On Facebook (or rather, off it)

Birthdays have become a bigger deal for me these past few years, a built-in time to look back on the year past and think about what I want the next year to be. Last month, I decided that I finally wanted to address my facebook addiction: I often turned on my laptop and signed on while I was brushing my teeth, I would automatically pop open a window and open up facebook in between my work, I would lose whole hours at a time just endlessly and mindlessly scrolling and clicking through. And I cared about it more than I wanted to admit: I didn't want to be someone who posted all the time, but I also wanted every post of mine to be extremely well-crafted. Humorous or thoughtful, whatever. I thought in facebook statuses more than I like to admit.

My first couple days of this "off of facebook" time were eye-opening, to say the least. I took off the shortcut from my bookmarks bar and turned on Chrome Nanny to block the site. I quickly realized how embarrassingly automatic it was to be on facebook. I found my cursor searching for the icon that was no longer there, I hit a quick sequence of "Ctrl + T" (new tab), "f" (to make facebook.com pop up in the bar), down arrow, enter. No wonder I lost so much time: I opened facebook so often without even thinking about it. Unfortunately, I didn't have enough self control to block in completely. So even though my usage dropped, I still "cheated" and signed on with a firefox browser for that first weekend. Then I told Darrell I was horrible at it and that he should change my password, so he did.

Here are some of the things I'm learning from my time off facebook:

• Sometimes, vegging is necessary. I might not be on facebook, but I've watched more WongFu videos and even partial episodes of Jimmy Kimmel and Jimmy Fallon. Sometimes, your brain really is tired and needs to not think. 
• If you want to be distracted, you will find ways. Last Sunday, I was trying to find something to do with my evening, so I re-discovered Escape Room games. The following Monday, I was highly unmotivated and so found more escape rooms to play. A few days later, I actually looked up a version of Angry Birds...I just really wanted something to "do". I imagine this is where some simple games could come in handy, or any other hobbies, I suppose (though hobbies are kinda in a different category than pure distraction).  
• When I need a break from work, there are sometimes great ways to do it. Sometimes I am too tired for work but just in the mood to do the dishes or clean my closet. Sometimes I need a break from work, but the perfect break is reading. Unfortunately, I don't actually know what I want to read. Aka, don't have books-on-hand, forget what blogs I'm interested in because I don't see any social shares, or...
• I have no idea how to read the news. I fully admit that all the news I got was via facebook, whether someone posted about an event and I looked it up, or I straight up clicked so many links/posts/blogs and read from there. When I decided I wanted to read the news, I didn't know where to start. I still don't. Currently I'm bouncing between Google News (which seems like a random aggregation of whatever is important enough...), Sac Bee (local is always a good idea right), and BBC (someone told me that's reliable enough). 
• But that's news-news. What about other news? Fun tech updates, the most viral youtube thing at the moment, or even a plagiarism scandal in the Christian world? Nope. In fact, I only heard of the last item because I signed on twitter and saw a tweet. If I'm going to continue to limit my facebook use, I need to find other ways to keep updated. But most importantly, I need to stop reading only what everyone else is reading. Even though my diversity of friends lends some options to things, and even if these other sources get me to the same place anyway. 
• Ideas: Gizmodo (tech), Angry Asian Man (AAM news), Christianity Today, NPR...aside from personal blogs
• Regarding the first three bullet points: being off facebook is helping me recognize the difference between all of them. With facebook, it was always the default (to the point of being distracted when I had good intentions of working). Now, I have a better feel for where I'm at: if it's a watch-a-show type of break, if I feel like reading content and news, or if I want to get up and away from my computer. I think a lot less about it. 
• It's nice not to care. Okay confession: I do like to see how many people like my statuses, shares, photos. But for this month, it's nice to not even think about it! Not to think about if you will share a link or not, how you want to word a clever status, or if it's too soon to post another photo.
• On the flip side, I am probably missing out. I knew in theory social media and the internet is the majority of our interactions. Full conversations and interactions take place on a thread. Your response in comments or likes combine for a presence...that won't replace your actual being, sure, but still let's people know you are there. Facebook is where funny stories and memories get posted through statuses, photos, references, and links. And when you're not on it, it's a little bit like being left out of the crowd. 
• facebook is super self-centered. This is a "duh", but it is even more obvious when I'm away from it! Everything you post is about you, or something you care about. 
• A lot of communication does happen on it. I met a friend's dad at church on Sunday, and he quickly messaged me later that day (easy to find a facebook account, harder to find an email). I have a couple old acquaintances I was considering contacting, but I don't have an email or a number. And while we lament the superficial-ness of facebook, it is really helpful that have such an ultra-casual interaction over a shared link or photo! Many of those make it less awkward to call them up later and actually for real hang out. 

I also know a lot less about people's lives, can't stalk what's happening with my friends in other states, don't know the weather on the East Coast (sometimes I hear about it when people post about snow!), and have no idea if there are any good picture of me posted from the Frisbee tournament last weekend. Oh yes, that's another thing: my joys, laughter, and sadness only gets shared to the people who are close enough (physically or relationally). I tend not to post a whole lot, but here are some things that could have made it:

• Kai and me danced enough to get on the jumbotron at the Thunder game (I almost-definitely-would have posted about this!)
• D had his car accident and survived. I am so grateful. 
• I ate a lot of Malaysian food over Thanksgiving break (there would have been pictures). The family, including my new brother-in-law, also was together for the first time since the wedding (also would have been photos)
• I had the best week on campus ever after being there four days in a row
• God is opening incredible doors in raising support for ministry

Well, facebook, you do manage to turn yourself into a good memory-keeper, as long as you can find it in the mess of everything else that gets shared. On the flip side, much happened in my community (our church lost a beloved member and leader) and world (e.g., Mandela's passing), and I have no idea what people are sharing or saying. 

Also, this has been an incredibly long post. But the thoughts have been brewing for the past week or so, and it just seemed like a good night to get it all out--the not-vegging but not-working type of night, you know? Bottom line is, I was way more addicted to facebook than I realized, and signing off of it has been a most wonderful idea. It will be nice to be back on in 10 days, but I think I'll have a better idea on how not to end up as addicted. And I will keep reading the news. 

starting over (on campus)

bringing leftover birthday cake to campus to give to strangers
sitting down with people you don't know (with the excuse of using the outlet)
baking extra cookies for people you meet
choosing to sit with students for an hour -- no worry about "next steps" just yet, loose purpose for getting together, just enjoying relationship and loving

remembering that going to campus is always a good idea. even if you don't know how you're going to use your time there.

Something Beautiful

I close my eyes and breathe the fall air coming into my window. I am thankful for two lives: one that is two days over 25 years, one that was one seat belt away from last breath. I can't decide how much thought to give to possibility that last night was so close to my worst nightmare. I am grateful for the sturdiness of a Honda CRV and to the faithfulness of our God. But in an exasperated moment I can't help but say, He can't ever get a break.

I watch him moving, walking. No one will know he has slept two hours last night (or this morning, rather), or that he has been so, so tired. He buttons up his shirt, he ties a firm knot in his tie. He is sharp, he is gentle, he is strong. I watch his steps, grateful that he is alive. I love his resilience - that in our past five years together, I have seen him pick himself up over and over again. From failure, from the unexpected, from trauma, from relationships. Does he know not everyone can do this? He sighs, closes his eyes, breathes, gathers up whatever it is sitting around inside of him, and moves forward. Even on two hours of sleep.

We were going to celebrate my birthday. A little nagging thought imagines how horrible that second day of 25 could have been if things went different last night. Today we'll celebrate life, two lives, two lives intertwined and woven and grateful. These past two weeks, I've loved you as I've stayed up later than my bedtime to keep you company while you work through assignments. Last night, I stayed up to stay close to you on a couch in your friend's home. You poked me as I made references to the movie we were supposed to watch together today, irreverently humorous in a night that went horribly wrong. I told you to count prime numbers to get your mind to slow down.

You'll make it - you always do, it seems. You'll replay scenes and memories, I'll piece together imagination from your descriptions. We'll be okay.

I thought I saw a light shine. 

Choosing

For the first time in years I switch my birthday on facebook to public after briefly recognizing that my resistance the past few years is rooted in a bit of pride. I don't want to be like everyone else who gets hundreds of HBD's on their birthday and I told myself that I don't need everyone's well-wishes, just the genuine ones from those who will remember my one day out of 365.

But today, I choose to receive. I choose to smile knowing that I love others and others love me and that brief wishes on a birthday can be meaningful. I receive the memories and laughs and gratitude of those in my life. I like to take the time to appreciate others, and I can't pretend that I'm too good for it myself. I'll choose this little act of letting people know it's my date of birth to remind myself that I can't walk a one-way road and pretend I don't need others. I choose to accept: accept love, accept friendship, and accept that I need both. I accept that I need friends to thrive, and that words are gifts that have life. And I choose to recognize that social media can have depth, if we let it. I let meaning and authenticity onto my wall and I let go of the cynicism that nothing on facebook matters.

