I felt since then this weird pull between two worlds. I grew up raised within Polish culture. It was only when I started digging that I was ever told anything other than that, and then came the facts to back it up.

When I moved to a large city in 2020, in the height of the pandemic, I was identified differently. I had white grandmas in the park asking me if I was “oriental or canadian” as if that was an acceptable question. Asian Uber drivers would ask me where I was from. When I said Europe they would laugh right at me. “No you’re not.” And proceed to guess which country I was really from. I was bowed to in dollerama when people excused themselves to walk past me. When I went to Asian markets, the cashiers spoke to me in their native tongue. When I took photos with friends of Asian descent, they would criticize my eyes. “Your eyes are smaller than mine! And I’m Chinese. Open your eyes more. Make them bigger.” They chastised and questioned me. And when I started working in health care, patients happily spoke to me in their native tongue, Tagalog, or Mandarin. When I couldn’t speak the language, they’d curiously asked my colleagues if I was half.

I found the reason for this shift was not that I suddenly looked different when I moved. It wasn’t that my looks changed. But I moved from a town of 2000 people to a city of millions. And some people saw themselves in me. Only for me to find out I am Asian in the most dizzying way. Historic Palestine, South India, Türkiye, Iran, and Siberia... places I have never been but there are pieces of them in me.

And now I grapple. I grapple with being these things all my life, but never knowing. I grapple with the words from strangers and friends alike. I feel the innate need to send the receipts. “See? This is the ticket. Do I have a seat here? At the table?” And when I’m met by crickets, I build my own table at the intersection where “Asian” and “not Asian enough” meet. Because of the erasure, because of the violence that came with being these things in Europe, my family moved to North America to be a homogenous blanket. Changed their surnames. Let go of history. But it didn’t just erase culture, it erased identity. Ancestors who were knit intimately into a story that was not one dimensional, against safety’s greatest fears.

So I am here. In a place where people will say “just because you have DNA from those places doesn’t make you those things.” And I raise you a “my family fled from systemic violence and cultural erasure so our bloodline could continue, and I refuse to pretend they did not exist and are not part of me. I am those things, and I will not pretend otherwise for anyone.”

i’m in charge of the lyrics for worship and messed it up because in practice one slide was skipped so I thought we were skipping that one irl service as well but we didn’t. so I quickly flipped forward and then had to go back.

I haven’t messed up in a while I guess because as soon as it happened I started to cry. I felt the weight of it. this is a time when people are fixed on Abba, just being with him and singing to him and there I was. ruining it.

of course I asked some people after service. and they say they didn’t notice. I believe them but I do think there were people who did notice.

I was so anxious before the service started because I knew that I didn’t understand. so I went to the worship leader and asked him and he said we’re doing one thing twice before the interlude and I was like “what’s an interlude?” but I told him i’ll figure it out.

thankfully that was the only time I messed up. but I think I forgot how personally I take my job. and it turns out some of my friends were watching me. and they’re like “you look so serious,” and I said “I take things too seriously.” to which they said “it’s good to take this seriously, you should.”

after service my friend asked if she could drive me home because she wanted to ditch the regular post church dinner. I said okay and then we got in her car and she said “let’s go to home sense!” so we went to home sense and marshall’s and a grocery store. I felt better by the end.

in my birthday card this year he signed his first name (never previously).

but Peter, after abandoning him not once like satan used Judas to do, but THREE times, returned to our Lamb and hashed things out. he didn’t even get any money out of his denial of devotion. he did it for free. and not just once, but repeatedly. not in secret, like the quiet exchange of cash, but in public. he didn’t gain anything material from denying him, like Judas did. and yet, when he returned, Jesus re-commissioned Peter.

these two had drastically different relationships with Jesus — Judas had proximity. Peter had intimate friendship. so even when sin worked in him, Peter knew that couldn’t separate him from the love of Jesus.

whether we have proximity or true connection with Christ is paramount. it makes the difference between abundant life and senseless spiritual death. if we place our thoughts above God’s word, we’ll fashion our own solution, like Judas. but like Peter, when we have relationship and not just proximity to Jesus, we can run to him instead of the opposite way. trusting God and his Word above our own thoughts and ideas that change with the wind. imagine if Peter thought Jesus would cast him away, and never went to see him again? imagine if he took his denial in his own hands like Judas?

they have me on symbicort and ventolin around the clock. the ventolin doesn’t even completely take away the wheezing. crazy.