Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Grace D. Chong
ISBN 978-971-0495-67-2
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Acknowledgment 7
Author’s Note 9
1 My Guardian Mary 13
2 My Mother Chita 21
3 My Cousin Minna 29
4 My Mentor ABAJA 37
5 My Manang Ibay 51
6 My Father Mateo 61
7 My Neighbor Miriam 71
8 My Husband Tony 79
9 My Friend Delma 87
15 My Lolo
I-Don’t-Know-His-Name 141
Coda 151
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Reflections 153
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Warmest Thanks To
The fifteen people who make up the fifteen
chapters of this book, through whom I was
abundantly blessed.
My friends and prayer partners at Pilar Village
Gospel Church who continue to push and
encourage me to write about God’s infinite grace.
Yna Reyes, Publications Director of OMF LIT for
seeing my heart in my manuscript at first pass.
Joanna Nicolas,
my editor, who was
adamant in
keeping my voice and style. Jon De Vera, OMF LIT
artist and book designer for the fresh look of this
new edition. Ggie Bernabe, my art director and
friend, for designing the first edition of this book
with her usual artistic aplomb. Edwin Sanchez,
artist of Prime Events, for the cover photograph on
the first edition of the book. The staff of Prime
Advertising Systems, Inc. for all the odds and
ends. Yollie Aquino for making me look good for
the photo ops. Lorenz Gabutina, whose poetry and
critique inspired me to press on. Atty. Daisy, of
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Zambrano and Associates, for all her help in every way possible.
Malou Cortes, Nena Dumlao, Fellie Menor, Pat Yu, and all the
lovely Anns of the Rotary Club of Makati Central, for the fun and
laughter during my dry writing spells. Willa Maglalang and Carrie
Muñoz, closet poets of Dentsu Young & Rubicam-Alcantara, who
remain in touch to cheer me on. My sister, Aie Dacanay, whose
comments on every draft (after draft after draft) challenged me
no end. My three sons, JC, JB and JR whose quiet presence and
nonchalance over my moods kept me going. My husband, Tony,
for holding my hand.
And most of all, to our heavenly Father, who forever keeps
me from falling, for the gift of writing and living.
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A
At dawn one day in summer, as I walked around
our neighborhood for the first of my daily morning
walks which I had baptized as my worship hour,
I could hear nothing but my footsteps. In the
silence, I sang an old hymn, “Count your bless-
ings, name them one by one. Count your
blessings, see what God hath done.” I did just that
and discovered it could take weeks, or years even.
It was a discovery that never would have
happened had I been in a rush to battle another
day’s traffic to my then
place of work.
Looking up, I saw
the glow of the remaining stars and street lamps.
In a heartbeat, they disappeared and out came the
shaft of the morning sun. It was a glorious sight—
the beginning of a new day.
It was like the genesis I had just decided to
take. Leave a glamour-filled career in advertising
after twenty-five years, and embark on a spirit-
filled one: Doing new things like counting my
blessings; walking while everyone is still sleeping;
watching my children become young men;
gawking at nature’s wonders; reading; writing;
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pondering silence, words and meanings, for which I never had
extra energy or enough time before.
Gifts, from my then clouded view, were those that came
every year, a week before my birthday when my three sons
would ask, “What would you like on your birthday?” It is a
question which to this day never ceases to delight me. I know
that behind those stoic macho faces is a touching thought.
“How about a nice little letter saying what a great mother
I am?”
But I would receive, instead, a green dama juana bottle or a
CD of a Broadway musicale for my collection, or the book that
I had already read on my frequent trips to the bookstore, or a
book that they were intending to buy for themselves.
Precious gifts all—including those that came at birth, genes
inherited from forebears. Yet they were not among those I began
to count in that early morning hour.
Gifts, from my now unobstructed view, are those which have
been kept in my heart through the years and which have been
helping me rise and grow to a new level of being—braver,
stronger, wiser, kinder and happier.
I speak of the life-lessons God continues to teach and bless
me with through people—near and far, young and old, past and
present—who have come my way.
