This Life.

"This life therefore is not righteousness but growth in righteousness;
not health but healing;
not being but becoming;
not rest but exercise.
We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it.
The process is not finished, but it is going on.
This is not the end, but it is the road.
All does not yet gleam in glory, but all is being purified.”
-Martin Luther

Perspective.

To see the world in a grain of sand,
and heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
and eternity in an hour.
- William Blake

Thankful for the unseen
and the ability to see.

Imagination.

After working in multiple preschools, I've decided that three is my favorite age. Since the majority of my class consists of boys, I've found myself sitting in the middle of construction, lego, train tracks, jungles, firetrucks, super heroes, power rangers and wild animals. Of course I go on adventures with them catching bad guys or finding treasure under tables, through secret passages, and over hidden traps. Mostly what I contribute is the idea that food and sleep is necessary to continue fighting crime. That's when I throw in hygiene because superheroes have to brush their teeth before they sleep and wash their hands before they make me breakfast.

I know it's just pretend, but it doesn't mean I can't play along and have fun. Although I did find myself wondering at what age I'll stop playing under tables. Maybe when my knees break.


Long live the walls we crashed through
All the kingdom lights shined just for me and you

Long live all the mountains we moved
I had the time of my life
Fighting dragons with you.

Creator and Created.

One of the highschoolers I tutor just finished reading "Frankenstein" by Mary Shelley. Literature books always have a way of making me dig deeper but more sad as well. I think it's because many works reveal the depravity and hopelessness of humanity.

For those who don't know the story, Victor Frankenstein is an intelligent man who creates a creature out of dead body parts. (Never a good idea.) Intending for this creature to do good for society, he instead abandons it when he sees its hideous appearance. It is interesting that the appearance itself is enough reason to abandon his dream as well. "I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart." Responsible man that he is, Victor thinks that running away will make everything better. The monster is left confused, angry, and afraid. On his own, everyone rejects the monster for his appearance. Later, the monster kills all those who are close to his creator because Victor refuses to create a companion for him. In the end, Victor dies and the monster mourns because vengeance has only increased his alienation, rather than provide peace.

One of the things I came away with is that no amount of strength, intelligence, or power will bring satisfaction. Desiring companionship and a sense of belonging, the monster is instead rejected and alone. All he wanted was a human connection; someone who understood him. I think he rightfully looked to his creator who would know him best. I'm not saying it was right for him to murder, but I understand why he would be hurt and angry by the rejection. So who is responsible for the crimes? The creator who did not provide any sense of guidance and fled or the creation who did the deeds?

Then I think about our Creator. He never left us. He knew us from the womb (Psalm 139, Jeremiah 1:4-5). He desires to lavish love upon us simply because we are his children (1 John 3:1). He wants to be our provider and meet all our needs (Matthew 6:31-33). Not only does He wait for us, He runs toward us expectantly (Luke 15:11-32). He took full responsibility for our acts, gave us mercy when we deserved justice, and still desires the best for us. True love. God is the best Creator we could ever have. In the spaces between my frailty and the heavens, you are there. Thank you God, for being You and nothing else.

Our wholeness depends on
our closeness with the Creator.

John Paul Jackson

A Note.

From one of my elderly clients:

Hello my dear Tiffany ! NEHOMA??? Thanks so much for such a nice picture, dinosaur is a crispy nice costume, especially home tailored hand made as your, I like it. Why I did not think of one like that on halloween? .... How much I missed your last class! It really broke my heart.
----
1. Sometimes I'm not sure how to feel when non-Asians say "ni how ma" to me. I've heard this multiple times mostly as a pick-up line or as a conversation starter. But I know my client is just being sweet and trying to relate. After all, how many times do I say "gracias" to the burrito man? [Sidenote: One time a guy asked me if I liked soy sauce and pointed at himself. I hurried into the bathroom and laughed out loud.]

2. Yes, I was a crispy dinosaur for Halloween. Maybe I should've dressed up as a dino nugget.

3. I wonder if it's a cultural thing, but I've noticed most of my Latino friends are very dramatic and exaggerate about the state of things. If he weren't 75, I would've been tempted to snap my fingers and say, "BOY, that did NOT break yo heart!" But it's coo. His note was very sweet and written with good intentions.

