"Where is the Body?"

To those of you who think this is a post about Resurrection Day, it's not.

But it is a post about Death and, more importantly, my thoughts about it.

This past Thursday, I attended the memorial service of one of my residents, who passed away unexpectedly on March 15th, the same day I got into Yale.  The "coincidence" of timing is very meaningful to me, because my interest in death has everything to do with my desire to attend Divinity school.  (More on that below).

The service was held at the resident's family's church, a Black Baptist church in Pasadena.  I had the privilege of being able to attend, along with a co-worker and several of the other residents from the senior apartment building at which I work.  The service was very joyful, with friends and family proclaiming the fact that this resident was now in a better place and that her earthly trials were over.  At the end of the service, the 6 residents who had attended seemed glad to have been able to celebrate their neighbor's life along with her spiritual community.  Most of them have their own (differing) faith traditions, and two of the ladies (who are Catholic) kept wondering: "Where is the Body?"

I found it very interesting that, for them, a huge part of gaining closure with a deceased loved one was being able to see the body for one last time.  Closure is such an important part of bereavement, and closure looks different for every society, culture, and person.  One of the reasons I am going to Divinity school is to explore the possibility of one day becoming a hospice chaplain.  (Imagine my excitement when I learned that there is a class at Yale called In the Face of Death: Worship, Music, Art)  I think that death is such an important (and inevitable) part of the human experience, and I am pretty passionate about helping make the journey towards death as meaningful as possible.  A few years ago, I had the privilege of doing a Music Therapy practicum at Season's Hospice, and that's when I realized that hospice work was something I felt called to and was somehow wired for.  (yes, yes, I know better than to put prepositions at the end of a sentence, but I wanted to break that rule here :P)  I have since been able to interact with hospice patients in the capacity of a music therapist (including building from scratch a music therapy program at Mission Hospice and volunteering at Sutter Care ), and I love it.

Sometimes people ask: "Doesn't it make you sad to be around dying people so much?  Doesn't that affect your mood?" Actually, for me, the sadness is something that compels me to give even more wholeheartedly to the dying and their families.  In hospice, death is an almost-certainty, and it's kind of a relief to not spend so much energy thinking or worrying about whether the patient is going to get better.  He's not--at least not physically; so, in a way, his future is actually more certain than that of a patient whose prognosis is unclear.

Spiritually and emotionally, there is tremendous potential for growth and even healing.  Death is a profound human experience, and living with the reality of death can really show us what--and who--in our lives is most important.  A patient approaching death has an opportunity to reflect on her life and to repair relationships that have been neglected or harmed in the past.  The role of the hospice chaplain is to provide spiritual care for patients and their families.  It is a role for which some individuals have been wired and gifted, and I aim to find out if I will one day have the honor of playing that role.

But even if I never become a hospice chaplain, one thing seems to be clear:  I want to devote a good part of my life to bringing a spiritual and musical presence to end-of-life care, and I want to promote preparation and education for end-of-life issues by helping families communicate their thoughts towards death.  (We don't know how and when death will come upon us, so we cannot ever fully prepare for it.  But it certainly helps to have done at least some thinking and preparing).  In my current work with seniors, I have found some of the most meaningful experiences to be death-related: helping residents cope with unexpected deaths of neighbors; organizing a free legal clinic for writing Advance Healthcare Directives; and introducing an immigrant Chinese family to Hospice Care and providing translation for  the patient's weekly hospice nursing visits.

My resident who passed away would have turned 74 this April, but she went Home early, perhaps so that she could have a better Celebration than she would have had on earth.  "Where is the body?", they ask with concern.  The body is gone, but her spirit lives forever!

*****

A couple of resources for anyone interested in learning more:

• Recently, NPR featured The Town Where Everyone Talks About Death, where 96% of the population has an Advance Directive--or something like it.  
• The book Final Gifts, which is from the perspective of 2 hospice nurses
• Music Therapy training for End of Life: http://www.hospicemusictherapy.org/resources/

My Broken Road

There is a very cheesy line that goes:  When God closes one door, He opens another…

...or something to that effect.  While I tend to roll my eyes at such platitudes [I mean, how appropriate is it to say this to someone who's just lost an almost-fiance?], there is a grain of truth there.

