where to?

saturday in the upper room

2011-04-23T10:50:00.000-07:00

We hadn't designated this room as a meeting place in case of an emergency; we weren't expecting any. But this was where we last gathered before... Calvary. One by one we appeared, ghosts of our former selves. All except two.

The one who hung himself was just like us. We were together nearly everyday for three years. Three years! Some of us are livid and curse his name. How could he? How dare he? Others of us stew in silent disbelief and shock. When did he turn? Why? Were we ever really friends?

The one who was hung gave us warning. We just didn't pay attention. The cryptic things he said now seem plain, things too horrible to accept even now that they're realized. For three years we trailed him; we left the lives we've known. We thought we were lost before we met him, but we're worse off now. The things we've seen and experienced with him - wonders and marvels beyond our imaginations as ordinary men, at times by our own hands - have ruined us forever. We can hardly imagine going back to our old lives, though most of us will try.

But the small moments haunt us also. The meals and conversations. The long, hot treks through Galilee. Even the bickering and mischief. We were a family and he our big brother, who could both correct and laugh with us, lead and serve us. Slowly but surely, he'd stirred into us a certainty that we are loved with a love beyond our comprehension as ordinary men.

Our guilt taunts us. Though we huddle in common fear, our common shame erects walls between us. We cannot not lift our heads or meet our eyes. Oh, the promises we made! How eagerly we jostled for position, how easily we pledged fidelity, how quickly we fled. We didn't even try; we just stood and watched from distant shadows.

Yet here we are, a collection of cowards hiding... and waiting. Because he said other cryptic things, too glorious to consider but too wonderful to ignore. What if? What if! Our exhaustion pants for the sun to set, but something burns inside us for the sun to rise. Perhaps the rooster's crow may yet be redeemed.

(un)happy anniversary

2011-02-02T19:25:00.000-08:00

I've never been one to make sentimental promises. I was never one to say or scribble in yearbooks "we'll be friends forever" because I could never say such things without feeling deceitful.

But in my last weeks in Uganda, I freely spoke of returning, of visiting, of not forgetting. When I uttered those words, I did mean them. I did want and intend to go back sooner than later, certainly within a year or two. As of yesterday, it has been three full years since I left Uganda. I still have no immediate plans to return.

Come to think of it, I made and have yet to keep similar promises to return to and visit friends in Congo. Those good intentions have been unrealized for well over five years.

Can I blame Africa for this? For seducing me and causing me to lose my head, to declare devotion and make vain promises? Though of this I'm certain: it woos many others who do keep their word; I miss it more than it misses me.

feel the fear; do it anyway

2011-01-20T01:17:00.000-08:00

I was afraid of heights, of the dark, of insects. I'm nervous around dogs, cats and small children. In high school, I watched "In the Mouth of Madness" with some friends, got spooked, and spent the night in my sister's twin sized bed. I'm afraid of speed. I'm a bad swimmer so I'm afraid of water (or is that of drowning?). I am really afraid of causing someone else to suffer, be it a client who loses because I neglected a detail, or an unpregnant woman who receives my unwelcome congratulations. I am afraid of public speaking. I dread conflict.

But I've made lemonade of my lemons. Fear is now a very familiar emotion, such that if I don't feel it (even just a little), I know I'm being reckless. Fear is not a wall anymore. It's been reduced to a shadow: present without keeping me from moving forward, from learning, trying, failing. Fear is no longer an enemy that tells me that I cannot; it is a reminder that "I'm scared" is not the same as "it's impossible."

I've watched friends raft the Nile, bungee jump, fight with strangers without pause, fear or hesitation. That will never be me. I will always take a deep breath and take a moment to mentally uncurl myself from the fetal position. My heart will pound and half burst out of my chest. My palms will sweat. But then I jumped out of the plane. I swung from a rope. I rafted the Nile. I snorkeled the Great Barrier Reef. I killed insects with my bare hands. I tackled the difficult but necessary conversations. I got used to pitch blackness during regular power outages. I argue in court and address conflict for a living.

I still feel the fear, but I keep going. And then... exhilaration. Not merely the thrill of the task at hand, but also the ecstasy of freedom, of moving items from "cannot" to "been there, done that."

q&a

2010-08-05T07:28:00.000-07:00

After too long a hiatus, some newcomers finally made their way into my passport.

I had missed travel. But my last venture out of the country (in April 2008!) had become such a distant memory, I had forgotten what I was really missing. The longing was theoretical.

It didn't take much to refresh my memory. I had barely alighted from the shuttle van onto the departure curb at Terminal 2 of LAX when the nervous excitement welled up. The hustle of the airport at 5am. The coiled queues for passengers checking luggage. The non-existent queue for those not checking luggage. The x-ray machines. The security checkpoints. The screens flashing departures. Polite smiles and greetings of total and relative strangers, some of whom will be by my side for the next several hours, some of whom will share most of my waking moments for the next two weeks.

Will the airline personnel approve my backpack as a carry-on, or will it turn out to be overweight? Will I get an aisle seat? Will I get any special attention at the security checkpoint? Will the flight leave on time? Will I sleep? What movies will I watch? Will I catch the connecting flight? What will it be like at the next stage, and the one after that? What about 20 hours from now, when at last I arrive at the final destination? And of the 10 days thereafter - what awaits me there? Will I meet anyone interesting? Will I meet God? What will I see and smell and touch? What will I eat?!

In my everyday life, most sentences end at a period or full stop, and I rarely look forward with any enthusiasm to the answers to the occasional question. But when I'm on the road, the map is littered with questions, and unraveling the answers is the whole adventure.

being Hur

2010-05-09T22:01:00.000-07:00

Near ten years ago, I was asked to share with a group of InterVarsity alumni about financial partnership with IV staff. As I prayed and prepared to share, God brought to mind the battle against the Amalekites in Exodus 17.

Staff and missionaries are like Joshua and the able men of Israel, on the front lines of battle, fighting to advance the Kingdom of God. Behind them, however, are people who are equally crucial to victory. I did not think myself comparable to Moses, but I did see a role for financial supporters. We are Hur; we hold up the arms of Moses and keep them lifted up toward the throne of the Lord. Removed as we may be from the action, we are part of the fight.

Today, I listened as Glen Chapman, a missionary who I met on my first trip to Africa in 2005, shared about the challenging and exhilarating work he and his wife are doing in a remote village in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Mixed in with feelings of awe and inspiration was gratitude. Even as I struggle (on a virtually daily basis) to find meaning in my work, I was reminded that my job enables me to financially support folks like Glen, to provide some of the practical means they need to be where they are and do what they do. And for that, I feel so grateful and privileged, to be able to take some small part in what God is doing halfway across the world, to be a part of the fight, to be a part of the victory.

had i tweeted

2010-02-28T23:54:00.000-08:00

4:27pm Just got to PATH. Lil already in kitchen w/ mountain of tomatoes, mushrooms and onions. Chopping ahead!

4:30pm Found a sharp knife in a haystack of dull ones - score!

4:37pm Going to town on onions. They're the ones doing the crying.

4:40pm Benne's here. He's killing tomatoes.

4:45pm Watch out, 'shrooms! You're next.

4:47pm FUUUUUUUdgesicles! I'm bleeding.

4:51pm Sliced off tip of left ring finger. Better dump those mushrooms.

4:53pm Oozing blood. Applying pressure. Lil refuses my offer to resume cutting.

4:57pm Applying bandages. Slapping on latex glove. Back to work.

5:07pm Manning the stove. Love the smell of grilled onions.

5:23pm Grilling red bells. I feel my heartbeat in my fingertip.

5:32pm While I was busy messing with my finger, Lil and Benne chopped everything in sight. Assembling quesadillas.

5:47pm Putting out juices and plates and desserts.

6:03pm Serving dinner. Beef tacos with quesadillas and plenty of frills - lettuce, tomato, grilled onion, guac, sour cream, cheese. Residents seem pleased.

6:37pm Sneaking a quesadilla in the kitchen. Mmmm... que bueno.

6:57pm Packing leftovers for lunch tomorrow.

7:12pm Picking up groceries at Trader Joe's. Really into lemon cookies this week. Still feel my heartbeat in my fingertip.

7:42pm Home. PJs. Contacts out. Glasses on.

7:48pm FUUUUUUUUzzy navel! Tried to replace bandage but reopened wound. Bleeding resumes.

7:53pm Squirting wound with contact solution. Neosporin + fresh bandage = good enough.

7:58pm Google "cut off fingertip." Infection... nerve damage... AMPUTATION!

7:59pm Googling Kaiser Urgent Care. Closes at 9pm on Sundays.

8:02pm Out of PJs, into car, onto Kaiser Urgent Care.

8:11pm Wrong parking lot. Freaking out.

8:12pm Praying. Freaking out. Praying.

8:17pm Urgent care doesn't do lacerations. Per nurse's instructions, walking down dark alley toward ER. Anticipating mayhem, gunshot victims and crying babies.

8:29pm Checked in and waiting to be called. It's surprisingly quiet. Reading "pray" section of "Eat, Pray, Love."

8:37pm Now waiting in a different waiting area. Doesn't smell like a hospital. Resume reading.

8:52pm Now waiting in an exam room. Lots of machinery and equipment on the walls. I feel like I'm on the set of Grey's Anatomy.

9:07pm Doctor looks like Jesse Williams. His ring finger is occupied. (Yes, I checked.) My glasses are fogging up.

9:09pm Hot Doc examines my wound. There's not much to be done... because it's so minor. He offers to put a big bandage on it. I accept. It'll be good for sympathy.

9:11pm Feeling sheepish about coming to the ER for a cut on my finger.

9:12pm Hot Doc claims to have treated patient with even lesser injuries. Claims someone came in with a paper cut. I feel better.

9:14pm Hot Doc offers tetanus shot. Why not. He begs off to treat someone with an actual injury. Starting to wonder about my copay for ER visits.

9:17pm Friendly nurse comes to shoot and bandage me. She's been working since 11am. She's been a nurse for 2 years. She loves her job.

9:19pm Wearing a ridiculously large bandage. I ask for extras to take home. Gotta make that copay count.

9:23pm Waiting at the "check out" line with my discharge papers. How much is this overreaction going to cost me?

9:26pm $100??!! FUUUUUUUUUUUUckleberry Hinn!

9:29pm Stupid google search results.

9:56pm Back in PJs. Having tea and lemon cookies. Arm sore from tetanus shot. Heartbeat in finger tip.

snail mail

2010-01-26T21:42:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, I received a hand-written letter from my 96-year old grandfather in Taiwan. His handwriting was shaky, as is my Chinese reading comprehension, but I was able to make out that the Christmas card I sent was one of the first he received this year, and that he went into some detail about his foot infection. At the end of the letter, he wrote "Now I really hope that you..." I couldn't make out what it was that he'd hoped that I'd do, but I knew it was important because he emphasized it with red lines. I scanned the letter and emailed it to my brother for a better translation. My brother confirmed the parts about the foot infection. My brother also explained that my grandfather's hope was that I would have babies; not entirely surprising given his previous advice.

I thought about writing back. My Chinese writing skills are virtually non-existent, and the words I could manage without a script -- "happy birthday," "happy new year" -- did not fit the occasion. I thought about writing back in English. I thought about copying Psalms from my Chinese Bible just to have something to send in reply. I felt frustrated that I could not communicate with my grandfather, who I know to be smart and opinionated and to have lived through some very interesting times. I felt embarrassed that I had so willingly and carelessly permitted the atrophy of my first language. For all that I thought to do, I couldn't decide, and so I did nothing.

Sunday morning, I received an email from my brother. Grandfather had passed away. I went to condole with my parents; I showed them Grandfather's letter. They poured over the words, caressed the page indented by Grandfather's handwriting.

I wish I could properly eulogize him, but I leave that to people who knew him better. I'm sure there's so much more to him than I could even imagine, but for now, it is enough to know that he received my Christmas card, that he had a foot infection, that he wished for me a family of my own.

Thank you for the letter, Grandfather; rest in peace.

going native

2010-01-06T08:55:00.000-08:00

Someone recently used the phrase "go native" to describe the plot of the movie Avatar.

"Going native" is a phrase most commonly used to describe the following situation: a white person goes to a "primitive" location to scout out the "natives" and, rather than dutifully report back or disabuse the locals of their barbaric ways, the scout joins them - he learns their language, he adopts their practices, he discovers wisdom in their ways, he comes to love and live with them as one of their own.

I cannot adequately articulate my long-standing contempt for this phrase. I've always found it judgmental and presumptuous. It invariably implies inferiority of the "native" culture, so much so that the outsider's decision to join the native culture is equated with loss of sanity and abandonment of sense. The phrase is never used to describe the process by which immigrants adapt to a dominant culture. For example, if a Chinese immigrant moves to California, learns to speak English, abides by laws and societal norms and calls herself American, nobody would describe this experience as "going native," even if she adopts questionable norms such as living beyond her means or being excessively promiscuous. Rather, this would be characterized - nay, lauded - as assimilation. "Going native" is reserved for adaptation to cultures deemed inferior, underdeveloped, contemptible. Use "going native" near me and I'm likely to go ape-$@%# on you.

