"Why am I here?": A Review of My Call After a Half-Year in Asia

“Why I am here” has routinely become the thesis for many of my prayers as of late. The answer always comes, in a very familiar voice heard in the depths of my heart that says, “Because this is where I want you.” “Thanks,” I sometimes sarcastically think to myself, “got any details?”

About 10 years ago, at Circleville Nazarene, listening to a visiting missionary speak, I felt the distinctive tug at my heart to “become a missionary.” “What I stereotype,” I thought to myself, “I’m just being excitable,” and I eventually dismissed it as a serious thought, as my teen years progressed.

Four years later, on the return trip from a mission’s trip to the Bahamas, the familiar tug returned—this time the tug was more definite, yet a bit broader. “I feel called into full-time ministry” was my confession as our group prayed that night.

Two years later as I enrolled as Religion Major at Mount Vernon Nazarene University, the tug was ever-present, yet ever-ambiguous. “Where on earth do you want me, Lord?” I would pray. And the familiar voice within my heart would, with beautiful ambiguity, retort: “Here.” “But what about the details?!” I would think to myself.

Time progressed and I began to take an interest (and eventually a second major) in philosophy, focusing in world religions. As the Lord, unexpectedly, yet not-surprisingly lead me into 2 and a half years in an All-Korean Church, 3 years with a Korean/Kazakhstani roommate, and a long internship in the socially and politically depressed former-soviet union, the Lord’s original call to that 14 year-old boy, quickly returned, only this time it was much harder to deny.

Throughout the rest of my time at MVNU, my love for teaching, explaining concepts and communication began to develop as I tutored and taught as a teachers assistant, and Mentor on campus. As I approached the end of my undergraduate road, I felt a bit like Robert Frost’s character from The Road Not Taken, who stands at the fork of “two roads diverged in a yellow wood.” I felt like Neo, in The Matrix, when he is offered two pills: the blue one—to take him back to everything he knows and is familiar with, or the red one—which will lead him down a path full of questions and even danger, yet a path that will allow him to embrace what he knows, deep down, he was created for. So, with an ounce of inhibition I accepted the red pill, which I knew would inevitably lead me to Asia. I accepted it and even left off my usual request for details—upon one condition…that the Lord pave the way.

And the Lord paved the way. I was asked, out of the blue to take a position teaching English to Korean students over the Internet for a few hours each week, a job which would allow me to be mobile (especially in Asia) and offer me some small financial support, while on the other side of the world. Beyond this, I would soon find out that this job had its base in Manila, Philippines—only a few miles from the Seminary where I would attend school—of all the places in the world, it was in Manila! Plans fell into place, sometimes miraculously, and within a short while I found myself on a plane headed to Asia.

I came here with about $2,000 in my Savings and a job that I hoped would help me along. However, material security like that is never good for building faith, however, it was needed to get me to cross the Pacific to Asia. Within a few months, as Student Visa fees, documentation fees, enrollment fees, international fees, and a seeming thousands more came at me, I soon found that the money that I had saved was grossly insufficient. As for my job on the internet, my hours were soon cut in half, giving me just enough money to buy food and pay for rent, but no where near enough to pay for tuition. So the prayer continues, “God, Why am I here?” And the response quietly follows, “because this is where I want you.”

Though the scenery has changed, the country has changed, and I have certainly changed, the story has remained the same. Through uncertainty, God wants me here. Manila? Yes. Seminary? Also, Yes. But most importantly, as the case has been from the beginning of the story, he wants me in a place where I have nothing to rely on but him and his provision, from wherever that provision may come. And it is somewhere in that beautiful ambiguity that faith is found and understood. Going back to the 14 year-old boy sitting in a missions service… little did I know where that little tug would bring me, little did I know where I would be only 10 years later—in a place where there is so much work to be done, so many needs to be met, and an endless task at hand.

So, “where am I?”
I am, “here,” right where I need to be
…and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

- Jarrett

Remember the Sabbath...

