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It’s a typical morning.  I slip back into the room as quietly as I can, which usually involves the door shutting louder than I can help it.  My flip-flops squish and squeak on their own accord as I make it back to the dresser to grab a change of clothes.  Once dressed, I push the On button and get excited as the rich aroma of hazelnut wafts around my nose.  I check the mail while the coffee machine burbles.  At 8AM, my roommate’s alarm starts to jingle.  She hits the snooze button within 10 seconds, rolls onto her side, and continues to sleep.  Another typical morning.

Lately all I’ve been able to think about are the things-I-have-to-do.  Write the paper, conclude that paper, begin researching for the other paper, revise the introduction on this paper.  Learn the voice part for this song, practice these pieces for someone’s jury.  Lead that meeting, delegate these tasks, figure out next week’s plans; study for those exams, freak out about studying for that one exam, then begin studying for it.  And while I’m at it, why not fret about my schedule in the fall and wonder what the heck I’m doing after graduation even though it’s a year away.  Not before long, a well of panic starts to rise up within me - and all I can do is to fight the urge to cry about how much I have yet to do and how much uncertainty I have…

My roommate’s alarm goes off again, the familiar jingle stuck in my head.  She hits snooze again, breathes out and rolls over again.  She goes through this routine about three times on a regular morning.  But if she’s been up an extra hour or two, it will take many more snooze-hits and bed-rolls for her to climb down the top bunk.  Not that I’m keeping track or anything…

And that’s when I notice the Verse Of The Day on top of my homepage.  I know it even before I click on it - Psalm 139:13-14 has already been inscribed on a piece of cardboard on my wall.  I click on it anyways.  For You created me in my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb.  I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well.

I’m chuckling now, because it hits me that God is not one bit surprised by my typical morning, my mornings that consist of waking up early to hit the gym, my mornings that involve a daily anticipation of yummy coffee and a track record of how many times Shelly hits the alarm.  If that doesn’t surprise God, then my worrying shouldn’t surprise Him either.  I guess He would know every thought and insecurity that flashes through my mind: where I’ll be headed next May and what I’ll do when I grow up (which is never, of course).  I guess He would know how scared I am of running meetings and being in charge, how inadequate I feel sometimes in regard to my abilities.  Only He would know that even though I hide it, I still care about how other people perceive me, especially other girls.  He knows all of that.

My frame was not hidden from You when I was made in the secret place.  When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, Your eyes saw my unformed body.  All the days for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be.

It shouldn’t be so hard for me to believe that God is in control - He has totally knit me together.  I’m still a working creation, I am fully functional (except when I am delirious).  Junior year is finally drawing to a close.  The older I get, the longer I walk with God, the less control I seem to have; the more room there is for faith to grow.  How bizarre!

My roommate’s awake now.  It’s time for me to go to class.  No surprise there - everything will work out.  I just have to work on remembering that every day.

I’m a pusher.  If it’s not good enough, I’ll push you to make it better.  I’m a prover.  If you’re not convinced, I’ll prove it to you that it is good enough.  Eager to please, eager to jump.  Driven to excellence, minimal failure rate, A-pluses.  I’m one of those girls who leave little room to cry; I”ll repair it myself.  My boyfriend laughs when he tells me that I’m an overachiever; I don’t deny it.  It’s in my blood.

But then I get tired.  Tired of doing 110%, tired of running ahead so much that I’m running alone.  Enough is never enough, best is never the best… and then I crash: why isn’t everyone else trying as hard?  They’re just lazy, they’re just apathetic - they don’t care, because they’re not trying as hard.  Look how hard I’m trying, and I’m still not getting anywhere near where I want to be.  I don’t have what it takes to get there; therefore, I’ve messed it up.  I’ve just given you another reason why I’m not. worth. it.

Sound familiar?

And then I start getting mean.  I avoid the people who love me the most - they must be nuts for wanting to hang out with me (read: FAILURE).  I snap at the people who care about me the most - they don’t know how much I’ve (read: SCREW-UP) botched it up again.  I get angry with them, because I haven’t given them a reason to be so nice to me.  They don’t see that I’m trying to save them, relieve them, of a massive load of junk (read: ME) - the same junk that I try so hard to erase every day by proving that I am good enough.

But it’s not so much the people who love me that I have a problem with; it’s not so much their kindness that I have a problem with.  It’s the whole entire concept of grace that I have a problem with - God’s grace - the kind that is poured out and exploded all over me regardless of how much I think I don’t deserve it.  It’s the kind of grace that I can’t justify on my own terms: not with an A-plus, not with a scholarship; not with someone else’s opinion, and not with a perfect body.  This kind of grace is just there.  Always.  Forever.  Unlimited.

If life handed you lemons, I got a couple that were just rotten.  The message of my childhood seemed to be “you-are-never-going-to-be-good-enough.”  My grades were never enough.  My personality was never enough.  My talents were never enough.  There were no excuses for weakness or flaws.  And while every other kid on the block played four-square or dodgeball, I played the game of catch-up: catching up to be the kind of girl that would make my father proud, because his happiness and satisfaction in me was near-unattainable.  And that chase, that wretched chase of proving my worth to him and to others and to God - has left me disenchanted.

And that is why the cross of Jesus Christ is absolutely beautiful.  The cross of Jesus Christ says, “When you are weak, then I am strong.”  The cross of Jesus Christ says, “When you deserved to be punished, I died for you.”  The cross of Jesus Christ says, “I am your adequacy.  I am your justification.”  The cross of Jesus Christ says, “I remove every stain and blemish from your body onto mine; you belong to God now.”  Reclaimed.  Renamed.  Restored.  Repaired.  Reworked.  Remade.  Renewed.  Refreshed.  Replenished.  Relieved.  Rebuilt.  Refurbished.  Revamped.  Resurrected.  Repainted.  Redeemed.

So much for rotten lemons.  I guess you’ll always have a bit of awful-aftertaste in your mouth, but it’s nothing that Christ’s love can’t beat.  I’m still a pusher.  I’m still an overachiever.  I’m still eager to jump.  And I still have an issue with letting others do the repairing.  It’s hard to understand why my Christian friends live with all of my junk.  They tell me that they don’t live with my junk - they are just loving me with my junk.  Cute, huh?

In Christ, I am adequate and accepted.  When you leave no room for failure, you are committing the biggest failure.  It’s God’s job to be strong amidst those failures.  I wish I could hear myself say this every day.  Better yet, I wish I remembered it every time I wrote my name at the top right-hand corner of every xerox or handout I get in class.  Grace.  What does ‘grace’ mean, anyways?

Something too wonderful for me to contain, that’s for sure.

Life is circular.

How do you know that last night won’t be the last time you see the moon?
Must be faith of some sort.

