Hello friends, it’s been a long time since I wrote. This is an Instagram post I shared recently. I want to try something new. Sometimes a few words like a poignant block of text arranged with aesthetically pleasing graphics, can be powerful. I’m thinking I’ll make a few more of these little pieces to encourage you or someone else.
Whether it’s a painful relationship you’ve been hoping to see change for many years, unjust situations in our world or a bad habit you’re struggling to replace with one that’s better for you, we all sometimes struggle to see that things can get better.
Every effort, including the small goals you reach each day matter. Every time you reach out to heal a relationship matters. Every prayer you pray is heard by a Father who cares and is working things out for us.
Jesus is our hope for now and the future; even when things feel and seem the same, it’s okay because it will get better and it won’t always be this way.
This phrase has been helpful for me to hold onto especially when things seem to change only a little or even regress at times. I hope it’s encouraging for you too, friend.
I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God.
Psalm 40:1-3
Year two thousand eighteen
This year, among other purposes, was a year of recovery and renewal for me.
In the wake of broken, tense relationships and leaving a career path I had invested in for five years, the beginning of this year seemed bleak and to describe in spiritual jargon, albeit dramatic jargon—I started this year in a “pit of destruction”, in a “miry bog” of desperation and hopelessness.
—
The pit of destruction. The miry bog.
Who is God? Who am I?
These were two questions I began the year with. Every morning, I was bombarded with answers to this question. They were answers that led to self loathing and despair:
I thought I knew who God was. But maybe he doesn’t exist. You’re a loser. At twenty something you don’t have your life figured out. Look at all the people around you who’ve got it together. My own family is deeply disappointed in me; I will never measure up.
January was the month in which the depression from the circumstances of 2017 had culminated. The pit of destruction and the miry bog was mucky and dark. The longer I wallowed in it, the muckier and darker my vision became and deeper the pain of my heart.
—
He inclined to me and heard my cry.
The answers to the two very important questions I began the year with (Who is God? Who am I?) are entwined and have serious ramifications as to what our life will be.
And many voices (of teachers, parents, public figures, social media, etc.) of this world will give you answers whether you ask for it or not.
Whose voice will I listen to? Whose voice will I trust and obey?
The trials of 2017 revealed the voices I had listened to, trusted in, and obeyed. And doing so had led me into deep darkness.
But God heard me.
He scooped me out of the bog, out of the mire. I came out caked and covered in muck, hungry for love and truth after wallowing in the pit.
Years of giving power to these other voices about who I am required a deep soak, and a vigorous scrub-a-dub type of bathing. It took some time for me to be washed free of the miry clay. But the process had begun.
—
He set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure.
Through the encouragements of scripture from church, the wise and gentle counsel of my church family, the unpacking and meaning making process of therapy, and many unexpected gifts along the way, God washed the clay from me.
Kind words. Encouraging affirmations from friends. Sweet, life-giving moments with friends. These were a few of the many ways I was restored. But far greater than these sources of consolation and edification was God’s word. Not because the other things are not valuable, but because God’s word is eternal and unchanging.
The truth of who he is and who I am in scripture are eternal.
You are my beloved daughter with whom I am well pleased.
Taped on the dressing mirror of my room, these words are written on a piece of paper, as a daily reminder.
These words that God the Father spoke over his son Jesus spoke powerfully to me this year. These words were spoken before Jesus was tempted by Satan (an episode in which Satan unsuccessfully attempts to dismantle Jesus’ identity in God), before Jesus entered his three-year ministry period and after living an ordinary life for thirty years as a carpenter, from an ordinary town called Nazareth.
Those loving, affirming true words about “Who Jesus is” were proclaimed before Jesus achieved or accomplished amazing miracles and proclaiming the gospel for God’s kingdom. And that is such good news!
Before we achieve anything and even in spite of all our shortcomings, all our mistakes, and all our sin, we are God’s beloved with whom he is well pleased. He is our Father who is all about loving us.
Over two thousand years ago, God made it very clear to us who he is and who we are in this declaration. And on the rock of this truth he graciously placed my feet, making my steps secure.
—
He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God.
In October, I came upon Psalm 40. One dark, early morning in the light of two candles and my bedroom’s paper star string lights, I marinated in these words.
And it all hit me.
That’s me! I was in the pit of destruction! I was in the miry bog!
