Refresh Everything
In this season of giving and giving joyfully, let me offer you a way that you can give safety and peace of mind to a homeless mom.
My work place, Mary’s Place, is in the running for a $50,000 grant from the Pepsi Refresh Project. This is a super cool thing from Pepsi to fund good ideas that make a difference in local communities around the country. There are different grant levels, and the top ten winners from each level, wins the grant. Winning is based on voting. So we are reaching out to the far corners of the earth (Hello Squatbean in Germany, Christy in Nicaragua and Aaron in Hong Kong!!) trying to drum up more votes!!
If we were to win the grant, the money would go to the Family Program, which is the area in which I work! We are the only day center in King County that welcomes homeless moms with their children without a refrerral. We see families who have just stepped off the Greyhound, having traveled across the country fleeing their abuser. We see mothers who have a job, but their rental home was foreclosed on, and with only a week’s warning, found themselves living in their van. We see grandmothers taking care of their grandchildren, when the mother is unable to do so any more. We see these moms desperately working every day to find shelter – safe shelter – for their children. In Washington, it can be up to a 4 week wait to get into an emergency family shelter. In the meantime, what are these families to do? When they come in to Mary’s Place, we make sure they are fed, clothed, clean and safe. We give them a hotel to stay in until a bed at a shelter opens up. Everyday we are seeking out new resources for shelter, clothes and diapers. We connect these moms with DV advocates, schools and counselors. And with a grant dedicated strictly to the Family Program, we could increase these services.
Would you please consider voting? It is so easy. Simply go to the Refresh site (www.refresheverything.com for those who aren’t link followers), and create a log-in. It seriously takes less than 2 minutes. Then search for Mary’s Place, we have the picture of the mom with the super cute baby!
(see! SUPER cute baby)
Then vote. You get 10 votes a day to spread out among all the good ideas, but you can only vote for each idea once a day. So remember, vote every day. This is a popularity contest, and we’re hoping to win, so if you decide to spread out your vote, please vote just in the other grant levels!! Then, spread the word. The more votes from more areas around the country, the better!!
It couldn’t be easier. Vote every day. Help give peace of mind and saftey to a mom who so desperately needs it.
www.refresheverything.com/marysplaceseattle
I love my life here. I love my job, my home, my community. I am involved and focused. My job requires a lot of energy. And the day to day of it can easily grab all of my attention. Often, I get so involved in the struggles and joys in the here and now, that I forget where I’ve been.
Not that I could ever actually forget where I’ve been. I have been so blessed, privileged even, to have been the places I’ve been, to have met the people I have met, to learn all that I have learned thus far. I have friends all over Asia who will always remain in my heart. Their spirits of determination were great lessons for me. Their kind hearts and contagious laughter are a part of me. We have connected on some level, and now, even here, they remain connected.
But it is easy to overlook those connects; to be so involved in what is going on in front of me that I forget those lessons, that laughter, those beautiful endearing faces.
And then I remember. And I long for my other home. For a city that despite its polluted, congested way, still has a hold me. For the women I grew to love, and who showed me great love and great strength. For the struggle there.
I received word today that two ladies from the Bethune House who I got to know fairly well, passed away recently. Both were fighting different forms of cancer. Both went home to the Philippines, and were eventually unable to afford the medications needed to fight the disease. Tintin - survivor of two brain tumors and surgeries, passed away earlier this year after a third tumor diagnosis. Gigi – a breast cancer fighter, passed away on May 31st. Both of the ladies had a smile that seemed to be their source of strength. Tintin was on of the first ladies I met at Bethune House, and she welcomed me in with her quiet spirit and deep laughs. Gigi was one of the bubbliest ladies I have ever met. She loved to laugh and sing and to make others happy.
They will both be deeply missed.
So sitting here, in Seattle, at another shelter, involved in another struggle, connecting to new lives, hearing other stories, more laughter and tears, I remember. I find myself connected to two places at once and marvel that I am not torn, but fulfilled. Though sadness is a part of this moment, there is joy in having known these beautiful women, and joy in knowing there is so much more to come.
The value in reading
*Just a fair warning. This post of chock full of judgment!!*
I haven’t been reading as much as I did last year, just seems to be a slow start to the year. Could be that I’m not spending as much time in airports this year. Could be that my fiance now lives in the same city. Whatever the case, my reading has diminished, and that’s a little sad for me, considering how much I love to read.
I met a guy a few weeks ago – one of those real sleezy guys that makes you want to shake your head and say, “I thought people like you only existed in daytime soap operas.” It so happened that because he was a business associate of my cousin who was in town, I had to spend a better part of an evening with this guy. He was loud, obnoxious and infuriating. It would be hard to pick the comment that I found most appalling, but this one definitely landed in the Top 5.
“So my kid, he’s like 14, and he reads all the f***ing time. I mean, come on, do something dude! I make fun of him all the time. He so didn’t take after me. I can count on one hand the number of books I’ve read in my entire life! I just don’t get him.”
I just stared at this man. Who mocks their kid for reading? Seriously? Now, I had been true to my Southern roots all night and ignored most of his asinine comments. I pretended to ignore his mockery of all things decent, and feigned losing count of the number of times he put down his wife. But mocking his child for reading, I couldn’t handle.
“Um, I read 32 books. Last year.” And I honestly didn’t care how pretentious I sounded. Shame on that man for mocking his son for reading. Shame on him for not setting a better example. And kudos to the kid for not taking after his dad. Call me judgmental, but good grief. I’m not saying everyone has to love reading as much as me, but puh-lease, don’t mock your own kid for goodness sake!
Reading for me is a release. It can be an escape from my day. Or it can me something to draw me closer to a certain history, or personality, or subject. I just finished reading, “The Piano Teacher.” A decently good story, but what really drew me in was the attention to describing the setting in Hong Kong. It made me miss my dear friends back in the city. It was a great reminder of my time there. Reading road names and hotels that I often passed helped me draw to mind particular faces that maybe I haven’t thought about in awhile. What a beautiful thing for a book to be able to do!
So read on kid, whoever you are. Escape if you need to.
The difference in a year
December 10th.
Three years ago today, I was living in Kentucky. I was a bartending seminarian. We were all anxiously waiting for the miraculous arrival of Mr. Asher Paul. I was in the beginning of a relationship that would eventually become THE relationship. I was anticipating graduation, enjoying snow and had a house full of dogs.
Two years ago today I was in Indonesia. It was a three week whirl-wind trip full of spicy food, bad air and incredible learning experiences. I was able to attend a UN Conference on Climate Change. I marched with indigenous peoples from all over Indonesia. A few weeks earlier I had attended a traditional Indonesian wedding, and spent time with the families of migrant workers.
One year ago today I was in Hong Kong. It was my final day in Hong Kong. I cannot begin to express what all I gained from my time there. I spent 15 months trying to blog about it, only to feel that I failed miserably at accurately conveying how meaningful and impressive every moment and individual was.
One year ago today I was in transition. Leaving my apartment before dawn, (and subsequently breaking my toe!), and ending the day in Japan.
