On Writing

Every once in a while, I need a reminder of why I write.

It was about ten years ago that I made my blogging debut as an angsty teenager. I was just beginning to understand the dynamics of this new world called cyber-space, and I wanted to be careful I didn't expose myself to unnecessary danger. I wrote some, but mostly ranted.

A couple years later, blogging became my way to stay in touch with friends when I moved halfway across the world. Then my mum found out through my cousins that I had started blogging. She graciously asked for permission to access my blog, and by then I realised I needed to blog even more carefully. The angsty rants lessened, and the life updates became more frequent.

Then one day, Mum subtly pointed out that my angsty posts weren't that great for Christian witness. I think it was then that I started forcing myself to infuse hope in my writing even when I didn't completely believe it past head knowledge.

These days, the angst is a whole lot less.
I write for closure more than for angst. It's become a challenge to find a way to string words together in a way that articulated hope more than hurt community life.
Or I write because my thoughts are all over the place and throwing them on the screen helps piece things together more coherently. I had Amber over for dinner earlier this week to help process some things, and and one point, I realised she was having trouble following my thoughts because she said, "You think like a girl... Like spaghetti, not waffles."
Or I write to grieve with community. Keren's death taught me it's easier to grieve together than alone.

So when I noticed the number of visitors doubling on the blog, I got scared. I didn't mean for my writing to get noticed. I don't know who's reading or how they're hearing what I'm saying, so I get insecure. I simply started writing because I was an angsty teenager. Most days, after I post a new blog, I want to go into hiding because I feel vulnerable having bared my heart.

I really didn't mean to get noticed, but since this blog is drawing more attention than I had ever expected, hello to each one of you.
I hope you've found this to be a place of solace and comfort.
A place where you find it's ok to stay in the darkness for a while because you have a friend here.
I hope you've found this to be a place where you can embrace the awkwardness of life and laugh along.
A place where you eventually find Light and Hope if they've felt distant for a while.

More importantly, I hope you find Love.

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,

"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 

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.

Culture Shock: Paradigm Shift

I've now spent nearly a third of my life away from my country of birth, and every day I'm even more aware of the things I have yet to learn or re-learn.

Like most days, I fumble over grammar. Is this the right English word to use in this English-speaking country?
Or the cucumber story. I still don't know where to find them in the grocery store in Singapore. Every time I'm back, I have a mild panic attack before I head downstairs to the shops because I wouldn't know where to find the cucumbers.
Or the realisation that I've lived in Western countries for the past 8 years but I still don't know how to make a white sauce.

Today it was the realisation that my cultural biases toward racism surprised even myself. While I was at the store earlier, these two men were yelling rather loudly at each other. It took me a while to realise the store manager, a White man (using "White" here because I couldn't figure out if he had non-European blood as well), had been accused by an Indian man of being racist. These were the bits I caught:

"I'm a customer here. Don't think that just because you're the manager here, you can tell me to come back later."
"I was saying that to the other man."
"Don't think that you're the manager here so you can be racist."
"I don't think you understand what that word means."

It went on for quite a while, but out of fear that someone would end up getting hurt, I quickly got my yoghurt and walked down the next aisle.

That was when I realised that I was feeling sorry for the White man even though I hadn't had the full story. The bits I gathered seem to suggest that he wasn't the one at fault, but again I didn't have the full story.

But it made me realise too, in similar situations of ambiguity, I always end up feeling bad for the White folks. Then I had another mild panic attack. Have I become that kid that thinks of her roots as inferior to the Great White that I should always assume they're right? Or was it something else?

I had a moment of flashback to Freshman year. It was a very vivid scene where I was sitting up in the balcony with the other international kids (cos we're badass like that). Bear in mind these were in my good-girl days where I decided I was going to hang out with the "bad" kids so that I could influence them to be like me and Jesus AKA before the realisation we were all equally bad, just at different things. It was the usual chaos that I tried to tune out, but the Gospel Choir leading the Black History Month celebration was the bigger distraction this time.

Why in the world is it necessary to celebrate Black History Month, asked the kid that grew up in multi-culti Singapore where the worse of racial riots happened in the 1960s, prior to our independence. Why can't everybody just decide they want to get along and do it? I mean, I acknowledge Singapore is small and the history of racial tensions is short compared to the rest of world history. Still, it's been so many years since Dr King's assassination. Aren't people tired of that tension?

It wasn't until much later when someone pointed out the far-reaching effects of slavery that I understood why it was difficult. Reconciliation IS hard work. But reconciliation can't happen while one side hangs their head in shame while the other continues wagging a finger at them. They'll always hear the, "Bad dog. Bad, bad, bad." We know it's not good for kids' self-esteem so we avoid it, but why do we do it elsewhere?

I remembered having the same struggle in Germany. How long are we going to wag fingers at them for the 2 World Wars? Or the Pakeha for not holding up their end of the Treaty of Waitangi?

Maybe it's easy for me to speak since I come from the part of the world that history books would paint as victims of violence rather than perpetrators. Maybe it's because neither of my grandmothers have any stories (or at least, not ones they've told) of being raped by the Japanese soldiers. Maybe it's because I live in such a safe bubble that I don't have any reason to hate the perpetrators of violence. Maybe it's because as I loaded groceries in the van, I caught a reflection of myself--that Asian-looking girl that sounds American but is dressed like a hippie (I know, I know, I'm far from looking anything like a real hippie since I'm still refusing the dreads. But try convincing my ANTM-watching sister of that...) and drives a family van that's only loaded with kids on the rare occasion--and realised anyone meeting me for the first time would have no idea what box to put me in so I feel less judged by either side. Or maybe it's just very simply because I haven't gotten the whole story, or the historical accuracy of the stories.

But really, how long?

And what are WE, as Christians, supposed to do about reconciliation?

I don't know how I would respond if the day should come where I, too, become a victim of violence. I hope someone would look and say, "She responded with the love of Christ," but I also know I'm human.

Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison.
Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.

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.

Listen to the Children

vi·o·lence [vahy-uh-luhns]
noun
an unjust or unwarranted exertion of force or power, as against rights or laws

Woke up that morning
Still heart sick
Another act of violence
Another child whose innocence was robbed.
Oh Lord, how long?
Listen to the children...


Stop Kony
Make Kony famous
Their signs and websites read.
Discussions back and forth
Bickering for and against
But what about the children?
Oh Lord, how long?
Listen to the children...

Katniss. Peeta. Rue.
Gale. Cinna. Haymitch.
Thresh. Cato. Prim.
All just names in a book
Stories. Fiction.
We laugh.
But what if they weren't just fiction?
Make Snow famous.
Sure. Then what?
What about the children?
Listen to the children.

You wanted my time at the breakfast table.
So I sat and I waited.
You said nothing,
So I talked.

