Merry Christmas, finally

The day before Christmas: cold, gusty and wintery. The sun was hanging high on a deceivingly calm and clear blue sky. For a change I had actually caught up with all my email and work list. There in the office scattering about were but a few of us, hanging on for the last stretch before holiday break commenced. The air was lazy and aimless, as was inside of me. One more day and a few hours of changes, Christmas would be here and I was none at all merry or jolly. There should be a law against any vacation trip prior to Christmas, which we had foolishly committed the week before, even for the mere reason of a 25th wedding anniversary. Returning from a less-than-successful trip 4 days before Christmas yielded many undesirable side effects, i.e. an empty refrigerator, a Christmas tree with no gifts underneath and a hollow heart devoid of joy or hope.

Merry or not, the dreadful day did arrive and, ironically, actually started with a miracle: I slept straight through the night. By 9am, all Christmas magic or ritual was performed and completed. There ahead of us was yet a long day with no planned activity or company. Outside the sky was covered with a mass of grey, while the ground the remnant of autumn brown. We had done various attempts to celebrate the joy of season: going home to family in Pittsburgh, crashing friends’ Christmas party in New England or even hosting our own. This year raking leaves was added to the collection; not at all orthodox, but at least original. From 9:30am to 2pm past, we attacked the yard with a vengeance: raking, blowing and bagging. Though painstaking, there is something precious about laborious acts in its purifying or therapeutic effect. The benefits are two-folds. First off, you experience a rare luxury when body and mind coexist in harmony, where one’s productivity (or not) impacts little that of the other’s (except for a few unpleasant times when the power cord of the leaf blower became entangled or caught). In fact, it is one of those moments when physical activity actually promotes mental imagination to run free and wild. Secondly, there is always some goal associated with the toil that helps forming an allegiance between those two. Such goal, sometimes trivial or ridiculous (like raking leaves before next week’s pick-up) produces hope and dream, without which life is reduced to perpetual drudgery.

5 hours of harmony, or peace on earth, (except our cou-de-sac, from the intruding, screaming leaf blower) and 40+ bags of leaves on the curb later, we returned to the house exhausted though exhilarated. I had not realized it would have taken that long and that the Christmas dinner was still in the refrigerator. I wasted no time in plunging into the 2nd act of the Christmas Carol, washing, cutting and cooking like a storm. I was about to regret our prior conquest (or impulse) in raking leaves, when I looked outside of the window and there they were: the fluffy flakes ever so gingerly, but definitely, dancing around. I gasped and remembered my neighbor telling me the day before: it might snow on Christmas and if it did, it would be a White Christmas since 1940’s…. Be it the merit of making the statistics or record, I was instantly excited. The magic of snow, small scale then as there was but a dust draping lightly on the ground, trees and roof tops, was magnified in this cheerless heart of mine when it was combined with our good timing in finishing raking the yard. As I witnessed the dancing miracle before my eyes, my ear was ringing what C had said the day before when we went to visit him. He was all concerned about my lack of Christmas joy and was letting me in the remedy of this ailment: “lie down on the floor and listen to the Christmas hymns!” Although his hearing was impaired from the side effects of another treatment he had received a couple of weeks ago, my loving pastor’s Christmas cheer was none the less true and full in his sparking eyes and wide grin. He who had little reason to rejoice was showing this scrooge who had every reason to how to be merry for Christmas. Suddenly I almost lost my breath as my eyes became blurry – It must have been the phantom like snow and its playing a mischievous trick on me. I think. I realized then and there the secret of Christmas: it lies not on my mood or feeling, the gifts or feast, friends and family. It was hidden behind his twinkling eyes and what ignited my Pastor’s joy in December or July, despite of all.


For me, 2010 Christmas came finally at exactly hour 1600, December 25. And it had nothing to do with the snow.

Brown thumb

Over one month had passed since my return. All work has been caught up, home-front and work force, all except that of the spirit of Christmas – I have not yet been able to live it or feel it despite of the help from TV commercials, radio carols and even all the Christmas parties. Losing 3 weeks had deprived me of the necessary course of migration to the climax of the year. The incurred damage is not only internal but also external, in that even our Christmas tree was not set up well after the Thanksgiving week.

The symptom seemed to be contagious within the family too. Even Luke, our Christmas child, exhibited little excitement for the holiday. A Christmas without his hope and dreams is no Christmas. It simply would not do. I decided to take remediation action: time to get the tree up! We had spent the whole Saturday raking leaves, leaving us Sunday afternoon the only time for mission of Christmas rescue. The designated tree man, though, was pressed with tasks of higher priority then, thus I became the inevitable substitute. I have not been known ever for want of energy and drive at calls of necessity. In fact, I am a firm believer of being the superior species in the claim of that there is nothing we, the child-bearers, cannot do. Putting up a Christmas tree is no exception. Like any other created, flawed creature, I am well aware of my own shortages, but my determination makes up for any possible deficiency – any but 2 things: sewing and gardening. Christmas tree may have the name of “tree”, but in our home it is 100% artificial, consequently 100% safe from my lack of green thumb.

I have wondered why and how I could have been born and raised by 2 parents with innate passion and skills for gardening and still became a walking nightmare in the company of nature. To say that I cannot garden is an understatement. If trees, shrubs and flowers have any say or votes, I would be in fact their worst enemy or predator without even trying. But the tree is made of plastic, so what harm could I possibly incur? That day was packed with actions: driving Luke to his final musical engagement, picking up a few items from stores and even bagging the last few piles of leaves in the chilly, windy weather. Finally I saved the best for the last. Standing in the middle of the great room with a box all duck-taped up, I stared at my “mission” still with little concern. The original tree assignee happened to be a methodical and patient worker. He had labeled and grouped all branches with precise order instruction on the box. I started pulling the piles of branches out and assembling them, feeling brave and invincible. The boom box was singing Christmas carols merrily, matching that of my jolly and carefree spirit. Life was good, and EASY. As I moved along, I noticed some branches hanging slightly too loose for my liking. I gave it a firmer push onto the supporting pole and just like that the pocket snapped and the branch came completely detached. My eyes and mouth dropped open. I could not believe this mishap – certainly this is NOT happening! But the evidence, the broken limb lying lifeless at my hands, was staring vacantly back at me. Nearly 20 years of age, safe and sound under the care of another hand, our Christmas tree broke at my first touch.

So everything went southbound from there. Gone was my gaiety, the Christmas cheer and of course the tree. My drive and zeal deflated, I wrapped up the rest of the mission hastily, abandoning the remaining task of lights and ornaments hanging. I could not even bare the sight of the post mortem. It was a pitiful scene of aftermath with plastic needles panickly scattered around. At 6pm past, the house was quiet and devoid of daylight and life, except that of the destroyer. I realized with a sinking heart that without a doubt the curse of brown thumb extended beyond the boundary of nature. I may be anything - resolute, industrious and spirited, but never the nurturing with a green thumb. It took a 20-year-old, plastic tree to teach me the lesson: the law of nature (literally this time) cannot be violated – not without a price.

2010 marks the year of me becoming the Christmas Grinch when I killed our Christmas Tree.

My Father's Daughter

1.5 months later, 3 weeks’ trip home included, I am back to this side of the ocean. A long journey like that, in distance and time, feels anything but long. There had been much anxiety beforehand, but it did work out with tons of fun, enough rest and even an unexpected happy ending. But why should I ever be surprised? Life has determined to continue playing the same trick on me with its satire and unpredictability. To date, the adventure still overwhelmed me much that I have not yet been able to digest and reflect weeks later.

For the world’s eyes only, I bounced back with barely a day of rest, returning to my job and routines as I battled the persistent jet leg and demanding catch-up with both work and preparation of Thanksgiving. The reality within, though, is the struggle to make peace or sense out of the trip. I had expected its worst when it did quite the opposite. Among all my apprehensions, none other surpassed the relationship I have had with my father.

Oddly, I resemble him the most out of his 4 children. Many have marveled and joked about my being the exact replica of him: dark and small framed with the same facial feature, where the contrariness is that I am exactly the opposite of him. He is reserved and disciplined, while I am explosive and impulsive; he is assertive and graceful yet I timid and awkward; he is forever detached from all fear and care and I perpetually restless and fretful. The biggest absurdity is in as much as our outward resemblance our internal difference has made our relationship an absolute impossibility. Not only have I not had any father-daughter talks or walks, but also his presence intimated me such that I wouldn’t know what to say or act when he was around. It would be an understatement to quote me as NO-“daddy’s little girl”.

Many decades later, across an ocean and a vast foreign land, the separation of time and space may have put this strain between us in remission but it silently continued on and faithfully resurfaced with each trip home. Like any survivors, I developed schemes to cope with life’s obstinate obstacles – in this case, avoiding being with him alone. That was why it surprised even me when I volunteered to go hiking with him the 2nd day after I returned home.

