I finally figured out a name for that season that crippled my first year in New Zealand.
The Big Death.
Today I realised even more that even though I kinda, sorta acted like myself on the surface my first year here, I was dying a slow death inside. The Big Death shut down a big part of me--my heart. And I've been constantly reminding myself it's a different land, it's different people, and until I learn to completely give my heart away to here, I'm still not living life abundantly.
Tonight, I finally understood what that meant.
The reality was, I couldn't completely give my heart away to this land and these people until I figured out what to do with The Big Death that was slowly shutting down the other parts of me.
Tonight, I "accidentally" dug out letters to and from Dumbledore.
"Accidentally"
Or so I thought.
I read the one just after the final blow that led to The Big Death.
I got angry all over again.
I cried all over again.
And then I thanked the Good Lord for Dumbledore all over again.
Janice and I talked the other day about how people like us often live with a two-suitcase mentality. We don't buy or keep too many things that won't fit in the two suitcases the next time we have to move across the world. In fact, besides the NIV bible my mum gave me as my first real grown-up bible, the only few other things I will keep with me no matter where I go are the two origami birds from the Freer-Fry clan for my SOT graduation party, the last card I got from Keren, the hello kitty my auntie got my cousin and I when we were four or five, and Cindy Bear (named after Yogi Bear's girlfriend) that I got from the first time I was on a plane.
But people.
We get to keep pocket-size memories of them, and as much contact information as Facebook and smart phones can hold.
Which is...
A lot.
So tonight, I shed a few tears over how The Big Death forced me to shove some memories I didn't want into the two suitcases. And then breathed a word of thanks for Mum and the baby sister and the family, for Dumbledore, Janice, the Freer-Fry clan, Keren, The Friend called "Someone Who Gives A Hoot," Jim and MaryAnn, Amber and Jess, Katherine, Chad and Diane, PJ, Indy, Woody, Stel and Coleman, Amanda, and the rest of the global kampong.
And another one that I get to keep the pocket-size memories close by.
And then I let go a little bit more of the ugly memories of The Big Death.
Showing posts with label Closing Windows. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Closing Windows. Show all posts
23 September 2012
20 June 2012
The Wax House
She stood watching, with tears streaming down her face. Too many years had passed since the last time she played an active role in the hustle and bustle of activities in that old house.
She visited the old house every year since she left. It had become like a ritual for paying homage to the role the old house played in her life. Some of her old friends had left; others that stuck around noticed the different energy with the new faces that came. Most seemed excited about the different energy, and she hoped it was for the best.
Then one day she noticed the paint starting to peel away. The flowers looked thirsty, and she wondered if she was the only one who noticed. She could water the flowers, but she didn't have enough time to start the paint job. She left and again, she hoped it was for the best.
The next year, the garden was parched, and the paint had become even more splotchy. She wondered again if she was the only one who noticed. Again she watered the garden, and as she did, she began to see an image of what the old house would look like if nothing changed. She shuddered and wondered if their little old house was about to become like the story of the lighthouse that she heard not too long ago. She told a friend of that wax house she saw in that image. It looked like someone had made it into a candle with wax slabbed around rusty iron poles and set the whole thing on fire. Beyond that, she wasn't sure what to do. That old house had been her stomping ground as a child, but there were others running the place now.
Not too long ago, she made another visit. The energy again felt different, and again she hoped for the best. There were new flowers in the garden, and they asked if she would help water the garden. But how could she when she had just given immense amounts of energy starting a different garden from scratch? And besides, it still bothered her that nothing had been done to change the soil or to create a better environment for the flowers to thrive better.
Still she did what she could while she fought to ignore the voice that said, "Change doesn't come with a new garden, or a fresh coat of paint. Remember? Real change never comes from the top down or the bottom up. It comes from the inside out." She found her own way to make a difference, ways they may never recognise as anything of significance, ways they will probably see as rebellious. Not that she really cared anymore what they thought. She had spent too many hours grieving the loss of too many flowers to care.
But still she wept. She wept for the old house that didn't feel like the house she grew up in anymore. She wept for the years gone by and the flowers that faded away. She wept for how the old house was starting to look more and more like the image she saw way back when. She wept for the flowers that told her to leave them alone. She wept for how she had just spent so much of her life in that land elsewhere putting pieces back into place for other old houses that have been down that same road. She wept for her own fears of being sucked back into those dark places when she grieved the other old houses.
And then he came and took her by the hand.
"My child, it's time for you to leave now. You came for rest but you found you had to hide your face. Your heart cannot be broken for so many places and this is not a house for you to grieve over anymore. Let it go. Let the flowers go. I am still in charge. Remember that lesson from way back when? Feed my sheep. But they still are MY sheep."
She visited the old house every year since she left. It had become like a ritual for paying homage to the role the old house played in her life. Some of her old friends had left; others that stuck around noticed the different energy with the new faces that came. Most seemed excited about the different energy, and she hoped it was for the best.
Then one day she noticed the paint starting to peel away. The flowers looked thirsty, and she wondered if she was the only one who noticed. She could water the flowers, but she didn't have enough time to start the paint job. She left and again, she hoped it was for the best.
The next year, the garden was parched, and the paint had become even more splotchy. She wondered again if she was the only one who noticed. Again she watered the garden, and as she did, she began to see an image of what the old house would look like if nothing changed. She shuddered and wondered if their little old house was about to become like the story of the lighthouse that she heard not too long ago. She told a friend of that wax house she saw in that image. It looked like someone had made it into a candle with wax slabbed around rusty iron poles and set the whole thing on fire. Beyond that, she wasn't sure what to do. That old house had been her stomping ground as a child, but there were others running the place now.
Not too long ago, she made another visit. The energy again felt different, and again she hoped for the best. There were new flowers in the garden, and they asked if she would help water the garden. But how could she when she had just given immense amounts of energy starting a different garden from scratch? And besides, it still bothered her that nothing had been done to change the soil or to create a better environment for the flowers to thrive better.
Still she did what she could while she fought to ignore the voice that said, "Change doesn't come with a new garden, or a fresh coat of paint. Remember? Real change never comes from the top down or the bottom up. It comes from the inside out." She found her own way to make a difference, ways they may never recognise as anything of significance, ways they will probably see as rebellious. Not that she really cared anymore what they thought. She had spent too many hours grieving the loss of too many flowers to care.
But still she wept. She wept for the old house that didn't feel like the house she grew up in anymore. She wept for the years gone by and the flowers that faded away. She wept for how the old house was starting to look more and more like the image she saw way back when. She wept for the flowers that told her to leave them alone. She wept for how she had just spent so much of her life in that land elsewhere putting pieces back into place for other old houses that have been down that same road. She wept for her own fears of being sucked back into those dark places when she grieved the other old houses.
And then he came and took her by the hand.
"My child, it's time for you to leave now. You came for rest but you found you had to hide your face. Your heart cannot be broken for so many places and this is not a house for you to grieve over anymore. Let it go. Let the flowers go. I am still in charge. Remember that lesson from way back when? Feed my sheep. But they still are MY sheep."
05 June 2012
On Moving...
In the last ten months, I have broken my personal record by having moved four times--twice internationally, twice within Auckland. So since I'm starting to consider myself quite an expert, I thought I'd share a few moving tips/lessons learnt.
Moving Tip #1: Always have friends
When I was moving from Anderson to Singapore, Ginny and JM got together with Brittney and Chase (who themselves were getting ready to move) and organised a yard sale. Two weekends in a row, we sat and got baked in the sun and drenched in the rain while playing Words With Friends while waiting for people to give us a few coins to help us get rid of our stuff. Elizabeth and John would come and hang out and the boys would take off to get us China House for our lunch break. Even with that, most of my nerdy seminary books still had to find themselves a home in Ed and Heidi's garage.
When I moved from Singapore to Auckland, my luggage allowance was reduced. We packed up part of my stuff into a box ready to be shipped once we got clearance from my visa process. Then we found out Auntie Enid was going to be back in Singapore so Mum had her help carry some of my stuff back in before finally sending the rest of the stuff in the box.
When I moved from Kathrin and Stefan's to Sara's, I inherited a bunch of stuff from the Beisleys so that I could finally set up my home/office space. Shane and Marilyn were also moving that weekend, so a crew got together to help us all move. Kathrin and Stefan did a desk swop with me when we realised the stuff wasn't all going to fit in the new place. Jonny showed up with equipment to help put the bunk-bed together, and Chris, Josh and Katherine figured out how to put the pieces together while Steve glued the headboards that were falling apart together.
When I moved in to the Snuggery (Chad and Diane's sleepout where Steve used to live) yesterday, Kathrin and Stefan showed up to pull apart the bunk-bed and the desk. Thanks to Stefan's genius brains of figuring out not just how to make things work but in the most efficient way, Kathrin's ability to organise things, Chad and Diane's big van and big heart to let me move in with such short notice, the move was relatively painless.
They say it takes a village to raise a kid. I'm glad I'm the kid with a great village.
Moving Tip #2: Nothing is really yours
I should probably add to that, "but take care of it anyway"
The first time Stefan and Kathrin did the desk swop with me, I remembered being blown away that they didn't even have a second thought about, "but this is ours," or "this is for loan". There was just this sentiment of nothing really permanently belongs to anyone anyway, but we just trust that we'll take care of each other. Or the realisation only upon starting to pack that most of my food storage containers have made themselves at home at the Pethers' for a while. It was this feeling of, it all stays in the family anyway, just a matter of which building it goes to.
Moving Tip #3: Big, bulky stuff don't move well
I remember when I first moved to Anderson that many years ago, Mum went and got frames so I could take pictures with me when I moved. But those were days before checking in baggage on international flights became so darn expensive. Oh, and those were also the dark ages before Facebook and social media really took off. Photo frames don't move well because of their bulk. And neither do diplomas. I'll admit there are days when I'm slightly envious of friends who have established and less mobile office spaces where they can hang up their framed accolades on the wall while mine stay in their black folders. It's not so much the desire to show off my accolades as much as wanting the stability where I don't have to have this constant mindset of, "Well, how am I going to pack that into two suitcases the next time I move?"