His name wasn't Peeta, and he wasn't a baker's son.
He simply lived on Kurfürstenstraße while his girlfriend worked the streets to support them
He had no identity to anyone who hadn't heard his story.
He was just "another one who made a bad life choice"
If you consider getting sold to drug-dealers at twelve a bad life choice.
Where were you?
Why didn't you redeem him?
Didn't you hear the children?

Her name wasn't Prim, and she didn't have a protective older sister.
She simply tried to figure out how to make sense of the world
After life robbed her of her innocence.
Make her violator famous.
Sure. Then what?
What about her?
Why didn't you redeem her?
Didn't you hear the children?

I don't understand.

I walked away from breakfast
Moved on with my day
How could you, the God of Love
Allow such violence?
Didn't you hear the children?

Walked in to church.
Ariel shows up with the last book in the trilogy.
And again I wonder.
Violence.
Poverty.
Inequality.
Why, Lord?

Listen to the children...

They ask if I have anything I'm thankful for.
How can I be thankful?
Wasn't this the whole point of passion week?
You came to redeem
You came to deliver
So why don't you hear the children?

I stare at the screen as the song lyrics appear.
But my mind wanders back to Constructive Theology classes
How can I possibly construct a theology that you are good
When there's so much violence in the world?
Are you hearing your children?

But your goodness isn't dependent on what you do or don't do now.
That you are Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer should be evidence enough.
Right?

And then I hear little Phoebe
Her voice louder than everyone else in the room
"Glorify, glorify
Let your name be lifted up and glorified
Let the earth tremble at your name
Let your name be lifted up and glorified"

How can I glorify you?
I know you are deserving, and I am unworthy
But how do I justify glorifying a God that allows violence?
Listen to the children,
I hear you say.

My mind is still spinning as Steve starts introducing the next song.
"Draw me close to you..."
And I start weeping

The first night in Anderson when I cried myself to sleep
You were there

My first Sunday at Park Place when we sang that same song
You were there
Back when I was still innocent and the world wasn't so bleak
You were there


And then I hear you saying,
"You are a child too.
I hear you.
I see your heart that's buried under all the ashes."


But that doesn't solve anything.
It doesn't make the world a better place.


I've been feeling a lot like Abraham
And I think you know it
Uprooting and moving isn't the hard part--
I'm used to being nomadic now
Most blessed of tent-dwelling women is Jael
Yeah, yeah. Alright.

I may never get to Canaan,
And it will be alright.
But do I have enough faith that you will protect me from Pharaoh
So that no harm has to come to Sarah?
Do I have enough faith to leave Isaac at the altar?
Do I have enough faith that you will give me my heir
So that I don't have to take Hagar?

How do I teach kids about Abraham this week when I'm relating too well to his weaknesses at the moment?

Victor Hamilton writes,

"Possibly their mistake is seeing the promise of God not as a privilege, but as an obligation. Instead of saying, "We're going to have a baby!" they say, "We've got to have a baby."

And then I realise...
I've been fighting you
Asking you why I have to wear the title of Children's Pastor for this season
Why I have to do something so unfamiliar
Listen to the children.
I won't do them any good.

I heard the children.
What?

I heard the children. I hurt with them.
But I also see your heart. That's why you're here.
You don't see them as a babysitting gig
You don't feel the need to impress them with entertainment
You do exegesis for them
You listen to them
I didn't put you here to do things for them
Remember? 

Hopes said it to you in a loud, audible voice before you left Anderson

You make room

Remember?
You make room for people of all ages to simply be
That's what you're good at
Have you forgotten?
Try and do anything else and you're likely going to flop 

You ask me to listen to the children
I have.
That's why you're here.
You make room for them to ask questions and feel pain. You make room for their animals even if you don't believe they have souls or will go to heaven. You make room for them to be silly, creative, funny and thoughtful. 

You make room for them to find me 

I heard the children in Uganda, and Panem, and Berlin. But I cannot give you answers for them. They are not your responsibility. Your responsibility is for your immediate community.

And then I realise...
I asked you to listen to them as if it were your obligation.
When really, it is our privilege if you do.

For that reason alone,
I will sing as little Phoebe did.
I will listen to the children.

Making Sabbath, Brain Vomit

Katherine commented yesterday that I apparently have been doing a lot of thinking recently.

I guess meltdown cycles have become so normal to me. Just keep doing stuff, don't stop and think, then eventually, crash and my mind cannot stop spinning as it starts processing all the stuff that has caused the meltdown. So I start writing. By the time I get to just about recovery, the cycle repeats itself.

Mia and Kya asked me yesterday what my job was. I told them I was a pastor. Mia then asked what I did in my free time. I had to stop and choose my words carefully because Mia was having a hard time dealing with having to grow up. She has as much quiet confidence as one can possibly get in an eleven year old, but the thought of leaving childhood and free time behind is making her dread becoming a teenager.

I couldn't possibly fib about how much fun growing up can be if I didn't believe it myself.
I couldn't tell her I don't have much free time because I don't know how to say no, and I don't know when to stop.

I don't remember how I answered her question, but it definitely made me stop to think.

The reason why I don't have much free time is because I don't choose to make time to be free.
I'd easily make time for just about anything under the sun--except myself.
Oh, and God.

Dang.

But what's my problem? Why can't I stop? What am I trying to prove?
Truth is, I don't know.

Came across these truths in this week's lectionary readings...

"All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the Lord; and all the families of the nations shall worship before him. For dominion belongs to the Lord, and he rules over the nations. To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down; before him shall bow all who go down to the dust, and I shall live for him. Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord, and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, saying that he has done it." - Psalm 22:27-31

This.
This should be the very reason for my existence.
This should be why I eat and why I sleep, and why I do what I do.
But is it?

Some time ago, in a discourse on pastoral theology, a dear wise friend put it (somewhat) in these words.

Creation came into existence because of God's overwhelming love. It isn't just a giant act of masturbation, but one that yearns for a response.

His words left a deep impact with me only partially because his use of the M word made the 13-year-old girl in me giggle. But it made me think.

How many times have I tried to use the things I do to try to show that I'm in relationship with my Creator?
How many times have I been guilty of trying to fill the hours of my day with more things to do hoping that it would fill some kind of hole that only Love can fill?
How much easier is it to pretend that actions earn love when the truth is I'm too proud to accept something that I can in no way claim credit for?

The truth is, Love isn't something that exists because God was showing off.
It isn't a warm, fuzzy feeling that everything is going to be ok.
It isn't even a thing, an act or a feeling.

Dr Ross once explained that the reason why God was so upset with the Israelites worshiping idols made out of their jewelry wasn't just simply because they had broken his commandment about idol-worship, or that God was jealous. In those days, jewelry were a symbol of covenant relationship (ie marriage), and to have taken their jewelry and melted them into an idol would be the present-day equivalent to taking one's wedding band off and whoring oneself to another.

