I don't by any means consider myself a great writer, but I believe there is something sacred and precious about stories.
When I was last in Singapore a little over a month ago, I had the opportunity to invite the good people of the congregation I grew up in into the story I've been creating on this little corner south of the equator called the Land of the Long White Cloud, Aotearoa New Zealand. One of the "aunties" who watched me grow up in that church said to me afterwards, "It's so nice to hear about what you're doing in New Zealand. I guess we all knew you were there, but we didn't really know what you were doing."
Which made me re-evaluate what I had been doing with storytelling. My excuse for the lack of stories had been that my first two years in Aotearoa had been "dark and twisted" (to borrow the words of Meredith Grey). The reality was more that I had given my storyboard away to everyone else to fill while I sat in the corner and sulked like I was completely helpless. And perhaps the longer I dwelt in that corner, the more helpless I felt even though the easier thing would have been to reclaim my storyboard and fill it with my own stories.
So this new series, Aotearoa Diaries, is intended to be just that: the reclamation of my storyboard, and the invitation into the story I'm creating here in the Land of the Long White Cloud. I'm not sure where these stories will go, or how much of the last two years I will write about, but I need to write these stories again. If not for anyone else, but for myself, to believe again in the sacredness and preciousness of story.
Showing posts with label 2014 Resolutions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2014 Resolutions. Show all posts
05 May 2014
17 April 2014
Churchless on Holy Week
Every year for the last ten years, the significance of Holy Week became more and more real to me.
Perhaps it was the AU/AUSOT community.
Perhaps it was Park Place Church.
Perhaps it was Doug Berky's Holy Week programme.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
I've played the role of the good church kid for a long time.
I've played the role of the dutiful minister for not as long, but long enough.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
Even through the years of worship wars
Even through the years of watching parishioners rip their ministers to shreds
Even through the years of watching religious teachers tear each other apart
Even through the years of rejection
Even through the years of endless meaningless debates with academic theologians
Even through the years of being of the wrong gender, age, nationality and personality type
Even through the years of ridiculous politics
I still came home to church
Even if more wounded and broken than before.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
Don't get me wrong
I will still be at a church this weekend
(The good church kid and the dutiful minister still lives somewhere inside and need a sense of normality)
Don't get me wrong
I won't be there simply out of duty
(The good church kid and the dutiful minister misses all that is sacred of the rituals way too much)
Don't get me wrong
I'm not there because I haven't thought of leaving
(Even the good church kid and the dutiful minister gets tired of fighting for no real reason)
Don't get me wrong
I simply am searching for my own meaning of Church that isn't bound
By the trappings of the good church kid
Or the dutiful minister
Or the wounds and the brokenness of the years gone by
Or the false pride that the Church never did, and never would be able to hurt me
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
More importantly,
Jael needs to find Church again
Not Jael the good church kid
Or Jael the dutiful minister
Or Jael the wounded and broken
Or Jael the angry church-leaver
Just simply,
Jael
Perhaps that's why, just for a change, it's ok to be churchless on Holy Week this year.
Because sometimes, we all need to be a little unsettled.
(Just for the record:
In case you're concerned, Jesus and I are doing ok. But the church stuff... Yeah, that. I've managed to botch)
Perhaps it was the AU/AUSOT community.
Perhaps it was Park Place Church.
Perhaps it was Doug Berky's Holy Week programme.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
I've played the role of the good church kid for a long time.
I've played the role of the dutiful minister for not as long, but long enough.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
Even through the years of worship wars
Even through the years of watching parishioners rip their ministers to shreds
Even through the years of watching religious teachers tear each other apart
Even through the years of rejection
Even through the years of endless meaningless debates with academic theologians
Even through the years of being of the wrong gender, age, nationality and personality type
Even through the years of ridiculous politics
I still came home to church
Even if more wounded and broken than before.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
Don't get me wrong
I will still be at a church this weekend
(The good church kid and the dutiful minister still lives somewhere inside and need a sense of normality)
Don't get me wrong
I won't be there simply out of duty
(The good church kid and the dutiful minister misses all that is sacred of the rituals way too much)
Don't get me wrong
I'm not there because I haven't thought of leaving
(Even the good church kid and the dutiful minister gets tired of fighting for no real reason)
Don't get me wrong
I simply am searching for my own meaning of Church that isn't bound
By the trappings of the good church kid
Or the dutiful minister
Or the wounds and the brokenness of the years gone by
Or the false pride that the Church never did, and never would be able to hurt me
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
More importantly,
Jael needs to find Church again
Not Jael the good church kid
Or Jael the dutiful minister
Or Jael the wounded and broken
Or Jael the angry church-leaver
Just simply,
Jael
Perhaps that's why, just for a change, it's ok to be churchless on Holy Week this year.
