Service Project

This post is really about a week late...

Two weekends ago, we took the kids out for a service project.

Listening to the lady at Hospice explain
what they do and how we are helping them.

Auntie Enid with Stella and Hannah

If you remember, we had thought about getting the kids to do a service project with Hospice West Auckland over the Easter weekend, but it didn't work out. We then found out that the Hospice needed baked goods so of course, the logical thing to do was to get kids together to do some baking. The younger kids, years 0-3 in school (aged 5-8) were going to help do grocery shopping while the other kids, years 4-6 in school (aged 9-11) would do the baking at Auntie Enid's.

Imparting the all-important
life-skill to Woody:
How to beat an egg

To be frank, I had reached the point of exhaustion and grumpiness where I simply wanted to get the service project out of the way. We had told the kids we would try to do something aside from Sunday gatherings at least once every term, so this was going to be the one thing we did this term. So I really didn't have too many expectations of how it would go. As long as it wasn't a completely disaster, we didn't get kicked out of the grocery store and Auntie Enid's kitchens weren't completely trashed, I would have considered the project a success.

Rebecca and Jesse working hard

And of course, the kids surprised me.

Not only were there no stares from strangers at Countdown, or food fights in the kitchens, the kids all did a great job working in teams. The baking got done in a lot less time than I expected, and no one got grumpy or cranky.

On the drive back from Auntie Enid's, we launched into the, "what did you learn from this?" conversation. Again, my only expectation was that as long as they didn't drift off down some rabbit hole as we were talking, I would be content.

Auntie Enid served up hot
chocolate milk for a
well-deserved break

And again, they surprised me.
They each had a spiel about loving and serving one another, which was what we were doing with the baking. Knowing my own tendency to take the social service rather than the gospel train in these conversations because it was easier, I tried to steer it back toward Jesus. To my surprise, Stella remembered what we talked about early in the year about the body of Christ and how we each had a part to play. Woodrow talked about team work, and Jesse talked about Jesus feeding the five-thousand.

Awesome chefs!
From left: Jesse, Woody, Rebecca, Auntie Enid,
Stella, Cassidy, Hannah

These kids... You just gotta love them.

On Moving...

In the last ten months, I have broken my personal record by having moved four times--twice internationally, twice within Auckland. So since I'm starting to consider myself quite an expert, I thought I'd share a few moving tips/lessons learnt.

Moving Tip #1: Always have friends
When I was moving from Anderson to Singapore, Ginny and JM got together with Brittney and Chase (who themselves were getting ready to move) and organised a yard sale. Two weekends in a row, we sat and got baked in the sun and drenched in the rain while playing Words With Friends while waiting for people to give us a few coins to help us get rid of our stuff. Elizabeth and John would come and hang out and the boys would take off to get us China House for our lunch break. Even with that, most of my nerdy seminary books still had to find themselves a home in Ed and Heidi's garage.

When I moved from Singapore to Auckland, my luggage allowance was reduced. We packed up part of my stuff into a box ready to be shipped once we got clearance from my visa process. Then we found out Auntie Enid was going to be back in Singapore so Mum had her help carry some of my stuff back in before finally sending the rest of the stuff in the box.

When I moved from Kathrin and Stefan's to Sara's, I inherited a bunch of stuff from the Beisleys so that I could finally set up my home/office space. Shane and Marilyn were also moving that weekend, so a crew got together to help us all move. Kathrin and Stefan did a desk swop with me when we realised the stuff wasn't all going to fit in the new place. Jonny showed up with equipment to help put the bunk-bed together, and Chris, Josh and Katherine figured out how to put the pieces together while Steve glued the headboards that were falling apart together.

When I moved in to the Snuggery (Chad and Diane's sleepout where Steve used to live) yesterday, Kathrin and Stefan showed up to pull apart the bunk-bed and the desk. Thanks to Stefan's genius brains of figuring out not just how to make things work but in the most efficient way, Kathrin's ability to organise things, Chad and Diane's big van and big heart to let me move in with such short notice, the move was relatively painless.