It's never been simply about breaking commandments as much as it is about intentionally violating covenant relationship.

This after all, is the Lover that so selflessly passionate that it yearns for a response like a young man or woman so smitten in new love.
This is the Lover that sent a rainbow to Noah and his family saying, remain in covenant relationship with me.
This is the Lover that gave Abraham his new name saying, through my covenant relationship with you, I will bless the nations.
This is the Lover that passionately pursues Israel even after she has whored herself out to others as many times as she did.
This is the Lover that says I will die for you no matter how many times you throw my wedding ring away.

This is the Lover that says,

For my covenant that he would inherit the world did not come to Abraham or to his descendants through the law but through the righteousness of faith. If you simply adhere to the law just so you can be an heir, faith is null, and my covenant is void. For the law brings wrath, but where there is no law, neither is there violation. (Romans 4:13-15, paraphrased)

I've been in the middle of my fifth/sixth month lull for a while now. MaryAnn says that "5 months is about right for what you are feeling [like crap]." It's supposedly the time when the novelty of everything is starting to wear off. Chad speaks of memories of his fifth/sixth month with such "fondness".

In the midst of life happening, trying to figure out how to not screw up my job, and trying to put an end to my year of transition and change in community/whanau/gemeindschaft, I've tried to ignore my need for some sense of constancy, even if just a thin thread of something. I don't like change very much, and even if I've come to a place of acceptance of its place as a by-product of something I love far greater--the adventure--there are moments of loneliness and a deep desire for a constant. Don't get me wrong, I don't feel alone. It's just a longing for a something or a someone that has stuck around since the awkward TK days, to the time when I fell in and out of love, to the milestones in Anderson, to the times of questioning in Berlin, to the most recent year of transitions.

Something or someone that sticks around just because.

Oh wait.
There is a someone.
And a Someone that does love me.
Someone with a love so passionate that no matter how many times I might screw up or find myself unworthy and try to walk away from the covenant relationship, continues pursuing.

I don't even have to do anything to prove myself worthy.

And so I make my mind stop spinning for a while.
And take a deep breath.
And write.

Not because I have to.
Not even because I need to.

But just... because.

Looking in the Mirror of My Books
Yesterday Seeds of Contemplation arrived and it is very handsome. The best job of printing that has ever been done on any book by me. I can hardly keep my hands off it. Jay Laughlin says the burlap effect we have on the cover is really a material they are using now on the walls of nightclubs. Well, it is the Christian technique: sanctify the saturnalia and lupercalia with Christian liturgy: turn them into Christian feasts.


Every book that comes out under my name is a new problem. To begin with, every one brings with it an immense examination of conscience.


Every book I write is a mirror of my own character and conscience. I always open the final printed job with a faint hope of finding myself agreeable, and I never do.


The Passion and Precious Blood of Christ are too little in this new book -- only hinted at here and there. Therefore the book is cold and cerebral. What is the good of trying to teach people to love God without preaching through Christ's wounds? The reason I do not do so is because I am still selfish. I find myself thinking about what we ought to get for dinner in Lent; about how to distribute signed complimentary copies of the deluxe edition of this book. I should never have gone into such a thing as a boxed special edition. I must be nuts.
- Thomas Merton (March 6, 1949, II.287)

Kaleo

I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the calling You've given to me
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the Gospel


Steve and I had a theological-nerd hashing out session yesterday.

Let me first disclaim that while his Calvinist and my Wesleyan roots often don't play well together, out of our genuine desire to be friends and co-workers, we've learnt to respect our theological differences. That, and the fact that we're the two young pups in our church family--old enough to not be in youth group anymore, yet young enough to be left at that in-between age that could easily slip between the crack. At the same time, even though his bible school training has been different from my seminary experience, there are enough commonalities for us to stick out as the academic/theological nerds that we try so hard to avoid being.

As we were talking through our different perspectives on biblical inerrancy, I found myself recalling conversations I've had with peers at AUSOT--both the ones that I found delightfully intellectually stimulating, and the ones that I wanted to strangle gracefully walked away from.

Somewhere in the last year or so of leaving seminary, I've forgotten the joy of intellectually stimulating conversations like these. For whatever reason, I've been trying so hard to find a group of people who shared the same approaches to theological understanding as the core group of my seminary friends--the ones that I've agreed with almost 100% of the time. But I forget how much fun it can be the engage in theological discourse with people who may not agree with me 100% of the time. We probably don't end up agreeing anyway, but because they are well-informed and well-thought-out, they still make for great conversational partners.

At one point in the conversation, we found something that we were both struggling with. Because we are the young pups, we often lose sight of our calling to spiritual leadership in the face of challenges. In my case, perhaps it's because of the recent experiences with my struggles in ministry, I've found it difficult to believe that I do still have that call to spiritual leadership.

... I'm young.
... I'm a woman.
... I haven't been around long enough to understand the culture.

While I no longer live in great white America, there are still things that I will come up against simply because of the demographics I fit into. But it doesn't change the fact that somewhere, at some point, God called and I answered.

No, make that, God called, and I fought for a long time and am still fighting now, but I'm trying to answer.

It doesn't look anything like what I imagined it would look like when I first embarked on this journey, but it doesn't change the fact that the calling is still there. But my own fears of inadequacy have kept me hiding in the shadows, afraid that if I venture out and make even the slightest mistake, I would lose any progress I've been trying to make on this new and unexpected path.

In nine days, I would be marking my sixth month in Aotearoa. I still don't have a clue why I'm working with kids, or why anyone would have thought that was a good idea. I still feel like I'm trying to do something right, yet putting the wrong foot into the puddle and making a big mess all at the same time.

While hanging out the wash this morning, for some reason I took the time to read what was on the back of my Kaleo shirt for the first time since I got it a few years ago. And here's what it said:

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us." - Hebrews 12:1

I had to laugh. Kaleo is Greek for "I Call".

Somewhere between Constructive Theology 3 and New Testament 1, my definition of sin became redefined to simply mean the intentional breaking of relationships. This is what "I call" is meaning for me.

I'm not called to be the Children's Ministry Coordinator at Westside Christian Fellowship.
I'm not called to do the lessons right every Sunday.
I'm not called to make sure SUPAkidz is fun every week.
I'm not called to perform.

I'm called to be intentional about relationships.
I'm called to reconcile with the things that are broken.

The crazy kids at AUSOT sent me the Thomas Merton book I had been coveting. I've been trying to avoid developing another dead-man crush, but when someone writes like the way he does... Oh, be still my heart.

