I Have the Best Friends in the World

First of all, let me address this just to get it out of the way. In no other century in history has it been possible for me to be ripping open a package and reading the taunts from Michael Smith from across the Pacific Ocean and the reactions of the other fine folks who added to my box of randomness.

Facebook, I salute you.


In spite of the intensity of all the craziness of the last couple of months, today, I consider myself blessed beyond measure to have some of the best friends in the world.

No really, I do mean the world.

I'm thankful for the tweets from Yu Lin and Juan, nagging at me to take care of myself while I'm sick. More than ten years have passed since the beginnings of our friendship. Sure the course of these friendships haven't always been smooth. But today, I'm thankful I still have both of you gals in my life. And thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in Singapore.

I'm thankful for Pia who continues the poke war on Facebook. And for Jonas, who, though twelve time-zones away, still finds the time to harass me on Facebook chat once in a while to give me more German lessons. And Rhonda, who helps me celebrate the little things of living cross-culturally. It's been nearly two years since my Deutschland chapter. But today, I'm thankful for the little things that remind me of all the lessons I learnt from that chapter. And thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in Deutschland.

I'm thankful for my box of randomness from Emily, Jenny, Michael, Yoc, Jason, Wolfgang, Nate, Leslie and Josh. The little things that remind me of the times we laughed so hard about Glinda, beating up a TV or eating roadkill for Passover, rugby lessons and a last mad dash to Sno-Castle, or the Skype conversations to catch up. Seven years of major growing up made Anderson a difficult family to leave. But today, I'm thankful that sentimentality aside, I had people alongside who challenged me to open my mind to embrace new possibilities. And thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in the US of A.

I'm thankful for Josh, Chris and Steve, three crazy little brothers who not only make me laugh because of their ridiculousness but also let me know that they've got my (and each other's) back(s). Three guys who make a big mess in my kitchen but also clean up after themselves. I'm thankful for the Mama figures in PJ, Katherine and Helen who nag at me about going to the doctor and taking care of myself; for Auntie Enid who takes care of the Singaporean child in me; and for my big brothers and sisters, Kathrin and Stefan, and Chad and Diane. No buts. I'm thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in Aotearoa.

No really, when you have the best friends you could possibly have spread out across four different time zones in almost equal geographical distance between each, I think it's only fair to say I really do have the best friends in the world.

That's ok, you can be jealous.
As for me, I'm just thankful.

Sociological Overdose

The new flatmate/landlady had her sister-in-law over for dinner the other night. As it was my first time meeting Rachel, the sister-in-law, she had lots of questions to ask. Here's kinda how the conversation went:

Rachel: So what do you do?
Me: Umm... (Crap. How do I explain what I do without sounding like a total slacker?) I'm a pastor.
Rachel: Oh, cool!
Me: Yeah, I work with kids. I spend most of my time planning lessons and activities, and visiting with kids and their families. And we also do Bible clubs in the schools here. They're not overly-keen about us evangelizing, but they definitely want us to teach good morals and values.
Rachel: Yeah, that makes sense. But doesn't that make it hard for you?
Me: Well, not really. For me it's always easier to talk about everything else except God...

The conversation continued, but that definitely left me thinking.

What do I see my role here as?

If what I'm here to do is to teach good morals and values to the kids, then maybe it would be more fair to say I represent a social service organization than a church, wouldn't it?

I'm hearing MaryAnn Hawkins (in Biblical Foundation of Mission) talk about how the missio Dei includes several areas of study as categorized by academics, including both spirituality and sociology. While I approach the missio Dei more easily through sociology, it doesn't make spirituality any less important.

If I'm to be a pastor and a representative of the church, then it wouldn't be enough to simply do sociology, would it?

If we go according to Maslow's hierarchy of needs, if the sociological needs are not met, we may never get a chance to talk about the spiritual. But I think it's safe to say that for me, because sociological needs are slightly less awkward to deal with, I use that as an excuse to avoid getting into the spiritual.

