No, don't worry, nothing drastic has happened in my life.
I've just been annoyed by people recently. It disgusts me, how petty/stupid/false people are, and it horrifies me, how prideful/hateful/unforgiving I can be.
There was a party at my house last night, and a bunch of families from my old church came over. Most of the teens sat around on the couch gossiping about who liked who and played truth or dare.
And speaking of my old church, the last time I went to that youth group was almost a month ago. And the only thing I discovered there that day was how the entire group was split into small cliques. (I usually spend my evenings there after the activities are over outside, talking with a few other outsiders, thereby creating another clique without meaning to.)
I have friends from Taiwan staying over at my house. This means my mother is stressed. So when she is speaking to me or my siblings, her voice is harsh and irritated, but then she will turn around and speak in a sweet voice to my friend's parents, as if nothing has happened.
My brother recently mistook something I said for something else. So he told me to shut up. I told him I didn't know I had said something wrong, and asked him to clarify. He clarified by telling me to shut up again, and stormed to his room, slammed the door closed, and began throwing things at the wall. He still hasn't told me what I said wrong, and won't admit to being wrong.
I was in a play recently, and all I could think of during rehearsals was how little the rest of the cast seemed to care for the show. They complained about how terrible things were going, and how stupid the entire thing was, but the minute the show actually finished, and people were telling them how wonderful they were, they brightened up and lapped up all the glory.
And of course, there's always the sheer stupidity of people around me. The sheer evil spoken of in newspaper headlines. The sheer pettiness of everyday conversation.
Humans sicken me. I sicken me, because I see myself joining in on these things, and falling for them every day.
Lord help us all...
8.13.2010
8.10.2010
Love, Literature, and the Lydian Mode
She is sitting at her desk, a pencil in one hand, and the other hand holding a cold can of diet Coke. Every once in a while, her pen stops scratching, so that she can take a sip. When she tilts the can against her lips, her little finger lifts itself from the surface of the can, a remnant of the elegant habits of a time and culture now lost. A time and culture she is attempting to bring to life.
I stand behind her, outside the shadow of her lamp, wondering how best to perform the task set before me. In these modern times, people no longer understand what I try to say to them - they do not pick up the traces I leave in the sparse trees, in the faces of the people pushing past them. Subtlety is lost in the 21st century, replaced by clocks, computers, classrooms, places and things which tell you everything and leave nothing to Imagination.
He has a very difficult time, Imagination. He has bags under his eyes from keeping awake through the night so often - Dream often needs his help these days, to make his work worthwhile and interesting. He complains to me about how often people ignore him, how many times they dismiss him. I see him often; sometimes we work together. We do so more and more; with people the way they are, the strength of both of us is needed to get the job done.
But today he is busy - most likely some new artist, or, even more likely, a filmmaker. I can’t say I blame him for leaving me today; the films these days could use a bit of his work.
The girl has moved, reminding me of the task at hand. She has turned on her computer (uninspired devices, really, but sometimes useful in my line of work), and is now instant messaging a friend, whose screen name is, as I read over her shoulder, “thenextbard.” I smile faintly as I recognize the name; I have visited him several times, each time with great success. The girl is talking with him about her writer’s block. I laugh to myself quietly at the irony of my standing right next to her as she types the words. I’d like to tell her that everything will be alright in a few minutes, as soon as I find out how to do this, but that’s not recommended in my line of work.
“Thenextbard” tells her he has to go. She says farewell, sighs, and reaches for her mp3 player.
Suddenly I know what to do.
But in order to do it, I must make another quick trip.
I see him now. A friend of hers, but not the bard. He is also sitting at the computer (they seem to be everywhere these days, but today I will not complain, since I have a use for it). I have visited him once or twice before, so I know how this should go. I gently tap him on the shoulder, so that he will turn around.
He doesn’t, choosing instead to scratch at the shoulder, still typing with one hand.
Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
Feeling in a somewhat violent mood, and also being in a rush, I crash his computer. I know he hates it, but at least it gets his attention.
After the usual human string of curses and attempts to reboot, he sags back into his chair. I could tap his shoulder again, but instead I decide to run my hand across the strings of the guitar behind him.
This usually creeps people out. But not him. After all, he often insists half in jest that his guitar is a real person, so why shouldn’t make a sound?
It’s worked. He has picked up the guitar, and is now fiddling with random tunes. Now that all the pieces are in place, I carefully, subtly guide his fingers so that it plays something approaching an ancient scale - the Lydian mode, actually. If he were one of us, he might realize that this was the same kind of music that used to resound through the Greek temples. But he isn’t. And so he plays, unaware of my presence, unaware of how his gradually forming composition will be used.