Because sometimes, we all need to be a little unsettled.
(Just for the record:
In case you're concerned, Jesus and I are doing ok. But the church stuff... Yeah, that. I've managed to botch)
11 April 2014
"Remember Your Baptism"
11 April 2004
I remembered being immersed in that water, and coming out feeling nothing different. The rational part of me knew that was normal, but a part of me wanted to feel different.
But that was the beginning of everything.
For years before then, I had been thinking about the blessing that came when God changed a person's name in the Bible.
Abram to Abraham.
Sarai to Sarah.
Jacob to Israel.
And I had wanted that blessing, but I felt like there had to be a reason or occasion for that blessing.
Easter Sunday was rolling around that year. My brother and I had decided we wanted to be baptised that Easter Sunday. And I had brought up the name thing, so my mum got involved with the process of looking for a new name.
We wanted names that started with the letter J to keep with our legal names. For some reason, my mum didn't want me to pick the name Jezebel (I wonder why). And so we kept searching.
Then one day she said she stumbled upon the name Jael and told me to look up what it meant. Everything that Google found said it meant "mountain goat" or something along those lines.
So we took it to my pastor, and in his best attempt to parse the Hebrew name, we came up with "Ja" sounding like Yahweh or Jehovah, and "El" sounding like El Shaddai -- something along the lines of calling out to God.
And then I read the story of Jael in Judges 4. I was impressed by the strength that woman possessed to be a part of Kingdom work, so mountain goat or not, Jael was the name to be. It was short and simple, and I grew to like it more and more.
But... Well, back to that time of immersion in water baptism.
I came out of the water feeling nothing different. What I didn't realise was that that was the beginning of what I now affectionately call "all that crazy".
At the time, I thought it was a momentous occasion because... well, there was that name change thing. And the guy I thought I was going to marry at the time (all grown-up at 18-years-old) was there as well.
More importantly, my BFF was there. She wasn't a church-goer and we didn't share the same faith, but she was there because she knew it was important to me. And to this day, even though she still wouldn't say we share the same faith, she reminds me constantly of that water baptism. That commitment I made, that even if she didn't completely understand, to surrender my life and call to my belief and my faith. Juan, you really are the best.
But even more importantly, that was the beginning of "all that crazy".
You see, I didn't know it at the time, but later that year, I would move to Anderson, Indiana for college.
And Anderson, Indiana was the beginning of "all that crazy".
Good crazy, I should probably add.
And there was no turning back.
10 years, a whirlwind of life experience and a whole collection of passport stamps later, here I am in Auckland, New Zealand, remembering that baptism.
There was nothing special about that water.
And I didn't come out feeling any different.
But things were becoming different.
Remember your baptism
I remembered being immersed in that water, and coming out feeling nothing different. The rational part of me knew that was normal, but a part of me wanted to feel different.
But that was the beginning of everything.
For years before then, I had been thinking about the blessing that came when God changed a person's name in the Bible.
Abram to Abraham.
Sarai to Sarah.
Jacob to Israel.
And I had wanted that blessing, but I felt like there had to be a reason or occasion for that blessing.
Easter Sunday was rolling around that year. My brother and I had decided we wanted to be baptised that Easter Sunday. And I had brought up the name thing, so my mum got involved with the process of looking for a new name.
We wanted names that started with the letter J to keep with our legal names. For some reason, my mum didn't want me to pick the name Jezebel (I wonder why). And so we kept searching.
Then one day she said she stumbled upon the name Jael and told me to look up what it meant. Everything that Google found said it meant "mountain goat" or something along those lines.
So we took it to my pastor, and in his best attempt to parse the Hebrew name, we came up with "Ja" sounding like Yahweh or Jehovah, and "El" sounding like El Shaddai -- something along the lines of calling out to God.
And then I read the story of Jael in Judges 4. I was impressed by the strength that woman possessed to be a part of Kingdom work, so mountain goat or not, Jael was the name to be. It was short and simple, and I grew to like it more and more.
But... Well, back to that time of immersion in water baptism.
I came out of the water feeling nothing different. What I didn't realise was that that was the beginning of what I now affectionately call "all that crazy".
At the time, I thought it was a momentous occasion because... well, there was that name change thing. And the guy I thought I was going to marry at the time (all grown-up at 18-years-old) was there as well.
More importantly, my BFF was there. She wasn't a church-goer and we didn't share the same faith, but she was there because she knew it was important to me. And to this day, even though she still wouldn't say we share the same faith, she reminds me constantly of that water baptism. That commitment I made, that even if she didn't completely understand, to surrender my life and call to my belief and my faith. Juan, you really are the best.
