Lynnette Woo

MOVING

2010-01-01T23:20:00.000-08:00

Hey guys,

I don't know how many of you still keep up with my blog, but I've decided to make the switch over to WordPress, to commemorate the new year and a new stage of my life. I guess I wanted a more grown-up blog to chart my foray into grown-up life. Thanks for reading and see you on the other side (meaning my new blog: http://lynnettewoo.wordpress.com/)! HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Lynnette

Domestically Challenged

2009-12-19T15:20:00.000-08:00

So today, I cooked garlic mashed potatoes, and even peeled the potatoes (the first one took a little while, but I got the hang of it). And I baked a custard pie. Oddly, I feel more accomplished today than I felt when I graduated from college. I really need to learn how to cook.

::tangent alert:: Wow, I just watched my mom take a swig from the sparkling pomegranate juice bottle we bought from Trader Joe's. And then when Garrett questioned her, she said, "Well, that's what you were gonna do." No answer for that one.

In other news, I'm seriously thinking about switching to WordPress for the new year. Might encourage me to blog more consistently if I have a site I like. I just run out of things to say sometimes (hard to believe, I know). But I do a lot of journalling and writing already, so blogging takes a backseat.

This weekend has been crazy. I'm beginning to get worn down.

Wednesday - worked in LA, cleaned the house, home prayer meeting
Thursday - drove to Beverly Hills and back, drove to Gardena and back, worked, guests for dinner
Friday - worked, shopping with Garrett, ROCK Christmas party
Saturday - Aryn's graduation breakfast, cooking (right now), KALEO Christmas party
Sunday - Sunday School & 2nd service, Christmas program
Monday - KALEO small group social

Then again, my boss has four parties in one night, so I guess I have nothing to complain about. ::sigh:: I really need to get back into the gym.

Your opinions...

2009-10-20T21:42:00.001-07:00

Funny moment of the day: My mom just asked me if I liked "koala pie" (she meant Kahlua).

Maybe it's because I've been looking at website layouts for work, but I've become increasingly discontent with my blog. I tried a new layout earlier today, but it was too frustrating trying to customize it the way I wanted (I really don't like editing html). I've thought about making it more of a personal website--a blog, about, resume, contact info, portfolio of work. Then again, perhaps it's easier to just maintain a simple blog. Anyways, I could:

a) find a new blogspot layout and try to customize it myself.

b) switch to WordPress.

c) use Lifeyo.

d) stick to what I've got.

What do you guys think should I do?

Food Adventures: Penang Malaysian Cuisine

2009-10-15T17:54:00.000-07:00

Dad was kind enough to finish his rounds and drive me to Koreatown today. On the way, we discussed the possibility of stopping off in El Monte--directly off the 60 freeway--to try Little Malaysia Restaurant. I haven't had good Malaysian food in a while (since London, strangely enough), so I've really been craving something, anything related to Malaysian cuisine.

After a productive meeting in LA, we headed back towards home. Using Dad's trusty Blackberry, we Yelp'd the location of the restaurant. Fortunately, Dad thought to call ahead and find out whether or not they close for the afternoon. And sure enough, they were just about to close. So we changed plans (and freeways) and headed towards West Covina. Dad is something of a human compass; so despite my faulty sense of direction (I'm completely lost without a GPS), we made it to Penang Malaysian Cuisine.

The restaurant is tucked into the corner of the very randomly-located Hong Kong plaza (South Glendora and Vine). Since it was already almost three in the afternoon, the place was pretty much deserted. Not that we minded--Dad doesn't like crowds, and as long as the food's good, I don't care either way. Needless to say, Dad and I were the only patrons in the restaurant.

Penang Malaysian Cuisine is definitely a far cry from the usual humidity, dustiness, and buzz of the open-air hawker restaurants. But I don't expect a southern California restaurant to exactly replicate my travel experiences. It was clean, quiet, and nicely decorated; the ambience was somewhere between a modern Thai restaurant and a Mexican cantina (if you can imagine such a place).

I think I surprised the waitress because I ordered without a menu: teh ice, roti canai, satay, and char kway teow. She actually asked me if I was Malaysian. I suspect most people just look at the pictures and point at what they want, or "point and click" as my dad calls it. Weirdly enough, the waitress is Thai, the cooks are Chinese and Mexican, and the owners are Burmese.

I don't think exported cuisines will ever be as good or authentic as the original, but the roti was still pretty good. It was flaky and thin and the sauce tasted almost exactly like what they served us in Penang. Dad had never had real roti before, so I was pleased that he finally got to try it (I'm dying to take him to Penang myself).

The satay came out shortly after; we ordered combination chicken and beef. Dad couldn't help saying over and over, "it's the best satay I've ever had." And he's tried a lot of different satay. It brought back very fond memories of trying satay from the vendor off the side of the road on the way to Tesco in Penang. The meat has a nice sweet glaze and a smoky flavor, and the sauce that came with it was great. Those who know my dad know that he's a sauce person; I suspect the sauce is what won him over.

Finally, we split the char kway teow. The noodles were actually the kind normally used in pad thai, so that was a little disappointing, and it wasn't as flavorful as I was hoping. It did have a spicy after-kick. I think it's probably pretty hard to match the char kway teow I've had in Malaysia, but it was still edible.

I was telling Dad about how people in Penang are fiercely proud of their food. Although I was only there for three weeks, by the end of the trip, even I was ready to defend Penang's cuisine against anyone from KL or elsewhere. It's been over a year now, and I still miss all of the food and all of my friends in Malaysia. I wasn't blown away by this restaurant, but it was still really fun to go adventuring with Dad and re-eat some good memories.

Penang Malaysian Cuisine

971 South Glendora Ave.

West Covina, CA 91790

(626) 338-6138

Sun-Th 11:00 am - 10:00 pm

Fri-Sat 11:00 am - 10:30 pm

For those who might be interested, they also give you a 10% discount, a song, and a free ice kacang (think shaved ice) for your birthday.

DBC: Shall We Dance?

2009-10-08T01:34:00.000-07:00

My friend Aubrie linked this video on FB and I was curious enough to watch. President Dr. Barry Corey (also known affectionately as DBC), discusses the no-dance policy and community standards/contract issue during a Biola chapel. I think he displays a lot of wisdom as well as a healthy sense of humor. Shawdy fire burning on the dance floor...

Comma

2009-09-24T15:56:00.000-07:00

ONE WORD: Comma

I hate the overuse of commas, as well as the incorrect use of commas. People use them as an excuse to be long-winded. Or as a way to skirt the real issue--to be vague or indefinite. Sometimes, you just have to say what you mean.

Usually when I do OneWord, I don't bother reading what everyone else has written. But today, for some inexplicable reason, I did. Some of them are incredibly entertaining, others are completely off topic. Interestingly enough, I noticed many people mistook "comma" for "coma." Is it careless reading or ignorance? Check it out here.

Call me a nerd, but I love grammar. So few people these days understand proper grammar; I'm probably included in that category. More often than not, we see celebrities on TV abusing it mercilessly (to the point where I have to change the channel--it's that painful).

Last week, I was sorting through some of my old schoolwork from elementary school when I stumbled upon my Daily Oral Language composition book. Basically, the teacher put up three or four sentences on the board, complete with grammar mistakes. We were required to copy them down, correcting them as we scribbled onto our wide-ruled paper. That was how we learned correct grammar. I don't remember learning a lot of hard and fast rules about what makes a sentence work. We listened to the sound of each sentence, the clarity of the words and ideas, the fluidity of the words off our immature tongues.

In sixth grade, I did Academic Pentathlon (again, I'm a nerd). The legendary Coach Cooper was probably the first person who taught me how to really write. She taught us to organize our thoughts, to construct an argument, to support our ideas. Then in seventh grade, Mrs. Campbell taught us to "show not tell," to be descriptive and colorful and visual in our writing. Mrs. Hertzig in ninth grade taught us sentence diagramming and showed us how to construct more complicated sentence combinations. And several of my Biola professors (Buck, John Mosqueda, Tamara Welter) taught me a lot about editing and refining my writing.

I think what fascinates me the most about grammar is that it's such a powerful tool, and yet it's so widely neglected. We may appreciate it in its various forms: we enjoy reading good books, we laugh at cleverly-worded advertisements, we arrange our schedules to watch excellently-scripted TV shows. But do we ever take the time to think how important a parenthetical can be, or how much a couple of m-dashes can add? How often do we think about the importance of subject-verb agreement? Do we appreciate that a misplaced comma can completely change the tone and thought of a sentence? Do we acknowledge that some of most powerful people in our day and age wield their power through the written and spoken word?

We sometimes complain about international students having better English grammar than those of us who grew up speaking English as our first language. Grammar, however, does not come intuitively. We often understand grammar through years of experience--reading, writing, hearing, and speaking the language. We know how to use it, how to navigate in the grammatical world of English. But try learning the grammar of another language--Chinese, Japanese, Hebrew, Spanish--and it's suddenly complicated, convoluted, and foreign. It's no longer intuitive.

Language is, perhaps, one of the things that convinces me that there is a God who created the universe and who sustains all things. The ability of human beings to manipulate language, to construct sentences and paragraphs and books, to communicate through combinations of letters and characters (I can hear Ariel now, "Lynnette, I need to consult you on a matter of semiotics")--who can explain that?

Today's Twittering, Facebooking, socially-networked and Blackberry-dependent culture has shown us a lot about grammar and about writing. We bookmark someone's blog because a) they have access to the information we want or b) they write in such a way to capture our attention and affections (by this I mean emotions, passions, interests). On one hand, our short snippet and tiny keyboard platforms have lead to the abuse and complete ransacking of our grammatical structures. I think MTV culture has only added to the dissolution of English grammar.

At the same time, the need for people to become adept communicators is overwhelming. Whether in corporate business or a simple site in the blogosphere, our increasingly shrinking, globalized world requires that we have people who can write--people who understand that grammar is the fuel needed to give power to their words. So next time you read a great book, or bookmark an awesome blog, be inspired by the beauty of good grammar. And don't forget to how to use a comma.

Testimony

2009-09-16T17:25:00.000-07:00

Just as a follow-up to my last post on Jin:

I should be asleep...

2009-09-12T03:20:00.001-07:00

This evening at ROCK, we talked about the sufficiency of God's grace, particularly in suffering--times of the "thorn in the flesh" (I'm not going through anything as difficult or painful as that, but I am learning what it means to really depend on the Lord for each day). So Tony asked the question, "Are you aware of God's grace during times of difficulty?" But I think it's appropriate to ask, "Are you aware of God's grace each and every day?"

We talked about how God comforts us (2 Cor. 1:3-4), delivers us (2 Cor. 1:8-10), and shows us how He is at work (2 Cor. 7:6-9). One ROCKer suggested that we can experience God's grace in times when He allows us to feel His presence. And then I mentioned that sometimes I read or hear words (from the Bible, from a wise friend, etc.) that seem perfect for my situation--as Tony said, a "word from God."

After our lesson, we broke up into pairs to discuss the lesson and pray for each other. As luck (or "destiny"--providence?) would have it, I ended up with George. It was so encouraging to see how much my "little brother" has grown in the Lord, in discipline, and even just in his view of life. I was able to share some of my own recent anxieties, and the words he gave me were full of both wisdom and concern. Even his prayer for me was a real blessing.

And then when I came home, one of the girls that I'm teamed up with for projects at work messaged me. She gave me a lot of encouraging and sage advice about adjusting to work and finding out what God is calling me to do. Maybe even the feeling of, "Oh, I'm not alone," made me feel a lot better about what I'm doing. I'm excited to see what the Lord has in store for me and how He will direct my life, and I'm thankful for the grace He has shown me even tonight.

On self-control

2009-09-09T15:31:00.000-07:00

In Kaleo Sunday School, we've been studying the book of Titus. In Chapter 2, we discussed the importance of teaching "what accords with sound doctrine"--the behavior and lifestyle which is above reproach (2: 1). Paul repeated emphasizes the need for Christians to be self-controlled (or 'sensible'). There are so many areas of my life where I lack self-control; I seem to always be coming before the Lord asking forgiveness for my constant failure. This week, in fact, I've been a little discouraged at my own shortcomings.

As I've had the topic of self-control on my mind, I've also been thinking about what it means to live a life that "adorn[s] the doctrine of God our Savior" (2:10). It seems to me that sound doctrine and a holy lifestyle are inseparable in Paul's mind. Born-again Christians, as Kevin so deftly put it, will naturally put on the good deeds that are characteristic of one who has been transformed by the saving work of Jesus Christ. But that transforming work is--for all intents and purposes--built on the foundation of God's Word. So what we teach, whether or not our doctrine is sound, and how much we read the Bible are all incredibly important.

Okay, back to the main point. I was thinking about self-control and its relationship with holiness, and about my lack of (probably both) self-control (and holiness). Another point Paul reiterates in his letter to Titus is the importance of being above reproach for the sake of the reputation of the Gospel. What can I do, I asked myself, to pursue self-control and holiness in my life? How can my life be an adornment for the Gospel? Anyways, with all of these thoughts floating around inside my head, I came across an article in one of Piper's books, in which he writes:

That is the key to purity and holiness, the key to lasting effectiveness in all of life: constant contemplation of the glory of Christ.

Maybe this wasn't entirely the answer I was looking for, but it struck me as a particularly practical approach to my problem (I apologize, that was WAY too alliterative). To contemplate the glory of Christ is to bring my perspective back into focus; to fill my mind with sound doctrine--about Christ, about my salvation, about who I am in relationship to Him--and let that motivate how I live. When I have a correct view of God, then I can also have a right view of self-control and holiness.

So then, what does it mean to contemplate the glory of Christ? In what ways do you contemplate the glory of Christ?

Job-related...

2009-09-01T04:38:00.000-07:00

...sort of anyways. I've been researching and listening to a whole new genre of music lately--expanding my audial horizons I suppose. Stumbled upon this (though it's not entirely coincidental). Have a listen.

I'm curious; what do you guys think?

For those of you in the UK who are interested in seeing him perform, Jin will be in London this October. I was told to invite you. So click here for more info.

What I Like...

2009-08-26T22:21:00.000-07:00

...right now. I couldn't think of anything to blog about. So these are the things I'm into right now--a snapshot of my life at this moment in time, and in no particular order...

1. The Big Bang Theory (CBS)

I blame it on Ariel--she totally got me hooked. I love how smartly-written and painfully-awkward this show is. I've only watched Season 1, but I can watch these episodes over and over and never get sick of them. And since then, I've managed to get Samson, Stephen, and I don't know who else enjoying this awesomely nerdy comedy.

2. Leverage (TNT)

This show is actually (or at least, I think it is) an American remake of the British show "Hustle," which I loved. It has a lot of the same elements--each character has their own special skills and roles, each episode shows a different con (carried out against other con artists), etc. But TNT's version, rather than being a re-do of Hustle, works well as an American adaptation. My favorite part of Leverage is the characters--they're distinct, unique, and entertaining. It's a very smartly written show. And the comic relief isn't so bad either.

3. Snail Mail

I love snail mail. I love getting it, and I love sending it complete with colorful paper, sticky envelopes, and ugly postage stamps. Maybe it's because I'm an English geek and I LOVE paper (I'm not kidding about this--I can spend ALL DAY in a paper or stationary store). Or maybe it's because I'm suffering from a bad case of wanderlust, so sending letters and postcards to Malaysia, Japan, Hong Kong, China, and England is my way of sending part of me abroad to all the friends I miss so dearly.*

4. Books

Again, I love paper, in all its lovely forms. Frankly, it was hard to simply enjoy reading during college; the constraints of deadlines, papers, and exams sucked a lot of the joy out of reading. So this summer I was determined to get more pleasure reading in. And I'm always looking for good things to read (give me suggestions people!).

Ariel's list is probably twice the length of mine, but so far this summer:

- From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankwiler (E.L. Konigsburg)
- The View from Saturday (E.L. Konigsburg)
- Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth (E.L. Konigsburg)
- The Namesake (Jhumpa Lahiri)
- The Bonesetter's Daughter (Amy Tan)
- My Sister, My Love (Joyce Carol Oates)**
- Disciplines of a Godly Woman (Barbara Hughes)
- A Wild Sheep Chase (Haruki Murakami)
- Rant (Chuck Palahniuk)

"On deck" and "in progress":

- The Screwtape Letters (C.S. Lewis)
- Half of a Yellow Son (Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie)
- The Treasure Principle (Randy Alcorn)
- A Godward Life (John Piper)
- The Lies of Locke Lamora (Scott Lynch)
- River Town (Peter Hessler)

5. MMA & Martial Arts movies

The other day, I dropped everything I was doing in order to watch a SpikeTV special on my favorite UFC fighter. Daddy and I like to watch Pancrase highlights on TV sometimes. I've recently watched movies like Chocolate (a muay thai movie with JeeJa Yanin, Hiroshi Abe), Ip Man (Donnie Yen), and So Close (Shu Qi, Zhao Wei, Karen Mok).

6. Music

At the moment, I really like "Manos al Aire" by Nelly Furtado and "SheWolf" by Shakira. We introduced my dad to Cobra Starship's "Good Girls Go Bad." That was umm...interesting...I only really like the girl's part of that song. I'm really addicted to Yuna Ito's "Mahaloha" (a collaboration with Micro from Def Tech). And I frequently have the theme song from Ponyo on the Cliff by the Sea stuck in my head.

7. Top Gear (BBC America); Warehouse 13 (Syfy); Primeval (both)

I was struggling to think of a seventh to add to my list, but Garrett helped me out. I just recently discovered how much I really enjoy the show Top Gear, which is basically a long-running British show about all things vehicularly-related. They've done crazy things like power-sliding in lorries, racing the big rig trucks (one had a wedding cake, one had a car, and the last had a massive pile f straw at one end with a heater at the other), and backing up the big rigs on an incline, with the drivers' prized treasures directly behind them on the hill. They try to build their own amphibious car-boats and take them across the English Channel. I love "The Stig" and all the jokes they make about him. They even have a segment where they "put a star in a reasonably-priced car." Basically, I never get bored watching Top Gear.

Warehouse 13 and Primeval are sort of my guilty pleasure sci-fi shows. I just realized that it sounds like I watch a lot more TV than I do. Part of it might be because I've moved back home, so now I can actually watch shows, and part of it is because that is how Garrett and I do "sibling bonding." We were both really busy this summer, going out a lot, running around; TV time was the only time we got to sit and enjoy something together. I'm a little sad and lonely now that Garrett's back at Biola.

I guess in the end, this was a really random (and failed) attempt at a blog entry. Sometimes, there's too much to say and not enough willpower to put fingers to keyboard. I will try my best to be more consistent.

*Blogger's note: SEND ME SNAIL MAIL Y'ALL!
**This one took me forever to finish.

Morning Muse-ings.

2009-08-20T12:13:00.000-07:00

Those of you who know me well know that I'm a night owl. Even when I was little, Mom and Dad had a hard time getting me to sleep. They said it was like I was afraid to miss anything fun that might happen during the night. Babies who don't want to sleep tend to cry; on more than one occassion, I brought my mother to tears. And my dad memorized the entire hymnbook trying to sing me to sleep.

Maybe I'm not as much of a night owl as I am a stubborn mule (I didn't want to leave room for bad wordplay here). I've always like the night better than the day--going out late, staying up late, enjoying either the mysterious excitement or the peaceful quiet of the night. But since graduating, I really have no valid reason for staying up late, other than, that I like to.

Several days ago, my writing buddy Edmund suggested I figure out what time my "muse" (read: writing-inspiration-fairy-thing) likes to come out and play. In other words, if I want to be more disciplined about writing every day, I needed to discover when my ideas flow the best, when I have the most motivation to sit down and write. Well, up until now, I've been quite frustrated. It seemed like my muse is something of a loner kid, who only grudingly comes outside to mingle with the neighborhood children. And then halfway through, throws a tantrum and storms back inside.

So I decided I had to make some changes. I've started heading up to my bedroom around 11 or 12 every evening, spending time journalling (which I haven't done in ages) and reading. And I've been getting up around 8:30 or 9 every morning--early for me--to do my devotions and my writing exercises.

I'm amazed 1) that I can actually get up in the morning and 2) that my "muse" is more cooperative in the morning. I'm a lot more motivated to spend my day productively, and I'm a lot more disciplined. Today, for instance, I wrote over 600 words of a short story.* Yesterday I spent a few hours researching and planning work-related materials. And I cleaned the house for home prayer meeting.

Anyways, I don't really have a point to all this. I just wanted to note that maybe I'm beginning to appreciate mornings a little more.

*Blogger's note: Don't ask, you probably won't ever get to read it.

On my mind lately....

