My Little Excerpts

Claire

A LITTLE LESS AFRAID OF LOOKING AT MY TRUE SELF 

Do you have any bad habits that you want to get rid of so badly, yet over and over again, you continue to do it? Sometimes I feel as if I am a slave to my body; no matter how I protest, it does what it wants to do.

I have this bad habit. I sing very loud. At first I tell myself I have an opera voice. People just cannot appreciate it (this was after I see people look back at me in annoyance at church). No one wanted to look foolish in front of others. So I tell myself I’ll sing softer next time. Then it happens again! And I play the video in my head over and over again the look! You know, the Look of disapproval, of pity, of anything that was not good.

So I have a strategy, "I will tell my friends to look out for me. I will tell the friend who always stands next to me in ca đoàn, to poke me if I sing too loud."

"OK," she agreed, then just as promptly, she forgot.

I complain to my husband, "How come you don’t tell me if I sing to loud? Do you want me to look bad?"

He says, "What?!? I don’t hear anything. Besides, aren’t you supposed to sound loud? After all, you’re in ca đoàn."

What is one to do with friends like these?

One day at Thanksgiving mass, I sing. My voice is good. I am so proud of myself. I sing for all I’ve got. Several people in front look back. What? I cannot tell. Is it bad? Is it good? Is it that people turn to see, wondering who is she with the beautiful professional voice?

How painful it is—self-discovery. It is in prayer that the Lord let me see. I see in my soul the picture of myself: a peacock, all puffed up, self-satisfied, saying, "Look at me! Look at me!"

Is this how I look to others? Vulgar in its blatant showiness? So I close the door to self-discovery. Am I not the holy, beautiful person I always think I am? No one can understand the pain of seeing the ugliness in oneself, except those who have gone through the exercise. Oftentimes, we just avert our eyes from the mirror. I visualize the lord’s hand. It is His strength that helps me stare back at myself in the mirror. All the pretense, all the rationalizations shed off my soul. In my nakedness I stare. I can tell you for sure that after the shock, the pain slowly subsides. Yes, it will. And I see Christ, standing next to me, looking at the real me in the mirror. And it is a look of love.

There is a story in the Gospel, of two blind men who meets Christ. They beg Him to cure their blindness. The Lord says, "Do you believe I can do this?"

"Yes, Lord," they answer.

He looks at them and says, "Let it be done for you according to your faith."

I do not know what tomorrow holds. Will I still make a fool of myself? All I know is that everyday, I am a little less afraid of looking at my true self.

My patient was an old African-American VN veteran. After the exam, we sat down and talked. He found out I was Vietnamese, so we talked a little about Vietnam.

He was a little hesitant, stuttering and looking away, "What do you think about all the Americans and Southern VN soldiers, fighting so hard like that, and then now it’s back being a Communist country?"

I did not understand what he was getting at, so I took a guess and asked, "Do you mean whether it was worth it?"

He looked at me for a long time and answered, "Yeah."

My head wanted to say that a lot of people died, that Vietnam was just a pawn, that the U.S. government used us, that he was used as well.

Instead, I tried to focus, to see the human being in front of me. When we looked with our hearts, something different came into view.

I told him emphatically, "Yes, it was worth it! Because we were free. While we fought, we were free. And now, the people there are no longer to speak freely."

I saw his eyes lit up, his face lit up, and he said simply, "Thank you."

His face and eyes stayed lit as he walked away from me, through the door.

That encounter touched me. And I understood what he was looking for. There were a lot of people who suffer all around me. It was an honor that God crossed their paths with mine, even if for just a moment. And I had a choice, to be kind or to be whatever else I wished to be. I wanted to choose, at every moment, to be kind, and not to be whatever else.

This past weekend I went with my friend and her 6-year-old daughter to San Juan Capistrano for a mini-vacation. That meant staying at a hotel (my definition of a "vacation"). We went to bed early so we could have a good rest for the next day. I was in my bed, reading my Magnificat prayer book when the little girl bounded into my room.

She snuggled up next to me and asked, "What are you reading?"

I replied, "I am reading my prayer book. You can watch TV while I pray."

She further inquired, "Is it about Jesus?"

You cannot imagine how stunned I was! Her mother was an atheist. I did not know where the little girl learned of the name "Jesus."

I recalled she once asked me what I wore on my necklace (a cross), and her mother got flustered and hurriedly told her daughter, "Some people believe in God, and some people don’t believe in God." Her mother was my friend, and I did not want to go where her mother did not want me to take her daughter.

So here I was, gazing at this little face that wanted to know about Jesus.

She broke my reverie, "Somebody at school told me a story about Jesus. Does Jesus love people even if they don’t go to church?"

I found a safe answer at last, "Jesus loves everybody."

My response encouraged her to ask more questions: How high was the cross? Was it as high as the ceiling? Did it hurt to have nails in your hands? Who killed Jesus and why?

I answered all of her questions as best as I could. She then asked me, "Is Jesus gone like my grandpa?"

I put my hand on her chest and said, "He is in your heart, like He is in my heart."

She looked up at me with her innocent 6-year-old eyes and said simply, "I love Him. I love Jesus."

I had not had a more beautiful conversation. I had not been more touched. I thanked God for His kindness to allow me to witness the exchange between Him and this little girl. A little girl not yet a Christian.