The Lunch Box

There is a little place by the railroad tracks called Jimmy’s Lunch Box. 

The food is simple.  The ambience is diner-café-dive at best.  The tables are tiny.  The floors are crooked.  And every time, the train goes by, it vibrates for the ride.  But the people that fill it every day are what make this place delicious.

It is a microcosm of small town Mission, it is colourful, eclectic and feels like family.  It would be too cliché to say that this is a place “where everybody knows your name” but everyone comes because they know each other’s names or they know someone's ex husband or they know someone’s aunt who eats there. This place is to Mission, what apple pie is to America, except I would call it more of a mincemeat pie with the meat, dried fruit and colourful spices. 

We have guys who bring their girlfriend for breakfast; and three months later, bring their new girlfriend; and three months after that, bring their newest girlfriend.  Weekend warriors would crawl in after a night of heavy drinking for a cure for their hangovers.  It has seen burly bikers, swimming clubs and local musicians through its doors.  At times, there are bible study groups, politicians or yummy mummies meet ups.  And there is always a toddler running up and down the ramp or a baby passed around for a cuddle.   

Sometimes it looks like a man cave with packs of men meeting every week to catch up, share stories of chicks and children, and mostly just laugh. Then there’s an older pack of men that meet daily to talk about their jobs when they weren’t retired, share stories of women and ex-wives, and mostly argue about politics. There are gaggles of girls that come in to gossip, rave about last night's party and complain about their boyfriends. 

Last night, someone broke into the restaurant.  Windows were smashed and food and garbage were thrown everywhere.  Knives were thrown out and motor oil was poured all over the floor.  And some coins were taken from the float.  The shock of the mess was devastating but the greater shock was when the customers trickled in to simply ask if we were ok or if we needed any help or offering hugs. 

There is a family here in the Lunch Box

C3 Wellness

“What does wellness mean to you?” my friend Ray asked me.

I have known him since we were about 16 and we became fast friends.  But we became even faster workout buddies because he would literally knock on my door and wait for me to change so that I would go to the gym with him.  Talk about motivation. Back then, if I could fit into my size 28 jeans, whether it was through starvation, fad diets, smoking or exercising, I felt that I had been practicing wellness.  I know it was a superficial motivation to exercise, but a separate little seed of endorphin had been planted in me.  And without realizing it at the time, it made me happy. 
 
Fast forward fifteen years and two children later.  After giving birth to my daughter, I just couldn’t shed the last of my baby fat because of a herniated disk.  I couldn’t be active.  I didn’t think about what I was eating.  I was not sleeping well.  Sounds like most parents with small children, right?  I was just hiding behind my children.  Literally, I hid behind them because I was embarrassed about my body.  Figuratively, I hid behind them as my excuse for not taking better care of myself.  Most of all, I was frustrated because I couldn’t fit into my size 28 jeans!

This is when I shot Ray an email telling him that I just couldn't seem to lose that last 10 pounds.  He writes back with a general eating schedule, body measurement chart and a plan teaching me how to run.  Run?! Really?! Did he not know me at all?! I would never run…unless it was to chase after food or run from danger for survival.  
 
I have little kids. 
I have no time.
I am not in good enough shape to run.

These were my excuses why I could not do it. 
 
Then in one moment, I just asked myself “Why not?” 
 
Two minutes at a time, I started to jog with my daughter in a stroller.  Fifteen minutes at a time, I started to jog with my son riding behind me in a tricycle.  An hour and a half, I jogged from my daughter’s ballet school to my house and back while she was in her lessons
   
That “why not?” moment is the beginning of wellness.  The moment you decide IN YOUR HEAD to do something, your mind decides which battles your body will fight and your mind will provide the courage and strength to win that battle. 