It was one of those mysterious moments when your impulsivity gets the better of you. I could see on his face the same confusion, milder but apparent, at my request. Mayhap he too had a similar out-of-body experience when his sensitivity betrays his better sense, but he did not protest. At 2:30pm, we set out. Our ride to the park was but a 15-minute route through a busy city. I chatted on lightly as I surveyed mindlessly the life and activity on the streets that looked completely alien to me decades later. I was wondering if they looked back at us but a pair of normal father and daughter going outing. Finally we parked and started our hike. It began at the foot of the mountain with endless steps winding around and all the way up. The path was rocky but well maintained. He led the way. At 75, my father is still active and fit. His dancer frame from behind looked nimble and at ease as he took the steps effortlessly. At 3pm, the mountain was almost deserted with air moving soundlessly on the tree top. It was already in the midst of November, and yet the leaves in that tropical island were still in their vibrant green. There in front of me was my estranged father, so close yet forever so far, taking me for a hike. The strenuous activity left us little energy for conversation as we climbed up and down, taking caution for every step. Even then, the contrast between us was evident: he was the royal prince, swift and gracious and I the gypsy, careless and clumsy. Somehow, it felt comfortable: the quiet path, the cool, whispering air and the lazy afternoon sun. And in the mist of that tranquility were the 2 strangers communing wordlessly first time of their life.

One and half hours later, we returned to the foot of the mountain. My knees had taken a toll from those endless steps and I was grateful to see them behind me. My father, surprisingly, looked as unaffected as he ever was. I wondered if that was true inside too. We hopped back to the car and headed back. Traffic started to pick up for rush hour now. As we passed through the same streets, I remembered in growing up when my friends talked of their father-daughter moments how fascinated I was with those mysterious, almost alien experiences of theirs. I couldn’t exactly claim our 2-hour hike as one of those, but I would definitely with much pride chime in now: well, I went hiking with my father!

Going Home

In a little more than 2 weeks I will be going home.

Surely after nearly 30 years of sojourning at the other side of Pacific, home officially and logically should no longer be there but here. Somehow, habit has made it impossible to reverse the quote, even though in reality that home for the longest time never lived up to its name. Except for the language, nothing feels natural there: the culture, the life, the traffic, even the people that constitutes “family”.

Truth be told, time and space aren’t the guilty parties that contribute to this unfortunate sentiment. In growing up, there had always been much strain between me and the world I ever knew of such that I constantly felt the awkwardness like a fish out of water. I was the runt of the litter to start with: sickly, weak and needy. Later on, I failed to live up to the standards held by that of the culture and my own family. Despite all my good intentions and effort, I have not yet figured out how to live in harmony with them, let alone acquire their approval or even impress them. To them, I am forever a sad or sore thumb, undisciplined or too wild for my own good. I walk too fast, talk too loud and love and hate too much. Their open admonition or disapproval did not help either. Eventually I rightfully owned the ultimate crown, the black sheep of the family, in that I was nothing like them and thus inevitably followed the natural course to exile out of the country.

Such incompatibility between us continued on even with the safe distance of many oceans and lands. Whenever I am around them, the fear would overtake me despite of decades of life and experience I have gained from this part of the world. I would hopelessly reverse or regress to the same walking disaster as if I never left. The last few trips home in the past 10 years finally cured me of my homesickness. I came to the conclusion that less is more, farther is closer when it comes to visiting them.

Why is home not home? I have questioned time after time. Surely I couldn’t ask for more love and generosity than any family would give me. In fact I believe there isn’t anything that they would not spare for my sake. Unfortunately, my existence to them is better with distance or even in notion only. My last trip home was 4 years ago –and yet it feels like yesterday that I was back there on that top floor room, alone and abandoned like a caged animal – only totally gleeful and grateful. My family was all downstairs, carrying on with their life: my father watching his stock market’s up and down from the TV, my sister working on the computer, and my mother cleaning and cooking away at the kitchen. It was a safe haven for me: peaceful, quiet and away from all harm. When finally it was time to come down for meals, I’d trod down the 4 flies of stairs with my footsteps light and thoughts heavy with what I might say or do. In their presence, I would change into this guarded stranger that says little and listens much to avoid the wrong words to ever slip and incur their impatient yet well intended reprimands. To them, I have been this forever child, clumsy, unruly and helpless.

In contrast, this alien country has granted me much blessed asylum on the day when I landed. It didn’t take me long to realize that this “less civilized” culture with its tong twilling language, tasteless fast food and excessive modernization in fact did not at all try to condemn or conform me. I found it both liberating and fascinating that I was no longer under surveillance or better yet obligation to be who I should be. The family I have here started with someone with the most open mind and generous spirit who has accepted me since day one. Over the past 25 years, not a word of reproach has ever been raised against who I am, despite of our disagreements over many things. There is no need for tiptoeing or remorse with either words or works. My kitchen requires no scrubbing and my bed free to be unmade. I am my own mistress there! If I allow it, I can even feel confident and beautiful. I am home and free – almost. The only one that could ever disapprove me is none other than me.

My monologue seems to do its magic again, bringing my much troubled thought to yet another comforting revelation: No, I am not going home after all. I am already home. Nearly 3 decades later, it’s time for a change. I have done it in actions already, why not the name? As dreadful as the upcoming trip may be, I have this hope to keep me afloat in that while I am there I get to repeat the same words, “I am going home” - only this time with much joy and bliss.

Coming Home

I flipped open my cell phone to check the time: 4:20pm. Vinny’s was quiet and deserted for a change with me as the only customer and a few workers behind the counter chatting lightly. It was merely 5 minutes past the appointment time, but I couldn’t help fighting the anxiety within; I was worrying if K would not show and if she did show. It had been 2 years since we saw each other last, but that was not in the least why I had this dilemma. The truth was: my dear friend had just suffered one of the biggest losses in life and I was to face her first time after that.

10 minutes passed. I saw another car pulling up and sure enough K arrived. She stepped out, cell phone in action as she closed the car door and walked in. Her hair groomed and make-up light, she looked like any average woman who was meeting up with friends for a dinner. She spotted me and let out a beautiful smile. From outside, we were merely 2 friends reuniting after a long break with our happy greeting. “How are you?” “You look great!” There was no reason to believe anything otherwise, anything as remote as 2 mothers grieving for the death of a child.

There we were finally, nearly 1 month after the tragic accident when her 20-year-old son drowned at the Outer Bank. Our eyes looked at each other’s face and saw what hid beneath unsuspected by others. Suddenly, the fear of what to say or expect departed from me as our hearts spoke silently to each other the language only mothers would understand. When the real words did come, they filled in not only the blanks of the questions but also that hole of my heart. My ear listened to a simple story of a boy and his last camping trip with his brother and friends, and yet my eyes saw something exquisite beyond all expectation. The tragedy turned into this fairy tale with the most envious, happiest ending as I pictured this young man helplessly lost after 20 years of Sunday schools and Christian camps found his way home. I pictured his anguish as he burst open his parents’ room at 1am with his Bible in hands to start the inquiry of the faith that was taught to him. It did not make sense! How frustrated he must have been to discover his life turning from a period to a question mark and how escalated he must have been when God reversed that question only days later back to the assuring period, and then an exclamation mark!

Vinny’s was slowly filling up at 5pm. Soon enough, we were surrounded by a roomful of diners. And yet we were not there in that crowed, noisy restaurant. My tearful eyes now saw nothing but that young man and his joy at the Subway Station with his family when he disclosed his peace with God first time of his life. I imagined his excitement as he exchanged texting with his friends on the discovery of God’s word first time of his life. I wondered too if he, before the wave carried him away, saw the beauty of this world from the boundless sky to the endless sea first time of his life.

Oh, why wouldn’t these silly tears stop! And the pain too! I was fighting hopelessly with not only my tears but also the frustration. How could you feel anything but happy for that most blessed boy? In as short as a couple of weeks after being saved and safe, he lived to the fullest of anyone’s life time. I knew then that I might have cried for my brave friend there, but I cried more for the shameful realization of my envy. Would I trade my decades of drudgery and failure with his weeks of liberation and elation! What hit me to the core was the question that turned him back to God, which had been my own all these months: Am I saved? If I am, what of these unfruitful life, discontentment and misery? He was convicted finally of the contradicting sins and shames after 20 years of carrying the name of “Christian”, while I, nearly double of the time in God’s long suffering love, came face to face with the same confrontation less the excuse.

