Well, hello blogger world. It's been a while, hasn't it?
Alright, here's a quick update on the fundraising...
As of this past Tuesday, funds going toward all my expenses for Berlin have come in. YAY God, and Mum and Dad and my brother, and all the other co-workers and church friends!
At Akan Datang, the fundraising concert and silent auction that took place last night, funds that came in reached a total of around $1,000. The exact figure is still to be determined because of a few minor hiccups from last night.
YAY!
Big thanks to...
... Gary and Thonja Nicholson who so wonderfully pulled together the silent-auction!
... Daniel, Tim and Jim the set-up and tear-down crew!
... Carma and Loretta for pulling all the details together!
... Park Place Church of God!
... friends from AU, AUSOT, CCCHOG, and all the people I know from the office and who knows where else for coming out!
... and finally, the band, for all the time you put into this gig and for making it so much fun to make music with you guys!
Love you all, and keep watching this space for updates!
26 April 2010
19 April 2010
Love's Hangover
Yesterday, I drove down to Noblesville after a few painful hours in the library to go see an old college friend's new business. What I saw really fascinated me.It was one of those things that caught my attention when Emily first started sending stuff out on Facebook. I kept wanting to go check it out but it never happened till now - and only because Emily had asked if I would be interested in going in on something with them to help with my fundraising. They call themselves "Love's Hangover." What it is is a fashion business that brings together little pockets of culture from all around the world. The one necklace that caught my attention was a kind of odd-coloured one with mostly browns and a few random spots of greens and reds - a fusion of Latin American and Kenyan beads and seeds.
So armed with a huge bundle of similar necklaces, bracelets and other fashion items either handmade by Emily herself, her friends or family members all around the world, I came back to Anderson with more items for my silent auction.
The business is run by Emily and her sister Irene. They make and sell jewelry, but also have classes to teach people to bead. At the shop, you find a wide selection of all kinds of jewelry and other fashion items such as crocheted purses and sweaters for babies. Emily told me they have a fairly busy schedule, having been invited to several locations to do a show of what they are doing. This Thursday, they will be at IUPUI.The other part that fascinated me about what they were doing is how much they want to be involved in the community. They've been supporting other fundraising causes and when she found out I was going to Germany, she contacted to me to ask if we could do something together.
And then we got into a conversation about what I was doing in Germany. "You never looked like the type who would go be a preacher somewhere and hit people on the head with a Bible. So what exactly are you doing there?" The easiest way I knew how to answer was, "Well, one of the things we might get to do is to hang out at the coffeeshop in a redlight district. Things like that that involve being the church outside of a building. Someone once jokingly mentioned that basically this internship involves me drinking coffee with prostitutes. That may not be a bad way to sum it up."
After I said that, Emily and Daria, a mutual friend of ours, were both intrigued that I was allowed by the church to do something as unconventional as this. It seemed in their experience, the church was a cold, legalistic institution that sent missionaries to hit people on the head with a Bible until they "get saved."
It was a strange feeling of fresh air, being reminded that in this increasingly post-modern, post-Christian part of the world that we live in, some may no longer believe in the institution. But they still believe in the future and the hope and the love of a Greater Being. And they believe in doing good to and for others even if these things are not done within a building or using the name of a church or a title such as pastor or missionary.
If you'd like to find out more about what Love's Hangover is doing, you can find them on Facebook. Or check out their store in Noblesville, located at 159 N 9th St. If you're heading there from Anderson, take 32 all the way to Noblesville till you hit 9th St. Take a right at 9th and go past Logan St. You'll see Key Bank on the right and a parking lot on the left. Culture Shock, the name of their store, is located just before the parking lot. Feel free to use the parking space there, and let them know you found out about their shop through this blog. They'll be nice to you.
And hey, come on out to the concert and silent auction this Saturday and check out some of the stuff they have. It's on April 24, 6 pm at Park Place Church of God Newberry Room. See you there!
16 April 2010
Walk With Me...
Though youths grow weary and tired,
And vigorous young men stumble badly,
Yet those who wait for the LORD
Will gain new strength;
They will mount up with wings like eagles,
They will run and not get tired,
They will walk and not become weary.
- Isaiah 40:30-31
"I used to think that the ability to soar is the highest level of attainment. I've been thinking about that scripture again recently. Anyone can soar in the good times, but true strength comes in the ability to put one foot in front of another and being completely dependent on God." - Ann Smith
I've been wallowing a lot lately. I guess a part of it is the fact that I still live in a college town where community continues to be transitional and another transition season is just around the corner. You can smell it in the spring breeze already. Another baccaleaurate and commencement Saturday is sneaking up.