But even more importantly, that was the beginning of "all that crazy".
You see, I didn't know it at the time, but later that year, I would move to Anderson, Indiana for college.
And Anderson, Indiana was the beginning of "all that crazy".
Good crazy, I should probably add.
And there was no turning back.
10 years, a whirlwind of life experience and a whole collection of passport stamps later, here I am in Auckland, New Zealand, remembering that baptism.
There was nothing special about that water.
And I didn't come out feeling any different.
But things were becoming different.
Remember your baptism
07 March 2014
06 March 2014
2014 Lenten Meditation #2: Brother Frank and the Bird Song
"I sing because I'm happy
I sing because I'm free
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know he watches me"
- Civilla D. Martin and Charles H. Gabriel
As some may know, I wear Brother Frank on a chain around my neck.
Brother Frank (better known as St Francis of Assisi) was given to me by Momma H, Pops Fry and the 3Ts (better known as Heidi, Ed, Thad, Toby and Theo Freer-Fry) when I first left Anderson 2.5 years ago. He currently hangs out with Jesus (or at least, the cross anyway) on that chain. Pops and Momma gave that to me when I left Anderson last (northern hemisphere) summer.
In my previous role as children's pastor, I often get seven- and eight-year-olds asking who it is I'm wearing on the chain.
How do you explain that St Francis of Assisi is this great monk with deep theological insights (but no, he's not my boyfriend) to a seven-year-old, whose attention span (when asking this question anyway) is about ten-seconds long?
As I stumbled over my own words the first time, I found myself praying, "Crap. Jesus, please let me do justice to the sainthood of Brother Frank without sounding too dumbed-down or too smart to be irrelevant."
Then the words came.
"My friends gave me this chain when I left America a few years ago. St Francis of Assisi, or as my friends and I like to call him, 'Brother Frank,' was this guy who learnt how important it was to take care of the small things. He liked spending time with the birds because it reminded him that even the little things were important. And I wear this chain because it reminds me that God wants me to take care of the little things, and especially the little people like you guys."
It is the second day of Lent.
As I sit here fiddling with the chain, I find myself willing myself to slow down and notice the little things.
I listen to the cicadas outside--their buzzing becoming a familiar soundtrack to my day.
The clock on the wall provides an accompanying rhythm as I listen to the seconds tick away.
Breathe.
And I remember this time last year.
In the middle of chaos, and crises and wilderness, I drove home one morning in tears.
Some of the little people in my life were in a complicated situation that I accidentally walked into, and I didn't know how to help them.
As I pulled into the driveway and sat in the car weeping, a sparrow appeared on my rear-view mirror and sang its song for a little while while I continued weeping.
And then the words came:
"His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me."
Because even in the little things, there is a Sovereign Being who holds it all.
And we are merely dust. And to dust we will return.
I sing because I'm free
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know he watches me"
- Civilla D. Martin and Charles H. Gabriel
As some may know, I wear Brother Frank on a chain around my neck.
Brother Frank (better known as St Francis of Assisi) was given to me by Momma H, Pops Fry and the 3Ts (better known as Heidi, Ed, Thad, Toby and Theo Freer-Fry) when I first left Anderson 2.5 years ago. He currently hangs out with Jesus (or at least, the cross anyway) on that chain. Pops and Momma gave that to me when I left Anderson last (northern hemisphere) summer.
In my previous role as children's pastor, I often get seven- and eight-year-olds asking who it is I'm wearing on the chain.
How do you explain that St Francis of Assisi is this great monk with deep theological insights (but no, he's not my boyfriend) to a seven-year-old, whose attention span (when asking this question anyway) is about ten-seconds long?
As I stumbled over my own words the first time, I found myself praying, "Crap. Jesus, please let me do justice to the sainthood of Brother Frank without sounding too dumbed-down or too smart to be irrelevant."
Then the words came.
"My friends gave me this chain when I left America a few years ago. St Francis of Assisi, or as my friends and I like to call him, 'Brother Frank,' was this guy who learnt how important it was to take care of the small things. He liked spending time with the birds because it reminded him that even the little things were important. And I wear this chain because it reminds me that God wants me to take care of the little things, and especially the little people like you guys."
It is the second day of Lent.
As I sit here fiddling with the chain, I find myself willing myself to slow down and notice the little things.
I listen to the cicadas outside--their buzzing becoming a familiar soundtrack to my day.
The clock on the wall provides an accompanying rhythm as I listen to the seconds tick away.
Breathe.
And I remember this time last year.
In the middle of chaos, and crises and wilderness, I drove home one morning in tears.
Some of the little people in my life were in a complicated situation that I accidentally walked into, and I didn't know how to help them.