Two and half hours later with our dinner barely touched and many tears shed, the two friends finally wrapped up and bid our farewell. My eyes were all swollen from all that crying – I knew I must have made such a scene there at the restaurant, but that was the last in my mind on my way home. I felt this kinship with this young man there in that car as I shared not only his crimes but also the ultimate pardon from the same Judge. How I wished I had been there with him – that night before, when he and his friends laid down on the sandy beach looking at the starry sky and heaved with the deepest sigh the joyful exclamation: “This is the best trip of my life!” I was wondering as perfect as he felt then, he never would have known how true that statement was – only that it was in fact better than “best”, beyond all standards or envy. My young friend is home now, and thanks to him, so am I.

Happy Hour

Another coworker from our group was leaving. Young, competent and adorable, she has made her presence enjoyable for the past 2 and half years thus the news of her departure sad and regretful. Many activities were called to bid our farewell: lunch, potluck and even a drink after work on her last day. Potluck was no issue, therefore I gladly pitched in my share of contribution and patiently endured an hour of obligation of being crammed in a small conference room with plenty of pots and lucks for both eyes and stomachs. It was the lunching out and the after-work drinks that pushed the limit.

Truthfully, the lunching out or after-work drinks have always been there; they are just totally irrelevant for the social scrooge like me, who has learned her lesson well that less is more or none at all for the sake of the well-being of everyone. This unfortunate impediment comes in two forms: my inability to find the balance between give and take for conversation and the fated outcome of turning into the third wheel anywhere and every time. The tragedy, though, lies not in the curse itself but in its object, who is presumably old enough to be mature and graceful and yet anything but. Thus, I habitually turned my ear off with this invite, the reminders and the inquiry from the very beginning.

Friday, day of the event, came. There lingered in the air the excitement for both the special event and Friday itself. The day seemed to be relatively slow and lazy. A couple of persistent coworkers continued to solicit from me my participation for the “happy hour”. I’d either pretend not hearing it or joke it with something light to avoid the subject. All day long, the struggle was there between going or not going, agreeable or disagreeable, me or not me. “Not” would be the usual easy way out, but somehow I was feeling less and less “easy” by the hour as I struggled with something more than want I wanted. DS, who had left 2 months ago, would be taking time off, enduring the Friday afternoon traffic and going the distance to make the event. AND, it was her last day. Should I insist on my own comfort zone or my obstinate, selfish nature at the expense of basic human kindness??

3:30 pm. People were wrapping up and getting ready to head out to the party. I was keeping quieter than ever, hoping to dodge any last attempts. I heard the guest of honor’s footsteps and there she popped in. She was to bid farewell. “Just in case you don’t come…” We hugged and then she was gone. I was left there, struck by not only the implication of her last presence to me but also the assumption of my last to her! Suddenly I was not alone. There crept out that greatest sin of mine - the contrarian or rebellious button that could not afford to be pushed. And that was exactly what that farewell did: me in the company of the worst ally. My whole being had been in turmoil all day long till that moment when revelation hit me and set me free then and there: I would go because you guys expected me NOT to go.

I arrived with another coworker an hour later. He was feeling guilty for not going, while I was feeling something far from guilty: brave, liberated and determined. Our appearance though surprising did not cause much commotion as I had anticipated. We sat at the end of the table and started our share of spirits and fun. The water outside of the porch was a hue of dusky blue, the sun gleaming above a soft golden, the beer cold and laughter merry. Ere long, I forgot what the party was about and who it was for and why I was there. It was just me talking, listening and laughing without much care. I had made plan to stay for a half hour show. By the time I hit the road, it was 2 hours later.

Sober and alone in the car, I was hit by the unavoidable realization – the warrior who had come to conquer and claim was in fact the traitor. I would like to blame it on the beer, or the hypnotizing wave under the lazy sunset that turned me into that shameful defector, drinking and laughing like one of them. Still, I have to ask if the reversed outcome was in fact another trick of life in that the house, nature, always wins despite of our ploy and scheme? Or like movies, you should always go with the least expectation to have the maximum enjoyment? Either way, the truth remains that the happy hour, sadly, turned out to be happy after all – even for this rebel.

The Game of Love

AH im’ed this morning: “And the soap continues”. “Soap”, shortened for the soap opera that has been going on with his love life since 2 weeks ago. He had had a fight with his girlfriend for 2 years over a dinner, after that phone calls stopped, number deleted and personal belongings returned. A week later, he met another girl and thus the “soap” started when the old girlfriend called with a change of mind.

I am amazed how instant modern relationship has become after 25 years out of the game. Never proficient in this arena during my young single days, I have always regarded love, or dating game, exhausting and excruciating and thanked God for the good fortune on the day when I was exempted forever as I stood at the altar and gratefully swore in my “I do”. Unfortunately, I continued to be exposed to this frustrating mystery through friends whose marriages or relationships failed. While they go through their up and downs, tears and joys, I too weep and laugh as a good friend would do. Still the truth remains that I have no clue on this impossible task, as to its complexity and oddly its simplifications nowadays.

When young, love or romance was irresoluble for a girl like me with a big appetite but much less in budget. Sadly, I was also cursed with 2 sisters and plenty of friends whose assets allowed them to pick and choose as they desired. For the longest time I sat on the sideline watching them jumping in and out of the field perpetually and effortlessly. With my older sister, who is merely a year apart, I was more than an audience. The inevitable sibling rivalry made her turns an intense and personal experience thus I envied and resented her accomplishments with secret tears and curses. As for my girlfriends, it was thankfully more of an enjoyable entertainment less the involvement.

Maria, my best friend in high school, provided me with such benefit from high school to college. Popular and wild, she was the frequent player in the game. She was also funny, smart and for reasons unknown loved me and patiently endured my awkward dejection in those days. Her glorious triumphs in life (and boys) never presented a problem in our friendship. What do you do with nature wonder such as moon, stars or rainbow except admiring and applauding? Morning after morning, we’d pace up and down on the school’s court yard, pretending to be studying together while she disclosed yesterday’s “development” in details. After high school, our “rendezvous” continued on to college. I remember taking the bus from my college to hers, walking on that beautiful, wooded campus to the office where she worked part-time, all excited for her lunch break when we’d close the office door and lie down on two desks for her to resume the drama. I would always start with a semi-serious jest like “which one are we on now?” and she would reply “which one do you want to hear?” The iteration continued with me complaining how hard it was to keep track and her come-back like how much she should charge me with that much of thrill. Thinking back, I now realize how carefully she must have concealed with the details of the romances to protect the innocence of her sheltered friend. Even so, the ancient old lover inside of both of us, though different in life and personality, remained forever passionate toward this thing called “love”.

Years later, my beautiful wild romanticist friend and I parted as I travelled across the Pacific and settled down on this side of the water. We lost contact but I continued to hear from our mutual friends that she had got married soon after college, followed by a heart wrenching divorce. I heard too how she continued to pursue love even to as far as Canada, only to be left deceived and desolate. Our last encounter was nearly 20 years later at a small class reunion in a restaurant back home. The once dashing star proved to be successful and assertive in her career and yet still lost in love. She disclosed to us her relationship with a married man and incurred from me a reflexive blunder when I exclaimed “but you deserve so much better!” Her indignation was never eased off even after my repeated attempts of explanation and apology. We parted this time unamiably. The last I heard from her was that she had packed up her life and career to follow her lover abroad.

AH’s 2 week’s drama is far from that of my friend’s 30 years of combat in its magnitude and nature. He continues on as a resilient warrior 2 divorces and many romances later, except that he has sworn off marriage despite of his long-suffering endurance. I have to wonder: is it sex, culture or even time that contributes to the drastic contrast of my 2 friends’ love life? Both have been the repeated players, one rolling in and out without wait while the other diving in without concern for point of no return. My heart marvels at one’s resolute effectiveness at the same time aches for the other’s total abandonment. Comparing to my 2 courageous friends, one new and one old, I remain as sheltered as ever. Somehow my competitive nature does not seem to be bothered this time. In fact, I am thinking how fortunate I am – the late bloomer, the tortoise, the dark horse, who barely got her turn to play actually scored and made it there safe and sound. The trophy I have received, in my own estimation, surpasses any thrills and kills that those players could ever claim.

"Charlie made me cry!"

This weekend I played with Charlie.

We had gone out to dinner a few weeks ago – 2 couple’s night out at Carrabas. It was great fun: good food and warm conversation as always. In fact we had had so much fun that D and I requested an encore. This time I decided to do something different: dumpling party at home instead of dining out. Charlie can be stubborn, but I am bossy. With no room for persuasion on my end, he finally caved in.

Dumplings, or Chinese raviolis, to be more exact, are the delicacy and rare honor at our home since I started working full time. They are labor intensive from chopping vegetables to dough kneading. After that, there is yet another hour of pastry making and dumpling wrapping. Nevertheless, they are not only family’s favorites but also a most-requested dish from friends. I could not think of anything better then that. So the party went on – we were at the kitchen island making dumplings and conversation for a good hour and half. He was looking pale after all that chemo treatments and radiations but none the less jovial. The dinner turned out to be somewhat a let-down for my standard, but my company did not seem to mind. Their gracious forgiveness allowed me to overlook my less than satisfactory performance and soon instead of the disappointing dishes we feasted on a better substitute: hours of intriguing conversation, which was far more scrumptious and enjoyable than any gourmet delicacy I could think of.