Moving Tip #4: The process is usually more than just physical
When Chad and Diane showed up yesterday, one of the first things Diane said was, "how are you feeling?" (I know I haven't blogged about that side of things in a while, but I'll get to it later.) Until that moment, I had been feeling the frustration building up. But in the process of making lists, organising how to make the move as painless as possible and how to get it all done in time for me to have head space to think about the last Bible Clubs for this term and pack before Thursday, the frustration just sat like an ugly monster beside my ear whispering nasty things like, "you can't do this."
Sara's house had been a great place for the last four months. I think we were both bummed that it didn't work out for me to stay longer. I will miss the backyard, and Saturday mornings of cleaning house while watching the little league games, and of course, the glorious view of the Waitakeres in the distance.
Moving Tip #1: Always have friends
When I was moving from Anderson to Singapore, Ginny and JM got together with Brittney and Chase (who themselves were getting ready to move) and organised a yard sale. Two weekends in a row, we sat and got baked in the sun and drenched in the rain while playing Words With Friends while waiting for people to give us a few coins to help us get rid of our stuff. Elizabeth and John would come and hang out and the boys would take off to get us China House for our lunch break. Even with that, most of my nerdy seminary books still had to find themselves a home in Ed and Heidi's garage.
When I moved from Singapore to Auckland, my luggage allowance was reduced. We packed up part of my stuff into a box ready to be shipped once we got clearance from my visa process. Then we found out Auntie Enid was going to be back in Singapore so Mum had her help carry some of my stuff back in before finally sending the rest of the stuff in the box.
When I moved from Kathrin and Stefan's to Sara's, I inherited a bunch of stuff from the Beisleys so that I could finally set up my home/office space. Shane and Marilyn were also moving that weekend, so a crew got together to help us all move. Kathrin and Stefan did a desk swop with me when we realised the stuff wasn't all going to fit in the new place. Jonny showed up with equipment to help put the bunk-bed together, and Chris, Josh and Katherine figured out how to put the pieces together while Steve glued the headboards that were falling apart together.
When I moved in to the Snuggery (Chad and Diane's sleepout where Steve used to live) yesterday, Kathrin and Stefan showed up to pull apart the bunk-bed and the desk. Thanks to Stefan's genius brains of figuring out not just how to make things work but in the most efficient way, Kathrin's ability to organise things, Chad and Diane's big van and big heart to let me move in with such short notice, the move was relatively painless.
They say it takes a village to raise a kid. I'm glad I'm the kid with a great village.
Moving Tip #2: Nothing is really yours
I should probably add to that, "but take care of it anyway"
The first time Stefan and Kathrin did the desk swop with me, I remembered being blown away that they didn't even have a second thought about, "but this is ours," or "this is for loan". There was just this sentiment of nothing really permanently belongs to anyone anyway, but we just trust that we'll take care of each other. Or the realisation only upon starting to pack that most of my food storage containers have made themselves at home at the Pethers' for a while. It was this feeling of, it all stays in the family anyway, just a matter of which building it goes to.
Moving Tip #3: Big, bulky stuff don't move well
I remember when I first moved to Anderson that many years ago, Mum went and got frames so I could take pictures with me when I moved. But those were days before checking in baggage on international flights became so darn expensive. Oh, and those were also the dark ages before Facebook and social media really took off. Photo frames don't move well because of their bulk. And neither do diplomas. I'll admit there are days when I'm slightly envious of friends who have established and less mobile office spaces where they can hang up their framed accolades on the wall while mine stay in their black folders. It's not so much the desire to show off my accolades as much as wanting the stability where I don't have to have this constant mindset of, "Well, how am I going to pack that into two suitcases the next time I move?"
Moving Tip #4: The process is usually more than just physical
When Chad and Diane showed up yesterday, one of the first things Diane said was, "how are you feeling?" (I know I haven't blogged about that side of things in a while, but I'll get to it later.) Until that moment, I had been feeling the frustration building up. But in the process of making lists, organising how to make the move as painless as possible and how to get it all done in time for me to have head space to think about the last Bible Clubs for this term and pack before Thursday, the frustration just sat like an ugly monster beside my ear whispering nasty things like, "you can't do this."
Sara's house had been a great place for the last four months. I think we were both bummed that it didn't work out for me to stay longer. I will miss the backyard, and Saturday mornings of cleaning house while watching the little league games, and of course, the glorious view of the Waitakeres in the distance.
09 May 2012
Of Old Wounds and Onions
She woke up with a start.
The ridiculous sleep patterns had become such a norm that being awakened at 3am no longer frustrated or confused her. Except tonight, she felt a crystal ball being shoved into her hands.
She blinked twice as her mind raced to try and process the imagery in the crystal ball the same time memories of a seven year old episode came rushing back. It unsettled her so much that she lay awake for a while, simply letting it hurt.
The next thing she knew, her alarm was going off and she wondered if it was all but another one of those strange dreams she's had a lot of recently. But there it was again, the crystal ball staring back at her--this time along with a note from her best friend.
Vague images of who she was prior to that episode came sweeping over. And who she became after the episode. And how she found her voice. And how she started to believe in herself...
It was only after that seven year old episode that she felt the release. The crystal ball brought her back to the streets of Atlanta, to Krispy Kreme donuts and homeless people trading for drugs. To Mexico, to where her value of time and the important things in life were redefined. To a reservation in South Dakota, to where she fell in love with "bad" kids. To the streets of Berlin, to the women working on the streets, for whom her heart was broken.
Really, that seven year old episode opened her heart up to love.
She leaned in to him as he gently wrapped his arms around her, careful to avoid the open wound, her eyes still not leaving the crystal ball for a second. She saw herself age over the seven years, more and more jaded by the depravity that accumulated after the seven year old episode. She saw her dreams change as depravity made her question why she even had permission to dream big dreams. She saw herself no longer shocked by violence because she had seen so much of it.
And then she saw herself sitting on the pew in church that Sunday, doodling. It had become part of her way of processing sermons when she had the chance to sit in for them, and the doodles were usually about being on some kind of journey, or a brick wall of resistance, or some deep thought of the day. But that day, she simply doodled, and it wasn't until she heard the young lady next to her whisper, "What's that?" that she realised it was an onion. She wasn't sure what it meant because the sermon was about how the Creator saw its creation.
As she stared into the crystal ball, she understood.
Yes, an onion. A pungent, stinky onion. And probably one that reeks too, after all the experiences of depravity and jadedness.
"Cooked just well enough to add flavour to anything that encounters you. But you could also just choose to sit around and stink up the kitchen, you know. Your choice," he whispered gently, his arms still firm around her, well aware of the pain from that old wound.
Even though she had been dreading this day where the last blade would be pulled out because she did not want to revisit the wound, she was glad it finally did come around.
In her heart, she gave thanks that the day finally came, even if only seven years later.
And she gave thanks for the seven years in between of being cooked to just the right flavour.
And she gave thanks for the best friend who held no judgment that it had taken seven long years, never hurrying it along, only simply being there to say, "I wish you love BFF. All will be good."
The ridiculous sleep patterns had become such a norm that being awakened at 3am no longer frustrated or confused her. Except tonight, she felt a crystal ball being shoved into her hands.
She blinked twice as her mind raced to try and process the imagery in the crystal ball the same time memories of a seven year old episode came rushing back. It unsettled her so much that she lay awake for a while, simply letting it hurt.
The next thing she knew, her alarm was going off and she wondered if it was all but another one of those strange dreams she's had a lot of recently. But there it was again, the crystal ball staring back at her--this time along with a note from her best friend.
"Hope you're alright."She swallowed as the seven year old episode slowly washed over her again. It was an old wound, really, and she had, for a while now, been waiting for this. This day when the last blade from the old wound would finally be pulled out so that she can finally close it all up and let it heal completely.
Vague images of who she was prior to that episode came sweeping over. And who she became after the episode. And how she found her voice. And how she started to believe in herself...
"I could have made that work, you know..." she heard him say.Her eyes did not leave the crystal ball for a second. When she finally spoke, she only shook her head and said, "Yes, but I wouldn't."
It was only after that seven year old episode that she felt the release. The crystal ball brought her back to the streets of Atlanta, to Krispy Kreme donuts and homeless people trading for drugs. To Mexico, to where her value of time and the important things in life were redefined. To a reservation in South Dakota, to where she fell in love with "bad" kids. To the streets of Berlin, to the women working on the streets, for whom her heart was broken.
Really, that seven year old episode opened her heart up to love.
She leaned in to him as he gently wrapped his arms around her, careful to avoid the open wound, her eyes still not leaving the crystal ball for a second. She saw herself age over the seven years, more and more jaded by the depravity that accumulated after the seven year old episode. She saw her dreams change as depravity made her question why she even had permission to dream big dreams. She saw herself no longer shocked by violence because she had seen so much of it.
And then she saw herself sitting on the pew in church that Sunday, doodling. It had become part of her way of processing sermons when she had the chance to sit in for them, and the doodles were usually about being on some kind of journey, or a brick wall of resistance, or some deep thought of the day. But that day, she simply doodled, and it wasn't until she heard the young lady next to her whisper, "What's that?" that she realised it was an onion. She wasn't sure what it meant because the sermon was about how the Creator saw its creation.
As she stared into the crystal ball, she understood.
"I am the onion."Every layer was a symbol of the different faces of who she had become. And every time she moved, she had options to play with, of which layer she wanted to be. She could be the shy, quiet kid from many layers ago, or the hesitant pursuer from not too many layers after that. She could be the layer that opened up her heart to peoples and lands without a second thought, or the vagrant that chose to claim no land as home. She could be the loyal friend who stood her ground, or the reconciler who would not stop loving.
Yes, an onion. A pungent, stinky onion. And probably one that reeks too, after all the experiences of depravity and jadedness.
"Or just flavourful..."She finally turned to look at him. Him who had been holding her through the peeling back of every layer. She searched his eyes questioningly, how can this be?
"Cooked just well enough to add flavour to anything that encounters you. But you could also just choose to sit around and stink up the kitchen, you know. Your choice," he whispered gently, his arms still firm around her, well aware of the pain from that old wound.
