Author Bing Bing Weidemann, also known by the pen names Deze, Tian Zhi Deze, and Little Lamb Bing Bing, is a father of a daughter and a son. A former university lecturer and now a software engineer, he is passionate about playing the erhu and enjoys playing table tennis. He has written a collection of essays and poems totaling over 100,000 chinese words, with many of his works published in newspapers and magazines. Deeply committed to social causes, he actively supports public welfare and community volunteer services.
Other authors such as Tian Zhi Deying, Nana, Juanjuan, Longshang Shi, Hyacinth, and Orange also frequently publish fine works.
Bing Bing’s essay collection Amazing Wind and poetry collection Windflower are available as digital editions on his WordPress blog. Simply click on the blue titles in the table of contents to read all the articles online. Each piece is a labor of love, written with dedication and care. These works are not for profit but are part of a greater mission to serve the Chinese and also international communities. All articles are protected by copyright and remain the intellectual property of the author—your respect is kindly appreciated.
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A vibrant faith, an extraordinary life. Dear reader, both you and we can embrace them!
The college entrance exam was finally over, and I received the acceptance letter from my top-choice university. Filled with excitement and ambition, I couldn’t wait to step through the gates of Lanzhou University. It was autumn, the temperature still high, the atmosphere buzzing with energy, but soon the autumn winds began to rise, and the air cooled.
This mirrored my inner world exactly. My dreams and expectations slowly cooled off in just three months, as the gap between reality and my ideals became overwhelmingly clear. The teachers weren’t as insightful or inspiring as I had imagined, and my classmates lacked the innocence and sincerity of high school friends. Even my learning abilities seemed inadequate, as I struggled to keep up with my studies. I felt like I was trapped in a purgatory I had never experienced before—a pressure cooker pressing on my body, mind, and soul. Is this what growing up is supposed to be?
The Cultural Troupe
I brought along my dad’s old erhu and found a quiet corner on campus to express my frustrations through music. I heard that the school’s cultural troupe was recruiting students with musical talents, so I quickly began practicing Horse Racing on the erhu. A teacher from the school’s service department lived in the same building, and his erhu playing caught my attention. I visited him twice, and we got acquainted. As the audition approached, I mustered the courage to ask if I could borrow his erhu. Without a word, he lent it to me.
I was thrilled and completed the audition with his beautiful erhu. After waiting for a long time with no response, I realized that sometimes no result is a result. I had to learn to accept things and move forward. It was hard to face the promises I had made to my friends, but I had to adapt.
The Freshmen Performance
Our department organized a performance for the freshmen. Senior students and first-years took the stage to sing love songs to each other. Their affectionate gazes and graceful movements made my heart race and my skin tingle, yet I couldn’t deny the artistic beauty of it all. Can they really act like this? The flirtatious looks and tender gestures pushed past my boundaries and pierced through my limits.
The performance began. One act followed another, and there were thousands of people in the audience. Suddenly, a girl appeared with a Japanese sakura umbrella, dancing to some rather strange Japanese music. I was captivated by the beauty of her dance when someone beside me whispered, “Look, that’s from our class.”
I looked closer and sure enough, the dancer was a girl from my class. How was she able to pull this off? Could this be the so-called gap between urban and rural students? Was I, raised in the countryside with limited resources and monotonous information, destined to lag behind? Was I just an old-fashioned, Confucian-style young person? Is there any hope for me?
The Long-Haired Girls
Our class was large, with more girls than any other department in the school. They came from all corners of the country, with different accents, personalities, and styles. Most of them had long hair, flowing like crowns of beauty, adding elegance to their appearance. Sometimes, during class, a few girls would sit in the front row while my friend and I sat in the back. One day, I noticed my friend playing with a girl’s hair. I wasn’t sure if she didn’t notice or just didn’t care, but the hair-twirling went on for an awkwardly long time.
Displeased, I whispered to my friend, “This isn’t right. How can you do that?”
He replied, “It’s fun, no big deal.”