The dark night of my soul. The crossroads in which I could choose despair or hope. The suffering was necessary for me to realize the lies I believed about myself from other voices.
And that morning, as I considered all the ways God had been with me, I wept tears of gratefulness overwhelmed by the mystery of his ways and the magnitude of his love.
Now, my feet are planted on his love. He has provided for me. He has healed me. He restored my faith. True, I don’t have a comprehensive five year career plan to respond with when people ask me what I do at weddings and parties. But I know who God is. And I know who I am.
And that’s what will always matter.
New thoughts and joyous words of praise and song exude from me. I can’t help, but want to sing praise to God and I can’t help, but expectantly begin each day in wonder of his goodness to me.
—
Let us wait patiently for the Lord.
This newfound joy does not discount the fact that there is still grief in my life and that there is greater suffering in the people and world around me.
There were many days this year where I wanted to return to writing, to create, to express. Ideas would come and go. But my capacity to produce was not the same and I was experiencing writer’s block.
God gently brought me through the steps within the verses of this Psalm. As much as I wanted to get to writing the things I felt and I learned, I was not ready for it and the process was not over.
He is working to make all things right. Don’t give up in the waiting. There is joy that comes in the waiting process. It is in the “waiting patiently” that we experience the mystery of joy found in lovingly trusting our God.
This piece is about a friend who I met once for about half an hour. Two people from two different walks of life. Two different people Jesus loves.
It’s early in February, a Wednesday morning; the sky is crisp, cloudless—as if the rainy winter season is a lie.
My plan is to bike to the lighthouse; I need to get there and talk with Jesus for a good while. I bike broodingly; I feel discontented, and the cold cross wind is a relief.
A few people are out strolling along the walkway next to the boats docked in parallel lines. I’m relieved to see the hill with the lighthouse spotless, no couples lying on the grass or families with baby strollers sitting on the benches.
Once I reach the summit of the winding path though, I see an unidentifiable person sitting on a concrete bench with a face mask and sunglasses, wrapped in layers of jackets—with one bright yellow rain coat on top of it all.
I’m startled, but nod my head at this person, trying to play it cool as I dismount from my bicycle and walk it to the other end of the lighthouse.
It’s not easy conversing with Jesus; I can feel the presence of the person behind me. After ten minutes I get ready to bike back home.
“Good morning.”
The layers of jackets and face mask are gone. Dark skin with matted dreads ending at the base of his neck, he nods his head and smiles.
“Hello, good morning,” I smile back.
“Sorry about that earlier. I don’t know if I scared you. There was some tension earlier, I was like, ‘this is my spot’ and then you were off there like ‘this is my spot’.”
I laugh a little, holding my bike.
“That’s a nice bike,” he looks at my emerald-green Raleigh.
“You’ve got a nice bike too,” I nod at his slim, black road bike.
“You’re welcome to sit down if you want.”
“Sure, I’ve got some time,” I pull down my kickstand and sit on the bench.
He digs through his large backpack. He pulls out a handheld bong and asks, “you don’t smoke do you?”
I lift my shoulders and tilt my head, “No…”
He searches for something else to share with me.
“Want some fruity pebbles? It’s my breakfast.”
“Thanks, I’m good,” I say.
He sprinkles some for the pigeons to eat. They walk over, bobbing their heads and peck at the colorful flakes.
I can’t remember now how we get to this, but I ask him what his spiritual background is.
He raises an eyebrow and asks, “what do you believe?”
“Well, I believe in Jesus.”
“So, you’re a Christian.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I nod, slightly concerned he might find it distateful.
He digs through his backpack for something and brings out a small sketch pad and black marker.
“Ok, here’s what I believe,” he says and draws a cross with a circle around it.
I know now after some brief research that it is the Celtic cross or in some contexts a white supremacist symbol. At the time, it conjured images of this symbol as metal renditions on church altars or on church marquees I had seen while driving.
“The circle is like a sun…or like seasons…what does it mean to you?”
I jog through some thoughts and say, “Well if the circle represents seasons, I think it’s like the seasons we go through when following Jesus. In life, we go through different seasons. Winter is the season of death, grieving, mourning. Fall is similar. And spring and summer is when there is new life and growth…”
“Yeah,” he closes the marker cap and nods, “I like that.”
Then we talk about Jesus.
