I've realized these changes aren't going to come quickly. I went back to California for Christmas on the 12th. There was this undercurrent of anticipation. Selfishly enough, it wasn't for everyone back home. Don't get me wrong I was certainly excited to see them, but I was also eager to know how I've changed over the past few months. You ever stand in the frame of the doorway and with the tops of your hands you push real hard on the sides like you were Samson taking town the Philistines, then just when the veins start to surface on your forehead you let go, step away, and watch your arms just float up? Yeah, the homecoming wasn't like that.
It's impatience. Not the New York brand (just yet), it's still just the same old California, old Julian brand impatience. This isn't just going to take a lot more time, it's going to take a lot more effort and discipline.
So I've taken some time to re-strategize. Michael Phelps said he wouldn't be where he is today had he not put his goals in writing. I'll be doing the same for my career, with time limits. So after the hometown visit, the holiday weight gain, the snowy return, and the weekend festivities all find their end...it's time to get down to business. Oh yeah, did I mention that I'm out here to find work as an actor? More about that in the next post. Happy New Decade!
Lord, we give You glory for the work You've done this past year. We don't pray for ease and comfort in the days ahead, we pray for change, and the refining fire to purify us according to the riches of Your grace, and the wisdom of Your plan. We pray for change, for the good news of Jesus Christ to go to all people in all nations. To God be the glory, far beyond 2010.
The realization still retains its savor despite having come to it many times throughout my afternoon. I picked it up today from the mattress store, and with asinine resolve attempted to carry it atop my head all the way to my apartment. How far away was it you ask? Well, I'm not sure...which is why about four increasingly aimless blocks east and and a just about defeated block south, I called for a cab. Just in time, too, because as I hung up I felt some drops on my left temple and cheek. I smiled and just laughed with God at my own silliness. I dressed it up with some brand new sheets from Target I had waiting atop my shelf, then sadly rushed to the train as I had an hour-long ride to acting class waiting for me.
Which brings me here, five hours later, with a release of two and a half months anticipation, as sprawled out as a person of my lankage can be on a twin size mattress, thinking to myself...wow, praise the Lord, I have a bed.
Written: Dec 5, 2009 Title: First snow.
Nothing really elaborate about it. Same dream as every Southern California kid (who hadn't lived in L.A. or Malibu in recent years), with the longing curiosity for what flurries would look like on their bedroom window...only to confirm that indeed, there's nothing really elaborate about it.
Still gosh darn cool, though. Milestone successfully, and succinctly, chronicled.
In most cases, I try not to anticipate how much somebody might miss me; I'm very good at indulging in that stuff. Other times I just get taken by surprise. Kuya* Nelson is someone that for a long time has been in my life, but I still didn't expect him to say that. Suddenly, in the cold resonating stone walls of the New York Public Library, I'm compelled to reply with a warm chuckle of spontaneous relief "it's so great to hear your voice too."
He's decided to treat me to anywhere I want go. Mrs. Rodriguez probably knows better than most how dangerous it is to hand me a blank check -- once in elementary school she gave me a $20 bill to take over to the snack shop during one of Alex Rodriguez's baseball games, and I greedily splurged on $17 worth of junk food. I had the worst feeling in my stomach later that day; it's one of my most prized childhood regrets.
I take us to Eisenberg's -- fairly priced and delightfully local. While we're walking he asks me what I enjoying doing most here, and with a gesture to everything around us I answer "this." I probably spend most of my day "going to" and "coming from," and after I've done that I tell him my second favorite thing to do is "sit and watch," mostly in the park. I can imagine most articulate residents here would say the same; after all, they're doing it with me.
"You know everybody back home still talks about you. Even though they hate for you to be so far away, they still feel connected with all your blog posts and stuff"
he tells frankly over some pastrami sandwiches and dish of pickle spears, and for the first time in a profound way...I miss home. I guess I just got into the idea of community here really easily. Large-scale, expansively conscious, metropolitan community, is something that's always sounded so exciting to me, and continues to be. That's why I don't get tired of walking, why I don't get bored sitting, why I never run out of things to see -- you ever notice how pretty much anything can become something you "just gotta see" when a lot of other people are seeing it? Well let me tell you, there are a lot of people in Manhattan. But my time with Kuya Nelson reminded me of something I hadn't realized I missed so much: that small-scale cooped-up kind of community. That suburban, microcosmic, I-noticed-you-were-missing kind of community. I also realized just how much time nowadays I spend doing my own thing.
