one true sentence

the doorstep.

2012-01-20T09:01:00.000-08:00

Winding, narrow and steep, my car crawled up the mountainous hill to reach my destination. Looking down at my clock, I sighed a sigh of relief. 5 minutes still. Not so bad, I thought to myself. Parking against the curb, I tilted my wheels away as I pictured my beat up, tarnished purple looking Honda roll madly down the unforgiving incline...exploding in some uncontrollable catastrophe as it always does in the movies.

Killing my 5 minutes, I sat in the car, peering out my window at this little old man sitting on his front doorstep. Not doing anything, not saying anything, not even apparently looking at anything. He sat in silence-- staring blankly & patiently as if time stood still. Waiting. Sitting. Thinking perhaps.

Minutes passed. I struggled with the idea of such solitude in the heart of the way we do life here in LA. There's no time for this kind of thing! What was he doing? Why was he wasting so much time? Why was he just sitting there?

Before I could take it anymore, a little old woman stepped out of the front door and plopped down next to him on the doorstep. Looking into his eyes as he reached for her hand, they shared a silent moment of mutual understanding, depth, & resonance. And there, on the doorstep, in that Saturday noontime sun, they peacefully bowed their heads. Snuggling up their wrinkly old bodies on the middle of their front doorstep, they prayed.

Without the slightest hesitation or awkwardness.

As if for no one to see.

Or for everyone to see.

Or for little 24 year old creeper girls to see....

As awkward as it might have seemed, those 5 minutes were worth the world to me. In 5 minutes, I was reminded that my oh-so-important & busy schedule is often laced with superficiality and desultory chaos. May I never forget the foundation that holds my marriage together. May I never forget the power of just sitting there.

israel.

2011-07-17T19:40:00.000-07:00

Let thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.

Prone to wander, Lord I feel it.

Prone to leave the God I love.

Here's my heart, O take and seal it.
Seal it for thy courts above.

(removed):

The dearest idol, I have known,
whatever that idol may be.
Help me tear it from thy throne
So shall my walk be close with Thee.

How I wish my faith could be this constant progression towards pure holiness, as so many believe and preach. How I wish I could progressively embody perfection more and more as the wise teacher told me in High School.

On the contrary, over and over my story seems to be that of:

The Lost Sheep.

The Prodigal Son.

The Nation of Israel.

I feel it.

And yet, as I despise my unfaithfulness to my Father, I feel His pursuit even more. Over and over again, I feel Him bringing me to His side, in that scandalous, determined, outrageous outpouring of truth. Like an explosive torrent His Hand continues to chase me, declaring the ever-present weakness of my avoidance.With richness, beauty, and kindness, I find myself once again falling to my knees without restraint.

Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God,
He to rescue me from danger,
Interposed his precious blood.
How his kindness yet pursues me
Mortal tongue can never tell
Clothed in flesh till death shall loose me,
I cannot proclaim it well.

Subway Banshee Love

2011-06-22T13:08:00.000-07:00

On the train today there was this little old man screaming like a banshee and this little old lady comforting him. It was so irritating most of the people got off and switched cars. As irritating as it was, it made me think how I want to keep on loving you, until you are so old and annoying that everyone else might leave your irritating presence...

until you have no hair on your head and no more leg muscles and fall off your old man bicycle,
until you are all wrinkly and screamy like a crazy banshee on the subway.

And it makes me think how on that day, yes, I know on that day...

I'll love you even more

Taking Flight.

2011-04-07T20:39:00.000-07:00

Tearing through the mix of soft green blades, towering dandelions, and those little white flowers that all the grown ups always said were "just weeds," I ripped through the bellowing wind. With fierceness I pulled and yanked, all the while stumbling over the bumps and rolls that made up our fantastic runway. The little string that ran through my fingertips was like this electric current connecting me to a glorious, untouched, sublime piece of heaven.

Faster. Faster. Faster.

