The OM at work, a very superstitious woman, told me one day that bad things come in threes.
I have no idea or wish to trust in that. I believe in a loving God who offers new days and new glories. He keeps no records of wrongs or bads. Fortune or misfortune aren't handed out like that free cup of coffee you get after you've accrued 10 punches on your coffee card. I'm pretty sure of that.
Even still, bad things happen. And sometimes they happen to good people. And sometimes there's just no rhyme or reason to the way God works out his plans and glories in our lives.
This past weekend, while on my way up to PA farm country for our church's intra-congregational picnic and mini Olympics, I randomly received a call from an old friend. She never calls me, so I found it odd and assumed it was about carpooling/details for another friend's birthday celebrations this week.
Later on, while reviewing my voicemails, I learned that her aunt, an old family friend and the wife of our old pastor from my childhood, had passed away suddenly. The message was drawn out. I could hear in this sister's voice the shock and disillusionment one only hears when misfortune knocks the wind out of you. It sounded as if she didn't really believe what she was saying. Her voice resonated the thoughts running through my mind and heart.
How could this have happened?
Why?
I just don't understand.
Tomorrow we will celebrate this beautiful woman's life at a memorial service. And, we who remain, will remember her and praise our Heavenly Father for blessing us all with a model of humility, self-sacrifice, love, wisdom, service and strength.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
City of Brotherly Love
A couple days ago, while briefly talking with my brother, I learned about a Korean woman who had asked for money while on his usual route for work. In so many words he told me she looked run down and strung out. The telltale signs of an addict written all over her person, on her ragged face, in her stringy hair and cracked nails.
In my ignorance, I exclaimed my shock at hearing she was Korean. Being surrounded by hard-working and often work-addicted, successful, studious and often Christian Korean-Americans, to hear of "one of our own" as a drug addict ripped a hole in my perception. I was saddened and confused. And while I processed the day he (my brother) had had, about smelling the stench of death in the air in some of the neighborhoods he traveled through, I thought about the Korean woman who'd come to my mom, aunt, her employee and myself a lifetime ago.
It was about 10 years ago when she had first stepped into my aunt's grocery to panhandle. She was a timid woman, and the years on the streets had visibly broken her. She wore her pain and her addictions about her like a chain tethering her to an tangible despair. She would frequent my aunt's store and visit with my mother. They would buy her some staples from the local deli/butcher shop and talk with her trying to uncover her story, about how she, a once beautiful woman with cascading black hair, had become this torn, broken, lost soul now before them.
After some time, my mom somehow convinced her to come with them to a shelter downtown. She'd heard about it from a deacon at her church who volunteered there. It was an ordeal. She made excuses, lied, grew angry and defensive, cursed them out and all the while they (my mom, aunt and my aunt's employee) pleaded with her to get in the car. They feared for this fellow Korean sister. They feared for her life.
I'd all but forgotten about this woman until my brother had told me about the woman he'd met. Part of me grew sad, thinking it was the same woman who we'd driven to the shelter years ago. So, in curiosity, I asked my mom if she knew whatever had happened to the woman who'd stumbled onto her store block. With a nonchalant tone that masked a hint of sadness, she told me that the woman had died a few years ago. The deacon at her church had seen her at the shelter off and on throughout the following years, but heard rather recently that she'd died of what I can only assume was an overdose.
Living just outside the center of the action (so to speak) in Center City, I often forget (ignore) the brokenness that surrounds me. I turn a blind eye and heart to the suffering world around me, the world outside of my own that is wailing for relief, pleading for a savior.
Philly is a hard place to live. The contrast in classes, of the haves and the have-nots is evident for those who truly know this "city of brotherly love."
Blocks from the beautiful scenery that surrounds the rivers and the chic Rittenhouse Square area, live the suffering and the broken. Minutes from the gorgeous brownstones and cobblestone streets of Olde City, past the Liberty Bill and the National Constitution Center and a breath away from the up-and-coming areas of Fairmount, Graduate Hospital, Bella Vista, Queen's Village and Northern Liberties, lie the dying and the suffering.
I have heard of children giving into the sexual pressures I'd only witnessed in my teens and college years. Hundreds of child-mothers and the fatherless. Children having children. The blind leading the blind.
I have come across the strung out, the drunk, the lost and, instead of receiving them with Christ's love, I have pushed them away. Growing up in an urban city will do that to you, it'll cause you to grow a thick skin, to become callous. And I wrestle with that more and more these days. I hear Christ's challenge echoing a whisper in the deepest, most hidden parts of my heart, itching it's way to the surface:
Clothe them.
Feed them.
Love them as I have loved you.
Love them as you love Me.
Die for them your brothers.
And still my heart refuses, blinded by myself, crippled in fear, calloused by the status quo and what is considered "acceptable" behavior for the sophisticated urbanite.
