The Grinch and Christmas

3 more days before the grand Finale, Christmas, rolls in and then 2011 will grind to the halt. Soon after, even before, the ball drops, Christmas decorations would be back in the attic, trees packed away or on the curbs, and the stores start their ceremonial after-Christmas sale. This year, we managed to get into the spirit in time – the nearly 20-year-old, one-limb-short Christmas tree was standing next to Mr. and Mrs. Snowman a little after Thanksgiving. She was wearing a new set of after-Christmas sale bargain LED lights, looking oddly unusual or foreign. I couldn’t quite pin point why, but something was definitely amiss – and I am quite sure it wasn’t the 1 small box of ornaments that we decided not to bother.

Not just the tree, other things continued to contribute to the odd factors. My walk pal, iPod, went missing after 1.5 year of faithful service. I left it on my desk that day before heading home as I had done many times, but this time it was gone for good. My Christmas pin, a simple and cheap Christmas tree, was the next defector. It fell off my sweater 2 days ago on one of my shopping trips. I have to wonder, was my Christmas cursed, jinxed? Did it happen when my musical globe broke on the day when we put up the tree? I was then struggling painstakingly to drape that uncooperative garland on the mental when it fell off and its bottom smashed into pieces right in front of my eyes. It was an inexpensive, wind-up globe – all white and silver, with reindeer and a Christmas tree inside. When you turned it upside down, the glistening flakes would dance and flutter like a fairy land where dreams and hopes come true. I had loved that silly thing dearly and left it on the mental all year round. And now it was just a globe lying limb-less in the mass of destruction. The whole room went deadly quiet then and there except my hot tears and muffled sobs buried in the soulless Christmas carols from the radio.

I think my Christmas was taken away since then. Two Christmas parties and all that holiday goodie baking have not helped to pull me out of the gloom. All that is left is a world of craze with Wal-mart’s crowd, collapsed traffic and obligated burden of baking and cooking. Tuesday was one of those. It has been a long week. At 5pm, I was exhausted, but there was still more baking that I had sworn done with and the cooking for the next day’s lunch at work. The kitchen was a mess. I was scrambling to get everything done so I could take Luke to that pizza dinner I had promised him. I was feeling grumpy from not being able to exercise because there was simply no time. Then Luke’s piano teacher stopped by to give me a dinner box and dessert plate, but that short visit took away some precious time that I desperately needed. There was yet another stop I had planned to make after the pizza. Finally I realized I couldn’t accomplish all – not without sacrificing the pizza dinner. I called Luke and told him we’d go on Thursday. No complaints or sadness from him. He ate the salmon dinner from Helen gladly.

Kitchen nightmare done, we went back to Custom Car care to get the cell phone I had left it in the other car and headed straight to Miheila’s apartment. Luke played Silent Night for Maria – she was having trouble learning that piece. After that, those two (9 and 24) looked at Maria's summer vacation pictures from Romania while I had a drink wtih Miheila. From behind, they appeared to be of the same age. That was the only sane moment of the whole week – only because of Luke and his Silent Night.

Last night was the Christmas Service at church. I had fought all day with my downcast. We did make it – a short and simple 1-hour service with music and Christmas message. It was nicely done, and yet I struggled to keep my ears attuned to the words of the true Christmas essence so that my eyes would not stray to the empty spot where Luke usually stands with his violin. Several times I had to touch the body besides me to remind myself that he was not gone; he was right next to me. Off and on his baritone singing would sneak in my troubled thoughts and shame me to tears. We drove home quietly and right after we got out of the car, I saw the violin on the back seat. He had packed it, assuming he would be playing it in the service as he had done for the past 3 years. The pang hit me when he looked alarmed at my inquiring eyes, thinking he had done something wrong. I wondered in that untouchable world beyond those dark brown eyes if he was ever hurt for having been slighted. Even so, it ended as soon as he tuned to walk into the house with that violin case that had never been opened. Whatever injustice it might have been, it was forgiven and forgotten just like that. I wished mine could have too.

I know I don’t deserve Luke – I just need him. His innocence and simplicity is the only hope for me in this life so trifling and trying. And yet he is the shadow so easily overlooked – even by me who needs him most. How can I blame others for doing the same thing? I just wish time could go back when he was still young and I hopeful for a future still beautiful and possible. For this Christmas, the spell or curse of loss stubbornly drags on. I blame the Grinch -- the broken musical globe, the missing iPod, the lost Christmas pin and the empty spot on the podium. He may have spoiled it all, but never my Christmas gift: the 5’ 5” angel without wings.

Left Behind

3 weeks have passed since the young and beautiful defected to the greener pasture. Across the grey partition sits an empty desk. Gone is the once lively, gay pod, where people would drop by; gone are the daily phone calls or the IMs popping from her to commiserate about life in general. To be exact, she has tried to stop by a couple of times to say hi only to be received by me lightly and politely. Our relationship, or almost-friendship, for the past 3 years seems to have dwindled to the halt – by my choice apparently. As shrewd as she is, by now she has most definitely picked up the signals and moved on already.

Undoubtedly, my “rejection” could easily be interpreted as jealousy – as in jealous of her successful defection. After all, why would I write her off like that when the so-called big escape is merely at the other side of the same floor? Shouldn’t a true friend weep and rejoice with the others? Most of all, are we, or were we, ever been friends?

I thought of another defector, DS, whose escape led him to the new pasture not only greener but also farther – nearly 40 minutes away across the water. It has been over a year since he left. Comparing to Y&B and me, we shared way less in our conversation or outside of work extra curriculum activities. And yet we have managed to keep our communication, light but steadily, as of today. “Less (then) is more (now)” seems to be the right description of this relationship.

But wait, there is more (or less)! Another coworker after 25 years of service here left too just this past week to pursue happiness elsewhere. He happened to be among the very few here I have had some interaction with –respectful though mild. We have indeed shared both light jokes and heavy discussions. His empty desk across the other wall actually left a void here in this pod. Incidentally, just today I came across another team member all dressed up, getting ready for his interview for another position. Another soon-to-be-gone, another vacant pod?

In merely 3 and half years, 4 have come and gone. Some of them I have missed and some not. More will follow suit to jump ship as it is only natural in any work place. In a world so inconsistent, the only constant seems to be this left-behind, the occupant of cube 20. Ironically, the most trapped is also the forever restless with an absurd fear for changes. This jail with barely 6-foot partitions and no door to shut might as well be the Alcatraz, impossible to escape. How does a confusing contradiction like me serve her life sentence here with no chance of parole? Would I ever survive being the last one left behind with the rest of them chosen and taken to the better place and future? The biggest question, though, is: wherever they are going, is it really better?

I recall my last failed attempt to escape, the mourning afterwards when all reality set in and I back to my cell. My most unwavering support and friend, D, continued to point out that the green pasture outside might not be as green as I thought after all. Could it be possible as he pointed out that the Omniscient above might have meant to shut the gate to protect me from the danger outside? If He had thought it was safe and well there, wouldn’t He thwart the barrier, HR included, as He once did to bring me here? All this time my envious eyes have focused on those runaways instead of the hands that keep me. Left behind I may be, but never without a good reason. There will be one day when that final escape comes and this reject here is anything but left behind. For now then, maybe I am not at all left behind but, rather, saved for better.

Stary, Stary Night

D called on Thursday afternoon proposing an impromptu overnighter in Monterey with our long-time friends Dave and Beth Ann. Summer may still be lingering in the southern Virginia, but this trip would definitely make the last fun before school starts. Without a moment of hesitation, I seconded the motion – we are going to the mountains!

3:30pm Friday, all was packed and the 3 of us drove to the meeting spot to taxi together. The sky was overcastted with a hint of summer rain, threatening us to thwart our all anticipated dream of stars watching under the mountain sky. Sure enough, a few miles down the Interstate, the rain did come. Thankfully it tapered off as we drove on. The hope was high, so was our excitement and conversation. Over 22 years of friendship, this marked the first trip ever in the same car – our children are grown, except for the forever-child Luke, who was sitting at the back of the van with a quiet smile. Once we passed Richmond, I64 was lined with layers of blue mountains and green valleys. Like little kids, we could hardly suppress our excitement – the stars are calling, and we are coming!