Then I went to Urbana 09, where the central theme was the idea that God, through Jesus Christ, "dwelt among us." That though he was God, he joined the human race, lived as the first-born of an unwed mother, as a refugee from a family of little means. He went through infancy dependent on the care of others, experienced puberty and young adulthood. He learned to read and write, he submitted to his parents, he worked. He talked our talk and walked our walk. Even as a man, he did not pull rank. Instead, he broke bread with tax collectors and prostitutes, reached out to Samaritans, touched and engaged with lepers. All that he did he could have done from a distance, but he chose not to.

This incarnation -- the very highest into the very lowest -- boggles my mind. And I would happily relegate it to an impossible standard but for friends and others who have followed Jesus' footsteps into some of direst regions of human need in the world. Rather than live in gated compounds, they make their homes in the slums, learning from and embracing cultures and lifestyles dismissed or forgotten by others. They don't see inferiority or superiority, only children of God equally loved by Him no matter what circumstances might suggest.

Call that what you will - love, assimilation, even the phrase that gets under my skin. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

tiger's wood

2009-12-11T09:39:00.000-08:00

As if we haven't had sufficient reminders throughout 2009, December brought further confirmation that even clean-cut, seemingly self-controlled men with picture-perfect lives cheat on their wives, sometimes with a rather unsanitary number of women. Once again confirmed is the truth that "there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be known or brought out into the open." (Luke 8:17)

As the full scope of the "indiscretion" or "transgression" is revealed in the coming days and weeks, it is nearly impossible not to discuss the matter, to judge the man, to express concern for the lives devastated as collateral damage.

There is, however, an opportunity to have a different type of discussion - between husband and wife, between significant others. While it is easier to speak as spectators to a news story, it is far more fruitful to personalize the possibilities. What would it do to me if you, my husband, cheated? Would divorce be on the table immediately? Who would move out of the family home? What would it do to our kids and their sense of esteem and morality? If you, my wife, are unhappy in our marriage, what would I beg you to do in lieu of having an affair in secret? What are other options? What can we do now to prevent that?

Share honestly, unleash your imagination about the repercussions, weep over the potential ruin and devastation. Then do everything possible to strengthen, save or repair the relationship. Because talking about such things after a betrayal is not only too little, but too late.

happy anniversary

2009-09-08T21:46:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was a sluggish day. I felt down, blue. For the better part of the day, I assumed it was because the Tuesday after a long weekend is usually worse than any regular Monday. On my way home, it dawned on me: it was the one-year anniversary of my return to private-sector legal practice.

For the balance of the evening, I nursed a melancholy ode to the year gone by, of dreams deferred, of applications rejected. I counted the number of days it had been since I was last out of the country: 504. That straw broke this camel's back and I sank into a glorious self-pity that not even the season premiere of "90210" could abate.

15 hours later, I'm sitting in my office, tabbing pages of a treatise with post-it notes. Gratitude washes over me; my mourning turns to dancing. Here, in no particular order, are some reasons I love/appreciate/enjoy my job:

1. Office supplies. This place never runs out of them. Notebooks, post-its, binders, highlighters, staplers, fine-point pens, medium-point pens, sharpies, paper clips, binder clips. I'm sure that, technically, some of this stuff does run out sometimes, but someone always orders more. I used to take this for granted. Then I spent a year at a law office in Uganda. Things always ran out, and when they did, I had to fill out an acquisition form, get money from the office accountant, get permission to leave the office, take a bus to town, walk to the bookstore, look for the needed items, reel from shock at the price of basic office supplies, pay too much for too little, take a bus back to the office. By the time I got back to the office, I would be drenched in sweat and the day would be mostly over. Here, all I have to do is walk to the supply room and get more. (If I insist on being a pain, I can even call someone to bring me more.) Instead of tearing strips of paper to mark pages, I use post-it notes.

2. Air-conditioning. Last week, Los Angeles was boiling hot. My apartment has charming details such as crown molding, but lacks less charming details such as central air or windows that cross-ventilate. I came home each night to a charming oven with warm floorboards. But the office is always cool. In fact, it is so cool that I keep a sweater in my office. On hot days, I get to the office early and leave late. I wear my sweater and drink hot tea until the sun sets and the heat relents.

3. Stimulation. I regularly experience stress and frustration and panic at work. But I rarely experience boredom. The job necessitates crash courses in whatever field the client works in, be it movie production, securities, real estate, or civil rights. I am surrounded by people who are well-educated, well-traveled and well-read. They easily and intelligently speak of the news of the day, the books they're reading, the cases they're working on, the latest technology. They are smarter than I am and I have to scramble to keep up, but I am always learning.

4. Money. I get paid to work. That is no small thing in this economy. I get paid well for doing work that I find interesting and challenging. That is a pretty wonderful thing in any economy. As often as I feel guilty for having money, I feel grateful that I have it. It's nice to have resources, to not worry about whether checks will bounce, to have the means to help people. I'll never forget the years of obsessively monitoring the balance in my checking account, but I do not regret that (for now) those years are behind me.

Whatever complaints I harbor about my job, there is a silver lining. And it is a thick, generous lining.

good samaritan

2009-08-03T15:31:00.000-07:00

The Hollywood freeway (101) in Los Angeles is a marvel of congestion. The flow of traffic is almost always at a crawl, usually with no discernible explanation (i.e., no visible collision or lane obstruction).

On Sunday, I found myself semi-parked on the 101 on my way home from church. As I inched toward my destination, I saw two cars stopped in the No. 2 lane. One of the cars - an old, beat-up hatchback - started moving toward the right shoulder of the freeway; someone was pushing it. In the meantime, L.A. drivers behaved like L.A. drivers: hop-scotching between lanes in search of an opening that would allow them to zoom past. With bated breath, I waited for disaster.

The hatchback reached the right shoulder in safety. The person who had pushed the hatchback - an African-American man in military fatigues - hustled back to the sedan still parked in the No. 2 lane, waving his apology to cars that had slowed or stopped for him. He jumped into the driver's seat of the sedan, switched off the hazard lights and drove on.

I was stunned. This man could have driven around the hatchback like every other driver before him. Instead, he put his car and his person at risk in order to move the hatchback and its driver to safety. (Incidentally, by moving the hatchback out of moving traffic, he also did a lot of other drivers a big favor.) He didn't wait around for thanks or reward. He helped because he could, because someone - albeit a complete stranger - needed help. In the span of a minute or two, he taught me more of neighborly love than any Bible study or sermon.

Thank you, sir, for your unadorned service. May the Lord keep you safe.

the day the donuts never came

2009-07-30T19:29:00.000-07:00

Friday is donut day at the office. Lawyers, paralegals and secretaries alike volunteer for "donut schlepper" duty. It is probably the least hierarchical institution within the firm.

A few Fridays back, I arrived at the office with coffee in hand. I dropped off my personal effects in my office and headed to the small kitchen where the donuts are usually located on Friday mornings. No donuts in sight. There had been occasions when I'd arrived too late to partake, but on this particular Friday, there were no signs that donuts had ever been there: no crumpled box, no crumb, no remnant of powdered sugar or maple glaze smeared on the table.

Then I noticed them. Fellow coworkers wandering aimlessly with coffee mug in hand. They'd slow as they neared the kitchen door, peer in, wrinkle their brows, then move on to take another lap. I soon followed suit. I checked the other kitchen. (Friday donuts are never deposited in the other kitchen, but maybe someone made a mistake?) There, too, were coworkers wandering and peering.

Twenty minutes passed. This had become highly irregular. Unable to contain my curiosity, I stopped by the receptionist, who usually sent out the email announcing the donuts' arrival. "Pssst," I whispered. "Where are they?" She shrugged.

Not five minutes later, my computer pinged with a firm-wide email from the receptionist. It listed the donut-schlepping schedule for the entire year. It went on to explain that so-and-so, who was on duty, had switched with what's-his-name because so-and-so had to go out of town for deposition. But there was no news from what's-his-name; no word on his or the donuts' whereabouts.

Not two minutes later, my computer pinged again, with two more firm-wide emails. So-and-so emailed from her blackberry, confirming that she had indeed switched with what's-his-name. What's-his-name emailed from his hand-held device, as he had also been called away from the office on a different case. He had forgotten to find another substitute; he apologized profusely.

There it was: the donuts were not coming. It was disappointing, but also a relief to let go of the anticipation. I grabbed my wallet and headed downstairs to scavenge for an alternative. When I reached the cafe, half the office was there. We grumbled and commiserated; we laughed at our attachment to our weekly ritual. We shared ideas of how to ensure this never happens again.

At around 3:30pm, my computer pinged with yet another firm-wide email, this time from the office manager, who had sensed the trauma that earlier reverberated through the office. "Ice cream cake in the kitchen," it read. "Come and get it!"

a better man

2009-06-30T14:24:00.000-07:00

June has come and gone, along with my attempts to become a better man. I completed some of the 30 challenges with great enthusiasm (ex. days 1, 7, 12), found I had tackled some on my own initiative in the recent past (ex. days 6, 13, 19), deemed myself exempt from others (ex. days 4, 11, 30), and was utterly confounded by a few (ex. days 3, 21, 26).

The main insight that this experience afforded was that it takes a lot of effort to be a good and, over time, a better person. This may seem a somewhat obvious point, but I realized that I often give way to the belief that some people are just more naturally good than others. I'm not talking about the idea, usually born of modesty, that others are better - stronger, braver, more gracious and patient - than we are. I'm talking about the paradigm that these traits are innate to some, so that those outside of "the elect" are excused from exhibiting these virtues and, worse yet, relieved of trying to attain them.

It takes substantial and conscious effort to navigate the push-and-pull's of life, to strike the balance between labor and rest, gentleness and firmness, patience and gumption, frugality and generosity, hanging on and letting go... the mere thought of getting it all right makes me want to quit on the spot. But nobody wakes up one day and becomes a responsible, mature adult who balances family, work, spiritual and physical obligations with ease and aplomb. No one in my acquaintance - including people who I admire and respect the most - even comes close to that description. Those who try, however, are better for the effort; quite often, the world is also better for it.

A better man (or person), therefore, is one who tries and strives to be better than his or her current self. For there is always room for improvement and no one is exempt from the effort.

sign me up

2009-05-29T14:29:00.000-07:00

Anyone care to join me in this? Seriously, this would be more fun (for me) as a group activity.

(No, I'm not experiencing any gender confusion. Just a fan of manliness.)

hug it out

2009-05-16T12:24:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time, I wished myself a man, primarily for the ease of certainly bodily functions. Oh, how that would simplify camping and long bus rides! Oh, to be free of worry about the dreaded "surprise" during travel!

Then I read this and watched this. After I recover from choking and falling off my chair in laughter, I breathe a sigh of relief. I have never thought about this; I've never had to. It is entirely possible this is only of concern for men in America or men in the West, where masculinity is at once protected and doubted, and certainly overly scrutinized. But this is but one of many areas in which seemingly simple decisions are complicated by the appearance of masculinity, or the lack thereof. For example, I distinctly remember boarding a rocking boat from a slippery dock with the helping hand of a male crew member, only to then watch men of all ages risk slipping and doing a face-plant so as to avoid taking (or touching) another man's hand.

It's good to be a woman.

get up!

2009-04-25T17:27:00.000-07:00

There is more to following Jesus than an all-access pass to heaven after death. This has been the subject of sermons and conversations at my church for the past few months. The point seems obvious - too obvious - to warrant an entire sermon series, focused Bible studies and even weekend seminars. While the intellectual point may be apparent, its application certainly is not. Just look... around.

I am part of a highly-educated and generally well-resourced congregation, so this message has been very challenging and demanding. It has caused some discomfort, some shifting in seats and adjusting of collars; it has also stirred a lot of excitement. Consciously or unconsciously, a lot of us have come to view church as hospice care - it is all about making us more comfortable until we reach our inevitable destination (death, then afterlife). But what all this talk has awakened is our dormant but deep desire for church to be physical therapy - a place where we receive from Jesus and extend to one another help in re-gaining and strengthening muscles (of compassion, hospitality, justice) that have atrophied, so that we can go out as healed people and live a more active and meaningful life in the here and now. Jesus never told us to "go gentle into that good night." His words were, "Get up! Pick up your mat and walk." (John 5:8)

Following Jesus is an all-access pass to heaven, and the pass is effective immediately.

wolf in sheep's clothing

2009-04-19T20:54:00.000-07:00

Thunder only happens when it's raining. Players only love you when they're playing. ~ Dreams by Fleetwood Mac

The worst kind of player is the Christian kind. There is nothing wrong with being a wolf among wolves. But when one infiltrates the fold under the guise of being a harmless, upstanding member equally interested in fidelity and commitment? Well, it is not an exaggeration to say that slaughter often results. Sheep that survive carry their devastation into future interactions, casting suspicions and aspersions where none is deserved; though they have valuable insight to lend to others, they hide in shame and embarrassment. The wolf, on the other hand, easily regroups and moves onto the next victim.

The basics of an adequate wolf-protection plan are not very different from those of the personal safety regime. First, exercise caution. Do not assume safety on the basis of geography alone. It is obviously not a good idea to stumble around, half-inebriated, alone at 2 a.m. in a "bad" neighborhood, but it's generally a bad idea to do that in any neighborhood. Likewise, just because the guy goes to church doesn't mean... much, really.

Second, establish communal security. Report suspicious activities to the proper authorities. Don't look away and drive away when your neighbor is getting mugged. In the aftermath of a wolf attack, there are always people who sigh and shake their heads at the outcome that they had foreseen all along. Um, where were you sages before stuff hit the fan?