I'm really starting to notice that God picked Kuya Nelson for a specific reason. I don't think we've ever spent time like this before so I was initially nervous about it, yet he so easily divulges his war stories with me, and when I bear my own soul to him, he knows just how to point me back to Christ. These are the kinds of exchanges mature, godly men need to be having with men of the next generation. Afterwards, he drives me back to Times Square where I have my acting class, and as we trade rushed goodbyes at a red light, he hugs me, musses my hair up a bit and tells me he loves me. That and he hands me some cash that he gives me permission to use on anything I want. "Wow," I think to myself, quickly restraining my lavish imagination and resolving to put it towards that parking ticket I got last month. PTL.
*kuya means "older brother" in Tagalog, term of respect
2:25pm Less than middle-aged man. Walks through turnstile and it alarms, doesn't pay attention, twiddling fingers with no regard for those around. Fascinatingly intimidating self-assurance.
2:35pm Two more than middle-aged men. One on the left looks perpetually convicted, regretful. Other man looks enduringly aloof, unfazed. I'm guessing at that age you can only be one of the two.
I'm going to get my new bed soon. It's been a week so far sleeping on the hardwood floor, a humbling and hilarious week. After having spent months on couches, I'm easily grateful for a space of my own, however small, however uncomfortable. Which is not to say it's uncomfortable; I have shelves and a dresser, a closet, a pillow and warm blanket, a kitchen and living room, a laundry basket and winter coat, and of course my steadfast companion, the laptop. Above all this, a God who cares for the sparrows.
"Aim at heaven and you will get earth thrown in. Aim at earth and you get neither."
- C.S. Lewis
Hoping everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. As we all wake up from the food comas, some of us not too long ago, probably only to sit down to devour our way to yet another food coma, we often beg the question "okay...what to do next?" Some maybe got up earlier or never even slept to hit the Black Friday market, which quite often ends up working off a lot of that holiday warmth we just built up (not to mention a couple of those holiday pounds too). As I sit here in my drafty apartment room, on my hardwood floor with a plate of pan-fried mashed potatoes and turkey rippings, I have to ask myself "am I still as thankful today as I was yesterday?" I read my Thanksgiving post from two years ago and I have to say I disagree with some of it; that is, I don't hate the fact that we take out one day a year to remember what we're thankful for. Even though year-long gratitude is imperative, it's no surprise that during that time, we forget here and there. So Thanksgiving is a great idea, not simply as a day for catch-up on our gratitudings, but moreso as a checkpoint to see what kind of progress we're making.
So what am I thankful for? I'm thankful for the same thing I'm thankful for on Christmas, Easter, and hopefully every single day increasingly: God's gift of salvation by grace in Jesus Christ.
That's where it starts, yet hardly where it ends. You see, if you believe that Jesus was sent by God to die on the cross for your sins, then immediately you give everything in your life a greater worth. For "He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things?" That's the highest compliment you can give your loved ones and the things in your life. That they weren't just given arbitrarily to you by a thoughtless or distant God, but that they were given custom-fit with your name embroidered on their hearts by a person who cares about you so much that He's given you His most prized treasure to you, the one possession in this universe that He loves more than anything else...His very own son. That, my friends, is something you never stop giving thanks for.
When Melody proposed that I write to you, I took on the job quite instantly. While I already mentioned a lot in your birthday e-mail, I'm compelled to say more. I was 10 years old when my parents moved to La Habra, allowing me to stay at CFBC. From that time on I felt somewhat like a community child. Not to discredit the care of my parents, but I found myself clinging to whatever adults were nearby or whichever ones knew who I was. What I would later come to know as one of your most charming peculiarities, was how easily you remembered my name. Perhaps it was the countless Sunday afternoons I spent at your house, or the occasional night's stay, but you quickly became more than my pastor. You probably don't remember -- as I'm sure the walls of your mind are jam-packed with Scripture, languages, family lineages and names of visitors -- but I want you to know that I still remember the little moments. I remember how you used to call me "Ian boy." I remember the first time you picked me up for a sleepover with Jan Jan. I remember how you used to smile at me when I raised my hand to share blessings at prayer meeting -- sometimes I'd raise my hand for that very purpose.
