This afternoon, after lunch at St. Luke’s Church, Br. Weixun once again shared with us a collection of vinyl records featuring popular songs and music from past decades.
His earlier presentation back in July — when he introduced vinyl records and turntables — had already left a vivid impression on me. I still remember the atmosphere of that afternoon so clearly. So today, I was eager to see and listen to whatever treasures he had brought this time.
Many thanks to him once again! Comparing the two sessions, I’d say the July presentation focused more on the hardware — the physical turntables and records we could touch and admire — while today’s session was more about the software — the beautiful music and songs, mostly in Mandarin, that the records carried.
What caught my eye most, though, was a stunning “golden” record (see photo, upper right). Its shimmering color was both rare and captivating — a true gem among the records.
Time really flies! It’s been three months and two days since Jean and I came to Hualien for our “long stay.”
On this last Sunday of October, we celebrated the Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church. How grateful we are that this morning—just like on many other days—Jean, our grandson James, and I could be together in the chapel, worshiping Almighty God, praising our Lord Jesus Christ, and receiving the rich grace of the Holy Spirit.
James served as the acolyte this morning. Jean joined the choir performance on violin, and I read the collects and prayers privately in both languages—using the English version of The Book of Common Prayer and the detailed Chinese bulletin provided by the church. I always find it helpful to read and compare two or more versions of the same prayers or Bible lessons. When I do that, I seem to understand more deeply the truth revealed in them.
Thank you, Lord, for your abundant love and countless blessings. May You continue to guide and guard us, and all our relatives and friends, whether we are awake or asleep.
= = =
學習資料（摘錄）：
Regarding the Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost
The Gospel reading for this Sunday is Luke 18:9–14, which tells Jesus’ parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector. It contrasts two men at prayer: a self-righteous Pharisee who boasts of his good deeds, and a humble tax collector who pleads, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!”
Jesus concludes that it was the tax collector—not the Pharisee—who was justified before God, for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.
The Parable: Jesus tells this story to those who trusted in their own righteousness and looked down on others.
The Pharisee: Standing apart, he thanks God that he is not like other people, especially the tax collector. He lists his religious deeds—fasting twice a week and giving a tenth of his income.
The Tax Collector: Standing at a distance, he won’t even look up to heaven. Instead, he beats his breast and prays, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!”
The Lesson: The tax collector went home justified before God, while the Pharisee did not. The point is simple and profound: those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.
Key Themes: This passage reminds us about the right attitude in prayer, the danger of self-righteousness, and the saving power of humility and God’s mercy.
In fact, there were many more songs that were popular during the decades when I was much younger. Here are two that I used to hear often and would like to revisit for some leisurely viola practice. Let me share them with you:
1. 《心所愛的人》 (Sim só͘-ài ê lâng) — "The One My Heart Loves"
Adapted from the 1957 Japanese song おさらば東京 (Osaraba Tokyo, “Farewell Tokyo”).
Original composer: 中野忠晴 (Nakano Tadaharu); Taiwanese lyrics by 文夏 (Wen Hsia).
Released in the late 1960s during Taiwan’s postwar wave of Japanese melody adaptations.
Sung in Taiwanese Hokkien, expressing tender love mixed with homesickness.
First and most famous version by 文夏 (Wen Hsia), the lyricist-singer himself.
Later revived by 葉啟田 (Ye Qi-Tian) and 蔡小虎 (Tsai Hsiao-Hu), known for emotional power.
A classic symbol of Taiwan’s sentimental pop era — simple melody, heartfelt tone.
2. 《難忘的愛人》 (Lân-bóng ê ài-jîn) — "The Unforgettable Lover"
Adapted from the 1965 Japanese song 南国エレジー (Nangoku Elegy, “Southern Elegy”).
Original singer: 高石かつ枝 (Takaishi Katsu-e); Taiwanese lyrics by 阿丁 (A-Ting).
Entered Taiwan’s music scene in the late 1960s as part of the “Japanese melody, Taiwanese lyrics” trend.
A Hokkien ballad of lost love, longing, and lasting emotional memory.
Popularized by 鄧麗君 (Teresa Teng), whose soft voice gave it enduring charm.
Other well-known versions by 尤雅 (You Ya) and 蔡幸娟 (Tsai Hsing-Chun).
Still cherished today as one of the most touching love songs in Taiwanese pop history.
3. Comparison: 《心所愛的人》 vs. 《難忘的愛人》
Both “心所愛的人” (The One My Heart Loves) and “難忘的愛人” (The Unforgettable Lover) belong to Taiwan’s golden era of sentimental Hokkien songs, yet they differ in tone and form. “心所愛的人” follows a simple A–A–B pattern, with a melody that repeats gently before a soft bridge, giving it a lyrical, memorable flow. “難忘的愛人” adopts a slower A–B–A structure that rises and falls in emotion, creating a stronger sense of drama and longing.
In mood and theme, “心所愛的人” conveys tender affection touched by distance — a love that remains hopeful though apart. The feeling is quiet and reflective, like a gentle voice calling across time. “難忘的愛人,” however, turns that tenderness into sorrow. It speaks of love already lost yet impossible to forget, where memory becomes the only bridge between two hearts.
The emotional focus deepens this contrast. “心所愛的人” sings of love that still lives across distance — longing with hope. “難忘的愛人” remembers love that time has taken away — longing without return. One faces the future softly; the other faces the past with unending pain.
Both songs grew from the same postwar tradition of adapting Japanese melodies into Taiwanese Hokkien lyrics. Yet their emotional tones differ: “心所愛的人” glows with nostalgic warmth, while “難忘的愛人” carries a deeper melancholy. Together, they show two sides of the same feeling — the sweetness of remembering and the ache of never letting go.
%20%E6%A8%99%E9%A1%8C%2000.jpg)