01 July 2013
"Welcome Home"
I never know what to do with you
When we first met, you felt like the odd great-uncle
Your manners reminded me of a jaded war-veteran
Full of grandiose and pomp
They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from
I never know what to do with you
You felt ancient, troubled and quirky
Yet someone said, stick around
These are good people
They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from
I never know what to do with you
I resisted for a long time, but you grew on me
The melodies you sung and the liturgies you spoke
And the people...
They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from
I never know what to do with you
We fought some tough battles together
As my days of prodigal wandering began
And you struggled to find your place in our family
They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from
I never know what to do with you
You felt distantly close as my days of wandering continued
But when night fell and darkness tried to overwhelm
You became the familiar nursemaid from childhood
They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from
I never know what to do with you
Soon the time came to leave home
Others didn't know what to do with me
But you said, "Go, we love you"
They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from
I never know what to do with you
You had become friend, confidante and accomplice
You embraced me as a grandchild
And nurtured me to be likewise for others
They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from
I never know what to do with you
I look back on the years we've been family
Our relationship has been weird and awkward at best
But we've learnt to embrace each other with all the love we have
They spoke of stories you had to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from
I never know what to do with you
All I can say today is, thank you
For teaching me to fight, and for teaching me to love
For giving me space to ask questions, and for allowing me to wander
For fighting with and for me, and for believing in me
For the hard questions, and the questions that matter
For giving me permission to be my honest, politically-incorrect self
For pushing me to be unto others what you have been to me
For telling me to go, and for arms always open to say "welcome home"
....
I never know what to do with you
They speak of stories you have to tell
Stories of our people, our past, our heritage, our tradition
Stories
Rich stories of where our people came from, and where to from here
Dear Park Place Church,
Thank you for letting me be a part of this weird body we call family.
Thank you for loving me well, and sending me well.
Thank you for always being home no matter where I've wandered.
The hardest thing about being home is knowing the time will come when you have to leave again.
But we are a people on mission.
We go knowing we have family that sends us.
Dear Park Place family,
Thank you.
29 June 2013
Dear Keren: The Re-Entry Post
Dear Keren,
You must forgive me for being rambly and having disconnected thoughts in this one. If you were sitting in this room with me, this would have been like one of our heart-to-hearts that go down some rabbit trail, rather than you sitting there listening to me pour my heart out the entire conversation.
Larry asked the other day if I would share the story of the influences of my ministry to the missions committee at their church. It made me stop in my tracks because it was at that moment that I realised I hadn't really thought far enough ahead to figure out how I'm going to process re-entry into the US.
I guess I had been so exhausted prior to this trip that all this meant to me at the time was a vacation. But when Larry asked how Singapore had influenced my ministry life, I realised again how much the seven years in Anderson influenced me--not because Anderson was a better environment than Singapore, but because my world views were being expanded and I was given permission to think outside the box. And Anderson had been the home that most influenced my theology and ministry.
Being back in Anderson this time made the, "Where are you from?" question even harder to answer. It was the Global Gathering after all, and most folks don't have more than five seconds to wait for the answer to that question. And how do you explain, "Well, I was born in Singapore, live and work in Auckland, New Zealand. Those places are both where I'm from, but home for me is Anderson, Indiana--at least, at this point in my life"?
Getting off the plane in Portland, I knew to expect that things would be different now. I've done the re-entry thing enough times in the last nine years to know that. But seeing Judy in what would have been the driver's side of the car in New Zealand made me go, "Wait, I knew things were going to be different, but I didn't think it would be THAT different that Judy would be driving now."
I should have known then that as much as I can acknowledge that things are going to be different, I'm not going to fully understand just how different until I experience it all over again.
Like how there's now this strange addition on I-69 with a special exit ramp for Noblesville and Fishers to accommodate the population growth in those areas. Or why Qdoba and Panda Express have to have such bright store signs on Scatterfield as opposed to the old, rundown operations that used to occupy that space. And then there are the familiar quirks that stick around that make me smile. Like Anderson city water that shouldn't be consumed. Or the wider driving lanes and parking spots, AND the potholes.
The high-energy of the Global Gathering hadn't given me much time to think about re-entry. All I knew was, I was visiting Anderson to hang out with old friends, connect with churches and folks that have been supporting my ministry in New Zealand, and clearing out the rest of my stuff that had lived here the last two years. Two weeks wasn't going to be enough, but I was determined to make the most of it.
Kristin once said to me a few years ago as I was processing your passing that I shouldn't try to over-rationalize everything and give myself permission to feel as well. Jen told me it was ok to give myself permission to grieve having left Anderson. I thought I had been doing that in small doses enough to give myself space to breathe.
But it isn't until all the dear friends leave after the annual Mecca pilgrimage and you're driving around town back to the old haunts that it hits you. The ability to navigate around town makes it feel like it's still home, but it really isn't anymore--at least, not by real world definitions. I don't have a house, car or job here, and I really am only a visitor. I may still have a few boxes of very nerdy books and some momentos, but otherwise, I live out of a suitcase.
So today I made myself stop. In the breaks between the storms today, I took the few minutes to hang out at your tree. Not because I still live in the time of your passing six years ago, or because it's any special occasion. No, it's simply learning to visit with old friends while realising that things change over time.
I found myself telling Mike the other day, that as much as I tell people I was born in Singapore, it really is Anderson that I find myself most comfortable and at home in--at least at this point in my life. In the last few years, going back to Singapore hasn't felt like a home-going anymore. Sure, I go back to visit family and friends, but there are now too many new shopping malls I don't recognise, and lifestyle patterns that I'm finding harder and harder to follow.
And maybe someday Anderson will feel like that. Even this time, things have changed. The weather remains predictably unpredictable, but parts of the city look different, just as friendships have also changed. For some, distance has brought about a stronger bond; others have been hurt by the proximity. All the same, when we find ourselves in the same room, it's like no time had passed in between.
Today I went out and got boxes to start packing up the rest of my material life in Anderson. It's time to let go a little bit more and move on a little bit more. All the same, we hold on to people, and we carry their hearts, and hope that they would do the same.
Arthur says your tree grows; that it's a tree of remembrance.
As Chuck from Elizabethtown says, "Life and death right next door to each other."
A part of me died with you nearly six years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a sense of adventure.
A part of me died with my existential crisis some four years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a sense of awe for the God of grace.
A part of me died with the things that got ugly two years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a desperate desire for reconciliation and Kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.
All the same, we sift through the ashes of the hurt and the broken, and find the beauty to pack away in the boxes. And we carry those pieces with us--the friendships, the pieces of home, the love and grace of Creator God that shone through the ashes--and we pack those away in the boxes we carry with us to new places and new adventures.
Dear Keren, I wish we could have another one of those semi-serious conversations about living in so many parts of the world--finding home in each of these places and learning not just how to go but how to leave behind.
Dear Keren, hey, I know it'll be a while before we get to talk again. But someday we'll pick up right where we left off hey?