We stopped by our favorite small pizza place in Fishersville for dinner. After the pit stop, we continued on for yet another one and half hour through the small towns and the winding mountains. By then nightfall had arrived and the visibility was reduced to the minimum. Our skilled driver, Dave, exhibited little anxiety over the seemingly treacherous roads. The 2 men in the front, one driving and another navigating, miraculously mastered the direction from the owner of the Bed and Breakfast – “Drive through 3 mountains, over the river and through the woods” and took us finally to the front of the inn at the top of the mountain.

Our lodging is owned by a gracious couple, Jim and Loraine. It sat alone at the top of the mountains and blinked with porch lights to welcome these 5 tired yet all excited tourists from afar. We walked in to a cozy cottage, furnished with antiques and simple, tasteful décor. From the wood burning fireplace, pine flooring to the country kitchen, all charmed us with her homey comfort. But, our affair was with the stars! Without a second of wait, we went outside to the deck – and there they were, our dates, twinkling bright and high at us on that August sky, welcoming us with equal excitement. At 9:30, the night was pouring in fully at this other end of Virginia. On the pitch dark canvas, all was lost but the vague outlines of the mountains from afar and a few lights down below the valley. Life inside was getting ready to rest, but not outside; it was just about to commence: The wind was picking up and whispering in our ears, critters chanting everywhere and yes, those stars - the guests of honor, the crown jewels and the leading roles of the night. 5 of us sat there, our heads leaning back and eyes devouring the beauty and supremacy of those stars chattering silently in their ancient old mystery. We were awe struck at how and what each one was named and placed by that invisible, majestic hand behind the endless night curtain. Our conversation was light, random yet warm and genuine; from the stars to life we communed as friends and brothers and sisters. Two times we spot the shooting star – like little children, we gasped with delight.

It was right under that stary, stary sky that these travelers, weary not from the trip but from the burden of life, rested, replenished and revived with new vision, clearer and brighter, just like the stars.

Instant Message, Instant Disaster

It was Monday, the all sad beginning of yet another 5 work days. I brought in a homemade treat – a 3-layer chocolate cake with delectable butter cream icing to alleviate the wretched curse of the week. The day ground away lifelessly and finally lunch was here. The usual “in-crowd” was notified and relief served inconspicuously. Minutes later, my 29-year-old colleague dropped back in – the verdict was in: it was a success, she said and added that she had shared it with another coworker, Matt, because “He is good to her; sometimes he’d bring in treats for her”. She had done that before – extending my generosity to Matt, only to her own credit. I had thought it not very gallantry of her and sounded my protest; after all, the treat was meant for her, not to mention I didn’t even get recognized. She laughed it off again and left.

What does a self-absorbing, not-at-all gracious person do when he is baited like that? It didn’t take me long before I decided to “remind” Matt via IM of the credit due to me. Matt to me was just Matt, devoid of the detail of last name – our paths hardly crossed and we at best nodded to each other when passing at the office. The only Matt I knew of was a Matt D. and his name popped up from IM. I clicked on him and went straight to the point:

“Next time you have a bite of the chocolate cake, make sure I get my credit (or treat).”

Seconds later came back his reply: “Are you sure you get the right Matt?”

Oh no, said the quick-draw, unyielding warrior to herself, you do not hide from me. “You are just playing with me.” I pushed further with some more comments about my cute coworker’s devotion to him was nothing but a farce, unlike me, faithful and true. He did not seem to budge but continued on his pretence. His persistent innocence finally alarmed me. Quickly I clicked on my 29-year-old colleague. “Which Matt did you mean?” Just like that, her answer put me in a whirlwind of disaster as I stared at the poor victim of my foul play, who was staring right back at me on the screen in his sheer confusion. OMG was exactly what I was thinking, but my quick fingers now reversed to limb and weak while my mind exasperated and numb. “Please forgive and FORGET me” were my last words before I took my quick escape.

My “instant” disaster of course incurred nothing but laughter from the pair of instigators, the 29-year-old and Matt, who were all happy to point the fingers right back at me with a closing argument of “serve you right”. Sheepish but indignant, I refused to take all the blame. After all, I was rightfully entitled to the claim of the credit. Unfortunately, I remembered too that this mishap was not my first offense, or second. The running-up was when my quick finger by mistake clicked on the wrong person with the negative comment on the right person. Not only did I fail to “quick to hear and slow to speak”, but also I stumbled in taming the tongue. The worst crime of all, though, was the unpardonable sin of IM.

I have to wonder how I have strayed so far to become the prey of IM. As a proud and obstinate rebel, I have always given my best, honorable effort fighting against modern phenomenon such as cell phone, twitter, texting and face book – all except IM. Since her first appearance, I have fallen into her spell just like the rest of my colleagues. The instant gratification is so irresistible that I overlooked the minor detail – the fatal side effect of instant disaster. Even so, the cold hard truth is that the unguarded tongue reveals nothing but the reflection of man’s depraved heart. Does technology always mean improvement? Not if it aids to the flawed nature of the creature. I thought of the other forms of instant products – instant soup, fast food, even the Internet – everything engineered against quality and excellence. They were born to accommodate this culture’s demand of speed and convenience -- only at the expense of the far superior essence of goodness such as patience and thoughtfulness.

Lesson of the week: Stay away from instant soup.

8/1/11 – Love Me, Love My Friend

9:50AM, IM popped up from J: “We are going to 7-11 at 10:00”. A man of few words, J was always short and to the point. It read to me “We” as in invite – in name only with no room or time for negotiation. It was the joyful Friday; hope was high and party was in the air. For some of us, me especially, it transcribes as a doughnut from 7-11. I quickly tidied up a few loose ends and grabbed my badge and cash for the outing. I walked out of my cubical, just in time to bump into my walk partner, and his friend.

From outside, nothing was amiss. There were “hi” and smile as the 3 of us walked out. Inside, that was another story: surprise, confusion and finally agitation. It was last Friday all over again when he had brought his coworker for our private 7-11 party. I remember the same frustration bumping into the expected sight of his +1. I had held my composure and kept up my cordial, amiable appearance when everything inside of me screamed the opposite. For most people, “one is the loneliest number”, but to this scrooge, two is worse. Imagine two plus one.

There have been many 7-11 trips over the course of 3 years and plus. Some of them with company, and some without. It is but a few blocks with the same old pavement and deserted shops along the way, and yet pleasant and liberating to the jailed cubical mates like us. Once in a while, Fridays especially, motions will be passed for a trip there to replenish supplies such as coffee or treats, which we know is more of an excuse than necessity. Whatever motives they may be, I prefer the trip done in solo – it eliminates the burdensome chit chats and most importantly, the change of pace, without which I am always reprimanded with “what are you hurrying for!”. After a couple months of our morning walk J has fallen into a “special” category with an allowance of concession for my 7-11 trip preference. It started as a gallant gesture from me to indulge my walk pal and clearly ended in disappointment as a result of misunderstanding for each other: we both mistook each other for more than who we are - J thought of me more socialable while I took him more loner.

I remember D, my ex-colleague who moved back to the other side of the water last year, invited me to go on his “Facebook” and the new Google+ project for fun things such as “circles” or “hangouts”. I realize too this invite was a gesture of fondness or favor. After all, he wanted me to be his “friend” and even meet his “friends”! With a whirlwind of changes bursting in our world nowadays, none bewilders me more than Facebook. I’d like to claim the excuse of “I have too many friends already”, but the truth is I really don’t do friends, let alone friends’ friends. As social creatures, we have the built-in desire of company, but since when such needs are realized with the worst of both ends – impersonal as in on-line and personal as in exposing your private life for the world’s eyes? J’s crime, though not in the same category as D’s, is still severe in that he inadvertently assumed that my acceptance of his existence implies the extension of his friends’. Granted he was by no means the first offender caught on act, it is unthinkable and most importantly uncomfortable to be the victim of it. Putting aside my inadequacy or disability in social skills, the math simply doesn't compute: if it had taken me 3 years to get used to J, why shouldn't I be given the same allowance for admitting another new comer?

Before then, I claim the asylum of the literal interpretation on “Love me, love my dog” – just dog, and dog only.

Christmas in July

July makes the monumental cut in that 2011 is officially on its 2^nd half and finishing up quickly with a vengeance. The heat is burning high as summer continues. Unlike the majority of the American population, we treat summer with little care or respect. There has never been much effort for so called “summer vacation”. For one, this family are not ever known as “playing” people. Secondly, now that both sons are out of their teen years, there no longer remains obligation for summer fun such as water park or camping trips. Thus when D motioned for a trip to see his childhood pals, it was somewhat surprising. Lately, both of us have been working long and intensive hours. A long-weekend trip maybe just what a doctor would prescribe for a timely time-out. The motion was then passed quickly without a dispute.

