I have not forgotten that I am writing about the Almighty. I have spent a few pages on Bruce because he is relevant to what I am going to say.

Aside from making up entertaining distractions, Bruce made it his mission to save my soul.

He asked me to go to his church, on Sunday, to attend some party. I declined, saying I would be busy.

"What about the Sunday after?"

I shook my head. He then asked, "What church do you go to?"

"I am a Buddhist."

"Is there any pagoda in San Diego?"

"No, but Buddhism is not very strict. I can worship at home if there is no pagoda. I can worship any time of the day, any day of the week. I don't have to wait for Sunday. It's OK with Buddha if you go fishing or shooting pool on Sunday."

Bruce left but came back half an hour later.

"I'll bring you a Bible next week. Read it and then we'll discuss it. OK?"

It was then that I became aware of how serious Bruce was and that he was trying to convert me. I told him:

"No, please don't. The Books of Buddhism are voluminous, I can't even dream of reading them all in my lifetime. Are you trying to convert me? I appreciate your good intention but I don't think I will drop Buddhism. It is right that you are a Christian because Christ is a Jew. I am a Buddhist because Buddha is Vietnamese."

Bruce was dejected. He quietly left.

Next morning, as we were punching in, Bruce came at me, "Liar! Buddha was from India, not Vietnam!"

I laughed.

"Yeah, he was from India. But he was a legal resident of Vietnam for thousands of years, more than enough to become naturalized, don't you think?"

Bruce remained very serious.

"This is no joking matter. You may not care about your soul, but you have to care about your family members'. I know Buddha was a great philosopher, but that's all he was, a philosopher. Only Jesus can save you from damnation."

I wondered how he had suddenly gained all that knowledge on Buddhism overnight. He eventually let me know he had talked to Tom, a pastor, who was a welder at Nassco. Our discussion on religion from then on frequently sent him to the welding shop for consultations, some times two to three trips a day.

One day, Bruce talked on and on about how Jesus died on the Cross for mankind. I tried to cut him short, "Jesus is a great savior. If he died for you, he probably died for me too. Why do I have to go to church?"

Bruce went to the welding shop and came back, speaking in earnest, "Jesus died for all mankind, but there are still Heaven and Hell. He died for you but you also have to try to save yourself! The only way to do it is to believe in Christ."

I stubbornly argued, "Christianity has been around for some two thousand years. What do you think happen to all the people that lived before Christ? Did they all go to Hell? And what about the people who now live in remote areas, who know nothing about Christ or Buddha? Will they burn in hell too?"

"Well, of course not. God Almighty will be just. Good people will go to Heaven, bad people will go to Hell....But you are being absurd. Let's focus on you and your family. It would be a crime if you have a chance to save your family and you don't."

"I have absolute faith in the generosity of God so..."

"So what...?"

"So, I don't have to go to church. Jesus even loves his enemies, let alone somebody upright like me. I bet he loves me more than he loves you.

I'm in good enough shape as long as God is just, let alone omnipotent. I'm sure since mankind is still very sinful some day there will be another Savior coming down to save us all. Let me give you an example to show you my wise calculations. Suppose everybody on Earth has a credit card. Some will use it sparingly, others will use it as if there is no tomorrow. One day, because mankind is nearing bankruptcy, God decide to intervene and pay off all our debts. Don't you think the ones that didn't spend got the short end of the stick?"

Bruce was infuriated. He blasted me for being irrational, disrespectful. He suspected me to be a false Buddhist since Buddha, for him, wouldn't have an adherent as crazy, as shallow as I sounded. He then took off for the welding section.

Like the Sunday proselytizers, Bruce remained persistent in convincing me. He went to the welding section again and again to find replies to my sometime absurd, sometime aggravating queries. One morning I decided to put an end to all this religious dialogue.

I asked Bruce, "I have a question for you about English"

"OK. I'm listening."

"I don't know what's the English word for describing a person who is not faithful. Let's say my wife and I were married since we were in Vietnam. After we came here, she decide to leave me for a wealthier, more handsome American guy..."

"A traitor," Bruce interrupted before I could finish my sentence.

"Is a traitor a good or bad person?"

"A bad person, of course. You wouldn't want to be one."

"How do you spell that?". I asked, and ceremoniously wrote down the word.

Then, I told Bruce, giving him the coup-de-grace, "OK. Thanks. I'm glad you feel the same way I do, not wanting me to be a traitor. Now... I have been a Buddhist since I was young. Our relationship is doing fine. The way you told me about how Christ is more omnipotent, more generous makes me want to jump ship but I would feel really bad to abandon Buddha because he's not powerful in America. Plus I believe if Christ has a castle in Heaven for his followers, Buddha could probably find some apartments for his. So let's stick with our own religions and stop making me a traitor. OK?"