Love,
Me.
You must forgive me for being rambly and having disconnected thoughts in this one. If you were sitting in this room with me, this would have been like one of our heart-to-hearts that go down some rabbit trail, rather than you sitting there listening to me pour my heart out the entire conversation.
Larry asked the other day if I would share the story of the influences of my ministry to the missions committee at their church. It made me stop in my tracks because it was at that moment that I realised I hadn't really thought far enough ahead to figure out how I'm going to process re-entry into the US.
I guess I had been so exhausted prior to this trip that all this meant to me at the time was a vacation. But when Larry asked how Singapore had influenced my ministry life, I realised again how much the seven years in Anderson influenced me--not because Anderson was a better environment than Singapore, but because my world views were being expanded and I was given permission to think outside the box. And Anderson had been the home that most influenced my theology and ministry.
Being back in Anderson this time made the, "Where are you from?" question even harder to answer. It was the Global Gathering after all, and most folks don't have more than five seconds to wait for the answer to that question. And how do you explain, "Well, I was born in Singapore, live and work in Auckland, New Zealand. Those places are both where I'm from, but home for me is Anderson, Indiana--at least, at this point in my life"?
Getting off the plane in Portland, I knew to expect that things would be different now. I've done the re-entry thing enough times in the last nine years to know that. But seeing Judy in what would have been the driver's side of the car in New Zealand made me go, "Wait, I knew things were going to be different, but I didn't think it would be THAT different that Judy would be driving now."
I should have known then that as much as I can acknowledge that things are going to be different, I'm not going to fully understand just how different until I experience it all over again.
Like how there's now this strange addition on I-69 with a special exit ramp for Noblesville and Fishers to accommodate the population growth in those areas. Or why Qdoba and Panda Express have to have such bright store signs on Scatterfield as opposed to the old, rundown operations that used to occupy that space. And then there are the familiar quirks that stick around that make me smile. Like Anderson city water that shouldn't be consumed. Or the wider driving lanes and parking spots, AND the potholes.
The high-energy of the Global Gathering hadn't given me much time to think about re-entry. All I knew was, I was visiting Anderson to hang out with old friends, connect with churches and folks that have been supporting my ministry in New Zealand, and clearing out the rest of my stuff that had lived here the last two years. Two weeks wasn't going to be enough, but I was determined to make the most of it.
Kristin once said to me a few years ago as I was processing your passing that I shouldn't try to over-rationalize everything and give myself permission to feel as well. Jen told me it was ok to give myself permission to grieve having left Anderson. I thought I had been doing that in small doses enough to give myself space to breathe.
But it isn't until all the dear friends leave after the annual Mecca pilgrimage and you're driving around town back to the old haunts that it hits you. The ability to navigate around town makes it feel like it's still home, but it really isn't anymore--at least, not by real world definitions. I don't have a house, car or job here, and I really am only a visitor. I may still have a few boxes of very nerdy books and some momentos, but otherwise, I live out of a suitcase.
So today I made myself stop. In the breaks between the storms today, I took the few minutes to hang out at your tree. Not because I still live in the time of your passing six years ago, or because it's any special occasion. No, it's simply learning to visit with old friends while realising that things change over time.
I found myself telling Mike the other day, that as much as I tell people I was born in Singapore, it really is Anderson that I find myself most comfortable and at home in--at least at this point in my life. In the last few years, going back to Singapore hasn't felt like a home-going anymore. Sure, I go back to visit family and friends, but there are now too many new shopping malls I don't recognise, and lifestyle patterns that I'm finding harder and harder to follow.
And maybe someday Anderson will feel like that. Even this time, things have changed. The weather remains predictably unpredictable, but parts of the city look different, just as friendships have also changed. For some, distance has brought about a stronger bond; others have been hurt by the proximity. All the same, when we find ourselves in the same room, it's like no time had passed in between.
Today I went out and got boxes to start packing up the rest of my material life in Anderson. It's time to let go a little bit more and move on a little bit more. All the same, we hold on to people, and we carry their hearts, and hope that they would do the same.
Arthur says your tree grows; that it's a tree of remembrance.
As Chuck from Elizabethtown says, "Life and death right next door to each other."
A part of me died with you nearly six years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a sense of adventure.
A part of me died with my existential crisis some four years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a sense of awe for the God of grace.
A part of me died with the things that got ugly two years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a desperate desire for reconciliation and Kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.
All the same, we sift through the ashes of the hurt and the broken, and find the beauty to pack away in the boxes. And we carry those pieces with us--the friendships, the pieces of home, the love and grace of Creator God that shone through the ashes--and we pack those away in the boxes we carry with us to new places and new adventures.
Dear Keren, I wish we could have another one of those semi-serious conversations about living in so many parts of the world--finding home in each of these places and learning not just how to go but how to leave behind.
Dear Keren, hey, I know it'll be a while before we get to talk again. But someday we'll pick up right where we left off hey?
Love,
Me.
Where We Come From: Holiness and Unity Part #3
One of the first things I had the privilege of being a part of when I arrived in Anderson last week was the unveiling and dedication of the Church of God Interpretive Center. The Interpretive Center has been the dream of outgoing (and now former) General Director of Church of God Ministries, Dr Ron Duncan for as long as he has been in the office. To see it completed and unveiled just before his retirement is, as Ms Martha, his wife, says, "a dream come true".
Dr Merle Strege, the historian of our movement and one of the brains behind the Interpretive Center, said at the unveiling that, "We, as the Church, are a story-telling people. To know where we are going as a movement, we have to tell the stories of where we came from."
And so we continue to tell our stories. Not because we should live as if D.S. Warner were still alive, or in fear that he would flip in his grave. But because we are a reformation movement, and the spirit of reformation should continue to move us forward.
So we fill the pages not simply with words that help us remember the historical events, but with acts that remind us to live out the spirit of reformation. We continue to tell stories about holiness and unity, not just as narratives to pass on to our children, but as intentional decisions to keep moving forward.
Because that's where we come from. We are people of a reformation movement, and we are people who continue living out our theology of holiness and unity.
Dr Merle Strege, the historian of our movement and one of the brains behind the Interpretive Center, said at the unveiling that, "We, as the Church, are a story-telling people. To know where we are going as a movement, we have to tell the stories of where we came from."
And so we continue to tell our stories. Not because we should live as if D.S. Warner were still alive, or in fear that he would flip in his grave. But because we are a reformation movement, and the spirit of reformation should continue to move us forward.
So we fill the pages not simply with words that help us remember the historical events, but with acts that remind us to live out the spirit of reformation. We continue to tell stories about holiness and unity, not just as narratives to pass on to our children, but as intentional decisions to keep moving forward.
Because that's where we come from. We are people of a reformation movement, and we are people who continue living out our theology of holiness and unity.
08 June 2013
On Depression
After my last post where I talked very briefly about my depressive tendencies, I had a few concerned friends ask me about it, so I thought I'd share a bit about that here.
