Reasons Why - my father

Well, I’m home now. I left China for good. The feelings running around in my heart and the thoughts mixing in my head are, to say the least, a little overwhelming. I’m glad to be home. But a whole part of me seems… for lack of a better and less cliché’d term, “dead” inside. Very numb, very lost, untouchable. But I know that I’m meant to be here, that this is, and always was, home. Bloom where you’re planted.

More on that later.

I’m not entirely sure if this blog is even still being read… and there’s really no reason for people to read it anymore, unless they have some out-of-the-blue desire to learn more about China and my adventures there. I think nowadays, for me, this blog has more become akin to a therapy session of some kind. A place I can come to record my memories.

When something wonderful, terrible, or merely BIG happens in your life, you have to have a place to reflect on it, to let it stew and simmer and settle in. Our world is far to fallen of a place to think that we can somehow push on regardless, without allowing the wrinkles and the growing pains to smoothen… So, if you don’t mind, this blog has become my ironing board. 

Anyway… today, I’ll write about my Chinese dad. We’ll call him Matt.

            “Are you ready?”

            “I… uh… I think so,” I smile bravely out at the quiet road ahead of me… nothing much stirs. A fat, scruffy, stray dog sniffs at the dusty curb, then waddles off around the corner. Matt turns to me with a small smile and a raise of the eyebrows,

            “Are you sure?”

From Matt, it’s not a question… more of joke. Compared to most Chinese, with their set ways and very direct, almost stubborn approach to daily life, Americans are a little crazy. We hem and haw and make a big deal out of every little thing… especially me. I can’t make decisions for my life.

            “I think so!” I say, gripping the wheel, my knuckles whitening. (Yes… I know… most high-school juniors can handle a car… MOST… but obviously, not all…)

            “Okay. Let’s go.” The quiet smile still is there. Dad always smiles in a way that makes you wonder if he knows something worth knowing, a secret of some kind, a secret he’s just too proud of to tell the rest of the world.  I nod, more to affirm myself, and press the pedal down.

I don’t know what I expected to happen… I wasn’t sure if the car was going to explode, or if the seat would randomly turn into a catapult and throw me into orbit… but something much more magical happened…

…the car moved forward! Imagine that! No crashes, no fires… it just rolled foreword in a steady, family-car kind of way.

“Now turn, but stop slowly and look to see if another car is coming,” he says, quietly. Each word, despite the accent, is very clipped, very clean, and delivered with a deliberate steadiness. Matt’s English is amazing.

We rumbled along the back roads for about 20 minutes before Dad decided to step it up a notch by asking me to actually turn the car around. This was the beginning of my first driving lesson, in a massive construction site, the day before Easter, in Beijing, China.

Amazing people usually have amazing stories, and sometimes, more often than not, those stories are weighted with darkness overcome, mountains climbed, battles fought, lessons learned. My dad happens to be an amazing person. I don’t know his full story, and I didn’t get to spend as much time with him as I wanted to. But the little I do know has made him somewhat of a legend in my mind.

I know that Matt grew up near Beijing… I can only assume his was a farming family… whenever they came to visit, they were usually accompanied by dozens of crates of eggs, cabbage, apples, and tofu… all of which were stored in the guest room when the refrigerator got too full. Matt, though he wore a suit and carried a briefcase, knew more about vegetables and planting than most dads I’ve met. I think part of him misses the simplicity and beauty of growing your livelihood from God’s good earth.

I know that he met mom at university, and they both became Christians around that time in their lives. I know that they got married, and had their first child, Diana… both were immensely busy… doing what, I’m not exactly positive.

I know that my father, years ago, used to be the head pastor at a Chinese church. But that changed when my youngest brother was born… (my mother had to flee to the countryside and avoid Beijing hospitals, where she would have faced a forced abortion… just another product of life, brought to you by China’s One Child Policy).

With the entrance of their third child into the world, Matt lost his job as a pastor, and a way to provide steadily for his family. That particular church has been fairly unsteady ever since he left… and it doesn’t take a genius to know why; my father was extraordinarily gifted. God breathed through him, you could say. I know for me, when I visited their house church with my family, and my dad got up and started speaking, I spent the next two hours in awe. The man who had been quiet, somewhat solemn, and seemingly burdened by that task of holding a million parts in place… was suddenly standing straight, eyes focused, face joyful, voice full, words flowing… I couldn’t understand them, but the congregation he addressed listened with thirsty heart, and a weight of trust and respect for this man who poured his passion for God into helping and teaching others. My father was gifted. You could feel God in the way he preached, even if, like me, you couldn’t understand a word he spoke.

I know it wasn’t just his presence or power as a teacher… the way he lived proved God’s hand on his life. I’ve never met a more humble person. We read about men and women who radiate strength, who live lives overflowing with love for others, who serve endlessly, who live wholly from the heart, who rarely speak but live as if Wisdom herself made her home in their minds… we hear about them… but I had a chance to spend a year under the same roof with a man who was all of that and more. He even gave me driving lessons.