The plan was to visit a few favorite spots back home in Pittsburgh: the Strip, Schenley Park, and of course a baseball game in the beautiful PNC Park. Pittsburgh is now hardly called home since most of his family have gone – the only 2 left D has had little contact with. Without the family obligations, the 3-day vacation ironically seemed hopeful and relaxing. We found ourselves a small motel with easy access to major necessities such as food, grocery and of course Interstate. We spent our first dinner on a newly opened Italian restaurant nearby and found it more than adequate – the food was scrumptious and service prompt. Not bad for an opening of a vacation for this family with deficiency in playing.

Pittsburgh to D after nearly 3 decades of distance is now more some enchanting place to visit than home. He spent his first 26 years there all the way through graduate school. There live forever his best years -- childhood fun in Fineview and of course the unforgettable CMU. They, too, became my favorite as his eyes and thoughts grow younger and younger while he tells of those old stories that both of us never get tired of. Somehow life in that ghetto neighborhood proved to be anything but poor, depriving. I picture with fancy those boys playing from morn till sundown on every field, block or lane, all the fun, thrill and sometimes mischief and imagine what a different world it must have been. And of course in the midst of those golden years there were his best friends Mike and Dennis, who were the chief reason of this visit. We were to meet up for the baseball game on July 4^th but ended up inviting ourselves to Dennis’ family reunion, and then breakfast at their favorite diner the next morning, and finally the grand finale, baseball game at the PNC park.

It was a hot summer day. The walk to and fro to the stadium, 3 hours of Pirates game under the mid day sun did not at all affect the thrill of the fans and especially the forever kinship of the three friends. It was a good game but none of us paid attention. I looked over at them – they were chatting on mindlessly, obvious of the frenzy of the fans surrounding them. Four decades of time may have mercilessly altered them outwardly but not inside. Somehow, the child within remains untouchable at the snare of time or space. Of all the baseball games we have gone to, that one on July 4^th, 2011, might as well mark the most irrelevant one. Pirates has been having a good season. It even treated us with an exciting win, but we would have cared less if they had lost.

After the game, we continued on the memory lane – a treat at Gus and Ya Ya’s snow ball followed by a planned cookout in the his old neighborhood, Fineview, where we had planned to stay for the firework. As the clouds thickened and darkened, the firework was replaced with nature’s own work: thunderstorm with hail, gusty wind and lightening. It mattered not to us while we sang “Happy Birthday” and Luke playing piano for the 89-year-old father. Despite of the storm, the celebration was not held off in that small old house – and it was not just about the birthday, or even July 4^th.

We bailed out on the firework and drove off Pittsburgh in the pouring rain. Had it taken place, it would have been most impressive and magnificent from atop of that neighborhood overlooking the picturesque Iron City – and yet, no match to that in our hearts. The power of a past so innocent and carefree will forever remain a class of its own: superior, peerless, unbeatable. D drove on quietly. I couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but I imagined he too was under the spell of the same magic. Nostalgic, even sad, we might have been, how blessed we were, I thought, to have been the Christmas ghosts in a city so beautiful and a past so glorious….

Time Will Tell

6:17AM and here came J, ready for the morning walk. I raised my eyebrow: “But it’s not 6:30 yet!”, ceremoniously protesting about his offensive violation. For a month thus far, he has become my “tag-along” walk partner. Initially, that “tag-along” itself was a violation for this rigid scrooge, but after weeks of practice, I have finally come to accept the intrusion. Though not quite in the category of “prenuptial agreement”, two ground rules were laid open before my reluctant conceding: no talking and no slowing me down. Thus far, J has been a law abiding citizen in my sacred, private domain. Today was his first ever offense – changing the hour. He replied quickly enough: people were annoying him already. It takes one scrooge to know another, and his pain. No need for further explanation, I packed up my gear and was all ready to make an exception.

It was a walking heaven when we stepped out of the building. After 3 days of intense heat and humidity, we were more than grateful to walk in a picture of perfection with a pale blue sky and golden hue of morning sun. The temperature was just about 70. Our temperamental friend, the breeze, was already in the weekend mood, dancing and frolicking everywhere. Her infectious joy was so potent that it unlocked this guarded churl instantly. My iPod forgotten in my left hand, I walked on with my +1, incredulously merry and chatty. From the cause of our 6:30 violation, the annoying people, we started talking about work, what he does and who he works with. 3 years of working on the same floor under the same roof and weeks of walking together, we were actually finding out what each other does the first time ever. From work to life, our small talks carried on all the way from Huntington to Washington, 40 blocks altogether. Once or twice I felt the iPod in my hand. I hesitated but a little and eventually put it back into my pocket.

I blame it on the fair day, all that glorious sun and breeze that betrayed the better sense of me. I could feel the guard retreating as our steps moving forward. Was it the beguiling wind or the ease of my friend that made that forbidden mix, walk and talk, not so unpardonable? Our conversation was but some idle talks such as what gardenias looked like and how to grow them. Not exactly a home-run hit, but neither was it a total defeat. My lone wolf coworker seemed to be at ease with this awkward social reject. I had wondered when J popped in my cube once in a while how the others might have thought -- a strange pair like us, so seemingly unthinkable but somehow it worked. The two recluses, quiet yet explosive, find each other’s presence almost comfortable – with or without words.

In comparison, all other “flings” at work are grinding to a halt, regardless of how promising they might have started. A few chit-chats at the kitchen or IM were all it took when the fun disappeared as if nothing ever happened. When it comes to me and relationship, the saying “time will tell” should be replaced with “time will kill”. For the past 3 years at work, I have yet not proven to succeed in any relationship while the rest of my coworkers stay with their “clicks” effortlessly. My 30-minute walk with J seems to be working thus far apparently for 2 safeguards: short and silent. Could today’s deviation ruin it all again just like the rest of them?

Yes, time will tell if I did kill again. As much as I find my new budded “relationship” non-intruding, I’d confess shamefully that its death wouldn’t injure me that much. If there’d be any casualty, it would be more for the sake of pride. Then again, I have had plenty of experiences of wounded pride. I am, after all, proven to be more resilient than any of my failed relationship. I’d continue to practice my golden rule, for both life and plants, live and let die. No more and no less.

Judgment Day

After 2 weeks of waiting and dreading, I was making my trip to the court. Despite of all assuring effort from friends and family, I was still antsy about appearing before the officials. The night before my anxiety had become so intense that I could not think of anything but the court appointment: what would I say, what should I do and most importantly what would the judge find me. For others, my excessive apprehension was not only incomprehensible but also incredulous. I could see it from their eyes after my third, ok maybe 4th, attempts to seek comfort and support. Their dismissal look told me they had moved on and so should I. If only I could! I agonized silently, wondering if they would take it this slightly had the table been turned.

I had taken off a day from work even though the court hearing was set as early as 8:30am. It felt like the whole world had deserted me, my sleep included, leaving me melancholy and most sadly alone. I fussed over the clothes selections, fought with my GPS and fretted all the way to the court. A fine spring day, the weather was fair and clear, in contrast to the stormy turmoil inside of me. I paid no tribute to the gleaming sunshine on the sky, the historical downtown architecture or the manicured trees and shrubs along the side walk. My heart heavy and my mind distracted, I wanted nothing but the verdict be given and done with. Finally, there it stood – my worst fear and tormentor for the past 2 weeks – the courthouse so solemn and ready to condemn. I walked in with the rest of the guilty, wondering if they were as unsettling as I was. Their silent and blank looks told me absolutely nothing, which unfortunately made my poor heart sink even further.

I had been to the court exactly 2 times: one to get married and another one when I swore in my allegiance as a new addition for this country. This 3rd time might be “the charm” but definitely nothing “charming” with me being summoned as the law offender. I sat dejectedly among a roomful of the guilty though presumed innocent under the law, waiting to plead our cases before the judge. One by one we were called – some with a quick verdict and some with a small scale of drama as in movies or TV shows. What fascinated me were those that were accompanied by their counselors. Were they there for the gravity of their offenses? I wondered. Surely it must be nice to have someone professional, not to mention “legal”, to aid and plead for you in time like this! Like now. I thought forlornly. Here we sat, except for those accompanied by their lawyers, with but a seat or two from one another, together yet completely alone. And if there is anything worse than life’s trials and tribulation, it’d be facing them alone.

