Ode to Daniel...

Daniel and I meet every Wednesday afternoon for lunch. He’s basically the big brother I never had. I remember meeting his sister in first grade—we had the same hair cut, same glasses, even the same giant brown van. I remember we used to laugh at Daniel, who was a typical Junior Higher, because he refused to wear anything other than baggy black pants and a button up shirt to school, even during the warm summery days. He was way too cool.

Then I entered high school. He was a senior the year that I came in. To my surprise, he treated me a lot like his little sister, offering his advice or encouragement whenever I needed them. I felt lucky that a senior would take time out of his busy life, to stop me in the hall and talk to such a little insignificant freshman.

Even after he graduated, we continued to keep in contact, chatting online or over the phone. We lost contact, however, after a couple years. Last year, I got a huge shock when I ran into him on campus and discovered that he had transferred to Biola. Since then, we’ve been meeting regularly to have lunch and chat.

We always have a lot to talk about—everything from cooking to family to the Chinese language and back to food. It’s fun to try different restaurants, or to go back to the same one (where we inevitably order the same things we always do). Sometimes I have to check my cell phone to make sure we don’t get carried away with our conversation, especially on days when I have an exorbitant amount of homework to do.

Today, like all of our other lunch dates, was really fun. We sat at one of the two-seat tables in Eagle’s Nest, letting the lunch rush flow noisily around and past us. Always the experimental, free-spirited cook, Daniel brought his latest creation—Pineapple Curry Fried Rice—and I ordered a chicken soft taco at the counter.

Some how or other, he and I got to the topic of forgiveness: how bitterness can be all-consuming, how God treats those who do not forgive (Matthew 18:34-35), and how refusing to forgive someone can ultimately eat away at you from the inside and make you miserable. In fact, we agreed that those who let bitterness and hate permeate their lives ultimately suffer more torture than those who they seek to hurt.

I have one or two people in my own life who, I believe, are perfect examples of that. On one hand, I realize that I have to be careful not to let them affect me—to make me bitter, angry, or resentful. Sometimes my sense of injustice gets the better of me. But I don’t want to be just like they are, to let them have victory over me (those types of people just want everyone to be as miserable as they are).

At the same time, I know I need to develop a greater sense of compassion for them. My inclination is to say, “Oh, let them be miserable. They made their decision; they have to deal with the consequences. They deserve what they get.” That kind of attitude isn’t very Christ-like, I’ll admit; I’m constantly convicted of it.

In all honesty, my sense of compassion and mercy is sorely underdeveloped. I tell myself that I know how to be empathetic. But when it comes to people who have no sense of logic or reason, I just have a hard time being understanding.

That’s one of the reasons I’m so thankful that I’m a Christian. It is the power of God to do the work in me that I could never do myself—to show me my fallen state and my inability to merit any value outside of Christ’s work in my life. It is His amazing love and grace that compels me to grow in mercy and grace towards others, even those I have trouble forgiving.

Daddy's Little Girl

Growing up, my dad would often take me out by myself...we called them “Daddy-daughter dates.” When my mom was pregnant with Garrett, he would take me out to let my mom rest. When Garrett was born, he didn’t want us to have any sibling rivalry—he took me out so that I would get individual attention, so that I would feel special, rather than jealous. Even though I’m in college, we still go out on these occasional “dates.”

Usually, Dad and I like to pack up my homework and his Sunday School materials and head out to a café like Tapioca Express or Lollicup to work. My new favorite homework spot is a little café called Vanille in Rowland Heights. We have afternoon tea there, along with a platter of Chinese-style mini-cakes of various flavors and assortments. They have really good green tea and blended drinks, too. It’s nice to just sit and read, to listen to Chinese pop music blaring overhead, or to just people-watch as shoppers walk in and out of the little plaza.

I think the vast majority of my memories of my dad involve pastries or bakeries. Even this weekend, my dad and I made our weekly excursion to Keewah Bakery before dinner. He always jokes that the bakery is “so loud” because he can hear all of the pastries clling his name. Arm-in-arm, we looked through the cases of buns, rolls, pies, and egg tarts. I love breathing in the wonderful sweet scent of the Chinese bakery

It brought back a lot of old childhood memories. As a little kid, I remember spending a lot of time at my grandmother’s house in Sacramento. Dad and I would get up early to walk hand-in-hand down the street and around the corner. There was a restaurant that had a normal diner counter on one side (i.e. toast, omelettes, bacon, etc.) and a Chinese bakery on the other side. In my dad’s mind, at least, it was the perfect combination. I have a lot of happy remembrances of sitting at the counter, swinging my legs, watching in fascinated delight as the short-order cooks whipped up my French toast, enjoying the gooey Chinese pastry we picked out. I can still smell the steaming cup of coffee my dad would sip rather noisily, and the ice old apple juice I always asked for (my uncle nicknamed me “apple juice” because of it).

