kiss-repellants and four-eyed spectating.

My fiance calls my glasses “kiss-repellants.”

He’s rather proud of his ingenuity, though I beg to differ.  From my perspective, being cursed with nearsightedness is one of the most irritating things about being mortal.  Being christened “four-eyes” and constantly associated with qualities such as “nerdy” or “brainy” by greater society was never one of my favorite childhood past-times.  I never saw myself as a “glasses” person; I wanted to be able to see the world for its colors and sights on my own.  When I turned 12, I implored my parents to let me wear contacts so that I would no longer suffer in my adolescent angst.  A few weeks later, I sat down with an eyeball expert at a small table and attempted to place a hydrophilic soft lens into my eye.

I poked myself quite a bit before I got the hang of it, of course, but I was determined: no more “four-eyes” for me!!!  I walked into school the next day a new woman, transformed by the glistening pieces of plastic stuck over my corneas… I knew that my life would never be the same again…

Four years later, a violent staphylococcus infection rendered me contact-less for several months.  After my eyes healed, I vowed never to sleep in a box again (I contracted the infection from sleeping outdoors in an old box; don’t ask).  I was rim-less by the time I was to enter my first year of college.  I breathed a deep sigh of relief; how dreadful it would be to have to wear glasses in college!  (Inject heavy sarcasm here)

My college years without glasses sailed smoothly on by.  That is, until last October rolled around.  I woke up one morning and found that the all-too familiar redness in my eye had returned with a vengeance.  Oh no!  I said to myself.  Not again!  Because I had no time (or health insurance) at the time, I couldn’t see my ophthalmologist right away.  I decided to suck it up for a few months.  When I was finally able to schedule an appointment with my ophthalmologist earlier this summer, I was prescribed an antibiotic for a week before able to use my contacts again.  The redness cleared up in a week, and I went on with my life, undeterred by spectacles again.

However, my bliss was soon interrupted by another bout of redness-in-the-eye.  I took another trip to the ophthalmologist, carrying the same complaints as I did during my previous appointment, and walked away with antibiotic in my hand once more.  In the meantime, I discarded all eye make-up, contact cases, and anything that had the potential to provoke another infection.  But the redness continued to return, causing me to finally lose my patience.

I recounted my spectacle tales to my good friend Emily the other day, drastically dramaticizing my dire plight of eternal glass-wearing.  She sympathized and assured me that I wasn’t alone. She felt the same way towards her glasses and agreed with me that they were quite annoying at times.  To cheer me up, she helped me compile a list of pros and cons to wearing glasses:

PROS:
1 – glasses prevent you from falling asleep when you’re reading
2 – they protect your eyes when you are frying bacon (or torching creme brulee)
3 – glasses are convenient, particularly on lazy weekend mornings and sleep-depriving exam week
4 – glasses are cheaper than contacts
5 – glasses make you look super intellectual, moreso than you really are (which is true in my case)
6 – they can be quite a fashion statement
7 – cool people like Bono wear them
8 – some glasses are made of indestructible stuff … like Nalgene bottles

CONS:
1 –  glasses slide off your nose when you go running (a pet peeve Em and I both share)
2 – glasses don’t prevent you from crying when you’re cutting onions, like contacts do
3 – they make you look extra dorky when you have lab goggles on
4 – they really ARE kiss-repellants
5 – if someone trips you and you fall flat on your face, glasses break immediately
6 – if you’re someone whose vision is as bad as mine, you depend on glasses like you depend on having deodorant in Phys.Ed
7 – you have to take them off when you’re getting your picture taken because of the flash
8 – glasses make it quite difficult to wear stunna shades

After we finished brainstorming, I began to realize that my myopic condition wasn’t just physical.  My myopia is spiritual.  I was so frustrated with being unable to wear my contacts that I had forgotten what a blessing it was to be able to see — what a blessing it was to be able to access an ophthalmologist with insurance, to afford contact lenses, to afford a pair of glasses, and to have the hope of finding a solution to my problem.  Amidst my anxiety, I was being showered with God’s goodness.  But because I was blinded by vanity and selfishness, I was unable to receive those blessings.

