Far from home

If you’ve ever travelled, you'll know the what its like to spread your wings: the thrill of adventure; the satisfaction of independence. You’ll also know what it’s like – at times – to miss home and all that home entails. As we approach the festive season, the distance is more keenly felt.. 
  
Someone else was far from home for Christmas once. 

His name was Jesus..

Jesus is considered by many as a good man, a good teacher, a prophet, even. Christians believe him as the Son of God himself, which means he always existed in the heavens with God the Father. 

Until Christmas.

‘Will God really dwell on earth with humans?’ Solomon, the wisest man in ancient times, marvelled*. Answer: Yes. And we sing about it now, sometimes at shopping malls: ‘Hail the incarnate Deity’ ‘Pleased as [a] man with man to dwell, Jesus our Immanuel**’. ‘Word of the Father now in flesh appearing’ 

If you’ve ever been to a foreign country and felt out of place, imagine the step (down) Jesus took in coming to earth. Yet you wouldn’t have guessed - he seemed so… natural.

Christmas is significant to Christians for many reasons, one of them being that it shows God as a relational God. Our relationship with him was broken - yet he cared enough to send us not a script, a sign or an app, but his Son to show us the way back. To be the way back, even. It follows, then, that if we are made in the image of God, then we too are relational beings. Could it be that pangs of homesickness are evidence of this?
If you are far from home this year and feeling it, take heart. Jesus was far – incredibly far – from home that first Christmas. 

He left his home so he would never have to leave you.

*2 Chronicles 6:18

**Immanual = 'God with us’

The Helpers and Homeless

1 Dec 2018

Yesterday, a few of us helped serve the homeless at the Many Rooms' weekly kitchen. Prior to this, my only encounters with street sleepers have been, well, on the street (see this post to learn whether they have been positive or not). So I wasn't quite sure what to expect.

The guests drifted in between 530-630pm. Many were regulars, and seemed more comfortable than we.  The food prep was finished, so volunteers could either hang in the kitchen or meet the guests. We were a bit shy. Then I saw one of our group, Fred* talking to a guy in the corner. If he can do it, so can I. But first, I stopped to say hi. Turns out Fred's conversation partner was Dave, another volunteer. I didn't get to talk to strangers, as, soon after, Bob came with his guitar and we started serenading the crowd.

It occurred to me after: I'd thought Dave was homeless. People seeing me talking to Fred and Dave probably thought both of them were homeless (especially as I announced 'I'm going to talk to homeless people - anyone wanna come?'). People who knew Fred (he volunteers regularly) and saw him talking to me probably thought I was homeless (with a violin). One scruffy guy in front of me was arranging the tables and cutlery. He was also explaining the order of events. Despite his dress, I thought he was a volunteer. But I wasn't ever sure.

I surveyed as I played. Without aprons and name tags, one has a hard time distinguishing the helpers from the homeless. Crazy, huh? And offensive? We think our speech, or attire, our mannerisms -  even the way we eat - attest to who we are and to which sector of society we 'belong'. But in a place like Many Rooms, it appears they don't. Its very hard to judge.

Then again, why are we surprised? Aren't we all human? Made of the same stuff - by the same Creator? Don't we all bear his image - whether we're in baggy pants or a business suit?

Geez, I went to help, but might've been mistaken for homeless**! And did the homeless just help me understand something about humanity?

Now that was something I didn't expect.

The helpers... or homeless??

* All names changed 
**I've been mistaken for a Japanese and a shop assistant before, but not homeless!

No Idea

1 Nov, 2018. International Departures, Málaga Airport, Spain:

‘To Shanghai, via Helsinki’, I said, heaving my backpack onto the conveyor belt. She smiled and took my passport.
‘Oh…’ she said, her smile disappearing, ‘You don’t have….( and I thought she would say ‘a visa’ but no, she said)…. a Japanese passport?’
‘A what?’ I replied. I sounded confused but knew exactly what she was thinking.
‘A Japanese passport, she repeated, ‘This one if from…’ she flicked through the pages and turned it over, ‘This is from New Zealand’.
‘Yeah….Cos that’s where I’m from,’ What do you think? I bought this at the Mercardo?
‘But, you don’t have a Japanese passport?’ she asked me for (no kidding), a THIRD time.
‘Why do I need a Japanese passport?!’ I demanded.
‘For…’ she sounded like a little kid grasping at straws ‘For Shanghai.’
 Last time I checked, Lady, Shanghai was not part of Japan. 

‘I’m not from Japan!’ was all I managed.

She began to type furiously at her computer and scroll through some lists. Fed up, I then switched to Spanish. 