2009-08-14T15:21:00.000-07:00

Taken from Publishing Executive, "9 Things I've Learned About Magazines by Blogging" by Rex Hammock)

No one will ever collect NationalGeographic.com. OK, here is my suggestion to those in the magazine industry who haven’t figured out how to compare magazines with the Web (see point #2). The magazines we love are not merely things we read and enjoy; they are expressions of who we are. We display them on coffee tables and desks the way people wear designer labels on clothes or purchase one model of car over another. People collect magazines, trade them and display them on decorative racks or in frames hung on the wall. Magazines provide us with mementos of our life’s journey. They allow us to savor our passions and save special moments. The magazines we love are so important to us, they make us feel guilty to consider throwing them away. The Web is a wonderful thing when you want to drink information from a fire hose. But the magazines people love are like bottles of fine wine: Even if you have to wait a little before opening it, there’s something a bit exciting about the anticipation.

I've been thinking a lot about the magazine industry and what potential there may be for new publications. Last night--perhaps because of Garrett's bad mood or his incredibly stark sense of logic--I was feeling rather discouraged about the prospects. But sometimes, you stumble upon bits of wisdom that reinvest your passions with life and hope. I don't mean to sound dramatic, but magazine is what I love and what I want to do. Sometimes, though, I forget why I love it and why I am on the course I am on.

In other news--although not completely unrelated--I've been learning a lot lately about what it means to trust God--what it looks like specifically in my own life. He has taught me that when He does something is just as (if not more) significant as what He does. I cannot presume to know the mind of God, but--as Job learned (thanks Tony)--I must turn to Him as my only answer. I am learning how small my view of God is, and how much greater He wants to be in my eyes.

At the beginning, it was hard; I felt like I was watching Him answer prayers for those around me. I was excited when Elizabeth got the Americorp job, thrilled when Ariel got accepted for grad school, full of joy when Janelle told me how she found her sense of direction up in Redding. But (the jealous, untrusting, impatient, faithless) part of me said, "When is it my turn?" And of course, I had to eat my words, because God has done for me immesaurably beyond what I could ever have asked for or imagined. It's still new and big and scary and overwhelming, but I believe that God will give me the grace, wisdom, and inspiration I need to accomplish what He has given me to do. So for now, I rejoice in His faithfulness and sovereignty.

An Interesting Quote

2009-07-22T01:21:00.000-07:00

"Whether you take a doughnut hole as blank space or as an entity unto itself is a purely metaphysical question and does not affect the taste of the doughnut one bit."

- Haruki Murakami (A Wild Sheep Chase)

Stop and be Productive

2009-07-20T22:33:00.000-07:00

"You don't always have this opportunity in life. Right now, you can stop and see which way God wants you to go. Sometimes in life, you don't have that chance, because things get busy and you just have to keep on going and doing what you can, without stopping to think about it much. Take this as an opportunity to stop and ask God what He wants you to do."

I wish I had gotten it word for word, but this is as close as I can remember it (Ariel, help?). So today, Ariel and I went out for lunch with our professor Dr. Malandra and his wife Junko. We had a really good time talking and laughing and enjoying the conversation. Dr. Malandra is one of the professors who has given us so much encouragement and so many good memories over the last couple of years, so it was really great to get to spend time with him and Junko outside of the classroom.

I've received a lot of advice from people recently--my cousin Rachel (who is amazing and housed us this weekend in norcal), Buck (another favorite professor), my parents, and many good friends. I'm doing my best to follow their sage advice, and I'm also trying to continue trust in the Lord's provision for me. But what Junko said to us really struck me as profound. It could be the way she said it or the wisdom behind it, but her words really comforted me.

Others have told me that I should enjoy my summer (because once you work, holidays are less frequent), or that things are just slower in this kind of economy. Perhaps I have this feeling that my life has been put on hold until I can find an internship or until I start a grad school program. Junko's words made me feel that my life is still moving, still productive--I want to see this as an opportunity for God to speak to me and show me what direction He is taking me in. I realize I am a product of my culture; I always want to be active and busy and on-the-go. Maybe it is a spiritual discipline in itself to learn to stop, to be silent, to be still before the Lord. Maybe that's the most productive activity of all.

My "popcorn roll" with lobster and avocado.

Ariel's unagi "samurai roll"'

The lovely Junko with the Haiwaiian roll.

Ariel, me, and Dr. Malandra with our tempura ice cream.

Lists, Lists, Lists

2009-07-17T02:36:00.000-07:00

OneWord: palm

Palm pilots. Technology is amazing nowadays. Dad just got a smart phone--a blackberry, to be exact; we just taught him how to text message. Only problem, his fingers are too fat for the buttons. He can't type anything.

I didn't mean to keep doing the OneWord exercises, but I can't help but wonder what the new word for each day might be. It does depress me though; I feel like my creativity is waning faster than even I expected.

After dinner this evening, Chelsea and I decided to go to Barnes and Nobles so she could spend her shiny new gift card. Strangely enough, we caught a solar eclips--I mean, Justin, working in the Music/DVD section. English majors have a way of bumping into one another in bookstores, I suppose. Back to the point. After socializing with Justin, Chelsea and I immediately whipped out our pocket moleskine notebooks to find our recommended books and to add titles and authors to our already lengthy wishlists.

As we were browsing along the aisles of B&N's, I was thinking to myself (actually, now that I think about it, I might have said it out loud to Chelsea), "How do people ever decide what books to buy? There are just so many to choose from." I mean, there's a plethora of genres: Science Fiction, Literature (does that mean old and dead?), Literary Fiction, Non-fiction, Historical, Ethnic, Travel, Self-help, Inspirational, the list goes on and on. Then once you pick a genre, you (or at least I do) become completely overwhelmed by the vast array of options, hardback and paper back, anniversary edition and the author's definitive edition. Me personally--I just go for the ones with the cool covers, whatever happens to catch my eye.

Of course, the arrangement of stores like Borders and B&N's caters to the popular authors with large followings--the John Grishams and Dan Browns and Janet Evanovichs. The people who read their books can go directly to the first few aisles to find the latest; they simply look for the name of their favorite author. The covers even use the same type and layout scheme so they're easier to recognize. I don't doubt that they are very talented writers, but how do people find books that are worth reading penned by someone lesser known (or virtually unknown)? How do they find books of true quality and craftsmanship, not simply good entertainment?

I was considering this puzzling question when I got home tonight. I have two or three people I know who are avid readers and have discriminating taste--people like Ariel (my lovely creative writing roommate) or Buck (my writing professor)--who I often go to for recommendations. Depending on what genre I'm looking for, I think I have at least one person I can ask for suggestions. But even though they're rarely wrong about their selections, I still want to know how other people (the more persnickety readers) choose books for their reading lists. At the same time, I'd like to find books that are shaped by me--by the things I'm interested in or the styles I like.

I started looking at different bookstore websites (try Powell's Books, Borders, Barnes and Nobles) to see their recommendations. I wasn't overly enthused by their featured authors (it's the online version of their storefront layout) or impressed with their bestseller lists. I did, however, stumble upon a different set of lists that might prove more helpful in my search for good books. Each year, new books are given awards for excellence in their respective genres. Here is a small sampling:

-Children's Books - Newberry Medal, Young Reader's Choice Award

-General Non-fiction - National Book Award, Pulitzer Prize

-Literary Fiction - Nobel Prize for Literature, PEN/Faulkner Award, Nat'l Book Critics Circle Award

-Mystery - Edgar Award, Gold Dagger

-Sci-Fi & Fantasy - Hugo Award, Nebula Award

You can search for compiled lists of all the winners, past and present. It may not be a perfect match, but I think it at least gives a good picture of what has been generally acknowledged as good writing. I think it will take awhile before I develop my own way of technique for finding what I want to read. In any case, my list of books to read keeps growing longer and longer. Meanwhile, my shelf-space, and my budget, just can't keep up. Maybe it's time to get a library card.

People change.

2009-07-16T00:45:00.000-07:00

OneWord: Coral

Coral is a color, but can it portray a feeling? I think of lipstick, or blush. Or ocean--Australia, perhaps. Hundreds of years of living species accumulating and growing to create something beautiful. To create a color, a feeling.

That was truly random. I had nothing to say about coral.

In other news, tonight was an interesting night. I drove out to Irvine and had dinner at Fukada, a Japanese restaurant near the Spectrum. The unagi was tender and sweet and yummy, and it went perfectly with the rice. I enjoyed it thoroughly. It was also really good to spend time with a dear old friend from G.A.'s. Back then we had a group of girls who were crazy about basketball; we wore sweats all the time and thought ourselves tomboys. Since then, we've gone to different schools and different jobs and varying levels of girliness--and mostly lost touch with one other. So it was really good to renew an old friendship. Even though we've both grown up a lot, some things never change. We could still laugh and talk as though those 5 or 6 years never happened, only we worry about new things and can share the fascinating experiences we've had. But somehow, the friendship still seems the same.

I was chatting to Edmund the other day about change, about how inevitable it is and how scary it can be. He said change is something that we have to learn to deal with in our lives, and that we have to depend on God in those times of uncertainty or frustration. Tonight I was thinking about how strange it is that I'm 21 and entering adulthood and the working world (or, trying to at least). It's strange that I'm done with undergraduate studies and many of my friends are getting married; some are even having children. So much time has passed since I was in G.A. or AOK. So many things change within the course of even a year or two. I think this is particularly true of friendships.

Some friendships, it seems, change and evolve in such a way that the relationship grows from both sides. As each person interacts with the other, the things that change about them from day-to-day are subtle and perhaps less noticeable. Other relationships seem one-sided. I don't mean in terms of effort. More like, I'm changing and the other person doesn't seem to be, or I'm stagnant and the other person is dynamic. And I have some friendships that seem to be frozen in time, until I can thaw them out and develop them. I suppose there are even friendships where we just drift apart or lose touch all together. There are so many variables when it comes to people--time, distance, commitment, environment, vulnerability, extenuating circumstances--sometimes it's hard to tell who to invest in or which relationships will last.

Of course, there are times I'm completely disappointed, yet, at this very moment, I feel so blessed by so many people. I have a prayer partner in Singapore, brothers and sisters in Malaysia, students and friends in Hong Kong, my second home church in London, Lit Wits and roommates from Biola, and galvanting buddies (as my dad affectionately coined them) from elementary, junior high, and high school. On top of all that, there are former teachers, counsellors, and professors who still care about me and want to know how I'm doing. Sometimes I get really frustrated with human beings in general, but I think--or rather, hope--that God is developing in me a heart for the people He has placed in my life.

The other thing I'm learning is that I have to trust God that people can change. I want to believe that He can transform my heart and mind to be more like His. That Jesus can impact the lives of those I love and care for. My dad always jokes that we never really believe that God can change people. "Oh, that person won't ever change," is something we say inwardly or subconsciously, if not out loud. But I believe that God is always pursuing us, always at work in our lives. He made us malleable, flexible, teachable. We can change because God gave us the ability to do so. So in the end, people change.

One Word: Lazy

2009-07-14T00:11:00.000-07:00

I did another one of those OneWord exercises. This is what I came up with in 60 seconds:

The summer is a lazy time of the year. You would think that the heat of day would make molecules knock against each other faster--that there would be more movement. Instead, everything slows down, lingers and simmers.

Maybe because it's summer, or maybe because it's a common human struggle--lately I've talked to a lot of different people about laziness. Summer is--for me, at least--the most difficult season to fight my propensity for being lazy. During the school year, I'm more like a workaholic, but whether it's the heat or the lack of immediate responsibility, I really enjoy doing nothing during summer. Perhaps I feel like I'm always rushing around, always busy, so I deserve a few glorious hours of stillness and inactivity.

This summer, however, is a little different from all its predecessors. First, this summer isn't necessarily a well-deserved holiday in preparation for another stressful semester. Second, there is some urgency for me to find some direction career-wise. Third, I believe that God appoints a time of rest and a time of work for us; it is our responsibility to learn how to balance them in a way that glorifies God.

For the next couple months, I want to make good use of the time I have, both for leisure and for work. As Sam always reminds me, "I don't want to waste my life." It's not so much about wasting my life, but about using my life as productively as possible for God's Kingdom.

The things I have been doing (including, but not limited to):
- Exercising regularly - Elizabeth and I have been getting together 3 or 4 times a week to go running or swimming. I think taking care of my health is as much of a spiritual discipline as anything else.
- Reading - If I want to be a good writer, I have to be an avid reader. I'm basically reading anything I can get my hands on. Recommendations are more than welcome.
- Building/maintaining relationships - Much to my surprise, I have been able to connect with good friends and reconnect with old ones, as well as keep in touch with international friends. That has been quite a blessing--I've been working hard to learn how to love people better, and I think I've been encouraged in return.

The things I would like to do (in no particular order):
- Write more - I need to write, write, write...and when I get tired of it, I need to write some more. Any ideas?
- Get an internship - Please pray for patience, wisdom, and God's timing.
- Learn to cook - I keep saying it, but I find it's hard to motivate myself to actually try it.
- Clean my room - This is another intimidating task. It entails everything from unpacking boxes of stuff from my dorm/apartment; cleaning out my closet, desk, and bureau; redecorating my walls; reorganizing all of my books; re-filing all of my papers; throwing out and donating everything else...oh the woes of a pack rat.
- Wash my car - I need to clean it out and get it washed.

I've been meaning to put together this list for awhile. The problem with putting things down is that you have to face them. But maybe that's what I need if I want to honor God with my time. Hopefully, the rest of this summer will be anything but lazy.

The Problem of Passion

2009-07-12T22:30:00.000-07:00

This week, I was scrounging around my bookshelves for something new to read, and I stumbled on my brother's copy of Fahrenheit 451. I finished reading it last night, discovering that Garrett had bought the 50th anniversary edition complete with an afterword, a coda, and an interview with Ray Bradbury. A couple of the things he said really stood out to me. When asked about his novel, Bradbury said, "I wrote the book because I love writing. All my stories are written in bursts of passion." And about being a writer, he replied, "you're either in love with what you do, or you're not in love."

Coincidentally, the same night I finished Fahrenheit, I had also reconnected with Brandy, an old friend from junior high and high school. As we were catching up on everything from the last several years--school, relationships, future, life in general--the subject of work and passion came up. So I was thinking: what is passion?

Part of me envies the people I see around me who have a certain talent or a particular passion which they can earnestly pursue. Evaluating my own life, I could only think of two or three things about which (I think) I'm passionate.

1.) Passion for God. I want to be passionate for His Word. I want to align my will to His. I want to be moved by the things which move Him, to grieve over what causes Him sorrow and rejoice in what brings joy to His heart. I want to be passionately jealous for His glory. I want to passionately worship Him with my life. I want Jesus Christ to be my greatest, most evident, most intense passion.

2.) Passion for words. Perhaps this is why I related so well to Fahrenheit and to Bradbury's sentiments. Words have played such a significant role in my life. I have such an uneasy grasp on them, yet they have an uncanny, almost supernatural hold on me. I never cease to be amazed at the gift of language that God has created and blessed us with. Words have carried His message of love to us through the prophets, through Scripture, through prayer. They help us communicate ideas and perspectives, care and affection. I have always loved to read; I am beginning to love writing--something I find both intimidating and enthralling.

3.) Passion for food and travel. I love meeting people and tasting cultures. I love the adventure, the spontaneity, the broadening of my world. I could go on and on...

On the other hand, I have always struggled with my natural predilection towards dispassion (it's safer, somehow). I question whether we can actually choose our passions, or whether it's possible to develop specific interests into passions. How much of our passions are God-given, and how much is our own initiative? For example, I think there are times that I don't feel passionate about my relationship with the Lord, but the Christian life requires commitment regardless of my emotions. And I know I still have so much to learn as a writer; talent without discipline and hard work will get me nowhere. But can discipline and hard work truly translate into greater passion? That being said, the first two passions on my list are those I really wish to nurture.

Honestly, I don't think there's a simple answer to the question of passion--we cannot diminish God's sovereignty nor should we negate our own responsibility. Our passions reflect who we are and what is in our heart. I may not be able to say definitively that I have passion, but someday I pray that the Lord will commend me for being a good steward of the gifts, resources, and even passions, that He has so graciously granted me.

Dedicated to Edmund Ngo

2009-07-11T15:21:00.000-07:00

HEARTBEAT

I could feel my heartbeat pounding inside my chest. I wondered how it felt to have a pacemaker control your heart, instead of raging teenage hormones. He was so cute.

So, last night, my good friend Edmund and I were talking about returning to our blogs (aspiring writers must keep writing!). So Ed pulled up this nifty little site called One Word: it generates a word, then gives you 60 seconds to write whatever first comes to mind. You can submit and see what other people have written based on that single word.

I actually find it very difficult to write off the cusp. Being a slightly obsessive-compulsive, perfectionistic sort of girl, I prefer to take my time to plan, craft and edit. This semester I took a course in novel-writing; I discovered just how difficult creative writing is and how many skills I still need to acquire.

The other comment Ed made was about the beauty of technology. Even though we are about 8,735 miles (14,058 km) away, we can still do fun things together. As an aside, I am so thankful for Edmund's friendship, faithfulness, and encouragement. I love having friends all over the world, and I can't wait to go back to Malaysia to visit. So Edmund, this post is dedicated to you.

Today I cried...

2008-11-17T09:27:00.000-08:00

I haven't blogged in three weeks. My life up until now has been a whirlwind of travel, church, and schoolwork. Yes, I do schoolwork. The main reason I haven't had time to write is--believe it or not--I have been swamped with reading and papers. I just had three papers due consecutively, one right after the other, plus weekly reading. Now there's only about 5 weeks left to the end of the semester and I have now (drumroll please) 9 more books to read, three more papers to write, and a "soul project" to complete. And then my term here at Roehampton University will officially come to an end.

Of course, those of you who have a Facebook know that it hasn't been all work and no play. If the photos are any indication, it looks as though I never have time to do any studying. But believe me, I've pulled more than my fair share of all-nighters trying to finish my work here. On the other hand, I could talk about cooking Matthew's "chicken and potato in dark sauce" recipe for the first time (I am no cook), visiting the white cliffs of Dover (Matthew Arnold anyone?), hanging out with the university students--aka 360--at CCiL, attending Central DCG (CCiL's equivalent of FCBCFV's KALEO), boiling potstickers and cooking failed crepes for my flatmates, shopping/eating/studying in Hammersmith and Central London, getting dropped off in the middle of nowhere by the 72 (it's like Russian roulette, but with buses), conferences with lecturers, seeing 007 Quantam of Solace and then searching in the rain for an Italian restaurant from Aryn's childhood, braving the brand-spanking new Westfield mall (because we're crazy masochists), our Sunday McFlurry ritual, doing laundry and scrounging around for the ever elusive 50p coins, going to a cheesy American diner for milkshakes and "a taste of home," a short visit to Oxford; field trips to Canterbury, St. Paul's Cathedral, and Westminster Abbey; a weekend trip to Paris (including but not limited to the Eiffel Tower, Montmarte, the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Sacre Coeur, Luxembourg Garden, the Sarbonne, yummy food with Stephen's Korean and French-speaking cousin, the best ice cream ever with Christina's roommate and our personal tour guide Mary, fondue in the Latin Quarter, crepes galore, and a tiny bit of boutique shopping) and my first time staying in a hostel, and finally, our day trip to Wales and the amazing Cardiff Castle. Phew. That's basically what I've been up to.

My original plan was to blog about everything and post pictures. But it all seems...unimportant at the moment. Even now, my eyes are still blurry from crying. I had a good, solid cry today. I cried out of thankfulness that my home and my family are (so far) safe from the embers of the Brea and Yorba Linda fires. I cried because the fire came so terrifyingly close to my neighborhood (you can see on the map: I live between Lambert and Birch, on the West side of Associated Rd). I cried because Ariel's family was finally able to return to their home. I cried out of grief for so many people who have lost everything to the uncontrollable flames that consumed not just the roof over their heads, but their memories of home and warmth. I cried realizing how blessed I am that so many people have shown care and concern for my family. I cried for my fellow Biola students who are suffering in other ways. I cried out to God in my state of helplessness, and He reminded me that He is good, He is sovereign, He is loving and ever-faithful.

Somehow, I can't contain the emotions welling up inside me, and they overflow into tears. There is indeed great pain and turmoil in our world. Those who think that Christianity is illogical and religious faith purely emotional are gravely mistaken. Right now, my brain is desperately fighting what I'm feeling inside--frustration at not being able to be with my family, anger at our impotence against the forces of nature, an inconsolable sense of loss and grief over those whose lives have been so heavily broken. But I have hope in my eternal home and the promise of an eternity spent with an amazing, holy, and loving God. I take comfort in knowing that He is in control of all things, and that even in suffering He can bring about tremendous blessing.

The most difficult thing for me right now is figuring out what to do now. I'm on another continent, in another country, worrying about things that are happening hundreds of miles away. But despite what happens, life here goes on. I still have books to read, papers to write, people to meet, and places to travel to. I have church events and lunch dates and daytrips already planned. How much am I allowed to enjoy myself when people back home are suffering so much? Where do I draw the line between my life back home and my life here in London? In any case, please continue to pray for those who have lost their homes and those who are fighting the fires. Pray that in all things, God may be glorified.

Pt. 4 Field Trip #2, etc.