During the conversation, he mentioned he had been asked to substitute for a substitute at our sister church the next day due to a last-minute cancellation of the guest speaker. It’s been 2 years since he turned in his interim pastorage after our new pastor came. He had not returned to our podium since. After months of the severe attack by the ailment and far-more-hostile treatments for the ailment, he stopped taking invites from other churches. This news came both miraculous and wonderful! How many times have I relived those moments when my troubled heart and wandering eyes were set straight with God at the rise and fall of his voice? Sunday came and the bad student skipped the school to play with Charlie. The church was a pitiful sight outside and sadder inside with but a handful of congregation left. How ironic it was when the guest speaker was almost as frail and forgotten as the building itself? And yet there he walked in, on his cane or “third leg”, which he humorously quoted, his eyes twinkling and face smiling. When the long anticipated preaching finally started, with his first word the unexpected, ridiculous tears came! It was déjà vu when this Philemon was brought home again to make peace with both God and men. The magic continued on when he preached on none other than Romans 8, starting with God’s unconditional pardon through “no condemnation” for the most wretched sinner then, me, and ending with God’s immeasurable provision in “no separation” for His most suffering servant there, him. There he stood, his body stubbornly leaning against the podium to support his pain stricken legs, baring his soul how he had cried for that 20-year-old boy whom he had shepherded and lost to sea just a few weeks ago. And there I sat, with no tissues for rescue, all silly and weepy for reasons beyond the young man’s death. He was testifying to the adequacy of God’s grace through the father’s faith and example when all that reminded me was that of his own, along with his trials and tribulations, which he so sneakily avoided. I was fighting for control with my face buried low for fear of being found out what a cry baby I was, but when that last hymn “Amazing Grace” started the battle was lost. I had to flee out of the chapel. I would not be seen with my makeup all messed up like that! Word for word, the song pursued and persecuted me through the closed door. When I finally returned, the last verse ended. I turned, only to find Pat just as teary as I was. We stared into the same pain through each other’s eyes and cried together.

It was a beautiful, sunny day on the way home. The sky was blue and air was cool. The Sunday’s traffic was moving steadily like any other Sundays, oblivious of the trauma that I had just gone through. I couldn’t shake off that image: an old and almost forgotten church, the musky and gloomy sanctuary, Charlie smiling up there and me crying underneath. I was thinking, he may be afflicted by that “chronicle condition” or on that “third leg”, as he so eloquently put, he was none the less a bully. I should have known that before going out to play with him. I wanted then to tattletale on him: “Look what Charlie did! He made me cry!”

My walk, my Bach and my blog

September has finally come. After 2 months of intense heat and humidity, we are more than ready for a change of season. Even though for southern Virginia the reality might not take effect for yet another few weeks, the official change of the month digit from 8 to 9 still brought much hope for some reluctant summer’s captives like me who cannot wait to be set free. September means cooler days, golden leaves and dancing air. September means light jackets and boots. It also means shorter days, change of routines, such as my walk.

With the summer’s blazing heat, I had to shift my mid-day walk to morning, and further on early morning (6:30). The route I have been taking has its reputation of “NOT safe”, thus I was cautioned enough not to temper with even further (or earlier) change. Impulsive and undisciplined I may be, I am also a creature of habits that breathes on routines such as my 3:30am wakeup time, the exact parking spot under the same tree, and, yes, the 16-block morning walk to and fro. The insatiable, restless nature in me finds no other better therapy than that 30-minute walk during which all care and fear evaporate soundlessly and effortlessly.

Why would such simple activity that costs so little, time-wise and equipment-wise, does so much good for my mental well-being? I wonder. Every day as the dusk turns to twilight, I would feel the same antsy excitement leaping inside my chest. I put on my walking shoes and grab my IPOD, all ready to revisit the same buildings, streets and trees. With heart thrilled and strides swift and long, I magically morph into that carefree creature, feasting on the birth of another day in its display from the air in the sky to the meager grass on the roadside. For reasons I don’t know still, I am exhilarated beyond words. The paved walk next to the Credit Union takes me to the street back home in my moody and awkward 14-year-old days. The crimson blossom of the crape myrtles above my head reminds me of those beautiful tropical summers when cicada echoed high the thrill and hope of the graduation season. Time has done its magic to heal the past wounds, thus I find myself no longer haunted but smiling at the remnant memory with nostalgia. The street is lined up with mixed architectures, some of which century old and some modern and grand. Those old stone buildings with peeled off paint would instigate my vivid imagination of their past glory while the gated new establishment triggers my curiosity of its new inhabitants, who they are and what their hope and dreams may be. A few more streets further down is the corner where I take my returning direction and meet the breeze from the waterfront that almost teases me to tears every time. It is only 6:45am and there I walk on – streets still half awake, the stone pavement under my feet worn but crispy clean. Across the street sits the park in tranquil beauty under the veiled twilight. And there on the bench was the same man with his computer, quiet and motionless. I wonder if he too is under the spell of the morn as I am.

And let’s not forget my Bach Sonatas and Partitas violin solos – how brilliantly and perfectly they play on, resonating with every emotion I relive. Morning after morning, their magic never fails or fades. Past the city courthouse and banks is where the traffic of the morning crowd starts to pick up. Thankfully my friend Bach provides ample disguise or excuses for me to remain a speculator rather than participant as I march on, surveying the world without any obligation for social etiquettes. For yet a little while longer, there I am still, ageless and fearless, looking at life in a brand new vision. From a pale blue sky surfacing above to a world resuming her day and activities below, everything seems the same and yet so different. It’s amazing how a little distance and distraction can yield such a change of perspective. Even as insignificant and ordinary as a tree with a hint of autumn on its leaves would take my eyes away from the consuming care of this world. I am instantly reminded of how little and brief this life is and how majestic and endless another one will be. All my pitiful strivings appear, once again, ridiculously fruitless in His omnipotent presence.

My walk ends. I have returned to where I started, all sweaty and messed up outside and somewhat improved inside: Calmer, quieter and, for a little while, wiser. The hope follows me as I quicken the step to walk up the stairs, knowing that when my limited effort and vision end I have too another faithful friend, my blog, to help me recapture the revelation. Who else is there like my blog, whose ear is always ready, silence like gold, and patience never ceasing? Indeed it is through the walk that this old gal meets her young soul, and through timeless Bach those two make their peace, but it is my Blog that receives all that irreconcilable differences after the walk. I could not be more blessed than in the company of the threesome like my walk, my Bach and my Blog.

Back to School

Over two decades later, I was back to school.

I recall clearly that day when I handed in my last final thinking to myself: that’s it, my last exam. I wanted to pat my shoulder to congratulate myself for a job well done in persevering to the end for the past 19 years of schooling days. Like my fellow comrades, I fought a good fight, kept the course and now waited for that well deserving trophy – the last diploma. I remember too promising to myself as worthwhile or meaningful as it had been, I had had enough of schools and that would be true end of an era.

Windows 7 broke that promise. With the computer world evolving continually, we the IT support face the reality of keeping up with the changes. The company then decided to send us all to school for a whole week. Incidentally my sign-up week fell on the time just when most schools started. So here I came, backpack and lunch bag packed, marching along with the student crowd for the same mission, much more in age and apprehension and unfortunately less in joy and hope.
What do students expect of the first day of school besides new outfit and gear? From a world of different time and space, it hardly ever revolved around new shoes or clothes – uniforms took care of that and school supply was merely new pencils and erasers since the rest was provided by school. On that same road back to school after a 2-month summer vacation was a child with a book bag nearly empty yet a heart filled with much anxiety: Would I make new friends? Would they like me? Could I finally make it to the “good students” list so my teacher would love me as they loved my sister? Many, many years later, there I was again, standing in front of that classroom – still the same child within and yet so different in many ways: instead of walking, I had driven my cross-over utility to school; instead of growing my hair is now thinning and brain shrinking; instead of many ambitions and resolutions for a better me, my head stirring with only one question: how do I survive this week without looking like a fool?

My classmates of the week may be from different groups but were of the same floor, so there were no strangers to deal with. Our “teacher” was but a well-paid outsider who cared no grades or disciplines thus no one to seek approval from. Yet, I still intuitively sat myself at the far end aisle seat next to door for easy, necessary escape. My survival instinct was miscalculated when another coworker took his seat right next to me seconds later. He was not at all in the category of “strangers” since we had had our occasional “dealings” back at the office in our IM sessions and chocolates tossing across the partition between our cubicles. This unfortunate mishap actually cost not only my safety but also my sanity for the whole week as my “no-stranger” neighbor dutifully performed his daily instigator and tormentor role. Instead of hiding behind the enemy line, I was tossed out mercilessly in the war zone with him pushing the button and I yelped and cussed despite all effort. All eyes or heads would turn at me with frown and disapproval while I sat mouth wide opened and defenseless. Gone was all well designed safeguard, gone was productivity and gone was, most sadly, propriety. In short, I successfully committed the exact crime I had feared most: becoming a fool.