But this year, I think there's a little more wallowing than the usual. I'm also wallowing in the fact that this will be my first summer in the last 6 years that will not be spent in Anderson. If you haven't already caught on, yes, I'm a very sentimental person. Perhaps a little too sentimental every once in a while.
The deepest, darkest shades of the wallowing comes out with the people I would trust with my life. Not that I've truly completely lost all hope. But the confidence in the community allows me to get to the point of complete abandonment in the darkest shades of wallowing, knowing that this community is still rooting for me, believing that deep under the layers of wallowing, there's still a beacon of hope that I don't think I'll ever find the ability to let go of.
This evening, I was getting into my car to head home. But the sun was still up, and it didn't feel right to leave campus yet. So I took a walk around campus on one of my old routes. Somewhere after the halfway mark on that route, I was hit with image after image of faces that I had taken walks around the vicinity of the campus with, and the seasons and times - both of life and of the climate - that we had walked.
And then the words from my conversation with Ann earlier today hit me.
Anyone can soar in the good times, but true strength comes in the ability to put one foot in front of another and being completely dependent on God.
And then I thought about all the people I've taken that walk with.
And how we put one foot in front of another shoulder-to-shoulder.
And how we wallowed together from time to time.
And how I found God in them.
And then, I'm thankful.
And vigorous young men stumble badly,
Yet those who wait for the LORD
Will gain new strength;
They will mount up with wings like eagles,
They will run and not get tired,
They will walk and not become weary.
- Isaiah 40:30-31
"I used to think that the ability to soar is the highest level of attainment. I've been thinking about that scripture again recently. Anyone can soar in the good times, but true strength comes in the ability to put one foot in front of another and being completely dependent on God." - Ann Smith
I've been wallowing a lot lately. I guess a part of it is the fact that I still live in a college town where community continues to be transitional and another transition season is just around the corner. You can smell it in the spring breeze already. Another baccaleaurate and commencement Saturday is sneaking up.
But this year, I think there's a little more wallowing than the usual. I'm also wallowing in the fact that this will be my first summer in the last 6 years that will not be spent in Anderson. If you haven't already caught on, yes, I'm a very sentimental person. Perhaps a little too sentimental every once in a while.
The deepest, darkest shades of the wallowing comes out with the people I would trust with my life. Not that I've truly completely lost all hope. But the confidence in the community allows me to get to the point of complete abandonment in the darkest shades of wallowing, knowing that this community is still rooting for me, believing that deep under the layers of wallowing, there's still a beacon of hope that I don't think I'll ever find the ability to let go of.
This evening, I was getting into my car to head home. But the sun was still up, and it didn't feel right to leave campus yet. So I took a walk around campus on one of my old routes. Somewhere after the halfway mark on that route, I was hit with image after image of faces that I had taken walks around the vicinity of the campus with, and the seasons and times - both of life and of the climate - that we had walked.
And then the words from my conversation with Ann earlier today hit me.
Anyone can soar in the good times, but true strength comes in the ability to put one foot in front of another and being completely dependent on God.
And then I thought about all the people I've taken that walk with.
And how we put one foot in front of another shoulder-to-shoulder.
And how we wallowed together from time to time.
And how I found God in them.
And then, I'm thankful.
11 April 2010
They Never Taught us How to say Goodbye
Caity and I were talking over lunch the other day about a conversation I had with Paula.
In all our years of schooling, they prepared us to take tests, write impressive resumes and get decent jobs. But nobody ever taught us how to write resignation letters.
Is it just that society doesn't believe that even good things come to an end?
I've done my share of "see you again"s, so I know what that's about, and I'm not talking about that. What about saying goodbye to things we've enjoyed even though it's not been the best for us? What about letting go of the old sentimental things to embrace something new that would be better?
It's like the baby blanket that's well-used, well-loved and well-worn but no longer keeps us warm. But it's kept the monster under the bed away, kept the lightning from coming too close, and it held all the tears from all the spankings, the boo-boos and the break-ups.
I've been thinking a lot about what my relationships with people will look like when I'm in Berlin, and reflecting on the things that have changed about my current relationships with people. People in Singapore, people who no longer live in Anderson, people in Anderson and people I wished were not gone. I let go of things faster than I should so they wouldn't have a chance to hurt me and then I regret not holding on more tightly while I had the chance to.
And this is the very reason I hate transitions. I frustrate myself with the way I deal with it.
