Dusting Off The Pages

It's been over a year since my last post here.

It isn't that I haven't wanted or tried to write, but the words that would appear on this screen made me angry with myself whenever I tried. And so I would walk away, make myself a cup of tea, try to start again and just get frustrated.

So a year went by.

In the year that passed, I re-found affirmation and lost faith in myself and my vocation again just as quickly.
I re-found faith in the institution that housed my childhood idealisms and watched that institution shatter all over again.
I re-found hope in community and slowly stepped away as what was real about community slowly shook off my idealisms again

And I sat in silence.
I wanted to speak, but the words would not come.

So a year went by.

In the year that passed, I watched as bombs fell on the just and the unjust.
I read headlines as the issue of homelessness in our city gained increasing awareness.
I watched as voices on both sides of the spectrum of everything that has to do with "equality" or sexism or racism or some other -ism argued their perspectives on what was good for humanity.

And I sat in silence.
I wanted to say Yes, and Amen, but my fear of backlash made me too uneasy.

And so I sat in silence.
And I sat in silence.

So a year went by.

Compassion fatigue had reached a new low.
I had become afraid that even if I were to speak out about something I believed in, someone was going to pick up on that article or that personality or that cause, and point out all its flaws and inadequacies.

And so I sat in silence.
And I sat in silence.

So a year went by.

And I sat in silence for so long that I became ashamed.
Whatever happened to the zeal and passion to change the world that was once burning a holy flame?
When did it die, and how did I not notice it?

And so I sat in silence.
And I hung my head in shame.
And I sat in silence.

So a year went by.

And then I stumbled upon a box of matches the other day.
I put it away in the drawers because it was cluttering up the room.
But I kept going back to the drawer and picking it up.

The problem was, I liked playing with fire way too much to keep the box in the drawer.
And so I picked it up and struck one of the matches.

And I realised my desire to set the world on fire to make change had died
But the spark
The spark would never go away.

And I went and put on another pot of hot chocolate
One cup of hot chocolate at a time.

It isn't that I no longer believe in the power of words.
But it isn't my ikigai to set the world aflame through words alone.

One cup of hot chocolate at a time.
And if that cup of hot chocolate is to mean friendship, then I celebrate.

One cup of hot chocolate at a time.
And if that cup of hot chocolate is to mean solidarity, then I celebrate.

One cup of hot chocolate at a time.
And if that cup of hot chocolate is to mean believing in another's ability to change the world, then I celebrate.

One cup of hot chocolate at a time.
And if that cup of hot chocolate is to mean sitting in silence without it being disconcerting, then I celebrate.

One cup of hot chocolate at a time.

This isn't just the turn of a page, but a whole new book.

One cup of hot chocolate at a time.

Single, Going on 30...

I've written on this on a few other occasions, and have re-posted several similar blog posts about being single that I honestly thought I've made enough noise about where I stand. But more recently, after a few conversations with the BFF and a few other people, I thought it might be time again to revisit this topic.

Yes, I'm just over a year away from turning 30.
No, there is no male person of interest in my life at the moment.
No, it's not a priority--that has not changed.
And no, you're not allowed to make me feel like less of a person because of that.

Well, now that that's out of the system, let's talk.


April next year marks ten years since I've been in a romantic relationship. Sure, there was a lot of pain when we first broke up. He had after all been my best friend for a while before we started going out, and the first to teach me to love myself. But that's already been ten years ago.

So that's not why I'm single today, and ok with it.

I've moved around a lot in the last ten years. It's scary to think about settling down with one person, and committing to going or staying with that one person "till death do us part". But if anything, the last seven weeks on the road by myself has taught me the nomadic life would be easier if there was someone who could be a constant with on the road.

So no, that's also not why I'm single today, and ok with it.

Being the partner of a woman in ministry or leadership can be an intimidating task--and this isn't so much a statement about me or my sisters in ministry. It's about the challenges this partnership has to face in a world that can sometimes be unforgiving towards women in leadership. Some of the people I have the most respect for are my guy friends who stand alongside their wives to defy the conventionally misunderstood "wives submit to your husbands" or that "women should keep silent in the churches".

But again, that's not why I'm single today, and ok with it.

Here are a few other lies I've heard recently about being single:
"Well, God will surely provide!"
"Are you asexual?" (or in a friend's case, a lesbian)
"It must be because you're a raging feminist with a case for being an independent woman."
"Well, you're still young ... Wait, you're 28?" *awkward*

I could keep going on.
What I'm really trying to say is, don't make assumptions about my, or my friends' stories. Ask us what we really think about being single and going on 30. Some days are easier than others to be single, but don't make that a reflection of our relationship with God either.


You wanna know why I'm single, going on 30, and ok with it? Here's why.

I don't know whether I'm "called" to be single, or married, or to have kids, or to adopt, or to live in New Zealand forever, or to be in ministry with university students and young adults forever. None of that is a "call" that is forever in the same way that there is no certainty of death or life.

The only thing I know for certain is that I'm called to be faithful.
Whatever that looks like.

I will be faithful if I were in a season to have kids.
I will be faithful if I were in a season to lose the kids.
I will be faithful if I were in a season to move to Timbuktu.
I will be faithful if I were in a season to go back to children's ministry.
I will be faithful if I were in a season to be married.
I will be faithful if I were in a season to be widowed.

I will be faithful even if I'm hoping to God I will never go back to children's ministry, or for a companion on the road.
I will be faithful even if nothing goes as I hope.

Sure, I'm on the later end of my twenties now.
But age does not change my primary call: to be faithful in all things.

So yes, I'm single.
Yes, I'm going on 30.
And yes, I'm ok with it.

Most days, anyway.

"Only, everyone should live as the Lord has assigned, just as God called each one. I give this order in all the churches." - 1 Corinthians 7:17

On Writing... (And Being a Real Pastor)

Josh said the other day I should write more. I would agree with him, except I haven't had any coherent thoughts lately that would give me a good start to a new post, so I guess I would start this one off with a shout-out to him. Cheers, Batman. Thanks for getting me to start writing again.