As Annie Parson's has prayed, "Lord, distract me from myself."
In my ignorance, I exclaimed my shock at hearing she was Korean. Being surrounded by hard-working and often work-addicted, successful, studious and often Christian Korean-Americans, to hear of "one of our own" as a drug addict ripped a hole in my perception. I was saddened and confused. And while I processed the day he (my brother) had had, about smelling the stench of death in the air in some of the neighborhoods he traveled through, I thought about the Korean woman who'd come to my mom, aunt, her employee and myself a lifetime ago.
It was about 10 years ago when she had first stepped into my aunt's grocery to panhandle. She was a timid woman, and the years on the streets had visibly broken her. She wore her pain and her addictions about her like a chain tethering her to an tangible despair. She would frequent my aunt's store and visit with my mother. They would buy her some staples from the local deli/butcher shop and talk with her trying to uncover her story, about how she, a once beautiful woman with cascading black hair, had become this torn, broken, lost soul now before them.
After some time, my mom somehow convinced her to come with them to a shelter downtown. She'd heard about it from a deacon at her church who volunteered there. It was an ordeal. She made excuses, lied, grew angry and defensive, cursed them out and all the while they (my mom, aunt and my aunt's employee) pleaded with her to get in the car. They feared for this fellow Korean sister. They feared for her life.
I'd all but forgotten about this woman until my brother had told me about the woman he'd met. Part of me grew sad, thinking it was the same woman who we'd driven to the shelter years ago. So, in curiosity, I asked my mom if she knew whatever had happened to the woman who'd stumbled onto her store block. With a nonchalant tone that masked a hint of sadness, she told me that the woman had died a few years ago. The deacon at her church had seen her at the shelter off and on throughout the following years, but heard rather recently that she'd died of what I can only assume was an overdose.
Living just outside the center of the action (so to speak) in Center City, I often forget (ignore) the brokenness that surrounds me. I turn a blind eye and heart to the suffering world around me, the world outside of my own that is wailing for relief, pleading for a savior.
Philly is a hard place to live. The contrast in classes, of the haves and the have-nots is evident for those who truly know this "city of brotherly love."
Blocks from the beautiful scenery that surrounds the rivers and the chic Rittenhouse Square area, live the suffering and the broken. Minutes from the gorgeous brownstones and cobblestone streets of Olde City, past the Liberty Bill and the National Constitution Center and a breath away from the up-and-coming areas of Fairmount, Graduate Hospital, Bella Vista, Queen's Village and Northern Liberties, lie the dying and the suffering.
I have heard of children giving into the sexual pressures I'd only witnessed in my teens and college years. Hundreds of child-mothers and the fatherless. Children having children. The blind leading the blind.
I have come across the strung out, the drunk, the lost and, instead of receiving them with Christ's love, I have pushed them away. Growing up in an urban city will do that to you, it'll cause you to grow a thick skin, to become callous. And I wrestle with that more and more these days. I hear Christ's challenge echoing a whisper in the deepest, most hidden parts of my heart, itching it's way to the surface:
Clothe them.
Feed them.
Love them as I have loved you.
Love them as you love Me.
Die for them your brothers.
And still my heart refuses, blinded by myself, crippled in fear, calloused by the status quo and what is considered "acceptable" behavior for the sophisticated urbanite.
As Annie Parson's has prayed, "Lord, distract me from myself."
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Lazy Bug
So, I had planned on being productive today. Who knew it would require so much energy and preparation? I didn't.
Instead of prepping for the wedding I'm doing in a few months, I wrote a (long) list of possible flowers to use in the bride's "vintage garden" wedding. Instead of hitting the gym to do a few laps in the pool (knee and ankle are currently messed up), I... slept. And, instead of watching Henry Poole is Here, I watched Sliding Doors on the tellie. Again. For the umpteenth time.
Howevah...
I was able to venture out to watch the Olympics tonight with Denise, which was nice. We both think Shawn and Nastia were robbed and that the Russian pole vaulter is hilarious.
Instead of prepping for the wedding I'm doing in a few months, I wrote a (long) list of possible flowers to use in the bride's "vintage garden" wedding. Instead of hitting the gym to do a few laps in the pool (knee and ankle are currently messed up), I... slept. And, instead of watching Henry Poole is Here, I watched Sliding Doors on the tellie. Again. For the umpteenth time.
Howevah...
I was able to venture out to watch the Olympics tonight with Denise, which was nice. We both think Shawn and Nastia were robbed and that the Russian pole vaulter is hilarious.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Ode to Amishland
I've just returned from a beautiful day with my dear Rebs.