Wellness becomes much more because it goes full cycle and also needs to end IN YOUR HEAD.  No matter what size or shape your body is, no matter how many kilometres you can run, no matter how many push ups you can hammer out in one minute, your mind needs to feel good about it and from it.  Your mind needs to feel good from the foods you put in your body to nourish it.  Your mind needs to feel good about being in your skin.  Your mind needs to find a balance in your life spiritually, emotionally and physically so that it can cope with the stress that bombards you every day. 

Now 20 years later, I am still imitating my friend Ray in going to the gym or trying to eat lean chicken or running a Spartan race with my children.  That endorphin seed has blossomed into a full blown addiction, making me want to try anything that crosses my path: running, floor hockey, crossfit, pole dancing, boxing….and I finally fit into my size 28 jeans. 

But beyond that, it also means that I am happy with my body in spite of the fact that my stretch marks have given birth to two children.  It means that I am happy to look to my friends for emotional support in spite of the fact that I could technically solve all my problems myself.  It means that I am grateful and awestruck by the magnificent trees and lakes and mountains surrounding my hike in spite of the fact that I could thankfully pray to God about them in a church.  It means I am living in wellness because I decided to

Silver and Gold I Have None

Silver and gold have I none,

but such as I have, give I thee. 

In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth

rise up and walk. 

Walking and leaping and praising god.

In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth

rise up and walk.

 

The other day, I heard my 5 year old niece singing these lyrics of a children’s hymn.  To boot, she was singing them in Korean.  It seemed strange, yet adorable since she doesn’t speak Korean and if you asked her what she was singing, she wouldn’t have a clue as to what the words meant. 

 

These words remind me of my grandfather and through him, they mean sadness, then hope, then peace.

 

My grandfather passed away when I was very young.  Of all my grandparents, he was the first one to pass away.  I think I was around 10.  In the last few weeks before he passed away, all my aunts gathered all of us cousins together to visit him in the hospital.  He was deteriorating pretty quickly from a losing battle with brain cancer. 

 

When we went to see him, he was unable to move and could barely speak.  But he was still alert enough to know all the 10 grandchildren who had come to see him.  Most of us shuffled in and were unsure of what we should say or feel or how we should react.  One of my aunts suggested that someone sing a song…one of his favourites.  So, our youngest cousin, Stella, who was probably barely 6 years old, stood up in front of him and sang this song.  In my mind, I can still hear her high pitched voice, her little body standing on twig legs, singing these words in Korean.  My grandfather’s eyes were wet with tears, but smiling.   Not sure if it was because this song rang true to his heart; maybe realizing that material possessions were useless unless you were spiritually rich.  Maybe he saw hope in the littlest of all his children and grandchildren singing to comfort and love him. 

 

Recently, someone I had known suddenly and unexpectedly passed away from brain cancer.  When speaking with his mother about his death, while I imagine she was grieving, she smiled at me with wet tears and said that there was a reason he passed on so suddenly and God knew that he would suffer less this way. 

 

I am cynical of religion and not sure what category of Christian I would fall under, if at all.  But I believe there is a higher being and something greater than us in this universe.  It goes by many names, God or Buddha or Allah or The Tree in my Backyard, but when faced with moments of loss and grief, whether it is for the person dying in the hospital or for the people who are left behind after their loved ones pass away, this belief in this greater power provides hope and gives peace. 

 

When I hear this song, I like to believe that my grandfather is in his heaven “walking and leaping and praising his God”. 

 

 

Sweet Dreams

When I found out I was pregnant, the first thing I did was go out and grab as many books about pregnancy and baby care as possible.  There were so many resources with many different approaches to everything.  Some of the advice was conflicting, some of the advice was troubling, but all of it was downright stressful.  And to make matters worse, they would put out a disclaimer saying that ultimately we should do what our instincts as mothers tell us to do.  The reason I went to these resources in the first place was because I was not yet a mother and I did not possess any “mothering instincts” to rely upon. 

 

One of the things that fascinated me most was the topic of sleep. Yes, we were going to be sleep deprived when the baby was born.  Yes, we were going to have uncomfortable sleeps in the later part of our pregnancy due to our huge size and all the aches and pains.  Yes, we will never really sleep as deeply again. 