Even though she had been dreading this day where the last blade would be pulled out because she did not want to revisit the wound, she was glad it finally did come around.
In her heart, she gave thanks that the day finally came, even if only seven years later.
And she gave thanks for the seven years in between of being cooked to just the right flavour.
And she gave thanks for the best friend who held no judgment that it had taken seven long years, never hurrying it along, only simply being there to say, "I wish you love BFF. All will be good."
01 January 2012
Happy 2012
A quick review of the last day of my 2011, and the year in general:
Woke up wishing I had another appointment with my old chiropractor in the US.
2011 had been a year of more doctor visits than I can remember. Between the chiropractor, the gastric annoyances, the flu-like symptoms that included something like an ear-infection, I think I'm finally hearing my body tell me, you're not doing the best you can to take care of yourself.
That, and realising I'm 25. Still a young pup to most of my friends, but I can't help remembering that when I was younger, I had set goals to have had achieved more by this age... And I'm not quite there yet.
But the crazy thing is, even though those goals that I set way back when I was a wee lass have yet to been achieved, I've had so many more crazy adventures than I could ever dream of.
Stefan asked Kathrin and I at breakfast this morning if we had any reflections on the year. This has been one of those years that feels like a big wave came through and left me no time to catch a breath. The wave was fantastic to ride, but I could have done with a little less adrenaline.
So no, I haven't really had time to reflect. The year has been fantastic in so many ways, but also so disappointing in so many others.
We went in the afternoon to look at a place that could be a possibility for me to rent.
2011 had been a year of so much moving and transition. Between living off the couch in Becca and Jenny's apartment, packing up 7 years of life in Anderson, packing to house- or pet-sit for a friend for a few days, packing to move Amanda out to Colorado and the 10-day adventure in Oregon, having more garage sales than I can remember, selling faithful Cuddy the Hyundai that I had practically lived out of since the day I got her, moving back to my parents' in Singapore for about 5 weeks and trying to relearn what it's like to have a bank account and do other grown-up stuff in Singapore, and then finally moving to Auckland but still waiting for answers with the visa... Suffice to say, I'm ready for a bit more stability in my life now.
Living with Kathrin and Stefan has been a great arrangement, but I'm ready for a space to call my own now after a year of so much moving around.
31 December 2011 ended with a night of games, snacks and (trying to watch) fireworks.
Food and games had always been a part of seminary culture. But 2011 also saw an unfinished game of Ecuador Monopoly that will have to be on hold for a while till the next time I get to hang out with the Robertsons.
And 2011, I got to watch the 4th of July fireworks in St Helen's, National Day fireworks on TV in Singapore, blow some up with friends on Guy Fawkes' day in Te Atatu.
So yes, 2011 has been a crazy year.
I've experienced bigger disappointments and anger.
I've been on a plane more times than any other year that I can remember.
I've said more goodbyes than I've wanted in Colorado, Anderson and Oregon.
I've sunk even deeper roots in Singapore.
I've met heaps of new crazies in Auckland.
Here's to a 2012 with even more crazy emotional roller-coasters ahead, and even more so to a crazy God whose faithfulness leaves me speechless.
Happy 2012, everyone. Love and peace to you and yours.
Woke up wishing I had another appointment with my old chiropractor in the US.
2011 had been a year of more doctor visits than I can remember. Between the chiropractor, the gastric annoyances, the flu-like symptoms that included something like an ear-infection, I think I'm finally hearing my body tell me, you're not doing the best you can to take care of yourself.
That, and realising I'm 25. Still a young pup to most of my friends, but I can't help remembering that when I was younger, I had set goals to have had achieved more by this age... And I'm not quite there yet.
But the crazy thing is, even though those goals that I set way back when I was a wee lass have yet to been achieved, I've had so many more crazy adventures than I could ever dream of.
Stefan asked Kathrin and I at breakfast this morning if we had any reflections on the year. This has been one of those years that feels like a big wave came through and left me no time to catch a breath. The wave was fantastic to ride, but I could have done with a little less adrenaline.
So no, I haven't really had time to reflect. The year has been fantastic in so many ways, but also so disappointing in so many others.
We went in the afternoon to look at a place that could be a possibility for me to rent.
2011 had been a year of so much moving and transition. Between living off the couch in Becca and Jenny's apartment, packing up 7 years of life in Anderson, packing to house- or pet-sit for a friend for a few days, packing to move Amanda out to Colorado and the 10-day adventure in Oregon, having more garage sales than I can remember, selling faithful Cuddy the Hyundai that I had practically lived out of since the day I got her, moving back to my parents' in Singapore for about 5 weeks and trying to relearn what it's like to have a bank account and do other grown-up stuff in Singapore, and then finally moving to Auckland but still waiting for answers with the visa... Suffice to say, I'm ready for a bit more stability in my life now.
Living with Kathrin and Stefan has been a great arrangement, but I'm ready for a space to call my own now after a year of so much moving around.
31 December 2011 ended with a night of games, snacks and (trying to watch) fireworks.
Food and games had always been a part of seminary culture. But 2011 also saw an unfinished game of Ecuador Monopoly that will have to be on hold for a while till the next time I get to hang out with the Robertsons.
And 2011, I got to watch the 4th of July fireworks in St Helen's, National Day fireworks on TV in Singapore, blow some up with friends on Guy Fawkes' day in Te Atatu.
So yes, 2011 has been a crazy year.
I've experienced bigger disappointments and anger.
I've been on a plane more times than any other year that I can remember.
I've said more goodbyes than I've wanted in Colorado, Anderson and Oregon.
I've sunk even deeper roots in Singapore.
I've met heaps of new crazies in Auckland.
Here's to a 2012 with even more crazy emotional roller-coasters ahead, and even more so to a crazy God whose faithfulness leaves me speechless.
Happy 2012, everyone. Love and peace to you and yours.
27 December 2011
Welcome to Te Atatu
Katherine and I went today to mark out the route for our prayer walk on Friday. Along the way, I got a little bit of a history lesson, which made me realise I guess it's time for the blog world to be formally introduced to Westside Christian Fellowship and Te Atatu Peninsula.
Westside Christian Fellowship began as Auckland International Church. As AIC, the church primarily consisted of international expatriates. In 2007, the church moved to Te Atatu Peninsula in the Waitakere region, which is west of the Auckland mega-city.
I'm just trying to be impressive with my geographical terminology here, ok? To put it simply, for those of you familiar with the Great State of Indiana, it's kinda like saying Anderson (Te Atatu Peninsula) should really be filed under the Madison County cabinet (except in this case it's the beautiful Waitakere (mountain) ranges), but it's now lumped together with Indianapolis (Auckland) as part of the mega-city.
Completely confused yet? :) Google might be able to help.
West Auckland has apparently been historically the area with the notorious reputation. Te Atatu was apparently one of the most "unsafe" areas until recently. According to Katherine, churches on the Peninsula have been prayer-walking the community and much change has come to Te Atatu Peninsula.
Westside has chosen intentionally to work very closely with the schools and families on the Peninsula. It has been an interesting few months for me, watching the subtle influence of post-Christianity play out in family life on the Peninsula. But it has been even more fascinating, watching the growing number of people in our church stepping forward to influence even more positive change in our community.
I'm excited about the things that God has in store for us in 2012. But even more so, I'm honoured that I get to be a part of this. The approval of my 2-year visa (which I just realised I haven't even blogged about!) answers a lot of prayers that have been whispered. But even more so, it affirms that the vision of bringing me here wasn't a mistake; that the dreams we've dreamt in the last few months weren't a mistake; that, just in general, we're doing ok.
2012 promises to be another year of adventure. Sure there will be more (and bigger) emotional roller-coasters--I wouldn't expect any less from a crazy God with an incredibly misunderstood sense of humour. But even through all the big disappointments and heartaches of 2011, God's faithfulness still came through in the few in quantity but massive in quality victories.
Bring it on, 2012 in Te Atatu Peninsula. I'm ready for you!
Westside Christian Fellowship began as Auckland International Church. As AIC, the church primarily consisted of international expatriates. In 2007, the church moved to Te Atatu Peninsula in the Waitakere region, which is west of the Auckland mega-city.
I'm just trying to be impressive with my geographical terminology here, ok? To put it simply, for those of you familiar with the Great State of Indiana, it's kinda like saying Anderson (Te Atatu Peninsula) should really be filed under the Madison County cabinet (except in this case it's the beautiful Waitakere (mountain) ranges), but it's now lumped together with Indianapolis (Auckland) as part of the mega-city.
Completely confused yet? :) Google might be able to help.
West Auckland has apparently been historically the area with the notorious reputation. Te Atatu was apparently one of the most "unsafe" areas until recently. According to Katherine, churches on the Peninsula have been prayer-walking the community and much change has come to Te Atatu Peninsula.
Westside has chosen intentionally to work very closely with the schools and families on the Peninsula. It has been an interesting few months for me, watching the subtle influence of post-Christianity play out in family life on the Peninsula. But it has been even more fascinating, watching the growing number of people in our church stepping forward to influence even more positive change in our community.
I'm excited about the things that God has in store for us in 2012. But even more so, I'm honoured that I get to be a part of this. The approval of my 2-year visa (which I just realised I haven't even blogged about!) answers a lot of prayers that have been whispered. But even more so, it affirms that the vision of bringing me here wasn't a mistake; that the dreams we've dreamt in the last few months weren't a mistake; that, just in general, we're doing ok.
2012 promises to be another year of adventure. Sure there will be more (and bigger) emotional roller-coasters--I wouldn't expect any less from a crazy God with an incredibly misunderstood sense of humour. But even through all the big disappointments and heartaches of 2011, God's faithfulness still came through in the few in quantity but massive in quality victories.
Bring it on, 2012 in Te Atatu Peninsula. I'm ready for you!
25 September 2011
Meeting Wairua
Her feet settled in comfortably into the sand as she placed them one in front of the other continually. They felt like they belonged. As did she, right there on the beach with the cool waves gently washing up around her ankles. This was home, and she was settled. At least, until it's time to move again.
