I told myself I wasn't going to write this one. Because when these things happen, everybody's talking and needing to process. The last thing they need is to be overloaded with more words. (They really just need yoghurt, I'm telling you.)
But after two hours have passed and this nagging feeling wouldn't go away, I'm finally sitting down.
Most folks may not know, but I'm very protective of my baby sister. I know she's just turned 18, so what? She's still my baby sister.
When the news came, my mind flashed straight back five years ago, when I was the one losing a friend. The days at the hospital, the morning the call came through, the memorial services, and all the nights after that.
But what struck me tonight wasn't so much the memories from that chapter. It was the realisation that when death hits you in the face like that, it doesn't simply leave you with that dreaded feeling of loss and emptiness.
No, it also takes your innocence away.
Suddenly the reality sinks in that it isn't only the old people that die.
Suddenly it sinks in that it isn't only the bad people that suffer.
Suddenly it sinks in that someone so young, so full of life, with unfulfilled dreams to help change the world can be taken away just like that.
Tonight, I got angry.
No, I wasn't just angry that a twenty-year-old college kid's life just ended like that.
Death happens.
Having to say goodbye is terrible, but death happens.
Tonight, I got angry that my baby sister--and her friends--have to go through that.
That their innocence just got taken away, just like that.
And then I remembered.
Anger is a part of grief.
If there are three things I can say to a close-knit community like AU going through this season of grief, it would be these:
Give each other grace. Give each other grace to be angry, grace to be silent, grace to be in denial, grace to simply cry.
Don't try to answer questions, just hold each other.
And most importantly, hold each other. Physically, spiritually, emotionally. Hold on.
Xavier, I don't know you.
But they all have kind things to say about you.
That you lit up every room you entered.
That you never failed to make them smile.
Tonight, I speak love to you and yours.
I pray Creator God hold those who love you dear tonight.
Much love to those who are hurting tonight.
""Comfort, O comfort my people,
says your God."
- Isaiah 40:1
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
15 February 2013
31 January 2013
Calling Time-Out
Most Western parents would be familiar with the phrase, "time-out". It is used when a child old enough to rationalise with continues misbehaving and is usually followed with the phrase, "go to your room."
While I don't have kids of my own, because of the nature of my job, I often find myself in discussions of behaviour management--more specifically, figuring out what we need to include in our programming to support behaviour management both at home and at school. In one of those conversations, a parent shared that sometimes, it isn't the kid that needs the time-out. It's the adult.
"Sometimes when there's just been so much else going on in my day, all it takes is a little bit of a whiney voice for me to snap. That's when I realise I need to send myself to time out, take a chill pill before coming back to be with my kid."
This week, I sent myself into time-out. Or in a different translation, "sabbath".
I could list the 101 ways I had snapped before I finally went into time-out, but I'd rather not remember those. I cringe every time I think, "Urgh... I did THAT?"
But no, I didn't go to my room. I didn't go out to a countryside and spend 2 days in a quiet cottage meditating. I didn't even go to a monastery as I thought I would like to do.
I went to Wellington instead.
"Wellington? Are you mad? I thought you needed time-out (read: quiet space to think)?"
To be honest, I don't know why Wellington. All this while I had been quietly researching (with some help from Helen) monasteries to go for my time-out, but yet it was still Wellington. Maybe it was the thrill of booking a flight. Maybe it was the thought of airports and being in planes. Maybe it was because Wellington was the cheapest place to fly to, and I already knew a little bit about getting around the city.
What I didn't realise was that back in the heart of the city, my very, very parched soul was about to be quenched again.
"What did you do in Wellington?"
To be honest, I don't know. All I remember was that I sat and stared. A lot. No, really. I stared so much that this guy in the next table, whose conversation about what we call Grid Iron here in Kiwi-country (better known as American Football or the NFL) I was eavesdropping on realised I was staring.
It got awkward.
No, I mean really awkward. Because I stared again, even after that awkward moment. Like I did with the middle-aged man sitting across the lounge at the backpacker moving to the music. It was the first time I actually witnessed "dance like nobody's watching," and it moved me almost to tears.
Or staring at the screen while Bilbo journeyed to his decision-point of not quitting the team--and listening to the quiet sniffles of the man in the row behind as Bilbo made his commitment to help the dwarves reclaim their home--and struggled to keep the tears in myself.
Or staring at the houses on the walk up to Mt Victoria, realising some dreams are still alive even as I continually try to shove them away into neat boxes to pretend they don't exist so I can get on with the busyness of life.
Or staring into the waters surrounding the heart of the city, remembering what a simpler life was like in the days where I loved the water--the days before I grew afraid of drowning.
Or staring at quaint dining places, and colourful personalities, and all the possible stories to collect if time only allowed and social boundaries weren't drawn so neatly and fearfully.
Or staring at the pages of history, and finally understanding how a treaty intended for peace and protection became so misunderstood in the mad rush to appease the human obsession with "the ego" (or in my very loose interpretation of Luther and Bonhoeffer's theology of sanctification: "the self").
Or simply staring at how humanity come together--perfectly strangers--to cheer each other on, to help locate a missing tennis ball, to say hello to a puppy.
But more than staring, for once in a long, long time, I listened to myself.
And I heard.
I heard those dreams again.
I heard the voices of those cheering me on again.
I heard my innermost desire for community that understands my need for wide open spaces, possibilities, and dreams again.
But most importantly, I heard the voice of the most loving Creator saying, "Just sit and stare, and watch me do my work." Anne Lamott calls that showing off. But if all that the Creator is showing off is Love, why not?
John and Jodie once said, "Once you can't simply laugh at the crazy anymore, you know it's time to take a break." Time-out isn't about being in trouble. It's about learning to sit and stare and listen to yourself and think again--and finding sacred spaces to watch the Creator atwork play all over again. I wouldn't recommend colourful Wellington to just anyone needing a time-out, but those 48 hours were precious in creating that sacred, sacred space in the midst of all the hustle and bustle to find that inspiration all over again.
Special thanks to the cheerleaders from the sidelines who followed up whenever I checked in on Facebook or Twitter.
Thanks also to the ones who gave me space for minimal interaction in those 48 hours.
Most importantly, thank you to that lovely bunch of you who sent tea, a sabbath read, and comfort sugar. It made all the difference as I finally, finally allowed myself to mourn the transition away from that safe community that understood even before words were spoken or tears were shed. So thank you, Jen, and Joe and Gwynne, and Shannon and Brett, and David and Tara.
Have I reflected during this time-out? You bet.
Have I learnt anything? Definitely. (Staring can get REALLY awkward, for starters)
Have I made decisions about how to behave differently now? For starters, I will write again. Not because I have anything good to say, but because I've missed it. It's my safe place to go to. So I will write. It will not be fancy, but I will write anyway.
I think it's safe to say, time-out mission: accomplished. Ready to head back to real life.
While I don't have kids of my own, because of the nature of my job, I often find myself in discussions of behaviour management--more specifically, figuring out what we need to include in our programming to support behaviour management both at home and at school. In one of those conversations, a parent shared that sometimes, it isn't the kid that needs the time-out. It's the adult.
"Sometimes when there's just been so much else going on in my day, all it takes is a little bit of a whiney voice for me to snap. That's when I realise I need to send myself to time out, take a chill pill before coming back to be with my kid."
This week, I sent myself into time-out. Or in a different translation, "sabbath".
I could list the 101 ways I had snapped before I finally went into time-out, but I'd rather not remember those. I cringe every time I think, "Urgh... I did THAT?"
But no, I didn't go to my room. I didn't go out to a countryside and spend 2 days in a quiet cottage meditating. I didn't even go to a monastery as I thought I would like to do.
I went to Wellington instead.
"Wellington? Are you mad? I thought you needed time-out (read: quiet space to think)?"
To be honest, I don't know why Wellington. All this while I had been quietly researching (with some help from Helen) monasteries to go for my time-out, but yet it was still Wellington. Maybe it was the thrill of booking a flight. Maybe it was the thought of airports and being in planes. Maybe it was because Wellington was the cheapest place to fly to, and I already knew a little bit about getting around the city.
What I didn't realise was that back in the heart of the city, my very, very parched soul was about to be quenched again.
"What did you do in Wellington?"
To be honest, I don't know. All I remember was that I sat and stared. A lot. No, really. I stared so much that this guy in the next table, whose conversation about what we call Grid Iron here in Kiwi-country (better known as American Football or the NFL) I was eavesdropping on realised I was staring.
It got awkward.
No, I mean really awkward. Because I stared again, even after that awkward moment. Like I did with the middle-aged man sitting across the lounge at the backpacker moving to the music. It was the first time I actually witnessed "dance like nobody's watching," and it moved me almost to tears.
Or staring at the screen while Bilbo journeyed to his decision-point of not quitting the team--and listening to the quiet sniffles of the man in the row behind as Bilbo made his commitment to help the dwarves reclaim their home--and struggled to keep the tears in myself.
Or staring at the houses on the walk up to Mt Victoria, realising some dreams are still alive even as I continually try to shove them away into neat boxes to pretend they don't exist so I can get on with the busyness of life.
Or staring into the waters surrounding the heart of the city, remembering what a simpler life was like in the days where I loved the water--the days before I grew afraid of drowning.
Or staring at quaint dining places, and colourful personalities, and all the possible stories to collect if time only allowed and social boundaries weren't drawn so neatly and fearfully.