As I pulled into the driveway and sat in the car weeping, a sparrow appeared on my rear-view mirror and sang its song for a little while while I continued weeping.
And then the words came:
"His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me."
Because even in the little things, there is a Sovereign Being who holds it all.
And we are merely dust. And to dust we will return.
My friend, Ed Breeden shared this on Facebook this morning,
which was a big part of the inspiration for today's post.
05 March 2014
2014 Lenten Meditation #1: The Scattered Community
"We've travelled through deserts, survived by His grace
We've kept souvenirs to commemorate
All the times that he washed the tears from our faces
Showed us new places to help renovate us"
- Renovatus
It is Ash Wednesday here in Auckland.
As we sat in St Patrick's Cathedral this morning reflecting on Ash Wednesday and this season of Lent, my mind drifted back to this time last year.
My scattered community were gathering for the first time, at least in a sense of spiritual togetherness, even if we weren't able to gather physically.
We were each travelling through our own seasons of wilderness.
But around that spiritual table, the seasons of wilderness became less lonely.
The deserts were still dry. Our souls were still parched.
But at least, we were together.
That's already better than wandering in the desert alone.
This year finds us in a different landscape.
Still together, but in a different way.
Yet around the ashes, all is the same.
We remember.
We remember the roads travelled.
We remember the dust.
We remember the struggle.
We've kept souvenirs to commemorate
All the times that he washed the tears from our faces
Showed us new places to help renovate us"
- Renovatus
It is Ash Wednesday here in Auckland.
As we sat in St Patrick's Cathedral this morning reflecting on Ash Wednesday and this season of Lent, my mind drifted back to this time last year.
My scattered community were gathering for the first time, at least in a sense of spiritual togetherness, even if we weren't able to gather physically.
We were each travelling through our own seasons of wilderness.
But around that spiritual table, the seasons of wilderness became less lonely.
The deserts were still dry. Our souls were still parched.
But at least, we were together.
That's already better than wandering in the desert alone.
This year finds us in a different landscape.
Still together, but in a different way.
Yet around the ashes, all is the same.
We remember.
We remember the roads travelled.
We remember the dust.
We remember the struggle.
We remember that we are from dust, and to dust we return.
06 January 2014
28: The Year Of Expectancy
A few days ago, I met Soana, a Tongan lady at a training session for Ignite, the youth camp by WMCNZ that I'm going to be a part of this weekend (assuming I'm still in New Zealand). At the beginning of the session, we were divided into groups, and asked to go around sharing stories of how we came to a relationship with Jesus, and what it is that's keeping that relationship going today.
Soana and I were going to be cabin leaders together, so as the training session was ending with a prayer time together, we had some time to visit and get to know each other better. At one point, she asked, "So, you're Chinese?" And I explained that I was, but I was born in Singapore. Then she said this: "You're so lucky that you can be a Christian. In Tonga, we're all raised as Christians, and we all have to go to church--it is a part of our culture. But when I moved to Auckland two years ago, I started to see that so many of the Tongans here don't follow the ways we were brought up in anymore. They read the Bible, but it's kept separate from their lives, and they don't even go to church anymore. You're lucky you can be a Christian, and still choose to be a Christian."
I've been mulling over that conversation over the last few days. In our Wesleyan-Arminian tradition, we talk a lot about free will. But the danger of only talking about free will is that we can drift off into an unbalanced dialogue that doesn't give consideration that God does ordain some things. That I was born into the land, family and place in society I was born into was definitely God-ordained. There can be no explanation than that (bearing in mind I'm writing this solely through the lenses of a relationship with Christ). But what I choose to do with the circumstances I was born into--that's free will.
In my short stint at WCF, I got to know several youths whom society would not pay any attention to. They weren't achieving enough to get positive attention, but they also weren't quite destructive enough to get just enough negative attention for it to go wrong. As I began to spend more time with these kids, I began to realise more and more that there really aren't "bad" kids, just kids who don't often make the best decisions from time to time. And with many of our kids, they didn't have the privilege of being born into the safe, sheltered circumstances I had. Sure, they had the free-will to make better choices and leave those circumstances behind, but for so many of them, they've not had the adults in their lives to support and encourage their making better choices.
Over the last few months, I've been at the district court a number of times. What breaks my heart most isn't just the number of youths who are summoned to court, but the reality that they are often there alone, represented only by a lawyer that was allocated to them by the district authorities. They often don't have a rapport with the lawyer, and coming from backgrounds of abandonment and trust issues, they have difficult trusting that the lawyers actually do want the best for them.
