Aotearoa Diaries: 返来 Return

Hello, 2015. It's nice to meet you.

First things first.
The last 3 months have been a whirlwind. 6 countries in some 80 days. Whoa.

Would I do it all over again? I don't know.

Don't get me wrong. The last 3 months on the road have not managed to kill my spirit of adventure or love for the world. But maybe that's the problem. Travelling stirs up all kinds of thoughts, feelings and dreams that I'm not sure I have the energy to keep up with anymore.

Let me back track a little bit.

2014 was a great year. Sure, it might have been because 2013 had been one big hell-hole, such that 2014 felt like a completely different life altogether. And even though ministry-wise, nothing had gone as I had expected, things were slowly taking shape.

The only problem was the one main one I had been ignoring all year long hoping that some miracle would just take care of it. That money problem.

I don't like talking about financial stuff because it's awkward and I like pretending that ministry doesn't involve money. But we had reached a point where reality was sinking in: something desperate needed to happen with the finances for the ministry or it's not going to go on. Then some friends sat me down and had me actually figure out that we were only at about 20% of what we needed each month.

That was when it hit the fan.

In the 3 months that I had spent on the road, I had a couple of offers for full-time ministry positions with a more stable income. When the first offer came, I still felt very strongly about returning to New Zealand. That the chapter with The Bridge isn't over. How could it be when we still have plans and dreams for this year? But by the time I began having more conversations with people and the other offers came through, I began to wonder if returning to Auckland was a stupid idea. 3.5 years of living with limited resources and moving every half a year or so because I couldn't afford to pay rent was beginning to wear on me emotionally. It's one thing to say, "I choose to live by faith and trust that the resources will come in." It's another thing to face the reality that this "live by faith" mentality was becoming a waste of resources because it was greatly limiting the effectiveness of the ministry. I hated going in to the city because it was a 40 minute commute each way, and parking was limited and expensive (The cheapest Auckland city parking costs $3/hour for the first 2 hours, then $6/hour after that). How could I really call The Bridge a presence-based community ministry when I wasn't even all that present in the community?

And doesn't the lack of financial support coming in also translate to the lack of value placed in a ministry like that? And if no one believes in it, am I just wasting my time when I could be making a difference elsewhere?

And then Hong Kong happened. Here's another conference to go to. Another networking opportunity. Another go at seeing whether this money miracle will happen.

Well, what ended up happening, I did not see coming at all. This overwhelming sense of call to "返来" or "return" that I had promised in an earlier post that I would write about.

You see, at this conference in Hong Kong, there was an overwhelming number of Chinese brothers and sisters in Christ. From a very young age, I had been fascinated with the underground church in China, and my first real sense of call to ministry had, in fact, been to go to China. Ten years had past since then, and somewhere in that ten years I had forgotten about that nudging.

Then at this conference in Hong Kong, I found myself offering to translate for the overwhelming number of Chinese brothers and sisters. Because I had registered for the conference as a representative of the church in New Zealand, most of them were surprised that I was bilingual. In conversations with several of them afterwards, I found myself having to explain that my grandparents migrated to Singapore from China, and that I was actually a "华侨" or "overseas Chinese". I forgot that to the Chinese, even if I had never lived in China, the very nature that I was a 华侨 meant that China would still be home, or at least, the Motherland. Kind of like when my immediate family took a trip back to my grandpa's village in China. All the relatives there greeted us with the over-excited, "你们返来了!" (you have finally come home!)

In those moments of conversations with these brothers and sisters, I had several of them ask if I would "return" to China to work with their youth. They were impressed with my bilingualism and my understanding of spiritual things, and reminded me again that China needed people like me.

"返来" "Return"

There was that word again. I wondered what God was thinking listening in to all these conversations. God sure seemed to have a sense of humour about these things, and frankly I was getting quite annoyed.

I found myself explaining that there were Chinese all around the world that needed the faith we shared as well, and that those were the people I would work better with. Frankly, I have no idea where those words came from, but suddenly I found myself in the shower in my residence hall my freshman year of college again. It was ten years ago, but I recall having a chuckle at how all that weekend, I had been serving as a "translator" between a friend from Hong Kong and another one from Korea. Never mind that I didn't speak Korean--I had been exposed to enough bad English in my life that I was translating from one dialect of bad English to another. In that moment, I began to wonder if God would be ridiculous enough to call me back to Asia after I had finally settled down from crying about moving halfway across the world to the US.

Ten years later, at that conference back in Asia, the words spilling out of my mouth suddenly shed light on all the nonsense in that shower room. I would find myself "return"-ing-ish to Asia-ish, just not in the conventional way. Well, if everything else leading up to that moment in my life was anything to go by, "conventional" doesn't usually work out for me, so really, I had no reason to be surprised.


Still, I was undecided. There were overseas Chinese all around the world. Why did it have to be Auckland? Sure, there was job stability there, but there was no money to go with the job. 20% is still a grim figure, and I would be returning to Auckland with less than a month to find another place to live (my current flatmate is wonderful, but we've reached a point where it's no longer fair for her to keep offering me free accommodation).


Then those youth camps. Those blasted youth camps.

Since the first of the year, I've been at back-to-back youth camps. I generally love youth camps because I love camps in general, but even more so, I love being around the ridiculousness of teenagers. Except this time, my role was a bit different. Along with just hanging out with the teenagers, I also got to spend significant time with some of the youth leaders--young adults whom I had just spent a whole year getting to know. The more we talked, the more they shared their hopes and dreams, the more I began to have that sense that my journey with them wasn't over. It couldn't be.

But then what? There still is that grim reality of 20% (I hate numbers, but it keeps haunting me). And then the first nudging I felt about The Bridge returned.

It was January 2013 and I had taken 48 hours to go away to Wellington. The afternoon before I was to return to Auckland, I passed by a house. It was an ordinary house, and there was no reason for it to have stood out, but it did. I had already decided before the trip that I would be done with my assignment with WCF, and kind of figured at least part of the 48 hours away would be spent praying about next steps. Still, there was no reason for me to have stood in front of that ordinary house for so long, but I came home from that trip and asked my prayer circle to begin praying about a house.

