To Be Or Not To Be

Blissful Friday – forecast is raining on our parade with a chance of shower later on. Still, at 5AM with the world rousing up slowly in the veil of the leftover night, Friday is a comforting and hopeful prospect. I have recovered slowly from the depression on Monday as the week progressed. The work, however, continues to trouble me somewhat, but has on longer oppressed me to desperation. I actually managed to force myself to get out of my cubicle –went out to lunch with coworkers one day and took my lunch walk 3 other days. Both activities brought the needed diversion for my haunted soul, even though I had been reluctant at first.

Lunch had been harder, as I rarely took invites during my 2-year employment. Mayhap I resent the early rejects when my coworkers never included me in their group lunches till months later after I came. The main reason, though, is that taking a 1-hour-plus lunch break depresses me: the illogical guilt afterwards and the emptiness (in contrast to a stuffed up stomach) in retuning – it’s like after-the-movie, when-curtain-drops’ void and disillusion. It is as real as it is absurd. Somehow, those steps do not just take me back to the office but to the 7-years-old jammed in a flood of people moving out of the theatre. Gone was the 2-hour luxury, the thrill of an imaginary world in that big screen and the daylight that was there before we walked in the movie theatre. Tears would almost swell up into my eyes as my young heart pumped heavily from the loss. No, images like that do not exactly seem appealing, but I took the invite bravely this time.

On the way to the lunch place, a Vietnamese restaurant – another adventure for me as it would be my first bite – I was informed that there might be other people joining us. My new found courage diffused further on top of the prospect of foreign food. I grumbled and mentioned about “getting another table for myself”. My friends as well as coworkers would never associate “shy” with me, even though I am horribly uncomfortable with crowds. I usually resolve in hiding myself near the food tables and stuffing my mouth with food to avoid meeting or talking to people. It turned out there was but one showed up when we got there. My anxiety though not gone eased off a little bit, but I was still helplessly self-conscious. I averted my eyes from this harmless Asian colleague, acting cooler than necessary and talking more than usual. When I tried to be anything but frantic, I was a wild animal caught on fire. He became my object of my frenzy. I asked him about his family, where he lived and even his marital status, none of which belonged to a casual lunch conversation with someone that I would probably never meet again. Even my 2 other coworkers raised their eye brows and commented afterwards: “and you said you wanted to get a table by yourself??” I wanted to retort back: “EXACTLY why I wanted to get a table by myself!”

I thought of another occasion with this past Sunday’s potluck at the church. Even with a crowd bond by the same faith, some of whom I have known for more than 2 years, I could not stop that inner debate whether to stay or not to stay the entire time during the service. The thought of where to sit and whom I might have to talk to and what I could talk about paralyzed me. My conscience after the convicting sermon of that Sunday morning on “the functions of church” screamed out loud that I should stay, but my fear had the upper hand eventually. I couldn’t flee fast enough right after the church. As I sped out of the crime scene and even had a chance to rejoice in my narrow escape, it dawned on me that I was actually in the “hospitality committee”.

What is the right thing, running away or facing the enemy with expenses and casualty on both parties? If doing the right thing changes who you are, is it the right thing any more? Then again, if who you are isn’t what you should be, then shouldn’t changes be the right thing? On a Friday morning when dreams and hope come alive once a week, questions such as these do not fit the mood or occasion. I am somewhat thrown back to my earlier downcast. A 15-minute walk with my iPod and the bell chiming the sweet old hymns from the church a few blocks away seems now a much preferable choice for both therapy and celebration…. I should have known; me and myself are enough for any party.

Vanity of vanities!

One of those days when everything seems wrong: it’s Monday; none of the tasked assignments goes anywhere; you feel completely alone inside and outside of the cubical, deserted by both men and God. And it’s only 10AM in the morning.

But the sky outside is a pane of crystal blue, mocking me on with my gloom and doom relentlessly. Somehow, even the crisp air on a glorious Spring day lost its grip on me. I am under captive of a deep castaway and pang. Isolation has never troubled me; in fact, I have to be careful with this indulgence for fear it might steer me too far to return. It is clearly not the case today. The disappointment in both men and things has rendered me hopeless and thus sad.

Besides myself, there is none that knows me better than my mate, who always helpfully pointed out to me that I will never be happy. It takes one to know one, not to mention the 24 years of firsthand experience as his solid ground of testimony, therefore this allegation cannot be easily dismissed. I am, however, wondering if it is somewhat different this time. In the past “unhappiness” in either people or things, I have always managed to find outlet in the comfort of the other. i.e. I turn to work when “people” fail me or turn to people when work doesn’t work out. It may not cure me, but it alleviates and redirects.

