Series history: This series unofficially began in 2007 in honour of Keren Berrios. We had started at Anderson University together as international students in 2004. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I had come to rely on her as my sense of "home" while we lived in between cultures. In my hurry to get through life, I graduated a year earlier than most in our class. The summer between my graduation and hers, Keren's life ended unexpectedly less than three weeks after she turned twenty-one. As I grappled with grief, loss and the roller-coaster of post-graduation life, I began writing to her. In the years after, this series has brought comfort as I remember Keren's legacy and imprint on my life. More recently, it has provided a way to take me back to a time before disillusionment caused me to stop dreaming, and to keep pursuing a life well-lived.
Dear Keren,
I recently found out that we get Al Jazeera on free-view. Needless to say, this political junkie has been spending a bit of time on that channel.
Last night, I caught a few documentaries and talk-shows one after another about the situations in Nigeria, Eritrea and Libya. Halfway through about the third documentary about Eritrean refugees, I suddenly realised how emotionally unaffected I was, and it startled me.
Perhaps a part of it is that so much has happened since the days of our idealistic we-can-save-the-world college selves that I'm no longer as vulnerable as I used to be. Perhaps it's those few weeks in the cafe with the women on the streets of Berlin that made me feel like a wimp for being so emotional. Or perhaps it's that everyday on the news, there are more reports of violence and disasters that my helplessness has slowly become callousness.
Keren, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me of that idealistic self that I used to be. Remember when we used to dream about saving the world? Remember that feeling when you discovered your avenue to use your passion to save the world through Displace Me? I want to remember what that idealistic buzz feels like again. Keren, what happened?
Maybe it's that we were young and naive. Even after I eventually climbed out from under that mountain of grief after you died, I still had that desire to change the world--and to do it twice as well to make up for the good the world was missing because you were no longer around. And now, seven years after graduation and your passing, I sit in this comfortable home, even if not a place to call my own, wondering what our twenty-one-year-old selves would think about where I am today.
On days when depression hits its lowest point, I'm convinced we would be ashamed. I haven't fought or won a worthy cause. I haven't started a revolution. I haven't nurtured change in anyone's lives. I haven't joined the UN, helped a homeless person get off the streets, or even protected a child from the consequences of their parents' choices. I have no material possessions to boast of, and heck, seven years have passed and I still haven't found the guts to go experience homelessness like I wanted to. On those days, I want to hide in bed all day and pretend I live in an alternate universe where the last seven years didn't feel so worthless. On those days, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me that there still are things worth being passionate about, the same way you had been one of the few who didn't think I was crazy or try to talk me out of wanting to experience homelessness.
But then there are better days when I remember that even if I'm no revolutionary like Katniss Everdeen or Beatrice Prior, I still have a place in this world to do all the good I can and more importantly, to love with all that I can. Buried somewhere under all that disillusionment is that idealistic twenty-one-year-old self that still believes she can change the world even if she cannot physically rescue all the girls in Nigeria, find all the victims of MH370, or spark change overnight in Eritrea, Libya, Berlin or even a neighbourhood in Auckland. On these better days, I cling on to that idealism in the hopes that it will teach me to keep breathing when the difficult days come back.
And then I remember that even when I was most idealistic, it wasn't the desire to revolutionise the world that kept me going. No, it was simply the desire to be where simply being who God created me to be would bring a smile to someone's face. And I realise that our twenty-one-year-old selves would probably still be ok with all that has happened in the last seven years, even if, on this end of the seven years, there aren't significant accolades to boast about.
And suddenly, I regain that excitement again. Suddenly in spite of how beaten down I feel, that buzz returns. Suddenly in spite of how I feel like I'd bitten off more than I can chew with The Bridge, I feel it in my bones again. Suddenly I remember that even if it's not my role to spark a revolution, I have a role to play, to journey with the idealisms of the university students as they discover their buzz and to stand with them when they decide they want to experience homelessness, or move to Christchurch, or help with food distribution and disaster relief in the Philippines.
Because I'm no longer that twenty-one-year-old self. My buzz no longer comes from the idealism of starting a revolution, but from being there when today's twenty-one-year-olds discover their buzz and celebrating with them who God created them to be.
Dear Keren, I still wish you were here to experience all this with me so you can sit me down in a way only you know how and help me process all that has happened. But it's ok now that you're not. I've gotten quite used to it now.
Dear Keren... Hey, I miss you. Someday, when we meet again we can go splash in the puddles and dance in the rain, then pile the pillows on the balcony, sip tea and talk about everything that has happened. But for now, I have things to do.
Until next time.
Arohanui,
Me
Showing posts with label Dear Keren. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dear Keren. Show all posts
09 May 2014
23 October 2013
The Bridge: The Love's Hangover Connection
I first met Emily my freshman year at Anderson University. She was in high school at the time, but her sister, Irene, was starting college the same year as me. We had gotten connected because her mum was also the office assistant for the international students association, and Emily often spent the time when she wasn’t at school hanging out in the office.
Somewhere between her freshman year at AU (my sophomore year) and my stint in Berlin, we stopped talking. I honestly didn’t even realize it had happened since I had been too self-absorbed in trying to finish college in 3 years to pay attention to the people around me.
Anyhow, the years passed and around the time I was preparing for Berlin, she got in touch and wanted to know if there was anything she and Irene could do to help get me there. One of the first things she said was, “You need to explain this Germany thing to me because you’re not the shove-Bible-down-people’s-throats missionary type, so why are you going, and what will you be doing?”
As I began to explain the ministry of XZBerlin, she said without hesitation that she and Irene were on-board to help fundraise. They had been running a handmade jewelry business for a while by then. As Emily would explain, Love’s Hangover had started as a hobby, but before long there were beads exploding all over their home. Since the beads got kicked out of their family home, they enlisted the help of their brother, Dennis, as their financial advisor, and rented a shop space in Noblesville, Indiana.
As their hobby expanded into a full-time business, Emily began to realize there was potential for Love’s Hangover to help sponsor other charitable organisations and ministry opportunities around the world—which was why she got in touch when she found out I was headed for Berlin. That was the real beginning of our friendship. “Business” conversations aside, she also asked questions about Keren’s death from a spiritual perspective that few others understood. She had also started working closely with one of my former roommates, Daria to start up other projects around the world. As we spent more time together, we often reminisced about our days as international students (Daria is from Poland; Emily and Irene’s family had emigrated from Kenya), and all the times spent with Scott and Anjie Martin who had become like our international mum and dad.
In the time that passed since Berlin, Emily and Love’s Hangover have been an incredible support for all the crazy stuff I’ve taken on around the world. Their business has exploded and taken them all over the US where they have even dressed Hollywood celebrities. Yet Emily still takes the time for small gigs like hosting tea and jewelry parties to help fundraise for The Bridge, for which I’m eternally grateful. I get to give back a little bit once in a while by sending over NZ-style beads and accessories, and generating publicity for them through fundraising projects and other ministry contacts like church craft fairs.
The friendship with Emily and Love’s Hangover has been a big inspiration for the ministry of The Bridge. If not for Scott and Anjie opening their home as a hang-out spot for us as international students, I don’t know that Emily and I would have much to talk about today or still be in contact, much less working together to impact the Kingdom around the world.
Part of what we hope to achieve through The Bridge is that students will be able to develop relationships that they can take with them past graduation, the same way that Emily and Love’s Hangover has been for me. Will you, your church or missions committee consider partnering with us? In time to come, we will be rolling out additional avenues for partnership, but our top priority at this point is fundraising. While we hope to eventually reach a point of self-sustainability, we are needing a start-up fund that will help get the word out about The Bridge and also sponsor my visa application. We are still working through the process through which funds can be received for The Bridge, but we would love to hear from you if you are able to help make this happen, whether through a one-time gift, a pledged donation, or hosting a jewelry and tea party through Love’s Hangover.**
Asante sana
Arohanui
** Limited to areas within reasonable driving distance from Noblesville, Indiana unless you're able to help cover transport costs.
Somewhere between her freshman year at AU (my sophomore year) and my stint in Berlin, we stopped talking. I honestly didn’t even realize it had happened since I had been too self-absorbed in trying to finish college in 3 years to pay attention to the people around me.
Anyhow, the years passed and around the time I was preparing for Berlin, she got in touch and wanted to know if there was anything she and Irene could do to help get me there. One of the first things she said was, “You need to explain this Germany thing to me because you’re not the shove-Bible-down-people’s-throats missionary type, so why are you going, and what will you be doing?”
As I began to explain the ministry of XZBerlin, she said without hesitation that she and Irene were on-board to help fundraise. They had been running a handmade jewelry business for a while by then. As Emily would explain, Love’s Hangover had started as a hobby, but before long there were beads exploding all over their home. Since the beads got kicked out of their family home, they enlisted the help of their brother, Dennis, as their financial advisor, and rented a shop space in Noblesville, Indiana.
As their hobby expanded into a full-time business, Emily began to realize there was potential for Love’s Hangover to help sponsor other charitable organisations and ministry opportunities around the world—which was why she got in touch when she found out I was headed for Berlin. That was the real beginning of our friendship. “Business” conversations aside, she also asked questions about Keren’s death from a spiritual perspective that few others understood. She had also started working closely with one of my former roommates, Daria to start up other projects around the world. As we spent more time together, we often reminisced about our days as international students (Daria is from Poland; Emily and Irene’s family had emigrated from Kenya), and all the times spent with Scott and Anjie Martin who had become like our international mum and dad.
In the time that passed since Berlin, Emily and Love’s Hangover have been an incredible support for all the crazy stuff I’ve taken on around the world. Their business has exploded and taken them all over the US where they have even dressed Hollywood celebrities. Yet Emily still takes the time for small gigs like hosting tea and jewelry parties to help fundraise for The Bridge, for which I’m eternally grateful. I get to give back a little bit once in a while by sending over NZ-style beads and accessories, and generating publicity for them through fundraising projects and other ministry contacts like church craft fairs.
The friendship with Emily and Love’s Hangover has been a big inspiration for the ministry of The Bridge. If not for Scott and Anjie opening their home as a hang-out spot for us as international students, I don’t know that Emily and I would have much to talk about today or still be in contact, much less working together to impact the Kingdom around the world.
Part of what we hope to achieve through The Bridge is that students will be able to develop relationships that they can take with them past graduation, the same way that Emily and Love’s Hangover has been for me. Will you, your church or missions committee consider partnering with us? In time to come, we will be rolling out additional avenues for partnership, but our top priority at this point is fundraising. While we hope to eventually reach a point of self-sustainability, we are needing a start-up fund that will help get the word out about The Bridge and also sponsor my visa application. We are still working through the process through which funds can be received for The Bridge, but we would love to hear from you if you are able to help make this happen, whether through a one-time gift, a pledged donation, or hosting a jewelry and tea party through Love’s Hangover.**
Asante sana
Arohanui
** Limited to areas within reasonable driving distance from Noblesville, Indiana unless you're able to help cover transport costs.
14 September 2013
Dear Keren: Piece of Home
Dear Keren,
At student group yesterday, Amy came up to me and asked for ideas of what she could get for a Chinese friend who was turning 18. She went on to explain that this friend had arrived in New Zealand two days after she did, and so she was her first friend, which made the friendship special.
It made me think of our first days at AU. You were my first friend too, but it wasn't until years later after you died when I was processing with Jenny what "home" means to me, that I realised you were also my piece of home away from home. Sure, there were lots of great memories made especially in the summer months when the campus was quieter, but I think what made our friendship special was that you made it ok for me to feel displaced. You were my home in that displacement, and you helped me made sense of so much of what eventually became a part of my identity as a Third Culture Kid.
Dear Keren, today I thank you for being that friend, and for helping me find a piece of home. If you were still around, I'd want you to be a part of this new thing I'm starting next year because you helped me become good at navigating these transitional waters. Nonetheless, I carry our friendship with me as I begin helping these international students find their place of home as they arrive in New Zealand and begin a new chapter here.
Dear Keren, thank you.
Arohanui,
me
At student group yesterday, Amy came up to me and asked for ideas of what she could get for a Chinese friend who was turning 18. She went on to explain that this friend had arrived in New Zealand two days after she did, and so she was her first friend, which made the friendship special.
It made me think of our first days at AU. You were my first friend too, but it wasn't until years later after you died when I was processing with Jenny what "home" means to me, that I realised you were also my piece of home away from home. Sure, there were lots of great memories made especially in the summer months when the campus was quieter, but I think what made our friendship special was that you made it ok for me to feel displaced. You were my home in that displacement, and you helped me made sense of so much of what eventually became a part of my identity as a Third Culture Kid.
Dear Keren, today I thank you for being that friend, and for helping me find a piece of home. If you were still around, I'd want you to be a part of this new thing I'm starting next year because you helped me become good at navigating these transitional waters. Nonetheless, I carry our friendship with me as I begin helping these international students find their place of home as they arrive in New Zealand and begin a new chapter here.
Dear Keren, thank you.
Arohanui,
me
05 August 2013
Faith Crises
The earliest one I remember happened when I was about eight or nine. It was at our church camp, and Pastor Neivelle had shared the story of his life as an ex-con. I remember him saying that even if our lives are not as colourful as his, God still wants to use us. As an eight or nine year old, I struggled with that. I was the good kid that stayed out of trouble. How could God possibly use me if I didn't have a fascinating story to tell? Pastor Neivelle then said we could invite Jesus into our hearts and he would help us figure that out. So I did.
Only a few years later, another crisis season hit. My brother and I had been the stars of our Sunday School as the kids who had been a part of the worship team since we were eleven and thirteen. We were also the Sunday School teachers' dream because we knew Moses from Abraham and found great joy in acing Bible quizzes. But by the time I turned thirteen, all I could think of was that someone was eventually going to call me out as a fake. I did all the right church things and tried my best to believe in God, but I didn't know what any of that meant. I even knew the right answers to the questions in the grown-up Bible study, but my questions were starting to be bigger than just about righteous living. You didn't have to follow Jesus to be a good person. I had been a good person my whole life, but I somehow knew that still wasn't the same as following Jesus or worshipping God. Those were frustrating years, and since I couldn't find answers in Church, music became my life. It only worsened the guilt of pretending to be a good Christian, but I didn't care since being a band geek gave me a high.
The year I turned sixteen, Pastor Caleb sat me down while we were at another church camp. He listened to my questions and he prayed with me. He talked me through the role of music in my life and what it could look like. About a year later as I was getting ready to leave for Anderson, he gave me the words from Luke 5, "Go a little deeper". It became the theme verse for the next big wave of what I now call "all the crazies". I don't remember much of what else happened then, but I remembered thinking maybe that season of crisis was over.