“You know, if Jesus were to come back, I think a lot of people won’t be able to recognize him,” he says peering past me at the water.
I know what he means and say, “I think I know what you mean, but what do you mean exactly?”
“Well, a lot of people didn’t recognize him when he first came. A lot of people hated him. And if he came back now, it’d be the same. The things he said and did…”
I nod and study his face. Earlier in our conversation, he had introduced his name. I tell myself not to forget it. I begin wondering at this encounter. I begin hoping he really knows Jesus. I hope I see him again, somewhere in Long Beach or in heaven.
He goes on for a little while sharing his whimsical thoughts, ideas that come across his mind when he’s out by himself like he was hoping to have been this morning. He has curious ideas, many musings. I know if I stay longer we could talk for a while.
The time has been about half an hour.
“Well, if you ever see me around, say hi. I like to come here in the mornings to be by myself for a little bit before it gets all crazy. You might see me doing some stupid things with my friends sometimes. You can ignore me when you see me doing stupid things. Or tell me ‘hey, what are you doing?’.”
I laugh and put my daypack back on, “Yeah, well, my roommates and I bike together. Maybe we’ll see you here again.”
After the encounter, my heart grows heavier the further I bike away from the lighthouse. I have a growing sense I probably won’t run into him again. This new friend, full of curious ideas and a gentle spirit. This child of God, who knows what it’s like to be treated as an outcast, like his Savior knew when he walked on earth.
I thank God for blessing me with unchance encounters and friends from different places and walks of life. I ponder at the temporal nature of these friendships and at my heart that longs to reconnect with them. I know that if it were possible, I can return to them and pick up where we left off.
I ponder what it would be like if we had met in a different way, not on the street, but in college or at a workplace.What’s more, in this instance, he is probably closer to Jesus than I am; he would recognize Jesus if he were to come back and maybe I should question if I would recognize Jesus if he came back.
Perhaps we were meant to meet in this context: strangers in a city; one, who each night, has a roof over her head and the other, who is always in search for shelter.
Two strangers meant to meet this way, so that one or the other, experiences another side of Jesus only the other uniquely knows. Two worlds colliding, two different people who can both enter God’s kingdom and know Jesus.
And I haven’t seen him since. Maybe I have seen him—sleeping under a tarp at a local park, zooming past each other the opposite direction on the bike path, or smoking with his friends at a corner somewhere downtown—without realizing it.
I like to think he’s out there sketching out designs, mustering himself to get a job somewhere that would take him,—kicking it with Jesus at the lighthouse in the mornings.
Here’s another experimental piece (hopefully this will become a series of pieces) that had been simmering on the backburner of my mind for a while. Now I am getting to the cookin’!
Introduction:
The world we live in exalts those who are self-made and prosperous; it exalts those who are socioeconomically and politically mobile. The kingdom of God turns this paradigm upside down and exalts those who are helpless, dependent, and outcasts; it exalts those who are socioeconomically and politically immobile (Matt 23:12, Psalm 138:6, Luke 6:20 and more).
It’s a reality that causes tension within our success driven, self-serving souls. It also disarms us—liberating us—from the pressures imposed by this world. We receive new identities: swindling taxcollector to honest government employee, radical religious purist to passionate advocate of the gospel of peace, violent racist to gentle peacemaker, the list goes on.
This is the kind of world I want to be a part of and to usher in. I don’t have all the answers as to how that looks. But along this journey of trying to usher in this “upside down” paradigm, I have met Jesus in encounters with those our society rejects. City streets. Bus stops. Pot hole-y alleyways. Morning and late night bus rides. Jesus lives in the dwellings we would rather avoid and with the people who we dismiss and forget.
These are the stories of the people who our world rejects and who are darling to Jesus. These are stories of the darling rejects.
I like to call him the good morning man. I saw him once on a bus ride to work.
It’s a cool January morning; the sunlight is a golden-yellow on the rooftops from my view at a bus stop.
I have to make it to work on time, so I don’t peruse the bus, which seems filled with morning commuters as far as my peripherals can see. There is an empty seat at the front of the bus, so I plop myself down without making eye contact with anyone.
I settle into the seat with my backpack on my lap and look up.
Faded attire and sun worn skin. He is settled in his wheel chair, forearms on the arm rests. One pant leg is tied into a knot where his left knee ends.