I prepare to leave, but before I do, I do one last thing. With his computer screen still black, I change it so that when he returns to his instant message page, there will be only one name there.
I return to the girl’s side, after running a few errands that take no more than half an hour - sending mothers the right songs to calm their crying babes, presenting a new metaphor for a poet to use, giving another writer a few words to put in her essay, etc.
Sure enough, after a few minutes of waiting, the boy with the guitar appears on the girl’s IM screen. After quick hellos, he tells her to check her email. I linger just long enough for her to download the mp3 file and listen to the first straining notes, and then hurriedly grasp her pencil and begin writing furiously as the music plays on.
Nothing like a few moments of complete satisfaction with my job.
I visit her again, a year later, to see how she is doing. As I see her, sitting at a table, signing copies of a book (the book I helped her with, I note with some selfish pride), I grin. With all the busyness of her still-young life now, I may have to check on her in the future, and help her out with whatever uninspired sequel she will probably be working on then.
Postscript:
A few years later (not that time makes a difference to me), I was approached by one of my colleagues, Love. I don’t talk much to her; our paths rarely cross. But today, she greets me with a “Hello” and automatically rushes into her story.
“Do you remember a writer girl you may have helped with a book?”
I reply, saying that there have been many writer girls that i have helped with books.
“Have you helped one by getting a friend of hers to play her a piece of music?”
I slowly nod, and ask what about them that could be so interesting, although I have already guessed what it is. I wouldn’t want to spoil her fun.
“Well, I don’t want to spoil your fun -”
Ironic, I was just thinking the same thing.
“-but you might want to go take a look at them.”
So I do.
I see them both, sitting in the park. I smile, because outdoor places are useful places for my work.
They are both sitting on a park bench. The girl is still writing, but today, she smiles as if she knows she can never get writer’s block again. The boy is still playing his guitar - the same guitar, although now significantly more beat-up. He is smiling as well, as he closes his eyes and inhales the clean, crisp autumn air.
The girl stops writing suddenly and puts her paper down. As she does, I spy a small but brilliant glimmer on her left hand, which goes to turn the boy’s face towards her. He turns his head, his hand still strumming the strings.
The strumming stops only when their lips meet. And even then, afterward the long, lingering moment, he plays one final chord. In the Lydian mode, of course.
I stand behind her, outside the shadow of her lamp, wondering how best to perform the task set before me. In these modern times, people no longer understand what I try to say to them - they do not pick up the traces I leave in the sparse trees, in the faces of the people pushing past them. Subtlety is lost in the 21st century, replaced by clocks, computers, classrooms, places and things which tell you everything and leave nothing to Imagination.
He has a very difficult time, Imagination. He has bags under his eyes from keeping awake through the night so often - Dream often needs his help these days, to make his work worthwhile and interesting. He complains to me about how often people ignore him, how many times they dismiss him. I see him often; sometimes we work together. We do so more and more; with people the way they are, the strength of both of us is needed to get the job done.
But today he is busy - most likely some new artist, or, even more likely, a filmmaker. I can’t say I blame him for leaving me today; the films these days could use a bit of his work.
The girl has moved, reminding me of the task at hand. She has turned on her computer (uninspired devices, really, but sometimes useful in my line of work), and is now instant messaging a friend, whose screen name is, as I read over her shoulder, “thenextbard.” I smile faintly as I recognize the name; I have visited him several times, each time with great success. The girl is talking with him about her writer’s block. I laugh to myself quietly at the irony of my standing right next to her as she types the words. I’d like to tell her that everything will be alright in a few minutes, as soon as I find out how to do this, but that’s not recommended in my line of work.
“Thenextbard” tells her he has to go. She says farewell, sighs, and reaches for her mp3 player.
Suddenly I know what to do.
But in order to do it, I must make another quick trip.
I see him now. A friend of hers, but not the bard. He is also sitting at the computer (they seem to be everywhere these days, but today I will not complain, since I have a use for it). I have visited him once or twice before, so I know how this should go. I gently tap him on the shoulder, so that he will turn around.
He doesn’t, choosing instead to scratch at the shoulder, still typing with one hand.
Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
Feeling in a somewhat violent mood, and also being in a rush, I crash his computer. I know he hates it, but at least it gets his attention.
After the usual human string of curses and attempts to reboot, he sags back into his chair. I could tap his shoulder again, but instead I decide to run my hand across the strings of the guitar behind him.
