Stormy seas

It is rare that Oakland receives a decent thunderstorm.  As months have now gone by without any rain, I find myself thinking about life's storms.  My grandmother had an elder brother who was a pretty decent watercolor painter.  Several of his large paintings hang around her little cozy home.  The pictures have always captured my attention--they depict tranquil beach scenes and rustic sailboats in various soft brown, peach, and turquoise shades.  Grandma has other paintings of his tucked under her bed in a box.  Unframed, they sit nakedly on canvas.

She has allowed family members over the years to choose one painting for their own homes.  A long time ago I chose a painting, which still resides in that box.  One day I'll figure out a way to transport it.  Maybe all the other tranquil beach scenes had already been claimed, but I chose one that was in stark contrast to the others.  The seas in this painting are dark, angry colors of blue and purple.  Huge waves and gale-force winds nearly threaten to engulf a brave, tiny boat.  My mom asked why I would select such an unhappy scene.  There might be something wrong with me, but think I chose it because the boat wasn't sinking or overcome.  It was a reminder that there is something beautiful and raw and poignant about life's storms that crop up after seasons of relatively smooth sailing:

Sometimes God will calm the storm for you, but sometimes God will calm you for the storm.
~Ann Voskamp

Reflecting over the past year, other sea and storm-related themes have arisen.  For much of it, my life was remarkably tranquil and comfortable.  But then this spring I gradually became more aware and convicted of my sinful heart and sinful decisions I had been making in life that were not only affecting my life and walk with Christ, but also others'.  In response, I was moved to make some changes that unmoored me from my predictable, safe life.  As a result, the seas were stirred up, and rain descended.    

If you yourself do not cut the lines that tie you to the dock, God will have to use a storm to sever them and to send you out to sea.  Put everything in your life afloat upon God, going out to sea on the great swelling tide of His purpose, and your eyes will be opened.  If you believe in Jesus, you are not to spend all your time in the calm waters just inside the harbor, full of joy, but always tied to the dock.  You have to get out past the harbor into the great depths of God and have spiritual discernment.
~Oswald Chambers  

I think Satan wants you to feel that you're drowning in the thrashing waves and blinded by the rain, but:

There's a God who allows Himself to be a Lighthouse to us through storms.
And then God allows storms so we love the Lighthouse long after the storms.
~Ann Voskamp

I'm not sure at the moment where I'm headed, but I choose to trust and keep my eyes fixed on the lighthouse.  The storms have abated for a while now, but even when they start again, I know I don't have to bail water out of the boat on my own, as Christ never abandons us or leaves us to our own devices.  And in the midst of the storm, my emotions and heart that were being deadened to sin slowly came back to life.  Filled with competing feelings of pain, grief, anger, confusion, fear... and hope, peace, relief, joy, calm... I lifted my head to the sky, rain pelting my face, hands lifted up, and realized I am gloriously ALIVE!  Alive in Christ.  Alive for the marvelous purposes He has in store.  Alive to die to myself.  Alive to truly live for Him.    

A novel topic

I think I must be a recovering blog addict!  After writing blog posts diligently and consistently over the past several years, I seem to be taking a blogging break.  Not having Internet at home really limits my blogging activities.  But I have found a way around that obstacle today.

And I honestly don’t really know what to write about.  I could write about Oakland or work or life activities or my family or what I’m learning at fellowship.  But today I want to write about ballet—a topic I haven’t discussed much on this blog.

Tonight I would be going to my weekly ballet class, but since it is a rare 90 degrees outside, that means it will be approximately 106.3 degrees in the old studio in Berkeley, where air conditioning doesn’t exist.  So I will dream about it.

Of all the things I’ve ever done in life, ballet is one thing that has consistently brought the most joy for many years and now decades.  Not only was I built for ballet, but I love it.  So many other activities and pursuits in life have come and gone, but ballet is one thing I remain passionate about.  In ballet class, I have to think hard, but each movement seems to come naturally.  I know it wasn’t always that way—I had to train for years and years, but it is a wonderful feeling.  It is a wonderful feeling when everything else I seem to do or try feels like varying degrees of uneasiness or awkwardness:  Jobs.  Learning languages.  Conversing with people.  Playing tennis or other sports.  Dating.  Serving in church.

