Author Archives: owonderful

Rite 13, Pt. 2

Continued from yesterday’s post…

We did a run-through of the liturgy. While all the other parents read the words out loud, I adopted a glazed, unfocused, slack-jawed look on my face and pretended I wasn’t even there. After the rehearsal, a couple of the youth leaders (saints of the highest order!) pulled me aside to warn me not to look in their direction during the actual ceremony. They would definitely be crying and they didn’t want to set me off. Please! Did they think they were dealing with an amateur? I was totally ready for this!

During the sermon, my son kept giving me sidelong glances. I could tell he was worried. Finally, it was time for Rite 13. He was called to the front along with eight other children and their parents.

As I took my place behind my son, I disassociated. I’m not quite sure where I went, but I was definitely not in that sanctuary with the rest of those poor souls. The only time my concentration was broken was when I heard my husband start to choke up. At that point, beads of sweat gathered on my brow, but I redoubled my efforts and managed to scramble and claw my way back to the safety of my alternate reality!

Those Episcopalians really know how to work the drama. At the end of the liturgy, the youth who had been sitting with their parents at the beginning of the service now leave them and sit together with their peers for the remainder of the hour. It’s the final jagged-edged knife to the heart, symbolizing the youth’s journey to adulthood.

I made it safely through. I know what you’re probably thinking. It was wrong of me not to have shown up for this once in a lifetime event. I should have experienced it, no matter how wrenching…A couple days after the service, in the privacy and sanctity of my own home, armed with a box of Kleenex, I did experience it. I pulled the text of the liturgy out of my purse where I had stowed it away. I allowed myself to really read it through, and I wept.

Here are some of the words:

Candidates, by the grace of God, you have lived through the pains and joys of childhood and have grown strong as young men and women. It is given to you to share in the power of God’s creation. You are blessed with the ability to create new ideas, new thoughts, new hopes for the world, and indeed to create new life. [Cue screeching of brakes sound effect! WHOA! Just…whoa!!!]

(Congregation in unison):
God of mercy and love, enfold these parents with your grace. Fill them with the joy of your presence. Rejoice with them as their sons and daughters become men and women. Strengthen them that they may support their daughters and sons as they begin the journey toward adulthood. Uphold them by your Spirit, that they may comfort them, although they can neither walk their road for them nor shield them from pain. Carry parents and children together safely through this journey, so that one day they may stand side by side as adults and friends, a joy and a comfort to each other all the days of their lives. Amen [These were the killer words that were the beginning of my undoing the first time I heard them].

(Parents address their sons and daughters in unison):
We thank God for the gift of your lives. As you begin to carve out the life that will be your own, we will stand behind you and support you. May we be patient and understanding, ready to guide and forgive, that in our love for you, you may know the love of God. You are holy and wonderful and blessed, and we will not look away from you. We are your parents, and we support you on this journey.

Phew.

That’s my baby:

Hope your weekend is wonderful!

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Rite 13, Pt. 1

Rite 13. It sounds ominous, doesn’t it? It’s way scarier than you can possibly imagine.

A few months ago I was sitting in church, innocently zoning out in my pew. The next thing I knew a bunch of kids I’ve known since they were toddlers were called to the front along with their parents. What followed was the single most devastating ritual I’ve ever witnessed. I began weeping uncontrollably. I felt keen empathy for the poor parents, many of them good friends of mine, who were standing at the altar with their children, completely exposed as they dissolved into quivering puddles of tears. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to make the sanctuary reverberate with my ugly racking sobs.

What I was witnessing was “Rite 13,” a relatively new tradition and liturgy created in the eighties by sadistic Episcopalians in Durham, North Carolina to torture unsuspecting parents of adolescents everywhere. (As if we didn’t have enough to deal with already). It was conceived as a Protestant version of the bar and bat mitzvah of the Jewish tradition. This rite of passage has been adopted by many churches, including the Presbyterian church my family attends. Around their 13th birthday, youth are invited to participate in this liturgy with their parents.

