Archive for the ‘Life’ Category


, He said. Long ago when I was young and spry and ready to do anything… for myself.

I’m sitting here at the end of an 8:30 to 5:30 work day, reading a friend’s blog. A friend who is not quite a friend anymore, not because of loss of fondness on my part, but because she’s someone different now. Someone who decided to travel the world to see His kingdom come, slowly and patiently. And as I read someone’s writing which I’m vastly envious of, I’m not thinking so much about how I wish I could write like that or about how I want the day to finally end so I can stuff my face with food made lovingly for me. No, I’m remembering one word, slinging itself from the recesses of my mind so that I could remember the call.

It wasn’t the first. The first was, “Come, ” and the results of that can be found in the archives of this very blog. The blank spaces that you see, the weeks when I wrote nothing, those were times filled with forgetfulness. There’s been a lot of that for the past two and a half years.

Naturally, I forgot the word, “Go,” heard first long before I knew Jesus for who He really is, culminating into longing not unlike that of a child for her mother in my freshman year when, well, I was still a child. I took the word willingly, excitedly, and thought of it as far flung into a future that I wouldn’t know for years. Until then, I planned to cultivate it with short-term missions and went to Honduras almost a year ago now.

It was brilliant. You can read about it in the archives. And I’m feeling too lazy to link you.

But even that was done in forgetfulness of the bigger picture, the bigger plan, the massive seed that was still growing in me. The seed that almost shriveled in the face of adversity, which is now blooming so quickly that I’m afraid.

It’s a lot to take in at once, the events of the past two weeks. What they mean, and the things He’s said through them. Can I handle all of this at once? Simple answer: alone, no. Simple (or not-so-simple) solution: Jesus. I’ve a lot coming my way in the next 350 days, a number that looks larger than it is. Time will fly, so will some objects. I don’t expect it to be easy, but I’m hoping to be where I am in my heart or further along the path, not stumbling backwards as I’m prone to.

I’m sitting here, reading, wondering, “Am I ready for this?”



(If you’re wondering about whose blog I’m reading, you can find it here: http://tiffanychen.theworldrace.org/ Highly recommend reading it regardless of who you are.)


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Hope’s House.

I once found a place where I knew I belonged.

And I didn’t go back.

It’s time to change that.

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None of us asked to be born.

No one was floating around in their mom or dad’s reproductive organs just begging to fertilize or be fertilized.

And that’s the horrific part, isn’t it? That we never had a choice in the first place. Rationally, who would ever want to be alive? Now we all have to drag our asses to work or school, get injured, grow old, breathe in the worst the world has to offer, which these days translates into air, plain and simple.

It would’ve been easier to float around in the confines of some bodily cavity. Because let’s face it, death is gruesome no matter which way you twist it — it’s not like the movies where you slip away peacefully, no, but it’s more along the lines of soiling yourself in every way possible as your physical form unleashes its last. That’s not to say that a woman’s egg and a man’s sperm don’t meet horrific ends (and I do welcome you to think about that one), but at least we’d never know.

Everyone loves to stand against the words “Ignorance is bliss” because we live in an information-driven society. Being opposed to ignorance is equivalent to being a champion of freedom. A hero. But everyone’s got something, some bit of reality that’s been removed from them so that they can be just a bit happier. That’s the funny thing; we’ll never know everything. Everyone’s a little ignorant, and some people are very much so. And we’re all more joyful for it.

I think anyone who knew everything would be sad. Very, very sad.

And I think the rest of the world knows it, too. Because no one’s running around asking to know every last thing. Tons of people hop about claiming to know everything, but no one really wants that. It’d be, well, too real. In fact, you might say that the saddest people are the ones who know too much. For whom life is too real.

None of us asked for it to be real.

And that’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?

Because here we are. This is as real as it gets.

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The choice.

It wasn’t that I’d chose to not follow Jesus anymore. Far from it. If anything, the things that started leading me further and further away from that was the constant disappointed looks as I explained to people my unavailability to go to Catalyst and the increasing disconnect between myself and the community.

I stuck by my choice.

It was something that I believed I had the ability turn back on at any point in time — I could easily change my mind at whatever point I desired and go back to the way things were. Where I thought I was supposed to be. Where people thought I was supposed to be. That thought didn’t last long. Within a month after the choice, I was engrossed in this group of people vastly different from those I’d immersed myself with for a whole year at that point — yet more like myself than any of them.

