commute

The highway lends itself to its name--suspended high above the slow crawl of street traffic, I see the setting sun cast its glow across the cityscape as I make my way home. I check the car's clock, but I already know what time it is -- it's the golden hour: the magical hour when the soft fading light draws out otherwise unperceived shades and hues, making any subject come alive.


My eyes narrow to focus, trying to take it all in. The sun is setting in a sea of concrete and steel--buildings; buildings upon buildings. Smokestacks puff, neighbor to apartment blocks and high-rises in various states of construction and disrepair. Shacks perched upon warehouses, both manufactured from the same metal of shipping containers. The scene takes me back (or forward) to movies on post-21st century times: overcrowded, overbuilt, overpopulated.


The bend shifts on the overpass and in front of me I see the waves that lap into this mechanical ocean--vehicles lined up in streaming floods, each a pod encasing an individual, each individual as a drop, drop upon drop to expand the swelling masses. These are the people that fill the buildings I drive by each day.

My picture from this hour could be from anywhere -- any densely populated city outside of the pristine prestige of the West. But it could even be from a future America, one of these days.


Each day the stream trickles into rivers, rivers into oceans. People on routine, people with business, people with somewhere to go, something to do, someone to be. What is it all for? The futility of human existence apart from God pulls at me like a haunted dream.

Back on the ground, I wait at an intersection with a rusty red Daihatsu, its large and minute parts rattling with every rotation of the engine. Beside me, a shiny white new Benz impatiently creeps forward, willing the light to turn green. The juxtaposition is discordant. Many would say the white car far outweighs the red in worth. But in the end, in golden hour's glow, I see it's all the same.





Last week I was again on the highway on the eve of super typhoon Usagi. In the near distance I spied some shiny objects floating at the same level as the thoroughfare; about 25-30 stories high. Closer inspection revealed them to be balloons: bright, shiny, festive red. They did not appear to be attached to anything--yet free as they were, they remained suspended in the still, heavy air. Caught in the atmosphere too dense for upwards travel, they smothered.

Daily pressures, confused plans, and distracting spiritual powers can envelope and paralyze. One day a storm will come of supernatural proportions, and all that is unclear or untrue will be laid bare. Until then I ask for unfettered purpose that will keep my direction continuing upwards... into the life-giving glow of the golden Sun.

Wake up, wake up, the sun cannot wait for long
Reach out, reach out before it fades away
You will find the warmth when you surrender
Smile into the fear and let it play

You wanna run away, run away
And you say that it can't be so
You wanna look away, look away
But you stay 'cause it's all so close
When you stand up and hold out your hand
In the face what I don't understand
My reason to be brave

Brave||Josh Groban

You make it beautiful

"We are family here."

These are words my friend spoke as we gathered in her home--they were there to welcome us back to the island, and we were grateful for the warm hospitality that greeted us. In a circle of friends to find little inhibition and no need for adhering to politeness or manners, there was a glimpse of home-away-from-home: a place to rest and feel safe.

"It is a sacrifice."

These were words spoken of our return. It was hard to come back this time. We were tearing ourselves away from familiar comforts, family ties, our new baby niece, close friendships. Nearly overwhelmed with a sense of loss (and perhaps lost-ness), I wondered what was worth it all and clung to the memories we had made with our friends made here.

He fills the empty places.


There is no grime that He cannot wash clean; there is no brokenness that He cannot heal; there is no ugliness that He cannot transform to beauty. I know this because I see it in the lives of my brothers and sisters; I know because this, too, has been my life.


A group of us gathered in a home the other night to hear testimony of God's pursuing love, covenant faithfulness, and transforming power. The night felt raw and tears were shed and I wondered what it is about God that makes us cry -- are these tears of joy or of longing?

There are many things that I fear for the future, but it all comes down to a lack of faith in a faithful God. My heart is weak and my knees wobbly but one by one I pray to take back the Truths for all the lies I have bought. As He lifts the scales from my eyes, I will see the dead bones take on life, and it will not be a sacrifice to be here, but a privilege.

