Dear Eugene

Dear Eugene, I looked out the window this morning before grabbing Sumi's leash, and there were layers of periwinkle cotton-candy in the sky.  I knew I was in for something good. Yet I let my heart sink, even as my eyes were fixated on the fluffy mystery: It's lawn-mowing season all over again... Such sinking seemed so natural a thing, with a mind and will of its own, that I seldom bothered to flag it down for identification, question its legitimacy, find out where it comes from and where it's leading me. Tending to our garden is human's most primal vocation, reflecting God's glory as we are created to live creatively.  How for most it had changed to a fear-inducing burden, over a bite of an apple or some other way, I shall never know; as I grew up, I wasn't even aware there is a vocation to reclaim.  We have all but surrendered to the fallen way of the world that what was primordially unnatural became the incontestable default, that we are supposed to be

Dear Eugene, my pastor, my friend, Hardly a day goes by without your words lingering in my head and my reflecting on them; I might as well write them down, lest I forget. We are all forgetful, and I suppose that's why you would often say the same thing in twenty different ways.  Thank you for taking the risk, even shame, to appear naggy.  Sometimes I would laugh/cry out loud at the sudden, rude realization of how I could forget to live likewise, the very next second after I heard your words, like my life is one big tragicomedy, contortion and incongruity abound. I thank God for these tapping fingers and my noisy keyboard--I like how they dance on it, mis-stepping more often than I want--and, as such, most of all, for the "Backspace" button.  I shall never take for granted the ability and freedom to turn flesh into words, as I shall forever be grateful for the many second chances. Yours, Alex