I was at the Connect Rally last night sponsored by the Wesleyan Church in New Zealand and the athletic department from Indiana Wesleyan University. Several of the youth and athletes from both Auckland and Indiana shared parts of their life story. There was a common thread in all the stories: crisis moments. Sports athletes whose worlds revolved around the sport they played crashing out because of injury and finding God in those moments. Family crisis, bullying and the death of close friends.
The thing about crisis moments is that they are often pivotal points in our spiritual journey. We hit those low points and in the moments of darkness and wrestling comes a point where we make a choice whether we hold on to the things we have always believed in, or we let go and embrace something else.
As I sat listening to those stories last night, I couldn't help thinking about my own faith crises. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a bit of a wuss in my seasons of crises. I wrestled, but I was always too afraid to let go completely of all the things I've always believed in.
When Keren died, I found myself surprised that I never questioned God. I remembered feeling like my world was completely shaken, but it was more because I was realising these things do actually happen in real life than because I was questioning whether God existed. I wondered then if I was wallowing enough in the depravity.
When I started seminary, I was looking forward to that season of existential crisis that all my other seminary friends talked about. But even my season of existential crisis was short. There had been two deaths in the family within a month of my starting seminary, and only a year after Keren had passed. I found myself struggling with being far away from family in that time, and began wondering if my call was even real. It was around 3am one night and I was trying to finish writing a paper on sanctification when I began realising I couldn't talk about sanctification if I wasn't even sure at that point if God was real.
In that moment, I panicked. And this is where I sometimes feel like I had wussed out instead of completely diving off the deep end. I emailed Greg and told him about my crisis moment, and explained that I probably wouldn't be able to finish my sanctification paper while I wasn't sure if this God thing was real. Then I turned my computer off and went to bed. Even in those moments, I prayed and prayed that when I woke up in the morning, God better show up and prove that God was real. When there were no fireworks or handwriting on the wall the next morning, I panicked even more.
I told Paul the next day about the crisis moment, and he gave me the very annoying, "aww, how cute" smile. I wanted him to push me off the deep end, but instead all he said was, "Even if you don't believe, God is big enough to believe in you." I silently cursed him out inside.
When I eventually came around, it wasn't because I had done all the scientific research and digging to prove that God is real. No, it was because Paul and Jen and Amity amongst others kept doing the very annoying, "aww, how cute" thing of reminding me that my faith was bigger than that.
As I thought about all these moments last night, I found myself wishing again that I had been braver and dove off the deep end into the unknown and embracing the possibility of life without God or acknowledgement of a greater being. The truth was, in all those moments of faith crises, as small as they were, my biggest fear wasn't of the unknown. I've lived with enough unknowns to not be afraid. I was more afraid of what I would become if I didn't have hope and certainty in a being that is bigger than the limitations of my human mind. I was afraid that in that dark space, I would no longer have reason to live. And because I'm too much of a wuss to even inflict self-harm, I would just be trapped in this in-between space of neither living nor dying.
And for that reason, I will always have great admiration for those who have dove off the deep end and is continuing the search for Truth because I think they have greater courage than me. And I get to live vicariously through them in their search for Truth and asking bigger questions that I lack the courage to ask.
This weekend marks six years since Keren's passing. I daren't claim to have achieved much in the last six years, except to have learnt to turn the crisis moments into stories that perpetuate the hope that keeps me going. It's the only way I know to find resolution to all of these crises.
Only a few years later, another crisis season hit. My brother and I had been the stars of our Sunday School as the kids who had been a part of the worship team since we were eleven and thirteen. We were also the Sunday School teachers' dream because we knew Moses from Abraham and found great joy in acing Bible quizzes. But by the time I turned thirteen, all I could think of was that someone was eventually going to call me out as a fake. I did all the right church things and tried my best to believe in God, but I didn't know what any of that meant. I even knew the right answers to the questions in the grown-up Bible study, but my questions were starting to be bigger than just about righteous living. You didn't have to follow Jesus to be a good person. I had been a good person my whole life, but I somehow knew that still wasn't the same as following Jesus or worshipping God. Those were frustrating years, and since I couldn't find answers in Church, music became my life. It only worsened the guilt of pretending to be a good Christian, but I didn't care since being a band geek gave me a high.
The year I turned sixteen, Pastor Caleb sat me down while we were at another church camp. He listened to my questions and he prayed with me. He talked me through the role of music in my life and what it could look like. About a year later as I was getting ready to leave for Anderson, he gave me the words from Luke 5, "Go a little deeper". It became the theme verse for the next big wave of what I now call "all the crazies". I don't remember much of what else happened then, but I remembered thinking maybe that season of crisis was over.
I was at the Connect Rally last night sponsored by the Wesleyan Church in New Zealand and the athletic department from Indiana Wesleyan University. Several of the youth and athletes from both Auckland and Indiana shared parts of their life story. There was a common thread in all the stories: crisis moments. Sports athletes whose worlds revolved around the sport they played crashing out because of injury and finding God in those moments. Family crisis, bullying and the death of close friends.
The thing about crisis moments is that they are often pivotal points in our spiritual journey. We hit those low points and in the moments of darkness and wrestling comes a point where we make a choice whether we hold on to the things we have always believed in, or we let go and embrace something else.
As I sat listening to those stories last night, I couldn't help thinking about my own faith crises. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a bit of a wuss in my seasons of crises. I wrestled, but I was always too afraid to let go completely of all the things I've always believed in.
When Keren died, I found myself surprised that I never questioned God. I remembered feeling like my world was completely shaken, but it was more because I was realising these things do actually happen in real life than because I was questioning whether God existed. I wondered then if I was wallowing enough in the depravity.
When I started seminary, I was looking forward to that season of existential crisis that all my other seminary friends talked about. But even my season of existential crisis was short. There had been two deaths in the family within a month of my starting seminary, and only a year after Keren had passed. I found myself struggling with being far away from family in that time, and began wondering if my call was even real. It was around 3am one night and I was trying to finish writing a paper on sanctification when I began realising I couldn't talk about sanctification if I wasn't even sure at that point if God was real.
In that moment, I panicked. And this is where I sometimes feel like I had wussed out instead of completely diving off the deep end. I emailed Greg and told him about my crisis moment, and explained that I probably wouldn't be able to finish my sanctification paper while I wasn't sure if this God thing was real. Then I turned my computer off and went to bed. Even in those moments, I prayed and prayed that when I woke up in the morning, God better show up and prove that God was real. When there were no fireworks or handwriting on the wall the next morning, I panicked even more.
I told Paul the next day about the crisis moment, and he gave me the very annoying, "aww, how cute" smile. I wanted him to push me off the deep end, but instead all he said was, "Even if you don't believe, God is big enough to believe in you." I silently cursed him out inside.
When I eventually came around, it wasn't because I had done all the scientific research and digging to prove that God is real. No, it was because Paul and Jen and Amity amongst others kept doing the very annoying, "aww, how cute" thing of reminding me that my faith was bigger than that.
As I thought about all these moments last night, I found myself wishing again that I had been braver and dove off the deep end into the unknown and embracing the possibility of life without God or acknowledgement of a greater being. The truth was, in all those moments of faith crises, as small as they were, my biggest fear wasn't of the unknown. I've lived with enough unknowns to not be afraid. I was more afraid of what I would become if I didn't have hope and certainty in a being that is bigger than the limitations of my human mind. I was afraid that in that dark space, I would no longer have reason to live. And because I'm too much of a wuss to even inflict self-harm, I would just be trapped in this in-between space of neither living nor dying.
And for that reason, I will always have great admiration for those who have dove off the deep end and is continuing the search for Truth because I think they have greater courage than me. And I get to live vicariously through them in their search for Truth and asking bigger questions that I lack the courage to ask.
This weekend marks six years since Keren's passing. I daren't claim to have achieved much in the last six years, except to have learnt to turn the crisis moments into stories that perpetuate the hope that keeps me going. It's the only way I know to find resolution to all of these crises.
17 July 2013
No Words
Dear Keren,
I feel like out of obligation to what has now become tradition, I need to say something on here because it's your birthday.
There's so much to say, but at the same time, nothing at all.
So I'll leave it at that.
Happy Birthday, dear friend.
Me.
I feel like out of obligation to what has now become tradition, I need to say something on here because it's your birthday.
There's so much to say, but at the same time, nothing at all.
So I'll leave it at that.
Happy Birthday, dear friend.
Me.
29 June 2013
Dear Keren: The Re-Entry Post
Dear Keren,
You must forgive me for being rambly and having disconnected thoughts in this one. If you were sitting in this room with me, this would have been like one of our heart-to-hearts that go down some rabbit trail, rather than you sitting there listening to me pour my heart out the entire conversation.
Larry asked the other day if I would share the story of the influences of my ministry to the missions committee at their church. It made me stop in my tracks because it was at that moment that I realised I hadn't really thought far enough ahead to figure out how I'm going to process re-entry into the US.
I guess I had been so exhausted prior to this trip that all this meant to me at the time was a vacation. But when Larry asked how Singapore had influenced my ministry life, I realised again how much the seven years in Anderson influenced me--not because Anderson was a better environment than Singapore, but because my world views were being expanded and I was given permission to think outside the box. And Anderson had been the home that most influenced my theology and ministry.
Being back in Anderson this time made the, "Where are you from?" question even harder to answer. It was the Global Gathering after all, and most folks don't have more than five seconds to wait for the answer to that question. And how do you explain, "Well, I was born in Singapore, live and work in Auckland, New Zealand. Those places are both where I'm from, but home for me is Anderson, Indiana--at least, at this point in my life"?
Getting off the plane in Portland, I knew to expect that things would be different now. I've done the re-entry thing enough times in the last nine years to know that. But seeing Judy in what would have been the driver's side of the car in New Zealand made me go, "Wait, I knew things were going to be different, but I didn't think it would be THAT different that Judy would be driving now."
I should have known then that as much as I can acknowledge that things are going to be different, I'm not going to fully understand just how different until I experience it all over again.
Like how there's now this strange addition on I-69 with a special exit ramp for Noblesville and Fishers to accommodate the population growth in those areas. Or why Qdoba and Panda Express have to have such bright store signs on Scatterfield as opposed to the old, rundown operations that used to occupy that space. And then there are the familiar quirks that stick around that make me smile. Like Anderson city water that shouldn't be consumed. Or the wider driving lanes and parking spots, AND the potholes.
The high-energy of the Global Gathering hadn't given me much time to think about re-entry. All I knew was, I was visiting Anderson to hang out with old friends, connect with churches and folks that have been supporting my ministry in New Zealand, and clearing out the rest of my stuff that had lived here the last two years. Two weeks wasn't going to be enough, but I was determined to make the most of it.
Kristin once said to me a few years ago as I was processing your passing that I shouldn't try to over-rationalize everything and give myself permission to feel as well. Jen told me it was ok to give myself permission to grieve having left Anderson. I thought I had been doing that in small doses enough to give myself space to breathe.
But it isn't until all the dear friends leave after the annual Mecca pilgrimage and you're driving around town back to the old haunts that it hits you. The ability to navigate around town makes it feel like it's still home, but it really isn't anymore--at least, not by real world definitions. I don't have a house, car or job here, and I really am only a visitor. I may still have a few boxes of very nerdy books and some momentos, but otherwise, I live out of a suitcase.
So today I made myself stop. In the breaks between the storms today, I took the few minutes to hang out at your tree. Not because I still live in the time of your passing six years ago, or because it's any special occasion. No, it's simply learning to visit with old friends while realising that things change over time.
I found myself telling Mike the other day, that as much as I tell people I was born in Singapore, it really is Anderson that I find myself most comfortable and at home in--at least at this point in my life. In the last few years, going back to Singapore hasn't felt like a home-going anymore. Sure, I go back to visit family and friends, but there are now too many new shopping malls I don't recognise, and lifestyle patterns that I'm finding harder and harder to follow.
And maybe someday Anderson will feel like that. Even this time, things have changed. The weather remains predictably unpredictable, but parts of the city look different, just as friendships have also changed. For some, distance has brought about a stronger bond; others have been hurt by the proximity. All the same, when we find ourselves in the same room, it's like no time had passed in between.
Today I went out and got boxes to start packing up the rest of my material life in Anderson. It's time to let go a little bit more and move on a little bit more. All the same, we hold on to people, and we carry their hearts, and hope that they would do the same.
Arthur says your tree grows; that it's a tree of remembrance.
As Chuck from Elizabethtown says, "Life and death right next door to each other."
A part of me died with you nearly six years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a sense of adventure.
A part of me died with my existential crisis some four years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a sense of awe for the God of grace.
A part of me died with the things that got ugly two years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a desperate desire for reconciliation and Kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.
All the same, we sift through the ashes of the hurt and the broken, and find the beauty to pack away in the boxes. And we carry those pieces with us--the friendships, the pieces of home, the love and grace of Creator God that shone through the ashes--and we pack those away in the boxes we carry with us to new places and new adventures.
Dear Keren, I wish we could have another one of those semi-serious conversations about living in so many parts of the world--finding home in each of these places and learning not just how to go but how to leave behind.
Dear Keren, hey, I know it'll be a while before we get to talk again. But someday we'll pick up right where we left off hey?
Love,
Me.
You must forgive me for being rambly and having disconnected thoughts in this one. If you were sitting in this room with me, this would have been like one of our heart-to-hearts that go down some rabbit trail, rather than you sitting there listening to me pour my heart out the entire conversation.
Larry asked the other day if I would share the story of the influences of my ministry to the missions committee at their church. It made me stop in my tracks because it was at that moment that I realised I hadn't really thought far enough ahead to figure out how I'm going to process re-entry into the US.
I guess I had been so exhausted prior to this trip that all this meant to me at the time was a vacation. But when Larry asked how Singapore had influenced my ministry life, I realised again how much the seven years in Anderson influenced me--not because Anderson was a better environment than Singapore, but because my world views were being expanded and I was given permission to think outside the box. And Anderson had been the home that most influenced my theology and ministry.
Being back in Anderson this time made the, "Where are you from?" question even harder to answer. It was the Global Gathering after all, and most folks don't have more than five seconds to wait for the answer to that question. And how do you explain, "Well, I was born in Singapore, live and work in Auckland, New Zealand. Those places are both where I'm from, but home for me is Anderson, Indiana--at least, at this point in my life"?