Well, it's been two years since that trip. I'm still not sure what that house is about, but I have a stronger feeling than ever that it's going to happen, even if I have no idea how.

Over the weekend at that last camp I was a part of, we were challenged over and over again to make "Bold Crossings". Frankly, I had not given a second thought to the theme because I was there only to be a support person for the camp, and had even been pretty insistent on the first two days that I wasn't going to let it get to me. I was exhausted and ready for the busyness to be over so I could go away by myself to think and pray and sort things out.

Then that night, Clint talked about making the "Bold Crossing" to surrender. In our leaders' meetings prior, we were reminded that these messages could stir up some things amongst the youth that we should be prepared to deal with. I found myself thinking in my head, I've had enough experience with these youth events that I know what to expect. How different would this night be from all the others?

But that night, as Clint made the call to surrender, I found myself drifting to the back of the room, and from my corner, I found two of my people who had been going through some really challenging junk with their hands raised in the air. In that moment, there was no holding back the tears. I still had no idea what I was supposed to be doing in Auckland, but at that moment I knew God was doing something, and I wanted in. I wanted to stay.


So in conclusion, well... I have no conclusion. Except... I guess I'm staying in Aotearoa. It is good to return home.

3 Weeks of Grace Part #3: Broken

I took a 19-day whirlwind adventure around a few parts of Asia recently. I can't say I was expecting a lot, but I was surprised by Grace... (As usual, I hear you say)

"Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart . . . For we do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’ sake . . . But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us."- 2 Corinthians 4

There's something about camps.
A few days of sharing breathing space with the same group of people and you find yourself at a place of vulnerability with this group.

It's why family camps are great for the church -- it was at my last family camp as a teenager that I first experienced a vague sense of call to ministry.
It's why I believe so strongly in the potential that exists in youth camps.

Or why retreats can be such a time of refreshment.

The primary purpose of my 19-day whirlwind adventure was to eventually land in Narita, Japan, for the Church of God Asia/Pacific Missionaries Retreat.

And what a time those 3-ish days were.

Simply sharing breathing space with my co-labourers in the region did more for my soul than I could have ever expected.

Somewhere between my return from Germany and that retreat, something broke inside.
Whatever that something was, it kept breaking over and over again that I wasn't sure there was anything left that I recognised anymore.

Perhaps it was a silly assumption that the move to Aotearoa New Zealand would be the season that would bring new life.
Because in the middle of the scramble to find new life, what was found instead, was a shell to hide under to pretend that nothing could hurt anymore.
And if nothing could hurt anymore, then nothing could break anymore, right?

But in that shared breathing space, it became safe for the shell to fall apart, knowing that whatever is left would be held by those who shared that same brokenness and that same breathing space.
And all the pretence that was began crumble as well.

For the first time since my three-month stint in Germany, I began to feel like myself again.

In the Grace that abound in that shared breathing space, there was freedom again.

3 Weeks of Grace Part #2: Hands and Feet

I took a 19-day whirlwind adventure around a few parts of Asia recently. I can't say I was expecting a lot, but I was surprised by Grace... (As usual, I hear you say)

I've travelled a fair amount in my time. But travelling with a "pastor" title can be quite a different experience, as I come to learn.

Like the immigration officer that does a double take when he looks at your occupation title on your immigration form. You can't tell if he's sheepish because he thinks he needs to let you through without asking questions or if he suddenly thinks he needs to treat you with more respect simply because you have a religious title.

Or when you're in the home of another pastor and suddenly you're no longer the kid waiting patiently at the dining table for the pastor to say a blessing before we all eat. No, it's a little bit weird when you're the one who's asked to say the blessing.


I've heard heaps of stories of pastor friends who have spent time in a village in one of the African nations where they were treated like the guest of honour. The chicken that has been saved for the special occasion is caught and slaughtered. And I remember thinking whenever I heard those stories that I would feel so uncomfortable being in that place of being a "guest of honour".

And then your hosts have you feasting on one delicious meal after another, and these mangoes that are so sweet and juicy as they take you around their city and share with you about their ministry. And you suddenly realise your hosts have been treating you like that "guest of honour," and you suddenly feel really uncomfortable.

But when your hosts usher you into the guest room upstairs and beam with pride when they tell you that you're staying in the room that "Reverend Don and Caroline stayed in when they were here," you suddenly realise you're not a guest of honour because of anything you've done. No, it's because your hosts recognise that as you fumble around in your early years of ministry, you're merely trying to find your sense of balance as you stand on the shoulders of giants. And they simply want to be gracious hosts to you as you pass through along your journey.

At least, that was my experience in my less-than-24-hour stay in Manilla, Philippines with Brother Eddie, Sister Fely, Sister Marlene and Pastor Bob, and all the other good people at Grace Family Helper Project. And in all the correspondence that followed after that short less-than-24-hour stay, they constantly remind me that I'm not alone in my passion for student ministries.

This.
This is what it means to be the recipient of grace from those who are the hands and feet of the Living Christ.

And this is why we, at The Bridge, are looking forward to partnering with the church in the Philippines.

3 Weeks of Grace Part #1: The Good Soil

I took a 19-day whirlwind adventure around a few parts of Asia recently. I can't say I was expecting a lot, but I was surprised by Grace... (As usual, I hear you say).

It would be ten years this August since I last lived in Singapore. And of course, it's only taken me the last ten years of being gone to realise I was lucky to have landed in good soil. And no, I don't mean blessed. I mean lucky.

Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a family that rallies around in times of need.
Luck would have it that the winds blew and the storms came, but somehow we are still standing and holding each other in gestures that may not quite suggest intimacy as much as simply the need to ensure each other's survival.

Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a circle of girls that still stick around, twelve years after our school days.
Luck would have it that we all landed in a school, way back in the beginning, that would churn us out ok--successful perhaps not by the world's standards, but by the abundance of health, laughter and the ties that bind us together through the years--and that the dramas of our lives pale drastically in comparison with so many of our contemporaries.

Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a "youth group" (which really isn't a "youth group" if you look at our ages, but we just don't know what other category we fit into) that had managed to somehow still stick together through the tumultuous years of church politics.
Luck would have it that each time I return, the landscape of that "youth group" changes drastically, yet somehow, the few remain faithful and committed to each other's ridiculousness as much as we were in the years that passed.

Don't get me wrong, I truly believe also, that I'm blessed. I'm just not convinced that landing in good soil was one of those blessings, as much as what often feels like random selection (luck, perhaps) because I did nothing to deserve better soil than my neighbour.

But Grace.

Grace, both in spite of, and because of, my unworthiness.
Grace that landed me in good soil.

Grace, from random selection
Now that, I might just be brave enough to receive.

Where We Come From: Homesick

The year was 2007, and it must have been either June or July. Holly, Keren and I had, on this random night, decided we were going to "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's for ice-cream, as college students spontaneously do. I don't remember what else was on the playlist that night, except for two of Keren's favourites at the time. The windows were down, and we were singing at the top of our lungs, "Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your girlfriend!" and "Oh, **** it, I'm gonna have a party!"

I don't know what it was like for the Holly and Keren. But six years have passed, and I look back at that "roadtrip" now and think of it as a coming of age marker for me. Only a couple months ago, I had walked across the platform in Kardatzke Wellness Center as a celebration of the culmination of three ridiculous years' work towards a bachelor's degree. Anderson University had by then become a place where I had struggled long and hard with my self-identity, and just like that, those three years were over. Keren and I had by then had several long discussions about our dreams about the future, and she was just beginning to find her place while I was still looking for mine.

You see, Keren was a Third-Culture kid. Born in El Salvador, she eventually moved to Romania when her parents took a missionary assignment with a church there. She, and my other TCK friends, talked often about how they could never simply check one box when it came down to filling out forms about where they came from. She was at a conference for international students once, and when it came time for breakout sessions, attendees were asked to split into groups based on the region she came from. Was she to go to the one for Latin America or the one for Europe? There was never one single box to check.

I remembered one of our conversations being about the things we were passionate about. She said she was slightly jealous of friends who had found their niche in their passion for social justice, or art, or something of the sort, because she hadn't found her own. I remembered thinking the same thing. I loved music, but having studied it at the college level with an over-emphasis on performance (which I hated) killed it.

Then one day, she had just gotten back from a weekend in Chicago where she had been a part of a conference called, "Displace Me". It was a movement about creating awareness of displaced people. After all the time spent trying to figure out which box to check, she finally found it. Her passion. Working with displaced people because she herself was displaced.

That had all just fallen into place weeks before that summer. Then before that summer was over, her life was taken.

It was years before I started really processing everything that happened that summer. You see, I had forgotten about the phonecall I received that night on the "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's. In our laughter and singing, we missed the ramp for the motorway twice, and ended up halfway to Columbus, Ohio. We had gotten so frustrated that we eventually decided to simply head home, but ended up missing the off-ramp for the Anderson exit as well. Somewhere in the midst of all the chaos, Dad had rung up to chat and was asking about how things were progressing with my job search. By the time I hung up, I was even more frustrated from trying to explain to Dad the cultural differences in the job search process.

Holly and Keren calmly listened to my ranting for a while before Keren finally said, "You know, our parents haven't lived here themselves. They may have some ideals about what life is like here, but they are not the reality that we live in. And it isn't anybody's fault, we just have to learn to adapt to this new reality that we live in different worlds now."

It wasn't until years later when I began processing that I realised I had become displaced too. I had spent significant amount of time with my Missionary Kid/Third-Culture Kids friends while in college to know the traits of a TCK, and to begin to understand the way they think. But I had never saw myself as a TCK until then.

For a few years after that, I struggled to navigate the waters of this new revelation that a new chapter had begun in the pages of my self-identity. It was hardest around November because I would be celebrating American Thanksgiving with Danielle's family, thinking about the right time to call or e-mail Dad on his birthday. Then right after that, the countdown towards the time I left wintry Anderson for sunny Singapore would begin and I would get particularly homesick thinking of time with the cousins, the BFFs, the church family and all the yummy food. The night before I boarded the plane would usually be the worst. I always love going, but I hate leaving. It's in that in-between time that I feel most displaced.

Nine years later, this displacement hasn't gone away. I've moved yet again, and the understanding of homesickness has re-shaped itself as well. It doesn't help that even with all the diversity in Auckland, folks here still take one look at me, hear me speak and automatically ask the dreaded, "Where are you from?" Yes, I know I'm yellow on the outside, sound like white America, and have the black, red and gold of Germany hanging in the Snuggery where I live, but the truth is, I have too many other colours on the inside. I would happily don the black, red and green of my Kenyan sister, Emily, the vibrant flowers of my Island whanau, while wearing the intricately beaded headpieces of the Lakotas, a people near and dear to my heart.

And the in-between times... Gosh, the in-between times are the worst. Nina who has become one of my Auckland church mums came up to me at church yesterday, gave me a big hug and said, "You've been a bit homesick, haven't you?" The tears came really close, but I wasn't sure if it was because someone noticed, or if it was because I hadn't even noticed it myself until she pointed it out. There's so much here that I love and wouldn't be ready to leave, even if just for a month. But there's a part of me that's already in Portland having bubble tea with Arthur and a massive pow-wow with Cassie. Another part of me has already tasted the corn and cherry tomatoes from Heidi's garden, and solved all the problems of the world with the semiNerdian friends. And still another part of me has already snuggled with Hannah and thrown fries at Amanda.

And maybe that's why I love airports so much. Because I feel less alone in the in-between-ness, even if no one else in the waiting lounge is as crazy/displaced enough to be processing these thoughts.