But I'm not here to represent a social service organization.


As the WCF family continues this journey with the Hub, we'll be trying to meet more sociological needs in the community. I'm thankful that the other hands involved in the Hub have a slightly easier time holding the sociological and the spiritual needs in tension than I do--and even more so that we have this family to hold each other accountable to representing the missio Dei well.

Your Kingdom come,
Your will be done
On earth, as it is in heaven.

On Dinosaurs...

I had a dream not so long ago where I was, for some reason, involved in what appeared to be World War 3: Dinosaurs versus Transformers. I was the captain of an army of Transformers battling against the dark forces of the world. The most vivid memory I have of the dream was the scene where I kept shouting, "Don't hurt the dinosaurs! DON'T HURT THE DINOSAURS!!"

As unconventional as I am, or perhaps I should say, try to be, I love the dinosaurs. Blame it on AU, Park Place, Seminary or the forces of nature, but I cannot help it. I have a deep, deep love for tradition.

Which is an inconvenient passion to carry given that I weave in and out of cultures and geographical locations way too frequently.

Every Chinese New Year since the move to Anderson, the festivities have looked different, but I cannot move on with life if I don't, in one way or another, honour that tradition. Sure, some years the festivities have required a little more creativity than others, but that is to be expected, ay?

I take pride in my ability to converse with my grandmas in at least Mandarin, and if possible, also the dialect they speak, and the fact that just this week, I've found a new Hokkien conversational partner on the Peninsula with the Malaysian auntie who works at the $2 shop--even if our conversations conclude with her telling me to "slow slow find red hair husband" (the not-so-literal translation: take your time to find a white husband).

My day was blessed today when I walked in to St Paul's (the Anglican church that owns the building we rent) for their Ash Wednesday service because I got to connect with the wider Church through an ancient ritual--another tradition inherited with my Christian heritage. (The fact that I was the only one there below the age of 50, and that the only person in a robe this morning was a woman of course adds to the perks).

At SUPAkidz today, we joined the rest of Matipo Primary in observing two minutes of silence to mark the anniversary of the Christchurch earthquake. I have a feeling that is going to be another tradition that I would want to honour.

Growing up, celebrating Chinese New Year had always been a big deal. But I think it's fair to say that until I moved to a culture where it didn't matter to anyone, I kinda took those festivities for granted. In having to find new and unconventional ways to honour these traditions now, I feel like I've been forced to strip the festivities down to its heart to figure out what the essentials are. And when you have to do that, it kinda forces you to stop and think, and reflect on why we do the things we do.

Yes, I'm nerdy about traditions. I cannot help it. I love the dinosaurs.

But I love even more that the dinosaurs remind me to not take the Transformers for granted.

Imagine

I've started, paused, deleted everything and re-started this post several times now.

It's not that I don't have anything to say.

I've always been open and honest about my internal struggle between being jaded and hopeful.

But I'm afraid that if I write now, my jadedness is going to whip out its trump card and give me a good scare.


There are days when I appreciate being an NF (Myers-Briggs) because its familiarity helps me navigate the waters of life and ministry really easily.
And then there are days when I hate, and am utterly disgusted at being an NF because it comes with baggage.

In the last few weeks, I've felt a passionate hatred and disgust at being an NF that has also just been slapped with a $5000 excess baggage fine.


To be completely honest, I was slightly disappointed after arriving here that Te Atatu Peninsula wasn't closer to the city-center. I love cities because I thrive on culture, creativity, and... depravity.

And then slowly, one at a time, the layers of depravity on the Peninsula got peeled back.

Don't get me wrong. We live in a broken but beautiful community. Except lately, I've seen a lot more brokenness than beauty, and it's making me wonder, God, why? And how long?


Chad started a sermon series last week on re-imagining, in preparation for our campaign for the Hub.

Imagine what it would be like if Kingdom does come here on earth as it is in heaven.

