Working with Ms. Rica for the book has been such a great joy. She is a brilliant, multi-awarded writer but very encouraging to a first-time book author like me. One of these days, I will write about how my meetings with her were but for today, I share with you a piece that she wrote. She has given me permission to share these with all of you.

Read on and realize that as parents, we hold great responsibility. But realize too, that we cannot do everything alone. The full text of Ms. Rica Bolipata Santos’ A Family in Faith follows:

This is how we pray at night:

We pray one Our Father, one Hail Mary and one Glory Be. After which I ask everyone to say what was the best part of the day. I think this is my favorite part of our prayer – this choosing of what was best. They choose the most touching of things, and the most concrete items of life: seeing fish in their grandmother’s pond, having warm pan de sal for breakfast, lolling around in bed with Daddy, reading books on the sofa with Mommy. After this part, we all then make a list of people to pray for. When they were smaller, this list was just as small – it contained only family members. Now that they are bigger other people have entered their prayer lists – friends in school, teachers, and other children they’ve met at the playground. And finally, our prayer ends when we recite Angel of God in unison. Right before the silence for sleep, I say I love you to them individually, just to make sure I get that across everyday.

I learned this process through my sister. This was how her husband’s family prayed, she said. I wanted our families to know how to pray together so I used it as well. I thought that the act of choosing the best part and the people to pray for was a wonderful way to anchor the utility of prayer. Children learn best through concrete things and it feels like in praying this way, the path to holiness seems simple and clear: to pray means to set aside time; it means an examination of the day, it is learning to see Someone’s loving hand in the way the day has been made, and it ultimately means gratefulness for all that we have.

This part of parenting, teaching faith and prayer and defining abstract things like faith, hope and love, has been a process that continually becomes more and more complex. I intentionally do not use the word difficult although it is an easier word. I prefer the word complex because it is more descriptive of how the process is something that does not ever become simple. The teaching, instructing and embracing of faith is part and parcel of parenting for all time, I believe. Although they will someday have to grapple with their faith, on their own terms, their sense of values, their morality, their backbone of being, is ultimately taught through me and their father, and the example that we set (especially our actions and attitudes about faith) while they are young.

I have three children and they are, in differing ages of belief. To teach them about Christmas, I’ve been reading to them this big book entitled Following A Star, for around three years now. It is a simple book that chronicles the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem, the innkeeper’s offering of a stable, and the different people who visit the Baby. When they were smaller, what attracted them most to the story were the pictures. The book is very big so the pictures are sumptuous to the eyes. They loved the animals! We would go through the different animals present at the stable and make their animal sounds.

As they got bigger, their interests began to change. They became interested in knowing the names of the characters. What were the Kings’ names? What was the name of the angel? What is a stable? Why can’t I tell them the name of the shepherds? It has become more and more challenging, especially since I am excited to give the whole story, to unfold salvation history, to underline concepts about my faith to them. But I cannot, for now the questions guide me carefully. I know they are signposts of what individually they are capable of understanding and digesting. Ironically enough, how I answer and what I answer is metaphorical as well, of me.

In one part of the book it says, “miracle of miracles did appear.” My daughter turns to me and asks what a miracle is? I am stumped. I do not know how to explain concretely what a miracle is. She tells me that in school, she was taught that Christ’s crucifixion is the saddest day in history. She says this matter-of-factly. My two year old tries to say the word crucifixion. I know she’s saying this to me because I need to explain it to her.

For a brief moment I am taken back in time and I wonder how I learned all this – the nitty-gritty of knowing what I truly believe in.

At the end of trick-or-treat, my firstborn reminds me it is time to take out the Christmas decorations. We put up the Christmas tree together as a family every year, while listening to Christmas carols and begin to make our Christmas lists. I learned this ritual from my own mother. As we did this two weeks ago, I thought to myself if I was doing this correctly. Surely I did not want them to think Christmas is just about presents? I watched them talk amongst themselves what to ask from Santa and I was able to find inspiration from the book of Christmas. I asked them to tell me what the three kings brought to Bethlehem. Their teeth got all mixed up trying to be the first to say gold, frankincense and myrrh. I told them that they too must find something they can bring to the stable. God gave us this child, what can we give back? They were frozen for a while and then my two year old suddenly screamed, “hay!” The answer was perfect, for the moment.

