I grew up with what I called a wannabe “white savior complex,” also known as, “model minority.” My parents were saved by missionaries during the Khmer Rouge. I grew up seeing missionaries as my heroes and decided at the age of18, I would do such. My naïve pride expected me to teach the little Cambodian children English and guide them to Christ. I didn’t realize the injustice I was perpetuating by repeating the message I was taught that “Look at me! God brought me here to bring you salvation and you need to prevent your sins from my teaching.” Halfway through that “mission” trip, I ended up mistaking my homesickness by looking down at the others.

They identified with Jesus, because Jesus identified with them. Whipped, flogged, slapped in the face, crucified, hung.

I am planting a thousand seeds in my garden/Rows and rows of plants incubating and burrowing their roots deep intoBrooklyn soil as the winter chill wanes into an April spring

Wherever I sit, whatever I eat, whatever I do with my hands this day, may I become more aware of my own limitations and the expansiveness of God’s power.