Getting off the plane in Portland, I knew to expect that things would be different now. I've done the re-entry thing enough times in the last nine years to know that. But seeing Judy in what would have been the driver's side of the car in New Zealand made me go, "Wait, I knew things were going to be different, but I didn't think it would be THAT different that Judy would be driving now."
I should have known then that as much as I can acknowledge that things are going to be different, I'm not going to fully understand just how different until I experience it all over again.
Like how there's now this strange addition on I-69 with a special exit ramp for Noblesville and Fishers to accommodate the population growth in those areas. Or why Qdoba and Panda Express have to have such bright store signs on Scatterfield as opposed to the old, rundown operations that used to occupy that space. And then there are the familiar quirks that stick around that make me smile. Like Anderson city water that shouldn't be consumed. Or the wider driving lanes and parking spots, AND the potholes.
The high-energy of the Global Gathering hadn't given me much time to think about re-entry. All I knew was, I was visiting Anderson to hang out with old friends, connect with churches and folks that have been supporting my ministry in New Zealand, and clearing out the rest of my stuff that had lived here the last two years. Two weeks wasn't going to be enough, but I was determined to make the most of it.
Kristin once said to me a few years ago as I was processing your passing that I shouldn't try to over-rationalize everything and give myself permission to feel as well. Jen told me it was ok to give myself permission to grieve having left Anderson. I thought I had been doing that in small doses enough to give myself space to breathe.
But it isn't until all the dear friends leave after the annual Mecca pilgrimage and you're driving around town back to the old haunts that it hits you. The ability to navigate around town makes it feel like it's still home, but it really isn't anymore--at least, not by real world definitions. I don't have a house, car or job here, and I really am only a visitor. I may still have a few boxes of very nerdy books and some momentos, but otherwise, I live out of a suitcase.
So today I made myself stop. In the breaks between the storms today, I took the few minutes to hang out at your tree. Not because I still live in the time of your passing six years ago, or because it's any special occasion. No, it's simply learning to visit with old friends while realising that things change over time.
I found myself telling Mike the other day, that as much as I tell people I was born in Singapore, it really is Anderson that I find myself most comfortable and at home in--at least at this point in my life. In the last few years, going back to Singapore hasn't felt like a home-going anymore. Sure, I go back to visit family and friends, but there are now too many new shopping malls I don't recognise, and lifestyle patterns that I'm finding harder and harder to follow.
And maybe someday Anderson will feel like that. Even this time, things have changed. The weather remains predictably unpredictable, but parts of the city look different, just as friendships have also changed. For some, distance has brought about a stronger bond; others have been hurt by the proximity. All the same, when we find ourselves in the same room, it's like no time had passed in between.
Today I went out and got boxes to start packing up the rest of my material life in Anderson. It's time to let go a little bit more and move on a little bit more. All the same, we hold on to people, and we carry their hearts, and hope that they would do the same.
Arthur says your tree grows; that it's a tree of remembrance.
As Chuck from Elizabethtown says, "Life and death right next door to each other."
A part of me died with you nearly six years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a sense of adventure.
A part of me died with my existential crisis some four years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a sense of awe for the God of grace.
A part of me died with the things that got ugly two years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a desperate desire for reconciliation and Kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.
All the same, we sift through the ashes of the hurt and the broken, and find the beauty to pack away in the boxes. And we carry those pieces with us--the friendships, the pieces of home, the love and grace of Creator God that shone through the ashes--and we pack those away in the boxes we carry with us to new places and new adventures.
Dear Keren, I wish we could have another one of those semi-serious conversations about living in so many parts of the world--finding home in each of these places and learning not just how to go but how to leave behind.
Dear Keren, hey, I know it'll be a while before we get to talk again. But someday we'll pick up right where we left off hey?
Love,
Me.
16 April 2013
Where We Come From: Homesick
The year was 2007, and it must have been either June or July. Holly, Keren and I had, on this random night, decided we were going to "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's for ice-cream, as college students spontaneously do. I don't remember what else was on the playlist that night, except for two of Keren's favourites at the time. The windows were down, and we were singing at the top of our lungs, "Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your girlfriend!" and "Oh, **** it, I'm gonna have a party!"
I don't know what it was like for the Holly and Keren. But six years have passed, and I look back at that "roadtrip" now and think of it as a coming of age marker for me. Only a couple months ago, I had walked across the platform in Kardatzke Wellness Center as a celebration of the culmination of three ridiculous years' work towards a bachelor's degree. Anderson University had by then become a place where I had struggled long and hard with my self-identity, and just like that, those three years were over. Keren and I had by then had several long discussions about our dreams about the future, and she was just beginning to find her place while I was still looking for mine.
You see, Keren was a Third-Culture kid. Born in El Salvador, she eventually moved to Romania when her parents took a missionary assignment with a church there. She, and my other TCK friends, talked often about how they could never simply check one box when it came down to filling out forms about where they came from. She was at a conference for international students once, and when it came time for breakout sessions, attendees were asked to split into groups based on the region she came from. Was she to go to the one for Latin America or the one for Europe? There was never one single box to check.
I remembered one of our conversations being about the things we were passionate about. She said she was slightly jealous of friends who had found their niche in their passion for social justice, or art, or something of the sort, because she hadn't found her own. I remembered thinking the same thing. I loved music, but having studied it at the college level with an over-emphasis on performance (which I hated) killed it.
Then one day, she had just gotten back from a weekend in Chicago where she had been a part of a conference called, "Displace Me". It was a movement about creating awareness of displaced people. After all the time spent trying to figure out which box to check, she finally found it. Her passion. Working with displaced people because she herself was displaced.
That had all just fallen into place weeks before that summer. Then before that summer was over, her life was taken.
It was years before I started really processing everything that happened that summer. You see, I had forgotten about the phonecall I received that night on the "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's. In our laughter and singing, we missed the ramp for the motorway twice, and ended up halfway to Columbus, Ohio. We had gotten so frustrated that we eventually decided to simply head home, but ended up missing the off-ramp for the Anderson exit as well. Somewhere in the midst of all the chaos, Dad had rung up to chat and was asking about how things were progressing with my job search. By the time I hung up, I was even more frustrated from trying to explain to Dad the cultural differences in the job search process.
Holly and Keren calmly listened to my ranting for a while before Keren finally said, "You know, our parents haven't lived here themselves. They may have some ideals about what life is like here, but they are not the reality that we live in. And it isn't anybody's fault, we just have to learn to adapt to this new reality that we live in different worlds now."
It wasn't until years later when I began processing that I realised I had become displaced too. I had spent significant amount of time with my Missionary Kid/Third-Culture Kids friends while in college to know the traits of a TCK, and to begin to understand the way they think. But I had never saw myself as a TCK until then.
For a few years after that, I struggled to navigate the waters of this new revelation that a new chapter had begun in the pages of my self-identity. It was hardest around November because I would be celebrating American Thanksgiving with Danielle's family, thinking about the right time to call or e-mail Dad on his birthday. Then right after that, the countdown towards the time I left wintry Anderson for sunny Singapore would begin and I would get particularly homesick thinking of time with the cousins, the BFFs, the church family and all the yummy food. The night before I boarded the plane would usually be the worst. I always love going, but I hate leaving. It's in that in-between time that I feel most displaced.
Nine years later, this displacement hasn't gone away. I've moved yet again, and the understanding of homesickness has re-shaped itself as well. It doesn't help that even with all the diversity in Auckland, folks here still take one look at me, hear me speak and automatically ask the dreaded, "Where are you from?" Yes, I know I'm yellow on the outside, sound like white America, and have the black, red and gold of Germany hanging in the Snuggery where I live, but the truth is, I have too many other colours on the inside. I would happily don the black, red and green of my Kenyan sister, Emily, the vibrant flowers of my Island whanau, while wearing the intricately beaded headpieces of the Lakotas, a people near and dear to my heart.
And the in-between times... Gosh, the in-between times are the worst. Nina who has become one of my Auckland church mums came up to me at church yesterday, gave me a big hug and said, "You've been a bit homesick, haven't you?" The tears came really close, but I wasn't sure if it was because someone noticed, or if it was because I hadn't even noticed it myself until she pointed it out. There's so much here that I love and wouldn't be ready to leave, even if just for a month. But there's a part of me that's already in Portland having bubble tea with Arthur and a massive pow-wow with Cassie. Another part of me has already tasted the corn and cherry tomatoes from Heidi's garden, and solved all the problems of the world with the semiNerdian friends. And still another part of me has already snuggled with Hannah and thrown fries at Amanda.
And maybe that's why I love airports so much. Because I feel less alone in the in-between-ness, even if no one else in the waiting lounge is as crazy/displaced enough to be processing these thoughts.
I was scrolling through old photos on Facebook earlier and found this one, taken in front Brandenburger Tor in Berlin. It was one of the first days we were there and there were various exhibits that we could take photos with. Some were historical; others political; still others, simply funny. This little guy here though, reminded me too much of myself. By the time I got to Germany, I had come to the realisation that no matter what part of the world I move to or how many times I move, wherever I sleep that night would be home, but I would also still be homesick for at least one of the other homes.
That is the new normal now. And it will be ok.
Emily sent me this photo via Whatsapp today. I hadn't expected it because it wasn't a significant date. But it was the reminder I needed that I wasn't alone in this warped in-between place. A few months after Keren died, they planted a tree on campus in remembrance of her. When I still lived in Anderson, I would visit on her birth and death anniversary with the yellow flowers she wanted on her last birthday. It became a place of solitude in the summer months as well. Months before I moved, I told Emily that I wasn't sure what I would do anymore on her birth and death anniversary. She offered to simply bring flowers to visit whenever she was able. Emi, thank you.
This. This is where we come from.
I don't know what it was like for the Holly and Keren. But six years have passed, and I look back at that "roadtrip" now and think of it as a coming of age marker for me. Only a couple months ago, I had walked across the platform in Kardatzke Wellness Center as a celebration of the culmination of three ridiculous years' work towards a bachelor's degree. Anderson University had by then become a place where I had struggled long and hard with my self-identity, and just like that, those three years were over. Keren and I had by then had several long discussions about our dreams about the future, and she was just beginning to find her place while I was still looking for mine.
You see, Keren was a Third-Culture kid. Born in El Salvador, she eventually moved to Romania when her parents took a missionary assignment with a church there. She, and my other TCK friends, talked often about how they could never simply check one box when it came down to filling out forms about where they came from. She was at a conference for international students once, and when it came time for breakout sessions, attendees were asked to split into groups based on the region she came from. Was she to go to the one for Latin America or the one for Europe? There was never one single box to check.
I remembered one of our conversations being about the things we were passionate about. She said she was slightly jealous of friends who had found their niche in their passion for social justice, or art, or something of the sort, because she hadn't found her own. I remembered thinking the same thing. I loved music, but having studied it at the college level with an over-emphasis on performance (which I hated) killed it.
Then one day, she had just gotten back from a weekend in Chicago where she had been a part of a conference called, "Displace Me". It was a movement about creating awareness of displaced people. After all the time spent trying to figure out which box to check, she finally found it. Her passion. Working with displaced people because she herself was displaced.
That had all just fallen into place weeks before that summer. Then before that summer was over, her life was taken.
It was years before I started really processing everything that happened that summer. You see, I had forgotten about the phonecall I received that night on the "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's. In our laughter and singing, we missed the ramp for the motorway twice, and ended up halfway to Columbus, Ohio. We had gotten so frustrated that we eventually decided to simply head home, but ended up missing the off-ramp for the Anderson exit as well. Somewhere in the midst of all the chaos, Dad had rung up to chat and was asking about how things were progressing with my job search. By the time I hung up, I was even more frustrated from trying to explain to Dad the cultural differences in the job search process.
Holly and Keren calmly listened to my ranting for a while before Keren finally said, "You know, our parents haven't lived here themselves. They may have some ideals about what life is like here, but they are not the reality that we live in. And it isn't anybody's fault, we just have to learn to adapt to this new reality that we live in different worlds now."
It wasn't until years later when I began processing that I realised I had become displaced too. I had spent significant amount of time with my Missionary Kid/Third-Culture Kids friends while in college to know the traits of a TCK, and to begin to understand the way they think. But I had never saw myself as a TCK until then.
For a few years after that, I struggled to navigate the waters of this new revelation that a new chapter had begun in the pages of my self-identity. It was hardest around November because I would be celebrating American Thanksgiving with Danielle's family, thinking about the right time to call or e-mail Dad on his birthday. Then right after that, the countdown towards the time I left wintry Anderson for sunny Singapore would begin and I would get particularly homesick thinking of time with the cousins, the BFFs, the church family and all the yummy food. The night before I boarded the plane would usually be the worst. I always love going, but I hate leaving. It's in that in-between time that I feel most displaced.
Nine years later, this displacement hasn't gone away. I've moved yet again, and the understanding of homesickness has re-shaped itself as well. It doesn't help that even with all the diversity in Auckland, folks here still take one look at me, hear me speak and automatically ask the dreaded, "Where are you from?" Yes, I know I'm yellow on the outside, sound like white America, and have the black, red and gold of Germany hanging in the Snuggery where I live, but the truth is, I have too many other colours on the inside. I would happily don the black, red and green of my Kenyan sister, Emily, the vibrant flowers of my Island whanau, while wearing the intricately beaded headpieces of the Lakotas, a people near and dear to my heart.
And the in-between times... Gosh, the in-between times are the worst. Nina who has become one of my Auckland church mums came up to me at church yesterday, gave me a big hug and said, "You've been a bit homesick, haven't you?" The tears came really close, but I wasn't sure if it was because someone noticed, or if it was because I hadn't even noticed it myself until she pointed it out. There's so much here that I love and wouldn't be ready to leave, even if just for a month. But there's a part of me that's already in Portland having bubble tea with Arthur and a massive pow-wow with Cassie. Another part of me has already tasted the corn and cherry tomatoes from Heidi's garden, and solved all the problems of the world with the semiNerdian friends. And still another part of me has already snuggled with Hannah and thrown fries at Amanda.
And maybe that's why I love airports so much. Because I feel less alone in the in-between-ness, even if no one else in the waiting lounge is as crazy/displaced enough to be processing these thoughts.
That is the new normal now. And it will be ok.
Emily sent me this photo via Whatsapp today. I hadn't expected it because it wasn't a significant date. But it was the reminder I needed that I wasn't alone in this warped in-between place. A few months after Keren died, they planted a tree on campus in remembrance of her. When I still lived in Anderson, I would visit on her birth and death anniversary with the yellow flowers she wanted on her last birthday. It became a place of solitude in the summer months as well. Months before I moved, I told Emily that I wasn't sure what I would do anymore on her birth and death anniversary. She offered to simply bring flowers to visit whenever she was able. Emi, thank you.