This past Sunday my almost 13 year old son went through his Rite 13. I’ve been dreading this Sunday ever since witnessing the first one. Not wanting to make a complete spectacle of myself and embarrass him in front of all of his peers and the entire church with my ugly crying, I trained for this Sunday like it was an Olympic sport. Here’s how it all went down:

Over breakfast we discussed strategy. My son offered to piss me off so I wouldn’t cry.

“OK. That shouldn’t be too hard,” I readily agreed.

He wasn’t convinced. He kept narrowing his eyes at me and saying, “You’re not going to cry, right?”

I cracked my knuckles and said, “Nope. It’s going to be fine. I’ve got this.”

I told him he had to look respectable. I pulled out a pair of wrinkled khakis from the pile of clean, but unfolded laundry. They were horribly stained! I dug around his drawers and found an alternative: a pair of navy blue pants.

“Here, put these on!”

“Why can’t I just wear jeans?”

“PUT THEM ON!” I barked shrilly.

“Well, actually, I CAN’T, because the button’s missing.”

For the next fifteen minutes I hunted high and low for a needle. For the next ten minutes I tried to thread the needle. I swear it would have been easier to cram a camel through the eye of that needle. For the next ten minutes after that, my husband tried to thread the needle. Finally, I snatched it back from him, managed to thread the needle, find an extra button, and sew it on. We were now running late.

“OK! THEY’RE DONE! NOW PUT THEM ON, QUICK!” (Yes, from that point on, I really was speaking in all CAPS).

I ran out to the car where the rest of my family was already patiently waiting.

“WHERE IS HE?!” I asked impatiently as we waited and waited for the boy/man of the hour to make his appearance in his newly-mended pants.

My husband got out of the car and went back into the house to figure out what was taking him so long.

They both emerged from the house looking peevish and disgruntled.

“He can’t get it buttoned,” he grumbled.

It hadn’t occurred to me that the spare button I had found might not actually fit into the buttonhole.

“I’LL DO IT FOR YOU AS SOON AS WE GET THERE. NOW LET’S GO!”

We pulled into the parking lot and I managed to force the too-large button into the hole. (Are we detecting a recurring theme here)? I stood back to look at my son and only then realized that the size 16 pants he was wearing were at least two inches too short for his gangly legs. (Yep. There it is again).

“GAH!”

We made it in time for the rehearsal. The time had finally come to put my months of training to the test…

Friday: Rite 13, Pt. 2

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Roooaaar!/Baaaaaa!

“In like a lion, out like a lamb.”

A week ago today we woke up to no power and this:

Can you see the tree that fell in our backyard in this next picture?

School and work were cancelled! It was cold, but cozy to be hunkered down with everyone on that first day.

To their great chagrin, I insisted that the kids wear helmets to play out in the snow. There were trees down everywhere and I kept hearing the ominous creaking and cracking of limbs:

That night my oldest son said he would “test” his hardiness by roughing it in his own cold bedroom. My husband did the same. The sybarites among us, (including me), camped out in the living room with the gas fireplace going:

By the next morning the lack of power was getting really old. My husband and I had both done huge separate shopping trips the day the power went out to stock up for the storm. We made a pathetic attempt to salvage some of the food:

My husband tried valiantly to cut up a huge tree that was blocking our road with a rusty old saw. A neighbor with a chainsaw took pity on him and helped him clear the path:

Two and a half days without power left us feeling like primitive cave dwellers.

A week later, the bees are buzzing, the birds are chirping, and our yard looks like this:

What a miracle that this was hiding underneath all that snow!

Here’s that tree that fell. Over the weekend another kind neighbor with a chainsaw surprised us by performing this act of mercy:

I’m so thankful for good neighbors, a warm house, electricity, and signs of SPRING!

