Time & Choice

All Things Are Held in Balance

My sister said that my father's last words to her were "I love you. I forgive you. Take care of Mama." The only response I got from my father when I arrived, was a huge smile as I showed him our new baby, Hannah and as he saw his only grandchildren round about his hospice bed. I remember that smile. He was very happy to see his grandchildren but very tentative about me. It was the same expression he had after he had a spell of anger with me, after he beat me or after he raised his voice at me to call me some very ugly labels. It was as if he didn't know whether he should show tenderness after one of those "incidents" or just carry on pretending nothing had happened. I know that look only too well. And as it has always been through the decades, I've learned to compartmentalize these uncomfortable moments. In this case, my heart told me that my Papa was weak and exhausted from the pain of his cancer and the haze of his morphine pack.

My father left the country after Uncle Baq*, a judge, called to tell him that there was a warrant for his arrest. It was 1988. President Marcos was no longer in power. Consequently, all of my father's friends in high places were also in limbo, escaped to other countries or were in hiding. There would be no one who held enough power to get him off the hook this time.

In 1971 or 72, my father was arrested for rape. He made the front page of The Manila Times. The next day, the newspaper would publish a retraction. The consequences of that event were huge. It was claimed that it was a case of mistaken identity or extortion on the part of the accuser. But we all knew the accusation was true. We all knew he was guilty. But we all quietly accepted the lie. It would become the culture of our family to live with the lies of all our overall dysfunction. We would all rise to the occasion pretending that we were the picture of a perfect Mormon family. We all bought and sold the lie. 

Sometimes, I'm surprised that we joined the Mormon church because my mother never mentioned God, talked to us about God nor taught us how to pray. I only saw her at church when we visited her mother in Bulacan. My Papa, on the other hand, had parents who attended the Methodist church regularly. His mother, my paternal grandmother, Dolores, told me Bible stories, taught me to pray and took me to church on many occasions. In fact, I attended Kindergarten at the Cosmopolitan church, a Methodist church they attended. I still remember the name of the pastor. Pastor Rigos was a handsome, charismatic man. My father attended the Philippine Christian College-Union High School but was, by no means, a religious man by my childhood observation.

Joining the Church was fortuitous. It changed our lives. For one, my father, by a miracle, never drank nor smoked again. So the nights when he would come home drunk, having lost most of what my mother made by gambling (Jai-alai, was one of his favourite things to do with his cadre of fellow drunks and rich friends...) would stop. We finally had something we could all be part of, as a family. We had a schedule. In those early days of the church, we had events every single day- whether it was simply the missionaries visiting our home or the many meetings and activities related to growing and organizing the church in the Philippines. But whatever it was, our family was at least heavily involved if not at the helm of each activity and historical event.

I think my father sincerely wanted to be part of the Church...I think he really believed in its principles. And his conversion story is miraculous. It was also very obvious to me that my mother took to its precepts with great familiarity. She studied the Book of Mormon constantly and deeply. She believed in revelation. And I really believe that she received very personal revelations. My mother was a very spiritual person. The Church saved us. Its precepts saved me and continues to be beacon in my life. And the story of our family is a perfect example of how choices affect others...how other peoples' choices can limit or amplify our own choices as well as our own. It is also a perfect study of how our choices can affect the choices of many generations to come and, to the extent of our limited understanding, even affect those who have come before us. Time is a man-made construct anyway so to even imagine time as non-linear is moot. It has to be one eternal round... or a concept that knows no past nor future; one that our finite mortal intelligence cannot comprehend.

That one night, when my Papa fled the country, he proceeded directly to Ellen's home in San Francisco where they had a very emotional conversation. Ellen was always able to talk to Papa in a more "open" manner. I have to digress here and explain why she could talk to Papa and I couldn't. While I was on my mission, she left BYU-Hawaii before she could participate in commencement exercises. I was very stunned at the immediacy of her departure. But that is another story. Consequently, she  was able to live at home as an "adult".  She eventually married a man who turns out was already previously married. Again, that's another sordid story. But the point is, Ellen went through so much and she went through those experiences with my father in the sidelines ready to rescue her and in many instances, have emotional confrontations complete with my father pointing a loaded gun at her. They had established a relationship that was tremendously full of drama but at least, they could talk to each other freely and openly--a kind of interaction that I did not have with my father. Primarily, the reason was because I was simply too afraid of Papa. Ellen had no fear of him. She was always more unafraid of things than I was.

On that first day with Ellen, there were many words exchanged. Emotions were strong, random, incomprehensible. My father, desperate, alone, trapped in a prison of his own making, suddenly separated from all his cronies and support, found himself feeling helpless with nowhere to go. After so many years of dangerous and criminal behaviour, he finally got caught. Suddenly, even his own daughter could not offer him refuge nor emotional support. After their exchange of words, my sister heard him sobbing in his room. Later, in the middle of the night, he would leave. I don't know where he went but when Ellen told me about this, my heart ached. It's been over 30 years since he passed but being told about this moment in his life suddenly made him human. My father was just human. It's not new information. But father and human don't seem to mix naturally. And as sons and daughters, it's a conscious realization on our part to decide to see our parents as humans just trying to do their best and as such, worthy of honour and respect. Because being a parent is the most sublime and sacred effort that requires responsibility and almost super human patience. 

Sometimes, the consequences of choices others make, hold us ransomed until they can undo the damages they caused by their choices. My oldest daughter and her husband both accused me of being emotionally abusive. They also stated that they have no trust in me and therefore will not ever leave their children alone with me. It's been over two years since this happened and I still cannot bring myself to have a normal conversation with either of them for fear that I may be saying something offensive. And my heart, broken to pieces, began to build walls and reinforcement to defend myself from  more anticipated  harsh and unfair accusations. This is another story. Because of the choices she made, perhaps to protect herself from the reality that her husband is manipulative and abusive, my heart is paralyzed and my choices have become limited. Our interpersonal relationship as mother and daughter has been held in ransom. None of the past instances when we could talk about so many things even helped me nor her restore what once was an open and easy relationship. The strain is slowly killing me. But my hands are tied until the damages that her accusations have made can be repaired. So I feel desperate, alone and unable to move forward. And the pain is like a death by a thousand cuts.