My dad at the other end, the kite stumbling along the bumpy field, me desperately trying to look up in spite of my frantic speed -- any moment now, any moment now, gravity would surrender itself to our intense efforts. I could feel it.

Faster. Faster. Faster.

"Look, Sarah!" My Dad cried out. "Sarie, Look up!" and as I whirled around I felt that familiar, exhilarating pull that told me we had taken off. Soaring, Gliding, Touching Heaven for sure now -- we had taken flight. And in that moment, I was certain of one thing: me and Dad, even if it was just in that moment, we had taken over the world.

Anyway.

2010-10-11T15:25:00.001-07:00

When I was a little girl, one of the first books I ever read was called, "The world is so big and I am so small." It was about this little bunny going through his daily activities realizing how the world around him was massive in comparison to himself. I remember always feeling like this book was written just for me, the freakishly small 5 year old that I was.

Even now, some 18 years later, I feel like not much has changed. I go through this constant reoccurring season of smallness, even more so now as I age. Overwhelmed by the injustices of the world, I am left bewildered, broken, even paralyzed by my own seemingly meager attempts to make a difference.

Recently, I had the chance to ask a handful of older, wiser, more experienced activists for advice on this issue. I got a variety of answers, but in all of them was that split second hesitation when they broke character. In that split second, I saw the pain in their eyes that told me they knew that "small feeling" all too well. Finally lamenting to a personal justice hero of mine, I gushed emotions of smallness -- of being a tiny little drop of good in an ocean of injustice -- only to get nothing more than a "yup" in response.

My Maker though, He always says the same thing. He never promises answers, clarity, or even a detailed plan of action. He simply replies, without fail: it is not your job to figure out why. It is your job to act. to love. to show compassion anyway.

Today, I was reminded of this.

People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self centered. Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives. Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies. Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you. Be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building, others could destroy overnight. Build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous. Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, will often be forgotten tomorrow. Do good anyway.

Give the best you have, and it may never be enough. Give the best you've got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway.

-Mother Theresa

Rain

2010-08-15T09:00:00.001-07:00

Every now and then I start a much loved, much hated long run only to be met by this never invited, but ever unavoidable friend at the sixth mile out. The thing about the sixth mile out is that it is the point of no return. At mile six, one thing is certain: you are six miles from your starting point. You must must must, by default, go another six more. And of course, this is when my unexpected, inescapable friend always shows up, promising me another six lovely miles of his most lovely, unwanted escort.

And as I stare up at those dark menacing clouds, I know I have no other choice but to roll with the punches. I dig deep -- the richness of the raindrops rolling from my nose, fingertips, ears, legs. My socks going squish squish squish as I jostle through the quickly appearing puddles. Driving by in their metal coffins, people openly and awkwardly gawk at me like I’m an alien or a freakshow or something.

But it’s unavoidable.

You are met with downpour on the sixth mile of the run.

You are met with a choking wave when you gasp for oxygen on the swim.

You are met with another curving incline when you’re desperate for just a taste of downhill on the bike

It always seems to be about those kicks in the face, those flat tires, those stomach cramps and bleeding blisters. And the rain. But if I have learned anything from my hours and hours of training, I’ve learned that these exasperating rivals are never the obstacles; they are the purest essence. The extreme suffering we face on mile 3, 10, 15, 40 -- that physical agony that leaves us dizzy, choking for breath, and desperately asking ourselves why God, why would we would ever pick this kind of personal torture as our hobby…

That suffering is the essence of why I Run. Ride. Glide.

Fly.

That is the moment I train for.

[my outdoor shower]

2010-08-13T23:01:00.000-07:00

Swirling around my little wide-eyed and bushy tailed self, I seemed to be surrounded by nothing more than utterly important chaos. I felt like the invisible center of bustling designer jeans, shopping bags, little dogs and strange looks behind massive sunglasses. And here I am, drowning in this ocean of artificial importance. My only thought is how much I wish I could grab people and shove a shot of bacardi or nyquil or kava or anything down their throat to make me less stressed out being around them. I just can't help but come face to face with the all too American, all too ugly, all too common truth that we all possess: the simple life always seems to linger just at the edge of our fingertips. Or perhaps miles and miles and miles away from our fingertips...

