Every once in a while, I can't help but wonder if I've completely lost the plot by choosing to ministry plant from scratch.
Don't get me wrong, I absolutely adore the people I get to spend time with. No, really. I'm not just saying that because it's a part of my job. I would still hang out with these people even if I didn't also have the privilege of calling it "my job".
But every once in a while, when I get asked what it is that I'm actually doing, I find myself wondering if all I'm really doing is fluffing around, planning parties and hanging out with awesome people for no greater purpose. Because I'm starting this ministry plant from scratch, I have to find my own "bosses" to report to and create accountability structures that complement the style of ministry without hindering its organic DNA. And so a lot of times, this thing I claim to call "my job" just feels like fluff.
Then last week, I finally sat down and had coffee with Gypsey. We've tried several times to do what I like to call "story time," but for one reason or another, they keep getting interrupted. But in those few brief moments of "story time," I caught a glimpse of why this seemingly fluffy model of "just hanging out" wasn't actually quite so fluffy.
Gypsey reminded me that I had somehow managed to get people to hang out more regularly than she has ever remembered. I daren't claim any credit for that because all I did was tell a few people, (mostly Ben, who's the real connector of these awesome people) "hey, it would be crazy awesome if we did this...." and things just kind of happened. And even if the reasons that these pockets of people gathering semi-regularly seem somewhat "fluffy," they are seeing each other more, eating together more, annoying each other more, laughing together more, and doing dishes together more.
That. That's what makes me giddy excited.
Then tonight I met Gina at Valley Road Church's Mid-Winter Christmas dinner. "Story time" led to the discovery that we had a lot of similarities in our stories. Gina is Korean, but started high-school in Pennsylvania and moved to Texas with her host family and spent a total of ten years in the US. Four years ago, she took a job as a maths teacher and moved to Auckland. As I began explaining what I did, she simply nodded like it totally made sense. "Auckland needs people like you for pastors. People like us who have moved around before understand what it means to not really have a place of belonging in any culture anymore. And there's so many of us here in Auckland."
And then suddenly, it all made sense. Just the other day, I found myself telling David something along the lines of how my entire style of ministry comes out of my belief that my life-story was written in a way that gives me the credibility to do ministry in a certain way. And to not take that approach would be to do injustice to The One who wrote the story that way. Quite frankly, I wasn't quite convinced at the time of our conversation (given that it was early in the morning on a sicky brain didn't help much). But "story time" keeps sneaking up in the interactions with my awesome people that I'm left with no choice but to admit that I'm really not just fluffing around with no greater purpose.
And then I'm reminded that in my initial dreaming about The Bridge, I wrote something about collecting stories. I had assumed then it meant I would be writing a lot more this year, but who wants to write when you have awesome people to hang out with? (Don't freak out, I'm still going to write because it's what keeps me sane.) Yet I do truly believe in the power of stories, and not just for the ones hearing them. To give voice to and to allow stories to be heard is just as powerful and life-giving.
"Story time"
That. That's what makes me giddy excited.
31 July 2014
29 July 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: Life Support
It has been nearly ten years since I first met Melissa. I was a college freshman (first year of uni) at Anderson University who had been crying herself to sleep out of homesickness. Within the first few minutes of our interaction, I had made the decision to snap out of my painfully shy, socially awkward self to allow her in, whatever that meant.
Melissa was the residence director of the dorm I lived in. At first, she was like the house-mum that made sure I wasn't skipping meals (which happens whenever I'm stressed or homesick). She was only a few years older than I was, but she seemed so much wiser. As the years went by, she became a mentor and friend--someone I came to rely on as part of my life-support network.
A few years later as I was starting seminary, I had to take a class called Spiritual Formation that required us to be paired with a mentor who would journey with us for that first semester. An important part of preparing for the ministerial journey involved exploring our life stories, including some of the deepest, darkest, and possibly most painful chapters, and to begin dealing with some of them. I could think of no better person I wanted to take that journey with than Melissa. We shared the painful loss of Keren and she understood my quirks. But she was also just far ahead enough in life that she would call me out and kick me in the (you know where) as necessary.
The more time I'm spending with the uni students and young adults here in Aotearoa, the more thankful I am for the small town college experience I had in Anderson, Indiana. I recall the long conversations with Melissa about the transition into the young adult stage of life and this new found semi-independence, the cross-cultural move and how relationships with family and the previous "home culture" change in this new phase of life, and all the other "life stuff" I threw at her. And in spite of the season of struggle with Park Place, that church family taught me heaps about the importance of being in an intergenerational community, and I'm richer for having adopted grandparents, spiritual parents and kid-brothers and sisters to do life with. That small town college experience created a life-support network for me that can be hard to create in a city of about 1.5 million people. It can be easy to get lost in the crowd as a university student in the midst of about 40,000 other people.
A few weeks ago on the last week of uni break, a group of about thirteen of us went away for the week. Most of us in this group are involved in some form of leadership in church, and each time we get together, it's about agendas and programmes and coaching and training. But just for those five days, we simply hung out, played games, ate too much, took in the beach, and just for once... be together. On several occasions, Carmel and I found ourselves saying over and over how much we longed for this group to have a few more people just a little ahead of them in life to ask questions as necessary, to poke or prod or kick in the (you know where) as necessary, and simply to just walk alongside in life.
I may have said this too many times now, but I truly, truly love what I get to do in this season. And I truly, truly love each of these crazy young adults I've had the privilege of walking (and mostly laughingat) with. But there's just not enough of us to help support and mentor them through this season of discovering that it's ok to have more questions than answers, and that it's ok to not know what they are doing after graduation regardless of what pressures society might give them. Because if we can be to them who Melissa was to me, how many more generations can be impacted from this group of phenomenal young adults we currently have?
And that's when I realise again that since the very beginning stages as I was thinking about strategies for The Bridge, this life-support network structure was written into the very DNA of the ministry. The vision was never to form another big club or organisation for students or young adults to get lost in, but to create small, intimate settings for life to happen. And just to indulge my need for "success" for a second: If we can have small groups of people gathering regularly to do life together, I think we have a win for our first year.
Have I said yet that I love what I get to do? Because I really, really do.
Melissa was the residence director of the dorm I lived in. At first, she was like the house-mum that made sure I wasn't skipping meals (which happens whenever I'm stressed or homesick). She was only a few years older than I was, but she seemed so much wiser. As the years went by, she became a mentor and friend--someone I came to rely on as part of my life-support network.
A few years later as I was starting seminary, I had to take a class called Spiritual Formation that required us to be paired with a mentor who would journey with us for that first semester. An important part of preparing for the ministerial journey involved exploring our life stories, including some of the deepest, darkest, and possibly most painful chapters, and to begin dealing with some of them. I could think of no better person I wanted to take that journey with than Melissa. We shared the painful loss of Keren and she understood my quirks. But she was also just far ahead enough in life that she would call me out and kick me in the (you know where) as necessary.