As a mother, I understand how my parents feel when we cannot offer the support nor reaction that they need. My papa wanted us to accept him as he is...he wanted us to forget his bad choices and see him simply as our father...our Papa who loves us. I do understand that after doing all they can do within the limitations of their experience, knowledge, culture and other mitigating factors, they sincerely did their best to become good parents and good people. But what if their choices are so catastrophic and the consequences so dire that the damage over time results in a compounding depreciation of their children's ability to maintain a healthy relationship? It is not an easy task because even if one arrives at that empathetic level where the problem becomes clear, getting to the point where one can actually know what to do and then execute that act are two different challenges. And each step can be brutally exacting depending on the damage. In my case, the constant beatings, humiliation, victimization, emotional manipulations through the decades resulted in so much damage that my relationships with my father, my mother and my only sister can only be described as dysfunctional, obtuse and triggering. As of this writing, I still do not know how to talk to my sister without triggering her or being triggered. And though I realize what is happening at the time it is happening, I have no idea how to replace my behaviour. And its not because I haven't tried either. And yet, the guilt I feel is so paralyzing, so stupefying, so destructive because I feel that I know better. I do understand. And yet, I can't catch up. So I cleave to the concepts of the Atonement and its infinite quality.

I made very decisive choices as to how I was going to parent my children. I knew in principle that the best way I can parent is to love my husband. I knew that I cannot react as my parents have modeled to me. That means that my mind needs an extra second to think first. Thankfully, I can speak 3 languages and that made all the difference. I have to raise my children in my 2nd language. English only. No tagalog. I knew there would be consequences to my children not learning my native tongue because language carries culture. I will have to leave that to God. Speaking English gave me the tool to recreate a new familial culture where I can say "I love you", tell them how awesome they are, create a relationship where they can talk to me about their feelings without fear and make gospel-speak normal. Of course, I made an enormous amount of mistakes because I can be emotional and passionate about things. But talking about mistakes was also something I wanted to be second nature. I may not have succeeded but I do know that I have no guilt about the amount of effort it took for me to try. And try. And try. I gave it my everything.

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"Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. Honor your father and mother,” which is the first commandment with promise: “that it may be well with you and you may live long on the earth.” (Ephesians 6:1)

Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee. (Genesis 20:12)

“Let your father and mother be glad; lether who bore you rejoice.” (Proverbs 23:22-25)

My son, hear the instruction of thy father, and forsake not the law of thy mother: For they shall be an ornament of grace unto they head, and chains about thy neck. (Proverbs 1:8-9)

As one whom his. mother comforted, so will I comfort you; and ye shall be comforted in Jerusalem. (Isaiah 66:13)

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If there is a sure way that I can be demolished by my children, the sure way to do it would be to accuse me of abuse. I never ever expected this to happen to me considering all I have tried to do. And yet, here I stand boldly and harshly accused. How can I defend myself?  I can't. Because such is my daughter's truth. And I am gutted.

I wish that I know now what I didn't know back in 1989, the year my Papa died. He waited until we were all involved playing together as a family when he passed; as if to say that he'd rather slip away unseen than have everybody witness his passing. Like that one night when he escaped arrest and flew to SFO....and left in the middle of the night, gutted and alone, feeling oh so abandoned. My sister heard my Papa sobbing that night. I have never seen my father cry. How I wish I had hugged him and told him that no matter what he has done, that he is still my father and I love him and respect him. How I wish I could have given him assurance that no matter how much hurt I bear, that I forgive him and love him. But I was clueless and damaged..with no tools in my belt to fix the situation. But in order to appreciate the depth and breadth of his efforts, failures, guilt, lack of tools, burdens and baggage, I had to experience being a parent. My Papa has been gone for over 30 years. It took that long. And like karma, my own daughter had to give me that experience by her accusations...as well as a couple of in-laws. I KNOW I am not an abusive mother because I know what abuse is. But I do know that I can go down the rabbit hole of fear, imagination and the effects of my baggage. I can be overbearing. I can be passionately overprotective. My panic and fears can take me to crazy places where reason and common sense do not exist. And so...yes, I can hurt my children's feelings just by sheer over-reaction. But abuse? My conscience tells me I am definitely NOT abusive. But my heart bears so much hurt that I sob almost everyday. And I want to punish myself. The guilt I feel is exquisite because now I feel my parents' "revenge". I feel that I deserve no love from any of my children and I my doubts about their love for me are so real that they beg proof.

Ellen and Papa drove to see me in our little apartment in Henderson, NV. I was pregnant with Hannah and had 3 small children in a 2 bedroom apartment as we started a new life in Nevada. I had the advantage of knowing why my father was suddenly in the US...alone and without any plans nor preparations. He was really at our mercy. Literally. That night, he and I had a conversation. I asked him if it was true: if he really had sexually assaulted women. I do not remember exactly what his response was but I remember that he responded in the affirmative. I had already rehearsed in my head how I would respond so I told him that he needed help both professional and ecclesiastical. He defensively said he didn't need to seek any help and just needed to wait for Mama to join him. My heart and my mind were so full of emotion; confusion, unbridled fear, pride, shock, indignation, anger, disgust, shame, guilt....so many emotions. Except love. Every emotion except love. When I told him he will not see any of his grandchildren unless he seeks help, his response was "then you are dead to me". I don't remember much what happened later. All I remember is that they left. And I didn't talk to my father again. For months. Even after my mother joined him. The next time I would talk to him was when he called to tell me he had liver cancer. He would pass in December of 1989.

My thoughts often go back to that night when he sat in front of me in that small apartment. I felt every emotion but love. And I weep at the ignorance and emotional density of that young 34 year old mother. She couldn't even choose to simply love her father. I don't think she even thought of love as a possible option. I know that she knew that love is really a choice. Yet in retrospect, that knowledge could not rise above her baggage. I am now almost 67 years old and just now understanding the personal impact that the sequence of the Ten Commandments have on my life right now. The first 3 commandments pertain to the relationship we have with God. The 4th commandment pertains to how we can be enriched when we keep the Sabbath day holy. The 5th commandment pertains to our relationship with our parents. The rest pertain to our comportment with other humans. This is a sacred order: God, Self, Parents, Others. There is a hierarchy of importance involved because this is the way to gain proper momentum for our spiritual gain. And generationally, it makes sense that the direction has to be from ancestors....down to our parents to children. The cumulative effects of choices flows downward. Our role and birthright as children of our parents, is to become better parents, better people than our parents ever were...and to maximize the blessings and sacrifices that our parents made in our behalf. If we can't do that, we dishonour our parents. If we can right the wrongs of our parents as we see them, we become part of their accomplishments. It has to flow this direction because we cannot improve the past...only the future. 