Every stop we arrive at, he watches with his blue eyes as passengers walk on. He nods at each of them muttering good morning to each of them. His voice is small or maybe they ignore him, so most of them brush past him without responding, but he isn’t fazed; he keeps this up with each person that walks on.
The bus makes its way up PCH and he is watchful, occasionally touching his gray beard.
I smile at his quiet persistence. Then, I wonder if he said good morning to me too when I was getting on the bus. Was I too busy trying not to be conspicuous and trying to find a seat not to notice him?
I want to strike up a conversation with him and keep looking his way, waiting to make eye contact. But we arrive at his stop, a park shaded by Eucalyptus trees. Perhaps it is his sanctuary in the midst of the urban sprawl.
And I’m caught up in multiple thoughts. Should I thank him for saying good morning to everyone? Just give him a smile with a nod? Should I smile and say have a good day, sir?
Before I could decide, the bus driver has unhooked the safety straps from his wheelchair. He thanks the driver and rolls his way down the ramp onto the street. I hear him say good morning through an open window as he nods at a man sitting on a bench outside.
Good morning man, I smile to myself. I watch him make his way down the sidewalk—the metal ramp descends back into place, the bus lurches forward—and we’re back on route.
I still hope to see him and befriend him, but I haven’t seen him since; I know Jesus does.
I picture Jesus talking with him at the park, sleeping by his side on a flattened cardboard box in the shelter of a large bush. I picture him each morning on the same route, week after week, steadily greeting passengers. Quietly confident and unnoticed yet noticing. I see Jesus next to him, marveling.
Umma in her zone. Utah is one of her favorite places for her hobby.
This is an experimental piece I was trying to write for my mom for Mother’s day. It ended up becomming a way to process some baggage in my relationship with my mom. From it came healing and a newly awakened appreciation for my mom. One of these days, I’ll try to translate this into Korean so my mom could also read it. I hope this inspires you to revisit your relationship with your mom and write her a letter of hope and desire for healing and desire for friendship.
Dear Umma,
These are the stories I have of my bond with you. Some make me cry. Others make me smile. I know you aren’t naturally a deep talker like me and Appa. But these memories have left me deciphering the deep love you have for me.
…
8pm in a bedroom hallway of a condominium on Gramercy in Koreatown
I am in third grade and it’s summertime. The sun has barely set outside. There’s still plenty of time to talk and play. I notice you are dressed for bed soon after dinner.
It all hits me in that moment. There had been fewer nights of getting tucked into bed with a goodnight kiss from you. More nights of going to bed after you. And some nights of you going to bed even before eating dinner.
I follow you down the hall to your bedroom door.
“Umma, why do you go to bed so early now?” I ask.
You turn back from the doorway, shoulders slouched.
“I’m sorry, umma is too tired to stay up.”
You stroke my face and tuck my hair behind my ear.
After that night, you begin telling other moms at church how I often ask you that. Your head tilted to the side with a smile on your face. But it is not a happy smile; it is one that tries to hide shame.
I hope you know I never held that against you. I know why you were often tired and anxious. I know why you didn’t always have the energy to spend time with your daughers. I know the secrets from your childhood that you never told me, but that I learned through your stories. Those secrets that make you ache, makes me ache too.
…
Delightfully strange cooking
Rice steeped in cold water with seasoned anchovies. Sourdough English muffins fried in mayonnaise. Homemade ricecakes with raisins. Kimchi pork stew with rice.
Many of the meals you fixed me were delightfully strange. Some meals weren’t even categorically Korean or of any other cuisine. You have a knack of putting together any set of ingredients to make something delicious. I am proud when explaining to my friends nowadays of the unusual meals you would create.
Recently, all I had in the fridge and pantry was baked beans, rice, salsa, chicken and seaweed. So I mixed it all together and had it for dinner. Like mother, like daughter.
…
5-year-old me throws a tantrum in the car
We are parked in the garage. You open the door, undo my carseat straps and wait, holding the door, for me to come out. Dad and Joanne are already in the house.
I start pounding the floor of the car with my feet and begin yelling that I want to go back to the interior decor store. I want the gossamer bed draping that I was particularly enamored by. I want it so badly I keep pounding my feet on the floor of the car and tears squeeze out through my eyes.
I’m sorry, you say still holding the car door.