And even as I sit in Panera starting my 26th year of life with just my writing, a chocolate croissant, and a cup of coffee, I ask for wisdom to balance the secrecy and the solitude of intimacy with my Father on one hand, while recognizing and receiving the blessing of community and relationship on the other.

albums of love

This past year my photos have hit a few new groups of friends who don't quite know the energy or aren't used to the quantity, quality, and captions of my facebook albums. Their delight and surprise make me happy, and while some may never know it, these pictures are how I love:

Pulling myself away from the crowd to snap a shot of it
Weaving my way into the groups to capture the intimacy of interactions
Missing parts of the scene and show because I'm watching it through my lens
Swapping lens, swiveling my external flash, climbing atop chairs
Curating photos, deleting the bad and okay to leave the best
Cropping the ones shot too wide
And adding an extra hour or two to caption, tag, and order

And as the the red flags show up and people laugh and enjoy, I know that the hours put into this craft, hobby, and creation is worth it. Because treating them to documented memories, helping them to remember times well spent and laughter made together is my gift to my friends and colleagues around me. Even if to some it's just another thing on the newsfeed, just another quick album to browse through, the short-term happiness is worth it. This is how I love, this is what I offer: I am a friend who loves relationships and a photographer with enough talent and skill, and these two intersect with a bit of energy and time to give you just another album of photos.

On Sisterhood

Last Friday, I decided it was time for a change and went to Target and bought my own tweezers. Then, for the first time in my almost-25 years of life, I plucked my eyebrows. I always wanted to have nice eyebrows, but in all honesty, mine are pretty thin and you can't do much with them. But I did always have some stray random ones that made them into a kinda-funny shape. I never wanted to pluck them because it hurt. But I'm maid of honor in my sister's wedding, so what better time than now?

My sister is the only one I've ever talked to about eyebrows. The last time we were in Malaysia, we noticed that dad's mom had the same eyebrows as I did. We joked that they were nearly nonexistent because they were thinly spread out, just like mine. I've remarked several times that sis's eyebrows are nice, but that I couldn't stand the pain of plucking them. And she's always laughed a bit that hers were better than mine.

Sis (as all the siblings call her) and I aren't particularly close, but as her days as a single women slowly dwindle down, I'm more aware of how much we do share. I don't talk about her all too much: she keeps to herself often, and my brothers do enough crazy things to fill my stories. Still, there's always been a special place for her. She did end up blazing the trail for us in many ways, and, when we were young, it always seemed she could do anything she wanted, it seemed: play flute (two years before she started, I wanted to be a flautist but never saved enough money for it...), skateboard, pick up drums, shoot hoops, join a volleyball team, tour with the school a cappella group (why did I never watch her shows?), and beat us all at Nintendo even though she never practiced.

As I started thinking through the speech I get to make at her wedding, I remember that, in the middle of the arguments, different paths, distances, and sporadic texts, there's more we share than I realize. That in some ways, I was a typical younger sister. There has always been something from her closet I envied and couldn't wait to be passed down to me: the yellow thermal hoodie, the plaid button shirts, the light blue skort, her MVA sweater (though in hindsight, they were probably less cool by the time they got to me). I still raid her closet for the too-girly tops she doesn't like, though I like to think it's made up for by the 20 times she's worn my purple dress. When I was taking piano lessons, there was always something special when we got to a song that I knew my sister had played and practiced: it felt like hitting another level and getting the chance to accomplish what she had done. Rondo alla turca, Moonlight Sonata (though I never finished that one), and a couple church solo's. When she got to go through Colonial Day in fifth grade, I imagined myself wearing her same red flannel dress in four more years, though in the end, Anthony and I missed it because we left school year to go to Malaysia that year. The Keepsake Box I have now of all random memorabilia, firsts, notes, and souvenirs got started because of an assignment she had to do in sixth grade.

She and I share a love for the Olympics, including screaming at the TV during the 2008 4x100 men's freestyle with Jason Lezak's amazing leg. We'd watch anything those summers and winters when we were both home, while the rest of the family only came out for gymnastics, ice skating, or the other big events. I'd dream up ideas on how to get into the Olympics and automatically assume she'd be my partner: we'd do some amazing humanitarian work and be invited to the Opening ceremonies, or maybe find a random sport that can't exactly be too hard...like the luge or bobsled, right? And when I coxed a varsity crew team, I joked with her: hey, maybe that'll be my in. They need small people for those teams.

I haven't been home for an Olympic season since 2008. Her bachelorette earlier this month was the most extended time I've had with her for years. But still, I feel a bit of sadness with the upcoming marriage. There's a nostalgia for the love of all my siblings together, just the four of us. Aaron's kind, he's nice, but he doesn't have the 24 years (okay, 18 for Alan) of life that we have. I will miss it. I will miss that anything can be hilarious when it's me and the siblings...that no one is safe from our mimicking and mocking, or from our songs and dance. Our bursts of laughter and our stories from our young days. I'm fiercely protective of our family time, notorious for persuading my family members out of other commitments or hangouts so we can have just a few hours when all six of us are together. All six: that's all I really want from any weekend home, for any celebration or holiday. All six of us. And I don't quite know how to welcome in a seventh....yet.

Jook

I felt it again today. An ache, a missing.

I guess I've been feeling it for awhile. This is Year Three of ministry, and the past two have been marked by long discussions of race, multi-ethnicity, humility, power-dynamics, and more. As some events in the evangelical world have eventually led to this letter (which surely deserves another post), I've been mulling thoughts about this Racial Journey in this racialized world. After two years, I know that this conversation is not easy. And yet still I walk into Year Three asking, how do I do this when I'm tired? How will I see your faithfulness when I am faithless? How do I continue to lay down my life but also find my voice again, and again, and again.

I am tired. I am the Chinese Girl living with two white housemates. Kind and fun, but definitely white women. Explaining mooncakes and rice porridge and feeling like every other day there's something new to share. Being asked if the snacks I got home are for sharing (I didn't offer, so, no). In the past, there was a joy to this, but there was also a long relationship what was being built with my then-roommate and good friend. These roommates do not quite feel like friends yet, so I just feel like the interesting girl who has things to talk about all the time. Sometimes it's fun but I'm feeling a little tired.

Sidenote - I am so grateful to be at my Chinese church, so unspeakably glad to have friends to go to dim sum with after church. Dear CAT friends, you have no idea how good and restful it is for my soul. To talk about stir fry and how little shrimp is in the chang fun (long noodles). To have my tea cup refilled, just like my soul is. To have two of you in six short months initiate wanting to support my ministry. And then to take a deep breath, and return to the day to day of loving and serving students who don't look like you.

I drove out to Wing Wah Supermarket today. I am getting over a cough and was making good ol' jook, but didn't have ginger, green onions, or cilantro. What the heck--I'm feeling good and I need to get out of the house, so I drove the 10 minutes to get to the closet Chinese supermarket (I'm glad it's not further). It's a small supermarket, significantly smaller than Ranch 99 or SF Market another 5-10 minutes away, and a little more expensive. But again I found myself wanting to walk up and down the aisles, listening to the familiar sounds of Mandarin and Cantonese filling my ears. This is as close to home as I'll get, I think cynically. This is what I do when I'm homesick: spend too long at Chinese supermarkets so the smells, tastes, sounds, and sights remind me that I belong somewhere.

At night I eat two bowls of jook. I smile to myself that my chicken jook is made with rotisserie chicken from Food Source, but hey, the best flavor is from the bones either way, right? I think that the ginger is totally worth it. I'm glad I know that plain jook may be rice and water, but add some ginger, green onions, and cilantro and it's soothing effect and delicious taste is exponentially increased. The sweetness of the ginger mixed in with the soft, watery rice porridge is comforting both to my throat and my heart.

I thought Sacramento was starting to feel like home, but I guess I'll have to give it even more time.

5

A little over five years ago, we were sitting under the lights on our favorite spot on campus. I was probably fidgeting with the railing and changing my seating positions way too often. I definitely had fifty thoughts running through my head. We had finally said it: you liked me and I liked you, and we were trying to figure out what the heck that meant now.

Each year September rolls around and I'm in disbelief. The years have brought us way more of the unexpected than our 19- and 20-year-old selves could have thought: distances, delayed graduations, extravagant surprises, gross misunderstandings, messy families, and a shared love of Giants baseball.

I've changed a lot in these past five years, and you've seen me through it all. I scroll through our shared dropbox folder we made last year (our first anniversary apart), and I can tell just by my photos: my casual hoodies and club t-shirts of undergrad, the first couple summer dresses I owned, nicer tanks and tops in the post-grad life. I remember when you loved me through my capstone engineering project, through my cynical first semester back from six weeks in India, when you were completely unsurprised I went on to work with InterVarsity, when we revisted the camp where we first met (not that there are any memories of that time--we didn't exactly have awesome first impressions). You tell me that I've made you get better at talking about feelings, small talk, or just talking in general. We laugh that we're both still very different people who have managed to grow a little bit more into each other, only to find that we land on opposite ends of the spectrum (again).