One day. Over the span of three years. From Kentucky, to Indonesia, to Hong Kong, to Japan, to Seattle.
Last night my dad called. He asked what I was doing, and I said eating dinner. “Anyone with you?” he asked. “Of course not,” I replied. “I lead a pretty boring life.”
I think I need to retract that statement. My how time flies when you’re having fun; traveling the world; discovering what it means (and what it doesn’t mean) to be a missionary; watching friends get married and expand their families; falling in love; meeting new friends; saying goodbye to new and old friends; learning about migrant rights and issues surrounding homelessness…..
One Year Ago
My toenail fell off today. I was putting on my shoes this morning, and looked down, and there it was, hanging half off. Since I was running late for work this morning (what’s new), I put a band aid on it and headed off to work. Band aids fix everything, right? When I got home, I took a good look at it, and sure enough, it was ready to come off. Finally. I mean, it has only been, what? Ten months? Remember that? Ten months ago, at the butt-crack before dawn, I was pulling 15 months worth of luggage off the elevator and directly into my toe. I spent my time in Japan and California limping around with a broken toe. I assumed the toenail would fall off, but it never did. Until today. Let the healing begin.
Taking care of that toenail was an odd bit of final closure to my time overseas. It is the final, tangible bit of Asia that was left on me. I used to be able to look down at my foot, see that disgusting, bloodied toe, and laugh thinking about hobbling around Japan. It would remind me of that drasted elevator in my apartment building.
As much as I love my life in Seattle, I miss my life in Hong Kong. A lot actually. More than I thought I would. I could not be happier with where I am right now – where I work, preparing for Kris to move to Seattle, getting married….my life is very very good. But I miss my friends in Hong Kong. My sweet little church. The wonderful ladies of Bethune House and The Mission. I miss the food. Good Lord I miss the food!! The adventure of living and surviving overseas was a good fit for me. It is something I still crave – that sense of adventure. Of learning to navigate around in a foreign language.
I think back to where I was a year ago today. I look back on my blog, and this is where I was. Amazing what can change in a year. I will always look back on my time in Asia as more than just an experience. It really was shaping for me. Who I am today is due in part because of all that I learned in my 15 months in Asia. Those journeys, those experiences, the stories, the faces – they will never leave me. My work and my focus may have shifted, but my love for the people, my desire to help in the struggle, the desire to stand alongside those fighting for justice and equality – that will never fade.
All this, from a toe nail. Funny what makes us remember, huh?
Better late than never: A post about my time in Alabama
It has honestly not been that long since I have been out of the South. I guess it really depends on if you count Kentucky as the South. They don’t serve sweet tea in about half the restaurants, but have you heard their accents? So, not counting Kentucky (which, despite the lack of sweet tea, I do count as the South), I’ve been out of the South for exactly two years. And yet, even with such a short time away, it never ceases to take me off guard when I go back. The accents are what get me the most. They kind of make me giggle, sometimes they make me roll my eyes, but they always make me feel at home.
I pride myself on getting out of the Deep South without much of an accent. It comes out on occasion, but it is certainly not the first thing people notice about me. I do say very Southern quips like “y’all,” and “darlin’” A LOT, and I get teased for that. And more often than I’d like, my “I”s come out a little longer than I meant. (which always makes me think of Valerie making Alabama boys counting to niiiine. 
But back in the Deep South, places like Alabama and North Florida, it isn’t so much the accent, as the long drawl that is so defined, so unavoidable.
I first heard it on my layover in Memphis. To an outsider, I’m sure that all Southern drawls sound the same, but I can still classify Memphis from Montgomery; Louisville from Laurel; Decatur from Destin. There are subtle differences that remind me of the many areas around the South that I’ve lived in, or have family.
And the heat! Whew! Actually, not so much the heat as the humidity. It is amazing how quickly I have become acclimated to Seattle summer. I could use all the tired-old expressions about the Southern heat and humidity. How it “literally sucks your breath away,” or how walking outside is like “walking into a brick wall of humidity.” All true. It doesn’t matter how you try to prepare yourself for that kind of heat, it always takes you off guard.
Yet, these things, odd as it may seem, feel like home. Hard to decipher accents and overwhelming heat are what feel most like home. I love Seattle and the Pacific Northwest. I can see myself living here for a long time. But I guess it is true what they say, “You can take the girl out of the South, but you can’t take the South outta the girl.”
Whether I end up back there or not, the South will always be home. I may joke or even complain about it, but it is who I am. It is not the whole of who I am, but it is a part of me. Stephanie asked while I was there, “After all of your moving, where do you feel most at home?” It is a hard question to answer. I definitely feel at home in the South, but I think that has to do more with the feeling of familiarity, friends and family than anything else. Because I also feel at home in Seattle, a city that I am growing to love more and more every day. Parts of me also really miss Hong Kong. I felt at home in the work that I was doing there, in the church community that I found. I think that, for me, there will never be just one place that I feel most at home. It just isn’t possible. But how lucky am I to have such a variety of places in which I feel comfortable?
I use the same joke everytime that I stay with Brian and Stephanie, that no matter where I live, I feel most at home on their old worn out couch (which is no longer with them). I have spent more nights on their couch, in 3 different cities and twice as many houses. And it is true, the feeling of home for me can indeed come from familiar surroundings and thick accents, but more often than not, comes from the people I am around.
And so that is what my time in Alabama was. A weekend where I really nearly melted from the heat, yet was energized by the people I was around. It was a time of playing with my sweet godson, and walking with old friends. It was 4 days in which I felt at home. That is a hard feeling to leave.
Back in the saddle…er, kitchen
I’ve mentioned before that one of my goals in moving to Seattle was to learn to cook. Somehow I had missed out on that lesson in life, so teaching myself to cook in a city that thrives on local and organic foods seemed a wise choice. How’s it going you ask? So very tasty. I have set goals for myself to make one new meal a week, and for that meal, to use at least one local product. Not including the weeks I was traveling, I have met my goal every week. Of course, it helps that I have no children to tend to in the evenings, or friends to cause my to stray with offers of dinner out, but still, I’m impressed with myself.
I realized though that while I am loving learning to cook, I had been neglecting my baking. While in Hong Kong, the material object I missed the most was my mixer. Well, that and an actual-for-real kitchen. I missed baking. And while my beautiful mixer is still stored away in a garage in Florida, I have re-gathered or obtained many other baking necessities. This week, I set cooking aside and got back to my baking roots.
I started with Valerie’s scrumptious but incredibly STICKY Strawberry Cookies – with cherry chip substitute. (An aside: while the cherry chip cookies were yummy, I’ll stick with strawberry from here on out.) It was my friend’s birthday, and everyone deserves cookies in the mail for their birthday, right? I love these cookies because they are cheap and always a party favorite. What I do not like about these cookies is that they can easily burn the motor out on your hand mixer. Or, as evidenced below, will completely twist up your beaters.
<—YIKES!!
