by the waters

On winning hearts

2012-01-28T13:05:00.000-08:00

When Hans was my gentleman-friend, our long-distance "dates" would at times include lengthy readings from Jonathan Edwards' treatise on Religious Affections. Little did I know, Mr. Edwards would be a most kind and patient teacher. Years later, these readings proved to be most precious during some of the most difficult trials.

Reading long 18th-century treatises over the phone for hours was an uncommon strategy to win a lady's heart (though I don't think that was his intention). Especially when these readings often brought up difficult subjects, which were followed by painful conversations.

But, win he did. He had my heart.
What he won me with, he won me to.

With his love for the truth, he taught me to love the truth. He cared deeply that I would remain faithful to Christ, and that I would understand God rightly. By this, I knew he cared deeply for me.

Ultimately, the task of parenting is to prepare the boys for our absence. Our days are numbered; our time runs short. The daily battles of my mind and heart can be summed up with one question: What am I teaching my children to love?

I can think of many answers to this question. Some things are more important than others. Right now, teaching them to love carrots, nap time, clean hands, and the dreaded toothbrush strangely occupy much of our time.

There are other things too. Among which is one of utmost importance: love others. Love the King of glory, love each other, and love our neighbors. This is the fountain from which all else will flow: joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, and self-control. Vitamin A in carrots and cavity-free teeth shall pass, but love is here to stay.

So in fear and trembling, we place these boys in the way of grace. And we point, and we say, "Look! Look at the cross, on which the King of glory died." With much hope, perhaps what we win them with will be what we win them to.

I have three little sisters of my own. Over the years, a few other girls kindly adopted me and made me their own. Little sisters ask a lot of questions. Sometimes, they ask about boys. I am glad that they ask, because I tend to be quite bossy that way.

I think I've found a new answer to their questions. Or rather, a new way of repeating some old answers. I think this sums it up quite well: What you win them with is what you win them to. And, what they win you with is what they win you to. It's good to know where they are taking you.

Speaking of love, here is a most peculiar proposal from Adoniram Judson to Anne Hesseltine. He wrote this letter asking Mr.Hesseltine for his daughter's hand in marriage. His words make diamond rings look like pebbles on the beach, seriously.

I have now to ask, whether you can consent to part with your daughter early next spring, to see her no more in this world; whether you can consent to her departure, and her subjection to the hardships and sufferings of a missionary life; whether you can consent to her exposure to the dangers of the ocean; to the fatal influence of the southern climate of India; to every kind of want and distress; to degradation, insult, persecution, and perhaps a violent death. Can you consent to all this, for the sake of him who left his heavenly home, and died for her and for you; for the sake of perishing, immortal souls; for the sake of Zion, and the glory of God? Can you consent to all this, in hope of soon meeting your daughter in the world of glory, with the crown of righteousness, brightened with the acclamations of praise which shall redound to her Saviour from heathens saved, through her means, from eternal woe and despair.

Mr.Hesseltine handed the letter and the decision to his daughter. She accepted.

What Adoniram won Anne with, he won her to. Together, they sailed beyond their deaths, and unto that golden shore, where their pain and tears are no more.

Snow covers, like grace

2012-01-20T13:25:00.000-08:00

I love snow.

I lost my key,
again.

This time, we did not find it. It is still out there, somewhere. Buried in the snow.

It must have fallen out of my pocket when I took the boys' mittens out. There we were, all four of us, kicking and digging around a few square meters. Only two of us were really looking though, I think. Emeth tried his best. And Yohanan cheered us on with his laughs, looking like an astronaut in his red snowsuit.

While we were looking, Emeth prayed with daddy, "Lord, please help us find mommy's key." After an hour of searching, he prayed again, "Thank you, Lord, for helping us."

He did not say, "even though we did not find it." Like I would have.

Grace in the losing,

grace in the looking,

grace in the waiting.

UPDATE: Hans found my key, again. He found it as he systematically brushed the snow off the ground. Grace in the finding.

Take, Eat

2012-01-11T18:16:00.000-08:00

Hunger. The first thing babies communicate to mom and dad: "I want food, and you." As the years grow, our hunger grows. Our wants multiply, our appetites become larger and more complex. We discover new kinds of hunger, deeper yearnings of the soul and mind.

We crave to be heard, to be validated, to be seen. We want to be perceived as strong, smart, and bold. We want to be the best -- at something, anything. Women love "how-to" lists. Give us twenty-five ways, in three steps, using one rule to make--something, anything--more delicious, more beautiful, more superior. And oh, and we want to be desirable, and gorgeous too, please.

