A Heavy Handed Christmas

To read about a truly gifted writer's quirky family holidays, grab this book by David Sedaris at the local library. You'll be rolling with laughter.

Nostalgia is strange. Let yourself off your guard for one moment, and at times it can creep up so fast that you find yourself in tears. On Christmas Eve, I found myself sitting at a stoplight of an intersection from the town where I grew up, an area of road I remembered stopping at many times throughout my childhood, and suddenly the emotion welled up in the back of my throat and I had to fight back the tears. I waited for the light to change, turned onto the freeway, and left the place quickly. Forty minutes later I arrived at my parents’ home, the one I didn’t actually grow up in, but they moved to post-emtpy-nest, and I felt angry because this “home” would not the same as it was when I was little, and I realized it would never be the same again.

I went to bed alone, hoping that on Christmas morning I would awake and find the world as it should be. That I wouldn’t feel upset about the lack of family extension in our part of town, or that I wouldn’t argue with my parents about things that didn’t matter, or that I would surprise myself by being amazingly selfless on that particular Christmas Day.

Needless to say, I failed miserably.

We stayed at home, mostly because my grandparents had just moved down to Camarillo from the Central Coast, a trek of about three hours, and they stayed with my parents until their new house was ready and “liveable.” To save on gas and mileage, I rode up from San Diego with a friend on the eve of Christmas Eve; the traffic was horrendous. We left my apartment just around one, stopped once for food, and didn’t arrive in Burbank until after dark. This was due to the inching and crawling of the Five Freeway, which somehow I was able to tell myself wasn’t so bad, and I didn’t really notice the time until we got to the Metrolink station in Burbank. I bought myself a ticket to Camarillo, about forty miles north-west along the 101, and waited for the train to come. I had six bags with me—a small rolling suitcase, my hamper filled with laundry, some vegetables from the garden, and the rest packaged Christmas presents. All I could manage to do when the train came was to pull my bags on board before the doors closed, before, I realized later, I could double-check the route of the train. As the conductor quickly told me after seeing my ticket, I boarded the wrong one. I got off at the next stop, piled my things under the outdoor awning, and waited for someone to come and pick me up because it was too late to catch another train to Camarillo. I wasn’t in the best part of the Valley, but what concerned me more was the cold. Many people fail to realize that Los Angeles is a desert, and at night during winter, temperatures dip pretty low, drastically low compared to the 70 degree, daytime warmth. I would have given anything for some gloves and a hat. It didn’t occur to me until many minutes later to put on another sweater under my jacket, wrap a second scarf around my neck, and pull on my boots. Finally I did just that, and I put my ipod in my ears, and I marched up and down the train platform to keep warm, and to pass the time, and to stomp out the tears. Could anyone be so careless as to forget to check the train line? I was.

The way this Christmas homecoming began unfortunately solidified my dissatisfaction with Southern California. We, the Los Angelians, the Orangians, the San Diegans, are spread out by unimaginable distances. Our cities are connected by veins of highway, lengths of behind-the-wheel radio tuning, pit-stop taking, gas pumping miles. The time it takes me to drive to my aunt’s house in Redlands, I could have driven from Southern Maine to Boston. And back east, that seems like an awfully long way. Why would someone go all that way for one day? Christmas day? Surely you would stay overnight and feast and talk and play games late into the evening, to wake up early and start the process over again. But in my family, that never seemed to be the case. It’s not that we haven’t wanted to spend time together, but my parents, my brother, and I have always just gone up for the day. We open our presents by ourselves on Christmas morning, eat breakfast, and pile into the car to head to Aunt Kathy’s. It’s the way it’s always been done. But not this year. Unfortunately, the distance does make a difference after a while, and as the years pass, we seem to drive out there less and less. That makes me sad, and angry.