I prefer to recall a line from a Country song by Rascal Flatts: God blessed the broken road that led me straight to you.

I write this post tonight, having just officially accepted Yale Divinity School's offer of admission.

(I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M GOING TO YALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Being a process-oriented person, I want to remember some of the past "failures" that have led to this recent "success".  [I realize that the dichotomy of success vs. failure is problematic and that the definition of these terms can vary from individual to individual.  Still, to simplify things, I'll use these terms in a general sense…]


In the Spring of 2012, due to a family emergency, I left my beloved community in the San Francisco Bay Area and moved back home to Los Angeles.  It was a terrible time, and for the next year, I woke up every morning missing and aching for the Bay.  There were other things going on in my personal life that made that season of life pretty challenging, things that forced me to dig my roots deep to find my true Source of strength and eventually resulted in me discarding things [feels kind of crude to call ideology and theology"things", but oh well!] that I realized were not as important--or true--as I'd made them out to be.

In many respects, I felt like a failure.  I had failed to attain to standards that I'd set for myself and that, to some degree, others may have set for me.  Meanwhile, some of my friends were entering into pretty exciting and amazing adventures and progressing through stages of life at a good pace.  I felt like a tree that had ceased to bear fruit.  My roots were pushing downward into the dark soil, seeing no sun and feeling no warmth.  My branches hung bravely but barrenly, while other trees in the forest were blooming up a storm.  I pretended to be allergic and sneezed violently.

One of my close friends mailed me this shirt shortly after my move to LA

Last Spring, I received a rejection from a Ph.D program in East Asian Languages and Cultures at Stanford University.  Having obtained a Master's degree a few years back, I thought it would be interesting to go for a doctorate and study the language of trauma in modern Chinese history (from the Sino-Japanese War to the Cultural Revolution…and everything in between!)  Stanford's department chair kindly told me why I did not get in but commended me on my Master's thesis, which was on the role of music in the Cultural Revolution.  So in May, I took a trip to the Bay Area and met with this kind Department Chair to see how I could improve my chances of getting in the next round.  He was super nice (shared his lunch with me!) but also very honest: chances were slim, but he wanted me to try again.

In the Summer, I did a lot of reflecting.  I explored a different trajectory for life, pondering constantly--but telling very few people about--my thoughts of going to Divinity school.  I prayed, I journaled, and I sketched (art is an amazing way to process subconscious emotions and thoughts!)  But mostly, I raided my brother's bookshelf (he had books on theology and religion) and read and read and read.  In October, I took the GRE, and in November, I started my applications.

And the rest is history.

#MelodramaSillyLlama

Staying Grounded

The day after I got into Harvard Divinity School, I locked myself out of the house for a whole afternoon.  2 days after I got into Yale Divinity School, I took the wrong luggage from the overhead bin in an airplane and didn't even notice until American Airlines called.

I think the Divine is trying to remind me to stay humble.  I have received these amazing opportunities because He saw it fit.  I may have "earned" this in some respects, but I definitely don't deserve it.

I've been trying to stay grounded this month with this verse from John 15:

Without Him, I truly could not do anything.  The only way I am of any good is if I stay grounded in His presence.  Anything good that comes from me has its source in Him, and that is so comforting to know.

Because I realize that it is with God's help and not my own strength that I have been offered opportunities to attend prestigious schools, I have been hesitant to jump to a decision.  It's come down to choosing between Emory and Yale, and I'm reluctant to commit to Yale.

I really fell in love with Emory's Candler School of Theology when I visited a few weeks ago.  Let's just say that Southern Charm works!  I could really see myself there, and I could envision all the warm and wonderful relationships I would build with faculty and staff.  Never before had I felt as welcomed and cared for by Academia as I did when I was at Candler.  I really want to go.

On the other hand, Yale is giving me the opportunity of a lifetime.  And on many levels, especially considering what I'd like to do long-term, it makes more sense to go there.  I haven't been able to visit, and I won't before making my decision.  I need to do this by faith and not by sight.

Hopefully the fact that I've been so torn between these 2 choices is indicative of the fact that my heart is in the right place.  That I'm not chasing after a brand name or an Ivy League education.  I'm truly trying to figure out what the best fit is, and where I can both grow and contribute.