2008-10-21T17:11:00.001-07:00

6. Ely and Cambridge (10/18)

The morning of the second field trip was a disaster. I guess it could have been worse. I had set my alarm for 7, because I knew the bus was scheduled to leave at 8:30 am. Unfortunately, I never heard my alarm. My clock read 8:40 am when I woke up. I went into a bit of a panic; I was sure that I had been left behind.

I don’t think I’ve ever gotten dressed that quickly. I was in such a rush though, that I neglected some important things, like washing my face (I know, I know) or grabbing a scarf. I flew out the door, across campus, past the security gate, and up the road. Fortunately, I wasn’t the only one running behind that morning, and I managed to get there just as the bus was beginning to pull away. It gave me a scare though.

The bus ride to Ely was around two hours long, so I had time to let the adrenaline rush subside and take a nap. We arrived in Ely to sunshine and a nice little apple festival, but no professor in sight. After much confusion…we were first told that there were no tours that day, then we were told to talk to Sue, one person talked to her, then she told the next person she wasn’t Sue, then they wanted us to pay for a tour…finally Professor Lotz arrived and showed the receipt proving that we had already booked and paid for our tour of Ely Cathedral.

The tour guide was a bent, elderly gentleman with little hearing and a big sense of humor. Despite his age and arthritic stride, he was quite lively and gave us a lot of interesting information about the cathedral. As we walked around, we enjoyed hearing the choir rehearsing for the evening festival. It was really beautiful.

Once we had finished our tour, we walked around the block to the site of Oliver Cromwell’s house, where we took another tour given by a lady in Puritan costume. The “Lord Protector” was an interesting character, and the simplicity of the Puritan lifestyle he led was a curious contrast to the enormity of his influence on England’s history.

We were already running behind, so our class loaded back onto the bus to head to Cambridge. Aryn and I were a bit concerned because we were really late and Eric had been waiting for us. Fortunately, he was very flexible and willingly waited another hour for us to attend a lecture with Dr. Ian Randall, which was a fascinating take on evangelicalism and its roots in England.

Directly after the lecture we met up with Eric again. He took us to The Beef Baron, a pub in Cambridge that’s known for its burgers—our first in England. Aryn ordered a pesto burger that came out with about a half-inch thick layer of pesto. I had a Reggae Reggae burger with spicy sauce. We ate fast enough to get indigestion, but we still had so much to see.

Eric took us on a bit of a whirlwind tour around Cambridge. We pretended that we were students at Cambridge and walked into St. John’s College. We crossed the Bridge of Sighs (no, it isn’t really a sad bridge), watched people punting badly (i.e. bumping into each other, and one girl even fell into the river), searched unsuccessfully for the Mathematics bridge (that’s its side job), tried free samples at the 200 year old fudge shop, fed the ducks (they were following Aryn and her baguette) visited Emmanuel College (Eric’s school).

Eric dropped us off at King’s College, where we attended Evensong. Inside of the cathedral is magnificent and awe-inspiringly. We couldn’t see much from where we were sitting though, especially because the congregation is cut off by the large wooden screen. The music was really beautiful, but we did a lot of sitting down, standing up, sitting down, and standing up again. The dimmed lights and floating music really had a soporific effect on me. All the same, Evensong was quite impressive.

Cambridge really fulfilled all of my expectations. It’s almost exactly what I dreamt university life would be like in my young girlish imagination. I suppose it’s strange for an elementary student to create fantasies about collegiate life, but my parents were ROCK sponsors for a long time. I grew up around collegians. Plus, it was awesome getting to hang out with Eric. Yay for connections.

7. Miscellaneous notes

You all may be reading these entries and thinking, “When in the world does Lynnette ever get around to studying?” But actually, I’ve been about a week or two ahead in all of my reading. I’m reading a little over two novels a week, plus I have to write reflections on all our field trips. I have a book in my bag with me at all times, so that I can pull it out on the bus or on the Tube. Plus, there are days that I stay in all day to read.

Aryn and I sometimes get together for dinner. One night she made sukiyaki, which was a really amazing home-cooked meal for students. And then last night, Aryn cooked pasta and I provided homemade garlic bread (thank you Ariel). This afternoon, I had lunch with my Japanese friend Suzuko, and we had a really great chat. She did make the mistake of asking me about my favorite foods; I think I talked about 10 minutes before I realized I had gotten carried away.

Tonight was Rachael’s turn to cook the floor dinner tonight: salmon, vegetarian imitation chicken (made from corn), rice, asparagus, all with a nice mushroom cream sauce. We finished off the meal with lemon cheesecake. Everything tasted great. I always enjoy hanging out with my flatmates. Sadly, our classes are becoming more consuming and we have less time to just relax and spend time together. So our floor dinners are really great.

I can’t believe it’s already been a month and a half since I left Orange County. We actually only have about eight or nine weeks left in the term. Part of me feels like, I’m only now adjusting to life here and making friends, and I’m leaving so soon. Another part of me is beginning to feel drawn towards the future, towards my last semester and then seeing what God has in store for me post-graduation. And the last part of me (that sounds strange) wonders whether or not I have enough time to finish all of my coursework and visit places I want to see and make good friends at church and everything else that I want to do while I’m here.

Anyways, now you all know what I’ve been up to for the last couple of weeks. I think I binge-blogged. Or something like that. Now I probably won’t want to blog for a long time. I’ve procrastinated long enough—now it’s time to get some more reading done. I feel like I haven’t been very interesting on this blog. Oh well.

Pt. 3 Central London and CCiL

2008-10-21T16:56:00.001-07:00

4. Chinatown/Covent Garden/Japan Centre (10/15)

Aryn and I were craving Chinese food, so we decided to take Dani with us to London’s Chinatown, a list of our friend Sam’s recommended restaurants in hand. I was also hoping to find the Chinese grocery stores, but we got so hungry that all we wanted to do was sit down and eat. We found an inexpensive Cantonese restaurant and had won ton mein soup noodles there.

We decided that we needed to walk off lunch, so we wandered from Leicester Square to Covent Garden, browsing clothing shops (we stumbled across Aryn’s favorite designer Ted Baker) and used bookstores. I found the perfect gift for Ariel—a signed T.S. Eliot essay—but unfortunately, it was way beyond my student’s budget. It gave me a brief moment of excitement though.

Since we had already wandered so far, we decided to continue on to Piccadilly Circus in search of the Japan Centre, where we were able to buy Asian groceries. Aryn bought the ingredients for sukiyaki that we cooked later in the week. Oishii desu! We basically hit the mother lode.

5. CCiL and Central DCG (10/12, 10/17, 10/19)

Despite the fact that I’m only here in London for a few months, I wanted to find a good church here where I could get plugged in as much as possible. I really enjoyed St. Paul’s Hammersmith, where Justin and Andy settled down. For some reason, though, I felt really determined to find a Chinese church here.

So I searched online (much to their amusement) and found Chinese Church in London. They have around 7 congregations all over London, with one English service in nearby Hammersmith. I dragged Aryn with me to Sunday service a week ago and we both really enjoyed it. They had a guest speaker that day—an Australian—who preached a message on prayer. And this past week was also a guest speaker. I’m eager to hear a sermon from CCiL’s Pastor Ong.

Anyways, we got to meet some of the university students who attend CCiL and hang out with them for lunch (yummy Chinese food, and free for newcomers). One of those students we met is a guy named Eric, who is studying at Cambridge. More on him later.

I also wanted to join one of the fellowship groups at CCiL. Sadly, my Biola class is at the exact same time as the university fellowship, 360, on Wednesday nights. Since I can’t attend that group, they invited me to go to Central DCG (District Caring Group), which is the young adult fellowship (think Kaleo).

So this past Friday, I made my first trip into Central London on my own (I usually have at least one other person with me any time I go into London). I felt so proud and accomplished for getting to church and back by myself. Central DCG is actually held at CCiL’s other site—the Soho Outreach Centre, or SOC. I’m not sure why there are so many acronyms at this church.

Since I didn’t want to travel during rush hour, I left pretty early and had quite a lot of down time before fellowship started. I wandered around Chinatown and FINALLY found all of the grocery stores. I still had time to kill after that, so I walked down to the Malaysian restaurant I had seen on our last visit to Leicester Square. I got some strange looks, but I sat inside the café and enjoyed a cold glass teh tarik (teh ice?) and journalled.

The SOC was only a two minute walk from there. I arrived and joined all of the young adults as they ate their various dinners. Because most of them are working, they either brought frozen dinners or ordered takeaway from the nearby Chinese restaurants. I tried very hard to meet everyone and memorize all of their names.

My first night there was the first night of small groups. I guess they knew that I would be coming, because they had already assigned me to one. It’s quite interesting. Our small group, at least for that night, had three Cantonese (one born in HK and raised in New Zealand, one born and raised in England, and myself from the US), one black Jamaican, and one Caucasian London native. Alex (the BBC) and Rob (the white one) are my small group leaders.

It was really neat, because we broke up into our respective groups, and my group spent the rest of the evening sharing our testimonies (which were AMAZING) and preparing shoeboxes for Operation Christmas Child. It was only my first time, but I’m definitely excited to see what God has in store for Central DCG this term.

This past Sunday, Aryn and I were back again for Sunday English service. This time, Pastor Ong actually came up and introduced himself to us personally. He even mentioned the possibility of inviting us over for dinner sometime. That made us really happy.

After service, we were contemplating eating lunch at CCiL (the food looked and smelled delicious), but Hannah invited us to join the university students for lunch at a nearby, reasonably priced café. We got to spend time with Roselle, Sam (the foodie friend I met last week) and Tim, whom we were meeting for the first time. After lunch, we dropped Roselle off at the Tube Station and went shopping in Hammersmith. Don’t worry, I didn’t do any major damage. I only wanted two pairs of long socks and a one-pound Nalgene bottle.

Because it was cold, we decided that McFlurries sounded good. We found four red counter stools facing to the west wall of McDonald’s, adjacent with another counter facing south. Tim, trying to be polite, sat in the inconveniently-placed corner seat. We were just settling down and beginning to enjoy our ice cream when suddenly, we noticed that Tim was leaning over the counter with a really confused look on his face.

I heard a girl behind me mutter a quick, “thank you” as I turned. Then I noticed that a girl was suddenly sitting on Tim’s stool, forcing him to stand and lean awkwardly onto the counter. After a about half a minute, the girl finally realized that she had actually tried to take Tim’s stool while he was still on it!

Poor Tim whispered incredulously, “Why do these things always happen to me?” Aryn, Sam, and I almost choked on our ice cream. We all had a really difficult time trying to hold in our hysterical laughter. The girl muttered a quick apology and found another chair, bringing an end to a horribly awkward situation.

Pt. 2 Tower of London, Legoland, and Field Trip #1

2008-10-21T12:36:00.000-07:00

It seems like every time I sit down to blog, I’m always starting off with an apology. So I’ll forego the apology and dive right in. These past two weeks made me feel like I'm always going, going, going. Perhaps my pace of life has adjusted to London’s metropolitan pace. I don’t have the energy to write an in-depth entry on all I’ve seen and experienced here—and I’m sure you don’t have the patience to read it if I did. I've tried to make up for my belatedness with lots of pictures, so enjoy!

1. Tower of London (10/10)

Aryn and I joined a big group of girls to visit the Tower of London, but we ended up splitting into more manageable-sized groups. We had a bit of an adventure reaching our destination because of construction on the Tube, meaning we had to walk instead. After a detour across the Tower Bridge, we finally made it to the Tower of London.

It was one of the sites I wanted to see because I never had a chance to during my last visit to London. We got to do all of the touristy things: standing on the moving conveyor belt for a glance at the Crown Jewels, checking out the torture devices, and of course, hitting up the Tower gift shops. The White Tower actually had some really cool exhibits of weapons and armory.

Afterwards, we had even more adventures trying to meet up with Dani’s friend’s friend (yes, that’s how it works when you’re studying abroad) at Green Park, and trying to settle on a place for dinner. By the end of the day, we were completely exhausted.

2. Legoland Windsor (10/11)

Aryn and her family are a bit obsessed with all things Lego, so she was looking for someone to accompany her to the Legoland in Windsor. I thought, “Why not?” So we headed out bright and early for an hour and a half train ride from nearby Barnes Station to Waterloo Station to Windsor.

I won’t go into great detail, but the weather at Legoland was absolutely gorgeous. Plus, we pretty much had the park to ourselves. We only really had to wait in one line the entire day. The Miniland is amazing too; Aryn and I were excited that we pretty much got to see all of Europe. The Lego replica of London was awesome too. It even had moving Underground subway cars. The rides are pretty mild, but we did get to enjoy a live action Johnny Thunder show. It was…REALLY CHEESY. Aryn and I loved it.

We decided to stay in Windsor for dinner, picking the Crooked House, where I had a jacket potato and the most wonderful berry milkshake I think I’ve ever tasted. We were quite pleased with ourselves. Plus, the walls of the house really are crooked. It's crazy.

3. Verulamium/St. Alban’s/Jordan Quaker meeting house/Milton’s cottage (10/12)

This was a field trip to the site of the ancient Roman city of Verulamium. We made a quick visit to the museum, which was only slightly interesting. But I enjoyed looking out at the grassy hills covered in a light gray blanket of mist.

St. Alban’s is situated on the top of a hill next to the main village. We had a cute little elderly lady as our tour guide; the cathedral there is the site of St. Alban’s shrine, set up in memory of England’s first Christian martyr. We had the opportunity to visit a Quaker meeting house and the resting place of William Penn.

From there we took a tour of John Milton’s cottage. It was pretty amazing to stand in the room where he completed Paradise Lost. I loved the curator there, too; he was so enthusiastic about Milton and all that he represented for British politics, history, and literature. Some of us even ate apples from Milton’s own garden.

Pt. I Windsor, Stonehenge, Bath

2008-10-10T15:06:00.000-07:00

The difficulty with blogs is that if you neglect them for too long, they’re hard to go back to. It’s not necessarily because the blogger is inexcusably lazy, nor that it’s somehow hard to pick up one’s previous train of thought. The main problem, at least in my experience, is that covering more than two or three days’ worth of activity and subsequent musings proves to be an altogether daunting task.

In order to prevent this from becoming an insurmountable obstacle to my blog’s longevity, I am opting to break this into smaller chunks—say two or three reasonably-sized parts. So if the continuity between my entries seems less than desirable, it’s because I’m attempting the uphill climb (which, as you will see, is going to be a common thread throughout these entries) and making up lost ground.

On Saturday (the 4th), I went with a large group of my girls from Biola on a bus tour to Windsor, Stonehenge, and Bath. I had actually already visited the last two sites during my sophomore year of high school, but I thought it’d be nice to go again. I think I mostly slept or listened to my ipod during the bus ride. Our tour guide gave her entire presentation in both English and Spanish.

When we first boarded the bus, Jennifer had tried to smuggle some chips (better known as “fries” in the States) on board in her purse, to munch on in secret. Our scrupulous tour guide, however, was able to sniff her out. She came to the back of the bus where we were seated and announced, “I smell chips. Whoever brought them on the bus, please keep them wrapped and tucked away until we arrive. Thank you.” It was very difficult to keep a straight face, especially after seeing the look on Jennifer’s face.

Windsor was really beautiful. The castle is surrounded by the quaint little town, and the walls of the castle sit on bright, verdant grass. It’s a striking contrast between the cold, hard stone walls, the carefully nurtured gardens, and the fantastically ornate interior of Windsor. There’s so much history there; we didn’t have nearly enough time.

My favorite part of the entire tour there was the doll house, in which the entirety of Windsor Castle was replicated in miniature, with real working electricity and plumbing. The silver plates had exact mini silver plate replicas, artists donated real miniature oil paintings to match the genuine work, and the miniature crown jewels are just as real as their larger counterparts. It’s really amazing.

Stonehenge isn’t as big or as exciting as the travel guides make it out to be. Last time I went, the most thrilling part was bumping into three of my elementary school teachers by accident. This time was fun because, as we walked around the circumference of the stones, we had a great time taking some really fun pictures. On the plains, the strong winds and sharp drizzle meant that we were happy to be back in our nice warm bus.

By the time we reached Bath, it was raining lightly but steadily. Fortunately, the museum is mostly indoors. My memories of the Roman baths came rushing back to me when I entered the museum. It wasn’t any more exciting the second time around. But it’s still neat to see the kind of technology they employed during ancient times, and to see how the hot springs affected the culture of the peoples who lived there.

On the way back, my friend Sarah P. (to differentiate her from Sarah R.) asked if I wanted to stop at Wagamama’s, one of her favorite London noodle bars. Jessica returned from England singing its praises, so I readily agreed to give it a try.

I was moderately pleased with my chicken ramen. I thought it was a bit bland for ramen, but it’s supposed to be a modern organic, healthy foods kind of restaurant. I think next time I’ll go for yakisoba or something else on the menu. It was still really fun to talk and enjoy hot food on a cold, wet night. To top it all off, we dropped by the convenience store and picked up ice cream bars. Toffee vanilla crunch bars are amazing—even in cold weather.

Monday through Wednesday is the uneventful part of my week, since those are my class days. I spend that time doing nothing but going to class and reading my assigned books. Honestly, I don’t think I even left the flat for two or so days. I might have gone to run an errand or two around campus, but for the most part, I stay in and enjoy the sunlight through my window.

Tuesdays, as always, we have our flat dinner. For me, that’s the highlight of my three working days. Each week, another member of the flat prepares a meal that will feed all six of us. Last week was Amy’s turn, so this week, Toni prepared three homemade pizzas—all vegetarian (meet is expensive) and all delicious. I love feta cheese and pineapple (thanks Ariel) on pizza.

Besides enjoying good food, we always seem to have a good time just being together and having a laugh. I don’t mean this in the way that Rachael usually says it, which translates more into “you’re kidding me.” I mean that we always have a great time just hanging out together. One night, we even sat around a laptop watching Japanese human tetris and Iron Chef on YouTube.

More often than not, we’ll all somehow end up in the lounge, drinking tea and having biscuits. Yes, it makes me feel very British. I’m really thankful for my flatmates—that we not only get along, but that we really enjoy spending time together. They’re such a fun bunch of people, and without them, I think I’d be really lonely. I haven’t made as many friends here as I would like, since I only have two classes and only get to see my classmates once a week.

Besides the flat dinner, the only exciting thing for me is rewarding myself with an episode of an Asian drama. I’ve gotten to the point where the best way for me to get work done is to bribe myself. For every 50 to 100 pages of reading, I get to watch one episode. It works really well, too, because by that time, my brain needs a break, and sometimes, I’ll eat lunch or dinner while I watch. It’s nerdy, but hey, I’m working hard to get ahead in my reading.

Somehow, I feel like that was a really anti-climactic way of ending my entry. Oh well. You can look forward to my next entry. It will cover my trips to both Legoland and the Tower of London. Thanks again for your patience!

You Can't Hurry Love

2008-10-03T16:49:00.000-07:00

Normally, the only day that I have to wake up even remotely early is Monday, for my 9 am class. So I’ve been my usual nocturnal self, staying up late and getting up even later. Today, however, I was up around 9:25 and ready by 10. Rachael (my floor rep) and I had coffee and tea, respectively, and toast, before heading out to London.

The sun was out but the air was crisp as we made the brisk walk down the street from Roehampton to Barnes Station, where we took the train into Central London. From there we hopped onto the Tube and, instead of coming up for air, we walked through the tunnels to the entrance of the Victoria and Albert Museum.

Rachael’s family friend gave her tickets to the special Supremes exhibit at the V&A, so Rachael invited me to make good use of them. We walked slowly through the exhibit, reading about the Civil Rights movement, Motown, and the rise of the girl group. It was kind of strange to read about American history in the middle of London, but I thoroughly enjoyed it.

The Supremes were trendsetters in both music and fashion (especially in the African-American community), and the costumes they wore on stage are absolutely amazing: extravagant, brightly colored, and drowned in sequins. The Supremes wore everything from mini-skirts to pencil skirts, fake eyelashes, winged sleeves, and enormous wigs.

The background music was a mix of the Supremes, the Temptations, Smokey Robinson, and other Motown hits. Listening to Oldies really brought back old memories of sitting in the Mazda with my dad when I was little, listening to the radio. “Daddy, who is this?” I would quiz him. He was almost always able to tell me the title of the song, who sang it, and where he was the first time he heard it.

After we exited the exhibit, we decided to wander our way through some of the other interesting galleries of the V&A, including the Islamic/Turkish, Chinese, Thai, and Japanese rooms. It was fun just to walk through them, stopping to admire the beauty or craftsmanship on display, while chatting about family, food, weapons, religion, language, and everything in between.

The smell of hot food came wafting in from somewhere nearby, and we were beginning to get hungry, but opted to head up to the third floor in search of the jewelry exhibit. We had a quick “look-see,” as Rachael says, around the ancient instruments gallery before making our way to the jewelry rooms.

The first thing that caught our attention was the touch screen that allowed you to design your very own digital ring. Rachael and I couldn’t decide if it was really cool or if we were just easily amused. But what girl can say no to the opportunity to design her perfect engagement ring? But like they say, "you can't hurry love."

