Dear Keren,
I sat by the coast at Long Beach yesterday and watched the people and the waters. There's something calming about the way the scent of the sea breeze filling your lungs and watching the waters make their way to the shore, even if it's manmade. Then again, maybe it's the soul of the city child that longs for manmade beauty to bring comfort.
How do I even begin to put to words everything that has transpired in the last couple of months?
In the span of a couple weeks, the material things that marked the pieces of my life in the last seven years had to be reduced to two suitcases and a duffle bag. Furniture was sold. I had to figure out what amongst the ridiculous amounts of t-shirts that had accumulated through my college years carried enough sentimental value to not be thrown into one of seven trash bags to be brought to the Christian Center. Trinkets and books went into separate boxes: two for the Christian Center and two for storage with the adopted family.
Even after that, I still had to pay $150 for excess baggage.
Part of me wants to ask, why can't the world be more understanding about me moving halfway across the world, and just waive the $150. Another part of me wants to ask, why would they understand? Why should they?
And then there's another thing that struck me as odd. Seven years ago when I left, I carried with me picture frames that held images of persons I considered important to me. This time, it didn't even occur to me I should be packing those. If I did, the excess baggage fee would be so much more because I now have way too many of those, in too many different parts of the world. Which makes me thankful for me iTouch because I can keep these on Facebook. I've never been one to purchase gadgets like these regardless of my fascination with them, but considering how it made the additional eighteen hours I had to spend in LA more bearable, I don't have a choice but to be thankful. And especially now, too, that I can be typing this while I'm on the plane.
So you see, so much has changed in these seven years. I remember still so clearly, what it was like that Friday, August 20, 2004 (see, I even write my date differently now) when I boarded that SQ flight to be transported to LAX. As I was sorting through the old junk, I came across the journal that I kept during that transitional time. Apparently, I had written something along the lines of somehow magically wishing that maybe when I got off the plane, I wouldn't be facing the cornfields of Indiana, but would find the familiar faces that I had just left behind in SIN there ready to welcome me. And today, I have that same feeling. Except I was wishing for my Anderson family to be greeting me in SIN.
Typically on the flight back over Christmas break, whenever I had an option between the Asian or Western meals, I'd go for the one from the region I'd go for the Asian one because it was semblance of home. On this flight, they even have movies by Singaporean producers in preparation for the National Day celebration, but it made me sick in the stomach realizing that even if Kit Chan's "Home" were playing in the background right now, the home that I would be sick for would be in places I would never have dreamed seven years ago. Places like Anderson, Portland and Silverthorne. And not because of Layton Road or Pershing Dr, or University Blvd or College Ave, Hawthorne Ave or I-70 West.
But the people.
These are the people who have walked through the crap that life has thrown me since you died four years ago. They are the ones who understand why I grief the way I do every August 3. I still miss you, but I also miss the part of me, and the sense of home that died along with you that day. They are the Emilys who don't try to hurry me along the journey of healing, but go to the site of the accident to sit with me and lay flowers by your tree, even if they didn't feel comfortable doing that. They are the Jens, the Amitys and the Pauls who laughed at my faith crises not because they thought I was being ridiculous, but because even if I tried to not have that typical Seminarian faith crises, they were glad I was doing seminary well enough to really let it challenge me. They are the Tims who change my oil for free, and the Nikkis who challenged me to really think about the implications of this thing called free-will. They are the Emilys and Ashleys who drop everything to take me to Sno Castle in my last hour in Anderson, the Ricks that we run into just as he is getting off work who jumps into the car with us, and the Jasons and Michaels who upon receiving a text that says nothin more than "Sno Castle. Right now." rearranges their work schedule so they can be there. They are the Amandas who, with one Skype call makes me feel like my soul has just been cleansed. They are the Dans and Christys, the Johns and Jodies, the Darlenes, the Ruths who keep cheering me on on this wild journey in pursuit of those dreams. They are the Macs and Jeans, the Phils and Phyllises, the Dorises and Jacquies who "grandparent" from the sidelines but give me space to grow. They are the Eds and the Heidis who create space for my friends, the Thads, Tobys and Theos who can sweet-talk me into reading Harry Potter and bungee jump off a tall building for them. They are the Hannahs and Jamies who call before I leave. They are the Alexs who just show up. They are the Beccas and the Sharyns who understand why the news I received just before leaving create so much anxiety because of the prophetic call in my life, and remind me that even if I wasn't leaving, nothing would change. They are the Jacks whose kindred spirit refreshed my soul and reignited the passion to live this crazy life after a dreary two months of "until next times." They are the Ryans who share my beliefs about community, the Mikes who remind me of what is important in ministry, the Coppesses who takes the time to be serious every once in a while to ask how I'm doing, and the Carmas, Joyces, Kathis and Paulas who make time for me. They are the Arthurs and Judys, the Pauls and Debbies who give me permission to say I have a home (their home) in Anderson and Portland.
These are the things that make home for me. And since it will be a while before we land and my bubble of home is burst by the reality check, let me slide back into denial for a while, shut off into my world of Bejeweled where I can pretend I can smack-talk Coppess, Tim and Nikki, or read Harry Potter pretending I can talk to Thad, Jen, Alex, Tim, Nikki, Tim, Kit, Jacob, Emily and Ashley about it.
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