A week has passed since the school day revisit. As much as I would like to pin it on my enemy, I am well aware that I couldn’t help being baited like a silly 8-year-old. I had anticipated everything in that classroom – everything except teasing, as harmless as it was, something that the younger me had known a thing or two about and the older and wiser me taught my own children of. All that experience and wisdom rendered useless in a setting of reality. Do we ever change over time and space? Across the Pacific Ocean and another continent with many, MANY years of wisdom and experience acquired, I went back in that classroom as helpless as I had been on the very first day of school. I think of my other “classmates” there, many of whom I knew little of except crossing path at the office, still I am sure they too had reversed to be their younger selves in that classroom: some reserved, some dutiful and focused and some teasers or bullies as they had been since day one. The truth is: they never left the classroom.

So how was training? Some asked. I smiled with my usual wise answer: “Best thing was the last day: we had 3 dozens of donuts and 1 batch of chocolate cookies”, when the real revelation in fact was: Forget Windows 7, forget pens and pencils, but don’t forget the bullies.

"Are we there yet?"

August continued on to week two. For college son and husband, they have yet 1 more week to go before a new academic year begins in full session. Since the ending of the high school era, we have been slacking in taking summer vacation as a family and finally became convicted enough to take remediation on this setback. We had come up with a couple of choices: Pittsburgh or Baltimore. Both seemed doable as far as time frame and budget are concerned, but Baltimore won eventually in its merit of location (closer) and time (shorter).

23 years of parenting and 25 years of marriage later, I have concluded that playing is definitely NOT in our gene pool. Some believe in “practices make perfect”, but I would argue that it may improve but never overcome, let alone perfect. In this family, vacation is work (and vice versa) for parents. For children, it is somewhat a split. The older son would consider a ride on Interstate Highway with his camera in action vacation already, while the younger one merely tags along for the motion only. He seems forevermore detached and neutral with whatever decisions we make: what to do, where to go, McD or Wendy. Vacation to us is a picture of 4 faithful and long suffering pilgrims trapped in the car performing their playing duty.

In the past, the man of the house extended his authority to the domain of the car and thus had always been the designated driver. I might have stepped in a couple of times as the reluctant substitute out of necessity. Unexpectedly, this trip deviated when the younger son popped the question: do you want me to drive? At 20 years old, he has been driving since 17, mostly for errands or agendas of his own but strictly limited to the local routes. Still, I was taken by surprise. The request may sound logical from a young man of his age, but not from one who is anything but logical. Intense and atypical, he has had no social activities such as phone calls, partying, or outing with people of his age throughout his growing years. Nowadays, he has been withdrawing from family trips whenever an option is in place. Even with his presence, it would be at best in the company of a shadow, who with his ear piece on is anywhere but there in the back seat of the car. Outside of the car, the shadow moves away even farther, skirting and dancing 50 feet ahead of us with almost a painful look. An outing with him, as rare as it may be, is no dream vacation that we would get thrilled about. His volunteer to drive to some degree was more disturbing than unexpected for the worrisome mother. The father, however, being a born teacher with the most persevering faith and patience, hesitated no time to turn in the driver’s seat. Baltimore is but a 3+ hour drive. With the route we planned, the proposal seemed harmless and feasible to him. Just like that, another driver was born, I mean, on.

Why do we continue to expect life anything but unexpected when it never fails to surprise us with its unpredictability? Once he was behind that wheel, the shadow took shape and came alive for the first time since forever. In that metal box only big enough to be called “Cross-over” utility, he was not only animated but also engaging, violating all evidences of his 20 years of existence. That Hallmark moment even includes those silly, nonsensical interactions with his Autistic brother. For a little while, we were almost a normal family, taking a trip while we joked and conversed from movies, music, to nothingness. The rest of the first day - the motel that GPS could not locate, a baseball stadium too crammed for comfort, the anticipated attraction, Inner Harbor, jam packed with Saturday crowd on a hot and humid August day – failed in every category to qualify for a fun and relaxing vacation, but somehow it became irrelevant. Like good sports with perseverance, we came, we saw, we conquered.

After we concluded our first day in a brand new, hopeful American family spirit, the next day delivered another surprise when we headed on to Annapolis. The contrast between two worlds – that inside of the car and that outside – became strikingly evident. Once outside, he reversed to that amorphous ghost whose presence was too gloomy to ignore yet too far to reach. The charm by the water with shops, restaurants and blue sky might well have been as invisible as he was. Gone was our normalcy of a typical American family, gone was the bliss and gone was that amiable son. In as little as an hour of chasing after our illusion, we returned to our car and there he was again, alive and well, behind that steering wheel.

On the way back, I couldn’t help wondering if we did or did not have a good trip. Thus far, I was, and still am, uncertain with my conclusion. Somehow, the object of my assessment is no longer the trip but once again the million dollar mystery: the phantom, our son. Trip or son, I would probably wrestle on forevermore. But this I do know: while most parents take drastic measure for the road trip to avoid the dreadful question from the back seat “are we there yet?”, we are definitely spared from this predicament. For us, it is more like: “Thank God, we are NOT there yet”.

Skirt Experiment

After months of drought, the rain finally came. It started in the form of fury with Friday’s thunderstorm, flooding cities in various areas and continued on the next day to relieve the long suppressed agony. To our pleasant surprise, it wept more steadily yesterday till nightfall. I went to bed with windows open and the sweetest, most primitive music on earth, the sound of the raindrops.

As we marvel the long overdue miracle from heaven, another lesser form of miracle took place on earth this morning: I put on my girly outfit, a sweater and a skirt, to come to work. Two years and three months of my professional life, I have been anything but professional in the wardrobe department. To be fair, I did start out proper: blouse and slacks. Overtime in observing other “less formal” colleagues I started “slacking” off and sneaking in more and more “casual Friday” spirit on non-Fridays until finally the Friday spirit took over EVERY DAY.

In my defense, the nature of my job position does not require formal wear or dress code. In addition, the office has not been accommodating in its temperature control. It is always so cold that I end up with a sweatshirt and a blanket regardless of what I wear. My coworkers of the same sex, however, never seem to be afflicted by the same hostile condition and exhibit much more exciting spirit in both colors and varieties: dresses, skirts, heels, sandals and all that fixings. Unfortunately it failed to shame my instinct of survival and yes my contrarian nature in that “different” is good, especially when “different” means comfort and less effort. As any fallen creature, still, I have the full capacity of being vain in every way, and that includes my jeans and T-shirt, which are carefully selected every day. Such effort behind my plain yet deliberate choice achieves barely to satisfy my own vanity. The truth is: most people don’t really pay attention to a middle aged, married coworker like me.

So why skirt on an overcast, sad Monday after all this time? Impulse, curiosity or vanity? I don’t really know. What matters is that I did it: put on the outfit laid on the chair the night before, walked out of the house without returning to change and drove off to my expedition. At 4:10 I sat alone in my cubicle, my white sweater and red skirt loud and clear in plain view. I was thinking brave and feeling exactly the opposite with every ticking minute. 5:10 I had my first audition when I walked over to talk to the 2nd arrival of the day. It was met with no reaction at all. 5:30 was my 2nd face-on – still nothing. And the pattern continued on till finally my 28-year-old female coworker favored me with her giggles, which turned out to be the one and only attention for my major fashion undertake in 2+ years.

On top of my bewilderment, I was once again staring at another episode of life’s irony, which seems to have repeated too often to be surprised. My daring attempt to deviate from my usual fashion course turned out to be nothing worth noting or commended as I had anticipated. I thought of another irony that had just happened on Sunday at church when I made exactly the opposite choice, NOT to stray from my comfort zone, as we were all called up to parade to the front to pray together. Being the frozen chosen with a phobia of any public exhibition, I obstinately stood the ground for fear of violating my principle and nature as a good Presbyterian would do even at a Baptist church. Unfortunately, this safe choice rendered me anything but safe since I was miserably exposed standing there all by myself in trying to be myself. This unexpected miscalculation made me wonder if I should have done it otherwise and thus no eye brows would have raised and I be spared from the excruciating public display. Being singled out from everyone else turned out to be more strenuous than blending in. Maybe conformity is the comfort zone in that it can be a mean of camouflage, leading to an opportune and much needed safety?

The skirt experiment may have been a somewhat disillusion for my vanity’s sake but none the less a profitable revelation at the end. Sometimes, it is easier not to be you outside than to be you inside.