I admit, when it comes to jewelry, the girly-ness in me comes out. Especially when it comes to rings and earrings. We browsed through the timeline of jewelry; some of it was gaudy, some plain, some intricate, some extraordinary. Rachael and I came to the conclusion that we have to marry the right person if we want to be decked out in the kind of stuff we saw there.

Following the jewelry exhibit, we decided that we couldn’t stand it anymore and embarked on a quest for a decently-priced restaurant in (slighty posh) Knightsbridge (as in, a block from Harrod’s). God answered my morning’s prayers and we quickly stumbled across Taro, a self-proclaimed “Sushi Noodle Bar.”

A quick browse of their menu convinced us that our search was over. We were lucky enough to make it right before they closed for the pre-dinner break. Rachael, on my suggestion, ordered the chicken curry rice, and I had the syoyu ramen (I think it’s actually shoyu ramen?). I was unreasonably excited; I had been craving real ramen since before I left the States.

The food was delicious…or we were hungry…or both. Either way, Rachael and I definitely enjoyed ourselves, and managed to make it out of Taro—to our surprise—each paying under 10 pounds (including drinks). Food in London is expensive, so we were quite pleased with our fortuitous gastronomic find. Needless to say, we left the restaurant with full stomachs and happy hearts.

On another note, the weather today changed a bit as we were walking around. The wind is beginning to get chilly now; it’s beginning to really look and feel like I’m living in London. Despite the dreariness of it, there’s something strangely beautiful and romantic about it.

I spent this evening with some of the Biola girls, alternately planning out tomorrow’s excursion and watching episodes of “Friends” on DVD. Amy was sweet enough to make fajitas for everyone, and Dani (our adopted non-Biola American friend) baked brownies and cookies. We’re spoiled, aren’t we?

I tried to be responsible and do some reading tonight, too, but alas, there are more exciting things than dragging myself through The Jungle (Upton Sinclair). I’m dreading how early I have to wake up tomorrow morning, but I think it’ll be fun. I guess you’ll just have to keep reading to find out about my upcoming adventures!

P.S. Did anybody catch the title?

I need a new word for "interesting."

2008-10-01T18:13:00.000-07:00

I keep telling myself that I need to blog, but I’ve been duly uninspired as of late. Did that sentence sound a little British? I really couldn’t do an accent even if you paid me, so I suppose that’s as close as I’ll ever get. It’s been about 5 days since my last entry, so I really shouldn’t put it off any longer.

On Saturday, the boys and I ventured into Central London to see the Tate Modern museum. It’s a fairly boring brick building that sits right up against the Millennium Bridge. But once you go inside, the entire atmosphere changes. It really is modern. The interior is awesome.

The interesting thing about doing anything with the boys is that they go at their own pace. I don’t know if it’s because he’s the oldest, the tallest, or the most level-headed, but we normally follow Justin. Justin and Andy both have super long legs, so Stephen and I are usually trailing behind, doing our best to maintain a reasonable distance.

But once we entered the Tate Modern, all three of the boys slowed down considerably. We meandered through the halls, examining some pieces with great interest and tilting our heads at others. I’m always surprised at what qualifies as “modern art.” I was excited to see work from the likes of Picasso and Mondrian, as well as some of the 4D installations and photo exhibits.

Whenever I visit museums, I’m always interested in the way they arrange and display the exhibits. It’s really a science in itself to discreetly or unconsciously direct the visitors through the museum to see each work. And I learned my lesson well: Always read the signs at the entrances of exhibits. Otherwise, you run the risk of walking unexpectedly into some very, very disturbing works of art—especially at a modern art museum.

We might have stayed longer, but we did quite a lot of walking (including up and down several flights of stairs), and Stephen remembered that he doesn’t really like museums. We were making our way back by tube and bus, and I asked the boys if they wouldn’t mind accompanying me to find Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence, which I needed for class. Being the gentlemen that they are, they readily acquiesced.

Strangely enough, however, when we got off at Putney and walked across the bridge, we realized that we picked the worst possible time to go book hunting. At that very moment, we were surrounded by a huge flood of people either coming from or going to a football match (that’s soccer for you American readers).

There were even police escorts to make sure that everyone was on their best behavior, regardless of what color uniforms they wore. Despite a few small delays—and our amazement at their immense football pride—we made it to the book shop and I was able to make my purchase.
Sunday morning, I had intended to visit the Chinese church. But Saturday night, people were in our courtyard yelling, singing, and laughing until about 3 or 4 am. I finally got fed up and fell asleep with my headphones in and ipod on. Needless to say, I was exhausted when I woke up, and decided to sleep in.

Sunday evening, though, I joined the boys again for evening service at St. Paul’s Hammersmith, an Anglican church in (duh) Hammersmith. We arrived early and munched on crisps (chips) and juice while we waited for service to start. Hospitality, I think, is one of their gifts there.

The service was nice; they have a very contemporary worship style mixed with a couple traditional hymns. The female drummer reminded me of Josephine back home. This weekend was a special visitors’ welcome event, so instead of their usual sermon, they had an actress/comedian from their church give her (very hilarious) testimony of how God pursued her.

The theme she kept emphasizing was synchronicity—the way that certain things happen at the exact time that they’re supposed to, so that they make a huge impact in our lives. We must be cautious not to discount the things that God is doing by writing things off as mere coincidence. When we look at the synchronicity of our lives, we see how God when He has provided for us or answered our prayers in His perfect timing.

The most interesting part of the night, though, was the after-service fellowship and refreshments. They served pita and hummus, crisps, juice, wine, and beer. I have never seen alcohol served at a church event before. It was foreign and strange to us, but I believe that fits in quite naturally with British church culture. I do want to go back again to hear what their preaching is really like.

Classes started (for me, anyways) on Monday. I have both of my Roehampton courses on Monday, for three hours each. I can’t really say too much yet, since I’ve only been to one session of each, but I’m pretty excited for what I’ll be learning this semester. I’m taking a travel writing course, which isn’t quite what I expected, and a 20th Century American literature course.

My travel writing professor seems pretty laid back for the most part. She’s kind of what I imagine an English professor would look like. She has striking gray eyebrows and gravity-defying, curly gray hair. But she seems very friendly and I think her teaching style makes the material intriguing for me, regardless of the expectations I might have had for the class.

My American literature professor is a bald, robust man, with an ear piercing and booming voice. He talks rather fast, and reminds me a little bit of Professor Smith in the way he takes apart the text for interpretation. I love how he forces us to really think about what we’re reading and how we’re reading it. He’s very high energy though, and I felt worn out once his class ended.

Tonight we had our Biola course on British Spirituality. Professor Lotz is an American who studied at Cambridge and now lives and works as an evangelical theology professor in London. He’s also got a good sense of humor, and the history behind British spirituality is really fascinating. I like the way that he asks us to think about our own spirituality and the forces that shapes the way we practice our faith as well.

All of my classes move rather fast, since they’re only once a week. This means that I have somewhere between 2 and 3 books to read every week, for a grand total of (I think) 23 books for the entire semester. In addition to that, I have two large papers for each class. I need to work really hard to stay on top of all my reading and writing.

Other than that, my week has been generally uneventful. Last night we had our weekly flat dinner. Amy, the girl who lives across from me, cooked for us. We had a stuffed tomato as a starter, followed by bacon-wrapped chicken, accompanied by broccoli, zucchini, and potatoes covered in a marinara-type sauce. For dessert, she brought out a chocolate gateau cake.

It was really fun to just sit around the dinner table eating, talking, and laughing together. I’m really thankful for my flatmates, and for the chance to get to know them better. Even tonight, we unintentionally gathered in our lounge and just started chatting away. Tom and I tried to do some reading, as well.

I wanted to think of a clever way to tie everything up, but now I’m too tired and need to go to sleep. I can hear a group of strange people congregating in our hall for no apparent reason. Please keep praying for me and keeping in touch with me. Hopefully I’ll have more interesting tales to tell that will inspire to be better about keeping up this blog.

Brighton and Blessings

2008-09-26T20:04:00.000-07:00

Before I left the States, everyone warned me about how cold, dreary, rainy England would be. I don’t doubt for a second the accuracy of their descriptions of London weather. But since I’ve been here, nearly every morning I’ve woken up to a window-full of sunshine.

The morning we left for Brighton was no different. Even the local British students told us to dress warmly for our day trip to the coastal city. However, after hopping onto the bus to Hammersmith, riding the Underground to Victoria, walking down the street to the coach station, and taking the coach to Brighton—a grand total of almost 4 hours—we each quickly removed a couple of layers of clothing.

For Justin, Andy, Stephen, and me, Brighton was a lot like, well…Santa Monica or Huntington Beach. The only difference is that instead of sand, Brighton’s beach has large, smooth, round rocks. Of course, when you’re with guys, you have to think with your stomach. Since it’s a beach town, we were told we had to try fish and chips there. Fortunately, we were able to find a cheap place and enjoy our food right there on the beach. I was going to type “and listen to the pounding waves,” only the water there is every surfer’s worst nightmare—almost completely still.

After lunch, we wandered up and down the pier, complete with overpriced crepes and donuts, candy stores, arcades, roller coasters, and carnival games. My three companions are really chill guys, so we sat on a bench and soaked up the sun. Then we topped it all off with vanilla ice cream cones.

The Royal Pavilion was our next stop. We took a tour of King George IV’s scandalously ornate palace; each room has its own intriguing story and design. I really liked the use of Chinese designs, bamboo, and dragons. My favorite thing was the extravagant chandelier with lotus lanterns hanging from the claws of a dragon—it was really cool (I realize that “really cool” is awful coming from an English writing major, but I’m too tired to think of a better description…you have to see it for yourself).

Sadly though, the Royal Pavilion was not nearly as exciting as we expected. We still had a few hours left before our departure time, so we decided to meander down the street looking at shops and restaurants—everything from organic coffee shops to a vegetarian shoe store. The best way I can describe Brighton is fashionable hippie meets bohemian chic.

When we got bored, we stopped for coffee at the local bookstore and browsed through the student cookbooks. We decided that the people who write those cookbooks have probably never been students, since their recipes are too complicated or have too many ingredients to suit our needs. The rest of the trip was uneventful; I slept nearly the entire way back.

This afternoon, I was feeling lonely and homesick. I started crying, asking God to comfort me and to teach me to rely on Him for satisfaction and contentment. Before I had finished praying, I heard a ringing sound in my hall, indicating that someone wanted to get buzzed in. I went to my window and looked down; my flatmate Amy was standing at the front door.

Apparently, not everyone’s keys work in the new lock that they installed on our door. I walked down and let her in. She came back up to my room with me to use my laptop, and we started chatting a bit. Before I knew it, Amy and I decided to go searching for Chinatown in London’s West End.

We dropped by the post office to buy an oyster card, then rode the bus to the Hammersmith station, where we took the Underground to Leicester square. Chinatown was right around the corner. Amy and I were nearly starving when we arrived, but we wanted to make sure we went to an authentic Chinese restaurant (meaning, not too many tourists or white folk). We walked around until we found one with plenty of Asians walking in and out.

I was so thrilled to finally eat Chinese food and hear Chinese spoken. Between teaching Amy how to use chopsticks and contentedly devouring my cha siu fan and ong choy, I tried to observe the other Chinese people around me. It was weird to hear Chinese people speak perfect Cantonese to order, and then converse amongst themselves in English, but with super thick British accents. So strange.

I was proud of myself though. I ventured into Central London on my own—meaning, without following other level-headed Biola people around. Somehow, going to Chinatown really helped fight off some of my homesickness. I guess good food can do that. My dad pointed out to me that it’s funny that I’ve become Chinese enough to feel more at home in Chinatown than at Roehampton.

I’m really thankful that God provided both a friend to keep me company today, as well as an opportunity to get to know one of my flatmates on a deeper level. Sometimes, I’m just amazed at how quickly, directly, and unexpectedly God answers my prayers.

My "Firsts"

2008-09-23T04:03:00.000-07:00

My apologies to everyone who waited patiently—or impatiently— for my blog entry. Since I’m writing so late, I’ll only be able to give some brief highlights. It’s been an interesting week of settling in, making friends, and getting to know my way around London. The overarching theme for these last few days is “firsts.”

1. My first…sip of wine

So, as most of you know, I celebrated my 21st birthday here in London. I was feeling a little sad; I think this is my first time having my birthday far away from my family and close friends. Several of the Biolans here at Roehampton got together to cook dinner and hang out. To my surprise, they gave me a card and bought me a bottle of wine. I figure you only turn 21 once, and they were all kind enough to celebrate with me last minute (they didn’t know it was my birthday until the night before). So I got to experience my first (and only) sip of wine. I think the awful look on my face said it all though.

2. My first…time church-hopping.

For most of my friends at church, going away to college means searching for a new church to plug into and serve at during their four (or five…or six…) years of university. At the time, however, I sensed that God was calling me to stay at my home church, FCBCFV, and to serve in the college fellowship, ROCK. I never had to worry about searching for a new church. Being here in London means that for the first time, I have to look around for a church to attend.

This past Sunday I went with several of the girls to Hillsong. It was definitely a different kind of church than I’m used to: the service was held in the Apollo theatre, and we even had to wait in line to get in. The musicians and singers were great, save for the fact that I didn’t know any of the songs (it was almost like a concert, with the entire stage set up for Wicked). I do have certain qualms about the more charismatic churches, but for the most part, it was a good experience. Plus, the people we met were incredibly friendly.

In the next few weeks, I plan on visiting two or three other churches, including a local Chinese Christian church. And no, I’m not searching for a British Chinese husband, I’m just curious.

3. My first…time going to a bar.

Since I don’t drink, going to a bar seemed strange at first. Actually, no, it’s still strange to me. I feel totally like a fish out of water. I just stood there awkwardly, watching everyone else stand around talking, drinks in hand. When I did join a conversation, it was hard, because the music was too loud and it seemed like everyone was trying to talk over it. My friend Tom had to bend his head every time he wanted to hear something or say something. When more people showed up, the crowd began to press in a bit, so I was beginning to feel claustrophobic. I only lasted 20 minutes before I had to excuse myself.

4. My first time…going to a party.

Of course, it’s silly to say it’s my first time going to a party. So I have to qualify that. It was my first time going to what you would generally categorize as a normal college party. It’s just one of those things you can’t find at Biola unless you really go looking for it. It was actually really interesting to see what kind of drinking games they play, although we had some trouble with the multilingual makeup of the group (you didn’t have to be drunk to know that forcing the French girls to rhyme in English is funny). It was a good opportunity to get to know my flat-mates better. Plus, I wasn’t the only one who stuck to drinking orange juice and Coke.

5. My first...piece of mail.

I don't have much to say about this other than that I was super excited to get my very first piece of mail here at Roehampton. I LOVE YOU KATIE LEE! I was so happy I almost cried. Okay, I admit, I got a little teary. I actually didn't think about making this one of my "firsts," but the obsessive-compulsive in me thought that five sounded more complete, so I had to think of something to round out my list of "firsts."

As a side note, does it seem that all of my first experiences here in London have involved alcohol in some form or another? So you don’t go on thinking that that’s the case, I’ll list a few other things we did. One day, they split us up into teams of six and sent us on a photo scavenger hunt around Central London, to help us familiarize ourselves with the transportation system—the Underground in particular—and to see all of the major sights. My team didn’t make it very far into the scavenger hunt before we decided to just do our own thing, taking pictures and going shopping.

Since then, I’ve made a grand total of three trips to Primark, which is an amazing clothing with very cute clothes and very reasonable prices. I definitely have to restrain myself, since I’ve been holding off buying new clothes for the last couple of years. I’m serious, I told myself, “No, Lynnette, you don’t really need this cute top. You need to save money so you can buy an even cuter one in London.” But the Primark on Oxford Street is probably my mom’s worst nightmare (she hates shopping). It’s massive, with two stories, including men’s, women’s, and home furnishing. We made the mistake of going on a weekend. It felt like there were thousands of people all jostling and competing to purchase clothes. I felt like my competitive side was coming out, wanting to edge other people out so I could grab what I wanted. It was totally insane.

Other things I’ve done here…I registered for classes (which was relatively painless—I was really worried at first), I’ve eaten fish ‘n chips, I cooked (pasta one night, and a Portobello mushroom last night), I learned how to use my ID card to print at the internet café, and I made friends with a girl just because she had a cute panda purse. All that’s to say, it’s been an interesting week. Of course, I have more stories, but there’s still so much more here for me to discover and explore. As always, I’m on a search for yummy, cheap food in London. And I’m still fighting off some minor homesickness. The good news, though, is that I only have classes Monday and Wednesday, which gives me plenty of time to travel throughout the UK and Europe. Or to study.

***

When I first decided to go to Biola, several friends had concerns about my going to a Christian school. They felt that, at a non-Christian university, a) your faith can be really tested by the secular environment around you, and b) you have the opportunity to share the Gospel with other students. My view on going to Biola has always been that we’re receiving good solid training, so that in whatever field we go into, we can make an impact for Christ. And, we’re constantly reminded that we must be even more intentional about getting outside our comfortable Christian bubble.

However, being here at Roehampton, I feel like I can experience a little bit of what it’s like to go to a secular university. I think this is an opportunity for me to be a good witness to the people around me—my classmates, new friends, and flat-mates. I really think that my time in Malaysia and the training beforehand (Thanks Jeff!) was really helpful in guiding how I think about evangelizing to people here.

Like many of the “freethinkers” we met on our trip to Malaysia, it seems that a multicultural, cosmopolitan place like London makes people, on one hand, very open and accepting of different religions, and on the other, increasingly influenced by post-modern thinking. I was so excited because God has already given me the chance to share a little bit about my faith with a new friend. Pray that God will really be able to use me here at Roehampton, and that I would be sensitive to His leading.

Anyways, I want to end with a funny story. Today, I went with Justin, Andy, and Stephan (all Biola guys) down the street to Roehampton village to have fish and chips for lunch. There were only two tables available: one had four seats, and the other had two. Obviously, we wanted the table with four seats. So I set my jacket and scarf down onto the chair as way of saying, “I’m claiming this table.” It’s much more sanitary than the animal way of claiming territory.

This older gentleman came in after us, but he knew what he wanted right away, so he ordered before me. After he finished ordering, he walked over to our table (I was standing right next to it), pointed at my things, and asked, “Are these yours?” I nodded my head and replied, “Yes, they are.” Of course, I expected him to trudge over to the other table—the one with two seats—and seat himself there. But by the time I ordered and turned back around, he had already set his food down on OUR table. Justin just looked at me and shrugged, so I just grabbed my things. We ended up taking our fish ‘n chips back to school to eat.

Unexpected Kindness

2008-09-17T14:51:00.000-07:00

Right now, I’m sitting in my room at Roehampton. It feels a little bit lonely right now because only the international students are moving in right now. Thus, campus is eerily quiet, save for the chirping of birds and the squirrels running along wooden fences (it startled me the first time). I’m actually feeling a little bit homesick now.

I don’t want to blog too much tonight, so I’m just going to tell my story as quickly as possible. Margaret took me to the airport in Almería. It’s by far the smallest airport I’ve ever been to. There are five gates and one security check. And we had to walk to the plane.

The plane ride was pretty uneventful. It’s weird not having assigned seating on EasyJet. I tried to sleep or listen to music—anything to prevent me from worrying about getting from Gatwick to Roehampton. When I arrived in Gatwick, I had two options in my head: Option A, I bite the bullet and take a taxi, and Option B, I take the tube to the station nearest the school and take a taxi the rest of the way.

Taking a taxi would be disgustingly expensive, but at least the chances of getting to Roehampton in one piece would be high. Taking the train and then the tube seemed more of a hassle despite the savings, especially because I had two suitcases, and with my sense of direction, I’d be bound to get lost. And then the lady who checked my papers at immigration actually recommended I take the Gatwick Express to Victoria and then take a taxi the rest of the way.

With all of these ideas in mind, I inquired at the airport information desk. The man grimaced when I mentioned taking a taxi, and told me that train would be the best option. With that, he pointed me in the direction of the train information desk. When I got up to the counter, however, the young man there didn’t know where Roehampton was. I thought he was going to just brush me off, but to my surprise, he offered to look it up on Google for me.

That was when the trouble began. For some reason, he was using the keyboard from hell. When he tapped a key, it would type the letter 20 times. And then when he pressed the backspace, it erased the entire field. It took him about 10 minutes just to type in “Roehampton University.” Meanwhile, a long queue was beginning to form behind me. I seriously prayed that God would heal the keyboard.

Once he found the nearest train station to Roehampton, it was smooth sailing from there. He actually gave me an entire route plan to use, pointing me towards the automatic ticket machines. The plan was to take the Southern line towards Victoria, then transfer at Clapham Junction, taking southwest line towards Weybridge, then get off at Barnes.

The only problem is that I have no idea how to use them. I was a little panicked, but I asked the woman behind me, and she basically did the entire process for me so I could buy my ticket. Then, when I made it down to the platform, she actually caught up to me because she wanted to tell me that I would need to make a transfer.