Lay in bed and realized what I was: I was happy. Said the strange word "happiness" and realized that it was there, not as an "it" or object. It simply was. And I was that. And this morning, coming down, seeing the multitude of stars above the bare branches of the wood, I was suddenly hit, as it were, with the whole package of the meaning of everything: that the immense mercy of God was upon me, that the Lord in infinite kindness had looked down on me and given me this vocation out of love, and that he had always intended this, and how foolish and trivial had been all my fears and desperation. And no matter what anyone else might do or say about it, however they might judge or evaluate it, all is irrelevant in the reality of my vocation to solitude, even though I am not a typical hermit. Quite the contrary, perhaps. It does not matter how I may or may not be classified. In the light of this simple fact of Gods love and the form it has taken in the mystery of my life, classifications are ludicrous, and I have no further need to occupy my mind with them (if I ever did)--at least in this connection.


The only response is to go out from yourself with all that one is, which is nothing, and pour out that nothingness in gratitude that God is who He is. All speech is impertinent; it destroys the simplicity of that nothing before God by making it seem as if it had been "something." (December 9, 1964)
- Thomas Merton





I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the calling You've given to me
I want to walk in a manner that's worthy
Of the Gospel

A Child Named Hope

There once lived these two little girls
They called one of them I
The other, they called Hope
They were best friends growing up

I was always lost in some deep thought
She was not one to settle for easy answers
The grown-ups always told her
Hope had all the answers
"If you would only listen to her"

Trouble was,
The grown-ups may have been right about Hope
But Hope also knew
I had to wrestle with the questions
For wrestling was necessary
So I could take ownership of the answers she found
All Hope offered
Was the steadfastness of friendship

In her years of wrestling,
I had to peel away the layers of idealism
She learnt she had to start seeing the world for what it was
Instead of what ideals she wanted it to be
I started putting distance between herself and Hope
For Hope's answers seemed too easy

The years flew by
And the distance remained between the friends
Hope often cried herself to sleep wishing things were different
I had to walk her journey alone
But Hope also resolved to keep pace from the distance

Hope had an older sister
Her name was Love
Love's wisdom was encouragement to Hope
So that her strength and friendship could endure
While I had her heart broken over and over again

The day came when I hit rock bottom
Hope found her in the corner of that dark room
I had been around Depravity too much
The scars from her own battles were many
But even more
Were the pieces of her heart
Shattered from the stories of brokenness she encountered
To live without hurting would be an unnatural existence

I grew afraid of being alone
For in those dark corners of loneliness
The pain and the scars tormented her
In that time,
Hope and Love found her

That night,
Hope held the candle as Love rocked her to sleep

But I was ashamed of the distance she had put between them
For a long time she pushed their friendship away
For a long time she was convinced
The only way she could have Hope and Love back
Was to completely walk away from Depravity

But Hope and Love pursued her
Hope showed her she never left
Even in her years of friendship with Depravity
Hope simply made space
For Depravity to teach her to be real

Enough time has passed now.

I sat in the middle of a conversation last night frustrated that all I could offer was another story of depravity. I found myself second-guessing the things I had said, angry that I didn't have more humour to offer.

But the truth is
Between the emotional scars that I am slowly finding healing from and the stories from the streets of Atlanta and Berlin
Between the wounds of close friends that I carry (because Hope, in her twisted sense of humour, gave me way too big a dose of empathy) and the faces of children in the reservations of South Dakota
I have seen too much Depravity that to live without hurting would be unnatural

I have also known Hope for too long to live in despair
But for me to try to write Hope, Love or Depravity out of my life would be compromising my story.

So all I can do now is to go out
And see anyway
Hurt anyway
Love anyway

Live anyway.

Meeting Wairua

Her feet settled in comfortably into the sand as she placed them one in front of the other continually. They felt like they belonged. As did she, right there on the beach with the cool waves gently washing up around her ankles. This was home, and she was settled. At least, until it's time to move again.

The sunlight was beginning its retirement journey for the day, and even though it would have felt more normal for melancholy to settle in around this time of the day, her feet still felt light. She was beginning to gain momentum when she noticed a solitary figure keeping pace with her not too far off in the distance. She knew right away who it was, but this time the figure was dressed in a red, white and black finely woven top with what looked like a Hawaiian skirt.

She smiled and gave a slight wave of acknowledgement. It was comforting to know that she hadn't wandered too far since the conversation at the coffeeshop. But the distance between them confused her. She didn't feel as distant from *Wairua as their footprints in the sand reflected. As much as she wanted to close the distance between them, the voice in her head kept saying, "Ohhh, watch it. Watch it!"

Her eyes were fixed on the feather on Wairua's headband as she started inching closer, trying to ignore the voice in her head. "Ahhh, scheiße!" she yelped, as the pain shot straight from her foot to her heart where that old wound laid wide open as if salt had just been rubbed directly into it. Refusing to let that first shot of pain stop her, she tried again, but could make no more progress than she did the first time. She felt the first tears coming on and tried desperately to blink them back, but they spilled out as if the floodgates had finally been open.

She looked back up to Wairua, the pain on her face as raw as the fresh stab on the old wound. She hoped for a band-aid or perhaps a magic carpet that would smooth over the broken bits of shell that covered the distance between them, but all she saw were the tears on Wairua's face and the rays of sun reflecting from the little bottle of liquid she wore around her neck.

Chills went down her spine as she recalled the last time she saw that bottle. Suddenly it was like time flew backwards by three years, and she was meeting *Sarayu for the first time. She wore a bottle around her neck the same way Wairua did. Her body went limb and she fell upon the sand, and as each piece of broken shell pierced through her skin, the pain shot straight to her heart the same way the first one did.

It couldn't be the same bottle Sarayu had, could it? The pain and hopelessness of those years suddenly felt so raw all over again. But Sarayu had walked her through those days of sitting in the dark corners wanting to have nothing to do with this thing called Life, and gently put every one of those tears she shed back then into that bottle she wore around her neck. That she could feel as light as she did walking on the beach just a few moments ago was something she celebrated everyday. So where was this searing pain coming from now?

"My child," Wairua whispered, "This isn't about three years ago anymore. Back then you knew me as Sarayu, as Papa, as Jeshua. I'm still Sarayu, Papa and Jeshua, but in Aotearoa, I'm also Wairua, the Spirit of Life. These shells between us are the broken pieces of you, connected between your heart and the people and lands you have been with. You heard it once earlier tonight. Change sometimes hurts. My child, you have been hurting for so long and I don't know why you keep trying to hold up this shell. You and I both know that you do change better in vulnerability to community than alone, and yet you keep holding back from genuine community. We talked about this during those eight hours in that airport, didn't we?

As long as you're not living life here with complete abandonment,
As long as you're not giving your heart away freely and completely to this land and this people,
You're still living in fear.