I'm having a really difficult time with this series. Every week for the last, oh, good little while now, something else is happening to one of us in the whanau (Maori for extended family), and suddenly it's no longer praying Kingdom come for someone else somewhere else.

It's right here.
It's close to home.
It's family.

The only reason I haven't given up on hope is because somewhere, there is a God that is bigger than the hopelessness and the depravity. And if I didn't believe that hope still exists somewhere out there, even if it feels really far away at the moment, I don't think I can comfortably make the claim that I believe in a God that is bigger and stronger than my present.

That is a scary place to be.
I've never known life without God, and I'm not sure I'm ready to even entertain that possibility just because in the frailty of my humanity, I've found it difficult to believe.

Just because my small mind cannot comprehend at this moment, it doesn't change the fact that God is.
That God remains.


The more seasoned missionary friends are saying that these are sentiments that are not out of the ordinary for being on my fifth month here.

That this, too, shall pass.

I hope they are right.


And the pain falls like a curtain
On the things I once called certain
And I have to say the words I fear the most
I just don’t know


And the questions without answers
Come and paralyze the dancer
So I stand here on the stage afraid to move
Afraid to fall, oh, but fall I must
On this truth that my life has been formed from the dust


God is God and I am not
I can only see a part of the picture He’s painting
God is God and I am man
So I’ll never understand it all
For only God is God


And the sky begins to thunder
And I’m filled with awe and wonder
‘Til the only burning question that remains
Is who am I


Can I form a single mountain
Take the stars in hand and count them
Can I even take a breath without God giving it to me
He is first and last before all that has been
Beyond all that will pass


Oh, how great are the riches of His wisdom and knowledge
How unsearchable for to Him and through
Him and from Him are all things


So let us worship before the throne
Of the One who is worthy of worship alone
- Steven Curtis Chapman

"It Was Good"

You made the world and saw that it was good
You sent your only son for you are good
What a wonderful maker


Week after week, I enter with a sense of dread
Another heartache
Another broken heart
Another disappointment
Another frustration
Another...

"It was good..."


Everywhere I walk, I see heartache
Another life-changing decision at the crossroads
Another trip to the hospital
Another pedophile
Another war
Another whose innocence was robbed
Another...

"It was good..."


Day in, day out, I feel like another disappointment
Another phone-call I should have made
Another e-mail I should have sent
Another visit I should have paid
Another lesson I should have done a better job teaching
Another thank-you note I should have written
Another hand I should have held
Another...

Another, Another, Another...

"It was good..."


No, it wasn't.
It was messy
It was chaotic
It was unrehearsed
It was painful
It was unpolished
It was ugly
It was...

Hope(less?)


Do You not hear your children crying?
Oh Lord, how long?

And
I knew I wasn't superhuman.
But I thought if I faked it long enough, I would be able to make it.
After all, You called me to this, so You think I have it in me to make it.

"But I didn't call you to be superhuman..."


Oh.

Was that the part of the conversation where I stopped paying attention because another need had arose, another hand needed to be held, another...


Another, Another, Another...

"It was good..."


Today I had another refresher of Constructive Theology I.
You made the world and saw that it was good.
You sent your only son for you are good.


You made it all, and said that it was good.

"The Lord builds up Jerusalem. He binds the outcasts of Israel." - Psalm 147:2


You were here before me.
You cared about your people before me.
Heck, you even cared about social justice before the term "social justice" was coined, and before I was even awakened to the call of your Kingdom reality.


You made the world and saw that it was good.
You sent your only son for you are good.



It was good.

On Writing...

I haven't written in a while, I know.

Since the last time I wrote, we've sent off the Beisleys. Lots of hugs and shed tears, but at least the last time I checked, they're somewhat settling back in St Helen's.

Oh, and I moved. Yup, I found a place on the Peninsula where the rent is decent, the landlady is laidback, and I'm still close enough to Kathrin and Stefan that I can still go back and harass them and create more mayhem from time to time. Who knew such a place existed, ay?