When I got to Clapham, though, I thought that I would be taking a train at the same platform, just across the way. I sat for about 10 minutes wondering if I was right or not. The girl I asked said she thought it was okay. About two minutes before my train was supposed to arrive, I asked an attendant and discovered that I had to go from platform 11 and 12 to platform 5 and 6. Another small moment of panic.

Fortunately, he kindly offered to help me carry my bags down the stairs. Then I briskly walked to the next platform. At the bottom of the stairs, a young man (maybe about my age) asked if I needed help carrying my bags up the stairs. I don’t know why they don’t have escalators or something. Either way, I made it onto the train just as it was about to leave.

When I got off at Barnes, I ran into another young man, who asked me if I was an international student moving in today. I said that I was, and asked if he was a student. He told me that he used to go to Roehampton, but that his girlfriend was moving in today as well. Then, to my surprise, he left his bike, grabbed my bags, and helped me carry them up the stairs and across the street.

Then he had to run back down to meet his girlfriend, who was arriving on the next train. I stood there on the sidewalk looking completely baffled. He told me that I had to take the bus, but he didn’t say what number or—if he did—I didn’t hear him. Another girl was standing there, and when I asked her, she told me which numbers I needed. It was then that I realized that I didn’t have any pounds (at least, no coins) on me. So she gave me two pounds and quickly caught her bus.

I walked with my two suitcases to the bus stop and stood there, pounds in hand, still confused. I saw a girl that I thought seemed pretty young, and asked her which bus I needed to take to get to the university. Not only did she tell me which bus to take, she helped me carry my suitcases onto the bus, and when we disembarked, she helped me take them across the street and up to the main entrance of Roehampton.

From there, I had to sign in, grab my welcome materials, get my key, and move in. I was grateful that some of the upperclassmen are employed to help us; I had one of them to help me move my two suitcases across campus and up four flights of stairs. I don’t know how I would have done it otherwise.

Also, as I was walking across campus, I saw the same guy who had been waiting for his girlfriend. I waved at him and he waved back—I never thought I would see him again. But as I was waiting in the welcome center, he ran over and quickly gave me his email, then rushed off again. That was definitely unexpected.

Overall, I definitely praise God for helping me make it from Almería to Roehampton safely. He totally provided people along the way to assist or take care of me, especially making that trip from Gatwick Airport to the school. A lot of people have told me that British people aren't friendly, but if not for their kindness, I don't think I would have made it in one piece.

Frankly though, the best part of all was that I had prepared myself mentally to pay £70 or so, and I actually spent about £11 total. I feel like a good Chinese.

Las Playas y La Tortilla

2008-09-16T16:13:00.000-07:00

So today’s theme is: the beach. The original plan was for Monday to be our day of adventure, searching for Cabo de Gata—a beach that Margaret had heard good things about. But we were both pretty tired and accidently overslept. One of the things I’ve learned about Spain is that you really have to “go with the flow.” So we decided to stay in during siesta (yes, it’s a beautiful thing) and play some guitar.

A couple hours later, we headed down to nearby Aguadulce, which is a fairly small but scenic stretch of beach. The water is sparkly blue-green, and the shore is remarkably clean—especially for a country where littering is pretty commonplace. We walked along the sleepy port in search of a good café that served Spain’s traditional paella.

Sadly, the locals were still enjoying their siesta when we arrive in Aguadulce. There was one restaurant full of young teenagers smoking things they shouldn’t. We still had a couple hours before the usual mealtime, so we continued our leisurely walk, following the red cobblestone sidewalk around the corner.

We first noticed a large sign that read: “HOTEL. Puerto Salud. Fisioterapia.” The walls of the three story facility were completely white. At first, we thought it was simply a hotel, but as we approached the building, we looked up and saw that the high walls surrounding the buildings were protected by barbed wire. As we passed closer, we peered through the gates. Inside looked more like a hospital then a local hotel—a deserted hospital.

Margaret and I can only guess what that place actually is. Was it really a hotel? A mental institution with a nice view? The sign did say “fisioterapia.” I suppose we will never really know. The place reminded us of something straight out of a horror movie. Whatever it was, we decided to head back toward the port before our imaginations got the better of us.

We changed plans again and picked 30°, a Mediterranean café. At least, that’s what it said it was. Spain’s beaches are on the Mediterranean Sea after all. We sat at one of the beach front tables and enjoyed lemon sorbet (Margaret) and fresh mango juice (me). My mango juice was really good, but the straw came with firework streamers attached to it, which made it difficult to drink without either swallowing plastic or choking in laughter. Margaret was particularly amused by my sorry attempts at drinking my juice seriously.

That evening, we actually ended up going to the mall to do some grocery shopping and eat dinner. We were dead set (well, almost) on eating paella that night, but after we sat down to order, the waitress informed us that you had to call in advance if you wanted to eat paella. Margaret and I were pretty sad about that, but we were still able to enjoy each other’s company at dinner. Dad always did say it’s not about WHAT you eat, but WHO you eat.

On a side note, at the mall we bumped into three of Margaret’s friends from her church. They kindly gave us a ride home, with a stop at Daisy’s flat on the way. I love meeting new people, so it was really neat to meet Margaret’s friends. They’re from all over the place: Ecuador, Bolivia, Colombia…and they all have their own accent. I didn’t mean to be so quiet, but I was trying hard to understand the conversation, and my Spanish comprehension is painfully slow. It was great fun though.

Since we weren’t able to go on our little adventure on Monday, Margaret and I left early (early here is 10) this morning to catch the bus to Cabo de Gata. It took a total of about 1.5 hours to get there, but we were abundantly rewarded for our patience. The sun was out and the beach was relatively secluded save for a few fellow sunbathers.

Margaret and I enjoyed soaking up the sun and listening to…well…our mp3 players. But it was really peaceful there. The sand at Cabo de Gata is much softer than at Aguadulce, too. Once we got too warm, Margaret and I cooled off by taking a dip in the sea water. And when I say cooled off, I mean cooled off. It was cold! But it felt great, anyways.

We ended our trip with a cold Coke, sitting under the umbrellas at one of the seaside cafés, listening to the sound of the gentle waves. If only we were able to eat the paella they were serving—it looked and smelled absolutely delicious. But alas, we had a 4 pm bus to catch.

One thing I had heard about before I arrived in Spain was something called a “Spanish omelet.” How I heard about it is a long story, but ever since then, I’ve wanted to try it. Fortunately for me, Margaret knows how to make it! So after we got home and cleaned up, we moved to the kitchen and began our lesson. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m more of an eater than a cook, but it was really exciting to learn how to make it.

The Spanish omelet is actually more of a potato pancake with egg in it. The funny thing is, everyone here calls it a “tortilla.” Never would have guessed, right? The best part is flipping the entire omelet, out of the skillet, onto the plate, and back into the skillet. Margaret is a great cooking teacher, too. I felt like I learned a lot of practical cooking tips just from watching her and listening to her explanations.

After we finished cooking, we walked ten minutes to the house of Margaret’s friends, who are also missionaries in Spain. I’m getting tired, so I won’t go into detail. But they’re three children are amazing—they speak English, Spanish, and Arabic. The two year old doesn’t actually speak much at all yet (at least, not coherently), but he’ll definitely be trilingual when he grows up.

I’m really having a hard time believing that tonight is my last night in Spain. Tomorrow I make my journey to London. Pray that I’ll make it safely to Roehampton, sanity intact. I wish I could say that I’m excited, but at the moment, I feel quite nervous. I think once I arrive on campus I’ll feel better. Alright, time for me to go pack. ¡Ciao!

*Tangent: we saw jamón serrano EVERYWHERE. It's really strange.

Granada, etc.

2008-09-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have been impatiently waiting for a second entry—no, I haven’t disappeared into the heart of Spain. I just didn’t have internet for a few days. I said previously that my future posts would not be as long as the first. I lied. This time, it can’t be helped; I was away for three days and couldn’t blog. So I’m doing it in one go.

Since this is my first visit to Spain, Margaret decided to take me to Granada, which is a two hour train ride from Almería. The scenery along the way was a contrast between the red, rocky mountains and the green hills lined with short olive trees. Some stretches had “green houses”—which are really more like white tarp-like tents—where they grow their produce. Other times, we would see stone houses and caves carved into the sides of the rocks.

Granada is a university town with an eclectic assortment of people: Spanish students, English tourists, Moroccan and African immigrants, backpackers, sightseers, families, and professional businessmen. It has much more of a bustling, city-like atmosphere than Vicar, where Margaret lives. Margaret’s friend in Granada was away for the weekend, so she graciously allowed us to stay in her flat (though without the luxury of a hot shower).

We spent some time just walking leisurely around the city and people-watching near the fountain in one of the many plazas. The people in Spain are very interesting. In some ways, they are “too hard” as our friend Adrianna says. They can be rude, and they smoke and litter too much. But they are also very affectionate with each other, as well as incredibly social. And a LOT of people here have pet dogs (of course, it’d be better if they picked up after them once in a while).

After a short time, we met up with Adrianna, a fellow missionary that Margaret met through her roommate. She is wonderfully sweet and offered to take us around. I mentioned that I really wanted to try churros con chocolate, like I had seen on Travel Channel, so she took me to “the best churreria in all of Granada.” It really was as good as I expected. The chocolate was very, very dark chocolate, and thick, almost like pudding. The chocolate near the surface is more solid than the chocolate underneath, which is actually more liquid and sweet.

Surprisingly, the churros aren’t what I’m used to having at Disneyland or from sidewalk stands, where they’re ridged and covered in cinnamon. They reminded me of the bread that they serve with congee (Chinese rice porridge)—almost exactly like that. It makes a yummy combination with the chocolate though. To top it all off, we got to hear Adrianna’s testimony, which was really neat.

Then we browsed through Little Morocco, which is a basically a web of narrow streets lined with teterias, tapas bars, and shops selling Moroccan gifts. We were particularly drawn to the teterias, which serve an international menu of teas along with Indian dishes. They have a dark, Arabian atmosphere because of the Moroccan draperies and pillowed booths, complete with smoke from the many hookahs.

Adrianna showed us her recommendations for kebabs, teterias, and tapas before leaving us at the bus stop. Finding our way back to the flat was a little nerve-wrecking, since it was late, and we weren’t actually sure where our stop was. We ended up sitting in the front of the bus and yelling last minute for the bus driver to let us off. But we made it back safely.

The next morning, we woke up at six. We took a series of three different busses to make it to our 9 am reservation at the Alhambra. Along the way, we accidently left our debit card in the ATM too long and weren’t able to get any more cash. But since the bank wasn’t open yet and the Alhambra was waiting, we decided to go back later to inquire at the bank.

The Alhambra was beautiful…and huge. We listened to the audio tour as we walked from room to room, taking pictures of the ridiculously intricate architecture. Some of the walls are decorated from floor to ceiling in Arabic—written praises to Allah. It’s really amazing. We also enjoyed the restfulness of the gardens and pools, and walked up the stairs to the battlements.

By the way, I thought from the very beginning at the narration on the audio tour was strangely overly-dramatic and romanticized. Some parts, the narrator even quoted poetry. Toward the end of the tour, it suddenly dawned on me that the voice on the audio tour was none other than Washington Irving, the American writer (think “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” and “Rip Van Winkle”) who stayed at the Alhambra around 1829. I thought he was pretty cheesy, but Margaret told me, “You have to embrace it Lynnette.” Secretly, I suspect she thought it was cheesy too.

From the top of the Alcazaba (the fort) you can see all of Granada. It’s an awesome view of the city. There are two or three different levels to the Alcazaba, and at one point, I stood at the very top, and Margaret ran down to the middle level. I started taking pictures of her once she reached the center. When I was done, I gave her the thumbs up sign, and I expected her to start heading back towards the stairs.

Instead, Margaret, who absolutely loves heights, decided to walk to the wall of the battlement, sit on the wall, and put her feet over the ledge. It wasn’t really dangerous at all, but I could hear people behind me gasp in horror. When she came back up, she told me that she could hear voices behind her say “¡Está loca!”

We decided to be economical and walk down the mountain instead of spending money on another bus fare. Margaret and I went to have doner kababs, which is basically a kebab pita sandwich. We talked for quite awhile, but since we were surrounded by tables of smokers, my asthma began getting a little agitated. Unfortunately, we had a difficult time the check from our waiter. Margaret said that that is pretty typical of Spanish customer service.

We rested awhile at the plaza fountain again and talked about “Must Haves and Can’t Stands” (yes, that’s what girls do when we get together) before heading off to do some window shopping. I always have to buy a keychain to commemorate every place I travel to. But because of our lost debit card—the bank told us that the card was destroyed already—we had to search for a shop that took credit card.

Once that was taken care of, we went to a nice little café and had some cold treats—coffee ice cream and blackberry sorbetto. The weather in Spain so far has been very warm and sunny, which made us thirsty after walking around so much. For dinner, we wanted to go to a teteria, but we couldn’t find one that took credit cards, so the two of us finally settled on a nice tapas restaurant.

I was really excited to try tapas for the first time ever. The way it worked was that for every drink you ordered, you got a house special tapa to go with it. Or something like that. We also ordered a few a la carte. The bus ride back to the flat was the same as before, hoping that we’d recognize our stop in time to alert the driver.

The next day, we packed up, cleaned the flat, and made both breakfast and lunch. Then we waited at the bus station and ate the hot potato-egg pancake that we had bought from the supermarket earlier. For lunch, we packed sandwiches of French bread, jamón cerrano (cured ham, a specialty in Spain), and cheese.

Unfortunately, the bus came really late, and we hardly had any cash left. As soon as we disembarked, we hailed a taxi. Margaret told the taxi driver, “I ONLY have seven euros. Nothing more.” The fare ended up being €6.67. We barely made it to the train station by 10 am, and slept on the train for two hours. By the time arrived and took the bus back to Almería, we were pretty worn out (we had stayed up late the night before, too). I actually slept through until this morning.

Around 8:30 am, Margaret woke me up and we walked with her roommate Gloria down the main boulevard to the Sunday open air market. We set up a table of Christian materials and handed out tracts for the next several hours. I’m not used to standing that long, but Margaret and Gloria have practice. It’s pretty amazing. They can tell—for the most part—the difference between Spanish, Romanian, Moroccan, African (okay, so that one is more obvious than the others), English, so on and so forth. The thing is, each require their own language (i.e. Moroccans read Arabic, most of the Africans speak French), their own tracts, and their own cultural sensitivities.

The cool part of handing out literature in Spain is that most of the passersby actually take them, something completely unheard of in the States. Given, some of the tracts end up on the ground a few meters away, but in general, most people take them pretty willingly. Some even say “Gracias” as they walk away, and you can even hear them reading aloud as they walk.

To be honest, the most difficult part of standing there handing out literature was the smell of the spit-fire chicken roasting only a few yards away from our table. It was actually my very first time passing out tracts, and at first, I was pretty intimidated. But after I tried it, I was glad that I did. I really pray that some of those people have their lives changed by reading them.

Overall, these last few days have been both fun and tiring. It was nice this afternoon having an evening to just relax and recuperate. Plus, these blog entries take me a lot longer than I had anticipated when I left home. I also want to stay out of Margaret’s way so she can get work done. I can’t be a complete nuisance. Anyways, I’m trying to multi-task now, downloading and uploading photos, checking emails, and blogging all at once. What would I do without technology?

In Transit

2008-09-10T15:40:00.000-07:00

First things first: you may or may not have noticed, but I titled my blog entry “In Transit.” At first glance, it seems like a really boring title. Shouldn’t a header be catchy? Witty? Attention-grabbing? Of course, as a writer, I naturally want my blog titles to be interesting enough to draw my readers’ eyes--and brains--on down to the actual text. But somehow, as soon as this title popped into my head, something about it just screamed “LEAVE ME ALONE. I CAN HANDLE THIS ONE.”

The conclusion I came to was that, when it comes down to it, the people who want to read about my misadventures will do so with or without a great blog header. And those who are too lazy to read more than 100 words have already stopped reading and will miss out on my scolding them. A warning to the wise: this first entry is really long. The next entries will definitely be shorter. Read at your own risk.

So back to the point, I titled this entry “In Transit” because my new friend Patrick kept saying those words. I don’t know in what context he was able to say it so many times, but those words stuck in my head. Plus, it seemed like a fitting way to describe an entire day of travel.

Let me back up a bit. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. to shower and get the last few things together. Around 5, my mom and dad drove me to LAX. It was definitely hard to say goodbye to them. This is the longest time I will ever have been away from them, not to mention my very first time flying solo. Needless to say, I was more than a little anxious.

The flight to Toronto was long, but I managed to get at least a few short hours of sleep. I don’t really sleep on planes because I need the rest. I sleep because I’m too bored not to. Auntie Polly has definitely spoiled me; I’m so used to Cathay Pacific that somehow, Air Canada just doesn’t compare. Plus, they force you to purchase food from them at exorbitant prices, instead of just coming around with free peanuts or pretzels. The cheap, angry Chinese in me kicked in and I refused to eat simply out of principle.

Landing in Toronto was an interesting experience. It was strange to look out the window and see rain clouds stretching across the goose grey sky. I don’t actually know what goose grey is, but it sounded nice to me. I had quite a long layover there. I tried to kill time by watching an episode of a Japanese drama I had saved on my computer and journaling in my spiffy new notebook (thanks ROCK). Sadly though, I was still pretty antsy.

Enter Lien. She came and sat across from where I was camping out. I was so starved for conversation (seriously, I was silent for longer than anyone has ever seen before) that I asked if she were going to Madrid, too. That at least got conversation going, and I soon discovered that we’re the same age and we’re both studying abroad in London. Only, her pre-semester stop is Brussels, while mine is Spain.

Our short conversation satisfied me for the time being, so I gathered up my courage and went to check out airport food. I actually wasn’t that hungry, but I noticed that my hands were shaking uncontrollably and hypothesized that my blood sugar was low, seeing as I boycotted Air Canada’s ridiculous snack offerings. After refueling (doesn’t that seem appropriate at an airport?) with a BBQ chicken sandwich and apple juice, I sat back down in my original position. Except this time, Patrick had moved to sit across from me.

Same as last time, I asked if he was going to Madrid and soon learned that he was my airplane buddy. My new friend, I found out, is Peruvian, and is going to study and work in Madrid. He doesn’t like sports, he installs stereo systems into cars, and he studies electrical engineering. Or at least, that’s what I think he said. Between his English and my Spanish, we understood very little and got along just fine.

So, after a while, I asked Patrick to look after my backpack so I could use the restroom. On my way to the restroom, I decided to look again at the board with all the flight listings. I was a little suspicious, because the Japanese ladies next to me waiting for their flight said they were going to Rome. Turns out, my suspicions were confirmed, because our flight to Madrid was now set for gate 177, instead of 179 like it had listed previously. I don’t really understand. They give absolutely no warning and no announcement of a change in gate. I felt like I was just lucky that I stumbled across it.

Well, Patrick and I moved to the next gate, and as we were struggling to communicate in Spanglish, we attracted the attention of a really sweet Canadian couple who had served in Spain for 17 years. They helped translate the missing pieces of our conversation, and then dove into a full-fledged conversation with Patrick. I was excited to discover that even though I can’t speak much, I was definitely able to understand almost their entire little chat.

And THEN, 30 minutes later, they changed it again. No announcement. Oh, and this is another thing that makes me mad. Both the Toronto airport and the airport in Madrid have great wi-fi connections. Only, you have to pay to use them. I’m a poor college student interested only in sending a quick email to my family to let them know that I’m still alive—I don’t want to pay for it! And the other thing about Toronto airport: All of the Asian people there are Cantonese speakers. It made me homesick.

Ok, I want to speed things up a bit now. Turns out, I ended up sitting in the row behind Patrick, next to another Peruvian girl, who had met Patrick on their previous flight from Lima to Toronto. I had a hard time sleeping during the 8 hour flight, but I was pleasantly surprised they served dinner and breakfast. Plus, I managed to make it through the new Indiana Jones movie. Maybe half a thumbs-up from this critic.

My wait in Madrid was the longest. I think I pretty much sat by myself the entire six hours, without talking to anyone, struggling to keep myself entertained. I journalled, walked, wrote flashcards of Japanese vocabulary, listened to music, played the loner game…

The only other “conversations” I engaged in were with the lady at the self-check in counter for Iberia, the guard who patted me down at security, and two little Venezuelan children who were probably more bored than I was, so they came over to talk to me. I take great pride in knowing that my Spanish is on par with that of a three year old child.

The flight to Almeria was a unique experience all together. The plane was dinky—really puny and aged. I think it probably held about 30 of us total, and boarding, I wasn't sure if it could hold even that number. At least it was a quick flight. I somehow slept through the take-off and landing, and woke up for the in-flight soda. The guy next to me downed a cup of thick, orange-red tomato juice with added sweetener. Yummy.

The end of my journey finally arrived, and I was so relieved to see Margaret waiting for me at the welcome gate in Almeria. After 25 hours of traveling, I think the most exciting part was coming back to Margaret’s apartment and taking a shower. No wonder nobody wanted to talk to me.

