in His rightful place in my life, and putting myself where I ought to be: on my knees, at His feet, under His wing. It's about making Him God over me, about admitting that He is wiser and more powerful than me, about making Him my Shepherd and my Father, acknowledging Him as my Lifesource and Provider. As one worship song says, it's about seeking the Giver, and not the Gift.

How long has it been since I truly Trusted God with my life and with my future, in simple childlike abandonment and with anxiety-free knowledge that all will be well?

How long since I last Asked Him in confidence, submission and humility for anything truly important to me?

I come to You, Lord, once more as Your child. Teach me to Trust You and to Ask. Amen.

Looking At The Stars

Ever since I can remember, I have been fascinated by the wonders of space. Call me a geek, but it's true. I had always wanted to study astronomy (astrophysics, in particular) in university, but never got to, living in a developing country with a curriculum more geared towards business and the "practical" sciences. At the time, studying astronomy abroad just for the sake of it seemed a self-indulgent pleasure that neither I nor my parents could afford.

I enjoyed chemistry in high school, thanks to a wonderful teacher (Miss Tess Santos) who opened my eyes to the art and the beauty which lies beyond the science of chemistry. And I thought I was pretty good in maths, too. So I studied chemical engineering in university.

But the more I studied it, the more I realised it was not for me. It was such a pollutive field, these chemical process and manufacturing industries, and so man-made. But I did discover that I had a heart for the environment through one of the ChE courses I took: Waste Management/Intro to Environmental Science. If I could have shifted courses and gotten a degree in Environmental Sciences then, I would have, but inertia proved too strong to battle.

And then I started studying for an MSc in Environmental Studies. I finished all my coursework with high grades and got a high pass on my comprehensive exams, but have yet to begin my thesis, since I took an extended study leave right after my son was diagnosed. But it was during that period that I discovered meteorology, climate studies, the physics of the atmospheric environment. I realised that atmospheric physics (e.g. climate modelling, global warming issues) is probably what I wanted to put my energy into in the future, out of all the urgent and important environmental concerns today, like solid waste, water pollution, renewable/alternative energy, resource recovery, recycling and what not. But I realised that the institution where I was studying Environmental Studies would not be able to support me in this goal, since they do not have the facilities or the research infrastructure for atmospheric sciences.

Late last year, I applied for the PhD programme of one of the leading UK research institutions in meteorology and the atmospheric sciences. They rejected my application, saying that my five-year Philippine BSc in Chemical Engineering with a "magna cum laude" attached to it was not the equivalent of a UK honours degree, which was required for admission into the programme. My Philippine degree was judged to be just an ordinary UK degree, according to their assessment. Their educational system is quite different here, as you may have guessed by now. The Philippine higher education honours system is more similar to that of the US, with its laudes and all. Here in the UK, they have no clue what a "magna cum laude" degree means. So I was not eligible for a funded place on the PhD programme in Atmospheres, Oceans and Climate, but I was invited to take the one year MSc, provided I could pay my own way. Ten thousand pounds (PHP 1M) for an MSc? From my own husband's pocket? No way! We have children to feed and rent to pay.

I was crushed by the news, initially. It was a blow to my intellectual pride and my already-wobbly unemployed housewife's self-esteem, I suppose, but any rejection, when distilled properly by the Lord through prayer, produces a very raw, pure dose of humility which strengthens character for life. As my wise and loving husband said to me, "Do not think of it as a rejection, but a re-direction from the Lord." If He wanted me to get into that PhD programme, it was within His power to do so. But that would have meant uprooting my family and moving to a different city, and God probably thought it was not the right time to do that. He loves me, and knows what's best for me. It was a very clear "No, not yet" from a loving God. He has a better plan.

But I have lately been getting the itch to study again, though, especially since our youngest started going to nursery and I have been enjoying a couple hours a day to myself. So I looked at the website of the UK's well-respected Open University (a leading institution on distance learning) and discovered that they are offering a free 10-point course called "Science Engineering and Technology: A Course for Women Returners." It's an online, distance-learning course meant for women with a background in science, engineering or technology, women who have had to take a career break to raise kids, women who want to return to the field and use their SET skills again. I reserved a place on it, and now the registration papers are sitting on my desk, waiting to be filled up and posted back. I am quite excited about it, but it's a pity, for apart from a tight cluster of long-distance friends, I have no one else to tell and be excited with me.

I have been looking at the OU's website in more detail and I see that they offer credit transfer for previous study. I'm planning to apply for this, using both my BSc and MSc from the Philippines, and use it towards a second undergrad degree, most probably a BSc honours degree in Physics, with courses geared towards astrophysics and atmospheric physics. I'm not sure about this yet, I'm not certain if we can afford it, since I do not bring in any income to our tight household budget, but if I can get some major help from the OU in paying for the fees, I would register for this degree in a heartbeat.

Then what? A research career in atmospheric physics or astrophysics, probably, when the children are both old enough to be in school all day. A PhD? Only God knows, and I am content to take it one day at a time, to wait quietly for His will to unfold in my as-yet-earth-bound life.

For now, though, I am content just to be part of an exciting Galaxy Zoo project which I read about yesterday on BBC. I help astronomers by categorising some of their 1 million satellite images of farflung galaxies, just by going online and looking at the pictures.