You see, I'm happy to be the one writing in place of your now grown/overseas children, because growing up you have been the most prominent figure of a godly Christian man in my life. My father struggles to identify himself with Christ, even today, so early on my hopes turned to you as that role model I needed. It's befitting enough to say that every boy longs for the approval of his father, and as much as I have always chased yours, you readily handed it over in faith. I attribute so much of my growth to that patient, resilient, gentle faith that you had in God's plan for me.
Your hand-print is unmistakably apparent on my development as a believer and leader, and so it's with great ease that I praise God for you, PastorEd. It's with great ease that I sorrow over you too. At the time of your heart failure, I don't think I've ever prayed so hard for anyone in my life. That was a frightening and sobering time for me, one now that I am blessed to have had; God has given our church a healthy warning to cherish the time He's given you to stay with us, or should I say given us to stay with you. And believe me, PastorEd, I do. I really do. I love you.
My thoughts are disjointed and fleeting. I come to the blank white space and I couldn't possibly tie down even half of the novel moments walking in this blessed city. I sincerely dread the question of how I'm doing. I'm beginning to think I don't really know. I'm starting to realize my scatterbrain habits are not to be escaped by simply moving across the country. With hours of free time, and a drastically downsized list of appointments, how is it that I can't focus on writing a simple "how I'm doing" post? So much I've wanted to say, so much I've been meaning to tell you, so many stories now expired from procrastination and one tenacious writer's block.
So I just want to say that I'm doing fine here. My day usually consists of waking up late morning, taking a 30 min train ride to work at the cash register for Crisp, asking the same questions and ending each mini-dialogue with "my pleasure have a great day," then making myself a falafel plate and eating amongst the pre-Winter hustle and bustle in Bryant Park. The ice staking rink has been here for nearing a month now, and every time I see it it's packed with all kinds of people, young and old. Onlookers are just as frequent and colorful, clasping onto paper cups of cocoa and cider. It's not all that cold yet, but we're all just looking for an excuse to drink the stuff -- I know I've been. They've set up about over sixty different little shops here from local retailers and food vendors. I try to stay a healthy amount of yards away from the Max Brenner booth and its Italian Hot Chocolate. There's jazz music playing all around and it probably warms my heart more than the Italian Hot Chocolate (yeah I caved twice already) to know the next generation is still soaking in some Ella Fitz. The evening is where it starts to vary, where I'm either studying acting, discovering new food with a friend, shopping for layers, or just trying new things. I'm discovering that our God is a creative and versatile Maker who has left His hand-print on this unique culture. It's just not possible to look at skyscrapers extending into the clouds of fog and not be provoked to think about the heavens.
Sept 20 8:48am Man with a dog. They've got the same sunken expression on their faces.
12:52pm Bald man, scrawny, thick glasses. Very angry, cursing about the 1 train having to cut stops for unknown reason. Surprisingly intimidating. Remember to plan ahead for these things. Including balding.
3:53pm European. They have to be. I can tell by rounded sunglasses. Plus the girls are speaking French.
4:04pm Mother grabs her son, 7 years old, likely oldest of the two, lying across the seat with a smile. Pinches his ear and asks "why you gotta do that?" with a thick Brooklyn accent. Has her two sons, bout same age, hold hands with her at the end as they exit. Teaches oldest responsibility and manhood.
It's been a while I last updated. It's not that I haven't had material, or even (attempted) entries, but I've come to accept that I just can't force the process of writing. I guess I'm just better at taking it in than pushing it out. Yeah, and I'm inconsistent. I should just go ahead and admit it. I'm easily distracted (no, it's not ADD) and I forget about my tasks. Or I just put it off because I'm waiting for the chance to just sit in a clear quiet environment and write. That hasn't been so prevalent lately, which I'm sure is largely due to the fact that I don't have a room yet. 60 days officially, and still on a couch with 3 bags. That story I definitely want to take time and crank out -- it's two entries at least. In the meantime, though I've lagged on it, I will proceed to post these observations I've been collecting. I think they're elaborate enough in themselves. Enjoy.