As Eve was in the beginning, so are we. She was hungry for beauty, and she wanted to be wise. It wasn't enough to be like God, she wanted to be God. She wanted to make her own decisions, determine her own path.

So she took, and she ate.

When my sisters and I were little, a friend of my mother scolded her for the way she dressed her daughters. Why were her daughters not in ankle-length skirts? How could my mom allow her girls to wear pants? How dare her daughters keep their hair short? She tore my mother to shreds with her accusations. My mother was so forbearing, so gentle. Now that I have children of my own, I wonder what I would have done.

There was nothing modest about that friend's promotion of "modesty."

My Sunday school girls often ask me for the nitty-gritty when it comes to dressing modestly: What about a two-piece bathing suit? What if there are only girls around? What about a strapless wedding dress? What about certain brands of clothing?

I am encouraged that they are at least thinking about what they wear, but I resist to give them a yes-or-no answer. I give guidelines, yes, but I refuse to choose their wardrobe because true modesty is not just about clothes. Just as true frugality is not about money, and true fasting is not about food.

What I am most concern about is that we recognize the hunger and the desires that drive us. And we set our eyes on the Feast of Life, where we can find bread and water. Only there, can our hunger be satisfied.

Idolatry is our hunger for anything other than God. Sin is, as it was in the beginning, our sad attempt to stuff our hunger with deadly things.

We crave for people's praise, acceptance, and attention by the way we dress. We do this not only to attract the opposite gender, but also for the approval and envy of our peers. We want to claim a superlative of our own; to be the best -- at something, anything. To be the most daring, most in-shape, most fashion-forward, most expensive, most frugal, most weird. And yes, and even "most godly" and "most modest."

Some try to dodge this whole modesty question all together: "God looks at the heart, so what I wear is not important" or "I don't have a problem with modesty because I don't even care about what I wear."

But clothing is important to God.

Before Adam and Eve left the Garden, he knew his children were ashamed, and fig leafs were not enough. So, an animal was slaughtered and God covered Adam and Eve with its skin.

How Christians cloth ourselves brings glory to God because our clothing points to Christ, our perfect covering. The Lamb of God, who was slaughtered for the sins of the world. The way we dress is a simple act of love for our neighbors, our proclamation that we are Christ's disciples. And our obedience to Christ is a mark of our allegiance, our act of worship.

So, do not live on hungry souls. We fast with joy, knowing that our souls are filled and fed on the Word of God. We shop not on empty stomachs, but on hearts fully satisfied, knowing that our Treasure is great in heaven.

We are invited to the Feast of Life. Come, taste and see that the Lord is good. Be hungry no more.

The King of Glory extends his nail-pierced hands,
"Take, eat, this is my body, which is given for you.
Do this in remembrance of me."

__________

Here are the links to the series:
Part 1: In the Garden
Part 2: Shame
Part 3: Sackcloth
Part 4: Bridal garment
Part 5: Christ
Heart-Applications
Applications: Take Two

On this restless hunger

2012-01-07T21:55:00.000-08:00

The day is done. Night is here. The house is at last quiet.

The squeals and the thumping from the day has ceased. Sounds of two little boys jumping and running around our apartment as I tried to clean the kitchen. Restless. Hungry. Wanting. Waiting. Busy. Distracted.

Motherhood gives me an accurate and honest look at my own heart. Tonight, my heart is like two hungry and restless boys. They even have my nose.

Lord, here I am.

Please calm and quiet my soul.

Teach me

that I may learn to trust you.

Teach me

that I may learn to yearn for your bread and water.

Teach me

that I may learn to be satisfied,

to be still,

to rest.

The Interruption: a Christmas play (epilogue)

2011-12-23T12:56:00.000-08:00

As part of the Christmas celebration this Sunday, the young people will be contributing a play. I had so much fun writing the script, and even more fun watching them practice, I thought I would share it here. May your preparation this Christmas be a merry one.

EPILOGUE

That was more than 30 years ago. I am an old man now. Some years ago, I met this baby -- the son of Joseph the carpenter, Mary’s boy. Well, he was not a baby anymore.

People told me about this Jesus by whose touch the blind could see, and lame could walk. There was nothing in the world I wanted more than to meet him, to hear him.

One day, I heard he was coming to Bethlehem. So I sat by the road and I waited. And waited. When I heard the crowd coming, I shouted as loud as I could: “Son of David! Son of David! Have mercy on me!”

