Hard Shelter

Just a few days ago, I could not even squeeze myself into the stairs closet. Nine persons plus one puppy hoping for the tornado sirens to stop.

It did, but only after leaving a horrific catastrophe. It seems so familiar: a dormant volcano half buried our home in the 90's; Some friends perished amidst the pulse of the Richter scale in the 80's. 

It just doesn't make any sense. And that is exactly why.

I reckon that none of my human senses will ever fathom these tragedies. Thus I stopped creating my indie films on these monstrosities. 

I still read the culture of despair that seeks to assuage our shared despondency. There has to be an outcry.

With all our registered complaints, one wail remains unique.

The Torah discloses a story like no other. It reveals the curious portal of why this world exhibits brutish tantrums. A bitter script that lays it down with no frills: we bought into deceit and the consequence is what we bear now.

The epic unfolds with sterling cinematography. The first two pages (Genesis) discloses how it all began. The last two pages (Revelation) on how it will all resolve. And then the vast middle, speaks of where we are and why things are so.

I am presently wrapped up in rumination of  who I am in this troubled world. I was merely 4 miles away from last week's Rowlett-Garland cataclysm. I was spared to think for another day.

It suddenly dawns on me that it is not about some religion or some philosophy anymore. It is just about the integrity of Christ's claim to have risen from the dead. If this script is dead-true then life stands with hope. Jesus claims to have come from His Father to offer no relief to our chaos. He offers full redemption not by any sensitive editorial release but by unleashing the unthinkable: God offers Himself. 

Not to heal but to redeem our fallenness and all else included.

This sounds so simple. No wonder Christ called it children-stuff. The witness of Scriptures beckons me to believe by faith. Thus I take shelter for now.

The hard truth will take care of me with much conviction.

Holy Pain

The language of pain is most articulate when it is spoken through the portal of blessing.

I thought I knew pain. Not quite.

Some three years ago while on a routine visit to the children's hospital, I discovered a deep emotional prognosis. While the infant's parents wept, I stood more curious over the anomaly. He was born without a jaw coupled with a hole in his heart. It was my first time to actually see an open chest cavity amazingly covered by a sophisticated plastic clear-wrap. After praying, I tried to force empathy with manufactured tears but there was none to drop. Something has gone wrong with my vocational core.

I don't know what I was thinking but I prayed: "Lord, I need your help. I think my heart has been numbed by years of religious pretension. Please set me free. Release my heart to feel what you feel. I beg to be ordained by your mercy."

God truly knows a serious prayer. He answers swiftly.

I was diagnosed with a rare mandibular anomaly. The only cure was resection. My lower jaw and lower teeth had to be removed. My leg fibula bone becomes donor for replacement. My thigh flesh will be harvested for skin and gum grafts. I was discreetly told to practice smiling with my eyes and perhaps adopt a slurred speech. It was a 12 hour microsurgery performed by Dallas' two finest surgeons. The only consolation was its benign nature.

For more than two years, I got inducted to the intermediate class of pain. The physical strain was peripheral to the psychological weight that never left. I was on a liquid diet while watching my body lose its mass. Words are too rigid to describe the tectonic jargon that took place every single day.

I was introduced to agony's middle name.

Through this long journey, there was one indescribable reality that subverted my heart. I began to know what it truly means to feel. My affections have been altered by the divine scalpel.

It has been three years since. The scars are settled but wild. The twenty-one titanium screws in my mouth have remained vise-gripped. I still tilt to the right if I fail to engage my core muscles. I have lost my Asian accent. I now sound more like a gagged Sean Connery.

But my heart has undergone a transplant: I finally know what it means to cry for my brothers and sisters.

I wish I had this pain earlier.

Grand Mercy

I have an African son.

Emeka Joseph calls me Poppa. He is fiancé to my eldest daughter.

His astonishing fortitude reflects his late father's vision to establish a seminary in Nigeria. His mother, a doctor, explains his acuity. His brother, a pedigreed NFL champion hints why only a few reps on the press rips his biceps brachii. His sister, a prolific fashion designer spills the vogue genetics. Not to mention, the other siblings with equal if not better endowments. 

What is truly remarkable about him is his intimacy with his Redeemer. He was a wild prodigal until God showed him the way to the egress.  If there is any strong argument for the colossal nature of divine mercy, Emeka stands nonpareil.

