Hey Everybody,

It’s been forever and a day since my last post.  This blog is not dead.  It just woke up from hibernation like a bear in winter.  A very long, cold winter.  A very long, cold winter in Antarctica.  Which is pretty much winter all year long.  So now we’re moving out of Antarctica and moving into Southern California.  Which is where I live now. . . shall I go on?

Just a quick thought about kind words.

Funerals are sad, we can all agree on that right?  You know what makes funerals doubly sad?  The fact that the kind words and eulogies given will never be heard by the person who passed away.  The tragedy of “I never got a chance to say . . . ” is an absolute killer.

Going-away parties, last-day-at-work parties, etc are also pretty sad.  A lot of “I have always wanted to tell you this but … ” and “I wish we got to know each other…” or “I think you’re super hot” are kind words that almost sting when you consider the possibility that they might have meant a lot more had they been shared before you ever mentioned leaving!  (Side note: I also feel incredibly awkward when some of the parting words get a little out of hand.  Things like, “You were always my favorite” or “You single-handedly changed my life forever” or “You complete me” are never as much fun to hear when they feel like desperate euphemisms for “Sorry I never gave you the time of day.  Like ever.”  Just for the record, I have never heard these words said to me before so no harm done.  Phew!)

It’s unfortunate that we often save our kindest, best words for when it is almost (or is) too late.  There’s no harm in looking at the people who mean something to you square in the eye once in a while to let them know that they freakin’ rock. I think this is one of many things we could do right away to make this world a better place.

So tell me: What are some “parting words” you heard that made you feel ridiculous?  On the converse, what are some in-the-moment-when-it-matters words you heard that totally breathed new life into you? 

we are moving back to Orange County, CA on September 22!

this has come to pass through a series of events and realizations but we couldn’t be happier and we couldn’t be more sad, either!

you see, we spent this past year here in Mexico City wondering if we’d ever love this place like we did our previous homes in different countries.  we have been stretched beyond our normal capacities, been at the brink of giving up (many times), and have had our patience tested more than ever. . . yet, here we are now, preparing to move and feeling unexpectedly grateful for our time here.  we have made new lifelong friendships and have been transformed (for the better) — again.  we have experienced a taste of heaven in a place that once felt like purgatory.

we have witnessed miracles here, especially in our team’s work against Human Trafficking.  we were part of the final renovations in the safe house for young victims of trafficking when we first arrived and have since been doing life with the house’s first 5 girls in the last 5 months.  we have seen life change happen week to week at The Well in conjunction with many painful setbacks and obvious spiritual attacks.

we helped build and develop a cafe in Coyoacan, a key public square in Mexico City where people from all walks of life intersect.

we facilitated the first Justice NOW in Mexico City to mobilize local churches to get involved in the fight against Trafficking.  450 people came out to the inaugural gathering, many made decisions to volunteer and give of their time and resources to make a difference.  an army was raised and darkness was pierced, so much so that the darkness tried to make an audible peep that night in the form of extremely inappropriate noise . . .which we now consider affirmation of our work.  the light was too much to handle and this audible manifestation was a desperate last-second attempt to try to ruin whatever good was taking place.  pretty amazing stuff (ask me about it)!

our view on Church and working in a vocational capacity at church was in some ways renewed and affirmed during our time here.  which leads to why and how we’re coming back to Southern California.

last winter, we made a visit to California during the holiday season and had some important conversations about our calling. i began to think about my calling.  what was it?  i thought at one point it was music and vocational ministry.

and at the end of the day, it still is.

around May of this year, i started to come back around to the thought of my calling, which is very much related to gifting, passion and energy matrix (FLOW, baby).  i realized that i am one of the few (and together, many) people around the world who are actually made to do music within and through a ministerial context.

i am going to rejoin the staff at Newsong Irvine and this time i am doing so with:

• a greater sense of confidence that this is indeed who i am and where I’m supposed to be
• a perfect knowledge of the fact that i am also not limited by my vocation.  the sky is the limit.
• a realization that this is what i want, what gets me excited, and where i’m most effective
• the conclusion that my time in Mexico was necessary in order to bring me to this place of complete assurance and maturity
• a determination to grow and get “better” at what I already feel I’m good at
• the resolve that justice work and “missional” living will always be what we do no matter where we are.  it’s who we are.
• and more . . .