And then I marvel again, at how privileged I am. Yes, Soana, I am lucky, or blessed, or whatever word you want to use, to have been born into a family where starting and keeping a relationship with Christ was easy. I'm lucky to have been born into a family where it was easy to be a good kid. I'm lucky that even if I didn't have a picture perfect relationship with my birth family, they are at least supportive and encouraging of what I do--especially when it breaks the mold of success defined by finances that Asian societies value so deeply.
It is 6 January today. In exactly a month, I will be turning 28. Last year, as I was turning 27, I wrote that 27 was the year I joined the circus. In case you missed it, I discovered there was a free community circus in town, and I wanted to at least give it a shot. If nothing else, I can check off the bucket list that I was crazy enough to join a community circus for a few weeks. I didn't last in the circus for a variety of reasons; the main one being I hate performing. In uni, my piano professor told me I should switch majors if I hated performing (It only made sense when Chad--who also graduated from AU with a music degree--explained that universities in the States place most of their emphasis on performance, and I felt completely out of place because I loved theory and composition--and choir, but only because of a fantastic choir director). I was really disappointed with myself that I didn't last longer in the circus since I had hyped it up so much for my 27th birthday. But I eventually had to come to terms with simply being ok with who I am, and not placing the expectations on myself to be someone I'm not, and to pretend to love things that I don't.
Greta reminded me last night of something our dear Ann Smith talks about often: the difference between expectation and expectancy. #27 was a year of great expectations, and finding myself miserable when I couldn't keep up with my expectations of myself. As I head into #28, my only expectation of myself is to learn to live with expectancy of whatever it might be that God is going to do this year. As I continue the waiting game for my visa, I'm reminded again that, right from the beginning, New Zealand has been my Isaac. So I'm choosing again to surrender my Isaac at the altar in expectancy of whatever God is going to do with it.
And even though I had been crazy enough last year to set some things in place to publish and get ordained in 2014 (and am currently sitting here with the slightest anxiety over the realisation that 2014 isn't "next year" anymore), there is no expectation to see those things as achievements anymore.
I am enough because I choose to make the best of what I find myself in.
And I am enough because I choose to believe God thinks I'm enough.
Soana and I were going to be cabin leaders together, so as the training session was ending with a prayer time together, we had some time to visit and get to know each other better. At one point, she asked, "So, you're Chinese?" And I explained that I was, but I was born in Singapore. Then she said this: "You're so lucky that you can be a Christian. In Tonga, we're all raised as Christians, and we all have to go to church--it is a part of our culture. But when I moved to Auckland two years ago, I started to see that so many of the Tongans here don't follow the ways we were brought up in anymore. They read the Bible, but it's kept separate from their lives, and they don't even go to church anymore. You're lucky you can be a Christian, and still choose to be a Christian."
I've been mulling over that conversation over the last few days. In our Wesleyan-Arminian tradition, we talk a lot about free will. But the danger of only talking about free will is that we can drift off into an unbalanced dialogue that doesn't give consideration that God does ordain some things. That I was born into the land, family and place in society I was born into was definitely God-ordained. There can be no explanation than that (bearing in mind I'm writing this solely through the lenses of a relationship with Christ). But what I choose to do with the circumstances I was born into--that's free will.
In my short stint at WCF, I got to know several youths whom society would not pay any attention to. They weren't achieving enough to get positive attention, but they also weren't quite destructive enough to get just enough negative attention for it to go wrong. As I began to spend more time with these kids, I began to realise more and more that there really aren't "bad" kids, just kids who don't often make the best decisions from time to time. And with many of our kids, they didn't have the privilege of being born into the safe, sheltered circumstances I had. Sure, they had the free-will to make better choices and leave those circumstances behind, but for so many of them, they've not had the adults in their lives to support and encourage their making better choices.
Over the last few months, I've been at the district court a number of times. What breaks my heart most isn't just the number of youths who are summoned to court, but the reality that they are often there alone, represented only by a lawyer that was allocated to them by the district authorities. They often don't have a rapport with the lawyer, and coming from backgrounds of abandonment and trust issues, they have difficult trusting that the lawyers actually do want the best for them.
And then I marvel again, at how privileged I am. Yes, Soana, I am lucky, or blessed, or whatever word you want to use, to have been born into a family where starting and keeping a relationship with Christ was easy. I'm lucky to have been born into a family where it was easy to be a good kid. I'm lucky that even if I didn't have a picture perfect relationship with my birth family, they are at least supportive and encouraging of what I do--especially when it breaks the mold of success defined by finances that Asian societies value so deeply.