They say it takes a village to raise a kid. I'm glad I'm the kid with a great village.

Moving Tip #2: Nothing is really yours
I should probably add to that, "but take care of it anyway"
The first time Stefan and Kathrin did the desk swop with me, I remembered being blown away that they didn't even have a second thought about, "but this is ours," or "this is for loan". There was just this sentiment of nothing really permanently belongs to anyone anyway, but we just trust that we'll take care of each other. Or the realisation only upon starting to pack that most of my food storage containers have made themselves at home at the Pethers' for a while. It was this feeling of, it all stays in the family anyway, just a matter of which building it goes to.

Moving Tip #3: Big, bulky stuff don't move well
I remember when I first moved to Anderson that many years ago, Mum went and got frames so I could take pictures with me when I moved. But those were days before checking in baggage on international flights became so darn expensive. Oh, and those were also the dark ages before Facebook and social media really took off. Photo frames don't move well because of their bulk. And neither do diplomas. I'll admit there are days when I'm slightly envious of friends who have established and less mobile office spaces where they can hang up their framed accolades on the wall while mine stay in their black folders. It's not so much the desire to show off my accolades as much as wanting the stability where I don't have to have this constant mindset of, "Well, how am I going to pack that into two suitcases the next time I move?"

Moving Tip #4: The process is usually more than just physical
When Chad and Diane showed up yesterday, one of the first things Diane said was, "how are you feeling?" (I know I haven't blogged about that side of things in a while, but I'll get to it later.) Until that moment, I had been feeling the frustration building up. But in the process of making lists, organising how to make the move as painless as possible and how to get it all done in time for me to have head space to think about the last Bible Clubs for this term and pack before Thursday, the frustration just sat like an ugly monster beside my ear whispering nasty things like, "you can't do this."

Sara's house had been a great place for the last four months. I think we were both bummed that it didn't work out for me to stay longer. I will miss the backyard, and Saturday mornings of cleaning house while watching the little league games, and of course, the glorious view of the Waitakeres in the distance.

Ramblings.

Every once in a while, I find myself taking a look at who I've become and go, oh crap.

Today, it was the realisation that I've become that churchy woman. You know, the one that cooks and bakes for every church function, goes to all the charity and community events, gives piano lessons to the wee ones...

You know what I'm talking about.

I know, I know. I do, and am, a whole lot more than just play that role. But this realisation today brought this conclusion:

I need a life outside of my job.

Westside Hub Video Now Online

Church of God Ministries just released this video on their Facebook page. Our ministry video has hit cyberspace! We covet your prayers and support.

On Shopping

I've never been much of a shopper.

It used to be that my mum and I would hit the stores once, maybe at most twice a year, spend a day or an evening there, and that would be our shopping for the year.

Then when I took on an office job right after college, it meant more shopping because my wardrobe needed a massive overhaul from the college kid's sweatshirt and jeans combinations. Part of why I'm not crazy about shopping is because I've never cared much for fashion as much as I have for comfort, and what's comfortable isn't always available or affordable when it's not also trendy. But it wasn't so bad because I had learnt where to find the good deals, and learnt about seasonal clearances. Best part: they had LONGs in their pants and jeans departments in the States.

And then I did this crazy thing called moving halfway across the world in 2 suitcases. Most of my stuff had to be either sold or left behind. Which wasn't a big deal until now that it's getting cooler here in Auckland. Because I wasn't sure how cold it would actually get here and didn't have much luggage space to begin with, most of my cold weather clothes had to be left behind. And nobody warned me about central heating--or the lack of it. And it's been too many years since I've lived without a dryer that I've forgotten that when it gets colder and wetter here, laundry takes a much longer time to dry.

So off we go shopping again. If they had Kohl's, Marshalls or even H&M here, it would have been a matter of simply zipping in, finding what I needed and moving on with my day. I wouldn't have felt like I wasted my day-off spending way too much time trying to find a pair of pants that would fit because they didn't have longs.