Third, hold law enforcement accountable. If the police consistently refuses to respond, pester them, go over their heads, petition elected officials who fear unhappy constituents, make them do their jobs. Pastors are responsible, as shepherds, for protecting the flock. Wolves should not get a free pass just because they volunteer a lot or are friendly with people in high places. Some types of wolves should be shot from helicopters.

amen to that

2009-04-07T23:00:00.000-07:00

Q: What is the chief end of man?

A: Man's chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.

~Westminster Catechism

if i had facebook

2009-03-26T22:22:00.000-07:00

My status message would read: "got the official kiss-off from the job for which she's been pining for the past year and a half."

My favorite TV couple broke up tonight.

At this rate, tomorrow, someone will spill coffee on me, my recently washed car will get shat on and towed, and I'll get food poisoning from my favorite sushi joint.

Go ahead, life, kick me while I'm down.

seriously? seriously!

2009-03-20T23:22:00.000-07:00

My friend's daughter will soon celebrate her first birthday, which I welcome as an excuse to buy some tiny, citrus-themed pajamas, including one piece that reads, "Squeeze Me."

But the pajama set says something else as well: "For child's safety, garment should fit snugly. This garment is not flame resistant. Loose-fitting garment is more likely to catch fire."

It crosses my mind that perhaps somewhere in the annals of baby pajamas, some little one... No. I can't really imagine anything involving loose-fitting pajamas catching fire that doesn't also involve some form of negligent supervision. What I can imagine is the truly responsible party pinning the blame on the maker of pajamas with the help of a contingency lawyer.

Because, seriously, a warning that cotton clothing is not flame resistant should not be necessary. Because, seriously, an unattended child near an open flame is more likely to catch fire, no matter how snug the pajamas.

road trip

2009-03-09T23:00:00.000-07:00

You're on the road with a friend. Perhaps the two of you are headed for the same destination; perhaps one of you is dropping off the other somewhere along the way. You take turns at the wheel; you take great care not to backseat-drive the other. You talk, you sing, you take in the scenery. The journey is long, but the company makes time fly.

Then somewhere along the way, you run into trouble. Actually, your friend drives into a mud ditch. He's sure that he can accelerate his way out of it. But you know the grinding tires do little more than deepen the ditch. You ask your friend to stop accelerating; you tell him you have to push the car to get it out of the ditch. Your friend wants out of the ditch but he doesn't want to push.

You have a few options. You can ditch your friend, hitch-hike or find some other means to get to where you need to go; it's frustrating and pointless to try to reason with him. You can sit back and let him keep doing the same thing in the hopes of obtaining a different result; you know he'll fail and you wait for your "I told you so" moment.

Or, you can get out, go to the rear of the car and push. Whatever the ditch is in the particular case - an unfulfilling job, a troubled marriage, weight gain/lack of exercise - there is no guarantee that you'd be able to get the car out of it. The only assurance is that you'll get a mud facial and on top of that, possibly an "I told you so."

What do you do?

better sorry than safe

2009-03-01T10:17:00.000-08:00

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. " ~Theodore Roosevelt

lost in translation

2009-02-20T21:17:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, the MacBook I'd ordered arrived in the mail. Unwilling to grope my way through getting to know a new machine, I asked a friend - a highly recommended Mac expert - to set things up.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, a few thousand pictures were lost. Pictures of slaughter from Rwanda, of wildlife in Kenya, of sandy beaches in Tanzania, of buddhas in Thailand, of family in Taiwan, of the DMZ in Korea. Evidence of my frolicking unemployment in America? Poof...

The downside to all this loss - apart from the obvious - is its reinforcement of my already significant technophobia. The silver lining is that I had uploaded the best of the batch (albeit in lower quality) onto the web for sharing with friends and family. Thanks to my technophobia, the best of the best had also been printed and organized in actual photo albums.

I spent some time mourning the loss of these digital files and the memories they captured. In trying to grasp my loss, I also realized what I didn't lose -- the memories themselves. I remembered the moments that never made their way into the camera because lions mated too quickly, or because I was paddling for my life, or because I was too busy laughing. Because what I saw and smelled and felt could not be captured by the technology at hand.

meow

2009-01-23T22:41:00.000-08:00

These days, the first thing that greets me when I get home is the smell that says, "It's time to clean the litter box."

I don't have a cat.

something old, something new

2009-01-17T23:01:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, I showed up early for an interview appointment. Many had applied and others were already waiting. I caught myself sizing up my competition. Then I caught myself repressing a laugh at the realization that I was a used car in a new car lot. They've got GPS built into the dash; I have a Thomas Guide. They've got ipod jacks; I have a tape deck. They've got the coveted new car smell; I have a cardboard pine hanging from the rear view mirror. They've got youth and energy; I have... experience. I felt a momentary dip in confidence. After all, newer is better, right?

Whatever I felt when I entered the interview room, I felt quite the opposite when I exited. I had gone through a nearly identical interview exam over five years ago, and I must say, this old fart kicked that newbie's ass. I haven't any sense that I outperformed my competition or that I would advance to the next round. But I did sense that as between my present and my younger self, the intervening years had brought more than just wear and tear. The years had brought ease and confidence and other upgrades that I value, no matter what they might fetch in the market.

an atheist, a missionary and an african walk into a bar...

2009-01-10T22:15:00.000-08:00

When you get this kind of review from your harshest critic, you must be doing something right.

this side of paradise

2009-01-02T14:30:00.000-08:00

In Chapter 34 of Deuteronomy, Moses looked on the promised land from a hill. He died on that hill and never crossed into the land because some years ago, he struck a rock. (Long story.)

It always seemed a rather unfair or simply frustrating end. At times, it seemed like a total rip-off. To lead and beg and plead on behalf of a bunch of grumbling, idol-casting whiners through the desert for 40 years, only to stop short of, to be prevented from actually reaching the destination.

Then I look at all that preceded this. Moses spoke to a burning bush, turned staff into serpent and water into blood, cast plagues, parted the sea, carried tablets (2 sets) written by the fingers of God. He spoke with God as a man would speak with his friend, argued, pleaded, vented, with total freedom and transparency. Not all of it was warm and fuzzy; some parts were downright terrifying. Yet there could be no question that the good parts and the bad all flowed from intimate and extensive interactions with God.

As I converse with friends who are still waiting or coming to terms that they might never enter their promised land -- be it health or wealth, mate or child, the perfect job or the perfect body -- I'm reminded of Moses. Moses who shepherded his people through the desert for 40 years. Moses who struck a rock in error. Moses who didn't complain upon learning that he wouldn't enter the Promised Land. Moses who, in the days between the desert of Midian and the Mountain of Horeb, had gotten more than he could have ever hoped for, much less expected, on this side of Canaan. In contrast to his companions, who could only look forward to what had yet to be provided and barely noticed the waters that parted for their passage or the manna and quails that filled their stomachs, Moses embraced God as both his promise and his land flowing with milk and honey.

It's so tempting to wait to start life, to really live with abandon, with courage, with faith, until after we have grasped the promised land of our own imagination. Once I reach x, then I can relax and focus on the important things.

But why wait? Why risk foregoing the paradise at hand for a mirage in the distance?

step away from the keypad

2009-01-01T23:27:00.000-08:00

It's 2009 and California's no-texting-while-driving law is now in effect.

Either "no texting while driving" is too vague a concept, or perhaps addictive behaviour makes people stupid, because there are an awful lot of questions about this new law. "Is it ok to email my grandma to wish her a happy birthday?" "What if I'm pausing at a stop sign, would that still count as texting while driving?" "What if I train my dog to text for me; is that illegal?"

Try keeping your eyes on the road and using your hands to steer the motorized steel box plowing forth at full speed. Pick your nose. Scratch an itch. Drum along to the music. Drive while you're driving. Be coy; leave a few messages unread and unsent.

It's gonna be ok.

resolution: be a man

2008-12-26T10:22:00.000-08:00

At one time, I was one of two tad-older members of a group of relatively young people. The other elder took care of everyone: counseled, fed, drove. When time came for her departure, some looked to me to fill her soccer mom shoes.

"I don't do mom," I clarified. "But I can be your hard-ass, emotionally distant father figure."

In typical egomaniacal fashion, I've long considered myself to be more of a man than most boys I know. (Uh... present readers excluded, of course.) So I've fallen head over heels with this online guide to manliness. It contains such practical gems as "How to Give and Take Criticism Like a Man" and "How to End a Relationship Like a Man." Some of the tips (ex. "always end it in person"), as painfully obvious as warning label attached to consumer products (ex. "do not set tree on fire"), make clear that while certain instructions are male-specific, most fall in the more general category of "How to Behave Like a Grown Person."

I resolve to work on my "manliness" in the coming year, to be more of a considerate adult who exercises common sense and decency. Or, at the very least, to avoid bursting into tears and throwing up in response to criticism.

lucked out

2008-12-18T21:58:00.000-08:00

I made plans to have dinner with a friend tonight. I left work early, shopped, cooked, shoved my mess into closets. When my guest arrived, I went to let her into my building. A split second after my door locked behind me, I realized that my keys were on the other side.

But somehow, I feel more cheerful at the end of this night than I did at its start. Some contributing factors:

Unable to enter my apartment, my friend and I walked to a nearby restaurant, ate, then lingered well after we finished our meal. Restaurant within walking distance: plus 3.
On our way to the restaurant, we heard helicopters overhead and saw a police cruiser zoom past, all part of a pursuit that ended a block down the street. Police pursuit on my street: minus 1. Abundant police presence in general: plus 1.
After dinner, my friend and I returned to my apartment and made valiant efforts to break in. But the window were placed too high and the lock on the door refused to succumb to tampering. Uncompromising security: plus 5.
As I was fidgeting with the door, my downstairs neighbor - who I've yelled at through the floorboards - offered his condolences... then offered us bottled water. Good neighbor: plus 2. Killing me with kindness: plus 3.
While rummaging through my friend's trunk for tools to escalate our attempted breaking-and-entering, the apartment manager - also my next-door neighbor - returned home from an evening of Christmas caroling with her grand-daughter. After expressing compassion for my plight, she quickly located a set of keys for my apartment, did not charge me a fee (as she was entitled under the terms of the lease) and gave me a big hug to warm me up. Sweet apartment manager: plus 5. Fee waiver: plus 1.
Even though she was promised a home-cooked meal, my friend bought me dinner, stayed and waited with me (despite my urgings for her to go home) until I was let back in and left me a bottle of wine. Good company: plus 10. Good wine: plus 3.

Overall, not a bad tally for getting locked out on a cold night.

retainers

2008-12-17T08:53:00.000-08:00

I had my orthodontic braces removed the summer before my senior year in high school. The elation of the moment was dampened by stern instructions to make nice with my new friends - retainers - on a nightly basis. I wasn't altogether released; I was merely paroled.

I complied for a couple of years. Then my wisdom teeth started their migration and it became increasingly painful to use the top half of the retainers. So one day, I simply stopped trying to make it work.

Earlier this year, I stopped using the bottom half. My teeth of wisdom had been pulled, I wasn't traveling, the retainer had not been lost. I simply grew tired of the restraint and the daily discipline. And I knew that with each passing night, it would be increasingly difficult, and eventually impossible, to ever fit it on again. At some point, my teeth would move beyond restoration and become irreconcilable with the shape of the retainer.

About a month ago, the same thing happened in a friendship. Unspoken retainers stand guard in every relationship and in a moment of hubris or innocent lapse of judgment, we ventured beyond those boundaries. We saw the line as we crossed it. We expressed confidence that our friendship would hold up given its age, given our maturity.

We were wrong.

Pride goeth before the fall, then exacerbates the injury. It would cause some pain and discomfort to return to the old shape of things, but that's not yet impossible. And I know, with each passing day, as we cradle our egos and lick our wounds in our respective corners, waiting for the other to make the first move, the task grows bigger.

It seems a lose-lose situation. I'd feel like I'd lost if I make an effort now, and I know that I'd lose if I don't.

and the winner is...

2008-12-12T22:12:00.000-08:00

I spent Friday night strolling through "the Grove" in Los Angeles. While its name conjures trees bearing oranges, the Grove is actually an outdoor shopping center complete with shops, restaurants, a trolley and a dancing water fountain. In December, it also boasts a giant Christmas tree, Santa and 12 reindeers suspended in mid-air and a larger-than-life gingerbread house. At night, it "snows" on the hour.

Yes, yes; it is a tacky hot mess. But I love it. The lights, the scent of pine, the music, the color scheme, the hot beverages. It's the one time of the year when the schmaltzy schmuck in me revels in plain view.

Then I see the long line of parents and children waiting to meet Santa (for no small fee)... And I grow slowly livid. Why do parents do this, sell Santa to their own kids? Some people may compare this to parents telling their kids to believe in God. But parents who tell their kids about God actually believe in God. No adult in his or her right mind actually believes in Santa Claus. So parents who encourage their children to believe in Santa are intentionally deceiving their children and encouraging them to believe in a bald-faced lie. And to what end? Is it really better for kids to believe that a stranger will reward them for being good, than for them to know that their parents will give them good things simply because they're loved?