Sometimes all you want to do is go back to sleep.
Sometimes it takes more of an effort to smile than it does to stare blankly ahead.
How do you know whether that smile could make someone else feel loved?
Maybe if I just dropped the whole thing, she won’t be mad at me anymore.
I’ll just stop talking about it.
What would happen if we faced the truth?
I keep making promises to myself.  I’ll stop drinking.  Smoking.  Binging.  Purging.  Lying.  Gambling.  Spending.
Promises that I can’t ever seem to keep.
What if I admitted that I can’t do it on my own?
Everyone sees the same face every day.  The “everything-is-okay” face.  Life is spectacular.
They don’t see me cry at night.  They don’t see me break down at night.
Is there anyone in this world who knows me as I am?  I want to believe…
Must be faith of some sort.
God is not in Sudan.  God is not in Pakistan.  God is not in North Korea.  God is not in America.
God is not in my home.  There is no hope.
But … what if there was?  And what if He is really there?
Must be faith of some sort.
It’s a scary thing to love… because eventually, you discover that you can be loved in return.
Wait -
I must have missed something -
I don’t have to prove to you that I’m worth it?  But you don’t know the half of it
I’ve made so many mistakes and I’ve let people down,
you don’t understand where I’ve been
what I’ve said
what I’ve done
You know all of this about me already?  And You’re still here for me?
Must be love of some sort.

Faith.  Hope.  Love.  But the greatest of these is love.

Love.

So the University of Delaware has a freakishly long winter semester - “winter sesh,” we say. Some argue that it was made to make all other colleges have beef with us for getting 7 weeks of winter break; others contend that it exists to torture the students who opt to enroll for winter classes. While a good portion of the student body take advantage of the winter hiatus to trek across the globe, to Cape Town, to Rome, to Barcelona; New Dehli, Rotorua, Milan and Acapulco, the rest of us are left to go and beg our bosses to hire us for another month and a half - that, or we hibernate.

Okay okay, so I didn’t opt for classes and I don’t have the money to go to Beijing, and I begged my boss to hire me for another month and a half to no avail - but I didn’t hibernate. As a matter of fact, I had probably the most interesting end-of-a-year/start-of-a-year ever in all of my 20-some years of breathing. And because it would be absurd to document all of the spectacular highlights and lessons-learned of my oh-so thrilling life, I’ve decided to create an abridged version of what winter taught me this year - what God has taught me in the past two months. Enjoy.

1. we are ridiculously blessed to have home-heating systems and electricity. don’t ever take America for granted.
2. feeling helpless is a wonderful thing. acknowledge those feelings, get over yourself, and hope in God.
3. if loving your family means obeying even the most absurd commands, do it joyfully nonetheless. you’ll save yourself a lot of unnecessary grief.
4. praying for joy doesn’t mean that you won’t suffer, it just means that you’ll have a huge attitude check… for the better.
5. certain people come into your life at certain times for all of the right reasons. and don’t be surprised when that reason is love. it’s just God letting us know in a special way that He really does love us.
6. the shadow ALWAYS proves the sunshine.
7. succumbing to anger and bitterness only shrinks your heart and ability to see God clearly.
8. the people we find most irritable and unlovable are the ones we have the most in common with.
9. keep short accounts with others; grudges are things that belong in freaky movies. the only debt that we should have at the end of the day is to love.
10. you have to be willing to have your toes stepped before you step on someone else’s toes. this is called humility.
11. we are always left with a choice. sometimes the truth really does hurt. but it’s what you choose to do with it - to let it stand in your way or not - that makes you the person that you are.
12. doing is better than talking, but being is better than doing.
13. no matter how annoying and aggravating they are, big brothers really do have your best interests at heart.
14. talking about the hard stuff is better than not talking at all. “an honest answer is like a kiss on the lips,” proverbs 24:26.
15. moms are the kind of people who’d still love you even after you’ve dropped the f-bomb.
16. it’s a scary thing for a control freak (ooh, like me!) to let someone else handle it. but letting go is so sweet.
17. you can definitely have your cake and eat it too.
18. just because they look like a banana doesn’t mean that they’re not a real person.
19. contrary to popular belief, grace actually occurs on the Interstate… even after crossing 5 lanes and illegal U-turns.
20. just because our parents are grownups doesn’t mean that they’ve got it all together.
21. tradition, like skin color and culture, is just another layer of identity, another thing we like to argue about. the only thing that matters at the end of the day is whether or not you’ve loved God with all of your heart - and loved others in turn with that love.
22. leadership is born out of servanthood. always.
23. smiling until your face hurts and laughing until you cry are both signs of something wonderful.
24. words, like other things we toss around on a daily basis, have more meaning when they are used at the right time.
25. and last but not least, EVERYTHING is a gift. cherish it while it lasts, and never forget to praise the Giver.

Goodbye, Winter. Hellooooo, Spring…

In lieu of this “holiday” known to us as Mardi Gras, I have decided to revisit a paper of mine that I submitted for my professor last year after watching David Redmon’s documentary called “Mardi Gras: Made In China.” I decided that the critique in and of itself was worthy of its own post. Interesting and disturbing all at once, here it is — “Thoughts On Mardi Gras,” written March 22, 2007…

As an up-and-coming collegian sharpening her identity, I find it difficult to describe myself without pointing out that I am Chinese, American, and a woman. Does this make me a triple blessing or a triple curse? I can chuckle and say that, without a doubt, I have experienced being a triple curse many more times than I have remembered being a blessing at all—but so much wisdom and maturity comes with a growing understanding of one’s roots. Surely, as a young woman with roots ensconced in two contrasting cultures, I see similarities and differences between the East and West in ways that others cannot. So when I heard about the sensational documentary on Chinese bead factory workers and Americans celebrating Mardi Gras that was to be featured at the University of Delaware, I knew it was a film that I needed to attend. The movie, titled “Mardi Gras: Made in China,” launched the University’s 21^st annual women’s history month film series on February 20, 2007 in the Kirkbride building. This documentary—according to its golden-yellow flyers—“stirs the conscience and exposes the exploitative aspects of corporate globalization” and exposes the sharp cultural contrast between the East and the West, but accomplishes much more. While this film accentuates the differences between two groups of people, I believe a much weightier truth lies beneath the tape: though separated by economical, cultural, social, and physical barriers, the Chinese and the Americans in this film are not as unlike as we think they are.

With this said, I begin my paper with the sensitivity like that of the Chinese, with the boldness like that of the American, and with the insight of a woman.