The sunlight was beginning its retirement journey for the day, and even though it would have felt more normal for melancholy to settle in around this time of the day, her feet still felt light. She was beginning to gain momentum when she noticed a solitary figure keeping pace with her not too far off in the distance. She knew right away who it was, but this time the figure was dressed in a red, white and black finely woven top with what looked like a Hawaiian skirt.
She smiled and gave a slight wave of acknowledgement. It was comforting to know that she hadn't wandered too far since the conversation at the coffeeshop. But the distance between them confused her. She didn't feel as distant from *Wairua as their footprints in the sand reflected. As much as she wanted to close the distance between them, the voice in her head kept saying, "Ohhh, watch it. Watch it!"
Her eyes were fixed on the feather on Wairua's headband as she started inching closer, trying to ignore the voice in her head. "Ahhh, scheiße!" she yelped, as the pain shot straight from her foot to her heart where that old wound laid wide open as if salt had just been rubbed directly into it. Refusing to let that first shot of pain stop her, she tried again, but could make no more progress than she did the first time. She felt the first tears coming on and tried desperately to blink them back, but they spilled out as if the floodgates had finally been open.
She looked back up to Wairua, the pain on her face as raw as the fresh stab on the old wound. She hoped for a band-aid or perhaps a magic carpet that would smooth over the broken bits of shell that covered the distance between them, but all she saw were the tears on Wairua's face and the rays of sun reflecting from the little bottle of liquid she wore around her neck.
Chills went down her spine as she recalled the last time she saw that bottle. Suddenly it was like time flew backwards by three years, and she was meeting *Sarayu for the first time. She wore a bottle around her neck the same way Wairua did. Her body went limb and she fell upon the sand, and as each piece of broken shell pierced through her skin, the pain shot straight to her heart the same way the first one did.
It couldn't be the same bottle Sarayu had, could it? The pain and hopelessness of those years suddenly felt so raw all over again. But Sarayu had walked her through those days of sitting in the dark corners wanting to have nothing to do with this thing called Life, and gently put every one of those tears she shed back then into that bottle she wore around her neck. That she could feel as light as she did walking on the beach just a few moments ago was something she celebrated everyday. So where was this searing pain coming from now?
"My child," Wairua whispered, "This isn't about three years ago anymore. Back then you knew me as Sarayu, as Papa, as Jeshua. I'm still Sarayu, Papa and Jeshua, but in Aotearoa, I'm also Wairua, the Spirit of Life. These shells between us are the broken pieces of you, connected between your heart and the people and lands you have been with. You heard it once earlier tonight. Change sometimes hurts. My child, you have been hurting for so long and I don't know why you keep trying to hold up this shell. You and I both know that you do change better in vulnerability to community than alone, and yet you keep holding back from genuine community. We talked about this during those eight hours in that airport, didn't we?
As long as you're not living life here with complete abandonment,
As long as you're not giving your heart away freely and completely to this land and this people,
You're still living in fear.
And giving your heart away doesn't mean simply giving love away. It also means being vulnerable to receive love. You are not less of a person simply because you are broken and empty. But you will become less and less of a person if you keep trying to give away love without being willing to receive Agape in return."
Wairua knelt on the sand, and with her bare hands began brushing off layers and layers of sand from the first piece of shell, cutting her fingers over and over again in the process. She wore a gentle smile on her face as her tears mixed in with the crimson droplets. The smile grew warmer and bigger as more and more of the cream-coloured shell revealed itself.
The first piece of shell finally came loose, and as Wairua dusted off the last sand bits, her smile became one of victory.
"This, my child," she said, as she set the first piece aside and began working on the next one. "This is my blood, shed for you.
As often as you do this, remember Me."
* Maori for "Spirit"
* Borrowed from William Paul Young's The Shack
The sunlight was beginning its retirement journey for the day, and even though it would have felt more normal for melancholy to settle in around this time of the day, her feet still felt light. She was beginning to gain momentum when she noticed a solitary figure keeping pace with her not too far off in the distance. She knew right away who it was, but this time the figure was dressed in a red, white and black finely woven top with what looked like a Hawaiian skirt.
She smiled and gave a slight wave of acknowledgement. It was comforting to know that she hadn't wandered too far since the conversation at the coffeeshop. But the distance between them confused her. She didn't feel as distant from *Wairua as their footprints in the sand reflected. As much as she wanted to close the distance between them, the voice in her head kept saying, "Ohhh, watch it. Watch it!"
Her eyes were fixed on the feather on Wairua's headband as she started inching closer, trying to ignore the voice in her head. "Ahhh, scheiße!" she yelped, as the pain shot straight from her foot to her heart where that old wound laid wide open as if salt had just been rubbed directly into it. Refusing to let that first shot of pain stop her, she tried again, but could make no more progress than she did the first time. She felt the first tears coming on and tried desperately to blink them back, but they spilled out as if the floodgates had finally been open.
She looked back up to Wairua, the pain on her face as raw as the fresh stab on the old wound. She hoped for a band-aid or perhaps a magic carpet that would smooth over the broken bits of shell that covered the distance between them, but all she saw were the tears on Wairua's face and the rays of sun reflecting from the little bottle of liquid she wore around her neck.
Chills went down her spine as she recalled the last time she saw that bottle. Suddenly it was like time flew backwards by three years, and she was meeting *Sarayu for the first time. She wore a bottle around her neck the same way Wairua did. Her body went limb and she fell upon the sand, and as each piece of broken shell pierced through her skin, the pain shot straight to her heart the same way the first one did.
It couldn't be the same bottle Sarayu had, could it? The pain and hopelessness of those years suddenly felt so raw all over again. But Sarayu had walked her through those days of sitting in the dark corners wanting to have nothing to do with this thing called Life, and gently put every one of those tears she shed back then into that bottle she wore around her neck. That she could feel as light as she did walking on the beach just a few moments ago was something she celebrated everyday. So where was this searing pain coming from now?
"My child," Wairua whispered, "This isn't about three years ago anymore. Back then you knew me as Sarayu, as Papa, as Jeshua. I'm still Sarayu, Papa and Jeshua, but in Aotearoa, I'm also Wairua, the Spirit of Life. These shells between us are the broken pieces of you, connected between your heart and the people and lands you have been with. You heard it once earlier tonight. Change sometimes hurts. My child, you have been hurting for so long and I don't know why you keep trying to hold up this shell. You and I both know that you do change better in vulnerability to community than alone, and yet you keep holding back from genuine community. We talked about this during those eight hours in that airport, didn't we?
As long as you're not living life here with complete abandonment,
As long as you're not giving your heart away freely and completely to this land and this people,
You're still living in fear.
And giving your heart away doesn't mean simply giving love away. It also means being vulnerable to receive love. You are not less of a person simply because you are broken and empty. But you will become less and less of a person if you keep trying to give away love without being willing to receive Agape in return."
Wairua knelt on the sand, and with her bare hands began brushing off layers and layers of sand from the first piece of shell, cutting her fingers over and over again in the process. She wore a gentle smile on her face as her tears mixed in with the crimson droplets. The smile grew warmer and bigger as more and more of the cream-coloured shell revealed itself.
The first piece of shell finally came loose, and as Wairua dusted off the last sand bits, her smile became one of victory.
"This, my child," she said, as she set the first piece aside and began working on the next one. "This is my blood, shed for you.
As often as you do this, remember Me."
* Maori for "Spirit"
* Borrowed from William Paul Young's The Shack
04 June 2011
It Used To Be Less Complicated. (Or So It Seems)
Dear God,
Hi. I mean, good evening ma'am. No wait, I mean... Papa?
Sorry. I've forgotten how to do this. It's been a while.
I haven't forgotten you, but the whirlwinds of the last few months have zipped in and out way too quickly that, in trying to restore the damage, all I had time for was to manage that trying-really-hard-to-look-as-sincere-as-I-feel-but-probably-coming-across-as-really-awkward smile every once in a while, just to acknowledge that I'm well aware that my insistence on carrying on the restoration work with all my power-tools isn't actually being helpful, and that it was probably hurting you to watch me too.
But truth be told, and you and I, we both know this.... I don't know how to do this. I've been working with power-tools for way too long, and all the wisdom that I have sought know that it's time to drop the power-tools. But we don't know how to even start looking for a new method because this is the first time a whirlwind of this magnitude had come through. I can't speak for everyone else, but I myself am looking forward to discovering the new methods, simply because of the adventure that it brings with it.
Yet I'm frustrated. And exhausted. This new chapter should be exciting and challenging, but still fun. But I'm feeling like my energies have been completely sapped and before I've even had time to recuperate, to celebrate endings and beginnings, the to-do list for the restoration project started to nag and nag and nag. And in the midst of all the nagging, all the questioning is not helping. The questions of, "Are you sure you're the one for this undertaking? You grew up way too quickly for your own age and you were never really a kid or knew how to be a kid, so what makes you think you'd know how to get kids involved in this restoration project? And shouldn't you be feeling guilty you're not working hard enough to meet all the datelines of your to-do list? And if you don't even know how to make time to care for yourself, what makes you think you will be able to care about the others? And you're running out of time, shouldn't you hurry up and work harder?"
And... and... and... And I'm just exhausted. Who the heck did I think I was anyway, that you would entrust me with such a huge undertaking? I'm tired of dreaming big dreams that make me so afraid because the gap between here and there seems so big that I know full well, if I tried walking by myself, I would fall right through. And I'm afraid that there might be nothing below to catch me if I fell through, yet at the same time I KNOW you are there.
But God, I'm human.
Ma'am, I'm exhausted.
Papa, I'm afraid.
Yet I will keep on walking.
Because I don't know how to stop when I hear that voice saying, "One more step, my little one. One more step then we'll take a short break from working on helping you walk instead of just toddle around."
And that voice that says, "One more step, my sweet lover. One more step towards my love, and I will be here to hold you when you fall apart."
And so I will keep walking. Because there's work to be done. And because now that I remember what it's like to catch you at the lemonade stand in between the power-tooling and how the "how are you?"s happen, I think I'll have a little bit more for tomorrow.
"Oh yes, my everlating impatience. nothing new; but i miss someone to tell me to relax...to say, "keren, mañana."
...