Meanwhile, atheists are paying big bucks for bus ads challenging the existence of God, Christians are buying counter-ads and Muslims are buying counter-counter-ads. Santa, however, gets a pass. And Madison Avenue, Santa's perpetuator-in-chief, pockets all the change.

neither here nor there

2008-12-03T14:20:00.001-08:00

It's that time again.

No, I'm not talking about the commercial extravaganza masquerading as a religious holiday. I'm talking about the recurring moments in life when I'm steps away from making a decision that would require some sort of longish-term commitment. Something about these decisions - even ones as minor as signing a one-year lease - sets off five-alarm panics and makes me want to run for the hills.

The problem - my problem - with commitments is that they eliminate options. And the option that I most fear losing is the option to go, to leave here and be there. Because the grass is always greener there. Sure enough, a couple of days after I moved into my new place, I learned that another unit is available for the same price in the same building. That unit has a ceiling fan and a newer refrigerator. I bet it gets better light, is adjacent to quieter neighbors and comes with magical fairies who would do the dishes and the laundry while I'm at work.

The problem with my problem with commitment is that life can't be lived in limbo. The only way to keep all options open is to do absolutely nothing, to never settle into a community or invest in relationships, to always be merely physically present but mentally and emotionally absent from my present circumstances. I could entertain all of my options in theory or actually exercise a few of them in reality; surely the latter is the only rational option. And surely I am too old to still be itching for instability.

As a few panic-inducing decisions loom the near future, I resort to the method that has served me adequately in the recent past: take some deep breaths, let my rational side take over long enough to make the necessary decision, then yield to my emotional side for an extended period of melodramatic mourning over the death of freedom and all that I hold dear.

a new day

2008-11-04T20:24:00.000-08:00

I woke this morning unsure whether anyone other than a white man could be elected the President of the United States.

I rest tonight buoyed by the knowledge that it's not only a possibility, but a reality.

Congratulations, President-Elect Obama.

just say no

2008-10-29T15:25:00.001-07:00

A message to my fellow Californians:

While sitting with some friends and acquaintances, a member of the group urged everyone to vote "yes" on Proposition 8. "Because if it's not passed," she warned, "you can get sued for being opposed to gay marriage." I struggled to hold my tongue while my internal monologue went into overdrive. Other people's questions brought forth this explanation: unless Proposition 8 passes, gay marriage will be legal in California, and if you tell someone you're opposed to gay marriage, they can sue you for hurting their feelings.

I sat there, blinking madly, unsure whether to laugh, cry or defect to a country where only people with a modicum of common sense are allowed to vote. Really? Unless Proposition 8 is passed, freedom of speech will cease to exist in America? OMG, are you serious?!

I am opposed to ballot initiatives. All of them. California has a taxpayer-funded, full-time legislature. Legislators (and a slew of legislative staff) are paid to draft laws. They're paid to ask and answer questions such as, "How much will this cost?" "Who will implement/enforce this new law?" "If we direct money to this program, what other programs will lose funding?" "Is this law or its implementation constitutional or will we end up in litigation for the next 10 years?" "Can we afford to take this on in light of the state's current fiscal situation?"

Let the professionals do their jobs. Would you want an amateur mechanic to repair your engine? Or a hack doctor to remove your appendix? Imperfect as they are, elected legislators are accountable to the voters, who can boot them from office. There is no recourse against the special interest groups -- many of them from outside California -- who fund these ballot initiatives. (If you are aware of any, please enlighten me.)

If you don't have the desire, the time or the inclination to read through each ballot initiative, assess the constitutionality and understand the fiscal impact (including the effect on other programs funded by tax dollars), you're in good company. But the right thing to do is to vote "NO" and maintain the status quo. That's right, if the "no" vote prevails on a proposition, it simply means things stay the same for now. It doesn't mean that a law can't be passed in the future on the subject. It just means that the proposal that you didn't read and don't understand won't become the law of the state at this time.

And please do not, under any circumstances, base your vote on TV commercials.

We now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

when i grow up

2008-10-20T00:11:00.000-07:00

I wanna be Amy Poehler.

Never mind that she's about 10 months pregnant. The lady just commits.

I'm watching this over and over again until I memorize it. Or at least until I can watch it all the way through without wetting myself from laughing.

"Now you're dead! Now you're dead cus I'm an animal!! And I'm bigger than you!!!"

misery loves company

2008-10-06T16:13:00.001-07:00

Stuff like this boggles my mind.

Some people call it old-fashioned, even sweet, when a man orders for his female companion (without consulting her) at a restaurant. And perhaps it is. Likewise when a husband answers questions directed at his wife, especially if one subscribes to a particular version of the man acting as the head of the household.

But come the effe on, fellas! If you find life's misery more than you can bear, if you can't stand the thought of the woman you love loving another, if you long for an early retirement from the game of life... then go quietly into that good night by yourself. Leave your wife, your kids, your kin to make their own decisions about whether to join you. Don't put them out of your misery.

stewardship in an election year

2008-09-15T22:41:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while, some newspaper headline or chance encounter reminds me of the role of happenstance in my rather fortunate existence. I was born into a family that provided my basic material needs, that immigrated to the United States, that enabled me to live and vote as an American citizen. I'm not saying that people didn't work hard to bring about these events. I'm simply saying that I did not do anything to deserve being born into circumstances where these things are possible, as compared with someone born into an impoverished village in another part the world where much "smaller" things -- shelter, adequate nutrition, education -- are, quite literally, out of reach.

My good fortune comes with responsibility. I believe that I hold my resources -- money, time, education, opportunities -- as a steward. I cannot (or should not) use them for the sole purpose of maximizing my personal benefit, or pour all of that I have into achieving a comfortable or enviable lifestyle. I'm under obligation to administer these resources in a way to help and love others; I'm accountable to God for how I use these resources.

I've only recently realized that my right to vote as an American citizen is subject to the same stewardship mandate. I rarely think about my American citizenship when I'm in the United States. But when I'm out of the country, I realize what a resource this citizenship can be. It allows me to travel to most places (or at least most places that people would want to visit) with little more than a fee. I have a say, a vote, in the composition of my government, the decisions and actions of which significantly affect the wealth and welfare of people in all different corners of the world.

Voting as steward is different from voting as a liberal or a conservative; it has to be. I can't be lazy and vote based solely on whim; I have to spend time to at least try to understand the likely impact of various laws and candidates. I can't make decisions based solely on the personal benefit that I might derive from the outcome; I have to consider how the outcome might affect my neighbors both inside and outside our borders. And most importantly, I can't waste this very valuable resource; I can't let frustration or a busy schedule get the best of me and fail to vote.

As with any other resource, effort matters. And I don't want to be the steward who has to answer for buried talents.

reminder and inspiration

2008-09-03T20:01:00.000-07:00

When I was 18, I registered to vote. I registered as a Republican. My first vote in a presidential election was for Bob Dole.

That was over 10 years ago. Since then, I've gotten more education, read more books, made more friends who don't look or think like me, worked more, seen more of the world.

Tonight, as I listen to the VP nominee speak at the Republican National Convention, I'm reminded of why I changed my party affiliation some years ago.

As I listen, I'm inspired to make another donation to the Obama campaign.

ants in the pants

2008-08-24T18:48:00.000-07:00

Due to the heat, ants are appearing en mass in various parts of the house. While performing extermination a few days ago, some ants crawled up my legs in an unsuccessful attempt to escape their fate.

Since that time, random ants have appeared on my legs. I'd kill the one I see and conduct fruitless searches for others. A few hours later, in a different part of the house, another ant would appear without any cohorts in sight.

I am confounded by how a single ant would find its way onto my leg without a line of others in view. Did it drop in on a solo kamikaze mission? Or have a group of them somehow set up camp between my toes?

gymtiquette

2008-08-15T22:14:00.000-07:00

I joined a gym. Now I have access to all sorts of machines and equipment, 24 hours a day. That last detail is really important because there are times when I jerk awake in the middle of the night, and all I want to do is hop on a treadmill or work my deltoids.

The gym is its own world, with its own set of rules. There are the obvious ones. Don't stay on a machine for 2 hours when others are waiting. Don't leave your towel and gym bag and water bottle all over the floor. Wipe up after yourself. Then there are the less obvious, unspoken ones that I, for one, believe should be strictly enforced. My personal addendum to the posted rules:

Thongs are wrong. The whole point of being at the gym is to move rapidly and create friction with your parts. Thongs are especially wrong when you're a male aerobics instructor and an entire class of innocent people can't help but notice the sweat tracks on your backside.

Apply makeup after the workout. Foundation + eye shadow + blush + perspiration = swirly colors. Impressionism belongs in museums.

Apply cologne after the workout. Your sweat is stink enough. Don't make it worse.

Learn to read headphones. If you speak to someone wearing headphones and he/she removes them to listen to you, chat away. If he/she listens to you but keeps the headphones in, wrap it up ASAP. If he/she keeps the headphones in and squints and gestures and points to the headphones to suggest he/she is unable to hear you, stop talking and scram.

Swallow. I'm nearly certain this rule is only necessary at gyms frequented by immigrant Asians, but do not -- doooooo NOT -- hock loogies into a cup while you walk/jog on the treadmill.

love thy enemies (or become them)

2008-08-11T12:32:00.000-07:00

About two years ago, I met and chatted with a woman who was finishing law school and looking forward to using her degree and skills to serve the poor, to do justice. Her idealism and enthusiasm were infectious. Naivete be damned, I thought. I felt excited with her and for her.

I talked with this woman again recently, after she had been working the job she had wanted. She seemed unable to speak of her opponents in an inherently adversarial system with anything short of venom and judgment. In stark black-and-white terms, she raged against her opponents' inability to see shades of grey. She depicted the truthfulness of her clients as a given even as she railed against her opponents' failure to doubt the honesty of their witnesses. More than anything else, she appeared tired and frustrated.

The extent to which her passion and idealism had taken on such angry and bitter tones surprised and saddened me. As I replayed portions of our conversation, this passage (and this movie) came to mind. Perhaps we are called to love our enemies not because God has a particular penchant for group hugs; nor is it a challenge for its own sake. Perhaps we are so called because our hate for our enemies has the tendency to make us in their image, to cause us to use noble ends to justify questionable means, to transform us into the object of our own wrath and judgment. Hate begets more hate and, ultimately, defeat. Love - as both the means and the end - frees us to simply do right the best we know how, and surrender judgment of good and evil to the One who causes the sun to rise and the rains to fall on both the same.

don't judge a dancer by her pole

2008-07-10T11:54:00.000-07:00

While spending time with a friend in the San Francisco apartment she shares with her husband, I noticed a pole in the middle of her home office. She has been taking pole-dancing classes. Apart from innocuous demonstrations for friends, she saves her performances for her husband. I asked for a demo; she obliged.

With soft music playing in the background, she twirled and whirled and swung and hung, all the while verbally describing things that one could do to make the dance more... provocative. I was amused at points, nervous at times (that she might slip and injure herself). But I was altogether impressed by the grace, strength and agility it requires to capture the aesthetics of a dance that's generally (mis)perceived to be purely prurient. I also quickly understood why her husband did not object to erecting a pole in the middle of their spare bedroom.

My friend - international lawyer, interior decorator, writer extraordinaire - tells me that learning to pole-dance helped her gain strength and confidence in her body. She doesn't quite fit the picture of a pole dancer that comes to mind, but somehow the whole thing seemed perfectly normal that afternoon as fog from the Bay slowly drifted over the hills. And I suppose this is one of the things I love about San Francisco: it doesn't put much stock in meeting expectations or standards for "normal." As much as I love a good boundary here and there, sometimes it's nice to have a bit more space to think, move and live outside the box.

spare change

2008-07-08T11:56:00.000-07:00

I love to reminisce. So visiting Berkeley, my old stomping ground, was a real treat.

Even though I spent my three years in Berkeley as a penny-pinching law student, my selective memory initially conjured only happy memories as I roamed about town. My favorite cafe is the same as it ever was: crowded, warm and humid with espresso aroma and milk steam. My old church, thanks to a big building project, looks big and impressive, albeit a bit impersonal. I stopped by the law school. The lecture halls have been modernized. Once upon a time, there had been one electrical outlet in the entire room; now, every seat is wired for electricity and internet access. I wandered into the library, where the quiet tension and thick odor of anxiety brought a different, less happy memory to mind: studying for the Bar exam. Needless to say, I made a quick exit.

The streets of Berkeley and their homeless vanguards reminded me of inconclusive conversations about the right response to beggars. Give them money? What if they use it to buy booze? Is it up to us to judge how they use what we give them? Give them food? What if they have allergies? I absent-mindedly handed out some cash and snacks as I walked, puzzled by my own hesitation and uncertainty. I thought I had already settled this question, in favor of a literal application of this passage.

It's much easier to come up with a definitive answer about how best to interact with street people in Los Angeles, where I spend most of my time in cars and buildings, where I'm able to control and define such interactions. It's more difficult in places like Uganda, where there's no predicting (or avoiding) encounters with people in need. It's even more difficult in places like Berkeley, where the "needy" are sometimes belligerent and ungrateful.