Anything to keep me looking at the stars.

My Second Spring

I took this photo on a recent day out in the lovely English countryside. The four of us had just taken a ride on a real steam engine in Leighton Buzzard Railway, and as it was a sunny spring afternoon, the warmest day of the year thus far in Britain, we decided to treat ourselves to some ice cream.

So out came the picnic mat (which is always, ALWAYS stored in the boot, just in case) and we all kicked off our shoes, sprawled out over the grass and happily enjoyed our ice cream in the shade of a large tree.

As I lay with my boys under its widespread branches, wondering how old this tree was and feeling drowsy in the uncommon warmth, my eyes looked up and saw this: new leaves, freshly unfurled, bright green and alive with anticipation. And these leaves sprang out from the old gnarled branches of the old gnarled tree, with its lined, weather-beaten bark encasing a rough and sturdy trunk. The contrast was breathtaking, and led me to reflect...

This is my second spring in England, and inasmuch as my first UK spring meant, for the most part, that I had triumphantly survived my first UK winter, this year is different for me somehow. I now find myself looking around me, seeing the daffodils, tulips and cornflowers bloom, as if for the first time. I look at my favourite trees on my daily walk, and appreciate what the seasons mean for them. I have seen them everyday, all year long. I have lost count of all the different shades of green that I see in our garden in just a single day. Now I see what spring is like.

For a girl brought up in a tropical, wet-and-wetter country, living out the four seasons of a year has been a tremendous learning experience. It still is. Reading about spring, summer, autumn and winter in books is sooooo different from actually feeling it happening around you, seeing how nature responds to the changes of the seasons. I marvel at all these changes as a bystander, an observer, all the while thinking of home, and how strange and un-home all THIS still is to me.

So on that day in Leighton Buzzard, as I looked up and saw this old English tree unfurling this year's new leaves from the same branches it has had since its youth, I had a startling thought: Nette, this could be you.

Me? Warm, sunny, tropical, sampaloc-tree me? Like this aloof, unfamiliar, temperate region tree? How so?, I asked myself.

Like this tree, I reflected, I sometimes look and feel the weight of years gone by. Mistakes, regrets, ghosts of past wrongs. This tree has stood and seen much throughout its life, and yet, each autumn it sheds its old leaves and grows new ones in spring. No matter what has happened in its past, it always faces forward with hope, it anticipates its renewal, year in and year out, as Mother Nature strips away the unbecoming brown and replaces it with young green.

There stands hope, and there stands renewal.

Have you ever seen a new leaf growing on an old tree? If you have only ever lived in a two-season place, probably not. I know that the only time I ever saw new leaves back home was on young trees and saplings, and in MetroManila pollution, even they didn't stay fresh and untainted for very long.

So I looked at this tree above me, and I looked in particular at its leaves. The lines of the leaves were clean, each leaf fluttered in the breeze, untouched by anything except the wind, the sun and the rain. No unsightly folds, no gashes, no marks on its surface. Just smooth, clean lines on a smooth, clean green. On each leaf an intricate pattern of life and of hope.

No wonder, then, that the word "lent" means "spring." Each Lent, we become like that tree. Our old and withered branches-- tired and drooping from years of work, study, sadness, pain-- are suddenly covered with new leaves of untouched purity, bringing fresh life, fresh hope, fresh joy, fresh expectation. Each Lent, our Lord renews us and makes us young again, taking away the past, wiping the slate clean, giving us a fresh start, a chance to once again begin.

Like many of you, I am in constant need to be reminded of that; I need to re-discover the grace of God, the gift of new beginnings.

And on that particular spring day, it only took a tree to remind me of the love of God for me: fresh but unchanging, firm but forgiving, wise and ancient, full of hope and surprises.

So when I feel tired, old, hopeless, bogged down by guilt, sin, rejection or failure, I simply think of that tree, and my heart lightens.

And sometimes, you know, when I keep very very still, I can almost feel the fresh springtime breeze of the Spirit, playfully ruffling the young, green leaves of my weary soul, making them dance.

Finally Driving My Family...

...and not just up the wall, mind you. Well, pardon the naivete but I don't mind telling you that it still feels absolutely exhilarating to me. I've been driving B to school and back for two weeks now, and each time I am filled with gratitude for the car that was given to us, for the mobility we have, for the freedom to go to serve and attend evening Church services, especially as Holy Week approaches. The sense of newness and excitement behind the wheel will soon fade, I am told, and I might soon find driving to be a chore or a tiresome routine, but I really do pray that I won't. I really hope I won't forget how generous God has been to us in giving us a car. At any rate, if any of you catch me complaining about driving, I happily give you leave to knock me on the head and say, "Hey, shut up and give thanks for the car, you ungrateful amnesiac! Count your blessings!"

And blessings there have truly been. The first week after we got the car, the UK experienced a sudden cold snap--- bitter cold, snowy weather, wind to freeze the marrow in your bones. I thanked God--- continually, profusely, repeatedly, until His divine ears must have fallen off--- for sparing B from having to walk to and from school in that horrible weather, and to me, it was a concrete, undeniable example of God's insane, practical and unbelievable love for B and our whole family. He KNEW the cold snap was coming, and so he sent us the car the weekend prior. His timing was impeccable! And I swear, only three short words were constantly playing in my mind like a looped digital banner that whole week: "Thank You, God... Thank You, God... Thank You, God..."

