Endless

Endless


The warmest embrace my baby heart knew
Comfort in your arms
And when the firm and secure cradle of your hands placed me
Securely into my crib
And when I woke up to find you gone
Endless sorrow

The brightest smile my childhood eyes desired
Affirmation in your face
As you guided my hand to draw delicate birds
Imagination growing on paper
And when you spoke your praise
Endless joy

The most shaming sound my juvenile ears could brace
Apprehension in your mouth
When you scolded me for my unruliness
Being pruned like a plant
And when you looked my path
Endless guilt

The unspeakable words that had to come from our mouths, mom to son, son to mom
Unsettled in our bodies
When you could not speak
Heart grasping for something
And when you passed
Endless

Embodied

Part 1: Drained
My body often wakes up to the sound of the baseboard heater’s buzz. Buuuzzzzzzz. Buuuuuzzzzz. “Shut the hell up! I was so close. You took me away from that confusing dream. I was on the verge of figuring something out. So close. So so close.” At least that’s what I say in my mind. My body says something else. My eyes are heavy with the sandman’s dust; which feels less like dust and more like bricks in the corners of my eyes. My right nostril went on strike and refuses to breathe. My bladder shoves me and tells me I should get out of bed. The rest of my body resists, like loose wet sand slipping between fingers. Isn’t sleep supposed to reenergize you? My energy has been sapped. After a few minutes of extreme ambivalence, my body finds itself moving into the bathroom…extreme relief. The next mission, twist the little knob on the wall and stop the most annoying hum in the world.

The body says so much when you wake up, as if it were competing with the rooster’s crow. My body says to crawl back into bed.



Part 2: OkCupid
The alarm sounds and my morning iPhone ritual begins (even though it no longer qualifies as morning because it’s 4pm). I am still wet sand. I check my email. I check Facebook. I check Instagram. I check Flipboard. I check OkCupid. Yes, I check OkCupid. Not only that, I begin answering the questions in it (to explain; OkCupid is an online dating website which has these multiple answer questions you fill out so that they can have data which is used to match you with others who answer similarly. I have entered the dark side…but not really, it’s actually kind of fun. Or at least I tell myself it’s fun because it’s satisfying my curiosity of about online dating?), because maybe if I find something interesting, this tired body might wake up. Please carrot, lead this old horse.

The following question is offered: “Do you believe that mind and body are separate entities (Dualism) or do you believe that they are in a state of unity (Monism)?”

You can only select one of the following answers: “Monism”, “Dualism”, “A bit of both”, “Uncertain.”

I skip the question altogether because I am undecided...or just too tired. The sand is still wet.



Part 3: House
After inhaling the El Diablo Azul burger, garlic fries, and a hearty winter warmer (which counts as breakfast, lunch, and dinner because I woke up so late), I feel the light and cold Seattle rain sprinkle baptize my satiated body as I make my way over to “Body Orthodoxy: A Sensual Education.” The house that the art installation is in reminds me of Carl Fredricksen’s house in the movie “Up.” Large and newer buildings in the South Lake Union Area encroach on the minuscule territory that remains for the rickety house left fending for itself. The quaintness of the house punctuates the mindfulness necessary as I prepare to take in the overt and the subtleties…the things I will see, smell, taste, and touch.

A homeless lady passes by the house and asks for two dollars. Her body is in need.



Part 4: Sensual
Each room features an artist or two and their work. There are many rooms.

I see collages of animals and people with the heads of icons transposed onto their heads. God is in all creation, but sometimes we are too blind to see it.

Crochet breasts, vaginas, and penises are mounted to the wall and we are invited to touch. What does my anxiety in touching say about the shame that Adam and Eve felt in covering themselves which is still viscerally alive in me?

Amongst statues of bodies, with televisions and books and grenades in their abdominal cavities, I smell incense and partake of communion; consuming the body and blood of Christ from a soldier’s helmet. The battles and wars we engage with our body involve the body of Christ and fragrant prayers. There is so much meaning, intent, and desire. Desire for what?

The dancer twists and writes. Her body moves beautifully; amazingly. I see a story unfold. Each movement is an exercise in freedom and discovery. Our flesh in movement is the embodiment and expression of our creative souls. How often do we move freely or restrict our range of motion to basic tasks? How do we hide from our spirit in our body? How do we discover our spirit in our body? How do we hide or discover our body with our spirit?

The lady sits on the floor and wraps herself with a mishmash of items tied together. The sheet of birth control pills is weaved into lingerie is weaved into a tampon box is weaved into stockings is weaved into a pregnancy test marker is weaved into…item and item and continuous item – items that barrage the female body. She wraps these items on her limbs and torso and repeats, “This is not what I want…but I want it also.” And we watch as she slowly and consistently engulfs her body in this burden. And we watch as she unravels and unburdens herself. What do we subject the female body to that says Imago Dei?

There was so much more. But all in all, I my eyes, skin, olfactory nerves, taste buds were all doused with a bit of mindfulness; or I should say, awareness of embodiment. Our bodies tell a very loud story that we often don’t take the time to listen to nor consecrate.



Part 5: Attack
It is tomorrow and I am in a “show of support” at the hospital. I enter the room and see an imposing and fuming body. The light fixture is ripped off the wall. A large chair is upside down on the bed. The patient is huffing and puffing and red. We clear the area so other patients aren’t at risk of injury. The trembling voice cusses at the staff that show up to address this angry and frightened body. The patient cools down; but not before long a nurse is punched in the face, followed by a cascade of hospital staff bodies engulfing the patient’s limbs. The writhing body fights. The teeth reach for a shoulder to bite. The staff hang on. We encourage the patient to breath slowly. “Remember to breath…Relax…We’re here to help you.”

Body on body. There is an internal battle that leads to an external battle. The flesh cries out.



Part 6: Both/And
I guess I believe in both/and “monism” and “dualism.” Body and mind are unique, seeming to have an apparent autonomy; but one would not be in its fullness without the other, therefore also taking part in making the other. The body is the extension of the mind and vice versa.



Part 7: Invitation
History resides in our flesh. Relationship forms our flesh. The body tells a story and makes new stories. From the waking aches, to OkCupid curiosities, to knitted privates and interpretive dance, and a raging patient that is swaddled in the protective grasps of many bodies – the flesh asks to received and honored. How do we miss the many ways our bodies cry out for God; or cry out and tell us God is already there?

God Was That Dog I Held

It’s one of those nights…I am restlessly typing away at 2am when I told myself I was going to bed at 10pm. Something was stewing inside of me. That thing wasn’t going to let me go until I began typing this.

A dear friend of mine emailed me regarding his latest blog entry. It was about an interview he had with a filmmaker named Eliot Rauch, one extremely gifted in his ability to capture some of the rawest moments in a short clip. So I ended up watching a tragically beautiful video doc about a guy who was putting his dog down, and something clicked. In the slightly scratchy and sorrowful voice I heard, saying, “God was that dog I held…today…” I realized some of my own seemingly long lost sorrow.

Yesterday, I ran a half marathon. Just earlier I spent what felt like an eternity (probably a couple hours) deliberating, wordsmithing, massaging, my match.com profile only to lose it two times because the stupid site refreshed before I could save. My job revolves around social work and therapy. I attempt to help people the best I can while they may be in their shittiest circumstances. Yesterday I found out while browsing Facebook (of all places) my ex-wife was married...it felt like a sucker punch in the gut (and why the hell do I find out about this through social media instead of directly from a human being?!?). In all those things, my mind and heart were racked with heavy burdens; but an even more salient question lied in wait, the thing that didn’t let me go to sleep at 10pm. It asked, “Why do I put myself in or go through all these things – intentionally or inadvertently?” I mean, why do I long so much? Why do I have the aspirations that make up the core of my being? Why the fuck do I care so damn much when life sometimes feels like a concentrated solution of hurt, disappointment, and shit poured over a worn heart? Of course, there is the answer that says its part of my ego trying to balance my primal instincts and internalized parent objects from childhood while engaging the death instinct and the manifestations of reenactments and other such hardwired survival mechanisms etched into the bowels of my DNA that keep me going (Yes, grad school has ruined me). And while I think those aforementioned reasons are nonetheless true, I also believe I long for God.