I got home that night more homesick for the cornfields than I had been in a while.

Now, I can handle grocery shopping. It's not so bad when I've done my meal planning for the week and have a list of exactly what I need to get. I'm learning that there's a reason why fruit and vegetable shops exist: they do actually have much cheaper fruits, vegetables, milk and eggs. And that Pak n Save is the place to go to get things in bulk, otherwise your friendly neighbourhood Countdown is still your best bet.

But send me back to Singapore, and I have a mild anxiety attack every time I get sent to the store to pick up cucumbers for Mum. I can usually figure out where most other things are, but it's been maybe 3 years in a row now that I've gone to the store not knowing where to find cucumbers and feeling absolutely ridiculous.

A grown woman who's used to living on her own, managing her own groceries in giant supermarkets in other foreign lands unable to find cucumbers in the land where she was born.

Days like these, or these make me wonder if I've ever grown up or if I ever will. Grocery shopping in Singapore make me feel like I'm 18 all over again, never stepped outside of the world of school, band, church or my parents' home. And learning the ins and outs of living in a new place all over again isn't really that big of a deal. But I cannot help wishing that after 8 months, a day would go by where I don't feel like I'm having to learn something new all over again.

Not that I'm complaining, since this is all part of the adventure. But something familiar every once in a while would be nice.

Dents

This past Sunday was one of the rare weeks that I got to sit in for the sermon instead of running around with fussy kids.

Chad talked about dents in his sermon. He told the story of how their new car got broken into, and how even though it was barely scratched up--except for the handles of the car door--every time he looked at the car, all he saw were the dents.

He went on to say that sometimes that's the way we view our lives. We pay attention only to the dents, never mind that the car was still functioning, and nothing was stolen.

I sat in the pews thinking, well, I don't think I'm doing too badly. God only knows how many dings and scratches I've experienced, but I was pretty confident I had moved past all of that and that they no longer defined me.

And then this week came.

Unexpected news hit right smack in the middle of my week. I knew deep inside I needed this news to bring closure to something that happened years ago. But at the same time, it made me pay attention to that dent from years ago all over again.

Seven years feel like a long time for a recovery period. I've always thought no matter how deep the pain, I was strong enough to not need a long recovery period. Life goes smooth-sailing(ish) for a while with its occasional ups and downs, I almost forget what those periods of deep pain feel like.

Like a summer spent aimlessly, and almost completely alone, grieving over a broken heart.
Or when life slips away, and nights are spent occupying the mind with activity to numb the pain so that when the head hits the pillow, consciousness leaves immediately, only to return less than a few hours later, crying and wanting to scream but they only come out as strange animal noises.

They say we shouldn't let our dents define us because the Creator sees more in us than just the dents. But to pretend that the dents don't hurt when they do is cheating ourselves of the experience of humanity--the very reason for our existence in the first place. For if we don't know what it means to be human, how can we even begin to understand love?

We forgive, and we let go. But sometimes I wonder if to simply forget is depriving ourselves of the opportunity to learn important lessons.

15 years have passed since that episode where my identity became defined as the trash can that collected everyone's crap only to be set out on the streets waiting for the trash collection truck that never came. I've since made peace with that episode and reconciled with the characters involved, but not a day passes that I have to intentionally choose to not continue to be defined as a trash can.

Some days I do it better than others.
Some days the dents hurt more than others.
Some days I cry about the old dents more than others.

But I'm only human.
To feel pain is only human.

And I keep writing.
Keep sharing stories.

For what purpose are stories, if not to make the journey of another a little less alone?

Of Old Wounds and Onions

She woke up with a start.

The ridiculous sleep patterns had become such a norm that being awakened at 3am no longer frustrated or confused her. Except tonight, she felt a crystal ball being shoved into her hands.

She blinked twice as her mind raced to try and process the imagery in the crystal ball the same time memories of a seven year old episode came rushing back. It unsettled her so much that she lay awake for a while, simply letting it hurt.