Or staring at the pages of history, and finally understanding how a treaty intended for peace and protection became so misunderstood in the mad rush to appease the human obsession with "the ego" (or in my very loose interpretation of Luther and Bonhoeffer's theology of sanctification: "the self").
Or simply staring at how humanity come together--perfectly strangers--to cheer each other on, to help locate a missing tennis ball, to say hello to a puppy.
But more than staring, for once in a long, long time, I listened to myself.
And I heard.
I heard those dreams again.
I heard the voices of those cheering me on again.
I heard my innermost desire for community that understands my need for wide open spaces, possibilities, and dreams again.
But most importantly, I heard the voice of the most loving Creator saying, "Just sit and stare, and watch me do my work." Anne Lamott calls that showing off. But if all that the Creator is showing off is Love, why not?
John and Jodie once said, "Once you can't simply laugh at the crazy anymore, you know it's time to take a break." Time-out isn't about being in trouble. It's about learning to sit and stare and listen to yourself and think again--and finding sacred spaces to watch the Creator at
Special thanks to the cheerleaders from the sidelines who followed up whenever I checked in on Facebook or Twitter.
Thanks also to the ones who gave me space for minimal interaction in those 48 hours.
Most importantly, thank you to that lovely bunch of you who sent tea, a sabbath read, and comfort sugar. It made all the difference as I finally, finally allowed myself to mourn the transition away from that safe community that understood even before words were spoken or tears were shed. So thank you, Jen, and Joe and Gwynne, and Shannon and Brett, and David and Tara.
Have I reflected during this time-out? You bet.
Have I learnt anything? Definitely. (Staring can get REALLY awkward, for starters)
Have I made decisions about how to behave differently now? For starters, I will write again. Not because I have anything good to say, but because I've missed it. It's my safe place to go to. So I will write. It will not be fancy, but I will write anyway.
I think it's safe to say, time-out mission: accomplished. Ready to head back to real life.
20 December 2012
Joy: A Paradox
I've started writing, stopped, deleted the draft and walked away. A few days later, I come back to that same place of starting, stopping, deleting and walking away.
How do we talk about Joy of Advent while this heaviness looms over our heads?
People are hurting.
People are talking.
People are rallying.
People are fighting.
People are trying to find someone or something to blame.
Whether we realise it or not, whenever tragedies strike, we try to find someone or something to blame.
If she hadn't gotten into the car that day, that wouldn't have happened.
If we had done more for his mental health, he wouldn't have gone and shot kids.
If people were in better agreement about the legal stand on violence, he would not have owned the gun in the first place.
She said...
He said...
Today I went over to meet with Nina about costumes for the kids for something we're doing on Sunday. We both knew we had most of the ideas sorted but we always need that one extra meeting just to talk it through again.
But today, we didn't really do much work. We sat outside and watched the dogs play. And we talked about the heaviness.
This is Nina's first Christmas without her dad who, for 51 years, had been the rock in her life. She said she kept putting off the Christmas cards because she didn't want to not be able to send one to her dad.
And then we talked some more about death and dying. And about how we always feel the need to find something or someone to blame--the forces of nature, God, legislature, sin... the list goes on.
"But that's not what really matters, is it? I mean, we think that finding someone or something to blame helps us bring closure when the reality is, with some things there will never be closure."
Every August, I watch the seasons change, remembering the autumn leaves that sat with me in a very dark place when first Keren in 2007, then my uncle and grandpa in 2008, died.
Every time a kindred from SOT days posts something on Facebook or Twitter that makes me jump up and down excitedly screaming inside, "YES! Someone gets it!", I weep a little that I never had time to grieve leaving one of many communities I hold dear to my heart because everyone was ushering me off into the excitement of New Zealand that I wasn't ready for.
Arthur says it's important to remember. "It is, I'm convinced, a spiritual practice that, like all practices, needs to be practiced!"
So we sit outside and sip wine when Erin arrived after picking the girls up from school. And we talked some more and remembered some more.
"So what do we do? We just love one another. People are not going to stop dying or leaving. But loving one another--that, we can do."
So we sit outside a little longer and watch the sun begin to finish its round for the day, and welcome the evening air. The sun lifts the spirits, but sometimes it's too much, too strong, and too soon. But a greater Light is coming that will defeat the darkness not in a piercing ray, but in tenderness that says,
And until then, we keep on carrying each other's hearts.
O Come Emmanuel
How do we talk about Joy of Advent while this heaviness looms over our heads?
People are hurting.
People are talking.
People are rallying.
People are fighting.
People are trying to find someone or something to blame.
Whether we realise it or not, whenever tragedies strike, we try to find someone or something to blame.
If she hadn't gotten into the car that day, that wouldn't have happened.
If we had done more for his mental health, he wouldn't have gone and shot kids.
If people were in better agreement about the legal stand on violence, he would not have owned the gun in the first place.
She said...
He said...
Today I went over to meet with Nina about costumes for the kids for something we're doing on Sunday. We both knew we had most of the ideas sorted but we always need that one extra meeting just to talk it through again.
But today, we didn't really do much work. We sat outside and watched the dogs play. And we talked about the heaviness.
This is Nina's first Christmas without her dad who, for 51 years, had been the rock in her life. She said she kept putting off the Christmas cards because she didn't want to not be able to send one to her dad.
And then we talked some more about death and dying. And about how we always feel the need to find something or someone to blame--the forces of nature, God, legislature, sin... the list goes on.
"But that's not what really matters, is it? I mean, we think that finding someone or something to blame helps us bring closure when the reality is, with some things there will never be closure."
Every August, I watch the seasons change, remembering the autumn leaves that sat with me in a very dark place when first Keren in 2007, then my uncle and grandpa in 2008, died.
Every time a kindred from SOT days posts something on Facebook or Twitter that makes me jump up and down excitedly screaming inside, "YES! Someone gets it!", I weep a little that I never had time to grieve leaving one of many communities I hold dear to my heart because everyone was ushering me off into the excitement of New Zealand that I wasn't ready for.
Arthur says it's important to remember. "It is, I'm convinced, a spiritual practice that, like all practices, needs to be practiced!"
So we sit outside and sip wine when Erin arrived after picking the girls up from school. And we talked some more and remembered some more.
"So what do we do? We just love one another. People are not going to stop dying or leaving. But loving one another--that, we can do."
So we sit outside a little longer and watch the sun begin to finish its round for the day, and welcome the evening air. The sun lifts the spirits, but sometimes it's too much, too strong, and too soon. But a greater Light is coming that will defeat the darkness not in a piercing ray, but in tenderness that says,
"Very truly, I tell you, you will weep and mourn, but the world will rejoice; you will have pain, but your pain will turn into joy ... So you have pain now; but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you."
And until then, we keep on carrying each other's hearts.
O Come Emmanuel
23 November 2012
Celebrating Across the Seas
Well, it's officially "Black Friday" on this side of the world.
In all my years of celebrating Thanksgiving, I've only done the Black Friday madness once--only because Jenny and Becca convinced me that since it was my last Thanksgiving in the US, I had to at least get out there in the wee hours of the morning once, even if just for the cultural experience. I can't say I enjoyed the experience much; but maybe it's because I was more used to parking down in the Rhynard house for the Thanksgiving weekend 007 marathon with my homework or crochet, and trying to keep warm in the Michigan winter.
I remember my first snow. Danielle and I were going to pick Cody up from high-school (yes, Cody, I know you're grown-up now because you're in seminary, but I'll always remember you as that dorky high-schooler who wouldn't stop giving your sister crap, as all good brothers should) the day before Thanksgiving. We were walking in to the school when Danielle stopped me and said, "Look! It's snowing!"
Folks always talk about being excited about snow. But that first snow, I thought I was going to slip on the snow, hit my head on the side-walk and die. It didn't help that I crash-landed in a pile of snow when out on my first snow-mobile ride with Danielle and Cody. "Death by snow on her first Thanksgiving." Great headline, eh?
The years passed quicker than I was ready for them. My last two American Thanksgivings have been characteristically un-snowy--rainy at best, but snow would have been a major fluke in the weather system.
So we learn to adapt. We don't do snow or snow-mobiles, but we do stories. Turkeys cost four times as much here as they would in Michigan or Indiana, so we do chicken. Pumpkins only happen as a whole fruit and not in cans, so we puree our own for pies and coffee creamers. And we include friends for whom Thanksgivings may have never been, or will ever be, traditions, but whose stories we get to write together at least for this season.
It wasn't that many years ago that traditional celebration story-sharing started. Those first awkward Chinese New Year celebrations in the dorm rooms without a real kitchen to work with, or easy access to an Asian grocer. And we learnt to adapt anyway.
That's the life of living all around the world. We carry our stories, our food, our traditions and celebrations with us. We adapt where necessary, and we start new traditions and carry those with us to new corners of the world and fill even more pages of our stories with new friends, laughter, and always, always food.
And after the dishes have all been cleared away, we pause to sit down with a cuppa joe. And we give thanks for the stories we get to be a part of, the table of food and laughter shared, and for a rich and abundant life.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. May it be filled with love and laughter.