It wasn’t that I chose “better” friends or friends that were “more like me”. Because that wasn’t the case at the time. At the time, I was at a loss. I thought they were strange and wild, and I’d done my fair share of passing judgment on most of them. So why did I want to stay? The only logical conclusion to reach was that I wanted to do it for me.

It was simultaneously selfish and liberating, choosing. I sometimes look back on January 2010 and think that people were just putting me on a path they thought would be best for me. It was probably unintentional, influenced by the norms of our fellowship. I’ve never been one for norms, anyway.

I did something for me, and I lost so much. But I found more — much more. I found my voice.

I’d do well to never forget that, but I do. I’m often bitter and broken about the things I gave up to be where I am. But I never would’ve found these few things that burn deep and bright in my soul. So much so that I’m sure that He’s there. No matter how many people’s eyes tell me that He isn’t. The audience in the pews is not the only place to find Him.

That’s not to say that I haven’t drifted. But sometimes, when I get lucky, I soar. 

And it all began with a choice. It always does. In perfect sequence and imperfect harmony.


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I made the observation today that the best (or what I think are the best) musicals and plays have one or both of two factors:

  1. An overarching historical (past or future) precedent.
  2. An improbable situation happening to the protagonist.

Both of which I’m lacking in my writing. There is something attractive about those factors — it’s something to keep the audience engaged with, something new (or old) that they don’t know much about but are learning, whether it’s fictional or was once very real.

And I can see why audience members need that. Call me a pessimist, but I don’t think anyone goes to see a movie or theater production to be invested in the concept introspectively. A movie can criticize all of society, but the storyline that is sewn into that criticism or theme is so far flung from our own reality that we draw a big, fat line between us and what we’re being shown and told. So we put things in the past and in the extremes, to keep ourselves away from all of that.

Maybe that’s one of the places where I diverged. See, when we’re kids, we don’t draw that line between what’s on the screen and ourselves, which is why our parents show us stuff like Barney and Dora the Explorer. I mean, take a look at kids who watch Pokemon or Yu-Gi-Oh — they like to pretend that stuff is real. You don’t see (many) adults doing that. And if you do, you’re considered a nerd, otaku, fanatic, maniac, etc. Everyone else simply grows up.

Of course I drew the line between myself and cartoon and fictional worlds, and of course, I’m sad that I’ll never be able to feel the grass of the Shire between my toes. But when I was a kid, I drew a lot of concepts about reality from what I was seeing on the tube. Friendship, trust, bravery, and all that. And maybe I never stopped. Maybe I never got out of the habit of putting myself in the movie, in the show; maybe I never wanted to.

So I write often about the real an inescapable. Well, if you’ve seen anything of mine on stage, you’d think me a liar, but those are really the exceptions. Those are when I took what was real to me and confounded them into something outrageous. A lot of what I’ve written has no historical precedent. But I do tend to incorporate some form of fiction.

Maybe that means I’m starting to grow up.

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The beginning in the end.

I was going to e-mail my mom just now to confirm her flight arrival time for this evening when I realized that she was already on the plane.

Here’s to one interesting spring break.

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I don’t speak, I emote.

It’s taken me a long time to come to this conclusion, but the more I think about it, the more I realize the validity of it.

I used to not speak very much. Well, if you’ve known me for a long time, you probably think I’m lying, but the truth is that I joked a lot. Joking isn’t quite the same as speaking. Spoken words have meaning, or rather, I’d like to believe that they hope to have meaning. To personify words, that is. Joking is where words hope to be funny. And I was known for that, being funny. Or not being funny. Whatever your spin on it is.

I still joke, of course, but at some point I started speaking… a lot. And the emoting came hand-in-hand with that — apparently I was an emotional person. (Let’s be real, I still am.) I’d like to say it all began when I was in MUN. I mean, you’re debating international politics, and of course, you’re expected to be objective and all that. But I think after I started specializing in global health, there was no way to be objective. After all, people were dying, and even if what I said had no impact whatsoever, it didn’t mean I couldn’t feel something. Maybe that’s why I won so many awards.

That doesn’t mean it’s a good thing. I can turn the trivial, the menial, the simple, into the most complex situation. I sometimes think it’d be better, more effective, and heck, more likable if I were calmer (which I have become) and simpler, but… I don’t know, there’s something wonderful about feeling so much. As much pain as it entails, it gives equal parts joy and purpose back.

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