The Portal to My Kingdom

My Piece of Sky

The Twin Towers That Hurricane Wilma Could Not Topple Down

 The Crane at Home on a Dead Branch

Life grows in the most unexpected places

“ Swan Lake”

I am a believer in God.  He is not just a Being out there in the distant heavens, looking down on me.   He  constantly reaches out to me—in small ways, and once in a while, in  BIG ways impossible to ignore as illustrated in  this true story …

The Table Cloth

The brand new pastor and his wife, newly assigned to his first pastorate, arrived in suburban Brooklyn in early October excited about their opportunity to reopen a church. When they saw their church, it was
very run down and needed much work. They set a goal to have everything done in time to have their first service on Christmas Eve.

They worked hard, repairing pews, plastering walls, painting, and whatnot. And on Dec 18 were ahead of schedule and just about finished. On Dec 19 a terrible tempest - a driving rainstorm hit the area and lasted for two days.

On the 21st, the pastor went to the church. His heart sank when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster about 20 feet by 8 feet to fall off the front wall of the sanctuary just behind the
pulpit, beginning about head high. The pastor cleaned up the mess on the floor, and not knowing what else to do but postpone the Christmas Eve
service, headed home.

On the way he noticed that a local business was having a flea market type sale for charity so he stopped in. One of the items was a beautiful, handmade, ivory colored, crocheted tablecloth with exquisite work, fine colors and a Cross embroidered right in the center. It was just the right size to cover up the hole in the front wall. He bought it and headed back to the church.

By this time it had started to snow. An older woman running from the opposite direction was trying to catch the bus. She missed it. The pastor invited her to wait in the warm church for the next bus 45
minutes later.

She sat in a pew and paid no attention to the pastor while he got a ladder and hangers to put the tablecloth up as a wall tapestry. The pastor could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and it covered up the entire problem area. Then he noticed the woman walking down the center aisle. Her face was like a sheet. “Pastor,” she asked, “where did you get that tablecloth?” The pastor explained. The woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials, EBG were crocheted into it there. They were. These were the initials of the woman, and she
had made this tablecloth 35 years before, in Austria.

The woman could hardly believe it as the pastor told how he had just gotten the tablecloth. The woman explained that before the war she and her husband were well-to-do people in Austria. When the Nazis came, she was forced to leave. Her husband was going to follow her the next week.
She was captured, sent to prison and never saw her husband or her home again.

The pastor wanted to give her the tablecloth; but she made the pastor keep it for the church. The pastor insisted on driving her home, feeling that was the least he could do. She lived on the other side of Staten Island and was only in Brooklyn for the day for a housecleaning job.

What a wonderful service they had on Christmas Eve! The church was almost full. The music and the spirit were great. At the end of the service, the pastor and his wife greeted everyone at the door and many
said that they would return. One older man, whom the pastor recognized from the neighborhood, continued to sit in one of the pews and stare,
and the pastor wondered why he wasn’t leaving.

The man asked him where he had gotten the tablecloth on the front wall because it was identical to one that his wife had made years ago when
they lived in Austria before the war and how could there be two tablecloths so much alike? He told the
pastor how the Nazis came, how he forced his wife to flee for her safety, and he was supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and put in a prison. He never saw his wife or his home again all the 35 years in between.

The pastor asked him if the man would allow him to take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten Island, to the same house where the pastor had taken the woman three days earlier. He helped the man climb the three flights of stairs to the woman’s apartment, knocked on the door and he saw the greatest Christmas reunion he could ever imagine.

A child must know, in his heart of hearts—as I believe every parent—the significance of learning how to bike. As far as I know, it has always been a childhood rite of passage.

On the day my son Matthew just learned how to bike, I watched him propel himself, balance with ease, cruise along ever so confidently, faster than me, turn around, and maneuver into tight spaces.   His limbs were strong to the task. It was to me a vision of my progeny out there, commandeering life on his own, apart from me.  It was his moment of empowerment.