The more time I'm spending with the uni students and young adults here in Aotearoa, the more thankful I am for the small town college experience I had in Anderson, Indiana. I recall the long conversations with Melissa about the transition into the young adult stage of life and this new found semi-independence, the cross-cultural move and how relationships with family and the previous "home culture" change in this new phase of life, and all the other "life stuff" I threw at her. And in spite of the season of struggle with Park Place, that church family taught me heaps about the importance of being in an intergenerational community, and I'm richer for having adopted grandparents, spiritual parents and kid-brothers and sisters to do life with. That small town college experience created a life-support network for me that can be hard to create in a city of about 1.5 million people. It can be easy to get lost in the crowd as a university student in the midst of about 40,000 other people.
A few weeks ago on the last week of uni break, a group of about thirteen of us went away for the week. Most of us in this group are involved in some form of leadership in church, and each time we get together, it's about agendas and programmes and coaching and training. But just for those five days, we simply hung out, played games, ate too much, took in the beach, and just for once... be together. On several occasions, Carmel and I found ourselves saying over and over how much we longed for this group to have a few more people just a little ahead of them in life to ask questions as necessary, to poke or prod or kick in the (you know where) as necessary, and simply to just walk alongside in life.
I may have said this too many times now, but I truly, truly love what I get to do in this season. And I truly, truly love each of these crazy young adults I've had the privilege of walking (and mostly laughing
And that's when I realise again that since the very beginning stages as I was thinking about strategies for The Bridge, this life-support network structure was written into the very DNA of the ministry. The vision was never to form another big club or organisation for students or young adults to get lost in, but to create small, intimate settings for life to happen. And just to indulge my need for "success" for a second: If we can have small groups of people gathering regularly to do life together, I think we have a win for our first year.
Have I said yet that I love what I get to do? Because I really, really do.
25 June 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: Emerging Leaders
My most recent TV addiction has been The Voice Australia. If you don't know anything about The Voice, it's essentially kind of like American Idol, except with a twist in that celebrity coaches listen to singers in blind auditions (they sit in chairs with their backs toward the singers) and decide if they hear a voice they want to work with. I enjoy it because 1) there's a lot of good singers, and 2) for a change, these are coaches who offer encouragement rather than tear people down.
In one episode, Kylie Minogue, who is the homecoming star in this season, talked about how when she was an artiste starting out on her career, she didn't have anyone to hold her hand on the journey to offer guidance and encouragement. Now that she's back in Australia for the TV show, she wanted to be that support for a new artiste waiting to be discovered, and to walk that journey with her.
I guess I found myself resonating with her words because in a lot of ways, a chunk of my new season of ministry is doing just that. Yes, I am starting a ministry for university students. But as I have been working on narrowing down the focus of what this ministry will look like, I began to realise that my biggest passion is in helping students connect with, and stay connected to intentional faith communities. The thing about student ministries is that while we may hope to be a part of their lives forever (and letting go will be a big struggle for me, let's be honest), the reality is that for most, we only get them so intimately for a very limited time. But if we are able to help them connect with communities that really get into the stuff where life meets faith, hopefully it will become such a natural part of their lives that no matter where they head off to after uni, finding spiritual communities to be plugged in to will remain a priority.
Which presents the other reality: I have to find out where these intentional faith communities are, or if they even exist. What I began to realise is that while there aren't many in existence, there are several within local churches with a passion for starting healthy young adult ministries that integrates with, rather than exist as a separate entity from the rest of the congregation (important issue that we'll address on a different day) And so, how can we, as The Bridge, help them get started?
Which leads me to an exciting part of this journey: helping to identify emerging leaders within the young adult circles amongst Auckland churches who have that passion and desire to create an age-appropriate ministry for their peers. At the recent Emerge retreat sponsored by the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand, several of these leaders had approached me to discuss this issue when they found out about what I was doing. Just the other week, I had coffee with a few leaders from a church just outside the city to discuss these same issues (and some anonymous kind soul in the cafe even shouted us scones!). And I've met with several key leaders in student-led Christian organisations in one of the city campuses to talk about these same things.
I will admit that in many ways, I was envious of these younger leaders because they had people who identified their leadership abilities and have taken an interest in developing them from a much younger age. For me personally, by the time I had my first conversation with leadership development sage, Arthur Kelly, I was already past the target age of the "emerging leaders" demographic. I remember his words clearly: "I don't know why you weren't a part of this group, but you should have been." By then, I was already jaded by unhealthy ministry practices, and unsure of who to turn to help me process all that I had seen and felt when my picture-perfect image of church and ministry life completely shattered.
Thank God for Arthur Kelly, MaryAnn Hawkins and Paul Dreger who stepped in before I had the time to consider leaving the church or ministry life.
So while I am envious, I am also thankful for the opportunity to play a small role in walking the journey with some of these younger leaders. As my mother (who shudders at the thought of being in any kind of ministry leadership role) would say, "The church can only survive if there are young people in the church."
So yes, I may still be relatively young, but I am not going to be around forever, so it's always time to think of the future.
And no, I'm not kidding when I say I truly love what I do and the fantastic people I get to hang out with, and even more so that I get to call it my job.
In one episode, Kylie Minogue, who is the homecoming star in this season, talked about how when she was an artiste starting out on her career, she didn't have anyone to hold her hand on the journey to offer guidance and encouragement. Now that she's back in Australia for the TV show, she wanted to be that support for a new artiste waiting to be discovered, and to walk that journey with her.
I guess I found myself resonating with her words because in a lot of ways, a chunk of my new season of ministry is doing just that. Yes, I am starting a ministry for university students. But as I have been working on narrowing down the focus of what this ministry will look like, I began to realise that my biggest passion is in helping students connect with, and stay connected to intentional faith communities. The thing about student ministries is that while we may hope to be a part of their lives forever (and letting go will be a big struggle for me, let's be honest), the reality is that for most, we only get them so intimately for a very limited time. But if we are able to help them connect with communities that really get into the stuff where life meets faith, hopefully it will become such a natural part of their lives that no matter where they head off to after uni, finding spiritual communities to be plugged in to will remain a priority.
Which presents the other reality: I have to find out where these intentional faith communities are, or if they even exist. What I began to realise is that while there aren't many in existence, there are several within local churches with a passion for starting healthy young adult ministries that integrates with, rather than exist as a separate entity from the rest of the congregation (important issue that we'll address on a different day) And so, how can we, as The Bridge, help them get started?
Which leads me to an exciting part of this journey: helping to identify emerging leaders within the young adult circles amongst Auckland churches who have that passion and desire to create an age-appropriate ministry for their peers. At the recent Emerge retreat sponsored by the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand, several of these leaders had approached me to discuss this issue when they found out about what I was doing. Just the other week, I had coffee with a few leaders from a church just outside the city to discuss these same issues (and some anonymous kind soul in the cafe even shouted us scones!). And I've met with several key leaders in student-led Christian organisations in one of the city campuses to talk about these same things.
I will admit that in many ways, I was envious of these younger leaders because they had people who identified their leadership abilities and have taken an interest in developing them from a much younger age. For me personally, by the time I had my first conversation with leadership development sage, Arthur Kelly, I was already past the target age of the "emerging leaders" demographic. I remember his words clearly: "I don't know why you weren't a part of this group, but you should have been." By then, I was already jaded by unhealthy ministry practices, and unsure of who to turn to help me process all that I had seen and felt when my picture-perfect image of church and ministry life completely shattered.