Jenny and I used to talk about how her treatments for Crohn's sound frightening and terrible to others but they hardly faze her anymore. Not because they aren't frightening and terrible, but because this is a new normal she lives in, even if it's not the most desirable normal. My depressive tendencies are kind of like that.
Since high school days in TKGS, I've always known I had a melancholic temperament. I don't know if there was ever a specific incident that triggered my depressive tendencies, but events like the grief of moving halfway across the world, or a break-up that shook the lenses through which I saw the world made me realise that as a melancholic, I wallowed really well. I've never actually been officially diagnosed with depression, but having worked through pastoral care and counselling classes in seminary, I knew enough about depression symptoms to know I needed to be careful.
At my best, I cry, write, and then feel better. At my worst, I don't manage to get out of bed till about 10 or 11 (for a while after Keren died, it wasn't till midday), and eat half a meal a day. On one occasion, the thought crossed my mind that it wouldn't be such a terrible thing if I got in the car and crashed it on the drive home. Eventually after Keren's death, I began to realise that if grief was to become a normal part of my life, I needed to start finding healthy ways to deal with it.
So I began to make rules for emotional health. And seminary taught me to lean into community. So every time I moved into a new environment, whether it was starting a new job, starting seminary, or moving across the world, I made sure there was at least one person I told about my rules.
When I moved to Anderson, I told Melissa that when I get stressed, homesick or upset, I don't eat. In the weeks I was most homesick, she checked in to make sure I was still eating.
When Jenny started seminary, I told her that if she and I were to be friends, she needed to know that I go through these cycles and to make sure that I talk to her.
When I moved to New Zealand, Kathrin found out about my rules.
I have a list of people I text or email when things happen that could potentially lead to a spiralling down.
I force myself to make meals I enjoy.
I avoid alcohol unless I'm in a responsible environment with family or friends.
I schedule things early enough in the morning that I have time to wallow in bed for a while, but still eventually have to get up and get going with life.
I write and share my stories because whenever I write, I always hear Mum saying my stories have to end with the hope that I believe in and hold on to.
And I cry.
And listen to my collection of Selah's hymns and Rich Mullins' music on loop.
And pray and yell at God a lot.
Depressive tendencies probably shouldn't be normal, but they've been my normal for quite a long time now. I don't live in that state as a constant on most days because I believe in the Creator of Hope and Light. But it doesn't mean I can pretend darkness is non-existent in my life or in the world. And it isn't something that I would want to pray away because
1) it isn't something that can be simply prayed away (trust me, I tried it my first week in Anderson when my pillow got so wet from crying myself to sleep every night).
2) it keeps me in touch with what is real.
Shobek asked the other day what good does it do anyone to only have sad stories to tell the world. As I tried to answer his question, I realised then that because of my own journey, I've gained an appreciation for sadness and brokenness. Because I believe eventually there is beauty from ashes simply because of the fingerprints of the Creator all over the imperfection--even if beauty doesn't rise from ashes until we arrive at eternity.
And for that reason, even when everything is simply not ok, I eventually find my way out of the darkness.
"For darkness will not overcome the light..."
Jenny and I used to talk about how her treatments for Crohn's sound frightening and terrible to others but they hardly faze her anymore. Not because they aren't frightening and terrible, but because this is a new normal she lives in, even if it's not the most desirable normal. My depressive tendencies are kind of like that.
Since high school days in TKGS, I've always known I had a melancholic temperament. I don't know if there was ever a specific incident that triggered my depressive tendencies, but events like the grief of moving halfway across the world, or a break-up that shook the lenses through which I saw the world made me realise that as a melancholic, I wallowed really well. I've never actually been officially diagnosed with depression, but having worked through pastoral care and counselling classes in seminary, I knew enough about depression symptoms to know I needed to be careful.
At my best, I cry, write, and then feel better. At my worst, I don't manage to get out of bed till about 10 or 11 (for a while after Keren died, it wasn't till midday), and eat half a meal a day. On one occasion, the thought crossed my mind that it wouldn't be such a terrible thing if I got in the car and crashed it on the drive home. Eventually after Keren's death, I began to realise that if grief was to become a normal part of my life, I needed to start finding healthy ways to deal with it.
So I began to make rules for emotional health. And seminary taught me to lean into community. So every time I moved into a new environment, whether it was starting a new job, starting seminary, or moving across the world, I made sure there was at least one person I told about my rules.
When I moved to Anderson, I told Melissa that when I get stressed, homesick or upset, I don't eat. In the weeks I was most homesick, she checked in to make sure I was still eating.
When Jenny started seminary, I told her that if she and I were to be friends, she needed to know that I go through these cycles and to make sure that I talk to her.
When I moved to New Zealand, Kathrin found out about my rules.
I have a list of people I text or email when things happen that could potentially lead to a spiralling down.
I force myself to make meals I enjoy.
I avoid alcohol unless I'm in a responsible environment with family or friends.
I schedule things early enough in the morning that I have time to wallow in bed for a while, but still eventually have to get up and get going with life.
I write and share my stories because whenever I write, I always hear Mum saying my stories have to end with the hope that I believe in and hold on to.
And I cry.
And listen to my collection of Selah's hymns and Rich Mullins' music on loop.
And pray and yell at God a lot.
Depressive tendencies probably shouldn't be normal, but they've been my normal for quite a long time now. I don't live in that state as a constant on most days because I believe in the Creator of Hope and Light. But it doesn't mean I can pretend darkness is non-existent in my life or in the world. And it isn't something that I would want to pray away because
1) it isn't something that can be simply prayed away (trust me, I tried it my first week in Anderson when my pillow got so wet from crying myself to sleep every night).
2) it keeps me in touch with what is real.
Shobek asked the other day what good does it do anyone to only have sad stories to tell the world. As I tried to answer his question, I realised then that because of my own journey, I've gained an appreciation for sadness and brokenness. Because I believe eventually there is beauty from ashes simply because of the fingerprints of the Creator all over the imperfection--even if beauty doesn't rise from ashes until we arrive at eternity.
And for that reason, even when everything is simply not ok, I eventually find my way out of the darkness.
"For darkness will not overcome the light..."
24 May 2013
Christmas Eve 2011
I know it's seven months too early to use the "C" word in titling a post, but bear with me.
I'm aware I've ranted several times in the last few months about being emotionally exhausted, but this week I hit an all-time low. Close friends know that I have depression tendencies, and in the more recent years, I've learnt to catch the symptoms early enough to talk myself through them and call a friend.
Well, I started spiralling down this week. So I called a friend. Two friends, actually. Janice and Kathrin basically ordered me to check in with them at certain points during the day to make sure I was still dealing healthily with things, and we made plans for me to crash at their place this week.
Sometimes, when you've hit that low-point, all you can say through the tears and wanting to hole up away and disappear is "ok" to friends who order you around to take care of you because you don't have the resolve to fight for independence anymore.