It has most definitely been a long time since I have last made a post to this site; and I really should be asking myself, "why, in the midst of all of the papers and assignments, should I even toy with the idea of writing something additional???" And, to answer that question, most honestly.... "I don't know."
What I do know is that, however useful it may be, there is something terribly confining and limiting to "proper" academic writing, with all it's footnoting and citations, and rigid progression of ideas. For someone who genuinely likes to write... that like telling an artist that he's allowed to paint whatever he wants and express whatever is in his heart--as long as as it is "color-by-numbers" and he follows all of the instructions, and uses only the preselected colors.
But that's not at all what I wanted to talk about anyway. What I want to talk about requires a new paragraph...

For the past while now--me, Ruel, and Glen, have been experimenting with our concept of "Sabbath." As long as I can remember, the idea of "Sabbath" has been terribly stereotyped as this one point in the week where good christians take a break from life. You know, life. That annoying period of conciousness that fills in those times when we are not sleeping. Of course, I'm exaggerating. But, honestly... what do we as Christian take life to be? I remember a certain phrase that became well-used around my family while I was growing up. When we were on vacation, having a good time, and we had to leave to go back home, we would say, "well, back to reality," as if somewhere at home we left this evil Jail Warden waiting for us with handcuffs, waiting for our return... waiting to throw us back into that prison we call "reality." --- once again, I'm exagerating... but only a bit. Similarly, we hear other negative terms like, "real life," which would refer to something that is unpleasant, but a terribly unavoidable reality of living this painful thing we call "life."

What if... WHAT IF... life wasn't something that needed escaping. What if we didn't take a break FROM life, but rather, we took a break TO life. What if the Sabbath was not a retreating away from that monster that waits for us at the door every Monday morning, but WHAT IF the Sabbath, was instead a celebration of the life that has been lived? Therefore, YES, the Sabbath is a time in which we do break from the normal progression of the workweek, but it's not a mandatory holding back from that scary beast that we in the working world have dubbed "real life," rather, the Sabbath is diving headfirst into REAL LIFE. A time where were we get a cup of coffee, write, play, sing, listen to jazz, cook, wrestle alligators--whatever makes you come alive-- what if we did that?

I've been experimenting with this though for the past few Sabbaths, and it has been an amazing breath of fresh air... I almost wonder if this is what God had in mind all along ( and I think he did) Every Sabbath (I've chosen Sunday), me Ruel, and Glen go to church, sing fellowship and the whole 9 yards... then, at around lunchtime, we dissappear and we go.
For me, "going" feeds my soul, gives me life... I don't nessecarily care where I go, but I go. When I go, I try to go somewhere that I have never gone before. Then I take pictures of it. Maybe for some, this does not sound appealing but, for me. This is deeply what I love. I have always been nomadic at heart, I'm a traveler deep down. To me, Magellan--that abominable explorer-- committed one of the most unspeakable acts to those people who are like me... he charted the world...mapped it out, painted a picture of it, and stole a little bit of its wonder and mystery. Honestly, I have always wanted to do what he did. See something that people have never seen before, catch something new, something exciting, see something that is not yet in the dictionary and tell its story-- see something about which one would have to write a book.
I think that it why I spend my Sabbath doing what I do. When I'm "going" (wherever that may be) and I have a camera, or a pen and paper... I think that there is a small part of me that is living out Magellan's dream. I'm looking for a perspective, an angle, an image. Something that tells a story that has not been told before, and shows something in a way that it has never been shone before... so that, for a second, that thing becomes new, and it able to be discovered all over again.
Increasingly, I am becoming convinced that this is really what the Sabbath was meant to be, not an excape from life... but an excape TO LIFE.

Whatever "life" --real life.... REALLY, real life is for you, excape to that. It might be buried deeply beneith your agenda, and paperwork, covered with things like your taxes and finances, but chances are it's there --your life, that is... and odds are, it's not nearly as scary as we all make it out to be.

Choose Hope.