“But a girl’s hair is important. You can’t just touch it like that. You know, boys and girls shouldn’t casually touch each other.”
“…”
This girl had an odd habit—she liked to save seats for the boys during large lectures. She’d come early, carrying a stack of books and notebooks, and throw them across the front-row desks. I’d rush to class after breakfast, only to find all the good seats taken. There were seemingly empty spots in the front, but when I approached, I saw her things. She shot me a cautious glance, worried I might sit down.
This happened again and again, and I grew more frustrated, but I held back and found a seat in the back. I told myself I’d arrive earlier next time. But every time, she always beat me to it, occupying eight seats at once. I ended up in the very back again, fuming quietly. A little while later, a group of boys walked in, and she sweetly called out, “Hey, over here!”
I couldn’t help but feel even more annoyed. How could one person hog eight seats? Why were the latecomers always getting the best spots? And why wasn’t I one of those boys?
I grew up in a rural area, attending elementary and middle school in my village, and high school in the county town. I wasn’t afraid of hard work, but I struggled with social interactions. I’m a classic Type A personality—outgoing, warm-hearted, and emotional. I always followed my instincts in social situations and refused to do things I found disagreeable. I never received any formal education or training in how to navigate relationships. I assumed I was always right, and when things went wrong, I blamed others. Deep down, though, I envied the socially adept classmates, those who seemed born to master relationships. They handled situations with precision and grace, leaving no room for mistakes. The same words, the same actions, would be impossible for me. In the end, I was just myself, unable to change. A hopeless case.
Target Practice
Freshman military training began. Under the scorching sun, boys and girls stood on the sports field, following the instructor’s commands, performing simple but monotonous drills. I was used to working in the fields, so this didn’t bother me much. Compared to farm work, these exercises were a breeze—just some sweat and a few sips of water. Suddenly, a girl collapsed, fainting on the ground. Everyone rushed to carry her to a shaded area, and the school bus quickly arrived to take her to the hospital. My heart felt tangled with worry. How could she be so fragile?
On the last day of training, we had live ammunition target practice. The boys were eager to try, competing to shoot, with some even hitting 9 points on the target. I had never handled a gun before, so I was nervous, unsure of what to expect, but I had no choice but to take my turn. I stood there, waiting for the instructor’s command, bracing myself. We took turns, five at a time. I was in the next group. In front of me, a line of girls lay prone, holding their rifles, aiming at the target 100 meters away. The usually soft-spoken girls shot with impressive skill, rivaling the boys.
It was my turn. I slowly walked to my position, the first spot on the left. Suddenly, I realized that the girl who had just been here shooting was the one I had a crush on—the one I admired but could never approach or express my feelings to. Lying on the ground, I felt my whole body tense up. I couldn’t hold the rifle steady, my fingers trembled, barely able to pull the trigger. I sighed, lowered my head, adjusted my posture again, aimed at the target, and squeezed the trigger. The gunshot was deafening, the rifle recoiled violently into my left shoulder, and my body spasmed as if the bullet had hit me instead.
The Legend of the Condor Heroes
During my second year, the university’s media center began screening the 1983 version of The Legend of the Condor Heroes. A martial arts craze swept through the dorms, and everyone was hooked on wuxia novels. I was no exception. When I wasn’t passing around martial arts books with my roommates, I was at the media center watching Condor Heroes. Tickets cost 20 cents, and you could watch three episodes in a row. Being a sentimental person, I often got absorbed in the story more quickly than others. The freshmen, on the brink of their first loves, were all deeply fascinated by the romantic world Jin Yong had created.
While I was sighing endlessly over how Guo Jing neglected Hua Zheng, I glanced over and noticed a girl from my class in the room. She wore glasses and had two small braids. She was sitting at the desk in the back of the room, leaning against a boy’s shoulder, her legs swinging back and forth under the table.
I quickly looked away, afraid she would notice me, but a wave of melancholy washed over me.