An hour and 30 minutes later, I was finally called. My heart pumping hard, I approached the bench. What do you plead? Guilty. I heard myself humbly reply, followed by my prepared speech, which I had rehearsed a hundred times: Your honor, it was my fault, (etc, etc.) I had a clean record (another etc.). He reached for my evidence and as all friends and family had predicted, fined me with the court fee and a 6-month probation. I was dismissed in 2 minutes.

The worst was over. By the mercy of the judge, I walked out almost cleared but definitely free. My debt paid, I stepped back to the sunny, glorious outside, ready to join the society. Suddenly, I noticed the sky blue, the lawn green and blossom bright. I took in a deep breath of air and realized finally what free smelled like. The court behind me, I continued on to the parking lot and vowed resolutely to stay free – not for the 6-month probation alone, but hopefully for good – so I would never have to return here. Somehow, I knew, three was not a charm. I am destined to go to another hearing despite of all my good intent and effort. That final appearing, unfortunately, will render me no probation. The verdict would be in – no plea or remorse would acquit me of this life’s misconducts. If I had been so terrified with this court, what would I feel with that final judgment day? My heart that was just lifted seconds ago sank down as my pace hesitated. I thought of those fellow accused back there with their lawyers and wondered if I would be privileged enough to afford one then and there. My guilt may be great, but I had to cling to the greater hope in that just as the gift of faith came free, my Counselor’s service there would be too.

I started my car and drove on. The second chance was given. From now on let it be a brand new, good citizen back on the road: both in the driver’s seat and life.

Stop And Go

25 years of driving later, I was getting my first traffic ticket -- 3:50AM exactly, on a non-eventful, most insignificant Wednesday morning. Who would have thought anything exciting on the hump of a week, like Wednesday? It is unimaginable, let alone lawful, but there I was, ironically for offending the law, sitting and waiting in the car numb and shocked at my fate: I had became one of those pitiful public humiliation displayed in the broad daylight -- well in my mind at least -- in truth: on a pitched dark, still asleep street.

How many times have you looked at the rear mirror praying for a narrow escape after slamming on your break at the sight of a speed trapper police car? Well this time when the blinding white and blue lights blazed up at the mirror, I was caught totally surprised. My body surged through a numbing sensation as I cruised to the side and dutifully parked. Was I speeding? What did I do? The question marks went wild like the blinking lights of the patrol car behind me. After handing in my license and registration I finally humbly asked him what I did. “You did not come to a complete stop at the stop sign” was the official verdict. There was no point of arguing at the finality of his accusation devoid of any trace of mercy. I sat deflated for seemingly eternality until he returned with my ticket 15 minutes later. “You have a safe trip now” was his farewell. Was that sarcastic or was it a genuine good wish? I wondered. If so, was he OUT OF HIS MIND??

I had always wondered how depressing a day would be for those wounded animals after being degraded and forced with a traffic ticket. I experienced it firsthanded that day. Never a confrontational type, unless sufficiently provoked, I went to work depressed. Desperate time called for desperate measure, and my first reach for help was the phone on the desk for the biggest supporter and partner for life, who was still in sleep. The phone rang 4 times unanswered as I drifted even lower to the drowning sea of dejection. I thought I was going to cry. Within seconds, he called back. 25 years of marriage later, he knows me and my phobia well enough to receive all my agony and outcry. After 5 minutes of sympathy and TLC, I was finally patched up to face the world again.

When it comes to sympathy, is there ever a limit for anyone at all? I wonder. My humiliation though great was no match for my pride. I then went around hoping to seek more support from a floor of cell mates. Surely there would be some fellow drivers who must have faced the same persecution to commiserate with! I was right and wrong – in fact, all have been there plenty of times and yet none of them for moral support. Instead of offering sympathy, they laughed up and down at my calamity and unanimously raised the same remark “I can’t believe you have never got a ticket till now”. They went side-tracked on with their “records”, incredibly with much pride and joy – what they were and some of which how they talked themselves out of. The mourning party I had intended to host turned into this celebration memorial where the main focus was anyone but me! The closest thing that resembled consolation was something like: Just pay the fine and forget it.

Nearly 2 weeks have passed since and I have not yet been able to solve the puzzle: was it cultural or was it just me? Face-on with any authority, let alone being found guilty, is a total violation of safety and dignity. It takes me back to the classroom where my worst fear, besides pop quizzes, was realized - being called out as the public display of the BAD student, the offender. The disapproval from the teacher as well as the alienation from your peers separates you from the rest of the world with miles long of abyss. Their look of contempt, sympathy and distrust is worse than death – because you are alive to see and feel it every second. But here I am, decades later on the other end of the earth, a law offender all over again, finding my peers’ jeers not from the crime itself but from the absence of crime all these years till now. They laughed it off and walked away, as if it had never ever happened. In their eyes, I am cleared, or should I say, the same person or colleague they have known for the past 3 years – no better or no worse. In fact, my offense, instead of separating, has done exactly the opposite – blending me in with them! I now face the choice to choose between staying trapped in this jail of shame and taking the pardon to join the society. After all, I have served the sentence from another life all these years; maybe it’s time to lift the past verdict.

My failure to stop, ironically, did me a much needed dose of stopping. I am ready to go now.

The Third Wheel

4:45 Am, Monday - just another mournful, melancholy day when Friday seems eternally far away and unreachable. The tea made and blanket on my lap, I should be all geared up to grind away the bottomless list of work. Somehow my mind wandered elsewhere. For the past few days I had been preoccupied with the same questions that wouldn’t go away: “Is J going to show up? And if he does, when does this doom come?” J is another coworker who bluntly asked the “unthinkable” request on Thursday when he found out my sacred morning routine, “Do you mind if I walk with you?’. What was more unthinkable was that I conceded with a yes.

Why I ever committed the unpardonable sin is another mystery to be explored. Was it my “Sure why not” eager-to-please old nature’s treachery act or was it my optimistic hope that this time it could be different? Above all, what makes J an exception? He is from another group, one of those old-timers that have remained unchanged while the company does exactly the opposite, perpetually morphing in her names, administration, even operations over the decades. Our paths never did cross till we were assigned to the same training class for one whole week. Even then, we hardly talked. He was quiet, non-intruding, almost ghost like. I remember having bumped into him a few times prior to the training whenever he popped out of his cocoon and not ever exchanged a word or nod. I took no offense – in terms of work relationship (and life in general), I am a firm believer of “less is more”. However, the training week changed it when I brought in cookies on the last day. J loved them. I have been soliciting my homemade goodies whenever my impulsive nature comes to play. Many here have been the beneficiary recipients, but little ever returned with more than a “thanks”. Since there is no obligation involved – just me and my vanity, I keep it up voluntarily without expecting anything. Thus when J dropped a small box of chocolates for Christmas, I found myself surprised and delighted as if it had been the precious thanksgiving from the one leper out of the ten.

Since then, he remains on my random cookie distribution list. We still don’t talk much – a little of IM, an occasional drop-in, light yet appreciative exchanges serve us well. Maybe that did the trick to unlock my iron cast door to my forbidden walk? Granted he was warned to keep the pace and most importantly the sacred peace, I still have plenty of my after-fact remorse for my concession.

So 6:30 came – and so did he. I greeted the new comer with a curt nod and put on my IPOD – the ritual must carry on, unchanged and untouched, with or without company. I charged forward without so much a look at the shadow one step behind. We walked the entire route in promised silence except for the ceremonial “you OK?” during and “how was it” after. Not exactly awkward, but crowded enough. My Bach could have told me so, but I was knee deep in the predicament with no one’s fault but mine. J did not fail to keep the 2-P (peace and pace) golden rules, so why was the walk still not quite the same spare the talk? Was it the presence of the third wheel, as gentle and quiet as it is, that made it so intruding and disquieting? Maybe the better question should be: Am I a lost cause for good when it comes to company?

I thought of another occasion when talk was actually required – the Saturday’s dinner party at friends’. Unlike my walk, where silence is gold, parties by definition actually call for conversation and social etiquettes. And participate did I do, more than the share I desired. For over three hours, I became one of the merry party, enjoying plenty of good food, talks and laugher. As we drove home, before the clock even stuck 12 and carriage changed back to pumpkin, the Cinderella was already back to her rags and shame, wishing the ballroom memory lost like her glass slipper.

Talk or no talk, both occasions have but one common element – me. All the while I have the safe guard of staying away from trouble. It didn’t dawn on me till now that the troubling third wheel is none other than me. However painful this revelation is, the biggest and most impossible question remains: How do I get rid of this third wheel?