It is a privilege.

Hold on to me as we go
As we roll down this unfamiliar road
And although this wave is stringing us along
Just know you’re not alone
Cause I’m going to make this place your home

Settle down, it'll all be clear
Don't pay no mind to the demons, they fill you with fear
The trouble it might drag you down
If you get lost, you can always be found

Just know you’re not alone
Cause I’m going to make this place your home
"Home," Phillip Phillips

a long journey

Photo Credit*

 From where I sit at the window, the broken, weather-beaten corrugated tin over our neighbor's porch flaps in the hot summer breeze. There is a sad melancholy to it. Snapshots of decay and ruin surround me here, affront my senses wherever I go. There is a desolation in my heart. Here there is little assurance that this is the good life; instead all is struggle--buildings struggle against disrepair, cars struggle against rust, atmosphere struggles against dust and smog. Even human existence is a struggle. People struggle to survive, to get ahead, to win, or at least look like it. To have "enough." And the eternal tragedy is that there is never enough. It is never enough.

The bleakness within is a raw and palpable sense that this is not my home. But isn't this an abiding truth? That we are actually sojourners far from home, and Jesus is the One Who has come to find us, and then take us Home one day? Perhaps until now the reality has never been clearer to me.

The challenge to me is this: to take the broken bread, the cup, and give thanks.

“Something always comes to fill the empty places. And when I give thanks for the seemingly microscopic, I make a place for God to grow within me. This, this, makes me full, and I ‘magnify Him with thanksgiving,’ and God enters the world. What will a life magnify? The world’s stress cracks, the grubbiness of a day, all that is wholly wrong and terribly busted? Or God? Never is God’s omnipotence and omniscience diminutive. God is not in need of magnifying by us so small, but the reverse. It’s our lives that are little and we have falsely inflated self, and in thanks we decrease and the world returns right. I say thanks and I swell with Him, and I swell the world and He stirs me, joy all afoot.”
--Ann Voskamp, "One Thousand Gifts"

  I need to know that God is here. God has gifted all these to me and more, and He Himself is more than Enough.

“...He takes the empty hands and draws me close to the thrum of Love. You may suffer loss but in Me is anything ever lost, really? Isn’t everything that belongs to Christ also yours? Do I not own the cattle on a thousand hills; everything? Aren’t then all provisions, in Christ also yours? If you haven’t lost Christ, child, nothing is ever lost. Remember, ‘through many tribulations we must enter the kingdom of God’ [Acts 14:22], and in ‘sharing in [My Son’s] sufferings, becoming like Him in His death’ you come ‘to know Christ and the power of His resurrection’ [Phil 3:10]”
--"One Thousand Gifts"

Jehovah-Shammah, Fill the empty places.

things I've learned from [teaching] a 5 year old

• Stick to your guns. Make decisions carefully, but once decided, commit to that decision.
• That being said, listen for what is trying to be said. A 5-year old is a person, too. Perhaps not the most articulate or rational, but there are ideas and thoughts there, and they should be affirmed.
• Don't be afraid to say you're sorry, you were wrong.
• Model the character you desire to instill. Character trumps book smarts.
• Sometimes bad attitudes and uncooperative behavior comes from a deep-rooted fear of failure.
• But in those times, the external assurance of another imparted through praise and encouragement is the best motivator and the best cultivator self-confidence.
• Learn by doing.
• Sometimes homemade play-dough is a little too messy for more refined tastes.
• When in doubt, make cookies.
• Spelling by "sounding out" is doubly hard when the only other English that is used to being heard is pronounced with a foreign accent.
• In an educational culture of serious book-study, imagination and hands-on can be an unequaled mollification.
  

What I miss about America

Today I woke up and it felt different. I wasn't sure what it was, but there was a happiness of being alive, of making plans, of having work and rest. I chalked it up to being Friday.

But then I looked out the window and something made me catch my breath for a nanosecond. The sky.