Yesterday morning, as I woke up on Janice's couch, I thought of the last time I crashed on her couch. It was the Christmas season of 2011. I was living with Kathrin and Stefan at the time, but with their family in town and Janice being back in Australia for the holidays, we decided it was easiest if I stayed at Janice's for the ten-or-so days.
In the last few years as I was finishing up seminary, I began to dream of a time when I would get to start my own Christmas traditions. Knowing that working in a church usually meant I won't get to be back with family in Singapore, I dreamt of Christmas Eve, and welcoming friends to Christmas dinner in my own place. I dreamt of Christmas morning done at my own pace, with my own tree (my last two years in Anderson, I stopped fussing over a tree because I would be spending most of Christmas season in Singapore anyway), and coffee and Christmas brunch...
And as I woke up on Janice's couch on Christmas morning back in 2011, it occurred to me my first Christmas by myself wasn't quite what I imagined it to be. I only just found out a few days prior that my visa had been approved to stay in New Zealand, so I was barely getting settled in. I didn't have my own place, much less my own tree.
Sometimes, life just doesn't go the way we think it would.
In the last month or so, I've spent a lot of time reflecting on all that has been and all that is to come. My visa expires at the end of the year, and I'd like to already have plans for what is to come after this year.
But life doesn't always work like that.
Instead, we're thrown curve-balls, and walk down paths we never quite expected.
We learn that just because we have the ability to do things doesn't always make us the right people for the job.
We go through doors and jump through hoops, wanting to run away yet willing ourselves to keep walking because of this thing called Faith.
We are challenged to speak, yet we doubt our own voice.
We discover the things that get us going, the things that make us get up every morning and decide we can do our small part to change the world.
And we find joy and sorrow, laughter and tears through the process of approaching this God that loves beyond human comprehension, and we plead for Kingdom come.
One of my favourite things about the rainy seasons in New Zealand is that we often end up experiencing all four-seasons in a day. And the beauty of the rainbows that show up between the rain and the sun. And I'm reminded of a God that is faithful through the seasons; a God that will bring beauty out of the discomfort of the in-between times.
This morning, I caught a recording of Carissa's AhMa (grandma) singing, "主耶酥爱我，因圣经告诉我" (Jesus loves me, for the Bible tells me so). And I can only say in the words of Rich Mullins, "Ok, alright, uh-huh, amen" because I no longer have the resolve to fight.
主耶酥爱我，因圣经告诉我
Yes, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so
I'm aware I've ranted several times in the last few months about being emotionally exhausted, but this week I hit an all-time low. Close friends know that I have depression tendencies, and in the more recent years, I've learnt to catch the symptoms early enough to talk myself through them and call a friend.
Well, I started spiralling down this week. So I called a friend. Two friends, actually. Janice and Kathrin basically ordered me to check in with them at certain points during the day to make sure I was still dealing healthily with things, and we made plans for me to crash at their place this week.
Sometimes, when you've hit that low-point, all you can say through the tears and wanting to hole up away and disappear is "ok" to friends who order you around to take care of you because you don't have the resolve to fight for independence anymore.
Yesterday morning, as I woke up on Janice's couch, I thought of the last time I crashed on her couch. It was the Christmas season of 2011. I was living with Kathrin and Stefan at the time, but with their family in town and Janice being back in Australia for the holidays, we decided it was easiest if I stayed at Janice's for the ten-or-so days.
In the last few years as I was finishing up seminary, I began to dream of a time when I would get to start my own Christmas traditions. Knowing that working in a church usually meant I won't get to be back with family in Singapore, I dreamt of Christmas Eve, and welcoming friends to Christmas dinner in my own place. I dreamt of Christmas morning done at my own pace, with my own tree (my last two years in Anderson, I stopped fussing over a tree because I would be spending most of Christmas season in Singapore anyway), and coffee and Christmas brunch...
And as I woke up on Janice's couch on Christmas morning back in 2011, it occurred to me my first Christmas by myself wasn't quite what I imagined it to be. I only just found out a few days prior that my visa had been approved to stay in New Zealand, so I was barely getting settled in. I didn't have my own place, much less my own tree.
Sometimes, life just doesn't go the way we think it would.
In the last month or so, I've spent a lot of time reflecting on all that has been and all that is to come. My visa expires at the end of the year, and I'd like to already have plans for what is to come after this year.
But life doesn't always work like that.
Instead, we're thrown curve-balls, and walk down paths we never quite expected.
We learn that just because we have the ability to do things doesn't always make us the right people for the job.
We go through doors and jump through hoops, wanting to run away yet willing ourselves to keep walking because of this thing called Faith.
We are challenged to speak, yet we doubt our own voice.
We discover the things that get us going, the things that make us get up every morning and decide we can do our small part to change the world.
And we find joy and sorrow, laughter and tears through the process of approaching this God that loves beyond human comprehension, and we plead for Kingdom come.
One of my favourite things about the rainy seasons in New Zealand is that we often end up experiencing all four-seasons in a day. And the beauty of the rainbows that show up between the rain and the sun. And I'm reminded of a God that is faithful through the seasons; a God that will bring beauty out of the discomfort of the in-between times.
This morning, I caught a recording of Carissa's AhMa (grandma) singing, "主耶酥爱我，因圣经告诉我" (Jesus loves me, for the Bible tells me so). And I can only say in the words of Rich Mullins, "Ok, alright, uh-huh, amen" because I no longer have the resolve to fight.
主耶酥爱我，因圣经告诉我
Yes, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so
20 May 2013
What If... ("But we have this treasure in clay jars...")
"But we have this treasure in clay jars..."
What happens when the clay jars are too broken to hold the treasure?
What if one wave after another has knocked the clay jars over time and again
And there's nothing left that is strong enough to stand?
What if we strip away the smiles we hide behind
The pretence of laughter
The outer layers of a rose-coloured, picture-perfect world...
What if after all the tears have been shed
After all the nights of crying out, "God, deliver us"
After all the questioning and doubt
After all the words have been said
What if all that's left is a very raw sense of pain?
"But we have this treasure in clay jars..."
What happens when the clay jars are too broken to hold the treasure?
What if one wave after another has knocked the clay jars over time and again
And there's nothing left that is strong enough to stand?
What if we all just got along
What if we never had to say goodbye
What if innocent children didn't have to suffer
What if...
What if we simply stopped pretending
No more "she'll be right"
No more "it's all good"
No more "I'm fine"
Will we get through it?
Or will we run away from that very raw sense of pain?
"But we have this treasure in clay jars..."
What happens when the clay jars are too broken to hold the treasure?
What if one wave after another has knocked the clay jars over time and again
And there's nothing left that is strong enough to stand?
What if love isn't the answer
Or what if love has run out of strength to hold on
What if love no longer has patience to wait for healing
Or what if love means letting go
Will the very raw sense of pain be too much?
