Hand on my mouth, my mouth in the dust

Hans is neck-deep in writing sermons for a retreat next weekend. He will be expounding on how our worship of God (or other idols) overflows into the other areas of our lives. He requested that I speak to the women on how this plays out in our lives as daughters, sisters, wives, and mothers. In preparation for that workshop, I've been studying passages on Lady Wisdom in the book of Proverbs.

The process has been slow and humiliating.

A few nights ago, I found some time to sit down and study. I was so glad that I had finally made some progress and was feeling quite lofty about the whole thing. Moments later, however, I found myself tangled in a petty disagreement with Hans, my mouth hurling foolish, hurtful words. To make matters worse, instead of apologizing right away, I even tried to justify myself.

How do I fall so far and so quickly? One moment I was listening to Lady Wisdom, thinking I understood her. The next moment, I had my face planted in dirt.

With my hand on my mouth, and mouth in the dust, I am grateful. The Lord chastens me still. He has not given up on his disobedient child. The question is whether I am listening.

I do not have the strength to utter the words of Charles Simeon, but they serve, nevertheless, as a good aim to pursue.

Repentance is in every view so desirable, so necessary, so suited to honor God, that I seek that above all. The tender heart, the broken and contrite spirit, are to me far above all the joys that I could ever hope for in this vale of tears. I long to be in my proper place, my hand on my mouth, and my mouth in the dust... I feel this to be safe ground. Here I cannot err... I am sure that whatever God may despise... He will not despise the broken and contrite heart.

Her unbound feet

Once in a while, I would remind Hans that in some cultures, I would be a very honored woman for bearing him three sons. I know, so politically incorrect in so many ways. It is only funny because I grew up as the firstborn of four daughters in what was a sexist culture. And my mother grew up as the seventh of eight daughters.

This is the story of my grandmother and my mother, who ate bitterness for the sake of our happiness.


Ting Ming Hui was born the only daughter to a wealthy family in Fujian. Reflected in her name, she was an intelligent child. She was raised as the family’s treasure, receiving education equivalent to her seven brothers. Ming Hui was known particularly for her strength of will. She was the first woman in her family to have unbound feet. As a young child, she was conscious of her father’s tender heart, she screamed night and day, and begged for her feet to be free. Later, owing again to her strong will, she persuaded her parents to give her hand in marriage to the man she loved, Lim Hing Yu, a son to a rich merchant in town.

Their love story began triumphant and beautiful. Ming Hui bore two girls during their initial years of marriage. During the country’s political turmoil, in order to flee the draft for war, Hing Yu was forced by his family to escape to Indonesia. Ming Hui and her daughters were left behind the high walls of the Lim family, which was crumbling financially due to the economy. Soon, the Lim household lost all their businesses. Felt as though he had lost his face, Hing Yu’s father attempted suicide before his family. Ming Hui, the daughter-in-law, got on her knees and begged him to restrain himself, swore that she would provide for the household. Being the only woman in the family with unbound feet, she tended the garden, sold produce on the street, and fed the mouths of her in-laws, their children, and her own daughters. Once treated as a precious jewel, Ming Hui was collecting dung for fertilizer with her bare hands.

In their nine years of separation, Hing Yu returned to China only once, merely for a short visit. During their temporary union, Ming Hui came to be with-child, a third daughter. Overseas communication was difficult; it took months for a letter to reach its recipient. Driven once more by her will, Ming Hui left China to search for her husband. Money was scarce and she was only able to gather enough for herself and her youngest daughter, who was already seven. She was forced to leave her two older daughters behind in Fujian.

After a couple months journey, on foot and on water, Ming Hui finally arrived on the island of Java, Indonesia. At her husband’s door steps, she saw sandals -- feminine and others that can only fit children's feet. Only then Hing Yu told her that he was living with another woman and he already had two sons by her.

For the next few decades, the two women lived under the same roof. Ming Hui, though claimed the status of the principle wife, had five more daughters, eight daughters all together, no son. The second wife had five sons and two daughters, and made sure she received recognition for her position.

With her mind for business and skills in accounting, Ming Hui managed the household and her husband’s business. She accompanied him on all his business trips and served as the “public wife” of Lim Hing Yu. When he died, she lived for another 15 years, visiting her daughters living all over the world.