Sometimes the most profound and life altering philosophical truths come from the most unexpected and simple of situations.   Something that I forgot to mention about my bureaucratic bouts over the past few days.  I forgot to mention it, and--really, I believe it was the point and telios of the frustrations of the past few days.  

At the pinnacle of my frustrations, at the very point were I had had enough --the point at which you have to fight off the myriad of expletives that seem to wait impatiently at the tip of your tongue, one of these simple truths found me.   It was just after I had talked to the people at immigration for the final time, and they had come to the consensus that the solution to my Visa problem that they take an early lunch break and leave me high-and-dry.  

I left the building in indignant frustration, figuring that the overly complex "system" (for lack of a better word) of blind bureaucracy was just leading me deeper into their endless tunnels of paperwork, offices, lines, hidden fees, and pointless regulations.  I felt that the light that one would assume was at the end of the tunnel was just a myth... and it was at that point that I, in my annoyed resentment of government, crossed the crowded streets of Intramuros, and saw a weathered old man, pulling a cart.   He was dirty, dingy, with a sun-beaten face and a stringy hair, his face seemed like a brown paper bag,  obviously showing the wear from years of working in the sun and heat.   His cart as it proceeded through the gutters was equally as worn. However, it wasn't his cart or his face that caught my attention.  There, on this man who was the picture of humility was worn a shirt that simply read, in big purple letters, "Choose Hope." 

Ouch.  

Although, I was still a little too perturbed and consumed with my own frustrations to fully allow the profound simplicity of that man to sink in, I knew that I had just been told how it was.  And in the short and emotionless glance given to me by the man, he spoke volumes.  Begrudgingly, I listened to what the image of this man had to say, and I had a lot of trouble clinging to the hopelessness in which I would like to have stewed.   No. Hopelessness had to stop there.  And once again, God used the simple, small, broken, humble, unimpressive, unremarkable, insignificant to do and say significantly more than anyone would have ever expected.  

Ode to Bureaucracy...

(Author's note:  This post was meant to be read with all of the playful sarcasm with which it was written.)

For those of you who are Non-immigrants--natives to your land. I would like to describe for you Hell. For after the events of this week, I'm quite certain of what hell looks like. You may find it interesting to realize that hell resembles nothing of what the media would have you to believe. That's right, no fire, no brimstone, no evil red man running around with a pitchfork. Hell, I am convinced, is much more simple.

Hell is a line.

It is a line that weaves back and forth in a narrow, crowded, hallway filled with people whom you do not know and with whom you cannot speak.

Many theologians argue that hell is an inhuman place entirely void of all hope. I believe this is only half-true. You see, the true torture of hell is not that all hope is lost (because eventually people would get used to hopelessness and, to some extent, learn to cope) true torture--involves only a little hope. Ideas of hope are, perhaps, whispered in your ears, or somewhere in the distance you will think that you see a sign which you are SURE says something like "the end is near"... and you take out a small insurance policy in that thought and live (although painfully) in the dire reality of present conditions watching the line diminish ever so slowly, "knowing" that right around the corner is your hope. You think to yourself, "As soon as this line finally makes its curve around the corner. I will see it--there it will be." But tragically, as the line round's the corner, you find nothing but another room, but this time even bigger, and more crowded, and the hope that you found yourself clinging to is torn from your iron-fisted grasp and what you thought would lead you to hope, actually leads you to two places:

1. Dire and absolute desolation, and
2. A new line.

And this is eternity.

Surprisingly, this is precisely how the immigration process works for lucky, young Americans who forgot to get their documents authenticated at the Philippine Consulate before leaving the states for the Philippines. I am sure that many of you have gotten a flavor of this reality every time that you have had to get a title for your car, renew your Driver's license, or for that matter, do anything even remotely associated with the Bureau of Motor Vehicles in the States. Really, this is not anything that is unique to the Phillippines.

Bureaucracy is bureaucracy no matter what corner of the globe that you find yourself in.