"But we have this treasure in clay jars..."
What happens when the clay jars are too broken to hold the treasure?
What if one wave after another has knocked the clay jars over time and again
And there's nothing left that is strong enough to stand?
What if all we have left to live on is simply the prayers of a scattered community
What if we find ourselves on our knees, face to the ground
What if morning and evening, we can only cry, "Lord, have mercy"
Will we make it?
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. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies. For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh. So death is at work in us, but life in you.
- 2 Corinthians 4:7-12
What if we simply lived on the prayers of the scattered community
What if we simply get on our knees with our face to the ground
What if we simply cried out morning and evening, "Lord, have mercy"
What if that's enough?
"For we have this treasure in clay jars..."
What happens when the clay jars are too broken to hold the treasure?
What if one wave after another has knocked the clay jars over time and again
And there's nothing left that is strong enough to stand?
What if we strip away the smiles we hide behind
The pretence of laughter
The outer layers of a rose-coloured, picture-perfect world...
What if after all the tears have been shed
After all the nights of crying out, "God, deliver us"
After all the questioning and doubt
After all the words have been said
What if all that's left is a very raw sense of pain?
"But we have this treasure in clay jars..."
What happens when the clay jars are too broken to hold the treasure?
What if one wave after another has knocked the clay jars over time and again
And there's nothing left that is strong enough to stand?
What if we all just got along
What if we never had to say goodbye
What if innocent children didn't have to suffer
What if...
What if we simply stopped pretending
No more "she'll be right"
No more "it's all good"
No more "I'm fine"
Will we get through it?
Or will we run away from that very raw sense of pain?
"But we have this treasure in clay jars..."
What happens when the clay jars are too broken to hold the treasure?
What if one wave after another has knocked the clay jars over time and again
And there's nothing left that is strong enough to stand?
What if love isn't the answer
Or what if love has run out of strength to hold on
What if love no longer has patience to wait for healing
Or what if love means letting go
Will the very raw sense of pain be too much?
"But we have this treasure in clay jars..."
What happens when the clay jars are too broken to hold the treasure?
What if one wave after another has knocked the clay jars over time and again
And there's nothing left that is strong enough to stand?
What if all we have left to live on is simply the prayers of a scattered community
What if we find ourselves on our knees, face to the ground
What if morning and evening, we can only cry, "Lord, have mercy"
Will we make it?
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. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies. For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh. So death is at work in us, but life in you.
- 2 Corinthians 4:7-12
What if we simply lived on the prayers of the scattered community
What if we simply get on our knees with our face to the ground
What if we simply cried out morning and evening, "Lord, have mercy"
What if that's enough?
"For we have this treasure in clay jars..."
13 May 2013
Mothers' Day
Yellow and orange carnations.
That's what I think of every Mothers' Day. Because that's what I remember about every Mothers' Day growing up. Dad would wake my brother and I up early, and we'll go to the market to pick out flowers for Mum. We would try to hurry home so we'd be back in time to make breakfast for Mum.
Except for the two times that we were in the same part of the world because the family had come to Anderson for graduation, the last nine Mothers' Days have been celebrated by a text or phone-call. Anderson, Auckland and Singapore were just a little too far away to make the trip.
Maybe because I've never been too eager to be a parent myself, Mothers' Day has always been about Mum, Grandmas, and all the mums I've adopted in various parts of the world. Over the years, I've read posts about being inclusive (especially in church) when celebrating mums, and I've always nodded and agreed. But it had never been personal, maybe because I still saw myself as a little kid pretending to be a grown-up.
Until this year.
We usually do a themed family style pitch-in dinner after service each Sunday, and this week's theme was Mothers' Day. Men and kids were encouraged to be the ones to be responsible for bringing the food (we were willing to accept take-aways too) this week instead so that the lady of the house didn't have to cook.
My gut reaction, as usual, was to think about the people in our church who might have been excluded because of that demographic--those who either didn't have a husband or kids... And realised, I was the only one in our tiny community church that fit into that demographic.
Then I remembered the words a dear friend once jokingly said, "Pastors don't count, remember?" So I sucked it up and didn't feel the need to speak up for myself.
I went ahead and made my share of the pitch-in anyway (because that's what good clergywomen do). When I took it into the kitchenette at church, one of the kids came up to me and said, "Why did you make food? I thought only the men and the kids were supposed to do it?"
Usually when folks try to convince me to either find a guy or think about having kids, my usual comeback is, "I simply don't have the time, energy, or really care enough to do that." But that few seconds in the kitchenette with Hannah's innocent question, I felt like I was less than human because I didn't have a man or kids, so I had to spend the morning in the kitchen.
Before this turns into a "woe is Jael" story (because that's not the point), let's just end here with this gentle reminder to consider a bit more inclusivity, especially in our church language. I know the intention wasn't to make anyone feel left out, and we may never fully include everyone, but let's remind ourselves again each day to at least try.
Big love to you all. Oh, and if you're a mum or grandma by birth or adoption, or a spiritual or foster mum and grandma, I celebrate you. Thank you for your love.
That's what I think of every Mothers' Day. Because that's what I remember about every Mothers' Day growing up. Dad would wake my brother and I up early, and we'll go to the market to pick out flowers for Mum. We would try to hurry home so we'd be back in time to make breakfast for Mum.
Except for the two times that we were in the same part of the world because the family had come to Anderson for graduation, the last nine Mothers' Days have been celebrated by a text or phone-call. Anderson, Auckland and Singapore were just a little too far away to make the trip.
Maybe because I've never been too eager to be a parent myself, Mothers' Day has always been about Mum, Grandmas, and all the mums I've adopted in various parts of the world. Over the years, I've read posts about being inclusive (especially in church) when celebrating mums, and I've always nodded and agreed. But it had never been personal, maybe because I still saw myself as a little kid pretending to be a grown-up.
Until this year.
We usually do a themed family style pitch-in dinner after service each Sunday, and this week's theme was Mothers' Day. Men and kids were encouraged to be the ones to be responsible for bringing the food (we were willing to accept take-aways too) this week instead so that the lady of the house didn't have to cook.
My gut reaction, as usual, was to think about the people in our church who might have been excluded because of that demographic--those who either didn't have a husband or kids... And realised, I was the only one in our tiny community church that fit into that demographic.
Then I remembered the words a dear friend once jokingly said, "Pastors don't count, remember?" So I sucked it up and didn't feel the need to speak up for myself.
I went ahead and made my share of the pitch-in anyway (because that's what good clergywomen do). When I took it into the kitchenette at church, one of the kids came up to me and said, "Why did you make food? I thought only the men and the kids were supposed to do it?"
Usually when folks try to convince me to either find a guy or think about having kids, my usual comeback is, "I simply don't have the time, energy, or really care enough to do that." But that few seconds in the kitchenette with Hannah's innocent question, I felt like I was less than human because I didn't have a man or kids, so I had to spend the morning in the kitchen.