 

My unbound feet served as a bondage to my oath,
Taken for granted like the sun and the moon.
At least dignity was mine when I dug through dung,
When I believed I was your one and only, your only one.
Who can understand my anger, betrayed by one I love?
My voice fled like a bird when I arrived at your new door.
Silence is my only plea, silence--my cloak and protector.

Twice exiled, my heart and of my body,
Banished from my homeland, the country of my brothers.
Like animal without affection, I abandoned my young daughters.
Roaming in my own home like a foreigner in the land,
I neither spoke nor understood your tongue.
When is love ever equal? Who says love can be shared?
If I had known, I would not have come for you.
Such as one who looked for moon in the lake,
When I jumped in, you disappeared.

My daughters suffered, singing my song of bitterness,
I was unable to love them.
Walking in constant snare and stare of the Others,
My daughters were scorned and mocked, abandoned and beaten.
My wings were not wide enough to hide them.

Strong Jade is the name of my daughter,
Though Heaven may give me no son.
My daughter bears the mark of a Dragon,
Yet gentle as the ocean is deep.
Victorious in battles and beautiful are the sisters,
Eight with strength like the River, ever pressing on.

Spirit has not flown from me,
Though my voice for a time might have ceased.
Though the bamboo might seem hallow,
Do not be deceived, air is not nothing.
One cannot bend me easily
Nor can one take my life,
For my roots go deep and my life is long
Striving towards the Heavens.

Salty and bright

{a reflection on the collapsed factory in Bangladesh}

When I found out about the collapse of the clothing factory in Bangladesh, the first thing I did was to check the tag on my shirt.

Was it made in Bangladesh?
Who made my shirts, my shoes, my scarves, my pants?
Was it one of the 400 ladies who were killed?

My heart sank as I glanced at my closet.
So. Many. Clothes.
Too many.
(Why do I have so many clothes?)

I may not own anything made in that particular factory, but I am sure some of my clothes were made by people working under similar conditions. People who are underpaid and exploited because they need to feed their families. Some of those girls, they looked so young. Am I responsible for their deaths?

No, of course it's not my fault.
I have no way of knowing the conditions of the places where my clothes were made.
Blame greedy factory owners. Blame greedy and corrupted governments. Blame greedy capitalists.
I am innocent.

Or am I?

When it comes to issues of the public square—like sweatshops, abortion, and terrorism, we can sometimes feel so powerless. We feel as though there is so little we can do to create real change.

At the root of these great injustices is sin. We can begin fighting injustice by fighting the sins of our own hearts. After all, I am the only person I am able to control.

I am greedy. I covet things. I fall prey to the allures of fast fashion and cheap chic. I love branded bargains and slick deals. I love stuff.

Fighting injustice begins in my own heart. I am called to be salt; I am called to be light. I cannot force people to taste justice and see goodness. However, I can learn to be salty, and I can learn to be bright.

The Lord is my perfect garment. I shall not be in want.
Therefore, I can buy less. I can buy secondhand. I can buy wisely.
I can love simple living.
I can love people, not stuff.

The prayer of a wise fool

I am weary, O God;
I am weary, O God,
and worn out.

When I read Proverbs 30 for the first time, I could hardly believe that the words were just — there, in the holy scripture, staring me in the face. I mean, how did he know? Agur, a stranger with a strange name gave words to the prayer my soul so desperately needed to pray.

Surely I am too stupid to be a man.
I have not the understanding of a man.
I have not learned wisdom,
nor have I knowledge of the Holy One.

It was strangely liberating to confess my stupidity. (Though my version usually go more along the lines of "Dumb! Dumb! Dumb! I. Am. So. Dumb.") Sometimes, the most truthful thing we can pray is simply, I don't know, Lord, I just don't know.

Who knew? The Word of God is so vast and so complete that it even has a chapter on "How to Pray on Days When You Feel Stupid and Tired: For Dummies." While the Psalms teach us how to weep over our iniquities and meaningless suffering, Agur gives us words for grey skies and a weary heart.