David Redmon, the maker of “Mardi Gras: Made in China,” directs our attention towards the American revelers in streets of New Orleans celebrating Mardi Gras and the workers at the Tai Kuen Bead Factory in Fuzhou, the capital of the Fujian Province in China—the largest Mardi Gras bead factory in the world. We learn much about the lives of the Americans who celebrate Mardi Gras and the lives of the Chinese who “make” the bead-bash into a reality between Redmon’s candid camera accounts of the two peoples. According to the Americans interviewed in the film, Mardi Gras in New Orleans is a highly anticipated event that always occurs with much tossing and exchanging of beads in exchange for public displays of nudity. Hundreds and hundreds of people donning iridescent golds and greens and purples in the streets and on top of buses are shown in the video, clamoring for beads and boobs. Occasional video footage shows a woman proudly lifting up her shirt to bare her breasts to the masses; she is rewarded with several strands of beads from satisfied gawkers. “It makes me feel horny,” says a college student in reply to the interviewer when asked why she would subject her breasts to hundreds of strangers in exchange for a beaded necklace. People young and old, men and women of different ethnicities and backgrounds, including a Catholic priest, congregate at this annual bacchanalia on Bourbon Street. Redmon asks them, “where do you think the beads come from?” Many of those inquired did not give a definite answer.

Redmon’s camera takes us thousands of miles away from the feisty French Quarter of New Orleans to the quiet countryside of Fujian and into the private lives of the workers at Roger Wong’s Tai Kuen Bead Factory. Contrary to the uninhibited merrymakers in New Orleans, the workers in Roger’s factory are governed by strict time schedules, rigorous factory and dorm regulations, demanding quotas, and twenty-four hour surveillance. The girls and women who form 90% of Roger’s workforce are all simply uniform in appearance: hair that is kept short and hidden under factory caps, modestly buttoned-up work shirts, and flat shoes. A strong atmosphere of community is seen among the workers: the girls and women work together, do their laundry together, and after every meal, they wash their dishes together in communal washrooms. At the end of the day, workers will retire ten at a time to a five-bed room that is approximately 16’ by 24’ in dimensions. And Roger does not allow exceptions when it comes to punishment—anyone caught talking on the job will get a 5% deduction from their salary, and anyone caught in the living quarters of an opposite-sex worker will be denied payment for a month. With the help of his translator, Redmon asks the girls, “do you know where the beads go after you make them?” Interestingly enough, their replies match that of the Americans: “I don’t know.”

“Mardi Gras: Made in China” is a documentary so well done that one could write in-depth articles about the economies involved in the exploitation of young Chinese women, the sociology behind risqué behavior “reserved for Mardi Gras only,” the cultural clash of Eastern and Western attitudes, societal standards of American women observed particularly during Mardi Gras, societal standards of Chinese women observed particularly in a male-headed factory, working conditions in the factory and the health risks that workers face daily, methods used by Chinese bosses and managers on Chinese workers to make them work harder and faster—the directions one could take with this unique film are quite endless. The first area of concern that Redmon successfully addresses in his film is globalization. In the film, we see that while many businesses prosper thanks to the countless number of workers they have across the world to produce their wealth, the workers themselves, such as the Chinese bead workers, are being exploited. Through his film, Redmon shows how the labor of Chinese bead workers is sold to American companies for profit, who then sell the beads to krewe members for the “greatest free show on Earth (Essay One).” Workers at the Tai Kuen Bead Factory labor for 10-18 hours a day for a minimum wage of $0.10 an hour, which adds up to about $62 a month (Essay Three). While the actual Mardi Gras fête takes place for one day out of the entire year, the bead workers are at work year-round except for the two weeks during which they are allowed to be back home for the Chinese New Year. The “greatest free show on Earth” is not so free after all. Besides uncovering the harsh realities of global capitalism, Redmon’s film also captures the culturally-clashing attitudes of the Chinese and Americans.

Those whom Redmon interviewed provide us with a wealth of cultural disparities and a peek into the “norm” of people from both East and West. Most of the girls present in Roger’s factory are there because their families need the money that they make. The family is stressed above self for the Chinese; to leave the home to work in order to be able to send money back home is a request that most daughters from rural families will fulfill, since it is culturally more important for sons to attain an education. The loss of a daughter’s education is not as significant as it is for a son not to have the chance to excel academically. In an interview with Lio Lina, an 18-year old factory worker, Redmon’s translator asks her why she is working. Lio’s response is an archetypal answer that any “good Chinese daughter” would give:

“Those of us who are not well educated and don’t have a good family background, we have no choice but to work hard and support ourselves. When I was studying in school, I dreamed of becoming an outstanding actress, but this dream will never be realized. Now I think about how to help my parents and support my younger brother. I still have hope in my brother. I put all my hope in my brother. I believe he can achieve his dreams! Unfairness is irrelevant. I am willing to sacrifice for my brother.”

While the Chinese would nod and approve of this “good daughter’s” response, we Americans would cry out to Lio and urge her to pursue her dreams of acting. “Do what you want to do for once in your life!” would be our rallying cry. And it is here where we see the biggest difference between the Chinese and the Americans: collectivism vs. individualism. Chinese people suppress their thoughts and words in order to preserve a sense of honor and respect for their families and those around them; we are not too expressive because our culture tells us never to challenge or question authority because someone else might be shamed or dishonored in the process. Meanwhile, Americans tend to speak and act what we feel; we are naturally plainspoken because our culture emphasizes that our thoughts and opinions deserve to be heard, sometimes regardless of who we might offend in the process. When Redmon and his camera crew inquired a young Chinese worker at her work station about the length of her work day, she smiled nervously and avoided answering the question in fear of disrespecting or humiliating her boss. “I don’t want to say it,” she said to the camera, “the boss might find out! I would really rather not say.” Though the Chinese values of communal honor and respect can be constructive, this worker’s response indicates that collectivistic thinking can cause us to make decisions based on fear. In the same way, the individualistic cultural values of the Americans can also be positive, but a response from James, a twenty-five year old Texan reveling in the streets on Mardi Gras, shows that individualistic thinking can cause us to make decisions based on rebellion. He says, “I’m tired of my job. I told my boss to fuck off, that I’m taking a day off of work and going to Mardi Gras because I haven’t missed a day of work in the last four years … I can’t stand my job anymore! My boss is really an idiot, and the people I work with don’t know how to do their job. So guess who gets to correct their mistakes? I do. On top of that, I have to do the same work over and over again daily (Essay Two).”