I was scrolling through old photos on Facebook earlier and found this one, taken in front Brandenburger Tor in Berlin. It was one of the first days we were there and there were various exhibits that we could take photos with. Some were historical; others political; still others, simply funny. This little guy here though, reminded me too much of myself. By the time I got to Germany, I had come to the realisation that no matter what part of the world I move to or how many times I move, wherever I sleep that night would be home, but I would also still be homesick for at least one of the other homes.

That is the new normal now. And it will be ok.

Emily sent me this photo via Whatsapp today. I hadn't expected it because it wasn't a significant date. But it was the reminder I needed that I wasn't alone in this warped in-between place. A few months after Keren died, they planted a tree on campus in remembrance of her. When I still lived in Anderson, I would visit on her birth and death anniversary with the yellow flowers she wanted on her last birthday. It became a place of solitude in the summer months as well. Months before I moved, I told Emily that I wasn't sure what I would do anymore on her birth and death anniversary. She offered to simply bring flowers to visit whenever she was able. Emi, thank you.

This. This is where we come from.

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 at work 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.

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.

New Plymouth Roadtrip #3: Spiritual Guardians

Wednesday saw us stopping at the Rangimarie Maori Art and Crafts Center after breakfast and a fair amount of puzzling. But more on the puzzling in a bit.

It wasn't a huge art and crafts center, but there was a fair amount of the traditional black, white, red Maori art pieces, weaved baskets and sculptures.

It was here that I was struck with the awareness that we really are a whole lot more connected to each other than we take time to think about. The weaved baskets, possibly made from harakeke (Maori for flax) reminded me of the weaved baskets I had seen in 鹤山 when we made the 寻根(literally translated as "looking for roots") trip to Grandpa's village in China two years ago. And the sculpturing brought back images of watching the workers carefully carving each buddha for the temples in Cambodia.

So much of how we communicate is done through art and music, and if so many different parts of the world find themselves communicating in similar fashions, are we really as different as we like to think we are? It made me question why I sometimes used the excuse of "differences in culture" to get away with not knowing or understanding something or someone. If I'm completely honest with myself, "differences in culture" is not, and should never be used as a lame excuse for my own laziness and fear of looking/sounding stupid when I try to build bridges cross-culturally.

Silent Guardians
"All humans are spirits only visiting this world. All spirits are forever beings. All encounters with other people are experiences, and all experiences are forever connections."
(Marlo Morgan - Mutant Message Down Under)


My favourite piece of sculpture at the Art and Crafts Center is titled "Spiritual Guardians". It was a piece that had at least four different faces, depending on what angle you are looking at it from. It reminded me of the many "spiritual guardians" I've had in my life, some of whom I didn't even realise how much they spoke into my life until years have passed since our interactions. It reinforced for me the idea that we really are more spiritually connected than we realise, and that every interaction we encounter creates in us a sense of responsibility to each other.

To put it in a more Christianese way, every interaction we have should be an opportunity for us to be the Light and Love of Christ. We have the responsibility to community to help each one discover our spiritual connectivity in the love of Christ.

In The Blackfield
She wants to stay and talk all day
So I remark when it gets dark
All the pale things under the earth
Will reverse
(Blackfield - Blackfield)


The backpacker we stayed at while we were in New Plymouth brought us into close proximity with a few really cool folks from around the world.

Laura, a young artist from Germany, here trying to get an internship to add to her portfolio for admission to university back in Germany.
Ann-Sophie, from Quebec, French Canada has been hitch-hiking through New Zealand with Laura ever since they got acquainted a few weeks ago.
Julien, a medical/information systems professional from Germany, here for a one-year break from working closely with cancer patients the last couple of years.
Tomoko, a surfer-dudette from Japan, temporarily working at Seaspray House, the backpacker where we met.

As we shared kitchen and dining space or sipped wine and worked on puzzles together, I found it refreshing to simply be sharing space with people who could simply be. Each one brought to that place our own baggage, whether it was fatigue, a thirst for adventure, the need to escape, or whatever other stories there might be. But in the space of that lounge area, nothing mattered more than simply putting our brains and hands together to work on a puzzle, to laugh and to simply be in each other's company.

It was one of the moments that made me miss being in Berlin. Whether we were having sushi parties, hanging out at the park with neighbours, we were meeting new people not just from all walks of life, but from all parts of the world, and each one with a different story, as we were trying to figure out what it means to live the XZ (Christ-centered) life in those communities.

Julien would join us for a few meals here and there. When he shared the story of what brought him to New Zealand, the same thing that tugged at me when I heard "Justin's" story when I was in Berlin came back. "The story isn't over..." Even though these were two completely different stories, something tugged at me to want to know how the next chapter would look like for Julien. I only wish I had managed to get his contact information before we left.

Our last night in New Plymouth, Steve and I stayed up with Laura, Ann-Sophie and Julien, working on our last puzzle, laughing, trading stories, and simply being. Laura showed me some of her art work, and I was blown away by the stories she shared about what inspired her. And then we proceeded to play some of the games we used to play as kids... which, as it turns out, are fairly universal :)

But it came back to the same thing. The simple act of simply being, and simply living in community because we shared space with each other for the few days.

All encounters with other people are experiences, and all experiences are forever connections.

New Plymouth Roadtrip #2: Rainbow Through the Rain

We were on the roads somewhere on Tuesday when Steve came up with the annoying brilliant question, If you could identify your personality as any one thing, what would it be and why?


Allow me to introduce the crew of this roadtrip with the answers each of us gave:

Kathrin, the Cat: dear friend, big sister and housemate
Emily, the Ostrich: Steve's friend from Ohio, here for a visit
Steve, the Tree: friend, "pricker" (Seminary friends, think Dr Froese) and youth pastor
Jael, the Cactus

Amanda once described my personality like that of a cat's, but I decided to go with the cactus this time. A few good friends once used it to describe the personality of someone who really means well deep inside, but keeps their pricks out so you're not really sure what to do with them.