Sorry for the Wait: Tale Two

2008-08-13T22:05:00.000-07:00

Sorry that it took me so long to post this. I had it typed up a long time ago--as in May--it just needed a little polishing before I could publish it. After some gentle reminders (or constant threats) from Janelle, I've decided to pick up blogging again. I apologize to those who have been waiting for more. Happy reading!

TALE TWO:

So, after leaving Gondola, Ariel took me back to the apartment so I could finish up my paper. The last paper—the end seemed so near, and yet I still had so much to type: 10 pages, that is. I know it’s not that long, but when the end of the semester is right within reach, it seems more like 100 pages. Unfortunately, I underestimated exactly how long it would take me to say everything that I needed and wanted to say in my paper.

I typed as fast as my fingers and greatly fatigued brain would allow. I suppose my brain was beginning to look more and more like the deteriorating, nearly-lobotomized green foam brain we use to attack Buck with.

I finished my paper at 4:52 pm, exactly eight minutes before it was due. I rushed to print my paper and change out of my lounge clothes. By the time I ran out of the apartment, it was already 5:02 pm—I was late already.

I should have known that the sudden rain, flashing lighting, and rolling thunder outside my window were foreshadowing disaster ahead. And when it rains, it pours. I used to think that was really defeatist. But I believe it more than ever. Murphy’s law, you know?

I headed down the stairs, through the little covered walkway, and out to the garage. Halfway down the stairs, I had pushed my remote control to open the garage, so I was expecting the garage door to be opened already. I was mortified to find that the garage door had never opened, because it was blocked by a car parked insolently in front of it.

A thousand different panicked thoughts struck me at once. The car had no driver, and no apparent owner nearby whose ears I could box (I’ve always wanted to box someone’s ears, whatever that means). I needed to get to campus.

So I ran. I ran as quickly as I could under the circumstances. I ran through the rain. I ran through every single puddle. And anyone who knows me well knows I hate—absolutely hate—puddles. Of all shapes and sizes. We all have our prejudices.

By the time I reached the English office, I was 15 minutes and soaked to the bone. What a sight I must have been, running by myself in the rain. And of course, the only thing worse than running through puddles is the water creeping up from the bottom of your pants because you chose to run through puddles instead of going around them like normal people.

I stopped at the English office, breathless and ready to cry, when Kathy stepped out of her office. I walked up to Dr. Smith’s office and noticed that his door was closed.

“Is Dr. Smith here still?”
“Uh…are you here to turn in a paper?”
“Yeah.”
“He left a long time ago…almost four.”

I caught my break as I sucked in, thinking I had completely missed my deadline.

“But you aren’t late. He left a box here,” Kathy continued, “and he probably won’t be back to pick the papers up until Saturday. So you’re good.”

It was so anticlimactic that I nearly started crying right then and there. I managed to make a little bit of small talk with Kathy, then said goodbye and called Ariel. No, she informed me, the car hadn’t moved yet, so she couldn’t come to pick me up. Ok, I thought, I’m already soaked, might as well walk back through the rain.

As I made my way back through campus, I thought of how silly it all way. How silly and pointless. He wouldn’t pick them up until Saturday. I didn’t have to go through all of that. But the paper’s done, I told myself. You’re done with the semester, Lynnette. DONE. DONE. DONE.

I reveled in that thought for awhile. I wiped the water off my face. It was useless; the rain was coming down lightly, but steadily. For a second it reminded me of an Asian drama. Only there’s no boy running through the rain desperately trying to find me, passing by me at the exact moment I turn away, then finding me and…well, you know how it ends.

Tale One

2008-05-22T22:13:00.000-07:00

I have two tales to tell: the first is a comedy, the second a tragedy. Perhaps those labels should be switched; I’ll let you decide. The first I’ll tell today, and the second I’ll leave for tomorrow.

Last night I came home from my presentation completely exhausted. Monday night and early Tuesday morning I worked on my almost 14-page paper for Contemporary Literary Theory. I had a really difficult time figuring out where to go with it—it frustrated me to no end.

After I turned my paper in on Tuesday, Ariel, Janelle, Emily (back from Oxford, visiting from Texas), and I went to Michael’s to buy art supplies for Ariel’s final project in Figure Studies. We dropped by Wal-Mart and Albertson’s to buy food, and then came back to the apartment. Emily was kind enough to cook us dinner while we worked. We sat down to a delicious meal of baked chicken, Spanish rice, and—Ariel’s favorite—stuffing. Yes, she likes stuffing. By itself.

Emily also whipped up some double-chocolatey Ghiradelli brownies (in round pans), which we nibbled on as we Google’d the flower that I brought back from The Point staff dinner. Turns out we’ve had a chrysanthemum decorating our kitchen table for the last week and we didn’t even know it. And who knew that Chinese Lantern flowers look like, well, Chinese lanterns?

After dinner, Ariel and I headed back to campus, to the art studio and Welch computer lab, respectively. I ended up working on my website until 2 am, when the lab closed. I made a call to campus safety to drive me across the street to Lido. I went straight to sleep when I got home.

Wednesday morning I woke up early (for me, anyways) and tried to work on my British Mystery and Detective Fiction paper. I didn’t get much done though; instead I headed back to the computer lab to finish up the last details of my website. I won’t even begin to detail the kind of grief that website gave me.

But, to my relief, I had it all done by three in the afternoon. My presentation later that evening was eventful, other than forgetting everything I wanted to say when it was my turn to explain my site. I think my professors liked it anyways. Plus, I was the last to go up.

I had a hard time concentrating when I came back to the apartment, mostly because I was so worn out. Ariel and I figured that it was more productive to get some rest first, and then wake up really early to finish our work. We woke up at 6 this morning and sat in bed, computers on our laps.

I worked all the way up until 11, when Ariel coaxed me out of the apartment to crash her Fiction class’s pizza party at Gondola. Buck was awesome and invited Emily and me to share in the pizzas. We had a good time schmoozing and joking around. We even had a chance to sneak our green foam brain onto Buck’s seat for him to find.

Toward the end of lunch, I turned my head to say something to Emily, when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something lime green flying straight at me. The green brain missile smacked me in the head, bounced off me, and landed right back in Buck’s hands, much to his delight and satisfaction.

Well, I had already suffered one blow, I wasn’t about to get caught unaware again. After another few minutes, the meal began to come to an end. As people began to get up to leave, I kept a close watch on Buck’s movements. This time, I was prepared for Buck’s second attempt to clock me on the head with the brain. Unfortunately, I hadn’t taken into account the surprising force of his throw and the complete inaccuracy of his aim.

I raised my hands to try to grab the brain mid-air, but I was too late. The brain avoided my grasp, clipping the top part of my fingers and continuing out of my reach. I watched in horror as the green foam missile flew over my head and over the shoulder of a tiny elderly lady, who was as startled as I was embarrassed.

Buck, of course, had the nerve to leave as soon as the brain left his hand, and never knew the trauma he caused to that poor little lady. She looked around slightly dazed, wondering what exactly had come flying at her and why. To get a more accurate picture of what happened, see Exhibit A.

**Art work by Ariel Okamoto

A bit long but very important...

2008-05-04T23:38:00.000-07:00

“Every church has its problems.” We say that all the time; sometimes we say it to justify the glaring deficiencies within our own churches, to defend ourselves against criticism. Sometimes we say it as a way of reminding ourselves that—while some churches are definitely more godly than others—every church needs God’s grace in order to grow and function. No congregation is exempt from the baggage that sinful human beings carry with them when they enter the doors of the church.

One thing that my time at Biola has taught me (particularly in my Theology classes) is that my perspective on the church was very unbiblical. Growing up in the church, it was so easy to be both highly critical and overly cynical in my attitude towards it. I felt truly convicted by the teaching of my professors, reminding us of Christ’s promises to protect and perfect His bride.

Who am I to deny the love that Christ has for His church, so that He gave His life to redeem her from her sin? Who am I to deny the hope that the church has in His promises, to ignore His declaration that “the gates of Hades will not overpower it” (Matt 16:18)?

This morning, our Cantonese pastor, Pastor Ho, preached to us in the English service. Normally, when he crosses over to our part of the congregation, he brings an interpreter and preaches in Chinese. Today, however, he opted to use English. I was telling Grace how much I appreciate his willingness to use a language that’s uncomfortable for him, in order to meet us where we are. Even our new Mandarin pastor has used English during second service, even though it limits his ability to express himself fully to us.

Anyways, I started thinking about all of the different ways that God has really blessed me through my church, and I put together a short list:

1. Adelphe – Several inspired, proactive women in our church decided it was high time we started a women’s ministry at FCBC, so they got talked it over and got organized. We meet once a month, enjoying cute decorations, hilarious games, great worship, and yummy snacks (some of those women can REALLY bake). But even more than the encouraging prayer time ad inspiring messages, the thing I take the most delight in is getting to know women in the church that I would normally have little or no contact with otherwise. We get such a beautiful array of women from the Mandarin, Cantonese, and English congregations, ranging from college age up to a few of the senior citizens. We come from all different walks of life and life experiences that we get to share with each other. Some of the women have such amazing testimonies. I feel so blessed to get to know the women of Adelphe.

2. ROCK – I remember when I first came into ROCK. I believe we averaged maybe 8 to 10 people on Friday nights—on a good night, that is. It seemed like we were hemorrhaging people as we went. Even though I was a new freshman, I ended up leading worship on my third week. Sometimes it was really disheartening, especially when I would hear other people complain about ROCK. Frankly, a lot of the criticism came from people who weren’t even coming anymore, which I found even more frustrating. But there were some people who remained faithful and never gave up hope. Over the last three years, ROCK has gone through a lot of changes—new sponsor, new counselors, new groups of collegians. Through it all, I’ve been so encouraged by God’s amazing faithfulness to our fellowship. I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for ROCK because I grew up around ROCKers. We seem to always have so much fun just being together and hanging out, going out late at night for food or finding time to go bowling and karaoke. It’s been fun building relationships with each other, and also pushing each other to continue to grow in the Lord.

3. Chinese class – This is along a similar vein as Adelphe. Being in the Mandarin class has given me a chance to interact with people I wouldn’t normally get to know: mainly some of the older women from the Mandarin congregation. It’s so much fun to walk around church and say hello to them, practicing (or butchering) the little bit of Mandarin that I’ve learned. It’s also really neat to see their willingness to serve God in this ministry.

4. The Faithfulness of God’s servants – Our church has gone through a lot of rough patches over the last couple years. Right now we’re searching for several new pastors to lead us. At the same time, we’re making a lot of changes, trying to figure out what we do well and what needs improvement. I’ve been (pleasantly) surprised by the openness that our congregation has had (at least comparatively) towards these changes. During these difficult times, we’re bound to lose at least a few people from our congregation. But there are those who have remained and have continued to serve faithfully—leading and planning worship, preparing training classes for the teachers, serving food to the seniors every week, remodeling the bathrooms, so on and so forth. Whether we have acknowledged them or not, I think many unlikely persons have stepped up and volunteered in the effort. The church does not belong solely to the pastor, or to its deacons, important though they are our spiritual shepherds. The church, though, is the people of God who come together as the visible body of Christ, so—at least in my mind—responsibility for the health and growth of the church belongs primarily to us, the congregation. And it’s a blessing to see that there are those who are willing to work hard together for the sake of our church.

Now that I’ve begun this train of thought, I can think of several other examples of God’s abundance in my life through the blessings of my church. From our concern in missions to our commitment to God’s Word, there are so many things to be thankful for. FCBC, like any other church, is far from perfect. I will be the first to admit to that. But praise God for the faithfulness, power, and grace that He has shown in and through my church family!

Back from hiatus

2008-05-01T00:54:00.000-07:00

I guess I was too careless. I stood in front of VJ a little dumb-struck, wondering how I had overlooked such an important piece of information. Why hadn’t I asked where the interview was going to be held? VJ looked up at me with a trace of alarm in her expression.

“No, the interview is down at Student Services,” she said. “You know, the area where you go to chapel make-ups and housing? What time is your interview at?”

Mechanically, I reached into the side pocket of my bag, cringing at the ripping noise of the Velcro as I pulled the flap opened and dug around for my phone. 9:27 am.

“You brought your car? You’d better go.”

Nodding, I said a hurried goodbye and walked briskly down the hall of the Journalism office, trying to look as casual as possible. I rushed out to my car and took the winding path through campus to the parking lot next to the gym. As I approached Student Services, I saw a large line of students beginning to form.

I could feel my stomach immediately clench in my stomach. Did I miss something completely? I wasn’t even going to apply at all, since I won’t be here in the Fall. 9:32 am. Now I’m late to my interview. What should I do?

I had two ask two different receptionists before I was finally directed to the conference room where the Media Board was meeting. I wasn’t sure exactly what I had to do with the Media Board, but I tried to put it out of my mind. Aside from my initial anxiety, I didn’t feel worried because all of my interviews for The Point staff had been with Tamara. She knows me really well, so I had nothing to fear.

Why did she come down here to hold the interviews? I thought, as I looked at the wooden door in front of me. I shrugged to myself, figuring that she had something to do on this side of campus and needed a closer location for convenience’s sake. Slowly, I cracked the door open just slightly.

The first person I saw was Tamara, who waved me in. As I opened the door further, though, I felt my heart sink again. This time, I almost felt sick to my stomach. The conference room had a long oval board room table. Around it sat the entire media board, including professors and the chief editors for the other on-campus publications. I sat down at the head (or foot) of the table and tried to put on a brave smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said quickly. “I had a hard time finding you guys.”

Ugh, that was a stupid thing to say. Who says “you guys” during an interview? I didn’t know there were going to be so many people interviewing me. It’s like one of my recurring nightmares. I can’t believe I’m wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt. They must think I’m unprofessional.

I barely remember any of the questions they asked me—there were too many people staring at me, intimidating and unsmiling. The interview is a blurry mess in my mind. I answered their inquiries as best I could—how I would approach the magazine as the editor, what I would do with the budget, my plan to work with the magazine after I study abroad this fall. I tried to sound confident; I’m not sure that I came across that way.

Why am I smiling? I must look like a grinning idiot to them. I’m so glad Tamara is here. And Dr. Lister. And even Dr. Longinow. At least they know me. I wish I had been prepared for this interview. Am I making any sense at all?

After one final awkward moment of silence, they ran out of questions, thanked me for coming, and sent me back out. As soon as I shut the door behind me, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I realize now that if I had known about the interview in advance, I might have spent a lot of time fretting and worrying over it. I’m glad it’s over and done with. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what the Media Board decides.

This. Means. War.

2008-04-04T00:47:00.000-07:00

Ariel and Davina presented on Freud and psychoanalysis in Contemporary Literary Theory today. In honor of psychoanalytic theory, Ariel decided to bring her bright lime green foam miniature brain to class, which we happily threw around the classroom while we waited for Professor Malandra.

Buck (Professor Buchanan) usually saunters by our classroom door on his way to pick up papers or some other such nonsense before heading over to his playwriting class. Shirly happened to have the brain in her hand as he walked by, so she threw it at him. He was deft enough to dodge her foamy brain missile.

He, in turn, proceeded to grab the brain and use it as a projectile, with me as his target this time. The war was officially on, with him standing at the doorway, books in tow, and me sitting my chair from the other side of the classroom, hurling the brain as accurately and powerfully at each other as we could. Sadly, he managed to escape most of my attempts to knock some sense into him.

Once Professor Malandra walked in, we quickly clued him in on our discussion of how we could further harass our favorite professors. We tried to enlist his expertise in our efforts, but to no avail. It would greatly help us to know the weaknesses of each of the professors so we could attack them each one by one [*evil laughter ensues], but unfortunately, he was unwilling to betray his fellow professors.

Our discouragement was brief, however, because once class dismissed, we sneaked down to Buck’s office, bid our time in Dr. Van Zandt’s office—visiting with her while we waited for our classmate to finish her conversation with Buck—and finally snuck in with the green brain in hand.

Buck was leaning back in his desk chair, when we invaded his office, daydreaming with his hands clasped behind his head. Thinking quickly, I lobbed the brain at him like a grenade, watching my bomb land on his chest and shock him out of his reverie. Then we ran out of his office like a bunch of hoodlums and sought refuge in Dr. Van Zandt’s office.

We hid there, wondering how Buck would seek his revenge. I ventured a peek down the hall while Ariel hid herself behind Dr. Van Zandt’s door, and Shirly sat laughing hysterically at us from her perch on the ottoman. I was beginning to get nervous, because I didn’t hear or see anything down the hall. Professor Davidson walked by and gave me a funny look, since I was popping my head in and out of the doorway to scan the hall for danger.

I waited a little while longer, hearing Professor Davidson stop at Buck’s office to consult him on something. Thinking that Buck’s attention was diverted by Professor Davidson, I felt that the most eminent danger had passed and that all was safe again.

I turned back to reenter the conversation that Shirly, Ariel, and I were having with Dr. Vandt. Behind me, I heard footsteps approaching; I turned in time to see Professor Davidson walk by, take the green foam brain out of concealment, and deftly throw it at my exposed back.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of my situation. My own English department advisor had betrayed me, had joined leagues with my enemy, and avenged Buck on me. Needless to say, I don’t think you can find that kind of fun and mischief at any other school.

Here comes the bride...

2008-04-02T23:42:00.000-07:00

Everyone is getting married. Maybe I’m exaggerating a little bit. But the word “wedding” has been revolving around in my head quite a bit over the last several weeks. I know it’s definitely a hot topic at Biola, but the wedding bug isn’t limited to just that portion of my life. It affects my family, my church and my friends.

For example, my cousins and I are all eagerly anticipating my cousin’s marriage to her fiancé, who I think we’ve already accepted as part of the family. At the same time though, it feels really strange to think about. I still remember our crazy adventures, running around and seeking out mischief during our dad’s basketball tournaments. Or the special, personalized cousins’ newsletters that I received in the mail, complete with coloring sections and games (she was definitely meant to be a graphic designer).

I remember gathering the troops and walking down the street to the corner store where we would buy ice cream to combat the sweltering summer heat of Sacramento. I have very fond memories of the many late nights we had, sleeping over at one cousin’s house one night, and then moving camp to another cousin’s house for the next.

It’s finally beginning to hit me that I’m actually growing up. The last of the thirty-some cousins are going to be in college within the next year or so. The next generation in our family is exactly that—the next generation: the sons and daughters of my cousins, along with (the future offspring of) my brother and myself.

To return to the topic of marriage, at my church, we’ve had so many weddings that we’ve almost got it down to a fine science. The same people do the organizing and planning, the same people serve food or set up the reception, the same people serve as ushers, the same people prepare the music, with little adjustments here and there based on who’s getting married.

When I returned to school after the summer break, I had a few classmates who came back with new surnames adorning their own name and glittering diamond rings adorning their fingers. And it is most disconcerting to hear them say, “My husband this...” or, “My husband that…” during class. Even last semester it seemed like we heard of at least one new engagement every weekend.

Many of my good friends are getting engaged or planning for their upcoming weddings. I can think of three or four at this very moment. Today, in fact, I bumped into one of my English major friends who is graduating this spring. During our short conversation, I asked him about his post-graduation plans.

“Um…well, I’m getting married,” he answered. Then he proceeded to tell me about how excited he is about the new home that they will be moving into after their wedding. The idea of starting a new home or new family is so foreign to me, so far away. I can’t imagine—at my age—being anywhere near ready to get married.

Maybe it’s because I’m so single. Or because I still feel that there’s a lot for me to do before I settle down. I suppose there’s something beautiful about being a young couple, working together to build a future. But I have my own dreams and ideals other than being somebody’s wife.

The romantic in me is torn between the picture of marital bliss—realistic or unrealistic as it may be—and the equally romantic (to me, anyways), of traveling around the world to learn new languages, meet new people, and experience new cultures. I don’t doubt that I want to be married someday—I’m as anxious as the next girl to meet my true love. But I’d like to think that someday, I will find someone who will love me for who I am, aspirations and all.

Someone asked me yesterday if I’m a romantic. I’m not at all a mushy-gushy kind of girl—the kind who already knows the design of her wedding dress, the colors for her flowers, the location of her wedding, the dream house she will live in, and the tall, dashing man who will be her husband. I don’t have any idea what kind of ring I want or how I want to be proposed to.

I can appreciate sweet, romantic gestures. Part of me longs for that—for companionship, for affection, for love. But those things come in their time, and that time seems so far away to me. The future is so uncertain, full of so many possibilities. The only thing I know for certain is that God is in control; I must continue learning to find my contentment in him, and He will direct my paths in ways that will surpass my most romantic dreams.

Ode to Daniel...

2008-03-19T14:41:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-17T23:25:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-17T00:26:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-13T23:45:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-03-12T22:53:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-10T22:24:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-07T15:41:00.000-08:00

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"

2008-03-06T23:40:00.000-08:00

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

2008-03-05T22:53:00.000-08:00

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

2008-03-04T23:11:00.000-08:00

“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

2008-03-03T21:37:00.000-08:00

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

2008-03-02T22:41:00.000-08:00

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.