This. This is where we come from.
23 September 2012
The Big Death
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.
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.
06 August 2012
Five Years On
Dear Keren,
I remember a night like this, five years ago.
The night where words and groans were not enough to express anguish.
The night where the need to call a friend at two in the morning defined the crisis mode.
The night where acceptance of this new reality of life without your smile and laughter started to sink in.
It was the phonecall I didn't want to receive.
Five years on, and the events of that weekend linger still, fresh as ever.
They didn't tell me why they needed to get in touch with your brother.
Only that you were in an accident.
People don't die that easily from accidents. Right?
Then they asked if I wanted to go see you in the hospital.
Was there a need?
It can't be that bad, can it?
Then I saw you lying there with all those extra science keeping you alive.
Why didn't they do more for you?
They called themselves Christians, but they didn't believe in a miracle?
I wanted to touch you, but I was afraid I would completely suck the life out of you if I did.
And then that morning at church.
I knew it was a matter of time before I would get that phonecall.
"Her parents just got in. They're taking her off life-support."
And then that strange woman.
I hardly knew her, but she was forcing me to swallow yoghurt.
"You may not have an appetite, but you need food in your system, and you can slurp down yoghurt."
You forced me into accepting community so I could never walk alone again.
That strange woman, with her husband and three boys became family.
Your father gave me permission to keep memories of you alive through staying in touch.
The story of our friendship was so simple, yet so complicated to explain without drawing others into my story, and the life that has unfolded ever since that day five years ago.
Dear Keren, tonight I revisited Elizabethtown with new friends. New people who will help me navigate the pages of my story. Telling the stories of what made us friends and what made Elizabethtown important forced me to celebrate the little pieces of life that has unfolded in the last five years.
Dear Keren, they asked me to write to you. To continue to tell you the stories of all that I've seen and the people I've met. Funny, because if you recall, we were supposed to meet at 4pm on August 3 five years ago to trade what would have been the last stories on this side of your life. 4pm came and went on August 3, 2007 with you lying with way too much of science trying to keep you alive at the Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis.
Dear Keren, these days they keep asking me what I do. I keep wanting to tell them, I collect stories. It may not be a real job, but it's what I do. The stories didn't end on August 3, 2007. So I will keep writing. I will keep collecting stories and share them with you as we would have done on that very day five years ago.
Love,
Me
I remember a night like this, five years ago.
The night where words and groans were not enough to express anguish.
The night where the need to call a friend at two in the morning defined the crisis mode.
The night where acceptance of this new reality of life without your smile and laughter started to sink in.
It was the phonecall I didn't want to receive.
Five years on, and the events of that weekend linger still, fresh as ever.
They didn't tell me why they needed to get in touch with your brother.
Only that you were in an accident.
People don't die that easily from accidents. Right?
Then they asked if I wanted to go see you in the hospital.
Was there a need?
It can't be that bad, can it?
Then I saw you lying there with all those extra science keeping you alive.
Why didn't they do more for you?
They called themselves Christians, but they didn't believe in a miracle?
I wanted to touch you, but I was afraid I would completely suck the life out of you if I did.
And then that morning at church.
I knew it was a matter of time before I would get that phonecall.
"Her parents just got in. They're taking her off life-support."
And then that strange woman.
I hardly knew her, but she was forcing me to swallow yoghurt.
"You may not have an appetite, but you need food in your system, and you can slurp down yoghurt."
You forced me into accepting community so I could never walk alone again.
That strange woman, with her husband and three boys became family.
Your father gave me permission to keep memories of you alive through staying in touch.
The story of our friendship was so simple, yet so complicated to explain without drawing others into my story, and the life that has unfolded ever since that day five years ago.
Dear Keren, tonight I revisited Elizabethtown with new friends. New people who will help me navigate the pages of my story. Telling the stories of what made us friends and what made Elizabethtown important forced me to celebrate the little pieces of life that has unfolded in the last five years.
Dear Keren, they asked me to write to you. To continue to tell you the stories of all that I've seen and the people I've met. Funny, because if you recall, we were supposed to meet at 4pm on August 3 five years ago to trade what would have been the last stories on this side of your life. 4pm came and went on August 3, 2007 with you lying with way too much of science trying to keep you alive at the Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis.
Dear Keren, these days they keep asking me what I do. I keep wanting to tell them, I collect stories. It may not be a real job, but it's what I do. The stories didn't end on August 3, 2007. So I will keep writing. I will keep collecting stories and share them with you as we would have done on that very day five years ago.
Love,
Me
19 January 2012
Dear Keren - The Cycle of Life, and Things They Never Taught Us
Dear Keren,
Today, Rochelle said something about trying to figure out how to explain to Ashton and Rhea (her 4- and 2-year-old) that the Beisleys were moving back to the US for good.
I kinda smiled inside. You would remember that just over four years ago when you left, we went through the phase of being angry that we might have missed the day at school when they taught us how to say goodbye. Would that have been Primary 1, or First Grade, or Year 2?
Goodbyes are a part of life. When we move away, when friends move away, when pets die, when Grandpa "became a moth in the after-life," these things all disturb the normal cycle of life.
When Grandpa became a moth in the after-life, we didn't go to school for a few days. I remember watching Grandma fall apart the day before we were to bury him. And then Grandma moved out of their flat in Blk 837, and us grandkids no longer hung out at that playground anymore. For years after that, every time I walked past that playground on the way to my uncle's house before or after school, I would from time to time wonder what it would be like if Grandpa were still alive, and if that playground would still be our stomping grounds.
But nobody taught me that I was really saying goodbye to Grandpa when they gave me instructions to toss the white rose into his burial grounds.
Years later, we moved to the flat my parents still live in now. I no longer had a direct bus home from school, which meant that since Mum picked me up on their way home from my aunt's, I didn't get to hang out with Laura on the bus anymore. It was all good because we had a fight the year before anyway, a stupid fight that only 10-year-olds were capable of.
But nobody taught me that moving didn't just mean that our peanut-butter jars and my stuffed Hello Kitty now lived on a different shelf. It meant becoming friends with Lydia and new lifestyle habits like visiting the library everyday after school to check out every single Babysitters Club book they had available since we now lived across the public library.
You see, I think when you left, I learnt that goodbyes don't have to be an ugly thing for the rest of our lives. I still miss you from time to time, but I'm ok with the fact that you're gone now, except for when people get awkward when I talk about death like it's a normal thing. Even now, when people ask me about the story of the ring I'm wearing, I don't always tell the full story because people get awkward when they find out it once belonged to a friend who died in a car accident.
Death IS a reality. As fatalistic as this sounds, at the end, we all die.
But that's the problem. See, they never gave us permission to talk about death or saying goodbye.
"If we don't talk about death, maybe we can pretend it's not there."
Or bullying in schools.
Or prostitution and/or other present day slavery and human trafficking.
Or the struggles that displaced people faced (Yes, I see you nodding your head, thinking about our conversations about Displace Me).
Or the oppression because of corporate greed.
Or...
"But if we just don't talk about it, maybe it will go away. Or we can pretend it's not there."
The truth is, goodbyes are a reality of life.
And even if bullying and other forms of oppression aren't our reality, as long as it's someone else's reality, it's our responsibility as followers of the Christ to change that reality to Kingdom Reality, right?
Or am I reading "do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God" wrongly?
Dear Keren, I wish you were still here so we can continue these conversations. I wish you could be a part of the conversations I'm having now to make the conversations we had five years ago become even more of a reality. But I'm reminded from time to time of the task I have to continue these conversations, even if you're no longer here to be one of few friends who didn't laugh when I wanted to be homeless, or work in a coffeeshop, or run a bed-and-breakfast.
Dear Keren, I will keep these conversations going. I will (and have already) continue to find like-minded people to bring more conversations together.
Dear Keren...
I miss you.
Until next time,
Me.
Thus says the LORD of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon, ‘Build houses and live in them; and plant gardens and eat their produce. Take wives and become the fathers of sons and daughters, and take wives for your sons and give your daughters to husbands, that they may bear sons and daughters; and multiply there and do not decrease. Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf; for in its welfare you will have welfare.’ - Jeremiah 29:4-6
Today, Rochelle said something about trying to figure out how to explain to Ashton and Rhea (her 4- and 2-year-old) that the Beisleys were moving back to the US for good.
I kinda smiled inside. You would remember that just over four years ago when you left, we went through the phase of being angry that we might have missed the day at school when they taught us how to say goodbye. Would that have been Primary 1, or First Grade, or Year 2?
Goodbyes are a part of life. When we move away, when friends move away, when pets die, when Grandpa "became a moth in the after-life," these things all disturb the normal cycle of life.
When Grandpa became a moth in the after-life, we didn't go to school for a few days. I remember watching Grandma fall apart the day before we were to bury him. And then Grandma moved out of their flat in Blk 837, and us grandkids no longer hung out at that playground anymore. For years after that, every time I walked past that playground on the way to my uncle's house before or after school, I would from time to time wonder what it would be like if Grandpa were still alive, and if that playground would still be our stomping grounds.
But nobody taught me that I was really saying goodbye to Grandpa when they gave me instructions to toss the white rose into his burial grounds.
Years later, we moved to the flat my parents still live in now. I no longer had a direct bus home from school, which meant that since Mum picked me up on their way home from my aunt's, I didn't get to hang out with Laura on the bus anymore. It was all good because we had a fight the year before anyway, a stupid fight that only 10-year-olds were capable of.
But nobody taught me that moving didn't just mean that our peanut-butter jars and my stuffed Hello Kitty now lived on a different shelf. It meant becoming friends with Lydia and new lifestyle habits like visiting the library everyday after school to check out every single Babysitters Club book they had available since we now lived across the public library.
You see, I think when you left, I learnt that goodbyes don't have to be an ugly thing for the rest of our lives. I still miss you from time to time, but I'm ok with the fact that you're gone now, except for when people get awkward when I talk about death like it's a normal thing. Even now, when people ask me about the story of the ring I'm wearing, I don't always tell the full story because people get awkward when they find out it once belonged to a friend who died in a car accident.
Death IS a reality. As fatalistic as this sounds, at the end, we all die.
But that's the problem. See, they never gave us permission to talk about death or saying goodbye.
"If we don't talk about death, maybe we can pretend it's not there."
Or bullying in schools.
Or prostitution and/or other present day slavery and human trafficking.
Or the struggles that displaced people faced (Yes, I see you nodding your head, thinking about our conversations about Displace Me).
Or the oppression because of corporate greed.
Or...
"But if we just don't talk about it, maybe it will go away. Or we can pretend it's not there."
The truth is, goodbyes are a reality of life.
And even if bullying and other forms of oppression aren't our reality, as long as it's someone else's reality, it's our responsibility as followers of the Christ to change that reality to Kingdom Reality, right?
Or am I reading "do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God" wrongly?
Dear Keren, I wish you were still here so we can continue these conversations. I wish you could be a part of the conversations I'm having now to make the conversations we had five years ago become even more of a reality. But I'm reminded from time to time of the task I have to continue these conversations, even if you're no longer here to be one of few friends who didn't laugh when I wanted to be homeless, or work in a coffeeshop, or run a bed-and-breakfast.
Dear Keren, I will keep these conversations going. I will (and have already) continue to find like-minded people to bring more conversations together.
Dear Keren...
I miss you.
Until next time,
Me.
Thus says the LORD of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon, ‘Build houses and live in them; and plant gardens and eat their produce. Take wives and become the fathers of sons and daughters, and take wives for your sons and give your daughters to husbands, that they may bear sons and daughters; and multiply there and do not decrease. Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf; for in its welfare you will have welfare.’ - Jeremiah 29:4-6
07 August 2011
Dear Keren #13: $150 Excess Baggage
Dear Keren,
I sat by the coast at Long Beach yesterday and watched the people and the waters. There's something calming about the way the scent of the sea breeze filling your lungs and watching the waters make their way to the shore, even if it's manmade. Then again, maybe it's the soul of the city child that longs for manmade beauty to bring comfort.
How do I even begin to put to words everything that has transpired in the last couple of months?
In the span of a couple weeks, the material things that marked the pieces of my life in the last seven years had to be reduced to two suitcases and a duffle bag. Furniture was sold. I had to figure out what amongst the ridiculous amounts of t-shirts that had accumulated through my college years carried enough sentimental value to not be thrown into one of seven trash bags to be brought to the Christian Center. Trinkets and books went into separate boxes: two for the Christian Center and two for storage with the adopted family.
Even after that, I still had to pay $150 for excess baggage.
Part of me wants to ask, why can't the world be more understanding about me moving halfway across the world, and just waive the $150. Another part of me wants to ask, why would they understand? Why should they?
And then there's another thing that struck me as odd. Seven years ago when I left, I carried with me picture frames that held images of persons I considered important to me. This time, it didn't even occur to me I should be packing those. If I did, the excess baggage fee would be so much more because I now have way too many of those, in too many different parts of the world. Which makes me thankful for me iTouch because I can keep these on Facebook. I've never been one to purchase gadgets like these regardless of my fascination with them, but considering how it made the additional eighteen hours I had to spend in LA more bearable, I don't have a choice but to be thankful. And especially now, too, that I can be typing this while I'm on the plane.
So you see, so much has changed in these seven years. I remember still so clearly, what it was like that Friday, August 20, 2004 (see, I even write my date differently now) when I boarded that SQ flight to be transported to LAX. As I was sorting through the old junk, I came across the journal that I kept during that transitional time. Apparently, I had written something along the lines of somehow magically wishing that maybe when I got off the plane, I wouldn't be facing the cornfields of Indiana, but would find the familiar faces that I had just left behind in SIN there ready to welcome me. And today, I have that same feeling. Except I was wishing for my Anderson family to be greeting me in SIN.
Typically on the flight back over Christmas break, whenever I had an option between the Asian or Western meals, I'd go for the one from the region I'd go for the Asian one because it was semblance of home. On this flight, they even have movies by Singaporean producers in preparation for the National Day celebration, but it made me sick in the stomach realizing that even if Kit Chan's "Home" were playing in the background right now, the home that I would be sick for would be in places I would never have dreamed seven years ago. Places like Anderson, Portland and Silverthorne. And not because of Layton Road or Pershing Dr, or University Blvd or College Ave, Hawthorne Ave or I-70 West.
But the people.