Another key component of our move this time is this:

for the first time ever in our marriage, we have a sense of peace in putting our roots down and building a home in a place for longer than 2 years!  we are so incredibly excited for what’s to come!

thanks for reading and continually journeying with me and my family!

dk

I may live in a country that’s foreign to me (Mexico), receive monthly financial support from a generous group of friends and donors, and send out a monthly newsletter update– but that doesn’t make me a missionary.

In fact, I rather hate calling myself a missionary. Some people like it and love including that title in their introductions to strangers.  In my humble opinion, you might as well say “Hi, I am going to convert you.  Want to be my friend?” or imagine an undercover cop who finally reaches the mafia kingpin only to ruin everything by saying “Hi, I’m an undercover cop.  Kill me now.”

I don’t like calling myself a missionary because that makes it weird for everyone else. 

What about the person who wants to make movies but can’t because of a major lack of resources?  What about the girl who has a dream to become a dancer and train under one of the best instructors in Europe, but needs a little communal boost to get there?  What about the dude with a great, game-changing business idea that could really benefit from seed money?  What about you?  Could you use some help right now?

I don’t like calling myself a missionary because somehow that implies that what I am doing and what I want to do is more important and more “sacred” than what you are doing or pursuing.

Well, the truth is that whether you like it or not, you’re a missionary. 

It’s because you have a purpose in life and you have dreams.  You’re supposed to do all that you can to fulfill that very thing on your heart and contribute your version of beauty to this broken world.

You have a mission.

You’re a missionary.

Entonces . . . You should be supported in the ways that I am right now.  You should be validated and affirmed in ways that only a dedicated community of believers (in you) can.  The church missionary budget should allocate some funds to you.  You should have access to a list of supporters who have committed themselves to journey with you on your mission and ensure that you reach your God-given pursuit.

“But aren’t missionaries supposed to evangelize and win souls for Jesus?”

I think Jesus was a better friend than he was an “evangelist”.  That was His mission. “Winning souls” has very little to do with talk and more to do with being the best, most honest version of you intersecting with that person who simply wants to be whole.

“Missionaries are also the ones who are supposed to be compassionate and help people and villages in need. . . “

. . . and so is every one else.  Don’t be dumping the burden (and privilege) of simple care on someone who moves to a different country.

At the end of the day, the term “missionary” is just a label.  Maybe it helps some to carry that label to feel distinguished or focused.  For others, it helps them to give generously since their money is going towards “holy” work.  Still others out there enjoy the fact that they don’t carry such a title since it lets them off the hook.

Well, everything we do is holy and sacred.  Every one of us has a responsibility to our fellow man.  We all have dreams in and for the world.  We’re all “missionaries” because we all have something that we’re supposed to carry out with all our mind, heart, and soul.

Whether you like it or not, you’re a missionary. . . and you need to be supported like one. 

When I was a freshman at the what is widely considered to be the Harvard of the West Coast I checked out this campus organization and got into a rather lengthy conversation with one of the leaders.  He was a cool enough guy and I thought that if I were to return to the group, I’d have a friend who could help me ease into the cliques and feel at home . . . so that I could eventually form my own clique.  You know how that works right?

The following week, I went back and was happy to see my new buddy.  I said, “Hey ——!  What’s up?”

His response: “Oh… hey!  Oh man, what was your name again?”

Me: “I thought we were friends!  We talked for a while last week.  Remember that?  I practically poured out my heart in those 10 minutes.  OK, maybe I didn’t but at least I cared enough to remember your name.  Forget this, I’m outta here, fool!”

I really said that to him.  In my mind.  In any case, I never returned to that group.

I don’t know why it’s such a big deal to me but it drives a stake in my heart whenever a person forgets my name, especially after we have any sort of meaningful conversation or interaction.

Let me be the first to say, however, that I’m not much better myself.  I have introduced myself to people in the past who have politely (and sometimes angrily) informed me that this is the 3rd time I’m meeting them.  Ouch.

There’s this somewhat influential leader that I have met about 5 times (no exaggeration).  Each time he smiles and tells me “nice to meet you, DK.”  Well, obviously it’s not nice enough since it’s about the millionth time we’re meeting, jerk.  (Just kidding. I would never say this.  I would only think it.)  Seriously though, he has no recollection of our meeting, ever.  50 first dates style.  Maybe it’s because all Asian DK’s look the same. 