My father used to visit me frequently in my dreams. Once, during a lucid dream, he told me he had something important to tell me. I responded with skepticism and said, "Papa, how will I know if its really you or if this is just a product of my subconscious mind?". Then he answered me with a joke. I can't repeat the joke because it is a pun on words in English and Tagalog but I could not have made it up. It was pure Papa. His jokes were always that corny and we used to laugh out loud during those moments when Papa was just the most wonderful company. He was funny, charming, smart and witty. He would laugh from his belly ever so free and boisterous that we couldn't help but laugh as well even when his jokes were so ridiculously corny. Finally, I told him "Ok, now I know it's really you!". Then told me his message: "Christie, remember that whatever you do affects all of us here." I did not realize the gravity of his words until my own daughter accused me of abuse. Because it was important to me that I gave it my all, gave up so much just so the outcome of my mothering would not be the same as how my parents treated me. I know with all my heart that I did not ever hit them, call them names nor manipulated them in order to humiliate them. Yet all my efforts, all my sacrifice, all my pain...were in vain because I still failed. I am a failure.

Understanding now what my father needed during that those last months of his life results in so much sorrow, remorse and pain. Why couldn't I feel just love? What was the overwhelming emotion that I felt during those times? As I think and reflect, I realized that it was simply fear that blanketed all other emotions. Through the years of abuse, I had learned to compartmentalize...to detach... to feel nothing. It is still my defense of choice. I could not react with love perhaps because my father's choices had left me with so very little choices to work with. Perhaps my relationship with my parents did not develop in such a way that I could be confident enough to choose outside the sphere of my capability or imagination. Perhaps the choice to just love and forgive him was simply too remote from my reach. Nevertheless, I grieve, I feel remorse and pain for being so blind and clueless to other possibilities....that the idea that I can be extraordinary did not occur to me. Perhaps if I prayed more. Perhaps if I were closer to the Spirit I could have chosen better. I will always rue the loss of the what-could-have-been. I could have just shown love. I could have just opened my heart and helped my father no matter what he had done. Because I know that he did all he could do...he gave all his best within all the limitation of his humanness. But most of all, I could have simply shown him love and forgiveness. It was simply a choice that I did not see. They simply were not in my personal toolbox. I am found wanting.

To honour my father and my mother simply means to love and respect them. And more than anything, I honour them by the life I continue to live because I know that all that I will ever do whilst here on earth will affect them wherever they are. All I can do is live my life the best I can. What more can I do for them but be the best I can be? I know that when Ellen heard my Papa sobbing that night, that he was feeling as lost, dejected and unloved just as I felt when Tascha, told me that I was abusive, capable of gaslighting and unable to see how I am harming my children. And so my heart still breaks for my Papa. I yearn to hug him, tell him I love him no matter what he has done. Because that is what I yearn to have from my children despite the fact that I KNOW I was not abusive.

I hope that my children will  be better than I ever was in honouring my parents. If indeed I was abusive, then I seek nothing more from my children. It is enough that they have good lives and are followers of Christ, raising their children in the Lord's way. It is enough that they have chosen extraordinary spouses and that their children are healthy and happy. I hope that they can choose love and forgiveness without so much consternation, nor doubt, nor fear. And this is how we take full advantage of one of the many gifts of the atonement: the restorative powers. As we freely and consciously forgive our parents’ frailties, faults and baggage that affected their choices especiallly in how they worked to raise us, we honour their efforts, not their lacks. And that forgiveness flows back to their parents’ flawed efforts, and theirs parents and their parents’ parents and so on until the restorative powers of our forgiveness flows even laterally, to all those who have influenced our ancestors even until the beginning. It is a restoration and amplification of our ancestors’ limited understanding and visions. Restoration has to flow that way because it is not just logical but true in a temporal world where time is linear. Forgiveness has power. Forgiveness has restorative powers. And that is our small gift and service made possible by the Atonement of Jesus Christ. As we forgive, we activate these gifts.

5 ¶ Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the 

Lord

:6 And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse  As our hearts turn towards our parents to provide these restorative blessings to them by way of giving them honour by forgiveness, they too turn their hearts to us in gratitude and love. Just as my father said to me, “everything you do there affects all of us here”. He made sure I remember that. But the puzzle pieces did not snap in place until recently.
The choices we make can amplify or limit the choices that others make. The direction that these choices move as we live our earthly life is generational....from ancestors to parents to children. The hierarchy of the commandments also flow in the order that  perhaps may be eternal - from God, to ourselves, to our parents and to others. These are the things I have learned that I wish my children to know and understand. Because earthly life is really about choices. The ability to choose what is right can sometimes be elusive when our hearts are filled with tears, with hurt and pain. So I wish you, my children, enough time to be able to choose the right; to have the clarity of mind to see far off and to choose love. Most of all, honour your father and mother that your days may be long. Don't wait until it is too late for your heart to be tender. Because everything you will do on this beautiful earth will affect me and your Dad even after we pass through the veil.

Me at 62

I made this meme when my heart was broken.

*Uncle Baq is Leonardo Baquizal, an attorney who went to law school at Howard University. He became a judge but also had some dementia in the end. He was always very kind to me. He was married to my mother's oldest sister, Editha, or, Auntie Edi. She is the oldest of 4 sisters namely, Editha, Priscila (my mama), Nieva and Evelina or "Lina". They also have a 5th sibling; a brother, Antonio Veloira, an artist and a drunk. He passed away long before my mama passed, from cancer.Uncle Baq and Auntie Edi have three children who are my first cousins. April or "Gigi" as we call her, Karen and Athena who, for some cruel reason was called Popoy from the time she was a baby....after Popoy Dakoykoy, a male comedian known for being chubby. Auntie Nieva and Uncle Ador have four sons: Nelson, Paul, Peter and Patrick del Rosario. Auntie Lina and Uncle John have one daughter, Cristina Sadek. I do not know Uncle Tony's children. I find that extremely sad. But that's another sordid story.