It's been 4 days since the move and I already miss their craziness. But it was time for a change. Time to put a bit more into my life so that it didn't revolve solely around Westside Christian Fellowship, which would have been hard to do since Kathrin and Stefan are a part of WCF. Not that WCF isn't good for me or anything like that, but too much of something can make one off-balance, ya know?

What else is new? Hmm... I've (surprisingly) kept up with the Bible reading AND the exercising twice a week. The birthday isn't too far away, and I actually have a pretty good feeling that I might be able to keep this up past the birthday this year. We shall see.

Oh, and I've also picked up Anne Lamott all over again. No, I didn't get very far into Bird by Bird the last time, and probably wouldn't this time either (not because it's a bad book by any means--it's more a reflection of my ADD). But even just reading the introduction reminded me of why I love writing, and made me pause to think of why I hadn't written in so long. Between Anne Lamott and reading the Goldmans' last newsletter last night, I figured out why.

Somehow I got carried away with trying to meet the expectations of my new role.

See, I write because I love writing. I love trying to find the right way to craft words so that they mean something more than just scrawly letters appearing across a page (or screen). I love giving a little more meaning to life than just reporting the events of the day-to-day mundane.

But as Dwayne and Kara wrote,

We realize that newsletters are typically glowing reports and newsy tales of success, and this has been a dilemma to us as we have wanted to write an update but felt the news wasn’t ‘good’ enough.

Because I had become a "missionary" by some awkward standards, I felt like I lost my voice as simply Jael. (Which, if you know me well, tends to happen a lot thanks to my chameleon/keep-everyone-happy/TCK personality)

I felt like I couldn't blog unless I had "glowing reports and newsy tales of success".

By any standards, I feel like I've messed up more than I've had successes. The messes were never beyond redemption, like the egg in the microwave or the ridiculous cheese-sauce experiment (story for another time), or getting way too involved in areas where I should have trodden more carefully. These stories of messes remind me of how much I need grace.

But ask me about successes, and really the only concrete thing I can think of is the tea-party we had for a bunch of the little ladies. But even that, I hesitate to call a success. Just because we've had an "impressive" showing of twenty-seven little ladies didn't make the event a success.

Any good student of ministry will tell you success isn't measured by numbers. I'm learning more and more that "success" is measured by God-sightings, and lately I've had a lot of those because of the messes I've created.

And all good missionaries should have good stories to tell. At least, that is the expectation. My stories are often silly, sometimes weird, and usually involve a heck lot of laughing or some bits of crying.

You see, life in Aotearoa has been anything but boring. And even though no one has vocalised the expectation for me to write good missionary stories, I've given myself the pressure. (did I mention I'm learning about grace?)

But I'm breaking out of the box I've put myself in. I may not have glowing reports and newsy tales of success, but I'm writing anyway.

Besides, what fun is there in writing if I can't take the mundane and craft it into something whimsical? :)

Dear Keren - The Cycle of Life, and Things They Never Taught Us

Dear Keren,

Today, Rochelle said something about trying to figure out how to explain to Ashton and Rhea (her 4- and 2-year-old) that the Beisleys were moving back to the US for good.

I kinda smiled inside. You would remember that just over four years ago when you left, we went through the phase of being angry that we might have missed the day at school when they taught us how to say goodbye. Would that have been Primary 1, or First Grade, or Year 2?

Goodbyes are a part of life. When we move away, when friends move away, when pets die, when Grandpa "became a moth in the after-life," these things all disturb the normal cycle of life.

When Grandpa became a moth in the after-life, we didn't go to school for a few days. I remember watching Grandma fall apart the day before we were to bury him. And then Grandma moved out of their flat in Blk 837, and us grandkids no longer hung out at that playground anymore. For years after that, every time I walked past that playground on the way to my uncle's house before or after school, I would from time to time wonder what it would be like if Grandpa were still alive, and if that playground would still be our stomping grounds.