I appreciate the structure ballet offers.  There are hundreds of movements and steps.  You don’t just make up stuff, like most of the culture around me seems to do with everything else.  In ballet, you either do something correctly and beautifully or you don’t.  There seems to be sort of an absolute truth with ballet.  There are standards and I can know if I have reached them or are close.  In society around me and in other circumstances, there often doesn’t seem to be much of a standard, or that standard is always fluid.  Yet, there is still room in ballet to express yourself within that structure. 

When the music starts and class begins at the barre, the rest of the world fades.  I don’t worry about the poverty in Oakland, the politics in the U.S., not being married, stress from work, or what is happening tomorrow.  Everything seems to dissipate and I feel like I could accomplish pretty much anything. 

I’m so thankful for the ability to dance and to dance well.  It has brought me such joy (not to mention very nice legs!)  In the few minutes following my accident when I saw the blood covering my arms and legs and couldn’t move them, I immediately worried about if I could continue dancing.  Thankfully I would be able to after a few months, although I will never be back to where I was.  And I think about the joy that it has brought others.  You can dance anytime and anywhere.  This skill was particularly handy in China, where I was able to be the crazy foreigner dancing in school performances and on national television...

I know I’m not the best dancer in the world, but it is one thing in life that I seemed to have mastered fairly well and hopefully can continue with for many years.  And so today instead of dwelling on poverty stats, crime rates, or the future, I thank the Father for blessing me with this amazing gift!  And I thank my patient, dear mother who put me in ballet class in the first place so many years ago after I attempted so many other sports, cooked dinner when I'd return from the studio really late, bought me countless bobby pins and pointe shoes, and listened to my complaints about the teacher and grueling pace of classes.  And thanks to everyone else who encouraged me to stick with it and not give up!  

6 months and counting

Six months ago I was in tears.  I had just arrived from the Midwest in my dusty, trusty little black Ford Focus packed with all my worldly belongings (minus some things graciously stored at my mother's house).  The aforementioned mother had also come along, helping drive and encourage.  We joked that once we reached the desolate, sad town of Winnemucca, Nevada, that there was no going back.  Winnemucca marked the point of no return.  I was moving to Northern California.  In a lot of ways California seemed like the scariest move of my life.  Yes, I had moved around every couple of years in the U.S. and even across the Pacific Ocean, but this seemed different.  In my mind I had always been determined to never end up in California--it seemed to contradict every part of my Midwestern upbringing, Christian worldview, and sense of frugality and simplicity.  The negative assumptions of California seemed to hold sway over my hopeful thoughts that the move would represent a new start, while the gorgeous weather and recreational activities would be well worth any of the hardships associated with packing up your life and moving to the Wild West.

Yet, when you are job searching and need a way to support yourself, you will take leaps of faith.  Laura moving to California = leap of faith over the Grand Canyon.  The seemingly perfect job opened up, and I was on my way.  All along the journey, I found myself doubting.  1900 miles of driving through mostly bleak, desert landscapes doesn't do much to bolster your confidence.  But I was determined to make it and thrive.  Even after passing Winnemucca and arriving in Oakland, I wanted to turn around.  How was I going to find a place to stay in the overly crowded, competitive rental market of the Bay Area?  How was I going to find any friends or a church?  How was I going to figure my way around and not get shot?  How was I going to make this new, seemingly hostile place home?