Here at the end of the magnum opus of Hebraic proverbs, Agur had nothing but a heavy sigh. He understood just how far short he measured from what was required of him. The chasm between life before God and life in the world can sometimes be overwhelming. The Bible is not a checklist of all the things we need to do in order to be saved. Rather, it is a mirror for us to see ourselves, in order that we may know how much we are in need of a Savior. So, Agur prayed — tired and empty.

But he doesn't stay there.

Who has ascended to heaven and come down?
Who has gathered the wind in his fists?
Who has wrapped up the waters in a garment?
Who has established all the ends of the earth?
What is his name?

Agur beckoned his soul to remember the creation, the greatness of his God. Suddenly, the frame of his vision was blown up. Agur's focus shifted — from the narrowness of his introspection to the vastness of nature, from his own limitations to Yahweh's limitless power.

Who is able to hold the hurricane captive in the palm of his hand? Yahweh. Who can contain the oceans in the fold of his garment? Yahweh. He speaks and the mountains obey. The height of the heaven is nothing to him.

Great is the Lord and most worthy of praise.

And then Agur asked,

what is the name of his son?

As Hanan, my two-year-old, would say, "Jesus!"

Wait, what?

Um... Isn't Proverbs in the Old Testament? Jesus wasn't born yet.
Who, then, was this son of Yahweh that Agur spoke of?

The relationship between father and son is the backbone of the book of Proverbs. Chapters 1 through 9 are instructions told in the voice of a father to his son. They are the foundation, the context, the setting of the entire book. The son is the recipient of the father's discipline and reproof, the one listening to his father's voice.

Yahweh is a father.  "The Lord reproves him whom he loves, as a father the son in whom he delights" (Prov 3:12). Therefore, whoever listens to Yahweh's voice and follows his way is a child of God.

Who, then, is the son of Yahweh? Who is his daughter?

You are, O weary soul.

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
(Matthew 11:28)

Here are my take-away points from Agur on "How to Pray on Days When You Feel Stupid and Tired: For Dummies."

1. Remember Yahweh
     a. Speak to him
     b. Beckon your soul to remember his power and his strength
2. Remember the nature of your relationship with this great and awesome God.

He is your father. He loves you and he delights in you.
And for our weary days, this is enough for us to live on.

True religion is like singing to a baby

Where I give myself, entirely, to another without wanting anything in return.

Where I find joy, in its fullness, solely in the pleasure of the other.

Where I am content, simply because I am near him.

*I've reflected on the same idea, with a lot more words, here: "For No Other Reason."

Praying for Christ

I am indebted to my parents for teaching me to pray as a child. When I was five or six, I was given the all important responsibility to pray for the health and wellness of our chicken. I prayed for angels to guard the chicken coops and keep them safe from snakes and biawak at night. My dad was a pastor in the remote regions of Malaysia. But I digress.

Prayer, to me, was like a checklist. Or, at worst, a wishlist. Sicknesses, check. Friendships, check. Exams, check check check check. Finances, check. Unsaved friends and relatives, check. Safety, check. The possibility of future romance, giggle giggle check. Of course, I say more than just "check" in my prayers. But the idea is that I asked for "God's will to be done" without really knowing what I was asking for. I assumed God's will was mysterious and unknowable.

The big boys came down with the stomach flu last week. Hanan first, then Emeth. My little balls of energy and unceasing chatterboxes were uncharacteristically quiet. During the day, they took turns spilling fluids of all kinds. During the night, they woke up every hour, crying, and feverish with hurting tummies.

My default prayer would be for the pain to go away, for healing, and soon. But, is this all I can pray for? Even children of non-Christians eventually recover from the stomach flu. How then do my prayers affect my family? What difference do my prayers make? What is the point in praying? When they are better, should I give thanks for the healing as the work of God or just accept it as the natural course of things?

What am I to pray for?

Our life of prayer (or lack of) reveals the desire of our hearts. The prayers we voice before God and before one another are statements of what we think we need, what we care most about, what we love most.

If my prayers are only about my external circumstances and if I seek God merely for his blessing and protection, my regard for God is as a genie in a lamp. My wishes are his commands. I am the master and God is the slave.

Let me emphasize here that there is absolutely nothing wrong with praying for our circumstances. But praying merely for God's blessings is not enough. We find wonderful examples in scripture of how God changes the circumstances of his people. Even so, the needs and sufferings of this world are minor emphases. Miracles are but signposts that point to greater realities.