Lost and Found

It was Tuesday night when I was lying in bed and out in the blue something hit me: Where is my ring! Not exactly a question, but an alarming exclamation mark that kicked me right out of that after-dinner lazy moment, and the bed too. I scrambled around turning the room upside down, digging and groping for that diamond ring my mother had given me a few months ago before I headed back to U.S. Never a jewelry person myself except for some fun, cheap things to satisfy my spur-of-the-moment girly fancy, but then and there I was almost panicking with fear. The ring was more than a piece of expensive jewelry. It was something my mother had purposely saved and tailored made for me. She eyes were glowing from the joy of surprising me when she opened that blue velvet box where the white gold diamond ring twinkled back in a matching glow. I remember making a big show of “oooh” and “wow” while I put it on my tawny, wrinkled finger. It looked totally wrong, and yet it was perfect because it made my mother happy.

That night ended with me going to bed with a heavy load of sadness and regret. I remembered finally that I had put it in my pocket during my morning walk a few days ago and then totally forgotten about it afterwards. Clearly my forgetfulness and carelessness proved me again unworthy of any good things, but most importantly my mother’s trust and faith. I have been the notorious klutz in a family of my opposite – organized, driven and competent. And a diamond ring put me back in that corner where everyone’s reprimanding look became my worst punishment. I went back to work with the smallest thread of hope that it might be either at my desk or turned in to the lost and found. No luck with both. By then I was finally forced to face the ultimate verdict: the ring was gone.

Why do we never love back till we lose it? I had worn the rings less than a dozen of times for the duration of 5 months. Even when it did show up on my finger, it was hardly accompanied with much pride – in fact, I’d pay much more attention with my coworkers’ accessories. How pretty their rings, bracelets and necklaces look! How I wish I had something like that! While I envied their acquisition, my ring sat forgotten in my cheap plastic “jewelry box”, accompanied by their same fated friends that I showed little regard of. Now that it is gone, my affection has miraculously resurfaced. How beautiful my ring was! How I wish it were still here! Like any unfaithful lover that faces the loss of his love, I was buried in such intense remorse that I would have reversed time and moved the heaven and earth to recover it at all cost.

I didn’t have to work that much. 3 days’ regret was all it took to bring back time and space when I found my ring under the bed, where I had searched, or I thought I had. Imagine the ecstasy and surprise I had as I held it in my palm, my eyes wide open and my heart pumping as if it were going to stop. Fate has taken a pity on my grief and pardoned me from my sin of negligence! What accompanied the joy was a renewed vow of devotion and protection. The prodigal son has come home to stay for good.

I thought of another lost and found and wondered if it has recovered my allegiance from the 2nd round around like my ring. It too disappeared, only much slowly and less noticeably over a good period of time. The void from its absence, though not as dramatic, brought far more casualty than my ring ever did. I was living, but not alive, seeing without eyes and walking yet going nowhere. Its reappearance was just as soundless as its evanescence with a dose of calming assurance instead of delirious thrill. There was no magic moment or drama as I felt when I found the ring under the bed. I remember that day during my morning coffee time with D, just like that, I said thoughtfully to him: “I think I am saved”, as in He was as real as day 1 when we first met in that room, the constant in my ever wandering heart for the past 30 years and the only hope for a fleeting life like this.

Never find myself lucky, but this time I have to declare exactly the opposite. A double dose of lost and found, two second chances – you couldn’t get luckier than this.

"I just want you to be happy"

8:30pm – bed time prep for the early bird like me. I was brushing teeth when the father of the children walked in and smiled with an arched brow: “S has got a B+ with his Physics test.” I blurted out: “Wonderful! Did you praise him up and down?” Some men are not accustomed to big shows of emotions and mine is one of them. He handed me the phone: “Why don’t you?” I dialed and followed up with the “good for you… I am so proud” dutiful yet truthful praise. I could almost see his mouth curved up with a slight smile as he accepted my congratulations. After over 21 years, I learned to take his not-at-all exciting excitement as true excitement. He was happy despite of his scant exhibition of emotions.

A B+ from a relatively ordinary state college is nothing extraordinary comparing to our friends’ children’s A’s from those prestigious schools. To us, it is. May marks the end of his junior year, a miracle of itself that exceeds all our wildest dreams. It also has been the calmest time since the day he was born. Distance has mended much wound for us all. Now that he has leased a year-round apartment, his trip home has become even more scarce. Whenever we see him, he seems relaxed and almost confident, in contrast to the tormented (and tormenting) phantom that was so miserably inapposite. As much as I want to keep the safe guard of low (or no) expectation about this once explosive tragedy, I can’t help feeling hopeful – that the future might be good, that he would be fine and that he could be happy.

I recall having a conversation – one of those mixed-agenda talks before his junior year to prompt him to strive for a good school year. I started with a picture of the past of gloom and doom and then paired it with a contrast, a future filled with prosperity and joy - if he would work for it. “You deserve to be happy. It’s time for you to be happy.” I emphasized. It sounded like one of those pep talks a parent would say to encourage his unfocused child. And yet I meant every word of it – of all the goals, dreams and hopes I ever had for him, I wanted him to be happy.

I thought of one particular sermon when our pastor admonished the secular mentality of parenthood – “whatever you do, I just want you to be happy”. Have I just defected to the other end after 21 years of Christian education and fervent prayer we have invested on our children? I found myself choking on this frightening question. Is there any ground to pardon a convict when the cause of her crime is as unintentional, even innocent as the offense itself? Surely there have been and will be plenty of suffering lives much worse than him, but he is in fact the saddest human being whose unhappiness has been incurred not by his poor choices but by being himself. Can I, as his mother, find exception in God’s judgment for a superficial hope like “happiness” for a sad child like him?

Nerely 3 years he has gone off to college, giving this family a much needed time and space to heal from a volcanic nightmare that feels like yesterday and a life time ago. Such paradox is confusing but every bit true, just like him. I have to discipline myself to stay at the farther end where memory fades out and almost seems unreal. Still, there are moments when the past would flood in and become present, and there it is all over again: his tears and agony were mixed with mine, his hell became mine and his suffering mine too. I have not yet fully forgiven myself when I remember his loneliness – not one, his family included, ever offered friendship to him. For 18 years of his life, he was subjected to nothing but his peers’ cruel tease and cold alienation. The phone never rang, birthday invites hardly came and at the youth group the ball conveniently skipped him. He was the square peg in a round hole, unwelcomed if not unseen. The two words he carved on his wall in NH home “I SUCK” might as well be engraved on my heart forever. I could still see him there, the poor boy at the far end looking at this world with every longing but no capacity to fit in, all the while thinking it was all his fault that he was this lonely and unhappy.

No, I have not forgotten man’s chief end and that without faith all happiness in life is but vapor. With an exception like him, whose disability is who he is, I have but the comfort of not only God’s limited atonement but also His unconditional love. If he is His sheep, the Master and Maker would continue to care for him to the end, despite of what this poor mother’s guilty and selfish wish, even when it is plainly “I just want you to be happy”.

Bad Math

After moving north a few months ago, ex-colleague M is back in town. I had actually heard from another colleague yesterday about her visit and a possible lunch date opening to all. Sure enough, the invite was announced during our staff meeting. Prior to the meeting, the boss unexpectedly visited my cubical, inquiring me of the lunch: “You are NOT coming?” Instantly a mixture of self-defense and guilt surfed through my body while I cautiously replied no, tagging with “is that OK”. He explained he had assumed I wouldn’t be coming thus was assigning me to be the emergency backup. Strangely, another mixture of emotion rushed through me, partly relief from his not taking offense and partly indignation from their being so openly presumptuous. Regardless, I was more pleased than annoyed.

Friday lunching-out is customarily though not obligatorily observed by some of us here after a long week of brown bag sandwiches. I faithfully remain untouchable by all invites, which have never been many, if not few. The truth is, it hasn’t taken more than 2 or 3 “NO”s to stop them from coming. I neither find it ill nor fault my “considerate” coworkers. To me, eating with a group of colleagues at a table is far more challenging than working on some troublesome tickets. There is the unknown factor of whom you might sit with, what you should talk about, but mostly how to look interested and engaged when you are totally NOT.