David Redmon’s “Mardi Gras: Made in China” is indeed a masterful and heavily insightful film that every young person should see, if not for an expansion of one’s worldview, then for some serious critical thinking. He expertly draws our attention to the injustice of global capitalism, and he artistically captures slivers of the two cultural attitudes on film. He successfully demonstrates that the American consumers are as oblivious to their Chinese laborers as the Chinese laborers are oblivious to their American consumers. He manages to cover economical, cultural, and social aspects throughout his film, and he delivers them with a punch that we, as an audience, will never forget. But if our eyes strained to see beyond the economical, cultural, and social barriers that stand between the workers in China and the carnival-goers in America, we would see that our problems are not so different after all. What connects these two different people groups is the simple observation that both peoples, regardless of race or class or gender, desire the same thing: freedom. Not economical freedom, nor cultural freedom, nor social freedom—but a kind of freedom every human longs for, one that provides them with purpose and meaning. It is the freedom of the soul. And in the process of their search for freedom, both peoples are very much deceived.

Many of the young Chinese women leave their rural families and venture into the factories of the cities and the towns because they are expected to contribute to the family by earning an income. To some of them, this is an expression of freedom, of autonomy, because they are “on their own.” They believe that their worth and value as a daughter increases if they leave the home to work. They believe that earning an income is gratifying because it mobilizes them to consume goods and to send money home to their families (Essay Three). Approximately 90% of their earnings go to their families, leaving only 10% of their hard work to themselves. Their economic “independence” is an illusion. They are penalized and fined, as were employees Chen Nan, Li Qun, Peng Xingxing, Wang Jing and Ge Yun when they wore high heels to work (Essay Three). And if they want to leave the factory, they must write a letter stating the reasons for their leave which will have to get an ‘okay’ from their supervisor and area manager before the factory supervisor can approve or deny their request. Cultural and social “independence” are also illusions. Just as their fathers and brothers have authority and headship over them in their homes, their male supervisors and bosses have authority and headship over them at their jobs. The young Chinese women are deceived. This statement also applies for young country women who do not necessarily work at Roger’s bead factory. In a letter addressed to sixteen year-old bead worker Rein May, a woman employed at a clothing factory says: “I really don’t want to make anymore clothes here, I just want to come home to you guys, and live our old lives we once had; with no worries. I have many worries now. It feels like jail, you are constantly being watched, whether eating, talking, working, you are under the supervision all the time […] when you are back home, please give me a call. Wish you happy everyday and with no worries. Wish you lead a life better than mine everyday!” Several of the girls in Redmon’s film left the bead factory shortly after he put together this film. Eighteen year-old Ga Hong Mei was among some of the women who left the bead industry to work in a clothing and textile factory. Surely she, not unlike Rein May’s correspondent, will find the freedom she is looking for at her new job.

Though it may seem to you that what the Chinese women workers experience in their daily factory lives is much worse than what the American Mardi Gras carousers experience during the carnival, I believe that Americans are also deceived when they consider themselves free. We can argue that Americans have much more economical, cultural, and social liberty than the Chinese—but as I have previously mentioned, by looking beyond these obvious differences, we observe that everyone is trying to break free. Many of those who flock to New Orleans for Mardi Gras are looking for an escape from the marriage burdens, stress at work, parental authority, and social standards. Men such as Ken and David (both engaged in oral sex with other men exclusively), whose wives are oblivious to the fact that they came to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, say that the “wild freedom” is the only purpose why they participate.

Fifty year-old Shelly from Oklahoma City flashed her breasts and genitals from a balcony to a crowd on Canal Street; when asked why she flashed, Shelly responded: “The freedom. The freedom to just do it, and no one cares. No one cares! I can be whoever I want to be and no one cares. That’s what I like about it. It’s really quite freeing. It’s a way to escape (Essay One).” Eerily enough, Deborah (single-mother of three) echoes a lament about her job that is not so different from the complaints of the Chinese workers:

“In fact, everything lately seems to be the same. Each day I get up and go to work or volunteer or school or whatever as a part of my daily routine. I am never truly myself in those situations because in order to keep that job, class or position, certain things are expected of me […] you go through the same drill, its like ‘de ja vu’ where you know what’s going to happen hours ahead. Day in and day out […] It doesn’t change. Mardi Gras puts a wrench in that dull stuff! […] So hey, at least at Mardi Gras, you’re able to be a lot more free (Essay One)!”

John, a forty year-old dentist from St. Louis, reiterates Deborah’s frustrations:

“Every day I have to act for the people who come into my office. I have to put on that fake smile, act like I enjoy their company, adjust my behavior so they’ll be comfortable. Everyday is the same routine […] No matter where I go, I’m acting and trying to convince others that I am someone who I’m not! Ideas about finding your ‘true’ self is bullshit. There is no ‘true’ self. I have to escape from that false life to just feel connected to myself. For me, Mardi Gras helps me do this (Essay One).”

Just as the women workers in China disclose their dissatisfaction and their feelings of being chained, we see that the Americans express their frustrations over a lack of freedom as well. It is not a freedom that can be labeled as economical, cultural, or social—it is a permanent freedom that they are constantly searching for and will not find by any economic, cultural, or social means. The Chinese workers will continue to labor day after day, doing the same mundane and repetitive hand work for a trivial amount of money. They may think that they are a little more free by moving out of the home and being able to earn a stipend. They may think that they are a little more liberated because they have a trade, or that they can consume goods. They may try to find more freedom by leaving their current factory job and getting another job elsewhere. But they will be disappointed when they realize that the freedom that they are looking for is not something procured by moving away from home, by getting a job, by landing a new job and a new boss, or by being able to consume and spend more. The Americans will continue to seek outlets—Mardi Gras as the main one for our purposes—to have a chance to be sexually uninhibited, remaining unidentified, because life back at home is not what they want it to be. They may think that they are a little more free by leaving the workplace and set of responsibilities they have at home and indulging in the boobs-for-beads experience. They may think that they are a little more liberated by letting their ‘true’ selves show during the Mardi Gras season. But they will be disappointed when they realize that the freedom that they are looking for is not something acquired by being socially uninhibited, by taking risks, or by taking a break from home and work responsibilities. We are not so unalike after all.

Redmon’s “Mardi Gras: Made in China” is indeed a film through which many observations and hard facts can be exposed. I definitely think that the film “stirs the conscience and exposes the exploitative aspects of corporate globalization” as much as it reveals numerous cultural divisions between peoples of the East and the West. But from the eyes of one young woman who is neither just Chinese nor American, this film speaks one solid piece of truth: humans are more similar to each other than they are different, regardless of economics, culture, social standards, and physical differences. At the beginning of this essay, I joked lightheartedly about being a triple curse thanks to my multi-faceted identity. But the more I grow in wisdom and understanding of my Chinese and American worlds, I grow in gratitude towards my heritage and upbringing. With this said, I conclude my thoughts on “Mardi Gras: Made in China.” Hopefully, having read this essay, you can positively say that I have done my best in sharing my voice as a triple blessing to you.

check out more on David Redmon and his documentary here

How are you sure this the right place? she asked, stepping timidly into the small building.  With a sweeping glance, I observed the light pink walls, Asian-themed sitting room complete with red pillows, various plants here and there and the cheery women behind the desk.  My eyes fell on the fancy coffeemaker and the generous basket of assorted creamers and teas sitting next to it.  The framed cover of Delaware Today featured a woman with a stethoscope around her neck - she was smiling at everyone from her spot on the wall.  I turned around and looked at her… Oh, we are most definitely at the right place.