The next thing she knew, her alarm was going off and she wondered if it was all but another one of those strange dreams she's had a lot of recently. But there it was again, the crystal ball staring back at her--this time along with a note from her best friend.

"Hope you're alright."

She swallowed as the seven year old episode slowly washed over her again. It was an old wound, really, and she had, for a while now, been waiting for this. This day when the last blade from the old wound would finally be pulled out so that she can finally close it all up and let it heal completely.

Vague images of who she was prior to that episode came sweeping over. And who she became after the episode. And how she found her voice. And how she started to believe in herself...

"I could have made that work, you know..." she heard him say.

Her eyes did not leave the crystal ball for a second. When she finally spoke, she only shook her head and said, "Yes, but I wouldn't."

It was only after that seven year old episode that she felt the release. The crystal ball brought her back to the streets of Atlanta, to Krispy Kreme donuts and homeless people trading for drugs. To Mexico, to where her value of time and the important things in life were redefined. To a reservation in South Dakota, to where she fell in love with "bad" kids. To the streets of Berlin, to the women working on the streets, for whom her heart was broken.

Really, that seven year old episode opened her heart up to love.

She leaned in to him as he gently wrapped his arms around her, careful to avoid the open wound, her eyes still not leaving the crystal ball for a second. She saw herself age over the seven years, more and more jaded by the depravity that accumulated after the seven year old episode. She saw her dreams change as depravity made her question why she even had permission to dream big dreams. She saw herself no longer shocked by violence because she had seen so much of it.

And then she saw herself sitting on the pew in church that Sunday, doodling. It had become part of her way of processing sermons when she had the chance to sit in for them, and the doodles were usually about being on some kind of journey, or a brick wall of resistance, or some deep thought of the day. But that day, she simply doodled, and it wasn't until she heard the young lady next to her whisper, "What's that?" that she realised it was an onion. She wasn't sure what it meant because the sermon was about how the Creator saw its creation.

As she stared into the crystal ball, she understood.

"I am the onion."

Every layer was a symbol of the different faces of who she had become. And every time she moved, she had options to play with, of which layer she wanted to be. She could be the shy, quiet kid from many layers ago, or the hesitant pursuer from not too many layers after that. She could be the layer that opened up her heart to peoples and lands without a second thought, or the vagrant that chose to claim no land as home. She could be the loyal friend who stood her ground, or the reconciler who would not stop loving.

Yes, an onion. A pungent, stinky onion. And probably one that reeks too, after all the experiences of depravity and jadedness.

"Or just flavourful..."

She finally turned to look at him. Him who had been holding her through the peeling back of every layer. She searched his eyes questioningly, how can this be?


"Cooked just well enough to add flavour to anything that encounters you. But you could also just choose to sit around and stink up the kitchen, you know. Your choice," he whispered gently, his arms still firm around her, well aware of the pain from that old wound.

Even though she had been dreading this day where the last blade would be pulled out because she did not want to revisit the wound, she was glad it finally did come around.

In her heart, she gave thanks that the day finally came, even if only seven years later.
And she gave thanks for the seven years in between of being cooked to just the right flavour.
And she gave thanks for the best friend who held no judgment that it had taken seven long years, never hurrying it along, only simply being there to say, "I wish you love BFF. All will be good."

My "Leaving Church" Story

Years ago when I first started taking blogging more seriously, I gave myself a few rules of things I will not blog about.

1) Political commentary.
As it is, there are enough opinions out there to sway the crowds one way or another. I don't need, or want to, start another heated debate. Words are only of use if they compel people into action.

2) Reactionary posts.
Because the blogosphere is a public forum, I don't need to throw out a passionate reaction to an event or something I came across only to process my thoughts a little further and regret a post a week later.

3) Personal drama.
Again, the blogosphere is a public forum. Unless healing and reconciliation have taken place, dirty linen doesn't have to be aired in public.