After the cookies, I decided to fall back on an old classic, and one of my favorites and specialties, an Apple Pie. We were having a staff meeting on Thursday, as well as celebrating our director’s birthday, not to mention that we had two boxes of leftover apples at the shelter. So Apple Pie seemed like a must have. I must say that it turned out beautifully.
Wednesday we are welcoming our new pastor, and I’ve been commissioned to make a “Welcome Cake!” On the 30th one of our social workers will be finishing her internship, and I’ll be making her “Goodbye Cake!”
Is it odd that I feel more complete when I’m baking?
Cooking up a storm
For most of my adult life, I have classified myself as a baker, not a cook. I have always been quick to joke, “why should I cook, when everyone cooks for me?” It was true. Growing up, my mother did all the cooking. (okay, yes, my father did make dinner on the rare occasions my mom was out of town. Breakfast for dinner every time.) In college, it was dining hall food (bleh), and then when Val and I shared an apartment it was – well, we were P-O-O-R. So we ate whatever was free or cheap. I remember a time that we dug for change under the mats of my car in order to split a value meal at McDonald’s. Yeah. But occasionally, when money would appear out of thin air, she would cook, and it was always beyond amazing and completely without the aid of a cookbook. While in seminary, I worked in a restaurant the entire four years, so food was always free or cheap. Then I started dating Kris, and yes, it was because he knew his way around the kitchen. That man can cook a gourmet meal without breaking a sweat, and is hot to boot. Seriously, what more does a girl need?! Then, living in Hong Kong, I ate at the shelter most days because, well, I didn’t even have a kitchen.
One of my goals in moving to Seattle was to learn to cook for myself, and to cook with locally bought items as often as possible. Local is no issue here, because this city is serious about promoting, supporting and making affordable local anything. I’ve seen local cheese, local wine, local beer, local fish. I’ve see local yarn, locally made guitars, even locally made birthday cards. This is no joke. So, I can buy local. Now the real question is, Can I cook?
Turns out, I don’t suck at cooking. For most of my independent adult life, I thought I did. Honestly, I thought I was a nightmare in the kitchen. When all I really needed was just a little confidence and time to explore. So far, I’ve made pizza where even the crust was from scratch and all of the produce on top was locally grown. I made a to-die-for salad with grilled chicken the other night that was seriously some kind of incredible. Last night I made pita fajitas.
I find that not only am I enjoying the food I’m making, but I’m enjoying the time and energy it takes to cook. I love finding new recipes, and get excited shopping for all the right ingredients. There is anticipation over my meal as it simmers on the stove. And when I finish, I feel that I have eaten healthier and accomplished something of worth in making my own dinner from scratch.
So my continued challenge to myself is to make one new meal a week. (I seem to remember someone else with a similar goal In these meals I have to use at least one local product. I’ll try to keep you updated as I go (though it will not be anything as extensive as Val’s food blog).
Who knew? I can cook!
Missing Hong Kong
Friday night I was trying to make my way out to a co-worker’s house. I had to take a bus route that I had not yet taken, and was diligently paying attention to the road signs and passing stores, watching for my landmark. Across the aisle from me, two women sat chatting away in another language. I strained my ear toward them, to see if I could catch what language they were speaking. To my great surprise, I heard them speaking Tagalog – the Philippine language. Excited that I could recognize what language they were speaking, I started paying more attention to the two women than to my approaching landmark. I could pick out parts of their conversation. The older woman’s concern for her son. The second woman complaining about her long work hours. I wanted to talk to these women. To greet them in Tagalog. But I was scared, and I let my fear keep me from speaking to these strangers with the familiar language. As they got off the bus, I found myself a little sad and disappointed in myself for not speaking to them. I also found myself a little lost.
In paying attention to the women rather than the road, I had missed my stop by a good ten minutes. I moved towards the front and the bus driver confirmed that I had indeed missed my stop. “Not to worry though. We are about to loop around, and you will be back again in about 20 minutes.” I called Rachel to let her know what happened, and settled in for the rest of the journey. There were only three people remaining on the bus at this time, the bus driver and myself up front, and an older gentleman towards the back, sound asleep. Earlier, when the Filipino women had gotten off the bus, I had heard them speaking to the bus driving in Tagalog as well. So I pushed myself to ask the bus driver, “Are you Filipino?” She was. I was so excited. I began sharing with her about how I had been to the Philippines, and had worked in Hong Kong with Filipino domestic workers. I asked about her, where she from in the Philippines, what brought her to America.
She came from Pangasinan, and was impressed that I knew where that even was. The youngest of 11 children, she has been in the States for 30 years. She has 2 sisters working as domestic workers in Saudi Arabia, 3 in Hong Kong, and one in Canada. Her parents were farmers who left their land looking for work in Manila. The story of so many in the Philippines. When her father couldn’t find work, the family moved back to the farm, where her parents still remain. It has been over 10 years since she has been home.
When we had reached my stop (again), I got off the bus, thanking my new friend in Tagalog. “Salamat!” And felt a twinge of homesickness for Hong Kong.
Sunday afternoon, my landlord Barbara and I spent most of the day volunteering at the set up of a new apartment building for homeless and mentally ill men and women. We took a break for lunch and walked across the street to a small local diner. When we walked inside, I noticed everywhere signs of the Philippines. Straw mats, Philippine Idol playing on the T.V., a bamboo flute with Baguio City painted on it. A Philippine restaurant in South Seattle! I was so excited. As our young waiter handed us our menus, I went over all the best items with Barbara, recommending my favorites. She ended up going with Pansit – egg noodles with soy sauce and chopped veggies. I got one of my all time favorite Philippine dishes, Chicken Adobo with a glass of fresh calamansi juice. I was in heaven.
There were times working with nearly all Filipinios, and after spending a full month of eating nothing but Filipino food while visiting the Philippines, that I did get tired of their national dishes. (as one would with anything they eat too much of) But after nearly 3 months of being away, I had never been so excited to have Filipino food for lunch!!
I love being here in Seattle. And I am so thankful to be in a place that is closer to home and my loved ones. But I miss Hong Kong (well, the people there, not the city itself.) I miss working at the Mission and the Bethune House. I miss my wonderful Filipino and Indonesian co-workers. I miss their beautiful culture lived out in music, dance, language and food.
This weekend, I had two chance encounters with a culture I adore. It made me realized how incredibly lucky I am to have had the experiences I did in Hong Kong. Now if only I can find a place that serves dunaguan.
Seattleite
Today is the first day it has rained since I’ve been here. And it really only rained for a couple of hours, just drizzle, nothing too serious. I take that to be a good sign. This week, other than being cold, was absolutely beautiful! We had quite a few sunny and clear days. Even in the winter, this city is beautiful. I live on a ridge, right smack in between the Cascade Mountains and the Olympic Mountains. On the clear days, when I’m walking the couple of blocks to my bus stop, I have a grand view of the snow capped mountains that surround me, and it is beyond breath taking. I keep thinking to myself, “How is this my life? How am I this lucky?”