I walked up to the front desk with her.  They handed her a packet of paperwork.  We found a place in the sitting room and began to complete the documents.  Nurses walked in and out of sight, clipboards in arms and smiles on their faces.  Norah Jones played softly in the background.  A nudge.  What does this one mean? she asked, pointing her finger at one of the many lines of questions in her packet.  They want to know what you believe in, I explained.  Tell them that you’re a Christian.  Oh, okay, she says.  The scribbles continue.  A little girl bounds into the sitting room, followed closely by her mother.  They both brought books.  Another nudge.  And this one?  What do they want? she asks again.  They want to know what kind of things have caused you anxiety and stress, I say.  Her brow furrows.  How do I even explain that?  I’ll just tell them, I’m not writing anymore, she says while getting up.

Jennifer? they call.  We look at one another quickly.  Her smile appears before mine does - she is much stronger than I.  I’ll be here, I say.  I watch them walk out of the sitting room.  Norah dissolves into Chopin’s Nocturne in C sharp minor, No.7.  And suddenly, I am alone with my thoughts.

I’m not afraid of the pain, she had said to me earlier that week; I can endure the pain.  My biggest fear is that he doesn’t know how to take care of me - and that he won’t.  I’m scared of being alone.  Her eyes suddenly focused on something very far away and she crossed her arms.  Suddenly, we are both transported back to that one day of summer a few years ago, when the burden became too much to bear.  Everything that she had shouldered came toppling down; every criticism that she had to deflect, every demand she had to fill.  The ambulance made it home quicker than I did that day; her heart rate had plummeted dangerously.  She called him while she was recovering in the hospital, weakened and scared; she did not know what was happening to her.  He was irritated, and wouldn’t come right away.  I’ll be there in a few hours, I have to finish some things at work.  She told me later that she was crushed; his work came first and that’s how it’s always been.  And that is her biggest fear - to be alone when she needed him the most.

As Chopin turned into Jardins sous la Pluie from Debussy’s Prelude Pour le Piano, I began to pray for strength.  Sometimes I hesitate to pray because I do not know what to say; life gets messier the more I get involved.  The words came - Lord I ask for strength, I ask for peace.  Make us brave.  We know that are in Your hands.  When I open my eyes, she’s standing by my side, that unwavering smile of strength on her face.  Well? I ask, unable to keep it down.

It’s not as bad as I thought it would be, she said.  Doctor is really nice, she is very good.  She was angry that I didn’t come earlier, the ultrasounds from a few months ago are outdated because they’ve gotten bigger, but how could I have come with everything going on?  My eyes expanded to the size of dinner plates - bigger?? I asked, raising my voice.  She shook her head and put her hand on her lower belly, towards her right hip bone.  They found the fibroid, it’s in a bad place.  They will need to take it out.  They found something else too.  Something else??? I asked, getting edgy.  They found a cyst, a really big one - she held her hand up and spread her thumb and index finger to show me - it’s too big.  They have to take that out too.  The whole thing?? I gulped.  She smiled again.  No, just the right one.  And the fibroids.  Only a few days recovery, not weeks and weeks, like I thought.  Only a few days, and I’ll be able to take care of myself after, no worries!  Oh, and these I do not understand, she said as she handed me a slip of paper with the surgical procedures scratched out by Doctor.  I read the note and digested the words on the paper.  Endometrial ablation, laparoscopic surgery, right oophorectomy.  I looked up at her.  God is so good to us, she remarks.  And with her coat in hand, she says, Let’s go home.

She calls me a few days later I moved in with Em.  They are scheduling me for the 4th, she says.  I know classes will start for you soon, and I don’t want to be–

“Mom,” I said, cutting her off before she could finish.  “I’m going to come home for you.”  There was silence on the other end; I knew that this time she would not protest.  “I’m going to come home and take care of you.  And Dad and Frank too.  Don’t worry, I’ll be there.   I’ll stay for as long as I can.”
“Okay,” she said softly.  “Okay, you come home… and take care of me.”

I stayed up watching Dust by Rob Bell with Ryan last night.  Rob talked about the duties of a rabbi’s disciples in the time of the Bible, and he related it to how Jesus picked the JV, the B-team, the Nobodies to be his disciples.  He said that the fact that Jesus chose his disciples proves that Jesus must have had faith in his disciples; Jesus must have believed that his disciples were capable of following in His footsteps.  He went on to say that as Christians, it’s not that we doubt what Jesus can do, but we doubt instead that we are capable of living out our lives the way Jesus lived, making the choices that he did and changing the world through things both big and small.  We forget that Jesus chose his disciples, his followers - he did not doubt that they (mere fishermen and tax collectors) were able to make the choices that he made.  As a matter of fact, Jesus believes in people so much, that he left the world to them with the charge: “go make more followers!”

Reflecting upon my own faith, I can recall many moments when I backed out of doing or saying something because I felt completely helpless.  I doubted my ability to make a difference, and I doubted my own humanity and capacity to love.  The thought of being accountable for someone I love frightens me, particularly since I have failed to do just that so many times in the past.  Doubt kills.  But Christ saves - if he believes in someone little like me so much to have commanded me to walk in his shoes and live likewise, then who am I to disbelieve that I’m capable of loving like He loves?

She wrote me an email this morning - her very first email.  In it, she says:
“I really enjoyed you being at home.  I can share so many things with you.  I thank God for giving me a sweet daughter who really cares about me and loves me.  Thank God for your strong faith and heart.  I learn so much from you.”

I guess she believes in me too.  Even though I feel incredibly small and can be plagued by doubt and fear of failure, Rob Bell is right - if Jesus had enough faith in us to begin with, we must be capable of doing something great with right motives.  In another week it’ll be her turn to receive, and it’ll be mine to give.  Sometimes I seriously doubt that I will be able to do it, to be held accountable to someone I love, but God doesn’t doubt it.  And to fill those shoes would be to do the duty of a disciple.

And that… is something that I wouldn’t miss for the world.

