The plantar fasciitis is still there, and not being able to run has been frustrating to say the least, but I’ve been enjoying bike rides and swims. Summer is in the air, and a part of me is stretching and yawning and settling in to it. One of my favorite feelings is being at home with friends on a warm evening with the windows open, full after a shared meal, listening to a George Strait song and chatting about whatever. Those nights I go to bed and think to myself, I’m happy. God is good. I have been given much.

I thought the same thing about my family… we Skyped for a bit last week and I wonder why I’m not more in touch with them more often when there’s clearly a lot of love between us. I have been given much. And this is kind of awkward because they all read this blog (hi Mom!).

Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy, said the psalmist, from autumn to winter to spring to summer.

An afternoon at Bernal Heights, SF.

He looks into me with soft eyes, and sings in Mandarin: "Look into His face / and your worries will disappear with the light of the sun".

He's not bad for his age. Apparently he sings in the elderly folks' choir at his church. "He's the only one who can sing!" laughs my dad.

We're sitting in a hotel restaurant, filled to the brim with Christmastime muzak and chatty customers. I feel the restaurant growing quieter as he continues to sing, a throaty baritone voice growing more confident as I grow more self-conscious at the same time.

My yie yie (爺爺)'s eyes are becoming dimmer with the years, I can see, hiding under bushy, busy white eyebrows and thick, leathery suntanned skin. Coming over with the KMT from the mainland was tough on him. My dad would tell me of Yie yie's extended military deployments in Vietnam, Korea, and Japan. His past is a storied and shrouded one, working for Chinese intelligence doing radio surveillance. After splitting with his unit during the upheavals of the Revolution, he came to Taiwan to work again for KMT intelligence, eavesdropping on the very same people he used to work with.

"Japan was especially nice", Yie yie recounts with a smile. He was stationed with US troops on a military base, and he tells us stories of watching a movie every night, eating great food. He is a young man, still. He keeps a journal of each movie he sees, and the journal grows thick over the year. A mischievous smile grows over Yie yie's face as he recounts how he'd smuggle hard-boiled eggs from the cafeteria in his pants pockets, only to spill them all over the basketball court in a pickup game hours later.

How old is he in those years?, I wonder. He couldn't have been much older than I am now. Does he enjoy Coke? How about mangoes? I imagine him writing his wife, asking about my father as a young boy. The world is a different place. He tells a story of losing close friends in a Vietcong mortar attack in Vietnam, and his eyes grow misty. Smoke rises from the jungles, and I wonder if he ever wonders why he, and by extension my father and myself, are spared.

My dad would never get to see his dad much during those years, and when he came back, most of his memories of Yie yie were of an ill-tempered man he'd tend to hide from. But something happened in the intervening years after Yie yie came home for good. He softened out. Jesus got to him.

I wanted to come here to find myself in Yie yie and his life. I want to know his strength and determination to live, and realize that there is much more beneath the surface of the man that I've only seen sitting down, smiling and laughing. What keeps a man rooted even when he is swept about?

Right now, Yie yie's singing Psalm 23. "Can you remember the words?" my dad asks as Yie yie struggles through the verses. The Lord is my shepherd. He leads me through quiet waters. I fear no evil.

He can remember them just fine.

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Driving back home over the Bay Bridge. Crazy light.

Now that the race is over with, I’m left feeling surprisingly empty. I guess it shouldn’t have been a surprise, all those mornings spent on trails were easy ways to feel productive, or to grab a endorphin rush and start the day right. I wake up too early now and crawl onto my knees in bed and just kind of slouch there under the covers, shaking off the fog of sleep, half-waking-half-dreaming-half-wishing I were somewhere else.

I missed Boston by 17 seconds, and I try not to let the significance of the fact get by me. I tell myself it’s okay to feel disappointed, to prevent myself from saying oh, it’s no big deal, next year. I’m trying to accept that I am disappointed.

I am disappointed, I am disappointed. I have to tell myself this sometimes, from the outside looking in, and bear the weight of it on my shoulders through my heart. Like: the angry plantar fasciitis. The soggy shoes and fumbly umbrella. Cooking a crappy soup. My inability to make sense of my love life. A week of rain. Not even liking, much less loving Oakland.

This I’m learning: laughter is my cover and cloak. Having the right answers is my defense.

I tried to describe to Jeff this morning how it felt, and I was surprised I couldn’t figure it out. Well, it was a sorta lonely feeling. I’ll start from there. I realized in the shower the other morning that I hated waiting. Recently I’ve been trying to distract myself. I know it’s not helpful, but I’d much rather be with the noise, the shiny stuff, the city din, the glitterati.

Henri Nouwen talks about allowing loneliness to drive you to the seat of your true desire: being close to the Father. Father, I wonder sometimes what the hell I am doing with my life. I want to know I want to know I want to know. When I was younger I used to pray: Jesus, be my only satisfaction with total abandonment. It sounds completely ridiculous, but I honestly didn’t expect to be here being asked of that now. I want human hands, I want tangible touch, I want a genuine experience, and soul-connection and laughter and tears.

It’s selfish, Jesus, but on the other hand it’s not. I just want to believe it is from you, and I can experience it, and I can wait and say you met me on the other side. Can I ask that? Dare I ask that? I don’t want trite answers. I want to sit in the seat of the valleys and remain there and say I waited patiently and he came, he really did.

Jonathan mentioned that at our home group the other week. What do you want, I asked him. I want to hear him say he’s proud of me, he answered, and I thought it the most genuine thing I’ve heard in a while.

On a beautiful afternoon in Dolores Park.

On the flip side it’s been breathtaking getting out and realizing that I’ve been taking nature for granted. It’s a gift to have your mind wander. It’s a gift to roam over mossy earth. I ran out over the Oakland hills this morning to see a blanket of clouds glowing through the sunlight and pouring out over the hills into the Bay. I both wished I had my camera with me and was glad I didn’t.