When Mr Bean Became Human

I don't watch much TV, but this much I know about TV shows: I hate shows like Mr Bean and America's Funniest Home Videos.

Why?

Because every time I watch Mr Bean about to do something that we ALL know is going to completely embarrass him, I cringe knowing that he's going to go ahead and do it anyway. Like the time he tries to beat the parking barrier at the parking lot by timing it just nicely to run over the blue van. Or when he runs into the women's changing room at the pool naked after he lost his shorts.

Maybe I have too much empathy, but I die a little bit inside every time I watch Mr Bean or the kid falling off his bike embarrass themselves.

The other day when I was at the store, I noticed this guy poised like he was ready to tee off, except 1) he didn't have a golf club in his hands, and 2) he was standing beside the box of bok choy. I try not to giggle as I'm walking by, just in time for him to turn around and notice me. I smiled and kept on walking as he apologised and tried to sheepishly explain that he was "just practising my strokes".

I struggled to keep the giggles contained as I rolled my eyes inside, thinking, "right, just showing off your strokes to the bok choy, ay?"

That very same moment, that Mr Bean moment hit me.

Mr Bean became human in the Indian guy practising his strokes at the veggie shop (a very good-looking and sheepish Indian guy too, if I might add).

He didn't owe me any kind of explanation about what he was doing, but because of that 2-second interaction, the Mr Bean that I could keep my distance from while he was on The Tube became human to me.

It made me think of the conversation I had with Emily just a few days prior to that exchange at the veggie shop. We were discussing the latest project she had commissioned me on--a written one this time--and I had reached a point where I didn't know how to proceed without compromising the code of ethics I had developed over time to protect the stories I had started collecting. As I tried to explain that it made me uncomfortable simply publicizing stories that I had been trusted with without permission, even if the owners of these stories may never find out, Emily interrupted my verbal-diarrhoea with the simple,

"Stop being sorry it makes perfect sense. They are not [just those people]... they became human beings... people... to you they have names a history hearts and you have to protect them"

In the moments as I loaded up the groceries in the van, still trying to stifle the giggles from "Mr Bean," I understood exactly what Emily meant.

Yes, I had empathy for Mr Bean, but I could easily turn the TV off. But the guy at the veggie shop and all the other characters of the stories I've been collecting--they became human beings. "They have names, a history, hearts, and you have to protect them." They're not just the funny-looking Englishman on The Tube, a statistic in the news, a case-study in the textbooks.

They became human, like the guy in the veggie shop practising his stroke.

Life On The Platter

I was talking to Emily this morning about life in general recently and she asked,

"How are things over there?"

For the last few days, I've been trying to figure out how to capture what life has been like in the last few months, and last night the imagery came at last.

It's like the bunch of us here at Westside have been given this ginormous platter of eggs to juggle. Since the beginning of this year, we've had a major cut in number of folks to help carry the load of both leadership and simply making sure that the day-to-day, week-to-week stuff happen. With the Beisleys' and Steve's departures, we went from 4 full-time pastoral staff to 5 for a few months when I came on, down to 2. Our elders also went from 4 down to 2. Even with all the preparation that went into preparing for all the transitions that happened, it still feels like a lot when the full weight of "stuff" finally sank in and we realised how much we were carrying as a church family.

The thing I've been most thankful for is that those that are left have thrown all hands are on deck to help keep things fairly well-balanced so that no single person has to juggle more than he/she can handle. But even then, it's still a big platter to juggle to make sure that the eggs don't fall off one side while we're trying to keep things balanced on the other. Let's face it, we're all human and our arms will get sore and tired from trying to help hold up the platter. Sometimes one of us has to carry more so the other can take a break.

And so we learn to communicate. We learn to trust each other that when one of us is saying we need a break, it's not because we're being lazy, but because we really do need a break. We learn to articulate when it feels like our end of the platter is getting thrown off balance again, and we learn to ask for help. We learn to share the weight of the platter equally according to what each is able to contribute so that the eggs don't fall off the less-than-balanced end.