I know that not all Chinese families can boast of a father who actually loves his children… let alone one who plays with them, or tells stories, or cooks and cleans and tucks them in at night… Matt, never once, raised his voice. (even when I accidentally drove the car off the road and into a field…) He got angry sometimes, sure! But he never (not once!) let anger, or any emotion, control or define his actions towards others. Now that, in and of itself, is something the merits deep respect.

I know my father loved to laugh. He didn’t laugh often, but when he did, you know that he was truly joyful, inside and out. It was as if all the clouds of running a kindergarten, coping with the complications of Chinese finances, fathering a church, counseling families, travelling, raising three children, cooking, cleaning, teaching…. all of the evidence of the storms in his life cleared and gave way to a smile that belied younger, freer spirit than the one that contended on his daily battlefields.

I know Matt used to do kung fu… and was very good at it too! About a month into my time there, the kids cajoled him into showing us some of his old kicks… THE MAN COULD FLY. Literally. Flipping and kicking and spinning through the living room.

This is a 48 year old man, may I remind you… in a business suit.

I miss being his daughter, being a part of his family. I miss the car-rides back and forth from the airport, when we would talk about all sorts of things! He spoke little and quietly on most days… but it seemed that those times on the expressway, when it was just him and the strange home-stay from America occupying that tired silver car, words flowed! And each one was precious to me… it didn’t matter if they together built a window through which I could better see Chinese culture, or quietly imparted the vulnerability and toughness of life for a good man in China, or forged prayers more sincere and thoughtful than any I’d yet heard...

I loved to hear my dad speak, because I knew that whatever he said, however menial, however deep, came from his heart. A heart of real strength… a heart of a wise father, a humble teacher, a steadfast husband… a heart of a truly good man, staunchly pursuing God.

Reasons Why: my brother

Spirited Shenanigans just got a facelift! Hope you like the new look. It took me a heckuva long time to set it all up, what with China’s knack for blocking blogs, and my VPN’s consequent slowness.

My last post was something of a rant. But tonight’s will be a tad different. Tonight, I am going to continue writing about my Chinese family. I concluded with my sister last, and shall regale you now with tales of my younger brother… the six year old (we’ll call him Mark), not the four year old… you’ll have to wait for that delicious little post a little longer.

I have about 8 days before my visa expires, and then… I leave China for good. Am I ready to leave? Not in the slightest.

But enough whining, Madeleine! These dear friends on the other end of the screen need to know about their future king!

I say “king,” because Mark’s new favorite game is to pretend that he is the king. What of, I’m not exactly sure. But he’s king nonetheless, and I must say I can’t imagine another six year old who’d make a better one.

The kid’s a whiz. He can juggle being a tough guy, a math genius, a monkey, a kung fu master, a jokester, a world-leader, a pianist, a lego-engineer, a philosopher, an explorer, and a sweet bundle of kidness all at the same time.

Every night, when the family gets home from their various jobs at the kindergarten, Mark is always first to ring the doorbell. Often repeatedly. He then bursts into the room, breathing hard and wielding some massive log or rock or some other such natural soon-to-be weapon. Sooner or later, it joins the arsenal of sticks and pebbles in the corner, replaced with some new form of imaginary war-making. His next move? Re-conquering the bedroom from the evil lego armies that’d taken over while he’d been at school. Once he starts doing battle, any hope I had of a quiet evening vanishes among the enthusiastic sounds of explosions and thrown plastic.

Once dinner comes around, he’s trying in vain to teach D kung fu in the livingroom, and the lessons continue far into the first serving of noodles, often at the risk of our plates and bowls.

The first time he sat in my lap, we were on our way back from a family outing during the October festival, the National Holiday. I sat in the front seat, and he plopped down in my lap, bony and skinny and stronger than I thought most six year olds could be. Dirty, out-of-breath, sweaty, and still entirely full of energy, he immediately began to explain to me exactly why the trees outside lost their leaves, and why the birds that used to live in them had flown away to more beautiful places.

“It get’s very, very cold in winter,” he said with solemnity. But with second thought, he adds, “but I don’t get cold!”

“Oh, is that so?” I ask.

He frowns, very self-assured, “Of course!”

He started taking piano lessons in early winter…  and since then continues to excel with a good deal more talent than I had at that age. Do we have a musical protégé on our hands? That’d be a solid yes.

Those precious little brown fingers, still covered with dirt from an afternoon mining pebbles… gripping chopsticks that are far to big for them… latched around my neck in an often successfully executed endeavor to knock me over… held straight and firm in the fiery power and strength that is kung fu… curled around a pencil while he slaves over English homework… poking occasionally up one nostril… cradling some new ingenious lego submarine or plane… wrapped around his mother or sister or father’s hand in the unchecked adoration of a child with joy in his heart…

Whether he’s standing in his too-short, grass-stained pants and t-shirt on the arm of the couch, preparing to pounce on my unsuspecting, book-absorbed self… sitting with his nose and imagination buried in the pages of a TinTin comic book… furiously peddling the tricycle down the road back and forth in constant flight from policemen or robbers, depending on the day… sneaking in to watch movies with me and D on the weekend evenings… He’s always moving, from the moment he bounces out of bed to the moment he’s back into it, doubtlessly busy conquering other worlds in other dreams, that child is the Energizer Bunny and the Justice league all wrapped up in one bundle of scrawny, innocent vivacity.