After only two weeks in, I am already falling in love with this city. I have to admit that while I have loved every place I have lived, I have never loved a city. In the past, it has always been about the relationships formed, the experiences I’ve had in the various Southern states I’ve lived in. But here, before relationships have yet formed, I have already connected to this city. I can’t explain it properly. There is just a…spirit to this city that I’ve connected with. I don’t know any other way to describe it. I can’t lay my finger on what it is that make Seattle so wonderful.
Seattle is so many things that Hong Kong is not – in a good way. While I adored my time in Hong Kong, I DID NOT like the city itself. It was smelly, crowded, polluted, hot. Seattle smells like coffee and lavender. I don’t know yet what the population is here, but I have not once been pushed of the sidewalk or run into someone’s back because of the crowds. I can walk down the sidewalk and look around and breathe.
It would seem that everyone here has a dog! The majority of the people I see walking around my neighborhood are walking their dog(s). And every one smiles at each other, whether they know each other or not, as they pass by. When people get off the bus they thank the bus driver. And are sincere about it! It is Southern hospitality at it’s best! It is said that Seattle has the cleanest air in the country, and I believe it. I have not once blown my nose and it come out black (as it did nearly EVERY day in Hong Kong). It makes walking so much more enjoyable.
One thing that is similar between Hong Kong and Seattle though, which I am thankful for, is diversity. The women who come to the center range all ages, economic statuses, sexualities, races and religions. I can walk down two blocks and pass 5 restaurants from various ethnicities. And it isn’t just Chinese food here, they have Schezwan. It isn’t just Indian. It is Pakistani and Bangladesh. There is Santa Fe and then there is Mexican. And there is no lack of Greek restaurants. Where do I start?
I could go on and on (not just about the food, because I haven’t even started on the local foods!), but I just wanted to say that I’m comfortable here. I feel like I fit in. I honestly cannot say that I have ever felt this way about a location before. It makes me excited for the relationships that will surely come as I continue to settle in.
Re-immersion
I’ve been back for almost two months now. It is so hard to believe that much time has gone by since I was last in Asia. I don’t need to tell you in 2 or 3 succinct sentences about how my time in Hong Kong really was wonderful and challenging and growing and scary and all of those other things. You’ve been reading (hopefully), and so I don’t have to express to you that of course I am going to miss many aspects of living overseas. It really was an incredible, life-changing experience that I would not trade for anything. At the same time, I am glad to be home. Whatever and wherever home is. Before leaving Hong Kong, I had prepared myself for the inevitable reverse culture shock that would certainly befall me upon landing back in America. I had been through it before, and I know how incredibly difficult that can be.
When I was 16, I took my first major overseas trip, the first without either of my parents. I spent 3 weeks in Uganda, Africa on a mission trip. I absolutely fell in love with everything about my time there. The culture, the food, the people, the land, the music. I didn’t want to leave. In my heart, that was home. In a concrete room without running water or electricity; where we were threatened once by an elephant stampede and drank warm milk directly from the goat – I was home. Coming back to America everything seemed so….grand. Overdone. Trite. To top it off, our church was in the midst of a very serious leadership change that was devastating to many people, and the man who had been our leader in Africa suddenly left without even saying goodbye. That left our little rag-tag Africa group confused and without any leadership for dealing with reverse culture shock. So we each learned to manage on our own. I went through a period where I was angry. I found so many things about my home culture to hate, having seen such immense poverty. The wastefulness I found common in my own life shocked me, remembering how everything was a well-used resource in Uganda. For a long time, it was painful to be in America, and it was hard to call it home. But eventually, I re-immersed myself, and found things to love again. I became a part of my own culture once again. Changed. Redefined.
So, I expected a bit of this same kind of shock upon returning from Hong Kong. After all, I had only be in Uganda for 3 weeks, how much worse would it be after 15 months abroad!? Imagine my confusion when that reverse culture shock never hit. I kept waiting, expecting it to happen. Almost willing it to come, so I could just get it over with and move on with my life. I was waiting in limbo for a transition that just wouldn’t come. I started to become a little worried, and almost disappointed, that it never came. In Atlanta, I listened to my fellow Minterns talk about the difficulties of being home, of the frustrations of not being understood by their families. I empathetically watched them shed tears over feeling displaced in their own culture, of being torn between two homes. I had been there. And though it didn’t happen this time, it doesn’t mean I don’t know that pain. As I began to realize that perhaps RCS wasn’t going to hit, I started to be thankful. A smooth transition (if there is such a thing) is a blessing. Who knows why I didn’t experience many of the same emotions as before. One can only speculate.
I did however, learn something very important. I can be in more than one place at once. In Hong Kong, I was in my element – work wise. With all the traveling, rallying, photography and relationships built. That job was one that will be the measuring stick for all other jobs I ever have. But at the same time, I was out of my element in that I was away from those I loved most. While I created new and beautiful relationships in Hong Kong and other parts of Asia, my heart was back here. And for that reason, I couldn’t wait to get home. Now that I am here, surrounded by family and friends who mean the world to me, I do find myself missing the work environment I left in Hong Kong. I yearn to be productive and active, to be working for an organization that is making a difference. A part of my heart is still there. And that is okay, I left it there on purpose.
My dear friend Abby talked about being afraid of losing “the voices in my head.” The beautiful voices that belonged to the beautiful people she connected with so strongly in Grenada. And Alycia reminded us that “the voices don’t leave us, they just become a part of a bigger and louder chorus.”
So to the voices in Uganda, in Hong Kong, in Kentucky, in Florida and for those I will begin to connect with in Seattle, begin your beautiful harmonies. Sing loud, so I may not forget. Sing strong, so as to be heard. Sing together, so that the strands of my life may continue to become an ever changing sound of pure beauty.
Happy New Year
It is hard to believe that it is a whole new year. (Don’t we all say that, every year? I think so.) But it is true. This time last year I was celebrating with the Bethune House women, then home on skype celebrating on the New Years between Hong Kong time and East Coast time with my funny friend David. Now here I am, back in Kentucky (for the week at least), ringing in the new year with some of my closest and dearest friends (and of course the wonderful boy).
It has been an amazing year, full of travel, lots of learning, new friends and of course, challenges along the way. But I can honestly stand here today (and I am actually standing as I write this, as my laptop is on the ironing board….ah to be a visitor), and I can say that I am beyond pleased with this past year. I made a point to enjoy life, to learn as much from as many people as I could, and I feel I accomplished those goals. I also wanted to make last year a year of learning about my Identity. Who am I? Why am I here? You know, life’s simple questions. And I do feel that I have a better idea of who I am, and where I belong; lessons learned through the hard times of finding out who I was not.
I am looking forward to 2009, and the challenges and suprises it brings. I cannot wait to start the year off in a new city, and hope the year is full of visits from and/or to dear friends and family, hopefully a little bit of travel, and many new experiences. So, whatever time zone you are currently celebrating in, I wish you and yours a wonderful and safe time of celebration, and all the best in the New Year!