Thank God for Arthur Kelly, MaryAnn Hawkins and Paul Dreger who stepped in before I had the time to consider leaving the church or ministry life.
So while I am envious, I am also thankful for the opportunity to play a small role in walking the journey with some of these younger leaders. As my mother (who shudders at the thought of being in any kind of ministry leadership role) would say, "The church can only survive if there are young people in the church."
So yes, I may still be relatively young, but I am not going to be around forever, so it's always time to think of the future.
And no, I'm not kidding when I say I truly love what I do and the fantastic people I get to hang out with, and even more so that I get to call it my job.
15 June 2014
Rethinking "Missionaries": An Introduction
This blog series is one that has been stewing for a while, but a few recent developments sparked off a memory of an incident from last year... Which I'm hoping will help set the framework for why this is a necessary conversation for the time we live in.
In the final unit I did with the children's ministry I was previously on staff at, we did a series on what it means to be a missionary. On of the first discussions we had was what is a missionary, and so I asked the kids if they knew anyone who were missionaries. It took them a little while, but they finally figured out that both our senior pastor and I were missionaries, as were all the other previous pastoral staff at the church.
The conversation took off in a different tangent when one of the kids suddenly remembered that their parents had served a year in the US on short-term missions, which, under the definition we were using ("people who go to a different culture to tell them about Jesus"), meant that their parents were missionaries too.
And then it took another interesting twist when they suddenly named all the other expats in our church community. They came from a different culture, and they love Jesus. And once in a while, some of them take a rotation with kids' church. Are they missionaries too?
How do we draw that distinction for kids?
And then my mind went back a little further to a conversation I had with one of the parents at that same church earlier in the year. We had somehow started talking about missionaries, and I said something about, "I don't really see myself as a missionary" (because there are negative connotations to the term "missionary" -- Bible bashers, colonialists etc). To which this parent responded with, "Well, I don't really see you as a missionary either because you just live here with us".
But by the definition used with the kids that missionaries were people who go to a different culture to tell people about Jesus, I would be considered a missionary. Except not in that parent's perspective.
Well, this is the initial opening of this conversation. In the next few posts, I'm hoping to sort out the various pieces in my brain about what the term "missionary" means in this age of increasing globalisation.
Watch this space and feel free to jump in the conversation.
In the final unit I did with the children's ministry I was previously on staff at, we did a series on what it means to be a missionary. On of the first discussions we had was what is a missionary, and so I asked the kids if they knew anyone who were missionaries. It took them a little while, but they finally figured out that both our senior pastor and I were missionaries, as were all the other previous pastoral staff at the church.
The conversation took off in a different tangent when one of the kids suddenly remembered that their parents had served a year in the US on short-term missions, which, under the definition we were using ("people who go to a different culture to tell them about Jesus"), meant that their parents were missionaries too.
And then it took another interesting twist when they suddenly named all the other expats in our church community. They came from a different culture, and they love Jesus. And once in a while, some of them take a rotation with kids' church. Are they missionaries too?
How do we draw that distinction for kids?
And then my mind went back a little further to a conversation I had with one of the parents at that same church earlier in the year. We had somehow started talking about missionaries, and I said something about, "I don't really see myself as a missionary" (because there are negative connotations to the term "missionary" -- Bible bashers, colonialists etc). To which this parent responded with, "Well, I don't really see you as a missionary either because you just live here with us".
But by the definition used with the kids that missionaries were people who go to a different culture to tell people about Jesus, I would be considered a missionary. Except not in that parent's perspective.
Well, this is the initial opening of this conversation. In the next few posts, I'm hoping to sort out the various pieces in my brain about what the term "missionary" means in this age of increasing globalisation.
Watch this space and feel free to jump in the conversation.
12 June 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: The Gift That Keeps On Giving
If you've followed this blog for a while, you'd probably know that once in a while, I gush and reminisce about that wonderful season of my life called "seminary".
Oh, don't get me wrong. Life was anything but a bed of roses during that season. But I learnt a lot from that season mostly because I had an incredible group of people to journey with.
See, when I was first starting seminary, I had made a deal with my parents that we would do whatever we could to get me through school without having to take out a loan. Which meant I needed to work. A lot.
Thankfully, through some strange connections (mostly just being at the right place at the right time), I managed to get a ministry job that understood I would be going back to school after my first year of working there full-time, and they allowed me the flexibility of working part-time during the school year. The full-time hours during the summer was supposed to pay for school, but there would be nights that I would be crunching numbers and it still wouldn't add up to being enough. And then the next day at work, I would be quietly fretting about the financial situation, and Ryan Chapman, this gentleman who works down the hallway from me would randomly come up to my desk quietly with a $20 note in hand. "Seminary textbooks are expensive, and I know this isn't a lot. But I hope it helps pay for at least part of a textbook."
And I would sit there with tears streaming down my face. Maybe it wasn't a lot, but the symbolic gesture (that happened on about two or three different occasions, and always the day after I'm fretting about money again -- maybe it wasn't so random after all) was the reminder I needed that God had promised to provide. True to form, I finished seminary without any debt.
Why am I bringing this up now?
Well, I just got another $20 note in the mail from a dear friend in the States. It was accompanied with a beautiful note:
Maybe it doesn't seem like a big deal, but lately the money thing has been a big issue all over again. Money hasn't been coming in for my salary because I am too far away from my main financial supporters to really fundraise. I had been writing letters and trying to come up with creative ways to raise the money all while trying to juggle figuring out this new season of ministry at the same time. Truth be told, I was starting to wonder if the reality that no money was coming in meant I was crazy (let's be honest, I'm gaining a reputation for doing the crazy) for even thinking this ministry made any sense. Because if it did, why did it seem like nobody else was buying into it except me?
And then a few weeks ago, I had reached the point where my savings was depleted and thanks to a bit of car trouble, was left with about $20 to my name. While I don't usually talk about my money situation, it somehow came up in my conversation with Emily. When she found out, she contacted one of her major supporting churches that she knew had emergency funds set aside for situations like these.
I should have known that Emily was cut from the same mold of theological and spiritual formation that so changed my worldview.
You see, back in our seminary days, we journeyed with a group of friends who truly taught us how to live in community. There was little that wasn't shared between us. We had pitch-in dinners about once a week or so to make sure everyone was fed. Because I was one of the few who had a steady income that was more than minimum wage, I pitched my share to pay for the more costly ingredients for the meal. Amity often fed us from her garden and sometimes when they had a surplus, the canned tomatoes or soups would get shared all around. And Tim changed my oil for free so I didn't have to pay for labour to get it done at a shop.
Perhaps because we all knew that most of us weren't going in to ministry for the fame or fortune, we felt a sense of responsibility to take care of each other in whatever way we could. After all, we all understood the reality that everything we have belongs to the kingdom anyway.
Well, going back to that $20 note...
About two weeks ago, I had scheduled a lunch meeting with a student. I knew that there was money coming from Emily's supporting church, but because of the international transfers and stuff, I hadn't received it yet. So I drove into the city to meet the student with the $20 I had left and the bit of spare change I set aside for parking (city parking costs $3/hour for the first two hours, then $6/hour for every hour after -- Auckland is expensive). I had a bit of trouble finding the cafe where I was supposed to meet the student and was running a few minutes late. I knew he only had a short lunch break, so I was getting a bit flustered when I finally found him. Before I fully comprehended what I was doing, I had offered to shout him lunch.