A day after we arrived in the Bay Area, Mom and I sat at a little café in Berkeley.  Berkeley--the den of inequity, protests, and bra burning that I had heard about growing up and still heard about on the news.  I glared about me at the happy young pedestrians gallivanting about in their hipster clothes and the middle-aged to elderly hippies who had never outgrown their Birkenstocks and long skirts.  I fumed.  I didn't understand them and didn't want to love them.  I was adrift.  The boundaries of Berkeley blend into Oakland, which is where I was to work and live.  In Oakland I was also uncomfortable.  The diversity was amazing but overwhelming.  The extreme poverty and wealth living side by side was breathtaking.  The streets were colorful but blighted.  Again I fumed.  Surely this was a mistake.  How was I to create a life here?

Soon, however, everything seemed to fall in to place.  At least I wasn't living in Winnemucca!  I found a place to live.  I learned that my new job was wonderful and better than I could have expected.  I discovered that most people were actually very friendly, if not a little strange (but aren't we all?)  It took a while, but I found a small, amazing fellowship of believers.  I found activities that interested me: ballet classes, Spanish lessons, tennis, hiking, libraries, restaurants, historical places… I made fascinating friends and became part of a wonderful community of believers.  Even Berkeley has started to win me over.

Six months from now, I don’t know what life and the world will hold.  But that’s more than alright!  It’s freeing to take daily steps of faith holding onto God’s hand, knowing that when big leaps of faith are called for, you may end up experiencing a life greater and more fulfilling than you could have planned on your own.

Saved for something

Over the past few months I have felt very content and happy, which somehow makes me not feel very content and happy. Why is it so hard to just be thankful for God's good gifts instead of thinking it must be a trap and that I'm doing something wrong?  Aren't so many people on earth suffering?  Shouldn't I?  Or at least shouldn't I be expending effort in trying to end the suffering of others?

Yes, I live in Oakland working directly to cut poverty in the Bay Area, but somehow it doesn't seem enough.  I can work to help families get food on the table or pay for a place to live, but then I am still faced with the broken lives and injustice that cannot be solved or put back together because of some money or programs. 

Peel back the intermingled layers of graffiti, grit, sunshine, and palm trees, and there are real humans impacted by their choices and the choices of others:

There's the man who gave his life trying to save another man from the path of an incoming Caltrain.  The 13 year old shot to death while walking home from the Boys and Girls Club.  The mother who lost two sons to gang violence within two weeks of each other.  The 17 year old killed by her younger brother in a dispute over laundry.  The young man kneeling at the entrance to the freeway surrounded by rubbish and broken glass, silently begging for some extra cash.  The pastor's wife who has just been robbed once again of her cellphone.  

There are residents who are outraged at the violence and senseless waste of life, but they are also resigned to thinking things will never change.  There are people who don't know they have the choice and power to want more in life than the poverty and crime that surrounds them.  Even those who have wealth and opportunities that stand in stark contrast to most of their fellow residents are yearning for something more:  Hope, meaning, direction, calm.   

Yes, I am very white, very educated, and from a very middle class background in the Midwest.  But I have not lived a sheltered life--at least my dear mother made sure I didn't.  I started reading the paper every day when I was 10, went to a public high school where I was a minority in every way, had African-American roommates in college on the East Coast, lived in an impoverished part of China, and have worked in public service for a few years now.  There are so many facets to ending poverty and inequality, but it seems like Jesus is so often removed from the equation.  From experience and witnessing the transformed lives of others, the catalyst has always been Jesus: Brokenness and hurt and sin colliding head on with love and mercy and holiness.

I think deep down I'm afraid of becoming too comfortable and complacent.  After my accident, I had to decide if I would truly recognize that my life is in God's hands.  Safety is just an illusion.  Safety is fleeting.  Or at least how the world defines safety.  I know I am as safe as safe can be, whether that is in the middle of China, Indiana, or California.  Even death can't tear me from the arms of Christ--the safest place to be.        

Our pastor recently said, "God never saves us from something without saving us FOR something."  I have been saved from my own sinful destruction for His glory.  But how do you live that out on a day-to-day basis?  In the post-modern, post-church Bay Area?  How do you not become paralyzed by all the need and emptiness?