The boundless energy he stores away for ever moment of adventure the day could possible offer is matched only by his insatiable desire for knowledge and for a world full of God’s love, a love he’s known and understood with an uncanny amount of wisdom for his age. We’d be playing “pretend” together some winter night, each of us, in the spirit of pretend, continually topping the other’s various hyperbolic super-powers…

(don’t you miss those good old days when anything was possible?)

“I can fly!” he’d say. I’d follow up quickly with,

“Well, I can turn into a dragon!”

“Well I can turn into a tornado!”

“I can be fire!”

“Well …” He stops, mouth puckered in deep thought for a moment.

“What?” I ask mentally preparing myself for the unavoidable, impending, and entirely humbling deluge kung-fu strikes I’d be receiving. He sighs.

“Well, I was going to say that I can create things… but, you know, only God, can do that!”

The wisdom of this child never ceases to bring a special sense of peace to my heart. If our children can still see some truth in the world around us, then there must be some hope for this lost little blue planet of ours.

Who knows where he’ll end up… in 20 years, he could be leading his own country, he could be a hardcore stuntman in Hollywood, he could be heading an expedition to Mars for all we know! But whatever he IS doing, I know that it will be great, and that I will always love my little superhero with every fiber of my being.

Once a big sister, always a big sister… especially when you’ve got siblings as awesome as mine.

End-of-the-World (or Just China) Freakout Rant (Love and Sentimentality Included)

Another long period of blog-less-ness. I guess it just goes to show how incapable I am of stretching myself over two distances. One day, I will write, and I will write well and consistently… today, obviously, really isn’t that day, much to my chagrin and shame. So, again, heartfelt apologies to all those who still take a few moments to check in here once and awhile.

Awhile back, while washing the dishes (yes, we actually wash the dishes here… no dishwasher, no hot water) my mother and I began to talk about the next few months. She said,

“Soon we’ll have to explain to Di Di (little brother) that you’re leaving. He thinks you are staying forever.”

Yes. The end. The end is in sight, and it’s scaring me out of my wits. I’ve spent the last 9 months of my life immersing myself in an utterly different culture, an entirely different lifestyle, and entirely new spiritual depth. It’s been so beautiful. And I’m so, SO terrified of loosing it when I come home.

I’ve been thinking a lot about home lately, what it will be like to suddenly face the System again. I know it will be hard. After this huge experience, here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by people who love God and chase life with a passion… it will be hard to try and re-plug myself back into the System’s matrix. I’ve mentioned the System before, way back at the beginning of this whole adventure… I described it as the world’s way of making it clear to us that, as humans beings, we are meant only to make money, and everything in life that is thrown at us, somehow boils down to that (refer to my earliest posts if you don’t remember what in the world I’m talking about). But after spending such a long time out of the System, I began to see it was much more than merely the drive for success and self-promotion that I thought it was. 

The System really is, in my eyes, the overwhelming pallor or brokenness that covers the whole of the human race. It’s our broken way of making up for the fact that everything is NOT as it's meant to be. We’ve created our own standard for life that really isn’t Life at all.

Now, some of you may find all this a little strange, and probably a little melodramatic. That's okay. At this point, I'm more just ranting than anything else. 

But I will say this… living for 9 months in a place where there, for me as a foreigner, there are no standards for "coolness" to compare myself to, no standards for fashion, a lack of human contact, a lack of materialism, a lack of natural beauty… living for 9 months in a practically physical wasteland… has been the most beautiful experience of my life.

Because, when everything is stripped away, all your comforts, all your relationships… when all the fluff and fuzz and fat is boiled down, and it’s only you, a mirror, and God… you begin to see things pretty clearly.

You see them for what they are, why they are important. I can see the System now, and I can see its effect on my faith back in the U.S. And I tell you… it ain’t pretty… because what the System does, from the moment you wake up to the moment you fall asleep, and sometimes even between those times, is try to bombard you with all sorts of lies. 

“You have to be in total control your life: You have to hide your brokenness and issues. You have to fit in.You have to be cool. You have to be smart. You have to be successful. You have to be a leader. You have to be organized all the time. You have to plan your future. You don’t have time for God. You have to worry if you want things to go well. You have to go to an amazing college. You have to make money, but if you do, you’re automatically an evil capitalist. You have to be powerful, but if you are, you are automatically an evil bureaucrat. You have to believe in things, but you can’t defend them if you want to be considered a tolerant person. You have to be an intellectual, but you have to be apathetic and drink only black coffee. You have to be strong, but you also have to be "real." You have to be thinner than that person on the magazine cover, but still healthy and totes confident about your food choices. You have to be counter-cultural, but not too counter-cultural. You have to be the best, but you can’t expect people to like you if you are. Oh, and also, JUST BE YOURSELF. It’s easy.