This is my predicament: I need to get a student visa to be able to stay and study here in the Philippines. A student Visa requires that I have several documents: My College transcripts, Proof of Financial Support, and a Criminal Background check from the FBI or BCI (Bureau of Criminal Investigation). All of these Documents need to be "Authenticated". Authentication simply means that the Philippine government looks at my documents and says, "yes, these are in fact documents" and then they give me a Cover Sheet with a seal that is stapled onto my Documents which says, "The following are, in fact, Documents." 

My papers were supposed to be authenticated at the Philippine Embassy in the States before coming. Well, I didn't do that. So, we called the Philippine Embassy... and after multiple attempts and getting nothing but an answering machine, we finally got through and they told us that I needed to go to the Immigration post in the Philippines and they could take care of me there.

TUESDAY: I made a 2-hour commute to the immigration post... and they were closed because Tuesday (little did I know) was a secret holiday.

WEDNESDAY: I started at 7am and made another 2-hour into the Manila Bay area, and went to immigration. Immigration told me that they could not do anything for me. I needed to go to the DFA (Department of Foreign Affairs), which is conveniently located miles from Immigration. 30 Minutes and a Taxi ride later, I found myself in the throes of eternal torture (yes. That's right--weaving lines, crowded hallways, and endless rooms of false hope and eternal waiting). About two hours or so later, I made it to the window, where I was convinced an Authentication Certificate would be happily waiting for me... HA! That's what you would like to believe. Actually, they told me that before they could do anything there, I had to get to the American Embassy, where they would give me a Certification to get my documents Authenticated by the DFA. Emotionless, in desolation, and with a developing facial twitch, I walked away stripped of hope.

On my way to the Embassy, I regained a little sliver of hope thinking that THEY could take care of me. However, I would soon find out that they were closed. And even if they WERE open, they only accepted VISA authentications from 8-11am.

It was 11:15. And I was in awe.

THURSDAY: I returned to the Embassy at 10:40am (after getting some other paperwork done at immigration) to find that actually, they didn't close authentications at 11am, it was 10am. Hmm... convenient...especially seeing as it was already 10:40, and there was really no way of avoiding it anyway seeing as I had to be at immigration by 10am anyway. I kindly talked theology with the guard and described for him true eternal peril (the Department of Foreign Affairs) and evidently he knew what I was talking about, because he let me in.

Another 45 minutes of waiting later, I was told that all of the information that was given previously was a lost cause and would get me nowhere. After preforming cardiac defibrillation on myself, I recovered and the man told me that I needed to call the Philippine Embassy in the States. I told him that, "I already did that, they sent me to Immigration, who sent me to the DFA, who sent me to you." He gave me a very complex alternate plan involving an Affidavit, a stamp, a couple of signatures and a long trip BACK to immigration.

Back at square one (immigration) they told me that The Embassy's plan "B" would never work, and there was nothing they could do, so they took most of my hope that was left and told me to give the embassy a call to double check about getting the certification to get the authentication, to get the Visa, to go to school in the Philippines. I called... everyone was at lunch, although an operator that I talked to gave me the Idea of having Immigration call the DFA and talking to them for me because there was a special "American Services Division" that could help me.

So, I went back in, but they couldn't help me because they too were taking their 12 o'clock lunch, at 11:40. Frustrated and out of time I gave up, and headed back to the Metro that brought me there. Determined to exhaust the rest of my energy making phone calls, and writing e-mails to offices instead.

Actually, (and Ironically) I received an e-mail while writing this post. It was a response from an e-mail that I sent to the Department of Foreign Affairs... the subject line says in bold print, "Undelivered Mail Returned to Sender." --Hmm... I didn't see that one coming... 

 The body of the letter continues: 

"<oaa@dfa.gov.ph>: data format error. Command output: oaa: Mailbox does not exist"

Well, on the brighter side of things, I always have been a fan of irony.

