Talk to Me

In general, there are three ways people respond to criticism. There are those who can decouple the negative message from the deliverer and take to heart how the not so positive feeback can be used to make them better. Or you can jump to the opposite extreme, where all malice and ill intention is assumed and respond in defensiveness in all its evil grandeur. People generally fall somewhere in between the two. Or, they do the unthinkable. Taking the dumb, deaf, and blind approach, they ignore you and pretend nothing ever happened. I have been unfortunate enough to have surrounded myself with several of these latter characters.

I am ashamed to say that I spent at least the early half of my life with the proverbial boxing gloves on, ready to pounce on anyone whose shadow crossed my path in what I deemed an unpleasant way. Although the Lord has seen fit to chip away at my heart of stone, there are those who refuse to believe stone can be softened to flesh no matter how divine the intervention. So seeing as that's been the case, I've worked tirelessly to dampen my irrational anger, curb unfriendly facial retorts, and mute my response when the initial attempts at civility don't seem to work. Admittedly, I am not always successful, but thank goodness He has minimized the angry feelings to a point where I have fewer opportunities to be tested.

All that to say that these life maturing lessons have caused me to seek solace in asking questions and simply overcommunicating, somewhat against my Asian nature. Now let's tie in paragraph one. One plus two does not always equal three. It tends to equal negative one, depending on the day. But I am motivated by what I feel to be God's direction towards healthier, more open, deeper relationships. But you can't get to the solution without all the pieces of the puzzle. So I just pray the other half of these equations are willing to commit to the same.

In the meantime, I guess I'll just keep talking.

What's Going On

A simple, yet comprehensive take on the economic chaos of late:
http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?episode=365

Life in Technicolor

Last weekend, I had the rare chance to share a meal with a couple visiting from Australia, just back from a west coast jaunt in their old RV (which they are trying to sell, if anyone's interested). John is a gentle man of few words, that is, until you begin to talk about current, world events. And Kay is a fiesty, wise cracking, retired secretary who had a knack for making me laugh. But what made an impression on me was our conversation about the upcoming election. I was struck by not only how informed they were of the American political scene, but also by how engaged they were in the process. I quizzically queried them on why they had such an earnest interest in the place where they were merely vacationing. Kay didn't waste any time to matter of factly answer, "Because when America sneezes, the rest of the world catches a cold." They were sincerely interested in their surroundings, and astute enough to know that it streched halfway around the world.

Curiosity fueled the conversation, as I asked how they perceived Americans. They remarked that throughout their travels of the States, they did not find many who were willing to engage in chitchat concerning the latest political headlines. I surmised that my newfound friends were a bit disappointed in our less than eager participation in the election process. Who knew that tourists would be so well informed? They also added ccommentary on how it didn't make sense that a politician had yet to demand change to the electoral process. Apparently we are one of the last countries in the free world not using the popular vote to elect our leaders. I had not realized that. Imagine that; being schooled about your own country by outsiders. I think they were too polite to come right out and say that Americans are ignorant.

A few days ago, I watched the VP debate at a hotel bar in Trenton, Ontario. And that was only after we had to convince the barkeep to change the channel (apparently ice hocky is big in Canada; who knew??). Nothing like watching our potential second in commands go at it over beer and stale, spicy party mix and peanuts. But I found myself intrigued in who these people were and what they stood for. At the conclusion, I was no better off in backing a candidate, but I found myself wanting to vote. This American ain't gonna sit this one out.

Home - Air Around The Golf

The other morning I eagerly added 4 extra golf balls to my hatchback stash as I got ready to leave for work. After a painfully disappointing first lesson, I expected the second session to be just as discouraging and equally stinging to my right hand. But I was pleasantly surprised to connect with the ball enough to get a transient feel for a potentially better swing. And this time I was smart enough to tape up my thumb and pointer finger to save my right hand from the torture of hitting 200+ balls in an hour. Ready to try out the new swing, I was saddened to hear that a member of my foursome was denied the right to enjoy a much needed 4.5 hours out on the course with his golfing buds. 30 minutes complaining about how his wife doesn't allow him any freedom led us to cancel our tee time in lieu of venting over a couple pitchers.