Last weekend, for the first time, I drove the whole family down to West London--- a 68-mile return journey through village roads, the motorway and the city streets of London. Reaching peak speeds of 70mph on the motorway, navigating the complex junctions and roundabouts of London and getting through heavy, creeping traffic was no mean feat for a week-old driver like myself. Thanks to O's capable navigating, we stayed on course and didn't get lost. Who needs a GPS SatNav when husbands can read maps, too? Anyway, I was so incredibly ecstatic at my humble mini-achievement that I must admit, once we got back, I did allow myself a passing moment of pride in my little accomplishment, before senselessly collapsing in a tired and trembling mass of jelly arms and putty legs on the bed!

What This Car Means To Me

You may not believe this, but there are still some very generous people left on this planet.

Take the Thoelkes. A handsome, godly pair of grandparents, members of Antioch community who prayerfully decided to give us their old car once I passed my driving test last year. Yes, not sell, not lend-- GIVE. As in, for free.

Last Thursday, they drove the car all the way up to our house from London and gave us the keys. It's a lovely car. Well-kept, low mileage, trouble-free engine. We love it!

You cannot imagine how ecstatic we were. Because it was given to us for free, we were able to spend the money intended to buy another car on a trip to visit family in California last month! That was a real blessing from the Lord. As expats, it was wonderful to be among loved ones again, to see our children playing (and fighting and making up) with their cousins, to share quiet moments with our parents, siblings, in-laws and friends. That trip deserves a blog entry all to itself!

I drove our car for the first time the day we got the insurance papers, and yesterday I drove the whole family for the first time, and it was meaningful because our first drive was to the Church. It was appropriate, I thought, to make the Church our first stop, as it was God who made it possible for us to have this car, and we wanted to thank Him and to offer the Lord back what this car will allow us to do:

• This car will allow me to serve my family in harsh weather, so they need not walk through rain, hail or 30mph gusts of wind. This morning, there was snow and bitter cold, and as I drove B to school for the first time, I praised God in my heart that he did not have to walk 20 minutes in this weather anymore. B is so thankful to God for our car, and so appreciative of my new driving skills, that just to see him so happy and grateful is more than enough to overwhelm me.
• This car will let me serve God more, as I become more mobile to go to choir practice, volunteer for parish rotas, become more involved in our local community. I plan to sign up for these services soon, and hopefully it will help me to make new friends in our parish.
• This car will let me serve others, as I give people a lift home when they need one. I plan to keep a booster seat in the boot all the time, so I'll always be ready to give lifts to other kids when their mums are busy.
• This car will let us become more active members of Antioch Community, and perhaps even become part of weeknight sharing groups, hopefully soon. I hope I'll be more confident driving on the motorway, so that I can be brave enough to drive on the M1 even at night.
• This car will let me bring my family to so many beautiful places in England. Villages, shops, the countryside. Oh, I have a mental list of all the places where I will drive them! Oh Lord, let it be summer soon, please!

In other words, this car is far more than just four wheels and five seats to us. It opens up for us a completely different world with exciting opportunities and things to explore. We cannot thank God enough for sending the Thoelkes to us, and for this car, which will change the way we live our lives from now on.

Nette Back on the Net

I wish there was an easy way to explain why I haven't been blogging these past months.

To start off, just to get them out of the way, here are a few of the non-reasons:

• I found a job and got too busy to blog
• We moved to a remote part of the world which has no internet access, like, say, the Antarctic
• I began writing my book and my publishers told me to forsake my blogs
• Simon Cowell finally discovered my talent and signed me up for a recording contract

But for whatever it's worth, I'm back. And here to stay.

Let's catch up, shall we? I have loads to tell.

One Day In History

I submitted a blog entry for a UK-wide project called One Day in History. Check it out at http://www.historymatters.org.uk/. It features entries on 17 Oct 2006, providing a snapshot of ordinary life in Britain on that day in time. You can read my entry here.

My New 'Do

Won a raffle last week: 50% off on a cut-and-blowdry service at our town's best salon. Haircuts cost an arm and a leg here, if you must know. Since I'd been meaning to have my hair drastically made over from the rut it was in, I rejoiced at the win and immediately booked my appointment.

So I had my hair restyled last Saturday into a slightly longer version of a pixie cut. Think Alyssa Milano, Winona Ryder, Natalie Portman-- except mine is not as cropped. Maybe sort of like N. Tonks in the Harry Potter books. I love my new 'do! It's supershort, cool, trendy, and what's more, it's absolutely wash and wear. I can make it as flat or as messy as I want it to be, just by using my fingers. O and B loved it right away, but for the first five hours after my haircut, my two-year-old E refused to believe that I was indeed his Nanay! He wouldn't let me carry him, much less feed him or play with him. He kept stealing furtive glances at me, as if to ask, what have you done to my mum? Finally, after we got home, he seemed to accept that it was really me. Funny!