Bruce was stunned for a moment and then he yelled, "You tricked me! You tricked me!"

He then insisted that we go together to the welding section to see pastors Tom and Garry.

And at noon that day, atop a pile of anchor chain for a battle ship being built, under the bright sun of San Diego, I found myself holding serious discussion on religion with two pastors.

Before going any further, I would like to say here that I never resented Bruce's relentless attempts to covert me. This is true even for the Jehovah's Witnesses who came by my home. There is much to be admired in followers who are so devoted to their god that they walk around tirelessly, always in their best dress, to spread the word of love from their god. Although I see all of it as a waste of time, evangelical work represents one aspect of the tenacity, sacrifice, and altruism that is the basis for much of the charity and generosity that is seen in this country.

And I have a lot of respect for the two pastors, Garry and Tom. In Vietnam, church leaders-Buddhist monks or Catholic priests-don't normally work for a living. I have never encountered a monk or a priest making a living by pedaling a rickshaw in my country. It is different here. Tom and Garry toiled in the shipyard doing the same hard physical labor as my other co-workers, and during strikes, they joined us in carrying banners and chanting grievances. They only differed in that they were very knowledgeable about the Bible, enjoyed discussing religion, and they never cursed.

All of this made me want to be very careful about not offending them. In addition, there's a little secret which Bruce began to discover about me that I didn't want revealed in our impending discussion; I'm not much of a Buddhist. The last time I had gone to the temples and pagodas regularly was during a short period in the 60's when I joined the monks in their protest against religious oppression. I actually know more about Jesus than Buddha, thanks to the popularity of Christianity in books and film.

But even though I wasn't much of a religious practitioner, I was confident my beliefs could stand up against anything Tom and Garry might say. Even having a hundred pastors like them to confront would not make me waver, because I had behind me a powerful backup. My back-up was those midwinter Sunday mornings in the hilly Santee area.

(My house sits at the bottom of a valley about as far from the beach in San Diego as you can get. The worst of San Diego weather occurs here, and it is always 10 degrees hotter or colder than areas near the beaches.

On weekdays, finding the will to get to work on the coldest mornings is quite a chore. The worst thing is scraping the frost from the windows on my car and the frozen sting of the steering wheel that I can even feel through my gloves.

I know it is ridiculous to complain about the cold of Southern California to Midwesterners, but as my body has gotten used to this weather, my tolerance for small deviations from an ideal 76 degrees has lowered drastically. So in terms of developed endurance, a person in Santee who braves the cold dark mornings feels the severity of a chill just as much as someone in Bloomington trudging through a Blizzard.

So it is these first hours of the morning that are the hardest things about daily living. I can't help but wake up in a foul mood, completely disheartened by the circumstances, and yearning for a few extra hours of sleep.

On Sundays though, everything is different; no alarm clock to wake up to, and my quota of sleep can increase by an hour or two. And while there are always things to do, none of them have to be done in a hurry. All the things that made the weekdays so difficult are now taken care of by this languid pace. The sun is allowed to thaw the windshieds and burn off the fog, and I can get out of bed fully awake, drink coffee, chit-chat with friends on the phone, and walk through the backyard with a pipe full of tobacco and take a deep drag while contemplating all the things I don't need to do.

On such a morning, it seems absurd to wake up early, dress up formally, and attend church.)

As Garry began talking, my thoughts drifted back to these mornings. First, he cited numerous passages in the Bible about those who disbelieve God and deny the miracles spoken of in the scripture. He cited Matthew, Mark, and Revelation. He described a terrible hell which awaits non-believers, and added much of his own embellishments. He then promised me a Vietnamese bible. Although his preaching struck me as a little naive and condescending, I respected his sincerity and tactfully declined his offer of a bible. I also told him that I developed a very complex and elaborate philosophy, and he should not be disappointed for failing to convince me.

Pastor Tom was much more clever and articulate in his appeals. And since he had already been indirectly debating me through Bruce, he knew from experience that Garry's arguments didn't work. He began by praising Buddha and extolling prince Guatama's life and journey to enlightenment. But unlike God, Tom said, Buddha was only a philosopher. Tom then talked about how the world shall end in hell fire and salvation will only come to those who accept God. He cautioned me about the end and asked me to take care and attend to the spiritual needs of my family.

Unfortunately, I lacked the English to explain myself. At first, I planned to cut short the debate by trying to differ with them as courteously as possible and let them know I could not be converted.

But as our debate continued, I noticed on the ground there was a swarm of ants surrounding a small dead fish. This little scene at my feet made me think back to the 492nd day of the cease fire. It was during noontime of that day, sitting among the ruins of my sister's house, my body sore, my mind overcome with grief, that I saw another army of ants crawling near me and I thought of God.