And giving your heart away doesn't mean simply giving love away. It also means being vulnerable to receive love. You are not less of a person simply because you are broken and empty. But you will become less and less of a person if you keep trying to give away love without being willing to receive Agape in return."

Wairua knelt on the sand, and with her bare hands began brushing off layers and layers of sand from the first piece of shell, cutting her fingers over and over again in the process. She wore a gentle smile on her face as her tears mixed in with the crimson droplets. The smile grew warmer and bigger as more and more of the cream-coloured shell revealed itself.

The first piece of shell finally came loose, and as Wairua dusted off the last sand bits, her smile became one of victory.

"This, my child," she said, as she set the first piece aside and began working on the next one. "This is my blood, shed for you.

As often as you do this, remember Me."


* Maori for "Spirit"
* Borrowed from William Paul Young's The Shack

The [Truth?] About Worship

In a recent conversation, we were for one reason or another talking about how worship is structured in churches these days. So when I heard a song that had the lines, "You are love; You are life" in its bridge in a congregational setting recently, it made me stop and think.

What's the purpose of this thing we call "worship" anyway? To sing songs of adoration to the Leader of our faith? To tell the One we believe to be Creator how thankful we are for our existence? And was it mandated that we only sing songs surrounding the existence of this Creator? And if so, does that make our Creator a self-centered being?

As usual, I don't claim to have answers, but a thought hit me today. Sure, I believe in the existence of a Being that is love and life, but I'm wondering if that's all I sing about regardless of where I am or who I'm with, wouldn't that get kind of annoying to the people around me?

I mean, if a good friend of mine is head over heels in love with their spouse, sure, I would enjoy hearing about their spouse from time to time. Heck, if they didn’t talk about their spouse at all, I would probably be worried. But if all that they talk about is their spouse, then clearly their relationship with their spouse is of such high importance that my relationship with them doesn’t matter.

Or let’s just put it bluntly. If all this friend talks about is their spouse, then that’s just plain annoying. I might even start wondering if they have an unhealthy relationship that leads to them not being able to talk to other people.

That being said, if all this friend talks about were their parent, favourite political leader, sibling or best friend, I would probably be equally concerned, if not annoyed.

Now I acknowledge that this Being that is love and life is a little more supernatural than the average human being, so the relationship would also be a bit more supernatural. But doesn’t this Being also teach that the greatest commandment is to love the Lord your God with your heart, soul and mind AND your neighbor as yourself? I may be interpreting this wrongly, but I believe loving your neighbor also means being in enough of a relationship with them that we don’t just talk about our spouse/parent/favourite political leader/sibling/best friend all the time.

And also, if this Being that teaches that one aspect of the greatest commandment is to “love your neighbor as yourself,” then I’m not sure I would be able to think of this Creator as the aforementioned self-centered being.

Streaming it down a little further to my personal belief that one revelation of this Being comes in the form of Jesus of Nazareth, also known in some circles as the Christ. I find myself guilty of forgetting his humanity from time to time. I tend to think that the only form of humanity he took on was the ability to suffer so that he can empathise with our suffering. But I’m starting to wonder if his humanity also required him to learn how to love. At least in the Christian circles, we don’t find it difficult to believe that he loved the Creator – if he didn’t, he would not have taken on the human form to redeem creation. But his ability to love people out of his humanity? I think if we didn’t catch that from reading the Gospels, we’ve already missed the whole point.

Which leads me to my next thought… Isn’t this what it means to be “evangelical”?

This will be for another time. But for now, I looked up “evangelical” on the Merriam-Webster dictionary and found this:

: of, relating to, or being in agreement with the Christian gospel especially as it is presented in the four Gospels

2

: protestant

3

: emphasizing salvation by faith in the atoning death of Jesus Christ through personal conversion, the authority of Scripture, and the importance of preaching as contrasted with ritual

4

a capitalized : of or relating to the Evangelical Church in Germanyb often capitalized : of, adhering to, or marked by fundamentalism : fundamentalistc often capitalized : low church

5

: marked by militant or crusading zeal : evangelistic evangelical ardor of the movement's leaders — Amos Vogel

Interesting, huh?

Also, a friend of mine posted this some time ago that I thought was interesting food for thought to throw into this mix.

Thoughts?

Dear Keren #9 - My Life Is Full

Dear Keren,

I'm sitting in my retreat space, completely surrounded by the bagillion thank-you cards that need to be sent out to the people who have made an impact on my life in the last seven years in Anderson. Right now, my life feels as full of chaos as the stuff that I'm surrounded by, and the condition that my room is in. A part of my stuff is already filling up a suitcase, a couple boxes have been filled that will be going to the garage sale that's happening this weekend, and another trash bag full of stuff that I'm just throwing away or recycling.

And it's 2am, and I'm finally taking a sanity break from this day. I'm still awake, but I think I'm going to go ahead and blame this on the Pacific Northwest for messing up my sleep-cycle. I guess the fact that I'm functioning on my own schedule now doesn't help huh.

These last few days in Anderson are now being filled up faster than I can catch up with.

There's a ton of sorting and packing that needs to be done. And in the middle of doing that, I found a bunch of old photos that I forgot existed. Cards that still make me smile. Papers I had written in undergrad that make me realise how much I had learnt in the last seven years. Not so much about how the dominant seventh chords should resolve, or what songs to teach children for each developmental stage of life they are in, or how to plan a worship service. But realising how focused I was in undergrad that I never really made time for people.

There's errands that need to be run like making sure my car gets sold, the insurance gets cancelled, the bank accounts get taken care of, and silly things like that that's supposed to make life easier but really just complicate it more.

There's a bagillion thank-you cards that need to be made and sent.
And a bagillion people I need to see. I'm getting to the point where I feel like I'm just seeing people for the sake of seeing people and I hate that feeling. Deep down inside, I really wish I could spend more time with each of the people I'm visiting with, but even if I had all the time in the world, it wouldn't be enough. So I pay my dues to each person and I move on. And it drives me crazy after I do that, but I don't know how else to manage.

As I looked through all the junk earlier today, my allergies started going crazy from the dust that had accumulated over the last couple years since the last time I moved. But more than that, for that few seconds, I felt like my soul had just disconnected from my body and, looking at all the junk that surrounded me, realised what a fascinating journey this life so far has been. And I'm only 25, but the Creator still isn't quite done with me yet. How can this be? And what more is there to come?

And sure, I have seven years of junk I need to get rid of, but quite frankly, that's all that is. Junk. The real treasures are the people, and yet I don't even get to carry all of them together with me. It almost feels kinda silly that I'm filling suitcases with clothes and stuff instead of memories.

But yet, as much junk as there is surrounding me, my life is full. Thinking back to the last couple weeks, I've been reminded again and again of all the people I have in my life.