Today marks the one month countdown towards Berlin. Another transition. As with each one of these, I always love the going but hate the leaving.
But the people. It's always about the people.
If you're the praying type, say a prayer that I'll learn to love the people with all that I am wherever I am whether it's at the beginning of a season or at the end.
In all our years of schooling, they prepared us to take tests, write impressive resumes and get decent jobs. But nobody ever taught us how to write resignation letters.
Is it just that society doesn't believe that even good things come to an end?
I've done my share of "see you again"s, so I know what that's about, and I'm not talking about that. What about saying goodbye to things we've enjoyed even though it's not been the best for us? What about letting go of the old sentimental things to embrace something new that would be better?
It's like the baby blanket that's well-used, well-loved and well-worn but no longer keeps us warm. But it's kept the monster under the bed away, kept the lightning from coming too close, and it held all the tears from all the spankings, the boo-boos and the break-ups.
I've been thinking a lot about what my relationships with people will look like when I'm in Berlin, and reflecting on the things that have changed about my current relationships with people. People in Singapore, people who no longer live in Anderson, people in Anderson and people I wished were not gone. I let go of things faster than I should so they wouldn't have a chance to hurt me and then I regret not holding on more tightly while I had the chance to.
And this is the very reason I hate transitions. I frustrate myself with the way I deal with it.
Today marks the one month countdown towards Berlin. Another transition. As with each one of these, I always love the going but hate the leaving.
But the people. It's always about the people.
If you're the praying type, say a prayer that I'll learn to love the people with all that I am wherever I am whether it's at the beginning of a season or at the end.
08 April 2010
Closing Time...
Paula accidentally reminded me today that in exactly one month, I will no longer be an employee at Church of God Ministries.
Wow.
ONE month.
This kind of feels like the beginning of the end. Except it's not really the end since I will return to Anderson after Berlin. But it feels like it.
And today, I showed Kathi the invitation to one of our events at the North American Convention that I had worked on all day, and she about lost it. I'm well aware that I can get by doing the administrative stuff at work, but my passion and my gifts are in the creative side. But today, when I showed Kathi the finished project that was fairly well done, she started lamenting again that I would be leaving soon. I haven't known Kathi for very long, but I knew her well enough to know that after she gave me a hug, I would probably do best avoiding eye contact because I would not be able to handle seeing the tears in her eyes.
These are the things I will miss.
The people.
Funny how I was thinking just the other day of who I was my sophomore year when I went on my first missions trip to Atlanta. I still remember distinctly what Pastor Kurt said about how over the course of the week, there will be lots to do. "But the people are ALWAYS more important than the tasks."
Funny how it struck a chord with me then, being self-aware enough to know how task-oriented I was.
Funny how far I've come since my sophomore year.
Funny how someone up there seems to know what it really means to equip the called.
And so, now that it's closing time, I have to learn to let go of what I had to learn to love.
Funny, isn't it?
Wow.
ONE month.
This kind of feels like the beginning of the end. Except it's not really the end since I will return to Anderson after Berlin. But it feels like it.
And today, I showed Kathi the invitation to one of our events at the North American Convention that I had worked on all day, and she about lost it. I'm well aware that I can get by doing the administrative stuff at work, but my passion and my gifts are in the creative side. But today, when I showed Kathi the finished project that was fairly well done, she started lamenting again that I would be leaving soon. I haven't known Kathi for very long, but I knew her well enough to know that after she gave me a hug, I would probably do best avoiding eye contact because I would not be able to handle seeing the tears in her eyes.
These are the things I will miss.
The people.
Funny how I was thinking just the other day of who I was my sophomore year when I went on my first missions trip to Atlanta. I still remember distinctly what Pastor Kurt said about how over the course of the week, there will be lots to do. "But the people are ALWAYS more important than the tasks."
Funny how it struck a chord with me then, being self-aware enough to know how task-oriented I was.
Funny how far I've come since my sophomore year.
Funny how someone up there seems to know what it really means to equip the called.
And so, now that it's closing time, I have to learn to let go of what I had to learn to love.
Funny, isn't it?
05 April 2010
Holy Week #5: Redeeming Love
She stared blankly at the picture in front of her. Fragmented pieces of colour seemingly scattered randomly on a sheet of glass.
It had been a busy, busy week. The adrenaline from planning the services for the week was quickly fading, and now it was Sunday night. The hustle and bustle had finally died down and she finally had a few moments to sit quietly before the activities of the next week flurried by again.
"Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
The words from the familiar hymn from earlier that morning rang in her head as her fingers idly traced over the outlines of each of the fragmented pieces of colour. Her eyelids were drooping but still she forced herself to try and make sense of that picture in front of her. It was a familiar one; perhaps something she had used for weeks like this in years passed. But tonight, the picture did not make sense.
She let the words ring in her head one more time. "Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
Then it hit her. That picture. It was that very same picture they had portrayed earlier that day in the service. The disciples gathered around the table with the bread and the wine. It all came together now.
Nicodemus, and the "righteousness" he had learnt from his role as a religious teacher...
Mary Magdalene, and the postures of brokenness she found at the feet of the Christ...
John, and the way he completely missed the point while the Christ was in his midst...
Mary and Joseph, and the heartache of losing their child...
"I've forgotten about the music," she whispered, as the first tear rolled down her cheek
"I've forgotten what it means to pray.
Don't know why I stopped believing,
Don't know why I settled for less.
Speak to me of that man again -
He had much knowledge of the Law.
Speak to me of how he had to relearn
The wonder of who You are.
Remind me of that woman
With her alabaster jar.
Remind me to unbound my hair
And sit at Your feet for a while.
Tell me that story again
Of that man You call "Beloved."
Tell me again of how he forgot
The marvel of who You are.
Sing me the song of that broken heart
Of the woman and her husband who lost their son.
Sing me the song with Your words of comfort
And heal the brokenness of my heart."
The fragmented pieces of colour all came together now. There was room at the table for the Nicodemuses, the Mary Magdalenes, the Johns, and the Mary and Josephs.
But more importantly, there was room for her even when the flurries of activity leave little time for her to remember.
"Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
It had been a busy, busy week. The adrenaline from planning the services for the week was quickly fading, and now it was Sunday night. The hustle and bustle had finally died down and she finally had a few moments to sit quietly before the activities of the next week flurried by again.
"Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
The words from the familiar hymn from earlier that morning rang in her head as her fingers idly traced over the outlines of each of the fragmented pieces of colour. Her eyelids were drooping but still she forced herself to try and make sense of that picture in front of her. It was a familiar one; perhaps something she had used for weeks like this in years passed. But tonight, the picture did not make sense.
She let the words ring in her head one more time. "Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
Then it hit her. That picture. It was that very same picture they had portrayed earlier that day in the service. The disciples gathered around the table with the bread and the wine. It all came together now.
Nicodemus, and the "righteousness" he had learnt from his role as a religious teacher...
Mary Magdalene, and the postures of brokenness she found at the feet of the Christ...
John, and the way he completely missed the point while the Christ was in his midst...
Mary and Joseph, and the heartache of losing their child...
"I've forgotten about the music," she whispered, as the first tear rolled down her cheek
"I've forgotten what it means to pray.
Don't know why I stopped believing,
Don't know why I settled for less.
Speak to me of that man again -
He had much knowledge of the Law.
Speak to me of how he had to relearn
The wonder of who You are.
Remind me of that woman
With her alabaster jar.
Remind me to unbound my hair
And sit at Your feet for a while.
Tell me that story again
Of that man You call "Beloved."
Tell me again of how he forgot
The marvel of who You are.
Sing me the song of that broken heart
Of the woman and her husband who lost their son.
Sing me the song with Your words of comfort
And heal the brokenness of my heart."
The fragmented pieces of colour all came together now. There was room at the table for the Nicodemuses, the Mary Magdalenes, the Johns, and the Mary and Josephs.
But more importantly, there was room for her even when the flurries of activity leave little time for her to remember.
"Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
02 April 2010
Holy Week #4: Mary
The rhythmic pounding of the hammer drifting in from the husband's workshop seemed especially calming that day. The steady beat starkly contrasted the emotions I felt inside since John came and brought me the news.
I smoothed my hands over the fabric I had tucked away so many years ago as I felt the first tears fall down my cheek. It was the remnants of material I had used to make the robe the husband and I presented to him before he went out to the wilderness that day. After that forty days he spent in the wilderness, he came home to us on fewer occasions.
Since the day I knew he was being formed in my womb, I had known he was set apart. I will never forget the day the angel appeared to give me the news that I was with child. Everytime I recall the mystique wonder of that day, I still get a strange warm tingling sensation. There was a little guy growing inside me! But how could it be when I had not known any man? Some questions will never be answered I guess, I thought to myself.
Leaning out the window, I studied his silhouette for a while. There was the man I loved, sweat dripping down his forehead. It was just the two of us now, still he laboured hard for us. The last months had been especially trying but still he had been strong for us.
