laughter dyspnea

It's been a long time since I'd laughed so hard that I couldn't breathe properly.

We were on the moving walkway at TST underground, and Annie and I were alternately doubling up from belly howls like a very creaky see-saw. And that was before I even got to the punchline. So I tried to continue, and my voice just went higher and higher, totally out of control, managing at best only huffs and sprays of evanescent sounds. I couldn't speak. I could hardly breathe! The cackling continued and tears were coming to my eyes. I finally splurted out the rest of the story in one big breath and we howled again. If I told you the culprit story now, you wouldn't think it was funny at all. We were drunk with humour it seemed, drunk with mirth, drunk with delight, drunk with joy...drunk with...well, Annie did have a German wheat beer, but I only had blackforest cake...

"Pleasant words are a honeycomb,
sweet to the soul and healing to the bones."
~Proverbs 16:24

Thanks Annie for sweetness and healing! You are a great sister!

chapters

It's Saturday, and a free Saturday at that. One box remains unopened in my bedroom, guarding the foot of my bed, like a wannabe love chest. The cardboard has folds and krinkle lines; the edges and corners have been repeatedly taped over. Markers' scribbles pile one on top of the other, with the latest one saying "M's bedroom/office things". My own handwriting, eight months back, in a different world.

It's a free Saturday, and it's only 11 am. Time to unpack this final box. Most of the pieces on top are protected in bubble plastic. Its translucence reflects my hazy memory of what treasures lie within. Unwrapping each item jolts flashbacks of past times. A carton of a dozen decorated egg shells from Hungary, summer 1990. They are still waiting for their chance to adorn a Christmas tree. Maybe this year. There's the pottery pig toothbrush holder, smiling up cheekily at me for the fifteenth year. The other pottery mugs and jugs date back from the summer Anne and I, inspired by the movie Ghost, signed up for pottery class. Medical days memorabilia, photos of my preceptors and friends from Northern Ontario, of frosty winters and smooth hot chocolate, toboganning and chopping down our own Christmas tree. There's the Quickcam my brother bought for me, which I never used, and now, unusable, since I've switched to a Mac. Presents from fellowship "kids" who went overseas, a reed ship, a miniature plaster house. Friends' wedding tokens, from 1995 and 1997. Photos of large family gatherings, of my pre-teen nephew and nieces when they were chubby babies. Stationery sets I collected, the styles reflecting my taste along the way.

So much memory in a small box. And that is only the first layer...

Have lived and made friends in Hungary, Ghana, Niger, England, Nepal, Canada. Settled in concrete cities, foothills of the Himalayas, lava rocks Subsahara under a canopy of stars and mosquitoes. Have had my eye lashes flash frozen, have jogged in 45 degree heat. Have heard the unbelievably moving cadences of African worship, and the hopping drumbeats of Nepali choruses. Have been adopted by grandmas in Budapest and Dalsingpara. Have heard heart-rending wails of mothers, and the silent screams of malnourished babies.

And these are only the first flashbacks...

Most people have relatively settled lives. Mine seems all over the place. I like it. Each new environment has adventures and lessons awaiting my discovery, awaiting to be transribed into the next chapter of the yet blank pages.

But I'm in the middle of the plot. And in the middle, I cannot see the end. Is there a storyline, a bigger meaning beyond the joys of the moments? Is my having travelled to every continent on the planet leading my life to anywhere valuable? Or will these rare and significant experiences simply disintegrate into their little piles of dust, and be mixed with the rest of the non-descript dust of the world?

Perhaps just as it takes faith to write the chapters, it also takes faith to read them.

ye su ai ni

Thirty two children. Ruddy cheeks, ruffled black hair, long sparkling eyes and joyful smiles. Thirty two little beings, lined up in two rows, singing at the top of their voices, "Ye Su Ai Ni". "Jesus" was indicated with the sign of a touch on right then left palms, signifying His distinguishing work on the Cross; hands crossed over the chest as "loves", and thirty two pairs of index fingers pointing in our direction, making sure the "you" included all of us Hong Kong uncles and aunts.

Each child has a story that could make you cry like a baby. Stories of suffering and rejection time and time again, if not by illness and the deaths of parents, then by abuse, by being passed from home to home like hot potatoes. Stories of physical, emotional, social and mental hunger.

In those thirty minutes of songs, these little ones expressed, in exuberant victory this Easter weekend, that indeed, it is all true. They wobbled with all their might, "...in this world, there is one truth that stays the same throughout the thousands of years, and that is that Jesus loves you...He wants you to be His sons and daughters. Are you willing to accept His love for you?"

The orphans told us, with their songs, smiles, hugs, laughter...with their lives that "Ye Su Ai Ni".

in the end

Treated myself to a bowl of fresh strawberries and cream, and five minutes of TV after dinner tonight. Caught the ending of a movie. In it, a young man was telling his dying father a story, transporting both to the world of imagination. In this happy world of make belief, the son carried the father to a big open area, where everyone he's ever met was there waiting for him. And they were all happy to see him. Everyone was there. Everyone was happy. Everyone celebrated the father.

Made me think. Made me look back at my own life. How many of those whom I've met would be happy to have met me? If they were to gather all together in one place, how many would smile upon seeing me? I can already name a few of whom I'd be ashamed to look into their eyes--the injury I have caused them leaves uneraseable regret, though the sin has been forgiven.

A few years ago, I had prayed that I'd be a blessing to those whom God brought my way. Since then, I have realized that that is only possible when I am in Christ, when the "I" is IN Him, when my self-interest, self-preservation, self-longings are abandonned like perfume poured onto His feet. When I try to live life on my own terms, all I end up with is involuting disintegration, so that God is proved right when He speaks, and just when He judges. Indeed, those who look to preserve their lives will lose them, and those who lose their lives for His sake will gain Life.

The only way smiles can be brought to faces that see mine is if they see not my face, but Christ's face. It has to be all Christ. That's where I want to be, found in Him. Completely His.

Lord, that I might decrease, and You increase, for good.