But the reality of the situation is….I miss my outdoor shower.

I miss

Bringing scary Asian vegetables home from Bachan’s garden

Seeing really happy people carry really dead things in the backs of their trucks

Little old people fishing for mangoes in their trees

Biking around town instead of driving

Beautifully and eloquently expressing myself in Pidgen

That more than one person = potluck

Seeing little girls practice hula in the middle of the grocery store aisle

Feeling like I fit in when I drive a beater and wear slippers to work

Getting excited for Costco like it’s freaking Disneyland

Sunset runs along the shore, jungle, mountain, lighthouse

Not having to be busy 24-7 and still feeling important

Having more family than I’ve ever had without being by a single blood relative

Being defined by how I live and not what I have achieved

We may have been poor. With our shared beaten car, last season clothes, $5 thrift store furniture, beach showers, food that was gathered, fished, and shared, chess instead of TV, bike rides and ocean swims for entertainment...

but oh, our life was truly, richly, madly deeply

beautiful.

blue.

2010-01-23T19:17:00.000-08:00

Tearing from the smoky haze, I watched the night sky explode in brilliant blue.

Snap! Crash! Boom!

Thunder bellowed under my feet as I found myself the center of a swirl of brown paper snow. Wondering how our neighbors shot off such big fireworks without a mortar, I fastened my face mask to help filter out the sulfur and smoke. There was just something about New Years on the Islands that seemed so unreal -- like some sort of beautifully illustrated children's book I read when I was a little girl.

"You have one good move inside," my mother-in-law leaned over to tell me as we watched the chaotic celebration in the sky. "Plenty jumps ya?" While I was grateful for the tip, I must admit I was a bit taken aback. Chinese Checkers is, after all, one of the most cutthroat of all the Ono sister traditions.

There is much I am learning as I attempt to figure out this thing called marriage. And trust me, there is much I have to learn. The extreme differences between my husband and me are easily recognizable from even a stranger's first glance. In these differences though, I am overwhelmed by immense outpourings of blessings that my eyes have been blind to as I remained in the comfort zone of my own background and culture. My marriage has, without a doubt, opened the door for me to enter a whole new world of beauty, richness, and aloha.

Sail Sail Sail away,
we went into the deep of Kaneohe Bay.
Looking down at a busy city --
I see countless fish, turtles, and creatures of mystery.

Traveling across the mountain to town,
the sweet island wind and waterfalls surround.
In China town, like bees we bargain and rush
to bring home fresh fish, spices, and flowers so lush.

Nighttime we swirl in the kitchen to prepare,
Sashimi, tako, and plenty local kine food to share.
I powdered my hands like the sisters showed me how,
and stretched the mochi to be prefect and round.

Basking under the brilliant sun,
I smile to watch my boy and the ocean as one.
With respect and courage, he dances and flies
With the violent waves 3 times his size.

Try this out and then some of that,
I'm not sure of it all, but I just don't hold back.
There is freedom and adventure as I explore my husband's roots --
This beautiful world that lingers beyond old passions and pursuits.
A rich cultural infusion of aloha and grace,
A once perceived obstacle has become my sweet embrace.

May I never forget the beauty diversity awakes
And the fullness our histories together create
For all these things are what have made you to be
the boy of all boys and the hero of my story.

The Ninth Mile.

2009-08-30T17:23:00.000-07:00

Gasping for breath, my lungs feel as if they are about to explode. The air seems to be thinning as I wince from the pain in my right shoulder. I just can't seem to get enough oxygen. My whole body aches as I drag and shuffle like an 80 year old grandma that just won't throw in the towel. It's the ninth mile and I'm sure any moment now...