Turns out, I hadn't reached any clarity about this issue; I had merely changed locations.

sex and the city

2008-07-05T22:44:00.000-07:00

Over the holiday weekend, I spent a few days in San Francisco with 3 women who knew me back in the braces-and-glasses days. One was my first friend after transferring to a new school in the 6th grade, another was my tennis partner in high school, and another whose friendship I initially purchased with forged off-campus passes. These women were not the classmates who I shared friendly chit-chat with everyday in honor classes. They were the "bad" girls, or, as I thought and still think of them, the fun ones.

We saw shadows of fireworks through dense fog. We talked about sex. We shopped at fancy shops and ate a lot of seafood. We contemplated massages and watched movies. We reminisced and made fun of each other. We went dancing. We talked and talked and talked about sex. Frank, hilarious, disturbing and insightful conversations about sex that I once believed only took place between fictional characters on cable television shows. (I stand corrected.)

Yet at the end of our time together, I remember little of the city or of the sex talk. What I do recall -- with great ease and affection -- are the unabashed transparency and the freedom to hold and speak different opinions, rooted in the unspoken belief that friends are the ones we come home to, the ones who see and know us without our makeup. Now, as before, they rescue me from the tedium of polite society.

yay, america!

2008-07-03T13:18:00.000-07:00

In honor of Independence Day, here are some things that I've come to really appreciate about America:

Orderly instincts: The other day, I was on a road that seemed congested for no apparent reason. When I finally neared the intersection, I saw that the stop lights were not functioning. There were no police officers or any traffic directors in sight, but drivers just instinctively treated the intersection as a four-way stop. Huh? People voluntarily stopped and allowed others to pass? It took my breath away.

The honor system: Public libraries let you take books home for free, on your word that you'll bring them back. Open-faced offering plates are passed in churches. Shops keep little containers full of money dedicated to charities right on the counter. Clients let their accountants and lawyers keep track of time worked. Obviously, this doesn't work every time. But it works often enough that the system is kept in use.

Public Defenders: Thanks to the plethora of criminal law dramas, most of us are familiar with the recitation, "You're entitled to a lawyer. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you." I once thought this was a great idea as left-leaning member of the citizenry. I thought even better of it after working with a group of public defenders, amazing lawyers who do a thankless job for scrap pay. Now, after working for a year in a foreign criminal justice system -- where if you (like 90% of the population) can't afford an attorney, you're just SOL -- I think this is absolutely essential for a just society.

Working democracy: For the most part, each citizen has one vote and the candidate who gets the most votes wins. Election 2000 was a mess of hanging chads, but guess what? Nobody died. The military did not figure into the outcome in any way, shape or form. The government carried on and, in a few months, someone else will occupy the White House.

Utopia? Hardly. Room for improvement? Certainly. But all things considered, there are plenty reasons to give thanks and celebrate.

Happy 4th!

rock the vote

2008-06-28T20:16:00.000-07:00

Came upon this article at a friend's travelblog.

I'm not really a "travel writer", since that would suggest that I travel and write for a living, as opposed to... whatever it is that I actually do. But the article still got me wondering, "which of these 6 travel writer personalities am I?"

Process of elimination comes in very handy. I'm clearly not an Epic Adventurer (my trips are usually stunt-free), Walking Party (don't know how to party), PR Pro (I've got more than 8 adjectives... and doesn't the prototype sound a bit slutty?), or Guide Book Writer (I'm no longer young and bright-eyed, though still bushy-tailed).

That makes me... an Intrepid Monk (except for the intrepid part)? Or a Naked Introvert (minus the naked)?

What do you think, dear readers? Now, I'm obviously pandering for comments from the 6 of you who actually visit me here, so humor me. Vote!

hang up or pay up

2008-06-27T20:18:00.000-07:00

Starting July 1, drivers in California and Washington state will be prohibited from using hand-held mobile phones while driving. Drivers must use headsets, speakers or other devices to keep their hands free. When these laws go into effect, the roads will be safer because drivers won't be distracted by the complex motor skills required to hold a phone against one's face.

Or not. So what if my hands are free? Free for what? Better to grasp and jam that burger into my face? To apply mascara? To gesture to other drivers? Besides, most times when I've been distracted by conversation while driving, the person distracting me has been inside the car (usually backseat driving the hell out of me).

People talk on the phone and paint their nails and read New York Times while driving because, for the most part, driving on smooth roads with others who follow traffic laws does not seem to require a whole lot of concentration. If the legislature really wants drivers to focus, the better plan would be to create unpredictable road conditions that make absent-minded driving a more obvious hazard. Dig some potholes. Eliminate lane markers. Randomly release goats and other farm animals into traffic.

This plan works beautifully in Uganda. Sure, people still talk on their mobile phones in Uganda, but they tend to focus on the road and carry on absent-minded conversations. And sure, driving conditions there exemplify vehicular chaos, but that motivates people to use public transport. It's a win-win situation.

tim russert

2008-06-13T22:54:00.001-07:00

Rest in peace.

thrill of the chase

2008-06-12T21:17:00.000-07:00

There is something very familiar about internet dating. I haven't had much experience with it. (Apart from the time I tried it out of panic at turning 26. And the time it matched me with a bona fide Trekkie.) But it is surprisingly similar to another activity in which I'm quite experienced; to wit, job hunting.

It all starts with a posting that strikes the fancy at first sight. I read it once. I return to it again and again in the ensuing hours, scouring for new details. Because so little is known, the possibilities are endless. This could be "the one" - the job that I'd happily work forever, or for a very long time (say, five years). This is where my interests and passions and ambitions converge. Could it be? No. But what if...

I reach out. What to include in the cover letter, this introduction laden with the weight of first impression? Then there's the resume, a chronicle of predecessors that didn't last. Spin. Weave an upbeat rendering, the occupational equivalent of "It was mutual. It was for the best. We're still friends."

Then I wait. For the call. For the interview. For the face-to-face encounter where we each get to meet or fail expectations. Firm handshake; check. Eye contact; check. Clean hair and suit; check. Feigned interest and laughter; check, check. But the kicker - and this doesn't always happen - is when the interest and laughter are sincere. He's a riot! She's brilliant! What a fun bunch; I would love to work with them. Gulp. Do they like me the way I like them? Maybe I shouldn't have told that story about that time with those other people. Maybe I shouldn't have eaten everything on my plate. Maybe I shouldn't have been so obviously interested, so... eager.

More waiting. Days feel like weeks feel like eternity. Timing is everything now. Quick reciprocation capitalizes on the euphoria of a good meeting. Seal the deal and doubts and second-thoughts never enter the picture. Keep me waiting and the perfect match turns into unrequited love, then sours into rejection. Pride takes the mic. Not calling, eh? Well, I wasn't too impressed either. Let's see, what else is out there? The search begins for another, one more interesting, more challenging, with a bigger and better package.

By the time the belated call comes, the offer has lost its luster; it might as well be for a janitorial position. And it'll be nothing compared to the new contender. Because it's true what they say: there's always more fish in the sea.

i complete me

2008-06-10T18:01:00.000-07:00

A friend casually suggested that I get on the dating scene while I have an abundance of free time. I confess I'm reluctant to foray into this field while I'm unemployed and living with my parents; what guy in his right mind would actually want to date that?

All the same, I mozied here and answered about a bazillion questions to generate a personality profile that will lead me to my soulmate(s). I somewhat expected a flattering profile, an ego boost to get the reluctant dater to fork over dues for services. But I was still surprised by the one generated by my answers, which described me not as a generally nice person, but as one who is emotionally mature and both familiar and at ease with who she is.

Then I read this, and found myself checking off all of the items on the list at the end. It's hard not to immediately recognize that most of the credit belongs to God or to recall that most of the good changes that took place in me during my 20s occured as I got to know Him better. But still... it's hard not to let this stuff go to my head. I mean, daaaamn, I'm a catch! I'd date me, in a heartbeat.

I'm going to make out with the mirror now.

after ever after

2008-06-03T19:45:00.000-07:00

I love action and chick flicks, so I love the months of June, July and August, during which such movies abound. These movies depict a world unrestrained by the laws of physics and rationality, a world in which the the good guys survive all sorts of death-defying shananigans unscathed, the good-looking guys survive unscarred and lust at first sight leads to love at the altar.

I haven't had enough (or any) MacGyver moments to qualify me to judge the plausibility of action movies. But I do know that many relationships, however romantic their inception, do not end at the altar. So while I appreciate the value of the cinematic trifecta of a bended knee, a (blood) diamond and a white dress, I often find chick flicks to require greater suspension of disbelief than action movies.

Imagine, then, my delight, when I joined my mom for an episode of her latest Chinese drama. Entitled "Golden Anniversary", it chronicles the marriage of the lead characters from 1955 through 2005, from their first year of marriage through their fiftieth. In other words, it picks up where most movies end. There's no melodrama involving murder a la "Desperate Housewives", only the drama of everyday life. In one scene, for example, the couple bickers about personal hygiene. My mom tells me that the show - wildly popular in China - accurately depicts both life in China and life in a marriage.

I stopped watching after about 20 minutes because the storyline was almost too realistic, too familiar. Besides, I know how the story ends; it's called "Golden Anniversary", not "Divorce Court". And perhaps that's the fairy tale element of the show: that despite statistics to the contrary, people who vow "I do" actually stand by each other and stay through better and worse, richer and poorer, sickness and health.

Then again, maybe it's not so fantastical. These days, I have a recurring guest role in such a tale.

dear senator clinton

2008-05-23T21:15:00.001-07:00

Never mind the earlier note.

Please just stop talking, full stop.

dear senator clinton

2008-05-21T23:23:00.001-07:00

It's time.

Stop acting like this is "your turn". (Pssst... nobody's entitled to a turn in a democracy!)

Stop comparing yourself to abolitionists and voting rights activists who actually sacrificed their own interests for the greater good.

Stop pretending that you're keeping on for others as you handicap the Democratic Party for the sake of your own ego and ambition.

Stop putting those of us who once admired and supported you in the position of defending indefensible conduct.

Stop using racism as a sword and sexism as a shield.

Stop lying to us.

Stop deceiving yourself.

Stop campaigning for John McCain.

Please. Just... STOP.

parents do the darndest things

2008-05-18T19:44:00.000-07:00

I'm in my 30s, I'm unemployed and I live with my parents.

But unlike George Costanza, I haven't lived with my parents (beyond a weekend here and a week there) for over 10 years. So this prolonged stint of cohabitation with the people who gave me life has been... like a safari game drive.

Everyday, I'm tempted to write about some peculiar mannerism or absurdly hilarious conversation that takes place with or between my parents. What are they doing? Were they always like this? What in the world...? I imagine myself a wildlife photographer, dressed in bush leaves, covertly viewing the secret life and habits of exotic creatures.

Not everything is new. Yet even the familiar, once recalled to mind, engenders a different reaction than a decade ago. To be sure, there is still plenty of frustration or annoyance at how they don't do thing the right (ie. my) way, at how they don't already know things that are so patently obvious (ie. to me). But much more often, even the old habits and mannerisms seem funny or oddly interesting and, ultimately, really endearing.

A lot has happened to them, to me, to us over the last 10 years. I doubt I love my parents any more or less than I did in my 20s. But I do believe that I love them differently, with more gratitute and fewer stones in hand.

brown paper packages tied up with strings

2008-05-08T16:57:00.000-07:00

This article contains a few of my favorite things:

Witty articulation of the plight and humanity of an often-misunderstood minority group with nary a chip on the shoulder.

Some essential truths applicable in a variety of contexts: (1) calling yourself something doesn't make you one; (2) cravings for something and voluntary abstinence from it are not mutually exclusive; (3) just because you feel judged doesn't mean you're being judged; and (4) if I seem crazy to you, chances are you seem pretty nuts to me.

A hilarious (albeit mostly unrelated) youtube link.

recommendations

2008-05-06T16:45:00.000-07:00

Read this. Watch this. Listen to this.

east meets west

2008-04-26T09:44:00.000-07:00

In the 22 years since I immigrated to U.S. and in the 12 years since my last trip, the East has come to look a lot more like the West. (And of course, by "the East", I mean Thailand, Taiwan and Korea.) My top 5 most interesting/curious points of transformation:

7-Eleven: The original American ambassador of consumerism and instant and 24-hour gratification. In Bangkok, it guarantees you an air-conditioned oasis on every block; in Taipei, hot tea eggs and tempura; in Seoul... something I can afford. McDonald's and Starbucks have got nothing on 7.
Whitening toiletries: Dove. Ponds. Olay. All drug store beauty brands that make special whitening products for the East that I'd never seen in the West. I'm not talking about toothpaste. I'm talking about cleansers and creams and scrubs to make your face whiter. This is perhaps the ultimate imitation of the West, but one that, for better or worse, will never succeed. To my sisters who spend their hard-earned money on this stuff: you're yellow, you'll never be white; deal with it.
Doughnut shops: Dunkin' Donuts and donut shops in America tend to be these hole-in-the-wall places that, but for the halo-shaped delights therein, look and feel dank and depressing. Donut shops in the East are clean, air-conditioned, spacious coffee shops that happen to sell donuts. Customers are given little baskets or trays lined with wax paper and a pair of tongs to select donuts as if they're French pastries. There's jazz playing, art on the walls and good coffee. People settle in, read, hang out for hours, the way they'd do at Starbucks.
Rogaine: It's called Regaine in Asia. The Asian name makes more sense, don't you think?
Toilets: I remember the days when most pubic facilities - even in nice places - were porcelain holes in the ground. Now, more sitting, less squatting. I'm of the mind that if you visit a place that requires squatting, you do it. No whining. When in Rome, etc. Thus, it's only fair that if you're accustomed to squatting, and you come face-to-face with a sitting toilet, that you do it. No hovering, no climbing on top of the seat and making a big ol' mess. Just sit your ass down.