I’m beginning to look at the future with some hesitation and apprehension. I haven’t lost that sense of excitement and anticipation towards all of the experiences before me—of what God wants to do with my life and where He wants to take me. But the reality of going to Europe and London for a semester is beginning to set in. Even thinking about the possibility of moving away from home (say, Hong Kong or Taiwan) makes me feel a little sad. What will it be like not to go on Daddy-daughter dates? What will Daddy do when I cease to call him because I need a “study buddy”? What will happen to our weekly visits to the bakery and the DVD/CD/book/magazine store next door? What will it be like to no longer roam 99 Ranch Market together in search of the next new food we want to try?

I guess I’ve always been my Daddy’s girl. There’s part of me that knows that someday I must grow up, must be independent and mature and self-sufficient. Someday I might even meet someone who measures up to Daddy’s standards, and I’ll begin a new family and new life with him. But there’s part of me that hasn’t changed—still the same little girl with the big glasses and straight bangs, who sits on Daddy’s lap, and knows to ask Dad—not Mommy—when she wants something. She’s still same little girl who likes to watch sports highlights or the latest martial arts movie with Daddy…the same little girl who misses her Dad when they aren’t together. That part of me, I think, will probably never grow up.

YouTube and Benedictions

Yesterday, I was thinking about the lecture that Professor Weathers gave in our Website Development class. He gave us a brief summary of the progress that we have made as a (human) race in terms of communication and technology—from writing to the telegraph to computers and the internet. It was interesting to note that most of us couldn’t remember a time without computers. We belong to a generation that can’t imagine what it would be like without cell phones or iPods. The changes we’ve seen in technology have come naturally (we use Macbooks and Blackberry’s almost intuitively) and inconspicuously. Perhaps because of our closeness to such changes, the effect of these technologies on our lives is nearly imperceptible to us.

One major example is the internet. I think especially as college students, we have an almost unhealthy dependence on our ability to go online. We feel lost if our connection goes down, and annoyed if our connection is slow. We rely on the internet to keep us connected—through email, AIM, Facebook, Skype—with our friends and families. And we develop addictions to YouTube.

Speaking of which, I’ve noticed that my dad is acquiring a slight addiction. He doesn’t really have a lot of free time, and he still spends a good deal of what little time he has playing tennis, watching ESPN basketball highlights, hanging out with my mom, or taking a nap. Browsing around on YouTube, however, has also become one of his relaxation habits, though not in an unhealthy way. In fact, it’s become something that he and I can share and enjoy together.

I’ve discovered, for instance, that I learn a lot about my dad’s interests just by watching and listening to what he watches on YouTube. One of his favorite pastimes is searching for techniques and tips for Judo and Jujitsu, or seeing great moves in the latest Mixed Martial Arts fights. From my usual spot on the couch I can often hear the songs of “Phantom of the Opera,” “Les Miserables,” or “Miss Saigon” emanating from my dad’s laptop in the kitchen. He especially likes Lea Salonga. He uses YouTube to search for songs that bring back nostalgic memories—like The Eagles, Strawberry Alarm Clock, The Supremes, or the Bee Gees. And he tries to keep up with what’s popular in today’s pop music; I think it makes him feel young.

We’ll often be sitting together in a restaurant chatting when my dad cocks his head to one side and comments, “Wait, isn’t this Maroon 5?” Or we’ll listen to the radio in the car, and he’ll be bobbing his head. Then he turns to me and suddenly says, “I like this song by Ne-yo; he’s got a nice, smooth voice. [continuing to bob] The song’s got a nice beat.” To be honest, I’m not quite sure how I feel about my dad listening to Rihanna and Jordin Sparks, but it’s cute nonetheless. And I’ll admit that I’m proud of him for appreciating Utada Hikaru. It just adds to his “coolness.”

On another, completely unrelated note, I wanted to recount a scene today that leaves me in fits of hysterical giggles every time I think about. Our congregation, I think, is very well trained. Not unthinking, per se, but well trained. We stand when we’re asked to stand, we sit when we’re allowed to sit, we read when we’re told to read. Many of us have grown up in the church, or have been a member for many, many years, so we’re well-versed in the protocols and procedures in the church, including the unspoken ones. Today was such a hilarious example of that.

I wrote earlier of little Ian, who was just adopted from China by a wonderful couple from our church. Today was his baby dedication—our pastor, along with the rest of the congregation, prays and dedicates his life to the Lord, asking God to work out the Gospel of Salvation in Ian’s life and bring him into the family of Christ. Everything was going smoothly. We stood, we closed our eyes and bowed our heads, little Ian wasn’t fidgety or ill-behaved. But during the prayer, our pastor began to invoke the trinity, saying, “in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit…”

For our congregation, that was our cue that the prayer was drawing to a close, so the entire sanctuary automatically responded, “Amen.” We were deceived, however, and the pastor continued on with his prayer, much to the surprise and amusement of all of us laymen in the congregation. By the time our pastor got to the end of his prayer, many of us were trying too hard to stifle our laughter—we could barely eke out a muffled chorus of amen's The ironic thing was that he really did end his prayer with “in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, we pray. Amen.”