In all my years of celebrating Thanksgiving, I've only done the Black Friday madness once--only because Jenny and Becca convinced me that since it was my last Thanksgiving in the US, I had to at least get out there in the wee hours of the morning once, even if just for the cultural experience. I can't say I enjoyed the experience much; but maybe it's because I was more used to parking down in the Rhynard house for the Thanksgiving weekend 007 marathon with my homework or crochet, and trying to keep warm in the Michigan winter.
I remember my first snow. Danielle and I were going to pick Cody up from high-school (yes, Cody, I know you're grown-up now because you're in seminary, but I'll always remember you as that dorky high-schooler who wouldn't stop giving your sister crap, as all good brothers should) the day before Thanksgiving. We were walking in to the school when Danielle stopped me and said, "Look! It's snowing!"
Folks always talk about being excited about snow. But that first snow, I thought I was going to slip on the snow, hit my head on the side-walk and die. It didn't help that I crash-landed in a pile of snow when out on my first snow-mobile ride with Danielle and Cody. "Death by snow on her first Thanksgiving." Great headline, eh?
The years passed quicker than I was ready for them. My last two American Thanksgivings have been characteristically un-snowy--rainy at best, but snow would have been a major fluke in the weather system.
So we learn to adapt. We don't do snow or snow-mobiles, but we do stories. Turkeys cost four times as much here as they would in Michigan or Indiana, so we do chicken. Pumpkins only happen as a whole fruit and not in cans, so we puree our own for pies and coffee creamers. And we include friends for whom Thanksgivings may have never been, or will ever be, traditions, but whose stories we get to write together at least for this season.
It wasn't that many years ago that traditional celebration story-sharing started. Those first awkward Chinese New Year celebrations in the dorm rooms without a real kitchen to work with, or easy access to an Asian grocer. And we learnt to adapt anyway.
That's the life of living all around the world. We carry our stories, our food, our traditions and celebrations with us. We adapt where necessary, and we start new traditions and carry those with us to new corners of the world and fill even more pages of our stories with new friends, laughter, and always, always food.
And after the dishes have all been cleared away, we pause to sit down with a cuppa joe. And we give thanks for the stories we get to be a part of, the table of food and laughter shared, and for a rich and abundant life.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. May it be filled with love and laughter.
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.
10 September 2012
10,000 Reasons (Happy 1 Year in Aotearoa)
It's hard to believe that it was a year ago today that out of utter madness, I hopped on a plane and arrived here in Aotearoa.
No really. It was utter madness.
It was utter madness that I took a children's ministry job having had limited experience working with kids. Heck, I didn't even know what a real childhood was like outside of the experience of the Asian kid that revolved around school work and staying out of trouble.
Looking back now, if not for Ed and Heidi and the 3Ts, I would never have learnt what it was like to live in a household where there were boundaries, but also plenty of laughter. Or the Park Place kids who remember the insignificant stuff we were a part of together that reminded me relationships don't require experience--they require authenticity and form organically in a way no amount of programming experience can.
And so I took the job.
Madness? Yes.
Would I do it all over again? In a heartbeat.
When I hopped on the plane that day, I had no idea if I was ever going to be granted a visa to stay past the 3 months tourist visa I had been granted.
Looking back now, it seemed like complete insanity that I woke up one morning just about a week before that with this burning feeling in my gut that I HAD to book my flight that day regardless of the visa status. I had no real reason other than That Voice that just said, "You have to do it today."
And so I did.
Madness? Yes.
Would I do it all over again? You better believe it.
And then the year flew by. And boy were there lessons to be learnt.
There was the story of the eggs in the microwave that nearly ended in disaster.
... Or the Asian girl who's never made a white sauce in her life trying to make cheese sauce with no recipe and simply melted cheese in a saucepan. (Kathrin had to come to the rescue and we ended up rolling on the floor with laughter trying to get everything cleaned up before our guests turned up).
... Or the numerous times she should have made use of a teachable moment with a kid but missed it.
... Or all the different methods she tried to import to give the children's ministry the re-start and realising she was thinking WAY too American again.
... Or that when the host she's visiting asks if she would like a drink, it's more normal to answer with "coffee" or "tea" than with "water," and not because she's suddenly aged to her grandparents' generation, or because she's about to be served dessert in a fancy restaurant. Psst... In case you missed the memo, it's the new normal here.
... Or that she needs to start putting "EAT" on her to-do list or she will forget.
... Or that the constant explosion of creative experiments from working with kids mean that her living space will never be completely clean as long as she works from home.
... Or just very simply, all things Westie.
So many mistakes made.
So many experiments tried, failed and remedied.
But you know what, I'm amongst family that gives grace to mistakes, failed experiments and... mess.
Madness? Yes. Complete madness.
Would I do it all over again? Yes. Oh, hell, yes.
Diane and I have been joking about all the folks in the shops I end up becoming "friends" with.
There's the ladies at the $2 shop who started mothering me and making sure I'm well-stocked up with household stuff (even to the extent of wanting to bring coffee containers from home for me even though they sell all these things in their shop), and have been wanting to set me up with their nephews.
And the lady down the baking aisle at Pak n Save that ALWAYS asks, "Hun, what are you looking for?" and will not leave me alone until I either find what I need and leave or ask for her help.
And the florist who wants to give me floral arranging lessons.
And the lady at the video store who gave me suggestions of how to create the right ambience to watch the Millennium Trilogy.
I've been puzzling over that and trying to figure out if I've been wearing a sign that says, "HEY I want you to talk to me and tell me your life story!"
And I'm realising a few things...
1) The XZBerlin experience has rubbed off on me more than I realised and has penetrated my subconscious. The whole thing about being the incarnational presence of Christ in the community had become ingrained in my theology that I didn't realise they were no longer separate ideas.
Which surprised me because suddenly it all made sense why I was staying connected to all these other stuff outside of my church gig.
Suddenly it made sense why I'm still keeping the relationships around the world as active as they are.
Suddenly it made sense why I still shop on the Peninsula even though I don't live there anymore.
Because that's what that incarnational presence means to me.
Being a part of that constant life-rhythm that flows organically.
Which made me realise that every contact I have with every living being is not coincidental. (That whole freewill vs God's plan conversation can be saved for a time when we can sit down for coffee, ok?)
And suddenly I understand that old evangelical thought of never missing an opportunity to spread the Gospel. It's a lot easier and makes a lot more sense when you pair it together with the Franciscan saying, "Preach the Gospel at all times. When necessary, use words."
2) Moving to a new place where your social circle mainly revolves around your job means you have to branch out wherever you can. And shopkeepers make good friends because they have the time to chat when you go in during off-peak hours (which is usually when I run my errands anyway given the flexibility of my work hours), and they function in a different world. Which is a refreshing change, having come from 7 years of living in a Christian bubble.
And suddenly I understand why all those relationships around the world mean what they do to me. We use experience to propel us forward. And friends I've known from before the Aotearoa chapter have introduced me to other friends who live here.
Tonight, I got to celebrate my 1 year anniversary in Aotearoa with two of them.
It had been a crazy day where my obsession over efficiency threatened to do me in. Something cropped up earlier in the day, which meant my original plans to be most efficient today had to be reorganised. Then I forgot my highly-organised grocery list. And then I dropped the iTouch that's been helping keep me organised in the parking lot at the grocery store and didn't realise it till way too much later. And because I'm discovering I have an efficiency obsession, I almost had a meltdown that my day hadn't been as highly-efficient as I would have liked it to be even though I did end up getting everything done. (It just wasn't done in the most efficient method, ok? I know, I know. I'm a J. Leave me alone.)
But it came around to dinner time and even though it was a 30 minute drive getting to Amber and Jess, by the time we sat down to dinner, I was really glad I made the drive. I had brought ginger beer and TimTams because it turns out it's also Jess' 1 year anniversary in Aotearoa. So it was dinner, good conversation about all things American (since we're all recent imports from the US), chick flick and chocolate, and dreaming up plans for the next time we hang out.
As I made the drive home tonight, I had to laugh because the highs and lows of this day in itself summed up all that this year has been. My mad, mad, obsessive-compulsiveness and perfectionism, trying so hard to look like I have it all together and it all falls apart--and ALL the grace and friendship in between. And then I realised I had about 10,000 reasons to celebrate.
This has been a year of abundance.
Abundance of tears and heartaches.
But even more so,
Abundance of sweet victories...
Lessons learnt...
Celebrations...
Laughter...
Food...
Grace...
And most importantly, friendship.
Because the friendship of Christ, the agape... It's why I'm here.
 |
| Happy 1 year Anniversary in Aotearoa from the American gals |
Here's to Year #2 in Aotearoa.
Here's to more madness.
I'm all in.
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
26 June 2012
Celebrating 11 Years of Laughter
Every time I'm back here, I feel like I can be a kid all over again.
Friends from way back, talking about stories from way back.
It's like we're all still sixteen and seventeen and things haven't changed.
We still find the same things ridiculously funny.
We still kaopei (literally translated: curse father) about the same types of things.
Bunz, as usual eats a lot.
Juan, as usual is always late.
Ivy, as usual is trying to keep up with everyone else.
But there's always the subtle reminders that these are no longer our green pinafore days.
Lisi is getting married.
Bunz and Ivy are talking about raising families together since they're going to be neighbours.
Everyone is nagging at Juan about the same old business.
And it always ends with the usual, "So when's the next time you're coming back?"
Life isn't as simple as the green pinafore days anymore.
The world isn't only about our kangkong eating habits anymore.