Uncle Baq's grandfather was literally an ex-priest (Probably either  a Gallego or a Basque) from Spain which makes him at least 1/4 Spaniard

Seated in order of birth: Editha Baquizal, Priscila de Rama and Nieva del Rosario. all nee' Veloira
Taken at Mama's Care Facility. She had vascular dementia but recognized me. Although she thought Ellen was me as well. She just waited to see me and Ellen together and then passed that same night.

My parents grave located in Irvington, CA

Best 2Years?? Nope.

And now a word to my recently returned full-time missionaries: I had a great time knocking doors with the sister missionaries yesterday but I was never too glad to say "I need to go home now" than I was 30 minutes into it. My mission certainly was the "best two years of my life" but only for a few weeks after my release because since then, every year just got better and better as I endured. And if you think knowing the gospel is never better than when you were serving full-time, I can emphatically say that I've never experienced the atonement and gained more knowledge as deeply and tenderly as I have until real life happened--until real life challenges hit me, until I became a wife and especially, until I had children and now--in a another new phase in life: as an empty-nester struggling to find my place in the world. We were not meant to be full-time missionaries for the rest of our earthly life....but rather, as true disciples of Christ living in a mortal world full of challenges, disappointments, fear and uncertainly. We are meant to be witnesses for Christ in thought, in our words and deeds for the rest of our lives. Because those mortal variables are just opportunities for faith, courage, choice, hope and a fulness of joy to be experienced. Booyah, I say. And damn the heat in the desert!

Doing What’s Right Poorly

Sometimes, in my zeal to do what's right, I actually do things POORLY partly due to what I lack in perspective, or due to that same zeal, I become blind to the variables that help me MEASURE how I am doing. Doing what's right poorly is part of our purification and aspiration to do good and be extraordinary. It's part of that spirit that is in us. Doing what's right poorly is what we do when we err not because we are filled with malice but because we are filled with the desire to do what's right. And that's why we have to be kind to one another, to be quick to forgive and to somehow appreciate others' suffering when their deeds do not match their loving intentions. Doing the right thing poorly is universal and human-- a flaw of mortality that enables us to do great things because humanness is a requirement for the availing of the gifts of the Atonement. That is why we need a Saviour who loves us, sees through the errors and limitations of mortality and who can see the desires of our hearts. That is why we need Him to purify and justify our lacks and imperfections. That is why we need Him to soothe our hurts and afflictions. Doing what's right poorly is an aspect of the flesh. And we need a Saviour to see what's in our hearts especially when others can't see how we can even love so poorly. Mere thoughts as I try to concentrate on breathing.....

Just Do The Right Thing

Decades ago, when I was seriously dating a non-Mormon who belonged to a charismatic evangelist church, my father, who was visiting us in Hawaii was furious about it. I will not write about how he humiliated me in front of my roommates with my sister being there because that's not important. In the end, his last words to me during that visit were, "you are dead to me." That was the day before he left. My heart was gutted. And I cried all night. The next day, Tom saw my swollen eyes and found out that my father was on his way to the airport. As a testament to the kind of person he was, he wiped my tears, told me he was driving me to the airport so I can say goodbye to my father who had disowned me. I tried to protest but all he could say repeatedly was "it's the right thing to do." 

It was a long hour drive from the North Shore to Honolulu. When my father saw me, he flashed a big smile, gave me a hug and shook Tom's hand. We took a picture of that event ...me in my blue PCC uniform and Papa with his big smile. I will never forget what Tom taught me that day. "It's the right thing to do." That's what you have to do when things get hard. Just do the right thing. 

The right thing always involves risk. And a whole lot of courage. Because showing love is allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Sometimes it’s hard to honour your father or mother. But it’s the right thing to do as all children are commanded to do so. It’s the right thing to do. And so I choose to do so amidst all the bitterness and pain. I have been an orphan now since last October. And sometimes, I still wish I could talk to my Papa when he was his happy and fun self. I miss him. And my Mama. And yes, I did the right thing though it was difficult. And because I chose to love, respect and honour my parents, the bitterness, pain and hurt became irrelevant. They are just floating elements of my life that sometimes land on my shoulder like insects. Sometimes I let them hover about because they are a part of my past. But when they do land on me, I shoo them away like flies. Mere annoyances. The best reward of doing the right thing is the power it imbues on me. Bitterness, pain or resentment have no power over me. They are mere flies I can choose to swat.

I did not marry Tom from Dubuque, Iowa. It just wasn’t the right time for such a decision. So I just did the right thing. I served a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the Spain Barcelona mission. Then I waited for the right time, and the right man. And it takes a whole lotta faith when you can't see the future and it's all just a little twinkle of hope in the darkness of uncertainty. I waited another year after serving a mission to marry the right man. The right thing to do is always the right thing to do. You just have to have faith...and courage. And do it. Just do it.

                                                         Me and Tom: Wahiawa, Oahu 1977

Me and my Papa at the Honolulu International Airport 1977
Photo taken by Tom Sigwarth

I Just Love Lucy and Jack!!

We Chose Love, Respect and Forgiveness

When my father has a bad day, he turns into a scary monster. His eyes become fixed and smoldering; as if he were possessed by some unknown demon.  From an early age...probably around 4 or 5 years old, I'd recognize his anger and it made me literally want to vomit from terror. I was just a little girl and I would not even understand the offenses I've committed to warrant his extreme rage. Sometimes, pee would drizzle down my legs as I lost control of my bladder. My legs would turn weak and tremble and my head would spin. I'd also lose control of my consciousness as I could feel everything turn gray when the blood dropped from my brain. As I'd wobble, my father would scream in the vernacular: Tumayo ka! Punyeta ka! (Translates to: Get up. Damn you!) And suddenly, the fear inside me would pull out the remaining energy I had to stand up and steel myself for what was to come next.