To my surprise, he stopped. He touched my shoulder. And he said to me, “I was born in Bethlehem, did you know? Like you, my father and mother were beggars at Benjamin’s door. I've come back for you.” My heart swelled with so much joy at the sound of his voice; it hurt. This stranger knew who I was, though I have never met him. He said he came back -- for me.

He then asked me, “Do you believe that I can heal you?” With all the hope that was left in my heart, I whispered, “Yes, yes I do believe.” And then, he touched my eyes. And for the first time in my life, I could see. I saw his face smiling at me. I saw the face of God.

Wherever he went, I followed. Foxes have holes and birds have nests, but Jesus and his followers laid our heads on stones.

Jesus became a beggar, to save beggars like me. Jesus became homeless, to bring us home to the Father. God came in human flesh, to live with us, to die for us – so that we may have everlasting life.

Come to him, he came for you.

_____________

My cup overflows

2011-12-08T13:38:00.001-08:00

Yohanan had diarrhea earlier this week. In those two days, I must have washed him every other hour. The poor boy was feverish at night. My lower maintenance child became a koala, a sweet but sick bear who wanted to be held at every waking moment. I was glad to offer him some comfort, as I imagine the pain was a little scary. I must confess, however, his chubby arms felt slightly constraining.

I was a lot younger than Hans when we first met. I still am. When he first talked to me about our friendship, he basically proposed a marriage. No, he did not utter the words "marry me" or anything that one would typically associate with a marriage proposal. But his words were hope-filled.

He talked of carrying my suitcases when we visit China, walking in the rain, and drinking cups of hot apple cider by the fireplace. His intentions were clear. With him, I never had to guess. Always secure, always safe. Nonetheless, to the twenty-two-year-old me, commitment to one person for the rest of my life seemed so -- narrow.

On this side of eternity, God's will can seem so constraining. His law seems so rigid, his boundaries so restrictive. Jesus -- the way, the truth, and the life? Why so exclusive? I am guessing this is the way Emeth feels about our rules.

This is far from the truth, of course. Life only seems constraining when we choose to see it that way.

We ask, "what is God's will for my life?" Though in reality, we've already decided which way we would prefer. "God's will," in our minds, would only lead to one place, or one vocation, or one person. When things do not happen the way we prefer, we "accept his sovereignty" with resignation, rather than with gratitude and trust. We despise his guidance and discipline; his rod and his staff do not comfort.

In the beginning, God drew boundaries. Out of nothing, he created everything. Out of chaos, he created order. He separated light from darkness, the sky above from the waters below, land and seas, day and night. Boundaries were placed to protect, to preserve, in order that life may flourish.

In one sense, God's will is narrow. After all, Jesus did say, small is the gate and narrow is the path that leads to life.

But
this narrowness
is the narrowness
of a birth canal.
There is an entire universe waiting on the other side.
(source)

In Hans, I found a universe.
It expanded with Emeth. And again, with Yohanan.

I used to be grateful for a cup of freshly ground, french-pressed coffee. But anyone would be. This week, my cup overflowed with instant coffee. In my universe of koala bears, time is a luxury not to be wasted on trivial things. And I'm learning to give thanks, and to love my new brew.

This is freedom and grace indeed.

in the way of grace

2011-11-24T22:45:00.001-08:00

Hans asked Emeth to close his eyes. In his hand held a sweet surprise. A morsel of chocolate-covered ice-cream. He planned to pop it into Emeth's mouth after his eyes were closed. It may not seem like a big deal, but to our three-year-old, it required a great amount of trust and faith in daddy. These days, "Why?" is a common response to the instructions we give to him. The request was simple: obey daddy and trust that daddy has only what is good for you in mind.

God asks his children to pray. Too often, however, our hearts rebel again this exercise and ask "Why?" What difference does it make? God is sovereign, so why does it matter whether we pray or not?

Prayer is not a shopping list; it is not a to-do list. It is not merely meditation, or a means of unloading our fears and worries. It is not even "just talking to God."

In the language of Jonathan Edwards, when we pray, we are placing ourselves "in the way of grace." I think of the centurion who asked Jesus to heal his servant, or the woman who touched Jesus' cloak, or the Canaanite woman who threw herself at Christ's feet for the sake of her daughter. They each placed themselves in Jesus' path, and their hope in his mercy.

Compare to the many other things we can be doing, praying can seem so -- unproductive -- because it is (on our part, anyway). It is as unfruitful as when the sons of Israel circled around Jericho again, and again, and again.

