Morning Star

The Mekong River lapped quietly at our feet. "This was my house," my mom softly uttered. The plain square building was at the end of a stretch of other plain structures. A five-year-old girl skipped in front of us. "Someone else probably lives here now." It has been 26 years since my mom has returned to Vietnam. She had let me plan the itinerary. We had been to Hạ Long Bay, the old Huế capital, and Nha Trang. Nevertheless, I knew the crux of the trip was here. Here, behind these thinly painted blue cement walls, my mom learned gentleness from her dad. Here, the river ruled the lives of thousands of people who answered President Ngô Đình Diệm's call to develop southwestern Vietnam. Here, one never forgot the essentials as most had only enough food to last three days into the future. She paused to chat with gawking residents. It was rare to see Việt Kiều, Vietnamese who came back as tourists, in Rạch Giá. She turned towards me. "My house has been washed away,

By the time we got home from our retreat, it would be too late to cook dinner. It was time to make a roadkill . We phoned the other car and made the exit. As ten of us milled in front of the counter, choosing between Subway's choice of meats and breads, Sr. Irene came to mind. Her father was dying in Vietnam and she rushed back to be at his side. It was too late. She also missed our sisters' annual retreat. And this outing. Twelve years ago when McDonalds was still a luxury for most Americans, Sr. Irene took us. "May I have a cheeseburger without the cheese?" The cashier looked blankly at Sr. Irene. "I would like a cheeseburger without cheese," Sr. Irene repeated sweetly. "Ma'am... you mean you want a hamburger," the cashier said helplessly. We tried to convince Sr. Irene that she really meant a hamburger. Sr. Irene got her cheeseburger without the cheese. And we learned more about McDonalds. A cheeseburger came with a leaf of lettuce.

“When you get to the Holy Land, you must not skip the Dead Sea,” I told Sơ Thu. Sơ Thu was not at all excited about going. The youngest of 15, she rather spend her two weeks of summer with the dozen-or-more nieces and nephews. Out of duty, she agreed to accompany her sister on a 12-day pilgrimage. “Thu…I know you wouldn’t like climbing into a bathing suit, but you know the sea is over 75% salt. You’ll practically be floating!” I don’t swim well and I remember the exhilaration of being lifted gently up. I could’ve stayed in the sea forever. 10 minutes long. Any more and the salt would strip our skin off. Salt is what keeps bones from breaking through the absorption of calcium. Historically, salt was used as money. Salt was what I tasted as tears cascaded. Memories engulfed me. Years in the convent gave me the art of crying without disturbing my neighboring sisters. We were praying the Rosary. The pain re-lived itself. The saltiness in my mouth kept me from being swept away. I steele

Humans grow when they sleep. Ask a pediatrician. Newborn babies sleep 18-20 hours a day. Teens have to be dragged out of bed. Growth is stunted with sleep deprivation. Nature grows in silence. Watch a sunflower bloom. Did you hear the stars come out? The fruit of silence is prayer. The fruit of prayer is faith. The fruit of faith is love. The fruit of love is service. The fruit of service is peace. “A Simple Path” by Mother Teresa

Mystery. A problem is to be solved. A mystery is to be discovered. After an hour-long exposition on the Cross of Jesus as mystery, Father Nguyễn Khắc Hy sincerely remarked, “How did I do? Was I clear in my presentation? Too slow or too fast?” Being an Asian group of women, the sisters sat silent. It was our annual retreat and Fr. Hy, a renowned theologian and university professor, was invited to give our reflections. Father asked again, “Please tell me frankly. I don’t want to make the same mistake for the next 11 talks. Did you understand my points?” “Father, we accept you as a mystery,” Sr. Eileen Phượng piped up helpfully. Laughter erupted. It was a classic Sr. Eileen remark. “What I mean,” Sr. Eileen continued as she realized the full portent of her statement, “that we know the Holy Spirit guides our hearts in a retreat. It is mysterious how God uses the words of the retreat master to tell us what we need to hear.” To Fr. Hy’s credit and humility, he smiled good-n

We were at the top floor of the Austin capitol. A spiral staircase appeared. We were not the only tourists hypnotized. In Santa Fe, a staircase "confounds architects, engineers and master craftsmen. It makes over two complete 360-degree turns, stands 20’ tall and has no center support. It rests solely on its base and against the choir loft. The risers of the 33 steps are all of the same height. Made of an apparently extinct wood species, it was constructed with only square wooden pegs without glue or nails." Legend says St. Joseph built it. I once climbed a staircase when someone called my name. I turned. Our eyes met. We did not meet again until three years later. In six months, we were inseparable. Stairs lead somewhere. Sometimes to heights. Sometimes to depths. In every heart, there are stairs. I am lucky that more than one person has found mine. ps1. Austin capi

"Are you a Jesus woman?" His sky-blue eyes looked at me expectantly. "Why... I guess you may say so," I stammered hesitantly. "I like Jesus people," he continued as his left hand tapped his chest. Thick gauze bandages peeked out from his shirt. His question slightly unsettled me. "I'm glad you're out... so people can see you. We need to see you." I glanced at the sign to his apartment. Mr. Williams Gettys. He scooted his wheelchair closer to me. A nurse brought him a Blue Bunny ice cream carton. "This is a nice place... they give us ice cream and everything." I settled into the doorway. I frequently visit the Avante Rehabilitation and Nursing Home Center. It was rare to meet lucid residents. "You're a nun?" I nodded. "I'm a Baptist... I use to know a Catholic fella... I learned a lot about the Eucharist." "Are you sure you're a Baptist?" I kidded him. He smiled. Baptists are obnoxiously