A Chance Encounter
I finally mustered the courage to write a love letter to a girl in Building 2. Like me, she came from a rural background. At that time, the girls’ dormitory was guarded, and the girls were well-protected. When a boy wanted to see a girl, he had to explain his purpose to the dorm keeper, who would then call the girl out. Boys were not allowed to enter the dorm hallways.
One afternoon, I went to return an umbrella to the girl in Building 2. Before I reached the door, a voice called out, “Hey, are you here to see her?”
I looked up in surprise and saw a girl from my class. She had shiny black hair, two delicate strands loosely tied at the back of her head, and bright, captivating eyes. Her tall, elegant figure exuded confidence and grace.
“How does she know?” I wondered. I mumbled a clumsy “Yes” and gave her a faint smile.
“I’ll help you,” she said, raising an eyebrow and winking at me before dashing into Building 2.
By the Lake
Graduation was fast approaching. Classmates shared their feelings, wrote in each other’s yearbooks, exchanged photos, and some even went out drinking, often getting so drunk that the night ended in a mess. Our youthful days were slipping away, and the unknown world of work awaited us. Luckily, there were more job offers than graduates, so we had the luxury of choice. Yet, I was unsure which job I should take.
With my department’s job application forms in hand, I hesitantly walked out of the dorm. After passing through the grove, I arrived at Nameless Lake. The lake was small and round, with people sitting by the shore, chatting, staring into the distance, or lost in thought. I circled around the lake and was about to head to the department.
“Hey, which job are you thinking of taking?” A voice broke into my thoughts. I turned and saw a girl from my class standing there. She had straight, silky hair, a delicate face, and a pair of kind, expressive eyes looking warmly at me.
“I… I haven’t decided yet,” I replied.
“You should take this one,” she said enthusiastically. “It suits you, and it has a bright future.”
Throughout four years of university, I had hardly ever spoken to this girl. I hadn’t expected, on the eve of graduation, for her to offer me such genuine advice. My heart felt warm, and a sense of relief washed over me. I looked up at her, nodded, and headed toward the department.
Es war Vollmondnacht, das Wetter war klar und der Himmel so sauber wie frisch gewaschenes Wasser, ohne die geringste Spur von Wolken. Kürzlich erst war ich aus meiner Heimat zurückgekehrt, und die Mondkuchen, die mir meine Lieben geschenkt hatten, wurden zu einem köstlichen Festmahl auf dem Tisch. Die runden Mondkuchen, auf einem Tisch mit einem Tischtuch voller Blumenmuster platziert, wirkten zart und elegant und weckten unweigerlich den Appetit. Nach dem Abendessen waren meine Frau und meine Kinder mit ihren eigenen Angelegenheiten beschäftigt, also ging ich spazieren. Der Himmel wurde langsam dunkel, der Mond war noch nicht aufgegangen.
Ich folgte dem Pfad, durchquerte den Wald in der Siedlung und gelangte auf die Hauptstraße. Schließlich zeigte sich der Mond am Himmel, als würde er zärtlich lächeln, und die umliegenden Wolken eilten herbei, versuchten, das helle Mondlicht ein wenig zu verdecken. Die Wolken wurden vom Mondlicht durchleuchtet und verwandelten sich unbewusst in zarte bunte Wolken, die zusammen mit dem Mond am Himmel schwebten, ruhig und gelassen. Ich wollte bewusst ein paar Blicke auf diese schöne Szene von farbigen Wolken, die dem Mond folgen, werfen und ging in Richtung des Mondes.
Unbewusst kam ich vor die Grundschule meines Sohnes Huanhuan, aber der Mond war hinter den Gebäuden verdeckt, und ich fühlte mich etwas bedauernswert. Also ging ich auf die andere Straßenseite und sah das Restaurant “MISS WU Private Kitchen”. Das kräftige rote Schild und die chinesischen Laternen im Stil unter dem klaren Mondlicht erschienen viel blasser als gewöhnlich. Ich ging unwillkürlich darauf zu und sah viele Menschen drinnen versammelt. Wu Zhongmin, die Besitzerin dieses Restaurants, war eine Freundin. Ich überlegte gerade, ob ich reingehen und hallo sagen sollte, als eine Melodie aus meiner Heimat leise von der Tür her wehte.
