Bukas-pinto gang

    What happened was frightening.  It was around 9:oo o’clock in the evening, and my family was getting ready to call it a day and hit the sack.  From out of the blue, my daughter, Chelai, appeared and cut short my piano-playing.  She was huffing.  “Dad, we have… a problem,” she said in between breaths.

    I know Chelai.  If she runs into a concern, she won’t cry for help for as long as she could handle it.  Not this time around.  It looked like the problem was bigger than her.

    “Dad, our door,” she said, worried. 

    “Why? What happened?” I asked. 

    “Isei did something.”  Chelai was referring to her 2-year old sister.  “Isei locked your room.”

    “That’s not a problem,” I replied with a cheerleader’s countenance.  “All you have to do is call on Isei and tell her to open the door.”

    “Well, Dad,” Chelai continued, “the good news is, Isei is outside your room now, and she’s okay.  But the bad news is, the keys… are inside.”

    Good grief!  What made Chelai think I was a locksmith in my previous life?

    Rushing, I went down the stairs to check our room.  Isei was the first one to greet me.  Before I could give her a mouthful, she let out a rascal’s grin that seemed to say:  “Dad, I plead guilty as charged.”  So I spared her the life sentence.

    Immediately, I checked on the door.  It was locked, indeed, and the keys were nowhere in sight.  I gave Isei a tart “what-did-you-do” look.  She reciprocated with a “hey-I’m-not-changing-my-guilty-plea” grin. 

    In resignation, I vented my wrath on the poor, defenseless doorknob.  After much turning and twisting, there it was… still a doorknob, stubbornly refusing to budge.  Next, with a screwdriver, I tried to pry open the door.  No luck.  The driver of the tool just felt screwed.  Then I remembered what Sylvester Stallone did to locked doors, Rambo-style.  Retreating about a foot away, I tilted my bulky frame a bit, positioning to hit the door with my strong right arm and broad shoulder.   Then, with one strong sweep, I charged towards the door… and whalla!  I winced in pain while the door remained emotionless.

    “Where are the keys?” I asked my wife. 

    “Inside the room,” Liza answered matter-of-factly.

    “Uh, what I meant was, where are the keys situated inside the room?”

    “The wooden bowl containing the keys is on top of my table, with the car keys,” Liza replied.

    Ting!  Suddenly I had a light bulb moment.  I said to myself:  “If only I could grab a long stick, perhaps I could shove the wooden bowl from the table and spill the several keys on the floor.  From there, I could separate the house keys from the rest and push it next to the door which had a teeny opening underneath, just enough for the house keys to slip right through.”

    Liza instantly picked up the idea and got hold of a broom with a long handle made of bulo.  Aping Spiderman, she climbed the wall and firmly held on to the iron grills of our room.  As soon as I handed her the broom, Liza inserted the broom through the window and stretched her body to the max, reaching in to sweep the wooden bowl.

    Rats.  The stick was short by about a foot.  It was Lastikman who was cut out for the job, not Spiderman.  So Lastikman was called in.  (Ehem.  That’s me.)

    Climbing the wall and standing on the window sill, I said:  “Give me the broom.”  Liza excitedly obliged.  Losing no time, I inserted the broom through the window, stretched my body to the max, and swung the broom in the direction of the wooden bowl.   Swoosh!

    I hit nothing but air.  Even Lastikman wasn’t elastic enough.  He, too, was short by about 6 inches.  My kids who were watching my antics were starting to get bored.  To me, their murmuring sounded something like, “Hey, that’s not Lastikman; that’s Plasticman!”  So I thought of something fast.

    “Kids, do you happen to have another stick which I can tape to the end of the broom?”  I asked.

    “Yes, Dad!” my kids chimed in.  “We have a toy that has a clamp at the end.”

    Bingo!  Using a packaging tape, I immediately fastened the toy clamp at the end of the broom.  The result:  Harry Potter’s broomstick with Doc Oc’s tentacles bonded to the handle.

    As my kids watched the ensuing scene, I reached in through the window and stretched to sweep the wooden bowl to fall on the floor.  Then – wonder of wonders – the wooden bowl did not budge… but I was able to fish out the keys I was precisely aiming for – the room keys!  Mind you, there were about 30 different keys in the wooden bowl, but the one that hung at the end of the broomstick was the key to our locked room, no less.

    To cut the long story short (sorry, folks, the story is already like an overstretched Koreanovela), the room was finally opened, amidst the deafening cheers of my children.

    As Liza and I lay on the bed, talking and laughing about what happened, I mused:  “Hon, wasn’t that amazing?  All I wanted to do was spill the several keys on the floor and push the room key near the door.  Sa dinami-dami ng makukuha kong susi, ang nasungkit ko pa yung susi sa kwarto.”

    “I believe that was God at work,” I continued.  “Perhaps He wanted our kids to keep their hero-image of me.”

    Liza smiled her agreement.  Then, looking at the ceiling, I said:  “If God can be so concerned about the little details of our lives, like getting the right key to open a locked room, can you imagine how much more concerned He is with the big things?”

    Silence followed.  That last line was enough to lull us to our most peaceful slumber.

    Quote of the week:

    “Good morning, this is God.

    I will be handling all of your problems today.

    I will not need your help.

    So have a miraculous day.”

    –The Power of Intention


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