Today, I'm breaking rules #2 and #3.
I'm treading carefully with this post today because there are episodes that I'm considering writing about where reconciliation has not taken place, so I'll throw in a disclaimer early on that these stories are only shared to give credibility to the bigger story, and not to turn this blog into a bitch-fest.

So here we go. This is my "Leaving Church" story, a response to the recent frenzy in the blogosphere.

It began in 2005, when I came across Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz. I was on a student-leadership team in a Christian liberal arts college, and that was the book we were reading on campus that year. Miller's book articulated many of my frustrations with a brand of Christianity that I had been struggling with because it was getting too superficial for my liking, and made me want to apologise to every person whom the church had left a bad after-taste with.

A year later, as a ministry intern, I found myself watching theologians, professors of religious studies and retired ministers bickering amongst themselves about how much time our staff organist should be allowed to rehearse on the organ in the sanctuary. I realised then how broken institutions can be, and decided that if this is what becomes of theologians, professors of religious studies and retired ministers, I would never go to seminary, and never work in a religious institution (never mind that I had already "responded to my call to ministry"). I wasn't ready to completely abandon the institution--the church is family. Just because all the Big Brothers and Sisters screw up or don't play fair doesn't mean you disown them.

So instead, my first real grown-up job was at a para-church organization. Freshly graduated with the conviction that I knew nothing, I thought working at a para-church organization would still keep me involved in the local churches, but at a level where I only need to watch from the peripheries and not get tied up in the politics. That would buy me some time to work through my issues with the local church, find some healing and eventually start seminary feeling less jaded.

Maybe I only have myself to blame for getting overly-involved. But after a couple years of watching policy after policy being implemented that were quick-fixes to a more deeply-rooted problem without thorough thinking through of what long-term implications there might be to those directly affected by these new policies, one cannot help but feel even more jaded by institutions. And then I discovered more and more voices amongst my new-found community in seminary that resonated with my thoughts. Oh, I could tell you of the countless hours we spent dreaming up what Church could be like if we could just start our own church amongst our own circle of friends and not have anyone else join in--most of which happened while we were avoiding writing about sanctification and the likes of it.

But we all knew. We couldn't run away and start our own thing. Most of us who understood the history of our tradition, the Church of God Reformation Movement, started by DS Warner, knew that that was exactly how we started off. As students of Church History, we knew that it had been done before--countless times, even before DS Warner.

The summer of 2010, I had the privilege of spending a few months with a group in Berlin, Germany. This was a group that came together to figure out what Church meant in 21st Century Berlin, a cosmopolitan, global city that had moved on from the days where Luther's reformation had a significant impact on ecclesiology. The group in Berlin wasn't a sensation because they were trying to start a hip 21st-Century style of monastic-living. They were sensational because they were intentionally committed to community and to the spiritual betterment of each one in the group. But even more so, to the reality that engaging in community means engaging in each other's dirt and learning to fight fair when we disagree rather than say, I'm just going to go off and start my own thing.

Kelley Philips, my internship supervisor in Berlin explained to me that the statement, "If we would all just go back to the 1st-Century Church where everyone came together to take care of everyone else, the world would be a better place," had become a popular catch-phrase in church-language these days. But we often ignore the possibility that the 1st-Century Church probably fought all the time too, as they define what "fair share" meant. We paint idealistic pictures of what the Church should be or look like, rather than embrace it for what it is and try to work through those pieces. I could quote you one Bonhoefferian thought after another about the impact of pursuing human idealism instead of pursuing the reality of God, but the reality is, these are only words.

So what IS your leaving church story, you ask. I could tell you of the heartache of trying to find healing after that dark year in undergrad. I could tell you of the 4 years I spent defending an institution even though there were realities I faced everyday in that institution that discouraged me even more. I could tell you of how I beat up a TV in anger when this same institution told me they wanted no part in my involvement with the missio Dei since I wasn't one of them (ask my friends Emily, Ashley, Michael, Yocum and Jason. They witnessed the anger).

