A Song for the Brokenhearted
A Song for the Brokenhearted
Some fragmented thoughts on Chinese New Year celebrations, Monterey Park and Half Moon Bay, Psalm 34, poached snapper, and congee
Thursday, January 26
Grand Rapids, Mich.
Hello, dear reader.
This time last week, our house was awhirl with preparations for the Lunar New Year celebration—vacuum roaring, meat marinating, a tangle of sheets waiting to be made up into temporary beds.
Our friends Noah and Kristen and their kids arrived on Friday afternoon. As planned, we made wonton together, and we feasted, and we talked late into the night. To welcome the rabbit together, in gratitude and hope: It was joyous.
The next morning, I rose early to make congee. I opened the fridge, and I saw the neatly stacked glass boxes of leftovers, which summoned the memories of dishes that hit just right: that first bite of snapper, soy and ginger and scallion atop the succulent flesh; that slight crunch of garlicky yu choy, gentled by the wok’s heat but not so much that it’s mushy; that short rib, so tender that it nearly melted on my tongue; that rice, which absorbed all the different sauces.
I made the congee much as my mother always has after a big family meal: the carcass from the bird goes into the pot (usually, hers was duck, but mine was from the soy-sauce chicken I’d poached for dinner), along with leftover rice and plenty of water and a handful of dried scallop. Then it simmers until the flavors have infused and the grains of rice have broken down and the porridge has thickened. I can’t tell you precisely how long, because I don’t know how you like your congee, and there are as many “right” consistencies as there are people.
We sat for a while in the comfort of mugs of strong coffee and bowls of gentle congee, warm blueberry muffins and plenty of good company. I marveled at the kids’ observations and utterances—as wildly different as the abundance on the table. Where did they come from? What brought them to mind? Does a fragmentary thought constitute a story, even as it hints at a world? To me, these random glimpses into a young person’s heart—a discourse on the textural shortcomings of the blueberry, for instance—were as beautiful as anything.
Then Monterey Park happened, and then Half Moon Bay, and honestly, it felt even more jarring and abrupt than this sudden turn in my letter to you. At the hopeful turn of the lunar year, devastation.
In both instances, people were killed as they invested in goodness and delight—elders dancing the night away, farmworkers growing things for others to enjoy. The disappointment and disconnection, alienation and anger of two men exploded all too easily in a burst of gunfire.
How do we hold onto hope amidst such sorrow? And also: What do we have if we don’t hold onto hope?
On Monday evening, I had to lead a Bible study on Zoom. I wasn’t in the mood, but I’d committed. Call it fate or providence or a cruel joke or all of the above: Weeks ago, I’d designated that session to focus on psalms of praise. Praise!
Weeks ago, I’d chosen Psalm 34, which became one of my favorites while I was in college. My evangelical fellowship group had praise and worship time every Friday evening, and often, we’d sing a setting of Psalm 34. Closeted and fearful, I poured everything that I couldn’t say out loud into this chorus. Even now, when I’m out walking Fozzie or if I’m in the kitchen cooking, part of the melody will return to me unexpectedly, a fragment of the psalm suddenly surfacing. Which version? Which translation? Honestly, this one or that. Lines come back to me in shards, cutting through the clutter of my day.
I will bless the Lord at all times; his praise shall be ever in my mouth.
“At all times” seems a bit much. If you’d asked me this past Friday evening if I could bless the Lord at that time, I would have said yes. Forty-eight hours later? No. So often, the opening lines of Psalm 34 feel more like aspiration than reality. The Hebrew word for “bless” comes from the same root as the word “kneel.” But is it blessing if you feel that this world, this life, has pushed you to your knees?
Oh, magnify the Lord with me. And let us exalt his name together.
Have you ever noticed that, in this psalm, God is never addressed directly? When the psalmist sings about God, it’s as if he’s trying to hearten the people, to remind them of God’s goodness, to move them toward the divine. In some ways, this seems like a song written for the doubters, for the ones with some serious questions, for the ones who can’t quite get themselves into the sanctuary. So the psalmist meets them where they are.
I sought the Lord and he answered me, and delivered me from all my fears.
Which is undoubtedly true for the one who testifies, but what about the rest of us? There is so much to fear. And there can be such a porous border between fear and disappointment, fear and disillusionment, fear and despair.
They looked to him and were radiant.
It’s not entirely obvious who “they” is at this point in the song—a good editor might have pointed out to the writer that there could have been a clearer antecedent. Some translations try to smooth things out by making it a command—“look to him...”—or a suggestion—“those who look to him...” That’s not what the Hebrew says, though, not literally. Anyway, “radiant” seems a fantasy.
O taste and see that the Lord is good.
Now this line, I relate to. But I do wish my grasp of God’s goodness weren’t as fleeting as a fine meal.
The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.
I wonder if the families of the murdered, not to mention those of the ones who wielded the guns, have felt God near in these days of mourning. Has God showed up through their close friends and relatives? How might anything resembling God’s goodness be present to them? What does salvation feel like in such a moment?
I wonder what it’s like to be a kid growing up now, especially with the ever-present specter of gun violence. Where is their comfort? How can one truly find safety? I think of my nephews and my niece—Asian kids coming up in a land where we still struggle for belonging. Can we save them before their spirits are crushed?