I could hear the snapping of his belt as he'd raise it high up to give it enough force to hit my back. I will never forget that sound nor will I forget the terrible anxiety it caused from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. Then the sharp, biting sting of the leather belt as it curled around my small body. I was just a little girl!!! The number of times he hit me with that belt depended on his rage. But it was never just once. Often, he was great at hitting my bottom. But sometimes, he'd miss and he'd hit my back. I'd grit my teeth and take it...praying to God that He would give me strength; that He would embrace me. He would cuss at me and call me names--demeaning names I dare not translate. Then, after asking me questions that I could not answer about some offense I could not remember nor understand, he'd stop and walk away. I was not allowed to go to my room to find comfort in the darkness and safety in aloneness. He'd only let me sit on a chair so I can be belittled over and over as my mother would say "kundangan kasi" which basically translates contextually to "you deserve it because it was YOUR doing." My brain would freeze into darkness and that's when I learned a new skill: detachment. Disassociation. My mind would grow a pair of eyes and wings that could fly. I would fly to the highest, furthest mountain. I would imagine a grove of trees that would protect me. I'd imagine a soft breeze that would caress me. Then I'd imagine myself embracing the little girl who is also me...whispering "it's going to be alright". That coping skill is still my best tool when I am hurt. Detachment. Disassociation. Imagination. Self-soothing. It would seem that time stretched it's seconds and minutes before I can safely go to my room. Funny thing is, I don't remember anything significant after the beating. Only that it was finally over...until the next time.

In a couple of days, or sometimes, several, my father would become that loving and affectionate father again. Sometimes, he'd buy me ice cream. Sometimes  he'd bring home some Chinese food for a nice dinner. Sometimes he'd play board games with us. Sometimes he'd sit and play beautiful music on the piano. And my spirits would soar with gladness because he was the best father during those times. We would laugh. He'd tell funny jokes that only he could come up with. He'd school us about music and about life. And my happiness would seem overflowing. And I'd wish it would always be like that. But it wouldn't be.

My father died the year I gave birth to my fourth and last child. She was about nine months old. We were all there playing on the floor, oblivious to what was about to happen. I could hear him breathing. I could hear the tell-tale death rattle as he took in a breath and as he let the air out. He waited until we turned our backs and we were in the middle of playing as a family. Then he slipped away. My father was gone. He was only 59 years old. Cancer took him past the veil.

For several years, he would come to me in my dreams and give me messages. As I worked through the pain of losing my father and the bitter memories of his rage and abuse, I always did what I was wont to do whenever my father became that angry and violent man: I've always chosen to love him, to forgive him, to find a way to understand his demons and to respect the man who was my father. I am his child and I carry pieces of him in my person. His blood courses through my veins. I choose to forgive him and for every memory of the times he hurt me, I also remembered the times when he loved me, his sacrifices, his genius, his music, his talents, his charms. I remember the times when he was generous, when we had talks about life and the many wonderful things he taught me. He is my father and I know he loves me. I know that he had many demons, many reasons for his bad choices and comportment. And above all his imperfections, serious criminal offenses against other women including my mother and his mother, there were also mitigating variables that contributed to the limitations of his understanding which led to his many bad choices. Most of all, though it would seem that he had so many failures, I do know that he did his best. That is all he can do because I know that he loves me. I choose to believe that and the peace I feel inside me confirms it is true. He did his very best. And though it may not be enough for those he hurt and violated, it is enough for me because he is my father and I am his child. That is my choice. And I stand by it until the day I die. For I know that God is a just and merciful God. And His love and compassion are unfathomable by a mere earthling like me.

I am pretty sure my father was a genius. Because as much as he made horrible choices, he was a brilliant man. It seemed like he could do anything. He even helped me with my math! 

Papa still visits me occasionally in my dreams. He is always young and handsome...and finally happy. My mother is now with him. I've seen them together in my dreams. And every night I pray that our Heavenly Father will forgive him and I list his wonderful qualities so He will know that I love him. Because he is my father.

I have lived a good life. I am very grateful for everything that I have. And I feel so much at peace about my father. 

The Broken Mug

So while clearing the kitchen, Hannah's mug with her artwork on the front, fell on the hard, stone floor. It broke into small and large pieces. Horrified, I started to bawl as I picked up the pieces because it was my baby daughter's creation. As tears fell on my cheeks, I heard a voice in my head: "Repurpose". So I wiped off my tears of horror, grabbed my E2000 glue and started trying to glue the pieces back together. I did the best I could with what I could salvage. Then I went to work. 

There are many moments in my life that I wish I could delete. There were many times, in my all-too-crazy zeal that I've done and said many things that were not just cruel but seemingly unpardonable.  There are many times when I've said things to my children that I wish I had not. I know what it feels like...to lose control or balance and then the "mug falls" and there are broken pieces...even chips too small to glue back that the mug cannot be made whole. And so it was with this mug. As much as I could fix it, I could not put back the pieces that were pulverized, lost and too small to fix. But thank goodness for these sweet little sprays of leaves, berries and flowers. I can cover the broken part with something beautiful.

Now her mug sits proudly on my kitchen shelf next to the window. Every time I look at it, I remember that we can pick up all we can of our broken lives and put them back together into new and beautiful creations. Nothing can be lost if we repurpose, renew, reinvent and rethink..even create new parts. It's like the atonement. We may look at the words of scripture, read about it, teach or talk about it but to EXPERIENCE it, we need to be willing to accept how broken and imperfect we are. Then let the Hands of the Saviour fix, heal and shape us into better creations as we daily experience renewal by the power of His atonement. We are all privy to that grace. And I am filled with hope.

Pertinent Dates

Unedited Photo above taken in 1956: L-R in the back: Pedro Rofe de Rama and Enrique Sollesta de Rama
Front row L-R: Yolanda de Rama (ward of Pedro & Dolores...I do not know how she is related to us. Family rumour is that she is the daughter of one of Pedro's and Dolores' maids or in other words, a bastard child of Pedro whom they adopted....)Dolores Sollesta de Rama and Priscila Veloira de Rama. I am the child on her lap.

I thought I should write down some important dates just in case:

My birthday: 25 December 1955
Birthplace: St. Ann's Hospital, Manila, Philippines

Baptized into LDS Church: 29 May 1969 (With my parents and sister, Ellen)
Where: Sta. Mesa, MetroManila, Philippines in the swimming pool of Edward and Maxine Grimm's home. I was baptized by Elder Julian Rasmussen of Holladay, Utah and confirmed by Elder Willis Mabey.

