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.