The Passage of Time

Today I brought two yearbooks with me to class: both the 1978 and 1979 editions of The Biolan. I found them amongst my mom’s things and discovered that she actually attended Biola around the same time that my professor and classmate’s mom did.

Everyone seemed to really enjoy seeing what our professor looked like when he was a freshman and sophomore. They especially got a kick out of his blond hair and the beard he sported as a first year student. He said (jokingly) that he was humiliated, but I think secretly he liked seeing those old pictures as much as we did.

After Ariel and I made our usual stop by his office to chat, we headed over the café to have dinner. We got to talking about our different professors, musing about what they must have been like as young people. It’s really difficult to think of them as anyone other than who they are now.

We contemplated what it was like for our male professors (we only really have one female prof) to court their future wives, and tried to imagine how they proposed. Were they romantic, practical, comical, serious, awkward?

It strikes me as strange how little we know of our professors’ personalities. To a certain extent, we can pick up on mannerisms, or style of teaching. We know how they dress, or the way they use their hands when they talk. We know how to joke around with them, or what will make them feel uncomfortable—we take great delight in using that to our advantage.

But at the same time, there’s so much we don’t know. How do they interact with their spouse or kids? What are they like when they're relaxed and informal? How do they like spend their free time? What were they like as college students? Are they ever silly? Do they ever laugh so hard they can’t breathe?

At Biola, and particularly in the English department, we tend to be pretty close with our professors. We treat them as mentors; we know they care deeply about us on many different levels. But the nature of our relationship with them as students naturally puts some amount of distance between us.

I guess it was just interesting to think about our professor: what he must have been like when he attended Biola and what he’s like now. At our age, we can hardly imagine what God is going to do with our lives—where He’s going to take us, how He wants to use us, how we will move and grow and change.

Seeing those old yearbooks was like seeing the passing of time. It had a really odd effect on me. It’s good to look back at where you’ve come from, and it’s good to look forward to what you will become. But it definitely makes the here and now seem almost surreal.

The little things...

Sometimes it’s the little things in life that get us through a hard day. Like having a roommate who knows you’re stressed out and offers to grab you lunch at McDonald’s to save you time. Or an RC who will stop on the stairs to pray for your homework.

Or a friend who doesn’t mind leading worship for you, even though he’s on the worship team for service every week. How about a mom who won’t give you a hard time, even though it’s the fourth time you’ve called to whine?

It’s the things you never notice, like professors who pray for you when you’re suffering some anxiety, or who are especially accommodating when you—in your scattered state—have forgotten to turn in an assignment.

Right now I’m past the point of exhaustion. I’ve ceased to function. My fingers are willing to type faster, but my brain refuses to move that quickly. I felt guilty tonight, sitting in the computer lab of the business building, listening to my professor explain how to create an html page.

He and the professor I’ve had for the last six weeks are tag-team teaching this class. This is our first week with this particular professor, and I already know I like him. He’s like a nicer, less awkward, better-looking version of Mr. Bean.

Maybe that’s not as much of a compliment as I meant for it to be. My first impression of him is that he’s friendly and comfortable. He seems to have a fairly good sense of humor, especially when it comes to losing at Scrabble on Facebook.

I think I also feel like I can connect with him on some level; we’re both bona fide nerds—each in our own way. He’s a great mix of computer geek, history buff, and savvy (I mean not technologically-challenged) professor. I think he’s even pretty interesting, too.

Unfortunately, I was so exhausted tonight that I could barely keep my eyes open. I was awake enough to catch the basic things we need to know to work with Dreamweaver. But it was a raging battle of the eyelids.

Part of the problem is that I stayed up late last night preparing for an oral presentation and hammering out a précis for my British mystery class. Then I had to wake up early to run to my 8:30 Point magazine meeting, which lasted almost three hours.

Then I walked over to Sutherland courtyard to meet with Chelsea, where we put the finishing touches on our presentation. I made my way back to the journalism office at 1:15. My professor was a little behind schedule, so we didn’t end up meeting until almost 2. Needless to say, I didn’t make it back to my apartment until almost 3.

Ariel had lunch waiting for me at the apartment. I quickly devoured my nuggets and fries (fast food is just comforting sometimes) before getting to work, making phone calls and trying to get my last two interviews. I still have a lot of work to do, but tomorrow’s draft is only the first. I do have time to make more contacts and refine my article.

