Subway Observations #3

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.

Post-turkey Check-in.

"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.

Hi Pastor Ed,

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, Pastor Ed. 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, Pastor Ed, I do. I really do. I love you.

Happy Thanksgiving,
Ian

Haven't the Foggiest.

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.

Well what do you know? I'm writing again...

Subway Observations #2

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.

Got a new phone.

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.