I got up from my chair and walked over to the window overlooking down to the streets several levels below. Leaning against the glass, I combed the darkening night for anything of interest. That’s when I heard a chuckle behind me and could overhear someone telling the receptionist, “They must be going crazy, with that video on an infinite loop all day.”

“Want to watch some TV?”

The last remark sounded like it was directed to me. I looked behind me to see the man in charge of the LASIK office’s finances giving me a smirk. I gave a nod and replied, “Sure.”

I was led into the second waiting room towards the mid-section of the LASIK office, invisibly slapping myself and wondered why I hadn’t thought of this sooner. Well, in all fairness, I thought, I had no clue my wait time would amount to nearly three hours. Subjecting patients to this waiting game can’t be too good for their nerves.

Seconds later, with the remote control to the television in my hand, I was surfing through the channels, ecstatic I had been freed from the shackles of brainwashing. A couple of the other patients who had also been waiting settled into various seats in the second room around me. As the unofficially designated TV channel-setter, I decided SportsCenter may not have been of much interest to all our gathered viewers (there were 5 of us including myself) and so I settled on There’s Something About Mary. ‘Lo and behold, I had just flipped to the channel when the funniest scene of the movie flashed on the telly and Ben Stiller’s character was frantically searching the bathroom just after he had “cleaned the pipes” /  ”choked the chicken” / “spanked the monkey” before the big date. The guy sitting to my left and I unsuccessfully stifled our laughs as Mary reached for the “hair gel” dangling off his earlobe. In retrospect, I’ve concluded that watching this particular movie scene has to be one of the most effective ways to break any level of tension amongst a group.

Before I knew it, my name was being called and my turn was up. I left the remote control in plain view in the middle of my seat, telepathically sending everyone in the room behind me a message: “First one to grab it gets to change the channel!!”

As I was led to the operating room the surgeon’s assistant began chatting away, informing me the operation was to take place in two separate parts in two different rooms. She specifically mentioned the second room was kept at a very cold temperature due to the equipment. I wasn’t paying much attention to her, as I stared at the empty chair in front of me, focusing in on the sharp realization of what I was about to do.

“You’ve taken the Valium, right?” she interrupted my train of thought with her first question.

“Actually, I haven’t been offered any,” I responded.

She paused to look at me for a second. “Do you want it?”

Before I can answer she prompted, “You don’t look you need it. You look calm.”

She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head as if to say, “Am I right or am I right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I wasn’t going to take it anyway.”

(Call it strange but when I was told that around 90% of their patients take Valium before the operation in order to quell their anxiety, something within me wanted to face my surgery completely drug-free, alert and aware of what was happening to me. I almost viewed it as an uncalled-for challenge. To proudly go where 90% of this LASIK’s center’s patients had never gone before.)

Plus, I’ve always felt extremely at ease in hospitals, dentist’s offices, and doctor’s offices. Not sure if this is a good thing.

It was go time. I positioned myself in the chair and politely declined the small teddy bear they offered for me to hold. No valium. No teddy bear. The girl offered twice again, took a closer look at my reaction, then shrugged it off. My eyes were propped open with a hand-sized tool that prevented me from blinking even if I tried (though allowing me to feel the sensation that I was). Not as unnerving as I thought it would be. I was then doused with a good heaping of numbing drops, for local anesthetic. This was administered twice in several large doses, spaced about a half-minute apart. They flooded my eyes but they felt like natural tears and were cool, almost refreshing.

Within minutes, the eyeball-cutting-machine descended onto my left eye and I was told I would feel “some pressure”. This was true. An incision was made in my outer cornea in first my left eye, and then my right. I don’t know how this apparatus was able to do this without blood spurting everywhere. It just did. It was slightly nerve-wracking (nothing that left me uncontrollably dry heaving in my seat). It’s just that you’re not exactly aware of how much you’re in control at this point. If I accidentally sneeze could I possibly puncture myself in the eye? What if on my 10th attempt to blink the tool loosens and all of a sudden an incision is being made on my skin? Fortunately, the questions fade as quickly as they rise. The first part of the procedure took all of five minutes.