This usually creeps people out. But not him. After all, he often insists half in jest that his guitar is a real person, so why shouldn’t make a sound?
It’s worked. He has picked up the guitar, and is now fiddling with random tunes. Now that all the pieces are in place, I carefully, subtly guide his fingers so that it plays something approaching an ancient scale - the Lydian mode, actually. If he were one of us, he might realize that this was the same kind of music that used to resound through the Greek temples. But he isn’t. And so he plays, unaware of my presence, unaware of how his gradually forming composition will be used.
I prepare to leave, but before I do, I do one last thing. With his computer screen still black, I change it so that when he returns to his instant message page, there will be only one name there.
I return to the girl’s side, after running a few errands that take no more than half an hour - sending mothers the right songs to calm their crying babes, presenting a new metaphor for a poet to use, giving another writer a few words to put in her essay, etc.
Sure enough, after a few minutes of waiting, the boy with the guitar appears on the girl’s IM screen. After quick hellos, he tells her to check her email. I linger just long enough for her to download the mp3 file and listen to the first straining notes, and then hurriedly grasp her pencil and begin writing furiously as the music plays on.
Nothing like a few moments of complete satisfaction with my job.
I visit her again, a year later, to see how she is doing. As I see her, sitting at a table, signing copies of a book (the book I helped her with, I note with some selfish pride), I grin. With all the busyness of her still-young life now, I may have to check on her in the future, and help her out with whatever uninspired sequel she will probably be working on then.
Postscript:
A few years later (not that time makes a difference to me), I was approached by one of my colleagues, Love. I don’t talk much to her; our paths rarely cross. But today, she greets me with a “Hello” and automatically rushes into her story.
“Do you remember a writer girl you may have helped with a book?”
I reply, saying that there have been many writer girls that i have helped with books.
“Have you helped one by getting a friend of hers to play her a piece of music?”
I slowly nod, and ask what about them that could be so interesting, although I have already guessed what it is. I wouldn’t want to spoil her fun.
“Well, I don’t want to spoil your fun -”
Ironic, I was just thinking the same thing.
“-but you might want to go take a look at them.”
So I do.
I see them both, sitting in the park. I smile, because outdoor places are useful places for my work.
They are both sitting on a park bench. The girl is still writing, but today, she smiles as if she knows she can never get writer’s block again. The boy is still playing his guitar - the same guitar, although now significantly more beat-up. He is smiling as well, as he closes his eyes and inhales the clean, crisp autumn air.
The girl stops writing suddenly and puts her paper down. As she does, I spy a small but brilliant glimmer on her left hand, which goes to turn the boy’s face towards her. He turns his head, his hand still strumming the strings.
The strumming stops only when their lips meet. And even then, afterward the long, lingering moment, he plays one final chord. In the Lydian mode, of course.
8.08.2010
testimony for Boston Project
Boston Project Testimony
When I first signed up for the Boston Project, I was completely unaware of what exactly I would be doing. I was unaware that I would be taking only two showers that week. I was unaware that I would have to paint and do yard work and make quilts. I was unaware that I would be sanding boards for six hours. And I was also unaware of how God would use this trip to impact my life.
The Boston Project, for me, started with a challenge the first night to allow God to break the box that we put Him in. Peter, one of the staff, explained that we often put God into a box, defining Him by certain words and certain expectations, and he challenged all of us to let God break the borders we put around Him, and go beyond our expectations. It was a speech I had heard before, but I hadn’t really thought too much about it. I had read the miraculous stories of missionaries who had been protected by angels, of terminally ill who were healed through prayer, and of all the rest of God’s wonders. I thought my box was as big as it ever was going to get; I had heard it all. And maybe I had. But hearing stories can’t hold a candle to actually experiencing them.
Many of the challenges I faced that week were physical. Every morning, we got up at 7 o’clock (and, if we were getting a shower that day, at 6:30), which is three hours before the time when I normally get up in the summer. The first day was spent painting an elderly lady’s back deck, outside in the hot sun, and the second sanding long wooden boards till my arms were sore. And of course, every day there was inevitably the walking up two flights of stairs to bed at the end of the day. I was constantly hot and sweaty and tired. And I didn’t realize until I got back home that God had been providing for me even then. In such an environment, it would be easy to feel like giving up, or at least feel depressed, but God had given me a cheerful spirit that week, and an ample energy supply that got exhausted at the end of the day, but was always renewed by the next morning. The fellowship I had with the other people around me, the knowledge that I was doing something to help someone else, and the joy of doing God’s work helped to keep me going each day.