It's a Nokia, fully equipped with color screen and state of the art security system. In order to unlock, you have to select Unlock, then press a special key. I won't tell you which one.
It's actually a pay-as-you-go phone I bought from Best Buy to house my SIM card until the upgrade from my AT&T plan kicks in. It's humbling in a couple ways. Losing a huge chunks of data from my previous one shows me how weak I am as a human, so tempted to despair over the loss of information, so affected by a simple malfunction. How easy it is to get frustrated and ask those disgruntled questions about life we all ask when things don't go our way, though I have resolved to maintain sobriety. On the other hand, it's inspiring (and intimidating) to know that this cheap bottom-of-the-line buddy was once on top. I remember when color graphics was a really big deal. In fact, my sister's isn't even color (she's steadfast like that). I'm amazed to know that I basically witnessed the birth and development of the cellular phone. It's kinda like watching the your cousin or neighbor's kid grow up.
Lastly, it makes me giddy, because I just found out Andrew Ho has the same one in black. His mom washed his other phone, so he bought this sleek number yesterday, which to my surprise was the same day I got mine. And honestly, I wouldn't have expected such a moment to be with anybody else. If it were Melody she would get grossed out and think we were becoming too similar -- you know, one of those couples. Eek.
I quoted that earlier to Laura, which was a dumb move since she can't even cite any Britney Spears songs. Here I am staying in Brooklyn, in the abode of Marvin & Erin (and Tom). I'm in this limbo still -- living here but not quite living here. I work five days a week then go back to a couch and suitcase. I buy groceries then buzz to be let in the building. There a certain level of immigrative qualities to my lifestyle, and that includes the actual immigrants that comprise a great deal of the staff at work, and a big enough pool of the regular ole cityfolk too. Anyway I'm enjoying it here. Lost has become an addiction and is now doing for me even more than what F'book & Youtube used to do to me. Not that they're all that gone, but I had more control and was working on a discipline until this show waltzed into my life. It didn't actually waltz at all -- and I should know, I just took 2 hours of waltz earlier today. I learned basic rhumba steps too, and met some great people. So yeah, I struggle to gain focus. I actually managed to stop halfway through an episode to make sure I get to sleep on time. Yes, worship is a priority, and I need to treat it like one. Sunday morning I will not be rushing and half-attentive like I have been these past two weeks. I will regain focus. I will regain focus. Which reminds me, I have work to do.
For her, it's been over a dreadful half-hour cooped up in the open air, remaining stuck under the entrance canopy of the theater lest she drench in the pouring rain of New York City. For me, it's been not more than 4 minutes so still refreshing. For her and her sister, it's been somewhat of an intimidating experience, being so far from their home city and country back in Vancouver, Canada. For me, it's just fun standing where the lights and people are as opposed to peering at them from the apartment window -- I guess mostly because it's optional. Heck I don't really even care that much about going to the show. I'm not all that thrilled about a show featuring old music about the 1960's, but it's an acclaimed Tony award-winning Broadway show's Tony award-winning Broadway revival, and I came here to be educated doggone it. So I'll give the lottery program a shot, no harm in standing outside the theater two-hours before the show and entering a drawing for the chance to buy one of the remaining tickets at a dramatically (hah) discounted price. And certainly no harm in doing all of that work even if only to not get picked; at least not for someone who's living just a couple feet down the block. These two older ladies certainly have more to lose, whose story begs a certain amount of sympathy, visiting the city under such gloomy conditions and all.
"You know what -- Diane, right? -- you know what Diane, in the rare chance my name gets drawn and both of yours doesn't, you can have the tickets. Honestly, it's means very little to me."
She gladly consents to my offer just as the distributor is about draw the names -- oh wow it's only been three minutes. But honestly, it really only takes a couple moments to build a warm connection here in the city, which is all the more wonderful amongst the chilly downpour. I really hope I do get this opportunity to serve these ladies. Not just for the satisfaction it brings, but because even the part of me that actually does want to see the show...well, kind of doesn't feel like it tonight. I've already seen two shows this week, one of them being another Broadway hit (awesome), the other being a refreshingly Filipino musical about Imelda Marcos produced by The Pan-Asian Repertory. I guess I don't know if I'm up for a third one so soon. haha...third one.