So please...lay down the time countdown to my life...give me a pillo to rest my head...and hold me...
we'll deal with it...tomorrow."
- KEB, 12.30.06
The road goes ever on and ever on...
Hi. I mean, good evening ma'am. No wait, I mean... Papa?
Sorry. I've forgotten how to do this. It's been a while.
I haven't forgotten you, but the whirlwinds of the last few months have zipped in and out way too quickly that, in trying to restore the damage, all I had time for was to manage that trying-really-hard-to-look-as-sincere-as-I-feel-but-probably-coming-across-as-really-awkward smile every once in a while, just to acknowledge that I'm well aware that my insistence on carrying on the restoration work with all my power-tools isn't actually being helpful, and that it was probably hurting you to watch me too.
But truth be told, and you and I, we both know this.... I don't know how to do this. I've been working with power-tools for way too long, and all the wisdom that I have sought know that it's time to drop the power-tools. But we don't know how to even start looking for a new method because this is the first time a whirlwind of this magnitude had come through. I can't speak for everyone else, but I myself am looking forward to discovering the new methods, simply because of the adventure that it brings with it.
Yet I'm frustrated. And exhausted. This new chapter should be exciting and challenging, but still fun. But I'm feeling like my energies have been completely sapped and before I've even had time to recuperate, to celebrate endings and beginnings, the to-do list for the restoration project started to nag and nag and nag. And in the midst of all the nagging, all the questioning is not helping. The questions of, "Are you sure you're the one for this undertaking? You grew up way too quickly for your own age and you were never really a kid or knew how to be a kid, so what makes you think you'd know how to get kids involved in this restoration project? And shouldn't you be feeling guilty you're not working hard enough to meet all the datelines of your to-do list? And if you don't even know how to make time to care for yourself, what makes you think you will be able to care about the others? And you're running out of time, shouldn't you hurry up and work harder?"
And... and... and... And I'm just exhausted. Who the heck did I think I was anyway, that you would entrust me with such a huge undertaking? I'm tired of dreaming big dreams that make me so afraid because the gap between here and there seems so big that I know full well, if I tried walking by myself, I would fall right through. And I'm afraid that there might be nothing below to catch me if I fell through, yet at the same time I KNOW you are there.
But God, I'm human.
Ma'am, I'm exhausted.
Papa, I'm afraid.
Yet I will keep on walking.
Because I don't know how to stop when I hear that voice saying, "One more step, my little one. One more step then we'll take a short break from working on helping you walk instead of just toddle around."
And that voice that says, "One more step, my sweet lover. One more step towards my love, and I will be here to hold you when you fall apart."
And so I will keep walking. Because there's work to be done. And because now that I remember what it's like to catch you at the lemonade stand in between the power-tooling and how the "how are you?"s happen, I think I'll have a little bit more for tomorrow.
"Oh yes, my everlating impatience. nothing new; but i miss someone to tell me to relax...to say, "keren, mañana."
...
So please...lay down the time countdown to my life...give me a pillo to rest my head...and hold me...
we'll deal with it...tomorrow."
- KEB, 12.30.06
The road goes ever on and ever on...
31 May 2011
Dear Keren #4 - Old Friends
Dear Keren,
Over the weekend I got to hang out with some old friends--people you'd probably remember too. It just seems weird to be hanging out with the same people in more grown-up settings, talking about more grown-up topics. Weird, huh?
Seven years ago, Gretchen and I were fresh-faced music majors that hung out in the dorm rooms frustrated over how our music theory homework didn't make sense, and wanting to save the world through the church by making music. Seven years later, we find ourselves in Quiznos trying to be careful how we spend our money, realising how idealistic we were seven years ago thinking that we could save the world. Funny how things change huh?
Six years ago, Hannah and I were on our first missions trip hanging out in Atlanta, trying to figure out what the heck to do with ourselves and our ideals of what the world should be like instead of what it is. Six years later, we find ourselves hanging out with the friends that became family when crap hit the fan, still trying to save the world, except more realistic and less idealistic now. Funny how things change huh?
Seven years later and suddenly we seem to have aged so much. I guess life does happen huh?
I've been watching a lot of Grey's Anatomy this weekend. Any other day, I probably wouldn't admit that. But see, I've become addicted to this show not just because it's witty like Gilmore Girls, the one that you introduced me to. Nor just because it's full of medical jargon and mystery like House. But it's about the busyness of life, and learning how to juggle the drama and frustrations that life deals us. Sure, life isn't quite as scandalous as the TV show is, but learning how to deal with stress while still admitting that we are, in fact, still human and limited and sometimes majorly screw things up... That's what life is about, isn't it?
Seven years ago, I was in a new place, getting to know new people, thinking that I wasn't a person who had the capability to screw up relationships, break hearts, or walk away from people I cared about. But what did I know? I was young, idealistic, and life hadn't dealt me the lemons yet, so how was I supposed to know I should start looking for a lemonade recipe?
I always thought I was good with people. But four years ago, you went away. And I became afraid. Afraid of people, and afraid of getting involved with their lives again. And when relationships got tricky, I didn't know how to stick around and rough it out. Why would I, and why should I when life ends this quickly?
But that's all a part of the journey, huh? So maybe I did let go, I did walk away, I did give up.
But maybe I've now learnt how to make lemonade.
And maybe it's time to start making lemonade.
Over the weekend I got to hang out with some old friends--people you'd probably remember too. It just seems weird to be hanging out with the same people in more grown-up settings, talking about more grown-up topics. Weird, huh?
Seven years ago, Gretchen and I were fresh-faced music majors that hung out in the dorm rooms frustrated over how our music theory homework didn't make sense, and wanting to save the world through the church by making music. Seven years later, we find ourselves in Quiznos trying to be careful how we spend our money, realising how idealistic we were seven years ago thinking that we could save the world. Funny how things change huh?
Six years ago, Hannah and I were on our first missions trip hanging out in Atlanta, trying to figure out what the heck to do with ourselves and our ideals of what the world should be like instead of what it is. Six years later, we find ourselves hanging out with the friends that became family when crap hit the fan, still trying to save the world, except more realistic and less idealistic now. Funny how things change huh?
Seven years later and suddenly we seem to have aged so much. I guess life does happen huh?
I've been watching a lot of Grey's Anatomy this weekend. Any other day, I probably wouldn't admit that. But see, I've become addicted to this show not just because it's witty like Gilmore Girls, the one that you introduced me to. Nor just because it's full of medical jargon and mystery like House. But it's about the busyness of life, and learning how to juggle the drama and frustrations that life deals us. Sure, life isn't quite as scandalous as the TV show is, but learning how to deal with stress while still admitting that we are, in fact, still human and limited and sometimes majorly screw things up... That's what life is about, isn't it?
Seven years ago, I was in a new place, getting to know new people, thinking that I wasn't a person who had the capability to screw up relationships, break hearts, or walk away from people I cared about. But what did I know? I was young, idealistic, and life hadn't dealt me the lemons yet, so how was I supposed to know I should start looking for a lemonade recipe?
I always thought I was good with people. But four years ago, you went away. And I became afraid. Afraid of people, and afraid of getting involved with their lives again. And when relationships got tricky, I didn't know how to stick around and rough it out. Why would I, and why should I when life ends this quickly?
But that's all a part of the journey, huh? So maybe I did let go, I did walk away, I did give up.
But maybe I've now learnt how to make lemonade.
And maybe it's time to start making lemonade.
18 May 2011
So This Is Life Without School...
This is what the first 24 hours of being back in Anderson post-Graduation and all its festivities have looked like:
0000 hrs: finally back in my own bed
0045 hrs: last time I remembered looking at the clock before I finally fell asleep
0330 hrs: up not-so-bright but early to take the parents and the baby sister to the airport
0530 hrs: checked in the flying crew and breakfast at McD's
0700 hrs: hugs and see-you-agains then driving back to Anderson
0815 hrs: called the vet to set up an appointment for Stormie
0830 hrs: finally at work only to find the network down so productivity = 0 since my working document is on Google docs
0930 hrs: left work since the network was still down. Made two social visits to a few friends.
1015 hrs: returned the key to my SOT mailbox
1020 hrs: stopped in at Church of God Ministries to visit former co-workers
1130 hrs: took Stormie to the vet
1230 hrs: lunched with Elizabeth
1415 hrs: decided not to get gas because I couldn't remember which gas station had gas for $3.85 instead of $3.99
1430 hrs: napped
1630 hrs: chiropractor
1800 hrs: got gas for $3.85 when it came down everywhere else and grocery shopping
1930 hrs: decided to make a big pot of chicken noodle soup
2100 hrs: finally sat down to dinner
2300 hrs: tried to start the visa application process but the website was down.
This is what the next 24 hours of being back in Anderson post-Graduation and all its festivities have looked like:
0000 hrs: finally went to bed
0800 hrs: went to work
1000 hrs: took Jason and his parents to the airport for their trip to San Fran
1230 hrs: stopped at home for a quick lunch and stopped in to check on Elizabeth and Stormie
1315 hrs: back to work
1700 hrs: went to the lab in the library because the computer at home was being stubborn.
Tried again to start the visa application process, but the website was still down
Tried to book my tickets to Portland, but Priceline was being stupid
Tried to work on a wedding gift I'm making, but I apparently didn't save it on my flash-drive
Ended up spending a couple hours ordering stuff on VistaPrint for the NZ ventures
2000 hrs: came home to slowly make dinner
2200 hrs: realised I need to start making a list of ALL the people I need to write to and/or see and the things I need to do in the next few months while trying not to scream. decided to procrastinate by blogging instead.
The rhythm of my schedule has been broken. There's not much of a routine anymore. But the schedule is still getting filled a bit too quickly by still trying to do life with people.
This week itself will see:
20 hours of work
3.5 airport runs
2 or 3 visits to the vet
2 appointments to the chiropractor
2 chunks of chill-time with friends
1 worship team rehearsal
And some time in between all of that, there's a family with 3 boys I need to see pronto, a curriculum dateline I need to meet, thank you cards to send, pictures to post, blogs to write, e-mails to reply to, German teens to harass... Oh, and eat and sleep.