God is love. God is most clear in those moments where honesty flourishes in a redemptive embrace. Like that man holding his dog. I’m looking for those moments; that thing that speaks to the truest part of me. It’s the milk that the baby craves. It’s what I long to experience in the peaks, dips, and in-betweens of this messy narrative. I’m looking for this goodness I feel that has been so very palpable yet extremely wild and elusive. So, like the wide-eyed gambler pathetically trying get back the winnings he had lost just a few minutes ago, I’m at the table hoping and scheming. I’m searching...for love...for God...for any semblance of truth and goodness...maybe in the wrong places, but hoping some of those are the right places. And when I find God there, I hold it like that man embracing his best friend of a dog that was in the truest sense God. Crying and reluctant to let go; watching a precious, good, and true thing slowly slip away. That feeling of God slipping away occurs when the glory of running a half marathon ends and a sore IT band sets in; when the attempts of finding someone to share romantic joy with feels futile and downright ridiculous; when helping others underscores more tragedy; and when feelings of once having been deeply loved seem more and more like a delusion. I know somewhere and at some point in those moments, amidst the furious mix of brain chemistry, psychosocial components, and narrative plots, God was present. There, God touched the truest part of me and I was loved. I believe God still does, but it just doesn’t feel the same…in fact, it hurts like hell now. But now that I’ve poured a little of my heart out, think I can go to sleep. God, please meet me in my sleep…and when I wake, work, attempt to love, and continue on…

Last Minutes with ODEN from phos pictures on Vimeo.

Go Back To Your Country!

Earlier today a coworker asked me if I run with music. I told him it depends on my mood. Sometimes I like to hear, to feel my surroundings and be more focused on what’s going on in me. So when I began my run at Sam Smith Park this evening, slowly walking and stretching without my shirt on, I was able to clearly take in everything. “Look at him! He thinks he’s damn sexy!” “Put your shirt back on!” As I turned to look around, I made eye contact with one of the ladies yelling out of the car at me. Stopped at the intersection on my left, there were at least two ladies in that old white car that I could see and hear, the ones in the front, and maybe a third person in the back seat. The one I saw in the passenger side was an overweight Black lady. And although the eye contact was only for a brief second, the impact of the gaze made the following comment feel like a torturously long occasion. She slightly grinned; and as soon as the light turned green, speeding off, said, “Go back to your country!”

At that moment I felt my stomach sink and felt paralyzed. I stood there shocked. It was so quick and there was nothing I could do about it but receive what had happened. After I was finally able to gather myself together, I began putting one foot in front of the other. Picking up my pace, the dialogue in my head also picked up the pace…What just happened? Damn you! How can you be so racist with a comment like that?!? We’re both people of color who have experienced oppression! This IS my country! Maybe I should’ve kept my shirt on. No, I’ve been enjoying the sun and its okay for me to run without my damn shirt on if I want to. Am I really so cocky that I think I’m sexy without my shirt on? Sometimes I do think I’m pretty damn sexy. Sometimes sexy is the furthest thing from what I actually think and feel about body. What if this wasn’t my country and I just moved here recently? Does that make what she said right? If she only knew my story she wouldn’t have said those things. Maybe if I knew her story I wouldn’t take it so hard. The Chinese built the fucking railroads that revolutionized America! This IS my fucking country! Why is it that Asian males aren’t seen as sexy…and on and on. The ugliest parts of me had surfaced and were part of the conversation in my head as well, which I will leave out of this blog because those things don’t need to be repeated. Let’s just say that I was also reverting to entertaining prejudiced stereotypes that I knew were a result of my wounded pride rather than out of the truth that we are all different yet still God’s people.

By the end of my run across and back from the I-90 Bridge, I think I made my fastest time with inclines. Usually I’d feel a huge sense of satisfaction, but like a broken tape player, “Go back to your country!” continued to repeat itself in my head. It stuck to me like a throbbing sting on the cheek after a slap across the face. I needed something like ice to cool me down, to comfort me. Finding a bench, I thought that if I just sat down for a while I might feel a little better. I noticed by the end of the run, that I just ran past a man who looked like he was a Native American. I looked around and I saw Hispanic people. Looking around again I saw other Black people. Then a couple old ladies walked past me, speaking to each other in Mandarin about things they eat for health. About a minute behind them was another pair of old ladies, this time, speaking Cantonese. I’m not exactly sure what it was about that moment on the bench, but I felt comforted. Maybe it was because I was reminded that my neighborhood is full of diversity - people who may have experienced worse than what I just experienced and they are still walking the park. The old Chinese ladies, the Hispanic people, the Native American man, the Black people, myself – I’m sure we’ve all experienced one form or another of prejudice, as well as have perpetuated it in our lives – yet here we all are, being ourselves at the park…and mostly not having to be apologetic about it.

Later in the evening I was able to confide in and share these thoughts with my roommate, Zac. Zac, for those who don’t know is mixed – Black father, White mom – and has also been a target of racism throughout his life. Zac is also a good friend who has on many occasions brought light and encouragement to some of my darkest moments. Here’s a little of what Zac said… “That wasn’t about you. It could’ve been any of your Asian brothers; my Asian brothers…It was about their oppression and they wanted to pass that disease to you…In those moments pray for them…I’m sure how you felt wasn’t what God wanted for you or what God wanted for them…that was a drive by shitting on you…now you gotta do a drive by prayer.” There was a lot more to our conversation; but in short, I was reminded that evil seeks to smite out the glory of God in our uniqueness – racial and cultural uniqueness especially so. Being people of difference should affirm instead of negate the joy we take in how God has made us – so gloriously diverse. So when I run without my earphones on and am taking it all in, I know I will be taking in difficult things as well, and will sometimes (if not more so) have the challenge and reward of returning a blessing toward the paths I set on; affirming the Imago Dei in the some of the most unexpected ways.

Plowshare

A few have asked that I share the poem I read at graduation. I feel so honored being asked to share...




Plowshare

You’d think you’d’ve figured out by now how to unravel the knots of life that sit uneasily in your stomach or throat
That the moments that paralyze you into cloistered patterns of interaction would’ve faded away by now
You know, those ruts you’ve been stuck into, forever
As though a large field of hardened soil lies before you
And you feel only enough strength to plow into the land that is soft and familiar
You’d think that by now, the intimate moments that you long for, don’t scare you when the opportunity presents itself
So that when you pray, with eyes open…
You can look deeply into the eyes of the one you are praying with
Intimate and without shame in that deep gaze
And know that God is there, in that minute and profound moment…
Just as much as when you gaze deeply into the eyes of your lover while making love
Feeling fully known, accepted, and loved…
You are not repelled by fear
But how often does that happen?
O love that wilt not let me go

And of course gazing deeply into the eyes of anyone is unsettling
That lump in your throat returns…
You’d think you’d’ve got used to social interactions
That by now, you’d be fluent in the language of communal contact
And all it takes is the push of the autopilot button and you are cruising at interviews, dates, parties, on the dance floor, riding the bus, family gatherings, and those awkward moments in the elevator
Don’t get me wrong, I think we’ve learned to navigate these moments to some degree
Sometimes it looks like the three wise monkeys
"Non vedo, non sento, non parlo"
I see nothing, I hear nothing, I say nothing
But to fly face first uninhibited by doubts of who we are into the face of the other and operate from a complete sense of security and a sense of complete security
Fully delighting and being delighted in
Well, I think that’s the hard part
The unyielding, dry, and cracked soil
But will it ever be easy?
O love that wilt not let me go