Reaching for a clean towel, I slipped outside, plodding softly on the dusty ground till I was beside him. Then gently, I dabbed his forehead with the clean towel. Putting his hammer down, he dusted his hands off on his workpants and turned to face me. "Hi love," I whispered as he reached out to embrace me. There was that far-away look in his eyes again. "You're thinking of him too, aren't you?" he whispered as he gently brushed a stray strand of hair off my face. Closing my eyes, I leaned in and rested my head on his chest with a sigh.
He led us over to the bench by the corner and for a while, he held my hand and neither of us said anything, allowing time for us to walk down that path in our heads again.
He had been a good son, but he never failed to surprise us. Remembering the day we found him in the temple amongst the teachers brought a smile to my face. He was only twelve, but he asked questions and talked with such authority that his father and I were left amazed. And then there was that incident at the wedding. They had run out of wine and for some reason I thought it would be good for him to help them out. Looking back now, I should have known he would have had a sense of when it was time for him to go about his Father's business.
After that day, he came and went even more -- more going than coming. Stories I heard about him came more from the town gossips than from him directly. Oh yes, so many stories we heard about him -- the good, the bad and the ugly. And each time, I would smile to myself while getting flour or picking out new material. Oh my Son, my precious Son.
And then the time came when they arrested him. I closed my eyes for a few brief moments and allowed that scene where John came running in with the news to replay in my mind. They had arrested him for blasphemy. Blasphemy! My Son! He was no blasphemer! Why would they think that of him? Just a little while ago they had been celebrating him in Jerusalem and now they wanted him crucified! I squeezed my eyes shut and recalled watching it all unfold before my eyes. The path he took to Golgotha and the way they ridiculed him the entire walk there... The crown of thorns they placed on his head... The way they mocked him "King of the Jews" with that purple robe... My body trembled as that picture of him on that tree flashed before my eyes over and over again. Blood mixed with sweat, tears and water streamed down from his head, his hands and his feet. Oh my Son, my precious Son. What I would give to take his place!
And then that few moments I had with him... That few moments where he looked me in the eye. Even in all the pain he was in, there was still that look of love and respect he had always shown the husband and I. Then with all the strength he could muster, he whispered, "Dear woman, your son," and to John who had kept close to us while this all unfolded, he whispered, "Here is your mother."
He asked for a drink, and they moistened his lips with wine vinegar. And with that, he was... he was... I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my lips firmly together as fresh tears fell. My shoulders were shaking uncontrollably.
The husband leaned closer and put his arm around my shoulder. The pain in his eyes were as raw as if it had all been merely yesterday. He was weeping too and for a while we both sat, holding each other.
...
Their cheeks were moist as her fingers touched the Son of Man's face on the stained glass. They had heard the story so many times before, but it was not until they lost their own twenty-one year-old daughter that the pain of that story sunk in.
Someone knew. Someone cared.
"Come, my children," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who were they to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?
Then they saw them. Mary and Joseph. They were at the table too.
An interpretation of Luke 4:1-15, 1:26-38, 2:41-52, John 2:1-11 and 19:16-27
I smoothed my hands over the fabric I had tucked away so many years ago as I felt the first tears fall down my cheek. It was the remnants of material I had used to make the robe the husband and I presented to him before he went out to the wilderness that day. After that forty days he spent in the wilderness, he came home to us on fewer occasions.
Since the day I knew he was being formed in my womb, I had known he was set apart. I will never forget the day the angel appeared to give me the news that I was with child. Everytime I recall the mystique wonder of that day, I still get a strange warm tingling sensation. There was a little guy growing inside me! But how could it be when I had not known any man? Some questions will never be answered I guess, I thought to myself.
Leaning out the window, I studied his silhouette for a while. There was the man I loved, sweat dripping down his forehead. It was just the two of us now, still he laboured hard for us. The last months had been especially trying but still he had been strong for us.
Reaching for a clean towel, I slipped outside, plodding softly on the dusty ground till I was beside him. Then gently, I dabbed his forehead with the clean towel. Putting his hammer down, he dusted his hands off on his workpants and turned to face me. "Hi love," I whispered as he reached out to embrace me. There was that far-away look in his eyes again. "You're thinking of him too, aren't you?" he whispered as he gently brushed a stray strand of hair off my face. Closing my eyes, I leaned in and rested my head on his chest with a sigh.
He led us over to the bench by the corner and for a while, he held my hand and neither of us said anything, allowing time for us to walk down that path in our heads again.