My Father's Hands

It has been three years today since my father died. Three years on, and I'm still grieving, I'm still crying, I'm still missing him... I still remember the phone ringing at 5 am, with a neighbour on the other end, telling us that Daddy had been rushed to the nearby hospital. One massive stroke, that's all it took to change my family’s world forever. Despite being on complete bedrest due to a high-risk second pregnancy, I was able to kiss my dad's cheek one last time as his body lay lifeless in the ER. I attended the wake, and I was there on the eve of his funeral, when everyone said what they wanted to say about him for the last time. This was what I said:

My Father's Hands

It is always difficult to know what to say at wakes or funerals, whether you are the one grieving or the one consoling. Should one speak of acceptance, of happy memories, of prayers, or of regrets? I choose to speak tonight of thanksgiving and gratitude to the Lord for Daddy’s life, and even more so, for his manner of death.

One of the things I am thankful for is that, though Daddy’s leaving was sudden, unexpected and painful to us, it was still a peaceful death. No violence, no trauma, no suffering. He woke up feeling sick, with a headache, and then, after a brief period of pain, he fell back to sleep – this time, an eternal one.

I am thankful that God honoured my Dad’s often-verbalised wish that when his time comes, he would prefer to leave swiftly rather than linger on as half a man, unable to move or take care of himself, with senses dulled and reflexes slowed. To the very end, kami pa rin ang iniisip ni Daddy. Ayaw nya kaming pahirapan. He didn’t want to be a burden to us or to anybody. And so he left, in full strength of mind and body, desiring to spare us from having to take care of him if he had survived his stroke—something which we would have been all too happy to do for him, had he given us a chance. But no, Daddy had always been selfless and, at the same time, fiercely independent. He would not have chosen to stay if it meant that he would have had to be the patient instead of the caregiver. I can just imagine him saying, “Alagaan nyo na lang ang mga bata, ‘wag na ako.”

I am also thankful that, before he was so suddenly taken from us, God had already given us many opportunities to openly express and communicate our love for Daddy. How many times have we heard bereaved people saying, “How I wish I had told him I loved him BEFORE he died?” Well, in our case, the pain and the suddenness of Daddy’s death is somehow soothed by the knowledge that he KNEW just how much we love him, even before he left. He knew, because we told him so. We honoured him, threw a party for him, texted him, called him up, served him, visited him. We told him, plainly and clearly, that we love him. How happy I am that we had not been embarrassed to say “I love you” to Daddy in his last years on earth! That we had not wasted the opportunities given us to hug him, serve him and let him know just how much we looked up to him! That we had not shied away from thanking him for giving us the best years of his life, for working hard for our sake, for raising us up well, for being a great father to us!

I also count as a great blessing the fact that Daddy himself grabbed many opportunities to express his love to all of us. As a young father, he may have been too shy to actually say “I love you” to any of us, but lately, in the past couple of years, he had been quite vocal and open about his love for us. For example, he texted me an “I love you” for Valentine’s and wrote me his love on a recent birthday card. He was especially loving to his four grandchildren, and he delighted in exchanging “I love you’s” with them at all hours of the day. The week before he died, he was in and out of our houses everyday, visiting us, making what was to be his final rounds among us. My family and I can tell you many stories of all the strange, loving and wonderful things he did for us and with us the week before he died, and even up to now. ‘Dy, don’t worry, alam namin kung gaano mo kami kamahal. We love you, too.

I’d like to honour my Dad for one outstanding feature which I will best remember about him – his hands. The image of my Daddy’s hands remains one of my earliest childhood memories. His hands were strong, brown and manly. One look at his firm, dependable hands, and I would instantly feel safe and secure. I believed he could fix anything, whether it was broken or not. Nothing bad could happen to me while my Dad was around. His hands would take care of me.

Daddy’s hands were versatile and all-purpose. They were strong, and at the same time, gentle. Firm, but forgiving. They could, as I mentioned, fix anything – from electronics to engines, to antennas, to toys. They could compose and type out brilliant legal documents to win cases in court, they could write sharp and insightful letters to newspaper editors, and they could also fill a hand-picked birthday card with loving words and thoughts for an only daughter. They could teach me and my brothers the safe and proper way to handle, aim and fire a gun, for he was a sharpshooter himself. But those deft and skillful hands could also be playful and nimble enough to play a silly vanishing-coin routine with his unsuspecting grandchildren. The hands with such a sure and steady grip on the steering wheel were the same hands which would cook and peel my favourite “hipon” for me, even without being asked. The hands which taught me how to flap my feet properly when swimming were also quick to pull out precious cash from his wallet whenever he saw that I was in need.

His hands were game enough to hold a microphone as he yodelled out his favourite songs on the videoke, but they were also artistic and precise enough to capture moments and memories on film, beautiful images seen through an eye which missed nothing. His hands were skilled in setting up and focusing his telescope so we could all marvel at the beauty of the night sky, and they were also nurturing enough to plant and water fruit-bearing trees and flowering plants on any available piece of land, coaxing them to grow, bloom and bear fruit.

His hands were strong enough to swing a little girl up high in the air, and yet were gentle enough to remove a splinter from a crying daughter’s finger. His hands could point an unswerving finger at you if you did wrong, but they were also quick to open up, to hold you, forgive you, and pat you on the back once you said you were sorry. They were tender enough to cradle and caress his grandchildren. And they were humble enough to be raised up in prayer to God.