Welcome to life with no more school. Things haven't actually changed that much.
0000 hrs: finally back in my own bed
0045 hrs: last time I remembered looking at the clock before I finally fell asleep
0330 hrs: up not-so-bright but early to take the parents and the baby sister to the airport
0530 hrs: checked in the flying crew and breakfast at McD's
0700 hrs: hugs and see-you-agains then driving back to Anderson
0815 hrs: called the vet to set up an appointment for Stormie
0830 hrs: finally at work only to find the network down so productivity = 0 since my working document is on Google docs
0930 hrs: left work since the network was still down. Made two social visits to a few friends.
1015 hrs: returned the key to my SOT mailbox
1020 hrs: stopped in at Church of God Ministries to visit former co-workers
1130 hrs: took Stormie to the vet
1230 hrs: lunched with Elizabeth
1415 hrs: decided not to get gas because I couldn't remember which gas station had gas for $3.85 instead of $3.99
1430 hrs: napped
1630 hrs: chiropractor
1800 hrs: got gas for $3.85 when it came down everywhere else and grocery shopping
1930 hrs: decided to make a big pot of chicken noodle soup
2100 hrs: finally sat down to dinner
2300 hrs: tried to start the visa application process but the website was down.
This is what the next 24 hours of being back in Anderson post-Graduation and all its festivities have looked like:
0000 hrs: finally went to bed
0800 hrs: went to work
1000 hrs: took Jason and his parents to the airport for their trip to San Fran
1230 hrs: stopped at home for a quick lunch and stopped in to check on Elizabeth and Stormie
1315 hrs: back to work
1700 hrs: went to the lab in the library because the computer at home was being stubborn.
Tried again to start the visa application process, but the website was still down
Tried to book my tickets to Portland, but Priceline was being stupid
Tried to work on a wedding gift I'm making, but I apparently didn't save it on my flash-drive
Ended up spending a couple hours ordering stuff on VistaPrint for the NZ ventures
2000 hrs: came home to slowly make dinner
2200 hrs: realised I need to start making a list of ALL the people I need to write to and/or see and the things I need to do in the next few months while trying not to scream. decided to procrastinate by blogging instead.
The rhythm of my schedule has been broken. There's not much of a routine anymore. But the schedule is still getting filled a bit too quickly by still trying to do life with people.
This week itself will see:
20 hours of work
3.5 airport runs
2 or 3 visits to the vet
2 appointments to the chiropractor
2 chunks of chill-time with friends
1 worship team rehearsal
And some time in between all of that, there's a family with 3 boys I need to see pronto, a curriculum dateline I need to meet, thank you cards to send, pictures to post, blogs to write, e-mails to reply to, German teens to harass... Oh, and eat and sleep.
Welcome to life with no more school. Things haven't actually changed that much.
07 May 2011
Dear Keren #3 - Becky and the Church Part 2
Dear Keren,
My first conversation on campus with anyone this week (this being finals week) was with none other than Dr. Robert Nicholson himself. As much as I've rubbed shoulders with all the Church of God giants in my time here, I still get star-struck. This was, after all, Dr. Robert Nicholson, the one who has a building--one of my second homes, nonetheless--named after him. So the conversation went something like that:
Me: Good morning, sir.
Dr. Nicholson: Well, it is Jael! You're about done, aren't you? How does it feel?
Me: (What the ..... he knows my name??) Well, I have one more week... If I get through this week, I'll be ok, I think.
Dr. N: And how many other times have you said that of the weeks that have passed?
Me: Umm... A lot?
Dr. N: And you got through those?
Me: Well, I guess so...
Dr. N: Well, atta girl! You'll be able to get through this one as well. Not that you're a girl, more like a lady, but that's just an expression I use, you know?
Me: (What in the world just happened??)
I guess I should explain that Dr Nicholson is a part of that family/institution that contributed to that dark, dark year of my life. I don't know how much he knows about my story from that year, but the fact that he, Dr. Robert Nicholson, knew my name... That blew me away.
Ok, ok. So I've talked about "that year" for a while now. I guess I should explain what happened in that year huh?
Remember those times when you were unable to get a ride to The Mercy House on Sundays so you would end up showing up in that building because it was within walking distance? And after service was over, a bunch of us will head out to lunch together and it was always fun? Well, that didn't last for too long. Change happened, as always does and always will. A lot was happening within the walls of that building that was causing some amount of disgruntlement, unhappiness and division. Eventually, a big part of that after-lunch group stopped coming. I remembered at one point asking Pastor Randy if I could do my undergrad Church Music internship with him. We both ham-hawed for a bit and neither of us followed up on that so that was kind of dropped.
A year went by, and within that year, he and his wife were gone. It wasn't anyone's fault, really, except that change happens, and growth hurts, I guess. I was pretty upset because he and his wife were after all, amongst the first people to welcome me to Anderson when his son, Ryan, decided to borrow their car to take a bunch of us international kids to Walmart. You remember those days when going to the grocery store was a pain, don't you? We weren't sure who to ask for a ride so a lot of times we'll eventually end up walking to CVS to get the few things we needed. Then eventually one of the international upperclassmen would spot us walking and yell at us for walking and insisted on giving us their phone number so that we could call one of them.
Anyhow, Randy and his wife Rhonda (not to be mixed up with other Rhonda who got me involved in the worship team as I was telling you about in the last episode) and Ryan were amongst the people who made me feel most at home in that building. Granted it didn't really feel like "home" yet because I was still trying to figure out how to get into the traditional style of worship. But between them, and the Rhonda who got me involved with the worship team, I couldn't find enough reason to leave. Especially since, during the summers, Rhonda would always have me over to watch their son Victor so she could get things done around the house. She also got me involved with a bunch of different things that made me work with kids and children.
Now you have to know that it was only a few years ago that I actually started enjoying being around kids. For the most part, I felt like that awkward neither-grown-up-nor-kid person who never really had a childhood so I didn't really know what it meant to talk to kids. And I was still coming out of my "hide-behind-my-mother's-skirt" phase, so I was just REALLY awkward (not that I'm not still awkward now, but compared to a few years ago... oh boy...)
It's funny, you know, thinking about those years. Because those kids that I always felt awkward around, are the same kids that I would consider my BFFs now. A couple months ago when I was still debating about whether or not I should move forward with the New Zealand stuff, these were the kids that surrounded my table and taught me about the book that involved the 39 clues. (I don't remember the title). These were the same kids that, last Sunday at church, when they had prayer for all the graduates, stood behind me and prayed for me. I honestly didn't think I left that much of an impact on them, but perhaps it was me just being me, showing up at the summer musical rehearsals, going to their soccer games and hanging out with their parents that left an impression? And I'll be honest, I didn't show up to all these things so much because of them as much as... Heidi kind of talked me into it. Apparently I let Heidi talk me into a lot of things huh...
I guess I'm just realising that I didn't keep showing up to that building because it was convenient anymore. But people kept me coming and after a while, it didn't seem so bad anymore. I guess this was why the dark year seemed so dark. I know I'm still ham-hawing around that, but that's because I don't really know how to talk about it since that dark year seemed so long ago. At the same time, recent stuff that's been happening has been reminding me again that I should probably share more of my experience from that year than I do now.
But that will have to be for another time. The parentals are here for graduation (hey, as are yours!) and this house needs to be cleaned before I get to the chiropractor tonight.
Hugs,
Jael
My first conversation on campus with anyone this week (this being finals week) was with none other than Dr. Robert Nicholson himself. As much as I've rubbed shoulders with all the Church of God giants in my time here, I still get star-struck. This was, after all, Dr. Robert Nicholson, the one who has a building--one of my second homes, nonetheless--named after him. So the conversation went something like that:
Me: Good morning, sir.
Dr. Nicholson: Well, it is Jael! You're about done, aren't you? How does it feel?
Me: (What the ..... he knows my name??) Well, I have one more week... If I get through this week, I'll be ok, I think.
Dr. N: And how many other times have you said that of the weeks that have passed?
Me: Umm... A lot?
Dr. N: And you got through those?
Me: Well, I guess so...
Dr. N: Well, atta girl! You'll be able to get through this one as well. Not that you're a girl, more like a lady, but that's just an expression I use, you know?
Me: (What in the world just happened??)
I guess I should explain that Dr Nicholson is a part of that family/institution that contributed to that dark, dark year of my life. I don't know how much he knows about my story from that year, but the fact that he, Dr. Robert Nicholson, knew my name... That blew me away.
Ok, ok. So I've talked about "that year" for a while now. I guess I should explain what happened in that year huh?
Remember those times when you were unable to get a ride to The Mercy House on Sundays so you would end up showing up in that building because it was within walking distance? And after service was over, a bunch of us will head out to lunch together and it was always fun? Well, that didn't last for too long. Change happened, as always does and always will. A lot was happening within the walls of that building that was causing some amount of disgruntlement, unhappiness and division. Eventually, a big part of that after-lunch group stopped coming. I remembered at one point asking Pastor Randy if I could do my undergrad Church Music internship with him. We both ham-hawed for a bit and neither of us followed up on that so that was kind of dropped.
A year went by, and within that year, he and his wife were gone. It wasn't anyone's fault, really, except that change happens, and growth hurts, I guess. I was pretty upset because he and his wife were after all, amongst the first people to welcome me to Anderson when his son, Ryan, decided to borrow their car to take a bunch of us international kids to Walmart. You remember those days when going to the grocery store was a pain, don't you? We weren't sure who to ask for a ride so a lot of times we'll eventually end up walking to CVS to get the few things we needed. Then eventually one of the international upperclassmen would spot us walking and yell at us for walking and insisted on giving us their phone number so that we could call one of them.
Anyhow, Randy and his wife Rhonda (not to be mixed up with other Rhonda who got me involved in the worship team as I was telling you about in the last episode) and Ryan were amongst the people who made me feel most at home in that building. Granted it didn't really feel like "home" yet because I was still trying to figure out how to get into the traditional style of worship. But between them, and the Rhonda who got me involved with the worship team, I couldn't find enough reason to leave. Especially since, during the summers, Rhonda would always have me over to watch their son Victor so she could get things done around the house. She also got me involved with a bunch of different things that made me work with kids and children.