I still can't believe it sometimes: life with you and who you are. how much you love me, support me, deal with my crap and make me better. Listen to my ramblings as I can't sort between personal life and ministry. Bounce back my ideas about faith and hypothesis and theories. Your existence and lifestyle remind me that faith looks different, that "living out faith" really does need to be contextualized. That you and I live witness and relationships in different ways, and it reminds me to open my eyes to pay attention to the perfect moments where God has put people like you in very specific places. That you may not throw your friendship net in wide, wide circles like I do, but when you give loyalty and depth with one who does make it in your circle, it comes with a deep commitment.

And for someone who loves giant parties and energy and adventures, my favorite times with you are our "nothing" days that involve sitting around, enjoying each other's company, talking (sometimes me just telling stories...), and maybe cups of hot chocolate or likely some ice cream. Somehow with everything chaotic in my life, the best things I love with you are simple. Like walks after dinner. Or sunsets. No one loves sunsets daily quite like you and I do.

I love the hundreds (I'm sorry, am I exaggerating again?) of things that have become life with you and me: passing the camera across the table at dinnertime, taking walks, predicting responses, laughing at predictability, the string of nonsense from either of us that leads to laughs and giggles. Your puns and my unrelated stories. My persistence and your patience. And lots more, but you're already laughing that I've written almost 600 words about this, though I'll insist that no one reads my blog anyway.

So hey. Here's to more words and more us and more years.

Pursuing Perfection

I am a perfectionist.

I live my life in constant comparison to those who are the best. I have an arbitrary standard for most things, and that standard is often too high and determined solely by me comparing to people and things that are better than me. I don't think I'm a fast runner because I should be faster. I don't think I'm an excellent photographer because I see many people who do it better. I enjoy cooking but think I could do better. I give a talk or a training, and even if other people tell me it was good, something in the back of my head knows there is room to improve. I make graphics and flyers and visuals look great, but that's just because no one else on my team has a high standard for it.  I should stop dropping passes on the Ultimate field.

My room can be cleaner. My papers can be more organized. I can be more efficient. I can be more responsible. I need to stop dropping the ball on things, I should stop forgetting things.

This is how my brain naturally thinks. I find myself in the "jack of all trades, master of none" categories, which, if not careful, can tear you apart. On one hand, you take pride that you can competently accomplish a lot of things. On the other hand, in my insecurity, I wonder: what is there that I am really excellent at?

I am a perfectionist. And if I'm not careful, the lies in my head circle over and over again, telling me to step it up, do better, produce the work of professionals even when you have the resource and experience of a hobbyist. If I don't fight it, everywhere I look, I fall at average or below average. (Part of that is also because I notice every misstep of mine but not every fall of everyone else: sometimes I can count how many passes I missed in a game, but of course, I never count the number of times our team captain causes us to lose a point.) It gets hard for me to recognize my gifts and my abilities, which makes it even harder to step in, serve, and contribute where God has placed me.

On one hand, I will never be good enough: I won't ever be fastest runner, I won't ever be the most eloquent or the most learned. I will never be a perfect staff worker, I'll never be a perfect friend. I'm always going to mess up, as much as I hate that truth.

On the other hand: I was never expected to be. I started typing, "The beauty of grace..." and realized that Relient K had finished that line for me awhile ago: "...is that it makes life not fair." Not fair! The fact that I will never be perfect but God's perfect love covers me is not fair. The fact that I will fall and screw up and hurt and fail but that God looks at me and calls me his Perfect Daughter is not fair. If I am dead honest, I hate the fact that perfection will never be achieved. But there is freedom in knowing that that was never the goal.

That was never the goal. Perfection was never the goal.

Somewhere in my life, in my history, I thought I needed perfection. I remember distinctly thinking that I had to be the "perfect child" amid some family turmoil. What did that even mean for me? It meant I didn't cause waves. It meant no one had to worry about me, spend "extra" energy on me. It meant I didn't have 'issues'.

Lies, oh lies. Because the God who loves me is the God who pours energy, love, grace on me. Who picks up my broken pieces and my tears--he is the one who is Perfect. He never expected me to be perfect. And he is waiting to catch me in my waves, to pour love and more love on me. He expects me to have issues, and he expects to be the one who heals them.

This perfectionist thing...this is a very broken part of me. Ironic, huh? That maybe the most messed up thing about me is how perfect I want to be...but God, you make all things whole.

Deep Waters

Last week, I sat in the Union staring at the spreadsheet of nearly 140 students who filled out contact cards wanting more information about our fellowship. All I see are fish, I thought, as the abundance of interested students reminded of the huge catch Jesus brought the disciples in Luke 5. And I wanted to tell them all of our first meeting that night, but my texts via google voice ran out. And my nets are breaking. Unable to hold the capacity of this catch.

When the most chaotic week of New Student Outreach possible ended, I read through Luke 5 again for the hundredth time. I remember this passage: we kept returning to it over and over again the first year I led a small group. I was a junior back then, leading my first round of students. Five years later, I'm still leading students. I'm still reading through the story of Jesus walking into Peter's boat and calling him out to deep waters. This passage has returned over and over again (admittedly, it is an InterVarsity-favorite, so there you go). I remember discussing this at APA 2012: What does deep waters represent? Unknown, potential, danger. What were the nets supposed to do? Hold fish. Yet they failed to do the job they were designed for. I remember Urbana 12: "Leave your boats. Drop your nets. Come and follow me...I've come to rescue the world from the chaos of the deep."

Deep waters. Risk. Jesus inviting for more, and more. Making decisions on the fly. Crying in the car thinking I can't believe this week is over. Looking around and seeing leaders hungry for more. Sending students to do things they are naturally gifted at. Needing to nap and sleep and nap because my body is tired. Encouraging students, sending them out again. Feeling rested enough after the weekend, and then today hits.

What a joke to think it would calm down this week. A phone call from a friend, emotional energy pouring to someone you love, a student walking on shaky ground in terms of her ministry and authority, planning an event that's happening in three days, missing someone dearly.

I followed, Jesus. And now I'm in deep, so deep.

So I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders
Let me walk upon the waters
Wherever You would call me
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger
In the presence of my Savior

Discipline

There is beauty, discipline, balance built into my first language. As I practice making the three drops of water that start my surname, I know this. I've known this every time I sign my Chinese name and the angles of the square-shaped character is too sharp, or the right half is too big, or the line that shorter accidentally looks the same length as the one below. I feel it as right hand vaguely remembers where the tip of the brush needs to point away, where you lift up quickly to end the stroke, where you push down for appropriate thickness.

Just trying to make the right strokes makes it obvious why discipline is so built into the culture. As you write top to bottom, right to left, your hands have to hover perfectly over the paper, else you end up smearing the writing. Your proportions must be perfect. And each character hovers in its place on the invisible grid, so when you look at a completed sheet of writing, white lines stand clearly between the rows and characters.

I sense the difference between my dabbling in Chinese calligraphy and Jonathan's. (The differences between a daughter of immigrants whose first language was Chinese and one who learned the culture later on in life is infinite and shouldn't really compare, but still.) Jonathan happily writes whole characters at a time, and if he gets it wrong, he finishes and tries again. On the other hand, I by nature remember how you learn Chinese: repetition, strokes, over and over again. You can spend 10 minutes perfecting the three drops of water, then move on to another 20 sweeping strokes for the pieh. When you try rushing it, try writing the whole character before you've perfected each stroke, the the balance of characters completely off, the fat edges where it should be thin weighs the image to the wrong side, the line that should be shorter than the one above is accidentally too long, the dot accidentally turns into a dash. So you repeat: trying to make the left side smaller, the top right bigger, the bottom right not too big. Over and over again.

With the brush in hand and my eyes concentrated on the page, I think of how discipline has always been explicitly and implicitly valued. Restraint and self-control are built in from early ages: holding back any desires and wants even when offered, practice and work over play whenever mom and dad call, accepting your parent's discipline as right. Even straight, strong punches in martial arts, repeating the same kick multiple times.

With a page full of dots, lines, symbols and partial characters, I choose to remember that this is something my people offer:  beauty that is a product of discipline, a value so intrinsic that it's built into our language.

Dinner tonight

Check-check it out! Korean-inspired but still mostly-Chinese home-cooked dinner. I've been on a little Korean food kick. First, I read Sacramento's Edible publication with a three-page feature on our mini-Korea-town-strip, which I haven't frequented even though it's right down the street from me (The feature also made me want to try so many Korean items I have yet to taste...mmm). Then we had build-your-own bibimbap at small group, which was surprisingly simple: Amy had the meat marinated and cooked,  Diana had a griddle of sunny side up eggs, then the rest of us just brought one or two of the vegetable items. Perhaps what tipped it was my visit to Ranch 99 last Sunday, when I bought myself my first bottle of kimchi. After adding it to my dinner a few days later, I definitely wondered why the heck it took me so long! I've been meaning to pickle some vegetables to keep as small sides for the meals that are a bit more sparse, and kimchi could fit that category. It's also so delicious that I'm over halfway through the bottle in less than a week...