Any moment now my legs will buckle from the weight of my body, the weakness of my flesh once again claiming victory over my all-too-overrated willpower.

Suddenly I lose sight of my pain as something far far greater commands my attention. I strain for balance as the wind rips through my baggy T-shirt, slapping the backs of my legs, and streaming my hair across my face. Chills run down my spine as I watch the violent gusts of wind threaten to rip the palm trees from their roots. The once bright and vibrant sky turns black.

gray.
stormy.
menacing.

For some reason, I am afraid. There was something fierce, something wild, something passionate in the air. Aslan was here.

The Lord is like a lion, they say. "Safe? Who said anything about safe? Course He isn't safe. But He's good." And in His violent expression of glory through the storm, the wind, the rain that now beat down on my dragging, limp body, I feel the greatness of my Yahweh. And here am I, simply a speck in this overwhelming glory, utterly defeated by a modest stretch of broken path. I feel like Moses at the burning bush, Peter at the transfiguration, Paul on the road to Damascus.

There's a song playing over and over in the back of my mind. You know when you get one random song, seemingly out of thin air, that lingers forever in your subconscious? What song is that? What song is that? What song is that? My eyes well with tears as I finally stop dead in my tracks. In the mud. In the rain. In the storm. In the violent wind that makes me feel so small.

"He knows my name"

[driving home]

2009-03-12T03:47:00.000-07:00

You would think that two and a half months of listening to the clickety clack sound in the place of what was once a radio would make my drives much less enjoyable. My eyes meet the wirey fingers that reach out from the once very much loved, very much used CD player, Rest in pEace. Despite the fact that the steering wheel is worn and rough under my fingertips, despite the fact that three of the four windows have to be propped up with blocks of wood, despite the fact that the passenger occasionally has to climb over the knobby stick shift to get out of the car from the driver’s side --despite the clickety clack clack sound that it makes when I slow down at the stop sign, our car is pimp. Driving my hourly drive home on the tiny country road that is the freeway, my mind wanders through my day, my night, and always tomorrow. The drives home always bring out my best and worst, my truest of true self: I have no one to impress, nothing to or not to say, nothing to give and nothing to hold back. I wonder if it is dark enough for the cockroaches to come out from under the carpet. Funny how that should bother me more I think as I slow down to the one stoplight in Hanapepe. Clickety clack clickety clack clack clack. I put the car in neutral and wait under the glowing red stream that seems to be the only light in the sky. My thoughts switch to years past. I remember how much fun I had in the car before they broke into it and stole the music. Now,

Silence.

Just silence except the occasional clickety clack clickety clack clickety clack clack clack. In the darkness and in the silence though, my drive home is so precious. There is something inside of me that gets sad when the car pulls up on the front lawn, brushing against the palm tree that serves as my parking marker. The destination becomes the end, but the process becomes the prize. Funny how things always seem to work that way. I smile as I shut the car door and fumble through my keys. Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow, I will have another drive home.

one candle.

2009-02-10T14:36:00.000-08:00

Running through the narrow streets, I skipped and danced as I attempted to find even pavement in the midst of rubble, red dirt, and stones. The sun was setting in that magical way it always does -- just above the lush hills and mountains that rest on the brilliant blue ocean. Although the buildings look run down and tattered, there is something comforting about the way they frame the streets, with the chickens and wild cats running around in between the scattered junk. The tropical forestry and trees in the middle of the “city,” the beach running along the main road, the vibrancy of all life and colors -- it all gives me that feeling like I’m in Neverland. People smile and wave at me as I run by in the way that they do in those TV shows from the fifties. It is as if the beauty of this place is merely the radiance of the people and culture that lies as its foundation.

"Heaven’s gate"

Kauai is called. I finally understand why.
It will be most difficult to leave this place, I think with a sigh. There is truly nothing like it.