God helps me to another spoonful of that irony He likes serving me so much. Turns out my name doesn't get picked, but Diane's does, already after her sister's won tickets for the two of them. In reciprocation and disposal, she offers me the very last ticket to get drawn, which I graciously accept...immediately after my return from a brisk cautious run to the drug store ATM two blocks down.
"For me, I definitely turned away. I refused to acknowledge his presence in my life. I searched for love, contentment, and happiness in places that all came up void."
Read the frank confession of a maturing high school junior with no more a gift for writing than an open heart and a story to tell.
"THE PLACE WHERE PEOPLE MEET TO SEEK THE HIGHEST IS HOLY GROUND"
Hard to understand, isn't it? I was befuddled by this phrase at first glance, sitting in the third row and seeing it written across the back wall behind the stage. What does this mean?
This is my third time now at Redeemer. I think the reason they say third time's the charm is because it usually takes two times to test the waters. The first time you're too cautious, the second time too comfortable. By the third time you've learned to find the middle ground. Two weeks ago I was 15 minutes early, last week I was 15 minutes late. By now I've not only figured out which trains to take on the subway, but also what the dress code is like, the necessary supplies to take, and I've even determined the acoustically primo spot for immaculate reception -- okay, maybe not, but sitting closer means a better view of Tim Keller's adorable hand gestures.
Redeemer seems to be good at filtering a person's idea of church. I found myself initially puzzled by the strong commitment to tradition. I mean...man...the hymns they sang even sounded dusty. Perhaps it's just apropos to keep in theme with the creaking rafters. Or maybe it's because sometimes there's a lot of sense in the old-fashioned stuff. The only thing more annoying than old people who follow tradition for the sake of following tradition, are young people who break tradition for the sake of breaking tradition. Either way you never understand what the practice is about.
Thankfully Redeemer takes time to put the mind back in the motion. With the sit down, get up, say this, and do that, they provoke, encourage, and challenge you to reflect your purpose for being here. That's something I think every congregation can afford to do more of. My eyes draw to that wall once again. See, it's not holy unless the people are there to seek the highest. That is, the Highest.
The service has been meaty so far, and Tim Keller does nothing short of follow through with his message. He's a gifted preacher; he speaks from the Bible in a way that's comprehensible and relevant, and flows with clear direction. He's articulate, sharp, clever, current, inviting, easy to listen to, and has such a kind face -- but it's about so much more than that. You see, I searched for this church immediately upon arriving in New York. Back home I had already been familiar with Keller's books and podcasts, and couldn't wait to see him speak in person. He's entertaining alright, but the man does one thing more remarkably than anything else, and that's make the message about the Bible, and about Christ. And if you think that's a no-brainer, try saying that about Joel Osteen.
The place where people meet to seek the highest is holy ground.
I think I finally figured out what this means. It's the definition of the church. You see, too often people walk into wedding ceremonies and funeral services and find the stained glass windows to be either intimidating or inspiring, but both because they think that's where the holiness lies. They see cobblestone and candles and figure somewhere in it lies religious spirituality. So when people walk into Redeemer, of all possible decorations to place at the point of their focus, they decide to put an explanation: a church isn't a building; a church is a people. It isn't gold mountings, it isn't elaborate paintings of little cherubs holding stars and flying ribbon -- that's not where to find holiness. You find holiness where you find people meeting to worship God.
"For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I among them.”
It's time to answer the big question. After an enriching two weeks in New York, how am I doing?
The city and me are still honeymooning, I guess you can say. I'm still breathing in the shared air, still delighting in bustling parks, still eavesdropping on foreign languages, still enthusing over the appreciation for Theater. Still inspired to act, recent credit to Jude Law's chilling take on Hamlet (Broadway). I'm still learning the subways and how to reference cross-streets (it's street name, then avenue name). Still donating loose change like a tourist and accepting pamphlets like a tourist. Still trying to locate that New York accent we all fawn over, only to find that most of the people I encounter are transplants like me, so the accent of the city can sound like anything from Japanese to Haitian.