His love for my daughter resonates with a purity that is refreshingly alien. His regard for me beams with respect that seats me with proper humility. I have never met a man so resplendent in soul.

Emeka is a restaurateur/sommelier running what was recently voted the best Italian Restaurant Eatery at Tribeca, Manhattan. Whenever I visit, he serves me four things: unbridled eye contact, cardiac smile, dinosaur hug and impeccable gourmet.

I invite you to meet him someday. He will either be at Gran Morsi or at Trinity Grace Church Chelsea.

Ask him for black coffee. Add brown sugar.

Chat about Grand Mercy.

Guaranteed Joy

When I was young, I languished over joy's elusiveness. I sought it on my own terms. I bought it from my own resources. I thought about it with my deluded conceit.

There was no true joy.

All that I can produce was a copy. I lived with a duplicate until I found the source in the person of Christ. Like a tree planted by the streams, my roots have anchored deep on God's abiding word. The seasons come and go yet I hold: I am being sheltered from each and every blight.

I thought joy was to be found when one finds a woman to marry. Not so. Another person in one's life merely highlights one's hidden poverty. If it were not for the life-altering offer of Christ's grace in my life and marriage, I would have gone the drifter's way.

I now experience the measure of joy daily through my converse with Manel. I have been given a life-long companion to grasp the truth that my marriage is a mere gift. I either subscribe to the jargon that man and wife are mere affectionate symbiotic commodities or I sign up to the primary design that this one-flesh union is a grace-developed picture of Christ's love for His people.

When I get a kiss from her, I know by intuitive theology that a miracle is taking place. True love only happens because God loved us first.

This is joy guaranteed to its highest exponent. Soli Deo Gloria!

Two Shoes

I am a walker.

I love to navigate through fields, streets, and more especially the road-less traveled.

I do not keep tabs of mileage but I might have circled the globe intuitively. I wear all sorts of shoes. At my trek to the ball drop of NYC in 2013, the steady Doc Martens kept me glued well for hours. I stand on my Imperial wingtips forever but the resiliency of the plain Moab Merrell defines comfort on a raised pedestal. And thus, I keep walking.

I find so much walking in the Bible. As I go through the narrative of faith, I see the metaphor of journey prevailing. At the center of these steps is the incredible witness of the Psalmist introducing life, using two steps. The common steps lead outwardly. The other step strides inside.

Life derives from within. Like a tree that find its nourished strength from deepened roots within, so goes our derivative. 

There are two kinds of shoes. Those worn out by the rugged confusion of our fallen world, and those kept taut by a good path. We wear these shoes. We get to pick which shoes to wear, and what path to take.

There is an invitation to consider the journey that leads to a most wonderful discovery: a place not found in our walls. The apt shoes to wear are the ones provided by the One who walked and demonstrated where we ought to go. He traveled from the City of God, to the city of men to show us the way.

My daughter gave me a pair of Cole Haans. I performed an experiment: I nurtured each shoe with divergent attention. I cared for the left shoe with utmost attention. I left the other one unattended. At some point, the appearance of distress on one and the loveliness on the other could not be hidden. The intentional path has determined their character.

No one chooses our route for us. We get to choose Christ's intentional care or enter into a decaying default.

New Car

My family roots led me to a deep awareness about cars. My great grandparents were horse traders. Small wonder, my affections towards metal steeds seem psychotic. I gave them names: Brutus, Pandora, Black Stallion ... to name a few.

I did a recent inventory of units I've herded in my garage and it was delightfully ginormous. Through the journeys the cars taught me well. A man must be careful not to steal their identity. Some men have lost their hearts thinking that their Porsche defines them. When this happens, a subversive oil change takes place: gladness dissipates as the poor car assumes the awkward posture of reversed ownership. The man is comically owned by the car.

I fall prey to this syndrome because I lust after cars: My first sports car had me with a tight leash. The classic Mustang forced me to fake my identity. My Audi affected my gait ... ad infinitum. 

By grace, I stumbled upon a firewall. I was introduced to a simple being: a used 2000 Honda Civic. His radical simplicity pulled my roots to where they ought to be.

I fondly refer to him as Green Cross. I drive him everyday. He never attempts to own me. Neither do I. I just drive him with an ever-increasing delight towards becoming a new person each driving day.

It is ironic: he is 16 years old but he takes me to treks of newness each passing day. Happy New Consciousness.