“We’re now going to head into the other room. You can get up now, slowly.”

Are you serious? You’re not going to wheel me in there?

I uneasily got up from my chair and stood straight. My eyelids felt half shut and I had the sensation that a hair was stuck in both my eyes, or a contact lens was threatening to fall off. It wasn’t painful, but it was discomforting. Everything looked like as if I were looking through a steamed window, or a thick cloud of mist. I was told to expect this.

The assistant asked if I was okay and asked me to place my hands on her shoulders to lead her into the second room. I considered it for about two seconds, and though slightly disoriented, I told myself, I can take the six paces by myself to walk into the other room through that open door.

She stood at attention, her back facing me.

“That’s okay,” I said.

Her head whirled around. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay then. Right this way.”

I carefully walked into the second room. Successfully. I am officially the man.

I laid down in the second chair, and no joke, this room was setup like a walk-in refrigerator. I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire staff kept their lunches in here. I started to shiver and did not hesitate to accept her offer this time, a dark blue blanket. I was also welcomed by a second teddy bear, this one twice the size of the previous one. At her pressing, I accepted the bear without putting up much of a fight and lay still. I found it soft and huggable, and began to question whether it was a mistake to have neglected the first teddy bear.

Again, there was no time for such musings, as things were proceeding rapidly. The eye surgeon entered the room and stationed himself behind my head. He began by using two long, thin hand-held tools and goes to work on my left eye. In my mind, I reminded myself he was a trained and highly qualified professional who had performed this thousands of times throughout his career. I convinced myself that this man could open eye flaps in his sleep. From my vantage point, he was stroking my eyeball with what looked like two giant sharp forceps. It was exciting. I felt like Woody in Toy Story 2, having his eyeballs polished by a toy repairer and being restored to original, pristine condition.

After a few minutes, a second instrument descended over my left eye. What followed was perhaps the most interesting part of the entire process: the actual LASER. It emitted a noise that sounded more mechanical than what most of us would imagine a traditional laser sound (pew! pew! pew!) would make. It sounded like a series of very loud and rapid snaps, almost as fast as a machine-gun. This was in conjunction with a rapidly flashing white light in the shape of a ring.

If you’ve ever seen the horror flick The Ring, you’ll recall that the actual ring of light represents the perspective of the girl looking up from the bottom of a well she was pushed down into, watching as a halo of sunlight is created as the top was sealed shut. This laser looked exactly like that. I wouldn’t be surprised if half of all LASIK patients feel the way that little girl did, looking up helplessly, stricken with fear.

I was told to focus on keeping my eye as still as possible. This was harder than I had anticipated but I did my best, even as the scent of burning eye-flesh entered my nose. Fortunately, I had read up on other patients’ experiences and was expecting this. It was very faint and it only lasted for a few seconds. (I predicted it would smell similar to burning hair but it was nowhere near as putrid). And as I continued to focus on looking straight into the rapidly flashing laser, I began to see weird blotches of colors. Colored spots began shooting everywhere, as if I were experiencing a psychedelic break-down. I wondered if this is what people see after they ingest shrooms. It was very strange, and difficult to put into words.

“This is really weird. This is really… cool,” I blurted out during a short pause.

The last few minutes spent on my left eye involved the ophthalmologist going back to work with his tools. Back and forth he went, as I presumed he was slowly closing the flap that had been created on the cornea, ensuring it folded back properly and in good position to heal successfully without any complications. None of this hurt or brought pain in the slightest.

Every minute or so he would murmur, “very good” or “just like that” or “you’re doing great”. Hearing these words felt like getting injected with shots of confidence. It was all I could do to prevent from shouting, “No, YOU’RE doing a great job!” I was at the complete mercy of a person who could have permanently blinded one of my eyes with a twitch. So anytime he said anything that wasn’t an “uh-oh” or a “hmm” made me want to weep for joy. And this is probably one of the very few situations where crying about it would actually help, since my eyes were drying out.