Who can guarantee that the look I give to another across from me, like that valentine, clumsily put together with Elmers glue oozing out of its sides like my uneasy affection, and sent out in first grade will, be returned to me with grace?
That my voice as awkward, shrill, unconfident, overconfident, compensating, and true will be received, heard, and reciprocated?
So that when I risk touching and being touched, the surface of my skin will feel the warmth of safety as much as intimacy?
Or that when I timidly step forward onto untried territory that I will not be shamed but seen and rejoiced over?
What promises do I have in this world aside from my heart scarred experiences of having been dropped as a baby…
As a baby and son
As a kindergartener, junior high schooler, high schooler, collegiate
As the pimply teenager who awkwardly navigates attraction for the first time
As a clumsy lover
As a worker that is trying to find that ever elusive niche
As a boy and man
As a Chinese American
As a Chinese
As an American
As a believer and doubter
As a married man and divorcee
As a learner who forgets
Healer and hurter
As a baby…
I have been dropped so so many times
What promises do I have that the unplowed soil will be soft and yielding?
It looks so hard…
O love that wilt not let me go

And like the tortoise returning to its scarred and battle worn shell, I can be found present but not
Or like the furious bear, my violent attacks are truly my fears in bold colors splashed across the canvas of our interactions
The unspoken promises set themselves deeply into my bones and I walk the path supported with limbs saturated…
By fears and failed expectations
They weigh heavily over me like wet clothes over a frail self
Exorcize this paralyzing force that drives me into these ruts that I have plowed forever
Been stuck in
Ruts
That I have plowed
Forever…
Especially, when I know there are new acres to set upon and a harvest yet to be reaped!
O love that wilt not let me go

It’s so easy to till the familiar and soft soil time and again
It’s difficult to break up the soil that has been hardened by the dryness and fear of life
So, as the seasons come and go
And the knots resurface in the stomach and throat
And it is time to either retreat into the shell or wrathfully rage
I remember I have much more growing to do
O love that wilt not let me go…

I set my hands on the plow...

Waves Of Memory

On a whim I decided to flip through my calendar and gloss over what my last few years have been like…then the memories, vivid, and saturated with emotions came. It was as if the tide that had receded far back decided it was finally time to come back to wet the shore…

My mother passed away on the New Year’s Day of 2009. That same year, I was separated in October, moving out of my house after being the best man at one of my best friend’s wedding. She kept the house and dog while I packed my bags. I moved into a living room of a one bedroom apartment in lower Queen Anne. To cope, I put my nose to the grindstone like never before. Only letting sorrow take up partial residence, I took four classes that semester while trying to work more shifts at the Spaghetti Factory.

The shower in my new place was whacko. If the shower could have a psychological disorder, it would have a dual diagnosis of dissociative identity disorder and bipolar 1. There were days where I‘d be stuck in the shower because the water decided on a whim that it wanted to stay either ice cold or scalding hot for about 5-20ish minutes. The water pressure was never really consistent either, vacillating between a decent ppi and the equivalent of what would come from a dollar store squirt gun.

Oh, and we had a rat problem. The trap finally got it one day; and many hours later, after finding out it wasn’t dead, I removed the barely alive rat from the bloody mess behind our old rickety fridge. I took it outside and put it out if its misery. Never before, would I have considered stomping on a rat the compassionate thing to do.

The week of Christmas I was fired from my job as a waiter. He fired me because I was 20 minutes late to call to ask if they needed me to come in later that evening. It was the first and only time I had ever been tardy for a phone confirmation. Bittersweet, I say. I needed the job but was glad I didn’t have to work with that manager anymore...it was, as they say, redonkulous.

I worked hard to find a job. But with the spare time there was also space to mourn. The Christmas season was quiet. The anniversary of my mother’s passing was quiet. It was quiet as I laid in the futon alone. I had a lot of time for solitude. So I was quiet, and I worked hard.

Since February of 2010 I’ve been working at the psych hospital. So now, the people I work with at least have some idea they need mental help.

A month before my divorce papers were finalized, I had to find a new place to live since my roommate was moving out by June and I couldn’t afford to stay. June was also the month my divorce papers would be finalized by the State of Washington, by some judge in some court I didn’t care to know more about. I felt like I needed to slow down to get a grip and hurry up to take care of myself at the same time. Contradictions. So I hurried and found a new place to live in, in a short amount of time; and by the beginning of June I was living near my old neighborhood, where my middle and high school days were spent.

On June 16th the divorce papers were finalized. I also had an assignment due for Therapy 1 that day…two papers were finalized that day. When I got home I was sad, angry, and kind of numb since it felt like we had already been divorced for even longer than that. My roommate consoled me as we walked through our neighborhood and I tried to flush the grief out of my body through words. We walked miles and miles for hours and hours.

It’s almost been a year now since the divorce papers were finalized, longer since the separation, and a lot longer from when I first felt the weight and finality of the relational rift set in. I think the pressure and weight of it has considerably been lifted.

In January and February of 2011 I actually went on a few dates. The dates felt clumsy, on my part, since I felt like damaged goods. But as unexpected as they were, those nights turned out to be salve for the dry skin of my soul. Maybe I didn’t have to feel like damaged goods.

This last semester I took five classes, saw clients at my internship, and worked at the psych hospital. I worked my ass off, and it’s been about two weeks since I graduated. It feels surreal. And sometimes I question how intact, sane, and healthy I am because I was able to keep my momentum going these last few years. Sometimes I feel like maybe I should've had a psychic break and ended up in the hospital, fall to pieces and not be able to function, slip into some sort of drunken stupor, etc. Isn’t that what happens when people with warm blood flowing through their veins have their hearts broken? Instead, my executive functioning excelled and I read books, wrote papers, and ran a half-marathon. I coped like my life depended on it…and somehow I feel like my heart was preserved. Maybe it was because amidst all the craziness, I’ve had quiet moments like this to reflect and write, friends to walk with, and work that actually feels meaningful to me.

Looking at my calendar, I feel like God is very strange; strange because the terrain has been so strange. But God has also been faithful...as faithful as is strange.

The tide has washed over me.

Last Assignment Divina

A response to Luke 24:13-34

I didn’t originally intend it this way, but I ended up saving this lectio divina journal entry as my very last assignment as a MACP student at MHGS. Originally, I had planned to work on this in the comfort of my room, but one thing led to another (yes, procrastination was partly involved) and my plans had to adapt. And they adapted for the better.

After waking up early to work on other assignments, I took the Light Rail to Downtown where a couple of friends treated me out for lunch as a celebration of the end of my three years in grad school. Donny Trieu, Quang Nguyen, and I feasted on Brazilian rodizio at Ipanema Grill. The waiters whisked to and from our table with swords of glistening cuts of meat skewered on: garlic steak, peppered steak, parmesan pork loin, sausages that tasted like they had beer in them, grilled chicken, etc. We also ate jicama, baby carrots, varieties of mushrooms, and other interesting fresh vegetables from their “Mesa de Frios.” My belly was as full as my heart.

Then I took my time walking past Pike Place Market, breathing in a hodgepodge of scents, from fresh piroshkies to a vast array of flowers to the briny Puget Sound; listening to the eclectic assortment of buskers; and watching all sorts of people, from tourists to the homeless, go about their busyness. The wind and rain lightly blew on my face as if showering me with kisses on my walk. My senses felt as full as my heart.