You want a leaving church story? I don't have one to tell you because after all this time, I haven't left. And it's not because I haven't wanted to, or haven't had the guts to. But it's because the Church is family. I can dream all day about being born into my ideal family, but it is in digging through the dirt with my real family that I can truly understand "For God so loved the world..."

Beloved Church of God theologian Gil Stafford is known for his words, "Be the Church." As I was ruminating over how to articulate my "leaving church" story, I found it ironic that we're talking about leaving the church when the reality is, we ARE the Church. How can we possibly leave the church if that requires us leaving ourselves?

Or maybe that's what it comes down to. Maybe we need to leave ourselves, our ideals and definitions of what Church should be, and just simply BE the Church.

"Well, God told me..."

"I get frustrated when people say things like, 'well, God told me...'. How do they know what God is saying? I've been praying about this for the last few months and I don't 'hear' God telling me yes or no. Yet they can so easily say "God told them." I go back to the scripture about God being with the righteous and I wonder if it's because I'm not righteous enough that I'm not hearing from God."

For a while now, I've been mulling over this part of the conversations Steve and I have been having over the last few months, trying to come to some conclusive thought about what it means to hear the voice of God. The reality of it is simply, I just don't know.

Steve brought up something the last time we talked about this. With the stuff he's been going through recently, he's wondered if it comes down simply to the fact that he could choose to say, "well, God told me to do this" when really HE was the one who made the decision because blaming it on God would be an easier way for people to not hate him or the consequences of his decisions.

It was something I resonated with because it wasn't too long ago that Heidi had to try and explain to the 3Ts why Jael was moving away from them. The conversation went something like that...

Heidi: Well, the government wouldn't let Jael stay. (referring to the immigration offices)
Toby: Well, I'll go kick them in their privates.
Heidi: Tob, I think even if the government would let Jael stay, I'm not sure that she would want to...
Toby: Well, I'll go kick them in their privates anyway.

It was a slightly humorous conversation (as are most conversations in the Freer-Fry household), but the realisation that I had actually CHOSEN to leave broke my heart. I couldn't blame it on immigration, or on God's will or anything of the sort. The reality was, I could have found a way to stay in Anderson (find some job that would basically sell out my soul and my calling, marry an American citizen just for the sake of staying, you name it). But ultimately, I made the decision to say yes to Westside Christian Fellowship. If I believe that God is a god of free-will, then of course I was the one with the free-will to choose to leave.

To try and explain it as God's will would probably be as blasphemous as saying I've figured out the way God thinks, at least about this situation.

I finally got to watch The Hunger Games recently. Scene after scene of Seneca Crane, the gamemaker dictating what to throw in to alter game-play left me wondering if that was how God manipulates our life paths. Not that God would throw fireballs or mutts our way, but it left me wondering if, for so long, my understanding of the way God works had been limited to the imagery of God being a gamemaker that controls the circumstances in our life path. When the reality is, if God simply IS, God probably wouldn't be overly-anxious about when we wander of the "right" path. If we are the imago Dei, then you'd think that surely we would have enough smarts to get ourselves out of being stuck.

Came across this NPR article a few days ago. Still mulling over this thing about hearing from God and the possibility that I've wandered too far off the "liberal" end of the continuum. If you have any thoughts, I'd love to hear them.

Holy Saturday (thinking space)

After the frenzy of activity this week that began with shopping for chocolate eggs, it is now Holy Saturday.

The living space/office is still a disaster from prepping for this week, and I should probably clean. But for right now, I just need to sit and take in the melancholy of all that has happened.

Somewhere between baking matzoh and reading scholarly reflections on the significance of this week, I was hit with the realization that what we are remembering is a universal event ordained by a God who loves the world and not just one group of people. (Don't worry, we're not going to get into the details of universalism here. At least, not in this post.)

I guess it really began nearly 2 years ago in what became known affectionately amongst ourselves as "The Blue Church" in Berlin that we visited on Ascension Sunday. The service was in German, but it wasn't long before my limited German vocab combined with my background of working with liturgy kicked in and I was able to follow along with the order of worship.