4. I wish I were wittier. What's a better response than, "No, no! It broke MY heart to not see you!"?

Hero.

One of my elderly clients has seen and done many things in his life. During a session, we started talking about the big earthquake of 1989. I was only 3 when it happened, but I remember it very clearly. I was watching Super Mario when the tv started snowing. I was upset because I liked my Italian plumbers. As things started shaking and falling, I kept trying to figure out what was wrong with the tv. That shows where my priorities are. My uncle suddenly swept me up and moved me to dining room away from falling objects.

On the other side of the bay, my client had just gotten off work and was driving home. He had entered the freeway when the bridge started collapsing. Stopping his car, he got out and tried to stop others from continuing only to plummet to their deaths. He told me that one car didn't stop and the driver fell to his death. People were angry at him because they didn't understand why he was stopping them and turning them around. They thought he was crazy.

But you know what? He was a hero. He saved them. Even more amazing is that he didn't think about his own life as cars drove toward him at freeway speed. He thought about others. So what is a hero? A hero is someone who is selfless and willing to sacrifice himself for the good of others. I told him he was a hero that day and thanked him for what he did on behalf of those I did not know.

It's kind of cool I got to talk to a hero. It's kind of cool that he is teaching me things and I him. And that anyone can be a hero. You can be a hero and do what's right. Still, being a hero is usually a thankless job with no glory involved. In a way, the choices we make to help others or to help ourselves determines what we want to be.

[It is only because we were made in His image that we could even have this quality in humanity. It is only because of His grace that we can try again each day. Hmmm...]

Rainbows.

rainbows are visions, but only illusions

someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,

the lovers, the dreamers and me.

Soup Weather.

Black and white scarves.
Earmuffs and mittens.
Pumpkin patches.
Hot chocolate.



Thankfulness of the day: Today is perfect for hearty vegetable soup!

Faith that Moves.

Yesterday at Bible study, we poured over John 6:1-15.

1 After this Jesus went away to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, which is the Sea of Tiberias. 2 And a large crowd was following him, because they saw the signs that he was doing on the sick. 3 Jesus went up on the mountain, and there he sat down with his disciples. 4 Now the Passover, the feast of the Jews, was at hand. 5 Lifting up his eyes, then, and seeing that a large crowd was coming toward him, Jesus said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread, so that these people may eat?” 6 He said this to test him, for he himself knew what he would do. 7 Philip answered him, “Two hundred denarii would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.” 8 One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter's brother, said to him, 9 “There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish, but what are they for so many?” 10 Jesus said, “Have the people sit down.” Now there was much grass in the place. So the men sat down, about five thousand in number. 11 Jesus then took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated. So also the fish, as much as they wanted. 12 And when they had eaten their fill, he told his disciples, “Gather up the leftover fragments, that nothing may be lost.” 13 So they gathered them up and filled twelve baskets with fragments from the five barley loaves left by those who had eaten. 14 When the people saw the sign that he had done, they said, “This is indeed the Prophet who is to come into the world!”

There is so much that could be said about this passage, but today I'm going to focus onthe boy who was willing to share his meal with strangers. First of all, barley was used by the poorest of people so we know he probably came from an impoverished place. This speaks much of his generosity and his heart to share when he could have saved it for himself or his family. I also have an image of his mother who had the foresight to pack him dinner before he ran off to listen to Jesus. In my mind, there were probably other people who had food but the Bible is specific in saying that this boy was the only one who came forward and offered his food.

On the topic of faith, the disciples had just spend the entire day watching Jesus heal the sick. It makes me laugh that they witnessed so much of Jesus' life and power and yet they failed to believe He could provide food for 5,000+. But Jesus asks Philip the question to bring them to the realization of the impossibility of the situation and how, in reality, all things are possible through Christ. Amazing to even hear Andrew's disbelief. "What are these 5 loaves and 2 fishes for so many people?"

I love that among so many, a boy had the faith to share what he had and was in turn blessed.