Although the accomplishment of this task is not as crucial as my son learning to walk, the feeling that it engendered in me is somehow similar.  But aside from that, it is so much more meaningful for Matthew who is now able to appreciate the significance of this event.

I can already envision in the next decade my son driving to college; in another decade, my son starting his own family; and then,  carving his own special niche in the world.  But for now, I am one parent blessed to witness the smile of triumph proudly displayed on my son’s face on the day that he mastered the bike.

The whole stretch of road on this journey called parenthood is not all roses, it is true, but I am glad that here and there, along the way, I see glimpses of rainbows, and find nuggets of gold like this one.  And though in the future, as my body ages, and my memory fades, I may forget exactly how he looked like—the smile bright on his face, his missing front tooth, his thin body perfectly balanced on his rusty, old bike—I will never forget how I felt on that given moment on that particular day.

No matter what the future brings for me and my son, I want him to remember that there was a time when he was seven, that   I  was standing there   watching him  bike for the first time and thinking to myself how  blessed  I am and  proud  I am that he is mine.

Years ago, it was just an ordinary cush pillow I bought at Walmart but ever since MatMat discovered its soft, cool snuggly-ness, Papa gave it a name, and MatMat drew it a face,– - “it” became a HE, and from then on became  a member of the family, beloved of MatMat, and his own “Blue Baby”.  He goes where MatMat goes—to the bathroom for number one and two, at breakfast, lunch and dinner, bedtime, TV time, snuggle time, computer time, snack time, piano and guitar time, telethon time, bath time, study time, play time. At night, he listens along with MatMat to our bedtime story, occasionally prays, and in the middle of the night, when MatMat awakens from a nightmare, he would grab him running, blankets trailing, on the way to Mama & Papa’s room. 

Blue Baby partakes of the food on MatMat’s table, as told by the  milk, pancake syrup, orange juice, and ketchup stains on his blue exterior, and the oil stains, as well, from the popcorn and the peanuts, the cookies and the chips.  He knows how to do the “snake”, and the duck walk with his bottom swinging from side to side, is a champ at wrestling, and can talk.

Yes, Blue Baby has a birthday, too. For Blue Baby’s birthday (his fourth), I sewed him two nice pillow cases, one of which has a pocket to hold  MatMat’s other best friend—the TV remote.  The accomplishment of sewing the pillow cases was a feat accompli worthy of another story.

Blue Baby, the truth be told, is no longer blue, but a rather faded grayish purple from many washings, and had survived an unfortunate nip from our then puppy, DJ. He used to be 3 feet tall but through the years had shrunk, quite sadly, to a feet and a half. My attempt to give him a more presentable appearance did not quite agree with MatMat.  I was told it covered his nice, cool comfiness, and so, back it was to the fadedness, stains and acquired loveliness.   

Blue Baby is covered all over with MatMat’s drool and DNA, which probably accounts for why he takes so much  comfort with its smell and feel.  All of us who had  some kind of security blanket  when we were little could appreciate the soothing reassurance of an object both cherished and familiar.

MatMat talks to Blue Baby with a special, gentle, baby-talk tone, treats him very gingerly, and for reasons I have yet to figure out, gets from MatMat more warmth and affection  than we his own living family members get from him. 

And pardon me, we must never treat Blue Baby like an “it” for fear of  offending the boy.  In the same fashion, being a baby and quite “sensitive”, we strive not to hurt Blue Baby’s feelings. We acknowledge his presence, touch him gently and with care, being careful not to drop him on the floor, and being particular to talk to his face, not to his butt. And, we must never leave him alone in the dark, upstairs or downstairs.  He gets a careful fluffing on the couch and a goodbye kiss from MatMat on his way out of the house, and is first to be hugged and kissed on his way in. 

There has never been a pillow so blessed to be loved by a boy—- object of  countless of  his adoring kisses and  precious hugs. 