Last month, we added to our repertoire of Christmas books. Our new book is entitled The Christmas Star. It spins the story creatively. It talks about the different things that added to the light of the Christmas star. And so you have the wheat colored hay that reflected the light. And you have the shiny back of the spider silently spinning his web. Even the bell around the cow’s neck added to the shine of the Christmas morning. For now the new perspective of the same story enthralls them. Soon, maybe tonight, I will begin to talk about the difference between darkness and light. I will subtly begin to talk about how the birth of Christ pierced the darkness of humanity. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, or what words to use so it will make sense, but I am excited to figure it out.

This was something I never knew would be true about being a parent: that in having children I would understand the saints. I look at these three borne of me, and know what Mary and Joseph felt. I can understand the landscape of Joseph’s fear when Christ was lost in the temple. I can feel Mary’s anguish at Calvary. I wish I were more like them: Mary in her steadfastness and faith, Joseph in his strength and fortitude. I even understand why St. Augustine took so long falling in love with God. I know, with all my heart, why his mother, St. Monica, turned to Him for help. Because when faced with parenting, you instantly get it that you cannot do it alone.

These days, I talk to them about goodness and kindness and tell them about St. Therese’s Little Way. Yes I tell them, goodness is in washing your hands before dinner. Believe in this! As my children put their hands in prayer position at mealtime and bedtime, I sense my faith become even more alive, even better understood and loved. How I wish this were a gift I could easily bestow on them. We bow our heads in prayer together, a family in faith. Through my children, I truly know what it means to have been gifted with light.

It was a rather chilly Sunday morning, an hour past midnight when Dad died in February of this year. I remember looking up at the dark sky outside the hospital as I called the funeral parlour and the agent I was dealing with three weeks before his death. I had been preparing myself for this moment and I reminded myself to put on a strong facade, a calm composure. Things had to be done and nothing would be achieved if my family were to see me overcome with emotion.

I just never realized that no matter how carefully planned-out everything was weeks prior to that fateful day (from the services right up to the vault where Dad’s ashes would be put to rest), I could not control the sudden bursts of tears, the sleepless nights, the hours I spent wondering what else we should have done to make Dad’s tumors disappear. Although I knew that his life depended solely on God’s plans, I sensed sharp pangs of guilt. Perhaps if we made him take Essiac Tea months before his death or let him go through the complete dose of Immune Cell Therapy his life might have been prolonged; maybe if he studied Tai-Chi and did not stress himself out with moving to a new residence he would have survived. My only solace was knowing that before he died, he asked for his scapular, talked to Christ and begged for forgiveness. I witnessed how excited he was for Sunday Mass just hours before he passed away. Despite the fact that I knew Dad completely converted to Christianity and accepted the Divine Mercy devotion with all his heart, I was grieving. The problem was, I did not grieve outwardly. I was incapable of expressing my pain even to those closest to me.

Dad’s wake lasted over a week. He was cremated on the morning of my 35th birthday. Everything seemed surreal. At that moment my most despised word was “condolences”. Although I did not mind receiving text messages and cards from well-wishers expressing their sorrow, hearing this word uttered in front of me made my heart throb all the more with a dull ache. Somehow, this particular word was a bleak confirmation that Dad was no longer coming back.

In spite of what happened, I continued conducting my classes. In fact, I carried on with my work even during the days of Dad’s wake. While I could not bring myself to fully share my grief with others, I found that being with little children and hearing their rippling laughter greatly consoled me. During those difficult times, I loved my vocation all the more—teaching Kindermusik became therapeutic for me. With each lesson plan I wrote, with every single instrument and prop I prepared, I put in so much love as if I were creating a class for Dad. Because of Dad’s condition, he never had the chance to see me in class, singing and dancing with children and their families; however, I would always remember the proud look in his eyes the minute he learned that I was reaching out to families and children of all abilities. He beamed with joy when I told him about my passion for children with special needs and how my classes had helped them. Whenever I held a class, I could actually feel Dad’s encouraging presence, nudging me to keep pursuing my calling. Sometimes I would even imagine him participating during the sessions, belting out tunes and twirling as if he were still alive and kicking. Dad had always been so vibrant and spirited and he loved music as much as I did. He was fond of little children, too, and had been a doting father and grandfather. He had this kind, gentle aura as well as a wacky sense of humour that attracted my own children to him.