1. This boy is recorded in the gospels.
   
2. His food was used as an instrument for feeding others to the point of satisfaction.
3. His faith brought others to see Jesus as the Prophet, the Messiah they've been waiting for.
4. His faith and the turn of events glorified God.

This passage reminded me that we don't really have much to offer God but he wants us to believe that He can and will do great things from what we offer. It's also not the physical thing he wants, but our faith and our belief. May we be moved by understanding the gospel and grace to give. May we find our worth at the cross.

As I drove today, I wondered about this boy and what kind of man he grew up to be. I'd like to meet him in Heaven and ask about his life after the miracle. I want to be like this boy with a faith that moves mountains.

I have not much
To offer You
Not near what You deserve
But still I come
Because Your cross
Has placed in me my worth

Not by Sight.

One of my elderly clients rides the bus to get to the clinic. As a laryngectomy client, he deals with a lot of prejudice because he has to communicate through a stoma (hole in the throat) or an artificial larynx. I hear about people judging him or trying to get as far away as possible because they think what he has is contagious. That makes me really sad because there's nothing contagious about him except his sense of humor.

The attitudes and actions of others is what makes my clients taciturn and depressed. He's so much more than what an operation has made him. Yes, he's a cancer survivor, but he's also an encourager, a big talker, a risk-taker, and a fighter. I watch him come alive when I ask him about Ireland and his family and I know he just wants to be heard and respected.

I think about his commute on the bus and how he stares at his own reflection in the window. I hope something in our therapy session sticks with him and makes him smile. I hope he knows I hear and respect him. And that I can beat him in black jack. (He likes that I don't go easy on him.) If we took the time to climb over walls, we might find that people are so much more than what we see.

Thankfulness of the day: A most gorgeous day to go running and walking by the ocean. I also found my first starfish and threw it back into the ocean hoping it'd have a second chance at life. :)

Passion.

Passion is the heart set free
to pursue that which is truly worthy.
-Jaeson Ma

What are you passionate about?
Is it worthy?

Beloved.

This week has been a bit of a desert trying to spend time with God. To make up for the drought, I went out to the field near my house, fell onto the grass, and promptly spent some time with my Jesus.

Ezra, Nehemiah, Psalms, Lamentations, 2 Corinthians, 1 Peter. You know what kept coming up? God's faithfulness, God's steadfast love, God as our portion, God as a listener.

And do you know what the God of the universe thinks of us? What He calls us?

• a chosen race
  
• royal priesthood
• holy nation
• his possession
• a light
• his beloved

Throughout the week, it is easy to be consumed by concerns or fears but walking with God reminds me that He's got it covered.

I am his beloved.
And you are, too.

(Tangential thankfulness of the day: the lizard I saw! I wanted to see if his tail would fall off, but he was too fast for me. That also made me realize why I get along with 4 year olds so well.)

Baby Brother.

Thankful of the Day: It's 2:30AM and I'm writing a report, but it's alright because my baby brother is telling me all about his first week of college.


With my siblings, there are certain ages that I associate them with. In my mind, Baby brother (as opposed to Baller brother) is a preschooler. I think it's because that's the stage of life when I felt most responsible for taking care of him and found joy in it. Before that stage, I gave him his bottles, changed his diapers and sang him lullabies. After that stage, I packed his lunches, took him back-to-school shopping and bought his clothes. I actually didn't mind doing any of those things but when he was in preschool, I got to give him piggy-back rides and we would watch Full House together and he would hide behind me when Baller brother picked fights. Joy, comfort, solace.

Baby brother and I are seven years apart. I don't know how often siblings tell each other stuff, but I'm glad he'll still tell me about his roommates, dorm food, and classes. Girls, on the other hand...

And as our usual routine is when we part,

N---: oh fine

i love you too

grumble

:)

Surely goodness and mercy
shall follow me
all the days of my life.
Psalm 23:6a

Pet Tigers and Gratitude.

“Gratitude can transform common days into thanksgivings, turn routine jobs into joy, and change ordinary opportunities into blessings.”