Animal Ethics

Here’s another true story that illustrates the complexities of animal ethics:

IMG_0660Last year the Helping Hands kids and I took a field trip to Waynesboro to visit the Wildlife Center of Virginia. This wildlife hospital provides “health care, often on an emergency basis, to native wildlife.” The good veterinarians and staff of the Wildlife Center treat any animal that’s brought to the center. You can take a tour of the facilities and see all sort of wild animals from opossums to bears in all different stages of recovery.

About two dozen permanent animal residents have been identified as “Education Animals.” Ironically, these are the animals that have flunked their survival test, otherwise known as “live prey training,” or more simply as: “Mouse School.” One of the wildlife educators explained it this way…Let’s say an owl is treated for a broken wing. Once it recovers from its injury, it is placed in an enclosure for a couple days with a live mouse. In the morning, if the mouse has been eaten, the owl is deemed ready for release back into the wild.

Clearly, I’m a perverse person, because I just had to ask, “But don’t you sometimes treat mice that are brought to the center?”

The educator acknowledged that mice were indeed sometimes treated as patients. He assured us though, that no rehabilitated mice would ever be used as bait in “Mouse School.” These mice are bought from a company that breeds mice specifically for research and food. He acknowledged that the vets and staff of the Wildlife Center do wrestle with the ethics of this.

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“It’s alive!”

Two people who are very close to me have asked if  “A Snake Tale” is a true story. The short answer is: NO!

On the other hand, a lot of the story details were drawn from life. Most significantly, all the gory information in the story about how snakes are fed is absolutely true…These details gave a framework to the story that struck me as a good way to explore some interesting ethical questions.

Here are some other things that are true:

  • Our landlord’s daughter in Carrboro, NC had an albino snake named Orangina that she asked us to take care of, but it was an albino corn snake rather than a Burmese python. I insisted that they find someone else to take care of her, because I couldn’t bear the thought of having to feed her. All that year I kept accidentally pulling out dead frozen mice in Ziploc bags that had been tucked away into the back recesses of the freezer.
  • I was a docent at a science museum when I was in college. There were two boa constrictors on display at the museum. In the basement of the museum was a tankful of mice who were fated to one day become dinner for these snakes. In my head I can still hear the squeak of their wheel as they endlessly ran by the harsh yellow light of a bare bulb. A coworker told me that she came to work one morning after the snakes had been fed the night before, and she saw that they hadn’t eaten one of the mice. The mouse was nestled comfortably, fast asleep in the coil of one of the snakes. I’m not sure what actually happened to that mouse, but I think we can all agree on what should have happened. If there is even a shred of justice in this world, that mouse would have been shipped off to live out the rest of its natural life vacationing on some breezy, warm isle with a frozen margarita in one paw and a trashy novel in the other, and being waited on by attentive cabana boys.
  • In Carrboro we had a kind, but slightly kooky neighbor (this could describe a large percentage of the population of that lovable town, by the way). One Sunday afternoon he knocked on our door. He told us that he had just killed a copperhead snake and that the kids should come over to see it so that they would know what to look out for. As we crossed the street to his house he explained to us that to make sure it was a copperhead and not an innocuous look alike, he had held out a leather gardening glove toward its head. It had struck at the glove and he saw venom dripping. At that point he whacked it with a shovel, almost but not quite decapitating it. He warned us in advance that it was not going to be a pretty sight. In his backyard we saw the bloody remains of the copperhead. I didn’t want to go anywhere near it, but our neighbor cheerfully said, “You can touch it, kids!” To my absolute horror, all three of my children rushed up to pet the bloody dead snake. Suddenly, my son Nicholas shouted, “It’s alive!” I shrieked as I saw that the snake had indeed started to wriggle. The neighbor assured me that it was in fact dead, and that it was a primitive nerve reflex that kept the snake’s body moving even after death. I was telling this story to a friend, who told me that he had once completely severed the head off a snake and its jaws continued to open and close for a few horrific minutes. I’ve since learned that you can get bitten by a dead snake!
  • Burmese pythons are often kept as pets. They have become an invasive species in the Florida Everglades, probably because pet snakes were released or escaped into the wild. They get so large they have been known to eat prey as large as alligator or deer.
  • My sister called to tell me that after reading my story she thinks I’m a creepy sicko. Hello?! FICTION?!
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A Snake Tale

If you’ve been reading “A Snake Tale” or would like to read it, the story in its entirety now resides on its own separate page. You can access it through the bar at the top.