Friends often ask me why I play golf. Interestingly, no one has ever asked me why I play tennis. But I digress. Originally I took up golf for a guy, which is generally a slippery slope on which to step, especially since things like golf and football serve as outlets for guys to get away from the women in their lives. But oops, I stepped and slid. I never could pin down why I continued to play, though. It is frustrating, not to mention expensive, and just plain difficult to get the hang of. But I am beginning to see past the first tee all the way to the 19th hole, where walking those 4 miles and then bonding over Fat Tire has laid a foundation of friendship that goes beyond a common tee time on Saturday afternoon. Heartfelt discussions concerning separation, divorce, teenagers doing drugs, mingled amidst politics in the world and in the office and childhood experiences that have meandered their way into our so called adulthood - those are worth the 3 putts to give me a bogey on the par 3 17th, the duff into the water after a long drive into the middle of the fairway, and the occasional greens in regulation moment of glory.

Now you know why I play golf. And now I know too.

Hungry Like the Wolf

NatureShark MountainMonday, June 23, 7:00pm
[D] (KQED Life-Encore)Underwater filmmakers Howard and Michele Hall have spent 25 years diving and documenting the most remote and beautiful underwater locations, always learning something new about the fantastic creatures that live there. Yet even these remote places and creatures are at risk in today's world, and being able to share their experiences with the rest of us is increasingly important to the Halls, and to us. They take us along on the dive of a lifetime, to a tiny outpost 300 miles off the coast of Central American — Shark Mountain.CC, Stereo TVPG Educational Taping Rights: 1 year

Normally, I am fascinated by nature, especially of the underwater world. Creatures below the vast oceans have intrigued me since my best bud introduced me to the angel fish living in a simple desktop tank. But tonight, as I watched the schools of sharks around Coco Island mingle amongst so called "fish" whose fins are used as feet and spongelike frog fish with lures protruding from their foreheads, I was scared. I suddenly felt frightened and disturbed watching a dozen male, white-tipped sharks attack a single female by biting down on her gills in order to mate. And then the film makers allowed me to invade the privacy of hundreds of silky sharks voraciously hunting the innocent, sleeping fish in reefs in the dark of night. I was absolutely terrified.

I'm so grateful there is still light at 8 at night this time of year.

Long Way Home

I've always been an overly emotional person. My sister claims it has something to do with our repressed childhood. But whatever the reason, I cry at the drop of a hat. When I left my first job of 2.5 years, I asked my manager to mislead my coworkers by announcing a later last day, so that I could slip out without having to tearfully face my office family for the last time. Shoot, I cried leaving a 2.5 month internship my sophomore year of college! But my sensitivity does have some practical implications. The bucket-o-tears meter is the gauge I use to determine whether or not a movie is worth my ten bucks. Who needs Ebert and Roeper when you have your own internal movie critic? I put a shout out to Kleenex for making tissues soft enough to spare my nose from unnecessary chafing; I think they should send me a lifetime achievement award for my overactive tear ducts.

I wish my next trial were as simple as draining a box of tissues. There are really no words that can adequately describe the experience of losing your best friend. I have felt the feelings of loss before and the flashes of memories that you swear happened just yesterday. There are even twinges of regret, for the times you could have spent talking about heartfelt dreams instead of watching another bad rental that we had to finish to get our $2 worth. But it has never been so severe that it would cause me to throw up while brushing my teeth. I suppose my body had to step up the physiological response, since the crying reflex went into overdrive. But all the adjectives and adverbs cannot begin to tell the story of trauma that is placed on your heart. If you know and can relate, then I sincerely apologize. This morning I heard the story of a father who fell asleep on his 10 week old baby, smothering him to death. No longer do I have to pretend to imagine what another person in mourning feels. Perhaps I should just be grateful for the short time on this earth that I shared with my friend. But you know what, I am just not ready to.

Control

When I go down the list of the jungle of emotions we're prone to feel, I often wonder which ones are not of God. I'm not debating whether they originate from God. Afterall, God has revealed His character to us as being a jealous god who can also choose to seethe in anger. I guess my beef is with where along the path do they become fully carnal, devoid of any holy inspired intentions.