I continued to transcribe my interview notes until it was time to head to my 6 pm class. I struggled to maintain consciousness through that class, then headed back to the apartment to eat dinner (instant curry is a wonderful thing) and sit down at my computer.

Since then, I’ve had to send out a bunch of emails for the magazine—we’re really cracking down on our writers now because their final drafts are due. And I still have the rest of the interview to transcribe, handouts to print, the précis to polish and print, and the article to write. It’s going to be a long night.

Sweaty Palms

I knew I was nervous. The clammy sweat accumulating on each palm more than proved it to me. My heart felt like it was bouncing around uncontrollably inside my chest, and the butterflies fluttering around in my stomach weren’t helping.

Listen to the chapel speaker, Lynnette. Maybe she’ll distract you, I told myself. Of course, in my state of slight agitation, concentration was next to impossible. From what I remember, she had some good points and some…interesting…points, all of which she gave in an unvaried, flat monotone.

I wished Ariel hadn’t said anything about London. She didn’t mean to worry me, but she and Janelle found out from our friend Shirly last week, and they couldn’t wait to find out whether or not I got in. Unfortunately, I must have checked my mail box before the notifications were sent out, so any of their well-placed, subtle questions were useless on me.

Taking out my pen, I sought distraction in the form of my journal. I often use my journal to record my prayers; it’s my way of talking with God. Our conversation went something like this:

I’m so nervous, God. What if I didn’t get in? Do you know how heart-broken I’ll be?
Trust me.
I’m TRYING. But You know how much I’ve wanted this. Ever since sophomore year.
I’m in control.
I KNOW You’re in control. That’s what worries me sometimes.
I’m not trying to withhold good things from you. But I want you to trust that I know best.
It’s easy to say that you’re in control if it turns out that I got accepted. But I don’t know how I’ll react if I don’t get in. I mean, I’d like to think that I’d be able to say that it’s Your will and submit to that, but I’m betting I’d probably cry instead.
It’s ok to be disappointed.
I’ve been trying to prepare myself for the worst so that I won’t be totally disappointed. But I really want to study in London; there’s no getting around it.
Remember I love you. Even when you feel disappointed.

Our conversation was suddenly interrupted when the chapel speaker unexpectedly went into her closing prayer, rousing me from my own thoughts. I bent my head and listened to her, only half paying attention, because I could feel the anxiety building up inside me.

Ariel and Janelle offered to come with me to the mailboxes. I have a top box, so I have to stand on my tip toes to see the numbers of my combination lock. After about 30 seconds of turning the lock, I finally opened my box, jumped up to see if there was anything inside, and stretched my arm as far as I could to grab the letter.

I almost wanted to put off opening it, as though the contents would change in my favor if I waited long enough. But I knew that was impossible. I ripped the envelope slowly, pulled out the letter, and opened the top fold.

My eyes fell on the first word printed in bold type, “Congratulations!” With a huge sigh of relief, I opened the rest of the letter and let my eyes run down it. I didn’t really bother to finish reading—I’d do it later—I was just too happy to think straight. The only thing that came to mind was, “Thank you, Lord. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Ariel and Janelle were excited too, celebrating with me. I gave them a big hug and wished them a good day. Then I rushed off to my Fitness Walking and Jogging class with a ridiculous grin plastered across my face.

Sunshine and Phil Wickham

Today is a beautiful day. Despite my failure to be a morning person, I definitely appreciate other people who are—like my roommate. For the last couple of weeks, we’ve been waking up early on Friday mornings to go to breakfast before chapel. It’s nice to wake up, to feel the newness of the day. Most of the time that Ariel and I spend together involves sitting in our room or laying across the living room couches reading, stopping only to read an amusing quote out loud or ask a question about literary theory. Honestly, other than our 20 minute Super Smash Brother study breaks, our only other activities together are homework and eating meals. We even went to the library in between chapel and lunch.

Not that I’m complaining. Nonetheless, Friday mornings are always really nice. We even got a special treat this week. For today’s chapel, Dr. Corey got up on stage and introduced Biola’s Board of Directors, who were all in town for a special meeting together. Ariel and I were just settling down when a particular head caught my attention. I squinted and tried to recognize the face, when suddenly, it dawned on me.

“That’s Michael Chang!” I squealed excitedly. “Or, at least I think so,” I said, not quite as confident as I thought.

“Are you sure? He looks…well…”

“Yeah, I think that’s him, " I interrupted, "I’m pretty sure.”
“OK,” Ariel said, not quite sure if she should believe me, but willing to entertain me.

Sure enough, my childhood legend was there. I remember watching him as I was growing up, thinking how great he was for being one of the first successful Asian-American athletes, and a Christian to boot. What’s more, he was just inducted into the Tennis Hall of Fame, so we all got to celebrate and cheer for him. It was so neat to hear him give all of the glory to God, and to see how he is using his celebrity status (he’s at least a celebrity in China) to boldly spread the Gospel.