Right as the words came out of my mouth, I found myself thinking, "Are you out of your mind?? This is your last $20 for a little while. Sure, your fridge is stocked and your gas tank is full at the moment, but who knows how long it will take before the money finally gets through."
But then I remembered the words one of my former youth leaders from my church in Singapore used to say when he took us out for lunch after worship team practise and would shout our drinks.
Ok. Alright. Besides, it was too late to take the words back now.
Thankfully, that last $20 was just enough to pay for both our lunches. As we wrapped up the meeting, the student thanked me for lunch and said, "Honestly, I was only planning to get a drink when we met because I didn't really have the money for a meal." But this is your lunch break, right? "Yeah, but I don't always eat lunch."
Well, everything we have belongs in the Kingdom anyway. I was glad my last $20 paid for both our lunches.
Which was why when I opened the card from Emily and found another $20 note in it, I had to fight back the tears. You see, Emily is fundraising herself. She lives in the basement of the pastors' home on Pine Ridge reservation (together with all the workcampers that come in for workcamp season) while raising funds for her home and the community building to be built on the reservation. And yet, not only did she take the time to send the beautiful card, but she also gave that $20 note that was to be my reminder that God had promised to provide. And Emily has reminded me time and again that as long as we are being faithful to our call to being missionaries, it is ok to rely on the financial gifts from others. In fact, she wrote this beautiful piece on fundraising.
And so tonight, I just would like to say a big thank you to the beautiful people who have given the gifts that allow me to keep on giving.
To the good people at Germantown First Church of God, thank you.
To the good people who have offered me a place to stay while we wait for funds to trickle in, thank you.
To the good people at the national Church of God in New Zealand who purchased the vehicle for the ministry, thank you.
To the good people with gifts big and small over the last three years, thank you.
To the good people with your $20 notes, thank you.
You are beautiful, beautiful people.
Thank you. With all my heart.
Arohanui
Oh, don't get me wrong. Life was anything but a bed of roses during that season. But I learnt a lot from that season mostly because I had an incredible group of people to journey with.
See, when I was first starting seminary, I had made a deal with my parents that we would do whatever we could to get me through school without having to take out a loan. Which meant I needed to work. A lot.
Thankfully, through some strange connections (mostly just being at the right place at the right time), I managed to get a ministry job that understood I would be going back to school after my first year of working there full-time, and they allowed me the flexibility of working part-time during the school year. The full-time hours during the summer was supposed to pay for school, but there would be nights that I would be crunching numbers and it still wouldn't add up to being enough. And then the next day at work, I would be quietly fretting about the financial situation, and Ryan Chapman, this gentleman who works down the hallway from me would randomly come up to my desk quietly with a $20 note in hand. "Seminary textbooks are expensive, and I know this isn't a lot. But I hope it helps pay for at least part of a textbook."
And I would sit there with tears streaming down my face. Maybe it wasn't a lot, but the symbolic gesture (that happened on about two or three different occasions, and always the day after I'm fretting about money again -- maybe it wasn't so random after all) was the reminder I needed that God had promised to provide. True to form, I finished seminary without any debt.
Why am I bringing this up now?Well, I just got another $20 note in the mail from a dear friend in the States. It was accompanied with a beautiful note:
Maybe it doesn't seem like a big deal, but lately the money thing has been a big issue all over again. Money hasn't been coming in for my salary because I am too far away from my main financial supporters to really fundraise. I had been writing letters and trying to come up with creative ways to raise the money all while trying to juggle figuring out this new season of ministry at the same time. Truth be told, I was starting to wonder if the reality that no money was coming in meant I was crazy (let's be honest, I'm gaining a reputation for doing the crazy) for even thinking this ministry made any sense. Because if it did, why did it seem like nobody else was buying into it except me?
And then a few weeks ago, I had reached the point where my savings was depleted and thanks to a bit of car trouble, was left with about $20 to my name. While I don't usually talk about my money situation, it somehow came up in my conversation with Emily. When she found out, she contacted one of her major supporting churches that she knew had emergency funds set aside for situations like these.
I should have known that Emily was cut from the same mold of theological and spiritual formation that so changed my worldview.
You see, back in our seminary days, we journeyed with a group of friends who truly taught us how to live in community. There was little that wasn't shared between us. We had pitch-in dinners about once a week or so to make sure everyone was fed. Because I was one of the few who had a steady income that was more than minimum wage, I pitched my share to pay for the more costly ingredients for the meal. Amity often fed us from her garden and sometimes when they had a surplus, the canned tomatoes or soups would get shared all around. And Tim changed my oil for free so I didn't have to pay for labour to get it done at a shop.
Perhaps because we all knew that most of us weren't going in to ministry for the fame or fortune, we felt a sense of responsibility to take care of each other in whatever way we could. After all, we all understood the reality that everything we have belongs to the kingdom anyway.
Well, going back to that $20 note...
About two weeks ago, I had scheduled a lunch meeting with a student. I knew that there was money coming from Emily's supporting church, but because of the international transfers and stuff, I hadn't received it yet. So I drove into the city to meet the student with the $20 I had left and the bit of spare change I set aside for parking (city parking costs $3/hour for the first two hours, then $6/hour for every hour after -- Auckland is expensive). I had a bit of trouble finding the cafe where I was supposed to meet the student and was running a few minutes late. I knew he only had a short lunch break, so I was getting a bit flustered when I finally found him. Before I fully comprehended what I was doing, I had offered to shout him lunch.
Right as the words came out of my mouth, I found myself thinking, "Are you out of your mind?? This is your last $20 for a little while. Sure, your fridge is stocked and your gas tank is full at the moment, but who knows how long it will take before the money finally gets through."
But then I remembered the words one of my former youth leaders from my church in Singapore used to say when he took us out for lunch after worship team practise and would shout our drinks.
"Consider this an investment into the next generation."
Ok. Alright. Besides, it was too late to take the words back now.
Thankfully, that last $20 was just enough to pay for both our lunches. As we wrapped up the meeting, the student thanked me for lunch and said, "Honestly, I was only planning to get a drink when we met because I didn't really have the money for a meal." But this is your lunch break, right? "Yeah, but I don't always eat lunch."
Well, everything we have belongs in the Kingdom anyway. I was glad my last $20 paid for both our lunches.
Which was why when I opened the card from Emily and found another $20 note in it, I had to fight back the tears. You see, Emily is fundraising herself. She lives in the basement of the pastors' home on Pine Ridge reservation (together with all the workcampers that come in for workcamp season) while raising funds for her home and the community building to be built on the reservation. And yet, not only did she take the time to send the beautiful card, but she also gave that $20 note that was to be my reminder that God had promised to provide. And Emily has reminded me time and again that as long as we are being faithful to our call to being missionaries, it is ok to rely on the financial gifts from others. In fact, she wrote this beautiful piece on fundraising.
And so tonight, I just would like to say a big thank you to the beautiful people who have given the gifts that allow me to keep on giving.
To the good people at Germantown First Church of God, thank you.