Good Morning, C!

My computer has been warming up, email scanned through and time sheet entered. Next to it sits a mug of hot water - my first and habitual drink of the day for decades. The time display at the very bottom right of the computer screen flashes the 3 familiar digits, 4:30, beckoning me for the very first appointment of the day: it’s time to meet C, my pastor, brother and friend.

I follow the shortcut to go to my favorite site for daily devotion, wondering why the convenience of technology has not hit home run with me still. After all I am the IT professional and it is 2010 already. I miss my 25-year-old Bible with burgundy faux leather cover, all duck-taped up with pages chewed up by our first dog. But C is waiting. “I will see you at 4:30!” He was saying exactly that at the end of the dinner last night. His face, now thinning and pale, was still glowing with that usual ardor and earnestness. It’s been almost a month when we first agreed to meet each other at 4:30am with a prayer session. He wakes up at 4, goes out to feed the birds and then comes back inside for his time with God. P whispered very quietly that he has not been sleeping well these days. Chemo and all the medications have brought along the inevitable side effect of insomnia, which coincidently has also been my life-long rival and companion. The irony is: as unwelcomed and tormenting it may be, this mutual nuisance has turned out to be the instigator of a sweet communion of 2 sleepless souls.

My chest constricts with joy and pang as I start to pray. Would I trade this stammering tongue here with his most endearing prayer almost poetry! But it is never about the words but the heart and soul behind and where they lead others. I find home and rest in Christ when he prays and even on the podium when he preached with those small, sometimes all wrinkled hand-written notes that he pulled out of his pocket. I am now exasperated as my mind drifts away to touch a territory I have avoided for fear of the predicament I am facing now. How do you describe something or someone so intricate, magnificent and multifarious? The danger is not that my words might fail the emotion within but that they would harm the integrity of my subject. Any deliberate effort from this poorly equipped tongue and mind would be at best as good as wrapping something majestic with gift wrap less in yardage and quality. I couldn’t help asking if half truth equals to lies and that half said is worse than not saying at all? Worst of all, it pains me to ever risk hurting him by exposing him who is so helplessly shy and insecure.

But how can I stop all these emotions from erupting without venturing to temper them with words even if they are bleakly inadequate! He brings smile and tears to my face even now as I struggle to capture him and all that paradox within: an old soul with a child’s heart, well-read, inquisitive and intelligent, who goes to bed with children’s classic such as Treasure Island; the beloved pastor who does not want to be one but served as one out of necessity for 3 years refusing to take compensation; the ex preacher who came to church to turn on the heat on the wintery Sunday morning before anyone was even awake and took leave before anyone came in; a man with a presence impossible to be missed at any gathering yet hides himself in the corner, desperately to be invisible; a friend whose company and conversation makes hours fly on like minutes (and what fun we had at the dinner!); a faithful brother whose confession of a rightful moan turned a runaway sinner tearful and speechless; the suffering one who battles the snare of cancer and looks at me with glistening eyes and says: “I pray for you at 4:30 every morning”.

My heart is too full and my vision blurred. It is fruitless to continue on. No, this ranting would do him or me no benefit. I would now abandon my useless exertion and trade it for a sweet hour of prayer with him. Unworthy and wretched I may be, I am ready to cease all striving and take all my sins and wounds to the foot of my Savior - in the company of a dear frined.

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!

That calls me from a world of care,

And bids me at my Father’s throne

Make all my wants and wishes known.

In seasons of distress and grief,

My soul has often found relief,

And oft escaped the tempter’s snare,

By thy return, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!

The joys I feel, the bliss I share,

Of those whose anxious spirits burn

With strong desires for thy return!

With such I hasten to the place

Where God my Savior shows His face,

And gladly take my station there,

And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Shall we meet?

10 months of “communications” later, AH and I finally met.

As IT team, we provide services for customers at locations that sometimes require transportation means to get to if needed. However, technology has made distances irrelevant since most support can be achieved via remote control through PC and phone. Thus it is more than likely that we never come face to face with customers such as those. AH started as one of them. It was not until by chance we discovered our common association with Pittsburgh that our relationship slowly moved from work to less professional territory. For months, though, this casual communication on sports or weather was limited to email solely as if we were bond by some mutual, unspoken rule. With IM and phone at our finger tips, we rigidly persisted on this arrangement until a month ago when I worked with his group on some problematic ticket that required instant and frequent responses, thus IM finally cut in. Even so, we continued to take deliberate caution to avoid the last barriers, phone or face-on confrontation.

Among many of my self-contradicting personality traits, social ineptness is one of them. I have not been known for being verbally quick or articulate. On top of such deficiency there is also a balance issue that I could never master: I either do too much or too little. Thus I avoid direct interaction if ever choices are available. Emails allow room for organizing thoughts at the same time satisfy the writer’s need or addiction inside of me. IM will be the next preference even though it provides some instant gratification in that you don’t have to wait long for feedback. Either way, there is nothing that exposes the true quality of thoughts better than writing, which serves the purpose of my secret quest for distinguished mind. My obsession, though, is hardly reciprocated in this modern culture of fast food products. AH’s willingness or perseverance in keeping our email/IM makes up his average quality of expression. Over time, this mediocre was overcome by other qualities such as his honesty and straightforwardness.

It started on Monday’s routine when he IM’ed and said he had brought some home grown tomatoes for share, followed by a logical question: how did he get them delivered? After a few iterations, it was then concluded for me to stop by on the way home to their parking lot outside of the building. It seemed logical; most importantly, he sounded as-a-matter-of-fact. At 3:50pm, I headed out to keep our appointment. It was then when I realized I was about to come face to face with not AH but my own social handicap. Like a drowning victim, I was overcome with paralyzing fear as the memory of past failure came flooding to swallow me. I remembered with acute pain that all relationships that started out on paper never ended well if not collapsed completely.

The reality is: this complex, confusing and contradicting package comes in the form of an average wrapper. My physical endowment is not nearly as interesting as my thoughts. Meanwhile, the size of my vanity is none the less smaller than that of those with superior beauty. History has proved that it would be better off if it started with the lesser end, as in my outside, then moving on to the better end, my inside, with the hope that time allows grace to grow such that both ends might compromise and even compensate. Clearly, this was not the case. As my car approached his building, I began to panic but there was no time for retreat. I saw him already, standing in the parking lot, spotting me and started walking toward my car. I parked and walked out to face my daemon, looking all too smiling and brave. How are you? We finally meet… the usual pleasantry any two people who met the first time. I am pretty sure to have said something stupid too. I remember averting my eyes, feeling and looking awkward to receive that friendly hug and finally scrambling back into my car and speeding off. The whole ordeal lasted less than 3 minutes but it may well be hell of a life time.

Why do we care what others may or may not approve of us in the skin-deep and deceiving part of human, our physical appearance? Experience has proved to me time after time that looks last as brief as minutes when our physical eyes see without seeing and the other faculty, brain, takes over to evaluate and scrutinize. How many times has this invisible yet far more superior organ of ours confirmed the irony that beauty of one’s outside rarely matches that of inside and vice versa? If so, why can’t I trust my fellow human beings to do the fair thing when I know such revelation cannot possibly be my own unique gift? Mayhap my true insecurity lies not in that’s outside but that is inside???

While I started on the verge of self-destructive doubt and fright, I recalled the one surety who has known me and remained his singular devotion and adoration for 25 years. With him, there would never be room for fear may it be glorious performance or regretful disappointment. I will, hopefully, always be the apple of his eye on a Sunday morning when I have my Converse on with my girly skirt or at any party when words fly before my better judgment. Even with all failing to be impressed, including my own self, I would but to look into his eyes and find myself as beautiful as I was on the day when they first met mine.

Dear C

Dear C,

Has it been 3 weeks or even 4 since I saw you last? Nowadays, memory has not been serving me well. Every time I struggle with recalling details, I would remember (ha!) with a smile one of Pastor J.’s favorite lines: “the older I am, the more I miss my memory”. How I thoroughly concur with him on this sentiment even though I can’t quite claim the same excuse as he was already in his 80’s then! I miss him dearly as a child missing her father and his guidance. How desperately I need him to set me straight with his wisdom and kindness! It’s been too long an exile and I wish to be back.