But, don't worry! Hope found me this morning. As I was explaining my bueaucratic woes to my school's administration, Brian Woolery, a recent graduate here from the states told me that He and his wife found themselves in the same situation 4 years ago. And the only hope for the matter was to literally, FedEx everything back to the states, having the documents authenticated, and then having them shipped back in just enough time that your Tourist Visa doesn't expire before the papers get here and your Visa is processed.

The up side: there is hope.

The down side is, I'm going to be out another couple hundred dollars.

But... hey, at least there is hope. And I got I good story out of it... with a side of Irony.

Arrival in Manila...

UUUGH.....It's staggering to think of where I am right now, and the thousands of miles that have been spanned in the past few weeks. It literally blows my mind.  I think I'm more or less numb to it at this point in time.  Although, somethings havent changed... I AM, afterall, sitting in a starbucks, sipping an Americano, typing away on my Macbook, in the Air-Conditioning... however, I know that when I g out that door the world is very different. And as I head back to where I am staying. The contrast from what I have known, becomes remarkable. 

  It was almost a little hard to process it all as I left the Airport, and dove into Manila traffic, and even  more staggering as I left the taxi to be left along with my bags in a rushing, churning sea of people, flowing and darting every-which way, having nothing but an address and a cellphone number (but no phone :) )  I don't think I realized how different everything would be.   I felt a little like Indiana Jones in "the temple of Doom" when he is having to shove his way through the overcrowded and chaotic street  of New Delhi, on some beyond-belief quest.  It was kind of exciting... although I did have a great deal of time to really process my surroundings seeing as the daunting task of lugging my 70 lbs worth of luggage, up two-stories of steep, stone steps, through the teeming masses of people was the most prominent thing on my agenda at the time.  After fighting my way to the top of the steps and nestling my way deep into the heart of the mass that I think was intended to be a line to the Metro, I rolled my eyes and almost laughed as I saw the security check.  Every Bag had to be searched,  The process seemed to be fairly routine for the Filippino Officer, until his eyes hit the tall mass of Nylon and Plastic that made up my luggage,  I'm sure he was thinking the same thing that I was thinking and neither of us were looking forward to a search in this mess.  

Off to the side I went and after a long while, after trying to put the job off on any other available officer but himself, he finally held up the crowd, came over and began rooting through my things.   Thankfully, I didn't bring any of my bombs this time, so after the arduous process, he waved me on and I picked up my three-way battle where I left off (Me vs. my bags vs. teeming-masses of people) .    After fighting my way through, buying my ticket, getting my bulky bags caught in the turn-style, fighing a bit more, getting them stuck again, then finally lifting them over the stupid thing, carrying them down a few more flights of stairs, I was ready to be crammed (literally) on a train headed for Quezon City.  

Honestly, I don't think I had really ever, truly understood the meaning of the word "over-crowded" until this point in my life.  I don't honestly think anyone could.  Nor do I think there are words or pictures to adequately describe what I really mean by "over-crowded," however, I will do my best. 

As I stood among the masses, waiting for my train to arrive, I noticed that there was a loading area that was marked "For elderly, women, children and the disabled only."    I looked at this sing with some confusion.  Afterall it is normally only on things such as ski-lifts,  roller coasters, white-water rafting boats,  and other precarious and possibly life-threatening forms of transportation that you see special warnings for the women, chlidren, the elderly and the disabled.  But this was ONLY a Metro car, right?  Why would they have a warning like that, HERE?  ... I was about to find out. 

The train came speeding down the tracks and made a quick stop there at the Taft Ave. station.  The doors opened, and like the opening of a valve, the sea of people pushed and darted for the newly opened space, and like the filling of a cup with a power-washer,  the train was flooded with the same amount of people that to would take to fill 2 or 3 trains in the states. 

I found myself somewhere in the middle--my bags compressed upon my legs, and with one arm on the ceiling, one foot on the floor, and one perched atop my bags, the train jolted to a start moving at least 2-3 more Filipinos to fill the spaces under my arms and chin.   But that was only the beginning. At the next station I could only stand in awe (I couldn't move to do anything else)  The train, now pressurized with people, opened it's doors, and (by all means) the laws of physics would have told me the people would have spilled out.  Astoundingly, it was just the opposite.  At the next station there was an equally as large crowd to meet the train as there was at the last station. And with the force of what seemed like a hundred bodies or so shoving in concert, the train seemed to rock as even more people crowded onto the already far-overloaded train car. 