Ever since Dad’s death, Kindermusik has become more than a passion or advocacy for me—it has become my way of life. People deal with grief differently; in my case, I have decided to cope by pouring my heart and soul into each class. Being surrounded by such happy, eager children daily, I realize that Kindermusik has been tremendously helpful in allowing me to recover and accept the loss of my dear father. I have discovered much comfort in the innocence of young children and I find their laughter infectious; I feel so contented just sharing moments with them. Teaching Kindermusik has provided me with a release for my sanguine personality and creative nature, too. I receive a lot of joy and fulfilment seeing my own children and other families gathering around my singing circle, openly expressing their love for one another through circle dances, chants and lullabies. I have witnessed children’s developmental milestones, seen mothers getting teary-eyed when their children say “I love you” in oh-so-many ways. It is the kind of job I look forward to everyday—I only wish I started sooner by becoming an educator several years ago. From a simple dream I had over twelve months before, my Kindermusik program has grown two-fold through the amazing referrals of pediatricians and families who express how much they enjoy the sessions. I am deeply touched and overwhelmed by every recommendation and simply cannot express my gratitude to all those who have been entrusting their children with me.

Perhaps through Kindermusik, God is providing me with a glimpse of heaven here on earth. With the children’s delight and laughter ringing in my ears, I cannot help but believe that Dad ought to be laughing merrily in paradise like those children…he must be so happy now, free from pain and full of peace, in a place much lovelier than all the gardens in this world. Thank you, my precious, adorable students, my little angels, for saving me from the black hole of uncertainty and for granting me a peek into paradise.

Note: Suzette is the current editor-in-chief of the Our Alma Matters newsletter of Immaculate Conception Academy (ICA). She graduated from ICA in 1991. A dedicated wife and mother of two young boys, Suzette also manages and directs her own Kindermusik program in Ayala Heights Village, Quezon City and at KIDS Academy along Katipunan Avenue, White Plains, Quezon City.

The movie may take some time to load but it is worth the wait. It has beautiful photos and sceneries, heartwarming music, and the words from the inspiring poem which will surely make you think.

When someone dies, you will typically see two dates — the year when the person was born and the year when the person died. In between those two years is a dash. Based on the poem, the dash stands for the time the individual spent on earth.

We are each writing our own stories by the way we live our life each day. How are you spending your dash? What will people say about you when you have passed away? What do people say about you today?

It is not really about wanting people to say good things about you but living our lives the way it should be lived. As the poem says: it’s not about what we own but how we live and love. After all, we do not really own anything. Everything that we have are gifts from the Lord and it is up to us to use all these gifts for good.

If you would like to see the movie, you can view it at www.dashpoemmovie.com

Enjoy the movie. May it touch you and change the way you spend your dash for the better. God bless!

It’s good that nowadays, there’s the internet to document inspiring speeches so that even if we forget, we can always search for it. As they say, “the palest ink is still better than the best memory.”

In the graduation ceremonies of Ateneo High School last March 30, 2008, the commencement speaker was Architect Gerry Esquivel. His speech was called Storeys of Tsamba, Fools, and Silent Walks. Throughout his speech, he shared with the audience and listeners stories from his personal life. Stories, to me, are one of the best ways to connect with people. A story will always beat a lecture anytime.

Why do I like his speech? I like it because it highlights what it means to be a steward. There was an emphasis on thanksgiving, trusting in God’s providence, and in believing that everything we have is by the grace of God. It talks of a giving of one’s self, a focus on relationships, a sharing of time and talent.

We are all who we turned out to be because of the people who cared for us and instructed us — if not by words then by the lives that they lived. Our wise parents. Our selfless teachers. Our caring friends.

The speech likewise reminds us that no matter what happens to us in life, the Lord has the best plan for us and that we can never escape from His tight embrace.

If you wish to read the speech in full, you can read Storeys of Tsamba, Fools, and Silent Walks.

I thought it was quite interesting that Gerry used Storeys (instead of stories) given that he was an architect. I guess if all of us had the right values as emphasized in the speech, then we will have something solid to build our lives on no matter what.