And thankfully, the highlights of my week definitely outweighed the challenges. One of my favorite days was Wednesday, when some of us were given the opportunity to serve the homeless in the Boston Commons, with Starlight Ministries. We handed out sandwiches, chatted with the homeless people in the park, and held a short service there. It was an eye-opening experience for me, to interact with the homeless for the first time, help to meet their needs, and listen to their stories. It felt good to be helping others with their basic needs, and through hearing what they had to say, I gained a new perspective of these people, most of which lost their homes due to the economy, to unfortunate family circumstances, or to illness, age, or disability. Of course, to learn such things is upsetting, but it makes one all the more grateful to get a fuller view of things than what one had previously.
Another really great time was the time we had as a group, whether it was at our service sites working with kids from other churches, our Dinner Downtown with our respective churches, or our time quilting sleeping bags for the homeless. These were times where we got to know each other, bond over our sandwiches or quilts or sandpaper or what-have-you, and generally fellowship and have a great time.
But undoubtedly, the best day was Thursday, when we participated in spontaneous service. We were divided into small groups of three or four kids, with one or two leaders, were given plastic bags of random materials, and were assigned to different areas of the Boston Commons to serve in whatever ways we could. By the time my group had walked to our area of the park, it had started to rain. Soon, the rain had gotten so bad that we all had to take shelter under one of the huge trees…right next to two people. One was a street musician, who was trying to pack up his instrument and speakers; we were able to give him a garbage bag from our set of materials, to cover up his speakers with. He thanked us, and left. The other was a college student named Amanda, with whom we spent the next half an hour talking about everything from serving the community to Nietzsche to the meaning of love. Although we weren’t sure of what sort of impact we had made on her by the time she left to find dryer haunts, I feel that God had given us much common ground to talk about, her being a sociology major and I being interested in psychology, and that both parties had learned something new from the conversation. Just after she left, a mother arrived under the tree, with her two boys, ages 4 and 2. The four-year-old was sobbing terribly about how he hated the rain, and we were able to give him the rest of our materials (some markers, paper, etc.), inside the plastic bag, so that he could cover his head with it. The mother thanked us, and even said, “God bless” as she left with the kids. We had used up our materials and time, and we were all soaked, so we ran the rest of the way back to the subway station, screaming and laughing the whole way. One kid, Duncan, was shampooing his hair as he ran (he was taking advantage of the extra shower).
So why did I bother to say all that, and describe that one hour in such detail? That event, our Spontaneous Service, was what really broke the box. I realized, after we had returned to our “home” and changed into dry clothing, that the many blessings I had received that day were too coincidental to be coincidence. If I hadn’t been wearing flip flops that day, something which I hadn’t done the rest of that week, I would have ruined the only pair of sneakers I owned. If it hadn’t rained, we wouldn’t have met those people, or have been able to help them out. If Amanda hadn’t been sociology major, we probably would have had a lot less to talk about, and wouldn’t have gotten to the deeper topics of the meaning of love and the existence of God. If Duncan had not had shampoo in his pocket, we would have missed out on the hilarious sight of him sprinting past us, his hair covered in foam.
Experiencing these little miracles for myself really helped to break the box I had put God in. Previously, I had believed that God did do great and miraculous miracles, but only for the missionaries and others doing great, life-threatening works. But God personally went and brought us a few little miracles, so that we could be witnesses of his love and mercy for the lowly and seemingly insignificant. His love for us was and is so great, that He is willing to get into the details of our lives, creating small miracles for us to rejoice over. And since we are to love as He loves us, I now understand, and hope that you understand, a bit more about what it means to “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength…Love your neighbor as yourself.”
When I first signed up for the Boston Project, I was completely unaware of what exactly I would be doing. I was unaware that I would be taking only two showers that week. I was unaware that I would have to paint and do yard work and make quilts. I was unaware that I would be sanding boards for six hours. And I was also unaware of how God would use this trip to impact my life.
The Boston Project, for me, started with a challenge the first night to allow God to break the box that we put Him in. Peter, one of the staff, explained that we often put God into a box, defining Him by certain words and certain expectations, and he challenged all of us to let God break the borders we put around Him, and go beyond our expectations. It was a speech I had heard before, but I hadn’t really thought too much about it. I had read the miraculous stories of missionaries who had been protected by angels, of terminally ill who were healed through prayer, and of all the rest of God’s wonders. I thought my box was as big as it ever was going to get; I had heard it all. And maybe I had. But hearing stories can’t hold a candle to actually experiencing them.