To the good people who have offered me a place to stay while we wait for funds to trickle in, thank you.
To the good people at the national Church of God in New Zealand who purchased the vehicle for the ministry, thank you.
To the good people with gifts big and small over the last three years, thank you.
To the good people with your $20 notes, thank you.
You are beautiful, beautiful people.
Thank you. With all my heart.
Arohanui
08 June 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: "Ministry Planting"
These days, when people ask me what it is I do, I don't really know what to say.
I'm a pastor... Sort of. Not in the traditional clergy-collar with a parish sense, but I do the vocational ministry and pastoral care thing.
I'm a church-planter... But not really. I'm not exactly planting a church, but I am starting a ministry, just not a traditional church. Brett says it belongs in the "Fresh Expressions" category. Ok...
Let me backtrack a little bit.
About a year ago, several things came into play that drastically shook my belief that I was called to ministry. Never mind that years of good ol' AUSOT teaching and my own slightly feminist mother had convinced me otherwise. All it took was the outcome of a church-planting personality test that said I didn't have the right personality to be a key person to lead or plant a ministry, and everything crumbled.
The trouble was, I kept pushing forward pretending that personality test didn't sting.
The trouble was, I kept pushing forward trying to prove them wrong.
The trouble was this ugly fuzz ball that in grief counselling terms, we call "compounding grief" (not dealing with one aspect of grief and allowing it to snowball into something much bigger).
The trouble was all the signs still said it wasn't time for me to quit ministry, even though I came so close to throwing in the towel so many times (after all, if even the personality tests said I didn't have what it takes, why do I even bother?) and my mental health was at stake.
The trouble was, in pretending it didn't sting, I ended up screwing up more.
And so I forced myself to think like my friends with the right personalities for church planting would.
I forced myself to come up with business plans, programmes and solutions -- not so much to generate numbers or results, but to at least be able to pull off the pretence that there are things happening.
And you know what happened?
Nothing.
Nothing great, but also nothing terrible.
Just... Nothing.
And then it suddenly occurred to me I was hurting because of that personality test.
And then it suddenly occurred to me I needed to make peace with that personality test.
And then it suddenly occurred to me I needed to stop trying to prove the personality test wrong.
Because while I may not have the right personality traits to pass that church-planting personality test, the truth is, I never believed in having all the right answers anyway (that's a story for another time).
Because while I may not have the right answers to pass that personality test, I have this strange, twisted, whimsical life story that is real and relevant to the ones I'm called to pastor in this season.
Because while I may have proved the personality test right in not gaining any results, I quickly learnt that there is no tried-and-true template for what this ministry plant is going to look like anyway.
Because ultimately, my core value in ministry (and thank you to Kara, Janice, and several others who have been constantly reminding me of this) has always been about relationships.
And that's what makes me good at what I do.
And that's what makes me called to ministry--believing in relationships and the power of agape love to carry us all through life.
So honestly, I don't really have a clue what this student ministry is going to look like because nothing has gone as I thought it would.
But I have some pretty incredible students teaching me a lot about life. And even if we never achieve any of the lofty goals I had envisioned, I really would be at peace knowing I get to walk with some incredible people on their journey with life meets faith.
So personality tests and your results, and that fuzz ball of compounding grief, you can pack your sorry little bags and say goodbye. We're done here.
Because whatever title you choose to call this thing I'm doing, so be it.
Because I am called to ministry.
And I am choosing to remain in ministry.
Game on.
I'm a pastor... Sort of. Not in the traditional clergy-collar with a parish sense, but I do the vocational ministry and pastoral care thing.
I'm a church-planter... But not really. I'm not exactly planting a church, but I am starting a ministry, just not a traditional church. Brett says it belongs in the "Fresh Expressions" category. Ok...
Let me backtrack a little bit.
About a year ago, several things came into play that drastically shook my belief that I was called to ministry. Never mind that years of good ol' AUSOT teaching and my own slightly feminist mother had convinced me otherwise. All it took was the outcome of a church-planting personality test that said I didn't have the right personality to be a key person to lead or plant a ministry, and everything crumbled.
The trouble was, I kept pushing forward pretending that personality test didn't sting.
The trouble was, I kept pushing forward trying to prove them wrong.
The trouble was this ugly fuzz ball that in grief counselling terms, we call "compounding grief" (not dealing with one aspect of grief and allowing it to snowball into something much bigger).
The trouble was all the signs still said it wasn't time for me to quit ministry, even though I came so close to throwing in the towel so many times (after all, if even the personality tests said I didn't have what it takes, why do I even bother?) and my mental health was at stake.
The trouble was, in pretending it didn't sting, I ended up screwing up more.
And so I forced myself to think like my friends with the right personalities for church planting would.
I forced myself to come up with business plans, programmes and solutions -- not so much to generate numbers or results, but to at least be able to pull off the pretence that there are things happening.
And you know what happened?
Nothing.
Nothing great, but also nothing terrible.
Just... Nothing.
And then it suddenly occurred to me I was hurting because of that personality test.
And then it suddenly occurred to me I needed to make peace with that personality test.
And then it suddenly occurred to me I needed to stop trying to prove the personality test wrong.
Because while I may not have the right personality traits to pass that church-planting personality test, the truth is, I never believed in having all the right answers anyway (that's a story for another time).
Because while I may not have the right answers to pass that personality test, I have this strange, twisted, whimsical life story that is real and relevant to the ones I'm called to pastor in this season.
Because while I may have proved the personality test right in not gaining any results, I quickly learnt that there is no tried-and-true template for what this ministry plant is going to look like anyway.
Because ultimately, my core value in ministry (and thank you to Kara, Janice, and several others who have been constantly reminding me of this) has always been about relationships.
And that's what makes me good at what I do.
And that's what makes me called to ministry--believing in relationships and the power of agape love to carry us all through life.
So honestly, I don't really have a clue what this student ministry is going to look like because nothing has gone as I thought it would.
But I have some pretty incredible students teaching me a lot about life. And even if we never achieve any of the lofty goals I had envisioned, I really would be at peace knowing I get to walk with some incredible people on their journey with life meets faith.
So personality tests and your results, and that fuzz ball of compounding grief, you can pack your sorry little bags and say goodbye. We're done here.
Because whatever title you choose to call this thing I'm doing, so be it.
Because I am called to ministry.
And I am choosing to remain in ministry.
Game on.
01 June 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: When I'm 64
Lately, reality has been starting to sink in that I'm heading towards the end of my twenties (granted there's still about twenty-ish months). One of the things that has hit together with that reality check is the thought that I don't want to get to my thirties and regret not having done things that later in life I can look back and say, "Back when I was young and stupid..."
Oh, don't get me wrong. I've done lots of young and stupid things, but nothing significantly memorable. And I don't mean that I've hit quarter-/mid-life crisis and want to go get a motorbike license or dye my hair purple. But I do sort of mean that I do want to go get a motorbike license and dye my hair purple. After all, Hashtag YOLO, right? (#YOLO - You Only Live Once)
I guess what I mean is... From time to time, I've looked around and wondered what other twenty-somethings are doing, particularly considering that in my last two jobs that spanned most of the last decade, I mostly worked with people who were in completely different life-stages from me. I'm too introverted for the clubbing scene, and care too little about becoming famous to over-achieve at any accolades that the world would care about, and it seemed those were the only things I hear other twenty-somethings do.