You guys get the gist… or at least, I hope you do,

It’s not that those things haven’t been a part of my life while I’ve lived in Beijing, but they certainly have been removed to such an extent that’s allowed me to live free of them… and as a result, see God more clearly. I've realized God doesn’t need you do DO anything, or to BE anyone to be in relationship with you. He simply wants to set you free from a system that only ever distracts you from the true desires of your heart. Because, the bottom line is… we desire fulfillment and love. But I’m not convinced there are many people out there today who’ve actually found fulfillment and love in the ways I’ve just described. If you have, let me know.

Anyway, (sorry for the tangent) I’m not sure people will understand. I KNOW I wont understand - I keep hearing that counter-culture-shock is even worse than initial culture-shock. It’ll be like plunging under the ice in a Harbin river after enjoying the warmth of a beach on Cebu. People will ask me about my trip;

“How was China?”

“AMAZING. Life changing!”

“Yeah? Well, that’s cool! Let’s go get pizza!”

Not that there’s anything wrong with pizza or short conversations, but I am a little apprehensive of facing questions from people who wont necessarily have the patience or time or even the genuine interest to know what’s beyond their own world.

Like I said, there will be a huge counter-culture shock. I’ll be tossed right back into the spiritual craziness of life under the System’s umbrella… the confusion of re-conforming, busy-ness, distraction, the Hamster-Wheel of Success-Pursuit, a lack of God-consciousness, a lack of passion for things bigger than the next grade, the next party, the next boyfriend or girlfriend, the next promotion, the next bla, bla, bla, bla, bla…

It sounds silly, but at the core of it all, all I want is to be close to God. You would think that’d be a hard thing to want in a place where faith isn’t really the most celebrated of life-paths. But China, ironically, really is the only place I’ve been able to open my eyes to His heart on a daily basis without fear… fear of loss, fear of others’ thoughts, fear to trust… because, in China, I’ve been blessed with a lack of System. My deepest wish is to bring this new bravery, this new Love, back home with me. I want others to know it. I want others to feel their deepest desires and dreams filled, their heart-wounds healed, and I want them to see that the world is not just living for tomorrow’s test, tomorrow’s dollar, tomorrow’s hookup, tomorrow’s game, tomorrow’s job-offer, tomorrow’s WHATEVER.

We have one life. One chance to try and do something good in this broken world of ours. One span of 100 years or shorter to let God do something great in us or through us, one lifetime to know and be known by Love itself.

And we sit there, stuck in our little systemized schedules, liking statuses like “Some idiot double-parked,” on Facebook.

My heart breaks.

He DIED to give us LIFE, and this is what we do with it? We're meant for so much more.

Now, I don’t want any of you to read this and think that I’ve suddenly gone AWOL - I do want to come home. 

When I rant about the System, that means I rant against all the things that would keep my home and the people there from living out the glory they were born with. And my dream, like I said, is to see my home and the people there free. My class at my high school… all those precious girls who’ve made my life so rich… living totally free… free from the weight of unnecessary academic pressure, free of worry, free of bad relationships and broken hearts, free of hurting homes, free to be the girls, no… not girls, women they were made to be. Free to live in Love. And I know they can be! Just because the System may try to control our lives, doesn’t mean it owns our hearts. And, like I always have said, our hearts are the most important thing about us.

Read this next line carefully: 

I am deeply thrilled to be coming home, not because I’m leaving China, but because God's put China in my heart… and His use of it, in turn, will make home even more profoundly beautiful than it was in the first place.

And... let's be real here... it was pretty darn gorgeous.

I mean, come on… sunsets? the ocean? Del Cero park? The canyons behind my house? Horses? PCH? Redondo beach? Coffee houses? Surfing? Hiking? Biking? Sunshine? Manhattan Beach Pier? Thrift stores? Fresh air? Trees? Traffic lights?  Redondo? Hermosa? DISNEYLAND? Paseo Del Mar? Even in Westwood… Marymount’s roses? UCLA’s campus? The swing in the garden behind Cantwell?

I am overwhelmed with the beauty.

Not to mention the people with whom I share those wonderful things… my family, my classmates, all the glowing, precious hearts that I’ve ever been able to enjoy home with…

Tell me, CAN I GET ANY LUCKIER?

Now, just imagine those people and those places… free of the System, free to live fully in Love…

Yeah.

It makes me excited too. 

21 days and counting... 

Reasons Why: my younger sister

I never have imagined myself with siblings, and if I ever did, it was always with a brother or two, both probably older than me. Never a sister, and never one 4 years younger than myself.

But I have to say the experience so far has been absolutely AWESOME.

There is so much I have to say about (we’ll just call her “D” for safety purposes) and in no way would it be even remotely possible for me to fit her into one measly little blog-post. But I will say this… there’s one thing about 12 year olds… they perfectly embody that Neverland age, where childhood hangs entirely in the balance, where everything seems discombobulated and stuck between squall-ish emotions, joyful innocence, and almost always unwelcome responsibility.