William Arthur Ward

In no particular order, today I am thankful for

• laughing in bed
  
• sisters to share with
• my 72-year old client
• white tables and purple binders
• whimsical songs that make me wish I were a fairy so I could leap to and fro between lily pads with wings and fairy dust and a pet tiger. yup.
  

Home.

"I am convinced that all of us are searching for a place called home,
a place where we can close our eyes and sleep,
a place where there is warmth and we are somehow unafraid,
a place where we gather around the fire
and the room is filled with laughter and love...
[It's] ultimately not about a place to live
but about the people with whom you are most fully alive.
Home is about love, relationship, community, and belonging,
and we are all searching for home."
- Erwin Raphael McManus


This reminded me of the first moments I knew I wanted to work with kids. When I am with children, I am at home. Fully alive.

Teachers.

Tiffany,

You put your heart into each piece of work during this course. Your attendance was perfect and you have earned a well-deserved "A" in ----.

Thank you for your thoughtful work on the Delpit Panel and also your last reflection. I enjoyed your quotes and this one in particular: "In the light of death, in the light of eternity, life is put into perspective."

Also, your final paper on the influence of globalism on language, culture and identity in Hong Kong was fascinating. Hopefully in our near future more people will see themselves as "global citizens of the world".

Thank you again for your hard work. It was a pleasure getting to know you.

Best,
Jeff
-----------
When I was little, I wanted to be a lot of things.

• A mailman to give people happy letters. (I did not know that bills existed.)
  
• A weatherman to study the clouds and fly. (I thought weathermen could fly.)
  
• A librarian so I could bury myself under all the books I wanted. (I was and still am a big nerd. No shame baby.)

Among all professions, though, I wanted to be a teacher. My elementary school teachers cared for my well-being, not just in school but outside of school, too. Admiring their hearts, I wanted to be a teacher so I could help other kids AND erase the blackboard. As I got older, I found out that not all teachers were created equal. For some, we were just a paycheck. In college, I learned to hide behind the anonymity of large class sizes and to stop caring because they didn't. Good teachers are often the ones who push you to excel because they believe you are capable of the challenge. I don't think I've been challenged by any teacher since my high school literature classes with Mr. Chang. I remember being really disappointed with college my freshman year.

This class and this teacher surprised me. From his feedback, I could tell he really took the time to listen to each and every student. If all teachers were like this, students would flourish not just intellectually but as people, too. While reflecting on the point of education and what educators should be like, I remembered a letter I read that has stuck with me.

Dear Teacher:
I am a survivor of a concentration camp. My eyes saw what no person should witness: Gas chambers built by learned engineers. Children poisoned by educated physicians. Infants killed by trained nurses. Women and babies shot and burned by high school and college graduates. So I am suspicious of education. My request is: Help your students become human. Your efforts must never produce learned monsters, skilled psychopaths, educated Eichmanns. Reading, writing and arithmetic are important only if they were to make our children more humane.

My teacher motivates me to do better, to be a listener, to notice the small details and to care. I think I will email him and tell him that now.

A Fiat.

This photo makes me happy in a goofy, romantic kind of way.

Honk honk!

On Waiting and Seeking.

“‘Wait on the Lord’ is a constant refrain in the Psalms, and it is a necessary word, for God often keeps us waiting. He is not in such a hurry as we are, and it is not His way to give more light on the future than we need for action in the present, or to guide us more than one step at a time. When in doubt, do nothing, but continue to wait on God. When action is needed, light will come."
(J.I. Packer, from the chapter “Thou Our Guide” in Knowing God)

But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness,
and all these things shall be added to you.

Matthew 6:33

Contentment.

my breakfast and the Word.
oatmeal with peaches, Daniel.

hopeful orange, yellow flowers
on a windy, gray day.

resting under seas of blankets.
a heavy, warm cocoon.

my aunt and i sitting in the small kitchen.
like mother to daughter.

"We should all do what, in the long run,
gives us joy, even if it is only picking grapes
or sorting the laundry."
-E.B. White

MEMO Man.

Disclaimer: This is not meant to be a judgmental post. I am only writing about my classroom highlights.

Last week, I started my two summer courses which means I am in class everyday from 1-5:30pm. I actually wish I hadn't signed up for classes because I would like a break from academia. (Have you ever noticed how academia looks like macadamia? Now I just want to go to Hawaii.)