Then, Dr. Corey gave the floor to CJ, who in turn, introduced us to Phil Wickham. It stuck me as really funny that we would have him come to the one chapel we had with the entire Board of Directors—most of whom are older and gray, with a few exceptions—sitting in the bleachers. I hope they enjoyed it as much as we did.

Today was most crowded Friday chapel we’ve had in a while, mainly because of Phil Wickham coming, and because they closed off the balcony seating, forcing people to find a seat on the bleachers or stand on the gym floor. Either way, it was awesome to be able to worship with an entire gym full of Biolans, all singing praise to God for his greatness.

I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect with Phil Wickham leading worship, but he and his team are very gospel-oriented when they lead. And even though they’re one of the louder bands we’ve had in chapel, they’re really good at portraying that sense of holy majesty that belongs to God alone. I appreciated that his songs are not focused solely on how we feel, though that is a part of worship, but it was our response to the greatness of God’s grace and who He is.

On the same note, I was thinking about the difference between having Phil Wickham lead worship for us, and the Getty’s (they’re part of the team that wrote “In Christ Alone” and “The Power of the Cross,”) from a week or two ago. They’re so different in terms of style and atmosphere, and yet they worship and glorify the same God. I love hymns; the Getty’s music has such powerful richness and doctrine, it was so amazing. And Kristyn Getty’s voice is absolutely angelic. She’s way better in person than on their album (she sounds great either way).

Back to Phil Wickham—I thought it was interesting that a lot of his songs talked about how creation reveals God’s power and majesty and holiness. After singing those, and then walking outside, I was apt to agree. Today’s weather is wonderfully warm and springy. It’s almost warm enough to feel like summer (right now weather.com says it’s 80 degrees in La Mirada). Anyways, I’m still trying to think of a way to enjoy the sun and still get my work done today.

My First (or Second?) "Cold Call"

Everyone has a story. It’s something I’m beginning to discover the more I write. Dr. Longinow and Professor Mosqueda sent us out on a “cold call” again today—no research, no idea who we were going to interview. This time, however, we didn’t get an assignment; they didn’t give us a question to ask or a theme to follow.

We’re already pretty intimidated by the prospect of having to walk up to a complete stranger and ask for ten, twenty minutes of their precious time. It’s complicated ten-fold by the fact that we have no idea what story we’re pursuing. Because we don’t know who we’re interviewing, we don’t have a chance to do any research ahead of time or prepare questions in advance.

I walked around aimlessly for five, maybe ten minutes. It seemed like forever. Every place I thought to go, there were already other students from my class interviewing people. It just felt really awkward, like I was treading on the territory that they had already claimed.

I was beginning to get nervous again. You’d better just suck it up and find someone, I told myself. Our instructions were to find someone different from us—in my case, not Asian and not a female. That at least narrowed it down for me. I scanned around the fountain area and felt my heart sink into my stomach.

Professor Mosqueda was standing a short distance away from me, scanning the area around Fluor Fountain. He seemed so relaxed; I felt distraught. I quickly turned away. The first person I laid eyes on was a tall guy dressed in very urban street wear.

He was walking slowly enough to indicate that he wasn’t in too great a hurry. That was encouraging. I walked up to him.

“Hi. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Um…yeah,” he said, looking over my head towards the cafeteria. “When does the café close?”

“Oh, you mean, for breakfast?” I said, tracing his gaze. “Um…well, I can always just walk in with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Uh…ok, sure” he replied a little hesitantly.

“My name’s Lynnette, by the way,” I decided to throw in. I walked along side of him, my pen and notebook in hand, and began asking him the basics—name, year, hometown, the usual.

We headed into the cafeteria, where we searched for the girl that he was meeting for breakfast. We explained to her the reason that I was intruding upon their morning meal, and she didn’t seem to mind at all. I think they felt a little privileged or special that I had chosen one of them to interview.

Whatever they felt, both were very obliging. I started off with simple things, like his major, which led to talking about his dream of becoming a pastor. At one point, I got him off on a tangent about being a bassist for a band that practiced in his garage.

I managed to re-route our conversation back to his classes, and how they are helping to prepare him for the calling God has placed in his life. And that led to talking about his vision of ministry, his heart for the city and people of San Francisco, and the work that he has already done there.

What I thought would just be a journalistic exercise (which it was) ended up being quite an interesting interview. That got me thinking about what it's like to meet and talk to people. Tonight, for instance, as I was ordering my smoothie at the cashier of the cute little café Grace and I like to visit, I got into a conversation with the owner about literary theory.

Turns out, he graduated from UCI as an English major (he double majored with Art History) before deciding to run the café with his wife. We talked about everything from Derrida to American vs. British literature, to professors, to what kind of writing we like to do.