While the other three made their way up Paritutu Rock which I avoided because of my phobia of heights, I took the time to think a little bit more about the Cactus.

The cactus is almost always a solitary figure in the desert. In my driftings around the world, it's easy to feel like I'm alone in the desert, struggling to sink roots deep enough to tap into the source of Life deep below the surface of the desert. The struggle to sink roots represents both my wrestling with questions of faith, and the thirst for Life in community every time I'm uprooted. Because of the struggle, the pricks that develop keep others at bay, and they'll have to work past the pricks to find the source of Life.

On the flip side, I once read somewhere that potted cacti are gifts of friendship the way flowers are gifts to lovers. The potted cacti reflects my friendship with the world, and my desire for community that is unlike the solitary experience of the desert cacti.

Oh Love That Will Not Let Me Go
Tell me now where was my fault
In loving you with my whole heart
(Mumford & Sons - "White Blank Page")


Monday morning saw us leaving Auckland a little after 10 am. We weren't too far into the journey when Emily shared something that she was reading that morning that included the line, "I trace the rainbow through the rain," familiar words from one of my favourite old, old hymns, Oh Love That Will Not Let Me Go.

The journey to Auckland has felt like a dream, almost too good to be true. But with the visa dateline getting closer and closer, the feeling that I'm about to wake up and realise this has all been a dream is getting stronger and stronger. At one of the many lookouts where we stopped for photos, I found myself confronted with the possibility that this could well be my last trip around New Zealand for a while, if things with the visa don't end up the way we hoped. Deep inside I knew this was a worst-case scenario, but I found myself asking the question, if this was the end of the road with Aotearoa, will it be ok? The truth was, there's still a rainbow that I could trace through the rain because of the love that will not let me go.

Has the past couple of weeks here been challenging and discouraging? Yes. But having to wrestle with the possibility of this all coming to an end soon made me realise that as many challenging and discouraging moments there have been in the last two months of being here, I wouldn't want to be anywhere but here right now.

Two months ago, the eight hours I spent at BNE led to learning the lesson that as long as I'm not living life here with complete abandonment; as long as I'm not giving my heart away freely and completely to this land and this people, I'm still living in fear and not trusting enough that the the Source of Life will be enough. Two months later, I realised I've fallen in love with the land and the people.

Tell me now where was my fault in loving you with my whole heart...

New Plymouth Roadtrip #1: Soul Journey

I've been reading Marlo Morgan's "Mutant Message Down Under," a book recommended by Jen and Miriam. The book had pretty crappy reviews on Amazon, but I'm really enjoying the book so far, and not because it's good historical fiction or anything like that, but because of the narrative of the spiritual journey to appreciating the complexities of the simple things in life.

This roadtrip that Kathrin, Steve, Emily and I just came back from has been a little bit of a spiritual journey for me as well. The journey to Aotearoa itself has had its mystical elements in making me feel even more connected to the earth (thank you Caity Stuart), but this roadtrip was a soul journey of a different kind.

To begin, I carried with me a heaviness from the last couple of weeks as we started the roadtrip. As much as I tried to be present for the trip, the fact that the visa business was still not taken care of made it difficult. Do I begin to withdraw, simply out of the possibility that this could well be my last travel around New Zealand for a while?

Ironically, just before we left that morning, Kathrin and I had a brief conversation about something Michael posted on Facebook by Thich Nhat Hanh:

"In the United States, I have a close friend named Jim Forest. When I first met him eight years ago, he was working for the Catholic Peace Fellowship. Last Winter, Jim came to visit. I usuallyy wash the dishes after we've finished the evening meal, beofre witting down and drinking tea with everyone else. One night, Jim asked if he might do the dishes. I said, 'Go ahead, but if you wash the dishes you must know the way to wash the.' Jim replied, 'Come on, you think I don't know how to wash dishes?' I answered, 'There are two ways to wash dishes. The first is to wash the dishes in order to have clean dishes and the second is to wash the dishes in order to to wash the dishes.' Jim was delighted and said, 'I chose the second way- to wash dishes to wash the dishes.' From then on Jim knew how to was the dishes. I transferred the 'responsibility' to him for the entire week.

If while washing dishes, we think only of the cup of tea that awaits us, thus hurrying to get the dishes out of the way as if they were a nusiance, then we are not 'washing the dishes to wash the dishes.' What's more, we are not living during the time we are washing the dishes. In fact we are completely incapable of realizing the miracle of life shile standing at the sink. If we can't was the dishes, the chances are we won't be able to drink our tea either. While drinking the tea, we will only be thinking of other things, barely aware of the cup in our hands. Thus we are sucked away into the future-and we are incapable of living on moment of life."

- The Miracle of Mindfulness, Thich Nhat Hanh, pgs, 6-8.

It was then that I realised, I was leaving Auckland and had already decided to stay disconnected from the real world. Fretting about the real world stuff wasn't going to change anything anyway, but I couldn't get my mind off the possibility that this roadtrip might well be my last for a while.

Human-ness. What are we to do with that?

I proceeded to try and get my thoughts organized so that I wouldn't dwell excessively on one thing or another. But you know that Voice, the one that I hate sometimes? The voice said, "Let the past sweep over when it sweeps over, rather than try too hard to control the flow of your thoughts."


And so the soul journey began. I'll write more eventually, but my brain is about to combust. 

Penang Highlights Part #2

The Peranakan Culture
Even before the TV series “The Little Nonya” came out on Channel 8 a few years ago, I’ve had a fascination with the Peranakan culture, but I will have to admit that the TV show was what sparked the interest to examine this people group more closely. I am an anthropologist after all. So when we had the chance to visit a Paranakan residence on our last day in Penang, I was naturally excited.