And I've honestly never seen so many practicing Jews. Yesterday was Yom Kippur, noted to me by observing stores that were closed for the day. It was really a blessing, because I was inspired to take time and learn what Yom Kippur celebrates. Now I know why that day there were Jews filling the steps of synagogues I'd pass; those beautiful buildings, easily overlooked amidst the many, many beautiful buildings.
That's one of the key aesthetic differences here: the buildings here are so old, some by centuries. There's so much history and antiquity that even the residential brownstones are a sight to see (the kind of housing complexes I'm used to are the ones I've known since they were nothing but a land plot). Yet inside these weathered walls lies such a modern people, both stretched and refined by a dozen other cultures vitalizing the place.
It's that very juxtaposition of history and modernity that made my two mornings attending Redeemer Presbyterian Church an intriguingly new experience, one that deserves nothing short of its own blog entry, which I'll follow up with soon. But let me just say, as the contagiously bromantic Ho Chuan-i would say, that Tim Keller is legit.
And get this, I haven't gotten lost. Not unintentionally, anyway. This can be attributed partly to the predictable street number system, partly to the subway map on my iPod, partly to the abundance of free time, and partly to the geniality of strangers...oh and out here, they get pretty strange.
Even greater a part to my success here would be the geniality of non-strangers. I'm told finding a place is one of the hardest things to do here. That, and finding a job. Thankfully I've felt the cushion(s) of friends. Laura & Xin generously offered a couch for my first 10 days, albeit shared with their cats Leon & Remy. Two friends have offered work contacts, as well as a third, who offered his help the day we met; and a fourth I just met last Sunday who's helping me get an internship at a local theater. Now I'm staying with Jana, who you may remember from accounts of my days in Italy. Jana, honestly is too much. Upon my first visit she cooked me food and gave me juice. When I first moved in she had already prepared a bath towel, a bed, and a laundry basket. She insists on washing the dishes and when I come back to the apartment after a few hours she's folded my clothes.
So many people to thank, so many parts, all to a whole that is God's sufficient grace. It's funny, because I came out here, leaving much of my security on the far corner of the country, in hopes of falling on my butt. Yet still I've received so much support. It's just like my mom often reluctantly says while shaking her head, "You know, Ian, God must really like you." I wanted to escape my mom's care and got Jana's instead. Sure I wanted to cut some advantages out of my life, but who am I to deny God's blessing? Never had a problem accepting a gift.
Dialogue with the life back home is a river still flowing (Boyz II Men much?), courtesy of living in the digital age, not to mention my brother's visited me twice since I've been here (via a Jet Blue month-long unlimited pass). I've been receiving phone calls, e-mails, wall posts and blog comments, and although at times I fail to respond, please know that I cherish each one. I'll do better to reply. And yeah, I still read the cards and watch the DVDs.
As for the lovely lady and me? We're doing just fine.
Much thanks and 143's to everybody, and keep 'em coming please. A hearty two weeks it's been, but still hardly any time at all. Still in need of work, still in need of guidance -- I'm still a man in need of prayer. Above all, only the Father knows what the future holds, because He's the one who's holding it.
“No wise men, enchanters, magicians, or astrologers can show...but there is a God in heaven who reveals mysteries."
"I was so stellar, they didn't even need to have me read."
You gotta learn to just let it roll off you. Today was my first audition in New York, a thrilling debut to the professional world slash return from the hiatus started at the end of college a whole year ago.
One thing cool I notice about growing up here is that you get to ride the subway with your friends. I guess it’s like riding the bus with your friends, except it’s still cool when you’re doing it in high school. Anyway I’m standing there staring at the reflection of these two guys who I guess are having some argument. The ratty jacket-wearing reflection on the left is accusing the other of “startin’ [stuff]” while the young other in glasses stays silent and keeps his glance away. But this doesn’t stop our boisterous passenger from cussing him out for another six stops (15 minutes). Halfway-through I manage to sit down across them and notice the belligerent man is wearing a lanyard with an I.D. attached to it identifying him as a biomedical engineer or something. Man, all those brains and he still reps Long Island like a thug. Intimidation comes in all shapes and intellects here I guess.