Work-wise, the up and downs seem to swing to the downs altogether with frustrating obstacles such as deadlines that cannot be met, tasks with no redeeming quality and technical difficulties beyond my control. Meanwhile, I found no noble spirits worthy of my defection. I couldn’t help wondering: is this what Solomon, the all-wise king, moaned for in Eccleslastes: the ancient old sufferings from the desires that never satisfy? And yet the more mysterious question is: why is it others never seem to be affected by the same curse of futility and vanity of life? I am in awe at their ability in adapting any pestilence of life as my ear picks up their mechanical typing on the computer key pads, the light exchanges of conversation nearby and the blank faces in front of the PC screen. Do they not ache for the realization that “all is vanity and striving after wind” and tomorrow like yesterday and today brings nothing new to rectify this predicament?

It reminds me of being stuck in the traffic jam. While I huff and puff in frustration, the other drivers patiently sit and wait. Even in facing misfortunes such as heartaches, aging, even death, they move on without wavering. Such aloofness! If our fear and care determined our places in heaven, then I would have lost my reservation long ago. My head may reckon (most of the time) from the good Book and His foot prints on my life that I am heading there, but this deep groaning and restlessness inside says otherwise. Can one belong to Heaven and be so far away from heaven at the same time?

No, this morning I mourn not from the separation from my fellow men’s presence, but separation from their mindset, their immunity to melancholy. For one who resents to be anything ordinary, I wish nothing but to be in their midst. Then again, I wouldn’t
be able to appreciate the kinship, though excruciating yet dear, with someone like Solomon, whose revelation on grief that no one can match:

“All things are wearisome; Man is not able to tell it. The eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor is the ear filled with hearing…. And I set my mind to know wisdom and to know madness and folly; I realized that this also is striving after wind, because in much wisdom there is much grief and increasing knowledge results in increasing pain.”

Stranger Mine

Easter came and passed. We had planned nothing significant except for inviting a young couple recently moved here from the mid-West. The menu included the holiday’s center piece, ham, one of the favorites of the college son. Easter, however, does not fall on the college’s holiday or spring break schedule. Since the college is but a 15-minute drive from home, it was natural to think of him followed by a hopeful phone call: “I am making ham for Easter… want to come home?” My short question was reciprocated with a short answer: “No, thank you”. Our interaction maybe somewhat unconventional, but it was neither surprising nor anything personal. He has not had a habit of coming home except for school breaks when college shuts down and food and lodging become unavailable. The politeness of our conversation also reminds me of our other iteration at the end of our short and sparse phone calls when I declare my motherly affection in “I love you”, he’d always reply: “Thanks”.

This May would conclude his 2nd year of college, although we expect him to extend beyond the normal 4-year term. He is at best a B or C student thus far with 4-class load per semester. Comparing to the accomplishment of our friends’ or acquaintances’ children from far more impressive schools, his report or prospect is inferior but not sad. His father went even further by saying he would be out dancing on the street if he in fact finishes this semester with all B’s.

Thinking back, he has not come back much this whole sophomore year. When he finally came home for winter break, we noticed the changes. The only thing that bonds us together has always been his obsession with movies and TV series, for which he would almost zealously invite us to watch with him. For two middle-aged, over-working parents with a 4am wake-up call, staying up beyond 9pm was indeed a struggle both physically and mentally, but our love for him eventually did overcome and we had then watched and enjoyed quite a few good series with him. We were hoping to continue our bonding during the Christmas break, but just like many of his obsessions (robotics, video games and biking) it stopped. Either he had found nothing good or merely lost interest in our company, the invites became a thing in the past. He disappeared into his room for the most part of his 1-month break. Except for his showing up for meals, I’d almost forget he had come home.

Such lack of maternal instinct for him might appear to be unloving on my part. I have wondered sometimes if my coworkers, friends or even extended family ever question the reality of our love for this other son as his name hardly ever pops out of the conversation. Those who don’t know us or him well may think it has something to do with the common “second-child syndrome”, but even with those who know us better probably couldn’t help judging us for our obvious bias between 2 children. Besides conversation topic, he has also been missed from family activities such as trips, hiking or bowling. I could not fault them. The truth is we don’t even think of him much since he went off to college.