After the same process was repeated with my right eye, the surgery was essentially complete. I was led outside of the room and rested on one of their leather chairs for their post-op patients towards the rear of the office. The ophthalmologist’s assistant sat next to me and we exchanged conversation for the next 15 minutes, or long enough for me to question whether they treat each patient this kindly. It began with her explaining to me the usual do’s and don’ts following LASIK surgery. I nodded along and sat there resting, keeping my eyes closed and occasionally opening them to see how my vision was. I threw a couple questions at her and felt satisfied with her answers.

If you ever decide to undergo LASIK treatment, a word of caution: for a few seconds immediately following surgery, you’ll experience a “omg it went terribly wrong” feeling in the pit of your stomach because you’ll look around and everything will be blurry as hell. You will also literally feel as if your eyes have been cut or scratched, like someone tried to stitch an open wound on the surface of your eyes. But it’s entirely normal (and temporary). Also, you’re immediately given protective plastic cups to place over your eyes (to prevent you from rubbing your precious eyes while they heal) and sunglasses (because you’ll be very sensitive to light). So I was gingerly looking around while in my chair with a gnawing sense of concern but didn’t realize until later just how much the plastic goggles + sunglasses were limiting my vision, in addition to the fact that the healing process hadn’t taken effect yet.

Our topic of conversation moved onwards toward random things, including the finance guy and how he came off as a giant douche. After a while, one of the LASIK center workers walked past the open room and gave us a weird glance.

She giggled, “They probably think we’re flirting back here.”

I feign amusement, eyes still closed. “Mmph… yeah, probably.”

“It just feels so good to sit here, y’know? I’ve been working all day. Sometimes… I need a break.”

“How long have you been working here?”

“Almost 10 years.”

I mentally blink. “So… how old are you? Like… in your late 20′s… er…”

“I’m 36.”

“Oh.” Time to wrap it up.

I left the office in a cab. I couldn’t wait until I had my vision back.

Running low on hydration after the last time I played basketball, I jogged on over to the closest grocery store to stock up on Vitamin Waters and Powerade. Figuring it was a convenient time to pick up various other groceries I made my way methodically through the aisles, until I found myself eyeing the meats in the refrigerated section at the rear of the store. Meanwhile, I’m sniff sniffing away since I just ran several blocks.

As I’m walking away I hear a woman’s voice grumble under her breath, “Better not be sniffing around me again.”

For an instant I flashback to 7th grade Geometry Honors class and vividly recall the day my math teacher gives me the evil eye during an exam after I had sniffed a few times. She proceeded to loudly walk up to my desk, drop a box of tissues in front of my face and told me to blow. I was sitting in the front row. I was not fond of this lady, but my feelings were nothing compared to the wrath this lady clearly harbored against my runny nose. I think she would have socked me in the nose if she legally could, the way her eyeballs bulged out of her sockets when I simply began sniffing again minutes after using the tissues she offered.

The lady by the meat section in the grocery store continued her grumbling as I took a few steps away. My eyebrows furrowed and I did a 180 and walked back to where I was standing.

“Do you have a problem? With my sniffing?” My tone is loud. Blunt.

The lady’s eyes widen and her head slowly looks in my direction.

“Yeah. Yeah I have a problem with you sniffing right next to me!”

We exchange a couple more remarks, don’t exactly remember what was said, but I remember walking away amazed that my geometry teacher was not the only person of this world whom could be driven mad by a few sniffles.

Being the small supermarket that it is, I again crossed paths with her a few minutes later. A corner aisle away, I heard her yapping away about my sniff to someone (whom I later found out to be her teenage daughter). That’s when I started to make out some the words.

“…that’s a racist sniff. That’s a racist sniff if I’ve ever heard one…”
“…how’s he gonna do that right in front of me? stupid…”

I may have neglected to mention that this woman was black.