Anyway. The above: kimchi from the store, but the rest home-cooked. I couldn't attempt real bulgolgi since the beef I had on hand was a thick cut, but I was proud of myself for marinating it all afternoon! The beansprouts are stir-fry Chinese style and everything's over rice, then I borrowed the raw egg from bibimbap. On a visual note, I was shooting my usual angle shot but it didn't look right. Then I stood on a chair and voila! Photo and meal to be equally proud of (do the non-horizontal lines bother you? sorry. Darrell would probably say I shouldn't have pointed it out; no one else notices these things...).

Shootdangit. I say it over and over, but sometimes I get so darn proud of my kitchen. And so happy that I can make delicious food. And then proud of myself again, and happy enough to eat the same meal three times straight. I have other wonderful photos of food I've never posted about too.

Peace Like a River

The first time I ran along the American River trail was five days after I had moved here, two days after we heard that Darrell didn't pass and he wasn't going on rotations, wasn't coming to Sacramento. We were in the middle of fall planning meetings then, and my brain was so distracted.

We found out the afternoon before the planning meetings started. And that first day was rather distraught. We knew this was a possibility, yet at the same time, this wasn't how it was supposed to go. I remember that second day after the news: he was going in to talk to his professor at 8 am, and I had crazy ridiculous hopes that there would be something: an assignment, a retake, any sort of out to fix this and let things go on. Natalie and I prayed desperately, knowing that sometimes, we don't ask big enough. But it didn't happen. There isn't grace for a failed class. Later that week, there was a night when I texted him at 1 am because I couldn't sleep. He called back, I cried.

I remember that second day of planning meetings. That afternoon, Jonathan was talking about the campus, and I was getting excited. I realized halfway through the meeting that it was great that I hadn't thought about it--and then I had thought about it, I remembered, I realized, and it hit me again that Darrell wasn't coming to Sacramento, he would be at home for eight months, he would have to retake sixth semester, who knew what was happening now?

My thoughts were a collective mess, and I said I needed a run. Stephanie told me about the river entrance down the street from her home, so I went there the next morning. I ran for the first time in awhile. I ran next to the peaceful river, completely opposite from the internal chaos I felt and thought.


It's been a year. I ran this same trail this morning, running with an untrained pace and a soul slowly regaining it's rhythm back with God after too much time away. I've done miles and miles along that trail as I trained for my half. I've run it in the morning, in the heat of the afternoon, in the humid dusk with the sun setting. It's one of my favorite things about my new home. And after my run, I walked down the usual little turnout to do a little stretching by the river. It's still peaceful. It flows, ripples. It's as constant as it was last year.

It's been a year, and we celebrated yesterday, because Darrell aced that very class. Aced. We loved and lived, taking a short walk to South campus, trying the coolest burger place in Stockton (how did we not make it out there before the day he moved out? not sure), playing Tetris at my favorite coffee shop, taking too long for goodbyes. Life is good, beautiful, simple, delightful.

I'm not going to the extreme of saying it's redemption, but it's something. It's something being better than just passing it this time around. It's confidence, it's always believing in him, it's a step towards finishing a long, long journey. And though long distance is rough and gross, but there's a way that it has been good for us. I feel like we've been through so many different seasons, yet each one is new. This past year has been another round of learning with and about him.

Of course, last year, we were expecting a different type of learning together. We were supposed to explore this new city together, you know. Supposed to have adventures together here, make new mutual friends together. And when he wasn't coming up, all of a sudden, I was here with my staff team, students I hadn't met, and maybe a few acquaintances. I didn't want to be alone. But it's been a year, and I like it here. It's been a good year. I've grown. He's grown. We've grown. And God's grace flows, abounds, cherishes us close. Peaceful. Constant.

After all You are constant
After all You are only good
After all You are sovereign
Not for a moment will You forsake me
Not for a moment will You forsake me

Thou only

On one hand, it makes complete sense that people would be surprised, that people would ask. On the other hand, I still feel like I'm standing on shaky ground in regards to my confidence, so when I hear the responses, I also hear them pricking at the insecurity I still have.

Wait, you studied engineering? What kind? Civil? And you've never actually gotten a job in it. 

I have to remember that a lot of people are going to ask this question. It's not just Asian people, it's not just college-educated people. Getting a degree as practical, direct, and intense as engineering usually means you become an engineer. And when you don't: people are going to ask. Even if I worked at a Starbucks people would ask (though likely assume that was temporary...unlike the inaccurate 'temporary' assumption of ministry).

But in finishing just my second year of ministry, as I calculate my budget to the cent every month, as I pray for God to support His work on campus, as I wonder how the future will play out--I sometimes still question. Is this really a job? Is it really okay for me to be doing this right now?

I churn these thoughts even through worship, and then a familiar song comes up. I haven't sung it since high school. It makes even more sense in this moment.

All I once held dear, built my life upon
All this world reveres, and wars to own
All I once thought gain I have counted loss
Spent and worthless now, compared to this

Knowing you, Jesus
Knowing you, there is no greater thing
You're my all, you're the best
You're my joy, my righteousness
And I love you, Lord

Now my heart's desire is to know you more
To be found in you and known as yours
To possess by faith what I could not earn
All-surpassing gift of righteousness

Oh, to know the power of your risen life
And to know You in Your sufferings
To become like you in your death, my Lord
So with you to live and never die

Being in full-time ministry is not all full of suffering, nor is ministry the only way God calls his followers to suffer. But in the tense moments, in the messy moments, in the moments of sacrifice, even in the financially tiring moments--I remember this: I want to know Christ in his resurrection and life but also in his suffering. However he has called in whatever season I'm in.

My favorite two verses of an old hymn:

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light

Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise
Thou mine Inheritance, now and always
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart
High King of Heaven, my Treasure Thou art

After practicing liturgy in pieces here and there, I've developed an appreciation of hymns and prayers repeated for centuries. When I can't formulate a response, when my heart questions where God has placed me, I remember: Naught be all else to me. You are my Inheritance. You and You only, first in my heart.

Absence

I like to think I'm a little better at figuring out where my soul is these days. No longer are your small group leaders checking in on you regularly, nor is a staff supervisor always present to help you sort through the tangles (or even realize that there is one). So you have to pay attention, listen, notice, come to your own conclusion of sorts: why you keep finding everything else to do but be in scripture, why its been easy to shrug off giving in to temptation you were used to fighting, why you'd rather think it's okay than remember that Jesus fights for you. 

And you wonder: is it an absence? a neglect? After walking in the faith for awhile, you know dry seasons happen, and that there's no reason to abandon your faith because you're not sensing God at this point. But you do miss the rhythm, the joy, the peace. 

You know that even if words flow smoothly right now (two posts after months of silence--I'd rather blog than sit?), even if you come after two weeks of finding a strong, influential voice in ministry, even if you can rely on the grace and provision of earlier this summer...you find yourself kinda like where Moses was in Exodus 33: "If your presence does not come with me, don't send me." 

There's a temptation to brush it off and just wait till that sweet spiritual spot comes back again. But there's a deeper want for the relationship with the Father. That feels the distance from too much ministry and not enough being. Needing roots to be refreshed, to grow deeper. Part of you wants to rush it with the urgency of a juggling schedule and ministry kicking up again soon...part of you needs the long, tender, patient care.

I think of the plants I'm growing these days. Two houseplants and a potted basil plant. Parts of them need to die; it's just normal. Other times, they wilt and droop but will perk back to life after watering and light, even amid the yellowed leaves. Except the one houseplant for which I did a poor replant and hasn't seemed to recuperate since. If the roots got moldy and died during that point, then that's one that has failed. Got to tend to those roots. The leaves...maybe there are leaves that are done with their time. But those roots have to keep going. 

Unfinished

It's been three days since I returned from the Intern Trek. I learned early from my staff leader and supervisor that any sort of conferences should be followed by a double Sabbath, two days off to rest physically, let your brain settle, and process spiritually from an intensive weekend. Whether working a student conference or attending one for staff, they're always packed with lessons, emotions, thoughts.

Well, it's been three days and I still feel unprocessed. Then I stop to think: What on earth makes me think that 10 days of hands-on ministry will be wrapped up nicely with a clean knot? I want another long afternoon in a coffee shop so I can settle all my thoughts and make notes of everything that happened. But the reality is that our life is a journey, a process, and what God starts doesn't always finish in our timeline. My thoughts from staffing this Trek will continue to churn and resurface over the next month, semester, year.

I remind myself that there isn't a concrete end goal of post-conference-retreating. No number of journal pages, no making sure I've thought in detail through each session and conversation. What does need to happen is rest, which sometimes means getting 12 hours of sleep in a day (cough-today-cough), getting a little in tune with my spirit in solitude again (where did my love of scripture get buried?), and settling back into life (laundry, shower, home cooked meals).

One of my small group members on the Trek talked about his need for closure in evangelism, multiethnicity, and some of the open-ended ministry things. I feel it now: wanting to make sure all my thoughts are sorted and collected. But four more days of open schedules, naps, and words are not what I need. Instead, I take the invitation to continue a process - to brainstorm integrating lessons into the next year of ministry, to hear God speaking as I reenter into normal rhythms, to trust that the work He started will continue.