One of my highlights is seeing what my classmate will walk in wearing. I can't tell if he's trying to dress metro or emo. For lack of a better phrase, I call it MEMO. This Monday, he wore a sweater that would have won at my Christmas Ugly Sweater Party. The next day, it was a collared shirt with huge purple, green, and white stripes that evoked thoughts of Barney the Purple Dinosaur. Every outfit is topped with skinny jeans and a leather man purse. Murse. (To all the men out there who do not wear skinny jeans or short-shorts, thank you.)

Do you think me a judgmental bully with no right to pick on an unsuspecting bystander? From the MEMO outfits I have described above, you may have likened him to Steve Urkel. But wait! He walks in wearing all these MEMO outfits with a Kobe-esque air of confidence. As he mentioned in class, he used to be a swimmer and maintains his swimmer physique. (I have no idea how this related to the topic of people with disabilities.) He walks in strutting his stuff like he's the man and all I want to do is laugh because it reminds me of Aesop's crow sticking peacock feathers in its butt. In the end, I took his self-confidence as permission to write this. Character trumps clothes any day.

I am really bad at not judging a book by its cover.
I hope he surprises me.

(To my joy, he came in wearing suspenders over a plaid shirt today. MEMO man strikes again!)

Hopes and Flight.

I stretched my arms toward the sky
like blades of tall grass.
The sun beat in between my shoulders
like carnival drums.


I sat still in hopes that
it would help my wings grow
so then I really would be fly.
-Love Rain, Jill Scott

Boo-Boos.

A couple weeks ago, I injured my foot. No one knew about it because it's in a strange spot and I don't go barefoot in public too often. It went unnoticed by everyone but a 2-year old. As I babysat her, she happened to be playing at ground level with her dolls. She only has a few words in her vocabulary, but she noticed my "boo-boo", came over and kissed it.

So simple.
So sweet.
And pure.

Because when I think about, I don't think anyone besides my parents would ever kiss my foot. When we get older, we are too conscious of dirt and germs and everything gross. We are too conscious of what we should and shouldn't do. We are governed by rules and rights and wrongs. Of course many of these things are necessary, but this care she showed was done without a second thought. It was so simple, and yet I come back to that memory a month later because I think of how it demonstrates a love that is pure. No thought of oneself, only of healing someone else's hurt. And I think about how Jesus would not only wash my feet as a symbol of his servant heart, but also die for me as a symbol of his love, grace and sacrifice. I don't think this action was so simple, but I wonder if Jesus saw it so that it was. "Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus, who, being in the form of God, did not consider it robbery to be equal with God, but made Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant, and coming in the likeness of men. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross." (Philippians 2:5-8) He did not consider it robbery.

If grace is an ocean,
we're all sinking.

My Dad.

Father-daughter moments. What are they made up of?

• Washing cars together. My dad lets me control the setting of the hose.
• Laughing at my dad's hook shot. Old-school, baby.
• Watching World Cup matches in silence at 6AM.
  

The last one is especially endearing because we never decide to watch together. Somehow, the game just draws the both of us downstairs. (Although I must admit to a tendency to like the teams he does. ) I love my moments with my father and even though his hair grows gray and his voice more soft-spoken, some things never change. I'm not sure what exactly makes these moments, but they're unspoken with a dabble of contentment and hints of wholeness. Perhaps that is why it hurts when you lose someone. You've lost a part of someone who made you who you are. Or you've lost a part of yourself. Anyway, I am thankful for these father-daughter moments and I'm thankful for my dad who shows me that love is more than just words.

Sidenote:
I can never remember if it's "gray" or "grey". I looked up the difference and apparently "gray" is a color and "grey" is a colour. Well now, chip chip cheerio!

Names.

Shakespeare once wrote, "What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." I guess a name doesn't make a difference since a person will still be made of the same stuff on the inside. (But I do wonder if a name contributes to making who you are. For example, I've met some mean Rachels so now I am wary when I meet a Rachel.) Anyway, maybe a name doesn't make a difference, but a good one can sure be fun! In Asia, people get to name themselves. Here are some great ones I have come across so far.