A Simple Christmas
Every year, my home church has a special program they use the Sunday before Christmas called “A Simple Christmas.” During the service, Brother David (our pastor) talks about the meaning of Christmas, what the birth of Christ meant for the world and for us as individuals. He talks about each piece of the Christmas story and its significance in our lives now. As he talks about the proclamation of the angels, sweet children dressed in white robes and tinsel halos appear behind the pulpit. As the choir sings, a young couple donning earth toned robes and head coverings slowly make their way down the aisle and sit in the front. While the pianist plays a haunting rendition of We Three Kings, men in brightly colored robes and funny hats walk up, stifling smiles as they peer from the corner of their eyes at their giggling children in the pews. This year, while my sister sang a song about the irony of a baby being a King, another angel walks in carrying a baby Jesus (sometimes real, sometimes just a doll if the real baby has decided the acting life is not for her after all). Brother David takes a different theme each year and uses testimonies from members of the church. This year the theme was Faithfulness and 8 people, myself included, got up and talked for just a few minutes about ways that we had experienced the Faithfulness of God. The stories ranged from a young girl whose life was spared after a tragic car accident, a couple who found love again after both of their spouses had died, a divorced woman with three young children finding a way to provide for her family, a young missionary assisting migrants with legal aide and realizing that they had much in common.
The service is a beautiful and unique one. A break from the norm of sermons and hymns. There is an anticipation in the air, as everyone waits for the final swell of music. There is a sense of awe that can be seen on the faces of the congregation at the sight of a simple setting, people they know well, playing parts of the Christmas story without words. Listening to the testimonies of others and to the words of Brother David, remembering (or for some, learning for the first time) the story of Christmas, of the significance of the birth of Jesus.
A Simple Christmas. One without all the fuss and consumerism that has taken over this beautiful tradition. And though the service is a production, a rehearsed scene, there is meaning behind it. Not just for the people watching and listening, but for these involved. And it goes beyond the service. For me, A Simple Christmas doesn’t mean that I forgo giving presents to my family. It doesn’t mean that I don’t participate in the huge meals (the eating or the cleaning up), or flip my nose at festive parties and gatherings. It just means that beyond all of that, there is a deeper meaning. It is always a struggle to fight through the traffic, the corny Christmas music that can ruin a perfectly good holiday cheer, staying up late to wrap last minute presents. But in the struggle, beyond the struggle, it is always important for me to remember. Watching my family interact and joke around, listening to my father read a familiar passage from Luke on Christmas Eve right before we go to bed, the sense of solmenness as my entire extended family on my mother’s side gathers on Christmas Eve at my grandfather’s church for communion, waking up to smells of blueberry muffins and extended family gathered around the breakfast table.
This year is a particularly special Christmas for my family for a few reasons. I am back home from Hong Kong. I spent last Christmas overseas, away from my family. Through the miracle of Skype, I was able to see and talk to them, but it was hard to be away. So there is much joy in being home for this special occasion. This Christmas also marks the last Christmas my family will experience in our current status. My sister is getting married in March, and though Scott has been a part of our family for years, it will be strange next Christmas to wake up and have to wait for my sister and her husband to drive over for breakfast. And finally, as many of you already know, Christmas is a double day of celebration for my family, as it is also my brother’s birthday! This year my little brother is turning 18. It is hard to believe that the little baby who “interrupted Christmas morning” for my sister and I 18 years ago is all grown up.
A Simple Christmas. Spent at home. Remembering. Being thankful. Being blessed. Passing on blessings and cheer. A Merry Simple Christmas to all chose to celebrate.
Last day
Today is my last day in Hong Kong. Kris and I fly out eaaaaarly tomorrow morning. (we are leaving so early, we have to take the NIGHT bus to get to the airport on time! gross) I am mostly packed (stop laughing), all of my stuff is shipped off, and now its just a matter of saying those last goodbyes and moving on.
Kris has been here since Friday, and I’ve been trying to cram 15 months of Hong Kong into 4 days. Quite a feat. We’ve been running all over the city, I’ve been introducing him to pretty much every person I’ve ever talked to, and we have made it a goal to eat a different ethnicity of food for each meal. It is great having Kris here, showing him bits and pieces of my life in Hong Kong. I think he may be a little overwhelmed, but at least he is managing his jetlag well.
Last night was my going away party at the shelter. It was sad to say goodbye to all the girls there. They have really made my time here worth it all. We had a great time eating (Kris tried my favorite Filipino dish – Donagoan – a pork dish made with….well, you probably don’t want me to tell you what is in it!), they all sang karaoke (notice the they, as I did not), and I even danced! (yeah, it was ridiculous) There were probably thousands of pictures taken (mostly on cell phones) and everyone loved Kris. It is just a little hard to believe that my time here is done. The 15 month stretch is over, and in just over a week I’ll be home.
We fly out tomorrow for Japan for 4 days, then on to California for a few days to see Kris’ brother. Then its home for Christmas!! Hope to see most of you Stateside soon!
Bleh
What I hate the most about packing is not the time it takes. Or the organization involved. Or the money inevitably spent. I really don’t even mind the beginning stages of packing. It is the end stages of packing that I hate the most. The part where I have to start taking down my pictures from the walls. When I have to put away candles and my Willow Tree angles that make my shelves look sweet and homey. Or taking down my collection of activist posters to be rolled up in the shipping tube. It is removing the last details that I actually lived here that are the hardest. The removing all evidence of myself from a place where I spent so much time. It makes me think of the Patty Griffin lyrics:
So I’m wearing my footsteps into this floor
One day I won’t live here anymore
Someone will wonder who lived here before
and went on their way
I live too many miles from the ocean
and I’m getting older and odd
I get up every morning with a black cup of coffee
and I talk to the mother of God
Now, excuse me if the following reflections are sappy and possibly a bit cheesy, but I’m just in one of those moods.
Over the last 15 months I have made little touches that have helped to make this little 300 sqft hole my home. The cards sent for birthdays and Christmas, the magnets on my fridge from the places I’ve traveled, my books that lined the built-in shelf; these things are representative of people I love, places I’ve been, experiences I’ve had. And while I recognize that they are only things, it is still hard to pack them away, even if for only a short while. Taking down the bits and pieces that made this place my home is harder than I thought it would be. My time here has not always been easy, and I know that I have expressed on more than one occasion how I am not a huge fan of Hong Kong the city. Yet, I have grown to really enjoy my life here, the people I interact with on a daily basis, and the work we engage in together.
To all things there is a season, this I know to be true. And this season is very quickly drawing to a close. I am saying my goodbyes and trying to get the final boxes packed and shipped before Kris gets here (tomorrow!) While I am sad to pack it away, to move on, I am excited to take this life with me. I know that it is not something I am simply leaving behind. My time here will define me for years to come. So as I wrapped the final picture frames and store away the earring collection supplemented through gifts from clients, I know that wherever I go next, it is not just the things that are going with me; but the lessons, the stories, the memories, the experiences. And that is not something you can just pack away and ship off.