I love meeting people—they’re really fascinating. Everyone has their own story, if we only stop long enough to listen to them. Sometimes, we think our lives are very boring, very pedestrian. But there is always something unique or surprising or interesting to be found if we’re willing to search deeper.

That’s what makes writing a worthwhile activity. It’s about people. People like to read about other people. It’s inherent in the human condition. We are drawn to the stories and lives of other people who are and are not like us. The job of the writer is to tell those stories in a way that is vibrant and compelling. Hopefully, someday, that will be my job.

Everything in moderation

What is it about being human that makes us feel that we must identify ourselves with a particular group—be it ethnic, political, philosophical, ideological, athletic, or whatever else? What draws us to label ourselves as such-and-such, to cling to that name as though it were really our own? How do non-conformists escape labeling themselves as non-conformist?

What about the other extreme? There are those who shirk away from claiming any sort of name or label that makes them feel that they must commit themselves to this particular school of thought or that individual worldview. Can they truly be neutral, or are they just afraid of the consequences that go with taking sides?

Growing up, my mom always encouraged me to seek moderation in everything, with certain very important exceptions (i.e. salvation by faith alone through grace alone). But for the most part, if there was a middle ground to be found, that was where I wanted to plant my feet. Not because I don’t have convictions or because I don’t want to offend people, but because I see the wisdom in it.

Right now I’m struggling with feeling like I’m not intellectual enough, or I’m not as mature as I should be. By no means am I trying to say that I am, in fact, intellectual or mature. Because that isn’t necessarily true at all. But I’ve let my own reflection of myself become skewed. I’m seeking to rectify this problem in my own mind.

My reason for feeling out of the loop, I believe, is that I don’t know how to be anyone but myself. I try to base what I believe on what makes sense to me. Is it Biblical? Does it sound rational? Can I live my life in light of that? I never hold to anything because someone else does. Even if it’s someone I respect or admire.

There are things that I discover just suit me—like being Chinese. It’s something that was inherent in me all along; I just never chose to explore it. But I won’t disqualify my very American upbringing. Just because I want to learn Cantonese or Mandarin doesn’t mean I don’t still love the English language. My excitement over Asian culture hasn’t replaced my interest in European culture.

Or take Theology, I told Ariel tonight that I don’t really see myself as a strict Calvinist, though I don’t think I’d ever call myself an Arminian, either. I think in their (very) purest forms, both have their place Biblically within Christian doctrine. If we over-emphasize one, we risk losing the important truths that the other proclaims.

I wouldn’t classify myself as a staunch Southern Baptist (I’m willing, however, to associate myself with the Southern Baptist convention), though I think in doctrine and perspective, I do align more closely with them than with any other Protestant group.

That’s one of those weird things about being at Biola. We’re at a Christian school, but the fact that it’s non-denominational means that we’re still forced to re-examine everything that we believe and why we believe what we do.

There are a lot of things I hold to that I think makes people look at me and think that I’m weirdly conservative. I don’t mean to be conservative or not liberal—I just think some things are Biblical and some things aren’t. If that means I’m not very progressive, then so be it. If that means I’m old-fashioned, or un-intellectual, then so be it.

To be honest, I’ve become very comfortable with living by my own convictions, my own opinions, my own thoughts. I’m so comfortable with who I am, sometimes, that I don’t feel any pressure or need to seek a clearer definition of myself. It’s almost made me uncomfortable to be around people who do feel that need and that pressure.

That’s not to say that I think I’m perfect. I don’t want to be misconstrued. I just think that I have a very low inclination for the kind of soul-searching or intellectual-aligning that is common to most college students (minus, of course, the ones whose inclination is completely replaced by frivolous, wasteful, and meaningless activity).

There are still a lot of things in my life—or aspects of who I am—that I am less than pleased with. I’m sure I’m more self-deprecating, in my own way, than is healthy or helpful. There are things about myself that I absolutely despise, detest, abhor…I could go on and on.

The difference, then, is that I’ve at least come to grips with the fact that I’m stuck with me, whether I like me or not. There have been times in my life when that thought has driven me to despair. But I feel like I’m in a place in my life where I can—no, must—go on being me, no matter what.

Interesting Assignments

“OK, be back at ten ‘till,” Dr. Longinow said, looking at his wrist watch. He looked back up at us and smiled enthusiastically. “If you get back early enough, you can start writing your articles.”

I paused for one panic-stricken moment. Then I collected my senses—along with my notebook, pen, and cell phone (for the clock)—and headed out the door of our classroom. I made my way down the stairs with the rest of my classmates, moving together like a herd of cattle moving towards a new patch of grass to graze.

As soon as we exited the business building, we scattered to various corners of the campus, some students latching onto unsuspecting victims just trying to get from Point A to Point B, never intending to become interview subjects for desperate journalism students.