Before this turns into a "woe is Jael" story (because that's not the point), let's just end here with this gentle reminder to consider a bit more inclusivity, especially in our church language. I know the intention wasn't to make anyone feel left out, and we may never fully include everyone, but let's remind ourselves again each day to at least try.
Big love to you all. Oh, and if you're a mum or grandma by birth or adoption, or a spiritual or foster mum and grandma, I celebrate you. Thank you for your love.
02 May 2013
The Lion
She took another bite of the apple as the rain drops continued to tap against the windscreen. She had been watching the clouds all day, debating whether there would be enough of a gap between each spurt of shower for her to make it out to the water.The drive out had provided enough of the quiet she had been thirsting for, and she was ready to simply turn back and head home since she really wasn't wanting to talk. "You're already here. Just get out of the car and go."
Sighing, she grabbed her bag of sour patch kids, got out of the car and headed for the water. She got to her usual spot and plopped everything down in the sand. Her mind drifted back to the conversation she had with her BFF a while ago, where she was trying to explain that rather odd relationship she had.
"Maybe you should talk to him about it..."
"Well, he and I aren't really talking at the moment. I mean, it's kinda like, I text him to report about the job since he's the CEO, but he's also wanting to be BFF. I just don't really have time for the BFF thing at the moment."
"How can he be your CEO AND BFF at the same time? That just complicates too many things."
"Well, I don't really get it either. But I guess if I did, I would have humanized him too much."
 |
| Lion Rock, Piha |
She smiled to herself. She was used to being surprised by him now, but she wondered how she hadn't figured out the form he was going to take on today. His steps were graceful as always, and he made his way over to where she was and sat down beside her. His mane shone in the evening sun and they both sat in silence for a while--her in awe, him watching the water and waiting for her to speak.
She reached for another handful of sour patch kids as they sat watching the waves crash for a while. Finally, she tilted her chin slightly toward the water and asked, "That big?"
He gave her a sideway glance and raised an eyebrow. "You're kidding, right? I MADE those, obviously I'm bigger than that.""I know, show-off," she muttered quietly. "I was just trying to make conversation."
Deep inside, she knew they both knew she wasn't there to talk. They continued sitting in silence for a while, and she absent-mindedly began scooping up handfuls of sand and covering her feet with the fine grains. She wondered if he was going to speak.
"You've changed, you know..." he finally said.
Keeping her focus on the sand, she took a deep breath. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said.
"Look at you. Of all places you chose to meet me here where we can be close to the ground, to the water, to the dirt."
She sighed. "If you're insinuating that I'm no longer the prissy city girl that can't get her feet dirty, yes. I've changed. Don't make a big deal of it. A little bit of dirt doesn't hurt anyone. Besides I can always take a shower later."
He was right. She had changed. Life was no longer about the pretty faces, the bright lights and keeping the distance from strangers. There was work to do to get things growing where the mud and dirt was, and she had found life to be more abundant in those places. Oh, there was plenty of work where the bright lights and the pretty faces were too, but she could no longer shrug away the realisation that when the shiny and pretty were completely stripped away, all that was left was dirt--the same dirt she had gotten used to digging her hands into, the same dirt that she had found beauty and life in.
She leaned over and rested her head on his back. That was when she noticed the coffee cup in his paws that was obviously too small for him to drink out of. He simply had it perfectly balanced on his paw.
As if reading her thoughts, he stated very matter-of-factly, "I don't drink coffee. I only have that cup because you asked if we could have coffee. I had to pretend so you didn't feel awkward."
She smiled to herself, grateful for the friend that was also father, mother, boss and protector of her life.
They sat in silence for another few minutes; silence that she found to be so comforting.
"Where to from here, Raiona**?" she finally asked. When she finally realised he wasn't going to answer, she smiled, packing up her things and walking back to the car. She already had her answer.
“All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”
** Maori for lion
26 April 2013
On Writing
Every once in a while, I need a reminder of why I write.
It was about ten years ago that I made my blogging debut as an angsty teenager. I was just beginning to understand the dynamics of this new world called cyber-space, and I wanted to be careful I didn't expose myself to unnecessary danger. I wrote some, but mostly ranted.
A couple years later, blogging became my way to stay in touch with friends when I moved halfway across the world. Then my mum found out through my cousins that I had started blogging. She graciously asked for permission to access my blog, and by then I realised I needed to blog even more carefully. The angsty rants lessened, and the life updates became more frequent.
Then one day, Mum subtly pointed out that my angsty posts weren't that great for Christian witness. I think it was then that I started forcing myself to infuse hope in my writing even when I didn't completely believe it past head knowledge.
These days, the angst is a whole lot less.
I write for closure more than for angst. It's become a challenge to find a way to string words together in a way that articulated hope more than hurt community life.
Or I write because my thoughts are all over the place and throwing them on the screen helps piece things together more coherently. I had Amber over for dinner earlier this week to help process some things, and and one point, I realised she was having trouble following my thoughts because she said, "You think like a girl... Like spaghetti, not waffles."
Or I write to grieve with community. Keren's death taught me it's easier to grieve together than alone.
So when I noticed the number of visitors doubling on the blog, I got scared. I didn't mean for my writing to get noticed. I don't know who's reading or how they're hearing what I'm saying, so I get insecure. I simply started writing because I was an angsty teenager. Most days, after I post a new blog, I want to go into hiding because I feel vulnerable having bared my heart.
I really didn't mean to get noticed, but since this blog is drawing more attention than I had ever expected, hello to each one of you.
I hope you've found this to be a place of solace and comfort.
A place where you find it's ok to stay in the darkness for a while because you have a friend here.
I hope you've found this to be a place where you can embrace the awkwardness of life and laugh along.
A place where you eventually find Light and Hope if they've felt distant for a while.
More importantly, I hope you find Love.
It was about ten years ago that I made my blogging debut as an angsty teenager. I was just beginning to understand the dynamics of this new world called cyber-space, and I wanted to be careful I didn't expose myself to unnecessary danger. I wrote some, but mostly ranted.
A couple years later, blogging became my way to stay in touch with friends when I moved halfway across the world. Then my mum found out through my cousins that I had started blogging. She graciously asked for permission to access my blog, and by then I realised I needed to blog even more carefully. The angsty rants lessened, and the life updates became more frequent.
Then one day, Mum subtly pointed out that my angsty posts weren't that great for Christian witness. I think it was then that I started forcing myself to infuse hope in my writing even when I didn't completely believe it past head knowledge.
These days, the angst is a whole lot less.
I write for closure more than for angst. It's become a challenge to find a way to string words together in a way that articulated hope more than hurt community life.
Or I write because my thoughts are all over the place and throwing them on the screen helps piece things together more coherently. I had Amber over for dinner earlier this week to help process some things, and and one point, I realised she was having trouble following my thoughts because she said, "You think like a girl... Like spaghetti, not waffles."