‘Que esta buscando?’ (What are you looking for?)

'Una visa', she replied. It didn't seem strange to her that I could speak her language, only that I didn't have a Japanese passport. I told her I didn’t need a visa as I was only in transit in Shanghai; I'd checked this already. She seemed surprised that Shanghai wasn’t my final destination (?But I’m from Japan right? Shouldn’t I have a flight to Tokyo?). 

If I wasn't so worried she wouldn't check me in, I would have scolded her, in Spanish*. I mean, I’d expect this kind of misunderstanding at the market, or on the street, but not at a FinnAir (yes, I will name and shame) check in counter .  I don’t blame anyone if ‘Kiwi’ isn't the top of their list when they see me. But surely proof is in the passport, and - this is what bothered me the most - why should it matter if I was/wasn’t Japanese in this particular situation?

Though it's related to race, I’m not labelling it as ‘racism’. Perhaps… Poor judgement? Naiivity? Stupidity?

It actually took me back to another airport incident, this time with my family. We were at the AirNZ check in counter, Napier. Us 3 girls must have been standing together at the front because the lady asked us ‘Are any of you over twelve?’
‘….We’re all over twelve’, we replied.
‘Oh! You’re ALL twelve?!’ she was genuinely surprised. (And I guess, seeing the stature of my mother, you might be too).
‘No, we’re all OVER twelve’, we repeated. And again, why should it matter, our age? We were travelling with our parents. Was she going to give us a toy or something for the flight?
She turned, and addressed me, only. ‘ARE YOU OVER TWELVE?’ she spoke not loudly, but slowly and clearly, so that, if needed, an 8 year old could understand.
‘I’m 21’ I replied with no emotion, no argument,

No idea

*I once did this to the tour guide in Bolivia. Poor guy. But after months and months of being asked weekly – nay, sometimes daily – if I was Japanese, he was the last straw.

Learning to Lose

27 June 2018

We lost our soccer match on Sunday. Which, unfortunately for us, is a familiar outcome (and hey, me being on team doesn't exactly help the situation). But this was a match we were meant to, had to, could have and nearly did win... except we didn't.

I know, winning isn't everything. Just being out on the field with my soccer buddies each Sunday is enough for me. I would have left long ago if it wasn't. But there's a certain amount of post-match frustration that needs to be processed every now and then.

My fuming was productive. I realised this: Growing up, I never really 'lost' anything*. No, I didn't have a sheltered childhood. A comfortable, competitive one, yes. But all my individual pursuits (blogged about here) didn't really lend themselves to 'losing'. There was definitely winning. In gymnastics they would award medals to third place. In chamber music contests there was a regional winner and the highly commended. At  junior pony club they'd award '6th ='s  until everyone in the class got a ribbon (I saw through that... but my ribbons still hang on my wall). And though at times coming second felt equal to coming last, we didn't really go around saying 'we lost'.

Then I sign up for soccer. And every weekend for the whole season, we're asked 'Did you win?'. (Those who know us better have toned it down to 'How did you go'?). Sports - like life - can be cruel. It doesn't matter if you were down 7-0 at half time or conceded 1-0 in the 89th minute. A loss is a loss.

Being rather experienced, then, I feel I can comment. Not to console myself, but to not let opportunity go to waste. You see, its easy to celebrate a win. But it takes a certain kind of person(s) to lose well. Victory may evade but there is much more to be gained:  humility, a fighting spirit, a tighter team, amongst others.

I don't know. I'm not a pro player (missed that boat) so can't speak for top level competition. But in our league at least, I feel its not so much about the result but

          Winning well
                 and
                    Learning to lose.

*Well, that's untrue. I lost lots of things: my surgeon teddy bear (left him at the fish and chip shop), my mum in the department store (she was too short to be seen above the clothing racks), my pack whilst travelling in Bolivia (read about the robbery here). My colleagues would tell you I some/oftentimes lose my train of thought, my mind or perhaps I've lost my marbles. 

Why? An Esther-essay on Child Sponsorship.

People don't often ask us 'why?' do they? Its usually 'when?' 'where?' or 'how?'. Today, on the topic of child sponsorship, I was asked 'why'. Why did I choose Compassion as an organisation? Why should others consider child sponsorship? I pondered these questions when I got home. And then, to satisfy my scientific-self, came up with this Esther-style-essay:

Child sponsorship through Compassion is personal, holistic and committed support.

Its personal because you are giving to a specific person, family, community. Your contributions don't dissolve into a large fund. Funds don't write back. But children do. Through letters, photos, updates and other wonders of modern technology, a relationship is built. When I think of my sponsor child Belén, I don't think of an automatic payment going out every month. I wonder how shes doing at school, how her mother and grandmother are and if she's picked any flowers in the field recently.