I finally did make it to Camarillo—my dad came to the Metrolink station to pick me up, to “save me.” And the next day was Christmas Eve, which felt like any other day because my brother was staying with his friends in the Valley, and I was stuck in Camarillo. My parents and I went to the Christmas Eve service at church, and we sat in the over-flow room and watched the service on a TV screen. When the music came on and the people in the large auditorium stood to sing, I stood as well, and was the only person standing in the room. And I, for a moment, looked around at the other people in that room, and said to myself, “Aren’t people going to stand here too?” Suddenly they did stand, but in that moment in the interim, I felt scared for those people. How sedentary their lives must have become—they are so used to sitting and watching, that when the call comes to stand, they don’t even respond.

            After the service, I escaped to go back to the Valley and see friends and have dinner with my brother and his girlfriend’s family. I craved a real, family Christmas meal, so instead of being sad and muttering about not having one because the grandparents were falling asleep on the couch and mom and dad were sipping cocktails to recoup from the sheer exhaustion of the day, I left. But not before having an argument about whose car to take, and whether or not my insurance would cover a fender bender, and why on earth I was choosing to leave and spend the evening in someone else’s home in the first place. They finally allowed me to leave (though I can’t imagine what made them think they had the power to stop me really, being 23, and out of college), and I reveled in the thought of men in red sweaters, mothers and aunts preparing dishes of food in the kitchen, and brothers, my brother, pouring me a glass of good, red wine. I was able to get all of these things and more. My brother was amiable, his girlfriend and I exchanged gifts, and her family was genuinely happy to see me, and me them. And before I left my old hometown I saw some of my best friends, and that’s when, sitting in the car before pulling onto the freeway, I had to fight the tears. Nostalgia. Change. Life not as it once was. How silly of me.

            I got lost on my way back home; the landscape looked so different in the dark, and when I finally did arrive, was unable to sleep. Coffee after dinner, for me, is never a good idea, so instead of sleeping I sat up and thought about these funny emotions I was feeling—the cynicism and the doubt about the next day’s joys. And just as I allowed myself to become bathed in self-pity, I heard a noise from the living room, a coughing, hacking noise. And I realized my grandpa was throwing up.

            Let’s talk here about fear—oh god, yes, fear for the old. An eighty-two year old man throwing up into a ceramic bowl, unable to speak, or to stand, just to lean and to spew, and me standing there, trying to think of what had gone wrong. Was it too much insulin? Should we call an ambulance? How do you know when a person needs their stomach pumped? My mom came downstairs to help clean up the mess, and settle him back to bed, and we sat in the office and waited. Three more times he would get sick that night, and each time I wondered how I could help, and wondered when it would be over—this one sickness, and the sickness that has become his life. When will it stop, and when is it not worth fighting anymore? And as usual, my mother became the great consoler. “Go to sleep.”

            Now, I realize this all sounds incredibly heavy and doomed, as if I lead this tortured existence and write these words in order for the reader to feel some sort of remorse on my behalf. But the fact is that I have a wonderful family, and very unique and special friends, and a lot of people in the world who care a great deal about me. But that’s not the point. My point here is about feeling disappointed with life and not being able to explain why. Sure, there are the little things—getting stuck on a train platform, watching your grandfather throw up into a bowl, not seeing family I’d like to see on Christmas, but what’s at the heart of the matter?

In retrospect, it seems that I was a much more optimistic child than I am now. I can’t say what has changed, too many awakenings perhaps. Or is it disappointments? But disappointments about what exactly? I couldn’t tell you for sure. Because I couldn’t even tell myself. Disappointment in general, like the sadness and the anger of remembrance, affects me so quickly that I don’t really know where the feelings come from until they’re right up upon me. But maybe that’s where the hope comes in. Hope throws open the window, douses the room in a cool breeze, and reminds the person inside that there is life out there to be lived.

The best part of this Christmas had nothing to do with presents or stockings, dinners or dresses. The hope came when my brother and I sat outside in the sunlight on Christmas morning, and talked about the future and about our plans for a better life. We dream of buying property in the north, having a farm, moving our family onto the land, working beneath the sun and sleeping with the stars and the stillness, with the quiet. That’s when I realized that disappointments have no hold on me—not so long as there is hope.