33 and counting: an alternate theory

2008-04-23T12:42:00.000-07:00

7: number of extra hours of housework per week performed by married women in the U.S. compared with single women.

1: number of extra hours of housework per week performed by single men in the U.S. compared with married men.

(Source: Time magazine)

minor characters

2008-04-22T04:21:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite novels is Wide Sargasso Sea. It tells the story of Bertha Mason before she became Jane Eyre's crazy wife in the attic; it tells the story of Bertha before she became a minor character - an obstacle, really - in the story Jane and Rochester.

It has been fun to visit old friends in new places. Apart from the obvious perks of great companionship and local guides, I get to be a minor character in the ongoing stories of my friends, whose ongoing lives lend a depth and richness to these places that I'd hardly have discovered as a passing visitor.

But the most surprising of the stories of this past month has been that of my father. In Taiwan, I watched him interact with my grandfather, visited places and heard stories of his past. When news came of my great uncle's death, he broke the news to my grandfather and made plans to go to China to attend the funeral and tend to people and things. As a spectator, I thought about the dutiful eldest son he has always been, the kind of father he had and perhaps wanted, the kind of father he is and was and wasn't, the kind of children he wanted and the ones he got.

As the central figure in a story of war and immigration and poverty and family and life's triumph and strife, my father is a much different man than the one I had known as a minor character (and oftentimes, antagonist) in the story of my life. There are many people who I admire but lack the will to aspire to be; I never thought my dad would be one of them.

33 and counting

2008-04-21T22:26:00.000-07:00

According to the Korean calendar, I'm 33 years old. I'm also single. Every so often, I see an article or two that attempt to explain this most vexing conundrum of unmarried women in their 30s and beyond. By all accounts, all the good men are taken and even as I type, my chances of marrying well (or at all) is shrinking at a disturbing rate. And this is a matter of grave concern.

The assumption about a single man in his 30s is that he is out sowing barley or otherwise enjoying the perks of bachelorhood. Talking to women in Seoul who are in a similar stage of life, I'm relatively fortunate that guilt trips about grandchildren and suggestions of match-making services are rare in my life. How odd, really, that anyone should feel sorry for single women who live in a day and age when they can earn and keep and spend their own income, safely travel to just about anywhere in the world without a male companion, and be the masters of their own domain.

I, for one, will find worthier candidates for my compassion and concern.

afternoon at the dmz

2008-04-20T21:55:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, my friend and I took a train ride to the demilitarized zone ("DMZ") between North and South Korea. The train ride was surprisingly short; the DMZ is surprisingly close to Seoul.

After de-boarding the train, we followed the crowd down the street. Along the way, there were several memorials and statutes to remember those who fought, those who perished, those who continue to live separated from loved ones. The somber mood was not unmitigated: there was a tourist train and an amusement park nearby. Perhaps some planner concluded that there isn't really that much to see at the DMZ and people should have alternative amusements if they make the trip.

I took in the views of barbed wires and tall fences, looked at photos of battles fought and broken-hearted family members, took some pictures and tried to be respectful of what this place is and means to those around me.

Then we saw them, a number of elderly men in uniform. The buses nearby indicated that they are members of the Korean War Veterans Association from different parts of the world. I wondered what they thought of it all. Whether they considered the DMZ a sign of their success or failure or something else altogether. I wondered what they thought of the amusement park and the tourists, for whom the DMZ is but another photo opportunity.

As we meandered, my friend and I talked about war and peace and similarly weighty issues that a place like the DMZ brings to mind. We returned to Seoul heavier in heart but with no greater clarity.

dogs, plastic surgery and pantyhose

2008-04-18T01:47:00.000-07:00

I've fully exploited my closeness with my host in Seoul by treating her as the representative of all things Korean and bombarding her with every question that comes to mind about her homeland.

Being the near-saint that she is, she has responded good-naturedly about eating dogs (A: No, hardly anybody eats dogs; only certain specialty shops serve dog meat as a novelty) and plastic surgery (A: I doubt plastic surgery is any more rampant here than in the U.S. and, no, I don't know anyone who's had calf-reduction surgery). As much as she tried to maintain her composure, I could tell that it's frustrating to have to defend one's culture against caricaturization.

I expected her answers, but somehow visiting Seoul and hearing from a native finally settled these queries. Just as whatever politically-correct beliefs I might have held, it took friendships with African, African-American, Mormon, Jewish, Japanese folks to expose my secret and not-so-secret prejudices. Real relationships with real people - not theoretical recitations - humbled and corrected me. Or at least started the process.

My friend tells me that some benefits accrue to her as well, mainly from seeing her city through new eyes. For example, she had never noticed that the fixtures intended to prevent cars from driving on the sidewalks look like Roman gladiator helmets. Or that women in skirts and shorts wear stockings - every single one of them. As did my friend, who didn't always wear stockings in America. When I asked her, her immediate explanation (protection from the elements) was not what I had expected (lady-likeness). After some consideration, she concluded that her habit of doing so was primarily an act of unthinking conformity to the practices of those around her. During our afternoon outing, she excused herself, then returned less protected from the elements, but a little more herself.

deja food

2008-04-16T16:17:00.000-07:00

On my last night in Taipei, some friends of my parents invited us to dinner. When we arrived, paparazzi were stationed at the entrance. Apparently some local politician being courted by the President-elect was being dined and wined as he considers the offered cabinet position.

This meal was a virtual replica of every restaurant meal I recall from my childhood in Taiwan. Instead of dim lights, we have for ambiance gas-station-bright fluorescent lights. Instead of soft music, we have the clinking of tea cups, the clacking of chopstick against chopstick, against teeth and porcelain, all enveloped in a deafening roar of chatter and laughter.

Since my parents' friends made clear they were hosting the dinner, I knew we'd avoid the meal-end fight to pay the bill. But other battles ensued. First, people deferred fervently to one another to say the prayer for the meal. Then, as the food arrived, people put the lazy susan to good use, insisting that others take the first of each dish. "You should go first! You're hosting." "No, you're the guest; you should go first." "You're older." "You rarely eat this stuff." Around and around we went, each round decreasingly amusing as I grew increasingly hungry and not a little dizzy.

The main dish of the night was Peking duck. As a waiter in another restaurant would bring out a bottle of wine before uncorking it, the waitress brought out the roasted duck - head and all - on a platter for inspection. As each dish was eaten and cleared, the waitress scraped remaining scraps onto the plates of a guest of her choosing. Nothing should go to waste.

The conversation jumped from stories of how one suitor pursued all four sisters at the same time in a game of romantic diversification, to the theological unsoundness of the Prosperity Gospel and popular worship songs, to "Where is Uganda? Uganda or Rwanda? I saw the Hotel movie. It was so sad and... Hey, waiter! Where's our soup? We ordered soup..."

After I lost count of the courses, the meal was finished. Hugs were hugged, hands were shaken, pictures were taken. Delirious from laughter and well on my way to a food coma, I headed home to ready myself for some Seoul-searching.

shame, shame, i know your name

2008-04-15T08:30:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, my parents and I boarded a bus on our way to Yangmingshan. All of the seats were taken; nearly all the ones in the rear were occupied by chatty university students.

Back in the day, when I was a school kid growing up in Taiwan, young 'uns gave up their seats to the elderly. That's the legend, anyway. So as the bus continued its jerky procession through the streets of Taipei with my nearly 70-year-old parents swaying on their feet, several people looked to the university students to do the honorable thing. But nobody said anything. So none of the students did the right thing. Some pretended to doze off while others continued chatting.

As the bus screeched to a halt at the first stop, my mom nearly fell into the stairwell by the back entrance. I admit, that upset me. I turned to the students behind me and asked, at a volume audible by the entire bus, "How about one of you young people yield a seat?"

For a brief moment, everything froze. The bus, the conversations, the bird song, the street noise. Everyone held their breath and stared as if I had just opened my trench coat and exposed my bits. In that suspension of time, I thought, "Oops. I'm being very American. You don't confront people in public here."

But shock and silence quickly gave way to shame and embarrassment, two things that always get your way in Chinese culture. The students rustled papers and rucksacks. Their confused eyes darted between the people standing nearby, unable to determine who was to receive the vacated seat. There was my mom, clinging onto a pole for dear life. There was my dad, who looks younger than his years because of his smiley appearance and because most of his white hairs have fallen off. Then there was me, looking 7 months into the blessed state thanks to a bellowing shirt I bought off the street for $100 NTD (or 30 U.S. cents).

My mom stumbled toward the open seat; my dad declined the offer of another. As my mom sat down with an audible sigh of relief, she caught my eyes and nodded. I've never seen her so proud.

formosa

2008-04-13T00:44:00.000-07:00

I'm a bit smitten with my birthplace. Pleasing to the eye, with mountains all around, it's got all the elements that I love in a place to live: a vibrant and busy city, efficient and affordable public transport, easy access to nature, great food, culture, history, with a neighborly tension that keeps politics interesting. Plus, I can speak/understand the language (for the most part) and visually blend into the general population (for the most part).

Taiwan: you R.O.C. my world.

grandfatherly advice

2008-04-11T02:56:00.000-07:00

"Let me tell you," he said - nay, commanded - in Chinese. "Do two things."

"First, go be a lawyer in China. Don't be a lawyer in America anymore. Go to Beijing. That's where the opportunities are. Lots to do."

"Second, you must find a husband." To ensure my comprehension, he actually said "husband" in English. "Do you understand? Find a husband."

burrr...

2008-04-10T22:32:00.000-07:00

It rained earlier this morning. Now it's grey and nippy;the air is dry. I'll take my coat when I go wandering about the neighborhood.

Chilly and dry is good.

love vicariously

2008-04-08T22:15:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, a friend observed that some people develop life-long loyalties to a certain region of the world. The particular region has a special "glow" - its culture seems more vibrant, its struggles more tragic, its history more interesting - against which other regions pale in comparison. For some, for me, that region of the world is Africa.

As a visitor passing through Bangkok, everything seems interesting in that general I-haven't-seen-this-before kind of a way. For my friends who live and minister here, Bangkok is not just generally interesting. It's... more. The food is more flavorful and varied, the people more kind, the heat and humidity more potent.

As the days pass, my fondness for this place grows. In part because I've had more occasions to personally experience the flavors and variety and kindness and humidity. But much more so because of my friends' deep and genuine affection for this place and people they now regard as their own, because love is powerful and powerfully contagious.

trippin'

2008-04-06T23:28:00.000-07:00

Figure out and take public bus. Check.

Visit the Grand Palace and nearby temples. Check.

Find and cruise hip area popular with backpackers. Check.

Avoid dehydration and pickpockets throughout day of solo sightseeing. Check.

Pick up iced latte to enjoy back at air-conditioned room of guest house...

SPLAT.

Just as I was honing in on a peaceful end to an adventurous day, I found myself quite literally in the gutter. One minute I was walking, guest house in view. The next minute, I'm on my belly on the streets of Bangkok. As I struggled to my feet, I eyed the carcass of my iced latte as it flowed into the streets. Footsteps clacked behind me and kind strangers offered their assistance and unrecognizable but surely kind words.

I staggered to the guest house with gutter juice all over my trousers. Memories of other belly flops, of running into poles and public telephones came to mind. Great annoyance at my own clumsiness led to a surprising realization. For all my physical mishaps, I'd been able to walk away from them all with nothing more than bruised limbs and bruised ego.

Life may be an obstacle course, and I may not be skilled at maneuvering it, but I'm grateful for the grace to get up and get back at it.

tourist in disguise

2008-04-04T22:32:00.000-07:00

After spending a year as a public spectacle, I'm enjoying being a foreigner who blends in with the general population. Most Thais speak Thai and assume I'd understand. Whenever possible, I nod in agreement or use the few phrases I know. For the most part, greeting, pointing at what I want and saying "thank you" gets me by.

Then I go shopping or ride the bus with one of my non-Asian friends who live in Bangkok and speak Thai. As they communicate with the vendor or bus conductor, the Thai person would invariably look to me and, through either words or looks, invite me to assist in the conversation. I'd blink with a confused look on my face, then attempt my backup phrase ("I do not speak Thai"), usually mixing the words in a moment of performance anxiety.

The conversation would then resume between the other parties. I'd stand aside, somewhat embarrassed but mostly relieved that my cover's been blown.

en route... in first class

2008-04-02T19:22:00.000-07:00

Whatever complaints I had about China AirLine, consider them retracted.

After a brief lay-over in Taipei, I boarded my flight to Bangkok. I showed the flight attendant my ticket stub and she directed me upstairs. Upstairs? I climbed a few steps and found myself in First Class.

My first moments of my first (and possibly only) time in First Class: Look at stub. Look around First Class Cabin. Look at flight attendant. Smile and nod back. Look at stub again. Find my seat. Look at stub. Slowly ease into wide, leather lounge chair. Look at others in cabin. Feel under-dressed. Look at flight attendant. Hold breath. Wait for someone to tell me to go downstairs. Check stub against seat number. Settle in. Praise the Lord.