And then there are the... oh, what shall we call it... negative forces, for lack of a better word, thrown in from time to time to off-set the new balance. Sickness, family circumstances and the situations beyond our control that try to throw off the balance from the top as we try to keep things even from below. So we learn to pray and ask for divine help to help tackle things coming from the top... Or what we sometimes know more affectionately as "not flesh and blood, but rulers, powers, the world forces of this darkness, and the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places."

For the last few months now, Jonny and I have been alternating taking Kids' Church each week. The weeks I wasn't doing Kids' Church, I was alternating leading worship with Stephen. We all knew it wasn't the most ideal arrangement, but it was the best we can do for now. Until two Sunday ago when I came down with a fever and had to call Jonny to take Kids' Church for the second week in a row. Then yesterday, he came down with a fever which meant I had to lead worship and do Kids' Church right after that.

The harvest is plentiful. There's lots that can and needs to be done, but even with all hands on deck, it's still a big job to keep us going each week. I love the team I get to work with, even if not directly on leadership or on the Kids' Church volunteer team, but we're all being stretched really thin. The youth ministry is vibrant and energetic, but we desperately need a coordinator so that Chad can have a bit more time and space for pastoral care elsewhere.

I don't know who all of my kampong outside of New Zealand still reads this, especially since I haven't done the best job of writing here recently. But if you do and you're a believer of prayer, we covet your prayers. Pray for us specifically for protection over relationships, that as the going gets tough, we learn to continually put relationships first.

I leave you with this song by Jewel...

"My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own

In the end only kindness matters
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray"

Five Years On

Dear Keren,

I remember a night like this, five years ago.

The night where words and groans were not enough to express anguish.
The night where the need to call a friend at two in the morning defined the crisis mode.
The night where acceptance of this new reality of life without your smile and laughter started to sink in.

It was the phonecall I didn't want to receive.
Five years on, and the events of that weekend linger still, fresh as ever.

They didn't tell me why they needed to get in touch with your brother.
Only that you were in an accident.
People don't die that easily from accidents. Right?


Then they asked if I wanted to go see you in the hospital.
Was there a need?
It can't be that bad, can it?


Then I saw you lying there with all those extra science keeping you alive.
Why didn't they do more for you?
They called themselves Christians, but they didn't believe in a miracle?


I wanted to touch you, but I was afraid I would completely suck the life out of you if I did.

And then that morning at church.
I knew it was a matter of time before I would get that phonecall.
"Her parents just got in. They're taking her off life-support."


And then that strange woman.
I hardly knew her, but she was forcing me to swallow yoghurt.
"You may not have an appetite, but you need food in your system, and you can slurp down yoghurt."


You forced me into accepting community so I could never walk alone again.

That strange woman, with her husband and three boys became family.
Your father gave me permission to keep memories of you alive through staying in touch.

The story of our friendship was so simple, yet so complicated to explain without drawing others into my story, and the life that has unfolded ever since that day five years ago.

Dear Keren, tonight I revisited Elizabethtown with new friends. New people who will help me navigate the pages of my story. Telling the stories of what made us friends and what made Elizabethtown important forced me to celebrate the little pieces of life that has unfolded in the last five years.

Dear Keren, they asked me to write to you. To continue to tell you the stories of all that I've seen and the people I've met. Funny, because if you recall, we were supposed to meet at 4pm on August 3 five years ago to trade what would have been the last stories on this side of your life. 4pm came and went on August 3, 2007 with you lying with way too much of science trying to keep you alive at the Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis.

Dear Keren, these days they keep asking me what I do. I keep wanting to tell them, I collect stories. It may not be a real job, but it's what I do. The stories didn't end on August 3, 2007. So I will keep writing. I will keep collecting stories and share them with you as we would have done on that very day five years ago.

Love,
Me