Piling out of the train and onto the bustling street of Manila, I was confronted with the intense smell of fishy-fried street vendor foods, honking horns, and yelling children.   I found Cab who was more than happy to help me load my bulky luggage into the back of his car and take me to my destination at #4 Mapagbigay St, Quezon City.  

We cut in and out of the crowded streets, passing shacks and shanties in what seemed to be a more economically deprived end of town.  Children seemed to be everywhere, filling the spaces between the shacks, playing in the streets, and helping adults with selling trinkets, food or other simple items at the side of the road. 

With some effort we found my destination on Mapagbigay st.  and I met a man who I have known for a while, but only by the internet.  His name was Nekko, and he was the Tech guy for Native-English, which is the online English tutoring company that I have been working for since early last year.   It was good to finally see him without webcam or internet.  

After settling in, and taking a quick nap I got to eat dinner with he and his wife... and sleep, perhaps had never come easier than that night. 

Getting there...

Good Afternoon / Evening / Morning / whatever.  I'm writing this from 34000 ft above the Pacific Ocean,  SFO is about 2011 miles behind me and Tokyo is fast approaching  at a rate of 521 MPH, just about  3181 miles ahead.

It's been a LONG trip,  but a good one, and certainly not devoid of the required amount of crazy that all my trips seem to include. Let me 'splain:

CMH --->  ORD =  Delayed.   I was supposed to leave at 10:35, my plane wasn't there until 11:30.  I left by 3rd.   Although, I was intended to  make my next connection at ORD at 12:30 (really 1:30  Ohio Time) Thunderstormes held us up un the tarmac.   We are not alowed to dock with the jetway within 15 minutes of a lightening strike within 5 miles of the airport.... so we had to wait for our 15 minutes to be up.   I arrived at my next connection (which was in an entirely different concourse, requiring a jog under the tarmac) and the gate was already closed however, the plane was not yet sealed up so they held up for me, boarding me with not a second to spare. 

However impeccable the timing on my part, I cannot say the same thing for my siutcase, but this is not all bad.   I arrived at LAX airport with an 18 hour layover,  I wanted to go out and see the city, and to do that I would need to check my baggage somewhere, but that would cost me money.  A quick ckeck at the Kiosk told be that my bag was lagging behind about 1200 miles, due to the rediculously fast plane change in Chicago.  Although, that sounds bad, it just meant that United would hold my bag for me and keep it safe until I was able to pick it up.  Problem Solved.  

LA was an amazing city. I couldn't decide of I was in Mexico or South Korea.  Sometimes it was difficult to find a street sign ot advertisement that was not written in spanish, korean, or some other asian dialect.   Needless to say, I got through the city just fine.  I left the airport and explored the area for the better part of my 18 hour layover.    there were several site that I wanted to see.  One of them was the corner of Hollywood and Vine (really it's a dirty, more or less anticlimactic corner); I took the metro there, and as I approached I had a few stereotype of what it might be, you know, lights cameras, scantily-clad actors, that sort of thing.  But I reasoned with myself that stereotype like this were just not practical.  Well.... I thought.  That is, until I approached the exit of the metro and found myself in the midst of scaffolds, wires, cameras, lights, actors, and busy crewmen finishing the last touches of a shoot for a music video.   Scantily-clad, almost-dressed actresses and everything, this was hollywood, much to my surprise.   

I returned to the airport after a long afternoon and evening of metro-riding and walking. In the morning I took the easier flight into San Francisco (leaving at 6am rather than 8:02.  We flew out over the San Fernando valley and the Pacific Ocean watching a breath-taking sunrise over rippling clouds, framed by mountains breaking through the clouds. 