 

But beyond that, putting a baby to sleep became a dark 8-10 hour tunnel of despair and exhaustion, the only light of  hope being the sun coming up over the horizon and the sound of the chirping birds. There were books solely dedicated to how to put our children to bed.  Soothe them, not soothe them.  Let them share our bed, do not let them in our beds.  And if our child didn’t sleep well, they were labelled as fussy, cholicky, or “not textbook”.  I lost a lot of sleep just trying to implement all the practical ways to put our children to sleep: cluster feeding, using soothers, putting our children on their back, putting our children on their tummies, swaddling them, letting them cry it out first in intervals of 5 minutes to whole 45 minute periods.

 

Up until I was 13 years old, because of my father’s business ventures, we moved almost every year.  For every different housing situation we ended up in, be it a tiny apartment, a sprawling rancher or a temporary seedy motel room, I always shared my bed with either my parents or my sister.  As babies, my sister and I would sleep with our parents in one bed.  Even when we got older and my sister and I had our own bedrooms and had separate beds, we would always end up sleeping together in one bed.  One of us would always end up crawling into the other’s bed.  I didn’t think it strange.  We were not fussy or cholicky children.  We were happy and felt safe.  We laughed and shared stories together.  We would drift off into dreamland together, my sister and I. 

 

That bed that my sister and I shared became my reference when deciding to let my toddler climb into bed with my husband and I.  My children do not need a reason or have to be ill or require soothing in order to sleep with us if they want.  In fact, there is nothing more comfortable and peaceful at the end of the day than our family bed.  We share stories about the day.  Sometimes we talk about things that scare us.  Sometimes we end up laughing about a funny secret.  There are no sweeter dreams.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Just the other day, I was reading an article in the newspaper about residential schools in BC.  During my undergrad studies at SFU, I remember reading literature about students who had attended these schools.  I had studied textbooks about their experiences, their indoctrination, and some of the social issues that have arisen from these institutions.  This newspaper article discussed how these Aboriginal children were educated in these residential schools and how many of them were lost.  Some of these children were forced to attend these schools.  Some of these parents were sold on the idea that their children would be getting a greater education. 

 

When these children went to school, they were to forget their language, their history and their parents. Sometimes, these children never made it back home to their parents and families.  It was the death of these children. It was the death of their culture. It breaks my heart because sometimes the parents would not know that their children had passed away during school until it was summer break and their child just never came back home. 

 

When I was a baby, my mother left me.  Luckily, I was so young, I do not have any recollection of being left behind. I do not have any conscious memory of being sad or having to suppress this painful experience deep inside me.  I only know this because my mother told me. 

 

When I was an infant, my parents made a courageous decision to leave their family and friends back home and come to Canada without any real plans other than to make a living and to raise a family in a beautiful and prosperous country.  But in order to get ahead, they decided it would be better for me to stay behind with my grandmother who was my “mother” for 6 months.  When it was time for me to come to Canada to join my parents, I came on an airplane as a barely 2 year old guest to a complete stranger whose task was to ensure that when we landed I was reunited with my parents. After arriving in Canada, I cried for months, looking for my grandmother, not recognizing my real mother.  Thirty-seven years later, my mother still weeps when she tells me this story. 

This story of being separated from my parents, these Aboriginal children being separated from their families and their homes rings deeper in my heart because I have two small children of my own.  The perspective suddenly shifts when I hear these stories as a parent because I couldn’t imagine living without my children.  As parents, we are torn to make decisions that we think might be for the greater good of our children. That is what makes these choices so painful, yet courageous.  I am thankful every day that my children are close and I can hold them tight. 

 

Love

My son was asked to write about “Love” for a grade 4 assignment. 

 

In essence, it was a nine year old summarization of 1 Corinthians 13. Included in his understanding of love were hand printed words like patience, understanding, and trust.