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These lessons teach me to see things better from a new
perspective and in a deeper dimension—to fully understand His
redeeming grace.
It is not so much who these people are, but a patch of their
character and a sparkle in their spirit which, unknown to them,
have healed, inspired, taught, pushed, emboldened, disciplined
and empowered me in countless ways.
Through the pages of this book I am now sharing these gifts
with anyone who may care to read them. Truth is, at first I was
afraid that they would bare too much of my soul. But an inner
voice whispered, “What’s so wrong about sharing the fullness of
His grace?”
Most of these personal accounts were recorded on paper in
various timelines, or in my mind’s hard drive for a long, long time.
That’s why each one is different in tone, mood, and even verb
tense. Some are the way they were, some had to be updated,
some had to be rewritten.
You may read any chapter as your fancy takes you. Perhaps
you may feel it is uncannily familiar; your life may have also been
twitched and tweaked through one such person at another place,
another time.
It is my hope then that by reading this book, you, too, will
discover that your own “Gifts of Grace” are simply brimming over,
just waiting to be counted—one by one.
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If it were possible, I’d share mine all at one time for you to
reflect on. But they keep pouring still and there are only so many
chapters to a book. Let me begin with fifteen.
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13
S
“Sir?! I ain’t a sir! I’m a ma’am!” Mary barks in her Chicago
twang and hangs up. I freeze. Here I am, eighteen years old,
away from home for the first time in my life, lost among the
throng of passengers in the huge O’Hare International Airport
and my host hangs up on me. I am too scared to call again.
I have seen Mary only in photos, sent to us by her husband,
my Uncle Jose. Even in her photos she looks formidable and
colossal, a foot taller and wider than my dark, scrawny uncle.
Her coiffed hair is platinum blonde and her enormous frame is
always decked with large costume jewelry.
After that fateful phone call, I realize that living with this
immense American woman is the price—a very steep price—I
have to pay for what I had told everyone in the Philippines,
“The American Dream.” Scurrying back home is not an
option.
Somehow I make it to 2649 N. Orchard Street, an old
three-story corner brick house with one apartment on each
floor. Mary and my uncle live on the third floor.
“So! You’re Joe’s niece from the Islands?” is her opening
salvo over my ponytail. I strain my neck to see her face. “Hi,”
I say shyly, wondering whether I should kiss her hand or just
buss her on the cheek. I do neither.
“Call me Mary,” she roars in baritone. “And listen, while
you’re here, you get a guardian—me. Ye hear?” I pray that my
uncle would arrive soon.
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MY GUARDIAN MARY
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MY GUARDIAN MARY
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Gifts of Grace BOOK 1
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MY GUARDIAN MARY
I unmask the real Mary. The one who likes me, or is truly
fond of me, or loves me. Maybe not as much as she loves my
Uncle Joe whom she barks at often, and serves hand and foot
always, but close. She has the lingo of a toughie from the Bronx
(where she was born) and the voice of a hoodlum from
Chicago (where she grew up). But I have proven beyond doubt
the truth of the adage: “Barking dogs never bite.”
From then on, I quickly learn to talk turkey like a Chicago
thoroughbred. I mimic her toughie Al Capone accent: “This
here vacuum cleaner is meant for younger hands, a sturdier
spine, and stronger back. Wanna crack your old bones?”
“I will stay in this kitchen till my dainty little fingers have
cleaned up every morsel, dried every plate, put everything
where they belong. Got any problem with that?”
“You stay where you are, put your shriveled feet up, and
watch Engelbert Humperdink (her favorite) till you’re blue in
the face. Wanna make something out of it?”
“Greta Garbo will do dinner tonight. If I see anyone within
two meters of this stove, she’s gonna’ get it. Ye hear?”
My guardian Mary is actually a marshmallow. Underneath
that crass and rough facade is a soft and sensitive heart—so like
a typical Filipino mother, except that she is not a Filipino and
neither is she a mother. In five happy years, she drums into my
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Gifts of Grace BOOK 1
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