Those of you who have been following this blog for a while would know I'm not one of those professional bloggers who have a blogging schedule filled with specific topics. Some months, I have a lot of angst to vent, so I write a lot. Some months, my head is so full that I don't even know where to begin. Then when I finally sit down and force myself to write again, the first post usually has some content about why I write, particularly because the readership of this blog changes with time so some re-introductions are necessary. Well, here is that "this is why I write" post.

I write because it was a way to release the angst I had as a teenager. When life gives you lemons, stew them into alphabet soup and splash them on cyber-space. I cringe when I think about some of the stuff I splashed on cyber-space ten years ago, but that's all a part of life too.

Cloudy Brain
Zen-Doodle 30-09-14

I write because it was is a way to force my over-stimulated brain to stop and focus. My thoughts become more coherent when I have to dig through the dusty cloud that is my brain to find the right combination of words to string together to communicate where life is at the moment.

I write because it was is a way to freedom. As fingers fly over the keyboard, it's as if the tap-tap-tapping on each letter helped bring an end to another chapter of processing the roller-coaster that is life, before finally releasing the story back into a community that holds each other.

I write because it was is a way to be real. And I guess this is what I'm really trying to get to in this post.

Most people know I struggle with the "pastor" title. Along with some negative associations of what pastors can be like (particularly as I work more and more with a post-Christian demographic), the title can also be loaded with expectations that I somehow lead a more struggle-free or holy life (which can be really handy to speed through immigration procedures at times!). Plus I'm hardly comfortable preaching or teaching so I often disclaim I'm not *THAT* kind of pastor.

But writing... That's a different story (see what I did there?).

I used to give myself heaps of pressure to write highly-intellectual blog posts after all my years of higher-education and pastoral ministry. Sure, my brain loves dissecting the macro and micro of the fate of humankind and once in a while, it leads to a super nerdy post that I get just a bit giddy about. But I can only handle deep academic theology in small doses, and what I really love most is writing about the life stuff. The messy stuff.

Then I used to wonder if writing about the messy life stuff made me a less-than-orthodox pastor (which is really ok, since I'm not *THAT* kind of pastor anyway). I mean, when I first started blogging as a teenager, it was only my peers who read about my angst so I could be as emotionally dramatic as I wanted. But then my audience started shifting, and few of the Christian/theologian bloggers I follow would write about the messy life stuff. At one point, my mum actually said that the bleak posts I was writing as a young adult didn't actually reflect the hope I had in Christ. Admittedly, it stung at first. I didn't want to be another Christian blogger that only talked about how unrealistically happy my life was simply because I had Jesus in my heart. But in more ways than one, that comment continues to influence how and why I write.

A few months ago, I wrote about living with clinical depression and spent the hours after that living in fear of being judged for not being a better steward of my mental/emotional health. I didn't know any other pastor who talked openly about depression and wondered if it was one of those topics that no self-respecting pastor would openly talk about. Oddly enough, that was one of the posts I had the most responses from--because more pastors live with depression than you hear about, and it seemed like everyone was waiting for someone else to give them permission to talk about it.

Perfection: the wall that crumbles
Zen-Doodle 01-10-14

More recently, Kathrin inspired me to begin zen-doodling. I'm not sure how to fully explain the process except that for me, I've started carrying a notebook and a set of markers around for the few minutes here and there when I need a creative outlet. I'm by no means an artist, but somehow filling a blank page with colours, lines and dots of whatever comes to mind seems to release some amount of angst and defrag some disk space in my head. This was my zen-doodle for the day that inspired this post.

I guess part of the reason that writing comes more easily for me is because I get to hide away a little bit. I get to take all the time I want to choose what side and how much of the real, messy life stuff I want to share, then craft it into a neat, perfect string of words and backspace fifty-million times before I finally hit "publish".

But that's the thing. I choose to write not because I can hide behind that wall of perfection, because that wall of perfection will crumble.

No, I write because I hope that the stories I collect continually connects me back to the community that holds me and that our stories will keep that wall from building up.
I write because writing invokes my mother's reminder even on my darkest, most cynical days, that I have an unexplainable and completely experiential seed of faith, hope and love that has sunk deep roots in my spiritual being.
And I write because it waters this seed so that even in the darkest corners with a big bucket of lemons and a bad day with Black Dog, I still see the candle in the distance.

Saying No doesn't have to be complicated
Zen-Doodle 30-09-14

So I'm back at the tap-tap-tapping again. I have some things to say, but I make no promises that they will actually get said. But feel free to throw the occasional reminder for me to write if you so wish. Or if there's something you want to see written about, feel free to interact with this blog as well. Of course, I still get to decide whether or not I want to write about it--mostly just to keep my counselor happy that I'm actually learning to draw boundaries.

And to you, I ask this: What is your outlet?

Dear Keren: "Displace Me" Revisited

Series history:  This series unofficially began in 2007 in honour of Keren Berrios. We had started at Anderson University together as international students in 2004. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I had come to rely on her as my sense of "home" while we lived in between cultures. In my hurry to get through life, I graduated a year earlier than most in our class. The summer between my graduation and hers, Keren's life ended unexpectedly less than three weeks after she turned twenty-one. As I grappled with grief, loss and the roller-coaster of post-graduation life, I began writing to her. In the years after, this series has brought comfort as I remember Keren's legacy and imprint on my life. More recently, it has provided a way to take me back to a time before disillusionment caused me to stop dreaming, and to keep pursuing a life well-lived.

Dear Keren,

I recently found out that we get Al Jazeera on free-view. Needless to say, this political junkie has been spending a bit of time on that channel.

Last night, I caught a few documentaries and talk-shows one after another about the situations in Nigeria, Eritrea and Libya. Halfway through about the third documentary about Eritrean refugees, I suddenly realised how emotionally unaffected I was, and it startled me.