So here’s to the future. Merry Christmas. I, for one, am glad it’s over. 

Your Christmas Present Podcast

Christmas Podcast

Produced by Yours Truly, this is my first attempt at a podcast. It was lots of fun--I basically talked to friends, co-workers, people on the street, and yes, recorded the very talented and creative writers who join me at my apartment every Wednesday night for our writing group.


So grab a cup of Joe (or hot chocolate, or rum punch if you will), cozy on up to the radiator, and have a listen by clicking on the link that says "Christmas Podcast" above. You will have to download something, but don't worry, it shouldn't take long.


And, finally, have a Merry Christmas!


With Love, 
Rachel

On Airplanes

I continue to have dreams about airplanes. It started about two months ago, right after the night that my roommate, Gretchen, and I parked on the roof of the Laurel Street Parking Garage and watched the planes land at the airport in San Diego. I spot each plane a few hundred yards (or miles?) off, as a glimmering speck in the night sky, and they approach quickly, suddenly right overhead, engines roaring, and I imagine the hundreds of people staring down at me. And I wave.

The wind kicks back hard, and my hair flies. The feeling, the hard soaring rush, takes my breath away. The last plane we watched before sneaking back down the stairs to my car (technically you’re not supposed to go up there, but it is decidedly a thing to do in San Diego) makes a wobbly landing. Gretchen gasps, I hold my breath; it’s all very exciting.

I imagine that airplanes wobble all the time upon landing. Never a fun or pleasant experience when it happens, it isn’t exactly life threatening either. I have a cousin with a PhD in aerospace engineering, and one time he came to dinner at my family’s house. He told us that planes are designed to wobble; they’re made for it. “Turbulence is natural,” he said. “Those wings can bend back more than 45 degrees without snapping off.”

I should have paid attention to the first part of his sentence, but the words that stuck in my mind were, of course, the last two: snapping off. Can they do that?

So about these dreams I’ve been having—

The first one, that night after the wobbly plane, was most definitely what I would classify as a nightmare. I dreamt that I was watching the landing, once again on the top of the garage, but this time, the wings didn’t just wobble. The plane’s front end plowed straight into the runway, and the whole thing actually caught on fire. I woke up in a cold sweat.

About a week later I had another dream, pretty similar to the first in the fact that it was terrifying (have I mentioned I almost never have a “good” dream?). This time, I watched a plane take off the runway with one of my friends on board. If you’ve ever seen the movie Final Destination, my dream was very similar to the opening scene—kid gets on plane, has a dream it’s going to crash, gets off plane without his friends, watches plane take off, plane blows up in sky, kid screams, roll movie.

Okay, so this was getting weird, right? Two plane crash dreams in the span of a couple weeks? I told Gretchen about it, and her response was pretty intuitive.

“We live two blocks from the flight path, Rachel. Maybe you’re hearing the planes land at night and the sound gets into your dreams.”

Of course! Okay, so maybe these dreams aren’t prophesies from God trying to tell me that the choices I’m making in life, or the “paths” I’m on are wrong and that I should turn right around and jump off the plane because it is going to friggin CRASH into the runway.

But wait a minute, I think. I wear earplugs when I sleep.

I forget about all of this for a couple more weeks. I go to my aunt’s for Thanksgiving, I drive up to San Luis and Santa Barbara for a wedding, and no plane dreams. But last night, I had another one.

Not a nightmare, at last!, this one was more about me watching someone take off in my plane. I don’t know how I knew it was mine, but in dreams, a whole lot of things happen that don’t need explaining. But this time, I wasn’t on the runway or on top of the garage. I was flying next to the plane, outside of it, looking in. I was scared the entire time that the thing was going to fall apart; it shook convulsively. It was an old plane, a weird plane, a plane I’ve never even seen before. The person on the inside wore goggles and a cap, maybe even a scarf? He, at least I think it was a he, smiled broadly. He was really excited and really happy, and I was really confused. Doesn’t he know this thing could plummet straight to the ground in a blaze of metal? But he could care less. He was flying.