We drove with the top down on her jeep, sun smiling on us and the wind in our hair. Nothing but blue skies and the road ahead. We drove all over Lancaster County - through towns with odd names like "Bird in Hand" and "Intercourse", past endless green pastures laden with dairy cows and young colts grazing alongside their mothers, over hills and valleys, and alongside cornfields that perfumed the air with their earthiness. We came across horse-drawn buggies carrying Lancaster County's most popular citizens, the Amish and Mennonite community. We came across oddities only found in Lancaster: a Mennonite woman riding her bicycle, clothed in an ankle-length dress and talking on her cellphone; and many a young Amish man riding about town on retro-scooters.
To conclude the official Rebs' tour of Lancaster, we popped into the downtown area where we shared a PB&J doughnut (soooooo good!), bought biscuits and chocolate at the local English/Irish/Scottish store and had lunch at Prince St. Cafe.
Afterwards, we watched Brideshead Revisited and admired the beautiful Matthew Goode. We sighed. We blushed. We giggled like school girls.
It was a glorious day. I am refreshed and as perky as a sunflower in the midday sun. Happy sleep and dreams are certain tonight.
Thanks, Rebs! Love, love, LOVE you and your beautiful soul!
We drove with the top down on her jeep, sun smiling on us and the wind in our hair. Nothing but blue skies and the road ahead. We drove all over Lancaster County - through towns with odd names like "Bird in Hand" and "Intercourse", past endless green pastures laden with dairy cows and young colts grazing alongside their mothers, over hills and valleys, and alongside cornfields that perfumed the air with their earthiness. We came across horse-drawn buggies carrying Lancaster County's most popular citizens, the Amish and Mennonite community. We came across oddities only found in Lancaster: a Mennonite woman riding her bicycle, clothed in an ankle-length dress and talking on her cellphone; and many a young Amish man riding about town on retro-scooters.
To conclude the official Rebs' tour of Lancaster, we popped into the downtown area where we shared a PB&J doughnut (soooooo good!), bought biscuits and chocolate at the local English/Irish/Scottish store and had lunch at Prince St. Cafe.
Afterwards, we watched Brideshead Revisited and admired the beautiful Matthew Goode. We sighed. We blushed. We giggled like school girls.
It was a glorious day. I am refreshed and as perky as a sunflower in the midday sun. Happy sleep and dreams are certain tonight.
Thanks, Rebs! Love, love, LOVE you and your beautiful soul!
Friday, August 15, 2008
Patty Cake, Patty Cake, Baker's Man
They say there are 2 kinds of people: Bakers and Cooks. Bakers are meticulous perfectionists who weigh and level their ingredients. They need formulas and recipes to follow. Cooks, on the otherhand, feel their way through their masterpieces. They use their senses and impulses and occasionally use recipes a a vague map to their destination.
I am a cook. Ironically, though I would call myself a perfectionist, I hate measuring and leveling off ingredients. I'm a "pinch here, sprinkle there" type of person.
All this to say that I'm going to a picnic this Sunday after church. The details are still pretty vague, but I can tell you there will be sangria, cheese(?), croquet and maybe a birthday cake for Priscilla... if I can figure out how to do that.
I want to make a banana cake with salted caramel filling and a ganache frosting. In my head it'll look and taste spectacular - gooey caramel and fragrant bananas, luscious silky layers of chocolate dripping like liquid satin down the edges.
Thing is:
I am a cook. Ironically, though I would call myself a perfectionist, I hate measuring and leveling off ingredients. I'm a "pinch here, sprinkle there" type of person.
All this to say that I'm going to a picnic this Sunday after church. The details are still pretty vague, but I can tell you there will be sangria, cheese(?), croquet and maybe a birthday cake for Priscilla... if I can figure out how to do that.
I want to make a banana cake with salted caramel filling and a ganache frosting. In my head it'll look and taste spectacular - gooey caramel and fragrant bananas, luscious silky layers of chocolate dripping like liquid satin down the edges.
Thing is:
- I've never made a cake that didn't come out or a little red or blue box. My closest attempts were a banana nut bread that was surprisingly deleeshush, and red velvet cupcakes from a recipe from Paula Deen, the Butter Queen. (I think I've JUST come off the sugar rush of that one)
- I don't know the first thing about caramels or ganaches.
- I lack any patience to let things rest or cool, which would explain all the flat, bloblike, runny frosting cakes I used to produce for school bake sales.
Big Fish In a Little Pond
I've always loved the water, but, as someone living in an urban city, swimming was a treat saved for holidays and church BBQs at one of the deacons' homes. The best my brother, friends and I could do was to "swim" in our wading pool, a glorified tub constructed of plastic and vinyl, the bottom of which would often tear when we drug it across our concrete porch.
We would splash and see how long each of us could hold our breaths under the water. And, when my brother would run off with his friends, my best friend and I would lounge in the pool, pretending to be lost mermaids stranded on some desert island, or scuba divers in search of lost treasure.
