I have a friend whose steadfastness in his faith is rock-solid. He sends me heart-warming messages regularly. Here’s one of them.

I am particularly struck by this because, after all these years, I am still bungling through life trying to find its deeper meaning. Maybe you can find solace in this. Probably help me find inner peace:

“What  will matter?

How will the value of our days be measured?

What will matter is not what you bought, but what you built;

Not what you got, but what you gave!

What will matter is not your success, but how hard you tried.

What will matter is not what you learned, but what you taught.

What will matter is every act of integrity, compassion, courage or sacrifice that enriched, empowered or encouraged others to emulate your example.

What will matter is not your competence, but your character.

What will matter is not how many people you knew, but how many feel a lasting loss when you’re gone.

What will matter is not your memories, but the memories that live in those who loved you.

What will matter is not how long you will be remembered, but by whom and for what.

Living a life that matters doesn’t happen by accident.

It’s not a matter of chance, but of choice.

Choose to live a life that matters.”

My Mom died more than 10 years ago after a long illness. What started as an innocuous gall stone problem turned into a nasty sclerosis of the liver from which she never recovered resulting to her death. In between was a harrowing experience, difficult to erase from my mind as it fell on me, being the eldest male in a brood of seven, to decide whether to take her off the life-support system or allow her to linger a little longer hoping that a drop from a very expensive drug will vanquish the sepsis that was ravaging her body a little more each day.

Mom was a very garrulous person. She was always the life of a party, made everyone feel a little bit better with her easy and friendly ways. She never refused a dance when an opportunity came along and my children always looked forward to her weekly visit with us.

My fondest memories of my mother are, of course, my process of growing up. She taught me how to cook rice, fry fish, wash dishes, iron clothes, etc. I did not like it when she asked me to help her wind the thread she used in her crochets but I spent countless hours with her telling me stories about her adventures and misadventures with my father.

I never tired of Mom’s stories of me as an infant. Apparently I was a very sickly, asthmatic child, and was in near-death situations more times than she can count.  She told me of the sleepless nights she spent nursing me, feeling my pulse every now and then to assure her that I am still hanging on.

Mom had a hanging on to do herself. My father was very domineering leaving my Mom pretty much at home most of the time, tending to the kids and other housework. Being a homebody myself, this, fortunately allowed me to spend so much time with her. She encouraged me to read, and we sang songs together (though on of us was good at it). Then my father died making things a little bit looser and easier for my mother. My father’s death allowed my mother to find her real self; she started going out with friends and had fun with all sorts of people.

When her health started failing and weekly visits were all about her aches and pains, I brushed it aside as normal to aging people like her. Then she had he gall stone operation, which I thought would heal in a couple of weeks.  It did not and bad became worse.

It was May 9, two days after she was taken off the respirator and a day after my birthday. I was in the hospital’s chapel praying to God to spare the life of my mother. He had other plans. My cheeks were dry for my eyes had shed so much tears they could shed a tear no more. I went to my Mom’s room at noontime  and saw death over her face. I got scared and went downstairs to have lunch.

It was a futile act of disguising my state of denial. Not able to touch my food, I went back to my Mom. She was already dead.

I’d like to reminisce the happy moments of my life with my mother today, being Mother’s Day. I feel a twinge of shame however, to think that while she held me close to her breasts so her warmth may give life to a sickly child, I ran away, not being able to hold her hands when she breathed her last.

To my Mom – I loved you and always will.

Chenelle is a very lovely and friendly 4 yr old girl. Her mother is dead and her father is in prison. When she grows up, she said, “I want to have ‘holes’ in my ears.” She and her sister, Ligaya, 6 yrs. old, are the newest members of the SOS community.

Discovering Chenelle’s world was a bit serendipitous for me when, last June 10, Atty. Raul and Jeane Sanchez, together with some friends and relatives, celebrated their 25^th wedding anniversary at the SOS Children’s Village in Talamban, Cebu. The surprise did not end at knowing why SOS, of all places. It was just the beginning

Coming dressed for the occasion, I and my wife were “floored,” so to speak, to see that, contrary to usual wedding celebrations, the celebrants were in T-shirts and jeans in the midst of scores of kids shrieking to the antics of the party clown and magician. When they all had their fill and delight, a program was held and more surprises.