Or hyperventilating over maths formulae anymore.
Life has become about paying bills, switching jobs, planning weddings, travelling, heartbreaks and the other things that seem to indicate we're supposed to be grown-ups.
But put the six or eight of us together in one room and it's like nothing has changed.
Bunny may have switched jobs a few times.
I may have moved around the world a few times.
But that we still laugh every year at the fact that we're anything but moribus modestus makes me thankful for these girls.
Thank you for reminding me to take time to laugh.
I have the best friends in the world.
Friends from way back, talking about stories from way back.
It's like we're all still sixteen and seventeen and things haven't changed.
We still find the same things ridiculously funny.
We still kaopei (literally translated: curse father) about the same types of things.
Bunz, as usual eats a lot.
Juan, as usual is always late.
Ivy, as usual is trying to keep up with everyone else.
But there's always the subtle reminders that these are no longer our green pinafore days.
Lisi is getting married.
Bunz and Ivy are talking about raising families together since they're going to be neighbours.
Everyone is nagging at Juan about the same old business.
And it always ends with the usual, "So when's the next time you're coming back?"
Life isn't as simple as the green pinafore days anymore.
The world isn't only about our kangkong eating habits anymore.
Or hyperventilating over maths formulae anymore.
Life has become about paying bills, switching jobs, planning weddings, travelling, heartbreaks and the other things that seem to indicate we're supposed to be grown-ups.
But put the six or eight of us together in one room and it's like nothing has changed.
Bunny may have switched jobs a few times.
I may have moved around the world a few times.
But that we still laugh every year at the fact that we're anything but moribus modestus makes me thankful for these girls.
Thank you for reminding me to take time to laugh.
 |
| Celebrating 11 years of laughter |
I have the best friends in the world.
05 June 2012
On Moving...
In the last ten months, I have broken my personal record by having moved four times--twice internationally, twice within Auckland. So since I'm starting to consider myself quite an expert, I thought I'd share a few moving tips/lessons learnt.
Moving Tip #1: Always have friends
When I was moving from Anderson to Singapore, Ginny and JM got together with Brittney and Chase (who themselves were getting ready to move) and organised a yard sale. Two weekends in a row, we sat and got baked in the sun and drenched in the rain while playing Words With Friends while waiting for people to give us a few coins to help us get rid of our stuff. Elizabeth and John would come and hang out and the boys would take off to get us China House for our lunch break. Even with that, most of my nerdy seminary books still had to find themselves a home in Ed and Heidi's garage.
When I moved from Singapore to Auckland, my luggage allowance was reduced. We packed up part of my stuff into a box ready to be shipped once we got clearance from my visa process. Then we found out Auntie Enid was going to be back in Singapore so Mum had her help carry some of my stuff back in before finally sending the rest of the stuff in the box.
When I moved from Kathrin and Stefan's to Sara's, I inherited a bunch of stuff from the Beisleys so that I could finally set up my home/office space. Shane and Marilyn were also moving that weekend, so a crew got together to help us all move. Kathrin and Stefan did a desk swop with me when we realised the stuff wasn't all going to fit in the new place. Jonny showed up with equipment to help put the bunk-bed together, and Chris, Josh and Katherine figured out how to put the pieces together while Steve glued the headboards that were falling apart together.
When I moved in to the Snuggery (Chad and Diane's sleepout where Steve used to live) yesterday, Kathrin and Stefan showed up to pull apart the bunk-bed and the desk. Thanks to Stefan's genius brains of figuring out not just how to make things work but in the most efficient way, Kathrin's ability to organise things, Chad and Diane's big van and big heart to let me move in with such short notice, the move was relatively painless.
They say it takes a village to raise a kid. I'm glad I'm the kid with a great village.
Moving Tip #2: Nothing is really yours
I should probably add to that, "but take care of it anyway"
The first time Stefan and Kathrin did the desk swop with me, I remembered being blown away that they didn't even have a second thought about, "but this is ours," or "this is for loan". There was just this sentiment of nothing really permanently belongs to anyone anyway, but we just trust that we'll take care of each other. Or the realisation only upon starting to pack that most of my food storage containers have made themselves at home at the Pethers' for a while. It was this feeling of, it all stays in the family anyway, just a matter of which building it goes to.
Moving Tip #3: Big, bulky stuff don't move well
I remember when I first moved to Anderson that many years ago, Mum went and got frames so I could take pictures with me when I moved. But those were days before checking in baggage on international flights became so darn expensive. Oh, and those were also the dark ages before Facebook and social media really took off. Photo frames don't move well because of their bulk. And neither do diplomas. I'll admit there are days when I'm slightly envious of friends who have established and less mobile office spaces where they can hang up their framed accolades on the wall while mine stay in their black folders. It's not so much the desire to show off my accolades as much as wanting the stability where I don't have to have this constant mindset of, "Well, how am I going to pack that into two suitcases the next time I move?"
Moving Tip #4: The process is usually more than just physical
When Chad and Diane showed up yesterday, one of the first things Diane said was, "how are you feeling?" (I know I haven't blogged about that side of things in a while, but I'll get to it later.) Until that moment, I had been feeling the frustration building up. But in the process of making lists, organising how to make the move as painless as possible and how to get it all done in time for me to have head space to think about the last Bible Clubs for this term and pack before Thursday, the frustration just sat like an ugly monster beside my ear whispering nasty things like, "you can't do this."
Sara's house had been a great place for the last four months. I think we were both bummed that it didn't work out for me to stay longer. I will miss the backyard, and Saturday mornings of cleaning house while watching the little league games, and of course, the glorious view of the Waitakeres in the distance.
Moving Tip #1: Always have friends
When I was moving from Anderson to Singapore, Ginny and JM got together with Brittney and Chase (who themselves were getting ready to move) and organised a yard sale. Two weekends in a row, we sat and got baked in the sun and drenched in the rain while playing Words With Friends while waiting for people to give us a few coins to help us get rid of our stuff. Elizabeth and John would come and hang out and the boys would take off to get us China House for our lunch break. Even with that, most of my nerdy seminary books still had to find themselves a home in Ed and Heidi's garage.
When I moved from Singapore to Auckland, my luggage allowance was reduced. We packed up part of my stuff into a box ready to be shipped once we got clearance from my visa process. Then we found out Auntie Enid was going to be back in Singapore so Mum had her help carry some of my stuff back in before finally sending the rest of the stuff in the box.
When I moved from Kathrin and Stefan's to Sara's, I inherited a bunch of stuff from the Beisleys so that I could finally set up my home/office space. Shane and Marilyn were also moving that weekend, so a crew got together to help us all move. Kathrin and Stefan did a desk swop with me when we realised the stuff wasn't all going to fit in the new place. Jonny showed up with equipment to help put the bunk-bed together, and Chris, Josh and Katherine figured out how to put the pieces together while Steve glued the headboards that were falling apart together.
When I moved in to the Snuggery (Chad and Diane's sleepout where Steve used to live) yesterday, Kathrin and Stefan showed up to pull apart the bunk-bed and the desk. Thanks to Stefan's genius brains of figuring out not just how to make things work but in the most efficient way, Kathrin's ability to organise things, Chad and Diane's big van and big heart to let me move in with such short notice, the move was relatively painless.
They say it takes a village to raise a kid. I'm glad I'm the kid with a great village.
Moving Tip #2: Nothing is really yours
I should probably add to that, "but take care of it anyway"
The first time Stefan and Kathrin did the desk swop with me, I remembered being blown away that they didn't even have a second thought about, "but this is ours," or "this is for loan". There was just this sentiment of nothing really permanently belongs to anyone anyway, but we just trust that we'll take care of each other. Or the realisation only upon starting to pack that most of my food storage containers have made themselves at home at the Pethers' for a while. It was this feeling of, it all stays in the family anyway, just a matter of which building it goes to.
Moving Tip #3: Big, bulky stuff don't move well
I remember when I first moved to Anderson that many years ago, Mum went and got frames so I could take pictures with me when I moved. But those were days before checking in baggage on international flights became so darn expensive. Oh, and those were also the dark ages before Facebook and social media really took off. Photo frames don't move well because of their bulk. And neither do diplomas. I'll admit there are days when I'm slightly envious of friends who have established and less mobile office spaces where they can hang up their framed accolades on the wall while mine stay in their black folders. It's not so much the desire to show off my accolades as much as wanting the stability where I don't have to have this constant mindset of, "Well, how am I going to pack that into two suitcases the next time I move?"
Moving Tip #4: The process is usually more than just physical
When Chad and Diane showed up yesterday, one of the first things Diane said was, "how are you feeling?" (I know I haven't blogged about that side of things in a while, but I'll get to it later.) Until that moment, I had been feeling the frustration building up. But in the process of making lists, organising how to make the move as painless as possible and how to get it all done in time for me to have head space to think about the last Bible Clubs for this term and pack before Thursday, the frustration just sat like an ugly monster beside my ear whispering nasty things like, "you can't do this."
Sara's house had been a great place for the last four months. I think we were both bummed that it didn't work out for me to stay longer. I will miss the backyard, and Saturday mornings of cleaning house while watching the little league games, and of course, the glorious view of the Waitakeres in the distance.
12 May 2012
Dents
This past Sunday was one of the rare weeks that I got to sit in for the sermon instead of running around with fussy kids.
