Personal Note: Early Saturday Morning My Mom Passed

My mother had been hospitalized for over five weeks.  A ventilator machine aided her breathing as she laid in a semi-comatose state.  Throughout this time, the doctors used every mean to heal my mom but her health refused to improve.

In her advanced directive (living will), my mother insisted that she not be on long term life support.  So we had no choice, but to honor her wishes.

Thursday afternoon, October 8, 2015, shortly after 2:30, they gave my mom morphine to ease the pain and meds to ease her breathing, then they removed the ventilator. Her body wound down with her hand in mine and hymns playing.

Saturday morning, October 10, 2015, at 4:11am, my mother, Pao Yue Chen, went home to be with the Lord. Although she was still breathing, by Friday afternoon, she was no longer gripping my hand nor responding to my voice. Around midnight, the playlist ended with the Sevenfold Amen, the last song in the album Hymns Triumphant (London Philharmonic Choir & National Philharmonic Orchestra) and I turned off the music to let her mind rest if it wasn't already. At about 4:00am, her vitals on the monitor flat-lined at which point the first doctor came in to verify that there was no sensor error. At 4:11, the second doctor confirmed my mom's passing.

My mother's interment will be next to my dad at Meadowridge Memorial Park.  You are welcome to join us, in our celebration of my mom's life and in our rejoicing of her return home to our Lord Jesus the Christ, our God and Savior.

Visitation & viewing will be

Friday, October 16, 2015 from 3:00pm to 5:00pm and from 7:00pm to 9:00pm

Memorial service will be begin

Saturday, October 17, 2015 at 1:00pm


Meadowridge Memorial Park
7250 Washington Blvd
Elkridge, MD 21075
410-796-8024

(north of Washington, D.C. and south of Baltimore, Maryland)

Direction:

If coming down Interstate 95:

1) Take the exit for Maryland Route 100 East.

2) On MD Rt. 100, take the first exit, U.S. Highway 1 / Washington Blvd South.

3) Once on U.S. 1 / Washington Blvd South, you will see Meadowridge Memorial Park on the right (west) side of the road.


If coming down Maryland Route 295 / Baltimore-Washington Parkway:

1) Take the exit for Maryland Route 100 West.

2) On MD Rt. 100, take the exit for U.S. Highway 1 / Washington Blvd.

3) At the end of the exit ramp, turn left (south), on to U.S. Highway 1 / Washington Blvd.

3) Once on U.S. 1 / Washington Blvd South, you will see Meadowridge Memorial Park on the right (west) side of the road.


Enter Meadowridge Memorial Park via the main gate (second driveway, the driveway with brick walls).

Visitation, viewing, and memorial service will be held in the main building at the end of driveway.

Meadowridge Memorial Park

Main Gate

Praying Hands

Geese in Pond

Tree Overlooking Pond

Ponds

My mom will be laid to rest next to my dad.

My mom and dad's plots is by the statue of Jesus welcoming us home with open arms.

Statue of Jesus welcoming us home with open arms

One Thing

My mom has been hospitalized for several weeks and I've been spending all my free time at the hospital.  While there, at my mom's bedside, and she was, at the moment, soundly sleeping, I wrote the following poem.

(I don't usually write in the Jack Kerouac "On the Road" "stream of consciousness" "interior monologue" narrative mode form.  However, I wanted to capture my thoughts at that moment.  And with my left hand holding my mom's and only my right hand free to work my phone to dictate my thoughts, using the "interior monologue" narrative mode form seem to be the obvious choice.)

One Thing

Through my mom's
Hospital room window,
The city, the world, everything,
Is small and vain.

In this moment,
With my hand
In the warm grasp of hers,
As she struggles to breath
And her pulse is weak,
There is only one thing.

Unlike the numerous "one things"
That came and went,
In which we really meant
One more thing,
This "one thing",
Pressed and distilled,
From and by the very stuff of life,
Is life's very essence.
The only metric
By which everything meaningful
Is measured.

In this moment
Of retrospective, introspective,
And prospective clarity,
The "one thing"
That really matters
Is love,
Only love.

In this moment,
I see that "one thing"
In my mom's hands,
A history,
Written with the lines of her palms,
Of unrequested forgiveness given,
Of unnoticed selfless acts,
Of an abundance of grace dispensed.