And I’m surprised by my passionate demanding. My yelling and pounding is muffled by the padded interior of the car. You’re surprised, but don’t show it besides shrugging your shoulders and furrowing your eyebrows. No yelling back at me about how I don’t deserve it or don’t need it. And I step out of the car still disgruntled, but I know you’re right. Why does a five-year old need fancy bed draping?
That was the last time I pounded my feet in the car in a tantrum and the last time I threw a fit. It was in that moment I knew you feel my frustration even if you can’t completely understand it.
…
Secret shopping sprees
I felt guilty about the shopping sprees we kept a secret from Appa. On the weekends, when Appa would head out to run some errands, you would take me and Joanne to the mall for a few hours. He never found out and I was too caught up in wanting nice things to fess up about it.
I miss the air-conditioned car rides with the bright summer sun, you asking with your concerned voice about how school was going and what we wanted to get from the mall. You didn’t really care about getting us nice things, you cared about expressing your love in some tangible way that happened to be through buying us nice clothes.
…
2am in Long Beach, awakened by a flashback of you
A couple of months ago, I woke up to a flashback of you. It made me weep, ache and pray.
It’s from the time when we lived in Koreatown. I am about eight years old. The room you and dad share is across the hallway from ours. Joanne and I are sharing a room together and the door to the hallway that was often open at night is open this one night.
I wake up with the awareness of a presence, startled and unsure at first, if it is you or another woman standing in the hallway, shrouded in darkness.
You are leaning against the hallway closet. White pajamas, gray in the dark hallway. You hold yourself and watch. You are watching us sleep.
“Umma?” I think I whisper.
But maybe I didn’t and I simply watched you watch us sleep from the dark hallway.
Still I am unsure if it was a dream or a real memory. Unable to enter the doorway for fear of waking us up and being caught you stood in the hallway; unable to turn away for fear of losing the precious minutes of watching us sleep you remained in the hallway. It haunts me to this day to know that though you were too tired to stay up with your daughters, your heart that longed to love would awaken you to marvel at them asleep.
…
Good morning caresses
I told you in a letter for Mother’s Day that my favorite aspects of our relationship are your caresses and of you tucking me into bed at night. They were hard to come by as I got older and as you often needed to get to bed early each night.
No bedtime stories nor deep talks till I fell asleep, but gentle caresses. Sweeping my hair back. Stroking my forehead and cheeks. They were enough to make me drowsy with happiness.
And I learned from you what my roommates call the best way to get tucked into bed: throwing the blanket with just the right amount of thrust for just the right amount of air pressure and surface area coverage on the person getting tucked in.
Now, when I visit home, you don’t tuck me in because I am an adult and I still go to bed later than you. But in the mornings, you come to adjust the blankets that have fallen onto the floor and to caress my face. I’m often half asleep as you talk to me and also embarrassed to speak because I think I have bad morning breath. Then just as quietly as you would enter my room, you are gone for the day, leaving me wondering at the touch of your love for me.
…
“There’s still time now…”
I tell you on the phone. I’m standing in front of a coffee shop in downtown Long Beach, you’re in the living room at home in South Pasadena.
“I just wanted some time for us to be living together everyday. In the morning we could see each other. We can share meals together,” you say.
“I want to do that too…”
I trace my feet along the lines of the sidewalk and touch the seat of my bike that’s locked onto a rack.
“But, I won’t be able to do that once I get a full-time job. I’ll be out living on my own again…”
You are quiet, listening and probably considering a compelling reason to keep me at home and have me commute for the last semester of the credential program to Long Beach.
“Mom, I think we can still spend time together. Maybe not everyday. But by making time for each other,” I get out.
“But on my free time, I make time for your dad and I. It’d be nicer to see you everyday when we’re living together again…”
I cross the street to a local park and pace around the trees.
“One day you’ll have to let me go.”
You’re quiet again, about to say something back.
“I want to get to know you mom. And we’re gonna have to be intentional about that. There’s still time now.”
At the end of that phone conversation, you of course still wanted me to stay at home for the last semester of the credential program, but you were convinced it would be ok to live apart.
There are no more shared hallways and open doors to watch me asleep at night now. There are no more conveniently timed shopping adventures to a nearby mall. There are thirty something miles between us. I’m often riding my bike around the city with the weekly risk of a potentially fatal accident.