Peranakans are a people group known as Straits Chinese that exist only in this part of the world. They are Chinese ethnics who, upon their arrival in parts of Malaysia, Singapore and Indonesia, took on the ways of the native Malays and some of the British-influenced European lifestyles. The men were called Baba, and the women Nonya. They tended to be wealthy and influential Chinese who worked in close alliance with the British colonial government and had the opportunity to travel to parts of Europe.

As an anthropological nerd, I could probably go crazy writing about this people group, but that will be for another time. I will say this much though: The fusion of the Chinese reds and golds with the darker, richer streaks from the Malay ethnics, combined with a touch of European décor make for a very unique interior design. The Peranakan home is fascinating because of this very reason.

I Met Love at Kek Lok Si (極樂寺)
Kek Lok Si is a Buddhist temple that is considered one of the landmarks of Penang. It stands out as one of the tallest buildings in the state, and if I’m not wrong, the only religious space of that magnitude of grandiose.  According to Pastor Sunny’s wife, a Christian prayer summit that happened some years ago caused the head of the original building to fall off. It has since been reconstructed with a bill that came up to something like RM40,000 (S$16,000 or USD13,000).

Since we were all about being touristy, we visited this temple because there were a bunch of cheap touristy shops leading up to the top of the temple. It was quite a hike so we didn’t make it all the way up although I would have liked to if the weather hadn’t been as dreary as it was that day. On the way up, there was this elderly lady sitting at the corner with a little plastic container with a few coins in it. Something about noticing her sitting there haunted me for a while, and I couldn’t figure out what it was. She wasn’t the first beggar we had come across, but it bothered me that she had come to the temple to beg.

We kept walking a little further and finally my mum and Auntie Audrey decided they were tired. I went up a little more until I got to what appeared to be the bottom of the temple, and for a while, just stood in awe. There was something about the Buddhist chants that seemed so calming in the midst of all the other chaos that was going on in my life at the time, and it reminded me of the couple hours in the Japanese Gardens in Portland with the spirituality guru, Cassie Trentaz. But I couldn’t shake off the image of the lady still haunting me, partly because I knew I was going to see her again when I started my descend.

There in that courtyard, I finally figured out what it was that was so haunting. As the BFF might put it, there was “The Voice” saying, “She’s clearly looking for something or she would have gone begging on the streets instead of within religious space. Funny, ain’t it, in times of need she would come to the Buddhist temple when you don’t see her sitting in the Church.” I kept trying to rationalize “The Voice” away, and we ended up having a conversation that went something like that:

Me: She was probably raised Buddhist, so of course in times of need she would turn to the only form of religion she has ever known.
The Voice: Or could it be that Christianity never quite offered her what she was looking for because Christians were too afraid of stepping into the space of other “false religions” to notice her?
Me: But if I offered her anything, wouldn’t she assume I was sent by Buddha, even if I was trying to represent Christ?
The Voice: But if you didn’t offer her anything, what chance of a conversation would you even be able to have with her?
Me: But we’re in a hurry so I don’t really have time for a conversation anyway…
The Voice: What if she wasn’t really looking for sympathy or for help? What if all she needed was to know that someone saw her? You claim to see spiritual things, say the words, “I see you” from the movie Avatar so easily, and believe in Namaste, but what’s the point of seeing these things when you don’t actually see?

Me: Crap.

The Voice won. Of course.

If I had the opportunity (translate: if I hadn’t been such a wuss), I would have told her that I saw her because I saw Love, and I had Love that came from a source that was bigger than me. Did I have the capacity to Love a stranger? I’m not sure. But I knew Love saw her, and Love wanted her. Love didn’t want her to be compliant to a list of rights and wrongs; Love just wanted her.

As I started making my way down from the courtyard, I scrounged around for some loose change. There wasn’t a lot, probably not even enough for a full meal. But Love said, “Look her in the eye. See her.”

I met Love at Kek Lok Si.

Go here for pictures

Penang Highlights Part #1

Penang is a place that I haven't been to since... Oh, I think before my sister was born (She turns 17 today, by the way. If you see her around Anderson, give her a big happy birthday shout out!). This past weekend, my mum, Auntie Audrey (a friend from church) and I took a quick weekend getaway there.

It's fascinating to go back to a place where you haven't been to in a while, and seeing things through different lenses.

Our primary purpose of going there was to eat and shop (this is a getaway after all) because things were a lot cheaper there (they are about the same price if we did a dollar-to-dollar comparison, but the exchange rate is about S$1 to RM2.45). I usually do my major shopping once a year when I'm back in Singapore because we'll go to some part of Malaysia for a day or weekend and we'll get our shopping done then. This time though, my luggages are already packed and ready for New Zealand, so I didn't get to do as much shopping. But I still returned with a very full stomach and so much more food for thought.

Colonial Roots

Maybe it's because so much of the research I had been doing for my last semester of seminary revolved around the impact of colonialism in New Zealand, the fact that Penang was one of the Straits Settlements was of a lot more interest to me. Sure, the Brits didn't do a very good job defending their colonies during World War II, but if not for them, Singapore would not have achieved the economic status that we have today. Which makes me think, maybe the Brits didn't do all bad.

Or perhaps, it's a matter of building upon whatever good or bad the Brits may have done for the betterment of the quality of lives for the people. Penang, in a lot of ways, as my mum and Auntie Audrey were eager to point out, reminded them a lot of Singapore in their childhood. A lot of their equivalent of a "town square" is very similar to Singapore's City Hall area, what with the Padang, the Esplanade and the like.

The second morning we were there, we went up Penang Hill by the cable car. On the top of the hill, there was a Masjid, a Hindu temple and a bunch of houses from the colonial era, many of which were built by hand because there would not have been machinery available for those purposes at the time. These are now private homes, many of which function as vacation homes owned by foreign investors because most of the locals probably would not be able to afford them.