In this moment
I see a woman
Who clearly discerns life's "one thing"
And pursues
To become
A master of that "one thing"...
A master of love.

In this moment,
As my gaze returns
From the window
To my mom's hands,
I recognize that "one thing"
And it renders 
The city, the world, everything
Small and vain.

Birthday Letter to My Little Girl

My little girl just turned ten and I see her teenage years come barreling around the bend like a runaway freight train: those growing pain, testing her boundaries, rebellious years.

During my time as a youth group leader, I often encountered teenage kids who were afraid to go home because they thought that they had done something so unforgivable their parents would not take them back and they would rather stay away from home than to face that painful rejection.  Not knowing how desperately their parents wanted them back despite anything they may have done, they stayed away, digging themselves into a deeper hole.

So, I wrote the following birthday letter to my little girl in advance of her teenage years.


Birthday Letter to My Little Girl

Soon, you will reach the years of your teen
When you'll test the waters in between
What is right and what is wrong.

Both the winds from the east and the west
Will fill your sail and heart with unrest
Like the call of the sirens' song.

When that that time comes, I will trust in you
To discern the markers in your field of view
And know where to point your bow.

If you take a wrong turn on a dare
And a squall catches you unaware,
Remember what I tell you now.

Despite anything you do or say,
An egregious offense along the way,
There'll never be a time when it's too late.

Come home, no trouble can be outrun.
Like the father of the prodigal son,
For you, I shall daily wait at the gate.

Always, I will be your harbor of grace.

The Triumph of My Day

Fridays, after I pick her up from school, is the time that I reserved just for my little girl. It's the best part of my week.


The Triumph of My Day

Tired and empty,

I may be,
from the day's fight
to keep the world at bay,

And no decisive

victory
with which

to earn a hero's pay,

But heaven's grace
binds to me;
of which I don't
deserve in any way,

My little girl's joy,
when she sees me,
that sunshine is
the triumph of my day.

Dream House

Before Amanda so unexpectedly passed, we were planning our future. I wrote the following for her but didn't get a chance to give it to her.

Dream House

I dream of a house where we can live
Where we can fall in love again;
Where there's no mistake we can't forgive
Where time has erased all our pain.

I dream of a house where we can live
With no fear of an encroaching past;
Where our hopes are once again naive,
Where good times won't slip by so fast.

We'd be brave enough to take a chance;
And be, forever, man and wife.
In this house, our little girl would dance;
And we'd remember the meaning of life.

New Year's Eve With My Mom

For the last several months, my mom has become more and more weak. As I sit by my mom's bed this New Year’s Eve, unlike everyone else, I was not looking forward to the new year. Instead, I was remembering the past with my mom. When my mom fell asleep I wrote the following.


Mom, I Love You

If I can have back all those years,
More often would I tell you, "I love you."
Erase your heartaches and dry your tears,
Find more joy in the days we knew.

If I can have back all those years,
I'd not squander the love you gave
Thirst for your wisdom with my ears
Find sweet the moments that you saved.

If I can have back all those years,
I'd thank you for each sacrifice made
For your faith when our fortune veers
For when I wouldn't believe and you prayed.

If I can have back all those years,
More often would I tell you, "I love you."

Running Wild

The last time I saw Lori and her little daughter Grace, I took them down to Baltimore's inner harbor. Grace had a ball. Everything down there fascinated her and she ran after everything that caught her sight. I started to write this piece about Grace, but as usually it turned into a retrospective of my own life.

Running Wild

Hey, child, running towards tomorrow,

Looking back, are you being followed?

Mamma tend to worry about that boy.

Hey, child, somebody's calling you.

Running on, who are you listening to?

Hope you don't loose yourself on the way.

Walking up right on your own,

Within the year you were born,

Strong willed child, running wild.

Hey, child, looking for who you are,

Working hard, will you be a shining star?

Gonna have to catch your breath some day.

Hey, child, Jesus is calling you.

Turning back, who will you listen to?

Will you find your way back home?

Strong willed child, running wild.