I’ve been thinking about this lately and I’m sharing this with you now because I realized that a friendship doesn’t really start until you know (and remember) a person’s name.  Why?  It’s because everything and everyone we value has a name.

We choose to remember a person’s name because we see or choose to see value in that person. .  . or sometimes they have a name like Gunther and it’s pretty dang hard to forget.

When was the last time you cared to know the name of a person who had nothing to offer you except their friendship?

I’ll be the first to tell you that I’m a horrible listener.  How horrible you ask?

Well, for starters, I slept my way through college.  One minute I’d be wide awake in lecture, excited that my determination to stay awake is proving to be powerful and effec— whaa??  When did I leave this drool puddle on my desk?  Where did everybody go?  Who’s that teacher up in front?

Story of my life. 

A few years later I married the love of my life.  We lay in bed on certain nights to talk, sharing stories and reviewing our day when all of a sudden, I’m being asked something like, “do you know what I mean?”– only to realize that I have absolutely NO idea what she means.  I missed the last 5 minutes of a heart being poured out and I’m horrified to know that my mind, ears, and body decided to shut it down when they were needed most.  Cue the first in a series of late night talks that end up in dumb fights because I failed to listen.  I suck.

Fast forward a couple more years to the time I got into a conflict with a friend.  Instead of really listening to her (yes, as you can tell, I am an all-star with the ladies) and dealing with the issue, I decided to inform her how simple our current problem was and in so many words, told her to “get over it.”  I didn’t see the need to linger on a problem that had such a “simple” solution.  As a result, our conflict lasted a few months and it wasn’t until about month 8 when our friendship finally started getting back to normal.

The key to this one?  I finally listened.  I listened and I gave validity to a pain that I didn’t understand.  This created the bridge to change and healing.

I think we’d all be more effective as leaders, husbands, wives, parents, friends, teachers, pastors, musicians, and human beings if we chose to listen better instead of being

defensive

preachy

short

simplistic

unreasonable

black and white

Because each person is different and the answers aren’t always what follow questions.

My commitment to journey with my friend in processing through our conflict on her timeline instead of just mine changed everything.  Sure it took a great deal of pride-swallowing and just a bit of sacrifice but I’m glad it happened.

Sometimes you just gotta shut up and do nothing else but listen.  Either that or be better at staying awake and engage with the person who needs your ear.

I don’t have too many words to say except this: Wow.

We should know by now that the way a person looks has very little to do with the talents that they possess.

Even if you don’t believe in God, this has to be one of the few times you feel compelled to believe in a Divine Justice.

Unfortunately, the world does not operate under a perfect justice–

The rich get richer.  The poor get poorer.

Good things happen to evil people.  Horrible things happen to great people.

The Yankees win the World Series.

Heidi Montague and Spencer Pratt have fans.

Etc. Etc.

The story and voice of Sung Bong Choi grab me because I am seeing someone who is walking proof that Grace exists.  Yes, he has lived an unbelievably heart-wrenching life up to this point, but he has also been given a gift from the Hand of God Himself.

And he is making sure he doesn’t waste it.  This Grace is meant to be shared.

Keep singing, Sung Bong Choi.  You are obviously loved and you deserve every bit of the Divine Justice bestowed upon you.

What intrigues you about his story and voice? 

Every weekday morning, I take my 2 year-old son, Micah, to school.  School has been the place where Micah could satisfy his growing social needs while mommy and daddy get some quiet time for a few hours each day.  It’s a win-win situation in every sense.

There is a definite routine to our morning trek.  We eat breakfast, get dressed, kiss mommy and baby Isla goodbye and head downstairs with the umbrella stroller in my left hand and Micah rested on my right arm.  Once downstairs, we say “buenos dias” and “hasta luego” to our building manager, Juan, and then I strap Micah in the stroller… and away we go!

We then say “hola, buenos dias” to about a dozen people on our way to school.  There’s Mari, the street-parking guide along with her husband.  There’s Gabriel, Juan, and another friend who sells helium-filled balloons.  There’s the 3-4 valet parking attendants at the restaurant across the street.  Goyo is the guy who sells “super tortas” in front of the bank and then the rest are random people who take notice of Micah in the stroller and flash a friendly smile on their brisk walk to work.

It takes about 20 minutes to walk to school.  I say a few more “hola, buenos dias”s to the teachers and receptionists at the school, kiss Micah, tell him I love him and let the teachers whisk him away.