San Francisco Int'l Airport is nothing short of sweet, so the 6 hours spent there were well enjoyed.  What was more enjoyed was the fact that they had overbooked my flight, they had overbooked my flight and they needed volunteers to be thrown onto a different flight connecting in Tokyo and continuing to Taipei.  Gladly, I jumped on the flight, and, as a way of saying that they were sorry for selling more tickets than they had seats for, they upgraded me to business class, which got me into the "United Business Lounge", AND (get this) they gave me a $100 voucher for my next flight!.   After some schmoozing and hobb-knobbing with the Upper Crust in the "United Business Elite (Yes, Elite) lounge" , I was then ready to hop on an equally as posh airline seat, where I was greeted with a waitress (or flight attendant) carrying a tray of Juices and Champagne.  After buckling in, and finishing my OJ and some snacks, talking with my fellow colleagues of distinction, and taking a quick glance at the business section of USA Today.   I was ready for a long flight of pampering and smooth sailing.    Tokyo was a quick stop, giving me just enough time to grab some lunch ( a soup of various seafood items and noodles... mmm), and I was off to Taipei.  

                *** Im' now, no longer on the airplane ***

I arrived in Taipei, couldn't find freddy, although he was standing behind me.

Freddy was a Taiwanese friend of mine who actually went to capital university in columbus for a year to study english.  I had met him in columbus, and had gone to church with him for a few months while I worked at the Sarang International church in Columbus.  Freddy... is an awesome guy.  I love him.   And seeing him (or any familiar face) and to recieve a warm hug on my arrival in Taipei, was exactly what I needed. 

Diving into Taiwanese culture was interesting... from the airport we dove into taipei traffic and the typical asian, metropolitan congestion in which lanes rows of cars in highway traffic can easy onto a road made for 3.    Freddy had been working night shift at 7-eleven (7pm-3am)  So, although it was about 9:30 in the evening, it was morning for Freddy, and was Chronologically disoriented enough that you could have just about told me that it was any time and I would have believed you.   So, needless to say we 9 hours running around the City of Taipei.  The next day, I ran around a bit on my own walking and hopping on and off Metros, catching the sites of the city. 

I flew out if Taipei on CebuPacific Airlines, a filipino airline that handles more of thier Tourist industry.   Moving from the VERY traditionally Asian culture of taipei onto an bright orange and yellow aircraft where staff wore bright orange and yellow polos and Kakis and there was playing on the PA this very distinctive upbeat, Bob-Marley-type, island music, I could see that the Philippines was going to be something entirely different.  At this point, (and from what I had seen thus far) I wasn't sure if I was headed to Southeast Asia or the Bahamas.

The plane took off and we headed into the clouds and across the philippine sea for a short, two hour flight to the philippine Island of Luzon. 

Ready or not, here I come...

Am I really ready for this?  That's the question that has been simmering on the back burner of my mind.  Sure I have packed, my things are ready, I've temporarily suspended my Cellphone, my car is being towed away on wednesday, my insurance has been cancelled, I've said my goodbyes (most of them) and so on, but am I REALLY ready?    On a deeper level I had hoped that I would have been wiser and further along in my spiritual journey.  I had hoped that I would have complete have gotten over myself, been devoid of all self interest, and powerfully ready to take on whatever comes my way.   Perhaps when I had originally imagined it, I had a  slight smirk,  a dusty, wide-brimmed hat, a partially unbuttoned and tattered shirt, a bullwhip and a self assurance that clearly preceded me.  Well, hat's off to you Indiana Jones, but I just don't think that I'm quite there just yet.   The truth is that I'm not ready.   I feel like there is so much that is left to be done.  So much change in my that is yet to take place before I would ever be ready to leave the world that I know to start an entirely type of life, in service to the Lord .  

I'm certainly going to need a lot of prayer, and the firm hand of God planted in the small of my back pushing me forward... and that's just it--sometimes I really feel like the only time that I actually make progress in my life is when God literally gives me a shove, putting his own reality right in my face, BOLD FACE TYPE, ITALICS, AND UNDERLINED.   