But nobody taught me that I was really saying goodbye to Grandpa when they gave me instructions to toss the white rose into his burial grounds.

Years later, we moved to the flat my parents still live in now. I no longer had a direct bus home from school, which meant that since Mum picked me up on their way home from my aunt's, I didn't get to hang out with Laura on the bus anymore. It was all good because we had a fight the year before anyway, a stupid fight that only 10-year-olds were capable of.

But nobody taught me that moving didn't just mean that our peanut-butter jars and my stuffed Hello Kitty now lived on a different shelf. It meant becoming friends with Lydia and new lifestyle habits like visiting the library everyday after school to check out every single Babysitters Club book they had available since we now lived across the public library.

You see, I think when you left, I learnt that goodbyes don't have to be an ugly thing for the rest of our lives. I still miss you from time to time, but I'm ok with the fact that you're gone now, except for when people get awkward when I talk about death like it's a normal thing. Even now, when people ask me about the story of the ring I'm wearing, I don't always tell the full story because people get awkward when they find out it once belonged to a friend who died in a car accident.

Death IS a reality. As fatalistic as this sounds, at the end, we all die.

But that's the problem. See, they never gave us permission to talk about death or saying goodbye.

"If we don't talk about death, maybe we can pretend it's not there."
Or bullying in schools.
Or prostitution and/or other present day slavery and human trafficking.
Or the struggles that displaced people faced (Yes, I see you nodding your head, thinking about our conversations about Displace Me).
Or the oppression because of corporate greed.
Or...

"But if we just don't talk about it, maybe it will go away. Or we can pretend it's not there."

The truth is, goodbyes are a reality of life.
And even if bullying and other forms of oppression aren't our reality, as long as it's someone else's reality, it's our responsibility as followers of the Christ to change that reality to Kingdom Reality, right?

Or am I reading "do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God" wrongly?

Dear Keren, I wish you were still here so we can continue these conversations. I wish you could be a part of the conversations I'm having now to make the conversations we had five years ago become even more of a reality. But I'm reminded from time to time of the task I have to continue these conversations, even if you're no longer here to be one of few friends who didn't laugh when I wanted to be homeless, or work in a coffeeshop, or run a bed-and-breakfast.

Dear Keren, I will keep these conversations going. I will (and have already) continue to find like-minded people to bring more conversations together.

Dear Keren...
I miss you.

Until next time,
Me.

Thus says the LORD of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon, ‘Build houses and live in them; and plant gardens and eat their produce. Take wives and become the fathers of sons and daughters, and take wives for your sons and give your daughters to husbands, that they may bear sons and daughters; and multiply there and do not decrease. Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf; for in its welfare you will have welfare.’ - Jeremiah 29:4-6

Of Paper Cranes...

The box of the rest of my stuff that my mum sent finally arrived here in Auckland yesterday. As I was unpacking the box, it was almost like opening a treasure chest because there were parts of my past that came along with it.

There was Cindy bear (named after Yogi Bear's girlfriend) - the little stuffed teddy bear I got from my first plane ride when I was 3 or 4.

There were the Pollock/Van Reken's TCK book, The Shack, my first Anne Lamott book, bird by bird from Amanda, Thad's copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, and God is No Fool, a collection of musings by Lois A Cheney, a gift from B-row just before I left the US.

There was the card from Keren, and a photo of her from her parents.

And then there were these three paper cranes.

Paper Cranes at the
Killing Fields memorial
in  Cambodia

The three cranes brought back memories of trips to Cambodia (December 2010) and New York City (Spring Break 2010). According to Wikipedia...

Thousand origami cranes (千羽鶴 Senbazuru) is a group of one thousand origami paper cranes (鶴 tsuru) held together by strings. An ancient Japanese legend promises that anyone who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish by a crane, such as long life or recovery from illness or injury. The crane in Japan is one of the mystical or holy creatures (others include the dragon and the tortoise), and is said to live for a thousand years. In Japan, it is commonly said that folding 1000 paper origami cranes makes a person's wish come true.