Endowed: 30 June 1978
Temple: Laie, Hawaii

Sealed to my parents and sister: 8 July 1978
Temple: Laie, Hawaii

Patriarchal Blessing received: 21 Feb 1978 by Patriarch William Sproat in Laie, Hawaii

Set Apart as Missionary to the Spain Barcelona Mission: 12 Sept 1978 by Stake President Eric Shumway in Laie, Hawaii

Married and Sealed to Kurt C Faux:  19 June 1981
Temple: Manti, Utah

These are important dates.

I Do Not Know The Answer

I am definitely craving carbs today. It's not an accident. I'm quite turned around super saturated with thoughts of remorse, regret and self-loathing that I could eat six loaves of bread from the Bon Bread Store in a single eating binge. And that's EXACTLY what I'm doing as I type this entry. But I am REALLY saturated with the one thought that keeps on seeping into my head like a faucet with wildly gushing water while my head seems to have the plug tightly in place. Get the picture? I'm about ready to burst---not with frustration but with helplessness.

Ready for the thought?

I DO NOT HAVE THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING. That's right. Most of the time, I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I'M DOING and I DO NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO. But something has to be done and so I improvise to the best of my ability even if I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I'M DOING.

I don't know if I made myself clear enough there.

Since June 19, 1981, I've been a married woman. A wife. And every day since, I've just been improvising. And it's mostly trial and error. Most of the time, it's error. But if I look at the timeline of my life, I can see which things took a looooong time to figure out. And then once I got it figured out....and here's the kicker: are you listening? Once I get things figured out, I still need time to learn NOT to do what I was doing badly. I still need time to figure out how to REPLACE those actions and habits. And most of the time, my repertoire of handy "tools" and "corrective mechanisms" to replace them with are severely lacking. So I grope. And ask for spiritual guidance. I plead with God to give me some flashes of inspiration and knowledge. Many times I do get an answer. And even then, I still have to have the courage and total commitment....a real strong conviction to actually execute that sudden burst of ideas and sometimes, even visions. It took a long time. It's 31 years and counting. And I find myself still improvising and hoping for the best.

Mostly, I also find myself wanting to punish myself for not knowing what to do.

Worst of all is being a mother. That's a stretch for any woman. At first, having that FIRST child is exciting. That is, until he starts going through the various stages and nodal events of his life.  Day 3: He's not nursing. He is crying all day. My milk doesn't seem to be enough. My breasts are full and they feel like concrete. They hurt so badly and I'm so tired. My bum hurts. What do I do? I improvise. He starts to turn over faster than other babies and I am sure he's a genius. Until I find out the neighbour's baby is pulling himself up at 6 months. Did I give him the bad genes? So I get depressed. What do I do? I don't know. I improvise ....only to find out I'm pregnant again and my baby isn't even crawling yet. Two sons born the same year!! What do I do? I don't know. I guess how hard can it be when I've already experienced having the first one? Wrong. So wrong. Here's a mother's first startling realization that intellectually she knows but doesn't really hit until it happens: every child is different. It's back to square 1. First baby slept for 4 hours. Second baby doesn't sleep at all unless he's being rocked. All night. What do I do? I don't know. I've never been in this situation before. So I improvise. And so on and so on. Until I have four children. All different. All with different needs. All with different personalities. Just when you figure something out, the next one will break the notion that you think you know what to do.

Every day is a new day. Every day has a list of "firsts". First solid food. First words. First steps. Then it's first day of school. Junior High. High School. Prom. Homecoming. Broken hearts. Missions. Dating. Oh...and dating. Marriages. Daughters-in-law. Yeah--and is there a manual for that? How come you don't instantly love them? That's a new experience. I've never had a daughter-in-law before. So I improvise. It's trial and error again. Wait. And just when you think you know what to do next time, a new one comes along and nothing you learned is useful at all because you suddenly realize that every in-law is different. Just when you think you've got that one figured out, you discover that the next one will require something totally different for your love to even start. But I don't know what to do! Trial and error. More errors. Then....grandchildren. Yeah. Right before I even know HOW to be a grandmother. Oh wait. I still have daughters in school. And what do I do about this? What do I do about that? Then they each start making decisions because they're now adults. Have I ever had adult children before I had adult children? NO. So do I know how to deal with adult children; deal with their decisions, their need to move away from you, their desires to live their lives the way they want to-- their busy lives? Now I have to redefine my role and where I fit in in their lives. Do I know HOW to do that? No! So I improvise. It's trial and error. It's always trial and error. And life simply cannot be defined as 'life' unless we make mistakes because no one ever learns from a perpetual succession of unmitigated successes. Life is about making mistakes so we can learn. But children don't realize that about their parents. Least of all about their mothers. Because we are supposed to know what we're doing.

The onus of motherhood is regret. Because there is no perfect mother or father. And although we know that intellectually, it doesn't feel right. Parents are supposed to know. Parents are supposed to figure things out because we are their children--flesh of their flesh. Parents should be able to read our minds, feel our joys and pain and most especially they are supposed to see and acknowledge all our efforts. Parents should not expect gratitude because it's their job to raise us. And believe me, as a mother, the greatest joy for me is to be able to solve their problems and remove whatever hurt, pain or hurdle that may risk even touching their lives. That's the worst thing about me. But what do I do about that? I don't know. I've never been in a situation like that in a previous life. So I improvise. And it's trial and error again.

Sometimes my children will say something that hurt me profoundly. And then I realize that they wouldn't have said those things if I were a better mother. So what do I do about that? I don't know. So I improvise. I try to think back....like a computer accessing random memories from my own life trying to superimpose a similar experience to what they are experiencing. So I can understand their situation. I was once that age. I used to feel that way about my mother too. The clash between KNOWING how they feel because you've been there and then realizing that those feelings you once had towards your mother now is focused on a different face: YOURS, is simply staggering. Then inside yourself you have to reconcile those two clashing perspectives and you try to regain balance....perspective...and then you feel their pain and realize that because the face is now yours, you begin to feel some self-loathing. While I may know intellectually the hows and whys of these, my delicate and tangled reactions, emotionally, it's hard to catch up. And it takes a battle of wits, insights and common sense to come up with some sane, intelligent response. But what do I do once I get it figured out? I still don't know. So I improvise.