SOS is “home” to 141 children ranging in age from four to 20 years or so. And as their variety show progressed, I was rapt in personal reflection – while a lot of us gripe and complain about life, struggle with our spirituality and other things of desire – inside SOS are children who are either orphaned, abandoned or with parents so destitute to support them even at subsistence level. Yet they danced and sang and did karate exercises as if they had everything a heart can desire for.

Watching them, one cannot help but be shamed and awed, all in one roll. Through no fault of their own, they were denied, early on, that priceless gift of parental love and care; a lot of us take it for granted, even abuse it. Children on the outside, too many to count, willfully and knowingly inflict psychological and physical wounds upon themselves; through no fault of their own, the children of SOS are wounded and had to struggle to lead beautiful and fruitful lives.

The wounds of their experiences run deep and heal long. Chenelle, is garrulous, even more so, her sister Ligaya. Yet when pressed how their mother died or why their father is in prison, her fingers go into a frenetic and involuntary motion while repeating the words Kuya Raymund and the nuns of the Missionary of Charity – her earliest experience of love and care. Irine cried while relating her life before she and three other siblings found a home in the SOS.

Irine is 20 yrs. old and dreamt, even at 6, of becoming a nurse. Now she is on her 3^rd yr. When her father died and her mother had to scrounge for a living, she was left to care for them. She recounted how she had to beg their grandmother for food when the supplies left by their mother ran out. She dropped out of school and they found refuge in the Cebu City Task Force on Street Children of Cebu City’s First Lady Margot Osmena.

Now she gushes with happiness about her life in the SOS. She feels a prick of envy, though, to see her classmates with their parents during school activities. But then, she answers herself, “my Nanay more than makes up for my biological mother.”

Aside from the administration building, the SOS has twelve cottages, each housing 10 children, supervised by a “Nanay.” It is she who helps her care live their lives in an atmosphere of a “home.”  She cooks for them, attends to their neds, instills discipline and is the first line of “values formation: for her “children.”She is the surrogate mother to 10 children of different ages, backgrounds, proclivities, and traumatic experiences.

Brothers and sisters accepted into the SOS always share the same cottage to strengthen their bonding. Boys, 14 years above, are transferred to the SOS Youth Village where they are taught how to live on their own.

In a world full of bitterness and skepticism, the 1.4 hectare confines of the SOS is a place where the inherent goodness of man can be found; that despite the problems and cares we all have, there are others  who are in more dire situation than we are. That no matter how heavy the load is pressed upon us,  ultimately, the choice whether to break free or to be squashed flat is still ours to make.

Roger Navarro and hundreds of others before him (and doubtless many more to come) were taught by the SOS how to make the right choices.

The Navarro couple was a hard-working farming couple somewhere in Davao who were beginning to see the fruits of their labor. Unfortunately, some people didn’t like what they saw and murdered them in front of their children (one was so traumatized he developed a stutter that took a long time for the SOS staff to correct). At the age of 6, Roger and his two brothers and a sister found their way into the SOS.

Roger is now the Electrical Maintenance Manager of the Norkis group of companies, a brother is a seaman while the other brother is an engineer at Lear Automotive.  The sister? She’s now a guidance counselor of Colegio Inmaculada Concepcion (CIC), Mandaue Campus.

No doubt, a lot of us know where SOS is but no many know what it does. Otherwise, after 25 years of existence, it should now be able to shoulder at least 10% of its monthly expenses of more than a million pesos through local sponsorship. Sadly, except for the graciousness of the RamonAboitiz Foundation Inc. (RAFI), which donated the lot on which the SOS stands, occasional walk-in donors (used clothing, goods and cash) and gifts from Margot Osmen’s foundation for street children which sometimes share with them whatever grant that comes its way, the benefits incurred upon us have been shouldered by the SOS International in Austria. After 25 years of existence, local sponsorship has been z sad zero. Ironic and tragic, isn’t it? That foreign money continues to support and solve a local problem.