It was blue.


You don't even understand. I have not seen the blue sky in what seems like over a year. In spite of living in the sunny south, the sky is almost always shrouded in a thick gauze of smog. Just the other day I realized how I had almost forgotten what a blue sky looks like until I saw this picture in my newsfeed, an instagram from an acquaintance (in the US of A).

"This must be what it's like when the sky smiles," was the caption. Something within my heart was stirred.


To me, this instagram captures a sense of the hidden yearning that resides in my heart as a pilgrim in a foreign land. Before I moved I considered myself pretty transient to my surroundings; dependent on my culture-crossing upbringing, a knack for adapting, and thirst for adventure. But I've come to realize in time that there are things inbred into me that I never would have recognized before. An indelible mark impressed upon me -- that where I grew up has become a part of me that I cannot deny.

And as much as I would (or would not) be loathe to admit it.... I do miss America.

I miss crystal blue, sapphire skies
I miss purple twilight when the sun just goes down and the lightning bugs come out
I miss sitting on the deck with the big backyard in the cool evening breeze
I miss chic shopping centers
I miss wide, smooth roads, free of scooters
I miss the cherry blossoms blooming in the spring
I miss barbecues
I miss ethnic food
I miss seeing the stars
I miss open landscapes
I miss big houses
I miss seeing farmland and livestock grazing
I miss long summer days when the sun sets at 9
I miss thunderstorms
I really, really miss stepping outside and breathing in clean, fresh air, air that is not laden with exhaust or sewer smells.

But on the rare day that the skies do reveal itself, and the air disperses itself to a purity so clear that the distant city skyline can be seen, a palpable sense of grace is bestowed. An awakening that yes, there is a joy to simply being alive.

And indeed the sky smiled on us today.

pity

I have a nephew.
My cousin gave birth to Obi in the winter last year, and I was able to visit him and his mother in the postpartum ward, peering at his little pink face, all wrapped in a towel, through the glass that partitioned the sleeping babies from visitors.


I've had the pleasure of visiting Obi a few times since his birth. He has completely stolen my heart with his giggles, snuggles, and smiles. And I know I'm not the only one. Obi has grown to a handsome, fun-loving, joy-filled, dashing little boy. All things loveable and loving, he is quick to give out smiles and hugs, charming all who meet him with his symmetric dimples and perfect little teeth. He lives a flourishing life with loving parents, a skilled nanny, doting grandparents, and adoring aunts and uncles. In Chinese we call his name 亮亮, which expresses the shining, bright light which has pierced all of our hearts when he came into the world.

Obi has albinism.


When the quavers of the initial shock rippled its way throughout our extended family, we all reached out as best we could to hold up our loved ones through the process when things in your family don't go as you've planned. Then the storm passed and gave way to the clear, sunny skies of Obi's smiles and giggles, and I thought all was well, as could be well. Everyone loved Obi, and his dedicated parents were committed to do whatever would be best for him.

But it doesn't stop there. This past weekend I went to visit my grandma and on more than one occasion the mention of Obi would bring about this reaction: "好可惜" -- what a pity, with a sigh or a slight shake of the head. The first time I heard it, I could only give a sympathetic smile while I inwardly rebelled. Then I heard it again and again, and the more I heard it, the more unhappy I became.

In our world, the hold of each culture's ideals is strong. We wish for health, security, success. But things happen outside our control because we are finite beings, and those who do not measure up to those ideals are either marginalized, pitied, or a blend of both. And yes, when we see such an energetic, happy, handsome baby as Obi and think about the struggles he may face in the future, of course we have feelings of pity for him. But Obi cannot be defined by his difficulties, just as we are not.

The words "可惜" are used when milk is spilled, or when a bunch of green vegetables is left to wither away for more than a week in the chiller compartment of the fridge, or when a useful piece of dishware is broken. They are used when a good coupon expires, or when a congenial couple breaks up. It's a pity. What a pity.