I try to regale them with stories of my own experiences that may give them some perspective or encouragement. But then, am I being self-centered  and indulgent by assuming that they want to hear my story? Will they just cover their ears and think "ahh...there goes my mom again talking about her old boyfriends" or "there goes my mom again talking about her life full of strife in the Philippines...." It's like the old "when I was a young girl I used to walk 5 miles to school with cardboard slippers..." So how do I do it so that I can be helpful? I don't know. I don't know. In fact, I KNOW they think I'm just telling them my stories because I've had it worse than their own experiences. They think it's one-up-manship...they think you're minimizing their struggles. And now that I know that and it KILLS me that I am perceived that way---so self-absorbed and insensitive, how do I back pedal? I don't know. I've never been in this situation before. So I have to improvise so I can survive the hurt and STILL try to be supportive even when I hurt. Most of the time I think that I really need to gather more resources to fill my action list...my armaments... my tools. And every day it's something new. Every day it's time to improvise and figure out a way to know what to do, feel or say. But "I don't know" is NOT a valid response. There has to be a response because even not responding or reacting IS a response. That's why "I don't know" is simply not even valid. Every response I give has validity as a parent. Every response has a consequence. Even no response has a consequence.

Parenthood requires bravery because everything I do or don't do carries a huge risk not just on me but upon the very souls of my children who are flesh of my flesh. They are my blood. They grew inside me. They were extracted from my body---independent creatures removed from my body... Amazingly, my life literally depended on their being extracted from me successfully. How can anyone ever understand what a mother feels towards her own flesh...her own body? If you amputate an arm, you would still feel phantom pain wouldn't you? So if I am a bit emotional about my own children, surely there is a God in heaven who can understand me. Or even better, if there is a God in heaven, being a mother surely and indubitably gave me an insight into Godhood that no man can ever have the distinct privilege of having. Motherhood is conquering death. Every time we have children, we laugh at the face of Death.

I don't know anything. And tomorrow, I will be presented with new variables and if I'm lucky, I will serendipitously stumble upon a solution that will be solid enough to help my family. I know my knack for alliteration is annoying but it just happens. And I don't know why.  I am just improvising.

But what I've learned is that my parents also knew nothing. I also know they improvised. Their tools and action lists might have been more limited than mine considering the events of their prime: World War II, culture, trauma....and many other mitigating factors. But they did their very best. Were they successful? Were they successful parents?

In my contemplation and assessment, I realize one important thought. Are you listening? And I remember what my father told me in a dream: Everything you do while on earth affects me here. That is what he said to me after being dead for over ten years. Here's what I know...

The question isn't "was I successful as a parent?". The glaring truth is, I have parents. We all do. Am I successful as their child? That's the real question. Because the success of my parents solely depend on what I make of myself. No good parent wants their child to fail. All parents MUST expect excellence. All parents have to believe in their children. How they do it---whether they become nags, or tiger moms, or decide to give their children more 'freedom' and less structure...these are all their "trials and errors"--their improvisations based on their own limitations. and convictions. But as children, we are blessed with the ability to choose to see our parents the way God intended them to be seen. There is a reason why in this earthly life we look FORWARD to every generation and look BACK towards our ancestors when the season demands it.  Our parents become successful parents only if we decide to be good people.

God revels in His children. He loves us unceasingly. He provided us a way to attain glory and eternal life through the atonement of His Son. He doesn't ask us much. And we can never thank Him enough. Never. But all He asks of us is to love one another and to love Him. He is a parent. And His success and glory depend on our choices....our obedience and our desire to be like Him. We will never be able to that and still He provides a way for us to be able to do so by grace. He never fails and He will never fail us. To give God glory is to give Him our love. I understand these principles and concepts much better being a mother and a daughter. I owe my parents so much and their success is measured by my own accomplishments. And more importantly, my parents' solace and deep sense of peace and calm come from my forgiveness and acknowledgment that they, like me, did not know what to do but were improvising and learning through trial and error....the best way they knew how. As their daughter, I must give them that peace.....that all that I do...all that I choose to do will have my very, very best efforts. All the good I can do with my life will define them. But I can also choose to deliberately rebel so I can "punish" them. But the truth is, in doing that, I only punish myself. These concepts are metaphorically similar to how Lucifer decided to rebel: to deny God His glory by choosing to become every thing that God isn't. But the truth is, in the end, he will still be the devil. As mortals, we can choose to do the same to our parents as horrible and terrible they may be. Because that choice is OURS and ours alone. We can chose to be righteous and noble if we want to. That is why we are here. To have the ability to choose righteousness. And that is what gives God His glory and power.

I don't know much. I don't know what to do. I don't even know how to feel sometimes. But I have the hope and faith that my efforts will be rewarded. The choice belongs to my children just as that choice belongs to me as the daughter of my parents. I can choose to punish their efforts by making myself miserable. Or I can choose to be a better person every day even if I don't know what to do. I improvise. I try. I make mistakes. Then I get back up and do it over. Over and over. Sometimes I get it right. Sometimes I don't. And so on and so forth. This is why I love the Saviour and what He has done for me. I see Him in all things. Yes, even this time, these experiences when I don't know what to do...when I don't know what to say or feel and I have to plead for guidance...or improvise..err and beg for forgiveness. I need His atoning powers because many times, I just don't know what to do and I just try my very best. And most of the time, it's really trial and error.

I don't know how much more time I have to keep on improving and learning. Every day is an experiment. Every day is a new day to figure things out. Even when I step into that great void of death, I still will be improvising. After all, I've never been dead before.

Mi Familia

THIRTY-EIGHT years ago come January 2013, I left the warm comfort of my home for a country  that I only knew through television, magazines and books. I'd never flown in an airplane before. I'd never been anywhere outside the island of Luzon. I had just turned 19 merely 8 days before. I was happy where I was: I had friends, a very attentive boyfriend and finishing up my 4th semester of college in the prestigious University of the Philippines with a government scholarship.  I had just been invited to join a sorority. I had just changed my major to Psychology and wanted to be a behavioural psychologist. Perhaps even go to med school to be a psychiatrist. Or get a PhD in behaviour therapy. I knew what I wanted in life. And yet, my main reason for going to BYU-Hawaii was not even close to mitigating what I thought I was going to lose: to learn to become a Mormon. My mother wanted me to grow that way--spiritually. She felt that I had hit a brick wall that way and needed some direction, some perspective and more real examples of how the gospel is supposed to be lived.

