At the End of the Journey

I’ve been a Christian pretty much all my life. My parents, born and raised in Hong Kong, immigrated here decades ago; while studying at the University of Toronto, they met a group of loving and compassionate spiritual mentors in residence who were key to bringing them to Christianity. Over thirty years later, they have continued to be dedicated, faithful Christians.

My childhood upbringing was typical of the diligent, ambitious Chinese parents—strict and protective. It was important that I achieved the best possible grades; in addition, perform well in extracurricular activities—piano, swimming, Chinese school, etc. Not performing “my best” meant that more discipline needed to be enforced—the removal of TV privileges, more time spent reading books, less time playing outside with the neighbourhood kids (until I finished all my tasks).

On top of that, my parents encouraged my sister, brother, and I to persevere in our Christian life. At an early age, my dad encouraged me to memorize Bible verses. They always supported my enthusiasm to bring my grade school friends to church—and they were happy to pick them up and drive them to church on Sunday’s. During holidays such as Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter, we had family prayer time—and this family gathering to pray continued well into our twenties whenever one of us in the family faced conflict or we were on vacation and the five of us being in a hotel, were nowhere near a church, so my dad would initiate a time of “worship” with God—by taking out a Bible or singing a popular hymn.

Of course, there were times when I, as a kid, did not enjoy the discipline required of being raised a Christian. Whenever there were birthday parties on Sunday’s, my parents did not allow me to attend—no matter how much I begged. Attending church could not be compromised, they told me. I remember how angry I felt and how resentful I was as I sulked in my room, imagining all my friends who were busy having fun.

My Christian faith was my saving grace when I entered adolescence. Not realizing yet that I had a melancholic temperament (later on, self-awareness also helped me), I fell into multiple depressions in high school and early university. I was never happy with my performance in all areas of my life—be it grades, my looks, my weight, my piano playing, even my driving (had a serious car accident at age 17)—and constantly felt that I was better off not existing. One year I will not forget is when I was in grade 11, my depression lasted about a yearlong. The thing was—I had the amazing ability to hide my chronic sadness. I went to school with a smile, but when nighttime arrived, I closed the door to my bedroom and cried myself to sleep—every night.

I started an official journal when I was 16. Once in a blue moon when I have a "free" weekend, I’ll read my hundreds of pages of journal entries—and even though this period in my life was such a long time ago—tears would start to trickle down my face as I recall those days of melancholy. Sometimes, I feel detached from the girl being described on paper. Sometimes, I want to comfort her. Now—I use this story when I’m teaching the teenagers in my Sunday school classes to remind them that we all go through trials and we all have weaknesses and vulnerabilities—but have faith, God will pull you through.

Without my parents’ persevering in instilling in me the Word of God and the knowledge that He loved me, I, during those moments of incredible despair, would not have had any hope to go on.

This is also the same reason why I can never be convinced that there is no God—or that we are here on this earth living solely for ourselves. If such were the case, I would not know how to go on in this life—or see the reason why I should. What would I be aiming for?

Now that I’m in my adulthood, I have tried to do God’s Will—though one thing I learned since graduating from university is that it’s a lot harder once you begin your independent life. Stuck with a 9-5 job and paying the bills—it’s hard to invoke that feeling of awe and wonder of knowing God. In my younger days, circumstances and emotions were always up and down—and it was almost natural to turn to God. Now that I’m older, it’s more natural to rely on myself to solve life’s problems. Finance, job stability, career opportunities—they are all a product of hard work and ambition, are they not?

Because of this quotidian way of life, I find myself more appreciative of the days when God appears unexpectedly. On most days, however, I am pushing and pushing to see Him, and I find that so much of my behaviour and the words that come out of my mouth are not always pleasing to Him—even when I am whispering a prayer every morning to God, “May what I do today please you…” The words seem to effortlessly slide off my lips out of habit of saying them. To be honest, the guilt and consciousness of my own sinfulness have not been as sharp as they should be.

When I applied for seminary this past winter, something changed. Pursuing a Master of Theological Studies, and knowing that I will one day write essays on Christian-related topics and even preach in the coming year—the sharpness of my guilt and the consciousness of my own sinfulness have become much more glaring.

This is essentially why I am writing this entry. I recently recognized an irony in my Christian life: even though I should have been striving to be a good Christian testimony all this time, I am now feeling more compelled to do so now that I have seminary status. Though subtle, I have noticed it in the way I think and what I do. Granted, part of it is fear of giving God a bad name once people know of what I’m studying in the fall; the other part is the fear of being a hypocrite. Please don’t point fingers at me: I’m trying. Really.

As each day unravels, I am praying to God that He open my eyes to the opportunities to testify to his love and grace. I am praying that I not fail Him—too often. I am praying that whatever potential He has endowed me with—will not be wasted simply because I have somehow let my ego take over once again.

Then again, maybe it isn’t seminary status. Maybe we all just need something in our lives to remind us of what is at the end of our journey. The past few years, maybe I've spent too much time staring at the wrong thing: stop focusing on the rocks on the path, the tortuous road, the long and difficult trek, the possible shortcuts: look straight ahead. When all is said and done, what is at the end of your journey?