So the gears finally clicked in my head and I understood what the issue was. But I was still irked at the way she was still going off about it, acting like a raging bitch. I rounded the corner and incredulously asked her if she seriously believed I was being racist by sniffing at her presence. Back and forth we went until I made it pretty clear I didn’t even know she was standing next to me and obviously oblivious to her race at the time. Her daughter started pleading to her mom to stop, in a roll-the-eyes exasperated kind of way. Perhaps this was one of many outbursts she’s had to deal with, or maybe she knew it was highly doubtful I was trying to insult her mom.

“OK. There. You explained the situation. I take it back. Let it go,” the lady finally snapped.
Hmm, I can live with that, I thought and walked away.

Up until that point I had absolutely no idea a sniff could be interpreted even remotely as a racist act. It intrigued me to no end as I later left the grocery store. Is a sniff a modified version of a scowl, or a snort? A displeased grunt? Or do sniffs set off some form of body odor insecurity?

And then there’s the stereotype that Koreans and African-Americans don’t get along. Maybe she wouldn’t have reacted the same way if I was a ginger? Whatever the case may be, I don’t intend on sniffing any less than I do now, but if any dark-skinned individuals give me a look after I do, now I’ll at least know why.

Lebron James had the potential to be one of the all-time greats. Magic. Russell. Bird. Kobe. Jordan. It was conceivable that one day, after Lebron had hung his jersey up once and for all, that the world wouldn’t hesitate to include him amongst these few, these basketball elite. After all, Jordan hadn’t won a single championship at age 25, the same age Lebron decided to commit the worst publicity stunt in the history of sports. There was still a very real chance that once the Cavaliers plugged in a few missing pieces, this team could come off two consecutive seasons of posting the NBA’s best record and have gone off for serious title runs. But the chances of this happening for Cleveland anytime soon is no greater than the probability that Lebron isn’t booed in the Quickens Arena later this year.

It was estimated that 10 million viewers would tune in to The Decision on ESPN. I wouldn’t be surprised if the effects of this disaster reached the ears and eyes of over triple that amount, with the Twitter and Facebook world immediately regurgitating from the shock, and the blogging and media world reverberating from the news. In one fell swoop, Lebron transformed into the most hated figure in the NBA, and no longer was deemed categorized under the most revered, ultimate basketball player in the league today.

We all knew that Lebron was setting himself up for a lose-lose situation. To have the nerve to announce his decision would be televised in a one-hour promotional event pretty much concludes the 25-year-old man-or-kid theory. Only a kid with a ragtag entourage of childhood buddies and ill-advised members would think that they could twist this first-of-its-kind sports television moment into a charity case and everyone would nod their heads in understanding. In announcing his decision, Lebron would be instantly alienating four major cities of the market for raising their hopes and keeping entire management teams completely in the dark. He altered the free-agent summer market of 2010 in no way any other star could, and only a handful of people in the world could be happy about that (Joe Johnson and Rudy Gay, to name a few).

You see, we all knew that this wasn’t going to be pretty. For many of us though, we weren’t picturing the aftermath. Personally, I was envisioning the sheer joy and excitement at the possibility that he was going to say, “This fall, I’ll be bringing my talents to the mecca of basketball… and play for the New York Knicks.” And watching the limited crowd in that Boys & Girls club erupt with passion and applause. It made sense… that’s how it was going to happen… in my eyes. Despite all of the leaked news from sources unnamed, with the words Miami being thrown out all day and through the mouths of the ESPN analysts just prior to the show, I just couldn’t bring myself to believe that he would pull such a cop-out move. I really thought he was going to say Cleveland, Chicago, or New York. I really did.

So why all the backlash? The burning of the jersey? The Letter from Dan Gilbert? The sheer rage being expressed by fans of the league all over the world as evident in Simmon’s latest column? Are we overreacting?

No. It was the culmination of it all. Let’s look at the facts:

Fact: Cleveland fans were in love with their hometown hero. They would unquestionably support Lebron and the Cavs through the good, the bad and the ugly. Cleveland is widely considered to be one of the unluckiest sports cities in the nation, home to many heartbreaking moments in many different sports. Cleveland’s last sports championship was in 1964 when the Cleveland Browns won the Super Bowl.