Yale has been my dream school for quite a while, but now that my dream is coming true, I'm realizing that it's no longer my dream.  My dream has been subsumed and consumed by His calling.  And it's been a 12-year process.  Time and time again I have surrendered my heart's desires to my Lord.  Yale was one of those desires.  When I started my applications to Divinity school, I asked Him for permission to apply there, knowing that I did not want my dream to turn into an idol.

He has been so faithful.  He has kept me grounded, and He is continuing to keep me humble.  I am beyond blessed to have the opportunity to attend my dream school.  But far more amazing is the fact that I am one of the branches on the Vine that gives life and allows me to bear fruit.  May I continue learning to abide in Him, knowing that apart from Him, I can do nothing.

On Solitude and Writing

In one of my February blog posts, I mentioned that, according to a facebook/buzzefeed quiz, the career I actually should have is Writer.  I do have tons of ideas floating around in my head all the time, but I never get all of them onto paper in time.  I find that the kind of writing I enjoy the most is corresponding with people about topics that I’m interested in.  One of the pleasures in my life is writing long emails to friends in far places.  Writing to someone whose only impression of my life is based on what I tell them somehow helps me to articulate my thoughts and experiences.  As much of an introvert as I am, I am also a relational individual, and correspondence offers me the perfect mix of “relating” to someone on my own terms without having my space affected by a physical interaction.

I’ve been in Nashville for the past 3 days, and right now as I type, I’m sitting in my plane getting ready to take off.  The country fan in me has enjoyed being in Music City, and as a prospective future Divinity student at Vanderbilt, I’ve been trying to get a good feel for the University as a whole.  I spent Saturday traveling, Sunday getting acquainted with Nashville, and Monday visiting the Divinity school.  As an introvert, I have enjoyed traveling alone immensely.  It’s always exciting to be able to do whatever I want, however I want.  It allows me to be with my thoughts, with minimal interruptions and few distractions.  I spent 2 nights here, and I wrote a blog post each night.

This brings me to the realization that one of the keys to prolific writing, for me at least, is being alone.  The extra space frees me up to express myself in written words.  Now I understand why I wrote so frequently when I lived in the San Francisco Bay Area.  I was renting a room from a lady who lived in a nice house but worked so hard she was hardly there to enjoy it.  I, on the other hand, worked a little over 30 hours a week and had a lot of time to be alone and to write.  It was the most delightful thing to bundle up in the evenings, brew some tea, and write.

Now that I’m living at home in LA, I find that I don’t have as much incentive to write.  Every night at dinner, I converse with my parents (who have become my best friends), and on weekends, when my brother visits, we have even more stimulating and satisfying conversations.  Because I’m being so verbally expressive on a daily basis, I find that my downtime is spent/wasted(?) on more “mindless” activities—surfing the internet, reading up on celebrity gossip, or watching actors’ interviews on YouTube.  I’ve found that those activities can also yield some profitable results.  I can engage critically with culture through media, even as I search randomly in a manner more whimsical than intentional. 

All this is to say that, whether I’m having daily conversations with best friends or typing onto my MacBook Air on solitary evenings, using words to process my thoughts is something I very much value.  I’m not an external processor, so I usually won’t talk about something I just experienced.  (For example, neither of my blog posts written in Nashville were about Nashville).  Things need to ruminate inside of me for a while before I share.  (I was born in the Chinese Year of the Cow; perhaps that’s why I chew the cud and make my ideas pass through a few stomachs!)  But sooner than later, I will share, and when I do, whether it be out loud or on paper, I will make some room for new thoughts and ideas to come in and be digested ;)

The Day After

Today is March 16th, the day after I found out that I got into Yale.

12 years ago, one of my friends went off to college at Yale, and he told me I should definitely consider applying there when it came my senior year.  He had so many good things to say about his experience--the ivy-covered buildings; the Harry Potter-like wooden tables and chairs; the niceness of the people--and it made me yearn for a taste of the East Coast University.