I awoke, sensing the thickness of my earplugs. I bought a new pair last night at Joroco’s Market on 25^th Street after work. My old earplugs were getting a bit squished, a bit waxy to be perfectly frank. I wasn’t used to this new pair. My ears almost hurt a little, so I took them out. The first thing I heard was a plane landing at the airport a few blocks away. “Can I hear them with my earplugs?” I think. “Or is there a reason I’m having these dreams.”

Airplanes creep into my subconscious, and into my conscious as a matter of fact, regularly. Aware of it or not, I dressed up as Amelia Earhart for Halloween this year. Just a couple days ago I listened to a story on NPR about an 80-year-old woman who learned to fly a plane. And yes, as last night proves, I continue to have these dreams. So why, I ask, all the airplanes? 

Ode: A Wedding

One of my best friends, Laura, is getting married this coming weekend in Santa Barbara. We've been friends for 18 years, quite a feat for two 23-year-olds.

This is a little something I wrote for the event:

Ode To A Friend On Her Wedding

You were my first friend,

And back in those days,

I took for granted the affect a person like you could have on a person like me.

Rather, I focused on the present—

The ballet shoes, and the schoolyard games,

And the days after long days we spent in our innocence.

We grew up slowly, standing shoulder to shoulder,

Comparing the lengths of our hair that hung long and low down our backs.

Comparing our heights, a characteristic that quickly changed.

Comparing most things;

And yet returning always to the same center.

We were lucky, or call it blessed.

We possessed families with foundations of rock,

People who taught us how to love God.

People who taught us how to love each other.

And you, my friend, were wise from the outset.

Your large, brown eyes looked so steadily and determinedly forward.

Like a tiny prophet,

God called you to great things; I could feel it.

Because as we grew, I saw that life was different.

Not easier, but our existence possessed a certain purpose.

Soon I watched you drift from continent to continent,

And learned that I too could see my future in color, in changing language, in a new horizon.

You taught me to be open to the world.

And now, after so many years,

I watch you become a person in love,

A person who is open to her own, new world.

And I thank God that you are ready—

To possibility, to two becoming one, to the future.

I do not know what I will find by the end of our lives,

And so I will just stay around for a while.

The journey becomes more beautiful

When a friend like you is near.

Congratulations.

A Whole New Look

I’m standing in my pale blue bathroom and staring at my reflection in the mirror, trying to gauge the image of the person staring back at me. I recognize myself, obviously. The thing is, this person in the mirror looks completely different than she did fifteen minutes ago. She has incredibly short hair.

My hair hasn’t been this length since I was one or two years old. Back then, it naturally grew into what resembled a bobbed mushroom top. This frock on my scalp now has been shaped and molded to look this way. I did it on my own volition. One day I just decided, “I really want to cut my hair.” So I did.

I turn my head from one side to the other and lift my chin. I raise my eyebrows. Squint. Do I look like Katie Holmes yet? What about Audrey Tautou, that dark-eyed, French actress. Where is my beret?

I run my fingers through my shag, and then rub them around, messing it all up like I’m giving myself a noogie. In some places the pieces stick straight up. Freaky.

When I walk back out into the living room, my once long locks lie in clumps on the hardwood floor, scattered like long strings of confetti. I sweep up the mess quickly, both to dispose of the evidence and because I’m late to work. I don’t feel remorse. Not yet. I see that pile of brunette hay in the trashcan as dead cells. Did my color always look that muted?

Later that day my roommate comes home and sees my new look. She’s very excited.

“You’re like Coco Channel when she cut her hair! What’s that her man-friend said? A woman who cuts her hair is a changed woman.”