Now you have to know that it was only a few years ago that I actually started enjoying being around kids. For the most part, I felt like that awkward neither-grown-up-nor-kid person who never really had a childhood so I didn't really know what it meant to talk to kids. And I was still coming out of my "hide-behind-my-mother's-skirt" phase, so I was just REALLY awkward (not that I'm not still awkward now, but compared to a few years ago... oh boy...)
It's funny, you know, thinking about those years. Because those kids that I always felt awkward around, are the same kids that I would consider my BFFs now. A couple months ago when I was still debating about whether or not I should move forward with the New Zealand stuff, these were the kids that surrounded my table and taught me about the book that involved the 39 clues. (I don't remember the title). These were the same kids that, last Sunday at church, when they had prayer for all the graduates, stood behind me and prayed for me. I honestly didn't think I left that much of an impact on them, but perhaps it was me just being me, showing up at the summer musical rehearsals, going to their soccer games and hanging out with their parents that left an impression? And I'll be honest, I didn't show up to all these things so much because of them as much as... Heidi kind of talked me into it. Apparently I let Heidi talk me into a lot of things huh...
I guess I'm just realising that I didn't keep showing up to that building because it was convenient anymore. But people kept me coming and after a while, it didn't seem so bad anymore. I guess this was why the dark year seemed so dark. I know I'm still ham-hawing around that, but that's because I don't really know how to talk about it since that dark year seemed so long ago. At the same time, recent stuff that's been happening has been reminding me again that I should probably share more of my experience from that year than I do now.
But that will have to be for another time. The parentals are here for graduation (hey, as are yours!) and this house needs to be cleaned before I get to the chiropractor tonight.
Hugs,
Jael
01 May 2011
Dear Keren #2 - Becky and the Church
Dear Keren,
Over dinner tonight, some Seminary friends and I were talking about how we've changed since our high school years and how even though we all still profess to be in relationship with Christ, some of our lifestyle habits have changed and people who have known as from back then may not think that we still believe in God.
Which got me thinking. There was one very, very dark year in the last seven that I've spent in Anderson that I haven't really processed much until more recently. I hardly told anyone until fairly recently how much that hurt, or how much that has changed my perspective of the institution, and how the institution had become the family that I needed a break from to help keep my sanity. And just because I don't talk about it or act too differently on the surface doesn't mean that underneath my attitudes have changed and I'm no longer the Becky in the Chris Rice song that I was seven years ago.
It all began the same weekend that I met you for the first time. Since I didn't know my way around the city of Anderson yet, I didn't know what other church options I had available. So I show up at this big church that I remembered attending a few months back when I was first in Anderson for my equivalent of visit day. The sanctuary itself was almost as big as the entire church building I grew up in. And I show up there again the following week. Right after service was over, I was approached by this spunky lady who introduced herself as Rhonda. She said she heard that I was a musician and that if I was interested, she could start putting me on their worship schedule. I got plugged in right away, and even though the very traditional worship style made me really uncomfortable, I was connected, and the ten-minute walk from my dorm room to the church was much more convenient than trying to find people to take me church-shopping.
Things were great the first couple years. Sunday after Sunday, the international kids who found no other church home would gather together at the back of the sanctuary to head out to lunch together. Sometimes it was Indian, sometimes it was the Chinese buffet place in town. Community came easy, and even though I wasn't exactly looking for it, it was there.
But that was all years ago now. Funny how much can change in seven years huh?
To be continued...
Miss you,
Me
Over dinner tonight, some Seminary friends and I were talking about how we've changed since our high school years and how even though we all still profess to be in relationship with Christ, some of our lifestyle habits have changed and people who have known as from back then may not think that we still believe in God.
Which got me thinking. There was one very, very dark year in the last seven that I've spent in Anderson that I haven't really processed much until more recently. I hardly told anyone until fairly recently how much that hurt, or how much that has changed my perspective of the institution, and how the institution had become the family that I needed a break from to help keep my sanity. And just because I don't talk about it or act too differently on the surface doesn't mean that underneath my attitudes have changed and I'm no longer the Becky in the Chris Rice song that I was seven years ago.
It all began the same weekend that I met you for the first time. Since I didn't know my way around the city of Anderson yet, I didn't know what other church options I had available. So I show up at this big church that I remembered attending a few months back when I was first in Anderson for my equivalent of visit day. The sanctuary itself was almost as big as the entire church building I grew up in. And I show up there again the following week. Right after service was over, I was approached by this spunky lady who introduced herself as Rhonda. She said she heard that I was a musician and that if I was interested, she could start putting me on their worship schedule. I got plugged in right away, and even though the very traditional worship style made me really uncomfortable, I was connected, and the ten-minute walk from my dorm room to the church was much more convenient than trying to find people to take me church-shopping.
Things were great the first couple years. Sunday after Sunday, the international kids who found no other church home would gather together at the back of the sanctuary to head out to lunch together. Sometimes it was Indian, sometimes it was the Chinese buffet place in town. Community came easy, and even though I wasn't exactly looking for it, it was there.
But that was all years ago now. Funny how much can change in seven years huh?
To be continued...
Miss you,
Me
28 April 2011
Dear Keren: #1
This series is titled "Dear Keren" not because it's written only for Keren, but because Keren was friendship personified to me. I've learnt much not simply from her life, but the time that has passed since her death. This is dedicated to all the "Kerens" whose paths I've been privileged to cross over the last seven years here in Anderson, Indiana. Call it my chapter closing series, if you would like. We'll probably have a different perspective on some of these events that we were both at, but these are some of mine. These may not always be in chronological order, but I'll try to write in a way so that you know where things fit on a time-line.
Dear Keren,
The date was August 22, 2004. I remembered sitting across from you in that Admissions office that... morning? Or was it afternoon, I don't remember. Only two days before (or three, depending on which side of the world we're talking about) I had packed up my two suitcases of stuff and made the reluctant move halfway across the world.
I'll confess I'm still not sure of what the notion of romantic love looks like. But at eighteen years of age, I thought I was in love, and moving halfway across the world from this "love of my life" at the time felt like I was being asked to give up half of my heart. Ok, so maybe I was over-dramatic. But I was also eighteen.
I remembered crying most of the plane-ride over. In fact, I think I might have even scared away the guy who was sitting beside me because he asked for a change in his assigned seat. Ok, so maybe that might not have been completely true, but that was my perception at the time because I was miserable. Did you feel that way too? Or was it that you've already made a big change similar to this previously (well, you might have made that move with your parents, but still... It was a big change, and it counts) so this plane-ride over to this "glamorous" United States wasn't as much of a life-changing experience for you?
"Glamorous." Ha. That word makes me laugh because I'm reminded of that conversation we had on the way to Ivanhoe's that one time. I had just gotten off the phone with my dad and I was frustrated with the way my parents didn't seem to understand what it meant to live here. I was about to graduate from college, and my dad had just told me to not be too picky about what jobs to apply for here in the US. I don't remember his exact words, but he insinuated something along the lines of... we're Asian, don't expect to be treated too well.
Could I blame my dad for thinking that way? I guess not. After all, media hasn't done the US justice at all. But that was the beginning of the shift in my cultural identity. Little did I realise... I wasn't JUST Asian anymore. I was slowly becoming what we now joke about as "the banana" - yellow on the outside, white on the inside - an identity that would become increasingly frustrating.
Anyway, back to the plane ride. In the long twenty hours or however long the first segment of my flight was on that plane, I forgot how many times I cried till I dozed off then woke up and cried some more. In between, I remembered secretly thinking, maybe when I get off the plane, it wouldn't be that scary LAX (Funny isn't it? We've started calling airports by their airport code like we're BFF rather than "the airport in Los Angeles." Funny what seven years can do to you.) where I would proceed to sit for eight hours before my next flights to MSP then to IND. Maybe, just maybe on the off-chance, it would be the same people that I just said goodbye to at SIN that would greet me at LAX. And then I would laugh at myself for being ridiculous.
At one point during that weekend, I remembered my mum telling me that the couple that would soon become my "Anderson grandparents" would be around when I got there, and that if I wanted to, I should go over and visit them. I remembered them living on the street close to the cemetary, but I didn't even remember where the cemetary was. So I walked around for a bit before I finally found their house on Maplewood. Hoping to find a friendly face where I would be "mothered" for a bit to ease my homesickness, I rang the doorbell several times. The face that greeted me at the door was... friendly, but not what I expected.
He was an Indian dude. I remembered asking myself, umm... Could this be their son here to visit? Or who was he? He proceeds to introduce himself, but as distraught as I already was at the time, I couldn't remember his name. He was going to be a student at the Seminary and was living with them for a few days until he got settled in.
As it turns out, he would very quickly become one of the persons I had great respect for. Between our food-fights in the dishroom of the Marketplace where we worked our first year in Anderson and other interactions, I found out his name was Caldwell Manners.
Well, that's all for now. A storm has been brewing for a while outside, and it's time to go home. More papers to write tomorrow. Also, I miss you. One of these days when I'm done with school, let's continue the conversation we never had the chance to have that day in August a few years ago, k?
Hugs,
Me.
Dear Keren,
The date was August 22, 2004. I remembered sitting across from you in that Admissions office that... morning? Or was it afternoon, I don't remember. Only two days before (or three, depending on which side of the world we're talking about) I had packed up my two suitcases of stuff and made the reluctant move halfway across the world.
I'll confess I'm still not sure of what the notion of romantic love looks like. But at eighteen years of age, I thought I was in love, and moving halfway across the world from this "love of my life" at the time felt like I was being asked to give up half of my heart. Ok, so maybe I was over-dramatic. But I was also eighteen.
I remembered crying most of the plane-ride over. In fact, I think I might have even scared away the guy who was sitting beside me because he asked for a change in his assigned seat. Ok, so maybe that might not have been completely true, but that was my perception at the time because I was miserable. Did you feel that way too? Or was it that you've already made a big change similar to this previously (well, you might have made that move with your parents, but still... It was a big change, and it counts) so this plane-ride over to this "glamorous" United States wasn't as much of a life-changing experience for you?