What a shock it still is for me to see Daddy’s hands, his once-warm, once-busy hands, now suddenly lying cold, still and lifeless. I will never forget my father’s hands. And neither, I think, will my mom or my brothers. ‘Dy, I want you to know that we will continue the love and the work which your hands began in us, and we will teach our children the lessons, values and actions which we learned from you.

How true the words of Morrie Schwartz: “Death ends a life, not a relationship.” Daddy may have gone ahead of us, but he will always be Daddy to us. His hands will continue to guide us, even from beyond the grave, until we are re-united with him in Heaven.

Until we meet again in Jesus, Daddy. Godspeed.

+ Requiescat In Pace. Atty Nescito C. Hilario. 20 March 1947 – 05 October 2003

Quandary

So here I am in Europe, living in a place where I thought, at long last, my name would finally cease to be massacred on a daily basis.

Alas, no dice.

First of all, my full name (Jeanne Therese, which is French) is almost never used here. People tend to drop their second names and have just one first name and one surname in almost all their official correspondence. So here I am simply Jeanne. Jeanne Andres, with the accent on the first syllable of my surname, to boot. That's fine with me; that's how B now says his surname and that's how I introduce myself to people. OHN-dres, not And-RES.

My only trouble with "Jeanne" is, (1) I have never responded to being called Jeanne, and (2), most people here pronounce it as JEAN, which is the English pronounciation of the name, instead of ZHAN. I have always cringed inwardly whenever I'd hear my name mispronounced, and it's been something I've lived with all my life in the Philippines.

Second, being a Filipino, I have a nickname, and that nickname is simply Nette, pronounced NET. So to Pinoy friends and community brethren here, I am Nette, but I have found that many times, too often, English people seem to have a problem calling me by my nickname. I have heard myself called Nettie dozens of times; apparently there is a European language (Dutch?) in which Nette is pronounced as NETTEE. Others seem to struggle with NET, finding it too abrupt, and I see them constantly doing a double take, as if training their tongues to say such a curt name, saying "Aaah... Nette (with the T sound elongated slightly, as if to make up for the missing vowel sound they seemed to think was lacking)... would you like to have a cup of tea?" Perhaps it's a linguistic thing. Pinoys have always preferred my nickname to my real name, and I am used to hearing my nickname said with a Filipino "caress," like a "paglalambing" or tone of affection. Here, that's a thing of the past.

My driving instructor, Jill, after thirty hours on the road with me, finally felt comfortable enough to ask me about my nickname last weekend.

"So why are you called Nette?"

"Because my full name is Jeanne Therese, which was shortened to Jeannette, which eventually became Nette... Why? People here seem to have a problem with it, I notice."

"Yeah, yeah," she said. "Only, I think, because it doesn't really SOUND like a NAME, you see... It sounds more like a fish net or a hair net or a...a..."

"Like the internet," I supplied.

"Yeah, yeah, exactly."

That got me thinking. Right now, I'm applying for part time jobs, and I need to decide what professional name I should be called at interviews and later on, at work. Maybe I should stop forcing people to go through the discomfort of saying NETTE. Maybe I should keep going by JEANNE ANDRES and just steel myself to get used to it, whether it's said ZHAN or JEAN. Or maybe I should ask friends or future colleagues to call me JEANNETTE? Since it has a "nette" at the end, I figure I'd respond to it more than I would to "Jeanne." Is this pretentious? Am I about to join the league of Filipino migrants who have changed and Westernised their names along with their country of residence? When Totoy becomes Toto, Ging becomes Jen, and so on.

What say you?

Where Ukay-ukay Comes From

Ever wondered where ukay-ukay comes from? This was one of the very first things I discovered upon living in the UK.

Read one of the many flyers we get in our mailslot each day:

Dear householder,

CLOTHING COLLECTION

WE URGENTLY NEED CLOTHING that you and your family may never wear again. Maybe it's no longer your size, out of fashion or style. Also of great help, mobile phones, blankets, sheets, shoes, handbags, curtains, belts, CD, DVD, bath and hand towels, underwear, cosmetics, toiletries, perfumes.

We will recycle your unwanted goods. A chance to empty your wardrobes of unwanted clutter and create space.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR UNWANTED CLOTHES.

Please put these items into plastic bags, stick this leaflet on the bag and leave visible outside your front door before 8:00am on the day indicated below. Come rain or shine, we will collect between 8am & 8pm.

TUESDAY

S___ Ltd is a collection company who provide people in third world countries with clothes of their families they can afford.
It provides jobs in third world countries, sorting the clothes for distribution.
It provides business for UK export, for transport companies.
It provides employment in the UK factories grading the clothes.
It provides employment for people collecting the bags door to door.


Funny thing is, most of the autumn and winter clothes we brought to the UK was bought in ukay-ukay in the Philippines, so we actually may have brought some of these unwanted clothes back to their homeland!

Just something to think about, when you go on your next ukay-ukay shopping expedition. ;)

Daycase Diary (Part Two)

While waiting for the doors to the Operating Theatre to open, I seized the chance to lift up another prayer to God, a prayer He must've heard a hundred times from me that day alone: Lord, give me a Filipino nurse, please please please. Not that I didn't trust the Brits, but I know for certain that Pinoy nurses are world-class, in care, in hygiene, in going the extra mile for their patients. I should know, my own cousins are nurses here in the UK. And since it was my first operation here, I wanted a friendly face, a kababayan, in the room, making sure no one dissed me or got unprofessional while I was under.

