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