Finally, I walked into the school building. I chatted with James Chi, who was manning the front desk, for a while before I headed up to the sanctuary to meditate on my lectio divina. I remember that the very first person who greeted me at the front desk when I was officially a student was Ben Oldham; who turned out to be a great friend that I could always expect the best hugs and listening ears from during my first and second year at the school. When I entered the sanctuary, the images of the icons, the benches, the arrangement of bricks with folded prayers wedged in between them, Sonny and Margaret’s picture, the large wooden cross, the little mirror, and all the other pieces of that holy place felt like faithful angels and friends surrounding me. My spirit and heart was filled with comfort.

So, as I read about the two walking along the Emmaus road oblivious to Christ’s presence until they broke break with him, I began to realize Christ’s presence with me all these years…and even on my walk to MHGS today and in the sanctuary. Jesus ate with me, kissed me on my walk, covered me as I meditated, and is blessing me as I write this in the school library. My body, senses, spirit, mind, and heart is full.

Lectio Divina: Ebbing Away

A response to Matthew 14: 22-33

In this time of endings and new beginnings it feels like Jesus is sending me out from a secure place and into a storm. During my three years at MHGS, I went through two major losses; my mother passing away from illness and my divorce. And with those losses many other dreams, wishes, and hopes also passed away. Promises to take my mom back to the Woodland Park Rose Garden, and my hopes to see her smile as she basked in the sights and smells of her favorite flowers dissipated. The feeling that I could come home to a wife and dog and sink into their kisses and love, and dreams of one day hearing the patter of tiny bare feet running on the kitchen floor (at least in the way that I had grown accustomed to imagining) were shattered. I felt like I was torn from life as I knew it; but at the same time I found deep hope and peace in ways I could never have anticipated.

I began to face questions about myself that were long buried inside of me, as well as questions that were right in front of my face but I had chosen to ignore. Questions about how broken my family and marriage was. I began to excavate the dusty and untouched parts of my life, and found relics that explained deep sorrow, anger, and resentment; those things I felt so guilty for feeling toward my mother and ex-wife. Why did you abandon me? Why am I relieved that you left me? Did I leave you? Did I ever want to leave you? I think I did at times, but why? How was I hurt and how did I hurt you? Why did hurt happen? Did it have to? Why…why…why… And all of these whys, the excavations, the process of understanding, and the search for peace occurred in a time and place of my life that came to feel deeply secure and richly good.

It was secure and good because I was surrounded by peers, friends, and professors at MHGS who were going through their own existential winnowing. They were as invested into that process as I was. Where else were there a bunch of people who would deconstruct and reconstruct with such care and love for God and our identities? We were a community of people engaged in the holy practices of wrestling with God in academics, psychology, theology, creativity, play – and all in an ardent attempt to live more into what being a bearer of God’s image can be. Never before was I able to ask such frightening questions of my life with such freedom; and never before, did I feel like God and the people around me was receiving my questions with such interest, sorrow and delight.

I imagine that in a very dark time of my life, God was holding me safely, cradling and nourishing me at MHGS. I also imagine that taste of security – the experience of care I received as God dressed my wounds – was what the listeners and disciples of Christ experienced as they ate the loaves and bread of Christ and were miraculously healed.

So, when I read about Christ sending his disciples out onto the water after such a wonderful healing experience, only to find themselves stranded on dark stormy waters for hours upon hours without their miraculous master, I can’t help but to imagine they were bewildered and that the sense of security they felt on the shore had slowly ebbed away from them as far as they were away from the shore. In many ways, I’ve already begun to feel my sense of security ebbing away. As I begin this process of leaving my beloved MHGS community, this place of being miraculously healed and fed, I feel like I’m being sent out into the dark stormy waters. Jesus is sending me there and I am afraid.

But I’m keeping my eyes open for the mysterious figure walking toward me on the waves. And when I see him, I will ask “Lord, if it’s you, tell me to come to you on the water.”

Lectio Delusional

It’s about 3:40pm and I just woke up from my “night’s sleep.” I feel really wound up. All sorts of thoughts and feelings flooded me as my eyelids struggled to open, and stayed with me as I attempted to make today’s lectio divina the start of my day. My focus felt like a swarm of wasps buzzing around and around; as if their nest was tucked away in the corner of my brain and heart. And of course if I were to impatiently attempt removing the nest away without being extremely careful, I would be covered by swarm of yellow jacket stings. I wondered about how the nest got there in the first place.

Today’s swarm of thoughts and feelings was probably brought to me by the overnight shift I just worked at the psych hospital. It was my first overnight in a very long time, probably about half a year since my last one. I stayed up all night preparing paperwork and pouring over patient’s charts; walking into every room to check on each patient, making sure they were safe; watching manic patients act out their psychosis throughout the night (I kind of wish I had their energy, but not really); and accompanying the nurses in their attempts to keep busy and avoid the sandman’s tempting calls to close our eyes if even for just a moment. And in between all of those tasks, working the night shift gives you a lot of time to ponder...what I want to do after graduation, why my relationships turn out the way they do, where the best clams might be for the next time I attempt to make clam linguini, what my ambivalence in starting a private-practice might be about, etc. Also, I think it’s really interesting how fielding the questions of delusional patients can sometimes free up my mind to wonder about the most imaginative or reflective things. Statements like, “I’m concerned about my safety.” from a psychotically paranoid patient have on occasion led me to wonder about where in my own life I might be somewhat delusionally preoccupied with protection. Yep, eight and a half hours of time for contemplation in an environment poignantly dedicated to people’s disorganization probably carried over into my “morning.”

It makes sense then, when I read John 1:35-42, about a couple of Jesus’ first disciples, that I wondered what kind of delusions Jesus was welcoming them to bring to him. They were meeting the Christ for the first time and probably had all sorts of assumptions about him; and with that, I’m sure they had their very own ambitions, fears, questions, and the like that come from their own life stories; some true and reality based and others ridiculously ridiculous. They brought into their discipleship with Jesus, their organized and disorganized sense of self. Yet Jesus welcomed these curious followers, inviting them to process their lives with him. So, as I slowly read aloud Jesus’ words, “What do you want?” and “Come…and you will see…”, I felt like God was welcoming me – all of me, which includes my disorganized, my delusional, and my yellow jacket swarm of a heart and mind to “discipleship.”

Uneasy Guiding Hands: Seward Park Lectio

As I read the passage at Seward Park, I felt the cold wind over my skin. At first, I wanted to retreat back into my car; but knew I needed to be out in the sun, with the fresh air in my lungs, ducks waddling around me, and a mysterious something else was beckoning me to stay out on the cold park bench. I closed my eyes and told myself to slow down; to calm down. And I did slow down a bit, but there was something else inside me tugging. There was an uneasiness that would not let me go, to slowly and peacefully experience my lectio divina. So I decided to bring it along. I took in a few deep breaths and decided to bring that uneasiness with me to Psalm 139.

When I began reading the passage, I felt a wave of sadness sweep over me. The uneasiness inside, wanted to come out in tears. As I slowly read the passage aloud, hearing the sounds of the words in the environment floating around me, with the sound of the water lapping on the shore, ducks quacking, and the vibrations of the breeze against my ear, I felt like each word was trying to enter my heart through my ears. It was as if the Spirit was mixing the sounds of scripture and environment to make music for my soul.

As I listened to my own voice read the scriptures aloud, I felt a bit weird. I think it’s probably because I’ve always had a hard time listening to and accepting my own voice. To soak in and delight in the message that the Spirit may be bringing to me – through my very own voice – felt so unnerving. Does God really desire for me to hear my own voice and be convinced it has something good to speak when I’ve been so unsure of myself, when I’ve fooled myself so many times? Sure, I can talk about other things to other people. But to talk about things of myself to myself…I guess that takes some faith that Christ really dwells within as much as around.