Human fathers aren’t perfect, nor are they really prepared for the huge responsibilities ahead of them. I can’t even begin to imagine the gravity of the paternal role, one that entails everything from providing to withholding; rebuking and loving. We love our dads when they tell us that we rock their worlds, and we resent them when they lay down the law. That can’t be an easy job, laying down the law. But someone’s got to do it. No discipline ever feels good at the time that it’s given, yet the benefits that are reaped from proper discipline are innumerable. Granted, there are fathers who blow discipline way out of proportion, just like there are fathers who never take the time to discipline at all. While my father had the propensity to take discipline to the max (think backhands and tree branches), I will always remain indebted to him for what is perhaps the most valuable lesson that could have been imparted to any young girl trying to navigate her way through adolescence. Amidst his laments on how insufferable of a daughter I was to him, he never ceased to push me to have character over charm. “Inner beauty produces outer beauty,” he would say with his stern voice. “Don’t waste your time and money being superficial, on being pretty and dolled up–it’s the beauty of your character that matters.” These are hard words to swallow for a girl at 13, at 14, at 15 years of age, but they are words that have made an indescribable impact on my life. They have made me into who I am today.

A month ago, I took a nostalgic trip back to my old high school with my roommate. We were nearly trampled on our way into the building by towering teenagers; girls whose legs were longer than we were tall and guys whose shoulders spanned the two of us put together. My eyes widened at how much skin the girls were willing to reveal despite the 30-degree weather; each and every one of them done up so nicely that I could’ve sworn that they were all candidates for modeling schools. I would’ve given anything to look like them in the 9th grade, but my father knew better. Yesterday, I walked into the worship service at church on Sunday morning and sat down by myself in a pew. A few rows over, our church’s high school girls were knit tightly together in fashionably-clad clusters, each and every one of them gorgeous in their own way, whether or not they’d believe me if I said it. Cellphones, cameras, bomber jackets and jeans; makeup and highlights and glitter amassed - altogether they would easily be worth more than $2000. I would’ve given anything to be them in the 10th grade, but my father knew better.

My mind races backwards to a familiar place in time, when all I wanted more than anything in the world was to be beautiful and loved. I had gorgeous and well-to-do friends who were given what they wanted; friends who spent more time on their looks than they did on anything else. I was shy and so awkward, and I didn’t believe that anyone would ever think of me as beautiful. I wanted so badly to look as good as the rest of the high school population did; I started buying what my friends bought and wearing what they wore. I did my makeup just the way they did theirs and started to avoid the foods that they avoided. My definition of ‘beautiful’ was totally appearance-based. It’s no surprise then that at this time, I was furiously engaged in a war against my father. But the battles were on his home turf - where no act of disobedience was to be tolerated.

I remember the first time I tried leaving the house wearing a low-cut shirt; he ordered me to change even before my foot hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs. And the time I spent a lot of money on those (really short) shorts - he looked at me furiously before launching into another speech about my improper attire. There were also school dances from which I was forbidden (and also that one particular dance during which he stormed in to “rescue” me from and sent the principal into the gym to look for me), numerous bottles of makeup paraphernalia thrown into the trash, and bags and bags of clothing that I was never to wear again. Along with those came the threats of how I would be sorry if I ever let a boy touch me, if I ever sat in a boy’s lap; how I was never to be alone with Boy, get in a car with Boy, do this with Boy and do that with Boy… My father yelled and got scary when I wasn’t polite and when I forgot to greet my elders with the proper title (Mr. and Mrs., Auntie and Uncle). He got even scarier when I would try to sass with him (I never got very far with that). Nothing angered him more than to see me choose image over intellect, philandering over propriety; my reputation and purity meant a great deal to him not just in words or presentation but in lifestyle and attitude as well. He expected me to have honesty and integrity over coquetry and allure; he wanted me to be made out of substance and not sweet talk.

There were a lot of tears and unspoken “I-hate-you’s,” many bitter pity-me parties and moments when I felt like I was the most uncool and unlovable girl in the world. Being the only one who wasn’t allowed to wear tight shirts, short skirts, lots of jewelry and makeup - somehow made me less valuable of a girl; being the only girl who hadn’t let a boy touch her like so or do this or that with her - made me feel ashamed. But I obeyed my dad (very contemptuously at first) and tried to uphold his expectations. Though I’d secretly defy him when I was far from his scrutiny, all I found at the end of those encounters were superficiality, heart hurts and disappointment - mostly in myself and with the rest of the world.

Coming to college was perhaps what tested my integrity the most: a chance to be free, a chance to start new; rediscover and re-identify. After a few compromising mistakes during my first semester at school, I found myself desperately in need of wisdom. My dad wasn’t around to pound lectures into my head, but I knew where I would be able to find what I needed to hear. I took out my Bible - the one that had been collecting dust from the shelf in my dorm - and began to read Proverbs 31. Verse 30 alone says, “Charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.” I knew deep down that my dad had done his job by laying down the law for me and guarding my purity when all I allowed myself to see was what I was missing out by being modest. Suddenly, I was ashamed of the times I had scorned my dad for forcing me to change out of an outfit or put on another layer, and for fiercely correcting me when my behavior compromised my character. I was ashamed for snubbing him when he accused me of being garish and indecent. Suddenly, outward beauty didn’t weigh in as much as it used to, not with the way that I saw our world treat those who were only beautiful on the outside and not on the inside. I knew that only God would be able to give me a pure heart inside, that God and God alone assigns and takes value away.

It’s a little more than two years after that encounter with Proverbs 31 in my dorm. God has been and is still transforming every part of my heart from the inside out, and I love Him more than ever. I have since then, thanked my dad many times for the numerous times he protected a part of me that I did not value. I have also developed a hatred for the way in which our culture and our world warps the meaning of true beauty, how we tell young girls that they need to be thin to be gorgeous, to be coy and seductive and breast-baring and decked out in order to be perfect; how we tell older women that natural aging makes them ugly and that they need to inject themselves with needles in order to be beautiful forever. I have come to cherish what I didn’t use to cherish, and I’ve found that my pops was right after all - inner beauty really does produce outer beauty, in many more ways than one.

So here’s some punctuated modesty for all of you gentlemen thinking about becoming fathers one day. In no way am I urging you to interrupt your daughter’s first phone call from a boy and proceed to yell at him for 5 minutes (at least that’s what happened to me), nor am I suggesting that you rant for 3 hours about the dangers of whoredom to your future 14-year old when she comes back home wearing a tight shirt… but I am hoping that purity and integrity, honor and virtue are disciplines that you assume responsibilities over, while ensuring that your daughter never doubts for an instant that YOU, of all people, think that she is the most beautiful girl in the world. Big responsibilities indeed. But in a world that bombards our girls with mixed messages about beauty, your voice will be one of the most significant voices she’ll need to hear. Where my father stressed the purport of character, he lacked to tell me the latter. Our relationship suffered in other ways that are impertinent to this post.