It is 6 January today. In exactly a month, I will be turning 28. Last year, as I was turning 27, I wrote that 27 was the year I joined the circus. In case you missed it, I discovered there was a free community circus in town, and I wanted to at least give it a shot. If nothing else, I can check off the bucket list that I was crazy enough to join a community circus for a few weeks. I didn't last in the circus for a variety of reasons; the main one being I hate performing. In uni, my piano professor told me I should switch majors if I hated performing (It only made sense when Chad--who also graduated from AU with a music degree--explained that universities in the States place most of their emphasis on performance, and I felt completely out of place because I loved theory and composition--and choir, but only because of a fantastic choir director). I was really disappointed with myself that I didn't last longer in the circus since I had hyped it up so much for my 27th birthday. But I eventually had to come to terms with simply being ok with who I am, and not placing the expectations on myself to be someone I'm not, and to pretend to love things that I don't.
Greta reminded me last night of something our dear Ann Smith talks about often: the difference between expectation and expectancy. #27 was a year of great expectations, and finding myself miserable when I couldn't keep up with my expectations of myself. As I head into #28, my only expectation of myself is to learn to live with expectancy of whatever it might be that God is going to do this year. As I continue the waiting game for my visa, I'm reminded again that, right from the beginning, New Zealand has been my Isaac. So I'm choosing again to surrender my Isaac at the altar in expectancy of whatever God is going to do with it.
And even though I had been crazy enough last year to set some things in place to publish and get ordained in 2014 (and am currently sitting here with the slightest anxiety over the realisation that 2014 isn't "next year" anymore), there is no expectation to see those things as achievements anymore.
I am enough because I choose to make the best of what I find myself in.
And I am enough because I choose to believe God thinks I'm enough.
03 January 2014
Friday Mornings #1
Reading:
Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
The Big Truck That Went By (Jonathan M. Katz)
An Altar in the World (Barbara Brown Taylor)
Highlights:
Finishing well
Gandalf's appearance at just the right moment
Low points:
Chapters closing
Anxiety
In politics:
Syria
New Zealand economy
In faith circles:
Public spaces
Denominationalism
Sitting:
By the stream in front of the gate
Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
The Big Truck That Went By (Jonathan M. Katz)
An Altar in the World (Barbara Brown Taylor)
Highlights:
Finishing well
Gandalf's appearance at just the right moment
Low points:
Chapters closing
Anxiety
In politics:
Syria
New Zealand economy
In faith circles:
Public spaces
Denominationalism
Sitting:
By the stream in front of the gate
01 January 2014
2013: The Year That...Was
I haven't written a personal update here in quite a while, I know.
The last few months have been dark. Very dark. And how does one allow a general internet public into the darkness of one's life when it's so personal, especially when I keep hearing my mum's voice saying, "Yes, but... Hope. Fill it with hope."
Well, we wait.
2013 was a difficult year for WCF. In the 28-ish months I served as Children's Ministry Coordinator, we've seen major leadership changes. I was the last remaining of the five pastoral staff I came on board with, and yesterday was my last official day on staff. For a congregation so young to be shaken so deeply at the core meant that those in the middle of all the changes had a heavy load to carry. As much as I've tried not to let my identity be wrapped up around a job, job title or job description, with all the changes happening around me, I felt my sense of Jael being consumed by my role at WCF.
I could write of all the circumstances in detail that led to my downward spiral into clinical depression, therapy and medication. But what would be the use of that? We like finding things or people to blame. For the longest time, I felt like my circumstances were completely at fault and there was nothing I could do to make it stop. But then I learnt it's what happens when one's serotonin levels are completely whacked from too much over-functioning over too long a period of time. You know, that chemical imbalance thing that happens to people who are depressed. You just feel like you've lost control of your own life completely.
Then I lived in guilt for a long time. After all, I've spent significant amounts of time preparing for ministry and learning what it means to help those dealing with depression to cope--why wasn't I able to prevent it from happening to myself?
On the surface, I managed to pull off looking like I was coping. But those who knew could tell I was pretending, and I was really just trying not to drown. The actual near-drowning episode I had earlier in the year would surface again, and there would be moments when I felt like it would just be a whole lot easier to just let go instead of trying to find the strength to fight back and stay afloat.
It didn't help that in all my pretending, I constantly felt like I was screwing up relationships because in my struggle to just stay afloat, I didn't know how to be real with people anymore. I hated who I was becoming.
But perhaps what I felt most guilty about was that my relationship with the One that always gave me hope and that little bit more had taken the back-burner. How could I possibly be in ministry when God was given the back-seat, acknowledged when necessary, but mostly told to wait on the sidelines until my anger over all the shit that had happened had cooled off?
I could keep going about the depression spiral, and even all the therapy sessions I coasted through with my pretence. But instead, I'll tell you about the one particularly difficult session where the deepest and longest struggle I've had with my identity was shaken to the core.