One day, I may look back and realize that some of these things have wrapped up nicely, that a chapter has been closed. But that one day does not have to be today...or next week, at the matter.

Back to words

It's been nearly a month since I last wrote, and I feel it. I feel it in the stories and thoughts that were bunched up in my brain, waiting to be untangled and pulled out in words and posts, but instead left to collect and muddle up. I feel it in the want to process and record and remember, yet lacking the energy to do so. I feel it in the poetic phrases left unused, in moments of unwinding when I make the choice between writing, reading, vegging, or sleep. Obvious it hasn't been writing.

Everything goes in seasons. I can mark out phases of attitudes or focused time on hobbies in the past ten months: a fall semester of bottled-up chaos, the month of April when I cooked solely with my wok, the four months of regular running in preparation for my half. January with regular times of sitting, the last quarter of the academic calendar with lots of small moments to catch my breath, but not the long quiet days. Months where words and writings come easily and frequently. This past six months has not been one of them.

There is part of me that knows I can't equally handle all my hobbies at the same time, and that now is not really the time I'm going to choose writing as a discipline. But there's a deeper part of me that knows that writing is more than a hobby. That knows that putting life, experiences, thoughts to words puts value and significance to it.

So here I am, writing, writing again. Pen and paper, typed letters on a blank post--writing. If my thoughts and life is a scrunched up ball of string, then writing feels like finding the free end and slowly pulling it out, straightening, finding its usefulness again.

Dear Stockton

Dear Stockton,

You will have a piece of my heart for a very long time.

I like Sacramento and its plethora of eating options, recreational leagues, and interesting people doing different things. But I also like how many people I know in Stockton, and the fact that I can run errands in Stockton and run into three people I know, see a familiar face at Mama's Pho, run into another friend at Manny's. I can drive down Miracle Mile and see that ridiculous jeep-van thing that looks like it survived a war and is using bumper stickers to prove it. I can sit in Empresso and smile gently at the characters that show up regularly: the artist sketching on the patio, the old man with a newsboy cap who sits with him, and bikers parking their fixie or one-speed just inside the door as they pick up a drink.

I drove down on Wednesday night for Pastor Jim's goodbye dinner at my old church. The gym was full of people who have been touched by Jim, and his charge at the end of the night was reflective of his nine years of ministry there: marked by humility, a challenge for risk and failure, and belief in hope and God's grace. I miss Quail and the family I had there, how they redeemed my view of large churches, how the older women at Sunday school took me in despite how young I was, how they loved the ministry at Pacific and also the city. And while they were never my best friends, I miss the young adults and how often they were a reality check for me in contrast to the average upper-middle-class student I worked with. I saw the core group stand up and was in awe that I didn't even know half of them. Who had God brought in in the ten months I've been gone? Almost as if he is setting up for his next round of work. Do good for the kingdom, my friends.

There are so many good things happening in Stockton. Tipping Point was one of them--the house band for a church I loved, a go-to at a number of local events. But even as I sat at their farewell concert, rocking or tapping to every song (because really, their songs just make you want to move), I knew their influence has spread far beyond that room at Congregation of Zion. And I remembered the stories of these friends: when Della and I were roommates and she would share the ups and downs of the band, when they would play at UOP for student events, when Mark would excitedly tell me about their next journey or step as a band. I shot photos of them year after year at Trilogy/Journey as they blessed hundreds of students with Spirit-led worship. And even though their time as a band is over, they're all still doing good things, all still making music too. And mostly in Stockton.

When people hear I moved here from Stockton, I get a response along the lines of, "Sacramento is a step up, isn't it?" or something along the lines of pity and awe. They ask about bankruptcy, gunshots, and gangs. Today someone even asked me if I knew any gang members. I said I know former gang members and people who are working with gang members. It saddens me that this is the reputation, that this is all people know. But it also gives me the chance to defend Stockton and give them potentially the first good news they've heard about this place: that yes, there's a lot of crap, but there's also a lot of good. That there are people who care about and love Stockton and want to see things change, and if you are one of these people, you will quickly meet others who are doing the same because they are so networked, because they care deeply about their city. That churches know each other, do things together, pray together, and various outreach activities are done as a joint effort. That Christians get together downtown to pray for people in leadership: government, police force, administration, etc.

I think about the sunrise Easter service that happens every year, how believers across the city come together for a joint service celebrating the resurrection of Jesus. I think about how the worship and speaker rotates and you hear from people who are not from the bigger churches you usually hear from. I wonder who on earth even puts it together, but it happens.

A big part of me loves Stockton for the familiarity, the friends, my Alma mater, my favorite coffee shop, and Sunken Field. Those things carry nostalgia and memories that can't be replaced, and, along with dear friends, these are the things that refresh and energize me every time I visit. Those friends--alum, Quail, or randomly networked acquaintances--I miss them, they are good for me, they are good for the city. And I'll keep coming back for those people, but I'll also come back to do a photoshoot for the rescue mission I still support, for a church family I stand behind, for walks through a beautiful campus, and for a city that is still home to me.

Dear Stockton, I think you will forever have a piece of my heart.
_____________________________________________________

I finished this blog and was reminded of the Dear Stockton project, probably why the rhetoric sounds so familiar...

Recognizing Insecurities

My race day post was full of many accomplishments and things I’m proud of, but I held back on many disclaimers and things I did poorly, though I couldn’t help but let a few areas of improvement trickle in (e.g., pacing, next race’s goal time). I actually typed a lot of them out but cut them in the editing phase, knowing that, often, my accomplishments get overshadowed when I think of how much better I can do. But this is my post on insecurities, and here are a few things I held back previously:

• It wasn’t that big a race, so placing top 30% or top 20 isn’t that big a deal
• I failed my personal goal of never walking during a race
• My early fast splits don’t really count because I obviously lost momentum during the last few miles

I left out those disclaimers because I know, I know they don’t need to be said on that first celebratory post. I know that in certain areas, I’m my hardest critic. I know Darrell exasperatedly tells me that I can’t always compare myself to people miles ahead of me (literally and figuratively). And in that first round, I wanted to stand tall and celebrate a really good race.

But I've spent this past week thinking of my PR, my instinct to downplay the accomplishment and tell people the things I did wrong, and why the heck do I feel the need to do that? As I mull over this question, I feel like something can be said about the areas in which I’m very confident versus places where it’s near to none. There’s a pretty, pretty high possibility it was to do with how many people around me are competent in the same area.

Exhibit A – On the staff team: Pulling out creative ideas like they’re stored in my back pocket, making aesthetically pleasing and well-organized handouts, writing great Excel spreadsheets, finding good ways to wordsmith or communicate things = Confident.

Exhibit B – Photography, Ultimate Frisbee, Running = totally not confident.

Theories? Actions in group A often receive much affirmation from grateful staff members. They’re also part of work, which in some ways, already requires competence. Group B, on the other hand, are pure hobbies. So perhaps the risk is because it’s a hobby, something I have chosen to care about, voluntarily participate in. The last two, being sports, are also intrinsically competitive. Photography is also often a high-publicity activity.

Maybe the things I listed are simply not helpful and not even on the same category of things that can be even compared. But churning these thoughts feels like scratching an itch I have of trying to figure out this insecurity knack in me, because clearly I don’t lack confidence in everything, I just happen to have very little confidence in a few areas. Like, to the point where I don’t recognize my own ability.

Maybe at the very bottom line, I lack confidence in the areas where I’m most exposed to people who are way better than me. All the things in Group A happen in the context of my staff team, where I’m just kinda the go-to person for those specific things. It’s almost expected of me. Group B, on the other hand, has me surrounded by professional businesses, friends who shoot such high quality images, people who play on club Ultimate teams, and people who are simply way too fast (like the running club I visit).

So maybe, I need to figure out how to have an accurate and healthy self-assessment even when I’m obviously not at the top of the game. It makes no sense, but a majority of the time, I’m comparing myself to people who are on completely different levels than I am: It makes no sense to compare myself to someone who photographs for a living, who uses their pay and business to invest in high-quality equipment. And if I haven’t devoted the energy to train and condition for a club team, then I can’t expect myself to play like one.

If I must compare, and I compare myself to people on my level, then yes: I can stand confidently. After all, I am proud of a lot of my photography, I am an asset on Ultimate leagues, and sub-10:00 paces are fast for someone who just does it as a hobby and isn't training too seriously. And that makes a lot more sense anyway.

Recognizing Accomplishment

I never denied it as an athlete: I'm a competitor, and nothing kicks in competition like a race, the athleticism around you and the mental drive that says, I can do this. I should attribute part of this race to Darrell, who was the one who set the 10 min/mile goal back in January when we were first planning on racing this together. I was a bit wide-eyed at that goal: Even though I knew our first half in 2011 at a split of 11:26 could definitely be improved, 10 min/mile...that was a real goal, not just a let's-finish-this-faster-goal. But when that was his goal, of course it has to be mine, right? (yeah, kinda competitive). I like goals. I loved the 9 miler that came in around 10:04. So dang close. Plus, my training plan had my long runs at low 11's for my long runs and assumed that race-day-adrenaline would kick it down to 10:00/mile. So this had to be possible, right?