I didn’t start thinking about who I would interview until I made it past the library. It suddenly dawned on me that it would be wise to have a plan of attack. We were supposed to ask this question: “There are three front-runners in the election who could be president. All three claim that evangelicals should be comfortable with them. Do you buy that?”

I knew I could approach someone on their way to class, but they’d be in too much of a hurry to stop for an interview—even a five or ten minute interview. The fountain would be a good place to find sedentary students lounging by the fountain, reading a book, chatting on the phone, or hanging out with friends. But those students probably don’t want to be interrupted by students doing a class exercise.

Taking all of these things into consideration, I figured my best bet was to head for Sutherland, where the social science, history, and philosophy departments have offices. I started by visiting Dr. Christensen, who I had for World Civilizations I. Unfortunately, he was heading to chapel, and I felt bad about detaining him, so I told him that I’d continue searching for a suitable interview subject.

At this point, I began to feel nervous about finding someone. I continued meandering my way around Sutherland Hall. Not finding any professors downstairs, I headed up the stairs towards the Writing Center, then the Torrey offices.

I noticed that one of the doors was wide open, almost beckoning me over. I knocked on the outside wall and introduced myself to the guy sitting at a desk in front of his computer. To my great relief, he was very friendly and very willing to talk to me. He also had quite a lot to say about my topic.

Turns out he’s actually an assistant producer for the "Hugh Hewitt Show"--a nationally syndicated radio talk show that focuses on politics and social issues from a conservative, Christian Evangelical perspective. He is also one of the coordinators for GodBlogCon, which is a conference that seeks to train Christians “to engage with culture through the new media.”

Needless to say, it was quite a fun interview exercise for me, and I got a really satisfying, fascinating interview with him (he's very eloquent and thoughtful). It was also fun just to meet someone new. It made me laugh; at the end of the interview, he explained his work with GodBlogCon and tried to recruit me.

Spiritual discipline and laundry

I’ve just washed all of my laundry, and I have 40 minutes before the clothes come out of the dryer. The delicates and pants are sitting next to me, drying on the rack, or hanging up on my door to air dry.

It has been an interesting day, though there’s still much left to do before I go to bed. Today feels like it’s been very productive—I attended chapel, ran seven laps for Fitness Walking and Jogging, took a shower, read all five of my Contemporary Literary Theory assignments for this week, read two chapters for Magazine and Freelance writing, read two chapters for my British Mystery class, read a magazine article and wrote a summary, scanned and emailed notes from Sunday’s meeting, washed three loads of laundry, cooked dinner and washed dishes, and now I’m writing today’s journal entry.

I have this great sense of accomplishment, marking off all those boxes on my lengthy to-do list. But despite all that, I still have so many things hanging over my head. I have three really huge things due next week, all on the same day. And I have my website proposal and presentation this Wednesday. I’m planning on heading over to the Library as soon as that’s done to do some research.

I’m not really sure why I decided to write something so boring and tedious. I’m sitting alone in my room; my three roommates have settled down in the living room to work on each of their respective reading assignments. We’ve had a lot of lively conversation (mostly about literary theory) and some good horsing around (mostly yelling at each other using terminology we’ve gathered from literary theory) tonight.

This is what I always imagined college life would be like—discussing intellectual topics, cooking and eating together, joking around, sharing what we’re learning or what we’re going through. And I want to say that I’m satisfied.

But I sense a vague, inexplicable sense of discontentment growing within me. I think part of it is the constant strain of deadlines and assignments and worries. I hate feeling like I’m always behind, always playing catch up. It’s frustrating to feel like I make no progress no matter how hard I work to be disciplined.

I enjoy school, my professors, and my classes; I love learning and growing. I don’t mind some challenges and difficult assignments, because they stretch and mature us. I just can’t deal with the constant heavy workload and never-ending to-do list. I’ve always enjoyed routine, and usually I only need one or two weeks to get into the groove of things.

This semester though, there are a lot of other things I’d rather do. I wish I had enough leisure time to just sit and rest in God’s presence, to enjoy reading my Bible or spending time in prayer. I have to sacrifice precious sleep in order to make time to have my quiet time now.

I wish I could dedicate more energy into learning Chinese—whether it be watching more dramas in Mandarin or taking a class at the community college. As it stands right now, the two hours I spend for each Sunday class is probably more than I should be spending, considering how much work I need to get done each weekend.

I want to spend more time developing my relationship with my apartment-maters, or working on my freelance writing. I’d love to schedule lunch, dinner, or coffee with the friends I haven’t seen in ages. I want to enjoy what I’m reading and learning, or at least have time to process and internalize some of it.

Part of the problem may be that I’m living in the future again, anticipating vacation (I’m thinking cruise to Mexico) with my family for Spring Break, seeing my cousin get married in April, visiting Malaysia this summer, maybe spending time with Margaret in Spain, hopefully studying abroad in London…or thinking even further—applying for an internship at a magazine, graduating from Biola, starting a career, perhaps moving overseas.