I know there's a reason I am here, although I may not be able to know what it is yet.  Beside the occasional periods of sadness and fear, I also have a growing sense of love for this place that is becoming home-- the spirit of resilience, the incredible diversity, the authenticity of people you meet, and the countless Oaklanders working to end the poverty and conflict found in most cities that is only amplified in Oakland.  Last week, a couple of my girlfriends and I took the train south to the central CA city of San Luis Obispo.  In the hostel where we stayed, the mixture of Europeans and other Californians seemed in awe that we were from Oakland.  Yes, you definitely earn some street cred by living and working in Oakland, although I live in a relatively safer part of town than my friends.

Perhaps I was a little crazy moving to Oakland as someone who is recovering from PTSD.  But maybe this is exactly the place to heal, as I'm surrounded by people who are also in need of healing.  Hopefully years from now, I will be able to witness an economically vibrant, safer Oakland with flourishing churches, changed lives, and bright futures.  Until then, I will try to stay engaged and hopeful that I can also affect this city, even if it is only one step, one conversation, and one life at a time.

   

Limited Edition Holiday

Happy 2014!

I apologize for my lengthy absence from this blog.  It's difficult to have motivation to write when you feel like you're too busy, or you don't have anything necessarily worth writing about.  But with a new year, I have new resolve to continue blogging and processing through writing.

Currently I am wearily sitting in my Oakland apartment after work, which is getting hectic as tax season approaches.  Memories from the previous week's visit home to Kansas are still visible in my mind, however.

Each Christmas is always different, but amazing in its own way.  Last Christmas my Mom and Andrea came to visit me in Indiana, where we had a cozy little holiday.  This year, we all briefly convened in Topeka.  I left sunny, warm-ish, crowded, crazy Oakland for the little oasis of home on the range in the Midwest.  It snowed the day after I arrived and stuck around long enough for a white Christmas.  Our days were spent sledding, visiting friends, playing games, laughing until our sides ached, and eating.  Our evenings were spent hanging out, talking, laughing some more, and keeping warm by the fireplace.  

One afternoon I borrowed the car to drive to Lawrence.  I was a little teary-eyed from the beauty that surrounded me-- a kind of stark Midwestern beauty that is entirely different from the beauty of warmer northern California.  I wish I could have made the scenery into a postcard, but I'll just have to remember it in my mind.

For miles of open road there are mainly just a few farms scattered across the rolling plains.  Red barns, brave little farmhouses, rusty silos, and bales of hay were covered in several inches of soft white snow.  The sun shone meekly from a pure cornflower blue sky.  The 14 degree cold ensured that not a drop of snow melted from the trees or fields.  Harsh winters turn Kansas into a rather bleak and barren place, but somehow it is still one of the most gorgeous sights to me--in some ways more beautiful than national parks in the West, mountains in Bavaria, and jungles in southeast Asia.

Maybe there is something that endears you to home because of the people and memories you have left behind.  Maybe there is something that endears you to home because of your family and friends that will always accept you and love you and welcome you, regardless of how many years have passed.  Maybe there is something that endears you to home because it gives you a faint peek into what your heavenly home will be like some day: a place of love, belonging, and community that will never fade away.

To stay warm, I slept on the floor of Andrea's little bedroom, which is perfectly cozy and well-heated.  One of our last nights, I started to despair about leaving.  When you're tired, and it's past midnight, the thought of voluntarily returning to Oakland seems just a bit too daunting.  All my life I've bravely ventured to living all across the globe.  Perhaps my accident last year and realization of just how important family is to me has weakened my resolve to be brave.  For example, who in their right mind would trade home for the crime capital of the West Coast?  Christmas at home had been perfect, and I wanted it to go on forever.  As tiny tears threatened to slide my face, Andrea gently reminded me that it can't go on forever.  Just like the Russell Stover's chocolate boxes we were all fond of eating, this had been a special, Limited Edition time at home.  It was incredibly enjoyable, but couldn't last.  The magical kingdom of a Kansas Christmas would soon melt away.  We had to go back to our usual lives, while being thankful for the time we had together.