2:07:54. That zero right there...the one that makes it the minutes after two hours a single digit? I like that zero. It means I made it under 2:11:00, which means I made it under 10 min/mile.

I was taking periodic glances at my watch that last stretch, and by the time the finish line was in view, with the large digital numbers counting each second that passed; I knew I could make it, even as my pace for that last few miles was ugly, even if I was so tired when I crossed the finish I plopped straight on the grass on the side (sorry for missing the photo-op, D). After a couple minutes on the race, I stood up, made my way to lots of Gatorade and my finishers medal, and found Darrell. Then the endorphins kicked in, I was on top of the world, and I thought, Damn good job. 

____________________________________________

Rewind to the start of the race. I wouldn't say aloud that I thought I could do it. I thought I had a chance, but all I did was ask Darrell over and over again if he thought I could. I guess I'm still kinda chicken about goals and dreams, fearing that verbalizing that mark and failing it means...well, failure.

But though the words never spoken, the drive inside me hoped. It's that drive, combined with race day adrenaline, that had me weaving at a 8:30 pace two minutes in as I wove my way through the crowd. I thought I was just trying to get out of traffic, and I was caught off guard when I looked at my watch to find I had been going below 9 minutes. I didn't even feel like I was going that fast. Then Emily introduced herself within that first mile and asked if I wanted to pace. We were at low 9's at that point and I said sure. I mentioned I wasn't sure if I could keep it up, but inside I was already curious to see if I could keep up that time, and what the finish line could look like. She ended up being a great running partner, though she definitely kept enough reserves to finish the last couple miles stronger than I! (sidenote: D is probably right in thinking that using up my energy for the early bursts probably aren't the best strategy for a race...)

This run was fun in that I surprised myself with how fast I actually could go. In hindsight, I thought I could, but didn't want to tell anyone for fear I was inaccurate about my own ability. But one of these days, I'll daringly publicize my challenge. I won't run just for completion anymore; I'll actually tell people that I'm aiming for a sub-2 hour time for 13.1 miles, which means I'll need to be running at 9:09 each mile. Which means that most of my miles need to be run at an 8:something pace to make up for the slower last miles. I can run sub-9 miles, I've done it in Buffalo Chips training. Maybe no one else knows this: I don't train with any peers, and in most areas of my life I compare myself with others who are better than me, thus often undermining my own achievement.

This half was something. This race day was something, because when I crossed the finish I knew both that it was better than I expected but also something I dared to imagine could happen--crossing the finish line below 2:10:00, I mean. As I think through what this race means, the surprise at how we paced nearly the first half of the race below 9:30, I think: uncovered potential. Speed I can tap into somewhere. I really am as good as I thought I could be, if not better. And that's good to recognize.  And next time, I'll dare to dream of an even faster time, aim for it, and go--succeed or fail, actually declare it tangibly.

In bullet point fashion:

• I beat our 2011 SF Half time by 20 freaking minutes. I like to think that first race didn't really count because we ran to finish, and D and I had only done one short run together and thus didn't know each other's paces, etc. And it had a bunch of hills. But still. To go from 11:10 pace to a 9:45 pace is a big difference!
• My slowest split (mile 12) was 10:26 min. That was an average or slower-average during my training. 
• My fastest split (mile 2) was 9:05 min. If I went just a little faster, I could have had an 8:59 min mile during a half marathon! Crazy! (I'll learn to pace more evenly for my next race...maybe)
• I finished in the top 20 of women ages 18-24. That just sounds pretty baller. I'm not going to let the fact that there were only 70 women in this division or that I will probably be 25 by my next race and the age 25-29 category has some really fast runners take away from how cool it sounds to say "top 20". 
• I finished in the top 30% overall. That also sounds pretty cool.

On drinking soup, tea, and other things

Families and people are the strangest things. We have our own ways of doing things, so normal we never think twice until an outsider tells you they don't do it the same way. I remember the first couple times I ate dinner with Darrell's family: All of a sudden, everyone else had finished their soup and was putting their bowl on the counter to make room for rice and the main courses. At my family's dinner table, the soup stays to the side of your dinner plate so you can drink it all throughout dinner. And if it's delicious or of you want more flavor to white rice, you spoon it all over your rice. At Darrell's, I felt so caught off guard and rushed because I'm used to only drinking half my bowl of soup at a time.

Because we make our soup last throughout dinner, that also means we never serve an extra beverage. I remember having to tell myself to remember to drink the juice that was in front of me, as if I'd never had a beverage with dinner or something. Hey, it felt like a lot to juggle at that time...

Two years ago after our first half marathon, his parents took us to dim sum. It was funny, because every family has their "usual", and theirs was definitely not ours. Having grown up Adventist, there are a number of pork dishes my siblings and I didn't eat as we were younger, and after years and years of the classic Chinese brunch, you just have your favorites. My family also never flips our chopsticks when getting food from the serving plate, done so you don't use the side you've been eating from to touch food that others may eat. I tried adapting to this, but I suddenly and self-consciously found myself eating from the back end of the chopsticks when I had forgotten to flip them back. Or wanting to stop mid-way to picking up a shumai because I was still using my main eating end...

We went to a classic, family-style Chinese restaurant last night, and I was struck again with both familial and generational (with regards to how long we've been in the states) differences. His parents, grandma, him and I made five but were seated at a large table with eight seats, complete with a lazy susan. This is the usual table my family of six gets seated at, and we just leave two empty chairs together and plop mom's purse on one of them. But everyone in Darrell's family thought it was too big, and they looked around the restaurant wondering why a smaller table couldn't work.

Everyone flipped open the menu, perusing through options...or at least, the options printed in English. In my family, mom makes most of the decisions. If we want something, we describe it to mom and she tells the waiter using its formal Chinese name. I don't even know if I can figure out my favorite dishes in English translation, maybe "Shredded lamb with onions and black pepper sauce." Who knows, right? And if my parents don't like the combos offered, they just chat up a storm with the waiter or owner (who might already be their friend) to see what can be worked around. That's how we hear what the restaurant's specialty is, or what different ways they can cook the fish that they don't list in the menu.

One day I may find my access to this Chinese restaurant secret menu limited, but I've never had to think about it. But last night, I made some remark to Darrell about how every Chinese restaurant prints their specials on colored paper and tapes them straight to the wall, and he nodded a, "Yup-The stuff we don't know we're missing because we can't read it!" I've never had to think about that.

Darrell's parents asked for waters, but it's not till I noticed Darrell using his teacup as a receptacle for the spare rib bones that I realize they drink one cup of tea for starters, then water for the rest of the meal. I think I was the only one to refill my tea that night, which may be the least I've had at a Chinese restaurant in awhile. For contrast, my family's tea cups get refilled endlessly throughout dinner and even after, as we're packing our to-go boxes or waiting for the check. We even used to end with a "乾杯!" (cheers! or literal translation, "dry cup") as we clinked our tea cups one last time before leaving the restaurant. [edit: the boy has informed me that the rest of the family drinks plenty of tea. I keep forgetting that he just doesn't like tea!]

I take mental note of these things: I had never had lettuce wraps before, which is a favorite for their family. I don't have a Cantonese-speaking grandma, sitting mostly in silence except for the occasional short sentence about the food or a phrase to Darrell's mom in her native tongue. I never speak English to waiters and waitresses at a Chinese restaurant. I rarely go to a restaurant with my parents where they haven't already befriended half the workers.

But while these things catch my attention, other things flow so naturally. Everyone grabbing a take-out box to pack up leftovers. Darrell and I, the children, carry them out, not the adults. Eating from small rice bowls with chopsticks. And later that night, when we're at his grandma's eating dessert, I consciously remain standing until she takes a seat with her bowl of ice cream. Ice cream at 11 pm: on one hand, I feel like my family doesn't regularly do desserts. Yet late nights of Milo's and cookies from the snack aisle of the Chinese supermarket are not unusual, so maybe we're more alike that we think.

Just two dollars

At first I thought she was asking to borrow my phone, but when I asked her again, she said, "Do you have two dollars?" She spoke in a low voice, almost a mumble. Her hair was dyed red and she was wearing a gray t-shirt and basketball shorts. She looked like someone I might run into at Target or Wal-Mart, just any other person picking up a few necessities in life.

I quickly, maybe too cheerfully, asked if she needed "some groceries or something", but she said No, just two dollars so she could get something at Carl's Junior as she glanced across the parking lot. My instinct was to offer to go with her so I could buy her something (how many people tell us this is the right thing to do?), but something felt off about walking with her all the way across the parking lot. And my gut was telling me something else. Even flipping through my wallet, I knew I had a good amount of cash with me, even the exact two dollars she asked for. My instinct handed her a five instead. She said thank you.

