What is my purpose?
That question kept echoing relentlessly inside me.
My mom and dad’s purpose was to have a successful life—as measured by what we had materially—and then in seeing us succeed. But once they had the dream, it didn’t seem fulfilling. Then everything fell apart.
Something inside me began to quake. Thoughts and questions along with anger and regret about my parents’ divorce surfaced once again. For a moment I saw the fallacy of the life I had tried to create for myself. I had built walls to protect my fragile sense of identity while trying to be in the same room as the cool kids. But I had lost something so precious to my younger self: my curiosity, my wonder, and the ability to be okay with mystery. As a young child, I explored the world with an openness and positive expectancy. But now I found myself focused on proving to others that I was some force to be reckoned with. My vision of the world became small, inward, and myopic.
An invitation was given to the audience to give your life to God. Even though I had heard these invitations hundreds of times in church and at the academy, this time seemed different. Why would this walk up the aisle be different? Where before there was fear associated with the invitation, this time it was more about me seeking a reality.
Is God really real?
I knew that if God was as powerful as others said, then my guess was I could use the help. And if He is that powerful, why wouldn’t I surrender everything to Him, especially if He is for me and not against me? I felt I had nothing to lose to give God one more shot.
That first step from the back row into the main aisle was the hardest. It seemed like a boulder was anchored to my right foot. As I made my way to the front, I could see the heads turning and the faces staring in disbelief that the rebellious kid was coming to Jesus. Even Pastor Bunt appeared shocked, his eyes wide open in disbelief, as I was walking toward him. By the time I reached him, he could see I was unusually sober and serious. He grabbed my hand and shook it, bringing me closer to him and bending his head toward my ear.
“Why are you coming forward?” he asked while someone was playing the piano in the background.
I thought of my fourth grade friend and how it seemed like he had a real purpose in his life.
“Listen, if God can become real to me like He is to Matthew Henry, I’ll do anything.”
Pastor Dave appeared surprised that I had mentioned Matthew as someone I respected.
This camp had been a reminder to me that there was something unique about Matthew. The weird guy, the contrarian, the misfit. By now I had trouble seeing anybody as authentic, but Matthew was the real deal. He had the courage to be himself.
With a smile and a surprised expression on his face, Pastor Dave added, “Well, you need to read the Bible. That’s how God speaks to us today. Would you like someone to help you?”
I shook my head. “No. If God’s real, He doesn’t need anyone’s help.”
I wasn’t trying to challenge God; it was more that my heart was curious.
If God is real, then this will be nothing for Him.
In the morning, I woke up feeling the same way I had the night before. Wanting to escape from everyone else, I walked outside the main campgrounds into a wide-open field where the tall grass had turned mostly golden brown. The fresh smell of pine and aspen filled my senses. I sneezed a couple times because I was allergic to the evergreen pollen floating in the air. All around the slightly sloped landscape stood trees soaring to the skies. Nearby, the majestic Rocky Mountains encircled me. The blue sky was dotted with clouds. In the middle of the field sat a massive granite rock that seemed to be calling my name. So I went over and sat on it and looked up to the heavens.
“God, if you’re real, I need you to connect to me today. Otherwise, I’m chucking this Christianity thing.” It sounded a bit disrespectful but I was earnest in my request.
As I opened up the Bible, I read words I had heard before but never fully understood. For years I had listened to preachers who appeared like they had all the answers, yet I sat there before God still full of questions. Full of pain. Full of doubt.
How could I know Him, and know that I know Him?
How could I be sure that He’s real?
How could this connection—this experience and relationship—be authentic and true, like any other relationship?
That was what I longed to know the most. I was searching for love again. The parents I thought were in love weren’t anymore. And at the same time, the loveless life of my mom was destroying her.
That day, on that rock in Telluride, I felt a presence of the supernatural. Some would call it an energy. A life force. A higher power. A Spirit. It was God to me. Jesus.