Many of the challenges I faced that week were physical. Every morning, we got up at 7 o’clock (and, if we were getting a shower that day, at 6:30), which is three hours before the time when I normally get up in the summer. The first day was spent painting an elderly lady’s back deck, outside in the hot sun, and the second sanding long wooden boards till my arms were sore. And of course, every day there was inevitably the walking up two flights of stairs to bed at the end of the day. I was constantly hot and sweaty and tired. And I didn’t realize until I got back home that God had been providing for me even then. In such an environment, it would be easy to feel like giving up, or at least feel depressed, but God had given me a cheerful spirit that week, and an ample energy supply that got exhausted at the end of the day, but was always renewed by the next morning. The fellowship I had with the other people around me, the knowledge that I was doing something to help someone else, and the joy of doing God’s work helped to keep me going each day.
And thankfully, the highlights of my week definitely outweighed the challenges. One of my favorite days was Wednesday, when some of us were given the opportunity to serve the homeless in the Boston Commons, with Starlight Ministries. We handed out sandwiches, chatted with the homeless people in the park, and held a short service there. It was an eye-opening experience for me, to interact with the homeless for the first time, help to meet their needs, and listen to their stories. It felt good to be helping others with their basic needs, and through hearing what they had to say, I gained a new perspective of these people, most of which lost their homes due to the economy, to unfortunate family circumstances, or to illness, age, or disability. Of course, to learn such things is upsetting, but it makes one all the more grateful to get a fuller view of things than what one had previously.
Another really great time was the time we had as a group, whether it was at our service sites working with kids from other churches, our Dinner Downtown with our respective churches, or our time quilting sleeping bags for the homeless. These were times where we got to know each other, bond over our sandwiches or quilts or sandpaper or what-have-you, and generally fellowship and have a great time.
But undoubtedly, the best day was Thursday, when we participated in spontaneous service. We were divided into small groups of three or four kids, with one or two leaders, were given plastic bags of random materials, and were assigned to different areas of the Boston Commons to serve in whatever ways we could. By the time my group had walked to our area of the park, it had started to rain. Soon, the rain had gotten so bad that we all had to take shelter under one of the huge trees…right next to two people. One was a street musician, who was trying to pack up his instrument and speakers; we were able to give him a garbage bag from our set of materials, to cover up his speakers with. He thanked us, and left. The other was a college student named Amanda, with whom we spent the next half an hour talking about everything from serving the community to Nietzsche to the meaning of love. Although we weren’t sure of what sort of impact we had made on her by the time she left to find dryer haunts, I feel that God had given us much common ground to talk about, her being a sociology major and I being interested in psychology, and that both parties had learned something new from the conversation. Just after she left, a mother arrived under the tree, with her two boys, ages 4 and 2. The four-year-old was sobbing terribly about how he hated the rain, and we were able to give him the rest of our materials (some markers, paper, etc.), inside the plastic bag, so that he could cover his head with it. The mother thanked us, and even said, “God bless” as she left with the kids. We had used up our materials and time, and we were all soaked, so we ran the rest of the way back to the subway station, screaming and laughing the whole way. One kid, Duncan, was shampooing his hair as he ran (he was taking advantage of the extra shower).
So why did I bother to say all that, and describe that one hour in such detail? That event, our Spontaneous Service, was what really broke the box. I realized, after we had returned to our “home” and changed into dry clothing, that the many blessings I had received that day were too coincidental to be coincidence. If I hadn’t been wearing flip flops that day, something which I hadn’t done the rest of that week, I would have ruined the only pair of sneakers I owned. If it hadn’t rained, we wouldn’t have met those people, or have been able to help them out. If Amanda hadn’t been sociology major, we probably would have had a lot less to talk about, and wouldn’t have gotten to the deeper topics of the meaning of love and the existence of God. If Duncan had not had shampoo in his pocket, we would have missed out on the hilarious sight of him sprinting past us, his hair covered in foam.
Experiencing these little miracles for myself really helped to break the box I had put God in. Previously, I had believed that God did do great and miraculous miracles, but only for the missionaries and others doing great, life-threatening works. But God personally went and brought us a few little miracles, so that we could be witnesses of his love and mercy for the lowly and seemingly insignificant. His love for us was and is so great, that He is willing to get into the details of our lives, creating small miracles for us to rejoice over. And since we are to love as He loves us, I now understand, and hope that you understand, a bit more about what it means to “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength…Love your neighbor as yourself.”
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