Chad talked about dents in his sermon. He told the story of how their new car got broken into, and how even though it was barely scratched up--except for the handles of the car door--every time he looked at the car, all he saw were the dents.
He went on to say that sometimes that's the way we view our lives. We pay attention only to the dents, never mind that the car was still functioning, and nothing was stolen.
I sat in the pews thinking, well, I don't think I'm doing too badly. God only knows how many dings and scratches I've experienced, but I was pretty confident I had moved past all of that and that they no longer defined me.
And then this week came.
Unexpected news hit right smack in the middle of my week. I knew deep inside I needed this news to bring closure to something that happened years ago. But at the same time, it made me pay attention to that dent from years ago all over again.
Seven years feel like a long time for a recovery period. I've always thought no matter how deep the pain, I was strong enough to not need a long recovery period. Life goes smooth-sailing(ish) for a while with its occasional ups and downs, I almost forget what those periods of deep pain feel like.
Like a summer spent aimlessly, and almost completely alone, grieving over a broken heart.
Or when life slips away, and nights are spent occupying the mind with activity to numb the pain so that when the head hits the pillow, consciousness leaves immediately, only to return less than a few hours later, crying and wanting to scream but they only come out as strange animal noises.
They say we shouldn't let our dents define us because the Creator sees more in us than just the dents. But to pretend that the dents don't hurt when they do is cheating ourselves of the experience of humanity--the very reason for our existence in the first place. For if we don't know what it means to be human, how can we even begin to understand love?
We forgive, and we let go. But sometimes I wonder if to simply forget is depriving ourselves of the opportunity to learn important lessons.
15 years have passed since that episode where my identity became defined as the trash can that collected everyone's crap only to be set out on the streets waiting for the trash collection truck that never came. I've since made peace with that episode and reconciled with the characters involved, but not a day passes that I have to intentionally choose to not continue to be defined as a trash can.
Some days I do it better than others.
Some days the dents hurt more than others.
Some days I cry about the old dents more than others.
But I'm only human.
To feel pain is only human.
And I keep writing.
Keep sharing stories.
For what purpose are stories, if not to make the journey of another a little less alone?
Chad talked about dents in his sermon. He told the story of how their new car got broken into, and how even though it was barely scratched up--except for the handles of the car door--every time he looked at the car, all he saw were the dents.
He went on to say that sometimes that's the way we view our lives. We pay attention only to the dents, never mind that the car was still functioning, and nothing was stolen.
I sat in the pews thinking, well, I don't think I'm doing too badly. God only knows how many dings and scratches I've experienced, but I was pretty confident I had moved past all of that and that they no longer defined me.
And then this week came.
Unexpected news hit right smack in the middle of my week. I knew deep inside I needed this news to bring closure to something that happened years ago. But at the same time, it made me pay attention to that dent from years ago all over again.
Seven years feel like a long time for a recovery period. I've always thought no matter how deep the pain, I was strong enough to not need a long recovery period. Life goes smooth-sailing(ish) for a while with its occasional ups and downs, I almost forget what those periods of deep pain feel like.
Like a summer spent aimlessly, and almost completely alone, grieving over a broken heart.
Or when life slips away, and nights are spent occupying the mind with activity to numb the pain so that when the head hits the pillow, consciousness leaves immediately, only to return less than a few hours later, crying and wanting to scream but they only come out as strange animal noises.
They say we shouldn't let our dents define us because the Creator sees more in us than just the dents. But to pretend that the dents don't hurt when they do is cheating ourselves of the experience of humanity--the very reason for our existence in the first place. For if we don't know what it means to be human, how can we even begin to understand love?
We forgive, and we let go. But sometimes I wonder if to simply forget is depriving ourselves of the opportunity to learn important lessons.
15 years have passed since that episode where my identity became defined as the trash can that collected everyone's crap only to be set out on the streets waiting for the trash collection truck that never came. I've since made peace with that episode and reconciled with the characters involved, but not a day passes that I have to intentionally choose to not continue to be defined as a trash can.
Some days I do it better than others.
Some days the dents hurt more than others.
Some days I cry about the old dents more than others.
But I'm only human.
To feel pain is only human.
And I keep writing.
Keep sharing stories.
For what purpose are stories, if not to make the journey of another a little less alone?
09 May 2012
Of Old Wounds and Onions
She woke up with a start.
The ridiculous sleep patterns had become such a norm that being awakened at 3am no longer frustrated or confused her. Except tonight, she felt a crystal ball being shoved into her hands.
She blinked twice as her mind raced to try and process the imagery in the crystal ball the same time memories of a seven year old episode came rushing back. It unsettled her so much that she lay awake for a while, simply letting it hurt.
The next thing she knew, her alarm was going off and she wondered if it was all but another one of those strange dreams she's had a lot of recently. But there it was again, the crystal ball staring back at her--this time along with a note from her best friend.
Vague images of who she was prior to that episode came sweeping over. And who she became after the episode. And how she found her voice. And how she started to believe in herself...
It was only after that seven year old episode that she felt the release. The crystal ball brought her back to the streets of Atlanta, to Krispy Kreme donuts and homeless people trading for drugs. To Mexico, to where her value of time and the important things in life were redefined. To a reservation in South Dakota, to where she fell in love with "bad" kids. To the streets of Berlin, to the women working on the streets, for whom her heart was broken.
Really, that seven year old episode opened her heart up to love.
She leaned in to him as he gently wrapped his arms around her, careful to avoid the open wound, her eyes still not leaving the crystal ball for a second. She saw herself age over the seven years, more and more jaded by the depravity that accumulated after the seven year old episode. She saw her dreams change as depravity made her question why she even had permission to dream big dreams. She saw herself no longer shocked by violence because she had seen so much of it.
And then she saw herself sitting on the pew in church that Sunday, doodling. It had become part of her way of processing sermons when she had the chance to sit in for them, and the doodles were usually about being on some kind of journey, or a brick wall of resistance, or some deep thought of the day. But that day, she simply doodled, and it wasn't until she heard the young lady next to her whisper, "What's that?" that she realised it was an onion. She wasn't sure what it meant because the sermon was about how the Creator saw its creation.
As she stared into the crystal ball, she understood.
Yes, an onion. A pungent, stinky onion. And probably one that reeks too, after all the experiences of depravity and jadedness.
"Cooked just well enough to add flavour to anything that encounters you. But you could also just choose to sit around and stink up the kitchen, you know. Your choice," he whispered gently, his arms still firm around her, well aware of the pain from that old wound.
Even though she had been dreading this day where the last blade would be pulled out because she did not want to revisit the wound, she was glad it finally did come around.
In her heart, she gave thanks that the day finally came, even if only seven years later.
And she gave thanks for the seven years in between of being cooked to just the right flavour.
And she gave thanks for the best friend who held no judgment that it had taken seven long years, never hurrying it along, only simply being there to say, "I wish you love BFF. All will be good."
The ridiculous sleep patterns had become such a norm that being awakened at 3am no longer frustrated or confused her. Except tonight, she felt a crystal ball being shoved into her hands.
She blinked twice as her mind raced to try and process the imagery in the crystal ball the same time memories of a seven year old episode came rushing back. It unsettled her so much that she lay awake for a while, simply letting it hurt.
The next thing she knew, her alarm was going off and she wondered if it was all but another one of those strange dreams she's had a lot of recently. But there it was again, the crystal ball staring back at her--this time along with a note from her best friend.
"Hope you're alright."She swallowed as the seven year old episode slowly washed over her again. It was an old wound, really, and she had, for a while now, been waiting for this. This day when the last blade from the old wound would finally be pulled out so that she can finally close it all up and let it heal completely.
Vague images of who she was prior to that episode came sweeping over. And who she became after the episode. And how she found her voice. And how she started to believe in herself...
"I could have made that work, you know..." she heard him say.Her eyes did not leave the crystal ball for a second. When she finally spoke, she only shook her head and said, "Yes, but I wouldn't."
It was only after that seven year old episode that she felt the release. The crystal ball brought her back to the streets of Atlanta, to Krispy Kreme donuts and homeless people trading for drugs. To Mexico, to where her value of time and the important things in life were redefined. To a reservation in South Dakota, to where she fell in love with "bad" kids. To the streets of Berlin, to the women working on the streets, for whom her heart was broken.
Really, that seven year old episode opened her heart up to love.
She leaned in to him as he gently wrapped his arms around her, careful to avoid the open wound, her eyes still not leaving the crystal ball for a second. She saw herself age over the seven years, more and more jaded by the depravity that accumulated after the seven year old episode. She saw her dreams change as depravity made her question why she even had permission to dream big dreams. She saw herself no longer shocked by violence because she had seen so much of it.
And then she saw herself sitting on the pew in church that Sunday, doodling. It had become part of her way of processing sermons when she had the chance to sit in for them, and the doodles were usually about being on some kind of journey, or a brick wall of resistance, or some deep thought of the day. But that day, she simply doodled, and it wasn't until she heard the young lady next to her whisper, "What's that?" that she realised it was an onion. She wasn't sure what it meant because the sermon was about how the Creator saw its creation.
As she stared into the crystal ball, she understood.
