I hope that this essay will touch you in the same way that it has touched me. May it make us realize that gratefulness and giving are part and parcel of stewardship as a way of life. Here goes:

“Lately, I’ve been thinking about “giving”. My first admonition about it, once again, comes from my mother: “God loves a cheerful giver.” She would dispense this line whenever I would give because there was no longer any choice and I would display my generosity with a frown, a pout or “dabog.” She would stop me in mid-act and remind me that if one was to give, one was to give, not out of guilt or anger, but out of true generosity.

Like many things my mother has told me (such as this line: sufficient for the day is the evil thereof), the syntax, the sentence construction, its depth would elude me and meaning and relevance would come much later. Today when either of the children give with rancor in their heart, their feet and faces heavy, I stop them too and give the same admonition: God loves a cheerful giver. And truly, when the day is endless and every thing I have done and not done has not changed anything, I whisper to myself “sufficient for the day is the evil thereof” loving the profound syntax of it.

My parents were good givers, in every sense of that word. Maybe it’s old world charm? I understand now that they gave from two different positions of heart. My father gave because everyone had given so much to him, a poor farmer’s child, who grew up in the mountains of Bukidnon, his life laid out before him, that future he saw in fear and trepidation. He knew he was meant for greater things but the mountains stood in his way. How providential that he would be “saved” from such a fate by the pure generosity of others. And so he gave from that spirit; from the belief he too could save others because of his own generosity. My whole life is a parade of memories of people coming to the house pleading for my father’s generosity, for his ability to change people’s destinies.

My mother gave because it was expected of her – of her class and lineage. Growing up in a home filled with people who served her, her own parents told her to always be grateful, to never take things for granted; to know that her life was a kind of reciprocal endeavor. You took care of your people forever. It is damn feudal but watching it from where I am as daughter, there is a beauty to it that cannot be denied.

My parents lived the Bible almost literally. They truly believed that wealth was not to be hoarded. They truly believed that wealth came specifically to those who knew how to use money to create a better Kingdom. Even when they were poor, they could still give beyond measure. And yes, they did it with a cheerfulness that could not be faked. Because I am certain that God does not like a fake giver either.

What about me? What kind of a giver am I? I do not have my parent’s wealth, in spite what people might think of me. But I have their spirit in me. In fact, to a fault, for I do not know how to take or receive.

My parents were bad at that too. An act of kindness for them was almost unbelievable. My father would cry and shake his head, so worthless in his own eyes to be surprised or given to. It was the smallest things that moved him most. French toast made by his daughters for his birthday or an extra serving of fried chicken at Christmas. He loved receiving gadgets: plugs, wires, and such. He could never shake off his sense of wonder at how his fate changed so extremely, which was why it was the small stuff that rocked his world.

Until today when anyone gives anything to my mother, her first response is to give it away. I used to think it was Machiavellian, but actually it is something else. Beautiful things were considered never for herself. One of her other lines: masyado namang maganda para sa akin. And I guess I must have learned this too.

My days are filled with giving both consciously and unconsciously I’ve noticed, like first nature, rather than second. I am prone to give away as soon as someone mentions something they like that I have. You like my bracelet? Here it is yours! My notebook, here it is yours! My blouse, here it is yours! The joy I feel my mother would be proud of. I am both cheerful and genuine.

But I must admit, I still have much to learn in this area of love. I think it is difficult for me to receive because of the necessary letting go it entails. As giver, you are main mover, source of being and there is power. But to receive is to come from a different position – it is to hand over power to someone else. It is an ability to be truly surprised. It is an ability to allow someone else to do the giving which is very hard having been taught that giving is better. Were we not taught that line, “it is better to give than to receive?”

Maybe this too mirrors my relationship with Christ. My acts of generosity allow me to focus on myself and not on the silent things thrown my way by the Original Giver. A powerful psyche is a dangerous thing, I must say. I need to learn how to see things and movements and random acts as gifts FOR me and not from me. I am not generous or giving because I am. I am generous and giving because He is generous and giving to me. I can only give because I receive-to truly live that out is a great and worthy challenge. That requires more than cheerfulness and more than authenticity. It requires humility.

Perhaps this too is something you share with me? Perhaps we all need to see that things in our domain, or our ownership, and our very acts of giving, the freedom we have to give, not as ours and ours alone, but given to us. What would happen if every concert, every solo, every spiel, every movement were seen not only as giving but also as receiving? Would it be possible that we would be able to give more?

My mother it turns out, much to my chagrin, is once again right. Even as a young child, she used to say this to me all the time: Gratefulness Rica. Above all, gratefulness.”

He began by reflecting on why the Lenten season began with Ash Wednesday, Wednesday being a half-way point during the week. He thought it was apt to start Lent somewhere in the middle since Lent is a time for remembering, for re-examining our lives based on what we have done. It is a time for re-starting; for re-booting since too often, people almost always find themselves in the “middle of things” given our very busy lives.

He then went on to say that Lent demands humility – for we must accept that we have all made mistakes. Lent demands that we fight inertia — because often, it is difficult to change for the better. (O, ba’t siya biglang nagbago? Ano ang nakain niya? or What led to the sudden change? What has he eaten?) But always, Lent gives us hope because it is never too late to change; it is never to late to make a choice. Lent asks us: “Where will you go?” Then Fr. Francis reminded all of us that our God is the God of second, third, fourth…chances.

As a young priest, Fr. Francis narrated that one of the most difficult parts of the Eucharist for him is when he “breaks the Body of Christ.” He asks himself the question: “Why does Christ allow Himself to be broken?” In his reflection, the answer to his question comes: “So that when we are broken, we know that we are not alone.”

He then went on to tell the boys that: “I hope you get tested. I hope you enter into difficulty. I hope you experience failure. And when you are broken, I hope you remember and cling to the God that you met in 1-A.”

I am sure that we have all met God at some time in our individual lives. May the coming Holy Week allow us to have time to reflect on God’s great love for us. When we are tested; when we each enter into difficulty, when we experience failure, I hope that we will also remember the God we met and meet several times over and cling to the glory of the Cross.

Before the mass ended, Fr. Francis shared a personal story about how when he was young, all he wanted to be was to be richer than his dad. He then talked about his godfather who was so rich, that when Fr. Francis (as a child) and his dad would go visit his godfather, they would marvel at how big his godfather’s house was. It was so big that from the front gate, the driveway was so long that Fr. Francis could not see the front door. His godfather also had a pond, with swans, in the Philippines! The sight had such an impact on Fr. Francis that he dreamed of having a similar place, where you can’t see the front door from the front gate and where he would have a pond with swans too.

He ended his story by saying: “So, did I achieve my dream of becoming richer than my dad? I don’t know. But now I live at the Ateneo and from Gate 2…” (the audience who are listening to his story start to react and clap at this point) “…you cannot see my front door. And instead of swans, there’s a blue eagle…”

What’s the moral lesson of the story? Sometimes, we have a different plan from what God wants for us. We each have a choice though on how we will respond to God’s plan for us. This Lent, may you be brought closer to God’s great plan for you. And when you do enter into life’s difficulties (as there always will be), please remember Jesus on His cross and that you are never alone. After the suffering of Good Friday, comes the glory and joy of Easter Sunday. God bless.

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.