Today, I hung out after work at a co-worker's place with a couple of fellow employees. I forget how foreign I am to these types of "parties." KC cooked up some pretty good food, and, of course, there was plenty of alcohol (margaritas and beer). I don't/can't drink very much, and I certainly don't enjoy feeling drunk. I did try a margarita, all the while remembering how I have very little tolerance for the taste of alcohol, even if the drink is pretty fruity. Still, I had no problem hanging out with the guys until the fun started gravitating towards viewing each other's pictures of girls that they had met at clubs. All of us are single so it wasn't that surprising but there's a certain objectification of women that happens when guys get together to salivate over a woman's cute ass.
The experience reminded me of high school and even college when I would find myself at these parties when, due to the nature of the festivities, I felt out of place. I don't necessarily feel compelled to be at these types of functions, but I also realize that, sadly, this is how many people have fun. It reminds of how hollow this type of partying is but also gives me the opportunity to learn more about people, even if they aren't altogether with it.
I ended up leaving early. I hope to spend more time with these guys and hopefully, we won't always be doing the same thing.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Working
This past Monday, I started my summer job. What do I do? I download computer software onto computers...lots of computers, and then I repeat this over and over again while my brain goes on standby until my next procedural slip-up. Despite their brain-deadening moments of boredom, jobs like these introduce me to so many people, and, since most of these people are older than me, they generally have life stories worth telling. Take Shawn, one of the several well-built black dudes at work. He grew up on the Southside of Chicago and spent his post-high school years (seven of them to be exact) in the military (four in the Marines and three in the Army). Shawn, however, is one of the most relaxed and chill military guys I've ever met. He credits his personality to spending his years in the Marines in a post with officers who were even more laid back than he was, who called each other by their first names, and, for better or for worse, told a then intense and tense Shawn to lighten up a bit. Shawn is an entrepreneur at heart; he has always wanted to run his own business. He's hoping that this job will give him the income to continue pursuing his dream. Then there's Lynn. She had to quit college because she had kids, four of them to be exact. She grew up in Lisle, which is where I live now, but currently lives in Westmont, which is roughly where I grew up. Her husband is a minister of a small church that meets at Benedictine University, which is practically in my backyard, because they don't have a building. Her kids are separated by roughly two years, the eldest being seven years of age. As you can tell, the only thing that has kept me sane through the first couple days have been meeting these people, and trying to at least reflect on what is so easily can be a thoughtless job. Perhaps by the end of this summer, there will be more to say about this.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Grandpa
After two years of Chinese in college, I have tried, since I've been home, to use it as much as possible. Tonight, during dinner I was able to do so with my parents. And tonight, I thought I'd share a story about my mom's dad, which I found, for many reasons, quite powerful.
My grandpa was in Japan during his college years studying, working, and supporting his relatives back home. His family was hardly a wealthy bunch. The more he worked, the more he money he earned to send back home. But, he also had to support himself during school but working to support relatives took away money and time that would have helped and supported him in school. In the end, his studies yielded a failing business that drove him to the brink of suicide.
It was at this time that my grandpa remembered as a child living off the shores of Taiwan, a preacher coming to their village and staying with them. This preacher taught my grandpa the Bible and shared the gospel message with him, but, at the time, my grandpa's mom was vehemently opposed to any stranger coming in to convert them. So, my grandpa, as a small child, never went to church.
My grandpa, recalling this, decided to go to the Salvation Army post in Japan. Back then, the Salvation Army could legally share the message of Christ to the people it served, and so, it was here, that my grandpa was reintroduced to the Scriptures. He quickly read through the Bible, soaking everything in, but, in the end, came up with the following conclusion: "I believe everything that the Bible says is true except that I cannot believe that miracles such as those performed in the Scriptures really happened."
Now my grandpa was a TB sufferer; he many times ate ice in a futile attempt to soothe the pain. It was during this time that he said to God, "If you make it so that I do not have to eat ice again, then the money I used for the ice, I will give to you." Some time later, my grandpa was sitting on a train when a mother and her children came on. As he was offering them his seat, he saw a figure at the end of the train declare to him boldly, "Your sins have been forgiven." From that point on, my grandpa was cured of his disease.
