Last night, I had a dream in which I was preparing to die. I was cleaning up my stuff, with my family close, but not with me. The clearest part I remember is when I remembered about Gysey and Toumenne, and went to go ask my mom to continue sponsering them when I die. Then we had to drive somewhere. I’m not sure. But I awoke with such a strange feeling in my heart.

So I thought about how I want to die. I don’t want to go to death quietly. My friend introduced me to a quote: “All around you, people will be tiptoeing through life, just to arrive at death safely. But dear children, do not tiptoe. Run, hop, skip, or dance, just don’t tiptoe.” (Shane Clairborne) Now, I know this quote is actually about life, but it speaks about how we arrive at death! That’s what life is like, right? Every day something could happen; any day we could die.

So how should I live? What does a fighting life look like? Well, first, I have to spend every moment with God! Love Him as I have never loved before! Second, I should be disciplined to do what’s important first, and finally, I need to have lots of fun! Relax with friends and do some crazy and unexpected things with them. (In Japan, “crazy and unexpected should be easy! ^_^)

My Fighting Life..


Everybody Wants To Be Something [Special]

With upwards of six billion people on this planet, it’s hard to imagine that one individual is really worth something special. We are told by our parents, teachers, and occasionally our friends that we are unique, there is no one like us on the planet! Even in all the history of humankind? Really? But God must have run out of ideas for personality/looks combos!

Everybody wants to be special; to think that they are worthy of the love given them by family, friends and God. (Maybe that’s why a lot of people can’t love God? They don’t want to be in debt with God for something. Hm, that’s ironic.)

The internet is a haven for those people. When I look at some of the pictures on Facebook, I really notice this. There are so many pictures of people just posing like models, or in some crazy fashion, wanting to be noticed by someone. “See? I am beautiful.”

I think I want to disband Facebook.

I don’t really know where I’m going with this, but I’m getting tired of all this fakeness. Because it really feels fake to me. Maybe it’s not, for a lot of people, but it’s nothing but fake to me.

I’m even frustrated by this blog, because it’s my attempt to be special when there are thousands of blogs on the internet.. what makes this one any special? What’s my purpose for this blog? For me, writing my thoughts, for my friends to read and know me a little more, or for everyone else to think that I am special?

When it all comes to the end, we are only special because God loves us. Why does He love us? “Not because of who I am, but because of what You’ve done, Not because of what I’ve done, but because of who You are” (Casting Crowns, “Who Am I?”)

*loves God!*


I wonder how 2 Corinthians 1:3-11 affected Mother Teresa…

Mother Teresa’s Crisis of Faith: Time Article

The God of All Comfort

3Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, 4who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. 5For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows. 6If we are distressed, it is for your comfort and salvation; if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which produces in you patient endurance of the same sufferings we suffer. 7And our hope for you is firm, because we know that just as you share in our sufferings, so also you share in our comfort.

8We do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about the hardships we suffered in the province of Asia. We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired even of life. 9Indeed, in our hearts we felt the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead. 10He has delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us, 11as you help us by your prayers. Then many will give thanks on our[a] behalf for the gracious favor granted us in answer to the prayers of many.


Last Night I had a dream..

In this dream, somehow, I knew it was “my destiny to write a novel”.

And then the “perfect subject” came along: a family travelling in a covered wagon across the country, much like the novels “Little House on the Prairie”. A father, mother, two sisters, and a little brother, they had stopped travelling for the night and were setting up camp. I think a lynx, or animal like it, came along and they had to hunt it. And there was something going on with water..

Well, I really do want to write a novel. It would be loads of fun, and challenging at the same time.

Oh loverly foreshadowing..

I read this with my High/Advanced student last night, and got sad/pensive. Then when I checked my facebook this morning, I found out that a kid at Prov died (yesterday?). I knew him, albeit not that well, so it’s still shocking. Recently, and probably because of this article, I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad, my grandparents who’ve lost their baby, various friend’s who’ve died, and now there’s a new name to add to the list.  I feel cruel posting it on Facebook, so I’m not going to take it there. But there are some images/phrases I really like, and so I want to share them.

Friend’s Death Turns Grieving Boys Into Men (Ana Veciana-Suarez)

My boy returned from school in a foul mood, all anger and impatience. He slammed doors, sassed back, wouldn’t meet my gaze. I demanded an explanation.

”Bobby — ” he finally blurted, and burst into tears.

I collapsed in the closest chair and buried my face in my hands. He didn’t have to say more. I knew. A baseball pal, a classmate since elementary school, had lost his battle to cancer. He was 15.

Death is always but an arm’s length away, isn’t it?

For days, I remained perpetually close to tears. I talked to other parents whose children had shared teams or classrooms with Bobby, to kids who had gone on to high school while cancer had pilfered his childhood.

The reaction was always the same: that sucker-punch gasp, that raw intake of breath. But there was something else, something unspoken, something close to relief and apprehension: There but for the grace of God go I.

Despite a full load of work and start-of-school chores, or maybe because of all that, I have not stopped thinking of Bobby’s parents, of the long, dark moments that await them. I try to remember them in better times. By the baseball field. At team parties. On the back-to-school circuit.

Life turns on a dime, doesn’t it?

The viewing was a celebration of life to the extent that anything like that can ever be. Images of Bobby flashed on a screen. A table displayed his school awards. There was a flower arrangement in the colors of his beloved University of Miami Hurricanes.

But for those who had gotten to know him on the playground and in the lunchroom, the images of long- gone health and vigor were too much to bear. Some fled to the parking lot and, under a full moon and cloudless sky, they sobbed. It was the plaintive sound of growing up, of boys turning, in the most difficult way imaginable, into men. Boys who had shot up past their mothers, who now shaved in the morning, who had learned to hide emotions with a smirk and a swagger. Together and alone they were coming to terms with mortality.

”They don’t think it can happen to somebody they know,” a mother said.

But oh, how well they know now, don’t they?

During services the following morning, the pastor reminded us that God’s timing doesn’t always coincide with our own. So we cried for the family, yes, for the awful timing, but I suspect we also wept for ourselves, for our children, for the loss of innocence and the recognition of the inevitable. It is impossible to live without befriending grief.

In the span of nine years, I was forced to bury a husband, a nephew, my mother, a sister and brother-in-law. Each death felt like a betrayal. For months, probably longer, words of comfort, however eloquent or heartfelt, rang hollow. Eventually, though, I made peace, I found solace, I learned to harbor the pain in a secret place.

But there are things that should not happen to me, to you, to anybody — events that test our faith and our mettle. Surely the death of a child tops that list. I cannot fathom it.