Indictment of Boys

2008-02-28T12:30:00.000-08:00

I had to rush back from basketball class so that I wouldn’t lose the heat of my emotion before getting it down on paper—or rather, on screen. Let me say one thing. I. Hate. Boys. Let me also say, I refuse to use the word “men” in place of boys, not because I think you don’t deserve to be called men, but because it gives me a sliver of hope that you still have time to grow and mature and change. Now, I don’t hate boys as a general species. I must continue on with my thought.

I hate boys who: think they’re really cool. Doesn’t it just sound lame? “Yeah man, I’m really cool.” It’s infuriating. It’s ten times worse than knowing you aren’t God’s gift to woman-kind but pretending you are, hoping that some poor girl will be too blind or too desperate to notice. I hate that too. I take it as an insult to my intelligence that you don’t think I won’t notice the façade. Honestly, I don’t want someone who acts tough. I want a guy who is tough. Don’t think I can’t tell the difference.

Moving on. I hate boys who don’t wait for screens when they’re being set, or who point at the spot they want the pick, then fail to run their defender off of it. Why ask for it if you aren’t going to use it? I hate boys who can’t shoot a lay-up without ten pump fakes. I hate when they nod and raise their eyebrows at me as though I’m supposed to read their minds; I don’t even know their name. I hate boys who don’t notice the flash of irritation crossing my face. I know it isn’t because you don’t care how I feel. But it never occurred to you that you could do something irritating in the first place. If you understood that, I’m sure you’d take precautions not to annoy me and this would be a moot point. I stay out of your way, you stay out of mine.

I hate that in these moments of seething frustration, I don’t call myself a feminist; I probably never will. I do take into consideration that every woman’s definition of feminism is different, and that many of my good friends and favorite professors would classify themselves as such. But in light of my own definition, I prefer to pursue what I believe to be the Biblical picture of womanhood and go from there. So yeah, whatever Amazonian tendencies I have within me are being suppressed.

Back to what I hate. I hate boys who only notice the girls who are fashionable and flirtatious and plastered in makeup—the girls who throw themselves at anything with a hint of testosterone. I hate the boys who are blind to the women who love the Lord and are chasing after Him instead. On the other hand, I do appreciate the boys who love God so much that they’re oblivious to the female species in general. Or the boys who are patient enough to let many girls pass by while they wait for God to show them who to pursue. I don’t wish that girl was me. I just appreciate that they don’t waste their time on other girls who are frivolous or superficial.

I hate that someday, a man will walk in to my life—one who passionately loves the Lord and His Word, who possesses great integrity of character, whose intelligence is coupled with godly wisdom, who is strong enough to protect me and gentle enough to lead me, who will recognize my flaws and still see the value that God has given me—and he will dispel my bitter hatred for the fallen-ness of his race. I guess I don’t really hate him. Or I won’t when I meet him. What I hate is that my own fallen-ness makes me despise the creation that God deemed “very good.”

I’m not angry any more. The moment has come and gone in a few short paragraphs. I don’t often give vent to my feelings in writing. Perhaps it’s a symptom of the anxiety and stress in my life. Or maybe it’s the PMS monster taking voice within me. I don’t mean to sound like I’m ready to devour the next male that comes into close proximity. It’s the heat of the moment that comes from playing basketball with boys when you haven’t had enough sleep and nothing to eat.

Malandrian awkwardness

2008-02-28T00:41:00.000-08:00

My friend Shirly likes to remind me of the day she met me—sitting in the hallway of Sutherland, against the wall, on the verge of tears. I had a difficult first week of college. The registration process was complicated and nearly gave me ulcers. And when I finally did register for classes, I looked at my first semester schedule and realized that I didn’t want to be a Mass Communications-Journalism major after all. That’s where Shirly met me, waiting in line to become an English major, stressing over whether or not I was doing the right thing or not.

One of the things I’ve discovered in recent weeks is that I’m glad I’m an English major. My situation at Biola is unique. I feel like I have a foot in every department. For example, everyone at Biola must take 30 units of Bible—the equivalent of a minor in Biblical studies—in order to graduate. We have access to some of the greatest Christian thinkers and teachers of our time (including many from Talbot Seminary who teach at Biola as well).

At the same time, I’m finishing up my minor in Business, so I’ve had a wide range of professors from the Crowell School of Business at Biola, from accounting to administration to marketing to management information systems. Because I still want to pursue magazine writing, I’ve been working with the journalism department’s The Point Magazine as a writer, senior copy editor, and now managing editor. This semester, I’m taking a class they’re offering on Magazine and Freelance writing.

My varied interests (and 30-something AP credits) allow me the opportunity to interact with professors and students in Journalism, Business, Theology, and English, each with its own type of personality and atmosphere. Despite feeling a little schizophrenic now and then, I really enjoy stretching myself between these three or four departments at Biola. But now more than ever I’m thankful that I can call the English department home (figuratively, anyways).

Some of the journalism professors are too intense—too high energy and deadline oriented—for me. They're very good at what they do, but my tolerance for stress and pressure is too low for me survive as a full-fledged journalism student. I have liked a lot of my business professors and I think they’ve liked me. But the students in the Business department are not very personable. Or maybe I just get the sense that I’m something of an outsider amongst them, since I’m only a minor.

The English department, on the other hand, fits me like a glove. I love that our classes are small enough to discuss literature around a conference table. I love that the English students want to do everything from editing magazines to teaching English in the inner-city to writing captivating works of fiction. I love that we girls are good enough friends to nickname ourselves the LitWits, or that the boys don’t care if they’re the only male in their classes. And we aren't afraid to embrace our nerdiness.

I love the diversity of the English department—from the hyperactive, dramatic Shakespearean Dr. Kleist to the poet Professor Davidson. I love Dr. Van Zandt’s passion for American literature and Feminist literature, Dr. Smitht’s quiet Victorian brilliance, and Buck’s dry sarcasm and sense of irony. And I love that the professors in our department seem to know and like each other.

I love Kathy, our department secretary, who shares peanut M&M’s with us when we pass by her office. I love that our professors really know us, encourage us, and even invite us over for Thanksgiving dinner. They meet with us over coffee to talk about life in general, or let us harass them in their offices just for fun. I especially appreciate how laid-back they are in general.

Speaking of professors, one of the great joys of my semester is Dr. Malandra, an extremely tall, incredibly intelligent (think Cornell), and unexpectedly witty professor, who I have for Contemporary Literary Theory right now. He may be a soft-spoken, gentle giant with a strange interest in Asian (particularly Japanese) culture, but his wonderful awkwardness—and the lively banter of my classmates—makes a naturally dryer subject very entertaining, not to mention, bearable.

Ariel has decided that in honor of his greatness and our study of complicated philosophical and literary theories, we must name one after him. We have yet to lay down the terms of said theory, but we decided to name it, “Malandrian awkwardness.” I guess it doesn’t really matter what the theory is, he just deserves to have his own.

Yesterday's musings

2008-02-27T16:21:00.000-08:00

We were on our way to have a late dinner at Sam Woo’s. The Chinese restaurants in Rowland Heights are the only nearby eating places we know will be open past nine in the evening. They don’t really start getting busy until eight; we Chinese like to eat late. I’m not sure why we decided to take the van—it’s way too big to park in the compact spaces outside the restaurant—but we did.

As we were driving down the 60 freeway, my dad and I were discussing my future. He always laughs at me during these kinds of conversations, shaking his head and grinning at me in amusement.

“Lynnette’s list of goals is simple: I want to do EVERYTHING,” he’ll say jokingly. This night was no different. It’s partially because my list of things I want to do in my lifetime is so long that I probably need two or three more lifetimes to complete them. Or maybe it’s because the goals keep changing and morphing, or evolving into something bigger and better—and often more expensive.

In response, I punched my dad in the arm before turning to my mom and asking her if there were things still left on her list of lifetime goals. My mom paused thoughtfully for a minute before slowly replying.

“I’ve always wanted to learn to play the piano. After Garrett moves out of the house, I think I’m going to take your old books and try to teach myself,” she said.

I’ve been thinking a lot about goals lately. The last chapter I read for my Magazine and Free-lance writing class talked about setting goals, both long-term and short-term, for ourselves to help us develop as writers.

When my mom was a student at Biola, she came up with a list of things she wanted to do during her life. For example, she made it her goal to go on a missions trip, which she did in the summer before her fifth year in college. She promised herself that she’d read through the Bible at least once and she’s made it through three or four times now.

My mom always wanted to go to seminary; she attended Dallas Theological Seminary and graduated from Talbot as the salutatorian of her class, earning a Master’s degree in Biblical Studies. The only left uncompleted on her list was learning to play the piano. It seemed ironic to me that she worked hard so that she could send her two kids for almost ten years of piano lessons.

What makes my mom’s list of goals so interesting is the things she chose to leave off of it. For instance, being a Biola student, “meeting and marrying the man of my dreams” (or at least, getting her ring by spring) should have definitely been on her list. Or going to Africa and changing the world as a nurse on the Missions field. They may not have been huge dreams, but the things that my mom chose to put on her list were very concrete, very achievable goals.

Sometimes I think my own goals are too abstract, too nebulous, or too unrealistic. Perhaps I make the mistake of conflating my goals with my dreams. How much should my goals reflect those fantasies that seem so far out of reach?

I have made a lot of mistakes in the past, setting my goals too high or placing unrealistic expectations for myself, and then wonder why I’m always so sorely disappointed. I’ve become afraid of failure, afraid of disappointment, afraid to even set goals lest because I don’t want to risk it.

I think over time, I have become so fearful that I won’t even dream big dreams. And I hate that. I hate that I take for granted the gifts and interests God has given me or the dreams He has placed in my heart. I hate that I limit what He can do with my life—His power and wisdom and sovereignty.

I feel like I’ve trained myself to live in these two different worlds. On the one hand, I live in a world that is overly realistic, cynical even, and practical to a fault. I want to anticipate the worst and plan against it, instead of hoping for the best. I refuse to try something if I’m not convinced that I can succeed at it.

Then the alternative me (which I have suppressed until recently) lives in the clouds, in the world of my imagination. This “other” Lynnette dreams big—too big for her own good—and is almost content to do nothing but sit around and day dream.

How does one achieve a sense of balance? How do I set realistic goals for myself, aimed at moving my life in the direction of those dreams? How do I join these two sides of myself before I begin to suffer from split personality disorder? More importantly, how do I plan and set practical goals for myself without limiting what God wants to do with my life or where He wants to take me?

I take comfort in my mom’s story. Yes, she wrote up a list of goals and pursued them. And yes, she wasn’t afraid to chase after things that seemed impractical, expensive, or out of the ordinary (like going to seminary).

But at the same time, she could have never predicted that she would join the Air Force as an officer in the Nurse Corp. She never dreamed she’d marry my dad and work as his office manager.

She couldn’t have guessed that she would be the mother of two children, or that Garrett and I would both choose to go to the same college that God called her to some 30 years ago. She always tells me that she has no regrets.

God gave her dreams when she was in college, and God exchanged those dreams for new ones—for an even greater reality that she calls her life. I have no idea what God has in store for us, but I know it’s good—because He is good—so I’m excited and eager to find out.

Adorable Ian

2008-02-25T15:18:00.000-08:00

“Buh-bye Ian,” I cooed, “Say goodbye to jie jie, ok? Buh-bye!”

I bent over his adorable smiling face as he wiggled and writhed on the carpet, his mother struggling to pull his pants back up after changing his diaper. I blew a kiss to him, saying “I love you Ian! Bye!”

To my surprise, Ian looked at me and without hesitation took his chubby little hand, put it to his mouth, and blew me a kiss of his own. As I straightened up and walked towards the door, he continued to smile and wave at me as I left the nursery.

…

Every last Sunday of the month, I am scheduled to help teach the two year-old Sunday School class for the first morning service. My main job is usually to do puzzles with them, help them scribble pictures, or feed them goldfish and animal crackers. Sometimes, we teach them a Bible lesson, or Auntie Ellen comes around and reads them a Bible story.

Having worked in the nursery for about six years now, I have seen a wide range of kids. We have children who speak English, Mandarin, or Cantonese. Many of them are already beginning to be bilingual.

Some of the children are easygoing and will play with just about anyone. Others spend the entire time crying because they suffer from separation anxiety. They are extremely quiet and only speak in a whisper, and or they never stop babbling on or singing at the top of their lungs. Some sit still the whole hour and a half, and some are so hyperactive I wish I could tether them to something and let them run around in that small circumference.

Yesterday, I got to meet two-and-a-half year old Ian for the first time. Ian carries with him a certain fascination for me. He isn’t particularly different from all of the other children I’ve babysat in the past, but what makes him special is that he was an orphan. The couple from my church decided to go to China to adopt him; he has been in California for about a month now.

We have a small handful of adopted children at our church—all of them from China. But working with Ian is my first real experience with them. There are things that are very particular to his adjustment to life here that I find extremely interesting.

For instance, the temperature in the nursery was comfortable, but Ian began to sweat because he was wearing a bright blue bomber hat and navy blue hoodie sweatshirt. We wanted to take them off so that he would be more comfortable, but as soon as we did, he began fighting and crying.

His dad explained to me that, in the orphanage, he never owned his own clothes. Everything they had was communal. He’s afraid that if he lets us take his hat or his jacket off, he won’t ever get them back.

There are other things peculiar to Ian’s situation as well—not speaking very much or very often, wanting to go out in the mornings because it means that people won’t enter and leave the house without him, or having a mortal fear of western-style toilets because they are really large and completely foreign to him. He must also transition from Mandarin to Cantonese (which his mom and siblings speak) and English (his dad’s language of choice).

Like many young orphans, he has so-called “abandonment issues.” But it’s exciting to see that he seems to have accepted his entire adopted family as his own, and hopefully someday he’ll come to accept his church family too.

I’ve been thinking a lot about adoption lately, because of the recent adoptions that I have contact with, and because of several of my friends who have personal experience with it. Watching the evidence of Ian’s transition to life with his adopted family in a country far from where he was born has made a deep impression on me.

It reminds me of our own adoption as sons and daughters of Jesus Christ. We have already been given his name (Christian means “Little Christ” after all); we have already been given new identities as those proclaimed holy and righteous in God’s sight.

At the same time, we are not yet perfectly righteous or holy like Christ—we must continually work to become what we have already been declared, just as Ian must adjust to his new identity and relationship with the adopted family that has legally and literally declared him one of their own.

The picture of adoption is a great reflection of the amazing grace and love that God bestows on sinful, rebellious, merit-less humans like us, choosing each of us to become His son or His daughter, with all of the blessings that come with membership in His family.

Attack of the Purple Prose

2008-02-21T23:46:00.000-08:00

Today’s lesson in Magazine and Freelance writing was “purple prose.” Professor Mosqueda, who is co-teaching the class with Dr. Longinow, explained to us that purple prose refers to a “passage written in prose so overly extravagant, ornate, or flowery that it breaks the flow and draws attention to itself.” Purple prose is writing that is “pretentious, and gaudy.” Prof. Mosqueda went on to say that the main purpose of writing is to communicate, and so we must strive to clearly communicate what we want to say with honesty and integrity. He wants us to be “clear, concrete, and specific.”

Which brings me to the point. I’ve spent the last couple days trying to read three different essays by Jacques Derrida. I’m not trying to pick on him particularly, but he is the one I’m reading right now, so he is my victim of choice. He is, at least in my mind—along with nearly every other literary critic or philosopher we’ve read this semester—the opposite of clear, concrete, and specific. I realize that deconstructionists won’t appreciate the binary opposition I’ve just created. Regardless, he seems to dance around what he’s really trying to say.

I understand that part of deconstruction is a de-centering, an acknowledgement that there nothing around which he can gravitate and thus no way of “getting to the point.” But to me, Derrida’s extended syntax, ostentatious verbosity, and circular argumentation are cumbersome and aggravating for me as a reader (that was the worst sentence I could come up with).

What frustrates me is that he simply refuses to say exactly what he means. They all do. Of course, I don’t expect philosophers to simplify everything into easy laymen’s vocabulary. I recognize that the terms they choose—the language they use—is as much a part of their ideological agenda as the actual ideas themselves. But as an amateur writer, I’m starting to worry that their way of articulating their ideas is beginning to rub off on me.

I love the craftsmanship of writing. I love learning about technique, and how we use those tools of the trade to help us say what we want or need to say. It’s a great mix of intuition and ingenuity: knowing what sounds good and working hard to get it just right. I like to think that I’ve matured enough to avoid things like purple prose, but I can’t help but wonder if I have the talent and guts to make it as a writer.

Rain and Restlessness

2008-02-20T23:30:00.000-08:00

Tonight, Professor Harmon let us out of class an hour and a half early (because the next assignment we have to do is really intense). Upon my return to the apartment, I proceeded to sit on the living room couch with my literary theory textbook and try—hopelessly—to understand Derrida.

Around nine, I began to hear yelling and pounding on doors; it was a fire drill. Fortunately, it was a short exercise, and John (our RC) had a gargantuan bucket of Red Vines to comfort us as we stood out in the damp, chilling cold. As soon as I made it back into our wonderfully heated apartment, my roommate Janelle walked in.

I was so proud of myself: I cooked dumplings to go along with our reheated chow mein. During our dinner, I confessed to Janelle that I was feeling restless. I haven’t felt like this in a long time—living in the apartment with Janelle, Meli, and Ariel has been like a dream for me. Or, at least, the fulfillment of one of my old dreams.

Let me briefly explain. When I was in junior high, I read through the entire Anne of Green Gables series. In the fourth book, Anne of Windy Poplars, Anne is a university student. She and three of her friends live in a small cottage, where they sit by their fireplace in the evening to read together, or do household chores together, or get into scrapes together.

This past summer, I reread all eight of the books through again. This dream of mine, of living with my good girlfriends and just sharing life together, has never left me. And reading it a second time rekindled the dream for me. But it never occurred to me that I would be here, now, living with three of my closest girlfriends at Biola, enjoying apartment life together.

So, for the last several weeks, despite my hectic, stressful course-load, I’ve been very thankful for the way God has blessed me this semester. But today, for some inexplicable reason, I felt very restless and discontent.

I think it might have been the light rain and dreary gray clouds overhead today that put me in such a strange mood. Or perhaps it was meeting up with my professor and talking to her about my plans and ambitions for the future—how much they’ve changed since I’ve entered college. Thinking about all of the possibilities and uncertainties still before me can be daunting.

Sometimes, I think I mistake restlessness as an itch to travel. But I just went to Hong Kong this summer, and I know that my family is planning a vacation for Spring Break this year (we haven’t traveled anywhere in a long time). I just finished the application for Biola London, too, so traveling is in the very near future for me, so that doesn’t seem like a reasonable cause for discontent.

Another possible—but highly unlikely—reason may be that I’m feeling a lack of romance in my life. Frankly speaking, I have very little interest in boys (except of the popstar persuasion) right now, and I don’t have time even if I was interested. But despite the romance of living in an apartment with the girls, I feel very keenly the lack of romance in my life.

I believe that God is in control of my love life—He has planned for me the right person, the right time, and the right way. I’m not looking for my Gilbert (another Anne reference for those of you who didn’t catch it) because I trust that the Lord will bring him to me. But I’m still a normal female with normal female inclinations. So maybe what I’m feeling is a little post-Valentine’s Day depression.

Ultimately, I know that I have to live my life one day at a time and trust God with the rest. I know that I must learn to find my contentment in my relationship with God—in who He is—before I can be a content traveler, writer, editor, entrepreneur, girlfriend, wife, mother, friend, or follower of Jesus Christ. Whether it rains or not.

Preparing for the future

2008-02-19T22:19:00.000-08:00

Part of being a student is figuring yourself out. What type of learner am I—visual, audio, or touch? Do I work best with a planned schedule or do I work best under pressure (i.e. Am I a procrastinator)? Music or no music? Crouched seriously at a desk or lounging comfortably on a couch?

One thing I’ve learned about my own study preferences is that I can always use a change of scenery—placing myself in a new environment, outside of the comforts and distractions of my own room, always helps me concentrate on the work before me.

I guess I wonder why I’ve become like this. I think to myself, “Lynnette, you have a comfortable, spacious, friendly apartment and studious roommates. You have the dining room table, the living room couches, your desk, your bed, and plenty of floor space that you could occupy with your books and laptop. Why must you go out to study?”

Honestly, it frustrates me. I’m sitting here at the Lollicup on Wilshire and Harbor, typing away at my keyboard, headphones in each ear, listening to Danson Tang sing to me in Mandarin about how much he loves me. In the two and a half hours I’ve been here, I’ve completed nearly three assignments, whereas the hour or so I spent in the apartment—my homework laid out in front of me—was absolutely unproductive.

Perhaps I developed this habit in high school. Each day my friends and I would choose a Starbuck’s, Diedrich’s, or other café to camp out and do our homework. We interspersed tiny bits of socializing with our studies, enjoying each other’s company and urging each other on. But I don’t really need anyone with me to talk to or fend off loneliness; the only thing I think about when I work is what I have before me. But I have trouble focusing if I don’t have someone sitting next to me doing their own work. Hence, my mother is sitting next to me absorbed in reading her own book. We haven’t spoken to each other in over an hour.