Perhaps a part of it is that so much has happened since the days of our idealistic we-can-save-the-world college selves that I'm no longer as vulnerable as I used to be. Perhaps it's those few weeks in the cafe with the women on the streets of Berlin that made me feel like a wimp for being so emotional. Or perhaps it's that everyday on the news, there are more reports of violence and disasters that my helplessness has slowly become callousness.

Keren, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me of that idealistic self that I used to be. Remember when we used to dream about saving the world? Remember that feeling when you discovered your avenue to use your passion to save the world through Displace Me? I want to remember what that idealistic buzz feels like again. Keren, what happened?

Maybe it's that we were young and naive. Even after I eventually climbed out from under that mountain of grief after you died, I still had that desire to change the world--and to do it twice as well to make up for the good the world was missing because you were no longer around. And now, seven years after graduation and your passing, I sit in this comfortable home, even if not a place to call my own, wondering what our twenty-one-year-old selves would think about where I am today.

On days when depression hits its lowest point, I'm convinced we would be ashamed. I haven't fought or won a worthy cause. I haven't started a revolution. I haven't nurtured change in anyone's lives. I haven't joined the UN, helped a homeless person get off the streets, or even protected a child from the consequences of their parents' choices. I have no material possessions to boast of, and heck, seven years have passed and I still haven't found the guts to go experience homelessness like I wanted to. On those days, I want to hide in bed all day and pretend I live in an alternate universe where the last seven years didn't feel so worthless. On those days, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me that there still are things worth being passionate about, the same way you had been one of the few who didn't think I was crazy or try to talk me out of wanting to experience homelessness.

But then there are better days when I remember that even if I'm no revolutionary like Katniss Everdeen or Beatrice Prior, I still have a place in this world to do all the good I can and more importantly, to love with all that I can. Buried somewhere under all that disillusionment is that idealistic twenty-one-year-old self that still believes she can change the world even if she cannot physically rescue all the girls in Nigeria, find all the victims of MH370, or spark change overnight in Eritrea, Libya, Berlin or even a neighbourhood in Auckland. On these better days, I cling on to that idealism in the hopes that it will teach me to keep breathing when the difficult days come back.

And then I remember that even when I was most idealistic, it wasn't the desire to revolutionise the world that kept me going. No, it was simply the desire to be where simply being who God created me to be would bring a smile to someone's face. And I realise that our twenty-one-year-old selves would probably still be ok with all that has happened in the last seven years, even if, on this end of the seven years, there aren't significant accolades to boast about.

And suddenly, I regain that excitement again. Suddenly in spite of how beaten down I feel, that buzz returns. Suddenly in spite of how I feel like I'd bitten off more than I can chew with The Bridge, I feel it in my bones again. Suddenly I remember that even if it's not my role to spark a revolution, I have a role to play, to journey with the idealisms of the university students as they discover their buzz and to stand with them when they decide they want to experience homelessness, or move to Christchurch, or help with food distribution and disaster relief in the Philippines.

Because I'm no longer that twenty-one-year-old self. My buzz no longer comes from the idealism of starting a revolution, but from being there when today's twenty-one-year-olds discover their buzz and celebrating with them who God created them to be.

Dear Keren, I still wish you were here to experience all this with me so you can sit me down in a way only you know how and help me process all that has happened. But it's ok now that you're not. I've gotten quite used to it now.

Dear Keren... Hey, I miss you. Someday, when we meet again we can go splash in the puddles and dance in the rain, then pile the pillows on the balcony, sip tea and talk about everything that has happened. But for now, I have things to do.

Until next time.

Arohanui,
Me

Aotearoa Diaries: An Introduction

I don't by any means consider myself a great writer, but I believe there is something sacred and precious about stories.

When I was last in Singapore a little over a month ago, I had the opportunity to invite the good people of the congregation I grew up in into the story I've been creating on this little corner south of the equator called the Land of the Long White Cloud, Aotearoa New Zealand. One of the "aunties" who watched me grow up in that church said to me afterwards, "It's so nice to hear about what you're doing in New Zealand. I guess we all knew you were there, but we didn't really know what you were doing."

Which made me re-evaluate what I had been doing with storytelling. My excuse for the lack of stories had been that my first two years in Aotearoa had been "dark and twisted" (to borrow the words of Meredith Grey). The reality was more that I had given my storyboard away to everyone else to fill while I sat in the corner and sulked like I was completely helpless. And perhaps the longer I dwelt in that corner, the more helpless I felt even though the easier thing would have been to reclaim my storyboard and fill it with my own stories.

So this new series, Aotearoa Diaries, is intended to be just that: the reclamation of my storyboard, and the invitation into the story I'm creating here in the Land of the Long White Cloud. I'm not sure where these stories will go, or how much of the last two years I will write about, but I need to write these stories again. If not for anyone else, but for myself, to believe again in the sacredness and preciousness of story.

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.

"Remember Your Baptism"

11 April 2004

I remembered being immersed in that water, and coming out feeling nothing different. The rational part of me knew that was normal, but a part of me wanted to feel different.

But that was the beginning of everything.

For years before then, I had been thinking about the blessing that came when God changed a person's name in the Bible.

Abram to Abraham.
Sarai to Sarah.
Jacob to Israel.

And I had wanted that blessing, but I felt like there had to be a reason or occasion for that blessing.

Easter Sunday was rolling around that year. My brother and I had decided we wanted to be baptised that Easter Sunday. And I had brought up the name thing, so my mum got involved with the process of looking for a new name.

We wanted names that started with the letter J to keep with our legal names. For some reason, my mum didn't want me to pick the name Jezebel (I wonder why). And so we kept searching.

Then one day she said she stumbled upon the name Jael and told me to look up what it meant. Everything that Google found said it meant "mountain goat" or something along those lines.