Now I'm back in the Bay Area, and of course I'm also happy and content here, but just in different ways.  Hope you are having a blessed New Year no matter where you may be--  whether you're close or far from home!     
        

The San Francisco skyline all decked out.

Silent, snowy night in Topeka.

Hung out with these fun kids most of my time home!

100 years!

I was going to write another blog post about poverty, but that can wait, because today is a celebration and I have a more interesting story to tell at the moment.... 

100 years ago in Tennessee, a beautiful little baby girl was born into the world who would shape the lives of everyone she ever interacted with or met.  This little girl grew up in a large family, lost both parents early on, worked as a secretary with the FBI to support her siblings, and was an all around classy and clever young woman.    

74 years ago, on her 26th birthday, this amazing woman married an equally good-looking man who loved her dearly.  Her husband went to war, survived the war, and returned to have a little family in Texas.  She raised this little family with grace and love, knowing that she walked steadily and confidently with Jesus.

Although she wasn't perfect and experienced much loss in her life, she only grew stronger and more beautiful with each passing year.  She had incredible, quiet, resilient faith that sustained her through each day.  She was not college educated, but was one of the smartest, most well-read people.  Dog-eared, penciled-in copies of the Bible, Chekhov, and Tolstoy never sat far from her, even up into her 90s.  She wrote poetry, regaled her family members and strangers with fascinating stories from her childhood in the South, and genuinely listened to others.  On the outside she was also elegant and put together--she and my grandfather played tennis every day until they were 88, and her hair was still quite dark even into her ninth decade.  She was not a flashy woman, but had a calm, quiet grace and joy that drew people to her like a magnet.    

5 years ago this gorgeous woman, inside and out, turned 95!  She was still extremely sharp, bright, funny, kind, and loving.  She had a small surgery on her birthday and then passed away a few days later after being in a coma, leaving nearly a century of love and light in her wake. 

This unique, amazing woman was my grandmother, Evelyn.  

When she died, I was living in the middle of China, thousands of miles away.  When I heard she was slipping away from this world, all I could do was crumple to the ground of my little bedroom, sobbing for hours.  Never before had I felt so sad and broken as one of my closest, dearest friends on earth was leaving us for the glory of heaven.  I had been blessed to live so close to her in Kansas most of my life, able to visit her several times a week throughout high school and during summers in college.

Oh, I just wanted to hold her thin, beautiful hand one more time.  Hug her one more time.  Laugh with her one more time.  Watch her smile delightedly one more time.  See her eyes sparkle with joy one more time.  Gain more words of wisdom from her one more time.  Listen to her captivating descriptions of birds and plants and nature one more time... Just. one. more. time.

I mourned.  I wanted to post a big portrait of her outside my apartment and blare somber funeral music for days like the Chinese grieving the loss of their loved ones.  I wanted to scream if one more Chinese friend told me to just keep smiling.  I wanted to be by her side like the rest of my family as she stepped into Jesus' presence.  

But then I remembered how it was her own sense of adventure, love for life and other people, never-ending perseverance, eternal optimism, and perpetual encouragement that helped bring me to China in the first place.  As I grew up she became one of my best friends--we could talk about anything and everything.  She was my champion, but she also graciously taught me that life actually didn't revolve around me, even if I was cute and talented.  My grandmother pointed me to something far greater than myself-- to Christ.  And she displayed how life was only worth living if lived for our neighbors, friends, family, and strangers.

So today I wish Grandma a happy 100th birthday!  Thank you, dearest Grandma, for being such an amazing example for all of us.  I look forward to hugging you and laughing with you again very soon in heaven!    

In closing, here is a link to the original letter I wrote to her 5 years ago.    

Today Andrea bought flowers in honor of Grandma on the East Coast, while I covered the West Coast!

Grandma's engagement picture. 

The happy couple.  

Her famous laugh.