And there is too much to be said to the ladies here on this note; perhaps one day down the road they will merit a blog to themselves. The Bible tells us not to cast our pearls to swine. So I’ll just ask the questions that no one else will ask: do the words that come out of your mouths reflect the kind of woman you want to be for God? Are you more concerned about loving yourself (ie: spending money on clothes and makeup, spending time with your group of friends) than you are with loving others? What parts of yourself have you given up - and what parts of yourself have you decided to save for your future husband? I will be the first to admit that my words don’t always reflect the kind of woman I want to be for God; that sometimes I get caught up in loving myself and forget to love others, that there are things I wish I would’ve saved for the person I’m going to love and live with for the rest of my life. It’s all about the choices you make. Will you choose to be fleeting and deceptive, or will you choose to be part of something that is eternal; something much more worthy to be praised?

If there was ever a lesson that I think girls our day in age needed to hear more, it’s that their worth in Jesus Christ is far more precious and valuable than any marketable beauty product or brand name, advertisement or boy will ever give them. A pure heart with its eyes turns towards God is most attractive, and true beauty is something that only God can create. The good news is, we can ask Him to create that for us - first in our hearts, and then in our lives for the whole world to see. I was blessed to have a papa who helped me see this truth - though done so in a… very unique way. If you haven’t gotten this message, this is me telling it to you now.

Just chew on it.

Four people sat down for dinner tonight.  I knew how the routine would go even before I closed my eyes for prayer, but I racked my brains for things to share with you nonetheless.  When I opened them again, it was like another wall had grown in the space between your place at the table and mine.  You had nothing to say to me, which was expected of course.  But you don’t even look at me.  I ate in silence.  It was deafening.

I walked into your study the other night, remember?  So I got to record today, a friend of mine returned the favor for all of the help I’ve given him, I said.  For how long? you had asked without looking up.  A few hours, I replied.  The silence started to creep over us so I changed the subject.  You weren’t that interested; you just chewed up your food and continued to stare at the screen.  You have no idea how much I detest how you’ve let that consume you.  You wouldn’t even be able to begin to imagine how much I would give for you to invest in me as much as you invest in your money.  But years and years of listening to you and not telling you how I really felt about it all has made me into a good actress.  I take the remains of your consumed dinner to the kitchen sink on my way out of your space.  Three minutes is better than none.  And this is the sound of distance.

I am reminded of the night I came home about a week before Christmas.  I was bold that evening and said some things to you that I had never said to you before.  Like how you weren’t there for us, how you were breaking promises all over again; how you weren’t loving her the right way and how you weren’t being the role model that he needs so much right now.  How you never cared about anything or anyone other than yourself, and how you were missing out on everything important right now.  The tears came unplanned but I didn’t care because I wanted you to see me for who I was and what I truly felt but you glared at me and commanded me to stop.  I did stop.  Just for you.  I felt like I was ten years older than I really was.

I’m bursting at the seams to tell you everything that’s been going on in my life.  I have so many questions, so many fears and uncertainties that I need to voice.  I don’t understand much about money and how to prepare to start living on my own.  I haven’t ever owned my own car and I definitely don’t know where to start if I ever want to buy one.  Do you know what my favorite color is?  Do you know what makes me laugh?  Am I a burden to you?  Am I a nuisance?  Doubt is probably the deadliest of all relationship-killers.  I hate doubting.  Yet it becomes so hard to avoid when efforts to love are met with absolutely nothing.

Tonight, we passed one another in the hallway going opposite directions without looking at one another.  You carrying your load and I carrying mine.  We each take our own load into our rooms and close the doors.  I thought families were supposed to help carry each other’s loads.  If so, then we’ve failed a thousand times.  Because after all, isn’t that what love is about?

Home has become for me a paradox of definition; a place of contradiction where I collide with those whom I have known my whole life.  Fighting with and believing in love can be so hard sometimes.  I want to give up so badly… but I know deep down that I won’t give up because God supplies me with just enough love to get through to him.  Especially for the times when I miss out on a perfect chance.

I don’t know why I wrote this.  Maybe one day I’ll have the guts to share this with you.  Maybe one day you’ll seize the chance to listen.  And on that day, maybe I’ll seize the chance to be courageous.  Until then, I’ll keep my hopes.

“…But hope that is seen is no hope at all.  Who hopes for what he already has?  But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.” — Romans 8:24-25

Introducing yourself to other people is kind of weird, especially when you’re all sitting in a circle for small group. I mean, what do you normally tell a stranger, other than your name, which they will probably forget–especially if you’re with a bunch of other people? Hello, my name is Grace. Hi… I’m Chris. Jerry. Susan. I’m Megan. Uh, Steve. I’m Ellen? Jack Anderson. Greg from Havertown. Jessica… Hi I’m Ben. And I’m Kevin. You get the idea, it can be a little overwhelming. At one point in time, I used to repeat a well-rehearsed paragraph of information to others when I introduced myself to them:

“Hi, I’m Grace… I was born on the 7th day of the 7th month in the 7th year of 1980; I weight 7 pounds and the first letter of my first name is the 7th letter of the alphabet.”

If they didn’t remember me for my pretentiousness, they would have at least remembered me for all those sevens. It’s been a few years since I’ve pulled that riff off on anyone (I started to feel stupid; though it makes for good trivia). I’ve had people come up to me and tell me how lucky I must be; superstitious folks who’d gaze at me as if I were a talisman, old Chinese people who’d grin and remark that it must be because I was born in the year of the Rabbit. Weird, right? I guess I asked for it, for not having been able to shut up about myself. Oh well.

I’ve thought about the odds of being born with that many sevens in my life from time to time.  There have definitely been times when I scoffed at the idea of being super-blessed; times when life seemed completely meaningless and without direction.  And there have definitely been times when I smiled inwardly out of recognition for the super blessings that I’ve been given; times when I have been graced to see the beauty of God’s love.  With the year of 2007 closing in on the world, I couldn’t help but smile as I recollected exploits big and small from my past twelve months of living and breathing air.  This year in and of itself has been one that began in loneliness, confusion and despair: I doubted God’s love more than ever and kept my heart behind iron bars; I lost all sense of who I was and what I was born to do.  But with the incredible gift of time and grace, God–who never ceased to love me and to accept me for who I was–gradually showed me the way in which I was supposed to climb.  Miracles happened, friendships made, favor gained, opportunities opened, wisdom abounded, relationships redeemed; I was being restored.  I saw more of my weaknesses, more of my strengths; I found the voice that I never thought I’d find and stood up for things like truth and justice, love and hope.  I learned how to fight for what I love, those whom I love; I learned how to claim victories that which were mine in Christ.  Not that any of these are mastered, of course.  No… this is just the beginning.