When I was about 13, my mom signed us (my brother and I) up for swimming lessons at the Y. It was her first attempt at assimilating her children into normal "American" extracurricular activities. My brother fit right in with all the other little kids, I, however, was keenly aware of the fact that I was a big fish in a little pond. Literally.
I swam my way up the food chain from Guppy to Minnow to Fish, eventually reaching the pinnacle of the YMCA chain, Dolphin, when I had to take a week off for summer camp. When I returned my previous instructor, a strong woman who resembled Martina Navratilova, had been replaced by a strapping young man. I was in like with him.
It wasn't until he'd come into the picture that I'd become conscious of my body. I always knew I was a little chubby because my family was sure to remind me of that fact on an almost constant basis. But I had never been so self-conscious of the way I appeared in my swimsuit until he came along in all his handsomeness. It was the first time I worried about my thighs being too big or my tummy a little paunchy, of my legs and armpits being freshly shaven or my hair in a perfect ponytail instead of the usual wet mop of octopus-like tendrils. I wanted so badly to impress him, but a week's absence and my nervousness of being underwater and face-up in the pool (I had almost drowned like that the year prior) prevented me from doing so. Instead, while the other (much smaller) kids dove and did their pretend water rescues, ring recoveries, flipturns and butterflies, I clung to the edge of the pool, holding on for dear life. I was traumatized and feeling inferior.
Swimming has lost a bit of its appeal since then. I lost a lot of my stamina (a lot!), and the self-confidence of my youth has been replaced by the self-consciousness that only comes with growing into your own skin.
But, tonight, inspired by Michael Phelps and Dara Torres, I will brave the waters once more. That is, after I buy myself a new pair of goggles and possibly some black spray paint to cover the fishbowl windows that overlook the pool at the gym.
We would splash and see how long each of us could hold our breaths under the water. And, when my brother would run off with his friends, my best friend and I would lounge in the pool, pretending to be lost mermaids stranded on some desert island, or scuba divers in search of lost treasure.
When I was about 13, my mom signed us (my brother and I) up for swimming lessons at the Y. It was her first attempt at assimilating her children into normal "American" extracurricular activities. My brother fit right in with all the other little kids, I, however, was keenly aware of the fact that I was a big fish in a little pond. Literally.
I swam my way up the food chain from Guppy to Minnow to Fish, eventually reaching the pinnacle of the YMCA chain, Dolphin, when I had to take a week off for summer camp. When I returned my previous instructor, a strong woman who resembled Martina Navratilova, had been replaced by a strapping young man. I was in like with him.
It wasn't until he'd come into the picture that I'd become conscious of my body. I always knew I was a little chubby because my family was sure to remind me of that fact on an almost constant basis. But I had never been so self-conscious of the way I appeared in my swimsuit until he came along in all his handsomeness. It was the first time I worried about my thighs being too big or my tummy a little paunchy, of my legs and armpits being freshly shaven or my hair in a perfect ponytail instead of the usual wet mop of octopus-like tendrils. I wanted so badly to impress him, but a week's absence and my nervousness of being underwater and face-up in the pool (I had almost drowned like that the year prior) prevented me from doing so. Instead, while the other (much smaller) kids dove and did their pretend water rescues, ring recoveries, flipturns and butterflies, I clung to the edge of the pool, holding on for dear life. I was traumatized and feeling inferior.
Swimming has lost a bit of its appeal since then. I lost a lot of my stamina (a lot!), and the self-confidence of my youth has been replaced by the self-consciousness that only comes with growing into your own skin.
But, tonight, inspired by Michael Phelps and Dara Torres, I will brave the waters once more. That is, after I buy myself a new pair of goggles and possibly some black spray paint to cover the fishbowl windows that overlook the pool at the gym.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Olympic Trials (08.08.08)
While most of the world anticipates tomorrow night's opening of the 2008 Olympic Games, I lay here on my couch, sore and spent. I have been hand-painting champagne flutes with the Olympic rings and the "lucky" date of 08.08.08. Nearly 6 hours of repetitive circles of gold.
For a better part of the day I was an elfin slave locked away in the conference room, hunched over glass flutes THIS close to my face as I gilded them with rings of gold.
My shoulder is sore, as is my right wrist, which had to hyperextend itself so I could rest the lower part of my palm on the convex glass/stem. HOWEVUH, my eyes, to my surprise, have neither permanently crossed as I had feared nor fallen out of my head from straining so hard. Glory, glory!
I was intending on meeting up with an old friend and her sister at the "urban" Bally's by us after a very quick "breakfast for dindin", but, instead, fell asleep STANDING UP, my body bent to a perfect right angle as I lay across my mother's bed. When I woke up, my calves and hamstrings were burning and my head pounding.
So, there will be no running or ellipticalling or crunching or weight-training. Instead, I will probably continue to lay here for a spell, pop some Advil, watch some TV and continue reading my current book on queue, "Same Kind of Different As Me."
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