So gladly I took the DOA, focusing on the joy of being left alone to hold the fortress, even though it was but a couple of hours of sheer solitude. I left the meeting looking like a cat with a mouse on her mouth, grinning from ear to ear and full of herself – until I stepped back to my cubicle and realized that I would not be alone. B and R, 2 of my cube-mates, would NOT be going to the lunch either. They don’t ever, just like me.

My heart sank and my joy fled. I sat deflated, frowning and grumbling. As self-absorbing as I am, I am not without conscience. While I fumed with my unfortunate loss, I had to ask myself: if one scrooge equals to FUN, why does one scrooge plus 2 NOT?

Interestingly, R and B are of 2 totally different dispositions and in fact at odds with each other though not explicitly. B is the golden boy and Mr. Perfect, while R is the black sheep, the wild child out of control. At first meeting, I too was drawn to the perfect son. He prays long prayer before his lunch, reads his Bible religiously everyday and works/talks like a prim and proper IT professional. R, on the other hand, is loud, volcanic and borderline obnoxious. Both claimed to be professed Christians and yet they couldn’t be any farther from each other. It didn’t take me long, though, before I switched camp.

I have suspected if my defection had something to do with the fact that R sadly reminds me of myself, a child forever trapped within that is impossible to grow up. Flawed and even damaged, he is incapable to hide or pretend. However, his Christian charity does submerge on and off though not without grunting and cussing. All the good and bad are out open glaring at the world as it condemns him. In comparison, B’s even temperament, long southern drools and seemingly perfect disposition are strikingly superior and yet short-lived (to me) once I detect all Christian’s heart and acts stop at his straight A appearance.

Both, just like me, have been known as the lunch rejects for different reasons: one refuses to mingle while the other is just cheap. For someone who is the cheapest of all, it seems unjust to judge another for that. But I am not speaking of lunch alone. In almost 3 years of stay here, I have not seen him lending a giving hand in work or life. His appearance – helpful and gentle - is all without any actions to give. Charity without action is no charity at all. And even actions, without heart, are just acting like. There are plenty of scrooges here that are self-serving and cheap, but at least they don’t pretend to be something else. . Then again, we will never escape the guilty charge for being wayward and irresponsible as long as we wear the brand-mark of Jesus. As I look at his opponent, R, I have to ask the inevitable, convicting questions: for a child of God, which is worse – the one that is imperfect in deeds or the one that is perfect in name alone? When the day comes to face my Lord, will I be able to explain myself away in either charge?

My 2-hour alone-time turned out to be nothing alone as 3 of us shared the “empty” nest in absolute silence. It was just like any of the lunch hour – the same cubicle, same occupants and same silence and yet it felt more crowded and stifling than usual. I had no one to blame but myself when all went wrong that Friday: bad recess, bad mood and bad math. Let it be a precious lesson for all mankind that false expectation can be a grave peril - it could ruin your fun.

TGIF

It was just another Friday – with a twist of an exciting prospect. Reason one, I took a day off from work. Secondly, I was planning for a dinner party. For this all-or-nothing rebel, I cycle through two social extremities periodically and this time it was diving in full force – a voluntary invite, including one couple whom we have not seen for over a year.

Among many of my downfalls, pride is the chief-most. And it shows even in my hosting. I would lose sleep over if not checked. My worst fear from house cleaning to menu planning is if I have enough food (and varieties) for my company. As this time there were but 2 couples, whom we have known for more than 2 decades, it wasn’t all that troublesome. Still, I managed to work myself up to comb through 3 stores and cook for 3 hours. By the time I finished racing the clock, 6:25 exactly, dinner was in the oven, table set and dishes cleaned.

To spice up my menu, I put a spin of Chinese flare: pot roast with Chinese spice, whole grain rice, roasted vegetable and 2 authentic appetizers or side dishes: spring rolls and pot stickers, the last two being everyone’s favorites but labor intensive. My vanity was the only drive I needed as I swept through the kitchen utensils and appliances to make homemade dough, shred the vegetable and grind the meat. Finally I sat down to wrap the spring rolls and dumplings. My fingers swiftly performed their magic as I had done it a million times. It felt home and peaceful. Then the door swung open, in walked the little gypsy from his daily bike patrol trip. Those saucer eyes lit up as he spotted his favorite food, dumplings. He exclaimed “ooooooh”, a simple but clear expression of joy. Instantly, my heart swelled up with matched emotion – I was happy to make my son happy. He went off to his computer while I remained in that afterglow of warmth that only a mother could fully appreciate. Suddenly I was caught unguarded by the questions: how long would I be able to make his favorite dumplings? And who would make them for him when I am gone? I felt that heart that just pumped with comfort seconds ago now constricting in such pain and panic that I could not breathe. Surely it was hardly my first time to face my own mortality, but it was the first time when I realized I could not make dumplings for him forever.

Where was the Friday cheer? My hands mechanically continued on with their task while the tears helplessly and foolishly rushed in. Gone was TGIF, my merry party and all anticipation. The house was all set for my company with food smelling mighty festive, clutters picked up and bathroom cleaned – all except that hole in my heart.

Later that night I unintentionally brought up the silly dumpling scare during our dinner conversation. Several suggestions were brought up, one of them being “Freeze a lot of them”. As the laughters filled up the room, I wondered still if our company’s claim of similar fright as all parents do was indeed valid. Even so, could their share of anxiety ever match the capacity and extent of my fear beyond dumplings? Was it my children’s “difference” that weighed down my outlook for Christians’ ultimate joyful end (or beginning) or was it just my weak faith? It was fear that brought me to the foot of the cross, and yet decades later it is still fear that brings me to the same place where I started. I couldn’t help wondering, again, on the million dollar question: am I saved?

On that particular Friday, I had meant to celebrate with all honesty and effort. It started out well but somewhat deflated despite of the good friends and conversation. Still, it wasn’t a complete lost cause. The weather was glorious with blue sky and gentle breeze. Daffodils were waking up from the deep winter dormant, checking out their new neighbors, the pansies I had bought from the nursery earlier that day. I played house all day long and most importantly my friends never ran out of food. Doubt and fear aside, I did enjoy a change of season with good friends. It was TGIF - almost.

Shall We Walk?

It was another brutally cold day; both inexcusably and ridiculously for March in the southern Virginia. We (my 29-year-old coworker and I) were on the way to drive-through for some fried chicken. A greasy yet comforting lunch made sense after a confusing week with temperature fluctuating between 70’s and 30’s. We were letting out our frustration while we dreamed of our hot, scrumptious chicken. I was fuming especially about missing my morning walk when my young coworker cut in, eyes wide open with excitement. “I should walk too. When the weather warms up, we should walk together.” Without a second to spare, I blurted out, short and precise, “No.” “Why?” She asked with more protest than curiosity. “You can’t keep up with me.” I said. “That’s exactly what I need: someone to whip me and push me”, insisted she. Without a split second loss I replied with same obstinacy: “I don’t want to talk when I walk.” “Is it just physically too strenuous?” This time she was sincerely curious. “Yes,” said I with equal sincerity, “Talking and walking is too much work.”

I realize that my coworker’s request was not all that unreasonable. In fact I have seen enough coworkers doing so, in 2 or 3, everyday. What seems to be most natural in their body language, the smile, ease and talks, is exactly the most absurd to me. How do they do that? And how COULD they? It pains me even to see them doing it.

Later on that day when I had time to reflect on our interactions, I began to feel some regret, only on my lack of diplomacy or tactfulness rather than the answer itself. I would reply with the same answer each and every time. That night I asked my other half what he would have said. There was no reason to expect from this born loner a different sentiment about “walking with others”, but he did say he would have said something like “Maybe. Let’s see.”

I had my “Maybe, Let’s see” older days. In fact, I was a proud graduate from “Maybe, Let’s see” or even “Sure, why not”. There were plenty of days when pleasing others was almost an obsession to me that my mouth would always unwisely say yes before my brain had a chance to stop it. How desperate and needy I was, and how frustrating and foolish it must have been to try and fail time after time! Of all failing attempts, the worst trauma came about 15 years ago – it ironically too started with walking with someone else.

S was then 6, young, ignorant and over-zealous for his almost first social come-out. Prior to this, he had known almost no one except his autistic brother, thus one can appreciate his (or my) excitement when Chris came to the picture. The family had just moved in – appearing at first glance a perfect match for us with a father working too at the college and mother full-time home-maker. The two boys from the same neighborhood attended the same school and the same class. Imagine our joy! So we had our hurdle underneath: our autistic older son and socially inhibited 2nd son vs their two perfect children, and the frozen chosen Calvinists vs the liberal Presbyterian couple, but no one is perfect and we were more than willing to forgive and forget. Soon enough the two boys and mothers were thrown together at play time, phone calls and all that motherhood good stuff. For a little while, I almost felt normal – until that tragic downfall, when we started walking together.