Fact: Lebron James looked like a shell of his former self in his final series of the NBA Playoffs in 2010. He was often caught with a glazed, disinterested look in his eyes on the court. He did not attempt to take control of the game in its waning moments. After the Cavaliers were ousted in the playoffs, Lebron walked off to the locker room and emphatically took off his Cleveland Cavaliers jersey, obviously very privy to the cameraman filming every step in front of him.

Fact: Lebron became very good friends with fellow Beijing Olympic USA Teammates Chris Paul, Dwayne Wade, and Chris Bosh. They did bring up the idea of all playing together during their journey to the gold medal in 2008.

Fact: Lebron met with no less than six franchise management teams (Nets, Knicks, Cavaliers, Clippers, Bulls, and Heat) in downtown Cleveland and had each of their executive offices pitch him why he should join their team. Up until recently, most teams were expecting him to go on a “tour”, and had to rapidly adjust to his plans by coordinating a trip and a pitch to the Cleveland office.

Fact: Just two days prior to the event, Lebron announces he will make his decision in a live television special on ESPN in Greenwich, Connecticut.

Fact: Words that came out of Lebron’s mouth during The Decision. “I know how loyal I am.” “The last time I changed my mind, was probably in my dreams. (laughs) and when I woke up this morning I knew it was the right decision.” Lebron also referred to himself in the third person no less than nine times during the special.

This has truly cemented James’ legacy. He will not be remembered as the second coming of Oscar Robertson or Magic Johnson. He will go down as the greatest villain in the history of the sport. The Darth Vader of the NBA. The greatest competitors know the journey is just as important as the outcome. “It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great”, as noted by Jimmy Dugan. If you want to be respected you don’t sport the best record in the NBA for two years when you’re only 25-years-old and throw in the towel, deciding to join the competition rather than battle them. And if you don’t want to be considered a LeBenedict Arnold, you do NOT go about letting the hometown residents who adore you discover their hearts are being stomped on live television. What Lebron should have done is informed the team early on in the summer, go on about making his decision without cock teasing franchises who probably had zero chances of landing him (Clippers), and release a press statement.

Quoting Lebron: “Well I think championships are championships. You can’t look at it as saying well if I did it somewhere else, it would have been sweeter … when you get to that point and you win a championship you can’t say, ‘Wow I wish I woulda did it somewhere else’ that makes no sense because you put a lot of hard work into it, to get to that point.”

A championship is not a championship. Does anyone question the two championships on Adam Morrison’s plate?

Let’s also get one thing straight. The person who has the most to gain from all of this is Dwayne Wade. From his perspective, he has the opportunity to play with a two-time MVP and an All-Star PF, both of his close friends in their prime. That is awesome. From a basketball perspective, he retains his title as the captain of the Miami Heat. It IS his town, and he will always have one more ring than Lebron. He will be considered the Jordan to Lebron’s Pippen. He is just as much of a mastermind for having coordinated this collaboration (along with Pat Riley). Wade may be “inviting” the other two into his arena, but he is inviting them as sidekicks. Lebron is a clearly a mama’s boy looking to follow, not to lead.

Isaiah 52:13 – 53:12

This scripture consists of five points.

1) Understanding the mixture. That Christ was many things, one of which was succumbing to such extremes of human punishment and torture that left his physical state in a disfigured, almost alien-like condition. Emphasis on the extremity of the word “appalled”. He withstood this cruelty by choice, and the degree to which the pain and hatred would be inflicted was certainly foreshadowed in this Old Testament book.

2) Accepting the ordinary. Often, we want God to change us in a dramatic fashion. We want instantaneous results. We expect to undergo an overnight conversion, instant gratification, or hear a voice from above. Rather, just as there was nothing distinctly beautiful or majestic about Christ’s form on Earth, we should not come to expect such rapid healing. “He grew up before him like a tender shoot, and like a root out of dry ground. He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.”