So I walk into Raley's to deposit my checks from the past couple weeks, mulling thoughts of generosity and giving and trusting God with your money and the thought that, sometimes, you do give without knowing where it goes. And I remember that I haven't been as generous lately.

But seeing her when I walked out of the store a few short minutes later replaced those thoughts of generosity with ones of suspicion. Why was she still there? Was $2 not enough for a meal? What if she didn't really want food? Why would she be collecting money? Drugs? Trafficking? Just need money for rent? The thought crosses my mind that we so often assume the worst of strangers, homeless, anyone who asks for money. And that maybe I am thinking the worst of her when she may just be a little short of income this month. I don't know. My gut five minutes ago thought giving her a five was a good idea.

Bilingual

I speak Chinese with the Taiwanese international students, laughing over phrases as we try to teach a few students to play mah jongg. We make confused faces when we get stuck, as Ying looks to me for an English translation and I apologize because I have no idea either. I compliment him on his ability to teach a game with many parts; with a big smile, he says it's his first time, and his bright face says he had fun.

The sentences, encouragements, expressions flow out with ease. Aware that no one else knows what we're saying, I translate bits and pieces to the friends around me. But part of me doesn't really care today. I speak with pride. Not the guess-what-I'm-saying-about-you pride of fifth grade, but the pride of a language that boasts intricate characters and a culture that these friends have yet to learn. I carry not just the sounds, words, and tones; but also the mannerisms, politeness, and slang of a whole group of people.

"So, do you speak another language?," a few students ask, an obvious leading question into a conversation of what they never knew about me. I am mildly amused that a handful of them had no idea my first language wasn't English, that I'm fluent in Mandarin. I wonder what it looked like: All of a sudden, it's  I'm fully conversing in another language, like a code they weren't aware I knew. Code-switching happening right before their very eyes. And there's so much more that they don't know.

But it starts here: today they know a little more. Today, in a natural, uncalculated interaction with our new Taiwanese friends, I just let them into a little more of my life. In a slightly dramatic yet very true way, it's like they don't really know me if they don't this part of me exists. But it does. I answer the questions, I tell them my parents emigrated and I am from a first-generation family, I tell them how my parents know four dialects in Chinese and try to get them to say, "poang!" in mah jong to steal a tile they want.

I spend a majority of my life now with people who expect only English from me. Ever since I moved out of the bay, it catches me off guard every time I walk into a Chinese restaurant and have to decide what language I'm going to use. But today felt a little like home, even though ironically, it was the Taiwanese-born students I never quite fit in with in high school (my accent was hilarious to them). Without the Bay Area expectation that everyone knows the native tongue, my ability to speak is a gift, a joy, a surprise to both Taiwanese and American friends. And I speak it with joy, thankful for the gift of a native tongue.

______________________________
Related: Mom says: 'Learn Chinese."

Why the Boston Marathon?

My brothers and I are runners. We are not highly competitive, but we love it. We run to run, not just to train or practice. We have all completed a half marathon, and my second one is coming up in three weeks. We know the exhilaration of a race, the push to the finish. The crowd watching, cheering.

I usually don't have much to say about news-breaking tragedies. Enough words are out there, too many questions and no answers. But this one, while on the other side of the coast...it's like I can feel the echoes, or something. I would never dream to run at the elite level of those who qualify for the Boston Marathon. But they are runners. I am a runner.

Of all things. Not that bombs, explosions, or terrorism is ever justified, ever has an answer. But why the Boston Marathon? Why a race? Why top notch athletes? Because the city loves it and the citizens cheer? Is it to break down morale?

I am perusing the page of the running club I'm training with tomorrow. They had five runners there, all safe. In three weeks I run a far less competitive race, half the distance. No doubt we will be thinking of you.

Haunting faint echoes.

Addicted to the Internet: A Confession

Turning on my computer is one of the first things I do when I wake up. I check stuff--gmail, facebook, blogs, etc--first thing in the morning, even when I know I won't actually do anything (quick email replies, answer questions, read any articles in-depth) on that first round. I turn it on even when I know I'll be on my computer for a longer period of time later that day; e.g, going online before a morning run even if I'll look at the exact same stuff later that morning when I get to work.

I am full of excuses. I need the computer for work. I just want it for music. I'm looking up a recipe. I'm looking up directions. I'm a tech-innovation-ideas-sort-of-geek, always keeping up with the latest ideas or prototypes. I'm a thinker, collecting perspectives and facts and knowledge through endless blogs shared by colleagues I respect. I'm a learner, reading DIY posts or how-to's or why-not's to collect thoughts for a future project that hasn't been imagined yet. I'm a remember, looking up details and rereading words because I don't want to forget. I collect resources, looking up everything and anything and stumbling across many things that have eventually been useful later on.
Really, I do need the computer for a lot of things.

But really-really, most of the stuff I absorb is unnecessary. Filler. Like packaging peanuts, filling minutes and hours with endless articles, videos, photos, statuses. I absorb more content than will ever be useful.

I like to hide the fact that I'm horribly addicted. It helps that I have no smartphone so I can still make snarky remarks about people who are always updating their facebook or instagramming. Even on facebook alone: I don't update my status every day, I don't "like" every shared piece...but it's really a guise, hiding the fact that I scroll through my whole news feed, reading statuses of people I don't even really keep in contact with, skimming numerous articles and comments without ever responding. It helps that my internet time is spread on an array of interests: blogs, photographers, journalists, recipes, pinterest, DIY projects. Spread out so no one collects how much it really amounts to...except maybe those close to me, who hear enough "I read...I watched...Someone posted..." that they know I'm on way too much for my own good.

But I've wasted enough time. I don't want to be glued to my laptop, I know know know there are so many projects I would love to do if I would just turn off my computer for once (it's not like I'm lacking a hobby). I know there is so much ministry to-do's and admin that I need my computer, but I also know that I love being productive and love long afternoons of getting work done instead of "holy smokes, I just clicked and read things for three hours....embarrassing." I know I would sleep a lot more (sans calls from the bf) if I didn't stay up surfing sites and reading stuff.

For starters. For one day every week, I will turn off my laptop. This means from night time the day before to morning the day after, so I don't even touch my laptop for that full day. I've done this by choice twice in the past month and it means I don't try to multitask while babysitting (which is actually a pretty bad idea), cooking without a recipe (or postponing curry chicken for another night), and spending my 45 minute break at home.........breathing. Sitting on the couch, listening to the Giants game on the radio, flipping through recipe books, or sitting in silence. It's an active choice to fight against our social media world of Right Now: that email can wait a day, I don't actually need to know people's responses right away, I might be later on whatever the big "shared article" is for the week, I don't have to turn on youtube because I want to hear the song that's in my head this very moment.

I did this on a Sabbath a few weeks ago and it was delightful: the day before I had thought of ideas for that day and had looked up a few potential coffeeshops I wanted to try, but even if I hadn't, a map or a revisit to Old Soul would have sufficed. At the end of the day, I found myself in bed at 10 pm because I didn't feel like reading or writing and realized...hey, it's been a full day and nothing's keeping me from going to bed.

I left off my laptop again yesterday after talking with the best friend about my antsy unproductive weekend (see previous post). And yesterday, I had seven hours of babysitting and a student meeting on campus, which is essentially an 8 hour workday already. Choosing to keep my computer off was making a statement: I have worked enough for the day. I don't need to try to even to my little to-do's on the list because that can wait. I can rest after a full work day.

Choosing to unplug (at least from my laptop, which is the main culprit!) once a week is a good choice that I hope I will adopt indefinitely...practicing it for the rest of my life honestly doesn't sound like a horrible idea.

There is much more to be said about this topic, and we'll see if I get to writing them out. But in all honesty, I think I feel a bit of a relief in taking this first step to an annoying, embarrassing problem that I'm just tired of. I want to enjoy the resources of the internet and the usefulness of technology...but enough with it taking up too much of my life.

(I'm not even going to tell you how many other things I've read or looked up in the writing of this post. Sigh.)

Just one of those weeks

When it feels like you can't get anything done, despite having plenty of time to do so.
Possible reasons:

-Still sleep deprived, yet not napping or consciously trying to make up for it
-pms
-does unmotivated procrastination count?
-need goal-check reminder
-too much time therefore not enough pressure?
-not enough healthy friend time/fun time during the week
-weather - mostly because the wind and gloom makes me chicken out and not go for a run, which means I don't get the post-run endorphins and instead I sit around all afternoon trying to work
-depressing re-realization of facebook/internet addiction (there, I said it)

Go away, annoying funk! I want to cross things off my to-do list and enjoy doing so!

My Chinese Kitchen

Dear goodness. Sometimes I am so proud of my cooking. This beef, green onion, and ginger dish is delicious.

It's also my first time cooking in the wok, and dang does that thing smoke up! The internet is scaring me with all the "Make sure you season your wok right" and "Take care of your wok!" articles, and I'm really not sure I did it right. But hopefully my new (which I bought two months ago but never used) kitchen toy won't rust and I shall keep trying out classic Chinese yum-ness to eat at home.