Beth and I first bumped into each other in the 5:15 morning walk at the neighborhood. After a few times of “good morning, how are you?”, it was logical that bumping together turned into walking together. In truth, except for speed, there was nothing in common between us: she was soft-spoken, sweet in demeanor, and kept a house clean and white. While her life appeared to be perfectly in order, mine was anything but. It was, though, not our differences that caused the ruin, but the talk along the walk. Granted I was excited about being admitted to the “mom circle” finally, the 40 minutes of non-stop, friendly chit chats turned out to be just most exasperating and excruciating! Before long, I found myself stuck in a situation where I ran out of not only topics on my miserable life but also comments on her perfect one. The walk turned into this insufferable pop quiz that I had not and could not possibly have prepared for – EVERYDAY. To recover, I decided to cut down on our morning session. I started my round a half hour earlier and met her at the end to do the last 10 minutes. When questioned, I frankly admitted I needed time to wake up. My candid andswer wasn’t well received as I had expected. Pretty soon, my new friend started missing from our walk, and then the phone calls, eventually all interactions altogether.

Looking back on this unfortunate rift, I can finally deduce that it was caused by a combination of my own poor judgment, lack of self-understanding and haste to conform. As much as I sympathize with her sense of rejection, I have to defend my honor that I was then young and hopeful, not realizing my socializing deficit. After all, it wasn’t just my son’s first social attempt alone; it was mine too. This mistake, though sad, did teach me precious lessons: (1) talk and walk should never mix and (2) if necessary, I reserve the seats solely for Bach and my mate, bound by law and life, with whom I have neither need nor fear to please or displease. My young coworker may never appreciate my curt response but this overcomer, much older and wiser now, would rather be blunt in truth than blunder in foolishness. No matter what, let my walk remain forever more sacred as it should be: solo and safe. Amen.

Morning War

Another work day commenced. Same ritual: clothes, shoes, lunch box, 18-minute drive (plus or minus a few grunts pending on the sequences of the stop lights), parking and 2-block walk to the office. All was well. I continued on with the rest of setup: tea, email, phone messages. Finally, the bottom right corner of my computer displayed 4:15 and there it came, the same anxiety, almost anguish, as my ear listened for the sounds of door opening and the intruding footsteps.

I realize that I do work in a 21st century IT world, open floor plan with cells or cubicles, where the comfort (or concept) of privacy simply does not exist. It is exactly that reason that I found my morning solitude so primal to my emotional well-being. On top of it, there are parking issue and insomnia which made my “early to rise (arrive)” a no-brainer solution. When I first started changing the hour, I bumped into another early riser a few times at the coffee lounge and engaged in a few cordial coffee-tea conversation sessions. It was then around 5am. Our social rendezvous, instead of promoting an amiable kinsmanship, ironically evolved to be a waging war as he (or I?) started shifting the arriving time for earlier. Before long, my competitive instinct was baited such that the alarm clock went through a confusing sequence of adjustment, until 3:23 finally settled the dispute. For a while, peace finally arrived on B521, where I had my 30 minutes of alone-time before my rival, now co-owner of the temporary peace domain, came in at 4:30. After that, we had another 20 minutes before the 3rd runner reached the winner’s circle. My ear soon learned to distinguish the footsteps at certain time. 5:10 was S, who religiously turned off the lights at his quarter. 5:30-ish belonged to neighbor T, and then neighbor B who could be rowdy at times due to the inconvenience of next-door location. After that, we have 5:55 for E, 6:05 for M, and so forth. All was well. The hopelessly impulsive, at the same time impossibly rigid rebel was thankfully tamed with the help of a dose of solitude and the clock-wise routines of the others’ arriving.

If only life proved to be predicable ever after! It started with neighbor B, with allotted arrival time 5:35, decided to disturb the perfect sequence. With a sneaking 5 minutes here and there, he reset his clock, against my wishes, to 5:15. Meanwhile the 3rd arrival joined the treachery by inching in to the war-zone, switching her time from 4:50 to 4:30. Such rebellious defiance was not only unthinkable but also excruciating. Eventually the shock did taper off, only to be replaced with persistent pain. Morning after morning, I go through the same anguish, awaiting the disturbed sequence with unresigned indignation.

How and why have I been stuck in this predicament? I have to wonder. Is it my own competitive and controlling nature to blame? Granted if I did own my fault, I have to add that I am not without company here. The all-wise Chinese proverb does say: “One hand claps not”. There would have been no war or competition if there had been one party all along. Recall, specifically, the first instigation started with the other early riser, AKA “light man”, who shifted his time from 5 all the way to 4:30 upon my first appearances. What would you do with rejection or provokes such as those except for joining in and fighting your honor as any good soldiers should? What of the other two defectors? Don’t they know once their time is set there is no excuse to change, especially when my mental, emotional well-being is at stake? What is it that people cannot embrace stability when everything is running perfectly (and most importantly, I am happy)?

I heaved a long breath as the door finally opened at 4:25 when light man came. There it started all over again: the new and undesired sequence. Changes are BAD. I muttered to myself, but “time heals all wounds”. Hopefully, and SOON, time will do her other magic: change the offensive ‘new’s back to old and then peace may finally arrive – both at B521 and most importantly, cubicle 20.

Let there be no more deviation henceforth, I pray.

Heaven Can't Wait

4:38am. I barely caught up with my email after a long weekend’s accumulation when I suddenly realized I had passed my 4:30AM date with my prayer partner. “Bare me before the Lord as I bare you before the Lord” – that was what he said to me when we left him that Sunday. He had been home from the hospital on hospice care. He was lying down on the bed next to the living room’s window where the sun was hanging bright and high on yet another wintery day. His face all beamed up from that 30-minutes hymn impromptu that Luke had put together on request. My Bible sat forlornly at the desk, eyeing me with a question mark and rebuke. You are late! I glared back with a challenging look. Late, for what? 4:30 or forever? My partner is missing in action.

It has been almost 24 hours when that phone call came. 6:44AM exactly. I had been lying awake since 6:15 and trying to pull myself form the warm bed. The house was still and silent except for my idle thoughts and the debating if I should get up already. The booming ring of the phone did not alarm me much; it was late for us even for Sunday and we have had quite a few wrong numbers from the past. I heard my thoughtful other half running out to find the handset. I was still unconcerned even when he returned and opened the door. It was not until when he placed his hand on my arm that I sensed something was wrong. “Charlie died.” He said quietly. The room was dark. I was somewhat lost between a reality and a dream. I thought I should be crying or something, but I was just sitting there, swinging between too many extremes: somberness and sobriety, shocked and expected, frenzy and calm. On top of all, I was somewhat angry. I had had other plan for today - we were going to surprise him again with another violin rendezvous after church, but Charlie had bailed out at the last minute

The tears did not come on my own, I have to confess. They were induced by the others’ grieving eyes later that day and again at his funeral 3 days later. The funeral was surprisingly small, and short, but at the same time so appropriate and perfect for him. He would have wanted no other way. Tears, like yawn, are contagious at its opportune time. And there I was, sitting at the church he started decades ago, surrounded by a handful of old-timers who have been there with him through thin and thick, weeping like a fool. His casket sat forlornly before the podium where he had preached with the tiny, hand-written notes from his pocket and a smile that never failed to revive any weary soul. Right there in front and between the pews was his favorite trail when he’d pace up and down while he preached. To the left stood the new keyboard, replacing the old piano where Luke was, playing with a big grin the Christmas carols on a hot summer Sunday. It was the same church with fresh paint, a remodeled kitchen, much improved nursery and almost new congregation. Everything looked the same but everything was different. He was there and yet he was gone. The irony was: He had tried so hard to withdraw and retreat himself from this church and now he finally succeeded -- only by vanishing, for good.