So we took it to my pastor, and in his best attempt to parse the Hebrew name, we came up with "Ja" sounding like Yahweh  or Jehovah, and "El" sounding like El Shaddai -- something along the lines of calling out to God.

And then I read the story of Jael in Judges 4. I was impressed by the strength that woman possessed to be a part of Kingdom work, so mountain goat or not, Jael was the name to be. It was short and simple, and I grew to like it more and more.


But... Well, back to that time of immersion in water baptism.

I came out of the water feeling nothing different. What I didn't realise was that that was the beginning of what I now affectionately call "all that crazy".

At the time, I thought it was a momentous occasion because... well, there was that name change thing. And the guy I thought I was going to marry at the time (all grown-up at 18-years-old) was there as well.

More importantly, my BFF was there. She wasn't a church-goer and we didn't share the same faith, but she was there because she knew it was important to me. And to this day, even though she still wouldn't say we share the same faith, she reminds me constantly of that water baptism. That commitment I made, that even if she didn't completely understand, to surrender my life and call to my belief and my faith. Juan, you really are the best.


But even more importantly, that was the beginning of "all that crazy".

You see, I didn't know it at the time, but later that year, I would move to Anderson, Indiana for college.
And Anderson, Indiana was the beginning of "all that crazy".
Good crazy, I should probably add.
And there was no turning back.

10 years, a whirlwind of life experience and a whole collection of passport stamps later, here I am in Auckland, New Zealand, remembering that baptism.

There was nothing special about that water.
And I didn't come out feeling any different.

But things were becoming different.

Remember your baptism

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.

28: The Year Of Expectancy

A few days ago, I met Soana, a Tongan lady at a training session for Ignite, the youth camp by WMCNZ that I'm going to be a part of this weekend (assuming I'm still in New Zealand). At the beginning of the session, we were divided into groups, and asked to go around sharing stories of how we came to a relationship with Jesus, and what it is that's keeping that relationship going today.

Soana and I were going to be cabin leaders together, so as the training session was ending with a prayer time together, we had some time to visit and get to know each other better. At one point, she asked, "So, you're Chinese?" And I explained that I was, but I was born in Singapore. Then she said this: "You're so lucky that you can be a Christian. In Tonga, we're all raised as Christians, and we all have to go to church--it is a part of our culture. But when I moved to Auckland two years ago, I started to see that so many of the Tongans here don't follow the ways we were brought up in anymore. They read the Bible, but it's kept separate from their lives, and they don't even go to church anymore. You're lucky you can be a Christian, and still choose to be a Christian."

I've been mulling over that conversation over the last few days. In our Wesleyan-Arminian tradition, we talk a lot about free will. But the danger of only talking about free will is that we can drift off into an unbalanced dialogue that doesn't give consideration that God does ordain some things. That I was born into the land, family and place in society I was born into was definitely God-ordained. There can be no explanation than that (bearing in mind I'm writing this solely through the lenses of a relationship with Christ). But what I choose to do with the circumstances I was born into--that's free will.

In my short stint at WCF, I got to know several youths whom society would not pay any attention to. They weren't achieving enough to get positive attention, but they also weren't quite destructive enough to get just enough negative attention for it to go wrong. As I began to spend more time with these kids, I began to realise more and more that there really aren't "bad" kids, just kids who don't often make the best decisions from time to time. And with many of our kids, they didn't have the privilege of being born into the safe, sheltered circumstances I had. Sure, they had the free-will to make better choices and leave those circumstances behind, but for so many of them, they've not had the adults in their lives to support and encourage their making better choices.

Over the last few months, I've been at the district court a number of times. What breaks my heart most isn't just the number of youths who are summoned to court, but the reality that they are often there alone, represented only by a lawyer that was allocated to them by the district authorities. They often don't have a rapport with the lawyer, and coming from backgrounds of abandonment and trust issues, they have difficult trusting that the lawyers actually do want the best for them.

And then I marvel again, at how privileged I am. Yes, Soana, I am lucky, or blessed, or whatever word you want to use, to have been born into a family where starting and keeping a relationship with Christ was easy. I'm lucky to have been born into a family where it was easy to be a good kid. I'm lucky that even if I didn't have a picture perfect relationship with my birth family, they are at least supportive and encouraging of what I do--especially when it breaks the mold of success defined by finances that Asian societies value so deeply.


It is 6 January today. In exactly a month, I will be turning 28. Last year, as I was turning 27, I wrote that 27 was the year I joined the circus. In case you missed it, I discovered there was a free community circus in town, and I wanted to at least give it a shot. If nothing else, I can check off the bucket list that I was crazy enough to join a community circus for a few weeks. I didn't last in the circus for a variety of reasons; the main one being I hate performing. In uni, my piano professor told me I should switch majors if I hated performing (It only made sense when Chad--who also graduated from AU with a music degree--explained that universities in the States place most of their emphasis on performance, and I felt completely out of place because I loved theory and composition--and choir, but only because of a fantastic choir director). I was really disappointed with myself that I didn't last longer in the circus since I had hyped it up so much for my 27th birthday. But I eventually had to come to terms with simply being ok with who I am, and not placing the expectations on myself to be someone I'm not, and to pretend to love things that I don't.

Greta reminded me last night of something our dear Ann Smith talks about often: the difference between expectation and expectancy. #27 was a year of great expectations, and finding myself miserable when I couldn't keep up with my expectations of myself. As I head into #28, my only expectation of myself is to learn to live with expectancy of whatever it might be that God is going to do this year. As I continue the waiting game for my visa, I'm reminded again that, right from the beginning, New Zealand has been my Isaac. So I'm choosing again to surrender my Isaac at the altar in expectancy of whatever God is going to do with it.

And even though I had been crazy enough last year to set some things in place to publish and get ordained in 2014 (and am currently sitting here with the slightest anxiety over the realisation that 2014 isn't "next year" anymore), there is no expectation to see those things as achievements anymore.