So, it was in this mixture of my surroundings, my presence, and my uneasiness that the Spirit brought the words in Psalm 139:10, “even there your hand will guide me…” to the surface of my attention. I was reminded of the way God has moved with me in life, guiding me, as my character and identity has been, and is continuing to be, shaped. Reminded that all the times I’ve been broken and healed have been a part of what redemption is. The process of embracing my voice, my flaws, my strength, my creativity…those are all parts of God’s sanctification. I was reminded that the trajectory I move along is filled with heartache, abandonment, harm, and rupture; but at the same time is filled with happiness, relationship, healing, and repair.

I think that was why my uneasiness didn’t want to let me go. It needed to hear those words of the Spirit, to know that it existed because it was a part of God’s story in my life. Actually, I think it needed to know that I knew it existed because it was a part of God's story in my life. Then it said to me, “See! I told you I was there! I was there when you felt abandoned and worthless, but you wouldn’t acknowledge my presence. Well, here I am. Now you can take a good look at me. I am uneasiness. You are uneasy. And now that you’ve seen me, I want to tell you something. I come to tell you about things that aren’t so easy to accept. I bring grief. I’ve also been sent here to tell you that things shouldn’t always be so dismal. I’ve been told to tell you that love also awaits you. I’m your friend. I know sometimes it’s hard for you to get there, so let’s go there together. When we get there, I’ll let you spend time with love. I might even hang around a bit. When it’s the right time, I’ll come back and well talk about more things. We’ll walk on as friends. Oh, and don’t worry too much, God knows you and me very well. We have a good guide for the journey. Those hands will guide you and me to the places we need to be in the right time.” Then, my uneasiness came out in a few tears and smile.

I Don't Blame Them

In the summer of 2009, as part of my training as a counselor, I took Dr. Caprice D. Hollins' CSL 509 Multicultural Issues: Social and Cultural Foundations class. One of the assignments we had was to write a poem that talked about where we came from. So I poured out my heart as I wrote about my Chinese American struggle and came up with the following poem. Then I felt compelled to share it in class. Since then, I've been asked to share this poem a few times. And since then, sharing it has been a very frightening but affirming thing to do. Frightening because it is a wound that I am exposing, and frightening because I don't know how the audience will respond. Affirming because I love my story as a Chinese American, and affirming because I get to share my story. So, after being asked once again...here it is

I Don't Blame Them

我的名字是陳天略. My name is Chén Tiān Lüè.

The Chén family name can be traced back to one of the last Six Southern dynasties in China that ruled from 557 to 589.

But I didn’t learn that until recently.

Tiān means the day or sky or heaven and Lüè means plan, scheme, outline, or strategy,

But here it’s just another name people don’t know how to spell or pronounce correctly.

My parents picked the English name Solomon for me.

And it is oh so tough growing up and going to school with two strange names, let alone one.

So I wonder why they make fun of my names.

I wonder why I couldn’t be named something more American.

I don’t blame them; they don’t know any better…

Born in Hong Kong in 1979, before I was two, my family moved to State of California in the U.S. of A.

They sought the American dream and I had no choice but to be subjected to their odyssey.

Dreams of setting up shop and starting a company where my father’s line of Lesa watches (named after my mom) would pave the way for success.

My dad was a doctor who fled China during the revolution and swam to Macau.

A smart, stubborn, creative, and resilient man.

My mom was a talented artist and graduated with a degree in fashion design.

A woman girded with beauty and strength the world would never know.

Their blood and sweat, late nights up, money, late nights up fighting, yelling, screaming, my life, my brother’s life,

And where did we end up in 1991?

Broke and in the brick pillar of “eacon View Apartments” in Seattle, Washington.

It was supposed to be the “Beacon View Apartments,” but the “B” fell off the building and management couldn’t afford to replace it.

The stairwell we walked through every day smelled of urine and never lacked fresh graffiti.

During dark, rainy, windy nights the building would sway

And I felt it could all come crumbling down any moment.

Was this the American dream my parents had pursued?

I don’t blame them; they don’t know any better…

I speak to my brother in English, I talk to my dad in Mandarin, when I see my (ex) in-laws I speak in Cantonese.

This trifecta of language has been honed over the course of my life and has served me…

Served me well?

I remember in elementary school being put into ESL class and the shame I felt being pointed out as an “other.”

When I brought home my report cards, showing to my parent’s that I’ve failed to understand my teachers, this language, and what they have to offer, I’ve felt shame.

Day and night, night and day I wondered how I can be more like my English speaking peers.

Working so hard to fit in the U.S. of A. to pick up the language, the humor, the culture,
I sacrificed the little Chinese language I had to make room for the English I lacked.

So my English grew and my Chinese dwindled.

Relatives, friends, and other fluent Chinese speakers labeled me as the one who knew how to speak Chinese, but didn’t know how to read and write.

So my English isn’t good and I am left out,
So my Chinese isn’t good and I am left out.

I don’t blame them; they don’t know any better…

It’s sad growing up and not knowing the meaning of your name because your parents can’t tell you what it means.

I’ve felt so angry watching my parents succeed and fail, fail and succeed, succeed and fail because they don’t understand this new world they live in.

Even today I’m trying to figure out how I fit in and with whom.

Hi my name is Solomon Chan.

Have they ever thought of me as a chink?

你好! 我的名字是陳天略.

Will they think of me as too American?

Can I be one of them or someone different and still feel like I belong?

Where can I just be?

Who would I be?!?

Why am I so stressed?!?

Who do I…?!?

I don’t blame them; they don’t know any better…

Time Does Not Wait

This poem is dedicated to my friend Sonny Manning


Time Does Not Wait

Fast or slow
Up and down
Sideways to sideways
However you decide to move and push, push and pull
Time does not wait
The births and deaths of this reality are dialed into the eternal trajectory of mystery
As the universe expands and spreads out its proud peacock feathers
As the stars that were once magnificent monarchs of the galaxies begin to waste away
The plights of our hearts’ tears and laughter are interwoven into the molecules of God’s soul
Your soul, my soul, God’s soul
Our souls
Move together in time and time does not wait
Because time is time
It is time
And your time is up…down…sideways to sideways…move and push…push and pull
The affect of your being bounces back off of it like a ricocheting bullet
It is mindless and not your father
Time does not wait. Damn it! It does not wait for you!
But sometimes it can fool you
You see…
As you moved through the river of your mother’s birth canal
Time was the water that carried you and pushed you into the wave of air that nestled your skin and filled your lungs
Time was the thing that dragged your heart through broken shards of glass as you questioned why she left you and left you this way
Time and time again it seems to happen like this
Time did not care as your body awkwardly changed to catch up with those seemingly confident ones that walked around as if time had a favorite son
How much time before I am favored and can walk around proud, if not at least unashamed?
And time was there to whittle away on your bones and joints and marrow and flesh while you lay curled up in a fetal position wondering if it was your time to go
Time was there pouring honey over your shaking nerves as your lips met hers for the first time
And the floodgates of your heart opened with the affection that had been locked up in the storehouses for such a long time finally bursting over the dams
You can still see the mist rising above the rush and tender caress in slow motion
In your distant memories
Because you’ve also seen the dam desolate, cracked, and dry like the dessert clay
Remembering how the waters of time continued to push as you watched her float away in its raging rapids
Until the time there was no water left but the tears that rolled down your cheeks
Time introduced you to the vilest of enemies who would pierce your heart with the sharpest of words and bluntest of betrayals
And the closest comrades who would guard your heart with the fiercest of acts and tenderest of embraces
Who sometimes could just as easily switch positions in and of their own time, friend and enemy, enemy and friend
And time washed them away too
Like sand under the tides
One by one if not many by many
War moves through time
Peace moves through time
Life moves through time
Death moves through time
Fast or slow
Up and down
Sideways to sideways
However you decide to move and push, push and pull
Time does not wait. Damn it! It does not wait for you
…
But your soul, my soul, God’s soul
Our souls
Move together through time

It's in the Cards, Today

I flip the cards of my life over

Laying them down side by side by side

Analyze and decipher

I am my own shaman glossing over the bones

What will my tomorrow be and what does my future hold?