These are the people who have walked through the crap that life has thrown me since you died four years ago. They are the ones who understand why I grief the way I do every August 3. I still miss you, but I also miss the part of me, and the sense of home that died along with you that day. They are the Emilys who don't try to hurry me along the journey of healing, but go to the site of the accident to sit with me and lay flowers by your tree, even if they didn't feel comfortable doing that. They are the Jens, the Amitys and the Pauls who laughed at my faith crises not because they thought I was being ridiculous, but because even if I tried to not have that typical Seminarian faith crises, they were glad I was doing seminary well enough to really let it challenge me. They are the Tims who change my oil for free, and the Nikkis who challenged me to really think about the implications of this thing called free-will. They are the Emilys and Ashleys who drop everything to take me to Sno Castle in my last hour in Anderson, the Ricks that we run into just as he is getting off work who jumps into the car with us, and the Jasons and Michaels who upon receiving a text that says nothin more than "Sno Castle. Right now." rearranges their work schedule so they can be there. They are the Amandas who, with one Skype call makes me feel like my soul has just been cleansed. They are the Dans and Christys, the Johns and Jodies, the Darlenes, the Ruths who keep cheering me on on this wild journey in pursuit of those dreams. They are the Macs and Jeans, the Phils and Phyllises, the Dorises and Jacquies who "grandparent" from the sidelines but give me space to grow. They are the Eds and the Heidis who create space for my friends, the Thads, Tobys and Theos who can sweet-talk me into reading Harry Potter and bungee jump off a tall building for them. They are the Hannahs and Jamies who call before I leave. They are the Alexs who just show up. They are the Beccas and the Sharyns who understand why the news I received just before leaving create so much anxiety because of the prophetic call in my life, and remind me that even if I wasn't leaving, nothing would change. They are the Jacks whose kindred spirit refreshed my soul and reignited the passion to live this crazy life after a dreary two months of "until next times." They are the Ryans who share my beliefs about community, the Mikes who remind me of what is important in ministry, the Coppesses who takes the time to be serious every once in a while to ask how I'm doing, and the Carmas, Joyces, Kathis and Paulas who make time for me. They are the Arthurs and Judys, the Pauls and Debbies who give me permission to say I have a home (their home) in Anderson and Portland.
These are the things that make home for me. And since it will be a while before we land and my bubble of home is burst by the reality check, let me slide back into denial for a while, shut off into my world of Bejeweled where I can pretend I can smack-talk Coppess, Tim and Nikki, or read Harry Potter pretending I can talk to Thad, Jen, Alex, Tim, Nikki, Tim, Kit, Jacob, Emily and Ashley about it.
I sat by the coast at Long Beach yesterday and watched the people and the waters. There's something calming about the way the scent of the sea breeze filling your lungs and watching the waters make their way to the shore, even if it's manmade. Then again, maybe it's the soul of the city child that longs for manmade beauty to bring comfort.
How do I even begin to put to words everything that has transpired in the last couple of months?
In the span of a couple weeks, the material things that marked the pieces of my life in the last seven years had to be reduced to two suitcases and a duffle bag. Furniture was sold. I had to figure out what amongst the ridiculous amounts of t-shirts that had accumulated through my college years carried enough sentimental value to not be thrown into one of seven trash bags to be brought to the Christian Center. Trinkets and books went into separate boxes: two for the Christian Center and two for storage with the adopted family.
Even after that, I still had to pay $150 for excess baggage.
Part of me wants to ask, why can't the world be more understanding about me moving halfway across the world, and just waive the $150. Another part of me wants to ask, why would they understand? Why should they?
And then there's another thing that struck me as odd. Seven years ago when I left, I carried with me picture frames that held images of persons I considered important to me. This time, it didn't even occur to me I should be packing those. If I did, the excess baggage fee would be so much more because I now have way too many of those, in too many different parts of the world. Which makes me thankful for me iTouch because I can keep these on Facebook. I've never been one to purchase gadgets like these regardless of my fascination with them, but considering how it made the additional eighteen hours I had to spend in LA more bearable, I don't have a choice but to be thankful. And especially now, too, that I can be typing this while I'm on the plane.
So you see, so much has changed in these seven years. I remember still so clearly, what it was like that Friday, August 20, 2004 (see, I even write my date differently now) when I boarded that SQ flight to be transported to LAX. As I was sorting through the old junk, I came across the journal that I kept during that transitional time. Apparently, I had written something along the lines of somehow magically wishing that maybe when I got off the plane, I wouldn't be facing the cornfields of Indiana, but would find the familiar faces that I had just left behind in SIN there ready to welcome me. And today, I have that same feeling. Except I was wishing for my Anderson family to be greeting me in SIN.
Typically on the flight back over Christmas break, whenever I had an option between the Asian or Western meals, I'd go for the one from the region I'd go for the Asian one because it was semblance of home. On this flight, they even have movies by Singaporean producers in preparation for the National Day celebration, but it made me sick in the stomach realizing that even if Kit Chan's "Home" were playing in the background right now, the home that I would be sick for would be in places I would never have dreamed seven years ago. Places like Anderson, Portland and Silverthorne. And not because of Layton Road or Pershing Dr, or University Blvd or College Ave, Hawthorne Ave or I-70 West.
But the people.
These are the people who have walked through the crap that life has thrown me since you died four years ago. They are the ones who understand why I grief the way I do every August 3. I still miss you, but I also miss the part of me, and the sense of home that died along with you that day. They are the Emilys who don't try to hurry me along the journey of healing, but go to the site of the accident to sit with me and lay flowers by your tree, even if they didn't feel comfortable doing that. They are the Jens, the Amitys and the Pauls who laughed at my faith crises not because they thought I was being ridiculous, but because even if I tried to not have that typical Seminarian faith crises, they were glad I was doing seminary well enough to really let it challenge me. They are the Tims who change my oil for free, and the Nikkis who challenged me to really think about the implications of this thing called free-will. They are the Emilys and Ashleys who drop everything to take me to Sno Castle in my last hour in Anderson, the Ricks that we run into just as he is getting off work who jumps into the car with us, and the Jasons and Michaels who upon receiving a text that says nothin more than "Sno Castle. Right now." rearranges their work schedule so they can be there. They are the Amandas who, with one Skype call makes me feel like my soul has just been cleansed. They are the Dans and Christys, the Johns and Jodies, the Darlenes, the Ruths who keep cheering me on on this wild journey in pursuit of those dreams. They are the Macs and Jeans, the Phils and Phyllises, the Dorises and Jacquies who "grandparent" from the sidelines but give me space to grow. They are the Eds and the Heidis who create space for my friends, the Thads, Tobys and Theos who can sweet-talk me into reading Harry Potter and bungee jump off a tall building for them. They are the Hannahs and Jamies who call before I leave. They are the Alexs who just show up. They are the Beccas and the Sharyns who understand why the news I received just before leaving create so much anxiety because of the prophetic call in my life, and remind me that even if I wasn't leaving, nothing would change. They are the Jacks whose kindred spirit refreshed my soul and reignited the passion to live this crazy life after a dreary two months of "until next times." They are the Ryans who share my beliefs about community, the Mikes who remind me of what is important in ministry, the Coppesses who takes the time to be serious every once in a while to ask how I'm doing, and the Carmas, Joyces, Kathis and Paulas who make time for me. They are the Arthurs and Judys, the Pauls and Debbies who give me permission to say I have a home (their home) in Anderson and Portland.
These are the things that make home for me. And since it will be a while before we land and my bubble of home is burst by the reality check, let me slide back into denial for a while, shut off into my world of Bejeweled where I can pretend I can smack-talk Coppess, Tim and Nikki, or read Harry Potter pretending I can talk to Thad, Jen, Alex, Tim, Nikki, Tim, Kit, Jacob, Emily and Ashley about it.
04 August 2011
Dear Keren #12 - 4 Years Ago...
Dear Keren,
I will always remember the events of this night four years ago.
Likewise, I will always remember the events of this day four years from now.
So much to feel, think, say, do, write.
But for now, sleep calls.
Love,
Me
I will always remember the events of this night four years ago.
Likewise, I will always remember the events of this day four years from now.
So much to feel, think, say, do, write.
But for now, sleep calls.
Love,
Me
31 July 2011
Dear Keren #11 - Softly and Tenderly, the Cornfields are Calling
Dear Keren,
This summer has been full of randomness. Mostly because whenever someone calls, as much as I can, I drop everything to go hang out with them. Who knows when the next time will be?
But the one recurring pattern for this summer has been the 30 minute drive through the cornfields to get to Noblesville to bead and to share stories. I still think it's weird for me to think of it this way, but that weekly 30 minute drive has provided some sense of normalcy and routine.
As I drove through those cornfields today, I was suddenly brought back to the first time I took my own solitary road trip. I was going to Courtney and Kyle's wedding, and driving Andrew's car since he was in Uganda and his car was going to just be sitting in the parking lot at church. The winding cornfields and country roads that took me from Anderson to Monticello. Ah, yes. Wide open spaces. I was starting to fall in love.
The date was May 7, 2004. I had just landed in these cornfields and someone had signed me up for my auditions with the Music Department. The events of that weekend was such a whirlwind, and then we were off on our roadtrip. I think there were 7 women, and my poor pastor, the only male. Anyhow, at one of the bed and breakfast places that we stopped at, I remember this guy asking us what in the world we were doing in the cornfields of Indiana. I don't remember what our response was, but it was something along the lines of, I didn't know we were in the middle of cornfields.
Having spent a significant part of my life in the city, it was weird for my mum and I to think about me spending the next four years of my life in the middle of cornfields. New experiences were exciting, but I wasn't sure I would ever feel at home in the middle of cornfields.
Driving through the cornfields today, I realised a few things: 1) Growing up in the city, I always knew what bus or train got me to where I needed to go, but I could never tell you what street the place is on, or how to drive there. 2) I still got lost around the cornfields some, but I knew I-69, I-465, I-65 and I-70, SR-32 and SR-37 well enough to maneuver around without getting too frustrated. 3) I couldn't deny it any longer: the cornfields have become home too.
And I hear them calling. Softly. Tenderly.
But they don't say come home, come home.
They say go. Take off. Soar. Fly.
But remember where you are rooted.
Not just in the wide open spaces and the cornfields.
Not just in the bright lights of the big city.
But in the spiritual beings that give you home.
And come back when it's time.
And take off again when it's time.
Home will never hold you back from being the best you you can be.
Dear Keren, you have been a big part of helping me find my home. Not just while you were here those three years. But even in the life after, our friendship continues to remind me that home is never simply a geographical location.
Home is the souls that you can keep in your pockets and take with you wherever the wind blows.
Home is the little notes to cheer you on in the middle of the battle.
Home is, I believe you.
Home is, I'd love to keep you here, but you need to go so you can be the best you you can be.
Softly and tenderly, the cornfields are calling...
Go on...
Go on.
This summer has been full of randomness. Mostly because whenever someone calls, as much as I can, I drop everything to go hang out with them. Who knows when the next time will be?
But the one recurring pattern for this summer has been the 30 minute drive through the cornfields to get to Noblesville to bead and to share stories. I still think it's weird for me to think of it this way, but that weekly 30 minute drive has provided some sense of normalcy and routine.
As I drove through those cornfields today, I was suddenly brought back to the first time I took my own solitary road trip. I was going to Courtney and Kyle's wedding, and driving Andrew's car since he was in Uganda and his car was going to just be sitting in the parking lot at church. The winding cornfields and country roads that took me from Anderson to Monticello. Ah, yes. Wide open spaces. I was starting to fall in love.
The date was May 7, 2004. I had just landed in these cornfields and someone had signed me up for my auditions with the Music Department. The events of that weekend was such a whirlwind, and then we were off on our roadtrip. I think there were 7 women, and my poor pastor, the only male. Anyhow, at one of the bed and breakfast places that we stopped at, I remember this guy asking us what in the world we were doing in the cornfields of Indiana. I don't remember what our response was, but it was something along the lines of, I didn't know we were in the middle of cornfields.
Having spent a significant part of my life in the city, it was weird for my mum and I to think about me spending the next four years of my life in the middle of cornfields. New experiences were exciting, but I wasn't sure I would ever feel at home in the middle of cornfields.
Driving through the cornfields today, I realised a few things: 1) Growing up in the city, I always knew what bus or train got me to where I needed to go, but I could never tell you what street the place is on, or how to drive there. 2) I still got lost around the cornfields some, but I knew I-69, I-465, I-65 and I-70, SR-32 and SR-37 well enough to maneuver around without getting too frustrated. 3) I couldn't deny it any longer: the cornfields have become home too.
And I hear them calling. Softly. Tenderly.
But they don't say come home, come home.
They say go. Take off. Soar. Fly.
But remember where you are rooted.
Not just in the wide open spaces and the cornfields.
Not just in the bright lights of the big city.
But in the spiritual beings that give you home.
And come back when it's time.
And take off again when it's time.
Home will never hold you back from being the best you you can be.
Dear Keren, you have been a big part of helping me find my home. Not just while you were here those three years. But even in the life after, our friendship continues to remind me that home is never simply a geographical location.
Home is the souls that you can keep in your pockets and take with you wherever the wind blows.
Home is the little notes to cheer you on in the middle of the battle.
Home is, I believe you.
Home is, I'd love to keep you here, but you need to go so you can be the best you you can be.
Softly and tenderly, the cornfields are calling...
Go on...
Go on.
24 July 2011
Dear Keren #10 - The Last Supper
Dear Keren,
After a full-day of sitting out in this ridiculous heat waiting for people to show up to the least-attended garage sale so far, I'm completely spent. But I still spent the last 2 hours doing the prep work for dinner tomorrow night. Why, you ask?
Well, it's one of the last suppers.
Tomorrow night, Paul, Debbie and the rest of the gang get home and I'll be done house-sitting. The last time for a while, I guess. Tomorrow night, I return Paul and Debbie the key that I've held on to for a long while "just in case they needed me to check on Fritz." Tomorrow night, we sit and visit with Matt, Tamara, Keira and Judah, and Jenny.
Which makes me wonder, was this what Jesus went through that night of the Last Supper? He knew he was going to see those people at the table again in one of the many rooms in his Father's house. "If it were not so, I would have told you." I'm becoming even more convinced that his anguish about the cross isn't just about the physical pain, but the emotional pain of between the cross until the next time.
And yet, in the midst of all this preparations for the end of this chapter, there's nothing I find myself desiring more than a sense of normalcy. This summer has slipped by way too quickly, and has been a little too spontaneous for my liking. I've greatly missed the intimacy of friendships that normalcy provided. I miss sitting in the SOT computer labs whining about the latest of someone's theological development that is making us wince, or the Charlie Sheen scandal. Instead, I'm being swarmed with questions about how the preparations for New Zealand are going, when all I want to do is scream, what about my soul? Do you care more about the things I'll be doing in New Zealand than about my soul? But if I don't have a soul, I wouldn't be able to do the things in New Zealand anyway.