 

Maturing into the teenage years, my definition of love was filled with angst and dramatic romance because I just didn't know how to love.   

As I entered into womanhood, I kept searching for a love filled with passion and excitement.  Relationships that started out with novel enthusiasm and passionate discovery soon fell short.  My love was merely fanciful and fleeting.

After many years of being married, I see the definition of love more clearly.  In spite of the fact that there is nothing passionate or exciting about sharing the same bed or parenting the same children or sharing the same bathroom sink for 14 years, I finally understand the love that was summarized by my nine year old son.

 

I never realized the depth or capacity of love until I had children of my own, with the man I married. It began with learning to love our children, but as a result our love for each other deepened. It was as if the love sapling had taken root deeper and thicker into the rich soil of our family. Our patience was tested, our trust was tried, and understanding expanded to outside of ourselves.

 

Suddenly the clear diamond that my husband bought for me as an engagement present doesn't sparkle so brightly as the smile that spreads across my daughter's face when she sees her daddy walk through the door.   His arms not only embrace me, but lift our babies out of their cribs.  His hands not only hold mine, but help the children build their school projects or bandage their wounds.  He not only drives an hour during his lunch break to come meet me for a rendezvous, but to see his son's preschool graduation ceremony. No longer do I see the young man that I married, but I see the father he has become. His love is understanding and trusting and patient.

LOL

Eggs!  I see them over-easy, I see them sunny-side up, I see them scrambled.  Eggs are nutrient rich, lean and high in protein.  Aesthetically, their whites and golden yellow yolks are pleasing as much to the eyes as they are to the palate.  But the ones that I am most fond of are the ones that are just over easy and slightly greasy from the oil in the pan to ensure that they don’t stick to the pan and rupture the beautiful soft yolks. 

Why?  These ones remind me of my grandmother.  As a child, we didn’t eat a lot of eggs and most of the time, when we did, it was scrambled haphazardly, which I think my parents made because we were always in a hurry to get to school or piano lessons, or maybe my parents were just too tired to wait patiently for the egg whites to cook slowly, while keeping the yolks soft.  So whenever we went to our grandmother’s house and she made these eggs for us, what a treat!

But the treat wasn’t necessarily the eggs itself.  The treat was being with my grandmother and her love of laughter and her hunger for joy.  As a child, she used to take care of me while my parents went to work.  There wasn’t ever a lot of money.  There weren’t shopping sprees or elaborate lunch dates or any fancy cars to drive us anywhere.  There weren’t any dolls with sophisticated wardrobes or a 3 storey doll house.  There weren’t any video games or indoor play places with a maze of jungle gym apparatus. We walked where we needed to go.  We ate when we were hungry.  We talked when we were together. 

One time, I specifically remember the both of us walking to one of her friend’s apartments.  We knocked on the door and when the door opened, there were almost a dozen other “grandmothers”, some of them playing card games, some of them laughing and dancing, and even one other grandmother by the window smoking a cigarette.  Back then, smoking wasn't as taboo as it is today.  But if you were a woman, a Korean woman at that, it was completely forbidden.  That day, that cigarette and all those women dancing and playing and laughing represented a rebelliousness and carefree-ness that was liberating.  For a moment, I felt like I was peeking into a secret and exclusive club that didn’t need anything other than the pleasure of each other’s company and joy in that moment.  And in the centre of the room, performing a Korean folk dance with all the other ladies boisterously laughing and clapping along, was my grandmother, giggling and smiling.

 

 

 

All those ladies have long since passed away, including my grandmother.  And many of those grandmothers probably passed on their humble heirlooms or jewels or some tidbits of wisdom to their offspring.  When my grandmother passed away, she left her resounding laugh to my sister.  And to me, I have inherited her love of that laughter and happiness.  Every time, I hear that laughter out loud and feel a ridiculous joy regardless of what is happening around me, I think of my grandmother’s eggs.