3) Comprehending the magnitude of His love. As you know, death is a certainty among all of us. All life on Earth comes to an end. Christ, however, actively chose this path as it was God’s decision for Him to be “crushed for our iniquities“. This decision was made out of deep love.

4) This passage, apparently, highlights the meaning of the crucifixion better than any other chapter in the bible. And it is certainly an act of great injustice. “He was assigned a grave with the wicked, and with the rich in his death, though he had done no violence, nor was any deceit in his mouth.” All real love is substitutionary sacrifice. Parents would understand this best, as they choose between personal freedom and the wellbeing and future of their children. Yet, by letting their freedom go they come to gain a greater freedom in return.

5) Though the keyword of this fifth point escapes me (it may have very well been included in one of my earlier bullets), there is one interesting comparison that was conveyed, reaching back to the classic tale of the beauty and the beast. The beautiful woman, in this tale, comes to love the beast and kisses him, thus transforming the hideous beast into the handsome prince/king that he was. Well, Christ does this one better. Jesus chooses to become a beast… to turn us into beautiful people. He is beaten to a pulp and crucified like a mangled beast, saving us through his grace and love. Our sins were forgiven in this most beautiful act, and “the arm of the Lord been revealed.” I thought that was an interesting twist perspective on an old fairy tale.

Currently reading An Ocean of Air by Gabrielle Walker.

So my mind begins to wander at just how a well-oiled, burgeoning Christian church community should ideally respond to such a departure. I’ve seen the grand exit, where the head pastor addresses the entire congregation following the conclusion of his sermon, asking us to congratulate so-and-so who will be leaving us and providing thanks for their services. A humorous anecdote or inside joke is thrown in for good measure. Prayer neatly wraps up the clean departure.

Of course if this happened for every person to step foot inside the halls of the Lord’s house then announcement time would be reduced to a continuous stream of awkward farewells and who am I praying for? do I know that person well enough to hug them goodbye? inner monologues. The pastor of this church continually paints a picture of it as ”a plant” whose seeds have just been planted and begun to blossom in what he never fails to remind us as “the greatest city in the world”. So I guess it’s expected for a number of heads to come and go during its infant stages. I suppose the impact of Ted’s departure was minimal, perhaps swept under the rug as the spiritual sanctity of the congregation lives on. A few heads who may have been close to Ted could very well have had a heart-to-heart or led unsuccessful attempts in asking him to reconsider. Or maybe a few people shrugged, wished him well and turned their back. This seemed apparent coming from Bill’s perspective over lunch.

“The guy had issues,” Bill says. “He would always find something wrong. His heart just wasn’t in the right place.” Or did he say “his head wasn’t in the right place”? I can’t remember.

Could’ve fooled me. I actually enjoyed my SG time.

I brought Ted’s name up with another regular. Same disinterested response. I wasn’t sure why this struck a chord with me, especially involving a community I wasn’t necessarily a part of nor had heavily invested much time in. The peak of my interaction with Ted barely breached the acquaintance boundary. I suppose my naivety had gotten the best of me, raising the church on a perpetual pedestal where all is good, all the time. I realize that the reason congregations so often give off the camaraderie and joy of an 80′s family sitcom in my eyes is because I’m always positioning myself on the outside looking in. Not judging a book by its cover was a lesson meant to be hammered into me in grade school; I need to apply this when I look around and see a swarm of heads bobbing harmoniously and hands-a-clappin’ and hearts being lifted to the music, er, worship of God.

The idealist in me thinks that a place led by leaders in Christ’s teachings who don’t bat an eye when they kick off phrases as “God spoke to me the other day…”, and joined by members who on some personal level recognize that life is not about us, would be destined to thrive and retain and grow. And not falter under politics and drama and split as so many Korean churches are known to do. After all, we’re not talking about “fraternity brothers” or “teammates”. We’re talking about “brothers-and-sisters-in-Christ”. That shouldn’t be a term you throw around lightly.

Then the realist in me asks if I can’t bring myself to unquestionably follow what I hear on Sunday and adhere myself wholly to the principles of the Christian mission, how can I expect that of anyone else?