Now when I pick Micah up from school, the routine is repeated but in reverse.  However, this time, there is an old couple on the street who I presume to be of indigenous origin by the language that they speak.  It’s difficult for me to give money to the poor when I see them on the same exact part of the street during very particular hours, only to not see them there on holidays and off-hours.  It seems a little “iffy” but maybe that’s just me.

In any case, I got tired (or guilty, perhaps?) of ignoring them so one day I decided I would have Micah hand them some money from the stroller.  The purpose of this was three-fold: 1) a few measly pesos from a child seems to be a more acceptable offering than from a grown man, 2) it’s the cute thing to do, and 3) life lessons at the age of 2 seems about right.  The lady with the cup appreciated our small offering, we all shared a smile and proceeded home.  I then affirmed Micah in his willingness to share and told him that this is what we’re supposed to do when we see people in need. 

The next day, the indigenous couple was in the same spot.  Using my “this is iffy” logic, I decided to give them a smile (nothing more) and go our merry way toward home. Besides, we already gave them money– this can’t be a daily thing, can it?  As soon as I passed them, my son yells out, “money, daddy!  money!”  I stopped the stroller, stooped to his level and asked him, “what do you mean son?  You think we should give them money?”  He says, “yeah.” 

I pulled out my wallet, handed him a few pesos and backed up the stroller so that he could deposit the small gift into the lady’s cup again.  Their gratitude was once again, very evident. We smiled and headed home.

The next day, the same thing.  It’s become very clear that my 2-year-old son is not going to let me just walk by these people who clearly have a need.  What I considered a one-time lesson has now become a daily practice.  Even if the teacher doesn’t practice what he preaches on a daily basis, the pupil will not let the opportunities pass.  Touche, my son, touche.

My dream for my children would be that they would be the Best Versions of Us x 1000.  That’s high-level math right there.

It’s no cliche to say that our children often teach us.  They are capable of showing us a way of life that is beautiful, generous, loving, and filled with wonder.

One day, our family will make our way back to the suburbs where the streets are swept daily and the vagabonds are met more on TV than in real life.  For now, I am grateful that we live in the City where the tension to give and serve is propelled with a daily opportunity.  It’s uncomfortable, it’s trying, and it is a test of what we really believe and practice. 

I’m thankful that at age 2, Micah gets it.  It’s not rocket science, it’s not a judgment call, it’s not a curriculum you study for weeks with a small group; it is a here and now.  “Money, Daddy!  Money!”  You have money, they don’t.  It’s simple, isn’t it?  Drop it in their cup and love them in simple, real ways… Duh!

Thanks, buddy.  You put your daddy to shame but you also make me unbelievably proud. 

How ’bout that?  My 2 year-old advocate for the poor, folks.

Y’all better get your life in order because according to this 89 year-old prophet, Doomsday is (once again) upon us!  In fact, it’s happening TOMORROW, May 21, 2011.

What does this mean?  It means that in case you’re left behind, you’re gonna need a pretty hefty contingency plan to hold you over until you can join the rest of us in heaven, the hard way.  (Spoiler alert: a guillotine may be involved here but trust me, it’s better than the other eternal option.)

Because I am a loving, compassionate and helpful person, I thought I’d leave a basic survivors guide for those of you who missed the initial wave of beam-ups.  <hit the chorus of “Rocketeer” by Far East Movement here>

Here’s what you need to know.  Follow these instructions carefully and you’ll be alright:

1.  Say No to the Tattoo

There’s gonna be this world-wide campaign to centralize and distribute resources like food, gas, and water.  It’s going to sound a lot like communism except the way Oprah explains it to you on her new Global Television Network will make it seem like it’s actually going to work.  Everyone in her studio audience (as well as the entire world) will receive a special bar-code tattoo and will begin to receive everything for free!  How can this be a bad thing, you ask?  Trust me on this one.  Say no to the tattoo.  If you want a second chance at heaven, say no to the tattoo and follow the rest of my instructions.

2.  You Will Eventually Need a Hiding Place

The officials who come knocking on your door daily to offer you the barcode tattoo will one day stop being so nice and you will eventually realize that you don’t have a choice.  Before it gets to that point, find a good hiding spot that will shield you from the onslaught of destruction as well as provide you with daily nutrients and entertainment.  The only such place that exists on earth is Costco. 