The Operating Theatre doors opened and lo and behold! A Pinay nurse, all smiles in her neat scrubs. The other nurse left me and the Pinay nurse plopped down on the waiting couch beside me. "Pilipina ka?" she asked, and I said yes, with obvious relief. Her name was Len, she said, but the slippers on her feet bore an embroidered "Lyn." Len or Lyn? Ahh, Visayan, like my husband.

Len immediately chatted me up and told me not to worry, as there were two other Pinoy nurses in the Operating Theatre alone! There was Toto in Recovery, and another male nurse (whom I will not name, for reasons you will understand in a bit) in the OR itself. Wonderful! I asked for one and God gave me three! What a God of abundance and provision!

Anyway, Len assured me that since I was a fellow Pinay, and she knows how conservative we Pinays are, she and the other male nurse will make sure that NO GUYS WILL BE ALLOWED in the OR while I was asleep. Well, except for my GYN-surgeon and anaesthesiologist, of course. This came as a relief to me, as the surgery was of a highly intimate nature, and maintaining my dignity and privacy was, of course, a valid concern.

Len called the male nurse into the waiting room, and after he assured me that he will personally ensure that only female staff will be able to enter the OR during my procedure, something very funny happened: He offered me Filipino products. If he hadn't looked so serious, I might've thought it was all a joke. There I was, facing surgery in a UK hospital, wearing hospital slippers and a gown that was open down the back, being offered tocino and longanisa deliveries by a Pinoy nurse! How very Pinoy! Turns out that the male nurse's wife is unemployed and this was how they were able to make ends meet, with the high cost of living in England. So I said, yes, sure, just give me your number and we'll ring you when we need Pinoy products.

Len ushered me into the Operating Theatre and I walked towards the table. All the medical staff were smiling, eager to put me at ease, and very professional. They hooked me up to the monitors, and Len gave me an encouraging smile before she got to work in the background. Another nurse put a BP monitor on my finger, while an intern tried to put an IV drip on my left hand. “Good luck with that,” I joked as the anaesthesiologist came in to see how the vein-search was going. I have very fine veins, I said, which I inherited from my maternal grandmother (Tito Rogel’s mom), and which often collapse when needles are being inserted. “Send this one home!” the anaesthesiologist jokingly barked out. He was hoary and Asian (which is how Indians or Pakistanis are called here; Chinese, Pinoys, Thais, etc are not called Asians but Orientals) and looked like he did this a million times a day. I felt safe, and I thanked God once again.

They DID manage to get an IV in without too much poking, and with a smile, the anaesthesiologist injected the sleeping drug into my IV, saying “Now you sleep…” My last memory was of the nice British nurse smiling down at me, then off I went to lala-land.

I woke up ahead of schedule in the Recovery Room, and as expected, there was Toto, the third Pinoy nurse, taking care of me. He said to relax and that the procedure went well, and that I needed to stay an hour more in Recovery before he could wheel me back up to the GYN ward where O and E were waiting. As I groggily became aware of things, the male nurse from OR came and gave me a slip of paper, on which was his wife’s mobile number. I took it and smiled at him. Turns out that Toto knows some of the Pinoys in my RC parish, and we talked about our mutual acquaintances as I steadily became more alert.

Toto personally wheeled me up to my room, not leaving me to the brash, impersonal, white male attendant who was usually tasked to do this. My reunion with O and E was happy, and after I drank, ate, rested and gone to the loo, I was able to dress in my street clothes and was discharged without any problems.

All of the treatment I received that day was absolutely free on the NHS (National Health Service), which was great, since at least some of the exorbitant taxes we pay to the UK government trickles down to us in a useful manner. Unlike back home where, I’m sad to admit, we paid taxes but rarely got anything concrete or substantial back in return.

I thank God for O, for his support and love and prayers, for how he took care of E while I was indisposed that day, and how he encouraged me to have faith in God’s healing power. I guess I’m tougher, too, than I thought I am, because I walked out of that hospital on my own two feet and was strong enough to ride a bus instead of a taxi. O was insisting on calling a cab because he didn’t want me to walk home from the bus stop, so we struck a deal: We would ride a bus to town (half of the way home), and catch a taxi from the town centre so I needn’t walk up our long road. Once home, I rang up my friend and fellow Pinay schoolmum who was watching over B after school that day, and after she brought B home, and I’d given B a nice, long hug, I fell soundly asleep in my own bed.

Next day, as I was still shaking off the effects of the anaesthesia, she brought B home from school as well. Praise the Lord for generous friends like her! And praise the Lord for making mums stronger than they think they are, because once the anaesthesia was flushed out of my system the following day, I was back to my old routine once more, school run and all. I’ll say it again: Praise the Lord!

River Got Stuck in a Bog

A bog called the Summer Hols. Couldn't blog during summer break, folks, sorry bout that. But now I'm back. At least I hope so.

Aim to blog more regularly now that school's in. But with my unpredictable housewifery schedule, don't hold your breath. Interruptions come without a moment's notice, and as you know, with young children, their every little concern is urgent and important, to them at least. And there are gazillion other intrusions, welcome or unwelcome, throughout the day.