Relocating myself also gives me a sense of urgency, the rationale being that since I took the time, energy, and gas to drive myself somewhere out of the way, I must get some work done to make it worth my trouble. It’s the idea of intentionally going somewhere to focus solely on my work. Plus, my bed isn’t in close proximity calling my name and beckoning me to take solace in its soft warmth.

Finally, the silliest reason that I have for coming out to study: I really enjoy the ambient noise and relaxed atmosphere of a café. I like the feeling of other people sitting around me, plucking away at their own computers, flipping through magazines, or discussing the latest celebrity gossip. I enjoy imagining that someday, I’ll be an itinerant authoress, needing only my laptop, my brain, and a nice cup of coffee to do my work. There’s a seductive sophistication in that image. I guess I figure I might as well practice now.

Sign, Signifier, Signified

2008-02-18T20:10:00.000-08:00

My right arm shoots up mechanically to grab a tight hold of the handle as my dad begins to slowly merge onto the freeway. I know Dad’s a good driver, and I’m not really worried. But it’s an automatic reaction.

The reflection of headlights in my rearview mirror blind me as cars approach, whizzing past us. Mom sits in the back seat of our Camry, trying to explain to me the conversation she had with my little brother on the way home from church.

“Garrett was telling me about his favorite raptor.”
“Uh…do you mean rapture?” my dad suggests. “High school Sunday School is going through Revelations and the End Times.”
“Raptor….rapture…” my mother muses confusedly.
Suddenly it dawns on me.
“Oh! Rapper! Garrett told you about his favorite RAPPER!”

This semester I'm taking a class on Contemporary Literary Theory, where rather than discussing actual works of literature, we talk about how we talk about literature. We cover things like semiotics (linguistics) and the different approaches or methods we can use to read works of literature and poetry. Of course, these theories influence more areas outside the realm of literature—science, art, philosophy, anthropology, sociology…the list goes on and on. Most of the time, I find the essays we read for this class rather dry and frustratingly inaccessible.

The ideas we study are interesting enough, and because of the particular mix of students we have in our class, discussions with our professor are often amusing and lively, whether we understand the essays or not. What fascinates me most is the power of language. The power it has to shape our worldviews, our perspectives, how we read and learn and know. Language shapes our very being.

I often come back to N. Scott Momaday’s words: “In a certain sense we are all made of words...our most essential being consists in language. It is the element in which we think and dream and act, in which we live our lives.”

I keep coming back to this because I sense the truth of these words, at least in my own life. My whole world is language and words, written and unwritten—the realm of thoughts and ideas and feelings and emotions. More concretely, I feel like all I do is read and write, read and write. If I’m not doing that, I’m talking about reading or writing.

Back to the topic of language. Much of our discussion has been about the origins and structure of language. Saussure’s concept of the sign and the signifier, how all of our words are defined in relation to other words, and so on and so forth. Within a sentence, we change one word and the entire meaning is transformed. Like raptor, or rapture, or rapper.

My fascination with language has grown exponentially since I began to be interested in taking Chinese classes. My friend Ricky was teaching us about certain Chinese words—their meanings and their characters. The Chinese language makes a lot of sense, and it makes me wonder about how this language, with its complex system of tones and characters, came into existence and developed.

For instance, take the simple phrase “Hello” in Chinese: nǐ hǎo. When broken up into its two characters, it translates “you good.” “Goodbye” is zài jiàn, or literally, “see again” or more specifically, “see you again.” Tóng xué translates “same class” or classmates. China is zhōng guó—“middle country” or kingdom. This is because the Chinese always believed that they were at the center of the world, the center of the universe.

The most interesting one I learned was hǎo, meaning “good.” Ricky explained that the character for the word hǎo is a combination of the character for female and the character for child . The total effect is that when a mother and her child are together, it is good, or hǎo. Needless to say, if I were not an English major and a Business minor, perhaps I would have enjoyed studying linguistics.

Trials and Thanksgivings

2008-02-14T20:44:00.001-08:00

Today my thoughts are a jumbled mess of stories floating around in my head. I’ll start from last night. I had my first mini-meltdown of the semester. First, some background: I’ve been fighting off that horrible, overwhelming feeling of stress—the panic that creeps into my mind and takes hold of my heart. It comes on especially when it seems like no matter how much work I do or how disciplined I am—it just isn’t enough.

After my two hour web-site development class, I grit my chattering teeth and made my way over to the library to do research for my Magazine and Freelance writing class. I had spent the last several days trying to come up with ideas to pitch to various magazines, but I must have had brain constipation because nothing fantastic came out.

I spent about an hour looking through a huge stack of magazines in the reading room (which, by the way, is so silent it makes me nervous) before heading to the reference desk to inquire about the whereabouts of the Gale Directory to look up economic data on our magazines.

To my great consternation, I embarked on a wild goose chase for the Gale Directory with a fellow classmate. When we finally hunted down the allusive directory, we discovered that they were not helpful at all. Angry and annoyed at all the time I just wasted, I decided to leave the library and head back to the apartment.

On returning to my room, a flood of tears rushed upon me and I cried uncontrollably. I think the frustration that I had been suppressing for the last three weeks finally caught up to me. Crying can be cathartic. I was so upset that any attempts at doing homework would have been futile.

Here is where my ode begins. My roommates Janelle and Ariel came to comfort me; Ariel heated up a Hot Pocket for me (It was 11 pm and I hadn’t eaten since noon), Janelle let me talk it all out. Because I was so anxious, she recommended that I go to bed and wake up early to finish my work.

I had my doubts about whether or not I could wake up that early, so Ariel volunteered to wake up at six in the morning with me to make sure that I made it out of bed and finished my work. I thank God for the huge blessing that she is in my life. Ariel cared so much about me that, even though she didn’t have class until noon, she willingly helped me wake up before dawn.

Needless to say, I finished my assignment this morning and made it (albeit a little late) to my 7:30 am meeting. Praise God for a wonderful editor-in-chief who brings bagels and orange juice to staff meetings.

Today has been full of laughter and encouragement. During my British mysteries class, we had just finished discussing sexual promiscuity in Dicken’s Bleak House when my friend burst into the class wearing an “I Love Lucy’s” wig and three mismatched layers of clothing.

She confessed her love for her fiancée then handed him a huge, red, heart-shaped box of Russell Stover chocolates and a giant, heart-shaped, singing balloon. The best part, though, was the look on my professor’s face—an amusing combination of confusion and horror.

Speaking of professors, my literary theory professor prayed for us before dismissing us from class, and I realized how much I appreciate that the professors at Biola pray for us. I know that they pray for us on their own time, but I really love hearing them open or close class with prayer.

I think it gives us insight into how they live out their Christian lives even as our professors. We get a short glimpse of their own personal interaction with God: how they come before Him, how they view Him, and how they are seeking His will. The words of their prayer sometimes have more power than anything they say to us during the class period.

I really praise God for my professors, for their passion for their fields of interest, and for their love and care for us. They are such a reservoir of Biblical and practical wisdom, as well a huge source of encouragement for me personally. My professors (ironically) really help me get through some of these difficult times in my life.

Time to Celebrate

2008-02-12T19:10:00.001-08:00

I’ve had exciting news to share with people all day. I called my mom and she said, “We ought to celebrate!” I told my classmates and their response was pretty much the same—we need to celebrate! No, I’m not getting married. I don’t even have a Valentine this year (I don’t care what they say—Derrida does NOT count as a hot date).

The thing that I was so thrilled to tell everyone was that…drum roll please…last night I actually cooked dumplings and did my own laundry. And I did it all without mortally wounding myself, burning the kitchen down, shrinking my clothes, or turning my whites a lovely shade of pink.

Such mundane things to cheer about, you may think, but for me, this is progress. Sadly, as skilled as I may be in a number of different academic areas, being able to write a good essay or understand concepts in marketing does not prepare you for life’s domestic responsibilities.

Perhaps I have been spoiled too long, opting to bury myself in academic studies in lieu of learning things like cooking, laundry, or grocery shopping. I’m thankful that I live with girls who have had a lot of experience living on their own and who are willing to be very patient with me; they rejoice even in my small triumphs.

Mom always says that when you’re thrown into a situation where you have to do something—you’ll learn really fast. Sometimes I think I put these little things off because I’m scared of making mistakes, scared of proving to everyone how incompetent I really am. I stick to the things that I already know I excel at.

But a lot of this semester is about facing my fears and taking courage in who God is. Whether it be adjusting to apartment life, dealing with clients and talking to strangers, or applying to study abroad in a foreign country (well, they still speak English in London, so it isn’t THAT foreign), the small fears that I face now will help me to trust God to get me through the bigger obstacles that I may encounter later in life.

Dr. Longinow described these little challenges as our “bear” and our “lion,” like those that David faced before he took on Goliath. I can definitely relate to the analogy, because there are a lot of other bigger fears that I anticipate running up against, things that will stretch my faith and my character—things like searching for internships, putting myself out there as a freelance writer, the possibility of traveling to pursue a job or more education, someday marrying (hopefully) and starting my own family.

The possibilities are endless. There are so many uncertainties that are bound to come up in my life that I must face head-on. I feel that if I can learn to trust God in these smaller things—these things that I fear— while I’m in college, perhaps I will have the courage to let Him take me to great places to do great things. The “little-ness” of my faith is the only thing that hinders God from showing His “big-ness” in my life.

It's Greek, I mean, Chinese, to me!

2008-02-11T19:32:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was the first session of the Beginning Mandarin class offered at my church. Totally different from what I was expecting, but not an unpleasant difference. In all honesty, I’m not quite sure what I was expecting—a more formal setting perhaps?

We met in the third grade Sunday school class, to the left of the kitchen still hot with the scent of friend noodles and to the right of the Library, where the children are conducting their own version of Beginner’s Mandarin. Only, I think they pick up things faster than the adult class.

I happened to be the youngest person in the class, along with my friend Grace, who is two years older than myself. Our other classmates were all women, all middle-aged and older. Most of them already speak at Cantonese, if not some Mandarin.

I grew up hearing the Cantonese and Toisan dialects at home and with my relatives, but despite my voracious consumption of Taiwanese dramas and Mandopop music, Mandarin is really a very foreign language for me. We’re using pinyin, too, which is very new to me.

We started out with the four tones of Mandarin, which was challenging enough for one day. I never realized how difficult it is to tell them apart, and to use them for syllables other than ma (depending on how you say it, “ma” could mean mother, horse, to feel numb, or to scold).

Our teachers, Auntie Janet, Auntie Sharon, and Auntie Nan are all very patient with us. Even though they all have a great sense of humor, they never laugh at us for our mistakes (saying “You smell me” instead of “You ask me” is pretty amusing if you ask me—no pun intended).

We split into two groups based on our level of fluency. After butchering the tones, my group moved on to basic conversation like, “How are you?” and “Have you eaten yet?” along with the appropriate responses. We even tried our hand at a simple poem. You wouldn’t believe how un-poetic it sounded after we got through with it, though.

Regardless of how bad I might sound at the moment, I’m still very determined to learn and practice and continue learning Chinese. I used to balk at the idea of studying such a difficult language. But it’s more fun than I thought.

Apartment Life

2008-02-08T17:45:00.000-08:00

Living in an apartment for the first time has been quite an adventure. Albeit, I’ve only lived in Lido for two weeks, but I already call this place home. I don’t think it’s just the new location on the opposite end of campus (or really, across the street from campus), or having to prepare my own food. It isn’t even the exciting prospect of not having to share a bathroom with thirty other girls. The move into the apartment has really been a change of perspective. Being here makes me feel like I’m beginning to take the first baby steps towards real adulthood. Of course, I still have a long way to go before I can really exercise my independence and allow God to take me anywhere He pleases in the world.

I’ll admit that I entertained some major misgivings about moving between semesters. I felt like I just got used to living with my Fall semester roommate, and all of a sudden, I was putting myself in a position where I would have to adjust to three new roommates. But on the way home from our excursion to Wal-mart, Michael’s, and Bobaloca today, I told my apartment-mates Ariel and Meli that I think living with them (along with our fourth roommate Janelle) has been such a huge blessing this semester.

There’s never a dull moment in this apartment. Whether we’re eating a random assortment of edible items at the dinner table, gathered around one of our laptops watching Lego Beowulf on YouTube, or curled up on the carpet of one of our bedrooms talking about life in general, we seem to always enjoy our time together. Often times, the apartment will hum with the sound of the TV in the living room, where Meli and Janelle are reading, while Ariel contorts her body and reads on her bed, and I type on my computer and listen to music through my headphones. All of a sudden, one of the girls will burst into our room to tell us something interesting that happened that day, or complain about having too much to read.

There’s something so beautiful about living our lives together, sharing both our stage of life and what we bring to it, working together, laughing together, praying for each other, helping each other deal with our struggles and frustrations. And even though we’re all very dedicated to our studies, we all seem to take a special delight and pleasure in being English majors, in embracing our nerdiness, embracing our love for literature and writing.

And we always have fun. For instance, today, Ariel and I got overly excited about making connections between the critical literary theories of Roland Barthes and the short story "Shrodinger’s Cat" (by Ursula Le Guin) that we read two semesters ago. Last night, we watched Janelle don a snow coat and five or six scarves, then walk around to our neighboring apartments to “beg” for some ice cubes. We even have a bulletin board dedicated to anything that one of us says that is particularly random, strange, hilarious, or grossly out-of-context.

It reminds me of Anne in Anne of Windy Poplars, who shares a small cottage with three other girls while they are in the university, living, studying, and working together. That picture of the girls, sitting around a warm crackling fire reading, or getting into mischief together, has always been something of a dream of mine. I feel like I’m finally getting a small taste of that reality. Except we have a pomegranate-scented candle for a fire and we gather around the TV to watch LOST.

Gong hay fat choy! Sun nin fai lok!

2008-02-07T23:35:00.000-08:00

Today is Chinese New Year. I sat down at my computer to check my email and noticed that my friend James was online. I double-clicked his screen name, waited for his window to pop up, and typed “Sun nin fai lok!” which translates into “Happy New Year!” In response, James typed back “Lay see dow loy,” which roughly meant, “Give me money.”

I laughed, not because it was such a strange response, but because it brought back childhood memories of celebrating Chinese New Year, digging into my drawer to find a red t-shirt, eating handfuls of Chinese candies, and singing “Gong hai fat choy!” (which means “Congratulations and be prosperous”) to any unfortunate victim who crossed my path.

I remember trying to put on my cutest, puppy-eyed expression, preparing myself to walk shyly up to my relatives and say “Sun nin fai lok” and “Gong hai fat choy” in as accurate a Chinese accent as I could, so that when I held out my hands in front of me, they’d place the precious little red envelopes into my palms and wish me a happy new year. To us little Chinese kids, Chinese New Year meant eating as much good food as we could and sucking up to as many generous relatives as we could.

But this year, Chinese New Year feels like it’s passing me by, fading into the background of my frenetic life—a life that’s consumed by books, presentations, deadlines, meetings, and applications. Or maybe it’s because I’m at Biola; my new year’s greetings were met by many a blank stare. Either way, I feel a bit sad and very nostalgic.

The best I could do this year was put on my Asian-inspired earrings and dream of a delicious Chinese feast. I’m so ashamed to call myself Chinese sometimes. My cultural pendulum swings between being too Americanized and being scared to become, for lack of a more PC term, “fobby.”

I’ve never regretting being American-born. There’s an independence and freedom that I would never have experienced if I were more “Chinese” than I am now. Other than playing an instrument and earning decent grades, I’ve always gone against the stereotype: I played basketball in high school, I never had a curfew, I turned down UCLA, Berkeley, and USC, and I majored in English rather than engineering or biology (even with both my parents in the medical field).

But part of me feels a strong pull toward Chinese culture—a need to reclaim parts of who I am that I never really took as my own. Some day, I would love to study both Cantonese and Mandarin, to live overseas and re-absorb some of my cultural heritage. It’s funny how new dreams crop up into our hearts and minds without us noticing or expecting them.

Goal for the day

2008-02-06T23:01:00.000-08:00

My goal for today: Every time I felt stress and anxiety beginning to creep up on me, I would stop, tell myself to put on a positive attitude, thank God for all of the good things He has given me, and then ask Him to help me to trust Him to get me through my day.

I think in a lot of ways, I fell short of my goal, especially towards the end of today. I hate feeling like I’m always behind, always playing catch up. Especially when you have a very intelligent, studious, and disciplined roommate, it can be discouraging to see how much work you still have left to do while she continues to get farther and farther ahead.

But I’m trying to train myself to transform how I think about things. When I get frustrated and undisciplined, I try to adjust my perspective, reminding myself that I need to enjoy learning, that I need to be excited about the skills I’m developing or the experiences that I gain from hands-on projects. I hope that having a better outlook will make my work more efficient and less miserable.

It’s hard, sometimes, to learn to glorify God in my schoolwork. Don’t get me wrong. I love school, I love learning, I love my professors, I love my classes and reading and the college lifestyle. But sometimes, the burden of deadlines and exams is just too cumbersome for me. I’ve come to realize that my threshold for stress is very low, and my ability to accumulate “stressfulness” is unlimited.

I was thinking about how much has changed since my freshman year. I met with my advisor, Professor Davidson, to discuss traveling abroad and approving my classes and such. I sat facing the window diagonally away from his desk—the same spot I always sit in. The same spot I sat in when I first met with him as freshman, fidgety, self-conscious, and unsure. Time has flown by without me hardly noticing. It sometimes seems like an odd day dream, the kind that feels so vivid yet still doesn’t seem real at all. In a lot of ways, I think back to the girl I was when I was a freshman. That Lynnette is more like an old friend, simultaneously familiar and distant.

I think I’ve changed and grown in a lot of ways. The old Lynnette would let herself succumb to the pressure and have a good cry. Or call home to complain. She would never consider changing her perspective and attitude. She would rarely stop to pray. Lynnette is thankful for how God is growing and changing her. But she still has a lot of growing up to do.

Walking home...

2008-02-05T12:16:00.001-08:00

Everyday after classes, I embark on an arduous trek from my classroom to the outskirts of campus, walk along Biola Ave. until I reach Bora, where play a dangerous game of Frogger to reach the other side of the street, and enjoy the quiet residential neighborhood until I reach Lido apartment.

The last few days, on my way back from class, as I have been soaking up the sun or avoiding puddles from the rainy day before, an interesting sound has caught my attention. The sound of a preacher, slightly hollow and echo-y as if his voice was reverberating off the rafters of an ancient cathedral or high-ceilinged church, but strangely muted and muffled.

When I turn to look for the source of the odd sound, I find someone sitting in their car, windows rolled up, engrossed in the sermon issuing out of their car stereos, unsuspecting of any observant passerby. Sometimes they’re snacking on a bagel or taking notes with their Bibles propped up on their steering wheel.
Perhaps with the onslaught of chapel makeups, Biola students must use any down time they can scavenge. But the image that comes to mind is the passage in Matthew 6 where Jesus warns His disciples:

Beware of practicing your righteousness before men to be noticed by them; otherwise you have no reward with your Father who is in heaven….When you pray, you are not to be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and on the street corners so that they may be seen by men. Truly I say to you, they have their reward in full. But you, when you pray, go into your inner room, close your door, and pray to your Father who is in secret, and your Father who sees what is done in secret will reward you (Matt. 6:1, 5-6).

The Christian walk practiced in this way is such a beautiful thing. Not showy, not overly self-conscious, not ostentatious. Of course, there is a corporate, public aspect of our relationship with Christ and with the church, but that flows out of the personal, often private part of our relationship with the Lord.

What irks me is the kind of fabricated, formulaic Christianity that falls into legalism. The Christianity that says, “You’re a good Christian if you read your Bible every day and pray a certain number of hours and only enjoy reading commentaries and so on and so forth.”

Even worse than that is the Christianity that tries to rebel against the perceived hypocrisy of the church, swinging to the other extreme and telling Believers, especially young believers, that the most important part of being a Christian is being “authentic.”

Authentic—while the intention may be honorable—in most cases just means lazy. To feel and experience God without any discipline or accountability means conforming too much with today’s postmodern, secular culture. In our attempt to be "real" we lose everything we stand for.

Ultimately, we experience God’s work in our lives when we study His Word, His written revelation to us, and conform our lives to the pattern that He has set for us, exercising the spiritual disciplines that Believers throughout the centuries have exercised in their own personal and corporate Christian lives, and trusting God with our growth and maturity.

Back to my previous point. Seeing my fellow students sitting in their cars—listening to God’s Word being preached, unaware of others watching them—gave me a great sense of satisfaction and encouragement.

It’s in the secret, still, quiet places that we hear God’s voice most clearly, directing us to how He wants us to work out our salvation, in our inner lives, in our relationships within the Church, and in our interactions with non-Believers.

To be unconcerned with the opinions of others, to be inattentive to our image and focused primarily on how we live out our Christian lives, is a freedom that we as Believers must cling to if we are to impact the world for the Gospel.