However, unsure I am of my readiness.  I can't help but remember that phrase spoken by Prince Caspian, in the latest Narnia movie to come out.   When given the throne, he responds, "but I am nowhere near ready to rule the kingdom" and Aslan wisely responds, "and that, my child, is exactly why you ARE ready to rule."   His faith was not in himself, and honestly, he was scared that he would not be able to carry though.   He would only be able to rule by forfeiting his rights to Aslan.  Readiness does not, and cannot come by my own right, or might.  It is entirely dependent on my willingness to get over me, my things, my rights, and my agendas, that I can truely be used as God wants me to be.  I need only to be as ready as a Jar of Clay. "But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed." (1 Corinthians 2:7-9)

Sigh... am I ready?  No.  But maybe that is potentially, not such a bad thing.  But that is entirely dependent on my realization and acceptance of my own  personal weakness and inability to go it alone.  And entirely dependent upon my willingness to let go, of my reason (logic), my agendas, my rights, and any preconceived plan that I might have.  But I'm going to need lots of help.

Apprehensions? maybe Nostalgia?

It's Monday.  Very soon to be Tuesday.  Tomorrow's agenda includes an early morning and a full day of packing and preparations, phone calls, and other endless odds and ends, which keep nagging in the back of my mind.  I feel like I have so much to be doing and thinking about right now, that 'nothing' is just about all that my mind can muster in response.  So, here I sit.  Thinking of the endless connections and transfers and flights that have to be made, the laborious papers that will need filling out and signing, and the overly bureaucratic and critical hands that they must go through.  I keep thinking about all of the lasts.  For instance, I just sat in my car for the "last time."  Earlier today, I left Darbyville for the "last time."   Today I ate Real American Homemade Buffalo Wings for the very last time.  I saw a lot of people today for the last time as well.  Lots of hugs, lots of nostalgia.... ugh, and it is at times like this that nostalgia is the last thing that you want going through your mind.   Nostalgia is that annoying feeling that makes you start thinking, and remembering.  It makes big changes, like moving to the exact opposite corner of the world, a lot harder than you would like them to be. 

Nostalgia makes you want to flip through baby books, and dig out your old childhood blanket from deep within the "forgotten corner" of the closet.  It's a perfect killer for one's sense of adventure and excitement... makes you want to hang stockings, light the fireplace, and play old Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby Albums.   

This month, needless to say, was a month of murderous nostalgia.  My Mom graduated with two B.A.'s, after 30-some years of waiting.   My Sister finished High School and Graduated.  At Her graduation party, along with meeting family and old friends, she showed these horribly beautiful, old pictures of when we were little.  One picture actually featured me holding Leah as a baby beside the Christmas tree in our old house, we were both covered with the blanket that my Grandma Davis gave me when I was about 8, a blanket which I (slightly ashamedly) still use to this day, and will probably have to leave behind when I head out the the Philippines.   Grandma Crawford was also over this weekend, and she, just in herself has this uncanny knack for fabricating nostalgia out of thin air.  She told everything there was to know about everyone in my extended family, and shared all of the "remember whens" that made my mind jump back to the early '90's when learning long-division was the biggest of my trials.   Church today brought lots of hugs and goodbyes, and even tears from parents, which didn't help me out in the slightest. 

  So, how do I feel?  "Excited", is how I usually respond to that question.   But honestly, although I AM excited (if not even giddy) I think more accurately, rather than, "excited",  I think maybe "bludgeoned with nostalgia and emotion" would be more fitting.  Am I apprehensive?  Maybe only a little.  I certainly would be much more, if I didn't sense, with the assurance that I do, that this is the step that the Lord wants me to take.  I keep moving forward, and I'm excited... I know that I am... I just don't feel it clearly yet.  I will... I think.  Once I say my final goodbyes, walk through security, and watch that Airlock seal on that 757 tomorrow, I think I will be very excited.