I worry for the day when Blue Baby will come to pieces, beyond repair, a prospect that will probably break the boy’s heart. 

In turn, that day will come when Blue Baby he will  set aside, and  perhaps, forever, lose the lavish attention and fervent love of the boy.

He was delivered at my Tita Nilda’s house, by the local midwife, Mrs. Cordero. 

I remember standing in the doorway of the room where my mother lay in labor, baffled by the mystery of my baby brother’s birth.

Once born, Lola Tanciang took the liberty of naming him Alan—after an actor of a bygone era-Alan Delain.

He was a fair-skinned baby with pink cheeks and moist, red, lips and a cry that could blow your ear debris away.

He cried often, and with gusto—the veins engorged on his tiny neck. He punctuated his bawls with a prolonged ellipsis of holding his breath until he turned blue. 

One time, he held his breath longer than the usual ten seconds, my hysterical mother gave him a shaking, and I, with a vague notion of CPR in mind, blew into his face and somehow “revived” him.  Thereafter, I’ve been credited for saving his life.  Between the two of us, it was just a case of perfect timing, because nobody ever died from holding his breath.

 He was a sprightly kid—either underfed or overactive, however which way you’d look at it.  He had limbs like bamboo sticks, and a passion for everything under the literal sun.  He was never at home, always busy catching spiders or beetles (labog-labog) for sport, or collecting bottles, cans, and metal scraps from other people’s garbage to sell at the local junk dealer or climbing and harvesting someone’s santol, starapple or datilis tree.  He was an ace at playing cards (pusoy), taksi (a game where players attempt to hit bottle caps or coins off a squared off area and whoever gets the most out wins), or bug-oy (where one shakes fistfuls of tiny shells and throw them to the ground, heads or tails) with the other street-smart urchins in the neighborhood. I imagine him always with a stick, thrashing at trees and bushes, or poking at crablets and scooping gold fish from the open sewage canals.   He had traversed every street, road, or path, by way of feet, bike or wooden scooter, and swam perhaps, every swimmable river or creek for miles around.  He would come home sweaty, dusty and hungry.  At this time, not a trace of his light complexion was left to the naked eye.  He was a sunbaked brown, with a sunbaked smell, to boot.

 Whenever the traveling fair (peryahan) came to town, he never missed a sidetrip there, everyday, on his way to school and back.  He always came home late, and often have to be scoured for many a night, and found to be at the ferris wheel or agape at the flashing lights and sounds, and the crowd.  He seldom attended Sunday School but always managed to ambush the snacks that came afterwards.

 He had more than the regular schoolkid’s share of mishaps.  A few times, my mother had to pick him up from the hospital after getting a stitch or two. Early in his childhood,  he put candy pellets inside his nose, by intention or by accident, I do not know.  Another time, he came home white faced, after a biking accident, with a bleeding appendage, we had to pound malunggay leaves and apply it as poultice over his gaping wound to stop the bleeding.  He was back into the streets before night fall.

 Even in high school, he remained business-savvy.  One day, my sister told me she had seen him downtown selling plastic bags—his take on an after school job.  He had been selling plastic bags every afternoon after school, without any one of us knowing about it.

 Still, as a teenager, he was never in the house, and was always away at some camp, trip or expedition to a far-flung barrio or town.  He was fearlessly diving from waterfalls, climbing mountains, and exploring caves.  Where none in our family could swim, he had taught himself all the strokes, including the butterfly.  Where none of us could play an instrument, he had learned to strum the guitar.  He was teaching himself piano, even.

 Being good in Math, we wanted him to be an engineer.   He defied our expectations, and went to Bible school determined to save souls.

 Years passed.  The next time I saw him he was no longer the scrawny, undernourished kid I knew, but a muscular guy with a pretty, young girlfriend in tow.  He not only grew in pecs but in spiritual wisdom, as well, with an impressionable  girlfriend that I bet, hung on his every word.