But I have to say, D has handled that wacky little age with a grace and beauty that proves God’s light in her heart. She’s growing, and if she keeps growing the way she has been, I’ve no doubt she’ll be running the world one day; we’ll be able to power whole cities with her smiles.

She’s that special.

The way she interacts with her two younger brothers is nothing short of magical. She takes an infectious joy in joining them on their fantastically imagined adventures through carefully built Lego cities. She’s cut herself free from the typical expectations for Chinese girls at her age, sporting tennis shoes, an impish ponytail, and an grin that somehow seems to always leave me with a feeling that she’s plotting something rascally. She shamelessly rejects all things “girly-girl” (though pink does seem to be a repeated theme throughout her wardrobe). She makes it clear to all the boys that she’s the smartest in the room (and she is, without a doubt. But there is the fact that she daily quells a desire to burn her math book… a sentiment I heartily relate to). She draws like a pro, paints, reads, writes, and –coinciding with her aspiration to be a female Sherlock Holmes when she grows up– has developed yet another secret code with which I’m sure she plans to solve murder mysteries with. We’ve always said that one day we’ll visit London, 221 Baker's Street together.

There’s an almost freeing confidence to her that occasionally takes some digging to find… however, once found, the innocent mischief in her laughter immediately sets the whole world alight. I’ve loved getting to know her, getting to peek at the beautiful young soul she’s growing into.

She’s a good deal like myself at that age, though how she’s managed to do it all with such elegance is a mystery I obviously didn’t figure out then. 12 was hard. It was strange and oh-so-utterly difficult. I know D feels some of that strain, that she struggles with how to handle that sense of loss as childhood is slowly, slowly, fiber-by-fiber, torn away. I can see it! But I can’t express to you how inspiring her transformation has been.

At the beginning, it was hard to me to see her, it was hard for me to be patient, hard to just have fun, to let things go… we only-children are kind of upside-down like that. But she’s been there every time, and I’m not sure if she knows this, but she’s been the perfect teacher. Every day she merely lives, just showing me how to love my youngest brother even as his screams shatter the windows, showing me how to laugh at and live with the dust-piles, the strange smells, the noise, showing me what it means to be a strong young woman. Again, my friends, she’s 12.

She’s so precious!

She constantly makes me laugh, and we’re constantly laughing with each other. We both love the same stories, the same types of adventures, the same little quirks of life. We share the same little annoyances. She struggles with piano in the same way I did; she deplores it when her mother (or I) tell her to “play that part again… SLOWLY.” We really are sisters.

I’ve loved most of all our little goodnight chit-chats. I’ll be sitting in my room, typing away, then a little knock at the door will come, just as it did tonight, about an hour ago. She usually pretends to be there merely to show me her new favorite website, or to tell me how much she hates math, or to discuss our equal obsession with BBC Sherlock and Tintin. But we both know that it’s more than that. We both know that our sisterhood/ friendship only has a few more months to really play out, and that part of God’s work in our lives these last few months has been due to our impact on one another… and neither of us wants to loose that. I welcome those 3 to 5 minute little chats, those quick moments where I get to know her a little better, get to laugh with her a little harder when we endlessly relive movie-quotes or imitate my youngest brother’s latest tantrum of the day… those moments when I find myself suddenly repeating words my own mother, or cousins, or older friends said to me when I needed to hear a word of encouragement at that age…  But most of all, I welcome that short little space in time when get to see her heart a little more clearly.

Because it’s a beautiful, beautiful heart, and it’s growing bigger and more and more captivating with every passing day.

She’s special, she’s precious…

she’s my sister… and she always will be.

That’s the best part.

Reasons Why: mother

In my last post I told you I'd share reasons why I love my Chinese family.

Here’s a few reasons why… I’ll start with my mother.