Not that sponsorship is that difficult on one’s finances. A group of twelve working-class people can take turns in putting off buying a pair of shoes, an expensive perfume, a dress or a dinner per month and donate the saved amount to the SOS. A similar number of businessmen can do the same, it shouldn’t hurt to put off buying a new set of golf clubs or an evening in one of Cebu’s karaoke bars, or whatever rich people spend their money on. It’s almost Christmas and companies can put real meaning into it by sharing their blessings with those with less in life. It is prayers in action, of deed, not in words.

Tucked in the invitation cards Raul and Jeane gave out were tiny crimson envelops written with, “This is my pledge of support for the SOS.”

Couldn’t YOU?

Today I started reading Alvin Phang’s Atomic Blogging. I am also trying to get focused by deleting from my mailbox tons of offers received after buying an e-book that started this avalanche of offers.

They came in droves. Offers from list building techniques, creating traffic, pay-per-click schemes, and so forth. Regardless of the subject, they are in common in:

- All offered “FREE” admission into their program;

- All are a mile long resulting to loss of thought and information overload leading to decision paralysis.

- All are full of endorsement from people nobody knew leading me to suspect that their books are not as good as they claim, otherwise why need all these people to speak for it.

- All have syntax problems making me wonder why they couldn’t get good enough proofreaders if they are making tons of money.

- Upon  scrolling down, I am lead to another site which dashed my hopes to pieces. All inducements of “FREE” this and that are the veritable spider’s web. All cost a fortune.

Oh yes, some are playing it coy with warnings of scammers – those offering “get rich quick” schemes that are nothing but sugar-coated balloons. Sadly they, too, are not a whittle different from the rest.

A site starts with a list of subjects regarding blogging. Upon opening it, the first page contains primers to food supplements.

Alvin Phang suggests never to hard sell. These guys do without a conscience. My reactions and questions regarding their offers are answered by more offers of the same; my requests for review of my posts are answered the same way.

One creatively asked me what I will be doing in the next 3 minutes. I answered “Trying to make sense out of your offer.” He never bothered to clarify or explain but submitted the same offer.

The “FREE” website that was supposed to be a freebie from the e-book I made the mistake of buying was the first disappointment in my blogging life and it ushered in more. And it was not free after all.

The brighter side?

Kontera is very proactive, diligent, and patient. And after  having survived from one disappointment to another, an  offer came that is hoped to be the silver lining in my dark clouds of blogging.

Needing a certain degree of success, I tried out the things from Mr. Chow’s e-book. One of these is to have my postings advertised in some of the countless websites catering to such need.

“Don’t Click on Me If…,” is an icon in one of these websites. The jerk that I am, I did, loosing upon me a herd of rampaging marketers vying to get my attention with the electronic equivalent of jump, roll and play dead.

“It pays to advertise,” is a well-worn saying among advertising people. And it is true. In my case however, I got “stung,” not to get advertised, but to pay for an e-book. The offer was juicy. It promised a “free” website already primed for unlimited earnings the moment I sign in.

At this point, I thought it better to change my blog name to Life is a Pizza. It was out of the lesson learned from that innocuous icon and my love-hate relationship with pizza. I thought I might also give my blog an attractive and catchy name and I found similarities in pizza toppings to the things that are happening as I make the arduous and painful blogging journey.

• Cancer tidbits from my friend in Australia:
  Researchers in Austria have reported that large weight gains or losses may influence an individual’s risk for developing certain types of cancer.
  (Annals of Oncology 2008; 19:641-648, published April 2008).

• Increased physical activity among American women is associated with a decreased risk of pancreatic cancer, providing additional evidence that physical activity may
  potentially be protective against this malignancy.
  (BMC Cancer 2008, 8:63, published 4/10/2008)

Another reason for the Pizza name is the subconscious hope that people will start taking a bite from my postings. Oh, I got a lot of bites all right – but not from visitors but from e-marketers vying to sell their products.

Note: Previous installments on my misadventures in blogging are found at wwwjoedabon.blogspot.com.

