Finding Momentum

Timed mile at Pied­mont High, orig­i­nally uploaded by andrewhao.

We decided to check out how fast we could run the mile again, six years out of high school. And you know what? It was a lot bet­ter than I remem­bered it. I won­der what Mr. Battaglia would think of me now…

Straw­ber­ries in sea­son, orig­i­nally uploaded by andrewhao.

Sum­mer­time fruit at the Ferry Build­ing Farmer’s Market.

Over the din­ner table the other day, my par­ents and I were talk­ing about my grandpa, and how he’s pretty much the jol­liest guy you’d ever meet.

He wasn’t always that way. When my dad was young, my grandpa was still in the Tai­wanese mil­i­tary and found him­self away for nearly a year at a time. My dad recalled that when his dad came home, he had a tem­per and wasn’t pleas­ant to be around at all.

But things changed. My grandpa found Jesus. Time passed; there are sto­ries in between the years that I have not been privy to.

I’d remem­ber vis­it­ing him in Tai­wan and see­ing how he’d light up the room with his per­pet­ual smile and a chuckle that was reserved just for you and him. He’s gone with his church to China, him­self the old­est mem­ber of the group by a long shot. My mom and dad chuckle about how he’s been fea­tured in a church newsletter–again–for being such a happy character. I could see him daz­zling folks with his sto­ries, a kind word, a wise word.

It’s been about six years since my grandma passed. She was his anchor, a kind-hearted woman with prayer and a soft smile always on her lips. When she passed, I feared for my grandpa, for I didn’t know if he could go on much longer. Yet he has, with a vis­i­ble strength and an obvi­ous joy. And I think he has years of life left in him to live with vigor, com­pas­sion, and joy.

May I know that sort of joy–the Joy of the Gospel trea­sure–that allows us to see the hope of Christ in the midst of dif­fi­cult times. The joy that allows us to love freely and demon­strate grace. The joy that has been passed down, gen­er­a­tion by gen­er­a­tion, to me, to be known and to be lived.

For every­thing there is a sea­son, and a time for every mat­ter under heaven.

Sarah had always made light of the fact that I’m like a robot. After all, I work in code all day at my job. And I’m sta­ble, famil­iar, and pre­dictable. And I could always be counted on to “do the right thing.” And often I have, how shall we say, lim­ited emo­tional capabilities.

When Sarah and I recently decided to break up after two and a half years together, we both felt strongly that it was for the best. Things had pro­gressed to the point where we didn’t feel it was right to move on. She didn’t feel under­stood, I didn’t feel accepted. We didn’t have the self-awareness to pin­point a grow­ing uncer­tainty within. We had been through good times and bad, we were dif­fer­ent. But at one point, we had piled up more dis­tance and unre­solved con­flict than we could afford to handle.

I’ve spent the bet­ter part of the month try­ing to get inside my own head and put the words to what’s really going on in me. It’s been dif­fi­cult to know where to start. The first day I was hurt and angry. The sec­ond, I was over­whelmed with sad­ness. The third, I was numb, and so on, in var­i­ous lit­tle per­mu­ta­tions. There are days filled with the hum­drum of work, the sup­port­ive words of a good friend (per­haps you!) and tremen­dous free­dom. And there are days where I’m hon­estly pretty mis­er­able, mourn­ing the loss of shared dreams and a com­pan­ion­ship dear to my heart.

I’ve read it some­where that men are often unfairly por­trayed as emo­tion­less; they sim­ply don’t know how to express what they feel. True; some­times I feel that hav­ing a pre­cise vocab­u­lary and incred­i­ble emo­tional self-awareness will be the tools I need to heal. But if I let this go on too long, I’ll never write. Of course, I say this with some embar­rass­ment that what’s com­ing out is com­pletely over­dra­matic. But I won’t apol­o­gize for that… yet.

And in some strange, kinda sick way, it’s kind of nice to feel the pain and know that I’m not a robot. I’m skin and bones, joy­ously frag­ile, with lit­tle to boast about but the Father who loves me.

I’m a bit wor­ried I can’t artic­u­late this.

I am in a period of search­ing for sig­nif­i­cance through my work. May I remem­ber that it is worth noth­ing to build my name in some­thing other than Jesus.

We held our breaths as you let go of your last: It is finished.

I am learn­ing that there is a respon­si­bil­ity to being known by another. Sarah and I can’t expect to read each other per­fectly right off the bat. Nor can we coast off the years we’ve been together.

I am only start­ing to learn about myself. Really. There is work to be done that I’ve sim­ply ignored for years. And it’s kind of excit­ing! What moti­vates me? What makes me mad and why? Why am I the per­son I am? It’s so freak­ing easy to do the daily rou­tine thing: go to work and come back, fill your life with activ­i­ties and peo­ple and events and com­mut­ing that you don’t have time to stop and think and just listen.

They say com­mu­ni­ca­tion is a two-way street, and I’m only fig­ur­ing out that there is much more to plumb from the depths. And it’s good for the two of us. If I can explain myself and my feel­ings and moti­va­tions bet­ter, then Sarah has more than assump­tions to go off on.

And at the same time I real­ize that this jour­ney of self-realization can be twisted into an exer­cise in navel-gazing. May I know myself not to make myself more than I really am (a twisted shell of the Orig­i­nal design), but to com­mu­ni­cate with ever-more honesty.

I’ve started to take breaks more often in the after­noons. I’ll walk down Howard and up 1st to a lit­tle court­yard that I’ve found and just jour­nal and think and watch traf­fic pass on by.

These days with the weather get­ting warmer, a walk out in the city is just what I need to recen­ter and relax. And get some good time in with Jesus too.