Why do people say “Be happy for him; he is home now” when it is anything but happy that I am feeling? His gain has become my loss of a friend so noble and different from me. He was God’s best student, the meek and joyful, generous and faithful while I God’s worst student, proud and miserable, selfish and unfaithful. And yet there was some ridiculous resemblance between us. It takes one so awkward and misplaced to know another so insecure, one with no reason to and another with every reason; child-like, one innocent and pure while another incapable to grow up; passionate, he for all beauty and knowledge of God’s creation and I the vain and worldly things of this life. Even so, he couldn’t help his generous, shepherd heart to overlook my wretched flaws and befriend me. And now we parted; the good and faithful servant has completed his journey and the wayward, runaway slave continues on with his exile. Without his Paul’s intersession and advocacy, can Onesimus ever find his way home? Knowing him and his optimism, I can almost hear his answer. My head knows he is right, but my heart with all shame and grief wants to tell him this: heaven can wait, Charlie! I wish so much for yet another our 4:30am session, the Charlie-Benjamin meeting at blogger.com or our small talk at the church kitchen. I can see him still doing all that, but much, much more, only with our big Brother now. Mayhap he is winking at me and telling me why he couldn’t wait. Despite of all my selfish tears, there is yet this relief for his sake – he is home now, the fish back to the water, finally. If there is anyone that knows how liberating it is, that would be me.

It was a bitter sweet farewell, starting with tears and ending in calm. Yes, I was almost fine as I drove out of the parking lot, taking that same road home as I did on those Sundays after saying good-bye to him. Only this time it was the last good-bye. For once, I actually overcame my selfishness and felt happy for him. No more toil, heartaches and fear, just home, safe and free. And as sure as I was with his kind heart, I had my suspicion that he’d still be doing what he did here, along with sweet Jesus, praying and waiting forever more for his unworthy friend at 4:30am, every day.

I Heard The Owl Call His Name?

After a long stretch of cold wintry days, I found myself surprised to face a sky blue and air gentle as I walked out of office. It dawned on me that January has in fact moved soundly to its last leg. The hint of a season’s end was intoxicating. I felt the freeze thawing everywhere: the pedestrians’ face, the 4pm traffic, and the weariness within me. Even this big winter lover was anxious to move on to the next phase. Spring is in the air, and I am happy, or I thought I was. My chest that just opened up moments ago suddenly sank with heaviness. And then and there I wondered why spring could come despite of all.

No, the sun should not shine and sky not blue. And why does this world carry on so casually as if nothing is wrong? The cars were moving, minutes ticking and life recycling just like any other day. I was almost angry. And there it was again, the same anguish that had haunted me all day long. Without any warning, the tears and the sobs overtook me. I started crying.

Why does our subconsciousness or memory continue to keep us captive when we will to flee? The images of Sunday in room 544, almost colorless, a window with a view of grey sky, and a motionless bed where C. slept, flashed on and off without any warning. He had been sleeping much that day, the nurse told us, but it would do him good to have some visitors. She woke him up. I could still see his face – pale, yet almost boyish. He said with a smile that morphine had stopped the pain. He looked content and happy. “Me and the Lord – He sits there and keeps me company”, said he, pointing at the end of his bed. It drew a smile from both of us, and the tears too – smile without much joy and tears of sorrow. He talked on while we listened, struggling to match his playful mood. For a brief second, I wondered if we were the ones lying on that hospital bed and he, the doting pastor-father, comforting the sick and needy.

What do you say to someone who senses the coming of the end? Is there anything that can really convince both inquirer and replier without sounding contrived? “No, there is nothing wrong watching TV at the last days.” Both question and answer were ridiculous. He asked us if we read the book “I heard The owl Call My Name” and with a child-like grin he added: “it’s scary!” The room was still except for our disjointed conversation – the medication he has been taking had impaired some of his hearing and senses. Part of me wanted to stay forever for our mismatched, awkward talk and part of me wanted to run away. The air in that room was stifling, I thought. I looked out of the window and there they were, the seagulls, gliding away silently. I remembered the owl and wondered why it scared him.

I have been there a few times already; it’s only logical at my age. And yet, the fear continues to puzzle and shame me. The promise in my head is no match to the doubt in my heart. Did they really arrive at that final destination that makes up all the toil and ploy of a lifetime? What if at the end of the drudgery we find ourselves opening a door that leads to a wall and all the pain and grief of living and dying is just pain and grief? I looked at C’s face and found neither pain nor grief; his eyes reflected joy and trust, pure and simple. He was at home in that small hospital room with the machines mechanically beeping, nurses and patients quietly passing to and fro. Heaven could be there, as in anywhere: his own home, the podium at the church, or dinner at our kitchen. The fear and doubt was all mine if and when the owl calls; He would be all too happy to go to Vinny’s for our pizza date or that final trip home.

My tears finally stopped. It was but a Wednesday afternoon, with an unexpected relief from a long and cold winter. The pain was still there, burning persistently for a brother-friend whose life has been a hidden treasure: complex yet simple, ordinary and most extraordinary, empowering though demine. Our paths have crossed but a brief 3 years, but I would never trade its depth with the length of any other substitute. I may not have my answers yet, but I know wherever he goes, there I would like to go - even when the owls call my name.

His Brother's Keeper

5pm on a January day, cold even for southern Virginia. Outside the remnant of daylight was slipping away quietly and inside dusky and soundless. I was listening for the door and Luke walking in from his daily trip to the gym. Instead, the phone rang and broke the silence. I dashed to reach for the handset – a late afternoon phone call could only mean 2 things: his call to say he was coming home or he was stuck somewhere with a flat. It was neither. The voice was agitated and hesitant. “Nothing”, he repeated, when it meant anything except nothing. He clams shut when he is unsure or frightened. Finally, I traced down to the cause: he had gone to his father’s lab and could not find him. It was but a few miles from home, but he was in no shape of choosing the option to return home in his bike when he was stuck in that mood. My small cross-over has no capacity to accommodate his bike, thus I could not offer to come pick him and his bike up. Desperate times call for desperate measure. The only option left was to call his brother at the dorm. Can you pick Luke up with the van? I explained why and apologized for the bad timing. It was rush hour time and the traffic could be at the peak of its worse. There was not a second thought or reluctance. He quickly said yes and was on his way already.

45 minutes later, the door opened and in walked Luke, alone. His brother had dropped him home and left. I hurried outside, hoping to catch him – to praise and thank him and maybe even persuade him with a dinner. The driveway was empty with no trace of his van. There was a sliver of emptiness in my heart from the disappointment. An average son would have come in to say hi or something. Then again, an average son would not have gone out to bail his helpless brother without a whine or fight. He was nothing average.

He had finished his Christmas break and gone back to his dorm just this week. It was but a short 3-week stay, including the 5-day family vacation he bailed out at the last minute. My nothing-average son is looking quite average in his growing up and away. There no longer exists much family bonding time when he is home. He stayed in his room most of the time. When he came out, he would be upstairs watching TV or his DVD’s. Occasionally both of them might share the same facility or space, mostly during Luke’s passion, the game shows, for you could hear their zealous exchanges or uproars on and off, one serious participating and another one comical commenting. It was an odd combination of many things: normal and yet rare, fun and sad, sweet and sour. Regardless, for this not-so-ordinary family, it almost made us ordinary.

No, moments like that maybe everyday or everywhere for others, but for us it has been a long time coming. I remember the first few years of his life how hopeful we once felt, for us and for his autistic brother. His animation, difference and even brilliance were the only things that brought us afloat. He would be fine, we said to ourselves, no, more than fine. And when we are gone, he would be there for his lesser brother. He would be his protector, his keeper. Sadly, this high hope came tumbling down soon enough. For the longest time, the promised rescuer turned into a persecutor – oscillating between a ghost-like shadow and a volcanic, damaging nightmare that you can’t wait to wake up from. It consumed and depleted us all to the bone. When his own label finally came in, it did not bring us any relief. The truth, instead of setting us free, left us a harsh reality that these two children shall be one day left behind, equally alone and helpless.

Does time really heal all wounds? Or is it the distance that makes the heart grow fonder? I wonder. The 3-mile-away college somehow seems to have brought back that 3-year-old who was once Luke’s shadow and sunshine. The compassion has returned and replaced impatience or sometimes shame. The same exclamation, “LUKE!”, no longer sounds annoyed or unkind but rather fond and almost indulging. Nearly 15 years of broken dream later, I have been trained to take life as it is, one day at a time, with little expectation. I have no other alternative but to cling to the hope that claims not to disappoint. And I was certainly not at all disappointed then. On the contrary, I was almost hopeful! I looked out of the empty driveway and imagined how they unloaded Luke’s bike together and him saying “you ok, Luke?” before driving off. That emptiness in my heart from the earlier disappointment was suddenly filled. I realized then the promise might just have been delivered - except more than I ever dreamed of: both his brother’s keeper and his keeper.