I am enough because I choose to make the best of what I find myself in.
And I am enough because I choose to believe God thinks I'm enough.

Of Hobbits, Elves and Gimli

As most know, I'm slightly crazy (no really, only slightly compared to the REAL nerds) about hobbits and elves and Middle Earth in general. After all, I do live in Middle Earth.

I'm acquainted with a few good people who identify themselves as hobbits--some for their physical stature; others for Bilbo's wandering spirit of adventure.

I've wanted to be a Bilbo for the journeys he took, but most would tell me I'm too lanky to be one. Besides, I find it too difficult to be content in the Shire, and too uncomfortable being in the limelight to have a whole book named for my unexpected journey.

So I wished I was a Legolas. Legolases are elegant and graceful, and have pointy ears that are kind of cute if you can get past the strangeness. But Rivendell is too peaceful of a home, and I'm too klutzy and have this inability to keep from jumping in the mud and splashing around from time to time.

I finally realised today I'm a Gimli. I'm not the leader of my pack, but I have a foolish loyalty to my clan, a deep sense of justice and come from a race that has had to reclaim home. I have trouble trusting (my father had stories of not trusting burglars until they prove themselves worthy), and I'm jealous of pretty elves who shoot arrows from a distance. Why do they get to stay pretty while I'm covered in dirt? I'm more comfortable working at a close distance with my axe (or tent peg), and Legolas really bugs me but I guess we can be friends if we're fighting the same cause.

I know, I know. I disclaimed earlier that I'm not a real Tolkien nerd. I really am not, but (in today's edition of "welcome to my brain") I'm simply trying to make sense of my role in Middle Earth, particularly as I stand at the crossroads of redefining my journey. We are not all elves or hobbits, but it takes the full fellowship of different races to complete the task at hand.

And knowing who you are and what you're best at makes it easier to focus on the task at hand, rather than trying to stay alive trying to do what isn't your task like Boromir, or being envious of those who do it differently.

Hmm. Maybe now I'll finally finish reading the entire Tolkien series. I told you I wasn't a real nerd--I've only seen the films and read half of The Hobbit. (Go ahead, you may now gasp with horror)

Christmas Eve on the Road to Bethlehem

It was a day like any other day.

For months now, she had been preparing for this

Ever since the pronouncement came

She had made room in her home and her heart

She had sat in wonder of what life would be like

I have traveled many moonless nights

Cold and weary with a babe inside

It was a day like any other day.

For months now, she had been preparing for this

Ever since the pronouncement came

She had wondered, Why her

She had thought, Was it honour, or was it shame

And I wonder what I've done

Holy Father, You have come

And chosen me now to carry Your Son

It was a day like any other day.

For months now, she had been preparing for this

Ever since the pronouncement came

She had struggled with the uncertainty

She had wondered if it had been sheer craziness

I am waiting in a silent prayer

I am frightened by the load I bear

It was a day like any other day.

For months now, she had been preparing for this

Ever since the pronouncement came

She had found judgment in the eyes of those that didn't understand

She had also found patience in the ones that loved her

In a world as cold as stone

Must I walk this path alone?

Be with me now, be with me now

Breath of Heaven, hold me together

Be forever near me, Breath of Heaven

Breath of Heaven, lighten my darkness

Pour over me Your holiness for You are holy

Breath of Heaven

It was a day like any other day.

For months now, she had been waiting for this

Ever since she chose to be a part of The Plan

And now she chose to obey the law of the land

And now she chose to take the road to Bethlehem

Do you wonder as you watch my face

If a wiser one should have had my place?

It was a day like any other day.

For months now, she had been waiting for this

Ever since she chose to be a part of The Plan

And now she chose to continue on the dusty roads

And now she chose to wander further into the unknown

But I offer all I am

For the mercy of Your plan

Help me be strong, help me

Breath of Heaven, hold me together

Be forever near me, Breath of Heaven

Breath of Heaven, lighten my darkness

Pour over me Your holiness for You are holy

Breath of Heaven

It was a day like any other day.

Or was it?

My "What If" Life

I was Skyping with Emily this morning and she brought up this thing about the "What If" life. You know, "what if" life could be different? "What if" we hadn't been called to ministry?

I've often wondered about that question too, particularly on days where... Oh, you know, the task of raising $30,000 for immigration seems daunting.


I imagine I likely wouldn't have gone to Anderson University. I would have stayed in Singapore and finished a degree in history because of the influence of the two history teachers I had that taught me to love history.

I imagine this thing called "grad school" or seminary, or getting a Master's degree wouldn't have crossed my mind. I would have gone straight to becoming a history teacher with a passion for war history and the social injustices the people suffered during those war times.

I imagine instead of going to Berlin for an urban ministry internship, I would have gone for a study abroad in, say, Vienna. I've always loved classical music, particularly the way the arts reflect what is going on in the world.

I imagine after all that, I'll settle comfortably into a teaching job and retire as a history teacher some 40-50 years down the road with a healthy amount of savings and a safe amount of retirement in my CPF (Singapore's equivalent to social security).

I imagine instead of travelling between Singapore and the States during my vacation times to visit "family" and fundraise, I'd be taking short weekend trips to various cheap holiday destinations around south east Asia to eat, shop and go to spas.

I imagine I wouldn't be going to a therapist or medicating for depression.

I would be able to leave work at work and not feel the weight of my vocation 24/7.
I would have a steady pay-check and not worry about justifying that I've done enough to warrant asking others to sacrifice a bit of their paycheck so I could also eat and pay bills. And I wouldn't have to worry that I don't have any savings or retirement.
I would have my own little place to live in and accumulate memories rather than live out of boxes and suitcases half the time, waiting for the next time I move halfway across the world again.

But I also imagine that this deep sense of peace and hope I have now would be replaced by an emptiness whose "what if"s included, "What if I really was created for something more?"