At NAC, I got to spend time with countless old friends from seminary. Friends who, each time I converse with them, fill my soul.
And countless old friends from the missionary community. Friends who relate to my somewhat strange worldview.
And their children. Friends who embrace me with complete abandonment not because I do them favours or anything like that but simply because they love me out of their innocence.
And others in the Church who believe in love.

In the Pacific Northwest, I got to spend time with Arthur and Judy, Dave, DeAnn, Sherri, Neil, Andi and Audrey, Jenny, Dave and Connie, Becca and Ryan, Laura, Jess, Isaac, Minnie and EJ, Ryan, Robin, Ella and Lunden, Lauren, Katie and Ashley, Perry and Carla, Cassie, Bill and Mary, Stephanie and Brett, Kelly, Randee, Sean, Jeff, Christina and Tymon, and Matt and Abbey.

Since coming back to Anderson, I had lunch with Amity, Scott and Rick.
Beaded and talked till 3am with Emy.
Went to Frazier's with Michael.
Frolfed and harassed Coppess with Rick then went to dinner with them.
Visited with Mac and Jean.
Watched Harry Potter with Tim, Nikki, Tim, Kit and Jacob.
Had ribs with Jason, his dad, Michael and Royce.
Had pizza, played Phase10 and watched the Newsies with Julia and B-row.
Hung out at Keren's tree for her birthday.
Caught up with Ryan and Anjie.
Said our "see you again" with Mike and Wendy.
Hung out with Greg, Linda, Nathanael and Abigail, Laura and (crazy drummer) Kirk.
Catch up with Danielle.

And tomorrow I get to have lunch with Jen and Mary.
And play games with Xen and Sarah, and Becca and Ryan.
And have tea with Ann.
And Wiffleball Wedneday.
And lunch with Mac and Jean and the sibs.
And bead and talk some more with Emy.
And Freak Freer-Fry Friday.
And garage sale Saturday with Ginny and JM, John and Elizabeth, and Jason.

I'm blown away that my life can be this full. Because just a few years ago, I wasn't sure I knew how to be in relationship anymore. Remember, we had this conversation just a couple years back? I was just starting to get to the place where I could say ok, I'm ready to have people in my life again. It started slowly, and painfully, this learning to be vulnerable in relationships again. And before I even realised it, four years have passed since the day you went away, and here I am.

Still miss you. Still wish you were here. But my life is so full, and I've never been more thankful.

Love,
Me

It Used To Be Less Complicated. (Or So It Seems)

Dear God,

Hi. I mean, good evening ma'am. No wait, I mean... Papa?

Sorry. I've forgotten how to do this. It's been a while.

I haven't forgotten you, but the whirlwinds of the last few months have zipped in and out way too quickly that, in trying to restore the damage, all I had time for was to manage that trying-really-hard-to-look-as-sincere-as-I-feel-but-probably-coming-across-as-really-awkward smile every once in a while, just to acknowledge that I'm well aware that my insistence on carrying on the restoration work with all my power-tools isn't actually being helpful, and that it was probably hurting you to watch me too.

But truth be told, and you and I, we both know this.... I don't know how to do this. I've been working with power-tools for way too long, and all the wisdom that I have sought know that it's time to drop the power-tools. But we don't know how to even start looking for a new method because this is the first time a whirlwind of this magnitude had come through. I can't speak for everyone else, but I myself am looking forward to discovering the new methods, simply because of the adventure that it brings with it.

Yet I'm frustrated. And exhausted. This new chapter should be exciting and challenging, but still fun. But I'm feeling like my energies have been completely sapped and before I've even had time to recuperate, to celebrate endings and beginnings, the to-do list for the restoration project started to nag and nag and nag. And in the midst of all the nagging, all the questioning is not helping. The questions of, "Are you sure you're the one for this undertaking? You grew up way too quickly for your own age and you were never really a kid or knew how to be a kid, so what makes you think you'd know how to get kids involved in this restoration project? And shouldn't you be feeling guilty you're not working hard enough to meet all the datelines of your to-do list? And if you don't even know how to make time to care for yourself, what makes you think you will be able to care about the others? And you're running out of time, shouldn't you hurry up and work harder?"

And... and... and... And I'm just exhausted. Who the heck did I think I was anyway, that you would entrust me with such a huge undertaking? I'm tired of dreaming big dreams that make me so afraid because the gap between here and there seems so big that I know full well, if I tried walking by myself, I would fall right through. And I'm afraid that there might be nothing below to catch me if I fell through, yet at the same time I KNOW you are there.

But God, I'm human.
Ma'am, I'm exhausted.
Papa, I'm afraid.

Yet I will keep on walking.
Because I don't know how to stop when I hear that voice saying, "One more step, my little one. One more step then we'll take a short break from working on helping you walk instead of just toddle around."
And that voice that says, "One more step, my sweet lover. One more step towards my love, and I will be here to hold you when you fall apart."

And so I will keep walking. Because there's work to be done. And because now that I remember what it's like to catch you at the lemonade stand in between the power-tooling and how the "how are you?"s happen, I think I'll have a little bit more for tomorrow.

"Oh yes, my everlating impatience. nothing new; but i miss someone to tell me to relax...to say, "keren, mañana."
...
So please...lay down the time countdown to my life...give me a pillo to rest my head...and hold me...
we'll deal with it...tomorrow."
- KEB, 12.30.06


The road goes ever on and ever on...

Seasons of Grief; Seasons of Love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Moments so dear.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?


In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights
In cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.


In five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure
A year in the life?


How about love?
How about love?
How about love? Measure in love

I'm becoming increasingly convinced that it isn't until you have cried with someone that you can truly say you know them. And it isn't until you've cried because of them, whether it's because you're hurting so much with them or because of them, that you can truly say you love them.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not trying to convince you that you need to be crying because of someone everyday, or that Days of Our Lives is an accurate depiction of love. I'm just saying that until we've really learnt what it means to hurt rationally with or for someone, we don't actually know them or love them.

Which, on hindsight, is probably what made 2010 such a difficult year. It wasn't simply a matter of how many times I moved or how many places I did life in in that year. It wasn't simply the transitioning in and out of cultures. It wasn't simply having to say goodbye.

Sure, the Anderson-Berlin-Anderson-Singapore-Anderson transitions were a bit crazy. Sure, there was some amount of stability in that Anderson was still the place to "land" in between all the moving. But no, in 2010 I finally learnt what it means to really love and do life with people. And each time I was starting to be able to hurt with the people I was living amongst, it was time to move on.