I remember being graciously asked to forgive someone whom God had brought to a momentous point of revelation as to how he had wronged me. From this retrospective perch, I can applaud the process, citing the brave humility it must have taken for him to apologize and seek absolution. But my memory reminds me that I wasn't quite ready to let him off the hook at the time. Granted, I wasn't in a position to withhold anything tangible or even my friendship or attention from him, but I would not let go of the forgiveness he sought. At the time, my intentions felt practically noble, wrapped up in a warped sense of self-preservation, because my healing had nothing to do with him. But today, that so called guarding sounds selfish. Ultimately he requested something I could hold over his head, and I greedily held onto it.

"Watch yourselves! If your brother sins, rebuke him. If he repents, forgive him. Even if he sins against you seven times in a day, and seven times returns to you saying, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive him.” Luke 17:3-4

When I read Jesus' command to his disciples to freely give grace, it saddens me to think back at all the times my heart created undeserved situations of bondage over others. I missed the "must" in Jesus' reproof. Add in the countless number of times I myself have been forgiven, and I'm not even playing in the same ballpark. So now, as I go back full circle to my musing on when feelings become ungodly, my concern seems moot. I completely missed the mark.

I'm going to go now, hang my head, sigh, and then move forward to look for an opportunity to cut someone loose.

All Shook Up

For the few, the proud, the unrecognized who continue to search unrelentingly for a smidgeon of entertainment and could care less about who was booted off Dancing With the Stars this week, here is my attempt at a bit of online folly. I like to call it the Barium Enema Rumba. May I?

As many dances begin, I started off with a drink, a fizzy 10oz bottle of Magnesium Citrate, which is like homemade lemon soda. Not bad, considering I was expecting to have to down chaulky sludge in preparation for this adventure. Patients tend to have a reaction anywhere from 30 minutes to 6 hours later. Since I got called into work that night, I am happy to report that this did not kick in for 5.5 hours, by which time I was joyfully at home, in close proximity to my toilet, I might add. Just before dozing off into what I thought would be a pleasant slumber, I ingested four enteric coated Bisacodyl tablets like a good little patient. And thus began the frequent flyer miles from my bed to the commode, peeing through my butt. Too much information, you think to yourself. Well, my friend, read on. I finally did get a stretch of sleep only to be interrupted at 4:40am by an unsympathetic operator. So what the heck, while I was up, I might as well rack up that mileage I began accruing the night before. To finish the checklist off, I administered the Fleet Bisacodyl Enema 45 minutes before I had to leave for the hospital, having timed it by the 15-30 minute reaction time spelled out on the preparation sheet. No worries, since my colon was running on empty, right?

Turning the corner from Churchill onto El Camino, I was struck by a sudden feeling of "was the sushi I ate last night bad?", even though I had not eaten since Sunday. Oh, and then the feeling that can only be described as explosive diarrhea fell upon my seatbelted self. Debating whether to turn into Pali High and then Town and Country or just simply pull over to the side of the road, while scanning the entire front half of my vehicle for a plastic bag (I need not tell you what primitive idea I was toying with), I mustered enough mental capacity to beg God for the physical strength to keep my britches clean. I, of course, tagged behind the slowest senior citizen with no knowledge of the workings of the parking garage, but eventually found a spot near the elevator entrance. Let me tell you how slowly an elevator can travel one flight when there is impending tragedy at hand. Needless to say, relief did come not just in time, but in time.

I'd like to proclaim the actual procedure to be uncomfortable yet bearable, but then I'd be lying. Descriptive phrases that come to mind include disgustingly painful, terribly long, and embarrassingly unprivate (thanks Adam and Eve, for making us need fig leaves). It's an intriguing process to have someone inject barium solution into your colon, stand the table you're sprawled out on up to drain the fluid, pump air into you between x-rays, and roll you around to make sure every nook and cranny is covered. I now know what it feels like to be shaken and not stirred. The nurse and doctor tried to warn me about how my body would react to introducing foreign instruments where the sun don't shine, but let me just say that my mind was not prepared for the inflation of the balloon that was supposed to keep the tip from being pushed out. God designed the muscles down there to push in one direction, and one direction only. But I was in this for the duration, as if I had any choice. The first introduction of air made me feel like I instantaneously acquired a stomach virus; my whole body felt ill. That feeling decided to accompany me on my entire 45 minute journey. And every twist and turn caused my insides to struggle for relief. So much so that in the midst of my second 360 degree log roll, that balloon proved ineffective. Couple the doctor's cautionary warning to "just keep the barium in!" with the sudden realization that I might have to endure this torture again, and let's just say that barium stayed put. Who thought of this test anyhow??