Hm. A changed woman. I wasn’t really trying to be a “changed woman.” I kind of liked who I was.

A few days later, after work, where I had to explain to every other customer who came in the door why I chose to do this to myself (“I just felt like it,” I would say), I decide to go to the Buffalo Exchange to troll through the merchandise. I try on a pale purple skirt, tweed and high-wasted. It was probably made in the sixties. Yes, this will do. When I get to the checkout line I spot a thick wooly scarf and green Ray-Ban knock-offs. I quickly throw them on the pile. My new hair is speaking to me. “You need these new things,” it says. Apparently the hair feels changed and wants me to follow suit.

Later in the week it’s Homecoming, and a group of my college roommates plan a reunion dinner at PF Changs. I wear the scarf and the glasses. I also wear skinny jeans and a blue striped shirt. It’s kind of French. Find me that beret, and I could be in costume. Come to think of it, everything I wear lately feels a bit like a costume.

I’m the last to arrive, and all the girls are seated at a table next to the door. They see me, but no one says anything for a few long seconds. Perhaps they are trying to decide if my hair is tucked under the scarf or actually gone. Where is it?

“Oh my god, your hair!” Bonnie says.

I wait to speak. Here it comes. Good or bad. Hit me.

“I love it!” she says.

The girls take their queue from Bonnie, and the table erupts in feminine chatter.

“You look so professional!” they say. “You look like a journalist.”

Perfect.

On Thanksgiving I call my parents to say hello. My dad does his usually, “Miss you, love you, here’s mom.” Mom gets on the phone, and I ask her if she saw the picture of my hair that I sent to dad. I wonder if she’s avoiding the subject.

“Yes I saw it,” she says hesitantly. “It’s cute.”

There’s more to this, I think.

“Well, honestly, Rachel, it’s not my favorite. It looks a little, oh I don’t know, fifties.”

“Maybe that’s because I’m wearing a second-hand tweed skirt, and I hadn’t washed my hair in three days,” I say.

The front was practically sticking straight up, but I thought it looked cool. Artistic even.

“Well I just have always liked your long hair,” mom says.

Leave it to her to be brutally honest. I think she just fears the change.

Creative Non-what-now?

My life for the past nine or ten months has become devoted to the grad school application process. It took me a long time to get to the place where I could admit that, both out loud and to myself. But be it self-consciousness, fear of rejection, or fear of the unknown, I just couldn’t say it. But thankfully, sometimes we are forced to make decisions. The deadlines loom, the essays must be written, the transcripts ordered.

So I’m no longer just “thinking about applying,” or “looking into schools,” or “requesting information.” I’ve gotten the information, I’ve read the books, I’ve drawn up lists and agendas and due dates on a cork board in my living room and stared at it for a really really long time. And a few days ago, I officially sent in my first application. Hello world, I’m applying to grad school.

Yet unless you know me pretty well, I probably still won’t come out and tell you the truth—that I’ve actually been thinking this over since I started college, and that I really want to get into a top writing program, I mean really. And that my feet are feeling pretty damn ready to walk right out of San Diego, soon. Despite my glorious apartment, and free food from Krakatoa, and a cat that affectionately steps on my spinach, I’m ready to go.

So why are you ready, you may ask. Let’s face it—“I’m going for my MFA in Creative Nonfiction,” sounds like Bosnian to most people. The moment the statement is off my lips, questions flash. What’s an MFA? How can “nonfiction” be creative? Why would a writer need a Master’s?

I do not know how to even begin to answer these questions. And, yes, I admit it, sometimes I feel like I’m part of an elitist club who feels that the questions aren’t worth answering. “Well if you really have to ask,” one might say, “Then you just wouldn’t understand.” But I’m not elitist! I want people to understand!

So here goes—

“An MFA is a Master’s of Fine Arts. “

“Whoa, there, Bessie. A MASTER’S of Fine Arts?”

“Well, yes. That’s what MFA stands for.”

“But you’re 23. You’re not old enough to be a master of anything.”