Inside the church beside
Ground Zero, a 9/11 memorial.
These paper cranes were from
victims of Hiroshima.

Cranes had been presented as symbols of peace to these parts of the world because of certain very dark events in history. These cranes symbolised wishes for peace, friendship, and hope for a better world where violence no longer existed.

My cranes have their stories too. Two of them came from Heidi and the 3Ts as a part of my graduation reception from seminary. They remind me of my fear of hanging out with kids--and how the 3Ts, my little kid-brothers and the other growing-up-way-too-quickly kids from Park Place helped me overcome that fear.

Paper crane from Alex
from 2008

And then there's the one made from a sheet torn out of the NAC roundup of 2008. It's the one that reminds me of the beginning of this whole journey leading up to my moving to Auckland.

See, back in 2008, I was into the end of my first year at Church of God Ministries when I met this lovely family. They loitered around the office when they had the time, and volunteered their time to help with anything that would help make our lives easier during the rush of Convention madness.

As often happens amongst missionary kids, their kids got a little restless during the Convention while their parents were in meetings and spending time catching up with supporters. Their oldest son, Alex Beisley had made a ton of paper cranes from sheets torn out of the NAC roundup, and they gave me one, just because.

I've had that crane hanging in my car until I finally had to sell it to move here, not even thinking anything about it, or the possibility that I might run into this family again.

I find it slightly amusing that this whole time that I've been in New Zealand, the crane had been sitting in a box in Singapore, and it's finally come back to me on their last week of this chapter in New Zealand.

Tomorrow at church, we will be celebrating with them the close of this chapter.

Doug, Danette, Alex, Allison and (not-so-little-anymore) Robbie, thank you for being family, and for paving the way for us at Westside over the last 7 years.


I've heard it said

That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...
And now whatever way our stories end, I know you have re-written mine by being my friend.
- For Good, from "Wicked"

Of Coloured Pencils...

I have a confession to make. (There seems to be a lot of those lately. Hmm...)

I may or may not have a slight obsession with coloured pencils.

I'm by no means a talented artist, more likely a wannabe-dabble-here-and-there-in-this-and-that noob by any standards. But ever since I was a kid, the one thing I loved most about Christmas (before the whole Jesus thing got in the way became more important, of course) was going shopping with my mum for school supplies for the new year. Every year, we would comb the aisles of Popular Bookshop, looking for new pencil cases, pencils, and then when we got a little more grown-up, pens, mathematical sets, and when we got EVEN more grown-up, calculators (gasp!). I would then be given the task of wrapping all my brother's and my school supplies up and putting them under the tree to be opened on Christmas day.

But my favourite of favourites would definitely be the coloured pencils. The kind I loved were the ones that had two different colours on either ends. There was the the one with light green on one and brown on the other, the cliche baby pink and baby blue one, the steady black and white one, and the pretty one with lilac on one end and lavender on the other that you only got in the box of 48 colours.

My favourite "getting ready for school" thing to do was, of course, sharpening the pencils. They had to get just sharp enough that the could be used, but not too sharp so that the ends would break off too easily. And if they were just blunt enough, it makes colouring so much easier because the texture is more consistent to work with. (If you don't understand what I'm talking about, you may just have to try it out yourself.)

So of course, when we were making cards and doing some colouring at Kids' Church on Sunday and Phoebe came to me and asked for a sharpener, imagine my delight when I realised I would have to go through our bags of coloured pencils to make sure they were sharpened.

Last night, I dumped out all three bags of coloured pencils and sorted through the colours. I had to make sure there were enough of each shade in each bag as I sharpened the pencils and put them back into the bags.

One of the last colours I sorted was white. I had half the mind to just throw them out, especially as I was thinking about something I read recently (that I thought my fabulous artist friend, Joe Watkins had written, but I couldn't trace back the original source) about how white coloured pencils were essentially a rip-off.

Who uses white coloured pencils anyway?