He had been a good son, but he never failed to surprise us. Remembering the day we found him in the temple amongst the teachers brought a smile to my face. He was only twelve, but he asked questions and talked with such authority that his father and I were left amazed. And then there was that incident at the wedding. They had run out of wine and for some reason I thought it would be good for him to help them out. Looking back now, I should have known he would have had a sense of when it was time for him to go about his Father's business.
After that day, he came and went even more -- more going than coming. Stories I heard about him came more from the town gossips than from him directly. Oh yes, so many stories we heard about him -- the good, the bad and the ugly. And each time, I would smile to myself while getting flour or picking out new material. Oh my Son, my precious Son.
And then the time came when they arrested him. I closed my eyes for a few brief moments and allowed that scene where John came running in with the news to replay in my mind. They had arrested him for blasphemy. Blasphemy! My Son! He was no blasphemer! Why would they think that of him? Just a little while ago they had been celebrating him in Jerusalem and now they wanted him crucified! I squeezed my eyes shut and recalled watching it all unfold before my eyes. The path he took to Golgotha and the way they ridiculed him the entire walk there... The crown of thorns they placed on his head... The way they mocked him "King of the Jews" with that purple robe... My body trembled as that picture of him on that tree flashed before my eyes over and over again. Blood mixed with sweat, tears and water streamed down from his head, his hands and his feet. Oh my Son, my precious Son. What I would give to take his place!
And then that few moments I had with him... That few moments where he looked me in the eye. Even in all the pain he was in, there was still that look of love and respect he had always shown the husband and I. Then with all the strength he could muster, he whispered, "Dear woman, your son," and to John who had kept close to us while this all unfolded, he whispered, "Here is your mother."
He asked for a drink, and they moistened his lips with wine vinegar. And with that, he was... he was... I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my lips firmly together as fresh tears fell. My shoulders were shaking uncontrollably.
The husband leaned closer and put his arm around my shoulder. The pain in his eyes were as raw as if it had all been merely yesterday. He was weeping too and for a while we both sat, holding each other.
...
Their cheeks were moist as her fingers touched the Son of Man's face on the stained glass. They had heard the story so many times before, but it was not until they lost their own twenty-one year-old daughter that the pain of that story sunk in.
Someone knew. Someone cared.
"Come, my children," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who were they to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?
Then they saw them. Mary and Joseph. They were at the table too.
An interpretation of Luke 4:1-15, 1:26-38, 2:41-52, John 2:1-11 and 19:16-27
01 April 2010
Holy Week #3: John
I found myself outside again this evening. It had been a long time since I last took a walk by the sea. As the waves came crashing on my feet today, I felt the dirt that had accumulated from the day's walking slowly erode away. Ahh, clean feet. I wiggled my toes just a little. Something about the salt in the air and the smell of fish not too far away brought a calming effect after a long day.
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him. That familiar silhouette out there on the water. Could it be? Had he returned? But no, it was all an illusion. They said absence makes the heart grow fonder. I guess this was what they meant.
I settled down on that one slightly bigger rock in the middle of the sandy shore. It had been a while since I last sat down and thought about him. But tonight, something about the sea, the fish and the water brought to mind so many of my favourite memories with him.
I remember distinctly that day when James and I were out at sea with Papa. It seemed like he had been watching us for a while before he finally came up to James and I. The words he said then did not make much sense, but for some strange reason, "Follow me, and I will make you fish for people," seemed so much more appealing than spending the day out at sea with Papa. So James and I left with him.
He was a great teacher. He knew the Scriptures really well and even the other religious teachers started getting jealous of him. Me, I was just puzzled as to why he would have picked me to be one of his disciples. I was especially thankful to hear the way he taught through stories and performed signs and wonders that baffled everyone else. But from him, I learnt what the other religious teachers never taught us.
Our forefathers taught us to obey the Mosaic laws so that we may "live long in the land the Lord our God had given us." But the Good Teacher saw it differently. I remember that day when he healed the man of Dropsy and the question was raised about healing on the Sabbath. I guess I never really questioned how applicable our Mosaic laws were until that very moment when he showed a different way of obeying. No wait... He showed the true meaning of obeying.
And I'll never forget that day. It was Passover and he had given Peter and I specific instructions about that day's feasting. If I had only known what was about to happen, I would have made better effort to remember everything that he had said. All I remembered him saying was something about meeting a man with a jar of water. He dictated the instructions as if he already knew what was going to happen. Well... I guess he would have known. How many times had he tried to clue us in, but we never understood his "riddles"? Peter, James and I even once joked about his many riddles. If we had only known...
