But as I sit here in the semi-dark, his robust and plodding snores filling the other room, I think about a day in his life, about all I've observed in the short time I've been here, and I'm overcome with emotion. He wakes up in this uncomfortable apartment and goes to work; when he gets off work, he tells me, he goes to the local library to browse through the Chinese newspapers, and at night he goes home. He knows some people in the area, but none of them are close. Once a week, presumably, he makes a pilgrimage with his dirty clothes in little plastic grocery bags to a coin laundry. Once a month, he goes next door to pay the Chinese family from whom he rents the small, sectioned-off portion of the house. All of this, far from any social circles that he probably wouldn't feel comfortable joining anyway, for a distant family that doesn't always remember to be grateful, and doesn't always remember to call. By nature, he's a workaholic, not a social animal. Throw him into the work environment, and he'll make do, but take him out and he'll be as without a purpose as a fish outside of water. I always ask him questions like who he misses the most, or who he considers to be his best friends. Calmly, he'll reply that he doesn't really know, and then chuckle expectantly at himself and his pitiful answer.
The apartment, where he lives, has every bit the look of a spare, little-touched room. It's one of those from which you come and go only to sleep and occasionally eat. Furniture is sparse, and everything, from the kitchen to the mattress he sleeps on, has the forlorn look of being overlooked by a man who's only living upon necessity. My first reaction is, how could anyone live like this? But in the back of my mind, I know that that's just who he is. He's always struggled to interact with people and just have fun. He's been poor before. My life isn't hard. I've never had it hard.
He asks me in the car if I think he should resign next month. Everything in the back of my mind screams for him to do it, to go back to his wife and home, to live in the comfort he deserves. But I answer his question with a question. "What does he think he should do? How does he like his work? Does he miss home?" We end up talking about the economy again, and somewhere, ten minutes later, we end up back at the solemn conclusion that it's tough times, and the subtle moral undertones of hard work are screaming in my ear. With him, there's always a lesson. After twenty-one years, I can appreciate that.
I'm not writing this on Turkey Day to say that I love my parents because of all they've provided for me. I don't want to love them only for what they do for me. Honestly, I started this post hours ago, and I'm more confused than ever. There's really nothing I can do to merit their love, and thoughts like that make me squirm. Sometimes, as much as I try to be independent, and to free myself from the knowledge that I owe so much to them, I can only end up concluding that that's just how love works. Sometimes love is inexplicable and undeserved, and sometimes it comes in such unquantifiable amounts that you just have to accept that it can't ever be repaid. And that's the way we have to love our parents, even it t hat's not the way they already love us. Even when memories wear on hard, differences seem irreconcilable, relationships are stripped to the very last thread, and there's nothing left to love, we need to remember that Christ paid it all. It's easier to love someone who already loves you back, is it not? Is that to say, we should only venture to give our hearts and our time to those who give to us in return? Hopefully, the answer in your mind rings a loud "no."
That's what I pray every day that Christ will teach me. I pray that He'll break my sinful heart down one flinty rock at a time, taking every harsh word and thought out of my mouth and heart, giving me every extra edge of patience that I need, and helping me to love and sacrifice. I write this tonight, knowing that many of you understand and share my struggles to varying degrees. Maybe, for some of you who are still young, you'll learn something--or not. Your parents love you. They really, really love you. Or they might not at all. Maybe they're not accustomed to telling you so, or maybe they might just be human, like yourself. Even if they don't, I plead with you to have grace upon their past wrongs. Have grace, forgive, and ask for forgiveness in return. I plead with you to remind me as well, so that we can pray and grow together, for this is just the part of the sin that our particular generation and culture will carry, perhaps until we die. Not many things bother me in this world as much as the tortuous, strained, awkward relationships between Asian parents and their children. I look back on the long and storied struggle between my parents and I, and thank God for His healing. I also remember the first time I dropped and "I love you" on my parents. Something as trivial as that was awkward as hell, but it was a start. Now my Dad includes in every little email or text, "love, Dad." God's brought us so far. For you guys out there, take the initiative and go give your parents a suffocating bearhug or something. For you girls, well, you can try that too, but I have a feeling that you have a better system for this sort of thing.
Anyway, I'm not quite full of Thanksgiving mirth and content, having snacked on mixed peanuts and bread for most of the afternoon, and slipped out to dinner at a forlorn little Chinese restaurant, but I am thankful. I love you, Mom and Dad, and I thank God for you.