5. Elvis. Hello, Asian Elvis.
4. Sunny. My male cousin. Not Sonny.
3. Feeling Chan.
2. Bingo! Call him Bing(!) for short.
1. Anfernee. (When asked if it was Anthony, he adamantly insisted on Anfernee.) This is my personal favorite so far.

When I wrote a thank you email to my Aunt Eliane, I tried to write in Chinese. In response, she wrote, "tiffany:Thks a lot.Your let他er I can read,but cannot write.Donot write in chinese." Auntie Eliane, you have not shattered my self-esteem and I will continue trying to write to people in Chinese!

If you could change your name, would you?

When I Was Nine...

During my tutoring session today, my third grader and I read a book entitled "When I Was Nine". It was a collection of memories from someone who must've been a lot older than us because it included World War I and telephone numbers that were only 4 digits long. There were some cool memories, though. Like climbing on top of trees to watch the steam boat and locomotives go by (in Missouri...). Afterward, I made my third grader pretend he was 50 and write a letter to his nine-year old self, which should've been easy because he was already nine. He ended up writing about his first win from a swim meet a couple weeks ago.

I also did the same "assignment" so that it'd look like I was doing work. [He reads my stuff and I get to read his. It's a fair trade-off.] It's interesting to look back and see what actually sticks to you and what doesn't.

When I was nine, I was in third grade. One of my favorite grades despite being bullied, which I also told him about because bullying is a big problem in schools. That is a story for another time. When I was nine, I liked playing dodgeball, prisonball, and jump rope at recess. My siblings and I watched a lot of tv. One of our favorite shows was Power Rangers. The first season was the best. I remember being really happy when I got an A on a literature assignment because the only time the boy I liked would talk to me was when he wanted to compare grades. I liked beating him. Was that mean? My mom told me it was puppy love. I didn't understand what that meant because we didn't have any pets.

My grandparents lived with us and I have memories of my grandma working really hard. I think it gave her a sense of purpose to help our family with house matters and I remember feeling like I really needed to help her. I remember folding laundry and trying to stuff all the towels in our linen closet because they wouldn't fit. She'd clean the floors everyday, often getting down on her hands and knees to pick up anything she'd missed. I am reminded of her when I clean the floor like that. My grandma also chased my youngest brother around during meal times because he wouldn't sit still. She really loved him. I remember singing Christian songs to her because I wanted to her to believe in God. She also told us stories about World War 2 and experiencing the bombing in her apt. There was also always a sense of urgency with her. Like every little thing mattered and made a difference. I think it does.

People say a person never dies because we carry them in our memories and that is how they live on. I see parts of my grandma ingrained in me, in memory or in action. But what happens when no one remembers anymore?

When I was nine, my grandma really loved us.
And I tried really hard to love her back.

Hello. Goodbye.

I've been babysitting for a classmate this semester so that she can attend class. Today, the boys showed me their caterpillars. They named them Humongo, Tiny, Chub-Chub, and Junior. Brother1 tells me about caterpillars. Brother 2 tells me all about penguins, especially Emperor penguins that can weigh up to 80-100lbs. They tell me about baseball and make me listen to the Giants vs. Marlin game. (Note to self: Must expose them to basketball.) Because of them, I have read and watched Dragonball Z, Justice League, and Sponge Bob. I like helping them with their homework and reading bedtime stories. Tonight, I read a story about a Princess and Pizza to expose them to girl stuff. (I once asked them what it'd be like if they had a sister, which rendered them speechless. )

As this semester draws to a close, I am confronted with the idea of saying goodbye. It's strange but you think that saying goodbye would get easier the older you get and the more you have to say it. Not true. It still hurts. And as we sat at the dinner table, the youngest brother looked up at me.

"You'll still be my babysitter, right?"

How do you say no?
How do you say goodbye?
Can we press pause on our moments together please?

I'm not ready for goodbye.
But time doesn't wait.

(How about "See you later" instead of "goodbye"?)

Into the World of Girls.