Es stellte sich heraus, dass jemand die Pipa spielte. Ich ging leise in das Geschäft, suchte mir eine Ecke und begann, der lange vermissten Live-Folk-Musik zu lauschen. Dieses Stück war “彩云追月” (Caiyun zhuī yuè), es schien die schöne Mondlichtlandschaft draußen zu beschreiben. Jeder Ton klang rund und angenehm, als ob Jadeperlen in mein Herz schlagen würden. Vom Rhythmus über die Klangfarbe bis hin zu den Bewegungen und der Bedeutung jeder Note war alles nahtlos, berührte die Herzen der Zuhörer. Dies musste das Werk eines Meisters sein.
Die Gastgeberin sagte mir, die Person, die spielte, sei die Pipa-Spielerin Cao Yue. Im gedämpften Licht saß Cao Yue ruhig dort, die Pipa lag natürlich in ihren Armen, ihre Hände tanzten über die Pipa, wie die leidenschaftliche Monolog einer Tänzerin, aber auch wie der mutige Ansturm einer Armee. Ich sah förmlich, wie Xiang Yu in der Menge kämpfte, und das Chu-Heer im kalten Wind zitterte. Ein Lied von tückischen Hinterhalten, mitreißend, wie Kriegstrommeln in meinen Ohren, Schwerter und Speere prallten vor meinen Augen aufeinander.
Nachdem sie die Pipa beiseite gelegt hatte, kehrte Cao Yue lächelnd an den Tisch zurück und setzte sich direkt mir gegenüber. Ich eilte, der Musikerin eine Tasse Tee zu einschenken; sie lächelte bescheiden und nahm die Tasse an. Wahrscheinlich aus Liebe zur Musik und ohne die Gelegenheit, Musik systematisch zu studieren, habe ich besonders viel Respekt vor Musikern, vielleicht sogar ein wenig Ehrfurcht. Heute traf ich zum ersten Mal auf Cao Yue, aber es schien, als hätten wir uns schon einmal getroffen. Sie war eine Südchinesin, von zarter Schönheit und außergewöhnlicher Ausstrahlung, jede Geste und Bewegung strahlte die zarte Schönheit der Landschaft von Jiangnan aus. Der Gastgeber brachte Wein und serviert einige kleine Gerichte, und alle unterhielten sich fröhlich. Der Duft von Champagner erfüllte die Luft, eine warme und betörende Atmosphäre stieg auf, als ob sie versuchen würde, die Gespräche der Menschen mit dem Duft des Weins zu ersticken.
Die Zeit verging schnell, und unbemerkt wurde es schon sehr spät. Alle standen auf und verabschiedeten sich zögerlich, wünschten sich gegenseitig alles Gute. Ich verabschiedete mich lächelnd von allen und hatte noch nicht die Schwelle überschritten, als plötzlich eine Frage in meinem Herzen aufstieg: Werden wir uns wiedersehen? Auf dem Weg des Lebens gibt es so viele Begegnungen, so viele Tränen beim Abschied, so viele Gedanken beim Anblick des Mondes, die alle unauslöschliche Zeichen auf der Bahn des Lebens und unauslöschliche Bilder im Herzen hinterlassen.
Draußen war der Mond hell, sein Licht fiel kühl auf das fruchtbare Land, drückte zärtlich seine endlosen schönen Wünsche aus.
(Vollständiger Text, 3. Oktober 2020, Erstfassung, Erinnerungen an den Besuch von Professor Cao Yue, einer Pipa-Spielerin aus China in Deutschland. Alle Rechte vorbehalten)
The Chinese Erhu Serenades Aachen By Xiaoyang Bing Bing
On December 16th, I took the ICE train bound for Düren, a city near Cologne, to perform at a Christmas concert. After half a day’s journey, I finally arrived at Düren Station, where Pastor He Shihui warmly welcomed us before we headed together to the gathering place. It was a German church, lent to the Chinese congregation for the event. Pastor He and his wife served us a feast of Hakka specialty dishes: succulent braised pork with preserved greens and golden tangerines. We relished the meal, savoring each bite. After dinner, several musicians arrived, and we began our rehearsal.