The church was crowded this past Sunday. A few visitors came for Gary’s 70’s birthday. You would have been amazed with this 3 tiers sheet cake by its size and taste. It was superb! Even after all people had been served, it was barely 1/3 of a dent. I generously volunteered myself with 2 helpings at the risk of ruining my appetite. Needless to say, my lunch was sacrificed after my chivalrous act. Anything for our brothers or sisters in need – it’s what we are called, to serve one another, isn’t it? I have been doing well on my “services” since I too went to another birthday at R’s for his 30’s celebration on Saturday. 30’s! Imagine that! Not even ½ of Gary’s, but 3 times more in food and twice in the attendees. With the help of the delightful treats and a couple of kind victims who came into my path, I graciously survived my social inadequacy. There were a few times when I found myself at the corner with my back pressing to the wall alone and almost abandoned, but it lasted but a few seconds and I quickly recovered by approaching to the food and filled up the plate as well as my mouth. I have to admit, though, that one hour was the limit of my perseverance. After that, I grabbed D and took our leave before the big exhibit of fun and game started.

My body has been richly nourished for these past two days and I am hoping that it would extend to my spirit soon. D thought the sermon served him well this past Sunday and I was almost jealous. How long has it been since I last heard God? A godly friend of mine in NH once spoke this truth that it was never about the sermon or the service but about the condition of your heart. How convicting is that! It felt forever since I was afflicted with this hollow that would not fill and an ailment that would not heal. And there comes another favorite of mine from Pastor J: you would never backslide if you continue to praise God. What I would ask him if he were still with us is that: how do you bring a feeble head and a stubborn heart together and turn them around? The curse of man’s wretchedness is not in his reasoning but his emotions getting the better hand, as Paul says in Romans 7:18-19: “…for the willing is present in me, but the doing of the good is not. For the good that I want, I do not do, but I practice the very evil that I do not want.” Weeks after weeks I continue with this flawless performance for man’s eyes only with my Bible, manicured smile and appropriate pleasantry. Aiming to be lost in the crowd, I rise and sit as everyone else does, going through motions of prayer, music worship and sermon. I was there, but I was not at all there.

In contrast, I remember feeling exactly the opposite, not being home and yet completely home. It was nearly 3 years ago when we first moved back from NH, crammed in that temporary apartment while we searched for a new house. The frustration of living off the suitcase with the bare minimum of the apartment’s accommodation and not knowing if or when the house hunting would end miraculously evaporated on the way to church every Sunday. That 30-minute face-on with God through you was all it took to ease all my anxiety for another week of unknown to come. Knowing you, who are just as awkward as I am with people, I can imagine how uncomfortable these words would make you even now, but the truth remains that no one that God has used thus far ever shamed and encouraged me as you did. And how I needed that... I do now, more than ever. Is it nostalgia or my inability to adapt to changes that haunts me so much with a past as clear as yesterday, where Christmas carols would play in July (or any day) and you pacing up and down up on the podium with a forever-child heart and smile? I ache with such intensity for that old chapel, barely equipped, nearly empty and yet fully home. I ache more for that excitement and life inside of me every week on that short drive that wasn’t short enough for a sermon not long enough. But above all, I ache for you, the forgotten, or wishing to be forgotten, and yet utterly unforgettable.

Well, I meant to say hi. I miss both you and Mrs.. Hope to see you this Sunday….

Just As I am

Another Monday started in July’s relentless heat and humidity. Barely 3:50AM, the air was already stifling. Even with the windows down, I could feel its weight thick and heavy inside the car. I had another bad night of face-on with the inveterate assailant of mine, insomnia. My head and body did not seem to suffer much from her attack thanks to the previous night’s good sleep, for which I was more than grateful. There awaited for me was a full day of work with little allowance for physical or mental deficiency.

Nearly ½ of the group would be gone this week – some for vacation, some in training class and some gone for good. I sat down at the desk, inadvertently doing the inventory check. It should be a good thing – less people meant less distraction thus amounting to more efficiency and hopefully productivity. Somehow this deduction though true brought less cheer or comfort to my spirit than I anticipated. The absentees, I realized, consists of one coffee pal, one work support and one mental instigator. I felt somewhat at a loss.

And the paradox continued on. It was the first day on my own for a long time and yet it felt as if 2 years never did come and pass. I was back in my 5 X 8 cubical, close enough to hear every sound or every move yet far enough to reach anything or anyone. I had enough work cut out for me, so I there I stood my ground for a straight 12 hours, grinding away quietly. The nostalgia was not at all unbearable but rather a timely regroup that seemed so long overdue. Except for a few business phone calls or dealings, I don’t think I ever talked with anyone else. Era long, a day was gone. I took my leave as soundless as I did my entrance this morning. It was just like the old time.

The road was packed with the 4pm crowd, jamming to leave a day of labor behind. I strolled on mindlessly, my thought preoccupied with nagging questions whose answers too bleary to reach. I was thinking how familiar it was to be so comfortably alone. I was wondering when and how long I had strayed away. I was finally thrown back on the intense debate on who I was or what I wanted to be as if it was the first time and every time. The remorse of a defector that longs to return was painstakingly palpable though slow and dull, and yet I couldn’t decide if my retreat would bring the ultimate peace to a soul so confused. My ears still rang all the admonitions, even criticism, from my own family in my excessive emotions and attachment with people and things. And they surely had seen enough evidences of damages incurred by my waywardness. If the price of indulgence on the innate nature brings you harm and consequently condemnation, does it justify to suppress or violate who you are? Even so, can one truly overcome oneself, disposition, passion and all? I clearly cannot.

It seemed like a never-ending, frustrating struggle between being free and being safe. With this world, both people and things included, I would have to concede with an admission of a total defeat. There are but two exceptions where I found the union of being free and safe, my life partner and Christ, whose immeasurable allowance for generosity and forgiveness had made it possible. It is, though, so easily overlooked as I habitually align my priority and attachment with that of the world, whose approval I eagerly sought and never received.

My short walk ended at the tree where the car parked. It was another day of drought in intense heat. The sky was once again overcast endeavoring to weep to no avail. I wondered if nature too echoed my frustration right there and then. Would our yearning ever be satisfied even if that timely rain poured? I knew mine wouldn’t. This wretched soul, forever adrift and insatiable, was cursed to wander on with quests that never ceased – until home at last. I took a deep breath, opening the car door while trying to close my thoughts all too wild and excited. I longed for another home, free of fear or expectations. When all fails, I would return to this temporary but none the less heavenly place that always receives me just as I am. As my car cruised off, those beautiful words flooded in my mind:

Just as I am, though tossed about
With many a conflict, many a doubt,
Fightings and fears within, without,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

I am coming home.

Congratulations, Mr. S!

9:45AM - The reminder of the staff meeting faithfully buzzed off. Not exactly my favorite thing to update on tasks with pending deadlines or to receive more tasks of new deadlines, it is truly a time of most burdensome obligation of the week. I usually endure it with great hope that it would bring no significant news and eagerly wait for the cue when the boss throws in his last remark such as:“any more questions? If not….”. This time, unfortunately, new task was given. My ear attentively perked up for the sign of release when he unexpectedly announced that one of us was leaving the group. M, a young girl, had told us of her leaving a couple of months ago when she and husband planned to move north. They were in the process of selling the house and hunting for a new job. Maybe they have finally successfully removed both hurdles and were ready to bid that last farewell. My eyes drew to her expectedly while my ear awaited the further clarification on the subject. “DS is leaving”. I snapped my head up, ear burned and eyes wide open. WHAT?! I blurted in shock, followed by a string of nonsense outbursts such as “why”, “Is this a joke”, “where is the chair so I can throw on him”, …. Gone were all rationale, calmness and reservation in my agitation. The meeting was over. I had no choice but to clam shut after a brief moment of frenzy. I darted out of the door, flew back to my cube and took my shelter.

DS came here after me, so it would make exactly 2 whole years. He was hired 3 levels above me, thus there had been very few talk and much distance in the beginning. In fact I don’t think I had had any interactions with him for almost a year till we started working together on some projects. Our relationship was mild and slow. He was the opposite of me in technicality, personality and popularity, but somehow we got along well through our mutual common ground – the appreciation of humor. In addition, I found him non-intruding and almost aloof, which makes him free of threat. We’d joke through conversation or IM, meet up at the kitchen for morning coffee or stroll to 7-11 to restock our supply. Sometimes he’d drop by to dig for treats from my cubical, occasionally for a few minutes of casual, non-work related talk, which makes him just about my only guest. It had always been nothing deep or elaborate, but enough to make me feel home. Above all, what impressed me most is his willingness to share his knowledge with the others. An atheist he claims to be, he has demonstrated more spirit of charity and generosity than some Christian coworkers.

Though light and casual, our relationship has been comfortable, none the less delightful. I have enjoyed his wittiness and substances in both conversation and character. We may not talk to each other on the daily basis, but I surely miss him on the days of his absence. At a work place, such appreciation of any soul is beyond all my expectation and furthermore against my intuition. I had not meant to devote anything extra besides being professional and superficial. The worst fear or sin to swear off is: in the smallest dose of indulgence, I may unwillingly and unknowingly reverse to that open, undisciplined self, whose unrestrained passion had incurred to herself not only pain but also much rebuke from my own family. The incessant dilemma I have been cursed with all my life is the conflict between the nature I was born with and the culture I was brought up in. I don’t think I ever succeeded in securing approval from either one. The compromise I ultimately reached is that: Freedom from passion may violate my nature but it guarantees also freedom from detriment and worst of all self condemnation. Sadly, with DS, my fear was realized - right there and then at that conference room when my heart was cut open and my wounds in public display.