Like now, for instance. The groceries I ordered online have just been delivered. Gotta unpack and store them properly before the frozen chicken thaws! Get back to you in a bit.

Daycase Diary (Part One)

Ahh, glad to be back on the blogosphere after resting from my little operation.

My first-ever stint in a UK hospital went very well. I was what they call here a "daycase," meaning an outpatient.

I wish it could be said that I slept fitfully and in utter peace the night before my surgery, but I didn't. I kept disturbing O with all my tossing and turning, and I kept waking up at odd hours during the night, asking myself if it was time to go already. In my mind, I knew I trusted God to take care of me, and in my heart, I felt that He was really with me, but somehow my body wanted to get it all over and done with, and was anticipating the ride to hospital all night long.

The L&D hospital is on the other side of town from our house. We needed to take two buses to get there. O and E went with me, and I was more concerned for their safety and welfare as they waited for me in such an environment (hospital-acquired infection rates are notoriously high here in the UK) than I was about my own procedure.

My fears were unfounded, it turned out. Since my case falls under gynae, I was assigned to a bed (yes, even daycases here are given beds during their stay) in that ward, so the risk of O and E getting infected by the other gynae patients was very minimal. There was even a separate dayroom for patients and visitors, with several comfy couches and chairs, and a TV. I really gave thanks to God in my heart for allaying my concerns about O and E during my hospital stay.
The nursing staff on Ward 34 were very professional and pleasant, they gave me clear instructions and even interacted with E as he roamed the ward. Each bed had access to its own console (TV, phone, radio and internet), which you could pay for using a special prepaid hospital card. You could email and even play games on it! High-tech! The wards here are nothing like wards back home. You've got all the amenities, except for four walls to give you privacy. Of course, there are curtains to shield you all round but it's still different. If someone is thoughtless and inconsiderate enough to choose not to use the headphones to listen to the radio, as someone did during my stay, then the whole bay has to listen to it, as well.

The whole thing might've been enjoyable if not for the mandatory pre-operative fast. No food, no drink, not even a sip of water, hours before the surgery. And it was such a boiling hot day, too, a bad day to be off water, especially for a normally well-hydrated Pinay like me.

Finally, a ward nurse told me it was time to go. Wrapping myself up in my own dressing gown, as the hospital gown kept opening up at the back, I walked down with her, chatting about the current heatwave. As we emerged from the lift, she led me through the corridor into the waiting room outside the OR, which they call here as the Operating Theatre.

More on this tomorrow. I actually finished the whole daycase diary, writing the whole thing for the better part of two hours, but when I clicked on "Publish Post," Blogger asked me to sign in again, and I lost everything that came after this point... Makes me feel like crying, as I'm sure you understand. I mean, how stupid can I be not to save the whole thing on Word first, as I normally do, before I tried to publish it? Anyway, tomorrow I'll give it another go.

Nada Te Turbe

Another day, another chance to entrust myself to the love of God.

O is off work today to bring me to hospital for a minor procedure to remove polyps from my uterus. I will need to be put to sleep during the surgery, according to the GYN whom I only met once when I had my first consultation several months ago. E, who still can't be left in anyone else's care without crying all day, will need to come along with O to hospital. I am actually more concerned about them getting near any hospital viruses during their wait for me there than I am about the actual procedure. I will ask them to wait somewhere else, probably, not inside. I don't want to risk their health for mine. B will be collected from school by a friend, a Pinoy mum from the same parish whose son is in the same year as B.

It's my first time to be admitted to a UK hospital, and though I'm nervous about what lies ahead, precisely because I don't know what lies ahead, I do know that God is with me and my family, and He will be with me as I sleep, and He will be with my family, as well. He will guide the doctors, and He will make sure I won't come to harm. I've gotten many messages of prayer and encouragement (from Pinoys and non-Pinoys alike) via SMS/Chikka/telephone, and I praise God for the support He gives me through people who care.

I am peaceful in my heart, but one can't have too many people praying for oneself. So please do include us in your prayers today, won't you?

Heartbreak in England

Walking to church yesterday evening, we passed houses flying St George's flag. Driveways were packed with cars flying miniatures of the same flag. From inside the houses, we could hear shouts and yells, from men and women alike. It was the World Cup, England vs Portugal, and late into the game, the score was still 0-0.

More than a year after moving here, I still am quite ignorant about the basics of football, except that I know how popular the sport is in Europe. Still haven't caught the football fever myself, though. But it's very interesting to watch how football fans go crazy over it, how people work their schedules around matches, how everyone on the street wears England shirts and how every other home proudly flies the flag. Some homeowners have even gone to extreme lengths, painting their houses' entire facades white with a red cross, and some car owners have done the same, as well. It's amazing how fanatical some people have become over the sport!

An hour later, walking back from church on the same route, the houses were quiet. A few people were walking, shoulders slumped, flags tied around their waist. Eyes looked down, everyone looked dejected. It made me feel like walking up to some of them and offering my condolences. Suddenly our neighbourhood was a ghost town. In other parts of England, drunk fans vented their anger and frustration through crime. We didn't need to look up the news on the BBC sport website to know the outcome.