During Bible study on Monday evening, I made it to this verse, I think, before my voice cracked. I was thinking of our present griefs, yes, but at the same time, I was contemplating how, for millennia, this psalm of praise, this song of thanksgiving, has met those who didn’t feel much like praising, those who struggled to summon gratitude. Here was a foothold for all who struggle to bless the Lord at all times—acknowledgment for those who have not yet been delivered from their fears, solace for those who have not yet achieved radiance, recognition for those who can’t get the bitterness out of their mouths.
He keeps all their bones; not one of them will be broken.
There’s something hopeful here—something that promises ultimate healing, somewhere, somehow. There’s no promise made that there won’t be broken bones or shattered lives this side of heaven. There’s no pledge issued that we won’t keep hurting each other. But this is the hope that we hold onto: that all shall be made well—every hatred healed, every ache soothed, every tear dried.
Of course, sometimes we feel as if we can’t hold onto hope for ourselves. In Wholehearted Faith, Rachel Held Evans writes of her gratitude “for all the saints, past and present,... whose faith sustains mine. They believe for me when I’m not sure I believe. They hold on to hope for me when I’ve run out of hope. They are the old lady next to me in the pew and the little kid behind me who recite the entirety of the Apostles’ Creed on my behalf on those Sundays when I cannot bring myself to say those ancient words wholeheartedly.”
Maybe the psalmist does the same thing for you and for me. Maybe his ancient song expresses hope when we cannot, much as it has done for generation upon generation, patiently waiting until we too can join the chorus with our own testimonies. Maybe it might even move us to a kind of active gratitude that will help cultivate healing, nurture belonging, and foster love.
The Lord redeems the life of his servants; none of those who take refuge in him will be condemned.
May it be so for all of us.
What I’m Cooking: Earlier this week, the writer Tracey Gee posted an invitation on Twitter: “Hey Asian family,” she wrote. “Can we share what we ate for LNY as a small way to tend to joy in the midst of grief?”
I was so glad for the reminder that, first, we have to eat, so it might as well be good, and secondly, sorrow need not monopolize our spirits. I loved seeing people’s responses: Steak! Dumplings! Korean BBQ! Sushi! Rice cakes!
I posted a picture of the red snapper that Noah took at our Chinese New Year table, because that was my favorite dish of the night.
Traditionally, one would steam a whole fish, but I don’t have a steamer and I’ve learned that poaching gets me similar results. Striped bass works really well, and branzino is good too; basically, any fish that has tender white flesh and can fit in your pot. Put enough water in a pot so that you know the fish will be completely submerged. Meanwhile, slash the skin of the fish a couple of times on each side. Then, as soon as the water is boiling, carefully place the fish in, bring the water back to the boil, and then immediately cover and turn it off.
While the fish is cooking, chop up plenty of green onions and some ginger (some people like matchsticks, but I like it more finely minced). After about twenty minutes, give the side of the fish a gentle poke with a knife. If the knife meets any resistance, put the cover back on and leave it for another five minutes. If it’s ready, very carefully lift the fish out of the water—I think I used two spatulas—and onto a platter.
Heat up a pan and about a quarter-cup of oil (canola, avocado, vegetable—but not olive, because you don’t want that flavor). When the oil is hot, toss the green onions in and give it a quick stir. You want a bit of the scallion flavor to infuse into the oil, but you don’t want to leave them in so long that they char. Sprinkle the minced ginger over the fish, and then pour the hot oil and the green onions over the whole thing. Then pour about a quarter-cup of soy sauce over it all.
This fish is best served with plenty of white rice to soak in the sauce.
Now, congee: I read congee described once as Chinese risotto. No. It is much less fussy and far more forgiving; if anything, risotto is congee’s needier, uppity Italian cousin. In traditional Chinese culture, congee was sometimes seen as poor people’s food, because it was sometimes a way to stretch one’s supply of rice. Some people refuse to eat it on New Year’s, because it was said to invite the kind of misfortune that would lead you to have to eat congee.
Well, we pick and choose our superstitions—and I reject this one. As usual, I rarely use a recipe. I just submerge leftover rice in plenty of water or chicken stock and let it simmer until it’s at the consistency I want. If you don’t have leftover rice and you want some precise measurements, here’s a solid recipe for chicken congee and another for fish congee. It might take some trial and error to figure out just how you like it, but there’s abundant grace in congee, because there is no one “right” consistency.
I’ve told you before that my people traditionally greet one another by asking, “Have you eaten?” It is, I suppose, a marker of resilience and a reminder that, whatever is going on in our lives, we need that sustenance. So have you eaten? What are you feeling, contemplating, struggling with, thinking, amidst these fraught days?
It’s been such a snowy couple of days here. Especially if it’s cold where you are too, I hope you find something to eat that warms you. We haven’t seen the sun much in Grand Rapids this month, but Fozz and I were out this morning, and the branches were all laced with snow, and the sun was trying its best to break through the clouds. A hopeful sight.
That’s all I’ve got for this week. I’m so glad we can stumble through all this together, and I’ll try to write again soon.
Yours,
Jeff
I love this so very much. Thank you for the gift of your beautiful words. You channel so much of what we all struggle with.
What a beautiful reflection on Psalm 34.
Thank you for sharing-it ministered to me on a day I really needed that message.