But to be fair, I don't want to talk about my soul either. Because I'm afraid if I start, I won't be able to stop crying. As it turns out, leaving Anderson is much harder than I thought it would be.
I wonder too, if this was what that whole deal about going into the city, and meeting the man carrying the pitcher of water. I mean, Jesus' disciples were already used to his riddles and mysteries by now, so perhaps getting them to do another ridiculous thing was just another part of this creating normalcy in the midst of the chaos and the internal storms that are brewing.
What was it like for you, in those last moments before the truck got too close? Did you have those internal storms too, in the moments between then and when they finally pulled you off life-support?
Dear Keren, I hate endings, but I love beginnings. I love going, but I hate leaving. I crave normalcy, but I'm also desire adventure. And there's only eleven days left. And I miss you for being my first sense of home in the land of displacement between cultures. And...
In the words of Regina Spektor, "I'll come back when you call me, No need to say goodbye."
Love,
Me
It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into a hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word
And then that word grew louder and louder
'Til it was a battle cry
I'll come back
When you call me
No need to say goodbye
Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never
Been this way before
All you can do is try to know
Who your friends are
As you head off to the war
Pick a star on the dark horizon
And follow the light
You'll come back
When it's over
No need to say good bye
You'll come back
When it's over
No need to say good bye
Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it too
Doesn't mean that you have to forget
Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
'Til they're before your eyes
You'll come back
When they call you
No need to say good bye
After a full-day of sitting out in this ridiculous heat waiting for people to show up to the least-attended garage sale so far, I'm completely spent. But I still spent the last 2 hours doing the prep work for dinner tomorrow night. Why, you ask?
Well, it's one of the last suppers.
Tomorrow night, Paul, Debbie and the rest of the gang get home and I'll be done house-sitting. The last time for a while, I guess. Tomorrow night, I return Paul and Debbie the key that I've held on to for a long while "just in case they needed me to check on Fritz." Tomorrow night, we sit and visit with Matt, Tamara, Keira and Judah, and Jenny.
Which makes me wonder, was this what Jesus went through that night of the Last Supper? He knew he was going to see those people at the table again in one of the many rooms in his Father's house. "If it were not so, I would have told you." I'm becoming even more convinced that his anguish about the cross isn't just about the physical pain, but the emotional pain of between the cross until the next time.
And yet, in the midst of all this preparations for the end of this chapter, there's nothing I find myself desiring more than a sense of normalcy. This summer has slipped by way too quickly, and has been a little too spontaneous for my liking. I've greatly missed the intimacy of friendships that normalcy provided. I miss sitting in the SOT computer labs whining about the latest of someone's theological development that is making us wince, or the Charlie Sheen scandal. Instead, I'm being swarmed with questions about how the preparations for New Zealand are going, when all I want to do is scream, what about my soul? Do you care more about the things I'll be doing in New Zealand than about my soul? But if I don't have a soul, I wouldn't be able to do the things in New Zealand anyway.
But to be fair, I don't want to talk about my soul either. Because I'm afraid if I start, I won't be able to stop crying. As it turns out, leaving Anderson is much harder than I thought it would be.
I wonder too, if this was what that whole deal about going into the city, and meeting the man carrying the pitcher of water. I mean, Jesus' disciples were already used to his riddles and mysteries by now, so perhaps getting them to do another ridiculous thing was just another part of this creating normalcy in the midst of the chaos and the internal storms that are brewing.
What was it like for you, in those last moments before the truck got too close? Did you have those internal storms too, in the moments between then and when they finally pulled you off life-support?
Dear Keren, I hate endings, but I love beginnings. I love going, but I hate leaving. I crave normalcy, but I'm also desire adventure. And there's only eleven days left. And I miss you for being my first sense of home in the land of displacement between cultures. And...
In the words of Regina Spektor, "I'll come back when you call me, No need to say goodbye."
Love,
Me
It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into a hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word
And then that word grew louder and louder
'Til it was a battle cry
I'll come back
When you call me
No need to say goodbye
Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never
Been this way before
All you can do is try to know
Who your friends are
As you head off to the war
Pick a star on the dark horizon
And follow the light
You'll come back
When it's over
No need to say good bye
You'll come back
When it's over
No need to say good bye
Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it too
Doesn't mean that you have to forget
Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
'Til they're before your eyes
You'll come back
When they call you
No need to say good bye
19 July 2011
Dear Keren #9 - My Life Is Full
Dear Keren,
I'm sitting in my retreat space, completely surrounded by the bagillion thank-you cards that need to be sent out to the people who have made an impact on my life in the last seven years in Anderson. Right now, my life feels as full of chaos as the stuff that I'm surrounded by, and the condition that my room is in. A part of my stuff is already filling up a suitcase, a couple boxes have been filled that will be going to the garage sale that's happening this weekend, and another trash bag full of stuff that I'm just throwing away or recycling.
And it's 2am, and I'm finally taking a sanity break from this day. I'm still awake, but I think I'm going to go ahead and blame this on the Pacific Northwest for messing up my sleep-cycle. I guess the fact that I'm functioning on my own schedule now doesn't help huh.
These last few days in Anderson are now being filled up faster than I can catch up with.
There's a ton of sorting and packing that needs to be done. And in the middle of doing that, I found a bunch of old photos that I forgot existed. Cards that still make me smile. Papers I had written in undergrad that make me realise how much I had learnt in the last seven years. Not so much about how the dominant seventh chords should resolve, or what songs to teach children for each developmental stage of life they are in, or how to plan a worship service. But realising how focused I was in undergrad that I never really made time for people.
There's errands that need to be run like making sure my car gets sold, the insurance gets cancelled, the bank accounts get taken care of, and silly things like that that's supposed to make life easier but really just complicate it more.
There's a bagillion thank-you cards that need to be made and sent.
And a bagillion people I need to see. I'm getting to the point where I feel like I'm just seeing people for the sake of seeing people and I hate that feeling. Deep down inside, I really wish I could spend more time with each of the people I'm visiting with, but even if I had all the time in the world, it wouldn't be enough. So I pay my dues to each person and I move on. And it drives me crazy after I do that, but I don't know how else to manage.
As I looked through all the junk earlier today, my allergies started going crazy from the dust that had accumulated over the last couple years since the last time I moved. But more than that, for that few seconds, I felt like my soul had just disconnected from my body and, looking at all the junk that surrounded me, realised what a fascinating journey this life so far has been. And I'm only 25, but the Creator still isn't quite done with me yet. How can this be? And what more is there to come?
And sure, I have seven years of junk I need to get rid of, but quite frankly, that's all that is. Junk. The real treasures are the people, and yet I don't even get to carry all of them together with me. It almost feels kinda silly that I'm filling suitcases with clothes and stuff instead of memories.
But yet, as much junk as there is surrounding me, my life is full. Thinking back to the last couple weeks, I've been reminded again and again of all the people I have in my life.
At NAC, I got to spend time with countless old friends from seminary. Friends who, each time I converse with them, fill my soul.
And countless old friends from the missionary community. Friends who relate to my somewhat strange worldview.
And their children. Friends who embrace me with complete abandonment not because I do them favours or anything like that but simply because they love me out of their innocence.
And others in the Church who believe in love.
In the Pacific Northwest, I got to spend time with Arthur and Judy, Dave, DeAnn, Sherri, Neil, Andi and Audrey, Jenny, Dave and Connie, Becca and Ryan, Laura, Jess, Isaac, Minnie and EJ, Ryan, Robin, Ella and Lunden, Lauren, Katie and Ashley, Perry and Carla, Cassie, Bill and Mary, Stephanie and Brett, Kelly, Randee, Sean, Jeff, Christina and Tymon, and Matt and Abbey.
Since coming back to Anderson, I had lunch with Amity, Scott and Rick.
Beaded and talked till 3am with Emy.
Went to Frazier's with Michael.
Frolfed and harassed Coppess with Rick then went to dinner with them.
Visited with Mac and Jean.
Watched Harry Potter with Tim, Nikki, Tim, Kit and Jacob.
Had ribs with Jason, his dad, Michael and Royce.
Had pizza, played Phase10 and watched the Newsies with Julia and B-row.
Hung out at Keren's tree for her birthday.
Caught up with Ryan and Anjie.
Said our "see you again" with Mike and Wendy.
Hung out with Greg, Linda, Nathanael and Abigail, Laura and (crazy drummer) Kirk.
Catch up with Danielle.
And tomorrow I get to have lunch with Jen and Mary.
And play games with Xen and Sarah, and Becca and Ryan.
And have tea with Ann.
And Wiffleball Wedneday.
And lunch with Mac and Jean and the sibs.
And bead and talk some more with Emy.
And Freak Freer-Fry Friday.
And garage sale Saturday with Ginny and JM, John and Elizabeth, and Jason.
I'm blown away that my life can be this full. Because just a few years ago, I wasn't sure I knew how to be in relationship anymore. Remember, we had this conversation just a couple years back? I was just starting to get to the place where I could say ok, I'm ready to have people in my life again. It started slowly, and painfully, this learning to be vulnerable in relationships again. And before I even realised it, four years have passed since the day you went away, and here I am.
Still miss you. Still wish you were here. But my life is so full, and I've never been more thankful.
Love,
Me
I'm sitting in my retreat space, completely surrounded by the bagillion thank-you cards that need to be sent out to the people who have made an impact on my life in the last seven years in Anderson. Right now, my life feels as full of chaos as the stuff that I'm surrounded by, and the condition that my room is in. A part of my stuff is already filling up a suitcase, a couple boxes have been filled that will be going to the garage sale that's happening this weekend, and another trash bag full of stuff that I'm just throwing away or recycling.
And it's 2am, and I'm finally taking a sanity break from this day. I'm still awake, but I think I'm going to go ahead and blame this on the Pacific Northwest for messing up my sleep-cycle. I guess the fact that I'm functioning on my own schedule now doesn't help huh.
These last few days in Anderson are now being filled up faster than I can catch up with.
There's a ton of sorting and packing that needs to be done. And in the middle of doing that, I found a bunch of old photos that I forgot existed. Cards that still make me smile. Papers I had written in undergrad that make me realise how much I had learnt in the last seven years. Not so much about how the dominant seventh chords should resolve, or what songs to teach children for each developmental stage of life they are in, or how to plan a worship service. But realising how focused I was in undergrad that I never really made time for people.
There's errands that need to be run like making sure my car gets sold, the insurance gets cancelled, the bank accounts get taken care of, and silly things like that that's supposed to make life easier but really just complicate it more.
There's a bagillion thank-you cards that need to be made and sent.
And a bagillion people I need to see. I'm getting to the point where I feel like I'm just seeing people for the sake of seeing people and I hate that feeling. Deep down inside, I really wish I could spend more time with each of the people I'm visiting with, but even if I had all the time in the world, it wouldn't be enough. So I pay my dues to each person and I move on. And it drives me crazy after I do that, but I don't know how else to manage.
As I looked through all the junk earlier today, my allergies started going crazy from the dust that had accumulated over the last couple years since the last time I moved. But more than that, for that few seconds, I felt like my soul had just disconnected from my body and, looking at all the junk that surrounded me, realised what a fascinating journey this life so far has been. And I'm only 25, but the Creator still isn't quite done with me yet. How can this be? And what more is there to come?
And sure, I have seven years of junk I need to get rid of, but quite frankly, that's all that is. Junk. The real treasures are the people, and yet I don't even get to carry all of them together with me. It almost feels kinda silly that I'm filling suitcases with clothes and stuff instead of memories.
But yet, as much junk as there is surrounding me, my life is full. Thinking back to the last couple weeks, I've been reminded again and again of all the people I have in my life.
At NAC, I got to spend time with countless old friends from seminary. Friends who, each time I converse with them, fill my soul.
And countless old friends from the missionary community. Friends who relate to my somewhat strange worldview.
And their children. Friends who embrace me with complete abandonment not because I do them favours or anything like that but simply because they love me out of their innocence.
And others in the Church who believe in love.
In the Pacific Northwest, I got to spend time with Arthur and Judy, Dave, DeAnn, Sherri, Neil, Andi and Audrey, Jenny, Dave and Connie, Becca and Ryan, Laura, Jess, Isaac, Minnie and EJ, Ryan, Robin, Ella and Lunden, Lauren, Katie and Ashley, Perry and Carla, Cassie, Bill and Mary, Stephanie and Brett, Kelly, Randee, Sean, Jeff, Christina and Tymon, and Matt and Abbey.
Since coming back to Anderson, I had lunch with Amity, Scott and Rick.
Beaded and talked till 3am with Emy.
Went to Frazier's with Michael.
Frolfed and harassed Coppess with Rick then went to dinner with them.
Visited with Mac and Jean.
Watched Harry Potter with Tim, Nikki, Tim, Kit and Jacob.
Had ribs with Jason, his dad, Michael and Royce.
Had pizza, played Phase10 and watched the Newsies with Julia and B-row.
Hung out at Keren's tree for her birthday.
Caught up with Ryan and Anjie.
Said our "see you again" with Mike and Wendy.
Hung out with Greg, Linda, Nathanael and Abigail, Laura and (crazy drummer) Kirk.
Catch up with Danielle.
And tomorrow I get to have lunch with Jen and Mary.
And play games with Xen and Sarah, and Becca and Ryan.
And have tea with Ann.
And Wiffleball Wedneday.
And lunch with Mac and Jean and the sibs.
And bead and talk some more with Emy.
And Freak Freer-Fry Friday.
And garage sale Saturday with Ginny and JM, John and Elizabeth, and Jason.
I'm blown away that my life can be this full. Because just a few years ago, I wasn't sure I knew how to be in relationship anymore. Remember, we had this conversation just a couple years back? I was just starting to get to the place where I could say ok, I'm ready to have people in my life again. It started slowly, and painfully, this learning to be vulnerable in relationships again. And before I even realised it, four years have passed since the day you went away, and here I am.
Still miss you. Still wish you were here. But my life is so full, and I've never been more thankful.
Love,
Me
17 July 2011
Dear Keren #8 - Becky and the Church Part 4, and a Happy Birthday
Dear Keren,
This week, I have been angry. Really angry. Angry to the point that I'm even surprising myself that I have the capacity for this anger. Angry to the point that Michael and Jason are slightly concerned by the amount of physical violence I'm threatening.
(Don't worry, I'm going to try to deal with this healthily. They are going to look for something for me to beat up to take my anger out. Or something.)