I pointed out the ants to the pastors and said, "I was born in a country that has constantly been at war, and I have lots of questions about God. Let me tell you what I think, and please excuse my limited vocabulary. I think that between me and God, there are many layers of divinity. A god can be the god of a lower caste. For instance, those ants at your feet. You can play God to them. Throw them a crumb of bread and make them full and happy, or spray them with insecticide and destroy their colony. My point is that in the same sense that we can never know God, those ants can never know us. Though people and ants share the same world, ants cannot comprehend a giant like me who has the ability to easily destroy their world. What does an ant think when insecticide rains from the sky? When everything an ant know about the world is limited to what its antennas can feel on the two dimensional ground, how would such a death be interpreted? What if I were to trample them? To the ones who survived, it would be as if the sky had fallen. They would never perceive me or my shoes, just a bit of my shoe's sole.

We humans certainly can see and hear more than ants, but how much more? There is so much we aren't aware of, and to me, behind every horrible disaster and tragedy, there may be a malevolent God, who is one among many, behind it all.

To manage this grand universe, even the greatest of the Gods must delegate power to lesser gods, just like in the military. And at this very moment, mankind stands between God and these ants. And we too are part of the hierarchy of gods, especially to these ants. If we are in a good mood, the ants live and enjoy the crumbs we drop. If we feel angry, they may die. Within this distribution of gods, I don't know which one I'm supposed to be worshiping. So why don't we just worship the God that is nearest and most familiar to us for the sake of simplicity. Otherwise, if we were to worship the wrong one, then the god directly responsible for us would be upset and punish us..."

At this point, Bruce, unable to hear any more of my heresy, exploded, "What the hell are you talking about? Le?"

Tom and Garry were dismayed as well. Tom said, "We don't follow you. What is your point?"

I regretted that I didn't have the English to clearly convey my beliefs, so I concluded abruptly, "My point is that humanity is still ignorant of God. To me, God seems unfair. For instance, while Americans are blessed with many things, the Vietnamese have very little. It is even worse in the case of newborns. Some are born to beggars, others to royalty. Why did the almighty God created such havoc in this world? Why, with the utmost power, did he fail to distribute bless evenly to everyone? Until I can figure out how there is justice despite it all, I have to reserve judgment on going to any particular church. I appreciate your invitation, but I have to say no."

This was the end of our conversation. Pastor Garry looked calm. Pastor Tom seemed relieved as if he were grateful to no longer be in a conversation with a heathen spewing offenses against God. Bruce was the only person who was disappointed.

On the way back to the workshop, I continued to tease Bruce, "I assure you that God never minds that I do not go to church. If He really wants me to go, all He has to do is give me the desire to do so. With all the earthly pleasures He has given me, how simple it would be to put inside my head such an impulse. If He were to make the urge to attend church as compelling as the sight of a beautiful woman, it would be more powerful than any arguments you could make. I'd be there next Sunday. I might even show up before you did. But for now, the only thing I hear on a Sunday morning is a whisper in my ears, probably from God, to keep sleeping..."

Bruce grumbled back, "You live your life instinctively like an animal. I am sorry for you and your family. You will be responsible for your family's damnation."

At the end of the day, Bruce's emotions settled down and we were friendly again. And again, I couldn't resist my sadistic impulses. I approached him saying with much sincerity, "Actually, I have absolute faith in God, and this has been true ever since I arrived in America. Do you want to know why?"

Bruce looked at me wearily. My face remained serious.

"Why?" he asked.

"Well, I am influenced by whatever I see on the dollar bill. Each time I use one, I see the motto 'In God We Trust'. The more money I have, the more I trust in God. I absolutely rely on the advice of the all mighty dollar."

Ten years have gone by since I last talked to him.

Occasionally, those discussions about God resurface in my head. I feel sorry about how I mocked Bruce, and I wish I had been more honest about my beliefs.

I've gone through the whole spectrum of emotions when it comes to God. On noon of that 3rd day of June, 1974, as I looked at the ants crawling among the ruins of my sister's collapsed house, I was overwhelmed with sad thoughts about God and my destiny. I thought that maybe the most powerful God was very far from me, and that in his place were lesser gods. Just like to the ants crawling near my feet, I was one of the lesser gods.

I thought the closest god above me, the one directly responsible for the providence of men, was either a hateful or incompetent god. He failed to protect my sister, and I could never love much less worship such a being.

At that moment, I recalled a game in my country called "cricket fighting" that is very popular with children. In this game, two crickets are put in a small box facing each other. Since they are not predisposed to fighting each other, they need to be cajoled, usually with a strand of hair brushed lightly over their antennas. This method is very effective in provoking them into a deadly duel.