Then this past weekend I caught a glimpse of something different.
This past weekend was spent with a number of other young leaders in ministry in the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand. I learnt that in your twenties, you also...
... live with the #YOLO mantra
... take too many selfies
... begin stepping up more fully into responsibilities
... find things you're passionate about and pursue them in spite of obstacles and those trying to convince you you won't succeed
... laugh a lot
... don't take life too seriously
... can take God seriously without having a middle-aged outlook on life
I guess, perhaps, coming out of my season of burnout and depression, it has been a tremendously refreshing weekend finding out it's ok to want to live a life where I can one day look back and say, "back when I was young and stupid..."
That it's ok to "waste time" taking too many photos and creating memories with people you may only cross paths with about once a year.
That it's ok to want to live a carefree life that doesn't involve kids, a life-partner, or the search for one.
And maybe all I can say at the end of my twenties is that I was young and stupid to realise too late that there were ways to be young and stupid without also being irresponsible to my vocation. But at least, I have about twenty-ish months to make up for that. That's not too late, I reckon.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I've done lots of young and stupid things, but nothing significantly memorable. And I don't mean that I've hit quarter-/mid-life crisis and want to go get a motorbike license or dye my hair purple. But I do sort of mean that I do want to go get a motorbike license and dye my hair purple. After all, Hashtag YOLO, right? (#YOLO - You Only Live Once)
I guess what I mean is... From time to time, I've looked around and wondered what other twenty-somethings are doing, particularly considering that in my last two jobs that spanned most of the last decade, I mostly worked with people who were in completely different life-stages from me. I'm too introverted for the clubbing scene, and care too little about becoming famous to over-achieve at any accolades that the world would care about, and it seemed those were the only things I hear other twenty-somethings do.
Then this past weekend I caught a glimpse of something different.
This past weekend was spent with a number of other young leaders in ministry in the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand. I learnt that in your twenties, you also...
... live with the #YOLO mantra
... take too many selfies
... begin stepping up more fully into responsibilities
... find things you're passionate about and pursue them in spite of obstacles and those trying to convince you you won't succeed
... laugh a lot
... don't take life too seriously
... can take God seriously without having a middle-aged outlook on life
I guess, perhaps, coming out of my season of burnout and depression, it has been a tremendously refreshing weekend finding out it's ok to want to live a life where I can one day look back and say, "back when I was young and stupid..."
That it's ok to "waste time" taking too many photos and creating memories with people you may only cross paths with about once a year.
That it's ok to want to live a carefree life that doesn't involve kids, a life-partner, or the search for one.
And maybe all I can say at the end of my twenties is that I was young and stupid to realise too late that there were ways to be young and stupid without also being irresponsible to my vocation. But at least, I have about twenty-ish months to make up for that. That's not too late, I reckon.
22 May 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: Cultural Identity
We've officially hit a lull with the ministry of The Bridge.
It is almost the end of May, and we're not quite where I thought we would be by now. Instead of already moving and settling into the ministry house and getting things up and running, I am currently house-sitting for one of the couples who attend one of the Wesleyan Methodist churches. They return at the end of June, and have family coming in July. Which means I have approximately five weeks to figure out where I'm moving to next, since we still don't have a master-plan for the finances for the ministry house. I've been in New Zealand for less than three years and have already lived in eight different homes. What's another one gonna hurt, right?
During one of our brainstorming conversations, Kara suggested I got in touch with the folks at TSCF (Tertiary Students Christian Fellowship). And so this afternoon, I met with Andy, the Auckland Regional Team Leader.
Our conversation went something like that:
Andy: Thanks for making the time and getting in touch. So, tell me about The Bridge.
Me: Well, we're still in the very beginning stages, but we're hoping to establish sort of a hub and resource center type of a community house for students. We're not particular about what church they eventually connect with, but we simply hope they will eventually become connected with a church community.
Andy: Now, where are you from?
Me: [awkward pause]
Andy: I guess I mean, where all do you claim to be from?
Me: Well, that's kind of a loaded question...
After I explained my all-over-the-place-ness, he didn't even flinch and just went on with the conversation. It hit me all over again that my "all-over-the-place-ness" isn't unique in Auckland. To quote Andy, "Almost every person in Auckland can trace back to having chosen to move here from some place else; it's just a matter of how many generations have been here before them."
Perhaps that's why I've been struggling with trying to find a way to frame the ministry of The Bridge. Yes, our focus is on international students in Auckland, but what does the term "international student" even mean? Andy shared an example of one of the student councils he worked with that had student representatives from the "Kiwi" and the "International" community. The "Kiwi" representative was born in Nepal, but is of European descent, whose parents were missionaries. The "International" representative was a fourth generation Kiwi-Chinese who was born in New Zealand. What do we make of that?
Back when I was an international student in the States, being "international" was much easier to define. I simply wasn't born and raised in the US, and I was treated differently. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't treated inferiorly, I was just treated *differently* with the understanding my worldview is most likely different from the majority. Here in Auckland, everyone's worldview differs on varying degrees, and one can never make assumptions of what cultural roots another may identify with.
At the university age, these dynamics come out to play a lot more. Standing on the fringe of adulthood, one makes decisions, whether consciously or not, about the cultural roots they may claim. For some cultural groups, not attending Sunday worship with others from their "motherland" meant that one was disowning their cultural heritage--even if they had simply gone to a different congregation with their Kiwi mates from uni. What happens when one of the young adults from one of these cultural groups are sensing that God was calling them to minister to others who were as culturally mixed-up as they were and didn't have the same sense of obligation to the culture of the motherland? Will the church be there to rally around these young adults who often come from a highly community-oriented home-culture to a more individualistic society?
Just some very beginning thoughts on some of the dynamics at play as we continue ministering in this multi-cultural community that is Auckland...
It is almost the end of May, and we're not quite where I thought we would be by now. Instead of already moving and settling into the ministry house and getting things up and running, I am currently house-sitting for one of the couples who attend one of the Wesleyan Methodist churches. They return at the end of June, and have family coming in July. Which means I have approximately five weeks to figure out where I'm moving to next, since we still don't have a master-plan for the finances for the ministry house. I've been in New Zealand for less than three years and have already lived in eight different homes. What's another one gonna hurt, right?
During one of our brainstorming conversations, Kara suggested I got in touch with the folks at TSCF (Tertiary Students Christian Fellowship). And so this afternoon, I met with Andy, the Auckland Regional Team Leader.
Our conversation went something like that:
Andy: Thanks for making the time and getting in touch. So, tell me about The Bridge.
Me: Well, we're still in the very beginning stages, but we're hoping to establish sort of a hub and resource center type of a community house for students. We're not particular about what church they eventually connect with, but we simply hope they will eventually become connected with a church community.
Andy: Now, where are you from?
Me: [awkward pause]
Andy: I guess I mean, where all do you claim to be from?
Me: Well, that's kind of a loaded question...
After I explained my all-over-the-place-ness, he didn't even flinch and just went on with the conversation. It hit me all over again that my "all-over-the-place-ness" isn't unique in Auckland. To quote Andy, "Almost every person in Auckland can trace back to having chosen to move here from some place else; it's just a matter of how many generations have been here before them."