I can keep deciphering your love for me. But I also want it face to face. I want the anticipation of driving north to catch up with you over a cup of coffee. I want new shared experiences, laughs, and revelations of who we really are.
…
There is still hope, I believe, for us to spend time together, heal, and love.
I know we won’t be a set of nostalgic memories and images to each other anymore; we’ll be mother and daughter, deeply in love, marveling at the wellspring of life between us.
Yesterday, the bunny my roommates and I deeply loved and cared for died after a 2 week bout of illness. This is a refined version of a prayer and eulogy I spoke at her burial last night. I hope it comforts my roommates and honors who Sosoft was in our lives.
…
She came at a time when my roommates and I were three months into living together. Unboxed, furniture mostly set in place. Still learning our dynamic as roommates.
Beth resolved to get a pet rabbit for our home. I didn’t know what to expect when Beth and Sami went out one night to pick her up from a local breeder. Speckled with black and white? All brown fur?
They came home with a small, very soft bunny with a white coat and brown ears. She was so soft, resulting in her name “Sosoft.”
She really was more than a bunny to us; she was a gift.
My roommates and I forged a bond of mutual love for her and memories that otherwise wouldn’t exist without her, were made. She brought about conversations and shared experiences with friends who would come visit us. Even in the last moments, when we were nursing her, we shared intimacy we could’nt have mustered on our own.
And she taught me the value of persistence in building trust. Very timid in nature, she often bit me out of self-defense in the beginning of our relationship. But with many moments of quality time together, she began giving me bunny kisses—the greatest form of affection a bunny gives— baptizing my forehead with her tiny tongue.
It’s not just the end of a little creature’s life, but the end of a season. Maybe the end of a season of carefree adventures like dying hair (which Beth, Sami, and our friend Justin did several times), or the end of the beginning of our reticent roommate bonding days…
We have entered a new season in which we come back home to an empty spot in the living room, where her cage used to be. A new season in which I won’t receive daily bunny kisses and get to stroke her till she’s drowsy.
We have entered a new season in which we can laugh about the times she chewed up our electrical wires and left bald spots in our carpet. Reminisce about her happy frolicks. A new season in which we roommates are closer and stronger in love for one another.
She was a small creature who made a huge impact on our lives.
Her head is crowned with wisps of gray. Warm, sandalwood skin. Careful eyes.
“Ay, Helen, I’m worried about him. He needs to improve his reading.”
I nod my head and fold my hands to show I’m listening.
It’s been a month since I last tutored her grandson. Now I’m back in the credential program and he started eighth grade as well as baseball practice.
“He’s just not interested. And his mom doesn’t care. She’s too busy working. And tired.”
She folds the page of the book she’s reading. The cover shows as she closes it. It’s a paperback bible.
“You’re doing a great job looking after him, Alma. He will appreciate it one day.”
She folds her hands and looks at me.
“You think so?”
She shrugs and holds her elbows.
“I hope so.”
…
“She made me this berry juice thing to wake me up.”
Bleary eyed. Thin chain necklace and snapback hat. Raul peers off at the parking lot from the table we are sitting at.
“Yeah? That’s nice of her. Did it help?”
He jostles through his drawstring bag for the library book we are reading together.
“Yeah!”
His eyes get big and he chuckles.
“It tasted kinda good, I guess. There were all these seeds at the bottom. And she told me to drink all of it. ”
At the end of the session, Alma comes and sits next to Raul.
I tell her he did a good job today and that he’ll get better as he keeps practicing reading out loud.
“Yeah, I notice he struggles. He needs a lot of help. He’s not interested in reading—”
Raul grabs hold of her elbow.
“No grandma, I do like reading. Some books are just boring. But, I really like this one.”
Alma turns and looks at him.
“Okay, Raul.”
That summer, I had many sweet moments reading with Raul and talking with Alma.
And I learned about love. Love keeps coming, even when it goes unnoticed; love comes, quiet and steady.
…
One evening Alma stays for a little while at Raul’s home after bringing him from school. She has a book and keys on the kitchen table and fiddles with them.
She watches her daughter-in-law season some rice on the stove.
“Quiere comer con nosostros?”
She pauses fiddling and turns to look at her grandson. He is focused on a video game on the small, flat screen television.
“No, estoy cansada. Gracias, mija.”