What can be done about it and how can I change it?

I am so good at imagining my future and changing my todays for it

Sacrificing what experiences I have now

Sometimes destroying myself today so I can live tomorrow

Only to die again tomorrow when it becomes today

I plan my todays for my tomorrows that have yet come into being

I leave the cards of my yesterdays face down

Down down down in the ground

Or untouched on the table that beckons me to look

“Flip me over and take a good look!” they say

But I’ve seen them before and would rather look

Look not in the past because it haunts me so

As lions lay in the grass waiting for the beast

I chew the grass and move on slowly

Yet they have been tracking me from the dawn

I plan my todays ignorant of my yesterdays that have already spoken their voice

I sit glancing at these cards

Heart beating…racing…slow…steady

Can I flip over the yesterdays and give them the space to speak?

Speak and be heard

Ingested, digested, processed

Nutrition into my body

That the roots would grow deep

And my leaves would flourish in the rays of the sun

That the lions would sink their teeth into me

And liberate me from being prey

To be one with life and death

Then maybe I would live today

Connected so my tomorrows will come into being

And my sacrifice will nourish the earth

And the shaman can sleep

And my soul will find peace

Today I plan my todays
Listening to my yesterdays today
To have better dreams for tomorrow
Today

God needs us?

I’ve often heard it said in church, on blogs about Christianity, from Christian friends, pastors, etc. that God does not need you but wants you. You have nothing to offer God, but it is out of His love and mercy that you are alive. You have absolutely nothing to offer God that He can’t do without. In fact, today I was reading chapter six of Francis Chan’s “Crazy Love” and on page 109 he says, “God is the only true Giver, and He needs nothing from us. But still He wants us. He gave us life so that we might seek and know Him.”

Now, I think I’m going to be stepping on a few, if not many, toes today by writing this but I feel compelled to be honest in my reaction to this one-sided perspective of the God-human relationship. There was a time in my life where I absolutely agreed with this and felt good about it. Not today. Also, before I go on I’d like to offer a disclaimer. There is a good amount of what Francis Chan wrote in Chapter six that I do agree with (and that chapter is about all I’ve ever read from him up to this point in my life); but I’m more so responding to and writing about how this particular concept/framework of understanding God has been detrimental to my life. To be clear, this is not a Francis Chan attack. It is an attempt to deconstruct how seeing God as without need and us (humanity or “me” the individual) as nothing/needy does not serve God, and in fact harms God’s image.

There is a huge difference in distinguishing between “needs” and “wants” for your average person. I think we all agree that I don’t “need” to go buy a pair of brand new 7 For All Mankind jeans when I have a bunch of other perfectly fine jeans in my closet while my wallet is full of moths. I want those jeans, but to go to Nordstrom or the Rack would impair my need to pay rent. I don’t need my broke ass on the streets, and that is a need…or want? This is a little self-disclosure folks, I really have had those specific thoughts while walking around those aforementioned stores. There is a distinguishing between what is necessary for survival, and beyond that everything else is want. Even as I write this I feel like I’m preaching to the choir while beating a dead horse. We all know this.

What is more insidious, however, is that there are many things necessary to our survival that we don’t consider necessary to our survival, and as a result we live without those necessary things. When I mention survival, I particularly mean living as humans who have a healthy, strong, full-sense of self. This looks like a person who is confident and secure in the fact that she is created as Imago Dei. However when we have unfulfilled and insecure areas of our lives we make compromises. We may skip breakfast because we know lunch or dinner will come around soon enough…and if not, I’ll just eat a Hot Pocket. But when we do that, what are we doing? We are saying there are more important things to do other than eating conscientiously. What are those more important things? What are those idols of the heart and systems of the world, the rat race and status quos, that determine our own determinations about how we eat, sleep, work, have sex, comb our hair, study, etc? I seek, go after, need, and want because there is some sort of a desire, survival or not, that I attempt to fulfill. Other desires we have learned to function without while running on empty, and as a result, those parts of our life atrophy. So, it seems we all are always making choices and compromises here and there because of our assessments of what “survival” and “needs” look like.

My identity as a (relatively) young (relatively) eligible bachelor coincide with having a nice pair of jeans that will help me feel like I look good because certain other jeans don’t flatter the silhouette of my slightly bowed legs. I drive more often than I ride public transit because I feel like I’m always short on time and I need my sleep or will be in a bad mood throughout the day. I keep working at a psychiatric hospital because I love the people there and feel like it adds to my development as a person who works in the mental health field. All of these things have everything to do with identity. I think this is the essential point I’m trying to make about needs and wants and God and us. How I perceive myself determines what I perceive as absolutely essential; determines how I function.

If I don’t feel like I have anything to offer God that God needs, because they are only frivolous wants, I may just as well live in a manner where nothing feels absolutely necessary. My identity as a child of God is inextricable to how I function and engage everything around me. As a result, to feel and know that God needs us (as opposed to only wanting us but having no necessity for us) may change how we perceive ourselves, our community, family, etc. and influence how we eat, sleep, work, have sex, comb our hair, study, etc.

So does God need us then?

I believe so. We are necessary to God’s identity. We are inextricable to how God functions and engages. The concept of Imago Dei speaks of God expressing God’s self through humanity, and God’s love for humanity. A singer who doesn’t sing is not a singer. A chef who does not cook is not a chef. A God who does not create, bring glory out of tragedy, and love is not God. And what is love? (Baby don’t hurt me no more…sorry I couldn’t resist…Haddaway for those in still in the dark). Love, I believe, is the connection between autonomous individuals who for some reason must, need, and want to uplift the other. God for some reason must, needs, and wants to uplift you, me, us – as the Christ story speaks of. To not do so would betray God’s identity. It is God’s need. It is the love that interconnects our story with God’s story.

Do we really think that God doesn’t need us then?

Can we just vanish from the story that is being written without consequence?

Is it easy for you to believe you have nothing to offer God because, at the core of your identity, you don’t believe you have much or anything to offer others?

Where does that desire to be inconsequential come from (I mean in your own story…with your mom, dad, siblings, friends, teachers, etc.)?

What does that say about our own personal idols and the many systems we live in today (political, racial, cultural, economic, etc.)?

What does it mean “to seek and know Him” if that isn’t really necessary to God?

These questions, I am still processing and struggling with in my own story, and slowly I am finding out what it means to be wanted and needed by God…day to day…

Running

As I ran along the water on Alki earlier today - well, actually yesterday as it is 2am as I'm writing this - I realized that it took a lot of changes in my story/life before I would've ever decided to do something like driving to West Seattle for a 5 mile run. Ask me 3 years ago if I'd ever think I'd be able to run 5 miles or complete the 2010 Seattle half-marathon and I would've told you "n" "o." As a kid I would wheeze after doing anything that got my heart rate up for more than a few minutes. And let me tell you, if breathing ain't fun after letting yourself go on the playground, then running ain't or won't ever be fun...or so I thought. Even when I felt like those symptoms went away as I got older, running just didn't appeal to me. Why put your body under unnecessary strain? But after a series of huge and unexpected life changes I found myself regularly walking around Seward park to find peace. Those walks soon became runs. Running began to feel like freedom. The shackles on my lungs, my body, my confidence, my capacity, my identity began to loosen. Then before I knew it I was looking forward to the feeling of running in the rain for miles, letting God drench my body and wash my soul. So as I ran Alki earlier, I thought, "It's interesting how so much had to happen for me to reach this place where I can choose to run like this. Or maybe it was my running that chose me...that changed my life." Maybe sometimes we have something very deep down in us, residing in our unconsciousness, something that we barely acknowledge, but it is like the core to our identity and fire to our soul that quietly guides us in our everyday interactions. Then maybe eventually that deep undercurrent manifests itself and our lives are changed so that this truth can thrive. I'm not saying that my deep undercurrent was a passion for running. I think running is a way I tap into my spirit - a spirit that can't sit still, that needs air, that needs to move and express itself. Mountains in my life had to move before that undercurrent could flow. And I believe, I'm loving that part of myself more and more now a days. Because I love this part of me more, I run. And I'm realizing how much it took for me to get to this point. Thank you God for bringing to surface the things that dwell deep inside and yearn to express themselves.