Perhaps that's why I've been struggling with trying to find a way to frame the ministry of The Bridge. Yes, our focus is on international students in Auckland, but what does the term "international student" even mean? Andy shared an example of one of the student councils he worked with that had student representatives from the "Kiwi" and the "International" community. The "Kiwi" representative was born in Nepal, but is of European descent, whose parents were missionaries. The "International" representative was a fourth generation Kiwi-Chinese who was born in New Zealand. What do we make of that?
Back when I was an international student in the States, being "international" was much easier to define. I simply wasn't born and raised in the US, and I was treated differently. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't treated inferiorly, I was just treated *differently* with the understanding my worldview is most likely different from the majority. Here in Auckland, everyone's worldview differs on varying degrees, and one can never make assumptions of what cultural roots another may identify with.
At the university age, these dynamics come out to play a lot more. Standing on the fringe of adulthood, one makes decisions, whether consciously or not, about the cultural roots they may claim. For some cultural groups, not attending Sunday worship with others from their "motherland" meant that one was disowning their cultural heritage--even if they had simply gone to a different congregation with their Kiwi mates from uni. What happens when one of the young adults from one of these cultural groups are sensing that God was calling them to minister to others who were as culturally mixed-up as they were and didn't have the same sense of obligation to the culture of the motherland? Will the church be there to rally around these young adults who often come from a highly community-oriented home-culture to a more individualistic society?
Just some very beginning thoughts on some of the dynamics at play as we continue ministering in this multi-cultural community that is Auckland...
09 May 2014
Dear Keren: "Displace Me" Revisited
Series history: This series unofficially began in 2007 in honour of Keren Berrios. We had started at Anderson University together as international students in 2004. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I had come to rely on her as my sense of "home" while we lived in between cultures. In my hurry to get through life, I graduated a year earlier than most in our class. The summer between my graduation and hers, Keren's life ended unexpectedly less than three weeks after she turned twenty-one. As I grappled with grief, loss and the roller-coaster of post-graduation life, I began writing to her. In the years after, this series has brought comfort as I remember Keren's legacy and imprint on my life. More recently, it has provided a way to take me back to a time before disillusionment caused me to stop dreaming, and to keep pursuing a life well-lived.
Dear Keren,
I recently found out that we get Al Jazeera on free-view. Needless to say, this political junkie has been spending a bit of time on that channel.
Last night, I caught a few documentaries and talk-shows one after another about the situations in Nigeria, Eritrea and Libya. Halfway through about the third documentary about Eritrean refugees, I suddenly realised how emotionally unaffected I was, and it startled me.
Perhaps a part of it is that so much has happened since the days of our idealistic we-can-save-the-world college selves that I'm no longer as vulnerable as I used to be. Perhaps it's those few weeks in the cafe with the women on the streets of Berlin that made me feel like a wimp for being so emotional. Or perhaps it's that everyday on the news, there are more reports of violence and disasters that my helplessness has slowly become callousness.
Keren, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me of that idealistic self that I used to be. Remember when we used to dream about saving the world? Remember that feeling when you discovered your avenue to use your passion to save the world through Displace Me? I want to remember what that idealistic buzz feels like again. Keren, what happened?
Maybe it's that we were young and naive. Even after I eventually climbed out from under that mountain of grief after you died, I still had that desire to change the world--and to do it twice as well to make up for the good the world was missing because you were no longer around. And now, seven years after graduation and your passing, I sit in this comfortable home, even if not a place to call my own, wondering what our twenty-one-year-old selves would think about where I am today.
On days when depression hits its lowest point, I'm convinced we would be ashamed. I haven't fought or won a worthy cause. I haven't started a revolution. I haven't nurtured change in anyone's lives. I haven't joined the UN, helped a homeless person get off the streets, or even protected a child from the consequences of their parents' choices. I have no material possessions to boast of, and heck, seven years have passed and I still haven't found the guts to go experience homelessness like I wanted to. On those days, I want to hide in bed all day and pretend I live in an alternate universe where the last seven years didn't feel so worthless. On those days, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me that there still are things worth being passionate about, the same way you had been one of the few who didn't think I was crazy or try to talk me out of wanting to experience homelessness.
But then there are better days when I remember that even if I'm no revolutionary like Katniss Everdeen or Beatrice Prior, I still have a place in this world to do all the good I can and more importantly, to love with all that I can. Buried somewhere under all that disillusionment is that idealistic twenty-one-year-old self that still believes she can change the world even if she cannot physically rescue all the girls in Nigeria, find all the victims of MH370, or spark change overnight in Eritrea, Libya, Berlin or even a neighbourhood in Auckland. On these better days, I cling on to that idealism in the hopes that it will teach me to keep breathing when the difficult days come back.
And then I remember that even when I was most idealistic, it wasn't the desire to revolutionise the world that kept me going. No, it was simply the desire to be where simply being who God created me to be would bring a smile to someone's face. And I realise that our twenty-one-year-old selves would probably still be ok with all that has happened in the last seven years, even if, on this end of the seven years, there aren't significant accolades to boast about.
And suddenly, I regain that excitement again. Suddenly in spite of how beaten down I feel, that buzz returns. Suddenly in spite of how I feel like I'd bitten off more than I can chew with The Bridge, I feel it in my bones again. Suddenly I remember that even if it's not my role to spark a revolution, I have a role to play, to journey with the idealisms of the university students as they discover their buzz and to stand with them when they decide they want to experience homelessness, or move to Christchurch, or help with food distribution and disaster relief in the Philippines.
Because I'm no longer that twenty-one-year-old self. My buzz no longer comes from the idealism of starting a revolution, but from being there when today's twenty-one-year-olds discover their buzz and celebrating with them who God created them to be.
Dear Keren, I still wish you were here to experience all this with me so you can sit me down in a way only you know how and help me process all that has happened. But it's ok now that you're not. I've gotten quite used to it now.
Dear Keren... Hey, I miss you. Someday, when we meet again we can go splash in the puddles and dance in the rain, then pile the pillows on the balcony, sip tea and talk about everything that has happened. But for now, I have things to do.
Until next time.
Arohanui,
Me
Dear Keren,
I recently found out that we get Al Jazeera on free-view. Needless to say, this political junkie has been spending a bit of time on that channel.
Last night, I caught a few documentaries and talk-shows one after another about the situations in Nigeria, Eritrea and Libya. Halfway through about the third documentary about Eritrean refugees, I suddenly realised how emotionally unaffected I was, and it startled me.
Perhaps a part of it is that so much has happened since the days of our idealistic we-can-save-the-world college selves that I'm no longer as vulnerable as I used to be. Perhaps it's those few weeks in the cafe with the women on the streets of Berlin that made me feel like a wimp for being so emotional. Or perhaps it's that everyday on the news, there are more reports of violence and disasters that my helplessness has slowly become callousness.
Keren, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me of that idealistic self that I used to be. Remember when we used to dream about saving the world? Remember that feeling when you discovered your avenue to use your passion to save the world through Displace Me? I want to remember what that idealistic buzz feels like again. Keren, what happened?