England had been booted off the World Cup final.

Sympathies to England, mates. Even though your all-out fanaticism still amuses me, I really do feel sorry for you all. Broken dreams and broken hearts, but the boys did do well. If only Beckham hadn't been injured. Now he's even stepped down as Captain... Oh well. Maybe four years from now you'll have better luck.

About to Forage

I read a recent BBC article which mentions, among other things, how declining female fertility evolved "so that women in tribes could forage instead of being occupied by childcare." It's an interesting article, raising sentive ethical issues about motherhood and working, but it also stresses that "this (issue) is no longer a problem" in this day and age.

According to the article, "women historically needed to be available to forage for food for the good of the group... Studies suggest women with small babies focussed (sic) on providing food for them... Declining fertility is a natural contraceptive which means women are less likely to have children and therefore be distracted from foraging."

Now, I am not yet menopausal, so this whole fertility debate is not personal, lest you think otherwise! I am not sure where you stand on the issue of IVF, and until I dig deeper into this, I hesitate to share my own thoughts. I need to read what the Church and the Holy Father has said about this, and I need to look at the ethics of the science involved first. But I'm not here to write about IVF.

I'm here to talk about foraging.

It's interesting to hear it said that childcare "distracts" mothers from foraging. I would have thought that mothering is the mission of mothers, not a mere distraction from working to bring food on the table. But perhaps that is the culture of this continent of rich countries where I live now. I can now declare it with certainty: I, a Filipina mother, am admittedly shellshocked by the traditional values of the West.

But no matter. I know who I am and what I believe in, and I won't budge from how I've been taught and raised. I know what's important to me and my family, and I know that raising my children is not a mere "distraction" from having a career.

Having said that, let me share with you one startling conclusion I have arrived at, through prayer and reflection: God wants me to help O to forage now. He reminded me of my marriage vows, in which I promised to help my partner to provide for our family, and He said to me, gently and without intending to shake the ground on which I stood, "You have been a loving mother to your children. Now it's time to love your husband, too. He needs and deserves your help. I will take care of everything. This is how I plan to bless you."

So here I am now, about to apply for two local jobs, one part-time, one job-share. I will choose only one, ultimately, of course. There was, at first, the inevitable guilt about "abandoning" my children to the care of strangers, no matter how well-qualified they are. But a dear friend here reminded me, with words to this effect: "You are not abandoning them. You are doing this for their own good, especially E, who is two now. You can't give him all that he needs now. It will be good for him emotionally to grow more independent from you, socially to interact more with his peers and other grown-ups outside your family, and intellectually to be stimulated in an outside learning environment. Don't feel guilty."

It's hard to fight guilt when you claim that it's not there, so I think it was good that I exposed my feelings early on. But as I get nearer and nearer to the possibility of foraging itself, the guilt slowly dissipates and is replaced by a growing peace and conviction that this is the right path for me.

It's like driving on the inner lane of a roundabout for more than four years, never needing to stop or change lanes or turn, and suddenly, God taps me on the shoulder and whispers, "Just take the next turn on the left, please."

"What?! There? The nearest one?" I ask.

"Yes," He replies calmly.

"Wait, wait, I'm still on roundabout mode... Can't we go round one more time and then make the turn?"

"You can move into the correct lane now, if you follow my instructions. Keep your eyes on that bollard over there on that island, and you will be in the right position to leave the roundabout."

I follow and obey, and instead of asking Him where we are going, as I dearly would love to do, I just wait and listen attentively to His next instructions.

Am about to leave the roundabout soon. About to forage in the wild world to help my husband bring food to the table.

But I am still a wife and mother, and still, more importantly, a child of God.

As the eyes of a servant looks at the hands of her master... I watch, and wait.

Remembered

I chanced on a Pinoy forum today while looking for online records of titles of my past research publications and student awards--- I'm updating my dusty old CV, otherwise I wouldn't even bother looking them up! Well, I never bothered to remember them or chronicle them properly in the first place, and I left all my academic stuff back home, which is why I now have to find their titles elsewhere.

So after searching my desktop and my files, I finally decided to do the most obvious thing in the world--- I Googled my maiden name. The links that came up! Wow. I couldn't resist skimming through this site called mabuhaybeauties.com where one Pinoy gentleman named me as his choice for most intelligent Binibining Pilipinas winner! I was floored, I tell you. Anyway, I posted back, and I suppose half of them won't believe it's really me, hehe, but I needed to thank him for his nice compliment, at any rate. It felt nice to be remembered, even for something as ancient as my stint in the Binibining Pilipinas pageant.

And although I've never really thought of myself as a "beauty queen," and have never let the term define me, my identity, my choices or my relationships, I realise that I am who I am today because of EVERYTHING in my past, and that I should love and accept myself for who I am, and for all that God has allowed to happen in my life.

We spent the weekend playing with our little boys in the garden-- jumping on the little bouncy castle, playing crazy bowling, sliding down into a pool of balls, bouncing around on big balls all over the grass. Such pure, childlike joy! Such uncomplicated pleasures! B squealed with laughter as he played with O. And today, my two-year-old E plucked a tiny yellow flower from the ground, toddled up to me and quietly put it into my hand. I will never forget how his eyes looked at me as he did that. Moments like those make it all matter.