Run

The path I tread I thought I chose
But as time passes
I wonder if the path chose me
Because I feel so free on it
Taking in deep breaths and feeling
My blood pumps through my veins like wild rapids flowing
The waters coming from the snow caped mountains
Breaking through stone and wood and moss
Breaking through doubt and resistance and fear
Raging at the bottom with wildness and passion
Freedom
As my feet race
As my legs race
My heart
It races
Have you chosen me?
Because I feel so free
I run

Fumblings

Poetry has always been something that has been very difficult for me. Not because I feel I lack the words, but because there are so many voices of criticisms that I carry in myself. Recently I've been encouraged/challenged by someone who's had an impact on my creative process and I can't help but to reflect on why I withhold from being creative. Why hold back what I have inside that is pushing out to express itself? So, I am trying to say goodbye to perfectionism and hello to the beauty of rawness and mistakes and fumblings...they are true and genuine.

Here is a fumbling of mine today, it came to me as I pondered Jesus in Matthew 7:7-12. I think most often we sanitize our relationship with divinity into an innocent and naive fantasy. This poem carries some of the heaviness and doubts I often bring to my relationship with God. I think God can handle it...I wouldn't want a God who couldn't.

Ask, Seek, Knock

You call me to ask, seek, knock

Ask…
But what if I am fearful of speaking?
And to ask has resulted in disappointment?
What if when I open my mouth, it will be filled with things that make me vomit?
What if asking means bearing the weight on my chest
To know that my requests will be slammed with deadly silence
Abandonment
Futility sets in on my vocal chords
My throat is like a desert

Seek…
I do not know what I am looking for
What if I don’t recognize the image in my heart?
The visions of my dreams feel strange
Nightmares pour over my body like cold water weighing on my clothes
The image is weird and unsettling
They are strangers to me
Setting in on the sight
I feel uneasy
Faces have changed so many times in my life
Can I look at them and be sure?
My eyes are dry and heavy with tears

Knock…
To reach out and make a move unsettles my nerves
Unhinges my spirit
I feel I could hide forever
Or run away and never come back
This door scares the shit out of me
Entrances into what?
Into harm?
Into pain?
Into shattered dreams?
Why would I want to rap my knuckles against the door when I can already feel its splinters digging into my cartilage?
My joints are frozen

Do you know how I feel when you call me to ask, seek, knock?

Conflict

Found the following quote by Thomas Paine on somebody’s Facebook profile, “The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheaply, we esteem too lightly; 'tis dearness only that gives everything its value.”

My first reaction was, "Yes I agree with this…I need to triumph…this is what I’ve been thinking about and avoiding.” Then I thought, "That doesn't feel right either; I mean to push on and be hungry for glory or triumph all the time, because that could be a result of either greed or pride." The greedy or prideful or narcissistic person cannot be content…that person must conquer, kill, and destroy the “other” in order to be satisfied (more like pseudo-satisfied because that is all the person can bear) with the “self”…there is no true peace even in “triumph” because a little is never enough…you will always need more.

However, there can also be another interpretation, one I think I’m very afraid of, which is more connected to my first reaction. Maybe the victory that is dear and is of value is not necessary only correlated to or just a derivative of pride or greed or narcissism (although there may be parts of those too…no one is perfect, and I am also attempting not to “split” here as object relations would understand it); the victory in conflict is valuable to us because a piece of “me” exists in it. In struggling, in the conflict, our character, our “self” comes to the surface…we put our identity, hopes, dreams, things that are very near to our heart and gut on the line. The things that are of great conflict, if we truly dwell in it, will further shape our sense of self, our identity, character, hopes, dreams, and so on. Those things of great conflict are the things we tend to avoid, but when we are fully in it, it demands so much from us. In a sense, great conflict becomes a force that draws us out to relate with it. Conflict may be the context for the “I-Thou” encounter. It is easier to go through something not so difficult and not be invested…to be dissociative…to not engage the heart, mind, soul. When conflict hits us with full impact, it forces us to engage our heart, mind, and soul. When conflict hits it’s almost like its voice (if conflict could ever speak) is telling us to be engaging, to be relational, and to truly involve our “self” with the “other." I think a major part of why we run away from conflict is because we are fearful of being our true selves and engage with the other…ironically I think that is the same problem that greed, pride, and narcissism has – in that it is a way of avoiding a truly relational engagement where interrelatedness, dependence on each other, and giving to each other exists.

I also really want to emphasize that conflict can also be a very subjective thing. It is easy for the average person to go walk out amongst strangers in the unfamiliar public in order to travel somewhere but extremely difficult for the agoraphobic. Each specific type of conflict deals with our narrative: specific events, times, places, characters, and such in our story. Our story determines what our greatest conflicts in life are. So, in the end I am still wondering what those intense conflicts are that I cop out of, because I am afraid to bless and be blessed in. Some of these conflicts are pretty obvious and others elude me because they really are things I am scared of and block out of awareness.

I think about Jacob wrestling with the Angel of God in Genesis 32 and realize that because Jacob wrestled with the other with his full self (not because he ran away or gave up or that the fight was a breeze) that he was able to be blessed. God blesses our “self” when we offer our “self” to be blessed, and sometimes the parts of our “self” that need the most blessing only come to surface through the context of conflict. Lord help me…Lord bless me…

Memorial Service

It's 2am and I can't sleep. Too many thoughts running through my head. However, in the middle of my late night turmoil I feel some peace. My mom's memorial service happened earlier this day and I feel she was honored well. I'm so grateful for (my brother) Socrates and (his girlfriend) Kay Kay who worked with dad, and all the friends who helped out with the memorial service, and made it a good day to remember mom by. I am also so very grateful for all the people who came and honored our family with their presence. Thank you. I'd like to, once again, share my words from the memorial service as a tribute to my mom here.


Lesa Ying Kai Wong, my mom, was born December 14, 1945, and grew up in Jakarta, Indonesia. She spoke “Gond dong wa”, “Guo yu”, “Hokkien wei”, “Bahasa Indonesia”, and a little bit of English, and when she did speak English she had an Indonesian accent. Growing up, I never fully appreciated my mom’s diverse cultural background. And to this day I have so many questions about the unfinished stories she would tell me, or about the things that trickled out from her life that evidenced more unspoken stories, things that sparked my curiosity.