Maybe it's that we were young and naive. Even after I eventually climbed out from under that mountain of grief after you died, I still had that desire to change the world--and to do it twice as well to make up for the good the world was missing because you were no longer around. And now, seven years after graduation and your passing, I sit in this comfortable home, even if not a place to call my own, wondering what our twenty-one-year-old selves would think about where I am today.
On days when depression hits its lowest point, I'm convinced we would be ashamed. I haven't fought or won a worthy cause. I haven't started a revolution. I haven't nurtured change in anyone's lives. I haven't joined the UN, helped a homeless person get off the streets, or even protected a child from the consequences of their parents' choices. I have no material possessions to boast of, and heck, seven years have passed and I still haven't found the guts to go experience homelessness like I wanted to. On those days, I want to hide in bed all day and pretend I live in an alternate universe where the last seven years didn't feel so worthless. On those days, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me that there still are things worth being passionate about, the same way you had been one of the few who didn't think I was crazy or try to talk me out of wanting to experience homelessness.
But then there are better days when I remember that even if I'm no revolutionary like Katniss Everdeen or Beatrice Prior, I still have a place in this world to do all the good I can and more importantly, to love with all that I can. Buried somewhere under all that disillusionment is that idealistic twenty-one-year-old self that still believes she can change the world even if she cannot physically rescue all the girls in Nigeria, find all the victims of MH370, or spark change overnight in Eritrea, Libya, Berlin or even a neighbourhood in Auckland. On these better days, I cling on to that idealism in the hopes that it will teach me to keep breathing when the difficult days come back.
And then I remember that even when I was most idealistic, it wasn't the desire to revolutionise the world that kept me going. No, it was simply the desire to be where simply being who God created me to be would bring a smile to someone's face. And I realise that our twenty-one-year-old selves would probably still be ok with all that has happened in the last seven years, even if, on this end of the seven years, there aren't significant accolades to boast about.
And suddenly, I regain that excitement again. Suddenly in spite of how beaten down I feel, that buzz returns. Suddenly in spite of how I feel like I'd bitten off more than I can chew with The Bridge, I feel it in my bones again. Suddenly I remember that even if it's not my role to spark a revolution, I have a role to play, to journey with the idealisms of the university students as they discover their buzz and to stand with them when they decide they want to experience homelessness, or move to Christchurch, or help with food distribution and disaster relief in the Philippines.
Because I'm no longer that twenty-one-year-old self. My buzz no longer comes from the idealism of starting a revolution, but from being there when today's twenty-one-year-olds discover their buzz and celebrating with them who God created them to be.
Dear Keren, I still wish you were here to experience all this with me so you can sit me down in a way only you know how and help me process all that has happened. But it's ok now that you're not. I've gotten quite used to it now.
Dear Keren... Hey, I miss you. Someday, when we meet again we can go splash in the puddles and dance in the rain, then pile the pillows on the balcony, sip tea and talk about everything that has happened. But for now, I have things to do.
Until next time.
Arohanui,
Me
05 May 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: Day #1 on Te Atatu Peninsula
Most stories begin with "Once upon a time," but I'm not convinced that there is a point in time when stories begin.
Like for instance, I struggle with writing the beginning of my Aotearoa story.
Did it begin the day I arrived here? Because I remember that day...
It was 10 September 2011, the day after the opening ceremonies of the rugby world cup that Aotearoa was hosting. I had booked my flight less than a week before I flew (that's another story for another time), so it looked suspicious to the immigration officer. Add that to the fact that under occupation I had listed "religious worker" (that's when I learnt "pastor" goes down a lot better with immigration)...
It was a great welcome to Aotearoa, even with the extended immigration process I had to go through because of how suspicious my papers looked. Having gone through immigration in a few other places (that shall remain unnamed *ahem*), I was prepared to be interrogated like a criminal until I could prove myself innocent. Instead, the immigration officer apologised that he had to ask additional questions only because it was part of the process.
Talk about culture shock. I was starting to fall in love with Aotearoa.
On the other side of immigration, Chad Davenport, Doug, Danette and Allison Beisley, and Steve Ringelspaugh were there with leis in hand to welcome my arrival. They would quickly grow to become family in the months to come.
But my most vivid memory was of my arrival at Stefan and Kathrin Marks' home. I had never met them in person, and had only had a very brief conversation with Kathrin via Skype for my interview (through which the only thing I established was that 1) she hated me, then 2) wait, she's German, so she's just very direct, then 3) she's just doing her job in the interview). But they welcomed me into their home and almost immediately became big brother and sister to me.
I remember going out for a walk later that day where Stefan introduced me to all the various birds and greenery we spotted along the boardwalk close to their place. You know how they say every country has a distinct smell? I don't know if it's true for everyone, but Aotearoa's lush greenery has definitely become its distinct smell for me.
Not too far down that boardwalk, I caught a view of the city skyline and the body of water that separated us. It took my breath away in that even though I was still finding it hard to believe I had made it to Aotearoa, I was home.
We rounded up that evening having a meal together with the Beisleys and Felicity. Now, this is why I have a problem with knowing where my Aotearoa story truly begins, because it all started with the Beisleys back in 2008. But that's another story for another time...
Like for instance, I struggle with writing the beginning of my Aotearoa story.
Did it begin the day I arrived here? Because I remember that day...
It was 10 September 2011, the day after the opening ceremonies of the rugby world cup that Aotearoa was hosting. I had booked my flight less than a week before I flew (that's another story for another time), so it looked suspicious to the immigration officer. Add that to the fact that under occupation I had listed "religious worker" (that's when I learnt "pastor" goes down a lot better with immigration)...
It was a great welcome to Aotearoa, even with the extended immigration process I had to go through because of how suspicious my papers looked. Having gone through immigration in a few other places (that shall remain unnamed *ahem*), I was prepared to be interrogated like a criminal until I could prove myself innocent. Instead, the immigration officer apologised that he had to ask additional questions only because it was part of the process.
Talk about culture shock. I was starting to fall in love with Aotearoa.
On the other side of immigration, Chad Davenport, Doug, Danette and Allison Beisley, and Steve Ringelspaugh were there with leis in hand to welcome my arrival. They would quickly grow to become family in the months to come.
But my most vivid memory was of my arrival at Stefan and Kathrin Marks' home. I had never met them in person, and had only had a very brief conversation with Kathrin via Skype for my interview (through which the only thing I established was that 1) she hated me, then 2) wait, she's German, so she's just very direct, then 3) she's just doing her job in the interview). But they welcomed me into their home and almost immediately became big brother and sister to me.
I remember going out for a walk later that day where Stefan introduced me to all the various birds and greenery we spotted along the boardwalk close to their place. You know how they say every country has a distinct smell? I don't know if it's true for everyone, but Aotearoa's lush greenery has definitely become its distinct smell for me.
Not too far down that boardwalk, I caught a view of the city skyline and the body of water that separated us. It took my breath away in that even though I was still finding it hard to believe I had made it to Aotearoa, I was home.
We rounded up that evening having a meal together with the Beisleys and Felicity. Now, this is why I have a problem with knowing where my Aotearoa story truly begins, because it all started with the Beisleys back in 2008. But that's another story for another time...
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