 

The stellar tennis stars.

I miss them! 

Oaklandish Living

Oakland grows on me a bit more each day.  It is just a short hop, skip, and a jump across the bay to San Francisco, but it might as well as be a different world.  San Francisco is cultured, but still pretty white and yuppy, while Oakland is also incredibly diverse, but primarily African-American, Hispanic, and poor.  San Francisco is twice as expensive as Oakland and twice as safe.  It is probably twice as crowded too.  San Francisco is known as "the city," while Oakland is just Oakland, and most people who work here don't live here.  San Francisco is about twice as well off as Oakland with some pretty swanky areas.  It is probably as twice as clean as Oakland too.

But despite being known as San Francisco's cast-off step-child, Oaklanders have immense pride in their city, and rightly so.  Does that include me now too?  I am registered to vote here, registered my car here, and have a California driver's license.  For better or worse, Oakland is now my city and home. 

Each morning I stumble out my door in my quiet, sleepy neighborhood and climb into my car for the relatively short drive into downtown for work.  I am surrounded by windy, narrow roads, and trees--gorgeous pines, oaks, and eucalyptus that you can smell even through the closed car windows.  It is nearly 10 degrees cooler up in the hills in comparison to the flatlands below.  After about half a mile, I crest a hill where there is a view of the entire Bay Area that still nearly takes my breath away.  Spread out before you, you can see Oakland in all its grit and grandeur, while San Francisco with its skyscrapers and misty hills stands in close proximity.

I wend my way down out of the hills which takes a good two miles.  Then I squeeze my little car into a nonexistent empty space in all the traffic on the highway and cruise right on into town.  As I drive, the scenery grows increasingly urban and congested.  I bounce along over all the potholes, under several freeway bridges, and onto the edge of downtown.  Oakland is already in full swing by this point.  You see fresh piles of rubbish and amazingly artistic graffiti "tags" in some very creative places.  Homeless individuals are already perched alongside the traffic lights with their signs.  Signs for Korean groceries, African-American wigs, and cash advances all compete for attention in a variety of languages.  I cautiously drive toward my usual parking garage, making sure to stay alert as people wander out into the middle of traffic carrying an assortment of canes, scooters, grocery carts, children, bags of clothing, etc.  Having to be super vigilant so early in the morning really wakes you up fast!

Then I cruise into the parking garage with my monthly pass and wave to the attendant.  After parking, I hurry out of my car, since I'm always on the verge of not being on time.  I walk past a center for the blind, empty storefronts, the gorgeous art-deco Paramount Theater that is still in use, and to the busy corner next to our office building that has a light rail station.  That street corner is a blur of color and activity.  About twice a month, you can see dozens of people of every color and nationality clutching little American flags on their way to citizenship ceremonies at the theater.  Cars speed by, buses rumble past, and bicycles speed along.  Everyone is going somewhere.

After waiting at the corner for the walk signal, I join a small crowd of people surging through the crosswalk.  I walk past construction workers, businessmen, fashionable girls in trendy clothes, the poorest of the poor, and everyone talking on their smartphones.  Then I reach the boxy black building from1968 that is home to my office.  I walk through the door, grab a free newspaper from the lobby of the Oakland Tribune, say good morning to the security guard, glide up the elevator, and rattle around my purse trying to find the key to get me into the office.  And I'm at work!  Just like that.  I'm exhausted just writing this!

Oakland was once a grand city, especially in the 1920s and 1930s.  Most of the buildings and apartments are art-deco.  Some have been restored, some look like they might give up any day.  The landscape of the city is so unique, but so are the people. Some folks will chat all day with you, but others can be downright mean.  Each day and conversation is different.