I am currently sitting in a coffee shop. Splayed across the table is my laptop, scientific papers, and-- in contrast to the two sterile items-- a comforting latte breathing its warm breath in gentle curls of smoke. I like sitting next to the window so that I am right beside the streams of sunshine. Sunshine is known to enhance my academic performance.

As I read my scientific article, I noticed the girl beside me surreptitiously checking me out. Well, not so surreptitiously since I noticed. For those who don’t know, some girls check each other out. Not in the way that guys check girls out, but more to see if the girl is competition. Girls can be like cats. Possessive, cautious, and very conscious of status. This particular person looked me up and down. I could be wrong, but I interpreted this as her observing whether my clothes (jeans, shirt, flip flops) were better than hers. Obviously, my casual items did not compete with her work outfit. Sadly, I do not know the names of what she was wearing. (What do you call that button up collared shirt?) Ah…anyway, my clothes and backpack labeled me as a student which meant I was not a threat to queen bee. She returned to her conversation with her friend about purchasing a house. And how her boss had flirted with her.

[I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but she spoke very loudly. This also happens in elevators. Awkward moment: When two people are talking about a divorce and you pretend you’re not listening by staring at numbers. As if somehow you could will the elevator to get to your floor quicker.]

Thinking through all this, it must mean so much more when one can let down her guard and feel free to be herself. You in your designer-name clothes and me in my flip flops. Reframing this in my mind, this makes God's grace so much more liberating. We come just as we are. We are loved just as we are and are loved enough so that we aren't left as that. I wonder how many women, people, out there need to know that. We are not defined by our clothes, looks, real estate or relationship status. How many need this freedom and acceptance?

Hope.

To hope is to risk pain and to try is to risk failure
but risk must be taken,
because the greatest hazard in life is
to risk nothing.

"The Lord is my portion,"says my soul.
"Therefore I hope in Him."
Lamentations 3

Blindness.

Today, I met up with a friend in Berkeley to interview him for one of my assignments. I'm very appreciative that he would open up to me about his disabilities and how it affected his life. Among his disabilities, the most obvious is his blindness.

We chose to meet in Berkeley because he used to go to school there and is familiar with all the streets and buildings. It was natural for me to loop my arm around his to direct him away from obstacles. As we walked down Shattuck and Durant, I noticed people staring at his cane and then at us. Sometimes, I think it's easier to be blind because you wouldn't know people were looking at you. And then, I understood a bit of why it's so hard to have a disability. With the cane, the very thing that enables you to be more independent also makes others aware of your disability. Is almost seems as if you're taking two steps forward and one step back.

If only people knew that he actually knew his way around better than I did. I was only his eyes, but he was my guide. Isn't it strange to think that even though he was physically blind, there were others who were truly blind because of their assumptions? Maybe we'd see better if we closed our eyes and just listened.

Give me your eyes so I can see
Give me your eyes for humanity.

Post-it notes.

I've always liked post-it notes.

They are a colorful way
of organizing life.

I really should be writing my paper.

Pressure Running.

If I must run, let me run at night.
Under moonlight and dark trees
and the soft, velvet glow
of British lampposts.

Running gives me time to untangle all my thoughts and to set my heart right again. It is when I converse with God and when I am free to feel sorrow or joy. Mostly, it is when I can surprise myself. You see, I don't do well under pressure. If I know I'm being timed or running for a certain distance, I always quit when I feel the pain. It's almost as if I'm rebelling to prove I don't have to complete the goal. But when I am running just to run, I am set free from goals and expectations. I can just be.

Random thoughts. Why do people smoke after they've just worked out? For that matter, why do doctors smoke outside the hospital? Why do women wear make-up to the gym if they're going to sweat it off? (Or maybe they won't sweat...?)

Herbal Essence Hair.

As I was walking to school today, I passed three guys and overheard their conversation. Please note that it was super windy.

Guy 2 to Guy 1: Dude, I love it when your hair does that with the wind. It makes you look like, look like...

Guy 3: ASLAN!!!!! (Cue lion roar.)

And indeed he did.
Indeed, he did.

Paradox.

Let me learn by paradox that the way down is the way up, that to be low is to be high, that the broken heart is the healed heart, that the repenting soul is the victorious soul, that to bear the cross is to wear the crown. Amen.