That night, we had all gathered in the room and were feasting. The Good Teacher was unusually quiet at Supper, but I had assumed it was because we had all had a long day. Halfway through the meal, he got up and left. Peter and I exchanged a look, but just shrugged it off as another one of his riddles.
When he returned, he had a towel tied around his waist. What happened next baffled me. We were still bantering back and forth about whether the bread should have been kept warm a little longer when the Good Teacher knelt down beside Andrew. Closing my eyes, I could still see the look of shock on Andrew's face as he looked between the Good Teacher and his feet, then around the table at the rest of us. He made his way all around the table and when he came to me, he looked me in the eye with his ever-patient gaze. And that was when I noticed his eyes were glassy. From time to time, he would look away, as if hiding his face from me, rubbing the sides of his cheeks against the sleeves of his robe. And was that a sniffle I heard? Something was up with him, but I was too exhausted that day to ask.
I allowed my feet to just graze the surface of the sea. It made me feel a little closer to him that way as I recalled the same clean feeling I had that night. As he slowly proceeded to wipe my feet with the towel around his waist and gently massaged it a little, I felt the aches and blisters being soothed away.
He didn't say much, but after he put everything away, he came back out and broke bread with us, saying something about eagerly desiring to eat this Passover with us before he suffered, and something about not eating it again until it finds fulfillment in the kingdom of God. I watched his hands tremble ever so slightly as he took hold of the bread, gave thanks then broke it and gave it to us. And as he lifted the cup and gave thanks, I was worried he was going to spill the wine from the goblet because he was shaking. Oh if only I had known the significance of that moment then, I would have been present.
Then he led the way out to the garden, he looked each one of us in the eye and embraced us. And I noticed again the tears in his eyes. Except this time he didn't look away when he realised I had noticed those tears. Instead, the look was one of... of... "If only you would understand."
Oh I wish I hadn't been that tired and had kept watch with him. I don't know how many times he returned that night, rousing us from our sleep and asking us to pray as his anguish grew with intensity. But no, rather than staying up to pray with him, we fell asleep. Time and time again. Oh, if only I had known.
We finally woke from our sleep when the fuss they made from coming to take him away startled us. But instead of staying to protect him or try to do anything, we each ran away, trying to save our own skins first. For all that he had taught us about love, we still ran away when we had the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that self-sacrificing love he taught us about.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The guilt and anguish from that night had been riding on my shoulders for a long time now. For whatever reason, they had started calling me his "beloved" but yet I failed him. I FAILED HIM.
A sudden gust of sea breeze swept by almost knocking me out. And all of a sudden, that same look he gave me that night as he stood by the door leading to the garden... Then that image of his face drenched with sweat, tears and blood flashed through my head.
And then I understood. The greatest love he taught was what happened that weekend. I was his beloved not because of anything I had done. It was because he chose it that way.
...
She felt a chill down her spine as she heard her pastor's voice in her head over and over again, "Beloved, I love you." The world saw her as the perfect Christian who never broke the rules and the worst thing she had done was forgetting to turn in her homework in class one day. But they would never understand all the emotions she felt inside about the way she had to deal with farewells said too early or the guilt she had about not being more real and more "Christian" with her God.
Then she understood. Her fingers traced the outlines of his feet as she realised that her belovedness did not come from anything she did or did not do. It was because the Good Teacher chose it that way.
"Come, my daughter," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who was she to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?
Then she saw her. John. Resting on the bosom of the Good Teacher at the table.
An interpretation of Matthew 4:18-22, Luke 14:1-6 and 22:7-46
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him. That familiar silhouette out there on the water. Could it be? Had he returned? But no, it was all an illusion. They said absence makes the heart grow fonder. I guess this was what they meant.
I settled down on that one slightly bigger rock in the middle of the sandy shore. It had been a while since I last sat down and thought about him. But tonight, something about the sea, the fish and the water brought to mind so many of my favourite memories with him.
I remember distinctly that day when James and I were out at sea with Papa. It seemed like he had been watching us for a while before he finally came up to James and I. The words he said then did not make much sense, but for some strange reason, "Follow me, and I will make you fish for people," seemed so much more appealing than spending the day out at sea with Papa. So James and I left with him.
He was a great teacher. He knew the Scriptures really well and even the other religious teachers started getting jealous of him. Me, I was just puzzled as to why he would have picked me to be one of his disciples. I was especially thankful to hear the way he taught through stories and performed signs and wonders that baffled everyone else. But from him, I learnt what the other religious teachers never taught us.