I need my mom
When I was preparing to move to Hong Kong, there was a ridiculous amount of packing to be done. I had to pack up my house in Kentucky, but I only moved it out to the garage, as my roommate and my boyfriend were staying in the house. Then I had to figure out what I thought I’d be taking to Hong Kong, and throw it in my car to take to Florida, where I was staying with my family the month before I left. The week before, my mother, bless her heart, packed me up. This amazing woman packed 15 months into two suitcases.
Now, it is time to come home. It is 15 month and 6 countries later. And I seriously need my mom. My flat is a WRECK right now. I can’t decide what to take, I have an unhealthy addiction to books and I have not figured out yet what is a reasonable amount to spend on shipping. I will be doing a lot of traveling in order to get back home, so I’d like to try to manage with only one suitcase and just ship the rest home. But man, packing is a bore. And I am no good at this game.
Hiking the mountain in my holiday boots
I have a pair of boots that I love. And being a flip-flop girl until there is snow on the ground, it means a lot when I say I love a pair of anything close-toed. I love these boots. I couldn’t tell you how long I’ve had them, maybe 6 years. Maybe 7? They make me feel grown up and fancy. The clicking sound the heels make as I walk down the sidewalk make me feel important, and the fact that they are knee-high boots make me feel cool. So because I love these boots so dearly, I am sure to wear them for all of the important holidays that warrant close-toed shoes. Like Thanksgiving.
Okay, there was no snow on the ground. I’d be surprised if the temperatures dipped below 50 degrees. But I had my boots on, and it was a day worth celebrating. I adore Thanksgiving. It is undoubtedly my favorite holiday of the year. Last year, Thanksgiving was sad. I was still fairly new to Hong Kong, I didn’t know many people, and had nowhere to go. So tofu it was. But this year, my holiday boots and I had a lovely day. My boots took me to work in the morning, to a wonderful interfaith service in the afternoon, and then up the mountain (well, at least up a little ways) to my dear friends home. We spent the afternoon cooking and baking, enjoying each other’s company, and being silly and giddy over our love of all things Thanksgiving. Dinner was shared with a German family and a Canadian. The Canadian friend had never had sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top. I asked her why they even bothered with sweet potatoes if there were no marshmallows?! We had two turkeys, the world’s most amazing cornbread stuffing (that I could not get the recipe for – darn family secrets!), cranberries, ratatouille, and 4 pumpkin pies. Oh! And a delicious apple cake. That’s why we invited the Germans – because their apple cake was beyond yummy.
As we sat around the table, outside under the trees, enjoying the night breeze (err, high winds that sent our empty plates flying), going around the table saying what we were thankful for, I realized I was thankful for that very moment. To be in a place, surrounded by people who would feed me and make me laugh, people who listen to my opinions, and urge me to go back to the dessert table for seconds. To be with people who appreciated this beautiful holiday as much as I do. It made me excited to return home, to be with family and friends. To continue in celebrating, and eating, and being thankful. And I am thankful, for this whole experience. For the people that I have met along the way, who have made Hong Kong a little more bearable. I’m thankful for places of respite and beauty outside of the hustle of the city. The whole of this experience has been as much challenging as it has been incredible. And I am as much thankful for my time here as I am thankful to be returning home soon.
Oh! And leftovers! I am really thankful for leftovers. Particularly turkey.
Thoughts on family
Tonight, I introduced my roommate to tacos. Never in her life had she even heard the word taco, until she met me. She is leaving tomorrow for a month exposure in Malyasia, so for our last night together as roommates, we decided to celebrate with Taco Tuesday. We gathered a few of our friends, unfolded our tiny table, made chairs out of the laptop stand, and covered the table with a great array of taco-toppings. It felt wonderful to be at a table, surrounded with friends new and old, watching as they learned of the wonderful and delicous world that is Mexican food. (Or as my roommate put it, “Mexican food, cooked by an American, served in Asia.) Turns out, 2 out of 2 Indonesians, and 1 out of 1 Singaporians like tacos. Hurray! Now the world is a slightly better place.
As we passed around 2nd and 3rd helpings of quagamole and soft shells, our conversation turned to family. I sat and listened as two of my friends spoke of families, particularly of mothers, who showed them little or no affection growing up. The lament in their voices as they could not recall ever being told “I love you” as a child, or of having a mother kiss her 4 siblings goodnight, and purposely miss her eager cheek every night, was nothing short of tragic. I cannot imagine growing up in a family where partiality was so obvious, where love was purposely withheld. It made my heart well up with sadness for what they did not, but should have, had.
And then my other two friends began talking about their families, and the community that actually makes up their family. One spoke of how it is hard for her to sleep here, because in her home, she is so used to the noise of brothers watching football until 2 in the morning, women in the kitchen and chickens in the yard. Whole extended families will all live under the same roof, and it is nothing unusal for a child to sleep in the same bed as their mother until secondary school, or for siblings to share a bed until they graduate. One friend spoke of her favorite memory in Hong Kong thus far: the day she recieved her first pay check and was able to send money home to her mother. Not just a portion of her hard earned money, but nearly the entire check was sent home. It was a source of pride and an expression of love for her to be able to provide for the mother she adores. And again, my heart welled with sadness. I will never know the necessity of having to support my family like that. I cannot imagine what the day would look like, were my father to come to me for money. I pray I never do. But the sense of community that is found in the type of family she was speaking of is virtually unknown in my culture. We pride independence, privacy. Each has its own place. Neither culture is better than the other. Just different. I think that our culture could benefit very much from the community as family and family as community mentality.
I know that it is not Thanksgiving yet, but I believe that it is never too early to be thankful. And so, I am reminded tonight, why I love my family. I love them for the rare early mornings where all 5 of us are cuddled in my parent’s bed, even though we are all too grown to fit, pushing for covers and cris-crossing legs and giggles. I love the moments around the table, sharing of our days, laughing at one another’s stories, offering advice, whether it was asked for or not. I love that my mother creates holiday boxes for me, full of decorations for every season. I love that my father will secretly encourage me to buy a motorcycle when I return to the States, though he has to go on record as siding with my mother that they are “too dangerous.” I love my sister for trying to follow in my footsteps and yet create her own path at the same time; for the way that made us stark enemies for years, and dear friends as of late. I love my brother for fighting the norm, for his expression through music, as loud and screamy as it may be. And of course, there is the extended family: the aunts and uncles and countless cousins. We gather for holidays, for birthdays and sometimes, just because. I recognize how rare it is to have a family so close. I keep in regular contact with the great majority of my cousins, and we always have a grand time together. Gatherings are of full of food, stories that have been told a million times before, Trivial Pursuit and lots of love. We dote on the youngest and tease the oldest.
When we are all together, we bicker, we argue, we push each other’s buttons; but there is no doubt that we treasure our times together. Being with my family is a source of comfort and joy. As I listened to my friends tonight, speaking of families as they were mere strangers, it broke my heart. I wish for everyone the kind of joy of being with family as I feel. I have long taken for granted the privilidge of being fully loved by my family – something I always thought should be a right.