It is said that “if you want to soar like an eagle, be with the eagles. If you want to waddle like a duck, be with the ducks.”

After three blog name changes and shuttling between Bloggers.com, WordPress.com, then Bloggers.com, I finally decided to settle, with finality I hope, with WordPress

I started touching on the reasons for the name changes in my blogs at http://wwwjoedabon.blogspot.com. The change in hosting, however, is fairly simple: all the big names in blogging are using WordPress. But of the three successful bloggers I’ve read so far, only Alvin Phang gave me the reason why (at least that which I can understand). More of Alvin Phang later.

Change is never easy. It entails a lot of soul-searching to be able to handle the new environment, the discomfort and hassles of having to learn something new and different. Prior to that, we have to unlearn the previous lessons before we can effectively adapt to the new one. But change we must or become obsolete and be left behind.

As I’ve written in my other blog (see above), ‘Change is the only permanent thing in the world.’ And whereas fear of the unknown is one of the stumbling blocks of change for most, my need to succeed, be with the eagles, has been the driving force behind the changes, evolutions I would rather say, of my blog.

This was emailed to me from a friend and did a short research on the writer which was a move with wisdom otherwise another posting must be made just to accommodate his credentials.

Ben Stein is an American writer, commentator award-winning actor, comedian, game show host and despite all these, he has his hang-ups like you and I. Here, in his Confession, is something all of us should ponder about.

My Confession

I am a Jew, and every single one of my ancestors was Jewish. And it does not bother me even a little bit when people call those beautiful lit up, bejeweled trees Christmas trees. I don’t feel discriminated against. That’s what they are: Christmas trees.

It doesn’t bother me a bit when people say ‘Merry Christmas’ to me. I don’t think they are slighting me or getting ready to me me in a ghetto. In fact, I kind of lit it. It shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year. It doesn’t bother me at all that there is a manger scene on display at a key intersection near my beach house in Malibu. If people want creche, it’s just fine with me as is the Menorah a few hundred yards away.

I don’t like getting pushed around for being a Jew, and I don’t think Christians like getting pushed around for being Christians. I think people who believe in God are sick and tired of getting pushed around, period. I have no idea where the concept cam from that America is an explicitly atheist country. I can’t find it in the Constitution and I don’t like being shoved down my throat.

Or maybe I can put it another way: where did the idea come from that we should worship Nick and Jessica and we aren’t allowed to worship God as we understand Him? I guess that’s a sign that I’m getting old, too. But there are a lot of us who are wondering where Nick and Jessica came from and where the America we knew went to.

In light of the many jokes we send to one another for a laugh, this is a little different: This is not intended to be a joke; it’s funny, it’s intended to get you thinking.

Billy Graham’s daughter was interviewed on the Early Show and Jane Clayson asked her ‘How could God let something like this happen?’ (regarding Katrina) Anne Graham gave an extremely profound and insightful response. She said ‘I believe God is deeply saddened by this, just as we are, but for years we’ve been telling God to get out of our schools, to get out of government and to get out of our lives..  And being the gentleman He is, I believe He has calmly backed out. How can we expect God to give us His blessing and His protection if we demand He leave us alone?’

In light of recent events…terrorists attack, school shootings, etc. I think it started when Madeleine Murray O’Hare (she was murdered, her body found recently) complained she didn’t want prayer in our schools, and we said OK.

Then someone said you better not read the Bible in school. The Bible says thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal, and love your neighbor as yourself. And we said OK.

Then Dr. Benjamin Spock said we shouldn’t spank our children when they misbehave because their little personalities would be warped and we might damage their self-esteem (Dr. Spock’s son committed suicide). We said an expert should know what he’s talking about. And we said OK.

Now we’re asking ourselves why our children have no conscience, why they don’t know right from wrong, and why it doesn’t bother them to kill strangers, their classmates, and themselves.

Probably, if we think about it long and hard enough, we can figure it out. I think it has a great deal to do with ‘WE REAP WHAT WE SOW.’