Mom’s always been, her whole life, an academic. Often she’ll tell me that her sisters wouldn’t allow her to cook, believing her better suited for school than for the kitchen… “They never ate what I cooked. Whatever I cooked could hardly match up to their food because to them, my hands weren’t good in for a kitchen anyway. They knew I was better at reading than filling the table, and wouldn’t fail to remind me.” Aside from being as smart as a whip, she’s also enthusiastically creative, infectiously joyful, and thinks so purely and deeply about every aspect of her life. She’s built by hand a business practically from scratch, combining her thorough knowledge of economics and psychology to create a kindergarten in which the kids are filled past overflowing with love, nourishment, and a kindergarten education most caring parents would die for. She’s strong, but also so tender, as only a mother can be. Sometimes when Dad’s out of town, she and I talk about her faith journey, how she’s struggled, and enjoyed, learning what it means to balance her power as a self-made woman with the strength and humility, of being a wife and mother of 3… (well, with me, 4!). All you have to do is hold one little conversation, and it’s obvious you’re talking to a special and wonderful woman. The stories she has to tell are brilliant and colorful, not because necessarily they are exciting, but because they’ve opened a completely new world and culture up to me in a way that no amount of reading or self-experience could. When my mother opens her mouth to speak, the words that come are entirely from the heart, and the windows they create are like panoramic views of the work God has done and is doing in her life. I’ve never thought I could watch and adult grow. From my perspective as a growing girl myself, I’d always known that “growing up” happens our entire lives, but I’d never seen a real tangible example of that, or been able to fully and completely understand what that meant in a real sense. Watching my mother grow has been one of the most inspiring and humbling things I could ever witness, much less imagine. When I came to live in her house, things were… well, they were very different from the home I’d been used to; my Chinese mother is very invested in her work at the school. “Before you came,” she once told me, “we would often forget to come home and eat dinner until very late!” she would laugh and continue, “The kids would stay in the classrooms at the kindergarten until 9:00, 10:00 in the evening before we remembered dinnertime.” Her work is important to her. Very, very important. And it was obvious in the way the home was run. And from the conversations I’ve had, and the small moments in which I’ve seen parts of her heart, I’m not always sure she’s very proud of just how important it had become in some past years. But as God has grown in His general BIGness for her, and as the kindergarten has seemed to overflow with blessings from Him. Things have really changed, and His love shines more brightly through her with each passing day (yet considering just how brightly it shone through her to being with… well, let’s just say the effect on her relationships is blinding in the most beautiful sense). It seems she’s even come to treasure her identity as a mother and wife in tangible ways. I came home one day to see flowers on the table. The couch now has pillows. My brothers’ legos now have their very own box. The guest (and vegetable storage) room has been dusted out and cleaned. The washing-machine fills the house with its homey humming on a regular basis. And every so often, I’ll hear music drifting down from her office. But perhaps the most heartwarming change is the way she’s plucked up her courage, thrown off years of unease and discouragement, and cooked. To some, that may sound like a menial endeavor. But when you’ve lived your life off the beaten path as a brave and daring business-woman… while the rest of the world looks down on you for your lack of prowess as a housewife, well, providing a meal for your own family can be one of the noblest adventures of them all… and she, bravest quest-er in the realm. Bread, fried fish, vegetables, pear-and-honey soup, porridge… all of it started at first slowly, with unsure and hesitant spurts of culinary creativity… then more and more quickly, until… all of a sudden, every week, we have a full dinner table of meals she’s taken humble pride in.

From the deepest parts of the heart and soul, to little touches like pillows, light and love has grown. I think I love my mother most simply because of that. Because the love she shows is vulnerable, yet uncompromisingly strong and profoundly wise; it is, and always be a testament to the glory of God being man fully alive. My mother is fully alive, and growing each and every day. And God has blessed and multiplied his blessing hundredfold by merely allowing me to be a witness and, I say with pride, a daughter to this amazing woman.

Nothing Like Family

I sit down to dinner with my family, in my customary little spot, between my sister and the older-younger brother. Noodles tonight, cooked by none other than Diana herself… unfortunately, however, she’s left them in the pot for too long, and the effect is more of a grey-green porridge-like substance. Still delicious with a little pepper and salt, but not exactly appetizing to look at. Dad says grace, first in English, and then in Chinese. I keep my eyes open, thankful for a chance just to take it all in. My youngest brother (dìdi) continues playing with his little lego-truck, ramming it repeatedly into his bowl of noodle-porridge, seemingly oblivious to the fact that rest of the family has quieted. My other brother (Da dìdi– means older younger brother) sits, head bowed, little hands folded tightly, occasionally squinting up in annoyance at the offending lego-truck and its driver. “Amen” is said, and immedietly the room explodes into noise… noodles are slurped, dìdi continues to steer his lego truck over the tabletop, perilously skirting scattered chopsticks and bowls... mèi mei (younger sister) argues with mother about the soupy noodles, da dìdi stands on his chair, enthusiastically trying to perfect various kung-fu positions. (I’ve narrowly avoided being effectively kicked in the face various times while eating dinner) That kid’s a warrior in the making... If ever any rascals come a’knockin at my door, that kid’ll be the first person I call to teach them a lesson. Never go in against a six-year-old-Jackie-Chan when your dignity is on the line.

Eventually, our noodle-slurping comes to a close, and dessert is served. Porridge –zhou, or congee- tonight! Literally rice with excess hot-water mixed in and, if you’re lucky, some brown sugar and dried dates, or sweet potato for flavor. I can imagine you wincing… but it’s actually delicious, and definitely does the job when it comes to fighting off the residual Beijing winter cold. My brothers scarf theirs down, and hightail it upstairs to continue their seemingly never-ending lego-wars (in which I have definitely participated in more than once… sad to say, my pretending skills were a little out of practice, but that’s changed, thanks be to Neverland…).