That Nerdy, Unpopular Kid at School

Imagine a scrawny kid with large ears that stick out from his head like jug handles. He’s self-conscious about his looks and is exceedingly shy. He’s scared of everything: the dark, ghosts, robbers, bugs, snakes…He’s lousy at sports. He’s a mediocre student. Afraid that his classmates will make fun of him, he runs to school and back home to avoid having contact with them. When he becomes a teenager, he steals money to buy cigarettes. His teachers are exasperated by him. His parents are disappointed in him.

When he grows up, he somehow manages to get through law school, but fails miserably as a lawyer. In his very first case, he feels too shy to cross-examine the witnesses. He is so rattled, he returns his fees to his client and can’t continue with the trial. He experiences humiliation throughout his adulthood. He is physically thrown off a train, kicked, punched, and has stones and rotten eggs thrown at him.

This was Mahatma Gandhi. Today he is revered and honored as a hero who fought injustice wherever he saw it, who led India to independence from British rule, and who inspired and taught people all over the world to fight for their rights through nonviolent means. He was a “Great Soul” indeed.

The Helping Hands kids have been drawing pictures to submit to James Madison University’s Mahatma Gandhi Center for Global Nonviolence “Peace builds community” art contest. Last Friday I told them Gandhi’s life story while they drew. When we think of heroes, we usually think of human beings who are extraordinary. We think of heroes as possessing exceptional strength, looks, charisma, intelligence, courage, and virtue. To me, the most compelling part of Gandhi’s story is how very human and imperfect he was. I told the kids about how Gandhi struggled, was bullied, and had self-esteem issues. I told them about all the incredible things this unlikely hero was able to accomplish before an assassin’s bullet tragically ended his life. I hope that hearing Gandhi’s story will inspire them to see that anyone, even that nerdy, unpopular kid at school just might turn out to be a hero.

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Dandelion

I am convinced that a human being is at his or her most powerful between birth and 5 years of age.

My little 2 year old nephew Daniel, a.k.a. Dandelion, is a perfect case in point. We were thrilled to be granted an audience with him this past Saturday.

Whenever we see him, we all fling ourselves upon him like a bunch of shameless groupies. We can’t help ourselves. Usually, he looks right through us as if we were panes of glass. This time he was feeling particularly generous. He liberally bestowed his favors upon us.

My mother was delighted to be granted the privilege of holding the pieces of his invention.

He electrified us with the latest dance moves:

“I want to see you commit to the movement! Jazz hands, Tatiana, jazz hands!”
Sigh. “Keep practicing.”

He graciously posed for pictures with his fans:

And me? Dandelion came up to me and lifted his arms in the air and said, “Pick you up?” which translates to: “Pick me up!” I practically swooned. I scooped him up and tried to play it cool…as if it were an everyday occurrence that a superstar would ask me, me for a lift, but I couldn’t resist turning my head to gloat at my sister, mother, and Dandelion’s mom. “OH. MY. GOD!!!!” I mouthed gleefully.

Dandelion commanded me to take him to the basement.

My daughter ran ahead to herald his arrival…”Daniel, the rock star is coming through!” she chirped.

My kids and Dandelion started to play on the bed. First Dandelion would roll over to my son. No sooner would he begin to bask in the glow of little Dandelion’s attentions, then he would abruptly abandon him to shine his light on my daughter. Back and forth he went in this fashion, toying with his minions, who were only too grateful for his largess.

“Here Teddy, you may adjust my sock.”
“Not bad. Keep practicing!”