Friends who graduated in May, I never really had time to celebrate and grieve them moving on from Anderson and it was time to go to Berlin.
I was just starting to get to know some of the stories of the friends in Berlin and it was time to do the traveling part of the internship.
I had just enough time to spend with friends in Pforzheim to know about the things that mattered to them and it was time to go. Same with the friends in Fritzlar.
I barely had enough time to hear the hearts of some of the friends and hurt with the kids at Teenfreizeit and it was time to go back to Anderson.
My understanding of the theories of doing life together were just getting put to test by difficult relationships and times spent in the hospital; and I barely even had time to hurt over these things and it was time to go back to Singapore.
Old friends in Singapore were just starting to open up with their stories all over again and it was time to head back to Anderson.

So much time to learn to love; so little time to actually love.
So much time to laugh together about the shallow things; so little time to cry together.


But yet...

There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven--

A time to give birth and a time to die;

A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted.

A time to kill and a time to heal;

A time to tear down and a time to build up.

A time to weep and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn and a time to dance.

A time to throw stones and a time to gather stones;

A time to embrace and a time to shun embracing.

A time to search and a time to give up as lost;

A time to keep and a time to throw away.

A time to tear apart and a time to sew together;

A time to be silent and a time to speak.

A time to love and a time to hate;

A time for war and a time for peace.

What profit is there to the worker from that in which he toils?

I have seen the task which God has given the sons of men with which to occupy themselves.

- Ecclesiastes 3:1-10

In the grander scheme of Life and Time according to the Creator, it all makes sense.

Sure, 2010 was brutal. But if I could go back and redo 2010, I wouldn't want to have done it any other way.

Because my God is a God of Love.
And all the Truth that I have in this Life is Love.
And Love is the only thing my God wants from me.
And Love is the only thing I have to give.
And for this Love, I will willingly take the grief, the heartaches and the pain that come with it.

Because my God is a God of Love.

And all the Truth that I have in this Life is Love.

Guests in the Childhood Home

My mother has an impeccable gift of hospitality. Or as my BFF put it, "the gift of taking care of people." She's never been extravagant with anything, and it's the same with her hospitality. But her gift comes through being able to laugh at herself and make any person that walked through our front doors feel completely at home because she's "crazy". She engaged every person with a level of ridiculousness that you just had to laugh -- if not with her, then at her.

We always had strict rules in our household, and her home-cooked meals would be considered "too healthy" by most of our friends. But that never stopped our youth-group from making our home the most frequented hang-out after church because they didn't want to go home. And even though Auntie Florence would always make them eat a lot of veggies and Uncle Steven would make this horrible-tasting but very nutritious fruit juice, our friends, and eventually also the kids my mum tutored would still enjoy hanging out in our home.

Six-and-a-half years ago, my brother and I moved out of this home. But the guests still kept coming through those doors. Recently, when it became clear that we were moving out for good, our bedrooms became the living space for two Malaysian kids who were in Singapore for education. They were kids that my mum had been tutoring before they moved in. It was good for my parents because not only did it bring a slight addition to the household income, it also gave my mum more "kids" to "take care of".

And so now, we have become the guests in the childhood home. Except each year when we return, we get our own sets of keys, an EZ-link card (transport pass in Singapore), a cell-phone and spending money. We're still family, so we still get special treatment :) And each year when we leave, we return the keys, the EZ-link card, the cell-phone and whatever's left of the spending money. The doors are still open, as they've always been, even after we've developed "strange Western styles of living."

Home will always be home where the parentals are
Where the once-upon-a-time baby sister is
Where Grandma calls everyday to ask if we're hungry and if we want her to bring food over
Where the cousins gather for our Christmas party
Where the girl-friends from high school get together for our reunions

Even when we're only guests there once a year
Even if we find more distant lands to call home the rest of our lifetime

Because this is the home that gave me a legacy to live
This is the home that taught me about the craziness of hospitality
This is the home that taught me to always make sure no one is hungry
This is the home that taught me the importance of gathering together every once in a while

In a recent conversation with the BFF, she made me dream about where we might find ourselves in ten months time--the next time I'll be back in the country that owns my passport. And then she said this: "No matter where you go, no matter what you find yourself doing, whether it's in church or outside of the church, you will always be taking care of people. Because that's just what you do."

And it's only because of the legacy that this home taught me to live.

Because this is home.
Even if it's one of many homes.

Focus, Focus, Hocus Pocus

"But I remember what Susan said
How love is found in the things we've given up
More than in the things that we have kept
And ain't it funny what people say
And ain't it funny what people write
And ain't it funny how it hits you so hard
In the middle of the night
And if your home is just another place where you're a stranger
And far away is just somewhere you've never been
I hope that you'll remember I was your friend"
- Rich Mullins (Thanks B-row)


I realise I've been writing a lot more than usual over the last week or so, but I've also been thinking a lot the last week or so hence the writing. And since the very point of this blog when I first started it before last summer in Deutschland was for accountability to processing the life of cross-cultural ministry, I figured you'd be ok with reading some of these thoughts.


Over lunch with a couple friends from high school earlier this week, the whole spiel about the way my life is going to unfold from this point on came about. One of them pointed out that I sound like I have given up on life because of the way I was talking about the stuff that lies ahead. Basically I told them that I already know I will be poor for the rest of this life, and that the field I'm in will not lead to much material happiness, not just because of the "poor" part of it, but also because of the number of times I will move around the world and stuff like that. 


Which made me reflect on whether or not I had really come to terms with what it means to continue down this path. On our last full day in Phnom Penh last week, my brother and I were riding on the back of the truck through town and out to the killing fields and genocide museum and all that fun stuff. What I saw on the streets didn't faze me much, mostly because with all the cross-cultural stuff I've been a part of since my undergrad days, I've learnt to stop having pre-conceived notions of what life is supposed to be like anywhere in the world. So everything is new, everything is surprising, but nothing is really unexpected anymore.


It wasn't until the point when my sister decided to join us on the back of the truck that it really hit me how global I've become. I grew up in one of the cleanest and safest island-cities in the world, and here I was in the dusty streets of Phnom Penh with the smells of pollution and manure all around as we rode on the truck and I was unfazed. I honestly can't say this is my own doing or my own choice, but rather, the sense of adventure that had to come from Somewhere Outside of Myself had helped with the adaptability. And you ask me how I know I'm called to cross-cultural work?


But then my sister asked me a question that, for the first time, I actually gave serious thought to. She asked if I could live there in Phnom Penh. And of course, without hesitation, I said yes. I was used to giving that answer. But that was the first time I really thought about it. Could I really live there in Phnom Penh? What would I do there? Clearly I will not have as much material wealth as our hosts for the week did, so I will not be throwing extravagant parties. Cambodia has been historically either Buddhist or Hindu, and I only remembered seeing at most two Seventh-Day Adventist churches there. And church-planting of that nature is not my thing. So that wouldn't fly either. I could try to start a business if I wanted to keep up with my parents' middle-class quality of life, but I wouldn't have the capital or the gifts of business-running to do that. Or would I be able to find work as a servant to one of the wealthy families there? Would it be culturally appropriate and acceptable for them to employ me? And how would I find a place for ministry in the middle of living life in Cambodia? It wasn't so much that I was giving serious thought to moving to Cambodia after seminary, as much as it was the serious thought of wondering if I really understood what I was saying when I keep telling people I can live anywhere in the world, but it's just a matter of where.


