Open and Closure

Today, I had to go to the hospital in order to get a liver biopsy. The nurses at the hosptial made the time much more enjoyable. They were warm, friendly, and humorously sarcastic. The doctors did their job adequately, and given the quick nature of the procedure (we're going to stick you with a needle into your liver 3 times), I suppose I shouldn't expect much more. Whenever possible, I like watching the needle, whether for a shot, IV or something else, as it's stuck into me. Perhaps it's a personal challenge to increase my pain tolerance. The actual procedure did hurt a bit. I suppose when they take samples of your liver it'll do that. In terms of intensity, the pain wasn't as sharp as when I got my in-grown toenail ripped out by the podiatrist but, it still hurt enough to warrant attention.

I also got to see an old friend in the supply department where I volunteered in high school. Back then, I had purposely chosen the supply department because I wasn't interested in getting "medical exposure" just for the sake of college applications but still "needed" (as my mom put it) volunteer experience. I was able to get pretty close to two of the workers there, Leo and Luke. I saw Leo today, and I wrote this about Luke. Reflections on time, growing up, friendship are all applicable here (Concerning these things, I don't mean to be trite but I'd rather not go into too much more detail about such themes).. One thing that Leo said struck me. He made a comment about how volunteers they get now aren't like they used to be in the past. It made me wonder if this wasn't a reflection of the self-serving nature of volunteering these days.

I wasn't able to see Luke today. He passed away a couple years ago, found dead in his apartment (complications of his diabetes?). If you refer back to that entry I wrote about Luke on my Xanga, you'll know why he meant so much to me. Praise God he is in a better place now. Till we meet again, my friend.


In case the link doesn't work, I've included the entry that I wrote on Luke below

Back in high school, I remember one of the last things that my mom "made" me do. Like everything else that I found myself coerced in (and what a blessing they were), I came away with much more than hours to record on college resume. My junior and senior years of high school I volunteered at Hinsdale Hospital in the SPD (supply department). The SPD was in the basement of the hospital and, really, wasn't exactly the most happening place. Back then, I didn't worry about having "engaging" experiences or complained about doing menial tasks. I was there to deliver supplies to the different floors--everything from long tubes to IV pumps. Sometimes I took the elevator, and other times, when I was bored and anxious, I would sprint up the stairs and time myself. Back in those days, things seemed much more carefree. My biggest anxiety was inviting my supervisors to a praise night at my church even though one was Catholic and the other was also a believer. The two supervisors I worked under were Leo and Luke. Tonight, I reflect on Luke. Luke Guralski was a middle-aged man of medium build. He liked to bike, which resulted in him getting into a pretty bad wreck, but he was, nonetheless, a rather robust and yet he struck me as a simple man. He was usually quite clean shaven and yet you knew, should he allow it, he could grow a pasture of a beard. He had a fiancee who suffered from bi-polar depression. There seemed to be an endless number of futile consults and medications in her history but to no avail. Luke himself had mental disorders of the type which would cause him to suddenly forget recent issues. He never completely described his full-fledged condition but I know that whatever it was, it caused neurological abnormalities and deep depression in a life that, for all intensive purposes, really didn't need any more. Because of his girlfriend's medical condition, marriage never materialized and even Luke realized the futility of the situation. Still, he wanted to stay committed to her even though she would try to push him away, and no doubt this took its toll emotionally on Luke even when he let go. The last time I talked with Luke was after my freshman year. I called his house and shared with him that I was going to China and that I wanted to give him a support letter. I remember talking that night and catching up on the how the last year had brought such new and unexpected things in our lives. That was the last time I talked with him. When I tried to call again, his number had been disconnected. Yet one thing that made Luke such an encouraging man was his faith in Christ. I saw his care and concern for those around him in the hospital. He was one who voiced his opinions and yet refrained from gossip. He spoke openly about truth and its importance in life, and though at the time, I might have considered his perspective rather naive, I look back at it an see it as refreshing. The last contact I had with him was a letter he sent to me with support for my trip to China. I knew that he did not make that much and yet he gave cheerfully. Yet his words in the letter, though I cannot recount them specifically, spoke even louder of God's faithfulness through his life to me. I came to the hospital to "do" community service, but I left it with an experience and glimpse of the divine work of which, as I sit here contemplating the future, I want nothing more than to be a part. There is always a part of me that would like to know where Luke is now, a part of me that wants to recapture the past for the sake of delaying the present and future. And yet, I suppose that I, too, must learn to let go.

Dark Knight

(Warning, possible spoilers below)

Okay. I admit it. I was sort of suckered in by the 94 percent rating that the movie had on Rottentomatoes. This was, in part, due to the fact that I was rather satisfied with the last movie I saw, The Visitor, that was rated a 93 on the same site. Additionally, almost everyone who I had talked to about the movie could only gush and rave about it ("Yeah, it's long, but you don't even notice").

I think many of my thoughts are stated already by this observant critic from the New Yorker.

To reiterate, the movie didn't really build after Joker is put in jail the first time--it just kept going (kind of like the Departed, plus about two endings), Christian Bale made Batman's voice kind of funny in a sad sort of way (I know Batman has issues but it's not like he's sick with strep throat), and the movie could have done just as much with less (less endings, less privacy-invasive sonar devices, etc.).

And finally, I was disappointed that Harvey Dent's death had to be covered up the way it was in order for the people of Gotham to have their hero preserved. Then there was that line about the people needing something more than truth (which, in the case, is a lie). I think this part is just as disturbing as the Joker's nihilistic tendencies. Let the people live their lives believing in something that doesn't exist (because we simply can't handle the truth that human nature is twisted). Still, I liked how Batman sacrifices his hero status for the sake of the city, becoming both protector and scapegoat.

Overall, the movie was entertaining but I know that's because I've been a Batman fan since childhood. I probably won't go see it again or even buy it. I'd almost prefer the first one over this one. Hopefully, the next movies will learn from past mistakes and try to weave together a story that is both compelling and, of course, entertaining.

More Working Stories

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.