I remember my mom telling me about her youth in Indonesia, and how she would catch fruit bats for food. When I was in middle school she taught me some Indonesian words and a tongue twister. To this day I know how to say in “Bahasa Indonesia,” good morning, good afternoon, good evening, and “Ular melingkar-lingkar di atas pagar.” Knowing these things helped me to make my first Indonesian friend in high school, which was very helpful because the first year of high school was a difficult time for me, and any friendship I made felt like salvation from loneliness. She also taught me how to say a few words in “Hokkien wei.” Although I don’t use these phrases much, knowing how to say thank you, you’re welcome, and have you eaten yet in “Hokkien wei,” definitely helped me to feel more comfortable during the lunches at Annie’s former church, Seattle Formosan Christian Church, where I would be able to understand those phrases amongst the conversations of the older Taiwanese people that surrounded me. My mom was also a very good artist. She used to wear these intricate, long beautiful dresses, which I found out later in life, that she had designed and sewn herself. The dress she is wearing in the picture on your pamphlet is probably one of the dresses she designed. I also remember how, in my adolescence, she would draw intricate little birds perched on branches and have me follow steps in trying to draw them. Those moments are some of the most joyful memories of my childhood. Drawing became a skill that I excelled in, a way for me to understand the world, and a foundation for my interest in art. Soon enough, as an adult, I was doing my own sketches as a graphic designer.

Those are only a snippet of the many fond memories I have of her as I grew up, and of the ways my mom has influenced my life. But for now, I’d like to share some things about her that stand out to me the most. When I think of my mom I think of someone who is very beautiful. I remember that even as a little child, I would look at my mom and dad’s wedding pictures and think, “Wow, she looks so pretty, elegant, and graceful.” But there is an even deeper beauty that still speaks to me today in profound ways. One of the most beautiful things about my mom was her tenacity, the ability to keep going on for others.

Our family went through many difficult times. Moving from California to Seattle in 1991, we set up a small watch shop in Beacon Hill and every day my mom sat in that shop, sold and fixed watches, cooked for my brother and me, and tried to make sure we didn’t cause trouble (which more often than not we did). We constantly scraped along, not knowing whether or not we would be able make enough money to pay our rent and bills. And so we worked hard, especially my mom, who was at the shop seven days a week, from early in the morning to late at night. Eventually our shop moved to Chinatown and we did the same thing, sold and fix watches, and even at one point set up a small deli. And every day my mom sat in that shop, sold and fixed watches, served at the deli, cooked for my brother and me, and tried to make sure we didn’t cause trouble. There was also one time where we even set up a dance studio, and my mom maintained that as well. Through all of the changes and difficult circumstances our family went through, my mother was always determined to move on and take care of our family in the only way she knew how, which was to remain steadfast in her hard work, because she loved us. This was my mom.

In 1997 she suffered a serious stroke, which was the onset of her health problems. Slowly her ability to move freely and at will waned, but her spirit didn’t. I remember how after that stroke, her hands became very weak. And although her hands were weak, she would wash the same set of dishes over and over. Sometimes washing those dishes up to three times to make sure they were clean. And even though she wasn’t able to work at the shop anymore, she would do as many things as possible like the laundry (climbing up and down four flights of stairs because the laundry room was so far down in our apartment), vacuuming, making the bed, and other tasks around our apartment in order to take care of us. Many times it was difficult to watch her struggle through the tasks that she used to do with ease, but her determination spoke of an unwillingness to give up on taking care of her family.

However, as time passed by, her body slowly gave up on her, and eventually there was not much she could do but to be taken care of by us. Even so, I believe my mom was always determined to be present for us. Though all she could in the last few years of her life was to lie in bed. Her tenacity was still there. I know this because whenever Annie and I were able to go back to my parent’s home to visit her, she would muster up the strength to greet us with a smile and kiss, hold our hands, and communicate with us through gestures. And though she couldn’t talk, we would be able to see in her face the love she was trying to communicate to us. It spoke of the same tenacity I’ve grown up seeing in her my whole life, which was her ability to be there for others despite any hardship she faced. Whenever we were present with her – she was definitely there for us.

My mom passed away between nine and ten in the evening of January first. When I got the phone call about her passing away I had so many mixed feelings. In some ways I knew it was her time to go home to God, and in other ways I couldn’t believe she was gone. I think part of the reason why I was so shocked by her passing was because of my mom’s tenacity. Earlier I had spent most of the day with her at the nursing home. The nurse would say my mom didn’t have much time, but that she was also a strong woman and there was no telling how long she would still be around. Her body was slowly shutting down, but even in her last moments she was there for me. Although she couldn’t do much, as I spent the day with her and spoke to her, whenever she had the strength she would let me know he heard me. For hours, that last day, as I called out to her, holding her hand, she would open her eyes to look at me, and squeeze my hand. And every time she opened her eyes and squeezed my hand, I saw her love for me and how she longed to be there for me, to be there for our family. Even in her weakest moment it was hard for me to think she would pass away because her spirit was so strong and persistent. So that was my last day with her, and the impression I am left with. That in her weakness she was so determined, and so loving.

To this day I wonder what made my mom such a beautiful, strong, faithful, and determined person. What stories in her life shaped her and made her the way she was? A woman with many skills, many unique and interesting things about her, who had a vast background, and who lived solely for the love of her family. And so I keep wondering, and I hope that the wonder of my mom’s life never fades from my memory. I miss my mom a lot. She’s added so much my life, and I feel like I’m only beginning to realize that in a rich and meaningful way now. But it comforts me to know that she is finally liberated from her sickness. She is flourishing, complete, beautiful, free, and at peace before God’s presence.

Mom, thank you so much for your love. You took care of us and when you couldn’t take care of us you were still there for us. You were always a part of our lives and will still be. I look forward to the day I will see you again. I love you mom. We love you mom.

Abandoned Treasure

Recently there have been so many thoughts and feelings pent up inside, I've felt consumed. So in order to find some relief, I've taken to the idea of letting some of it leak out here. Maybe this impulsive decision to start blogging again will be good for me.

One of the heaviest weights on me right now has been the recent passing away of my mom. I had been on vacation in Hong Kong when I found out that my mom was admitted into "comfort care." After many years of strokes, pneumonia, and other physical hardships her body was finally unable to keep up. Fortunately, I was able to book an earlier flight back to Seattle to spend some time with her before she passed away. My flight arrived in Seattle the evening of December 31st and I was able to see her that night and spend most of the day with her on January 1st (the day she passed away). That day I was blessed to be able to stay by her bedside, thank her for raising my brother and me, tell her how my family loves her, how much God loves her and that she will be home with God soon, and feel the warmth in her fragile hand as she squeezed my hand in response.

After leaving home to rest a bit I received a call at 11pm that my mother had passed away. I drove back to the nursing home where she was at and saw her body there. I knew she was gone, but it felt so surreal at that time. Even though I knew she had passed, I looked for the faintest movement to show that she was breathing. As I reached to touch her hand for a second, I laid my fingers gently over the blanket covering her hand. Her hand felt so light and cold. Waves of sadness swept over me. The knowledge that my mom was gone, became very weighty and real to me.

Since Thursday (January 1st), I've been thinking about all that I told my mom that day, and I realize her life story has so much yet to be spoken to my life's past, present, and future. To honor her would be to know her tragedies, victories, sacrifices, and stories yet told; and to learn how they tie into my family's life as well as mine. I feel like there has been an abandoned mine with great treasure to be dug out. Abandoned because we have been busy with other things we deem treasures. Abandoned because so often we run away from engaging in the richness and tensions of family, until the opportunity may be lost. Yet to start digging is such a frightening task. How will I go about searching the intimidatingly dark areas of the abandoned mine with my family? What will it cost? Surely it will be costly, because often the stories of the lives closest to us will change us, and change is something we want to control. I know I feel that way. I also feel like God is beckoning me to cherish my story, especially the parts that I do not know about, the parts of my story that exist in stories of my mom, dad, and brother.

I miss my mom a lot, and pray that I would be able to honor her well by cherishing the family she lived to serve and the wonderful story God has crafted her life to be. May my life be genuine and meaningful in the way that God has designed it - connected to a beautiful tapestry of relationships - and may the passing of my mom into God's hand be a beautiful and intricate design woven into the fabric of life.