"Glamorous." Ha. That word makes me laugh because I'm reminded of that conversation we had on the way to Ivanhoe's that one time. I had just gotten off the phone with my dad and I was frustrated with the way my parents didn't seem to understand what it meant to live here. I was about to graduate from college, and my dad had just told me to not be too picky about what jobs to apply for here in the US. I don't remember his exact words, but he insinuated something along the lines of... we're Asian, don't expect to be treated too well.
Could I blame my dad for thinking that way? I guess not. After all, media hasn't done the US justice at all. But that was the beginning of the shift in my cultural identity. Little did I realise... I wasn't JUST Asian anymore. I was slowly becoming what we now joke about as "the banana" - yellow on the outside, white on the inside - an identity that would become increasingly frustrating.
Anyway, back to the plane ride. In the long twenty hours or however long the first segment of my flight was on that plane, I forgot how many times I cried till I dozed off then woke up and cried some more. In between, I remembered secretly thinking, maybe when I get off the plane, it wouldn't be that scary LAX (Funny isn't it? We've started calling airports by their airport code like we're BFF rather than "the airport in Los Angeles." Funny what seven years can do to you.) where I would proceed to sit for eight hours before my next flights to MSP then to IND. Maybe, just maybe on the off-chance, it would be the same people that I just said goodbye to at SIN that would greet me at LAX. And then I would laugh at myself for being ridiculous.
At one point during that weekend, I remembered my mum telling me that the couple that would soon become my "Anderson grandparents" would be around when I got there, and that if I wanted to, I should go over and visit them. I remembered them living on the street close to the cemetary, but I didn't even remember where the cemetary was. So I walked around for a bit before I finally found their house on Maplewood. Hoping to find a friendly face where I would be "mothered" for a bit to ease my homesickness, I rang the doorbell several times. The face that greeted me at the door was... friendly, but not what I expected.
He was an Indian dude. I remembered asking myself, umm... Could this be their son here to visit? Or who was he? He proceeds to introduce himself, but as distraught as I already was at the time, I couldn't remember his name. He was going to be a student at the Seminary and was living with them for a few days until he got settled in.
As it turns out, he would very quickly become one of the persons I had great respect for. Between our food-fights in the dishroom of the Marketplace where we worked our first year in Anderson and other interactions, I found out his name was Caldwell Manners.
Well, that's all for now. A storm has been brewing for a while outside, and it's time to go home. More papers to write tomorrow. Also, I miss you. One of these days when I'm done with school, let's continue the conversation we never had the chance to have that day in August a few years ago, k?
Hugs,
Me.
16 January 2011
Guests in the Childhood Home
My mother has an impeccable gift of hospitality. Or as my BFF put it, "the gift of taking care of people." She's never been extravagant with anything, and it's the same with her hospitality. But her gift comes through being able to laugh at herself and make any person that walked through our front doors feel completely at home because she's "crazy". She engaged every person with a level of ridiculousness that you just had to laugh -- if not with her, then at her.
We always had strict rules in our household, and her home-cooked meals would be considered "too healthy" by most of our friends. But that never stopped our youth-group from making our home the most frequented hang-out after church because they didn't want to go home. And even though Auntie Florence would always make them eat a lot of veggies and Uncle Steven would make this horrible-tasting but very nutritious fruit juice, our friends, and eventually also the kids my mum tutored would still enjoy hanging out in our home.
Six-and-a-half years ago, my brother and I moved out of this home. But the guests still kept coming through those doors. Recently, when it became clear that we were moving out for good, our bedrooms became the living space for two Malaysian kids who were in Singapore for education. They were kids that my mum had been tutoring before they moved in. It was good for my parents because not only did it bring a slight addition to the household income, it also gave my mum more "kids" to "take care of".
And so now, we have become the guests in the childhood home. Except each year when we return, we get our own sets of keys, an EZ-link card (transport pass in Singapore), a cell-phone and spending money. We're still family, so we still get special treatment :) And each year when we leave, we return the keys, the EZ-link card, the cell-phone and whatever's left of the spending money. The doors are still open, as they've always been, even after we've developed "strange Western styles of living."
Home will always be home where the parentals are
Where the once-upon-a-time baby sister is
Where Grandma calls everyday to ask if we're hungry and if we want her to bring food over
Where the cousins gather for our Christmas party
Where the girl-friends from high school get together for our reunions
Even when we're only guests there once a year
Even if we find more distant lands to call home the rest of our lifetime
Because this is the home that gave me a legacy to live
This is the home that taught me about the craziness of hospitality
This is the home that taught me to always make sure no one is hungry
This is the home that taught me the importance of gathering together every once in a while
In a recent conversation with the BFF, she made me dream about where we might find ourselves in ten months time--the next time I'll be back in the country that owns my passport. And then she said this: "No matter where you go, no matter what you find yourself doing, whether it's in church or outside of the church, you will always be taking care of people. Because that's just what you do."
And it's only because of the legacy that this home taught me to live.
Because this is home.
Even if it's one of many homes.
We always had strict rules in our household, and her home-cooked meals would be considered "too healthy" by most of our friends. But that never stopped our youth-group from making our home the most frequented hang-out after church because they didn't want to go home. And even though Auntie Florence would always make them eat a lot of veggies and Uncle Steven would make this horrible-tasting but very nutritious fruit juice, our friends, and eventually also the kids my mum tutored would still enjoy hanging out in our home.
Six-and-a-half years ago, my brother and I moved out of this home. But the guests still kept coming through those doors. Recently, when it became clear that we were moving out for good, our bedrooms became the living space for two Malaysian kids who were in Singapore for education. They were kids that my mum had been tutoring before they moved in. It was good for my parents because not only did it bring a slight addition to the household income, it also gave my mum more "kids" to "take care of".
And so now, we have become the guests in the childhood home. Except each year when we return, we get our own sets of keys, an EZ-link card (transport pass in Singapore), a cell-phone and spending money. We're still family, so we still get special treatment :) And each year when we leave, we return the keys, the EZ-link card, the cell-phone and whatever's left of the spending money. The doors are still open, as they've always been, even after we've developed "strange Western styles of living."
Home will always be home where the parentals are
Where the once-upon-a-time baby sister is
Where Grandma calls everyday to ask if we're hungry and if we want her to bring food over
Where the cousins gather for our Christmas party
Where the girl-friends from high school get together for our reunions
Even when we're only guests there once a year
Even if we find more distant lands to call home the rest of our lifetime
Because this is the home that gave me a legacy to live
This is the home that taught me about the craziness of hospitality
This is the home that taught me to always make sure no one is hungry
This is the home that taught me the importance of gathering together every once in a while
In a recent conversation with the BFF, she made me dream about where we might find ourselves in ten months time--the next time I'll be back in the country that owns my passport. And then she said this: "No matter where you go, no matter what you find yourself doing, whether it's in church or outside of the church, you will always be taking care of people. Because that's just what you do."
And it's only because of the legacy that this home taught me to live.
Because this is home.
Even if it's one of many homes.
05 January 2011
Closing Windows
A friend from Germany once told me this: The way we function is very similar to the way the Microsoft Windows system functions. We can have several different Windows open at one time, but we can only work on one thing at a time. The other Windows can be kept in the background and we can ignore it for the time being while we're working on the one thing in front of us. But the more we keep running the background, the slower the entire system becomes. Eventually when we ignore too many of the other Windows, the system crashes. Also true with the way we function.
When I heard that, I immediately thought of some of Jim Hawkins' first words to me when we first began discussing grief counseling for cross-cultural workers. The words "compounding grief" came to mind. Such is the way we deal with grief. We can keep some of these running in the background for a while while we work on what is current. But eventually, the more grief we push behind, the more "programs" we keep pulling up, the more likely it is that the entire system will crash.
Lately, a lot of Windows have been opening up in my system. A lot that I haven't had time to go through, yet a lot more opening up, requiring more immediate attention. I've always prided myself with doing a fairly decent job processing grief, especially after the major episode some 3.5 years ago with Keren's passing. But lately with the way I've moved from one place to another, one culture to another, one support network to another, I haven't had time. And all at the same time, homework, bills, demands of the day that had to be dealt with immediately filled my time. Sure, I've had my moments of outburst, or, as one of my wiser cross-cultural friend put it, "puking all over the place." But most of it is still kept inside.
Maybe my recent decision to start writing that book about all my travels will help close some of those Windows. Who knows. Maybe "puking all over the place" then carefully choosing words to describe that "puking" in that book will help. Who knows.
Either way, this book will probably happen. It has to happen, I think. Ask me again in a while if I've done anything with this book.
Closing Windows. Time to start working on a few of those now, before I have to deal with the real world. Oh, by that, I do mean the world; just a matter of figuring out which corner to stake my claim for a little while.
Closing Windows. It's time.
When I heard that, I immediately thought of some of Jim Hawkins' first words to me when we first began discussing grief counseling for cross-cultural workers. The words "compounding grief" came to mind. Such is the way we deal with grief. We can keep some of these running in the background for a while while we work on what is current. But eventually, the more grief we push behind, the more "programs" we keep pulling up, the more likely it is that the entire system will crash.
Lately, a lot of Windows have been opening up in my system. A lot that I haven't had time to go through, yet a lot more opening up, requiring more immediate attention. I've always prided myself with doing a fairly decent job processing grief, especially after the major episode some 3.5 years ago with Keren's passing. But lately with the way I've moved from one place to another, one culture to another, one support network to another, I haven't had time. And all at the same time, homework, bills, demands of the day that had to be dealt with immediately filled my time. Sure, I've had my moments of outburst, or, as one of my wiser cross-cultural friend put it, "puking all over the place." But most of it is still kept inside.
Maybe my recent decision to start writing that book about all my travels will help close some of those Windows. Who knows. Maybe "puking all over the place" then carefully choosing words to describe that "puking" in that book will help. Who knows.
Either way, this book will probably happen. It has to happen, I think. Ask me again in a while if I've done anything with this book.
Closing Windows. Time to start working on a few of those now, before I have to deal with the real world. Oh, by that, I do mean the world; just a matter of figuring out which corner to stake my claim for a little while.
Closing Windows. It's time.
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