Fathers

I met Trangdai Tranguyen once. All serenity and friendliness, she was stirring a pot of perfectly clear and flavour-rich chicken broth she'd prepared for pho at Sandra's place.

Soon after, I was entranced as I read three slim volumes of her poetry in mostly one night.

This is an excerpt from Daddy's Weekend, a poem in Songs For A Boat Father:

sunup
weekend
you're keyed up running to each room
asking, inviting,
- Get up! Let's go have breakfast!
the five children turn over
all five

The father is also pictured toiling over dinner, pulling a movie from his archive for his children, constantly on the go during the weekend -- highly enthused, sacrificial, pouring love into the lives of his children whom he'd missed for years when he migrated alone from Vietnam to the US.

Such poems that so tenderly portray the translocation trials of refugee families are transformed into the universal with Trangdai's skilled pen.

Certainly it reminds me of my own sacrificial Dad. The way he enrolled us in the best schools where he had to make patient, persistent connections. The opportunities he gave us out of his limited resources, and the times he played with us. He brought me to the library when I was six and I began my lifelong love for books. I think he was the only person who tried to imagine the extraordinarily intense first days of my life in the US, and that humbles and amazes me much.

Our fathers are wonderful and flawed. They are an imperfect but still-shining glimpse of the Father's heart and the God-designed love He placed in the hearts of men for their children.

Snow!

Delicacy, purity.
Praying, remembering.
Wondrous to walk in falling snow.

Today, I walked for 1.5 hours in the snow. Someone commented that the pearly-gray sky added to the feeling of weightlessness. I stopped often. Taking pictures. Journal-ing in my mind and on an increasingly damp scrap of paper. Looking at 13 puffy-headed birds with pale yellow chests, resting on the upper twigs of a tree. Staring discreetly as an indulgent Dad took his three little colorfully wrapped children out to skitter down a baby slope on tiny snow-saucers. Kind of like the days when my own Dad, hour after hour in Singapore's burning equatorial sun, pushed the swings with me and my sisters on them. I don't think he's seen snow, much as he loves traveling to new places.

I remember another Sunday, in 2003, when a snow-storm caused our little church to worship at a home. Later we walked down the empty street, so transformed, all white beauty and exceptional hush. Our friend Peter walked ahead with exuberant little Michael on his shoulders. Two other wonderful friends later gave the middle name Snow to their lil daughter, who just turned two. How beautiful that those days of church-planting and God's favor are so embedded in my heart that the snow today easily stirs memories of my friends, now a scattered family.

Today, it was mostly the glorious solitude that made it natural to be abandoned to Jesus -- and to know it's possible and desirable to be faithful whether I'm here or there. These couple of years, I've had to embrace the transition and the absence of certainty. It's been a time of growing while waiting. Of making the utmost of my days in the US and discovering so many gems, like the dreamy Berkshires, all nations in my workplace, new creativity, an irrepressible little church, the dazzling edges of revival.

God remembers His promise to me, Jeanne said during our intercessory circle. And He makes all things new, according to Revelation 21:5. That's a verse I always quote and pray! How perfect is that?

Thanksgiving 2005

Fallen leaves swirling skyward,

A wild dance, mimicking life.

Light draining, early and indifferent,

From this city I never embraced.

The absence of all of you,

Trails --

A pearly vapour

Suffusing Thanksgiving.

Our stories disconnect,

Yet persist, suggest

Marvellous light,

Not our own, divine.

I decided to spend Thanksgiving Day in solitude and prayer, away from the celebratory hubbub that always delighted me. I longed to step into a new season of walking in God's marvellous light, and glimpse (or see with eyes of faith) the outlines of a path out from my long transition. I missed my absent best friends with whom I'd celebrated Thanksgiving and served God in our church-plant these amazing years till last December.

I believe my prayer is being answered in the heavenlies. Meanwhile, one overnight fruit (yes, 24 hrs!) of my quiet day was this poem. I'd not written for such a long time, and I thank Jinsook who sweetly, insistently, unabashedly reminded me to write, week after week. She must be one of those people who know how to knock on Heaven's door. : )

I really want to write again. Not indulgently like in my college years, but maybe to flip open a few more windows in this vast online space to God's glory.