By the time I arrived in Bangkok, I had nearly finished my book and felt as if I had just spent a quiet afternoon in an armchair by a window. Even the luggage checked against my will arrived without any hiccup.

So I take it back. I take it all back.

en route

2008-04-01T16:38:00.000-07:00

The last time I traveled on China AirLine ("CLA") was in 1996. My immediate family took an extended trip to China, Hong Kong and Taiwan. That trip was a long time ago and somewhat of a blur, but other than wretching during one of the flights, I remembered my encounters with CLA were rather pleasant.

12 years later, I'm waiting to board my 1am CLA flight to Bangkok. Determined not to check any luggage, I had acquired and filled many 3-oz. bottles and squeezed everything into a quart-sized baggy. I wanted to land in Bangkok, get through customs, meet my friend and get this party started.

I was dozing in the waiting area at LAX - oh, what fun I always have at LAX! - when two CLA reps approached me. They were in uniform and had probably used more than 3 ounces of hair gel per person to achieve their uniformedly shellacked, spiked, anti-gravity hairstyle. They spoke in choppy but rapid English. Long story short, they wanted me to check my carry-on bag. Half asleep, I protested, but was not able to put together any coherent reasons and did not have the presence of mind to argue with them in Chinese. They tagged my carry-on and accosted their next victims.

I spent the first few waking hours of my 14-hour flight fuming about my hijacked carry-on. There was so much bin space and other passengers had been permitted to carry on luggage of similiar size. I was seated near (too near) a wailing toddler and the toilets. The foot-rest at my seat was loose and kept falling on my shin. I was not provided the complimentary eye-mask/socks/toothbrush/toothpaste set. The lady seated behind me positioned her legs just so to prevent me from reclining my seat. I reached the inescapable and only rational conclusion under the circumstances: CLA was out to get me.

Then I fell asleep. The beauty of sleep is that it cures much of the delirium and paranoia that result from sleep deprivation. When I woke, the flight attendants seemed helpful and nice; they gave me a cup of instant noodles, water, pillows, whatever I requested. Then they served porridge (my favorite!) for breakfast. As it turned out, it was actually quite convenient to be somewhat near the toilets. And when the lady behind me finally used the facilities, I reclined my seat all the way back. (Take that!) I then enjoyed ａcouple of free movies.

I will still have to deal with baggage claim when I land in Bangkok, but that now seemed a minor inconvenience. Maybe CLA wasn't out to get me after all. Next time I encounter a conspiracy to annoy and inconvenience me, I'll nap in response.

5-day forecast

2008-03-31T16:54:00.000-07:00

Next stop: Bangkok, Thailand.

Next 5 days (in fahrenheit): 98, 91, 93, 89, 89.

Don't even get me started on humidity.

in-flight entertainment

2008-03-29T13:15:00.000-07:00

I generally prefer aisle seats. I can stretch out, access the overhead bins, walk around, be the first to jump up and go nowhere when the seatbelt light is turned off.

I ended up in a window seat on my way back to California and found myself mesmerized by the clouds. In some spots, the clouds were foam floating on a clear stream; I could see the contours of the land beneath. In other spots, the clouds were frothy waves on a stormy sea. In yet other spots, the clouds took on the shapes of wildlife and city skylines. In my mind, I knew that if I reached out and touched one, my fingers would not sense the fluffy, cottony texture and substance I'd always imagined in childhood; a cloud is little more than water vapor. But it looked so... real. How is possible that something could so dramatically defy its own appearance?

I felt deceived by my own eyes. Surely God gave us different senses, heart and head, mind and body and spirit, because sometimes parts of the bundle mislead us. The clouds may deceive the eye, but not the touch. What's visible is not always real or tangible; what's invisible and intangible is not always imagined. And once in a while, what is real is better than what we can touch or imagine.

These were some of the thoughts that coursed through me as the plane chased the setting sun. For a few hours, I could see its rays just beyond the wing as we sped westward; it seemed that we might catch up. But that, too, was an illusion. Nearly five hours later, we landed under the night sky.

if you can't take the heat, get off the trail

2008-03-27T14:51:00.001-07:00

Chelsea Clinton's reaction to a question about her mother's handling of the Lewinsky scandal churned in my gut for a few days. I didn't like it, to be sure, but something else about it bothered me.

A few days later, I watched a televised segment of Chelsea's campaign speech at another college campus. She likened herself to the students in the audience. I'm a young person just like you, she told the audience. I share - I know - your struggles and concerns for issues such as affordable higher education.

Chelsea's own words put the finger on my discomfort during the earlier brouhaha. She grew up in the governor's mansion and the White House, under the protection of armed guards. I doubt FAFSA ever featured in her considerations about attending Stanford and Oxford. Whatever disadvantages that accompany such a cloistered life, it is a privileged life; in this regard, she has more in common with Paris Hilton than with the average American college student.

Her claim - that she once was your typical college student worried about paying tuition - is a lie, and her brush-off of an inartful but legitimate question blew the cover off her act. The content and tone of her response betrayed a belief that some things, albeit acceptable for the common person, are beneath her; she is not subject to rules that apply to others. Every other person who goes on the campaign trail must face and address the press; but not I. Others on the campaign trail must face and answer uncomfortable questions; but not I. One can only speculate the extent to which this outlook is an individual or a family trait.

A highly educated, 28-year-old investment banker does not need the same level of protection as a 14-year-old girl. The former should not be afforded such protection when she holds herself out as a public voice in one of the most contested and important American elections in recent history.

generations

2008-03-24T14:48:00.000-07:00

Before I left for Uganda a year ago, my brother brought his daughter to California to see me off. My niece was not yet two and had only started to walk and speak.

A year later, she is running and chatting, quite a different little person than the one I last saw at LAX. She has favorite colors and food preferences and mood swings and the cutest little mug. She nows knows how to both pose for and foil a shutterbug.

In a week, I will see the grandfather who I last saw in 1996, who, then 85, had both the towering height and commanding demeanor to induce fear and submission in small (and not so small) children. My brother warns that grandfather looks much older and is much more frail than I'd ever known this family patriarch to be.

I spend much of my time with people in the prime of life, during which a year or a decade makes some but not very dramatic differences in one's physical aptitude or appearance. But those at the bookends of life remind me that life keeps moving and growing and changing everyday, every year. We should do likewise.

weeping in the west

2008-03-21T19:18:00.000-07:00

I took a lot of medication with me to Uganda. Infections and ailments - especially "traveler's diarrhea" - seemed inevitable. But apart from an annoying cough that subsided once I adjusted to the air quality, I remained in good health.

No health warnings are typically issued when it comes to travels within the so-called developed West. But after a few weeks in a few cities and states, I've got projectile emissions coming out both ends.

The irony provides some comic relief as I "weep fluids" (as one medical website so aptly describes). But I'm plenty ready for the hilarity (and the weeping) to come to an end.

travel companions

2008-03-20T07:00:00.000-07:00

I was shocked - dismayed, appalled - to learn during my current travels that some airlines now charge fees to watch movies during domestic flights. (If you want to buy their headsets, that's an additional charge.) The gall. How am I to pass the time? Meditate? Do my taxes? Talk to my neighbors? Listen to my neighbors??!!

The airlines' stinginess (and my own) may work out to be a blessing in disguise. In an age of 200+ channels and youtube, there remains something uniquely powerful in the written word. The pen is mightier than the remote control.

bean there, done that

2008-03-19T18:01:00.000-07:00

A week in Beantown is best the third time around. The pressures of rising early, hitting the pavement, seeing everything "worthwhile" have already been vitiated by prior visits.

This time, the only agenda is to see and spend time with good friends, to be a part of their life in Boston, to share in the everyday things. To meet the newborn and find an easy excuse to stay in and cook and chat, to watch "Hot Fuzz" then quote and reenact it ad nauseum, to feel the time and space of a year fade away in the span of hours and days.

stand down

2008-03-13T10:50:00.000-07:00

When a newly elected official takes office, there is usually some unofficial training where he or she learns both the formal and informal procedures and protocol that accompany the new office.

I wonder if there is a similar class for the spouses of politicians. It certainly seems like "Stand By Your Man 101" is a mandatory course for wives of politicians and public figures, in the event the elected spouse is caught with a 20-year old call girl, a 20-year old intern or, for extra credit, a male escort. The course covers everything from what one would say ("This is a challenging time for our family, but we love and stand behind him") to what one would wear (dark suit, classic accessories, somber expression) at the inevitable press conference where the man who vowed honor and fidelity to wife and office declares that, alas, he is only human. The course would not cover how to maintain a healthy marriage while competing with the demands of the office and the ego boost that comes with the territoriy; it would only address what happens when the infidelity is documented and undeniable.

This being nearly 2010, it seems time to tinker with the syllabus. For starters, the press conference protocol should be changed so that, as opposed to standing behind him in silence, the betrayed spouse could serve him - stylishly and with great flair - with divorce papers.

remains of the year

2008-03-11T16:53:00.000-07:00

Two days ago, I gave a presentation to a Sunday school class about my time in Uganda. I shared stories as I scrolled through pictures. At points, I caught myself laughing at a memory too tangential to explain. At other points, my voice would catch as I recalled the people and interactions on the screen.

Yesterday, I ate a piece of a "really good" pineapple given by a family friend. It was all I could do to resist the urge to spit out rather than swallow the mouthful.

Today, as I scrubbed red dirt off the soles of my shoes with an old toothbrush, I unthinkingly wished for a practical way to preserve a specimen of the richly colored soil.

So it continues, the inexplicable grip that Uganda has on me. Whatever imprint my brief time there has left on my tastebuds and soul (or sole), it hasn't yet fully lifted.

remote control

2008-03-07T01:08:00.000-08:00

My most relaxing week in the month since my return was spent at my sister's in Morro Bay, a lovely spot on the central coast of California. My sister and I would hang out during the weekend and in the evenings after she got home from work. During the day, I'd roam about town, go to the beach, visit the local library (for internet access), and watch The Office and movies on DVD.

Before my arrival, the remote control for the DVD player had run out of juice. My sister and I regularly reminded each other to get one during the next outing, then promptly forgot the moment we closed the door behind us. There weren't nearly as many functions on the DVD player as on the remote control, and what few functions still available could only be accessed if I hauled my ass off the couch and physically asserted pressure on the relevant buttons. In short, for all intents and purposes, I had to watch shows and movies all the way through. I "couldn't" rewind to hear missed dialogue, fast-forward past familiar or seemingly unimportant portions, or replay favored scenes over and over (and over) again.

I remember the pre-ipod days, even pre-CD days, when I'd play an entire album all the way through, when I'd listen to every song, not just the ones already favored by the radio stations. In so doing, I had come to find some of the best that were never formally released; they had to be discovered.

I can only imagine how much of life and people I have overlooked because I was fast-forwarding when I should've been paying attention, or because I was replaying (yet again) a past interaction and thus too distracted to focus on one unraveling in the present. In my head and my heart, I know life doesn't have a multi-function remote control; I get to live a given moment once and it's gone. But I can't seem to bring myself to live this reality. I dwell rather than forgive. I take for granted rather than treasure.

The past is full of memories and lessons, the future gives hope and purpose, so surely the present isn't the only one that matters. God's in all three; this I know. But the relative weight of each to the other? That I haven't quite figured out just yet.

ocean

2008-03-05T16:43:00.001-08:00

Lately, I've been thnking about You
And lately, I've been dreaming of You
And lately, I can't get You out of my head
Get You out of my head

Something about the ocean
Makes me rise up and praise
Something about the heavens
Makes me stand in awe again
Something about the sunrise
Reminds me of Your faithfulness
Something about the ocean
And I'm lost in love again

I'll sing until I sense a smile
Upon Your great and lovely face
And till I know Your glory's in this place
Your glory's in this place

Something about the ocean
Makes me rise up and praise
Something about the heavens
Makes me stand in awe again
Something about the sunrise
Reminds me of Your faithfulness
Something about the ocean
And I'm lost in love again

(by Ten Shekel Shirt)

deja vu

2008-02-27T23:38:00.001-08:00

Lest I forget what I look like between then and now, I was once again reminded. At LAX.

I went to the airport to meet a friend arriving from Uganda (via the Netherlands). While checking the arrival screens, a woman wearing a LAX information vest approached me and asked, "You have a question about China Airlines?"

family (dys)function

2008-02-23T22:52:00.000-08:00

One of my counsin recently married. She and her new husband live in Singapore but came to California on holiday, so a dinner was scheduled for them to meet their relatives in America. I last saw my cousin in 1986. I was 10; she was 6. As for the other relatives... Well, year-end holiday gatherings had become so toxic and unpleasant that 10 years ago, we'd stopped gathering.

As it turned out, dinner was not altogether horrible. There was a mountain of magnificent Chinese food; it's really difficult to fight with your mouth full. There was also the advantage of very low expectations. I expected tension, followed by the inevitable implosion of old wounds and grievances. Instead, there was merely harmless awkwardness.

I was asked only one of the Big Two: (1) What are you doing with your life; and (2) When are you getting married. I actually enjoyed fielding the first, proudly proclaiming my unemployed status, giddily quashing some relatives' hopes of free legal services. The second one fell to my favorite uncle, who had been in a long-term relationship ever since his divorce some years back. His answer was terrific: he will marry when McCain is elected President of the United States.