I must have stayed there a few hours. It seemed like minutes. But every one of my questions that I had were answered. I didn’t know exactly what my future would look like, but I felt someone would be there to hold me. I felt I was given a promise. That there would be one that would never leave me. He would be my Guide. He would be my Father in any way I needed. He was inviting me to an adventure. He wanted to show me what I thought I’d lost and more. He wanted to take me beyond the small world I was living in.
That day I felt like God met me. He promised He would be a Father to the fatherless. I would need this understanding for what was coming. I felt like a child again with my eyes wide open.
CHAPTER ELEVEN Twenty-Five Seconds
Neuroscientists say in twenty-five seconds of concentrated meditation you can create a new neuropathway, a highway that your neurons track, a new way of thinking. We all have narratives that form a mind-set or a pattern of thinking. This mind-set moves us toward how we choose to live. At the start of my senior year, I decided to adopt a new mind-set. Is it possible that I can do anything with God’s help? I started to believe that I could.
Things had changed for me after going to camp. I had changed. Mom noticed this as well. I would learn later in life that after my Telluride experience, unbeknownst to me, Mom called her best friend to talk about me:
“Okcha, something happened to my son, Dabid. He’s different. He listens to me now. He bought me flowers. He’s a good boy. Something happened to him. He’s changed.”
Despite the changes, my aspiration was still to play football at the public high school with the ambitious hope of earning a college scholarship. After enduring the hellish, two-a-day summer practices in 100 degree temperatures, I had survived to make the first string team. Those aspirations changed after a practice when the coaches called me into the football office near the locker rooms. As I sat inside the spartan office, I noticed the family photos in their frames on the desk, then I saw a picture of our coach from his college football days.
“Sit down, Dave,” the head coach said.
Concern was etched on his face. The head coach was clean-cut and had an athletic build and was a graduate from BYU (Brigham Young University). His face was gentle, and he had a ruddy complexion. He resembled many of the football players who I found were the meanest, baddest guys on the field, yet were completely the opposite off it. Gentle, kind, and artistic. Next to our head coach stood Coach Zimmerman, the heir apparent. Coach Zimmerman was the one who had spent the most time guiding me to be the best I could be. He wore round wired spectacles that highlighted his bright observant eyes. Everybody knew he was an assistant coach on the rise—energetic, eyes lit, hustling, constantly pumping us up if we did something right, and getting on us if we didn’t.
The head coach smiled at me and went straight to the point. Zimmerman nervously rubbed his chin, looking at me, knowing the news was not going to be good. He knew what was coming.
“Dave, I’m sorry but the Arizona Interscholastic Association declared you ineligible to play this year. I’m really sorry. Our hands are tied. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
He was right. Because local high schools had been recruiting other players from other high schools, the state had recently ruled that transfer students couldn’t play for their first year at the new school. This was meant to curtail the transferring of star athletes, which they considered unfair. My dad was irritated and thought it was “ridiculous.” We filed a challenge to the Arizona Interscholastic Association, but ultimately lost the appeal for me to play in this crucial year when college scouts came to watch.
Even though my dad hadn’t shown up for many of my activities after my parents’ separation, he made it out to the appeal hearing. It was something I didn’t expect him to be so persistent about. I saw his disgust and disappointment after he heard the verdict. I knew my dad appreciated sports. It was probably a long shot, but maybe he had that glimmer of hope that Doug or I could go pro someday. I was dreaming my football accomplishments would make him proud of me. If I got a college scholarship, I might potentially have a shot at the NFL. But now that option was gone, too. There didn’t seem much common ground my dad and I could build upon. Regardless, it felt good to have my dad fight for me. I didn’t say much to him about his efforts but his determined engagement in this process felt good. This was the dad I remembered from before the day my mom locked herself up in the car.
I took this closed door as a sign for me to go back to the City Academy to focus on God. If I was meant to be the first Asian player in the NFL, it would have happened. I had conviction that if I couldn’t control it, then I would accept it for the good. Things would turn out better somehow. Instead of being overly dark and negative, I chose to be hopeful. I had this feeling that winter could be long, but spring could come in one day. It must have been the genetic optimism my mom had possessed no matter what hardship she was facing. It was about managing mystery, perhaps even embracing it.
