Morning Star

98 degrees. Blue skies. 100 kids, ages 7 -18. What would you do? Well, the youth group at Our Mother of Perpetual Help Parish (TNTT Đức Mẹ Hằng Cứu Giúp) held a cooking competition as part of their summer camp. It's not a new endeavor. It is a Thiếu Nhi tradition to submit their members to the grueling task of cooking on charcoal and without their moms. This year, they were provided fresh bass. Scales and all. I wondered what sort of lunch we were going to have. "Nước mắm... nước mắm!" came a loud cry. Fish sauce?!!? The youth leaders and I chuckled. No matter how Americanized these youth are... they know it is the authentic fish sauce that makes the food. A recent Top Chef winner was Vietnamese and not shy about using fish sauce. I caught two little girls cleaning fish. I was mesmerized. They had lime green kerchiefs on, placing them no older than 10. Yet, they were handling their fish with the ease of virtuosos. Kady commanded three pots. Sauteed beef, egg omelets, and

I walked up and down the aisles, making eye contact with the students. It was 7:20am in the morning and they have been dropped off early by parents who need to get to work. My job was to keep them in their seats and at a reasonable conversation volume. Everyone warned me about "Ashley." She is four. Twenty seconds after arrival and her mom's goodbye kiss, "Ashley" was crawling on the ground. After two firm reminders, "Ashley" was trying to share a hug with an unreluctant friend. A teacher's eye told me Ashley wanted attention, not consequences. "Ashley, I have a secret to share with you!" I whispered. Her eyes opened wide in amazement. "I do want to let you see it... but you have to promise that you stay in your chair and keep your hands and feet to yourself." It was a deal. I handed her my rosary bag, a lavender crochet pouch of 2 by 3 inches. She was more than willing to take care of my rosary also. I decided otherwise.

"A little gift for the road," Father Anthony said, waving an envelope in my direction as we stepped out of the church. He had given Trúc and me a warm welcome during Mass. "Sister, perhaps you may want to stay and help with our religious education program?" Father Anthony's musical Indian accent was catching. The Wednesday morning crowd of 10 murmured delight. Our Mother of Sorrows church in Burnet was gorgeous. A regal statue of Our Lady stood before the altar. Light blue hydrangeas framed her side. We were on silent retreat. I guessed that Father would want to speak to us after Mass. I did not see foresee he would give us "something for the road." "No, Father... you shouldn't" I exclaimed, trying to hand the envelope back. "No... no... it is not much... a little something for you when you drive back..." he continued. "Like coffee..." We didn't talk too long. He knew we were on retreat. I knew we were ambushed. B

The first time I saw a crawfish, it was with my dad. I always tagged along on his fishing trips. He was a different kind of man as he stood at the Sacramento River's bank, patient and serene. I like the feel of a fishing rod in my hands, but I could not stand putting a worm through the hook. So, my dad taught me to crawfish. A piece of chicken fat dangled on a slender tree branch. Small red pincers emerged from the crevices. Holding steady, I would be able to catch 3 or 4 to take home as my prized bounty. For a seven-year-old, the crawfish was a magnificent mini-lobster. Moving to Irving was moving closer to crawfish country. No one catches crawfish singly and crawfish is eaten in 5lb trays. However, it is at St. Peter's that this little cousin of the lobster (on the evolutionary tree) wields its power. Over 3000 pounds are bought for the Crawfish Festival. Crews work into the dawn to wash the crustaceans and boil it to perfection in orange juice and butter. Lanterns

Wildflowers lined both sides of Highway 35S. Radiant yellows, burnished oranges, and ethereal lavenders. The sun smiled gently. Abruptly, raindrops splattered the windshield. The sun and rain continued together for a few moments. A few years ago, we were heading back to Springfield, our congregation’s US headquarters. Imposing limestone cliffs bordered Highway 44. It was a hot dry Missouri summer day and I had my sunglasses on to deflect the glare from the road. Suddenly, a thunderstorm poured buckets of water. Cars slowed to 20 mph. Some pulled over into the shoulder. I wondered if I should do the same. It would be much better if I could see, I grumbled. Minutes passed. 18-wheelers splashed water on our little Metro. Sr. Marguerite said we should wait to the side. The sun peeked through. The gray clouds disappeared from the horizon and a sparkling countryside emerged. “Sister!!! I had my sunglasses on…No wonder I couldn’t see!!!”