Collaborating with musicians is a rarity for me, and this time I was set to play hymns with pianists Deng Kaiguang and Qiu Fu’an—a true challenge. Despite years of playing the erhu, I am often troubled by issues of pitch and rhythm. My early musical education was basic, with no formal training, and complex rhythms are difficult for me to master. For the erhu, pitch depends solely on finger placement, and even the smallest deviation can lead to a complete unraveling. Though I practiced endlessly at home, a sense of unease lingered. This is the plight of an amateur performer—balancing work and life leaves little time to refine technique, and without a professional teacher, the risk of errors during a performance is always present.
After rehearsal, I picked up my erhu and found a quiet room to continue practicing. For this concert, musician Yue Xiaopeng had composed an erhu harmony that was hauntingly beautiful but demanded a high level of skill, particularly in its four key modulations, which could intimidate any player. Fortunately, I was familiar with these keys, though I had to constantly remind myself of each transition’s timing.
People gradually filled the hall, the Christmas music service began. Two hosts greeted everyone in both fluent Chinese and German, introducing each program with grace. The concert proceeded smoothly. As I played on, a profound sense of connection took hold. Here, in this foreign land, the erhu—a voice from home—reached across boundaries, serenading a distant city with its sweet strains. Most of the audience members were local Chinese residents, along with a few Germans—this community is home to over a hundred immigrant families from China. In the warmth of the Christmas season, everyone gathered to taste the flavors of home and embrace a sense of belonging. My two pieces went well; twelve minutes on stage, mostly smooth with a few minor imperfections, but I felt at peace.
We then drove to Aachen, Germany’s westernmost city near the Belgian and Dutch borders—a city known for its academic life and as a sister city to Ningbo, China. I had visited this historic city twenty years ago, and now I was here again, though the night had already fallen, hiding its familiar sights. Stepping out of the car, we entered an ornate cathedral. With a capacity of six hundred, it felt particularly festive tonight, with young students bustling around the stage in preparation for the concert. Mr. and Mrs. Zhang came over to welcome us warmly, checking in to see how we were doing. Soon, the rehearsal started: microphones were set up, audience members took their seats, and everything was ready.
A young, unknown female student hosted the evening. Aachen’s choir captivated everyone with their modern melodies and arrangements—each young face radiating love and passion. When my turn came, I almost forgot about the pain in my little toe, walking calmly onto the stage. I listened intently to the piano and the tenor’s tempo, pouring deep emotion into every note. The tender harmonies resonated with the audience, drawing them in completely, while the tenor Li Yanyang’s powerful performance left everyone deeply moved.
My mind drifted back to another Christmas, twenty years ago, when I played erhu hymns in the Ruhr region, accompanied on the piano by a fellow sister. Those memories remain vivid, each detail as clear as if it were yesterday.
(February 17, 2024. All rights reserved by the author)
A fragrant river, A fragrant stream, On fragrant shores, We savor two bowls of lamb broth, steaming.
2 Golden Twilight of Jincheng
Gentle twilight in Jincheng fades, Quietly piercing the silent shade. Distant spirits and night’s soft gleam, Slowly merge into a boundless stream.
3 The Meandering Yellow River
The winding Yellow River, Should be surging with waves, Yet a fleeting glance in the evening Instantly warms the heart.
Is that touch of red in the river you? Softening the sky and the earth, Painting you and me. It turns out that darkness, too, Is a vast sky, Filled with enchanting colors and scents.
As your hand weaves through my dark hair, Fingers trembling slightly, Is it the scent of the river water you smell? Or the essence of the dark? Or perhaps, in an instant, You’ve touched that touch of red in the river’s heart.
(August 13, 2023. All rights reserved by the author)
冰冰文字事工@部落格 Bing Bing Writing Ministry 