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'...