The possibilities are endless; the only problem is that I don’t have much control over any of them. It’s like today’s chapel speaker said: I must place my life in God’s hands if I really want to see what it’s supposed to become. I can’t hold on too tight to my own life or try to fight Him for control of my future.

I’ve never been very good about living in the here and now. But this is what God has given to me to do right now, at this very moment in time. The measurement of my success, as Jeff said on Sunday, is how faithful I am to my calling.

I guess ultimately it isn’t about what I want. That’s part of what we’re learning about in our small group Bible study. Spiritual discipline is about placing our own will lovingly before God, in submission to Him, whenever and wherever we may be in life. Right now, for example, is time for me to collect and fold my laundry.

Eulogy

My grandfather passed away this past winter break. I’m not sure why I’ve avoided writing about it until now. I think I haven’t had enough confidence that I could do him justice. I still don’t think I can, but I’m not as scared as I was before. There is something daunting about using finite, limited words to try to capture the essence of who someone is–or was.

I saw my grandpa for the last time on Christmas Day. I was away at my college winter retreat when he passed away. It was so difficult to be away from my family, trying to grieve on my own, frustrated I couldn’t be there to support my grandpa or comfort my dad.

It felt the same as when my grandmother died during high school. My relatives and mom were with her in Sacramento; I had stayed in southern California because I had basketball and school. We hadn’t expected her to deteriorate as quickly as she did, so it was too late for me to be there when she passed.

By Christmas time, he had begun to have trouble recognizing people, and he was too weak to eat or speak much. But Dad says that he always seemed to perk up when I visited. That night, he was much more cogent and alert than normal.

My last memory of my grandfather is the short interview I had with him. I thought I’d try to keep him entertained by asking him to tell me a story. His cardiologist–a huge history buff–told us that he talked to Grandpa about his part in the "Hump Airlift" in World War II.

Grandpa enlisted in an Army Air Force as a part of the Asian division when he was 19 or 20 years old, the same age I am now. His job was to help deliver supplies to the China, because the Chinese were cut off from their resources by the Japanese army.

He and his fellow soldiers would fly over the Himalaya mountains from India to China--in planes with no pressurized cabins, no oxygen masks, and no heating system. The planes would rise and fall, rise and fall as the wings of the plane flapped like a huge metal bird in the sky.
The soldiers could do nothing but sit or lie down and endure the turbulence as they waited to reach their destination. I asked Grandpa if he was scared of flying. He shrugged and said simply, "You get used to it." He told me he even used to like it.

Grandpa said that they lost "quite a few thousand planes–shot down, crashed, sometimes accidental" on this mission. In fact, to make sure they stayed on the correct path, the pilots would follow the trail of ruined aircrafts that had never reached their goal.

Sometimes, they would just drop things, he said, and other times, they were called upon to deliver the supplies by hand. He remembered what it was like in India–lots of jungles, lots of disease. He was scared to eat the food and the water was bad to drink, but they’d try to get some nourishment from fruit before getting some sleep and heading back.

Grandpa explained to me that he flew with other Chinese and Japanese soldiers who were eager to prove their loyalty as Americans. They often enlisted during high school, intending to fly a few missions and return to school. Of course, many of them never came back, including some of his friends and neighbors. The soldiers never knew if their mission would be peaceful, or if they would be shot down over the Himalayas.

Grandpa never talked to us about the important role he played in the Hump Airlift. We would never have found out about it if his cardiologist hadn’t spent time asking him about it first. That was just how grandpa was–modest and unpretentious.

I miss him now, more than ever. I miss him singing La Bamba to me, or Ole Susanna. I miss him sitting in front of our TV folding his laundry and watching Bonanza. He helped me catch my first fish and tried (unsuccessfully) to teach me to whistle. He showed me what it meant to work hard without complaining, and to deal with life’s hardships with grace and joy.

Grandpa didn’t have a college education, but he was proud of Daddy for putting himself through school, and he was proud of me for going to Biola. Even though he wasn’t well educated, he was very bright, and he had many hidden talents, like being able to speak Chinese, English, and Spanish fluently enough to coordinate the people working on the construction of our new church building.

And He was always the center of attention, not because he craved attention, but because his friendliness and sense of humor naturally drew people to him. I feel like I could go on and on about the kind of man he was and what he meant to me, but I’m already beginning to cry.

I know he’s not suffering now; I know he’s with his Savior. I had the privilege of hearing his salvation testimony and witnessing him be baptized at the ripe old age of 81–the oldest ever at our church. There’s so much comfort in that. His memory will always carry some pain for me, because I miss him so much. But I praise God for the way that God blessed him, even late in life. And I praise God for the blessing that he was in my life.