My son was ready to trade his sister in for Dandelion. “I wish T were still this age,” he said wistfully:

and, “Look how tiny his hands are!”

And then it was time for one last photo op:

The dream was over. It was time to say goodbye until next time.

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50th Anniversary

wedding partyI turned eighteen shortly after starting my first year in college. I was shocked when I found a birthday card from my father in my mailbox. My parents have never been ones to mark occasions that most people celebrate. Had I woken up in an alternate universe? Could I be hallucinating? I was reassured that all was as it should be when I pulled out the card. It contained no message and was signed “Rev. David H. Kim.” My dad’s secretary was keeping track of birthdays and sending out cards from a pre-signed stack to everyone in his congregation.

I can’t remember a single time my dad ever bought my mom chocolate for Valentine’s Day or flowers for their wedding anniversary. The words “I love you” have never, not once, either on purpose or by accident, ever fallen from my father’s lips. It’s not that he doesn’t feel genuine love. He worships my mother. His children and grandchildren know that he loves them deeply. It’s outward, obvious expressions of love that make him distinctly uncomfortable.

Almost five years ago, my mother was diagnosed with primary amyloidosis. The prognosis was dire. The doctors told her she had eighteen months to live. My sister managed to get her into a clinical trial at Memorial Sloan-Kettering. My parents were living in Korea at the time, but returned to the States so that my mother could get treated. My father left her in my sister’s care and returned to Korea to finish out his work obligations, intending to return as soon as the semester was over.

The aggressive, experimental chemotherapy regimen knocked my mother’s disease into remission, but not before it nearly killed her. One day, she was exhausted and suffering and ready to give up the fight. She called my father to say goodbye. She didn’t think she would ever see him again.

My dad told her that she had to hold on. He told her that he wanted to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary together. I know the chemotherapy drugs did their part, but I also know without a doubt that what pulled my mom back from the brink were my father’s words. My sister reported that the phone call was a turning point. When my mother hung up the phone, she had resolved to live. She began to force herself to eat and to force herself to get up out of bed and walk around. My dad’s love saved her.

Yesterday when I mentioned that it would be their 50th wedding anniversary on Sunday, both my mother and father seemed to have forgotten all about it. My mother said, “Oh, really? No, I think it’s already passed.” I had to pull out a calendar to show her that Sunday really would be their 50th wedding anniversary. My siblings and I have long been planning a huge party that will take place this summer, but today I want to mark their golden anniversary with these words. I have never once seen my parents kiss or hug each other. I have never once heard them exchange the words “I love you.” But they have always shown me what a true partnership looks like and what true love is. My parents don’t read this blog and they’ll probably never see these words, but just as they have never had to actually say “I love you,” I think they know the words in my heart.


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Ochazuke

Yesterday I wrote about Teaism, one of my favorite spots in DC. I like to go to the flagship tiny little two-story tea house in Dupont Circle, but there are two other DC locations in Lafayette Park, Penn Quarter, and one in Old Town, Alexandria.

Apart from their extensive tea selection, they are best known for their Japanese and Indian food. Customers also rave about their Salty Oat Cookie. The reason I like to go to Teaism is for the ochazuke. Ochazuke is a simple rice dish sprinkled with a variety of toppings such as fish, pickled vegetables, crumbled rice crackers, seaweed, or wasabi. Green tea is poured over the top to create a kind of soup. It’s a good way to use up leftover rice and is served as a snack, at the end of a meal, or as a hangover cure.

Today, I tried to recreate the salmon ochazuke I had at Teaism with:

1 microwaved cup of Minute Rice brown rice:

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Salmon Furikake (A condiment  used to add flavor to plain rice. Furikake comes in different blends and is made of a variety of ingredients, such as sesame seeds, nori, dried fish flakes, and salt).

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Crumbled rice cakes:

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And some green tea:

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Verdict? Not nearly as good as Teaism’s, but a super quick and easy, decent approximation.

Hope your weekend is full of wonderful discoveries!