For decades since I left, that is what I've dedicated my life to do. My parents provided me with this gift. And though my home life was full of strife, confusion and abuse, I thought that I can forge a new life in a new country, in a new language and start from scratch.

For over 30 years of marriage, I've tried to watch other LDS families, learn from their examples, watch their behaviour towards each other and viewed with very clear, investigative, curious and vigilant eyes how they lived their lives. In the beginning, I thought I had married into the most generous, loving and gospel-oriented family. I counted my blessings and wanted to become like them. In essence really, I rejected my own family choosing instead to become more like my husband's family. I learned how to quilt, bake bread, sew, budget and live below our austere means.

As I learned as much as I could about raising children, I was very keen on maintaining and cultivating conversations with my children even when they were too young to even have a voice. I wanted them to have every opportunity that I thought was denied me. I even raised them in my husband's language and culture. Not a single child of mine can speak Tagalog nor even marginally understand my own tongue. Not a single child of mine can understand my culture or appreciate the paradigm change I had to make to assimilate into their father's culture and mind-set.

In retrospect, I really did reject my own family because that day when I left in 1975, my mother wanted me to learn from others who were not like us....from others who did not have as much strife and drama as our family.

As I contemplate what I've learn about families and how to live the gospel, my thoughts return to my own family...my growing years. I remember the miracle of my father's conversion to the church. I remember my mother's enthusiasm for learning and reading the scriptures. I remember days and nights when we would get together as a family with friends and neighbours just to make music and then talk about life, politics and gospel principles. I remember my father's powerful talks and testimony whenever he got up as Branch President....how his presence demanded attention and how powerful his voice was. I remember one Sunday when he sang the solo baritone part to the song "Will A Man Rob God?" taught by an ex-pat named Sis. Stevenson. He was nervous and practiced at home while we laughed in the background. Turning back the clock in my head, he must have been nervous and yet, there he was magnificently singing. My father. Yes, the one who also levied such verbal and physical abuse on me. He was my father. And yet, though he may have been cruel during those times when he wasn't himself, I knew that he loved me. There was no doubt about that. I knew that when he is around, nothing can harm me and that he will protect me with everything that he has.

My mother is now suffering from mild dementia. It is a cruel master. But my mother was brilliant. She was a spiritual giant. She would tell me about her dreams and they had meaning and amazingly, every dream she had had a lot of truth and precognition. She was so wise. She worked so hard so I could have every opportunity that few ever had in their lifetime--at least from whence I came from. She was the sole breadwinner of our family as my father couldn't hold a job until his cronies were elected into high office. Then he had jobs with no real descriptions that came with a paycheck. But my mother was more than competent. Because of her brilliance, she worked for the most important minister in the country as well as the PDIC which is equal to America's FDIC. So she received two big paychecks---only because of her brilliance. She was a Fulbright scholar slated to pursue a masters degree in Public Administration at the University of Rhode Island but because she was pregnant with my sister, she had to turn her back on that much lauded privilege and opportunity. And she never looked back.

Our family had many emotional turmoils, dramas, twists and turns, duplicitous lives and some unspeakable events. That is true. And perhaps or rather, truly, some events are so far removed from how an LDS family should be...or how individuals should live their lives. But this is MY family.

As I prepare to attend Thanksgiving with my husband's family for the first time in probably over 20 years, my thoughts do keep on returning to my own family. My father has long been gone for over 20 years now. My sister and I have a very tenuous relationship. My mother is left to live with my sister eager to join my father yet holds on with every fiber of her will to hold on to her memories, her books, her pictures, her old letters, her genealogical records. And my heart yearns for those days when we were all together. I am willing to go back again and take the very bad parts with the very good parts because the very good parts were indeed extraordinary. And it took me a long time to realize that. Because in my quest to find out how LDS families are supposed to be or how one is supposed to live the gospel, I really need only turn to my own family. Because in my family, though there be darkness, you can always be sure that the next day will be brighter and my father or mother will show me more love to make up for the darkness. In my family, though there be strife, yelling and hurtful words, we can be certain that the next day, it will be like nothing happened and we will again laugh, love and hold each other dearly. In my family, even when I make bad choices and my parents or sister condemn me or disown me, the next day, I know that they were just angry and their actions will betray their painful words when they fiercely defend my decision and love me just the same.

I did not learn much from my husband's family about love, acceptance or finding the best in people they love. I only learned judgment, manipulation, one-upping, backstabbing, family gossip and alienation. I learned that what makes a good Mormon isn't about baking the best bread, sewing your children's underwear from remnants, tole painting better than the other or winning quilting shows. It isn't even about 'finally' becoming a Relief Society president or a bishop. It's not even about serving a mission or looking good on Sundays. But from their example and choices, I've definitely learned that I did not have to go to Utah or BYU to learn how to be "Mormon" because what I've learned from my own family is how to be a Christian...how to love....how to sacrifice....how to be faithful and loyal....how to forgive....how to live the very gospel that the Saviour himself teaches us through scripture, living prophets and personal revelation through the gift of the Holy Ghost.

I did not have to go very far to learn all those wonderful things. I always had it. My family always had it. And no other LDS family from Utah or anywhere can be more loving, faithful and true to each other as my family has been for me. The circle is complete and I am grateful. Truly grateful for the parents to whom I was born, where I was born and the circumstances, country and culture of my heritage. My family is THE family where I learned to live the gospel. And in a coming time when the Saviour returns, I shall look forward to meeting my father again and telling him that he was right....everything that I do while I am here on earth will affect him and my family. This is what he told me in a dream. And he is so right.

As I walk into my husband's family home, I am empowered by this clear realization. I am a princess of noble birth--born of goodly parents whose believing blood led us to the restored church of Jesus Christ. I was born into a country whose culture and noble history of resilience, patience and contemplative powers course through my veins. I was born into a family full of strife and challenges but whose wisdom, light and intelligence made me rise...rise high above all I could ever expect. This is my heritage. This is my blood. This is MY FAMILY.