I turned twenty this year on 07-07-07, a date that will occur once more in a hundred years.  Two decades of life already lived; two decades of choices… making mistakes, laughing, crying, being rejected, knowing joy, being accepted, addictions, idolizing, seeking, growing, escaping, winning, being jealous, telling lies, doubting, trusting, surrendering, being forgiven, being blessed–and blessings, blessings, blessings…

I’m not one to really champion New Year’s Resolutions.  I think they’re kind of tacky; like this is the one day of the year where we’re all going to consider ways in which we can improve ourselves.  I heard an awesome quote this week at a missions conference I am currently attending: “There’s a big difference between talking about something and then actually doing it.  Doing is much more important than talking.  But what is even more important that doing is being.  Being is much, much more important than doing.”

God, I want to be eager to listen, eager to hope; eager to learn and eager to grow.  I want to be slow to anger, slow to resent; slow to judge and slow to speak… prone to be joyful, prone to seek wisdom; prone to laugh and prone to simplicity.  Make me quick to let go, quick to forgive; quick to love and quick to follow You… but most of all, I want to be bold to be bold; bold to dream and bold to believe, bold to sacrifice… again and again and again.  I can’t achieve any of these things on my own… but when I am rooted in You, all of these things are possible.  Help me just to be.  Thank You for a year of the sevens, a marvelous and amazing ride of letting go again and again only to see in the end just how much more blessings I am able to reap.  Lucky girl, indeed.

You don’t need a bunch of sevens to be blessed.  You don’t need a lucky number nor do you need a lucky charm.  Ask and seek the Author of the Universe who gives and takes all… your eyes will be opened like they’ve never been opened before.  Instead of doing things in order to be blessed, just go and be blessed.  Happy New Year’s.

The Main Street Christmas lights sparkle in my window, reminding me of the time that has passed and the time that has yet to come. I cannot believe the first half of my third year at college has already flown by: I could’ve sworn that it had only been a few days ago that I had moved into my dorm, that I had enrolled for classes and gotten my schedule to teach. Somehow, in the past 3.5 amazing months of life, there have been many Large Groups, many Great Conversations, several exam-grading sessions, many random conversations about God, miracles both big and small; too many memorable coffeeshop conversations and unforgettable study breaks, great friendships and lessons learned the hard way, many intimate moments with God and with music in front of the piano at the CFA late at night; a gazillion number of meetings and doodle sessions, unexpected gigs and concerts, several difficult confrontations, many moments of doubt, confusion, and stress–which were always accompanied by the glorious moments of faith, passion, and love. I’ve entered new chapters and created new memories; I’ve grown painfully in some places and through it all, I have learned to love God all the more.I never cease to be amazed by God when I take a conscious step out of my little world to get a glimpse of the Bigger Picture. For those of you who did not know, I have a writing and thinking fetish; it brings me great joy to mull and muse over life and love, whys and hows. Not to turn this into some sort of confessional or anything–but sometimes there is nothing I look forward to more at the end of the day than sitting still with my black book and my pen, being open and attentive to my heart when it is most alive. Though my love affair with writing did not start until my freshman year of college, I began my 8th volume of Grace’s-Life-In-A-Book at the end of May, this year. An excerpt:

“It’s funny how you are most aware of your heart when it is hurting–kind of like how you notice it with renewed energy when you are in love. In this moment in time, I am more awakened to the deepest corners or my aching and hurting heart than I have ever been before. I am freezing and melting all at once; dying and living all at once. I don’t understand, God… help me understand. I know I need to be restored.” - 6/2/07

The tidbit above was written during a time of heartache and pain. But in so many more ways than one, God has since then taken so much of the restoration of my heart into his own hands. I have journeyed long and far since June, with God’s love navigating me through dark valleys and rugged mountain ranges. Through it all, I have learned that restoration does not occur without risk; perhaps one of the hardest things to do in life is to trust yet again after you’ve been hurt. Our hearts are fragile stuff… one bad experience with love can shut us off from feeling for a lifetime. I am reminded of a particular scene in Home Alone 2 from a late-night movie that occurred with a few friends about a week ago:

Referring to her homelessness, the Pigeon Lady says, “I wasn’t always like this… I had a job, I had a home, I had a family. And then the man I loved fell out of love with me. That broke my heart. When the chance to be loved came again, I ran away from it. I stopped trusting people.” It is at this point that our little hero, Kevin McCallister, brilliantly replies, “No offense, but that seems like sort of a dumb thing to do.” The Pigeon Lady then confessed, “I was afraid of getting my heart broken again. I’m just afraid if I do trust someone, I’ll get my heart broken.” (Here comes the hammer…) Kevin looks at her, and then replies once more with that unperturbed honesty and faith of a kid: “I understand. I had a nice pair of Rollerblades and I was afraid to wreck them, so I kept them in a box. Do you know what happened? I outgrew them. I never wore them outside. Only in my room a few times. If you won’t use your heart, who cares if it gets broken? If you just keep it to yourself, maybe it’ll be like my Rollerblades. When you decide to try it, it won’t be any good. You should take the chance; you’ve got nothing to lose.”

True story, eh? Looking back at the size 7 footprints I’ve made since June, I can think of many times when I’ve voluntarily shut myself from others out of fear. I have been convinced that it has been too hard to forgive, too difficult to forget; too draining to remain open, and too taxing to feel. I have resolved never to love, never to be misguided; I have vowed never to risk, and I have been more than determined to have a will that was stronger than my heart. Love I could do without, I thought; it hurt too much.

But as the tiny Christmas lights dance in the distance, I am reminded of the biggest risk in love ever made in history. Isn’t that what Christmas is all about? God knew we weren’t ever going to be able to get it right; he knew that we needed help. So he sends his Beloved, his One and Only Son, to us in the form of a human baby; the most precious Christmas gift ever known to mankind. To what extent, and to what length, did God have to go through in order for us to know that we are worth it to him, that we are worth loving? And he did this for us with the knowledge that, thirty-three years down that road, he would watch from high heaven as the recipients of his Gift beat, flogged, humiliated, maimed, and crucified his Son. If God sent Jesus to us with all of this already in mind, how can I stand here and not be ashamed of my unwillingness to love in the likeness of that wonderful, wonderful sacrifice?

Today, I am not the person I was when I wrote in my little black book on June 2. Today, I am once again, absolutely in love with life–I am so thrilled to be able to feel and to dream, I am so blessed to be able to know joy and to have hope; I am so thankful to be able to love. What a scary and risky business, love is! But I am determined more than ever to let my Lord and Savior, the Love of my life, permeate my broken heart with the most amazing love of all. That alone gives me every reason to risk and to love on my way to being just a little more restored.

It’s 3:11AM on Monday morning. The sun will rise in a few hours… and I will have yet another day to explore the infinite love of God; I will have yet another day to make decisions based on my determination to be guided by God’s love alone. But for now, it’s good night… sweet dreams all around.