How wonderful it was to see the radiologist leave. That meant 12 more pictures and then freedom. And that finally came. Finally.

I do not recommend having this procedure done. But I give thanks for all the prayers and the virtual hand holding - the Lord spared me today with clean results! Phew. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to visit the little girls' room...

Total Eclipse of the Heart

Last week, I was especially rocked by the profound truth that "if you don’t love God, you can’t do anybody any ultimate good." This hasn't always been my struggle, perhaps because I selectively dole out care, avoiding those who would cause me to question the Christian creed to turn the other cheek. So the connection of my loving God allowing me to love others isn't at the forefront of my mind. But to love God, how could that be so tough, seeing how He's loved me despite my constant failings. But recently I've come to the end of my rope in loving each and every soul around me, be they family, friends, coworkers, and especially the unaware driver I have the unfortunate misfortune of almost hitting in the parking lot of Ranch 99.

God continued to knock my noggin through Piper's preaching that "The main reason we don’t love God and find it burdensome to love people is that our cravings are for the things of the world. They may be good things. They may be bad things. They may be material things. They may be relational. Whatever their form, they are not God. And when we crave them above God, they are idols. They replace love for God and love for people." I am not adverse to the premise that the way or the amount or the quality of my love for God is not sufficient. In fact, I would not be at a loss to delineate many of those cravings. And perhaps this is why I have been so frustrated in my so-called service of late, to the ones I love. Sourced through my own strength, my "giving to" and "doing for" efforts have not been well received. Even if the gift is something they would accept, they complain about why they don't need it, why they don't like it, and how it is simply all wrong. My attempts to serve garner a similar, demoralizing response. But God would see fit to seize this opportunity to pour out this seemingly illogical inspiration into my head, rationalizing away my paralysis-rendering discouragement. Of course I cannot do good without His good. Of course my love on its own is not what they need. Of course.

Let's hope this divinely fortuitous revelation can redirect my misguided path, not towards them, but towards Him.

Here I Go Again

"With great power comes great responsibility." Spiderman got it half right. Add in adulthood, and the responsiblity factor increases at least twofold. I didn't ask to grow up or become competent enough to claim self-reliance, but here I am, in my 30s, supposedly an adult, and supposedly responsible. Yahoo.

Instead of feeling proud of traversing a long and arduous path, arguably accomplishing much, I feel defeated. It's as if life has beat me down only to wallop me in the head and then in the gutt just as I crawl to my feet, and there I am again, communing with the floor. Surprisingly I am not disheartened by this rather loathesome state. Instead, I have become resigned to this being the involuntary, systematic cycle I affectionately call my own private "sin-wave". No, not sine wave. SIN wave. Okay, so it's not always sin that directs my plane into a downward tailspin. But it sure is a plausible explanation of my dizzingly predictable existence.

Not to worry; I am not angry or depressed. This is my plight, and I'm gonna eat it, thank you very much.

Can't Get There From Here

How do you punish effort? Or rather, how can you punish effort? In two rather atypical cases, I find myself with a pair of beaver-like gentlemen who must have a clinical condition barring them from saying no (if there isn't a name for that, they should come up with one). Their everyday work ethic is to be applauded and used as the standard to which their coworkers should strive. But from an external perspective, if you decouple the process from the outcome, you can see an obvious lack of results, because the extra mile walked ended up at the wrong destination. So then comes review time, when ultimately the individual is looking for acknowledgement of who they are (sadly their identity is often wrapped up in their profession). And to everyone's dismay, they are chided for poor choices leading them to practically ignore higher priority tasks. But what choice do I have?

As children, we hear parents and teachers preaching that as long as we did our best, that would be enough. But what they failed to tell us is that there's a world out there that demands results and could care less about what we did and how much work it took to get there. That's not to say we should whip our children into proverbial shape, but it does seem a bit counterproductive to build up their self-esteem only to let the real world beat them down.

Okay, I admit that's a cynical way to look at it, but when I myself am measured by my results, how can I allow my direct reports to stray the course?

More often than not, the extra money ain't worth it.