I've talked about the "Dark Year" for a while now without ever really getting into it. There really isn't a point in talking about that year anymore, because the part of the family that made that year so dark has fought hard amongst themselves to the point where I think we are starting to make some headway. Sure, it hasn't been easy, but was the fight worth it? I think so. I do wish some of the sacrifices that had to be made never happened, but look at us now. I'm grateful.
Yet on the other hand, there's another part of the family that seems to be taking one baby step at a time to make my life a living hell. Don't get me wrong; they are not bad people. They're very well-intentioned, but sometimes I wonder if they really took the time to think through the implications of what they are deciding to do.
There are times in our life-cycle where we fall and make a boo-boo, and a little bandage with the Hello Kitty or the Smurfs will do fine. There are other times in our life-cycle where it's a matter of internal bleeding, and no amount of Smurf bandages are going to help anymore.
In the years that have passed since that Dark Year, healing has come for that part of the family. But my wounds are only just starting to heal... and not because a doctor with magical powers came to wave their wand over my wounds, but because time, and a significant enough number of people from that family have allowed me to grieve with them over those wounds.
And now this. This is cutting deeper than the wounds left behind from the Dark Year.
Maybe it's because I had naively allowed myself to, even just for a second, think that we're making progress as a family.
Maybe it's because my old wounds have only just started to heal.
Maybe it's because for a second, I thought this family had learnt how to genuinely care for each other, and for relationships.
Maybe it's because I thought it was safe for me to assume I had enough of a relationship with that part of the family to depend on them for just that little bit of support to get me through this ending/beginning season of life.
Maybe, maybe, maybe...
Whatever the reason, the truth is, we're all a bunch of messed-up people. Each with our own baggage bringing our messes to the table. Whatever we decide to do with that, I think the Creator will use to fashion into the beauty that is a part of a bigger tapestry than we can see at the moment.
But the other side of the truth is, it still hurts like hell right now. It's like that same feeling of lying awake at 2am the nights after you went away, wanting to scream but not even sure what words to use.
I've always struggled with being as authentic as I can in my relationships. When I was younger, it meant I didn't say anything to anyone because this is my baggage to carry. As I got older, I thought being authentic meant learning to trust a few with my inner-most thoughts and those relationships always ended abruptly when I least expect. Then when you went away, I wasn't sure I would ever be able to give anything more in my relationships because eventually shit happens, and then we die.
Yet I had to relearn what it means to choose life again, and a part of that meant learning to be authentic in my relationships again instead of simply giving the "Hi, how are you, I'm good." answers and walking away. Because in light of this week, I want to stop feeling. Because my anger toward that part of the family is making me react negatively to other parts of the family. And I have less than three weeks left to pack things up around here. That's not enough time to screw up relationships now and try to reconcile before I leave.
In light of the fact that it is your birthday in a few more minutes, I want to be able to say I will choose life even while my heart is hurting right now. I know this will turn around, and not because I believe in the family. At least, right now, I don't anymore. But I believe in the Creator of Love, that is Love in itself. And I believe eventually this love will overwhelm again to the point where healing can begin.
But right now, this just hurts like hell. And maybe for right now, choosing life is choosing to feel the hurt of the frailty of humanity.
Happy 25th Birthday, KEB.
Miss you so very much,
Me
This week, I have been angry. Really angry. Angry to the point that I'm even surprising myself that I have the capacity for this anger. Angry to the point that Michael and Jason are slightly concerned by the amount of physical violence I'm threatening.
(Don't worry, I'm going to try to deal with this healthily. They are going to look for something for me to beat up to take my anger out. Or something.)
I've talked about the "Dark Year" for a while now without ever really getting into it. There really isn't a point in talking about that year anymore, because the part of the family that made that year so dark has fought hard amongst themselves to the point where I think we are starting to make some headway. Sure, it hasn't been easy, but was the fight worth it? I think so. I do wish some of the sacrifices that had to be made never happened, but look at us now. I'm grateful.
Yet on the other hand, there's another part of the family that seems to be taking one baby step at a time to make my life a living hell. Don't get me wrong; they are not bad people. They're very well-intentioned, but sometimes I wonder if they really took the time to think through the implications of what they are deciding to do.
There are times in our life-cycle where we fall and make a boo-boo, and a little bandage with the Hello Kitty or the Smurfs will do fine. There are other times in our life-cycle where it's a matter of internal bleeding, and no amount of Smurf bandages are going to help anymore.
In the years that have passed since that Dark Year, healing has come for that part of the family. But my wounds are only just starting to heal... and not because a doctor with magical powers came to wave their wand over my wounds, but because time, and a significant enough number of people from that family have allowed me to grieve with them over those wounds.
And now this. This is cutting deeper than the wounds left behind from the Dark Year.
Maybe it's because I had naively allowed myself to, even just for a second, think that we're making progress as a family.
Maybe it's because my old wounds have only just started to heal.
Maybe it's because for a second, I thought this family had learnt how to genuinely care for each other, and for relationships.
Maybe it's because I thought it was safe for me to assume I had enough of a relationship with that part of the family to depend on them for just that little bit of support to get me through this ending/beginning season of life.
Maybe, maybe, maybe...
Whatever the reason, the truth is, we're all a bunch of messed-up people. Each with our own baggage bringing our messes to the table. Whatever we decide to do with that, I think the Creator will use to fashion into the beauty that is a part of a bigger tapestry than we can see at the moment.
But the other side of the truth is, it still hurts like hell right now. It's like that same feeling of lying awake at 2am the nights after you went away, wanting to scream but not even sure what words to use.
I've always struggled with being as authentic as I can in my relationships. When I was younger, it meant I didn't say anything to anyone because this is my baggage to carry. As I got older, I thought being authentic meant learning to trust a few with my inner-most thoughts and those relationships always ended abruptly when I least expect. Then when you went away, I wasn't sure I would ever be able to give anything more in my relationships because eventually shit happens, and then we die.
Yet I had to relearn what it means to choose life again, and a part of that meant learning to be authentic in my relationships again instead of simply giving the "Hi, how are you, I'm good." answers and walking away. Because in light of this week, I want to stop feeling. Because my anger toward that part of the family is making me react negatively to other parts of the family. And I have less than three weeks left to pack things up around here. That's not enough time to screw up relationships now and try to reconcile before I leave.
In light of the fact that it is your birthday in a few more minutes, I want to be able to say I will choose life even while my heart is hurting right now. I know this will turn around, and not because I believe in the family. At least, right now, I don't anymore. But I believe in the Creator of Love, that is Love in itself. And I believe eventually this love will overwhelm again to the point where healing can begin.
But right now, this just hurts like hell. And maybe for right now, choosing life is choosing to feel the hurt of the frailty of humanity.
Happy 25th Birthday, KEB.
Miss you so very much,
Me
13 June 2011
Dear Keren #8 - Becky and the Church Part 3
Dear Keren,
I sat in that building again today, as has become routine over the last three years since I left and came back. It's become a habit for me in the last couple months since I've known that the sun was setting on my time here to, every time I get the opportunity, look at all the people that have become family to me over the last three years. Sometimes it happens from up front, sometimes I secretly enjoy sneaking in late just to catch that few extra minutes of sleep--but also so I can sit in the back pews and just let the image of this whole messy, chaotic family find its roots in my heart.
But today was different. I sat at a different corner up front, then moved down to one of the wings halfway through the service. There was a candle-lighting piece in the later half of the service and again, I watched as all these faces--some familiar, some not so much--one by one came forward to light a candle. Some, I've known for a long time, and not just them, but generations in their family before and/or after them. Some I've just gotten to know very recently.
And then I noticed them. Ah yes, Jim and Betty were my landlords some years back--specifically, the year after the dark year ended. Quite frankly, I wasn't sure back then if I should allow myself to develop affection for them. After all, they were a part of that building--the one where the messy, chaotic family was learning then what it meant to live as family. All the murmurings, complaints, hurtful comments and attitudes... The many "care-cards" written to the leadership to inform them of how to do their jobs better. I was only twenty then. I wasn't prepared for my idealistic view of the institution to completely fall apart. The fact that this building was a major part of history and had a long legacy behind it didn't help keep my goody churchkid Becky-ish world from feeling like it was completely spiraling out of control. And then there was the part of the story where most of the people who were a part of this institution were people who had a long track record of ministry. Yet here we were fighting with each other over silly things like when rehearsal times clashed and this diva felt their contributions to the church was more important than that diva's so their rehearsal should take more priority.
And people wonder why I didn't want to go to seminary. If this was what people who have an extensive ministry repertoire end up doing to each other, then hell, no thank you.
But fast forward three years to today and we find Jim and Betty up front having just lit a candle. They proceed to kneel at the altar, and it's barely a minute later that I looked up and found Olive heading over to kneel and pray with them. And then I found tears in my eyes.
You see, Jim, Betty, Olive and her husband Savas are all people that I have come to love dearly in the more recent years since the dark year. They loved the part of Kingdom work that took them outside their own culture where they would spend most of their lives living in the in-betweens. And just for a few moments, I wondered what it was like for them to be a few years younger, living in cross-cultural settings in different parts of the world at the same time. And I wondered what kinds of friendships blossomed in the seasons where their paths would cross even if just briefly. Were they the kind that a "What are you doing? Can I come over now (and sit around and talk, or not talk, or do nothing)?" would not be awkward? Were they the kind that would last for a long, long time, till the day they find themselves back "home" again, worshipping in the same building again? Were they the kind that would still stay strong even after the dark years in a setting similar to the ones that they had just dedicated most of their lives to?
And this is why as much as that dark year redefined so much of who I am today, I hardly talk about it except to the few people. But lately as I have felt the need to validate my experience in ministry, or why I relate to the postmodern post-Christian culture as much as I do, this dark year has come up again.
Yet at the same time, watching Jim and Betty, and Olive, and all the other signs of vibrant family life in the post-dark-year era... Why bring up the past that only hurts and divides, when instead there's life and hope to look forward to?
Miss you,
Me
I sat in that building again today, as has become routine over the last three years since I left and came back. It's become a habit for me in the last couple months since I've known that the sun was setting on my time here to, every time I get the opportunity, look at all the people that have become family to me over the last three years. Sometimes it happens from up front, sometimes I secretly enjoy sneaking in late just to catch that few extra minutes of sleep--but also so I can sit in the back pews and just let the image of this whole messy, chaotic family find its roots in my heart.
But today was different. I sat at a different corner up front, then moved down to one of the wings halfway through the service. There was a candle-lighting piece in the later half of the service and again, I watched as all these faces--some familiar, some not so much--one by one came forward to light a candle. Some, I've known for a long time, and not just them, but generations in their family before and/or after them. Some I've just gotten to know very recently.
And then I noticed them. Ah yes, Jim and Betty were my landlords some years back--specifically, the year after the dark year ended. Quite frankly, I wasn't sure back then if I should allow myself to develop affection for them. After all, they were a part of that building--the one where the messy, chaotic family was learning then what it meant to live as family. All the murmurings, complaints, hurtful comments and attitudes... The many "care-cards" written to the leadership to inform them of how to do their jobs better. I was only twenty then. I wasn't prepared for my idealistic view of the institution to completely fall apart. The fact that this building was a major part of history and had a long legacy behind it didn't help keep my goody churchkid Becky-ish world from feeling like it was completely spiraling out of control. And then there was the part of the story where most of the people who were a part of this institution were people who had a long track record of ministry. Yet here we were fighting with each other over silly things like when rehearsal times clashed and this diva felt their contributions to the church was more important than that diva's so their rehearsal should take more priority.
And people wonder why I didn't want to go to seminary. If this was what people who have an extensive ministry repertoire end up doing to each other, then hell, no thank you.
But fast forward three years to today and we find Jim and Betty up front having just lit a candle. They proceed to kneel at the altar, and it's barely a minute later that I looked up and found Olive heading over to kneel and pray with them. And then I found tears in my eyes.
You see, Jim, Betty, Olive and her husband Savas are all people that I have come to love dearly in the more recent years since the dark year. They loved the part of Kingdom work that took them outside their own culture where they would spend most of their lives living in the in-betweens. And just for a few moments, I wondered what it was like for them to be a few years younger, living in cross-cultural settings in different parts of the world at the same time. And I wondered what kinds of friendships blossomed in the seasons where their paths would cross even if just briefly. Were they the kind that a "What are you doing? Can I come over now (and sit around and talk, or not talk, or do nothing)?" would not be awkward? Were they the kind that would last for a long, long time, till the day they find themselves back "home" again, worshipping in the same building again? Were they the kind that would still stay strong even after the dark years in a setting similar to the ones that they had just dedicated most of their lives to?
And this is why as much as that dark year redefined so much of who I am today, I hardly talk about it except to the few people. But lately as I have felt the need to validate my experience in ministry, or why I relate to the postmodern post-Christian culture as much as I do, this dark year has come up again.
Yet at the same time, watching Jim and Betty, and Olive, and all the other signs of vibrant family life in the post-dark-year era... Why bring up the past that only hurts and divides, when instead there's life and hope to look forward to?
Miss you,
Me
11 June 2011
Dear Keren #7 - Live Like You Were Dying?
Dear Keren,
Remember how I used to walk into your room or apartment, and we'd talk about everything else under the sun before I finally 'fess up and start the, "So there's this guy..." conversation? You always responded with the knowing smile that also hinted, "Yes, of course. I even know which guy, but go ahead and tell me about it anyway." Well, we're about to have this conversation again. Except this time I'm going to go straight to the, "...but this isn't going to work out because..." part of the conversation. Because as we all know, I'm about to make another big transition and there's all that other fun stuff that goes with it. And the last thing I need is to worry about something like that.
But the reason why I'm bringing this up this time is because we've talked so much about what it means to live as people who are constantly in transition. Constantly displaced between cultures. Constantly trying to find ways to make meaningful relationships even while living as constantly transitional people.
I confess that I've never thought of myself as a person who is good with relationships. Good with people? Sure. But there's a difference there. I can be good with people, know how to entertain them and keep them happy, but I'm still not good with relationships.
I remember having this conversation with Daria a few summers ago. One of our really good friends was about to graduate and move back home, and I was lamenting to her as we were getting ready to throw a mini-farewell dinner for him that if I had a choice, I would have chosen to say goodbye from a distance rather than do a really meaningful and emotional one. Why try to get to know a person even more when we all know that the physical proximity is going to end soon? So that it would be even more painful when he moved away? Daria's response was simply, "But would you rather keep the distance and have all the what-ifs later, or would you rather make the most and have memories to hold on to for a long time?" I still had the, "Yeah, but..."s for her, even though I knew she was probably right.