"If it's worth eating, it's worth making." This is the quote I remember through the kitchen prep and dishes afterwards. Also when I savor the delicious bites of tender beef and seasoned ginger in my mouth. So much yum.

I roughly followed this recipe. I tried it with a small splash of rice vinegar since I don't have rice wine, so it tastes a little like mom's suan cuai (sour vegetable) dish.

Mornings in my cozy chair

Promise

Last Sunday I went to lunch after church with a group of people I had just met. It's awkward because they think I'm new, but I've really been around the church for five months and just haven't met too many people yet. They're nice, they're similarly settled in their life phase, and a lot of them ask me questions and I feel like I can (kind of) participate in their conversations.

Just a few days prior, I had ended my day of rest by looking through photos and reading old notes from friends. It hit me then that moving away was a conscious choice to not be in someone's life as much anymore.  Leaving Stockton meant I was choosing to leave how close I was involved in my friends' lives there. The pictures of my goodbye parties seemed so much heavier in light of that realization: after eight months, it's even more obvious what I was saying goodbye to. You still keep in touch with the closest friends, but you can't do much about all the others. You're simply not there as much, you can't just pass them by. I left their lives, I left a lot of those friendships behind. Left them to be picked up on a fortunate day when we cross paths again, but until then, they currently exist in pictures and the occasional brief facebook comment.

I thought about this when I drove away from lunch, excited at the potential for new friendships. But these people at church will never replace my old community, nor am I searching for people to take the place of my old friends. Instead, I remember that God promises good gifts and provision. That he fills where I lack. I am delighted to discover a confidence in my soul that trusts that The Lord has promised good to me: rich, deep, satisfying. Providing for all my needs, relationships and friendships included.
_________________________

Spring blossoms are everywhere right now; white, pink, and purple petals swirling about in the March wind. I walk under a tree in full bloom on the way to campus. I was contemplating sin, guilt, and reluctance towards change. But I see the white petals swirling around me and I think, promise. What is Jesus' promise in the face of dark sin? His grace is sufficient for my weakness. When will I choose to cling to this above all else? Even with best intentions I fall short. But perhaps that is why we come back over and over again to his promise of forgiveness and redemption. Lord knows I need it.
_________________________

Each week that passes by marks a longer time that Sacramento has been my home. It's getting more awkward and less appropriate to say, "I just moved here." But I'm also finding more reasons to love it even as I'm unsure of where new friendships will happen. In some senses, it feels like yes, I made a decision to leave a city that was home to me...but God invited me instead into a fun, new city, filled with things that I love. Things like restaurants with patios perfect for summer dinners, ultimate leagues and a beautiful river trail (I know, I keep repeating these things), and even a random running club that I did speed workouts with today because I was too bored of training on my own.

They are kind of little things. But they are things that I love, things that make me happy, and things that hint of a promise that I am watched over. Taken care of. Loved and provided for as a daughter.

Bringing all I am

Then we will no longer be infants, tossed back and forth by the waves, and blown here and there by every wind of teaching and by the cunning and craftiness of people in their deceitful scheming. Instead, speaking the truth in love, we will grow to become in every respect the mature body of him who is the head, that is, Christ. From him the whole body, joined and held together by every supporting ligament, grows and builds itself up in love, as each part does its work. -Ephesians 4:14-16

At Asian American Staff Conference, we were challenged to bring everything we have to the table. Paul encourages maturity and growth a number of times in his letter to the Ephesians, and Tracy called us out on the many times we hold back on our gifts, leadership, and callings because we see the experience, age, and louder voices of the room. We save our best gifts for the campus and for our students, but when it comes to managing up, pushing the movement forward, or even sitting in the very room with those who have paved the road before us, we hold back.

Story of my life.

She gives this message as I sit in the same room as many Asian-American staff who have paved the path before me, staff who I wish to thank yet am intimidated to approach. My life regarding ethnicity, culture, and all related issues feels like it's in a very, very steep learning curve with no plateau in sight. I am clearly finding some sort of voice in this ethnicity conversation, yet at the same time, it feels like the words I have are just the early learning stages of many...learning stages that so many have surpassed already.

What would it look like to bring the fullness of who I am to add to the body that seeks to reflect the fullness of Christ? I often find myself tweaking, adjusting, choosing only to show parts of who I am. Sometimes this is for the sake of being hospitable to others, like holding back on verbose stories or avoiding nerdy tech topics with those who could care less. That's one thing. But holding back because I am afraid to show just how passionate I am, because I fear sounding like I'm full of myself, or because I am waiting for the day that I am more experienced, polished, eloquent...doing so is holding back who God made me at a table that needs everything of everyone present, or keeping silent in conversations that need more voices.

Humility is not denying our gifts, but being thankful for them.  

I struggle between standing tall in the things I am good at (that sentence alone feels like a gutsy move) and underplaying them, like we so often are raised to do. Not that no one knows what I love and excel at, but I also don't walk all too confidently in them. Torn--between knowing my skill and experience yet how much more I have to learn, between gratitude for affirmation but the guilty feeling that it shouldn't mean so much to me, between how much passion I have for something yet being afraid of what it means if everyone knew how much I cared.

Everything I am. The extroversion; the bright brain and intelligence; the ease with words, be it written or in conversation. The desire to grow in learning about culture and ethnicity and all the messes that come with it. The hope to be a good public speaker with beautiful balances of charisma, eloquence, and content. The ability to find tools and use them well, to problem solve instinctively and develop good systems. The sheer amount of information my brain can absorb. The really good memory. The natural (but could still be developed) process of being an emcee. The desire for challenges, opportunities to learn, risks to take. The reality of how much being the center of attention energizes me, just like how affirmation spurs and encourages me. The very real fact that I can make friends out of most people, and great systems out of ideas.

My natural instinct is to hide a lot of this: how proud I am of a job well done, how excited I am to receive affirmation, how much I think I can offer, how much I want to say yes to an opportunity in front of me. Sometimes its swept under a front of modesty, sometimes I sincerely doubt my ability. But what if I took the call to grow up and leave the kids table of holding back...and took all of this and more everywhere I went? How do I do this in humility and recognition of the growth that is still to come?

To close, a food analogy from manuscript study: Paul already states the unity we have, the one Body and one Spirit in Ephesians 4:3-6. But the body of Christ continues to get built up until we "become mature, attaining to the whole measure of the fullness of Christ" (v 13). Andy likens this to a pot of ingredients that are already all one together. But as the soup gets cooked, each piece and the meal as a whole reaches a whole new level of fullness. If we as the body are to reach the fullness of Christ, we each need to bring who we are and where we've grown to the pot.

Asks and Wants

We were taught to never ask. When asked if you wanted something to drink, you kindly rejected. You said there wasn't anything you wanted when dad asked you at the mall, even when you had your eye on something on the clearance rack. At the most, you threw out a few suggestions for lunch restaurants, but made sure no one knew which one you were craving. Wants were often pushed into imagination. You did the most you could with what was given, and you waited till it was your turn, till mom and dad offered more. If you didn't get the chance to tell them what you wanted for your birthday, you received what was given to you and let go of your wishlist.

There were a few times I remembered asking and receiving. The stuffed dog that could "walk"--a prize for some success at Chinese School. Or walking through Sanrio to choose my birthday gift, though there was always an invisible price limit (never explicitly stated) that kept me away from the big gifts. Asking for Finding Nemo or other specific birthday gifts on certain years. But there was also a lot of holding back. Immigrant families are the masters of DIY, one of my friends say. You make do without the hot glue gun for craft projects, or you try to mimic the hairstyle the cool girls do in seventh grade even though you don't have the right headband or clips. And even when it was offered and I took it, I remember doing so sheepishly: shyly pointing out a journal when I was out for a father-daughter night with dad, or quietly putting a shirt or two and a pair of cargo pants in the cart for our Back-to-School shopping trip, hoping mom wouldn't say I was getting too much.

It carries over. How you were raised and the culture of don't ask, say no if it's offered, and, if you do receive it, do so with low nods and the attitude that it's undeserved.

But now I'm twenty four, doing life mostly people who weren't raised the same way, wanting to grow in personal and professional development, and most importantly, following a God is the giver of good gifts.   Telling people what I want for lunch or self-inviting myself to groups happens more often now. But on a deeper note, this weekend I found myself torn: like God is standing in front of me, wanting to give me a louder voice to speak and more to speak about, but maybe I shouldn't quite take it, maybe I should be happy now. I see potential opportunities and don't know if they are for me. Is it okay to want them, or do I wait for someone to invite me to participate? Am I supposed to look for what I want? Is it okay to want more: more experience, more development, more growth as a leader, more voice?

I reflect on the past few years, and how I've learned that it's okay to want things from God. Desiring freedom is a good thing. Expecting him to show up is a good thing. The muddled gray area of ministry is a strange spot, where I haven't quite figured out where to step out and say what I need and want. Maybe in writing this, I'll let myself let go of the hesitation in being bold. And I'm telling myself that wanting, asking, and getting does not make me any less Chinese.