Its holistic because it not only provides financial assistance but supports academic, social and spiritual development. When I visited the centre where the sponsor kids like Belén go to after school, I saw their setup: Space for homework. Space for food (but wash your hands first). Little toothbrushes lined up to clean your teeth after.  Posters of Bible stories and memory verses.  There is church and a pastor connected with every centre.  I have sponsored children through other organisations (which are also amazing), but Compassion is overtly Christian, placing an emphasis on nurturing faith. If we feed the hungry but leave souls starving I just feel we are withholding a large chunk of good.

Child sponsorship is preferable to other forms of giving because it is committed and consistent. In our day and age, commitment and consistency are qualities that even the church often lacks, especially in our financial lives. But sometimes we just need to weigh up, sign up and then rely on God for when things get tight. From the organisation's point of view (don't forget they have feelings too), consistency is key. Planning, budgeting and the efficient use of funds is much easier if there is a steady flow of income, rather than yearly EOFY donations of varying amounts.

Come to think of it, all of the above kinda characterises Jesus' giving. When God gave, he didn't drop pennies into a 'salvation fund'. Jesus came in a skin bag to relate personally. His commitment to the cause could not be wavered by hunger, crowds  nor the devil himself. He sacrificed much more than a couple of coffees a week to save our souls. But he cares about our skin bags too, our families, our facebook friends and weekly paychecks. And aren't we thankful for how he extends grace to us consistently, again and again, when we don't deserve it.

If he is our model and motivation, if he really did welcome the little children to come to him, then I guess its no surprise that child sponsorship reflects the heart and character of Jesus.

Reason enough for me to keep funds flowing.


To find out more about Compassion, go to https://www.compassion.com.au/sponsor-a-child
To see my previous post after spending a day with Belén, see http://avetintheoyster.blogspot.com/2014/11/enabling-heroes.html

Scrub tops and Sandcastles

19.2.18

Sick of swimming in oversized clinic scrub tops, I finally coughed up and ordered my own. It arrived - and it was beautiful. Three useful pockets, my name 'Dr Esther Fan' embroidered above and a perfect fit. Now I wouldn't be mistaken for the international student or the janitor*!
I proudly sported it on my Sat morning shift at a new locum clinic.

Wandering around in between consults, I was shocked, and a little embarrassed, to find my life bio on display at reception (fig 1). 'We like to introduce our locum vets to our clients,' the receptionist told me. 'Oh dear,' I replied, 'I'm feeling a bit of pressure!'

[aside: I thought later on: isn't there much more of my personal info displayed  (on purpose, by me!)non Facebook for hundreds of 'friends' to see - many of whom I have spent less time with in person than my clients?]

Fig 1: Excerpt from CV on display 

The shift went well, nothing died, I got a cup of tea (or two) and everyone left work happy.

On the way home I stopped at one of those Asian stores that sells everything cheap and tacky but oh-so-useful. It was one of the rare times I've worn a scrub top in public. Not because it was new, FYI (+/- TMI), but because it was hot and I had nothing (decent) underneath. A customer approached me as I sifted through the knick knacks and asked me if we stocked a particular item. I looked confused and then we both clicked. She was embarrassed... I was, well, a bit deflated. Come on woman! Can't you see my title embroidered on my uniform? (Or at least recognise the doggy odour coming from it?!)  

But then I thought: Silly Esther, does it actually matter? What difference does it make if one is a brain surgeon or a shop assistant? Yes my career and lack of computer navigation skills are part of who I am, but surely my identity is rooted in something deeper?

I guess at the end of the day, our achievements are like sandcastles of varying beauty, which don't stand the tides of time (or, to be morbid,  waves of death). That is not to say we shouldn't bother,  but know we are builders, not our sandcastles themselves, and our inherent worth is found in our Maker.

So I still wear my new (or now slightly fluffy/smelly) scrub top with a smile - a humble smile - knowing that I stand not on my own achievements but on the gifts and worth the Lord bestows.

*jokes - never happened before, but keep reading... 

A cross in my backpack

I have a cross in my backpack - I put it there long ago

Some days its glorious and gold; I feel I should wear it close to my chest and indeed I would need nothing more as I travel the world.

Some days its dark and heavy; a burden I wish to leave behind thinking without it I would travel unhindered, truly 'free'.

But I have journeyed long enough to know that
        I don't really carry a cross
        It's the cross that carries me

It steadies my feet, comforts my soul,
Has bought me a home and will lead me there
At the end of this road