"I am the onion."Every layer was a symbol of the different faces of who she had become. And every time she moved, she had options to play with, of which layer she wanted to be. She could be the shy, quiet kid from many layers ago, or the hesitant pursuer from not too many layers after that. She could be the layer that opened up her heart to peoples and lands without a second thought, or the vagrant that chose to claim no land as home. She could be the loyal friend who stood her ground, or the reconciler who would not stop loving.
Yes, an onion. A pungent, stinky onion. And probably one that reeks too, after all the experiences of depravity and jadedness.
"Or just flavourful..."She finally turned to look at him. Him who had been holding her through the peeling back of every layer. She searched his eyes questioningly, how can this be?
"Cooked just well enough to add flavour to anything that encounters you. But you could also just choose to sit around and stink up the kitchen, you know. Your choice," he whispered gently, his arms still firm around her, well aware of the pain from that old wound.
Even though she had been dreading this day where the last blade would be pulled out because she did not want to revisit the wound, she was glad it finally did come around.
In her heart, she gave thanks that the day finally came, even if only seven years later.
And she gave thanks for the seven years in between of being cooked to just the right flavour.
And she gave thanks for the best friend who held no judgment that it had taken seven long years, never hurrying it along, only simply being there to say, "I wish you love BFF. All will be good."
28 February 2012
I Have the Best Friends in the World
First of all, let me address this just to get it out of the way. In no other century in history has it been possible for me to be ripping open a package and reading the taunts from Michael Smith from across the Pacific Ocean and the reactions of the other fine folks who added to my box of randomness.
Facebook, I salute you.
In spite of the intensity of all the craziness of the last couple of months, today, I consider myself blessed beyond measure to have some of the best friends in the world.
No really, I do mean the world.
I'm thankful for the tweets from Yu Lin and Juan, nagging at me to take care of myself while I'm sick. More than ten years have passed since the beginnings of our friendship. Sure the course of these friendships haven't always been smooth. But today, I'm thankful I still have both of you gals in my life. And thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in Singapore.
I'm thankful for Pia who continues the poke war on Facebook. And for Jonas, who, though twelve time-zones away, still finds the time to harass me on Facebook chat once in a while to give me more German lessons. And Rhonda, who helps me celebrate the little things of living cross-culturally. It's been nearly two years since my Deutschland chapter. But today, I'm thankful for the little things that remind me of all the lessons I learnt from that chapter. And thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in Deutschland.
I'm thankful for my box of randomness from Emily, Jenny, Michael, Yoc, Jason, Wolfgang, Nate, Leslie and Josh. The little things that remind me of the times we laughed so hard about Glinda, beating up a TV or eating roadkill for Passover, rugby lessons and a last mad dash to Sno-Castle, or the Skype conversations to catch up. Seven years of major growing up made Anderson a difficult family to leave. But today, I'm thankful that sentimentality aside, I had people alongside who challenged me to open my mind to embrace new possibilities. And thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in the US of A.
I'm thankful for Josh, Chris and Steve, three crazy little brothers who not only make me laugh because of their ridiculousness but also let me know that they've got my (and each other's) back(s). Three guys who make a big mess in my kitchen but also clean up after themselves. I'm thankful for the Mama figures in PJ, Katherine and Helen who nag at me about going to the doctor and taking care of myself; for Auntie Enid who takes care of the Singaporean child in me; and for my big brothers and sisters, Kathrin and Stefan, and Chad and Diane. No buts. I'm thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in Aotearoa.
No really, when you have the best friends you could possibly have spread out across four different time zones in almost equal geographical distance between each, I think it's only fair to say I really do have the best friends in the world.
That's ok, you can be jealous.
As for me, I'm just thankful.
Facebook, I salute you.
In spite of the intensity of all the craziness of the last couple of months, today, I consider myself blessed beyond measure to have some of the best friends in the world.
No really, I do mean the world.
I'm thankful for the tweets from Yu Lin and Juan, nagging at me to take care of myself while I'm sick. More than ten years have passed since the beginnings of our friendship. Sure the course of these friendships haven't always been smooth. But today, I'm thankful I still have both of you gals in my life. And thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in Singapore.
I'm thankful for Pia who continues the poke war on Facebook. And for Jonas, who, though twelve time-zones away, still finds the time to harass me on Facebook chat once in a while to give me more German lessons. And Rhonda, who helps me celebrate the little things of living cross-culturally. It's been nearly two years since my Deutschland chapter. But today, I'm thankful for the little things that remind me of all the lessons I learnt from that chapter. And thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in Deutschland.
I'm thankful for my box of randomness from Emily, Jenny, Michael, Yoc, Jason, Wolfgang, Nate, Leslie and Josh. The little things that remind me of the times we laughed so hard about Glinda, beating up a TV or eating roadkill for Passover, rugby lessons and a last mad dash to Sno-Castle, or the Skype conversations to catch up. Seven years of major growing up made Anderson a difficult family to leave. But today, I'm thankful that sentimentality aside, I had people alongside who challenged me to open my mind to embrace new possibilities. And thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in the US of A.
I'm thankful for Josh, Chris and Steve, three crazy little brothers who not only make me laugh because of their ridiculousness but also let me know that they've got my (and each other's) back(s). Three guys who make a big mess in my kitchen but also clean up after themselves. I'm thankful for the Mama figures in PJ, Katherine and Helen who nag at me about going to the doctor and taking care of myself; for Auntie Enid who takes care of the Singaporean child in me; and for my big brothers and sisters, Kathrin and Stefan, and Chad and Diane. No buts. I'm thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in Aotearoa.
No really, when you have the best friends you could possibly have spread out across four different time zones in almost equal geographical distance between each, I think it's only fair to say I really do have the best friends in the world.
That's ok, you can be jealous.
As for me, I'm just thankful.
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
15 January 2012
Of Paper Cranes...
The box of the rest of my stuff that my mum sent finally arrived here in Auckland yesterday. As I was unpacking the box, it was almost like opening a treasure chest because there were parts of my past that came along with it.
There was Cindy bear (named after Yogi Bear's girlfriend) - the little stuffed teddy bear I got from my first plane ride when I was 3 or 4.
There were the Pollock/Van Reken's TCK book, The Shack, my first Anne Lamott book, bird by bird from Amanda, Thad's copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, and God is No Fool, a collection of musings by Lois A Cheney, a gift from B-row just before I left the US.
There was the card from Keren, and a photo of her from her parents.
And then there were these three paper cranes.
There was Cindy bear (named after Yogi Bear's girlfriend) - the little stuffed teddy bear I got from my first plane ride when I was 3 or 4.
There were the Pollock/Van Reken's TCK book, The Shack, my first Anne Lamott book, bird by bird from Amanda, Thad's copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, and God is No Fool, a collection of musings by Lois A Cheney, a gift from B-row just before I left the US.
There was the card from Keren, and a photo of her from her parents.
And then there were these three paper cranes.
 |
| Paper Cranes at the Killing Fields memorial in Cambodia |
Thousand origami cranes (千羽鶴 Senbazuru) is a group of one thousand origami paper cranes (鶴 tsuru) held together by strings. An ancient Japanese legend promises that anyone who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish by a crane, such as long life or recovery from illness or injury. The crane in Japan is one of the mystical or holy creatures (others include the dragon and the tortoise), and is said to live for a thousand years. In Japan, it is commonly said that folding 1000 paper origami cranes makes a person's wish come true.
 |
| Inside the church beside Ground Zero, a 9/11 memorial. These paper cranes were from victims of Hiroshima. |
My cranes have their stories too. Two of them came from Heidi and the 3Ts as a part of my graduation reception from seminary. They remind me of my fear of hanging out with kids--and how the 3Ts, my little kid-brothers and the other growing-up-way-too-quickly kids from Park Place helped me overcome that fear.
 |
| Paper crane from Alex from 2008 |
And then there's the one made from a sheet torn out of the NAC roundup of 2008. It's the one that reminds me of the beginning of this whole journey leading up to my moving to Auckland.
See, back in 2008, I was into the end of my first year at Church of God Ministries when I met this lovely family. They loitered around the office when they had the time, and volunteered their time to help with anything that would help make our lives easier during the rush of Convention madness.
As often happens amongst missionary kids, their kids got a little restless during the Convention while their parents were in meetings and spending time catching up with supporters. Their oldest son, Alex Beisley had made a ton of paper cranes from sheets torn out of the NAC roundup, and they gave me one, just because.
I've had that crane hanging in my car until I finally had to sell it to move here, not even thinking anything about it, or the possibility that I might run into this family again.
I find it slightly amusing that this whole time that I've been in New Zealand, the crane had been sitting in a box in Singapore, and it's finally come back to me on their last week of this chapter in New Zealand.
Tomorrow at church, we will be celebrating with them the close of this chapter.
Doug, Danette, Alex, Allison and (not-so-little-anymore) Robbie, thank you for being family, and for paving the way for us at Westside over the last 7 years.
I've heard it said
I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...
And now whatever way our stories end, I know you have re-written mine by being my friend.
- For Good, from "Wicked"
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...
And now whatever way our stories end, I know you have re-written mine by being my friend.
- For Good, from "Wicked"
06 January 2012
The Only Constant in Life...
It seems odd that (nearly) four months in Aotearoa have flown by that quickly.
The Beisley clan leave in about two weeks. In the last four months, Doug and Danette have become parents to me, just as Alex, Allison and Robert have become like my little siblings. Dinners, movies, outings and game nights with them and Steve have been dwindling. Most of the furniture have been sold, and more and more boxes are getting stacked up against the wall in the office space.