My parents and younger sister and I sit at the table for a little longer. Sometimes we hold a 4-person bilingual bible study (listening to scripture in another language, especially one like Mandarin is a beautiful experience… one I’ll miss for certain). Sometimes we just sit for awhile and talk about the Chinese language… I’m often driven to tears of laughter while they try to explain to me just how many different formal titles various aunts and uncles can be given. In the states, we just say Aunt and Uncle, but because the Chinese value relationship and respect so much, each family member has a particular title. For example, my mother’s older sister has a different title than my father’s older sister, and my father’s younger sister has a different title than my mother’s younger sister. (Are you lost yet?) And if there are multiple siblings on both parents’ sides, the older ones have different titles than the younger ones. And if you’re close friends with me, than my children will also call you “auntie” or “uncle” however, it’s a different “auntie” or “uncle” than if you were actually my sister or brother. (Are you lost NOW?)  And if you’re older than me, I can’t call you by your full name, I have to use your formal title, but if you’re younger than me, I can call you a nickname, which usually ends of being something doubled… for example, if your name is Mary and you were younger than me, I’d (supposedly?) increase you’re cuteness by callying you May May, or Ry Ry. Or if your name is Phillip, your “cute” nickname would be Phi Phi. (Okay, I’m sure you’re sufficiently bewildered…)

ANYWAY. The point is, Chinese value relationship. A LOT. So much so that it trickles down into every form of expression you can imagine. And if you didn’t know this already, relationship is a HUGE part of their way of conducting business… “guanxi” or, connections, pretty much determine your future as a businessman or woman in China… and, as many know, those connections often can mean corruption… but in some cases, like at the kindergarten I teach at, they can be helpful. Both of my parents’ siblings are involved with running the school, and it really makes the “team” aspect of their management quite a lot more effective!

Long tangent. Sorry, I know… we were happily discussing dinner-time, and somehow ended up with corporate planning. Woops.

Let’s go back.

I love my Chinese family. SO much. They are beautiful, wonderful, humble, intricate, love-filled human beings. (Yes, even my horror of a youngest brother… who still thinks biting/scratching/spitting is a good way to communicate your desire for hugs and chocolate).

 As much time as I’ve spent here, the language barrier, and the culture difference has made getting to know and understand my family difficult. I’ve been here for 7 months or so now, and still really don’t feel like I know them very well. But here in China, friendship takes time and trust. Everything is based off of actions, not words. I’m looking forward to a life’s time of learning and action and developing further that wealth of trust and love I’ve tasted while being here. Because these people and precious to me… more precious to me than I think I even realize now as I write.

Next time I’ll tell you exactly why. For now, sleep is the smarter, if less exciting option. Hope all’s well stateside… 10 weeks left… only 10 weeks left here…

What a terrifying thought. 

Japan

Updates. Goodness gracious, so much has happened I really don’t know where to begin. Teaching still has a place in my heart; each day at the Kindergarten remains a treasured adventure. My family continues to be loving and wonderful and so, so precious to me. Diana and the older of my two younger brothers recently treated ourselves to a midnight viewing of the fourth Pirates of the Caribbean. (Apparently my siblings had seen the other three… via pirated versions on Youku, the Chinese version of YouTube) For the fourth movie, however, we took the legal route and watched it through iTunes on my computer late at night. I truly enjoyed the whole exploit; spending time with my new siblings is something I’ve really come to cherish because… well, relationships here feel a little bit like onions. You really do have to peel people back one layer at the time. And I found it incredibly encouraging to see that Diana and I share the same mildly nerdy fetish for the Pirate franchise, even if she had to pause it every 15 minutes or so to translate for our younger brother.

            Kristin and I, in an effort to avoid being arrested or detained or deported for failing to leave the country before our visa expiration date, visited Japan back in October.

            Japan.

            SO.

            AWESOME.

            I wont bore you with an in-depth account of every second we spent in that marvelous place, but I will try my absolute best to give you some kind of an impression of my most colorful memories there.

            The journey truly began with a bathroom. I don’t know if you’ve ever found your way into a true-life Japanese bathroom, but they’re a wee bit… shall we say… complicated? Think of it like this… if your porcelain god is, say, a Buick, the bathrooms at Tokyo airport are the equivalent of, oh, a Saturn 5 maybe? Buttons, buttons everywhere. I’m probably stepping out of line by describing all this to you, (Yes, Mom, I know that ladies do not typically express their opinions of international public plumbing…) but I couldn’t help myself.

            After the airport and its fantastical restrooms came a train. A marvelously clean, quaint, comfy modern train through the windows of which I caught my first view of real, untainted sunlight in about 2 and a half months. Blue sky, golden sunlight, green grass… I can’t tell you how much I’ve come to appreciate the things I so often took for granted in SoCal.

            After the train, Kristin and I emerged in Tokyo, much like I think Lucy emerged out of the wardrobe into a winter wonderland that was Narnia. But instead of a lamppost and a fawn, we met fruit stands, modern architecture, ramen, and a hostel.

            I can’t tell you how refreshing it was to be in a city where the air felt breathable, the ground remained free of… well, excrement… people weren’t shoving us, staring, spitting, or screaming “WEI” (pronounced “wayyyyyy”) into cell phones. No car horns blared unnecessarily, no dust seemed to clog the drains or darken the windows… I honestly don’t mean to make Beijing sound like such a dismal place by comparing it to Tokyo, but the truth is, Beijing is dirty. Tokyo, clean. In Japan, people are generally polite (sometimes a little overly so…) and in China, most don’t necessarily seem to care that hacking up a loogie mid convo generally deters a prospective customer.