I wonder whether these crickets can sense even to a small degree that their animosity toward each other stems from manipulation by their human masters. Probably not. The impulse to fight becomes overwhelming, and they attack each other with furious abandon.

I wonder if mankind's antennas have always been lightly brushed by the strand of hair of a childish god who is amused by all the kinds of wars on earth.

This was how I saw things on that day and all the days after it, until one of God's miracles opened my eyes in May of 1975.

South Vietnam had just fallen, and my family was on its way to a U.S. Ship anchored near Phu Quoc island. The ship was ordered to move closer to the bay of Vung Tau to pick up people who were escaping on small boats. I was separated from my parents and siblings, and they were all I thought about as I squatted on the deck of the ship. My father had told me beforehand that he had planned to escape the country since the beginning of April with a neighbor. He wanted to go to either the Philippines or Malaysia-any country that was free and would take refugees. His plan was to leave with the family from the bay of Vung Tau, and as I waited, I wondered what had happened. With the country in total chaos, I feared the worst.

It was one of the lowest moments in my life, and I could not help but pray to God, any god. I called upon Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed, anyone with all the conviction I could summon despite my lack of faith or hope. There was nothing else to do. The feelings of anticipation on that day were unbearable.

The next morning, a woman I knew from the island of Phu Quoc approached me and shouted, "I didn't know you were sleeping here. I thought you were still on hull 1, next to Dr. Quynh's family. You know what, I told your mother to go looking for you down there. I met her at the toilet. She said she was your mother and was looking for you right now."

I jumped from the floor and quickly followed my messenger from God. In a few moments, just as I got halfway down the stairs, I saw my father and brothers and sisters sitting on the lower deck. My father called to me joyfully, and there were smiles on all our faces.

This reunion was amazing. There were several ships all around us, and there was no reason for my family to pick this particular one. And they were camped out on the deck nearly right where I was. My father told me that the day before, the family was on a different ship, but the captain of that ship requested some of the passengers to move to another one because there was a shortage of food. My father volunteered the family since all of my brothers and sisters were grown up. He said, "Son, this reunion between us was incredible luck!"

It was then that I began believing everything in life happens for a reason, and leaned to the "good side" of God.

This has remained true for me in this country as well. In the late seventies, I was working at a plane manufacturing company with my friend, Mr. Phan Lac Tiep. Among thousands of blue collar workers and through various shifts, we ended up working together. Every day, during lunch, Mr. Tiep shared with me the hot tea he brought from home. As we sat on top of the tool and material pile, we reminisced about the country and discussed the new political regime which took over.

A week after we met, news came of pirates from Thailand preying upon Vietnamese boat people. Compounding the innumerable dangers already inherent in escaping by boat was now the danger of pirates. These pirates robbed and killed the men, and kidnaped and raped the women. The authors of this shocking news, one novelist and two journalists, were friends to both of us.

In all our subsequent lunches, we tried to come up with a plan to help these refugees. The Boat People SOS Committee was so founded. Mr. Phan handled almost everything by himself. Everyday, after work, he immersed himself into the tasks of calling friends for help, writing press releases to newspapers, recruiting volunteers, and any other secretarial work that came up. He bore the whole burden until Dr. Xuong came and took some of the work off his shoulders.

In our effort to reach U.S. newspapers and politicians, we badly needed someone, preferably American, who could translate things into English. That person materialized in the form of James Banerian, a man who had come to San Diego a few months earlier and was available to help.

Jim was never in Vietnam, but he had an interest in Vietnamese literature, and this led him to learn the language. He studied it at Southern Illinois Carbondale University under Professor Nguyen Dinh Hoa. During the summer, he read Vietnamese books in the University library, and one of the books he read was a book I had written, "The Life-long night." He loved the book and translated it. After Jim showed the result to his Professor, Hoa told him,"The author of this book lives in San Diego."

A correspondence began between us, and eventually he asked me, "I want to move to San Diego, and I wonder if this is possible."

I replied, "Why not? I'm a foreigner who can barely speak English, and I've managed to make it here with a family, so what are you worrying about? Come anytime!"

Jim coaxed a friend of his into driving him out here. They piled their belongings into an old clunker of a car his friend owned and left for San Diego(At the time, Jim had no car or driver's license). Less than a year later, Jim became a crucial member of our rescue committee, and a valuable resource to the Vietnamese community in general. The circumstances which lead to his arrival are so perfect and auspicious, I can only believe a higher power had a hand in it.

So just like Jim, Bruce's presence in my life was driven by fate. He was one of the few good things about working in that shipyard, and often the only thing to look forward to as I got up on those cold mornings in Santee. He brought some joyful moments to a soulless workplace. He gave me some laughs that cheered me up from time to time.

• A Giant Arch of Triumph - Chapter 4

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