And... After you left, this fear of getting too close because I was afraid of getting hurt again when they move or leave became even stronger. Moving to a different country was one thing. There was still AIM (at the time) and Skype. But moving to a place where I could no longer have the "So there's this guy..." conversations amongst others... That's a whole different thing altogether.
A few weeks ago, Dr. Brewer preached a sermon (in his Hawaiian shirt, no less) at Park Place titled "Live Like You Were Dying." While I got the gist of his message (and really enjoyed it, no less), at this point in my life, I'm not sure that should be my goal in life. Because if I was going to live like I was dying, I would have shut down by now, and kept up the good work with people but epicly failing at relationships. Not to imply that I'm doing a good job with relationships right now, but at least I'm doing better than my instincts are telling me to.
Or maybe my instincts are changing. Is that possible? Because the truth is, while the option of shutting down is still on my mind a lot, it's become a lot more natural for me to keep doing what I'm doing. And maybe that still means I'm doing ok with the people, but doesn't say much about the relationships. But truthfully, even if that were true, I'm ok with that, because I'm slowly learning.
And so as the storm clouds are rolling in outside, I catch glimpses of lightning that remind me of the few folks that I've held dear to my heart, and their common fascination with storms. Some have hurt me deeply by knowingly inflicting even more pain when I chose to not walk away or shut down before getting hurt again. Some have left me confused by their silence. But you, I remember for your fascination with dancing in the rain, and your ability to celebrate life even in the midst of transitions.
I don't know how to really live like I was dying. But I'm learning to make the most, not just out of the in-between seasons, but every single moment.
Wish you were here,
Me
Remember how I used to walk into your room or apartment, and we'd talk about everything else under the sun before I finally 'fess up and start the, "So there's this guy..." conversation? You always responded with the knowing smile that also hinted, "Yes, of course. I even know which guy, but go ahead and tell me about it anyway." Well, we're about to have this conversation again. Except this time I'm going to go straight to the, "...but this isn't going to work out because..." part of the conversation. Because as we all know, I'm about to make another big transition and there's all that other fun stuff that goes with it. And the last thing I need is to worry about something like that.
But the reason why I'm bringing this up this time is because we've talked so much about what it means to live as people who are constantly in transition. Constantly displaced between cultures. Constantly trying to find ways to make meaningful relationships even while living as constantly transitional people.
I confess that I've never thought of myself as a person who is good with relationships. Good with people? Sure. But there's a difference there. I can be good with people, know how to entertain them and keep them happy, but I'm still not good with relationships.
I remember having this conversation with Daria a few summers ago. One of our really good friends was about to graduate and move back home, and I was lamenting to her as we were getting ready to throw a mini-farewell dinner for him that if I had a choice, I would have chosen to say goodbye from a distance rather than do a really meaningful and emotional one. Why try to get to know a person even more when we all know that the physical proximity is going to end soon? So that it would be even more painful when he moved away? Daria's response was simply, "But would you rather keep the distance and have all the what-ifs later, or would you rather make the most and have memories to hold on to for a long time?" I still had the, "Yeah, but..."s for her, even though I knew she was probably right.
And... After you left, this fear of getting too close because I was afraid of getting hurt again when they move or leave became even stronger. Moving to a different country was one thing. There was still AIM (at the time) and Skype. But moving to a place where I could no longer have the "So there's this guy..." conversations amongst others... That's a whole different thing altogether.
A few weeks ago, Dr. Brewer preached a sermon (in his Hawaiian shirt, no less) at Park Place titled "Live Like You Were Dying." While I got the gist of his message (and really enjoyed it, no less), at this point in my life, I'm not sure that should be my goal in life. Because if I was going to live like I was dying, I would have shut down by now, and kept up the good work with people but epicly failing at relationships. Not to imply that I'm doing a good job with relationships right now, but at least I'm doing better than my instincts are telling me to.
Or maybe my instincts are changing. Is that possible? Because the truth is, while the option of shutting down is still on my mind a lot, it's become a lot more natural for me to keep doing what I'm doing. And maybe that still means I'm doing ok with the people, but doesn't say much about the relationships. But truthfully, even if that were true, I'm ok with that, because I'm slowly learning.
And so as the storm clouds are rolling in outside, I catch glimpses of lightning that remind me of the few folks that I've held dear to my heart, and their common fascination with storms. Some have hurt me deeply by knowingly inflicting even more pain when I chose to not walk away or shut down before getting hurt again. Some have left me confused by their silence. But you, I remember for your fascination with dancing in the rain, and your ability to celebrate life even in the midst of transitions.
I don't know how to really live like I was dying. But I'm learning to make the most, not just out of the in-between seasons, but every single moment.
Wish you were here,
Me
10 June 2011
Dear Keren ##6 - Big Dreams Are Made Of These
Dear Keren,
"The deeper our faith, the more doubt we must endure; the deeper our hope, the more prone we are to despair; the deeper our love, the more pain its loss will bring. These are a few of the paradoxes we must hold as human beings. If we refuse to hold them in hopes of living without doubt, despair and pain, we also find ourselves living without faith, hope and love."
- A Hidden Wholeness, Parker Palmer
"I pray through the doubt, despair and pain you will know more fully faith, hope and love."
Those were the words Melissa, one of our favourite people, left as my graduation gift. Between her wisdom, and her allowing us to take random awkward photos of ourselves in her apartment that summer, it's hard to not like her huh? She was one of the people who, like you, gave me space to find/redefine "home".
Emi and I have been talking a lot about dreams. Not just the ones that we have when we fall asleep (the ones that creep us out because they eventually manifest true in real life), but also dreaming up big things that could happen. On a few occasions, I found myself saying, "Emi, if you make this happen, I will consider moving back to Anderson after this next chapter is done."
Crazy, right?
But the thing is, some of these big dreams are the same dreams I've had four years ago as I was getting ready to leave the safety of undergrad AU life. Three simple but crazy dreams. You and I, we talked about it, and as hard as I try to recall, I don't remember how you reacted when I told you one of those crazy dreams included being homeless for a month or so, just to experience what it's like. I remembered most people trying to either talk me out of it or play it safe. But if we just played it safe, then it defeats the purpose, right?
As it turns out, I never had the guts to actually pull off the being homeless thing. Nor did I ever pursue any of the other two things that I dreamt of doing Yet four years later, here we are with these dreams resurfacing again.
Some days I wonder what it would be like if you were here now. Where will you be living, and what would you be doing? Back then we used to dream about doing the things that would help us find more of who we are so that we can do those things even better. All these years later, here I am again with those dreams coming closer to fulfillment, yet the fear of failure is still so apparent.
"I pray through the doubt, despair and pain you will know more fully faith, hope and love."
Maybe that should be enough...?
Miss you,
Me
"The deeper our faith, the more doubt we must endure; the deeper our hope, the more prone we are to despair; the deeper our love, the more pain its loss will bring. These are a few of the paradoxes we must hold as human beings. If we refuse to hold them in hopes of living without doubt, despair and pain, we also find ourselves living without faith, hope and love."
- A Hidden Wholeness, Parker Palmer
"I pray through the doubt, despair and pain you will know more fully faith, hope and love."
Those were the words Melissa, one of our favourite people, left as my graduation gift. Between her wisdom, and her allowing us to take random awkward photos of ourselves in her apartment that summer, it's hard to not like her huh? She was one of the people who, like you, gave me space to find/redefine "home".
Emi and I have been talking a lot about dreams. Not just the ones that we have when we fall asleep (the ones that creep us out because they eventually manifest true in real life), but also dreaming up big things that could happen. On a few occasions, I found myself saying, "Emi, if you make this happen, I will consider moving back to Anderson after this next chapter is done."
Crazy, right?
But the thing is, some of these big dreams are the same dreams I've had four years ago as I was getting ready to leave the safety of undergrad AU life. Three simple but crazy dreams. You and I, we talked about it, and as hard as I try to recall, I don't remember how you reacted when I told you one of those crazy dreams included being homeless for a month or so, just to experience what it's like. I remembered most people trying to either talk me out of it or play it safe. But if we just played it safe, then it defeats the purpose, right?
As it turns out, I never had the guts to actually pull off the being homeless thing. Nor did I ever pursue any of the other two things that I dreamt of doing Yet four years later, here we are with these dreams resurfacing again.
Some days I wonder what it would be like if you were here now. Where will you be living, and what would you be doing? Back then we used to dream about doing the things that would help us find more of who we are so that we can do those things even better. All these years later, here I am again with those dreams coming closer to fulfillment, yet the fear of failure is still so apparent.
"I pray through the doubt, despair and pain you will know more fully faith, hope and love."
Maybe that should be enough...?
Miss you,
Me
06 June 2011
Dear Keren #5 - Summer Nights
Dear Keren,
Favourites of my Anderson summers:
Bonfires/Cookouts
Playing in the warm rain
Sno Castle
Tonight I went on my first long walk of this season. A little later in the calendar year than usual, I guess. But we've had so much cold rain in the last month that it wasn't even worth it.
But tonight, I poured my heart out to a dear friend. Stories I've never told before, they all came tumbling out.
Ad this is why I love summer nights. School is out, and after we get off work, we're done for the day. Except for you. You always had the same job every summer that kept your schedule so full that hanging out entailed the usual, "What are you doing? Can I come over?" instant messages before I find you traipsing across the neighbour's yard in my direction. Then we'll sit or walk to Dairy Queen, and talk... or not talk. Sometimes it would be about your brother, and how he took the car and didn't fill up the gas tank again. Sometimes it would be stories that revealed the transparency of our friendship. Sometimes the silence between us spoke the depths of our friendship that ran deeper than words, in a way that I don't know how to explain besides borrowing from the Na'vi's "I see you."
Summer nights are when I miss you most.
Jenny made an observation tonight as I poured out my stories. I miss you because you were home to me. In the busyness of the school year, I hardly paid attention to how homesick for a sense of belonging I was because there was enough to distract me. But summer nights came and sitting around wishing for "home" would have become an uncomfortable norm if not because I had already found "home" in our friendship.
I've known many who uproot as easily and adapt as quickly as we do. But you taught me the importance of not just learning to uproot easily and adapt quickly, but also to quickly sink roots that are so deep that when we try to evaluate or take measurement, we find that we can only measure in the volume of heart that had been shared and not time. You taught me that sinking roots meant mutuality and accountability, and not the flighty "get up and run away" when the going gets tough.
Dear Keren, I miss you not because of the summer nights we spent hanging out watching Daria clips on youtube, or you introducing me to songs that no one else had ever heard. I miss you not because I want to watch movies on your balcony while snuggling with you and Holly. But I miss you because you had become "home" to me even before I came to terms with my loss of cultural identity. I miss you because even in the silence, I knew you understood displacement the same way I did.
And leaving Anderson isn't hard because I have 7 years of junk that need to be reduced to 2 suitcases and 2 carry-ons. It's not because I will miss the academia. It's not because I will miss the roads that are never plowed quite enough during the winters.
It's hard because I'm leaving the place that holds memories of you, memories of "home," and memories of the journey to redefining "home" not as a physical place but as a sacred space in which I hold the ones I love.
Dear Keren, this is my last summer in Anderson. Even in Berlin last year, I had an inkling that I still had one more summer in Anderson. This time, I really don't know anymore. I could sit around and mope and just keep missing you. But I think if you were here, you'd nudge me to make the moments count.
So I will pack up my junk. I will meet all the datelines I promised. But I will also take time to dance in the rain, watch movies on the balcony and simply... live.
Miss you,
Me.
Favourites of my Anderson summers:
Bonfires/Cookouts
Driving with the windows down
Flip-flops
Friends
Hanging out with missionary friends
Late night heart-to-hearts by the Helios
Long evening walks
Minnetrista's Farmer's MarketPlaying in the warm rain
Sno Castle
Tonight I went on my first long walk of this season. A little later in the calendar year than usual, I guess. But we've had so much cold rain in the last month that it wasn't even worth it.
But tonight, I poured my heart out to a dear friend. Stories I've never told before, they all came tumbling out.
Ad this is why I love summer nights. School is out, and after we get off work, we're done for the day. Except for you. You always had the same job every summer that kept your schedule so full that hanging out entailed the usual, "What are you doing? Can I come over?" instant messages before I find you traipsing across the neighbour's yard in my direction. Then we'll sit or walk to Dairy Queen, and talk... or not talk. Sometimes it would be about your brother, and how he took the car and didn't fill up the gas tank again. Sometimes it would be stories that revealed the transparency of our friendship. Sometimes the silence between us spoke the depths of our friendship that ran deeper than words, in a way that I don't know how to explain besides borrowing from the Na'vi's "I see you."
Summer nights are when I miss you most.
Jenny made an observation tonight as I poured out my stories. I miss you because you were home to me. In the busyness of the school year, I hardly paid attention to how homesick for a sense of belonging I was because there was enough to distract me. But summer nights came and sitting around wishing for "home" would have become an uncomfortable norm if not because I had already found "home" in our friendship.
I've known many who uproot as easily and adapt as quickly as we do. But you taught me the importance of not just learning to uproot easily and adapt quickly, but also to quickly sink roots that are so deep that when we try to evaluate or take measurement, we find that we can only measure in the volume of heart that had been shared and not time. You taught me that sinking roots meant mutuality and accountability, and not the flighty "get up and run away" when the going gets tough.
Dear Keren, I miss you not because of the summer nights we spent hanging out watching Daria clips on youtube, or you introducing me to songs that no one else had ever heard. I miss you not because I want to watch movies on your balcony while snuggling with you and Holly. But I miss you because you had become "home" to me even before I came to terms with my loss of cultural identity. I miss you because even in the silence, I knew you understood displacement the same way I did.
And leaving Anderson isn't hard because I have 7 years of junk that need to be reduced to 2 suitcases and 2 carry-ons. It's not because I will miss the academia. It's not because I will miss the roads that are never plowed quite enough during the winters.
It's hard because I'm leaving the place that holds memories of you, memories of "home," and memories of the journey to redefining "home" not as a physical place but as a sacred space in which I hold the ones I love.
Dear Keren, this is my last summer in Anderson. Even in Berlin last year, I had an inkling that I still had one more summer in Anderson. This time, I really don't know anymore. I could sit around and mope and just keep missing you. But I think if you were here, you'd nudge me to make the moments count.
So I will pack up my junk. I will meet all the datelines I promised. But I will also take time to dance in the rain, watch movies on the balcony and simply... live.
Miss you,
Me.
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