Her daughter-in-law asks again, turning to see Alma’s response. Alma smiles and grabs her key and book.
“No, otra vez, mija.”
“Pero, no quiere pasar el tiempo con Raul?”
The daughter-in-law recalls this same refusal from another night.
She turns and sees Raul, now reclining on the sofa, asleep with the game controller on his chest. Alma kisses her on the cheek and leaves, closing the door gently behind her.
During the two weeks I was back home this winter, my parents installed wooden floors in the kitchen and living room and I tidied my bedroom, so there was all sorts of moving stuff around.
I was motivated to act on my value of simple living and internally vowed not to acquire unnecessary things. I made sure to sort through my stuff according to three categories: keep, dispose, or donate.
All of this stuff had been stowed away into corners and storage units for a more convenient time to clear out. Some drawers were so full they required rearranging something each time I opened them.
Envelopes of my baby teeth,
original romance stories written in middle school,
a floppy disk with my name on it,
four pairs of glasses,
partially used journals,
phonebooks,
yellowed post cards,
used film strips,
and Christmas cards from friends and family,
were some of the many accumulated material that had sat untouched for many years.
Our stuff carries a semblance of ourselves besides basic ergonomic value. Memories are attached to each of these things whether it’s a story of how the item was acquired or a memory of the person who had given it.
Our efforts to get rid of stuff can’t simply make things disappear even when we throw it out or donate it.
It will pile up in the landfill of a third world country, circulate in the pacific gyre, or collect dust in someone else’s bedroom.
Pieces of ourselves will end up somewhere else.
When we die we will leave all of our stuff behind and it will all be a semblance of who we were. Our efforts to tidy and live simply are noble and necessary; it is also a neverending effort in a world that promotes perpetual acquisition of stuff.
I was haunted by the reality that these pieces of myself didn’t belong to me anymore as much as I was satisfied with my labor of tidying.
And there is a question I was left with: how will you live a life of significance rather than semblance?
These words from Psalm 23 are a staple in Christian rhetoric. They were words embedded in my mind from funeral scenes in movies, scripture recitals in church, and even my own moments of reading scripture. “Of course Jesus is my shepherd and of course I shall not want anything besides him alone,” I thought, for a while, until I recently realized this was only knowledge in my head, but not in my heart.
This theme of Jesus being sufficient for me has come to my attention in the recent weeks; it was especially conceived by conversations with a dear friend who helped me process thoughts on dating.
“Do you believe God is enough for you whether or not you get married?”
The next minutes of the conversation led to my realization that I did not believe Jesus was enough for me whether or not I got married. To my surprise, I felt a pang of dissatisfaction at the thought of an umarried life. I also realized the sense of entitlement and pride I had regarding marriage: wasn’t I wise and knowledgeable enough, wasn’t my season of singleness and such other “accomplishments” enough for me to deserve marriage? I had essentially believed marriage was guaranteed in my life.
“Marriage isn’t guaranteed in this life, neither is career, nor family. Nothing is guaranteed in this life except Jesus.”
I could only laugh in disbelief at the posture of my heart and at how true and good my friend’s diagnosis of my heart was. I let her words sink in and responded: “You’re right. I want to say with confidence that Jesus is enough for me whether or not I get married.”
As I sat in silence with my friend in the space our last words had created, I couldn’t help, but laugh and smile at my foolishness and at the gentleness of Jesus; he cut from my heart the parts that needed to be removed and provided a balm of truth, grace and assurance. Jesus knew what I needed to hear. He wants to be sufficient for me not twenty years from now when I am married with kids or when I am an unmarried adult; he wants to be all I need and want, starting now.
In my desire to have a healthy, flourishing romantic relationship; in my desire to see healing and restoration in my family; in my desire to see racially reconciled relationships; in my desire to see justice in our nation; in my desire for a successful career; in every desire my heart longs for, Jesus can be enough for me. He can be enough so much so that we could say I shall not want.
When I see the first line of Psalm 23 now, there is a deeper meaning to it than what I felt before. When I realize I do want more than Jesus, I need to pray a breath prayer: Jesus I want you to be my portion. I want to not want because you are enough. And this breath prayer and many other versions of it will be prayed many times over throughout our life and that’s okay; Jesus longs to be our shepherd so we shall not want.
the unraveling 
You must be logged in to post a comment.