The Light from Behind My Grandma's Door

My grandma was the godliest person I know. Every day, she would get up super early in the morning (while it's still dark) to pray and worship the Lord to begin the day. Every evening, she would stay up way late to do it again to end the day. I'm convinced that her time with the Lord were two-way conversations. In fact, I'm sure it was her prayers that caused God to hold an umbrella of protection over our family. I remember when I was really little, I was afraid of the dark. My mom would keep the light on until I had fallen asleep. However, there would be times when I would wake up during the night. Luckily, my grandma's light would be on as she prays for the family and I would fall asleep in the comfort of her light. God, I miss her since she'd passed away. So, here's one for you, grandma:

The Light from Behind My Grandma's Door

The Light spills into the night,

From behind my grandma's door.

Its glow scatters the shadows

Upon the living room floor.

Her prayers climb up Jacob's stairs,

Up beyond the evening sky,

To where the Light shines, through the night.

Her songs take me to where I belong,

In His sight.

Keep the Light burning in my heart.

Keep her life's yearning in my heart.

A Chest of Hope and A Chest of Burden

As a single person, I'm never comfortable about giving marriage advice to friends. But sometimes, it's hard keep silent as I watch a relationship blows apart. So I wrote the following for a very special couple.

A Chest of Hope and A Chest of Burden

A chest of hope and a chest of burden

Are the same chest then and now.

The same package with the same contents,

Through the years, has changed somehow.

A gift from God to a parcel from hell,

How quickly their views have turned.

They wanted true love and intimacy,

But freedom their hearts now yearn.

When and how did the load become heavy?

Were more added in the night?

Who was responsible? Was it he or was it she?

Now, begins the final fight.

He lifts his end of the load higher,

Shifting the weight towards her.

She lifts her end of the load higher,

Beyond the point they once were.

How will the story end?  I don't know.

Where do relationships land?

Will they return the load to where it belongs,

In the Father's secure hand?

A chest of hope and a chest of burden

Are the same chest then and now.

The difference is who supports the weight.

The question is who not how.

The same package with the same contents,

Through the years, has changed somehow.

Battlestar Galactica 16GB Zune Giveaway Contest Poem

CNET.Com is giving away one special Battlestar Galactica edition of the Microsoft 16GB Zune to a randomly selected contest entry. To enter, one only has to post a comment at: http://news.cnet.com/8301-17938_105-10231021-1.html

For my entry, I entered the following:

Please, give me the Battlestar Galactica Zune.

Oh, please, please, send it to me really soon.

On it, I'll play songs in which Sinatra and Bennett croon.

Then, beautiful women would flock to me and swoon.

LOL!

The Testimony

I've been searching for the answer,

Since my fading days of youth.

What is wrong and what is right

And what is the truth?

Does it really matter,

In God's universal plan?

If I were to disappear,

Would He miss a grain of sand?

Would He look for me?

He's been waiting for my answer,

Since He made me in His hand.

Would I choose to follow Him

And would I make a stand?

Would I see His love for me

And would I really care?

Would I run into His arm,

If I saw Him standing there?

Would I recognize Him?

So He came down to look for me,

Shed his majesty and power.

And died on the wooden cross,

On the appointed hour.

When I saw the Son who died for me

To bear my sin and shame.

I chose to follow Him

And bear his holy name.

He came to look for me.

Back Alley Stray

She's a back alley stray

Kicked too many times.

She was fed every day

Broken promises and rhymes.

She no longer trusts that love would stay.

When I reach out to her

She instinctively flinches.

Afraid of what will reoccur,

Her right fist clinches.

She's not comforted by anything I say.

Haiku Poetry

One of my on-line friends posted instructions on writing Haiku poetry. I took it as a challenge. So... here it is:

Haiku poetry,

That strange Japanese art form,

Confines my writing.

Verbal symmetry

Forces my words to conform,

Substance / form fighting.

Distorted Vision

Two months ago, I went to the doctor because of a headache that wouldn't go away. After extensive testing, I was diagnosed with cataract.  Evidently, my brain was detecting vision changes before I realized that my sight was impaired.

The doctor told me that, although cataract is usually the result of aging, occasionally, young people get it. After doing some research on the topic, I found out that cataract is caused by overexposure to ultraviolet light and other electro-magnetic waves in that frequency spectrum.