Had I actually gone to Yale for college, I would have been the second person in my family to attend an Ivy league University.  In 1980, my father began his Ph.D at Princeton, and, being the genius that he is, finished his program in 4 years.  The year I was born, my parents moved to California, where Dad had landed a professorship at USC.  That was also the year they converted to Christianity, a decision which changed their lives and set the stage for mine.  Instead of becoming the kind of Asian parents which put academic achievement above all else, Mom and Dad turned into involved spiritual guides for me and my younger brother.  Influenced by what I see as a blend of Asian Confucian ideals mixed with Christian fervor, they joined the (mostly-white) homeschooling movement in the 1980s in order to have more time with and influence over their children.  My family explored a variety of churches, beginning with a Chinese (mostly Taiwanese) Baptist church, followed by a mostly-white Congregational church, then contrasted with a house-church-like Pentecostal gathering (made up of graduate students at UCLA), which then eventually led to a large, multi-ethnic Charismatic church.   Eventually, we ended up at an Asian (Mandarin and Cantonese-speaking) Evangelical church, and this was where we were when I first dreamed of going to Yale.

At the time, I was also experiencing a major faith crisis, an experience which made me so angry at God (and hateful towards my parents) that I didn't want to call myself a Christian.  Family devotion times (a long-held daily ritual at our house) became a forced obligation, and serving at church made me feel like a hypocrite.  As for my parents, they were having a (fortunately) short-term affair with a way of Christianity and homeschooling prescribed by a man named Bill Gothard.  (More on that here).  They were learning about the moral decline of America that had begun in the 1960s, and they realized that most institutions of higher education with strong academic reputations were going to be pretty hostile towards our faith.  Since mine was in a rather shaky place, they were concerned about me going off to college at an East Coast school.  Dad specifically told me: I cannot let you attend Yale if you do not strengthen your faith.  He also made it pretty clear that it would be hard for him to be willing to pay for tuition at another school when I could attend his school (USC) for free.

Over time, I did eventually come to a place of stronger faith, but I never did apply to Yale.  During the second half of my junior year of high school, I learned of an early entrance program at USC, and I decided to go for it.  I had wallowed my way out of my teenage "slough of despond", and a brighter future lay ahead.

March 15th

Today is March 15th, 2014.

One year ago, I had an eventful Friday at work.

I work as a Resident Service Coordinator at an Affordable Housing apartment building for older adults.    Our seniors are very independent, and they walk everywhere.  Due to poor city planning, the main street outside the apartment only has one accessible crosswalk.  Most of our residents don't bother to use it; instead, they jaywalk.

That morning, one of our residents was killed by a car while crossing the street.  Staff spent the entire day dealing with the coroner, police, confused/curious residents, shocked and saddened family members, and--last but certainly not least--the family of the young woman who accidentally ran into our resident with her car.  There had been dense fog that morning, so she didn't see a person crossing the street.  By the time she realized what she had done, our resident was already lying on the ground.  The impact probably killed her very quickly.  Frantic, the young woman called the police, and she bravely stayed near the scene of the death for the entire morning, surrounded by her loving family, who had come to give her support.

Several elements played into the situation that day: trauma, guilt, shock, loss, and yes, closure.  The most touching moment that day was when as staff, we witnessed 2 family members of the deceased embrace the young driver and offer their forgiveness.  In that moment, I realized that this day would hold profound meaning for me, because it showed me what it meant to lose a life and the importance of handling that loss sensitively and steadfastly.  As staff, we had to deal with the situation in a firm, professional manner; but we also provided intimately personal gestures of comfort to distraught residents and family members.  Hugs, prayers, and tears streamed freely as we were all confronted with the raw vulnerability of what it means to be human.

The week of March 15th, 2013, I had just returned to work following a leave of absence.  I had had an operation and needed a few weeks to recover at home.  The time spent in bed had given me the opportunity to reflect on my life and to do some research.  I was contemplating the possibility of applying for Divinity School, so that I could engage with issues of faith that puzzled--and troubled--my soul.  I wanted to get back into hospice work (something I'd been passionate about for a while), and I thought about becoming a hospice chaplain.  When tragedy struck on March 15th, a pastor was asked to come to offer prayer, and he became the grounding presence that we all needed.  I saw his calm compassion as he spoke with the families of both the killed and the killer, and I identified his skill as something I desperately wanted to possess one day.