For most of the night, my uncle unabashedly rallied for McCain, while my aunt did the same for Clinton, and I for Obama. The time was filled with gossip and speculation about the election and so many politically incorrect comments. Since none of it was personal, things were said and taken with a good and needed measure of humor.

During breaks from giving and taking jabs, I surveyed the scene with great amusement and satisfaction. We are one screwy bunch; we always have been. But for the first time in a long time, we weren't trying to correct, vent frustration or make accusations about each other's brokenness simply because it happens to be a different variety than our own. Sure, we focused all of that critical energy on politicians - they're people, too! - but I can live with that.

jet lag

2008-02-17T20:59:00.000-08:00

For the first two days after my arrival in California, I went to sleep at 9pm and woke up at 6am. The next few days, I went to sleep at midnight and woke up at 8am. That was that for temporal jet lag.

The bigger challenge is the emotional and relational jet lag. I'd been living on the opposite side of the world from the people once woven into my daily life. I'd been awake when they'd been sleeping and vice versa. I forget what topics are favored. Even worse, I forget what subjects are sensitive - until after the words are well out of my mouth and the reactions have set in. My points of reference have changed. My mind is a tangle of compare-and-contrast that, for the most part, defies coherent articulation. What I do manage to verbalize does not seem to engender the same level of interest in the listeners as in the speaker.

A year is not very long, but lots of little things happen in that span of time. People change. People move; they move on. This is all perfectly normal: the same would've happened regardless of where I'd spent the past dozen months. Absence simply magnifies the difference, the same way a child's growth or an elder's aging seems much more dramatic to those who see them but rarely. I suspect some of this lag will dissipate with time, but some is permanent and there's no sleeping it off.

clothes call

2008-02-15T14:27:00.000-08:00

After holing up for a couple of days, I finally ventured outdoors. Actually, "outdoors" is misleading. I went to the mall.

Shopping is such a different experience in the West. Highly impersonal transactions with minimal human interaction: little chit-chat and no haggling. The plastic does all the talking. When buying on credit, the unpleasant reality that money is being spent - normally triggered by the act of counting and handing over money - is all but obliterated. At least for 28 days.

I tried on about 20 pairs of jeans before finding a pair that fits perfectly. I'm not sure why I focused on jeans. I did give away one of the two pairs that I took with me to Uganda, so perhaps that act of selfless charity left some sort of emptiness in me, a feeling that I'm down 50% in the denim department of my inner being.

Anyhow, finding jeans that fit (especially after trying on 20 pairs) creates an intoxicating euphoria that virtually carries a woman to the cash register. But I resisted the urge. The price tag helped. But more importantly, back in the far recesses of my mind, a small voice whispered. "Pssst... You don't need them!"

As it turned out, that small voice was not the voice of frugality; it was the voice of memory. When I got back to my parents' place, I rummaged through boxes crammed into various closets and crawl spaces and discovered... many pairs of jeans, most of which still fit, a stockpile from days when it seemed absolutely essential to have different pairs of jeans for daytime vs. evening outings, for coordinating with high- vs. mid- vs. low-heeled shoes, for accommodating pre-breakfast vs. post-5-course-meal waistlines, for accentuating vs. minimizing the junk in my trunk. Holy crap! How could I have even considered buying yet another pair of jeans?

Relief washed over me. I felt... saved from that purchase, from my own excess. Mostly, in the aftermath of that near-miss of a purchase, I felt delivered from my own forgetfulness - about what I do and don't need, about all that I already have, about a former life as an active and yet unthinking consumer.

ai-ya sisterhood

2008-02-13T20:01:00.000-08:00

In a span of two weeks, I've gone from Africa (Uganda) to Europe (U.K.) to the Americas (U.S./LAX) to... Asia (Rowland Heights, California).

My parents live in an area with a sizable number of Chinese immigrants. All of their friends are Chinese. They shop at Chinese stores, eat at Chinese restaurants, attend a Chinese church. But for a couple of telephone conversations with my siblings, I have not spoken more than three sentences of English to any one person since my arrival 4 days ago.

Earlier today, my mom hosted a class with four of her friends. Being quite skilled in Chinese calligraphy and water color, my mom teaches her friends over tea and conversation. I joined them for a potluck lunch after class. The food was amazing, a smorgasbord of Chinese and Taiwanese cuisine. The conversation was hilarious and interesting, touching on families, Taiwanese elections, stories from travels and everyday lives. My mom's affection and regard for these women have always been obvious in how she speaks of them in their absence; in their presence, I could see the feelings were mutual. Although they meet as a group but once a week, they have supported one another through separation and death of a child and some of the roughest torrents of life.

I shared some stories of Uganda, then some beaded tokens. They thanked me profusely for the souvenirs, which they thought extravagant and unwarranted. But the gifts were meant as ones of appreciation and quite meager and inadequate for that purpose. In my various stints away from home, I've always had the luxury of knowing that these ladies will take care of and watch out for my mom, that they are willing and able to help and support her in ways that I'm not, whether near or far. Their friendship with my mom makes possible - or at least less heart-rending - the adventures of a daughter who loves her mom, but not enough to stay put.

welcome to America

2008-02-11T09:35:00.000-08:00

The 12-hour flight from London and Los Angeles felt like nothing at all. I watched 4 movies, took a nap, had 2 meals.

The fun started after we landed at LAX. For 30 minutes, we sat and waited for a small vehicle to tow the plane to the gate, in some apparent homage to dinghy towing a large ship to harbor. Then the plane door connecting to the gate jammed. More waiting, but by this time, all of the passengers in the full flight were standing in the aisles.

When the door finally opened, people poured out in a scene from the evacuation of Saigon, dashing madly for the visa check-points. As I made my way to the substantially shorter queues for American citizens, an employee of the U.S. government moved towards me.

"Visitors to line 6," he said as he extended his arms, blocking my progress and pointing toward the very long lines for people holding foreign passports. "VISITORS TO LINE 6!"

I held up my passport. "American citizen."

"Oh," he lowered his arms. "This way, please."

I went to the first open counter and greeted the uniformed official.

"How long were you in China?" He asked, before he even opened my passport. He jerked slightly and caught himself, a split second too late. He shifted in his chair and sat up straight. "Uh... I mean, did you... were you in China? Where did you go?"

"Africa."

"Africa? What were you doing in Africa?" He riffled through the pages of my passport, bearing stamps for Uganda, Rwanda, Kenya, Tanzania, England, Greece and Turkey (but none for any Asian countries).

"Volunteering."

"Oh. Ok. Go ahead."

"Thanks."

"Welcome back."

mind the gap

2008-02-10T20:29:00.000-08:00

My friend who joined me in London walks with a limp and at noticeably reduced speed. Had I spent the week alone or with another friend, I probably would not have noticed how unaccommodating a place the city can be for people with disabilities. Few places - tube stations, restaurants, tourist sites - are equipped with ramps or elevators. Even boarding or alighting trains required one to "mind the gap" between the train and the platform - something that can be more challenging for some than for others.

Even more striking was how some people seemed unable or unwilling to make allowances for someone who walked slower and made a point to express their impatience. I was reminded of the same agitation I've often felt and openly expressed when caught behind people minding small children. What utter and utterly foolish frustration that others' circumstances should infringe upon my comfort and convenience!

I doubt my friend noticed every triviality; I probably just felt more (perhaps over-) protective. To be sure, she got around fine and was not deterred from enjoying all that the city had to offer. But traveling with her made me more mindful of challenges that generally confront people who have physical limitations; it gave me greater appreciation for how atypically accommodating American cities (under the mandate of the American Disabilities Act) are for people with disabilities.

It's not always possible to walk in other people's shoes, but you sure learn a lot by walking alongside them.

weather report

2008-02-09T05:34:00.001-08:00

The weather in London has been surprisingly pleasant. It's plenty cold, but there's been nothing but blue skies for the past five days. THANK. GOD. I'm glad I'm not spending my pricey holiday freezing my bollocks off.

turn around

2008-02-08T13:12:00.001-08:00

It started in the Tube this morning, with Hottie McHott standing with his back to me. Wishful thinking ("turn around, bright eyes") turned into active attempts at musical telepathy via Total Eclipse of the Heart.

The tune soon evolved into the day's musical theme, surprisingly befitting yet another round of getting-on-then-off-the-train-going-in-the-opposite-direction, aptly instructing when the elevator doors behind us opened instead of the set before us. Soon enough, my friend and I were bursting into song as the Tower of Londn Beefeaters told tales of characters who found themselves friends and wives and queens one day, then quite literally falling apart - quartered, drawn, beheaded - the next.

I wonder how it'll come into play on my last day here.

London calling

2008-02-05T12:37:00.000-08:00

After a year in Uganda, a brief stint in London is reentry into the West cannon-ball style.

I walk around the city with the joy and awe of a country bumpkin. What nice, wide roads! What big busses! Look at all the white people in big coats! The museums are full of beautiful things; the stores are fully-stocked and they're open at all hours of the day. Armed with a piece of plastic, I can get whatever I want, whenever I want it.

Then moments hit when I feel the grief of paradise lost. The fruits at breakfast are canned peaches and pears. The climate is not the only source of chill: people avoid eye contact and take other measures to maintain their solitude in crowded places. Everything is available but costs an arm and a leg; I fear I'll run out of limbs.

But my spirits are high because I'm on holiday, because I won't get the bill until March. I don't need to make sense of things... yet.

nomad, vagabond; call me what you will

2008-02-01T10:33:00.000-08:00

Once I was napping. Then I moved to Uganda. Now I'm here.

reading list

2008-01-31T13:39:00.000-08:00

2011

2010

2009

2008

2007

feb 2007-jan 2008

2007-02-15T23:00:00.000-08:00

I was here for one of the best years of my life.

attitude of gratitude

2007-01-01T14:59:00.000-08:00

Reading over journal entries from the past year knocked the wind out of me. At the beginning of 2006, I had no inkling how it would end; I hadn't a clue even mid-way through the year.

But a pattern emerged: tension, frustration, confession, submission, surprise. Different things have been hard to deal with over the course of the year, and I'm not proud to admit that usually, either fight or flight sets in. I try to fix the problem or sedate myself; I run from the tension and from God. I get tired, frustrated, hopeless. I go home, smelling like pigs but finally ready to submit to the Father who I know is, at the very least, better to me than the others I'd found. And He meets me on the way with unexpected extravagance. My faith in Him has yet to be proven blind or misplaced; it's usually just too small. This happens again and again and again. At least I'm learning: my pre-submission detours are fewer and farther between.

Following Jesus hasn't made me an optimist. But it has made me a realist. After walking, hiking, climbing a few tracks with my Lord and Savior, I look back, and the view takes my breath away. The reality is that God is faithful. Even in the midst of the hard things, my glass is not merely half full. He is my portion; my cup runneth over.

Happy New Year, y'all.

destination: uganda

2006-12-05T15:01:00.000-08:00

It's official: I'll be working in Uganda starting February 2007. I will live and work in Kampala, the capitol city. This little detail is enough to make me jittery with nervous energy and slightly insomnious. Is this for real?! Deeeeeep breaths...

First order of business: very probing background check. USPS willing, by Friday, my future bosses will know all there is to know about me on paper. Came upon this typewritten note while scouring my files:

december 20, 2000

i told my sister in the car tonight that i'm through with being a law student that will become a lawyer. i am fairly certain that i still wish to be a law student.

writing on a typewriter makes me feel like a writer again. especially when it makes a noise for each letter. every letter mane means something to a writer, maybe except for those four up there that i struck out. i am feeling bold tonight. i just referred to myself as a writer, at least implicitly when i used "again," as if i had been one.

if i were to write a recipe for a good writer, i would certainly include the following ingredients:

typewriter - one that makes a noise per letter
love of the written word - it is a writer's job to help others love the written word; one who does not like cookies has no business baking them
a favorite food - know what it is like to crave and be satiated
heartache - know what it's like to crave and be denied
friends
soulmate - believe in one, so as to understand why people search for one; distinguish it from common love
imperfection - be merciful in looking at others, or at least honestly bitter when critical
insipiration - be responding to SOMETHING when writing; there is no writing for its own sake
quiet
music - so that even when it's quiet outside, it would not be silent when there is joy inside

that is all that comes to mind. i will delay baking until i am sure i haven't left out any crucial elements. in the meanwhile, school and friends and family and life shall keep me occupied.

i hope i know what i'm doing.

you speak my heart, mr. frost

2006-11-30T14:59:00.000-08:00

On Saturday, another dear friend will walk the aisle and take the vow. A year and a half ago, I rejoiced over a similar occasion and mourned the natural and inevitable mutation of friendships over changes in time and geography.

While my joy has remained constant, my sorrow has changed. In the course of planning the bridal shower, getting measured for a dress and participating in the various festivities, I found myself recognizing and grieving over the divergent calls on my life and the lives of most of my friends. I do not long for or even fully understand their desire for marriage and family. I cannot fully explain mine for adventure in faraway places.

I don’t doubt that my friends and I will support one another as before. But we will not travel the same roads as companions or meet the same battles as comrades. We have different callings and different priorities; my head understands and accepts this full well. But my heart… it aches a little. I will miss having my sisters at my side.

All of this brings to mind an old poem and the ambiguity of its concluding sigh – is it one of melancholy or relief? – which I’ve never felt so deeply until now.

The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.