Ironically, his presence before then had been anything but muted. The thought of him even now is as weighty and volcanic as he is. As imaginative and expressive as I am, I am lost at words when it comes to him. Having lived with him for 20 years, there is time when I doubt if I could even figure him out given another 20 more years. One more month before summer break, I am already overwhelmed with mixed emotion for his return: excited, fearful, expectant,reluctant.... Mayhap this is the story of him: an existence of oxymoron in many folds: innocent yet damaging, present yet absent, my son and the stranger.

My heart is full but words are done. A short glimpse of him on a Monday morning will do for now. The mystery of this human being has added such spice in our life that no one could ever dare to match. He may be no trophy son as others are, but if I ever had a choice, I would be proud to be someone like him – complex and unpredictable beyond all words and norms.

The truth shall set you free

Woke up to a Monday drenched by rain, sounds, volume and all. The road was already saturated with pools of water while the sky continued to weep for a beginning of another week. Driving was treacherous despite of the extra effort from both driver and my less than 6-month old cross-over. The 2-block walk to the office, however, proved to be even more perilous. No rain gear could have saved me as the road sat lost from the overnight downpour. By the time I treaded to the office, I was helplessly soaked. While I tried to dry myself under the blanket in my wet jeans and socks, my colleagues came in later, all mysteriously dry and unharmed – their umbrellas worked fine and the water obviously had been parted for their sake.

The weather forecast had warned us of the rain after a cooler yet dry weekend. There was no hint of rain Sunday evening as I lingered outside, seduced by the sweet breeze moving across the greening lawn, the golden daffodils and the pale sky. I was almost in a state of contentment, had I not been preoccupied somewhat. A day later, I found myself struggling still, not with the raining irony but with the Saturday’s conversation with my good friend.

It had been a few months since we talked. I decided to call her while I was doing my weekly shopping. Conversation with my sweet friend is always comforting as if the 600+ miles of distance and 2+ years of separation never exist. We happily exchanged updates on family, church and life. Like all girl-talks, this one took its random course and somehow landed on some soul-bearing topic as I shared with her my struggle between the roles of a mother and child of God. Waging between the carnal and spiritual natures, I am no exception from this predicament keeping my faith in the war zone. My turmoil, however, is not only in its secrecy but also in shame and guilt. The Calvinistic belief teaches me to submit to whatever outcomes, agreeable or not, that my Maker permits. The knowledge is there, and yet we all know that the heart tarries to follow suit. When it comes to the conflict of interests between that belief and the welfare of her children, such wrestle is double or triple folds in every aspect. The same preaching on “trusting God” becomes irrelevant and painstaking if it involves her children, in my case, her lesser children. What’s worse is that my heart comdemns as much as it pains.

So there I was, disclosing to my good friend of this inner-most ferment, hoping to find some solace from outside of my secret world of disgrace. Nearly 10 years of my junior, she is probably 10 times more mature in her faith, love and grace. I had not planned on communion on this topic, knowing already what my friend in her candid and motherly nature would say or lecture. Somehow the confession went forth regardless of my better judgment. Yet, how many times do we share for the sake of guidance instead of a sympathetic ear? Unfortunately as any godly friend would do, she immediately pointed out my sins embedded underneath my self-pity: my pride, the lack of forgiveness and communion with God. Every single word proved to be true and justified, but none that I wanted – how surprising – or needed right then. I had no case but could not withstand it either. I finally stopped her. A kind and forgiving friend, she let me have it about my excuses, but whether I convinced her or not I would not know. When our phone call ended, the questions popped up and lingered on: Did my sin more there for not wanting the truth? As necessary as it is, is there timing and room of grace for truth? I know well that my prideful nature abhors truth when it convicts, but I also remember the liberation it brings when I am ready for it. There have been plenty of times when truth was disclosed by many others and brought its intended healing to my lost vision and soul. Somehow, it does not necessarily depend on the deliverers’ words but rather the receivers’ hearts, which must be pre-conditioned by a Supreme power that has waited, pursued and reclaimed. It was so with the very first conviction, and every time after that. The difference lies in that the confrontation has always been paired with perfect timing and perfect love.

Rain continues to fall. There hang the windows was a pane of gloom and pitch darkness. It is not going to clear up any time soon. I am, however, dry and warm now. Contrary to the storm outside, the light seems to be shining through the clouds within me. Yes, the truth has come. In fact, it has always been there inside of my wounded heart. Regardless of how it was redelivered, I doubt not its full capacity to once again reveal, settle and, in due time, set me free.