Rather than a robe, he wore a whimsical, golden-yellow Buddhist monk's robe. As he walks to the center of the stage, he announces, “Now I will perform the blessing that will allow you to cross safely!” I look at my mother and father in shock: "what the hell is going on?" My father interrupts me before I can continue to ask, “It's Chinese tradition, you will do it even when your mother and I die, so you better find someone good.” I looked at the director again and all I see is him pacing back and forth, occasionally ringing a mini gong while singing something I can't understand. Suddenly he stops and, in a demanding tone, speaks: “The children of the deceased, come to the front and start burning the offerings! First, the bridge to his new home!” My father and uncle walked to the front of the room next to the gift table. As instructed, my uncle had taken a paper bridge from the table and set it on fire using the lighter, once ignited he threw it into the fireplace. My father had also taken a paper object, the miniature villa, and lit it, both of them had continued this process for a