God separated me unto the Gospel, made me his child, to reveal his Son to me and through me. This is my Father's will, that I may know his Son. And while I learn to behold him, my Father promises that I would become more like him. Therefore, last week, as I was praying for my sick children, I prayed for Christ.

In their pain and discomfort, I prayed that my children would learn to turn to the Lord for help and courage. I prayed for grateful, trusting, cheerful hearts. I prayed that we, their parents, would be the willing hands and feet of Christ. I prayed that we would grow in kindness, patience, and compassion for one another. I prayed that in our (teeny-tiny-relatively-minor) suffering, we would have a greater longing for Christ and to be with him forever. I prayed that our sickness would not be wasted, but that it would help us remember Christ.

*David Powlison helped me tremendously while I was thinking through this subject, "Modeling Grace through Prayer Requests."

In remembrance of me

Even before the first bite of the forbidden fruit, there was ingratitude. Because we were ungrateful, we wanted to be God rather than obey God. Because we were ungrateful, we believed in the serpent's lies rather than God's instruction.

For although they knew God, they did not honor him as God or give thanks to him, but they became futile in their thinking, and their foolish hearts were darkened. (Romans 1:21)

Ingratitude is the root of the first sin.
Ingratitude is, in fact, the root of all sin.

My ungrateful heart seeks after things apart from God. He is not enough for me.
My ungrateful heart disregards God, dismisses his promises. I forget. 

Not giving thanks is no small thing. Gratitude is not a warm fuzzy feeling. It is more than good manners. More than the five-second prayer before meals. It is more than the obligatory thank-you notes I sent after our wedding, and the lip-service I pay at the end of emails.When I teach my children to say their pleases and thank yous, I am not just teaching them to be polite. I am teaching them a disposition towards life -- how to live rightly. I am teaching them how to worship.

While ingratitude is the root of all sin, gratitude is the beginning of worship. Gratitude is the very posture of God's children. Gratitude is the mark of the Christian. Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing. Having nothing, yet possessing everything (2 Cor 6:10). We lament, yet we give praise. We grieve, yet we give thanks.

Gratitude is our response to what God has done. Because he first loved us, we love and fear him. Gratitude is the fountain from which all else flows: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

Transition from two kids to to three kids has been full and happy, but not easy. There are days when tiredness and anxiety cloud my eyes like thick black smoke, distorting reality. This is the battlefield of my sanctification. Here, holding crying babies at 4  in the morning, I am learning to fight against my self-love.

Suddenly, my mind sees the significance of the thanksgiving passages in the gospels, Paul's letters, and the Psalms. Jesus made much of the only leper who remembered to say thank you. The Samaritan came back not merely to be polite.  He was a changed man. He turned and worshiped God.

Thanksgiving marks the climax in many of the David's psalms and Paul's letters. These men were not merely paying lip-service. They gave thanks not because it was in-style or because it was the "right" thing to say. No! They were engaged in battles. Whether they were fleeing from their enemies or sitting in prisons, they were warring against their flesh, waiting upon the Lord.

God has not left his children defenseless. He has given us weapons to fight and shields to resist. In bad times, gratitude guards our mouth from complaining and our hearts from losing hope. In good times, gratitude guards us against the first sin -- pride, vanity, and the desire to be God.

So, sing! Rejoice! Proclaim his amazing grace. Declare in the face of despair that Jesus has conquered sin and death.

Thank you Lord for the Gospel. Thank you Lord for upholding all things in your hands. Thank you Lord for my children, my husband. Thank you Lord for you have not left me an orphan. Thank you Lord for you have not left my children orphans. Thank you Lord for giving us to each other. Thank you Lord for giving yourself to us.

It begins by remembering.

Jesus gave his disciples a ritual on the night he was betrayed. It is no coincidence that the early church called it the Eucharist, which means thanksgiving in Greek.  This is my body broken for you. This is my blood that was shed for you. Do this in remembrance of me.

This is the Word of the Lord.
Thanks be to God.

Mess-free finger painting. I wrapped the paint and paper under a sheet of plastic. =)