The service ended with the congregation reciting The Lord's Prayer together in German. It struck me then that even though the version of the Lord's Prayer I knew was in English, the reality was that the prayer could well have came into existence way before the English language even became established.

Suddenly my personal relationship and understanding of Yahweh became so small compared to vastness of church history.

I have a tendency to make comparisons or liken God to things. Arthur often throws in the reminder that God isn't bigger than, or stronger than or _________ than. God simply is; we are the ones who need to throw in the comparisons so that the limitations of our human mind is better able to grapple with the reality of God's existence. We are the ones who need to stick attributes to God--male or female, big or strong, for or against. We are the ones who need to sort it out, need affirmation of whether we are right or wrong in God's eyes. When the reality is, God simply... is. I am.



The reality of God is hit again this week as I threw matzoh dough in the oven, remembering the last Seder meal I got to be a part of. Between the road-kill that was used as the sacrificial meat and some of the less than reverent conversation happening, it probably wouldn't make it on a list of orthodox practices. But the orthodoxy and the reverence came not out of how the ritual was carried out, but that the act of gathering together for a meal to remember one of Jesus' last acts on earth mattered enough to this group of friends that even with all our unorthodoxy, it was one of the most sacred gatherings I've attended.

A year later and I'm in a whole different context, gathering with a whole separate group for this same act of remembrance. And once again I find myself thinking, the Gospel is bigger. God is bigger. And again, I'm reminded that God simply is. I'm the one that needs to stick attributes to God to help me make sense of that reality.


Earlier this week, I read something a dear friend of mine, Hannah Adams Ingram, wrote. Hannah is a scholar that I have a great deal of respect for simply because of her willingness to dig into areas that most of us would be tread cautiously around. Her Holy Week reflection made me confront some of the ways I've thought about Holy Week that I didn't realise weren't congruent with my personal theological conviction of a universal Gospel.

Growing up basically on the Equator, I had never experienced the seasons. In the days before Anderson and what I now think of as the beginning of my spiritual awakening, Good Friday and Easter were simply part of what we did in church. These 2 days bore as much significance for me as going to church every Sunday because that's what we did as a family.

Then Park Place and Seminary helped me pull apart more of the significance of Good Friday and Easter. Anderson winters probably pale greatly in comparison with Russian winters, but by the time February comes around, we're all ready for spring and new life and warmer weather, especially for this island-girl. It was in those years that I began to realise that until I can begin to grapple with the hopelessness of Good Friday, the significance of new life on Easter probably doesn't hold as much water. Easter became about pretty spring flowers, new life and Easter dresses because it was finally warm enough to wear dresses without freezing.

As much as I think Easter Egg Hunts are the cheesiest and laziest way to get away with pretending we give a crap about helping kids learn about the meaning of Easter, I'm caving because... well, I'm cheesy and lazy this year. Hey, I've only been here less than 7 months. Cut me some slack. But this week, Jonny, in his whimsical way, made me think about why we even include chocolate eggs in the Easter story. The reality is, Easter has often been associated with spring and new life, and the eggs were part of some pagan spring rituals. But here in the southern hemisphere, Easter doesn't mean spring just like Christmas meant water-fights at the beach more than snowflakes and sleigh bells.

Growing up, all my ideas of Christmas and Easter revolved around ideas from the northern hemisphere. I never thought to make a conscious effort to separate those ideas from culture or weather climates because the tropical minorities seemed to always give in to the temperate northern hemisphere whose voices were louder.

But if I still want to hold on to my theological stance of a universal Gospel, maybe it's time to give my ideas of Christmas and Easter a little more distance from culture and temperate.

I was curious about how Kiwi culture would influence my worldview when I decided to move here. The shopkeepers still throw me looks of curiosity because I clearly look Asian but sound so American, so I still need to work on my accent. But those are only surface changes. There's still work to be done with the heart to reclaim indigenous faith practices, and to make sense of this universal Gospel.