Boys and farts.

I recently started babysitting for my classmate’s two boys so that she could attend classes. Watching these boys has been a joy and I often find myself laughing. The older brother, P, is the picture of an oldest child. He proclaims all the rules loudly and commands his younger brother, C, to obey them. Also characteristic of a youngest sibling, C follows his brother around but is also a loving goofball. For example, C has a unique inability to simply sit on his bottom. Rather, he sits on spleeled knees looking much like how a frog gone wrong would sit. (Spleeled is a word I made up. It’s a combination of split and kneeled.)

Putting out dinner, helping them on homework, playing with them and tucking them into bed leaves me feeling like a second mother. When March comes, I’ll be driving them to baseball practices and I know I’ll be the one standing on the sidelines yelling their names loudly and being embarrassing. Also holding onto whatever gear they want me to hold. Sometimes, it makes me wonder if this is just good preparation for what is to come one day.

I’ve babysat many families, but two boys are definitely different from two girls or even one of each! For example, here’s a conversation we had at the dinner table today. I probably shouldn’t have allowed it since we were eating. It started innocently enough with me asking what their least favorite vegetables were.

Bro 1: Tomatoes are your foe!

Bro 2: What’s foe?

Me: Are you talking about foe, f-o-e?

Bro 2: It’s your enemy!

Me: Your arch nemesis! Bro 1, what’s YOUR foe?

Bro 1: hmm, I’m not sure.

Bro 2: My farts!

Bro 1: Arghhh, the green bubbles!

Me: You call his farts the green bubble? Are they really green?!

Bro 2: Yup! [very proud]

Bro 1: Yes! Bro 2’s farts are my foe!!!

Bro 2 then gets out of his seat, runs to Bro 1 and starts smelling his butt. This is when I intervene and pull Bro 2 away. Strange habits these boys have. Are all boys like this? On a more positive note, this was a great way for them to learn a new vocabulary word—foe!

Yesterday, they taught me to play Wii games with them. Today, we watched clips of Dragonball Z. What’s funny is that I’ve babysat for another pair of brothers, age 4 and 2, who also asked me to play Wii with them. How sad children know how to operate these systems at such a young age! Also, I am grandma status when it comes to technology. But back to my point, taking care of these two boys has allowed me the privilege of entering the world of boys in a whole new way. [Note: I also have two younger brothers who I played Nintendo and sports with, but I don’t think our conversations were ever like that…]

One of my favorite times is putting them to bed! I sit in bed with them and read them stories and then they ask me to sing them songs and we giggle like little children. Come to think of it, we still are. And when lights are out, the younger brother will crawl into his older brother's bed. I still hear them talking to each other in the dark about farts. Brotherhood. Love it.

A Beautiful Mess.

This weekend, I attempted to make lasagna for my family.

Growing up, my family ate rice every night. EVERY night. No pizza, no spaghetti, no bread. So, when my mom told me about the busy schedule, I volunteered to make dinner.

All messy and gross-looking, I pull an oversized UCD sweatshirt and exercise pants and forget about what fellow shoppers will think. To the grocery store I went! One of my favorite things is walking up and down the grocery aisles with my cart. Pushing at grandma pace, I look at many things. I take too long trying to decide what to buy because my frugality battles with quality products. I smile at little old ladies and reject the free samples because, really now, I don't care too much for free jam samples. Costco samples, on the other hand...

Back in my kitchen, I toss anything I want into the lasagna. That was probably my first mistake. Onions, peas, arugula, bell peppers and lots and lots of cheese. Layer upon layer, I beam at my own ignorance and pat myself on the back for my supposed creativity. Genius, too.

Well, my lasagna didn't turn out as beautifully as I'd hope. The layers didn't stick together and the top layer was crunchy like chips. I had to use a sharp knife to cut the top layer and then a ladle to scoop the servings. Fail! But, my brother said, "At least it tastes like what it's supposed to look like" and that was good enough for me! A beautiful mess. Or maybe you just can't go wrong with lots of cheese.

I love my family. We are a beautiful, wacky mess, too.