 Later, he went to China to teach English.  After several months, he told me, he had to go back home.  He said it wasn’t right from a moral perspective, to stay there on an illegal visa.  So back he went to the Philippines and his very low-income job as a teacher at a Christian high school.  He now splits his time between teaching kids and pastoring a new flock.

 This sibling of mine reminds my mother of me: our features are quite alike but our similarities end there.  However low key my personality and my growing-up years  were, he had from birth a feisty character and an adventure-filled life. 

 It is amazing that I have actually witnessed him born, grow up and metamorphose from bellowing baby and rugged underling into a self-made man.

 These days, he’s learning  Chinese. 

 A toast to you, ‘tod!

Matthew, on the dinner table, asking, “Have you seen on TV Michael Phelps win by one one hundredth of a second?”

Matthew– the Disney-Channel-and-Nick-Jr.-King of TV, who never watches anything else (and consequently, so do we )– willingly relinquishingthe remote to NBC…

Matthew, before bedtime:

“Ma, can we watch the Olympics before I go to bed?” (His trade for a bedtime story).

Matthew, in the car after Sunday school:

“Ma, I asked Justin if he was watching the Olympics. We talked about the Olympics!” (I would presume also about Michael Phelps.)

Matthew, on his  usual interactive-game telethons with his cousin chatting  away about the games  &   Michael Phelps …

Matthew, at breakfast one morning:

“Do you know that Michael Phelps eats 1000 calories a day?” (actually 12,000)

Matthew, at bath time, after an hour and a half of swimming, looking at his chest and asking me where the muscles were…

I pointed out that unless he drinks more milk, he won’t grow any.

Matthew, who isn’t really into milk, countering, “Why don’t you serve me other protein (rich) foods?”

“Okay”, I said, “How about eggs?”

Egg it was for dinner that night.

Matthew, imagining his name over the loudspeaker, like they did in the Olympics: “Matthew Hernandez”…

He was saying that if he added my last name (because I keep reminding him he has my blood, too), it would be too long for the announcer to say Matthew S——– Hernandez.

Matthew, yesterday, after winning all four races at swimming class, gushing that he beat a classmate by one one hundredth of a second…

Will my Matthew be the next Michael Phelps?

He certainly hopes and believes so.

As a mom, what am I to say?      “Go for it, boy!”

A week or so ago, I was caught unexpectedly in a heavy downpour that sent me scrambling for my car and fumbling for my keys in some kind of panic at being wet. Decades ago, the sound of torrential rain would have sent shrieking kids like me into the streets, along with our mothers and grandmothers, in spread-eagled welcome to the rain. Water puddles, then, were open invitations to a nice wading or thrashing of happy feet. The exhilarating feeling of rain gushing down from the roof pounding our heads –much like being under a water fall from a kid’s point of view! We would call “Cooo, cooo” for more rain as we race around with glee.

Here, lightning and rain puts a damper to an otherwise fun day. The kids need to get out of the pool into the shelter of buildings and houses. Here, lakes have “No Swimming” signs, grass have “Keep Off” warnings and there might be alligators in the canals. This same nice, serene lake that in my neighborhood is left to wild ducks and turtles, back home, in another time, would be a hang out of kids on a hot day or a lazy afternoon.

But now I’m scared of pesticide runoffs and sewage leaks. Since when did I fear acid rain, skin cancer, and getting hit by lightning? Since when did I shelter myself from the rain and the sun and shy away from the mud puddles? When did I start using hats, and sunblocks, and umbrellas?

On another note, when did I lose my spontaneity, my joie d’ vivre, my wanton delight in the simple things like walking barefoot, thrashing a puddle, jumping into a creek, or climbing a santol tree?

I keep my kid away from the sun, the rain, intestinal parasites and toxins. I warn him not to walk on the grass because of the fear of pesticide residue sticking on his shoes and tracked into the house . He can’t walk barefoot because the ground is dirty and super bugs are no longer uncommon (MRSA, C. Difficile & VRE).