Or I write to grieve with community. Keren's death taught me it's easier to grieve together than alone.
So when I noticed the number of visitors doubling on the blog, I got scared. I didn't mean for my writing to get noticed. I don't know who's reading or how they're hearing what I'm saying, so I get insecure. I simply started writing because I was an angsty teenager. Most days, after I post a new blog, I want to go into hiding because I feel vulnerable having bared my heart.
I really didn't mean to get noticed, but since this blog is drawing more attention than I had ever expected, hello to each one of you.
I hope you've found this to be a place of solace and comfort.
A place where you find it's ok to stay in the darkness for a while because you have a friend here.
I hope you've found this to be a place where you can embrace the awkwardness of life and laugh along.
A place where you eventually find Light and Hope if they've felt distant for a while.
More importantly, I hope you find Love.
25 April 2013
Table Talks: Behind the Camels
This week at Table Talks, we got to talking about Joseph. Somewhere between all those discussions and my conversation with Amber on Monday, I got to thinking about prevenient grace.
One of the questions the book we're using asked what kinds of tension there might be in our household. As we discussed the question, I looked around the room and realised that none of us lived in a traditionally-defined household of Mum, Dad, kids and pets. The skeptical self chuckled inside. Cookie-cutter programmes don't cater for non-cookie-cutter groups.
But that's when I realised that by the time Joseph had to confront the household tension again, he actually was at a pretty good place in life. Pharaoh loved him, and he probably had servants to take care of all his dishes so there was no need to fight over who loaded the dishwasher, or leaving toothpaste stains in the sink. Just like each one of us in the room who had moved away from the families of origin where the household tensions were the strongest.
No, the tension came from a long time ago when he was the arrogant little brat bragging about his dreams. At one point in our discussion, Sylvia asked, "When do you reckon it was that Joseph decided to forgive his brothers and make peace with them? Was it when he was walking behind the camels as a slave that that transformation happened?"
I guess I never really thought about it like that. I mean, I guess I always knew that Joseph would probably have to work through some forgiveness issues, but I had always imagined him to be a humble, long-suffering man. But for the arrogant little brat that bragged about his dreams to turn into a humble, forgiving man, I couldn't help thinking that "soul-searching" process must have been more drawn-out than I ever spent time thinking about.
Which reminded me of my favourite poem by my #1 Dead Man Crush, Deitrich Bonhoeffer. "Wer bin ich" or "Who am I?" was written while he was imprisoned for being a part of the conspiracy to assassinate Hitler. If you've read any of my previous theological rants, you would know by now that Bonhoeffer and Luther are the two theologians I have most respect for as far as spiritual formation and reformation is concerned, and no, it has nothing to do with them being German (although I won't deny that just gave me an extra reason to love all things Deutsch). Sure, they wrote impressive stuff, but that's just stuff. At the heart of what caused me to respect them this much was their struggle with their "self," or what Freud calls, the ego.
I remember watching the film on Luther's life in German class. The scene that stuck out to me most was the one of him prostrate on the ground crying out to God to deal with him. Something broke in him that day. And I'd hazard a guess that a similar process happened with Bonhoeffer. That process of wrestling with injustice had led them to a place where they realised aside from the Creator and prevenient grace, we were really a bunch of nothings.
An acquaintance made an observation that I looked like something happened some time ago that broke me. I don't know what it was he saw that warranted that observation, but I smiled, remembering all those times growing up that the grown-ups would say that God deals with us in our brokenness.
For a long time, I had assumed it was Keren's death that led me to my breaking point. But as we were talking about Joseph's experience behind the camels, it dawned on me Keren's death was only one of the markers of what I've come to call "All the Crazy".
I don't know that Luther would have been prostrate on the ground like that in real life as was portrayed in that movie, but I remembered carrying that image mentally to the streets of Berlin. I remembered carrying it with me to Neustart that day as I sat across from "Justin" (not his real name), listening to how he had ended up in Berlin after his parents sold him to feed their drug addiction. At 12, he was raised by druggies, and less than 10 years later, he witnessed his best friend getting shot in a drug deal gone sour. Sitting there, listening to his story and the stories of the other women who had, by the end of that very short summer, become good friends even though we barely spoke each other's language, I was struck with the realisation that if I had been born into the same home background as them, I don't know that I would have made different life choices than them.
I carried that same image the day I found out that "Justin" had decided to get cleaned up and committed to a relationship with Christ. In that same short conversation, I also found out that as a result of getting cleaned up, his medicals showed that he was HIV-positive. I think that was when I found myself prostrate on the ground. I didn't understand. He and I weren't too different, and it wasn't fair that he got dealt the cards he received, and I got mine. I could still walk away from there and go back to my clean-cut, sheltered life. It simply wasn't fair.
I don't know how long I laid prostrate, but when I eventually got up, there were only three truths I could cling on to.
1) God was, is, and will continue to be sovereign.
2) God loves. God loves me for my inability to understand.
3) Grace. Grace existed before me and will continue to exist with or without me. I only needed to jump on board with it.
When Joseph emerged from behind the camels to be sold as a slave, or whenever it might have been, the arrogance was stripped away. His dreams of greatness would have amounted to nothing if not for the hand of God on his life.
When I stood up again, when I came out from behind the camels again, I was more aware than ever that without the hand of God on my life, I was nothing. My vocation, my work, my writing, none of it would amount to anything without Grace and Agape love. I no longer needed to understand even though I knew I would continue to wrestle--simply because I'm human, and that's part of the human experience.
Who am I? In the words of Charles Naylor, "I am the Lord's, I know."
Wer bin ich? - Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir oft,
ich träte aus meiner Zelle
gelassen und heiter und fest
wie ein Gutsherr aus seinem Schloß
Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir oft,
ich spräche mit meinen Bewachern
frei und freundlich und klar,
als hätte ich zu gebieten.
Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir auch,
ich trüge die Tage des Unglücks
gleichmütig, lächelnd und stolz,
wie einer, der Siegen gewohnt ist.
Bin ich das wirklich, was andere von mir sagen?
Oder bin ich nur das, was ich selbst von mir weiß?
Unruhig, sehnsüchtig, krank, wie ein Vogel im Käfig,
ringend nach Lebensatem, als würgte mir einer die Kehle,
hungernd nach Farben, nach Blumen, nach Vogelstimmen,
dürstend nach guten Worten, nach menschlicher Nähe,
zitternd vor Zorn über Willkür und kleinlichste Kränkung,
umgetrieben vom Warten auf große Dinge,
ohnmächtig bangend um Freunde in endloser Ferne,
müde und leer zum Beten, zum Denken, zum Schaffen,
matt und bereit, von allem Abschied zu nehmen?
Wer bin ich? Der oder jener?
Bin ich denn heute dieser und morgen ein andrer?
Bin ich beides zugleich? Vor Menschen ein Heuchler und vor mir selbst ein verächtlich wehleidiger Schwächling?