In spite of it all, there is something that is missing. In the midst of the beauty and the glorious depiction of the matchlessness of our Creator, I find that a part of me is s o e m p t y . There is something, somewhere that should come alive, that should be thriving, that gives me purpose and drive and fulfillment. Yes, in L.A. dirty, nasty, broken, cracked-out LA,
I find life.
In the midst of the beauty, I can’t help but wonder, who are the orphans and widows of this place? Where is the brokenness that was so evident in the hurting city that I left? There is something about the discomfort and the angst that gave me peace. There is something about being in the heart of brokenness that gives me life. There is something…I think I have heard it said, “I have but one candle of life to burn and I would rather burn it out in a land filled with darkness than in a land flooded with light” Seattle is home. Portland is always fun. New York is amazing in its own unmatchable way. Kauai and Oahu are brilliantly beautiful. But there is just something about LA….I can’t quite put my finger on it. Yes. sigh. my heart will always be in LA.

shaking it.

2008-12-09T13:51:00.000-08:00

So we can network. We can raise awareness. We can mobilize. We can even change legislation. However, when such an issue is so intricately interwoven into nearly every aspect of a culture,

where is our strategy? We can have a brothel raid, but what is the point if even the enslaved have accepted it as a

cultural norm

societal standard

economic necessity

religious duty

How do we change the way a family views honor? A devoted Buddhist views penance? A brainwashed slave views not just reality, but comfort, protection, and belonging? How do we, with our moral obligation not just as Americans, not just as Christians, but as members of the human race, declare war on such atrocity without assuming the stereotype of the white man's burden? It takes more than counseling. It takes more than a brothel raid. It takes more than setting up small businesses. It takes more than legislation.

How can I address the culturally sensitive... me, coming from only one distinct culture with not the best reputation of meddling in the affairs of other cultures....saying that true evil runs rampant here and must not be shrugged off in the mere name of cultural relativism?

It just all seems too complex. And once again, I am left with a feeling of insignificance. I am fighting, but with no idea even as to whether or not a solution is possible. Nevertheless, the awareness of evil overwhelms my doubt of a solution,

And I fight still more.

a little taste of home

2008-08-05T23:37:00.000-07:00

Sitting at the nearest Starbucks to my empty home -- or the temporary substitute that I call home -- I attempt to find a familiar feeling that will ease my nagging homesickness. Pulling my seat up the famous circle table, I smile down at my turkey and swiss on wheat bread. The little white plates always make it look so much better. I open up to Philip Yancey's "What's So Amazing About Grace," pressing down the pages to make them stick in that way we always do.

Drip Drip. Drip Drip. Drip Drip.

Two buckets are strategically placed in the center of the coffee shop to catch the leaks in the ceiling. Scoping out my fellow coffee mates, I see a most interesting array of persons -- the man behind me, talking loudly and casually to himself as he stares down at his computer. the man in front of me, with one of those long greasy ponytails giggling to himself as he stares intently into the space in front of him. The woman to my right studying rather...interesting positions in a magazine. I see the most extravagant combovers and sweat bands. I hear the most intricate sci-fi talk and untraditional Starbucks music. I feel the most steady and directed waves of the AC, blowing my bangs into my eyes. A bobby pin would have been nice.

Drip Drip Drip Drip. Drip Drip Drip Drip.

The sound of the water changes to 4/4 time, testifying the weakness of the ceiling in at least 3 more places. More buckets are placed around my table, causing the room to look more like an obstacle course than a coffee shop. As I glance up again from my book, I meet the eyes of a plump man in a blue rugby striped polo shirt to my right. Staring.

Drip Drip Drip Drip Drip. Drip Drip Drip Drip Drip. Drip Drip Drip Drip Drip.

In spite of it all, the sandwich is delicious. In spite of it all, the strange company is better than the empty, temporary residence I call home. Eventually, between the dripity drip sounds, the frigid cold, and deliciousness of the sandwich, I find the feeling I was looking for. Seattle is really not all as far as I thought.

