Idealistic

Reconciliation does not always equate nor lead to friendship. Perhaps, here, sometimes, that is an acceptable loss.

But I'm grateful it's another way our God one-ups us.

Senior Gift

For those of my readers not in the know, it has been tradition that the seniors of Intervarsity, as their undergraduate years draw to a close, present a gift of sorts to the rest of the fellowship to remember them by, as a class and as individuals. In previous years, it's been a scrapbook of personalized pages reminiscent of high school yearbooks, a CD compilation of beloved songs, a blank picture frame engraved with verses about community. The class of 2011 brought back the scrapbook concept to deliver advice (and prayerfully, wisdom) we painfully and perhaps serendipitously found over the years, loosely bound by the theme "Rated R". Recollections and realizations - raw, real, and in many cases, redeemed. We believed it is our histories that have shaped us and that hopefully linger as a vehicle through which Spirit would nudge the spirits of the next generations. And thus, a deadline was set, and the stories poured in. And characteristically, I hurriedly typed up half a page the night before the booklets were to be printed.

So, at the request of my mother ("What is this recipe that your friends are commenting about?"), and for the sake of shamelessly making this blog a bit more prolific, here was my contribution.

My dear dear CCF family,

Here’s a recipe I’ve tweaked over the years:

v  1 life, do not slice, dice, or chop; should be homogeneous throughout school, work, fun

v  7 days/week of honest prayer and the Word, finely ground; incorporate well into the aforementioned life

v  several packets of thankfulness, really brings out the aroma of joy; you can never have too much of this one

v  frequent reflection and remembrance, add to taste; I strongly suggest investing in a handy journal or blog

v  1 full cup of sleep; I find it really helps with the remembrance

v  8 oz. of loving spontaneity; oftentimes, a quality hour with a quality friend yields much more than three hours of “writing” a paper

v  8 oz. of self-control, infused with discipline, sprinkled with wise “no”s; sometimes, that paper just gotta get done, and preferably on time

v  a couple fresh sprigs of dreams, desires, and full-bodied emotion; for all you rationalizing T’s out there, do not skip this one

v  a bold dash of faith and equal parts action; never add one without the other or the flavor will be horrendously off

v  an open handful of sacrifice; a little bitter on the tongue, but infinitely deepens the taste of life

v  2 extra measures of His grace (remember, this is expensive stuff, even though you get it for free); one for others, one for yourself

v  1 pinch of your own salt.

Mix by hand. The dough will seem impossibly thick at times, but no cheating with shortcut electric mixers!

Baking time: indefinite.

Hard work and prep bring you far, but He is the One who ultimately grants growth, goodness, and perfection. Learn to wait.

That gives you time to lick your fingers. And maybe the bowl too.

Don’t be afraid to pipe on generous love, creamed and tempered with real transparent conversation. You won’t run out if you know the Guy stocking your pantry.

Highly recommended: Garnish with close friends and gummy bears.

Feel free to share recipes with me!

eunice.fu@gmail.com

and http://eunifu.blogspot.com/ for everything I can’t fit on this page.

In His infallible love,

Eunice Fu

And yes, I did have an addendum in mind. I just haven't finished writing it. :P

Fear

He often drives me down these meandering streets of smooth asphalt.  Sometimes, he likes to let the eager engine idle, pull up resolutely on the emergency brake - turn around with piercing gaze and smirking cheeks, "So...where'd you plan on going?"


I've noticed that he never offers to let me sit in the passenger seat, assuring me convincingly that it's much safer in the backseat. He insists, in his condescending, pedantic tone, that I could drive more effectively, economically, with more impact, when I'm older, more experienced, and fully equipped. "Just study hard. Just watch closely and you won't make mistakes. Put your seatbelt on. Actually, put this helmet on. This kevlar vest too. What are you doing? Put that heart back in the glove compartment." My few protests are timid squeaks against the deafening arching of his eyebrows.


Oh, he's a good driver, don't get me wrong - always follows all the street signs, always stops neatly behind the white painted lines, always lets other cars merge first, always drives at the speed limit. Never rushes yellows. It's just that he maintains quite a deathly white-knuckled grip on the wheel. I always look doubtfully back at the telltale oil stains that my car leaves on the road, particularly in front of large forks in the road where we would sit in apologetic agony for hours on end - the gear firmly in park, and a line of cars honking and fuming behind us. 


His GPS commands the view atop the dashboard and offers intermittent quips, to which he nods in smug agreement. Yet instead of the peremptory British, the electronic voice sounds curiously like my family, my friends, my own.


Turn right, in point four miles. "You want a family, right? You're a woman, you have a time limit. The sooner you go to medical school, the quicker you get out."


Continue, for five point six miles. "Wait a bit more. I don't think your personality really matches."


Keep left in seven hundred feet. "Are you sure this is what you're called to? You're never around to help out at home."


Take ramp right. "Maybe you should take some classes now. You know, just in case they're not interested enough in you this time around."


"My God is not big enough."






And it is usually here that Fear uncharacteristically slams on the brakes, throwing us facedown to a squealing stop before the Son of Man standing in His glory. Never mind where He materialized from. When the humble weight of contrition settles amidst the trembling of the engine, I feel a different inertia begin to rise. He is suddenly by the driver's window. He wrenches the door open - Grand Theft Auto style - and with both hands, throws Fear unceremoniously into the back seat in a small heap of silly robes. (All antagonistic metaphors wear black billowing cloaks, naturally.) Then, sitting in the driver's seat, He surveys the dashboard, and without hesitation, unplugs the GPS (recalculating...recalculating...) and tosses it out the window. Satisfied, He turns to me with smiling eyes, presses the keys into my hands, and whispers,


"I call shotgun."