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.