purity

“And we laughed like my mother said she once did
With my father on his birthday
When they went swimming
And he took her hand into his
And he told her that he loved her
His words held meaning

How do we make these moments last?

How do we get them to stay?
When everything passes and time goes away…”

-rosie thomas, ‘time goes away’

the weekend was warm. delightful. sunlight on bare skin, flip-flops, windows down, people-watching, daydreaming…

i met up with old friends over coffee, saw my parents, thought a bit about valentine’s day, went to a movie at the Grove, and made a simple resolution.

and now it’s getting late, and i must fall asleep if i am to be awake enough in order to begin the work week tomorrow. driving to visit little children who wait for me, fight me, depend upon me, play with me, bring me into their little worlds so that i can share in and sprinkle out a bit of hope and laughter.

the lyrics and tunes of ms. Rosie Thomas are mesmerizing. her melodies haunting. her words make me yearn for something beautiful to be a part of my own life.

something beautiful i think i lost before. i think i had it at one time. and then, slowly, gradually, it slipped out of my grasp as i stepped out of my comfort zone and compromised my heart and my mind to complacency and selfishness. i’m wondering how to get it back, and how worthwhile ’tis to strive for it. once again.

so, like i said, i made a simple resolution. turning my face once again towards the sun, giving it permission to kiss my bare skin with warmth and light.

Advertisements

six

my dad turned six today.

six years since he’s been given a second chance at life. and though it’s already been six years, i still remember those few days as clearly as if they’d just happened last weekend. waiting in the hospital lobby for hours and hours, seeking solace in the little chapel, praying as heavenly music played overhead… the doctor finally telling us the operation was complete and had seemed to be successful, but they needed to monitor him closely to make sure… my mom and i crept into the ICU, wearing those paper-thin, wrinkly, over-sized yellow hospital gowns. my mom had to leave almost immediately because she could not stand the sight of blood and all those machines that my dad was hooked up to. i looked at him, gripped his hand, saw the plastic tubes coming out of him everywhere and dried blood around his neck… he was hooked up to a respirator, among other things. he looked so frail and little and old lying in that hospital bed, nothing like the tall, handsome man i had known all my life. as i held his hand, he began to regain consciousness, and then he looked at me. tears running down my cheeks… “daddy,” i cried in Korean. his voice was dry and cracked, eyes still groggy from having been asleep for 12 hours… “it’s my birthday,” he croaked to me and the nurse sitting nearby, “it’s my birthday.”

the past six years haven’t been completely worry-free. my dad is still sick… it’s only a matter of time before the hepatitis C again overtakes him completely and becomes cancerous. his body resisted the interferon treatment a couple years ago and he became violently ill. but he plays golf daily, watches korean dramas, bickers flirtatiously with my mom, dozes off in front of the television, and hugs me when i come to visit. his hair is salt-and-pepper, and he wears black-framed glasses, over which he will peer closely at whatever strikes his fancy.

i am so grateful to God for giving my dad another chance. i am blessed to have amazing parents who love one another and me, and show it daily, without guilt or shame. i am blessed to have a dad to understands me, desires my company, tells me what’s wrong and right, and occasionally stresses me out.

we visited his specialist last week, and the specialist reported that another 6-10 years of health would be more than anyone could ask for. i don’t know if it’ll happen, but i’d like to think that it would. i trust in a God who is all-powerful, the God of healing, and who performs miracles on a daily basis, better than any doctor or earthly means.

He holds my dad in his hands.