Because as so many others have shared with me, if we could do anything else with our lives instead of ministry and be happy, we would have. Yet I'm called to a vocation of building communities that offer hope to places of brokenness, and a safe space for those wandering. And in my own struggle for peace, hope, and an identity that is stripped from cultural and national ties, I find joy in being able to walk those journeys with others, particularly in knowing that this is what I'm created to be.

And I wouldn't trade any of this for the "What If" life.

Tribal Stories: Water

She laid wide awake, staring at the stars. There was no way of telling what time it was, but she was certain it wouldn't be long before the sun would rise.

In the days since the last sand storm, she hardly slept. The days were long as she worked alongside the desert people, and as night fell, she would lay her weary body down but her mind wouldn't stop.

She thought back to the critter's last visit only days ago. As usual, they hardly said two words to each other and she quite enjoyed the few moments of comfortable silence.

"You need to start making preparations for the southern lands, you know," he finally said.

She sighed. She knew he was right, but with the recent change of landscape in the desert, all that occupied her time was making sure that the desert people could resume their way of life as quickly as possible. But the side of the story she had yet to admit was that she was afraid of the uncertainty about the days ahead.

Her mothers and grandmothers taught her that the way to work the ground was different in every land, and that she needed to learn new ways again as she arrived in the southern lands. And even though her gypsy friend had told her the ground in the southern lands was rich and fertile, it provided no answers for how or where to begin. Besides, she wasn't to live in the southern lands by herself, but how would she begin to gather people?

"The ways may be different, but people are the same," the sages once said. "Where there is water, people will come."

She laid awake that night, mulling over the words of the sages. They made no sense to her. Her mind went back to the conversation with the critter.

"You're a collector of stories," he had said. "That's where you need to begin."

She knew that full well, and if she were honest, it was that which frustrated her most. In the journey to the southern lands, she had filled so many other roles that she was getting weary and easily irritated. Yet she knew that there were no stories that could be collected until the crops were growing and the people began to have food.

Suddenly it all made sense. She was a collector of stories, and having other roles to fill didn't change that. She would continue collecting stories as she worked the land, and she would speak about the water to begin gathering the people.

She fingered the rocks she held in her hands as she recited the familiar words again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

As the sun's first rays began to illumine the sky, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and for the desert people. She knew their words of blessing had gone before her to the southern lands and they would carry her the rest of the way. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces held them together.

Tribal Stories: Weary

The sun shone bright in the morning sky as she tucked away the last of her tent-pegs. The sands were only just beginning to settle after the last storm. She wanted to spend one more day breathing in the taste of having come around the mountain and weathering another storm, but she knew it was time to keep walking.

With one hand over her brow to shield out some of the glaring rays of the sun, she squinted ahead as she tried to find her way forward. In the distance, she saw several of the desert families gathering as they began to find a way to work in the landscape that had shifted again since the last sand storm.

Since the beginning of her journey on the desert road, she had known she was just passing through. But she also knew she had a responsibility to help the desert people find a way to grow crops--never mind that she was a stranger in their land. As the days passed, she began to realise that the desert people carried with them a weariness heavier than her own. Others had come alongside to try to help them find self-sustainable ways to grow crops, but the ways they found seemed counter-intuitive to the way of life in the desert.

"If you want to know how to build life in the desert, you have to spend time with those who have lived in the desert their whole lives," her gypsy friend once said. "There may be others who, like us, are passing through the desert lands, who are trying to help. But we are all foreigners in this land, and we cannot assume to know their way of life. The desert people are the only ones who can teach us how to help them."

She wondered if that was why the desert people that had adopted her were weary. She wondered if they were so tired of trying to find their own way of growing crops that they simply took on board any new ideas that were thrown their way--even if they were counter-intuitive to the desert life.

She knew she herself was weary. She had put the wounds from the exile behind her, but the journey on the desert road had wore her out. Since the last sand storm, the landscape had shifted so much that she was left with most of the work. Even though they had received word that help was coming from the city, no one knew how long it would be before help would arrive. While she was regaining hope for the desert people, there was still work to be done in the meantime. Help that was coming from the city still had to learn the ways of the desert lands, and the desert people needed help getting ready to receive the help. She also knew her journey on the desert road would soon end, and she desperately needed time to make the preparations for her arrival in the southern lands.

"Take deep breaths," she whispered aloud, as the words of her tribespeople came to mind. "And remember, we are called to simply be faithful."

As the first tear of weariness fell, she found the rocks that had carried her through her lifetime as a wanderer and closed her fingers around them tightly.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."
"Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God"

There was still work to do. But first, she had to sit down and simply weep over the weariness in the desert lands. Help was coming, but she pleaded with the forces that held them all together that there would be enough strength and hope in the desert lands to carry them in the meantime.

Tribal Stories: Sands

The winds were starting up again. The darkness of the night limited her ability to judge what the sands were going to do this time.

She had gotten quite used to life on the desert road so that whenever the winds started up, she would begin preparing for the sands that would come. Sometimes, they were just small gusts of dirt. Other times, the sands would blow so hard that even when she shielded her face, her eyes would still feel their sting.

As she readied herself for the sands, her mind drifted back to the encounter with the giant. The day came and went uneventfully, for which she was relieved, but also uneasy. At first she thought it was because she had gotten used to the perils of life during the war that an uneventful day was a nice change. But she couldn't shrug off the feeling of uneasiness. Were there to be unforeseen consequences because of an uneventful day?

But she knew her job on the desert road wasn't to worry about the giant. No, she was there to help prepare the land to produce crops for the desert people as she passed through on her way to the southern lands.

Tilling the land in the city had been easy because her mothers and grandmothers had taught her the way to work the dirt there. But her mothers and grandmothers had warned her the desert lands were a different task altogether. The climate was different, and the crops to be planted were also different. And she learnt the frustrating lesson that she could till and she could sow seeds, but then the winds would start up and the sands would come, and they would unearth all the work she had done. There had been nights where she would cry herself to sleep, frustrated with the winds and the sands. Was it even worth it? After all, she was just passing through. Why be concerned for the desert lands?