"Ms. Tran, you're fat!" My mouth slightly dropped. Mark roared in laughter appreciatively. "Ms. Tran, you're p.h.a.t... not fat... like p retty h ot a nd t empting!" I joined the students' laughter. As their student teacher, I knew they would enjoy this little conversation for the rest of the year. I was at Hogan High, a charter school in Kansas City. This was why the students called me "Ms. Tran" and not "Sr. Janine." I was suppose to be at Archbishop O'Hara Catholic but there was a mix-up in paperwork. One of the best mix-ups. I was the third Asian face in a sea of ebony, dark brown, and light brown. The students didn't know what to make of an Asian, much less a nun. By the third week, Mark knew what to do. I had heard the students yell "phat" at each other between classes and during lunch. At the end of the year, they all yelled "phat" at me when they heard I couldn't return. Sơ Huyền's students

"Little girl, come!" I saw a hand motioned to me and so I followed. A group of little girls held a basket of rose petals. I felt hands lay a similar basket around my neck. We walked right behind Mary. At the pause between every decade of the Rosary, the petals flew high in the air and shimmered in the evening light. I was mesmerized. My seven-year-old mind wondered at the extravagance of roses strewn profusely. I stood proudly in the last row, my height reserving me the last spot. American Catholics have their May Crowning. Hispanic Catholics have their Our Lady of Guadalupe dancing procession. Vietnamese Catholics have our Dâng Hoa. Sometimes rose petals are strewn. Sometimes a whole dance is choreographed to a Marian hymn. Always the most beautiful blooms are used. It was May 13th. The anniversary of the apparition of Mary at Fatima. A hand motioned to me. My heart beat at a chance of throwing those rose petals high in the air. A voice whispered to that hand. "She'

What do you do if you find six pineapples at your door? Eat one, grow two, give away some, and continue to wonder. It is not the first time food has been left at our door. Shrimp, squash, bánh chưng, giò, doughnuts.... It has all been done before. This time we didn't know the identity of our mystery friend. As we enjoyed its golden sweetness over dinner, Sơ Huyền shared one of her teaching "woes." "One of my students didn't turn in his work!" Why? "Jason said he didn't have his planner. Then he told me his mom said he needed a planner to remind him to check his planner. A planner for a planner! Then what is the point of having a planner in the first place!!!" Does anyone know what happened to Jason's planner? Would anyone let us know who our pineapple Santa Claus is?

I lined up with about 100 others. It was a gray windy day. I wished I had worn a heavier jacket. We began. Hymns, prayers, and pauses floated across the parking lot. The statue stood far away, regal in the float of roses and lilies. A procession in honor of Mary on Mother's Day. It is a beautiful tradition at St. Peter's Church. We shivered in the unusual chill. She bought me a Mother's Day corsage. She wanted to support the youth's fundraiser. Her eyes said, "I'm worried for my grandma because grandpa is in his last days." He held Genevieve, his six-month old daughter. He told me about the stitches on the baby's eyebrow. His eyes said, "I want more children." She checked her iPhone. Lunch was late. Her eyes said, "What kind of place is there for me in the Church?" My eyes are not my own. It is the stories, the dreams, the wonderings persons have imparted to me. "I have looked into your eyes with my eyes. I have put my heart n

"Sweetie, would you run over and call that man over?" I looked at my mom intently if she really meant it. The man was dirty, ragged, and homeless. And obviously American. I did not recall seeing a sandwich ever in my house. We had just arrived in Houston from Vietnam. "Go, go... the man is hungry." I ran. A few moments later, my mom had placed a hot bowl of rice and chayote squash soup in his hands. There was no bits of chicken, ham, or pork in it. We didn't see a lot of meat in those days. Was he blonde? Did he walk with a limp? How old did he look? My child's memory retains the whiteness of the rice grains floating serenely in the vegetable broth, the quiet slurping of a satisfied appetite, and the hands that reached out to each other. Dad was at work and like all our neighbors, we had locks and double-locks on our windows and doors. We played in the streets, always in groups of four or more. I learned generosity in that small bowl of soup. I disco

I loathe to admit it. Four died. Flappy, the only one I named because his tail was a glorious orange and black, was no more. I didn't want to clean the tank because I could not believe that my guppies had thrived for eight months under my care. Then April rolled around and I did not feed them. Days at a time. As I ran water through the aquarium's rocks, I asked Trúc. "Would your sister be offended if I gave her my guppies?" She looked at me surprised. "Why would she be offended?" "Well...it's not like I don't want them. I just can't bear them dying." Trúc smiled. "Mmmm.... I don't know if you want to give it to my family. We don't have much luck with pets." I did remember her telling me of fish, birds, rabbits, and kittens. My face twisted into a grimace. "Ohhhh!!!" In the water filter was a glob of reddish-brown mass. I could make out the outlines of fish heads. My guppies had died, sunk to the

"Do you miss us?" Jack asked. We stopped in front of the surprise red lilies. I smiled slowly. "Yes.... do you miss us?" I answered. "Yes. How have you been?" Jack continued. "Good...good." I looked intently into his eyes. Jack wanted to talk. Not polite greetings. He wanted to really know how Sơ Thủy and I were doing. I was surprised. A month ago, I met Jack and his classmates at a Confirmation retreat. Most of his peers whole-heartedly joined in the singing, sharing, and activities. Jack observed from a distance. He was respectful but did not seem interested. At one point, he asked me (the retreat guide), "Sơ, when do we get to chill?" He was laying on his bunk bed and he was trying to write a letter to his parents. Some other boys were also sprawled out on their beds. They were searching to find words to match their thoughts and feelings. They were struggling to express a relationship that did not seem real. They had Vietname