Some of those closest to me know of this baggage I've carried for at least sixteen years--that I was a rubbish bin used for holding everyone else's junk, left out on the streets for the rubbish collector that never comes, and only given attention to when more junk needed to be disposed of (yes, I wrote this in a journal for school when I was 11--I don't think my teacher then knew what to do with me. Child psychology isn't quite as developed in Asian education systems). I thought I had worked through that with mentors and Spiritual Formation in seminary, but it took my therapist looking me in the eye and saying, "When you first began your relationship with Jesus, did you think the relationship he wanted was with the rubbish bin?" for that to crack.
Well, how's that for a review of 2013?
There you have it. 2013 was one hell of a shitty year, but that's for the history books now. I'm on the long road of recovery: feeling a little bit more like the Jael I got to know and love in my seminary days (except a lot more Kiwi), learning to say no and taking back control of my own life. I don't know if I've screwed some relationships up to the point of no-return, but for those of you who have been patient with me, I'm eternally grateful.
Here's to you who keep prodding me back to the path of doing what's right but difficult to do.
Here's to you who remind me it's ok to want heap coals on the heads of those who always seem to complicate things.
Here's to you who keep extending grace, and reminding me to do the same for myself.
Here's to you who remind me #WeBelong.
Here's to 2014.
Cheers, mate.
Arohanui
The last few months have been dark. Very dark. And how does one allow a general internet public into the darkness of one's life when it's so personal, especially when I keep hearing my mum's voice saying, "Yes, but... Hope. Fill it with hope."
Well, we wait.
2013 was a difficult year for WCF. In the 28-ish months I served as Children's Ministry Coordinator, we've seen major leadership changes. I was the last remaining of the five pastoral staff I came on board with, and yesterday was my last official day on staff. For a congregation so young to be shaken so deeply at the core meant that those in the middle of all the changes had a heavy load to carry. As much as I've tried not to let my identity be wrapped up around a job, job title or job description, with all the changes happening around me, I felt my sense of Jael being consumed by my role at WCF.
I could write of all the circumstances in detail that led to my downward spiral into clinical depression, therapy and medication. But what would be the use of that? We like finding things or people to blame. For the longest time, I felt like my circumstances were completely at fault and there was nothing I could do to make it stop. But then I learnt it's what happens when one's serotonin levels are completely whacked from too much over-functioning over too long a period of time. You know, that chemical imbalance thing that happens to people who are depressed. You just feel like you've lost control of your own life completely.
Then I lived in guilt for a long time. After all, I've spent significant amounts of time preparing for ministry and learning what it means to help those dealing with depression to cope--why wasn't I able to prevent it from happening to myself?
On the surface, I managed to pull off looking like I was coping. But those who knew could tell I was pretending, and I was really just trying not to drown. The actual near-drowning episode I had earlier in the year would surface again, and there would be moments when I felt like it would just be a whole lot easier to just let go instead of trying to find the strength to fight back and stay afloat.
It didn't help that in all my pretending, I constantly felt like I was screwing up relationships because in my struggle to just stay afloat, I didn't know how to be real with people anymore. I hated who I was becoming.
But perhaps what I felt most guilty about was that my relationship with the One that always gave me hope and that little bit more had taken the back-burner. How could I possibly be in ministry when God was given the back-seat, acknowledged when necessary, but mostly told to wait on the sidelines until my anger over all the shit that had happened had cooled off?
I could keep going about the depression spiral, and even all the therapy sessions I coasted through with my pretence. But instead, I'll tell you about the one particularly difficult session where the deepest and longest struggle I've had with my identity was shaken to the core.
Some of those closest to me know of this baggage I've carried for at least sixteen years--that I was a rubbish bin used for holding everyone else's junk, left out on the streets for the rubbish collector that never comes, and only given attention to when more junk needed to be disposed of (yes, I wrote this in a journal for school when I was 11--I don't think my teacher then knew what to do with me. Child psychology isn't quite as developed in Asian education systems). I thought I had worked through that with mentors and Spiritual Formation in seminary, but it took my therapist looking me in the eye and saying, "When you first began your relationship with Jesus, did you think the relationship he wanted was with the rubbish bin?" for that to crack.
Well, how's that for a review of 2013?
There you have it. 2013 was one hell of a shitty year, but that's for the history books now. I'm on the long road of recovery: feeling a little bit more like the Jael I got to know and love in my seminary days (except a lot more Kiwi), learning to say no and taking back control of my own life. I don't know if I've screwed some relationships up to the point of no-return, but for those of you who have been patient with me, I'm eternally grateful.
Here's to you who keep prodding me back to the path of doing what's right but difficult to do.
Here's to you who remind me it's ok to want heap coals on the heads of those who always seem to complicate things.
Here's to you who keep extending grace, and reminding me to do the same for myself.