"We are simply to be faithful to our work. The forces that hold us together will bring fruit to the work we do in time," her tribespeople once said. She didn't understand, but their words haunted her frequently and would help ease frustration. Before long, the sands would come again, and she would lean into those words again.

She also knew her time in the desert was coming to an end. While she was relieved and looked forward with anticipation to the possibilities that the southern lands held, she had come to realise in the recent days how attached she had gotten to the work of the desert and the desert people. She had come to the desert alone, uncertain of her work. But in the time that she had spent working alongside the desert people, shielding each other from the sands and figuring out how to plant crops in their land, the desert people, too, had become a part of her tribe. The pain of leaving the city was only just starting to heal. She wasn't ready for another dose of pain when the time on the desert road ends.

She fingered the rocks she held in her hands for they had carried her through her lifetime as a wanderer.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

She didn't have much, but she had the rocks. And she had her people whose stories she took with her as she continued on her journey.

Looking to the heavens that night, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and for the desert people. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces held them together.

Tribal Stories: Held Together (Guest Post)

She sat in the field, watching the sunset. It had been a hard journey. She had been home for nearly two fortnights, but she still didn’t feel completely restored from her days in the prairie lands. Looking back, the time seemed to have been short, compared to the time she had spent in other villages, but the difficulty of living on the prairie had made the days seem long and endless. She was sustained with the word that would come from the tribespeople and by the forces that held them together. It had been often in these two fortnights that she had sat in these fields, watching the maize and the wheat, giving thanks for these forces and for the tribespeople who made those forces feel almost tangible at times. Tonight, she thought of the wanderer of her people. The wanderer, who had become her sister.

Word had come from the southern desert lands where the wanderer labored and spoke the peace of their people. She knew of the troubles that had been swelling there in the desert heat. Her wanderer-sister was weary. It was difficult at times to simply trust the forces that held them all, to also hold so much together in that southern desert land. She reached for the rock that their sage had given them, the sage who had long gone on to live fully in the Kingdom: “He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” We are the people of peace, and Love is our story, she reminded herself. Those forces do not break, no matter how strong the troubles, no matter how great the war. He was holding her wanderer-sister together too.

She thought again of the long gone sage. It was this same sage who had commissioned the older tribespeople to their work, telling them, “You are to be about building villages on the edge of the kingdom. This is your task.” We are trying, she said aloud. Her hands still ached from the tent ropes she had wielded in the prairie lands, trying to build a small village there. She turned them over and over, noting how the rope burns were now fading. She had labored hard, but the tents she had set up were always whisked away by the violent winds and heavy rains that always seemed to come from out of nowhere. The work had been difficult to say the least, and she had become so used to the feel of rope in her hands. The ropes were useful in the work, to be sure, but her hands were not meant to pull rope; they were meant to hold stones. The wanderer had reminded her of that. She had learned that she had to let go of the rough, dry rope in order to feel the smoothness of the stones, for they wouldn’t both fit in her palms. When she would let herself remember this truth, the coolness of the stones would soothe the places where the work had done damage. She reached for the other two stones, and squeezed all three together in her rope-worn hands,

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbor as yourself."
“He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.”

She would not be in the homeland for long. This, she knew for certain. There were villages to build on the edge of the kingdom in other lands. What was not certain was what was waiting ahead on the journey. Yet, this was true for all of the tribespeople. They were making a new way in the lands to which they had been scattered. This was their work, their task; this is what they must be about. The forces that pushed them forward also held them together and to one another, and for this confidence, in the face of so much uncertainty, she gave thanks.

The sun was setting, and the sky was still pink from the warmth it had left behind. She lifted her face to the stars that dotted the sun scorched sky and breathed blessings and thanks for her mothers, and grandmothers, and for the sages, and her dear tribespeople. She prayed for protection and strength of heart for her wanderersister. Especially, this night, she gave thanks for the One who is before all things in the journey and is holding all things together in even the most uncertain of times.

Tribal Stories: Tilling

She patted down the last bit of dirt, covering the last of the sprouts. Dusting her hands off, she pushed herself back on her feet, took a step back and took a deep breath.

Days had passed since her most recent visit to the city. The road had led her down an unexpected winding path toward the giant, giving her a bit more time to think. In the last few days, she set up camp at the base of the mountain and waited.

Her mind drifted back to the days before the war. Life had been pleasant. Simple. Her mothers and grandmothers worked the earth, and when she had been adopted, she eventually picked up the trade as well. She remembered the long hours of tilling the land. As a child, it wasn't the most pleasant way to spend the days because it seemed like tedious work with nothing much to show. But her mothers and grandmothers would always say that tilling was an important job; for a well-tilled land made good seedbed for crops.

As she grew older, she began to understand her responsibility better. There wasn't much to show, but she began to enjoy digging deep into the ground, turning up the earth, and loosening up hardened dirt. It used to frustrate her that she would only be allowed to help with that little bit before she got moved to a different plot of land. She wanted to do more; sow a few seeds perhaps, even help gather in the harvest.

"We don't always get to choose what we're good at, child," her mothers and grandmothers would say.

So she decided to learn everything there was to learn about tilling--it was her responsibility to their people.

In the more recent days since the exile, she began remembering that there was tilling to do even in the desert lands if she were to help the desert people begin life. As she spent her days working the land, her mind was still on the giant, and she feared what he might bring for the people in the desert lands. She wondered if her work on the ground would be worth it if there was to be no life after the encounter with the giant. And she wondered too, if she--they--would get away unscathed, and if she had what it took to stand up against him.

Then she remembered what her mothers and grandmothers used to say.

"There is no 'Them'. There is only 'Us'. We are all Us."