Here are some of the most memorable characters I have interacted with over the past week:

-Smog check man. He probably wins the award for colorful.  I took my car into a tiny neighborhood smog check place to get the required testing and certification the state requires.  It was in the middle of a neighborhood that doubles as both Chinese retirement community and urban jungle for not very well off residents.  One man who was there getting a smog check also happens to own his own car repair place.  He was about 40, wore a mechanics uniform, very nice shoes, a gold chain necklace, and gold sunglasses.  He had brought in his 1994 gold Lexus, which he assured me was only one of five cars he owns.  Of course he wanted to chat with me for a good half hour about everything under the sun.  As the Middle Eastern man conducted the eternally long smog test on my car in the concrete, cobwebby garage, my new gold chain necklace friend was very chatty.  As we nearly choked on car exhaustion, elderly Chinese people hobbled by the open garage door in an endless stream, and my friend told me all about his life, how he loves to eat lobster, wants to take me to lunch and dinner that day, wants to also show me the San Jose flea market, and how he cleans up really nicely.  He was also so impressed that I drove a manual.  Somehow I managed to escape without committing to a date or getting the hug he offered.  And I passed the smog check!

-Bhutanese refugees. A couple of my friends have been very active in the Bhutanese/Nepalese refugee community, which is still quite small in the U.S.  They knit with some of the women, sell their handiwork online, and work with the church plant among their community.  These joyful people come from some of the most closed and isolated countries in the world.  They have fled political and/or religious persecution.  Last night I tagged along with my friends to the Bhutanese music night, which was a social gathering in Oakland of the Bhutanese community.  I have never been around anyone from this remote mountain nation.  Elderly men and women were dressed warmly in colorful hats and scarves.  Young women were dressed in gorgeous, traditional hand-made dresses of reds, yellows, and greens.  Young men who have probably only recently entered Western culture, wore jeans, plaid shirts, and gelled up hair.  Little children in a mish-mash of traditional and American clothes ran wild around the Elks lodge that had been built by old white men in the 1800s.  The entertainment for the evening included a ceremony honoring the elderly people, which was very touching, and series of performances of Bhutanese dances, rock music, and singing.  We ate rice and some really great Bhutanese food consisting of meat still on the bone and super spicy potatoes.  I sat at a table of petite women and girls who thrust their squirming baby toward me, and I was able to prevent him from falling off the table head first.  I definitely think I found some friends.  Although my own country can frustrate me so often, it was a delight to be among people who had found freedom for the first time in their lives.            

-Eager Chinese college students. On Tuesday my coworker and I jumped on the light rail and headed deeper into Oakland.  We found our way to a college classroom filled with accounting students, most of them straight from China.  We made a presentation about volunteering with our free tax preparation program for low-income individuals and families across the Bay Area.  My heart swelled as I stood near the chalkboard in the sweltering classroom looking out over the sea of Asian faces.  Their enthusiasm, level of English, and clothing reminded me of my sweet students in China.  Practically all of them waved their hands eagerly in the air when I asked if any of them were interested in volunteering as tax preparers or interpreters.  Student after student peppered us with questions.  It reminded me of my love for Asia and also how much I enjoy my job here.

Last Sunday I was talking to the pastor of the church I've been going to.  He and his wife left their comfortable lives in an Atlanta mega church about a decade ago to plant churches in Oakland.  They had started praying about where to go when they were sitting on the couch of their nice suburban house in Georgia one evening.  He said, "Do you hear that sound?  That sound is my soul slowly dying."  So they prayed, met with other church leaders and even Tim Keller in New York City, and believed they were called to the Bay Area, which is probably the greatest unchurched area in the U.S.  Their obvious love for these people encouraged me in my own love, which I know is only possible because of Christ.      

Oh, and I experienced my first newsworthy earthquake--a 3.1!  Guess that is my real initiation into the Oakland culture...    
          

Shiny San Francisco from my perch at a community fair.

I didn't take this picture, but this is pretty much the view of Oakland I have when driving to work.

So... the Bhutanese party was supposed to start at 5, which is when we arrived.  All 300 other people showed up at 7 p.m.  At least the Elk statue kept us company...

Partying Bhutanese style.

Wishing the Bhutanese elders long life and good health.