Here's to you who remind me #WeBelong.
Here's to 2014.
Cheers, mate.
Arohanui
 |
| The Koru plant A symbol of new beginnings and new life |
31 December 2013
27 New Years
I don't suppose 27 count for a lot when it comes to the number of New Years I've seen.
As 2013 draws to a close, I'm taken back to a few of the more memorable New Years I've celebrated.
There was the one in 2000. Dad worked in the heart of the city (Orchard Rd) at the time. As building manager, he was on-call in case things fell apart with the Y2K bug that everyone seemed to be paranoid about. So Dad drove my brother and I, together with our closest friends at the time, to and from town so we could countdown with the revellers while he was at work.
Then there were the several watch-night services at the Church of God congregation in Singapore that I grew up in. Us youth always looked forward to that time, not so much because it was the watch-night service, but because we got to hang out together at church till the wee hours of the morning.
Then there were the ones where my family started travelling together more over the Christmas/New Year season. Some of the traditions that we used to celebrate with our church family were no longer observed. The times were a-changin'.
I remember the New Years we celebrated in China (2009), Cambodia (2010) and Auckland (2012) best.
China has always been special because of my deep appreciation for our cultural roots, and that being the first place I felt like I was called to serve. To be there with family, tracing our roots to my grandfather's village made it extra special.
Cambodia was special because in all the flurry of activities in our week there, when the clock struck midnight in Cambodia, my siblings and I were like little kids again, running out to the balcony to watch the fireworks.
Auckland was special because this was my new home, and I got to share it with my family for the first time.
And as I sit here quietly taking in the last few minutes of 2013 here in Auckland, I realise it's true that the older you get, what you value changes. The hustle and bustle and flurry of activities don't matter as much as simply sitting with family and the good people in your life, and giving thanks for making it through another year.
To each one of you that have cheered me on and pushed me forward through an unkind year, thank you.
To each one of you that have carried me without expecting anything in return, thank you.
To each one of you that have put up with my crap, instability and lack of consistency this year, thank you.
And finally, and most importantly, to the God of grace, love and faithfulness, I give praise for not giving up on me this year.
Dear 2013, I won't deny that I have been looking forward to this day where I can finally pack you away in the history books. You have been most unkind, and I'm more than ready to say our goodbyes. But as I do, I want to say thank you as well, that in your unkindness, you taught me to love myself better. Goodbye now.
Here's to 2014. Here's to hope, peace, faith, joy and love.
Here's to you.
Cheers, mate.
Arohanui
As 2013 draws to a close, I'm taken back to a few of the more memorable New Years I've celebrated.
There was the one in 2000. Dad worked in the heart of the city (Orchard Rd) at the time. As building manager, he was on-call in case things fell apart with the Y2K bug that everyone seemed to be paranoid about. So Dad drove my brother and I, together with our closest friends at the time, to and from town so we could countdown with the revellers while he was at work.
Then there were the several watch-night services at the Church of God congregation in Singapore that I grew up in. Us youth always looked forward to that time, not so much because it was the watch-night service, but because we got to hang out together at church till the wee hours of the morning.
Then there were the ones where my family started travelling together more over the Christmas/New Year season. Some of the traditions that we used to celebrate with our church family were no longer observed. The times were a-changin'.
I remember the New Years we celebrated in China (2009), Cambodia (2010) and Auckland (2012) best.
China has always been special because of my deep appreciation for our cultural roots, and that being the first place I felt like I was called to serve. To be there with family, tracing our roots to my grandfather's village made it extra special.
Cambodia was special because in all the flurry of activities in our week there, when the clock struck midnight in Cambodia, my siblings and I were like little kids again, running out to the balcony to watch the fireworks.
Auckland was special because this was my new home, and I got to share it with my family for the first time.
And as I sit here quietly taking in the last few minutes of 2013 here in Auckland, I realise it's true that the older you get, what you value changes. The hustle and bustle and flurry of activities don't matter as much as simply sitting with family and the good people in your life, and giving thanks for making it through another year.
To each one of you that have cheered me on and pushed me forward through an unkind year, thank you.
To each one of you that have carried me without expecting anything in return, thank you.
To each one of you that have put up with my crap, instability and lack of consistency this year, thank you.
And finally, and most importantly, to the God of grace, love and faithfulness, I give praise for not giving up on me this year.
Dear 2013, I won't deny that I have been looking forward to this day where I can finally pack you away in the history books. You have been most unkind, and I'm more than ready to say our goodbyes. But as I do, I want to say thank you as well, that in your unkindness, you taught me to love myself better. Goodbye now.
Here's to 2014. Here's to hope, peace, faith, joy and love.
Here's to you.
Cheers, mate.
Arohanui
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