We people have conspired to rob our children of the enjoyment of the earth itself by our irresponsible use of the earth’s resources–land, air, water, and forests. God created the earth and everything in it for our pleasure and use. But He also instructed us to be good stewards of His creation. We have come a long way from Eden–ourselves, and our children, tragic heirs of paradise lost.

My Many Excursions at the DMV

As a wide-eyed immigrant to the U. S. of A., my pursuit of life, liberty and happiness began at the Department of Motor Vehicles, I spent many an excursion there— four, to be exact. 

The first road test, I thought it strange that the car was convulsing every few feet.  After four convulsions, the examiner, realizing I’ll never figure out that the hand brake was on, wrote “Failed” on his clipboard and sent me on my way.

The second time, I ended up on the other lane as I backed up.

The third time, I still ended up on the other lane as I backed up.

The lady examiner, who remembered me from my previous attempt, divulged to my husband that there was something not right with my brain. (I have some trouble with spatial relations and abstract reasoning, it’s true). She suggested a few more months of brain conditioning should do the trick.

The fourth time, as I got in the car, I pleaded with the examiner (a different, more compassionate one, this time), for leniency.  The guy was probably touched by my sincerity, and let me pass though I hit the curb and gave us both a mighty jolt.  Sincerity goes a long way, I’m telling you.

Amen, thank you, Jesus!,  …I’m well on my way to the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness– only after four attempts! 

Initiation on Interstate-95

Nothing could make me drive solo on I-95, not even my husband (stuck  on some sidewalk, twenty miles away) who couldn’t get home since I had the car. It took me two hours to muster the courage to make my solo venture into the formidable and unknown frontier   of state roads and the I’s (I-95 & I-595). No sooner than my engine could hum, I missed my exit.  I wound up in the parking lot of a supermarket in some unknown (to me) place with my toddler in tow and a carload of  clothes and miscellany, contemplating whether to call the highway patrol or 911. “Uh, operator, could you please tell me how to get home? “ 

No, I didn’t call the highway patrol or 911.  The fact that I did get home that day was a sheer act of courage and will. Seriously.

The Bells and Whistles of Driving

Where I live, drivers are honk- happy. I’m beginning to believe that some of these individuals have a honk reflex. A glare or a head shake normally completes the routine. In contrast to this so-called honk reflex, I’m of the kind of the five-second delay. A car could be swerving to my lane, or the light had long been green a car ahead, and I’m still a-thumping at everything else on my steering wheel except the horn. After 4 or so years with the same car, my horn and I are still not quite familiar.

Sudden downpours send me on a frantic fumble to turn on the windshield wiper, as I coast by at fifty mph with zero visibility. Forward or backward? Two clicks, or three?

And what about the neon blue light on my  dashboard?  How do I make it go away? Push here-nope. Click there, nope. Push everywhere. This called for the usual phone call to the husband, who tried, unsuccessfully, to help me. For someone, like me, with an innate disability, verbal instructions are worse than a course in anatomy.

This, That and the Other

I once left my back side open when I unloaded my SUV and drove I-595 with a flapping door.  The mystery of the whoosh and the thump thump was solved quite belatedly, ten minutes into the drive.   Isn’t it amazing that nobody warned me?

The answer to that is plain to see —”To each, his own, my dear.  To each, his own.”

Ever since I consecutively rear-ended someone’s steel grill bumper and a dumpster, I’ve been wary about backing out of a parking space. I’d rather arm-wrestle the steering wheel 360 degrees than back more than one meter out of my space.

I was supposed to make a U turn to the doctor’s office on the other side of the street and ended, instead, on the Turnpike, on my way to Disney.  

Another time I reassured my horrified passenger not to worry as my venture into the opposite lane was a freak incident and deftly deflected ourselves from the oncoming traffic.

Close Encounters of the Toll Kind

To spur me on my bid for independence my spouse bought a navigator.  On my way to the local pool or public library five miles away , my Garmin navigator  takes me on convoluted highway routes  that almost always ends up at a toll. (I suspect that  the Turnpike management struck a business deal with Garmin to make money out of directionally challenged individuals like me).