She brushed away the first tear with the back of her hand. Perhaps that was the hardest part of the war--that it was all "Us" fighting against "Us". But the years of war left her wondering if they still believed they were all "Us". She herself, she knew, was guilty of forgetting every once in a while. One of her tribespeople once had to remind her to dig deep into the stories of their people--that Love was their story.

The giant, too, was "Us," and only wanted what was best for the desert lands--even if she may not completely see eye to eye with him. She hoped they both remembered that when they eventually meet.

She picked up the rest of her tools, including the two rocks.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

Looking to the heavens that evening, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and even for the giant. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces had allowed her that little extra time to not just till the land but sow a few seeds this time around.

Tribal Stories: Earth and Time (Guest Post)

He sat thoughtfully at the edge of his field while the last rays of daylight disappeared over the horizon.  Many weeks had gone into the preparation of this year’s crops, and soon it would be time for the harvest to come in.  He always felt a sense of ambivalence about this time of year:  the harvest could be magnificent, or it could be eliminated through any of a number of tragic circumstances.  Storm, drought, thievery, and even the nature of wild beasts threatened to harm the labor of his hands.  He could sense that the harvest was near.  For all his readiness, though, only Time would dictate when the ripening would be complete.  All he could do is sit and wait…and keep watch.

News from a far-off land occupied his thoughts:  details of the escalating war in the southern desert lands.  He first learned of this news while conducting business in the city.  The wanderer, soon to depart for the war-torn south, had met with him in the city some weeks earlier.  She was concerned about the war, and yet she felt compelled to give herself for the peacemaking efforts.  She spoke of her tribespeople and of their shared mystical heritage.  He could not fully understand her native dialect, but their common respect of Earth and Time helped them to communicate with each other. 

Earth and Time.  His business, his activities, his religion revolved around these two poles of faith.  From his earliest days, he had been taught to respect Earth and Time.  He had learned his father’s trade, that of growing crops for the community’s good, by studying his father for some years.  Now he worked his own field, applying the basic principles of his religion, the depth of which he was only now beginning to appreciate:

“Respect Earth, for Earth gives life.”

“Respect Time, for Time gives friendship.”

Respect for Earth was easy; growing crops took all his strength, but those crops gave life to him and his community.  He could not understand Earth, but he depended on Earth’s love for each year’s needs.  Respect for Time was more difficult.  Surely, Time dictated when the ripening would be complete, but from his childhood a question plagued him:  How could Time give friendship?

Once he began working Earth on his own, he learned the true value of Time:  not to ripen crops, but to strengthen relationships among fellow laborers.  Growing crops was a lonely profession, but his time in the city had reminded him that he did not labor alone.  The wanderer, different as her journey was from his, sat next to him in the city one night some weeks earlier.  She spoke of her tribespeople and of their shared mystical heritage, and then she spoke of how he was included in those groups.  She gave thanks for Time which had brought them together in the city.  She gave thanks for Earth which would connect them even after they parted ways.  And then she pulled two small stones out of her pack, gave them to him, and said:

“You say, ‘Respect Earth, for Earth gives life.’
You say, ‘Respect Time, for Time gives friendship.’
I say, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’
I say, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’
Perhaps we are not so different.”

He sat thoughtfully at the edge of his field.  Daylight was fleeing.  The harvest was not yet ready, but soon it would come, just as it always did for his father.  He rolled the two small stones over and over in his hands.  And then he looked to the heavens and uttered a prayer of thanksgiving, for Time indeed had given friendship. 

Tribal Stories: Gypsy

It had been another restless night. Between another haunting dream and the critter's visit the day before, she hardly slept a wink.

The critter had brought a fresh basket of supplies and a word of warning. There was a giant up ahead in the mountain who was known to be temperamental. Her tribespeople who had had previous encounters with the giant had come home with battle scars, but there had also been others who had friendly encounters and came home unscathed. She recalled the promise she had made to her tribespeople, that when the time came to meet the giant, she would hold to the stories of their people as her guide.

Even though she came from a people of peace, she couldn't shake the feeling as if she was getting ready for war. As she gathered up her tent that morning, she made up her mind to head for the city not too far away. In the more recent years of war, she would visit the other cities nearby whenever she needed to clear her head. The little adventures renewed hope for her to keep at the restoration efforts, because they reminded her of what good cities could achieve.

She knitted her brows together as a sad smile crept on her face. For all the years of war she endured, her instinctive reaction in times of uncertainty was still to return to the city--even if not the one she just left behind. The city was everything she had dedicated her life to, and even in the worse years of war, it remained the parent that taught her all she knew. That morning, she needed comfort and reassurance that the forces were still at work to make all things good--and the only place she knew to go was back to the city.

When she arrived that morning, she hadn't unexpected to run into the gypsy lady, even though she knew that was a place she frequented. Their first encounter had been equally unexpected. She was walking home with someone she had just met in the market after the day's work, and the gypsy lady was there at the door to greet them as they came through. In the short exchange, she couldn't help noticing she had the pattern of threads on her sandals. She couldn't make sense of the threads at the time, but she ran into the gypsy lady again and again--too many times that she eventually realised the forces were at work again. In the more recent years of war, the gypsy lady had been the first to remind her of her dream of village life when she invited her back to her village.

She hadn't encountered the gypsy lady since before the night of the exile. In all their exchanges prior, the conversations had been brief, but there had been enough trust built between them that she knew to depend on the friendship of the gypsy lady. She had promised herself not to talk about the exile, but as mystical encounters go, the gypsy lady asked enough questions that she found herself giving away half the exile story.

Again, her friend reminded her of the village life. Again, she felt the beckoning to the southern lands.

As the friends parted ways that day, she found confidence in her steps again. The giant was still ahead, but she had found peace enough for the next leg. Even if she would have to battle the giant, the forces continued to be at work for good.

Her fingers found their way to those rocks again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

As she began her journey back to the road, she looked to the heavens and again whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, and for the gypsy. Most importantly, she gave thanks for the forces that held them all together.