It's hard to believe that this is all really happening now.
As much as I no longer believe in goodbyes, the moments of separation and the anticipation leading up to those times of separation still are never easy. It's hard to pretend life is still normal when we're trying to figure out how to make dinner when pots and pans have been packed up in boxes, and the only serving utensil left is a ladle with holes, and you can't even dish up canned tomato soup.
I'm finally feeling like I've arrived in Te Atatu, and things are being shaken up as we speak.
They say the only constant in life is change. I couldn't agree more.
In exactly a month from today, I will be turning 26.
In my (almost) 26 years of life, I've never celebrated a birthday that was not shared with my brother (whose birthday is three days before mine).
Sharing a birthday with a sibling has its quirks. Our parents always made it a point to have two separate cakes for us even if we had a joint celebration. And every year after we moved to the US, even if we've had a big disagreement just before our birthdays, on the day itself that we celebrate our birthdays, we at least pretend that things are ok.
This year, I'll be turning 26 in Auckland after my brother turns 28 in the US. While it's nice to finally be able to have my own birthday celebration to myself, I'm still a creature of habit, and it still seems odd to have a birthday without him.
Anderson folks, if you see my brother on 3 Feb, please be nice to him.
They say the only constant in life is change. I couldn't agree more.
While we were (trying to) watch fireworks on New Year's Eve, Chad and Diane asked me if I had any favourite memories of the year. These were the ones that came to mind:
My last Chinese New Year celebration in the US.
WAY too many trips to the doctor's office with Jenny.
Moving one of my favourite people out to Colorado and hanging out there for Spring Break.
Deciding to move to Auckland after I graduate.
Getting commissioned and hooded by MaryAnn, and the whole graduation fiesta.
Packing up and selling 7 years of junk and reducing my life back to 2 suitcases and a few boxes in storage.
Endless nights of beading and talking at Love's Hangover.
Getting to see some of my favourite people in Oregon.
Hanging out with my sister for a couple weeks in my old stomping grounds in Anderson.
Saying goodnight and tucking the 3Ts in to bed for the last time (and Brother Frank).
Moving back to the parents' home in Singapore and dealing with reverse culture shock.
Moving to Auckland, and the months of crazy after that.
For whatever reason, the one memory that stuck out most to me that night was the trip to Colorado.
First time in Colorado.
First roadtrip with a kindred.
First goodbye in the US.
But it was also while I was there that I had time to rest, pray, breathe, and think about this madness called "Operation: Move to New Zealand?" The week there was a pretty good summary about life in 2011. Transition, moving, friendship, rest, New Zealand, nature, new experiences, and the faithfulness of God.
They say the only constant in life is change. I couldn't agree more.
The Beisley clan leave in about two weeks. In the last four months, Doug and Danette have become parents to me, just as Alex, Allison and Robert have become like my little siblings. Dinners, movies, outings and game nights with them and Steve have been dwindling. Most of the furniture have been sold, and more and more boxes are getting stacked up against the wall in the office space.
It's hard to believe that this is all really happening now.
As much as I no longer believe in goodbyes, the moments of separation and the anticipation leading up to those times of separation still are never easy. It's hard to pretend life is still normal when we're trying to figure out how to make dinner when pots and pans have been packed up in boxes, and the only serving utensil left is a ladle with holes, and you can't even dish up canned tomato soup.
I'm finally feeling like I've arrived in Te Atatu, and things are being shaken up as we speak.
They say the only constant in life is change. I couldn't agree more.
In exactly a month from today, I will be turning 26.
In my (almost) 26 years of life, I've never celebrated a birthday that was not shared with my brother (whose birthday is three days before mine).
Sharing a birthday with a sibling has its quirks. Our parents always made it a point to have two separate cakes for us even if we had a joint celebration. And every year after we moved to the US, even if we've had a big disagreement just before our birthdays, on the day itself that we celebrate our birthdays, we at least pretend that things are ok.
This year, I'll be turning 26 in Auckland after my brother turns 28 in the US. While it's nice to finally be able to have my own birthday celebration to myself, I'm still a creature of habit, and it still seems odd to have a birthday without him.
Anderson folks, if you see my brother on 3 Feb, please be nice to him.
They say the only constant in life is change. I couldn't agree more.
While we were (trying to) watch fireworks on New Year's Eve, Chad and Diane asked me if I had any favourite memories of the year. These were the ones that came to mind:
My last Chinese New Year celebration in the US.
WAY too many trips to the doctor's office with Jenny.
Moving one of my favourite people out to Colorado and hanging out there for Spring Break.
Deciding to move to Auckland after I graduate.
Getting commissioned and hooded by MaryAnn, and the whole graduation fiesta.
Packing up and selling 7 years of junk and reducing my life back to 2 suitcases and a few boxes in storage.
Endless nights of beading and talking at Love's Hangover.
Getting to see some of my favourite people in Oregon.
Hanging out with my sister for a couple weeks in my old stomping grounds in Anderson.
Saying goodnight and tucking the 3Ts in to bed for the last time (and Brother Frank).
Moving back to the parents' home in Singapore and dealing with reverse culture shock.
Moving to Auckland, and the months of crazy after that.
For whatever reason, the one memory that stuck out most to me that night was the trip to Colorado.
First time in Colorado.
First roadtrip with a kindred.
First goodbye in the US.
But it was also while I was there that I had time to rest, pray, breathe, and think about this madness called "Operation: Move to New Zealand?" The week there was a pretty good summary about life in 2011. Transition, moving, friendship, rest, New Zealand, nature, new experiences, and the faithfulness of God.
They say the only constant in life is change. I couldn't agree more.
01 January 2012
Happy 2012
A quick review of the last day of my 2011, and the year in general:
Woke up wishing I had another appointment with my old chiropractor in the US.
2011 had been a year of more doctor visits than I can remember. Between the chiropractor, the gastric annoyances, the flu-like symptoms that included something like an ear-infection, I think I'm finally hearing my body tell me, you're not doing the best you can to take care of yourself.
That, and realising I'm 25. Still a young pup to most of my friends, but I can't help remembering that when I was younger, I had set goals to have had achieved more by this age... And I'm not quite there yet.
But the crazy thing is, even though those goals that I set way back when I was a wee lass have yet to been achieved, I've had so many more crazy adventures than I could ever dream of.
Stefan asked Kathrin and I at breakfast this morning if we had any reflections on the year. This has been one of those years that feels like a big wave came through and left me no time to catch a breath. The wave was fantastic to ride, but I could have done with a little less adrenaline.
So no, I haven't really had time to reflect. The year has been fantastic in so many ways, but also so disappointing in so many others.
We went in the afternoon to look at a place that could be a possibility for me to rent.
2011 had been a year of so much moving and transition. Between living off the couch in Becca and Jenny's apartment, packing up 7 years of life in Anderson, packing to house- or pet-sit for a friend for a few days, packing to move Amanda out to Colorado and the 10-day adventure in Oregon, having more garage sales than I can remember, selling faithful Cuddy the Hyundai that I had practically lived out of since the day I got her, moving back to my parents' in Singapore for about 5 weeks and trying to relearn what it's like to have a bank account and do other grown-up stuff in Singapore, and then finally moving to Auckland but still waiting for answers with the visa... Suffice to say, I'm ready for a bit more stability in my life now.
Living with Kathrin and Stefan has been a great arrangement, but I'm ready for a space to call my own now after a year of so much moving around.
31 December 2011 ended with a night of games, snacks and (trying to watch) fireworks.
Food and games had always been a part of seminary culture. But 2011 also saw an unfinished game of Ecuador Monopoly that will have to be on hold for a while till the next time I get to hang out with the Robertsons.
And 2011, I got to watch the 4th of July fireworks in St Helen's, National Day fireworks on TV in Singapore, blow some up with friends on Guy Fawkes' day in Te Atatu.
So yes, 2011 has been a crazy year.
I've experienced bigger disappointments and anger.
I've been on a plane more times than any other year that I can remember.
I've said more goodbyes than I've wanted in Colorado, Anderson and Oregon.
I've sunk even deeper roots in Singapore.
I've met heaps of new crazies in Auckland.
Here's to a 2012 with even more crazy emotional roller-coasters ahead, and even more so to a crazy God whose faithfulness leaves me speechless.
Happy 2012, everyone. Love and peace to you and yours.
Woke up wishing I had another appointment with my old chiropractor in the US.
2011 had been a year of more doctor visits than I can remember. Between the chiropractor, the gastric annoyances, the flu-like symptoms that included something like an ear-infection, I think I'm finally hearing my body tell me, you're not doing the best you can to take care of yourself.
That, and realising I'm 25. Still a young pup to most of my friends, but I can't help remembering that when I was younger, I had set goals to have had achieved more by this age... And I'm not quite there yet.
But the crazy thing is, even though those goals that I set way back when I was a wee lass have yet to been achieved, I've had so many more crazy adventures than I could ever dream of.
Stefan asked Kathrin and I at breakfast this morning if we had any reflections on the year. This has been one of those years that feels like a big wave came through and left me no time to catch a breath. The wave was fantastic to ride, but I could have done with a little less adrenaline.
So no, I haven't really had time to reflect. The year has been fantastic in so many ways, but also so disappointing in so many others.