My Father's Gift

2008-07-30T23:35:00.000-07:00

So my Dad gave me this necklace for my 9th birthday. It wasn’t exactly pretty, symmetrical, or dainty. Instead of beads, it had jagged rocks that the maker didn’t bother to polish. In the midst of the loud colors, I tried to make out the pattern only to find that it didn’t have one. It looked like someone found random objects in the wild, the kind that everyone else would pass by as nature’s more masculine form of expression, and strung them on a rough piece of twine.

I held the front of the necklace as the cold turquoise laced itself around my lower neck. My Father gently lifted my hair as he knotted the twine in that way that fathers always do. I could see him smiling behind me as both he and I viewed my reflection in the vanity mirror. He was not so much smiling at the necklace, but rather at the light in my eyes as I saw myself. I was beautiful. Truly beautiful. The kind of beautiful that every little girl craves to be when she dresses up in her mother’s heels and pearls. It was as if there was something magical about that necklace -- When I wore it, everything changed. I was no longer Sarah Nuss, the little girl that lived on 42nd avenue with the short legs and strangely long hair. No, I was the extraordinary Princess Sarah. I stood taller, acted greater, loved deeper, and lived freer. This necklace made me feel like everything my Father said about me was true: that I was special, unique, beautiful, and the love of His life. Over time, it became my security when I was afraid, my comfort when I was lonely, my anchored beauty when the world seemed to be falling apart around me. This necklace to me was so much more than what met the eye-- it was the tangible expression of my Father's love.

After a while, so afraid of losing my necklace, I took it off and hid it away in a safe place. I needed to convince myself that I could function on my own. I was declaring independence, strength, and the ability to function in all circumstances at all times, with or without my beloved necklace.“By myself” I had said since a very young age. By myself.
By myself.
By myself.

I can do it by myself.

Very soon though, my life became dull and gray. I tried to tell myself that all was right without it, that everything my Father said was still true. I earnestly attempted to conjure confidence only to be left with the nagging reality that s o m e t h i n g w a s m i s s i n g. I frantically tried to create security only to be left with an ever-present fear of the world around me. I eagerly called out for companionship only to be left with an emptiness amongst the best of friends. All I could see was the memory of my Father, standing behind me with those blue eyes, those glossy blue eyes. All I could see was that necklace.

And now I will never take it off again. I will live and die with it on; the rough, gray twine is knotted. The turquoise is cold on my chest. The rocks are jagged and unpolished.

And I have never felt more beautiful.

missing him

2008-07-29T18:31:00.000-07:00

Running through the woods on an all too narrow trail, I am left once again. Alone. In solitude. Contemplating the bends and curves of the muddy trial that lays before me. My feet skip. hop. dodge. leap. stretch across the slippery mixture of leaves, mud, and tree roots as I glide through the walls of tress.

I didn't go to church today.

Beside the initial guilt I feel, I become even more discouraged as I reflect upon spirituality as it has once again come to be in my life. I become not so acquainted with the guilt of missing church, but rather with the guilt that corresponds with attending church itself. With reading my Bible. With Bible college. With doing all of these things that I have always banked on as my demonstration of the religion that I have adopted. In the midst of my great daily sacrifices -- my time being nailed on a cross of holiness --I find a great falling away. And now, not going to church, my trace of religious guilt is far lesser. It is far lesser than the guilt that accompanies an all-too-painful reality that I can not remember the last time that any of these sacrifices have helped me connect to my Father, the Most High God. And here, now, running through the tropical woods of Hawaii, I am faced with an all too elementary but desperately familiar feeling.

I'm missing Jesus.

It is not so systematic as owning up to the fact that I have missed my daily devotions for the past week. Or even that I missed church today. No, its more organic. more raw. more real. more simple. I don't feel close to my best friend. A lot is changing in my life and he's not a part of it. For so long now I have been making deposits in our relationship -- shallow investments of time that breed no connection save a catering to the religiosity of my own guilty conscience. Looks like we have some catching up to do. And for once this time, it's solely in the name of friendship.