This Rugged JoyFull Home

The "Farmhouse" Confession Welcome to our humble, farmhouse-ish home. What is a farmhouse-ish home? Let me just borrow this quirky definition I found on a sign that I bought on Amazon.  Farmhouse-ish - a rustic dwelling located on a farm (minus the animals, barn, and actual farm).   But to be completely honest with you, this is my most justifiable excuse to camouflage all of the mistakes we made in constructing our first-ever home some 17 years ago. What could go wrong with a farmhouse-themed home?  The 40% Completed Dream When we first moved into our two-story home, it was just 40% completed, with its  building foundations laid,  the concrete poured and cured, and the roofing newly installed.  The walls were unpainted and roughly finished, the CHBs (concrete hollow blocks) were exposed on the exteriors, and the ribbed metal roofing emitted too much heat during the day and caused cold chills at night due to the lack of a proper ceiling and insulation. The e...

(Photo was grabbed from Facebook Page of Karibok ang Tuktok.  Gemini was used to blur the faces of the crowd.) Beyond the physical and online books that we provide for our kids, they watch our every step, every day. They look for sincerity and authenticity as we model character to them—something that happens organically at home since we’re always with them.   As parents, we become the curriculum for teaching character building. And this is what will stick with them for life. Since none of us is perfect, always allow room for mistakes and erasures. These, too, are an integral part of their learning.   Once they’re older and wiser, by God’s grace, they will get to appreciate the entire journey, with lots of sweet and precious memories to look back on. So, hold lightly. Have the grace to laugh at your own mistakes. I’d like to paraphrase Proverbs 31:25, which assures us that a woman clothed with strength and dignity can LAUGH without fear of the future.   Basically, the...

Behind The Glass Partition Domodedovo Airport, Moscow, the Russian Federation. I got up from my seat and dragged my weary body out of the plane, where I had sat for almost five hours of a peaceful flight from Dubai. Pacing myself, I walked straight to the long tube that led to the long queues, which led to the immigration officers who would stamp my PILIPINAS passport, granting me access to enter this bolshoi nation—a place I sometimes fondly call Mother Russia. Moscow that evening had a welcoming temperature of -3 degrees Celsius, and I thought that it was not so bad, coming from +27 degrees back home in Manila. As I stood there acclimatizing myself to the weather, I realized that the temperature inside the airport was actually rather toasty, as always. I stared at the people's expressionless, perfectly contoured faces and tried to mentally rehearse what to do next when my turn came. First, I would remove my eyeglasses; second, I would approach the immigration officer and give he...