Cabbie Culture

Something that was really fascinating to me was what I started to observe as "Cabbie Culture". Cabs don't go out on the streets like they do in Singapore or New York City, so you have to either call ahead or wait at a hotel or shopping mall (much like Anderson, I suppose?). But even there, there's a code of conduct. Cabbies who get there first get the first customers even if the customers talk to other cabbies. It is understood that if there's someone who got there ahead of you, you have to let them have the customer and wait your turn. One cab driver told us he had been waiting outside our hotel since 5am that morning, and when it was his turn to drive us, it was around 9am.

On an average, cabdrivers make about RM60 per day (S$24, US$20). On good days, they can get up to RM120, and that is usually on days when they know they will have an influx of tourists (usually dependent on Singapore's holiday season). Cabbies are given a list of when cruise ships from Singapore arrive (usually every other Monday) so they know when to go to the jetty.

The Church of God in Penang

We had the opportunity to visit the Church of God congregation while we were there. Pastor Sunny, his wife, and two of their three kids came and picked us up that morning. On the way there, they explained to us that the church recently officially became recognised as a deaf church. The congregation is made up of maybe 20-30 people, and about half of the group is deaf.

It was fascinating watching the way the deaf congregation communicates because as Pastor Sunny's wife (I really should remember her name, but I don't) pointed out, there are no secrets in the deaf community because everyone sees what everyone else is signing. They are less embarrassed by anything, and are very eager to welcome new people in their midst even if it is difficult for both sides to communicate.

She also pointed out that even in the deaf community, there are cultural differences. In a recent conference, other deaf churches in the area got together and she said you could tell who are from Kuala Lumpur (capital of Malaysia) and Singapore. The ones from the cities tend to be more educated and have a broader worldview while the ones from Penang, for example, tend to be more oppressed by their families because they were perceived as bad luck. She went on to say that it is for that reason that the sermons we hear in the church are simpler so that the deaf community will be better able to understand that the Gospel is FOR them.

What a noble concept, huh?

Still to come: The Peranakan Culture and Meeting Jesus at Kek Lok Si 極樂寺

Pacific Northwest Adventures Part 1: Airports

Today marks day 10 of my adventures in the Pacific Northwest. I've said it before, and I'll say it again.

Someday, I will live here.

But that's not exactly the point of this entry.

Wednesday morning was the beginning of something I had been looking forward to since the day I knew I would be able to make this trip. This was to be my graduation gift to myself. Prior to this trip, I've been out this way three other times, and loved it every time I'm out here. The only difference this time is that I find myself repeating over and over again, "Don't over-romanticize the PacNW. You've always been here on vacation, so your perception of this place will probably be rose-coloured."

Well, naturally when I ended up spending seven hours at the Minneapolis/St Paul airport because of flight delays, I was irritated. A part of me still wanted to be in Anderson, knowing that the hustle and bustle of the North American Convention of the Church of God was still going on. Another part of me wished I was already at PDX, just because I've always loved being here.

All at the same time, given that airports and airplanes have become a second home after Singapore, Anderson and Berlin all lumped into one, I got comfortable a little too quickly, then realised, "Oh crap. Now I have to deal with myself."

Sure, there had been a lot of highs and lows within the span of the few days prior to Wednesday. But it was there that I started grieving how airports shouldn't really feel like home, but it did. Airports are transitional places; and no one should live life being comfortable with transitions. At least, that's what I think.

And yet the reality of my life is exactly that. The in-between times of coming and going shouldn't be comfortable, but yet I've gotten used to them. But at the same time, do I look forward to going? Yes. Do I ever want to leave? No.

There is a sense that, "For every beginning there is an ending... and for every ending there is a beginning." (Thanks, Jacquie Gross) Every transition brings with it a deep sense of celebration of things to come, and also a deep sense of mourning the things that are left behind. Every transition brings with it a sense of guilt as I try to embrace celebrating the things to come. Because even while I'm look forward to things that are ahead, I don't stop mourning the things that are left behind.

I've often asked myself if I'm simply in over my head with being emotional. But the truth is, I mourn not simply because I don't know when I will see the ones I'm leaving behind again. Heck, I'm not a person that can stay put in one place for a long time, so I might eventually find my way back to some of these old haunts with these good ol' souls again. But I'm starting to wonder if the time of separation between now and "until next time" is in its essence a reflection of the grief of "eternal" separation. If I have loved the ones in the "now" the way Christ would have, even if I knew for sure there was a "next time," the time between "now" and "next time" should be hellish, right? (Let's leave my theology of hell and universality for another time, k?)

I'm not saying that Christ allows suffering of this nature, but... I kind of am. I've been thinking today too, that I've never encountered any kind of theology of suffering that I've wholeheartedly agree with. It's either been packed away neatly in a box as, "If we are TRULY in Christ, we will have no suffering because Christ's burden is easy and light," or as "If we are TRULY serving Christ, then we should suffer for Jesus." And quite frankly, I'm not ok with either.

But maybe that's just because I have a twisted theology of suffering that says you have to suffer through your theology of suffering in order for it to 1) make sense; 2) be ok with where you land with it.

Wow, this post got nerdy again. I don't apologize.

50 States

Ok, so a few years back, I made it my goal to at least past through as many of the 50 states of the US before I leave. Well, I have about 7 months left. So now in planning my last 7 months, I've decided to see how I did and figure out how many more I can cover before the 7 months are up. Here goes...