We went in the afternoon to look at a place that could be a possibility for me to rent.
2011 had been a year of so much moving and transition. Between living off the couch in Becca and Jenny's apartment, packing up 7 years of life in Anderson, packing to house- or pet-sit for a friend for a few days, packing to move Amanda out to Colorado and the 10-day adventure in Oregon, having more garage sales than I can remember, selling faithful Cuddy the Hyundai that I had practically lived out of since the day I got her, moving back to my parents' in Singapore for about 5 weeks and trying to relearn what it's like to have a bank account and do other grown-up stuff in Singapore, and then finally moving to Auckland but still waiting for answers with the visa... Suffice to say, I'm ready for a bit more stability in my life now.
Living with Kathrin and Stefan has been a great arrangement, but I'm ready for a space to call my own now after a year of so much moving around.
31 December 2011 ended with a night of games, snacks and (trying to watch) fireworks.
Food and games had always been a part of seminary culture. But 2011 also saw an unfinished game of Ecuador Monopoly that will have to be on hold for a while till the next time I get to hang out with the Robertsons.
And 2011, I got to watch the 4th of July fireworks in St Helen's, National Day fireworks on TV in Singapore, blow some up with friends on Guy Fawkes' day in Te Atatu.
So yes, 2011 has been a crazy year.
I've experienced bigger disappointments and anger.
I've been on a plane more times than any other year that I can remember.
I've said more goodbyes than I've wanted in Colorado, Anderson and Oregon.
I've sunk even deeper roots in Singapore.
I've met heaps of new crazies in Auckland.
Here's to a 2012 with even more crazy emotional roller-coasters ahead, and even more so to a crazy God whose faithfulness leaves me speechless.
Happy 2012, everyone. Love and peace to you and yours.
22 July 2011
Friend of the Wind
An old friend from college wrote for this next season of my life. Thank you, B-row.
Friend of the Wind
Take to the skies once more and leave your fears behind you
It's time to fly again, my friend of the wind
Beyond the borders of the walls that could not hold you
His voice is calling now, my friend of the wind
Spread your wings; fly again
Open skies will lead you home
And as the way unfolds the mystery, hope and wonder
You'll learn the reason why, my friend of the wind
Memories of laughter for the friends you left behind you
In time we'll meet again, my friend of the wind
Spread your wings, fly again
Open skies will lead you home
It's still such a long way
But we're drawing closer with each day
To those who've gone on to the hope just beyond this fragile veil
Spread your wings, fly again
Open skies will lead you home
Friend of the Wind
Take to the skies once more and leave your fears behind you
It's time to fly again, my friend of the wind
Beyond the borders of the walls that could not hold you
His voice is calling now, my friend of the wind
Spread your wings; fly again
Open skies will lead you home
And as the way unfolds the mystery, hope and wonder
You'll learn the reason why, my friend of the wind
Memories of laughter for the friends you left behind you
In time we'll meet again, my friend of the wind
Spread your wings, fly again
Open skies will lead you home
It's still such a long way
But we're drawing closer with each day
To those who've gone on to the hope just beyond this fragile veil
Spread your wings, fly again
Open skies will lead you home
17 July 2011
Pacific Northwest Adventures Part 2: Friends
It was probably around 11 pm or so when Bill and Mary had just dropped me off at PDX. I was getting caught up on my social media updates and was starting to work on my next blog when from the corner of my eye, I saw him.
Could it be...?
And then she followed along behind him with her red carry-on luggage. Yup, it was them. The same couple that had travelled the same itinerary as I did only eleven days ago and found ourselves stranded in the MSP airport for seven hours.
We got to talking when she asked if I taught. It's not the first time I've been asked that question by a random stranger, so apparently I look/dress like I'm in the education field. Or something. Anyhow, she found out I was moving to New Zealand soon, and that I lived in Anderson but I was originally born in Singapore. To which she responded with, "You know, you meet lots of people at the airport, some of them, like you, just have fascinating stories."
I guess I've officially joined the ranks of the "cool airport gang." Or something.
But that brought me back to a conversation I had almost continually with Mary over the weekend that I was in Woodburn. She kept pointing out that I knew a lot of Church of God people, which... in all honesty, made me a little squirmy. It's not that I mind the association as much as... I don't like being one of those name-droppers. I don't like claiming to know people just to impress others that I'm well-connected.
I realised this during NAC week. I was doing a lot more networking than I was really comfortable with, because I hate acting like I know people when the truth is I've only had a 5-minute conversation with them, probably talking about something or someone we had in common, but not really about either of us.
And I think that's why more than anything else, I HATE networking and the whole fundraising thing because all that people want to hear is "the ministry." And the problem is I'm still having a hard time detaching myself from "the ministry" because what I do flows out of me, not out of an obligation to a to-do list.
But as I think about it some more, I'm not sure I mind having that problem. Because the truth is (at the risk of sounding arrogant and full-of-myself ), I don't see myself being separated from my "ministry." And the problem with networking is that I'm not really being myself if I have to take myself out of the equation to simply talk about the trivial things like the weather or the speaker of last evening's service.
Which is why, as much as it terrifies me to acknowledge this, I do know people. Which is why, while I was in Oregon, I did see a lot of people, but these were also people that taught me things.
So thank you.
...Thank you to Arthur and Judy, for helping me see that sometimes when two paths diverge, the one that is less traveled is really the one that walks the fine line to between holding on to and breaking apart from tradition.
...Thank you to the Shrout/Hodges families, for showing me how families work together to involve everyone, even the rowdy kids that could potentially make a wedding less than perfect.
...Thank you to the Marbles, for showing me that families can work efficiently together in times of crisis, and that hospitality sometimes goes beyond simply providing room and board.
...Thank you to Perry and Carla, for the friendships that happen almost immediately, and for such acceptance into the forever family.
...Thank you to Stephanie and Brett, for showing me that friendships do have the ability to transcend time and space, and that whenever we see each other again, the friendships will still be there.
...Thank you to Bill and Mary, for giving me space time and time again, even if it's once every two years or so, and for asking and noticing things that I thought were trivial.
...Thank you to Randee, for long conversations, for time for friendships to be rekindled, and especially for reminding me that Christ never intended for the Gospel to be safe.
...Thank you to Sean, for friendships that don't ask too many complicated questions, and for always being available and wanting to simply hang out.
These are the people I know in the Pacific Northwest. And yes, I do know them.
Could it be...?
And then she followed along behind him with her red carry-on luggage. Yup, it was them. The same couple that had travelled the same itinerary as I did only eleven days ago and found ourselves stranded in the MSP airport for seven hours.
We got to talking when she asked if I taught. It's not the first time I've been asked that question by a random stranger, so apparently I look/dress like I'm in the education field. Or something. Anyhow, she found out I was moving to New Zealand soon, and that I lived in Anderson but I was originally born in Singapore. To which she responded with, "You know, you meet lots of people at the airport, some of them, like you, just have fascinating stories."
I guess I've officially joined the ranks of the "cool airport gang." Or something.
But that brought me back to a conversation I had almost continually with Mary over the weekend that I was in Woodburn. She kept pointing out that I knew a lot of Church of God people, which... in all honesty, made me a little squirmy. It's not that I mind the association as much as... I don't like being one of those name-droppers. I don't like claiming to know people just to impress others that I'm well-connected.
I realised this during NAC week. I was doing a lot more networking than I was really comfortable with, because I hate acting like I know people when the truth is I've only had a 5-minute conversation with them, probably talking about something or someone we had in common, but not really about either of us.
And I think that's why more than anything else, I HATE networking and the whole fundraising thing because all that people want to hear is "the ministry." And the problem is I'm still having a hard time detaching myself from "the ministry" because what I do flows out of me, not out of an obligation to a to-do list.
But as I think about it some more, I'm not sure I mind having that problem. Because the truth is (at the risk of sounding arrogant and full-of-myself ), I don't see myself being separated from my "ministry." And the problem with networking is that I'm not really being myself if I have to take myself out of the equation to simply talk about the trivial things like the weather or the speaker of last evening's service.
Which is why, as much as it terrifies me to acknowledge this, I do know people. Which is why, while I was in Oregon, I did see a lot of people, but these were also people that taught me things.
So thank you.
...Thank you to Arthur and Judy, for helping me see that sometimes when two paths diverge, the one that is less traveled is really the one that walks the fine line to between holding on to and breaking apart from tradition.
...Thank you to the Shrout/Hodges families, for showing me how families work together to involve everyone, even the rowdy kids that could potentially make a wedding less than perfect.
...Thank you to the Marbles, for showing me that families can work efficiently together in times of crisis, and that hospitality sometimes goes beyond simply providing room and board.
...Thank you to Perry and Carla, for the friendships that happen almost immediately, and for such acceptance into the forever family.
...Thank you to Stephanie and Brett, for showing me that friendships do have the ability to transcend time and space, and that whenever we see each other again, the friendships will still be there.
...Thank you to Bill and Mary, for giving me space time and time again, even if it's once every two years or so, and for asking and noticing things that I thought were trivial.
...Thank you to Randee, for long conversations, for time for friendships to be rekindled, and especially for reminding me that Christ never intended for the Gospel to be safe.
...Thank you to Sean, for friendships that don't ask too many complicated questions, and for always being available and wanting to simply hang out.
These are the people I know in the Pacific Northwest. And yes, I do know them.
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