A look at the time causes me to dart down the street hoping 10 minutes in isn’t too late to join the morning Tai Chi class. Turns out it is, because Wednesday is too late to join. And too early to join as well. The class is on Tuesdays & Thursdays, and I’m in Bryant Park at 7:40am with nothing to do.
With the audition later I decide to make the most of my morning, and pick up some overpriced breakfast at a local café to eat amidst the beautiful park-in-city view.
One overlooked task awaits me before my time slot that afternoon, which is after I’ve changed and prepped for the performance (gotta treat it like one): the headshot & resume. My manager was telling me all about how often she sends them digitally now I hadn’t asked if I would need them for this one. After being reminded by my fellow auditionee I bolt out the audition studio to the local FedExKinko’s with an hour to spare. When I say bolt, I mean figure the stairs is faster and, unaware I’m on the top floor penthouse, slowly shuffle down 12 flights. The sweater I paid too much for so I could impress the auditioners is apparently now joining forces with the sudden humidity, making me sweat. That makes me nervous, which also makes me sweat. Print out a makeshift headshot and an old draft of my resume (the only one I had with me), and then on my way back past taxis and tourists to the audition studio where I’m right on time.
3 minutes later and I’m exiting, savvy to the unflattering verdict. So goes the grind, and I’m content with it. But as one of my acting teachers taught me, no matter what happens after the audition, treat yourself to something nice. And I do. A couple times (including the breakfast splurge). After stopping by the printing office to approve of my actual headshot prints, I visit the adjacent bakery and buy awfully overpriced desserts on sale -- so only slightly overpriced -- at $3 for two very small, very delicious min-tarts, then wait at the park for an hour to catch Baskin Robbins’ $1 scoop Wednesdays, of which I get two, finishing it off by stopping at the market to buy chips and soda to eat with my pizza leftovers. It seems the decadence has only turned my contentment into nausea, which I self-medicate with a 3 hour nap. It’s midnight and I don’t feel that much better. Melody shows me Psalm 62:8, which sobers me up.
"Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us. Selah"
I asked God earlier today the same thing I ask Him before every audition. I ask him to attune my heart to His will, and reveal His plan to me. Win or lose, hire or reject, my priority is to know what God wants me to do about that. And let me tell you, the answer isn’t $20 on snacks and sweets. As much I had told myself to be content, I'm only human and we simply don't like rejection. Rising above that just isn't as easy as we want it to be. In those times, our own devices, trinkets and troubleshooting alike, are no substitute for giving our feelings to God. Having faith in God's plan is more than positive thinking, it's more than optimism, it's an utter surrender of yourself. I had only been handing my sorrow to Him, when the verse demands I "pour out [my] heart" to Him. What a drastic difference in response. God is a refuge for me, and today I felt Him calling me home.
Audition for "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee," for a Florida production group (...so not Broadway).
Sept 18, 11:50PM Hard-looking guy, wouldn't make eye contact with him on the street. Looks like the guys talking outside the barber shop. With his 3-yr old son, giggling and playing, his son straddled on his lap, almost as if there was nobody else on the subway car.
Sept 19, 3:15PM Couple stroll in their toddler. No seats available. Husband grabs hold of pole and puts his other arm around wife. Wife grabs stroller and holds it close as the three huddle together as one mass. Passenger leaves at next stop so I get up and offer the two vacancies to them.
Someone once asked me that if I could live in the city or the country, which would it be? I replied "both, and for the same reason." There is just so much to do. The only times I've ever felt this crowded were at theme parks and the fair, but I'm refreshingly not frustrated by it. People traffic is slightly less agitating than the kind in cars, but here in New York I don't feel the slightest bit annoyed. Then again this is just my first week, and it's not like I have a job or anything to press me for time. The past three days have consisted of waking up on the other side of the double digit numbers, relaxing for a bit, showering, more relaxing, then out to wander the streets for most of the hours, trusty backpack at my (back)side. Getting the hang of the subways (thank you NYC map application), which allows me to enjoy one of my favorite pastimes and observe the life around me. My friend asked me why I wasn't more excited to be here. She thought I was apathetic, but how can I possibly be so, when I just voluntarily moved across the country? Not in the city, not with plethora of places to ponder, and a surplus of sights to spark thought. At this point, I'm quietly taking it all in.