“Well, yeah, I know, but maybe with the right program, and the right professors, and some experience teaching freshmen comp, and after completing a thesis (publishable book) about my issues with my family, or my elementary school days, or my first crush, maybe I’ll have mastered something.”

“I don’t think it works that way.”

“Shit. You’re right.”

Okay, so maybe not what, but why. Why do I want to go to grad school? Let’s see—

To become a better writer.

Check.

To use big words in a very intelligent way that causes readers to crack open a dictionary.

Ha. Sure.

To be one of those people who goes to book parties on the Upper West Side.

Check?

Wait a minute—no, that’s not it at all. That “image” thing right there, is so totally not IT. I am not bothering to apply to Columbia (which costs about $80,000, by the way) because it would be all about the image.

So let’s do this right. I’m applying to grad school because…

I want to.

If, though, in the next six months, you notice I become a little jumpy when you ask, “What is Creative Nonfiction anyway,” don’t take it personally. I may sigh, take a swig of my drink, and reply, “I really wouldn’t know.” Because in all honesty, I’m still trying to figure that out myself.

Missing Maine

If I were back in Maine, I'd probably take my coffee mug, wrap myself in a scarf or two (and a hat, gloves, boots, knee socks, tights, jeans, a small brown sweater, a lumpy grey one, and large black peacoat), and I'd walk out the two doors to my second story apartment, turn down Vesper Street, and head towards the water by Munjoy Hill.

The sky would be a tumultuous blend of blue, white, and grey. The wind would be blowing, hard. I'd grip my silver mug tightly between my gloved hands, willing the warmth to reach my frozen fingers.

The sea, a mass of grey also, would chop and swirl, beckoning the coming storm. It would be so very different from the same sea I saw in September. Back then the trees on the hill were thick with verdant leaves. I rode the Schwinn bike from the basement, the one my landlord fixed up free of charge, and I'd take it all along the little paths leading down to East End Beach, stopping to lean against a picnic table and climb the last fruitful tree with the last bunch of good apples. I'd prop my legs around a supporting branch, like straddling a horse, and eat two or three or four apples, dropping their cores to the ground below. People walking past would hear the sound and look up at me sitting there, and smile.

But in November, as it is now, the views would have changed.

The trees are most likely bare, the sailboats are gone, the islands appear desolate, and I would no longer want to take a canoe to paddle out and discover them. They are frightening, floating alone in that discordant sea.

I would continue making my way down the hill, slipping on the first pools of ice, stopping to crouch and stare, poking their centers with my boot, marveling over the new natural phenomenon that is "cold."

And when I finally reached the water, a friend would come to meet me. She with her tea and me with my coffee, we'd run to the water and kick the lapping waves with our Wellies, and pick out rocks the shape of hearts, and link arms and tell secrets in whispers, and dream of what life could be like if we stayed in such a place. I knew I wouldn't, in the end. It was dramatic and beautiful and profound, but if I stayed, I may never leave.

So for now, I must be content, in California, missing Maine.

Language Barrier

My best friend from home, Tracie, lived in China for a year during college. She may never have perfected the language, but she learned quite a lot for a little white girl from the Valley. The first Sunday we spent at home together, she had just gotten back from her trip, and I had just returned from crewing in the Greek Islands on the sailboat, Reflections. It was July 2008.

            “We’re not gunna stick out at all!” Kaity joked, as she, Tracie, and I made our way to the front of the building where tiny, black-haired Chinese men stood handing out bulletins. Kaity’s the only girl I know who’s slightly taller than me, and she also happens to be blonde haired and blue eyed, very Anglo-Saxon.

“You know, last night I was a little nervous about this,” Kait continued in her sarcastic tone, “But now I’m like, let’s do this.”

She took a sip of her coffee that we made at Tracie’s house, warmed up in a silver travel mug. I knew it was just because she was running late, but I couldn’t help but think, “We Americans can’t even go to church without coffee.”