My grandpa, now a believer, would return to Taiwan and meet my grandmother, who was not a Christian at the time. They would marry anyway (in part because her family had money--it was the trend back then), and my grandma would eventually accept Christ. Then, they had my mom, and the rest of the story continues today.
I never met my grandpa; the only memory I had of him was having my parents call my school to tell me when I was in the third grade. And yet, it's family stories like these that really help me understand, in part, why my parents believe what they do. It helps me realize what drives them to be the type of people they are. Its stories like these, the very same testimonies that I might here over and over again and not think anything of it, that help me realize that to follow Christ is about living a life that is transformed and that serves as a testament to his glory.
My grandpa was in Japan during his college years studying, working, and supporting his relatives back home. His family was hardly a wealthy bunch. The more he worked, the more he money he earned to send back home. But, he also had to support himself during school but working to support relatives took away money and time that would have helped and supported him in school. In the end, his studies yielded a failing business that drove him to the brink of suicide.
It was at this time that my grandpa remembered as a child living off the shores of Taiwan, a preacher coming to their village and staying with them. This preacher taught my grandpa the Bible and shared the gospel message with him, but, at the time, my grandpa's mom was vehemently opposed to any stranger coming in to convert them. So, my grandpa, as a small child, never went to church.
My grandpa, recalling this, decided to go to the Salvation Army post in Japan. Back then, the Salvation Army could legally share the message of Christ to the people it served, and so, it was here, that my grandpa was reintroduced to the Scriptures. He quickly read through the Bible, soaking everything in, but, in the end, came up with the following conclusion: "I believe everything that the Bible says is true except that I cannot believe that miracles such as those performed in the Scriptures really happened."
Now my grandpa was a TB sufferer; he many times ate ice in a futile attempt to soothe the pain. It was during this time that he said to God, "If you make it so that I do not have to eat ice again, then the money I used for the ice, I will give to you." Some time later, my grandpa was sitting on a train when a mother and her children came on. As he was offering them his seat, he saw a figure at the end of the train declare to him boldly, "Your sins have been forgiven." From that point on, my grandpa was cured of his disease.
My grandpa, now a believer, would return to Taiwan and meet my grandmother, who was not a Christian at the time. They would marry anyway (in part because her family had money--it was the trend back then), and my grandma would eventually accept Christ. Then, they had my mom, and the rest of the story continues today.
I never met my grandpa; the only memory I had of him was having my parents call my school to tell me when I was in the third grade. And yet, it's family stories like these that really help me understand, in part, why my parents believe what they do. It helps me realize what drives them to be the type of people they are. Its stories like these, the very same testimonies that I might here over and over again and not think anything of it, that help me realize that to follow Christ is about living a life that is transformed and that serves as a testament to his glory.
A story
Somewhere in the Chicagoland suburbs, a student was "pumping iron" at a gym on a hot muggy afternoon and was about to begin his final exercise. Before starting, he glanced at the weight on the machine, and, muttering to himself, said "That's too much; I won't be able to do that" and proceeded to replace the weights with smaller ones. Halfway into his routine, he found himself unable to finish the second set. Slightly annoyed, he stopped, a bit embarrassed by his overestimation of his own strength and, by the same token, the underestimation of his weakness.
After brief contemplation, he decided to further reduce the weight, but went when he went to do so, he realized that the original weight that he had originally perceived to be too much had actually been what he had been lifting all along. He had mistakingly taken the rack to be part of the lifting apparatus (and vice versa), and so he had mistakenly placed the smaller weights on the racks while placing the heavier ones on the machine itself. The student sat there momentarily reflecting on his mechanical incompetency, and, upon further evaluation, decided to finish up the last 1.5 sets without making any further changes, taking his time as needed.