As if almost written in Lite Brite below, this next thought jab in a series of minipiphanies came as one of the unmentioned amenities of the flight. The comprehensive realization of what it is I'm doing hasn't been instantaneous, so to say it hit me would be inaccurate -- I don't remember the last time something hit me like that. I liken the experience, then, more to birth contractions (clearly the more relevant), gradual and growing; leading to, well, re-birth I guess...hm. Perhaps in this case metaphor is making the account more dramatic than necessary. It's a move, a change in lifestyle just like quitting soda is a change in lifestyle, and akin to my frequent attempts at cutting Coke...I always come back home. The only permanence I'm anticipating is of the life-lesson variety.
Melody, Patrick, Carlos, and Cora. PTL for people who take time out of their day to carry your bags to security check.
I turn to my dad and ask him what his thoughts are on what the clock looks like for someone at his age.
My dad proceeds to explain how he longs so much to retire, yet fears the idleness that comes with it. How he would love so much to go to the Philippines and live lavishly for little money, but knows how he would hate to do it without his family. How he wants to be done with the business, but empathizes with the employees he'd be leaving without a source of income. How he wishes that I would've stayed with the business, but knows that it's not my path.
It seems this is truly at the bottom of his heart. I grieve for how much he is lost without Christ. He's so caught between desires, and struggles to know what to do with what remains of his life. "For me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain" (Philippians 1:21). That's so unusual, because people hardly consider death gain. To know that Christ is life is to know that everything on this Earth takes its most influential, inspiring, and important form when it is laid upon the foundation of God's blessing. To know that Christ is life is to trust in what Christ did on the cross, that he died for your sins and rose from the dead. "Because I live, you will live also" (John 14:19). When you know that, death can't be anything else but gain, because you know it isn't really death at all.
My sister begins to pray. As she does, her voice gets scratchy. This isn't that different from the way a voice sounds when a person's just woken up, and it's fairly early in the day. But right about the middle she takes a pause, then the moment she says "he'll always have a home here" her defenses drop and the tears come. At that moment there's a brand new connection made. Years of sibling rivalry and reluctant sharing had toughened up our exteriors too much be sappy with one another. Sure the love got bolder and more apparent as we matured, but something this vulnerable and frank had not been seen before. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel my own tears roll down.
My mom quickly jumps in afterward, asking to pray. There are few people on Earth who can recount your life like your parents. She starts with last Saturday, and gradually moves back in time. I listen as she starts with talking about the people at the party, to how I was in college and high school, to how I was growing up, to quoting the time Pastor Ed joked that I was the most faithful person in the congregation because I was going to two churches. I soak in the testimony of a mother about her son, how much she had observed and seen me throughout the years. I hear her cite my forgetfulness, my lack of car, my youth, and how she said it didn't stop me from what I needed to do. She recalls the late hours, the lack of sleep, and the conversations she sees me having online, over the phone, and in person. She confesses how proud she is and how unworried she is about me because she has marveled so often at how much God has taken care of her son despite the eccentric situations he often finds himself in. The approval and understanding of a mother in your most confusing and faith-testing endeavors is better than gold. The faith of a prayer warrior is unmatched. I hear her sobs and feel the tears run down her words and resonate in the pain she is feeling as she anticipates the distance that is going to lay between her and her youngest. I feel the tears drop on my pants and my breathing get violent; that kind of hysterical crying usually reserved for a kid after his scrapes his knee for the first time, that kind of ugly crying where you watch the snot rapidly string down in front of you and strip you of your dignity. For good reason I try not to listen when people say they're going to miss me. I'm usually really good at letting such compliments feed my ego. But this -- this broke me.
I look back now and think about that hour and a half in disbelief. Glory to God for the work He's doing in my family.
This is chiefly a thoughtblog. That mean less gushing over sights and snacks, attractions and appetizers, edifices and eats, and more writing reflections, penning pensives, and alliterating.