We made our way to the man with the bulletins, who looked up at us skeptically.

“This service is all in Mandarin,” he said. “There isn’t a translator.”

“We know,” Tracie smiled.

“Oh.” Apparently he was still confused.

“Wo zhi dao,” Tracie said. (I know.)

“Oh! You speak Mandarin!” The man’s face was simply glowing. “You speak Mandarin too?” he asked me while holding out the blue paper filled with Mandarin characters.

“Um, no, just her,” I said, pointing to Tracie.

“Me either,” Kaity said, not bothering to take a bulletin.

We walked inside the church and took seats in the back of the sanctuary.

“Unless someone wants a wall in front of them,” Kaity said, “Let’s stay back here.”

I sat in between Tracie and Kait, and almost immediately after we sat down, a much younger man with glasses and a big white smile came up to us.

“You speak Mandarin?” he asked, pointing to Tracie, who smiled and nodded her head.

“Wow, that’s great,” he said. “You probably speak even better than I do. I speak more Cantanese.”

Not knowing the difference between the Mandarin and Cantanese, I chose to remain silent.

“Can you guys fill these out?” he asked, handing me a clipboard. “The sisters can fill one out together.”

I looked down at him blankly.

“Oh, you’re not sisters?” he asked, pointing to Kait and me.

“No.” Tracie laughed and took the board.

“It’s just because we’re both white and tall,” I whispered.

Once we had finished filling out our forms, we were introduced to a female Chinese college student, who was strategically placed next to us to translate the sermon. She was wearing a Boston Red Sox cap and had on jeans and a T-shirt. She barely cleared my elbow.

“Where are you from?” Tracie asked her curiously. “Have you ever lived in East Asia?”

“I was born in China, in Nan Jing, then we moved to Oklahoma when I was ten.”

 “Have you ever been to Tong Cheng?” Tracie asked.

“Um,” the girl smiled shyly, “I don’t know Chinese geography very well.”

A bald man at the front of the church started playing the piano, and a middle-aged woman with a dark brown bob and creamy white skin stepped up to the podium to lead the congregation in song. Kait and I sat in silence while Tracie made an effort to sing along, writing the title of the song in characters onto her blue bulletin. The young girl on her left looked out of the corner of her eye to see what Tracie was writing, and when she realized Tracie could transcribe Mandarin, her eyes waxed into the size of two moons, and she grinned in delight.

“That’s my brilliant friend,” I thought.

When we finished singing, the pastor came to the front of the church. Apparently it was time for guest introductions because suddenly everyone’s heads had turned backward, waiting in suspense for us to stand up and introduce ourselves.

“Tracie, Rachel, and um…cat?” the pastor asked meekly as we took a stand.

“Kait,” Kaity corrected.

“Oh, yes, sorry. Well, who speaks Mandarin?”

Tracie slowly raised her hand. “A little.” She said this in Mandarin and the people around us practically fell over themselves in amazement.

“And are you all in school here at Northridge?” the pastor asked, looking directly at me.

I started to answer and then turned towards Tracie. “Say it in Mandarin!” I whispered, smiling.

“Wo shi xue sheng, ta yi jing bi ye le, to ye shi xue sheng.” (I’m a student, she’s graduated, and she is also a student.)

The church erupted in applause for about a quarter of a minute, and I laughed out loud.

“Welcome! Welcome!” the pastor exclaimed, and we took our seats to listen to the message, which amazingly started in Psalm 19.

Kaity opened her Bible, read the first few passages, and leaned over to let me read over the verses.

“The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge. There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard. Their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world.”

No language where their voice is not heard--how fitting. Maybe Tracie wasn’t in East Asia anymore, and maybe I didn't speak Mandarin (and by maybe, I mean definitely), but that morning, we were both able to find a body of believers to connect with. Tracie never could have known this when she wrote me the email earlier that year about not wanting to leave China.

In a small way, she’d never have to.