            Either way, after the bitter cold and harsh lifestyle we’d weathered in Beijing, Tokyo was quite refreshing. And I’d have to say that I was nearly brought to tears when, having collapsed on the bed of our hostel-room, I realized that the sheets and pillowcase smelled… not of smoke… but of real, actual laundry detergent. (Okay, so I was being a little dramatic…)

            We spent the next day touring the various temples and markets of Tokyo, generally enjoying the new smells, sounds (or lack of them), sights, and of course, tastes that Japan had to offer. The weather fall-ish, cool and brisk, the sun was shining, the food we ate wasn’t swimming in oil… it was lovely. We visited a temple; unlike the temples of Beijing, this one was full of people… people praying, tossing coins, burning incense. It seemed like the whole city had come to pay their respects before jumping back on the metro. It was refreshing to be a in a place where people are allowed to express their beliefs, to carry out their traditions. Later, we stopped at Harujuku park; the amount of creativity expressed there astounded both Kristin and I. The entire park was full of people… people singing, dancing, playing any instrument between the guitar, bongos and flute… people dressed to the tee in all imaginable outfits (granted, it was Halloween). But, this wasn’t your typical “day at the park” experience. Or at least, not by American standards. I left the park that day so encouraged; these people took joy in their creativity! No government had robbed them of their freedom to express! In fact, not only did it seem that the people of Tokyo took joy in expressing themselves, but it seemed almost as if you were expected to. There were literally hundreds of people... doing all sorts of things (we even saw a family with their pets, all of which, it seemed, could ride a skateboard. The pets, I mean) and Kristin and I got the feeling that our day at the park was a very typical one.

            By that night, and a few train, ahem, bullet-train stops later, we’d arrived in Hakone, a more rural city in the mountains of Japan, famous for its lakes, mountains, and views of Mt. Fuji. After loosing my camera and journal, and after a long and winding taxi drive, we finally made it to our destination. Kristin, the Great Trip Planner, had booked us a few nights at a Hakone ryokan. A traditional Japanese inn, complete with natural hot springs (and yes, we did try them out. Very hot. And very… natural… I shan’t explain further).

Unfortunately, we weren’t able to actually see our lodgings until the following morning; night had fallen, and we were too focused on the marvelous kaiseki being prepared for us. (Ryokan hospitality includes clothing in the form of yukata, bedding on customary tatami, and a traditional Japanese meal, kaiseki) We could, however, hear the roaring waters of the neighboring river, roughly 100 feet below our window.

            The next day, we climbed Mt. Fuji.

Not really, but I wish.

Actually, considering how many times my heart nearly popped during our trek up a smaller peak, I really don’t wish we’d climbed Fuji.

Anyway, we found ourselves at the foot of Mount Kanmurigatake, and naturally decided to find our way to the summit. [Now say “Mount Kanmurigatake” three times very quickly (and try not to accidently spit on your screen.)] Anyway, if you’ve been following the photo blog, you’ll see that we had quite the adventure… the natural beauty was utterly stunning, what with the bright reds of Japanese maples, the dulled gold of summer grasses about to yield their lifeblood to the oncoming winter… the bright greens of the more sturdy bushes, the lovely pine forests we passed on our way up, and don’t forget the clouds of sulfuric steam from the volcanic craters that added a very ethereal, mysterious, and rather stinky aspect to the whole scene. However, whatever sulfuric smell we sniffed was quickly blown away by a delightful breeze, carrying all the scents of fall and impending adventure. It was an amazing hike; the pictures, as beautiful as they are, still can’t quite capture the glory of it all. I will always remember that hike as one the most beautiful I’ve ever endeavored to hoof; such a breathtaking reflection of God’s amazing personality!

Our next stop was Kyoto, famous for its temples. Only one of which we actually visited. Our time in Kyoto was spent biking down the Path of Philosophy… and true to our nature, we were very, very philosophical as we rolled along the ancient, gravel-lined road.

            After all the philosophy, we naturally chose to end the day by continuing to act mature and philosophical…

            …and therefore decided to impulsively buy ukuleles, eat ice-cream waffles, dress in matching pajamas, and jump on the bed until 2 in the morning. While taking pictures of ourselves.

Kukai and the rest of those good ‘ole Japanese philosophers would be so proud of us!

            We ended the last few days back in Tokyo… we further explored the city, and thoroughly lost ourselves in the more local side of Japanese life. So, so much to see, so few hours to see it! A lot of what we saw really inspired lots of thought from me in terms of the different sides to Japanese culture, light and dark. I wish I could spend more time trying to grasp it all, to soak it all up.

            Truly the trip of a lifetime. There’s so much to see, so much to learn… as there is with any place! But Japan especially captures the senses and makes a memorable impression on the imagination.

            Thanks to God (and Kristin’s amazing trip-planning skills) those few days in beautiful Japan are ones I will never, ever forget.

Happy-Last-Day-of-Chinese-New-Year from here in Beijing!