Submission Day
I do not want to cheapen the proceedings of today. Or the past 7 months. I don’t want to cheapen everything by writing about it, trying to spin it elequently enough to be considered a decent post. I don’t want to manipulate words to seek out pity, sorrow, or even justified outrage. Those emotions have been felt, and expressed, despite of and beyond my own efforts to inform. Yet, at the same time, this is a story that needs to be told, that needs to not be forgotten so easily. And inasmuch as I want to do this story justice, as much as I want to properly convey the depth and emotions of this whole situation, I want to be cautious not to make this about the story. It is about Vicky.
How do you hope on a day like today? What form does hope take? A word that the American culture has accepted as its icon. A word so liberally thrown around that it is on the verge of losing its meaning. Yes, I was proud that my nation was reaching out for hope, for change. And I continue to pray that it comes to fruition. But to see a word with such deep and profound meaning used as a campaign slogan was a bit disconcerting. And on a day like today, it makes you wonder, what kind of hope does one ask for in a situation like this? Vicky is already dead. There is no taking that back. After months of fighting, the migrant and concerned communities achieved a piece of justice. This inquest was not something given to the family, but that had to be fought for every step of the way. But even with that goal achieved, that battle won, there was still little good to be hoped for. What ever decision came down today at the submission would not bring Vicky back. It would probably do little to help the loved ones left behind begin to heal. But they were at least hoping for the possibility, the slim hope, of an answer.
There are many things that I could say about the inquest itself. I could criticize the proceedings, point out the obvious faults and the ways that, even as justice was being sought, it was unequal. How this major decision was being decided by a jury that would be the opposite of Vicky’s peers. But instead, I would rather talk about how I was amazed by Irene, Vicky’s sister, who attended the hearing as next of kin. The strength of having to listen to, defend and at times dispute the details of her sister’s life, as well as her death, is a strength that is beyond my imagination. Through the coroner, the former employer, the relatives, the friends and the supposed boyfriend, Irene listened, along with the rest of the court and public, to the details of a sister who had left home 11 years ago to work abroad. Irene listened to women she had only recently met speak of eating meals with her sister every day, or of the walks she would take each afternoon with neighborhood collegues. And sometimes, those details from the witnesses were not pretty. Remembered conversations that did not paint Vicky in the best light. The words of a witness that seemed to hold little truth in comparision to all of the other character witnesses. In fact, that particular woman’s testimony was called hearsay, but because this was coroner’s court, not civil court, it was allowed. Comments and speculations by one woman seemed to overshadow all the other facts and realities of Vicky’s life. Out of 24 witnesses, this one woman had the power to instill doubt as to the stability of Vicky’s mind.
As the verdict was returned this afternoon, we listened, half-astonished, half-numb, as the foreman read out, “Circumstance of injury sustained: Drowning. Consideration as to cause of death: Suicide.” There was hope for an open verdict, which would allow of the possibility of an accidental death. Everyone knew that the ruling of Suicide was a possibility. It was just one we were not willing to entertain. And even now that it has been written in the official records, it is still not one Irene and others are willing to believe.
“They may say it was suicide, but I just don’t believe that can be true. If Vicky really wanted to kill herself, why did she have to travel so far? Why not just do it in her room? Or in the bay near the house. It just doesn’t make sense, and I refuse to believe it.” Irene said after the trial. Tomorrow, the Discovery Bay Community will meet to discuss how far they have come, and what their next steps are. Of everything that has happened, the unity of this community, made up of migrant workers and employers, a true miracle. A blessing that will serve the DB community for years to come.
There is no need to continue to speculate. Further speculation will only serve to take attention away from the person Vicky was. We do not want to focus on who Vicky is in death, but who she was in life.
Today
Today is the submission of the inquest – meaning, the ruling. So, say your prayers, think your good thoughts. Apparently yesterday was not a good day, and opposing counsel was able to plant some seeds of doubt to Vicky’s mental state of mind.
For updates, please continue to read here.
A new day….
Today was an experience that I would never wish on anyone. Ever. Unfortunately, I know that is a wish that just simply cannot come true. Today was a day spent in the coroner’s court.
This past April, domestic helper, Philippine migrant, beloved daughter, sister and friend, Vicky Flores was found dead in Tung Chung Bay. The circumstances surrounding her death were very suspicious, and had it not been for the diligent action of the migrant community and Discovery Bay community, her case would have been shelved in “Miscellaneous Inquiries.” Her death, an unfortunate drowning, was a case that should not have had the easy ruling and closing the police first gave it. The friends, families and supporters of Vicky Flores rallied together, calling for a “thorough, impartial and transparent investigation.” Through many setbacks and disappointments at the hands of the government, police station and Philippine Consulate, the Inquest into the death of Vicky Flores is finally underway. I was unable to attend yesterday’s hearing, as I was at the Labour Tribunal, but I was able to make it today. Eight witnesses were called to speak to the case. The police officer who declared Vicky dead on the scene was efficient, monotone. The coroner affirmed that the cause of death could conclusively be deemed a drowning, adding that no internal or external injuries that could be classified as occuring pre-mortum were found. A handful of Vicky’s friends and family members gave testimony to the strong, loving and “talkative” person Vicky was. Friends talked about her past boyfriends and Vicky’s complaints regarding her employment. Her aunt and cousin recalled having to identify her body. The details of day were overwhelming, depressing, heartbreaking, but necessary. The hearing will continue on this week. Today ended with only half of the statement from witness 19, with 6 more witnesses to go.
We continue to ask and pray for transparency, answers and justice for Vicky.
For more information and further updates, please go here.
In which I rant and rave
Today was just one of those days. One of those, “Don’t cross me” days. You know the kind. I’m not really sure what spurred it. Maybe because it is (was) Monday. Maybe because my irritations are stemming from the fact that my life is about to be uprooted again, and I’m nervous. Or maybe it is just because it was one of those days.
Regardless. It is. Was. And everything was set to rub me the wrong way. Which is a bum deal when you work in the business of social justice. Sitting in court today I had the very strong urge to thump the interpreter in the head. Violent, I know. But trust me, she deserved it. And don’t even get me started on the the judge. A menacing little man with an evil grin and even more evil disposition. How a man who hates people as much as he does got into the business of court conciliation is beyond me. He is beyond prejudice. He is equally hateful to all people. I don’t know if that consistency is supposed to be comforting or not? Every time I end up in his court, I groan. I really despise this man and his beady little eyes and condescending attitude. He is the one judge that I refused to follow the Chinese tradition of bowing for. He just flat out doesn’t deserve that kind of respect.
