I remember the days when my sister and I would cram into a half-broken swivel chair, eyes glued to the computer screen as I attempted to battle my way toward being a Pokemon master. We used to beat up ourselves when we forgot to save the game, trained the wrong Pokemon, or had to run to the bathroom for a game break. Those days were full of silly games and adventures, simple memories that shaped us as we matured. We played when our mom told us we could, ate when food was ready, slept when 9:00 rolled around, showered when our parents forced us. In all of this, we didn't complain, not a word. We just listened, hand in hand. That's how I grew up with my sister. Life was simple then—but as much as we try to keep this simplicity, our lives always end up getting more and more complicated. And that was the start of the Nintendo 64, the X-Box, the internet, Facebook. Things begin piling up in our hard drive until we have no more storage capacity. ![]() As I stared out at the bustling streets of Taiwan's capitol, I could not help but sense the complication that our lives have accumulated—the dirty grime of the streets that now resides within us. We lose all sense of who we once were and what we once enjoyed. And just like that, the things of this world begin to occupy room in our hearts. If our computer hard drive is full of all the games of this world, how can we expect to fill it with something else? It was the first time I was alone at a saint's home for the night and the host wanted to introduce me to her son, a high school senior who did not believe in the Lord, and her daughter, who was in junior high school. She asked me to speak some words of wisdom, some encouragement, and—I knew this one was coming—something about the Lord to him. I calmly sat down with him on their hard wooden sofas, looked him in the eyes, and asked him a simple, straightforward question: "What do you enjoy about your life?" "Well, I like to play video games . . ." We spent two some hours sitting on those hard benches. Those were probably the only words he said to me during that time. He had no more room for me . . . maybe just a couple megabytes. And interestingly enough, I didn't say anything about the Lord. Not a single word. Sorry, Mom. I could only encourage him to pursue something higher, to be the best that he can be, and most important of all, to keep on searching—searching for the meaning of his existence, the purpose of his life. Our lives were never meant to carry our X-Box hard drive around. We were made to be simple and pure—children who faithfully place our lives in our Father's hands. The last thing I said to him was to continue being a good son and brother: to love your mom is to find out who she loves, what she enjoys, and why she believes in the Lord. We all need to gain the purity of a having that real child-and-parent relationship back. ![]() Being simple is being real. When I spoke of their relationship, of true love and care, the mother cried. Her tears softened even the hard-feeling benches underneath me; I'm sure of it. Our vessels were made to only contain one thing, one Person. When we deviate from our original design, we become complicated and dirty. I reminisce about those moments of simplicity, those moments I sat beside my sister playing Pokemon on the computer. May we never lose sight of this purity. May we play when we're told and fill up our hard drive with the right megabytes. -Samuel C
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