Oder gleicht, was in mir noch ist, dem geschlagenen Heer,
das in Unordnung weicht vor schon gewonnenem Sieg?
Wer bin ich? Einsames Fragen treibt mit mir Spott.
Wer ich auch bin, Du kennst mich, Dein bin ich, o Gott!
Who am I? - Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a Squire from his country house.
Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As thought it were mine to command.
Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equably, smilingly, proudly,
like one accustomed to win.
Am I then really that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectations of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.
Who am I? This or the Other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptible woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!
One of the questions the book we're using asked what kinds of tension there might be in our household. As we discussed the question, I looked around the room and realised that none of us lived in a traditionally-defined household of Mum, Dad, kids and pets. The skeptical self chuckled inside. Cookie-cutter programmes don't cater for non-cookie-cutter groups.
But that's when I realised that by the time Joseph had to confront the household tension again, he actually was at a pretty good place in life. Pharaoh loved him, and he probably had servants to take care of all his dishes so there was no need to fight over who loaded the dishwasher, or leaving toothpaste stains in the sink. Just like each one of us in the room who had moved away from the families of origin where the household tensions were the strongest.
No, the tension came from a long time ago when he was the arrogant little brat bragging about his dreams. At one point in our discussion, Sylvia asked, "When do you reckon it was that Joseph decided to forgive his brothers and make peace with them? Was it when he was walking behind the camels as a slave that that transformation happened?"
I guess I never really thought about it like that. I mean, I guess I always knew that Joseph would probably have to work through some forgiveness issues, but I had always imagined him to be a humble, long-suffering man. But for the arrogant little brat that bragged about his dreams to turn into a humble, forgiving man, I couldn't help thinking that "soul-searching" process must have been more drawn-out than I ever spent time thinking about.
Which reminded me of my favourite poem by my #1 Dead Man Crush, Deitrich Bonhoeffer. "Wer bin ich" or "Who am I?" was written while he was imprisoned for being a part of the conspiracy to assassinate Hitler. If you've read any of my previous theological rants, you would know by now that Bonhoeffer and Luther are the two theologians I have most respect for as far as spiritual formation and reformation is concerned, and no, it has nothing to do with them being German (although I won't deny that just gave me an extra reason to love all things Deutsch). Sure, they wrote impressive stuff, but that's just stuff. At the heart of what caused me to respect them this much was their struggle with their "self," or what Freud calls, the ego.
I remember watching the film on Luther's life in German class. The scene that stuck out to me most was the one of him prostrate on the ground crying out to God to deal with him. Something broke in him that day. And I'd hazard a guess that a similar process happened with Bonhoeffer. That process of wrestling with injustice had led them to a place where they realised aside from the Creator and prevenient grace, we were really a bunch of nothings.
An acquaintance made an observation that I looked like something happened some time ago that broke me. I don't know what it was he saw that warranted that observation, but I smiled, remembering all those times growing up that the grown-ups would say that God deals with us in our brokenness.
For a long time, I had assumed it was Keren's death that led me to my breaking point. But as we were talking about Joseph's experience behind the camels, it dawned on me Keren's death was only one of the markers of what I've come to call "All the Crazy".
I don't know that Luther would have been prostrate on the ground like that in real life as was portrayed in that movie, but I remembered carrying that image mentally to the streets of Berlin. I remembered carrying it with me to Neustart that day as I sat across from "Justin" (not his real name), listening to how he had ended up in Berlin after his parents sold him to feed their drug addiction. At 12, he was raised by druggies, and less than 10 years later, he witnessed his best friend getting shot in a drug deal gone sour. Sitting there, listening to his story and the stories of the other women who had, by the end of that very short summer, become good friends even though we barely spoke each other's language, I was struck with the realisation that if I had been born into the same home background as them, I don't know that I would have made different life choices than them.
I carried that same image the day I found out that "Justin" had decided to get cleaned up and committed to a relationship with Christ. In that same short conversation, I also found out that as a result of getting cleaned up, his medicals showed that he was HIV-positive. I think that was when I found myself prostrate on the ground. I didn't understand. He and I weren't too different, and it wasn't fair that he got dealt the cards he received, and I got mine. I could still walk away from there and go back to my clean-cut, sheltered life. It simply wasn't fair.
I don't know how long I laid prostrate, but when I eventually got up, there were only three truths I could cling on to.
1) God was, is, and will continue to be sovereign.
2) God loves. God loves me for my inability to understand.
3) Grace. Grace existed before me and will continue to exist with or without me. I only needed to jump on board with it.
When Joseph emerged from behind the camels to be sold as a slave, or whenever it might have been, the arrogance was stripped away. His dreams of greatness would have amounted to nothing if not for the hand of God on his life.
When I stood up again, when I came out from behind the camels again, I was more aware than ever that without the hand of God on my life, I was nothing. My vocation, my work, my writing, none of it would amount to anything without Grace and Agape love. I no longer needed to understand even though I knew I would continue to wrestle--simply because I'm human, and that's part of the human experience.
Who am I? In the words of Charles Naylor, "I am the Lord's, I know."
Wer bin ich? - Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir oft,
ich träte aus meiner Zelle
gelassen und heiter und fest
wie ein Gutsherr aus seinem Schloß
Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir oft,
ich spräche mit meinen Bewachern
frei und freundlich und klar,
als hätte ich zu gebieten.
Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir auch,
ich trüge die Tage des Unglücks
gleichmütig, lächelnd und stolz,
wie einer, der Siegen gewohnt ist.
Bin ich das wirklich, was andere von mir sagen?
Oder bin ich nur das, was ich selbst von mir weiß?
Unruhig, sehnsüchtig, krank, wie ein Vogel im Käfig,
ringend nach Lebensatem, als würgte mir einer die Kehle,
hungernd nach Farben, nach Blumen, nach Vogelstimmen,
dürstend nach guten Worten, nach menschlicher Nähe,
zitternd vor Zorn über Willkür und kleinlichste Kränkung,
umgetrieben vom Warten auf große Dinge,
ohnmächtig bangend um Freunde in endloser Ferne,
müde und leer zum Beten, zum Denken, zum Schaffen,
matt und bereit, von allem Abschied zu nehmen?
Wer bin ich? Der oder jener?
Bin ich denn heute dieser und morgen ein andrer?
Bin ich beides zugleich? Vor Menschen ein Heuchler und vor mir selbst ein verächtlich wehleidiger Schwächling?
Oder gleicht, was in mir noch ist, dem geschlagenen Heer,
das in Unordnung weicht vor schon gewonnenem Sieg?
Wer bin ich? Einsames Fragen treibt mit mir Spott.
Wer ich auch bin, Du kennst mich, Dein bin ich, o Gott!
Who am I? - Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a Squire from his country house.
Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As thought it were mine to command.
Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equably, smilingly, proudly,
like one accustomed to win.
Am I then really that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectations of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.
Who am I? This or the Other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptible woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!
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