Funny how simple it is for people to trash God and then wonder why the world’s going to hell.  Funny how we believe what the newspapers say, but question what the Bible says.  Funny how you can send ‘jokes’ through e-mail and they spread like wildfire but when you start sending messages regarding the Lord, people think twice about sharing.  Funny how lewd, crude, vulgar and obscene articles pass freely through cyberspace, but public discussion of God is suppressed in the school and workplace.

Are you laughing?

Funny how when you forward this message, you will not send it to many on your address list because you’re not sure what they believe, or what they will think of you for sending it.

Funny how we can be more worried about what other people think of us than what God thinks of us.

Pass it on if you think it has merit. If not then just discard it… no one will know you did. But, if you discard this thought process, don’t sit back and complain about what bad shape the world is in.  My Best Regards. Honestly and respectfully,

Ben Stein

Amen!

No Political Persecution:

An article has been electronically going around concerning the recent trial and acquittal of Jose Ma. Sison in the Netherlands for murder. The charge alleged that Mr. Sison ordered the execution of two ex-members of the communist party of the Philippines. The article, no doubt, coming from any one of the cause-oriented groups adoring Mr. Sison, scored the Netherland government for political persecution.

Lest their rhetoric becomes more ludicrous as it is now, it is worthwhile to note that Jose Ma. Sison founded the communist party of the Philippines in the ‘60s and has been espousing the overthrow of the country’s democratic institution since then. Captured and incarcerated during the Marcos years, he was freed, as a gesture of reconciliation,  when Cory Aquino took over as   president. Subsequently, he was allowed to travel overseas with the condition that he comes back and help in rebuilding the nation. Typical of his ideology, which is founded on lies, he sought, and was granted political asylum in the Netherlands, instead of coming back. Now he is enjoying the best of both worlds. He is safely ensconced within the strong democratic walls of his adopted country while continuing to urge his fanatics in the Philippines to continue with their class struggle.

It is impossible to take accurate count of the lives lost, destroyed families, lost business opportunities and properties damaged beyond repair, because of Mr. Sison’s desire to achieve something he could never do through a civilized world’s route to power – the elections. The irony is that while his cheeks radiate of the richness of his environment, his guerrillas suffer untold misery from lack of food, separation from families, constant running to put a distance between them and the military. Once in a while the thuggery in them come to national attention when they burn some telecommunications towers or  passenger buses for not paying revolutionary taxes.

Despite the evil Mr. Sison has spawned, his fans are crying political harassment. If there is, it would be a slap in the wrist vis-à-vis the damage he has done.

As a child I was awed at the sight of this flaming red shrub at Christmas time. Even more as I grew older when I noticed that the “flowers” were leaves that turn red as the Yule season approaches. So as if in a journey to unlock some mystery worthy of one of Leon Uriz’s novels, I tried to gather some information into this beautiful shrub. What I found out are the facts and a fiction about the poinsettia (so named after Joel Roberts Poinsett, the first U.S. Ambassador to Mexico who introduced the plant into his country in 1825).

The story has it that Pepita, a charming Mexican girl had no gift to give to the Child Jesus during the Christmas Eve services in the village chapel. So, as she walked with her cousin Pedro towards the chapel, her heart was full of sadness rather than joy. To soothe the gloom of Pepita’s heart, Pedro told her that even the most humble gift, if given in love, will be acceptable in His eyes.

Not knowing what else to do, Pepita knelt by the roadside and gathered a handful of common weeds, fashioning them into a small bouquet. Looking at the scraggly bunch of weeds, she felt more saddened and embarrassed by the humbleness of her offering. She fought back a tear as she entered the small village chapel.

As she approached the altar, she remembered Pedro’s kind words: “Even the most humble gift, if given in love, will be acceptable in His eyes.” She felt her spirit lift as she knelt to lay the bouquet at the foot of the nativity scene.

Suddenly, the bouquet of weeds burst into blooms of brilliant red, and all who saw them were certain that they had witnessed a Christmas miracle right before their eyes.

From that day on,  the bright red flowers were known as the Flores de Noche Buena, or Flowers of the Holy Night for they blossomed each year during the Christmas season.