To me, in these words, there is a sense of waste. The milk, the veggies, the dish, the savings, the chemistry -- something good is gone. There is something shameful in it; the full potential that was left unreached. But if we use these words on a yet ungrown child, the words cast a barrier in front of him -- they assume he can never reach his full effectiveness. That he will never experience life fully. In a sense, he will never be fully human.

I want to refute these words and the ideas behind them. Obi is not one to be pitied. There is nothing shameful about his condition. He is a precious, precious being, and God willing, he will grow and mature and reach his full potential -- not the predetermined ideals set by society, but develop into the person that he alone can be and do the things that he alone can do as an individual. Who is to say he will not or cannot be a great person?

 To me, he already is.



I write this as much for myself as for all out there who encounter special needs in their lives. As much as I am for advocacy, intervention, and integration, there can only be so much that parents, educators, and specialists can do. Without love and acceptance from family, friends, and community, it will only be so much harder, in spite of the technology, the therapy, the research. We cannot turn a blind eye just because they are different from us. This is why I am so glad that our school has chosen to partner with ministries such as Taiwan Sunshine and the special needs school in Ren Wu district, connecting our students with other students who may not look, act, or communicate the same way that they do, but reaching out to discover the same joys and graces that God bestows upon us in this world.

So let it not be a pity. Let them be empowered.

taking back JOY

The day I walked into our first home together I knew there would be a lot of work to do. Exhausted from two days of traveling, my shoulders slumped even more when I saw the piles of dust, the splintering wood, the cracking tiles. But we were newly married, and with that newly married glow in my mind I pictured the pioneer girl who, with her grit and pluck, managed to make a home out of a wilderness. So I rolled up my metaphorical sleeves and set to work.

But the days went by and we settled, as the dust that settles, no matter how it was wiped away. The buckets under the leaky sinks amassed dirty water. The old pipes smelled--we covered the drains and turned our heads away, just as we squinted away the bad paint job on the walls, blinked at the eroding grout, blind-eyed the splintering doors. Just two years, at most. And then we could move on.

But try as I might, no amount of wiping, bucket-emptying, head-turning, or eye-squinting made all those things go away. Slowly, imperceptibly, a corrosiveness seeped into my being. An attitude of the temporary. To endure, stick through, put up with this present existence until Happy Ever After. A subconscious resignation to a gnawing discontent.

Oh discontent. How you have been the downfall of humanity! In the silent void, the restlessness takes on a cancerous unhappiness.

I read a blog post of another lady who discovered, from the mouth of her little son, a perceptible loss of joy in her heart after a monumental relocation of her family -- the transition had been hard on her; what she didn't realize is that it wasn't just an internal struggle. Her quiet, inward distress was affecting her children. What got to me was that aside from the message coming from the voice of a 9 year old son, I felt it was exactly what I was going through as well. Someone alongside me asking me with tears in their wide-open, wondering eyes where my joy went.

I asked myself. I am tired, discouraged, worn down by mundane toil; a solitary, isolated path on an endless mountain-pile of to-dos. My present is a schedule book and an eternal list. In this world, friends are far and heartfelt communication rare.
And this is how a heart is worn, tattered to thanklessness.

So now I challenge myself.
Remember who I am: loved and cherished by an Almighty God.

Be present -- not in the book or the list, but in the grains of sweetness that give life its special meaning.

Be open -- not to critical thoughts or internal judgments, but to receive the daily graces of a Good Father.

Be near -- not to the world and its mindless bustle, but to my God: my Savior, Redeemer, Healer, Provider, Friend.

Be thankful -- not just for work to earn daily bread, but for every little thing He sends to remind me of His goodness, His grace, His favor.


Today, it is...
...the spring rain. God knows to send refreshing to cool a parched and thirsty soul.
...the graciousness of others, who yield themselves in order to smooth the way for me.
...the ability to, at a moment's notice, send a heartfelt message to someone oceans away.



Will you, also, be challenged with me? What are you thankful for today?