First of all, every single Costco is built like an above-ground bomb shelter.  You will be safe from any and all missile and grenade attacks, especially if you’re able to locate where Bruno Mars plans to finally make good on his promise to his ungrateful girlfriend.  Secondly and most importantly, you will have all the food you will ever need at your finger tips.  During normal business hours, hit up the free samples to hold you over until it’s closing time.  When the staff starts wrapping things up, climb into one of those tree-house/swing-set things that they have constructed on display and wait till the lights are out.  Once everyone is gone, you can use the grills to cook up the endless slabs of meat (I recommend the tri-tip), you can play some X-Box Kinect on the latest Samsung 3D LCD, and you have all the Kirkland bathroom tissue you will ever need.  You are set.  For a little while.  You’re going to need to find some people . . .

3.  Find a Member of the “Remnant” (or whatever they will call themselves)

You might need to go on Twitter and search #POTSC to find out who was intentionally left on earth by God to help people find their way to heaven, second-chance style.  These people will help you navigate your way to the promised land, even as the world around you is crashing and free food is being distributed like a never-ending Karl Marx tribute.  They will explain to you why you were left behind, why the bar code tattoo needs to be avoided, what you need to do to join the rest of us, and why there are still Televangelists on TV every late-night.

4.  Get Ready to Die

This is the part I warned you about but if you follow through to the end, you’ll be able to party like it’s 1999 in year 0001, and year 0001 in 1999.  It’s gonna be awesome.

For a little while after the rapture, everything’s gonna seem cool and there will be parties and rumors of world-wide peace.  Whatever Steve Jobs tells you at this time, however, will only be short-lasting and a little deceptive.  The period where it gets crazy and violent will be the true test.  You can endure this time of “trials and tribulations” and do whatever it takes by hopping from Costco to Costco but eventually, the barcode tattoo artists are going to find you.  It’s gonna get pretty intense and they’re gonna be like, “Dude, it’s either the tattoo or your head, man.”

You’re gonna say “that’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?  Just take a finger and let’s call it even.”

To which they’ll say, “shut-up, man.  What will it be?”

At that point, you look them in the eye and say, “this world has nothing for me, homies.  Take my head.”

Now, that’s gangsta.  And that’s how you survive life during and after the rapture.

What other survival tips can you think of? 

As she sleeps, sleeps, sleeps, eats, sleeps, sleeps, poos, sleeps, pees, sleeps, sleeps, eats, and sleeps… one phrase keeps surfacing out of my mouth over and over again.

She’s amazing. 

Amazing.

Amazing?!

How can anything that does just about nothing be considered amazing?

I don’t know.  This is the mystery and beauty of a new life.  Something within me is stirred to a place of wonder, awe, gratitude, peace, giddyness, and joy —

All from staring at a newborn who’s only job description right now is to simply be. 

Maybe this is just a little bit too simplistic (or too profound?!) but I think that’s a task in life I need to embrace every once in a while: to just be.

When I am who I am (or as Popeye would say, I Yam What I Yam), I think the universe rejoices.

It’s good to know that even on our days (or seasons) of doing seemingly nothing but eat, sleep, and s—, our mere existence has brought a smile to someone’s face– whether it be our parents, lovers, or God.

I think I know a little more of what it means when I hear that a Father rejoices over me, sings over me, and loves me just as I am.  I suppose it takes one to know one.

How is it that such little things can point us to such great truth and beauty?

But maybe you’re like me now and you’re wondering, wait a minute…why is this really good news? 

Because the person we say was responsible for the death of thousands on September 11, 2001 is now dead and somehow this makes everything better? 

Through his death, will the thousands of lives lost on that horrible day be restored?  Easter resurrection style?

Will the lives of the families who lost loved ones be that much better now?

Is this somehow the end of terrorism?

Is the ever-expanding, ever-autonomous Al Qaeda network suddenly going to call it quits now that their fearless leader is gone?

If the answer to all the questions above are “Yes,” then maybe it is time to celebrate.

Unfortunately, I can confidently say that all the answers to the questions are “No.” 

As long as this is the case, I don’t know what all this celebration is about. . .

. . . Especially when so many of us talk about and value love, grace, forgiveness, peace, and compassion. 

Yes, he did unspeakably wicked things and he needed to be captured and brought to justice.

But at the end of the day, we are celebrating a murder.  And it’s just a little unsettling to me.

So, why are you celebrating?  Help me understand, will ya?