Then I remembered something else I learnt in Germany. Answering my call to ministry had never been limited to geographical settings, programs, systems or organizations of any kind. And my theology had always been that above everything else, God is love, and we exist both for and because of love. And yes, there are implications and complications to the word "agape," but agape was one that transcended social structure of any kind--be it the political division of land, or the hierarchy that had been set up by human beings to help navigate and draw boundaries in relationships. Jesus, supposedly the "new Moses," the one whose example we should probably follow if we're going to call ourselves Little Christs, showed that love transcended the traditional understanding of the Mosaic Laws that the Jews had guarded with their lives. Which I guess... that meant that it didn't matter where I physically land in terms of the political division of land, or where I line up in the social structure. Agape is going to transcend.


And it's really not so much that I've given up on life because of the path I've chosen. And no, I'm not envious of my friends who have the material wealth either. That is the path they chose, and I'm happy for them. But no, I've chosen this path, and I'm happy and content even knowing that I will never have very much except for the global companionship that I know I can always depend on.


So maybe that's why it hurts as much as it does when sometimes the global companions don't show up like they promised they would. Because that's the only thing I have (aside from the Higher Being, of course). So maybe I've had too high of expectations from some aspects of my community, thinking that my commitment to community should be reciprocated at the same level. Maybe that's why they say that there are some things in life that we have to fight for, but they also say to hold loosely to the things in our hands.


Still a lot to process, especially with the reminder of Susan Hardman's life this week, and the inspiration she was to me. But some of the random fly-away thoughts from the last couple weeks are finally being plowed through, refined so that I don't just let these thoughts be fleeting moments of life that are wasted away.

Advent #1: Mary

So it's come down to this.

Nine months I carried him. And for what?
Thirty-three years he lived. And for what?

All those years I've endured being misunderstood. All I wanted was to be a good mother to my son, but because the father of my other children was not also his father, the other women never knew what to make of me.

Never mind that it didn't matter to the father of my other children that Jeshua wasn't his.
Never mind the divine revelations we received about his birth.
They didn't understand.
But then again, neither did I.

And all these years I watched him grow. From Bethlehem to Nazareth; from the manger to the temple. All these things he did, I never understood. But he was my son. So even while I didn't understand, I loved him.

But he was never really mine. Sure I carried him for nine months. But he came from a place that I never really understood. And the things he did in his lifetime were never really things I could understand. Turning water into wine, healing the sick, making the lame walk again...

But there was something else.
He loved.

He loved me. He loved his father.
He loved the women on the streets, those tax people, and even... even those people who brought him to Golgotha.

But why? Why would he love them? Why SHOULD he love them?

I loved him because I carried him for nine months. But he? He had no blood relations, no ties, no obligations to any of these people. Yet he cared. He owed them nothing; he did not have any reason to worry about the consequences of their life decisions. Yet he loved.

There are days when I wonder, did I carry him all that nine months just to watch him carry that cross? If I had known that this was what it was going to come down to, I would have asked for this yoke to be taken away from me. Then I wouldn't have to hurt because the man on that cross would have been someone else's son and not mine. And I could just watch from a distance and not get involved with the story.

But he knew. He knew even before he was in my womb. And he still chose this.

This.
This is love.
Love that is greater than I can understand
Love that gives all, demanding nothing in return
Love that expects nothing in return
Love that knew all the stories and the ugly baggage, but never withdrew
Love that saw the bigger picture but yet cared about the small details

I could have just been a bystander watching this all unfold. But he chose to show me the depth of this love when he let me carry him, even if just for a little while. He chose to let me understand the pain of this love that overwhelms my humanity.

This was a love that would have come whether or not I was involved. But it also came for me.

And this is the love that compels me to love with that same depth and intensity. But I'm not Jeshua. I don't have it in me to love like that. But come, Emmanuel. Come and overwhelm me with this deep, intense love again that I might love the way you chose to.

O Come Emmanuel

What do I Know of Holy?

You know the song that goes, "Break my heart for what break yours"? I'm becoming increasingly convinced that the songwriter had no idea of the magnitude of what they are asking for.

What do we think we're asking for when we sing that line?
Compassion for the poor and needy?

Not that I don't believe compassion for the poor and needy isn't a part of the heart of God.
But that comes easy, doesn't it?

Compassion? Does compassion drive us to do anything?
And even if it does, the poor and needy are distanced. We can invite them into our lives, but until they become the people that we do everyday life with, they still are our "projects".

So what happens when our hearts are broken because of a love that is far bigger than we in our humanity can understand?
What happens when our hearts are broken because we are asked to say, "I love you," even when we already know that person is going to walk away anyway?
What happens when our hearts are broken because the love that we have understood and been filled with is compelling us to love in that same way?

Do we know what we're asking for when we sing, "Break my heart for what breaks yours"?
What do I know of holy?


And what about that Child?
That Little One lying in a manger, here for some reason that he may or may not even understand.

Did he know this was what love was going to compel him to do?
Did he know this was the love he was born into?
Was he holy? Was he divine?

If You touched my face would I know You?
Looked into my eyes could I behold You?
What do I know of wounds that will heal my shame?
And a God who gave life "its" name?
What do I know of Holy?
Of the One who the angels praise?
All creation knows Your name
On earth and heaven above
What do I know of this love?
What do I know of holy?


I don't know a lot about spiritual things.
But I know they exist, and there's a realm of spirituality that I can only catch glimpses of from time to time.
And I have not traveled into enough parts of the world to know how this spirituality works in other parts of the world.
But I know I cannot disregard that spiritual things happen outside of my "Christian" understanding of this label.
And academia cannot and should never take away the spiritual.

And we are more spiritually connected than we want to think about.
But we like our distance, don't we?

Because distance keeps messiness away.
The messiness of ourselves.
The messiness of things we don't know.
The messiness of getting involved with others.

Are You fire? Are You fury?
Are You sacred? Are You beautiful?
What do I know?
What do I know of Holy?




And then there's that Child.

That Little One lying in a manger, here for some reason that he may or may not even understand.

Did he know this was what love was going to compel him to do?

Did he know this was the love he was born into?

Was he holy? Was he divine?

I guess I thought that I had figured You out
I knew all the stories and I learned to talk about
How You were mighty to save
Those were only empty words on a page
Then I caught a glimpse of who You might be
The slightest hint of You brought me down to my knees

What do I know of HOLY?

Lyrics from Addison Road's "What do I Know of Holy"