And then, during the court break, I went back to the Bethune House to grab a quick lunch and a few minutes of quiet. Of course, being one of those days, that wasn’t going to happen. While eating, one of the clients wanted me to edit her statement. And normally, I have no problem at all to work while I’m eating (or vise versa), because my days are typically so relaxed. But for some reason, today, that really set me the wrong way. It took a lot of restraint not to snap at her. After I finished lunch, as I was editing her statement and claims sheet, I realized that not only had the courts decided to use new formulas for calculations (formulations that end up equaling less than before), but they had also made a mistake in her claims. A $200 mistake. Oh, then I just went off. Poor girl, I think I caught her a little of guard. But I wasn’t yelling at her. Mostly just ranting at the computer and the claims sheet. I’m pretty sure I called the Labour Department a moron. Yes, the whole department. This obvious mistake, had it not been caught, would have denied this girl one of the fundamental contractual rights. So I used her new claims sheet to set the record straight. Let’s just say there were italics used. I think they’ll get my point.
Then, I rush back to court. Only for the judge to be 40 minutes late. Seriously? I already don’t like you, and now you are going to be late? In the end, my client settled her case. And I was so glad. Because I say that I don’t have any favorites at work (ha!), but if I did, I’m sorry to say, she wouldn’t be one of them. I don’t know what it is, I guess our personalities just don’t match, but man she gets under my skin. With all the clients I have helped over my time here, I don’t think I can say that about many of them at all. But this one lady in particular just knew how to push my buttons. (Namely by not listening to the very advice she asked me for, thus making her case longer and more difficult.) But it is finished. And though I spent the entire day in court, it is over.
I’ll tell you what, having one of those days in a work environment like this is a bad combination. Because every injustice, every mistake and every prejudice becomes a soap box for me to stand on. I won’t here. Because I have in the past. But just know that my restraint only means that I’m just tired and ready for bed, and ready to put this day behind me.
Oh! Also! Who in their right mind decides that 11:30pm is a good time to practice piano? My upstairs neighbor. That is who. Either they need to start playing lullabies or they are likely to hear me pounding on their door real soon!
The new countdown
It is that time again. Where my life is getting ready to shift, and everything boils down to a countdown. My life in constant motion. It is hard to describe, this feeling of leaving, starting over (again) and saying goodbye. It is never easy. No matter how many times I do this, I never seem to learn the trick.
Actually, I never learn any of the tricks. Not just how to make the goodbyes easier, but you would think after more than a decade on the move, I would have gotten better at this packing thing. Or at least learned that it is always better to start early! I’ll admit, my mom packed me up for Hong Kong. And she did a darn good job. 15 months in two suitcases. Impressive. I asked if she’d fly over to help pack me for home. She just laughed. What’s so funny? Because now, I have 15 months, plus 7 countries worth of stuff. Stuff. Goodies for Christmas, treasures and mementos and such. But still, stuff. Sigh. How do I do this every time? Accumulate way more than I meant to?
Kris will be here in 19 days. Not that I’m counting or anything. But seriously – if any one out there is thinking of doing the long distance thing without seeing each other for 15 months, don’t. We made it. But sometimes only barely. And it was not fun. I’m beyond blessed to have an incredibly supportive and patient man. But dude, so would not do that again. I can’t wait to see him, and show him my life in Hong Kong.
In 24 days, I’ll be heading to the Hong Kong airport for the last time. (Why, oh why did I have to book a 7:30am flight?! Seriously, you’d like to think I had learned something in all my years of travel!) I can’t believe it is almost over. While I am beyond ready to get home, to eat my weight in Mexican food, to spend Christmas with my family, to see my dog (Hank! I’m coming!), to drive a car, walk on my favorite beach, see my friends, give hugs to all the church ladies who have been sending me cards and prayers….While I am ready for all of that, I’m not ready for what I’ll have to leave behind to get those things.
The thought of leaving behind the work here, my co-workers, the women in the shelter, my church. Heartbreaking. I just cannot say it enough, but I absolutely love my job. I adore my co-workers. They never cease to keep me laughing. And they are great encouragers and teachers. Dedicated to their work, to the movement, to justice. I am honored to have spent the last 15 months working along side of them. When I am old, this will be one of those experiences I look back on in awe, and that will mostly be because of the people I worked with. And the women. Oh, the Bethune House women. Though they are a migrant bunch, though the faces have changed over my time here, they all have something in common. Hope. Determination. Compassion. And there are a few who have been in the shelter my entire time. They were here before I arrived, and sadly, they will be here long after I leave. Their cases are dragging on, and though their hope wavers from time to time, it never falters. What an inspiration they have been.
As much as I talk about work, I realize that I have not mentioned my church much. Which is a shame. Because my church is just as amazing as my work environment. It is the kind of church that I have searched my whole life for. I cannot imagine finding another one like it. A small, international, ecumenical community, devoted to learning, justice and worship. People who can talk about theology with the same intensity as they use to talk about environmental issues, or issues of justice and peace. Set out of the city, up on a mountain, Sundays are a literal breath of fresh air. Hiking up to services in the cool (or heat) of the afternoon, anticipating a time of quiet and reflection. The services full of candles, prayers, song. The dinners afterward with homemade desserts, delightful company and much laughter. The prayer walk, the unique Chinese architecture of the church, the local art, the union of tradition and nature.
I just cannot believe in 24 days, I will be saying goodbye to the life I have here.
News and tidbits
*Fastest response to a boycott ever. Thanks Lane.
*I leave in the morning for the Philippines. I’ll be gone for an entire month. Blogging may be sporadic, but that’s okay, because so have the comments recently.
*I am still waiting to hear about my domestic placement. I am told it will be any day now. It is really hard not to be anxious knowing that at any moment, I could receive an email that will define the next year and half of my life!
*My best friend is getting married so very very soon! For any of you who are going up or over or down to the wedding, please please please takes lots of pictures for me! Hug Val and Nate one extra time and tell them its from me. I’m so sad to be missing this incredible day, but I can’t wait to hear all about it!!
*I was sick for a good two weeks. I am finally over it. I went to see a Chinese medicine doctor, and he was really nice. He gave me some herbal medicine to drink. It was incredibly disgusting. But, it worked. And, one of my co-workers gave me a bag of candy to help get rid of the nasty taste each time. I rested so much that I was bored out of my mind. But I’m feeling better now. Nearly 99%. I went into work this morning, and one of my co-workers said, “I’m sorry you are still sick.” “I’m not sick anymore” I told her. “Well, your face really shows that you are. And your voice sounds funny too. I think you look sick.” God love the honesty.
*Kris will be here in Hong Kong in 61 days. Not that I’m counting or anything.
*I’ve started packing stuff to send home. I came over here with only two suitcases, and somehow, I’m gonna return home with a LOT more stuff! A good bit of it is books – they are heavy and take up space, but there are some that I just can’t bear to part with. I’ve already donated a whole bag of books to the Church, but I’m still left with a shelf of books to send home. I’m dork, I know.
*Okay, seriously, this is the season of babies. In the time that I have been in Hong Kong, 6 of my friends have had 7 babies. There are another 5 on the way. If I get one more phone call or email that says, “Guess who’s pregnant?” I’m gonna start looking for the candid cameras – cause this is just getting to be silly.
*When I come back from the Philippines, I’ll only have 4 weeks left in Hong Kong. I can’t believe how fast this is going.
Okay, back to work for me. Then on to the packing.