After brief contemplation, he decided to further reduce the weight, but went when he went to do so, he realized that the original weight that he had originally perceived to be too much had actually been what he had been lifting all along. He had mistakingly taken the rack to be part of the lifting apparatus (and vice versa), and so he had mistakenly placed the smaller weights on the racks while placing the heavier ones on the machine itself. The student sat there momentarily reflecting on his mechanical incompetency, and, upon further evaluation, decided to finish up the last 1.5 sets without making any further changes, taking his time as needed.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
home = church browsing
One of the things that I have dreaded about coming home over the last four years is that I would have to decide where to go to church on Sunday. I won't go into all the details but due to moving about twenty minutes further west since high school and the fact that my home church from high school split since I had last attended regularly, I have lacked a church to call home.
So what did I do this past Sunday? I checked out the smallest church I could find because churches here in Yuppie-town Suburbia are gigantic (two to three services minimum, which often include traditional, contemporary or a funky blend of both services) and big churches, though not necessarily all bad, are not exactly my cup of tea.
The church I attended quite possibly had the ugliest building I had ever worshiped in. The entire building was brick, which wasn't necessarily a problem until I went into the sanctuary. The entire interior of this room was brick with small slivers of windows along the sides, and the floors consisted of this dark red tile with concrete fillings. There was not a single Christian symbol to be found. I am not an interior design guru, but as I stared ahead at the bare brick wall behind the pastor, I kept thinking to myself, "So drab..." The service itself was rather slow and grave. I'll leave it at that.
To be fair, the church is undergoing a change in leadership. It switched pastors last fall, and, having been a part of church that has done the same, I know that the process is often difficult and not without its consequences. Still, I have to admit, sitting through the service made me feel old. And, as much as I look forward to being older and wiser, this is not quite what I had in mind.
On a more positive note, the people were pretty friendly. One of the elders personally made it his goal to accompany me and introduce me to everyone he could think of. He had the demeanor of the gregarious and gentle grandfatherly figure and he certainly made me feel welcome. The church was having their monthly fellowship meal and so I joined them. Lunch was quite enjoyable; there's something about sharing a meal that imparts a deeper significance to typical conversation.
Before I took off, I remember this elder telling me that he was glad that I came and that I should come back to visit. As he put it, "You're among friends here." It was this last comment of his that resonated with me. I may have intended to come just for Sunday, but he had reminded me that, in the body of believers, I am always welcome.
So what did I do this past Sunday? I checked out the smallest church I could find because churches here in Yuppie-town Suburbia are gigantic (two to three services minimum, which often include traditional, contemporary or a funky blend of both services) and big churches, though not necessarily all bad, are not exactly my cup of tea.
The church I attended quite possibly had the ugliest building I had ever worshiped in. The entire building was brick, which wasn't necessarily a problem until I went into the sanctuary. The entire interior of this room was brick with small slivers of windows along the sides, and the floors consisted of this dark red tile with concrete fillings. There was not a single Christian symbol to be found. I am not an interior design guru, but as I stared ahead at the bare brick wall behind the pastor, I kept thinking to myself, "So drab..." The service itself was rather slow and grave. I'll leave it at that.
To be fair, the church is undergoing a change in leadership. It switched pastors last fall, and, having been a part of church that has done the same, I know that the process is often difficult and not without its consequences. Still, I have to admit, sitting through the service made me feel old. And, as much as I look forward to being older and wiser, this is not quite what I had in mind.
On a more positive note, the people were pretty friendly. One of the elders personally made it his goal to accompany me and introduce me to everyone he could think of. He had the demeanor of the gregarious and gentle grandfatherly figure and he certainly made me feel welcome. The church was having their monthly fellowship meal and so I joined them. Lunch was quite enjoyable; there's something about sharing a meal that imparts a deeper significance to typical conversation.
Before I took off, I remember this elder telling me that he was glad that I came and that I should come back to visit. As he put it, "You're among friends here." It was this last comment of his that resonated with me. I may have intended to come just for Sunday, but he had reminded me that, in the body of believers, I am always welcome.
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