I remember an art class I took as a kid where we experimented with water-colours. One of the things the teacher suggested we could try was to use a white crayon to mark out rain drops on our sheet before using a darker shade of water colour to go over it. The different mediums made the white crayons useful, but white coloured pencils, I could think of no use for.

That was, until I realised at least one of the white coloured pencils in our supply had been used.

Which made me curious.

How would anyone use a white coloured pencil?

Maybe I'm just too silly to have realised there are practical uses for the white coloured pencils and I'm just too stuck in my ways to give them a further thought.
Maybe I'm completely missing out on what folks who know the trick to putting white coloured pencils to good use can do.

Which made me think even more.
Do I sometimes stick "white coloured pencil" labels on people I interact with?
What am I missing out by doing that?


Hey, if you're one of those who know how to put a white coloured pencil to good use, will you please share your tips?

The Only Constant in Life...

It seems odd that (nearly) four months in Aotearoa have flown by that quickly.

The Beisley clan leave in about two weeks. In the last four months, Doug and Danette have become parents to me, just as Alex, Allison and Robert have become like my little siblings. Dinners, movies, outings and game nights with them and Steve have been dwindling. Most of the furniture have been sold, and more and more boxes are getting stacked up against the wall in the office space.

It's hard to believe that this is all really happening now.

As much as I no longer believe in goodbyes, the moments of separation and the anticipation leading up to those times of separation still are never easy. It's hard to pretend life is still normal when we're trying to figure out how to make dinner when pots and pans have been packed up in boxes, and the only serving utensil left is a ladle with holes, and you can't even dish up canned tomato soup.

I'm finally feeling like I've arrived in Te Atatu, and things are being shaken up as we speak.

They say the only constant in life is change. I couldn't agree more.




In exactly a month from today, I will be turning 26.

In my (almost) 26 years of life, I've never celebrated a birthday that was not shared with my brother (whose birthday is three days before mine).

Sharing a birthday with a sibling has its quirks. Our parents always made it a point to have two separate cakes for us even if we had a joint celebration. And every year after we moved to the US, even if we've had a big disagreement just before our birthdays, on the day itself that we celebrate our birthdays, we at least pretend that things are ok.

This year, I'll be turning 26 in Auckland after my brother turns 28 in the US. While it's nice to finally be able to have my own birthday celebration to myself, I'm still a creature of habit, and it still seems odd to have a birthday without him.

Anderson folks, if you see my brother on 3 Feb, please be nice to him.

They say the only constant in life is change. I couldn't agree more.



While we were (trying to) watch fireworks on New Year's Eve, Chad and Diane asked me if I had any favourite memories of the year. These were the ones that came to mind:

My last Chinese New Year celebration in the US.
WAY too many trips to the doctor's office with Jenny.
Moving one of my favourite people out to Colorado and hanging out there for Spring Break.
Deciding to move to Auckland after I graduate.
Getting commissioned and hooded by MaryAnn, and the whole graduation fiesta.
Packing up and selling 7 years of junk and reducing my life back to 2 suitcases and a few boxes in storage.
Endless nights of beading and talking at Love's Hangover.
Getting to see some of my favourite people in Oregon.
Hanging out with my sister for a couple weeks in my old stomping grounds in Anderson.
Saying goodnight and tucking the 3Ts in to bed for the last time (and Brother Frank).
Moving back to the parents' home in Singapore and dealing with reverse culture shock.
Moving to Auckland, and the months of crazy after that.

For whatever reason, the one memory that stuck out most to me that night was the trip to Colorado.

First time in Colorado.
First roadtrip with a kindred.
First goodbye in the US.

But it was also while I was there that I had time to rest, pray, breathe, and think about this madness called "Operation: Move to New Zealand?" The week there was a pretty good summary about life in 2011. Transition, moving, friendship, rest, New Zealand, nature, new experiences, and the faithfulness of God.

They say the only constant in life is change. I couldn't agree more.