A Lunar New Year prayer & ache
My hands need to feel the cold, flour-dusted wrapper skins.
My fingers need to pinch them together to make half-moon pillows.
Breathe in. Think: keep going. Whisper: Why?
Breathe out. Find my Korean apron. Whisper: How long?
Breathe in. Ask: Why is it that sitting surrounded by others on Sunday morning on a day with headlines like this, feels like the loneliest place?
Breathe out. Take one mandu skin from the stack to fill. Whisper: Jesus.
Breathe in. Fold together. Hold gently (the taste of home is in the palm of my shaky hand).
Breathe out. Whisper: Jesus, you are here.
Sometimes we celebrate anyway, as resistance.
Sometimes we celebrate to embrace.
Sometimes it's for the memories we long to mend and struggle to recreate.
Sometimes we feel the presence of Jesus on Sunday afternoon, deep in the details of folded dumpling skins.
Jesus is in love with our everything Asian and unafraid of our lament or how deep the ache.