Maybe the ophthalmologist will tell me that I have a condition that renders me incapable of wearing lenses ever again.  Maybe I’ll go blind within the next 10 years.  Whatever the case, I definitely don’t have it the worst.  So what if I have to wear kiss-repellants for the rest of my life?  There are plenty of ways to get around that problem…

totally knit together.

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.

adequate and accepted.

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.

what winter taught me.

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…

some punctuated modesty.

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.

the sound of distance.

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

risky business, love is.

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.

thanks for giving, God.

101 things that make my heart glow…thank You God, for Your unbeatable thoughtfulness.

1. thick pencil lead 2. green post-its 3. spandex 4. crackling fires 5. outdoor running 6. the laughter of my dear friends 7. cooking with a wok 8. light sabers 9. snuggling 10. serving tea 11. being inspired 12. saying hi to people in public bathrooms 13. red gerbera daisies 14. cheese 15. spontaneous dancing 16. social justice 17. good massages 18. dim sum 19. city lights 20. the english vocabulary 21. how my mom puts her feet up whenever she sits down 22. understanding smiles 23. random compliments 24. figuring out pitches to everything 25. being a rebel 26. sitting on the roof 27. curly-headed roommates 28. anything in D minor 29. oil pastels 30. writing in skinny block letters 31. singing with my eyes closed 32. dreaming with my eyes open 33. unconventional coloring 34. reserving meaningful words 35. french vanilla 36. animals 37. reggaeton 38. pho 39. red dresses 40. Scrabble 41. baseball hats 42. stripes and collars 43. teenagers 44. blustery days 45. Proverbs 46. semicolons 47. walking 48. being intellectual 49. knowing that I’m needed 50. sketching people 51. baking from scratch 52. scheming up novels 53. snail mail 54. being reminded of who I am 55. thunderstorms 56. bravery 57. my brother’s violin playing 58. the American West 59. talented cellists (mama mia!) 60. loyal friends 61. my own name 62. driving 63. acoustic jamming 64. finishing sentences 65. chamomile and honey 66. breaking stereotypes 67. really epic movies 68. ancient history 69. discovering true intentions 70. honesty 71. kashi cereal 72. getting the best of two cultures 73. mountain summits 74. sunlight streaming into the kitchen 75. throwing random 7ths into whatever I play 76. being able to speak music 77. Mandarin 78. Billie, Ella, and Etta 79. seeing people be real 80. taking time out of the day to just be silent 81. pesto and bruschetta 82. true beauty 83. fearlessness 84. living for a reason 85. little black journals 86. musical family time 87. the people who love me just the way I am 88. warm laundry 89. having hope that never fails 90. being an American 91. fuji apples 92. healed scars 93. thoughtfulness 94. wearing guy’s clothes 95. whitewater rafting 96. picking out constellations 97. spreading peanut butter 98. sweet beddy-byes 99. Christmas 100. the ability to fall in love 101. my Redeemer, my only One

of course, there are many more to list… but it’s 1:12AM and after massive consumption of assorted foods, I am finally tired.

i bleed red too.

Autumn. It’s my personal favorite, actually. There’s something about seeing my breath in the air, being buttoned up, and clenching a warm mug of spice tea in my hands that makes it special. And then there are the pies (apple and pumpkin to be precise), the wafting aroma of snickerdoodles and baked goodness; hot chocolate and warm bread. Running is so much nicer in 50-degree weather, and the time spent with friends and family is more likely to be accompanied by a cheerful fire.

But the best part of autumn are the colors.

A friend once remarked to me, “Why do you like autumn so much? Everything is dying!!!” While that is true, that death is only temporary for our deciduous friends here in the Northeast. Or Southeast. Whatever you consider Delaware to be. Despite the short absence from their boughs, these leaves are spectacular. What an awesome display of color! (I am particularly fond of the red ones.) While my eyes soaked in the tangerines, vermilions, sun-yellows and faded greens of autumn on the way home from church, I began to think.