There is something about toll stops that unnerves me.  On one of those round-about routes I told you about, I encountered a toll stop with those funnel shaped contraptions.  I threw in a dollar bill.  No response.  My moment of insight came five seconds late.

There, I left the bill as a testimony of sorts , a conversational trigger on the bloopers of life.

I always end up unprepared for tolls.  At one time, too nervous to count, I fed the funnel with all the pennies I could forage in the car. The toll was a dollar (one hundred pennies!) Could you imagine if I sat there and counted them all?  I would have been run over or honked to death.

Dilemma at the Gas Pump

I’d rather drive on an empty tank than gas up. Or switch my car with the other one (that has gas). My initial supervised stint at the pump ended in a trip home and a change of clothes, you see.  

When I decided to gas ‘er up, I had a “do-it-yourself moment”, an experience in trial and error. After sneakily observing other customers, pulling all the levers, puzzled for minutes, why mine won’t work, I concluded that the pump was out-of-order and told the clerk at the station to fix it. “The whole business of gassing up was making me late!”

Still No Tickets for Me

One night I unknowingly drove with just parking lights on. I thought it quite strange that the streets were so dark, as I strained my vision, driving mostly by the light of the car behind me. The fact that I passed a road block with cops on the scene without being cited reinforced my belief that folks could get by the skin of their teeth.

All the driving skirmishes of my past have  emboldened me presently, and if ever, on a U-turn I end up in Timbuktu, my navigator will find me a route home (dotted with tolls all along the way).

(I have tried, for days, to write an essay on motherhood to dedicate to you.  Nonoie had put the seeds of a blog in my mind.  And for days, I could not, for the life of me, write.  The words wouldn’t come.)

There is something so immense about the subject of motherhood that intimidates me. I could only impart to you what little I know about it.  You have seen me live it. You have witnessed how my entire life has culminated on this singular experience.

There is nothing else except God, that you will have such a passion and a purpose for.  All the little fires of your life  will now come together into this one huge blaze. You will live and  breathe your son. This son of yours will now become an extension of your body, your heart walking around outside of you.  Whatever will touch him will touch you. Words like protect, shelter and comfort will be your mantra.

For as long as it takes—a force more potent than adrenaline would get you through days and nights of constant attendance to the needs and cries of this wee one.

How you would find yourself caught up in many moments of dumbfounded admiration at this most fascinating creature on earth!

How you would be in head-shaking disbelief that he is yours—that the trio of Paul, and you and God by some miracle, created this amazing, fragile specimen of life!

Oh, the exhilaration of motherhood!  It is THE journey of your lifetime.

You will become a raving fan, a devoted servant, a cheerleader, a defender of  his rights, a singer of lullabies, a teller of stories, a teacher, a wrestler, a pitcher, a coach, a one-woman audience, a cleaner of the most precious bottom, a nurse of cuts and wounds, a wiper of tears, a dreamer of his dreams…

And, there is something else far more significant than any of these…

When God gave you a womb, He gifted you with a privilege and a power no one else has been given:  no angel in heaven or demon on earth, nor any man.

With that womb, you have birthed a human being. By becoming its mother, you have been awarded the privilege to shape its destiny.

In your hands lie the power to change the world.

“The Hand that Rocks the Cradle Rules the World!”

Welcome to the most powerful sorority on earth.

A Word of Welcome

(To our Club)

My sister, today, gave birth to a son. 

What is there to say about motherhood that hasn’t been said? 

We have centuries’-worth of wisdom to tell:

It is most painfully delightful;

It transforms our entire lives;

It gives us a sudden, strong purpose;

We become giddy, with stars in our eyes. 

We spend hours admiring a creature,

Who had become an extension of ourselves.

We dream a lot.

We build a multitude of plans.

We marvel, we rave;

We are hopelessly in love.