Our forefathers taught us to obey the Mosaic laws so that we may "live long in the land the Lord our God had given us." But the Good Teacher saw it differently. I remember that day when he healed the man of Dropsy and the question was raised about healing on the Sabbath. I guess I never really questioned how applicable our Mosaic laws were until that very moment when he showed a different way of obeying. No wait... He showed the true meaning of obeying.
And I'll never forget that day. It was Passover and he had given Peter and I specific instructions about that day's feasting. If I had only known what was about to happen, I would have made better effort to remember everything that he had said. All I remembered him saying was something about meeting a man with a jar of water. He dictated the instructions as if he already knew what was going to happen. Well... I guess he would have known. How many times had he tried to clue us in, but we never understood his "riddles"? Peter, James and I even once joked about his many riddles. If we had only known...
That night, we had all gathered in the room and were feasting. The Good Teacher was unusually quiet at Supper, but I had assumed it was because we had all had a long day. Halfway through the meal, he got up and left. Peter and I exchanged a look, but just shrugged it off as another one of his riddles.
When he returned, he had a towel tied around his waist. What happened next baffled me. We were still bantering back and forth about whether the bread should have been kept warm a little longer when the Good Teacher knelt down beside Andrew. Closing my eyes, I could still see the look of shock on Andrew's face as he looked between the Good Teacher and his feet, then around the table at the rest of us. He made his way all around the table and when he came to me, he looked me in the eye with his ever-patient gaze. And that was when I noticed his eyes were glassy. From time to time, he would look away, as if hiding his face from me, rubbing the sides of his cheeks against the sleeves of his robe. And was that a sniffle I heard? Something was up with him, but I was too exhausted that day to ask.
I allowed my feet to just graze the surface of the sea. It made me feel a little closer to him that way as I recalled the same clean feeling I had that night. As he slowly proceeded to wipe my feet with the towel around his waist and gently massaged it a little, I felt the aches and blisters being soothed away.
He didn't say much, but after he put everything away, he came back out and broke bread with us, saying something about eagerly desiring to eat this Passover with us before he suffered, and something about not eating it again until it finds fulfillment in the kingdom of God. I watched his hands tremble ever so slightly as he took hold of the bread, gave thanks then broke it and gave it to us. And as he lifted the cup and gave thanks, I was worried he was going to spill the wine from the goblet because he was shaking. Oh if only I had known the significance of that moment then, I would have been present.
Then he led the way out to the garden, he looked each one of us in the eye and embraced us. And I noticed again the tears in his eyes. Except this time he didn't look away when he realised I had noticed those tears. Instead, the look was one of... of... "If only you would understand."
Oh I wish I hadn't been that tired and had kept watch with him. I don't know how many times he returned that night, rousing us from our sleep and asking us to pray as his anguish grew with intensity. But no, rather than staying up to pray with him, we fell asleep. Time and time again. Oh, if only I had known.
We finally woke from our sleep when the fuss they made from coming to take him away startled us. But instead of staying to protect him or try to do anything, we each ran away, trying to save our own skins first. For all that he had taught us about love, we still ran away when we had the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that self-sacrificing love he taught us about.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The guilt and anguish from that night had been riding on my shoulders for a long time now. For whatever reason, they had started calling me his "beloved" but yet I failed him. I FAILED HIM.
A sudden gust of sea breeze swept by almost knocking me out. And all of a sudden, that same look he gave me that night as he stood by the door leading to the garden... Then that image of his face drenched with sweat, tears and blood flashed through my head.
And then I understood. The greatest love he taught was what happened that weekend. I was his beloved not because of anything I had done. It was because he chose it that way.
...
She felt a chill down her spine as she heard her pastor's voice in her head over and over again, "Beloved, I love you." The world saw her as the perfect Christian who never broke the rules and the worst thing she had done was forgetting to turn in her homework in class one day. But they would never understand all the emotions she felt inside about the way she had to deal with farewells said too early or the guilt she had about not being more real and more "Christian" with her God.
Then she understood. Her fingers traced the outlines of his feet as she realised that her belovedness did not come from anything she did or did not do. It was because the Good Teacher chose it that way.
"Come, my daughter," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who was she to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?
Then she saw her. John. Resting on the bosom of the Good Teacher at the table.
An interpretation of Matthew 4:18-22, Luke 14:1-6 and 22:7-46
Quotesworthy...
"You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart always will be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place."
- Miriam Adeney
- Miriam Adeney
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