Alabama - drove through on the way to Florida, spring break 2005
Alaska
Arizona - graduation trip, May 2007
Arkansas - drove through on the way to Mexico, summer 2006
California - flew in and out of LAX too many times to remember; graduation trip, May 2007
Colorado - spring break 2011
Connecticut - graduation trip, May 2011?
Delaware - graduation trip, May 2011?
District of Columbia - flew through airport, I think it was Christmas break 2006-2007?
Florida - spring break 2005
Georgia - spring break 2006
Hawaii
Idaho
Illinois - first trip would be with either Women's Chorus or AUCME 2004
Indiana - August 2004
Iowa - drove through on the way to South Dakota, spring break 2007
Kansas - driving through on the way to Colorado, spring break 2011
Kentucky - first trip would probably on the way to Florida, spring break 2005
Louisiana
Maine
Maryland - graduation trip, May 2011
Massachusetts - graduation trip, May 2011
Michigan - first trip would be either AUCME or Thanksgiving 2004
Minnesota - flew through Minneapolis/St Paul, August 2004
Mississippi
Missouri - drove through on the way to Mexico, summer 2006
Montana
Nebraska - drove through on the way to South Dakota, spring break 2007
Nevada - first time would be flying through on the way back from Oregon, fall break 2006; graduation trip, May 2007
New Hampshire - graduation trip, May 2011?
New Jersey - drove through on the way to New York, spring break 2010
New Mexico
New York - spring break 2010
North Carolina - flew through on the way back, Christmas break 2010-2011
North Dakota
Ohio - first trip would be AUCME 2004
Oklahoma
Oregon - fall break 2006
Pennsylvania - drove through on the way to New York, spring break 2010
Rhode Island
South Carolina - graduation trip, May 2011?
South Dakota - spring break 2007
Tennessee - first trip would be driving through to Florida, spring break 2005
Texas - drove through on the way to Mexico, summer 2006; IYC, summer 2008
Utah
Vermont
Virginia - graduation trip, May 2011
Washington - Steph's wedding, "spring break" 2009
West Virginia - drove through on the way to New York, spring break 2010
Wisconsin - I think so, but I cannot remember when and why?
Wyoming

Not too bad. Excluding the "maybe"s, that would be 33 out of 50 states (and DC) in the span of 7 years. Hey if you'd like to be a sponsor to make the last 18 happen, I really wouldn't mind it :)

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.

Siem Reap, First Thoughts...

Sunday, December 26, 2010 (Siem Reap)

Siem Reap, Cambodia

The only reason why I would be familiar with this name would be because of the history books. Known for its historical marvel, the Angkor Wat.

Being here is almost as surreal as standing in front of the Bonhoefferhaus in Berlin, Germany. The history nerd in me is in awe of the architecture, the historicity of a civilization forgotten by the world while the music nerd in me is distracted by the sounds of the whole-tone music played by a young child on the Khmer variation of a Xylophone that greeted us as we entered the hotel lobby. All at the same time, the cultural anthropological nerd in me is marveled by the cross of Buddhism and Hinduism in the Khmer culture, while the seminary nerd in me is trying to figure out what to do with the fact that the breakfast we had this morning cost each of us only US$2 and was being taken care of by our host who is up in the ranks in the Cambodian government but the average Cambodian will not be able to afford that.

But I digress.

Let me back-trek a little and explain what in the world I’m doing here in Siem Reap.

So for years now, my mum and her younger sister have been tutoring kids who came to Singapore from other Southeast Asian countries for education. My aunt’s sister-in-law was the originator of this enterprise that started oh, some fifteen years ago or something close to that. The kids lived with my aunt’s sister-in-law who would be their legal guardian here and both my mum and aunt would tutor them to teach them English and help catch them up with the school system here in Singapore. They came from Malaysia, Indonesia and mostly Cambodia, and had wealthy parents (which would have been the only way they could have afforded education in Singapore).

Anyhow, two years ago, some of my mum’s students from Cambodia asked if she and her family would go visit them in Cambodia. Their parents would host them and make arrangements for  touring and accommodations, so basically my mum just needed to take care of getting to Cambodia. Well, at this time, my brother and I were still in the US, and when I found out they were going to Angkor Wat, I was a little jealous. So when the students asked her again if she would come visit them this time around, we got to tag along.

And so here we are in a little resort in Siem Reap. Well, not little. They actually got a villa for the six of us, and from where I am sitting out here on the porch, I am well-shaded from the sun with a view overlooking the pool. All around, the architecture is very much Cambodian with the mix of Buddhist and Hindu flavours, but you can tell that they’ve studied well what the Western tourists are looking for in their little Asian getaways (I watched Eat Pray Love on the Frankfurt to Singapore flight. Just think of all the stuff Julia Roberts did in India and Bali to be counter-Western in that film and you’ll know what I mean).

Upon our arrival at the Siem Reap airport this morning, we were greeted by a sign with my mum’s name on it. We cleared immigration and customs without having to stand in line because of who our hosts were. Then we were ushered off in a van that took us to this villa where a young child was making what I would guess to be traditional Khmer music in the corner. At the other corner, there was a Buddhist altar similar to the ones in both of my grandma’s homes, except on a bigger scale. The Asian-ness is familiar, but having lived in the US for the last six years and all the other cultural and religious influences that have been a part of my life in the last six years, this familiarity is so welcoming… and refreshing.

So we check into our villa, a huge suite with two huge rooms, two huge bathrooms, a huge sitting area and kitchen space. I could spend the rest of our week in the country here and be happy. But something about that weirds me out just a little because I still think about my own life on the other side of the world where I know that 1) I will never be able to afford vacations like these by myself because of my vocational call, and 2) I feel a little guilty for this expenditure. I’ve already been processing the part about how the middle-class in Singapore is far better off in terms of quality of life than the middle-class in the US. But I haven’t quite reached the point of reconciliation with myself about if I want to do anything about that, or what that would mean yet.

Then after our luggages were dropped off in our villa, we were carted off again to breakfast Cambodian-style. They had the eggs, toast and coffee selection but they also had the Asian variation of rice and noodles (which reminded me of HT’s, “Thank you for bringing rice” comment when I brought Mum’s chicken porridge to our Biblical Foundation for Mission breakfast final. HT, by the way, is Korean) which was what we opted for.

It was at this point that Mum pointed out that the average Cambodian would not be able to afford the meal we were having, even though it was only US$2 per person. Our van-driver and tour-guide made about US$30 per month. The advocacy for social justice instilled in me by my good old Missions professor MaryAnn made me want to do something about it. But what would that be?

A lot of processing to do. But for now, I’m off to be social.