In my case, I suspect that I've spent too much time in the sun without sunglasses and too much time working with microwave transmitters and receivers.

They've scheduled my eye surgery in October and in November.

In the past two weeks, the degradation of my eye sight has accelerated. Now, I can see that my vision is bad. Everything is a bit foggy and none of the colors are quite right. During the night time, I see halos around light sources (lamps, street lights, etc.).

I'm starting to wonder if what I ever saw was ever what it really was. What are the consequences of my misperceptions?  How can I make the right choices if I can not see the choices for what they are?

My eyes can not be trusted to be true.

My heart is colored by shades of grey.

I question the beauties that I pursue

And question the price that I'm willing to pay.

What must I do to discern

Which colors in my pallet are askew?

How many times must the color wheel turn

Before I can see the truth comes through.

Altered Vision

Once, I dated an amazing looking girl,
A life-size Barbie with no physical flaw.
She stands toe to toe with the beauties of the world;
Men and boys would stare at her with awe.

Though she may possess the perfection of woman's form,
Her heart beats the rhythm of an immature child.
Her tantrum erupts like a sudden April storm
With no dissuading the logic of a girl gone wild.

She wants what she wants, with no apologies.
Even if it's something the situation doesn't allow.
"Can't it be fixed with modern technologies?"
She screams, "I want it and I want it, now!"

Cognizant of my distaste for her demeanor,
I took great pain to suck it up day after day.
But failing to change the bag in the vacuum cleaner,
My peeve finally spilled over the other way.

I started to focus on two minor flaws
That normally would not be a deal breaker.
She smokes cigarettes without a pause
And curses like a whore from Hell's half acre.

The beauty, whose match was once unmet,
Is now obstructed by these two specks in my eyes.
I see only her lips holding a cigarette
Between which the flow of profanity never dies.

Spinning Time

Spinning plates on their poles

Line the hours of my day.

My balancing acts take their tolls

My sanity slowly slips away.

Racing from one wobble to another

My life slowly disappears.

More frequently I wonder, "Why bother?"

Quickly, my days turn into years.

Voter Rage

As this legislative session, of the U.S. Congress, drags on, I am, once again, disappointed by democracy.  My blood boils as I watch greed and stupidity running rampant through the bills being considered and passed by this congress. 

How can you call it free election

When you spend tens of millions on a single campaign?

How can you call it unbiased legislation

When you sit, with the lobbyists, sipping champagne?

How can you call it leadership qualities

When you make each decision by taking a poll?

And kept that thief, in your House, with no apologies,

When you found, in his freezer, money that he stole.

How can you call it compassionate virtues

When you divvy out a pittance to those who hunger?

How can you call it family values

When you cheat, on your wife, with someone younger?

I want a veto on this political process!

I want a veto on this political process!

Writer's Block

I labor in this field of fruitless times

Reaping only the accumulation of hollow hourly chimes.

Though I till a rich vocabulary of my witty rhymes

I harvest only a bushel of sour lemons and limes.

I miss my muse and her whimsical words.

Come with me to fly in the face of reality.

One of my favorite quotes is from David Wilkerson’s "The Cross and the Switchblade". When Wilkerson encountered Nicky Cruz, the teen gang member, Cruz pulled out a switchblade. To which Wilkerson replied, "Nicky, you can cut me into a thousand pieces and every piece will still say, 'I love you and God loves you.'"

I want to fly in the face of reality,

While still clinging to this spinning ball,

To find evidence of this simplicity:

That love can conquer all.

Is there not universality

To this repeated truth,

Not confined to eternity,

After God restores our youth?

I want to love angry young men.

I want to love hard hearted old.

I want to love exploited women

And children whose lives were sold.

I, now, have no debt to pay

Nor obligation to untie.

So, please, don't beg me to stay.

Just fondly wish me good bye...

Unless.. You want to come with me

To fly In the face of reality.

A Prayer for the Daily Struggle

Why am I constantly withholding from You, Lord?

Why do I choose not to do what is right?

What is the value of the temporal things I hoard?

Why is it so hard to see choices as black and white?

Remind me, Lord, that You're my shield and sword,

That You provide for me day and night,

That, in heaven, is where my treasures are stored.

Let me not be tempted by Turkish Delight.