People are like autumn leaves. All of us: different colors, different roots; dying and living at the same time. If you haven’t been keeping up with the news or if you didn’t pay attention to that kid in your class who’s always on top of the latest University gossip, there’s been a lot of hoo-ha about ResLife and the diversity programs here at UD. It’s funny how life occurrences coincide from time to time–our entire InterVarsity Christian Fellowship just listened to a speaker talk to us about racism and how we all need to give grace–”gracism,” if you will, in order for a loving community to be built. Racism, grace, community, and love, I thought to myself. I’m uncomfortable already.

My good friend and fellow InterVarsity leader was the designated driver for church this morning. I turned to her and said, “I’ve been struggling with loneliness lately… it’s been so hard for me to identify with people in our fellowship. I’m realizing more and more now that I am the minority, that I am different, and when I’m aware of this, I can’t connect.”
She looked at me and asked, “is it because you are Asian that you’re feeling this way, or is the devil trying to tell you that you can’t connect and identify with your peers?”
After a brief silence I replied, “no… being Asian doesn’t justify my feelings of loneliness… I guess it’s just hard for me to feel like I belong.” In my mind, I thought why did I even bring this up? What do YOU know about being the odd one out? You’re not a minority! (note: here, this is Grace being racist.)
With a sigh, I elaborated. “For example… I hear about people getting together for a party-slash-get-together and I didn’t get the memo. I would love to go. I wonder sometimes, is it because I’m Asian and different that they didn’t ask me to come? Or, we’re hanging out, and everyone except for me starts laughing about something that’s awfully hilarious. And I wonder again, is it just a cultural thing? And then if it’s not because I’m Asian, then it’s because I’m too serious, or too deep-thinking, too introverted or just too different–I just feel like I don’t belong here, like there’s some exclusion principle in our own fellowship that I don’t understand! All I want is to know that it’s possible for someone out there to love me just the way I am!” I stopped suddenly. There were tears falling from my friend’s eyes.

And then, as if an invisible hand had slapped me in the face, I realized that what started out as a conversation about being unable to identify with others had undeniably turned into a conversation in which both of us could identify with one another.

“Grace, you are speaking thoughts that I’ve had for years and years,” she said to me. “I’ve gone so long being comfortable hiding behind the labels that everyone associates me with; I’m so scared of life after college because I seriously doubt if there are people in the fellowship who know the real me. I want to know too that it’s possible for someone out there to love me the way I am.”

My friend and I sat side by side in her car. Her light skin a seat over from my tan skin. Her last name so many more syllables than my last name. (Well, given that my last name is only one syllable…) We are different in so many ways–yet we have much in common. Though the leaves on one tree may differ in shape and size and most notably, color, they essentially have the same needs: light, water, nutrients. Who would have thought that humans were not so different?

If nothing else, every human being can find common ground in identifying with our need and desire to be loved. Factors like our personality, our life experiences, our values; our appearance, the labels we’re given, our race and culture; our IDENTITY–these only layer our most fundamental need of love. It is our fear of being alone, our doubts of whether or not we will be loved, and our hurts that prove that our desires are made of the same stuff. Jesus bled one color when He died on the cross so that we may have that kind of love from a God whose love will never run dry. It is because of this sacrifice that you and I bleed red too.

If we (InterVarsity and the rest of the world) are going to address color, we can’t begin by starting with our differences in color. We need to begin by identifying common ground in our shared needs as humans. We all need what we don’t deserve, and that’s what makes it a gift of grace when we love one another with the kind of love that Jesus had for us when He bled over our hurts. You and I… we’re much more alike than we think.

So that’s another reason why I love autumn so much. That, and the fact that the water is done boiling… finally, a cup of tea and a lovely weekend at its close. Goodnight.