So here I am, all shook up and lacerated, facing my casualty in the form of double jeopardy. I am at the brink of losing something vital and it is not DS; it is the sensible, older and wiser me, against my better judgment. The graver threat in this awakening, though, is no other than the real daemon, my vanity, so feeble and scarred by the fact the only person here that may have liked me, even for just a little, will soon be gone. I am mortified by the realization that it is after all not about DS and his leaving. It is again about me and the downfall of all creation – pride, the exact opponent of humility, with which our Redeemer came to live, die and charge us. I failed repeatedly in practicing the fundamental principle of all relationship, that it is selfless instead of self-serving. I couldn’t help reflecting my other “relationship”, one of which being that with AH, nonchalant and limited on our daily exchanges of weather or sports, and questioning its potential to ever wound me. Should one, being the frequent victim of one’s own passion and pride against her will, ever choose to relate with another if such perils always line beneath? In fact, having been commanded to love our neighbors as ourselves, how do we go forth to commune with others in spite of potential rejection and fears of loss? But if the outcome is proven unrelentingly disagreeable, would it justify not to embark upon the task at all?

My shame is now as formidable as my pain. I am, though, convicted enough to own my fault and sin. I have not still figured out the mystery of the ancient old paradox above, but my pride demands to make amend with DS. I shall offer him my congratulations and best wishes like any sensible, mature coworker. There will be farewell lunch to plan, engineered display of joy in his new promotion, and most importantly dignity to restore. Pride may be the cause of my downfall, but let it also be the beginning of the way to recovery.

Blessed Assurance

4:30pm. I heard the door swung open followed by the familiar footsteps. A head popped in, still wet from the swimming, then the lean and tanned frame. He was checking in, knowing that I would be home waiting for him for the big event of the day: his job interview. How was the swim? Good. Did you have a good day? Another good. His face all bronze up after months of patrolling up and down the streets around town revealed the same calmness and assured me that he had little anxiety about the interview at 6pm. We went through another iteration of reminder on music and manners, then it was time to change and pack up to go.

The interview was for a church accompanist – this would be his 2nd try. I have to admit this too, like the first one and his many other competitions or auditions, does little to me as far as any expectation was concerned. Rejection has been a theme of our life and we have grown accustomed to it for different reasons. His teacher, on the other hand, had been all antsy, hopeful, excited. She even rescheduled the class to work with him on his prepared piece.

5:45 only and we were at the parking lot of the church already. My son in his polo shirt and khaki pants looked as untouched as his clean shaven face. There locked inside of those dark brown eyes was the envy of all envies: a pool of serenity so far-fetched and longed by the rest of us. That brief moment inside of our car with our short prayer and the light oldies rocking on the radio was a taste of the ultimate solace. How I wished then that we could stay here forever! My son, my Jesus and His love – there is nothing sweeter and fairer.

We walked out of car and into the church. 10 minutes later, the panel of search committee all arrived. Luke sat with his back straight and purposeful attention – he was practicing every single rule I had drilled earlier. No matter, the verbal interview was not going far, which I had already pre-warned them on the phone. His interviewers then took it to the next stage. It was time to play his piece.

The sanctuary looked moderate in size and adornment, except for the pine paneled cathedral ceilings with 2 rows of clean lined chandeliers hanging down. It was a day of high 90’s and the air conditioning was not fully functioning. Our hosts apologized for the discomfort. I was mildly worried for Luke’s sake, wondering if he was going to be able to play well under the heat. He did fine. It was no Beethoven sonata or Bach concerto after all. The real challenge came when he was given pieces of brand new music for sight reading. My initial worry, though slight, proved to be extraneous as he played on carefully with deliberated articulation. Every once in a while, I would see from the corner of my eyes the others exchanging looks with smile and nods. They too appeared to like what they witnessed. A couple of times when they gave him directions he didn’t understand, after they demonstrated it on the piano briefly, he would pick it up and finish the task almost flawlessly. It surprised not only his panel of judged but also me. Music is his language; I already knew that, I just didn’t expect the extent of his proficiency. It was close to 7 o’clock on a late June summer day. The sun was still glaring bright and high outside of the beautiful windows along with its unyielding heat. Oblivious of both nature’s imposition and men’s inquisition, my son on the podium played on unwaveringly. And there I sat on a pew just a few feet away, my heart full and yet my words lost. It was a duet of 2 souls - the mother and son - singing the hymn "Blessed Assurance" with total abandonment then and there. I was musing how appropriate though cliché to feel touched by heaven at a place like a church when I was awe struck not by what Luke was capable but what God was capable. All along music had always been there, but music was not the theme.

An hour later, after being thoroughly examined from piano, keyboard and then organ, the interview finally concluded. We headed out, leaving the decision or consequence behind us, along with any anxiety I might have. I longed to be back into the car, even for as little as 10 minutes with the cool air conditioning and yes the safe haven free from all doubts and care. We were driving home, but to me, it might as well be a prequel of the ride to heaven.

Morning has broken

Summer is here. May rain has tapered off finally, although we still encounter her occasional outburst here and there. It is after all the unpredictable southern Virginia at the last stretch of nature’s temperamental mood swing. With the rising temperature, mid-day walk is becoming less feasible as June unfolded. I am, nevertheless, most unwilling to give up that precious 30-minute speed walk with a mixed, unconventional concerto of Bach violin Partita, Queen’s Bohemian rhapsody and Baez’s Diamond and Rust. My last 2 attempts to conquer the blazing sun of 90’s temperature were a victory in name only – I went, I attacked and I returned – all soaked up and not in the least reenergized. The only alternative left is to shift the schedule to day break when the sun saunters in, barely awake, in her still yet gentle and milder form. 3 mornings I have faithfully and gladly carried on with this new routine. Thus far, nature and I are still in amiable term, meeting up every morning at 7:00 both cordial and happy.

A creature of routines I am truly, I keep the same hour and same route. My iPod in my left hand, I march on with unwavering, slightly downcast vision to avoid eye contact with any approaching objects. I am here to exercise discipline, not socialization. The time slot (7:00-7:30), however, is incoming traffic at its peak with people and cars flooding in. I found it more tolerable to observe my fellow planet co-inhabitants from afar than up close and personal. Distance makes them less threatening or more entertaining. With sunshine and breeze tiptoeing on my hair, I am almost exhilarated. It is after all another day – hope is high and dream may still come true.

There was, I recall, once far as a life time ago and yet close as yesterday a hopeful soul who started her day in the renewal of dawn and dreams as I do. Granted she was then still ignorant and mayhap much troubled by many things as any young girl would be, the prospect of another day under the exuberant sunshine was none the less comforting. In the distance there comes a young woman with heels, makeup and luscious hair. I couldn’t help wondering if she too finds the world after the night less sorrowful. My eyes survey with indulgence from her youthful looks to the fashionable outfit and then there surfaces the mirage of another girl clad in her purposeful selection of the day. In fact, she still lives on, just not visible in this much, much older body with plain jeans and T-Shirt.

As I tread on the memory lane, I am surprised to find myself devoid of any present envy or past regret that have always been there - way, way more than I want – whereas being single, married or parenting. Somehow under that morning light, their ghosts no longer haunt me as much. I am most amazed by the discovery that despite of the youth asset and fortune, I don’t remember or miss much those fairer and younger days. Maybe I have reached that peace in being who I am, ungraceful and unconventional and yet all of me again after 20 years of being anything but. Sometimes without looking into the mirror, I would almost feel like that 15-year old, passionate and extreme, less the fear of being rejected and unloved. Without the anxiety for the prospect of love or marriage as any young woman would have, self acceptance is a much doable task. Life can in fact be interesting when you observe it from afar, not having to eagerly or hopelessly labor to fit in. I couldn’t help asking: Have I, then, indeed grown older and wiser in reversing back to the younger self except now in much assurance and little fear? That being true, then has another life’s wisdom just been uncovered that detachment and abandonment may well work together to bring the ultimate freedom?

My 30-minute walk is almost done. The sun has now risen higher in both altitude and heat. I have worked up to a sweat by now. My body awake and soul recharged, I am back on where I started my walk. There awaits me inside of the building in front of me not only a list of tasks of the day but also 8 hours of separation from sunshine and breeze. I have though enough dose of hope to last through the day. Unlike what William Feather claimed: “early morning cheerfulness can be extremely obnoxious”, this rejuvenated soul here finds it most liberating and furthermore absolutely necessary.