Prayer is a picture of how grace is to be received -- us on our knees doing "nothing." It is us living out our dependence on God, a realization that we can do nothing apart from him, and a proclamation that he has done everything for us. Praying is hard because it requires sacrifice, yet it yields no measurable result. Surrender with little honor. Hard work with no glory, especially having been asked to pray in the closet.

Prayer is a kind of death lived out,
a daily dying to self.

This way of grace, however, is also how we get to participate in God's work, and take part in God's joy. We get to. Like the four friends who believed. They made a hole in the roof and lowered their sick friend at Jesus' feet. They got to be a part of Jesus' miracle. They got to be a part of the story.

Close your eyes, darling,
and trust daddy.

A strange and frightening kind of day

2011-11-21T21:44:00.001-08:00

November 21, 2011

2:00 p.m. Emeth laid down for his nap with not much bouncing or laughing. Unusual, but I did not think much of it.

3:30 p.m. Emeth woke up. We had our ritual of hugs and whispers, and he requested to return to his crib "to rest" a little longer "because he was too tired." This never happened before, but there is a first time for everything, right?

4:30 p.m. Emeth woke up from his second nap (?!). We talked a little and he proceeded to lay on the floor and watched his brother playing with toys. Again, never happened before.

5:00 p.m. Emeth requested to return to the crib a second time to rest. I was getting a little worried.

6:00 p.m. He was still under his blanket, holding his bear, staring blankly into space.

The house was quiet. I heard only the light footsteps of the little brother's fat feet. When I washed the dishes, I did not have to remove my gloves every two minutes. No one was talking, or telling me stories, or roaring like a lion, or asking questions.

My imagination ran wild. I had read several articles on meningitis a few days ago. Lethargy was among the symptoms; death was among the "complications." I checked his temperature several times. Is your neck hurting? How are your knees? Can you straighten your legs?

6:40 p.m. He sat up and said, "Emeth is not feeling too tired any more," and slowly regained his momentum of chattiness.

7:30 p.m. He was singing Pop Goes the Weasel at the top of his lungs. He was not eating his dinner like I wish he would, but it was well with my soul.

I record this for days to come when I might foolishly wish for a quieter house. I might wish to whine about all the interruptions or the giggles and squeals when they are supposed to be sleeping. I record this to remember how frightened I was when Emeth was quiet, and how grateful I was when I had my a boisterous and endlessly chatty three-year-old back.

Here are some Emethese for good measure:

ker whale -- killer whale
os-posit or o-sipit -- opposite
long long time ago or last morning -- a few hours ago, yesterday, weeks or months or years ago.
maybe -- definitely. E.g. "maybe I spilled my yogurt" means "I spilled my yogurt."
almost -- already. E.g. "It's almost two o'clock" means "It's already two o'clock."
deft-ly -- definitely
um-set -- upset
sammich -- sandwich
opportunist -- what daddy calls me and my little brother when he comes out from his study.
Jolay and Dalay - me and daddy when we are pretending to be Jolay and Dalay. Mommy is also Jolay but she doesn't like to play along. And Hanan is Dalay, like me, but he is too little to understand.

On absurdity and unkindness

2011-11-20T00:30:00.000-08:00

Years ago, I had a dear friend who had anorexia and bulimia. One night, very early in our friendship (when I didn't know about her eating disorders), she looked at me and cried, "You are so thin, and I am so fat!" I was so confused. Her size-zero pants looked baggy on her. I will not tell you the size of my pants, but I can tell you that I was (and still am) not a size-zero.

I told her that she needed to love herself more.

A year after that incident, I was asked to give a workshop in the juvenile justice facilities on sexual harassment. I walked into a classroom containing twenty-two blank stares in blue uniforms. By the end of the workshop, we were a wreck. Some were crying, most were distraught, four admitted that theyhad been raped.

I left them with colorful bookmarks telling them to love themselves.

Weeks ago, Yohanan was teething (the well-used excuse for fussing). He just had a flu shot. His skin felt warmer than usual, a slight fever. He looked at me and his hand patted his chest, signing "Please." Hold me, mommy, just hold me.

Then, I understood
the absurdity
of the colorful bookmarks,
the unkindness
of telling my friend to love herself.

Girls in blue uniforms stood before my mind's eyes, their blank stares judged me. No, Miss, we cannot love ourselves. Can't you see, Miss? We are hurt, and broken, and sick.

How do we see ourselves?
Are we gods and goddesses -- the way they sing about us on the radio?
Or do we see ourselves as God sees us?

Children, toddlers, babies--
faces of beauty in the fullness of their glory,
helpless, rebellious, center of our universes,
always manage to get our hands on some poison or choking hazards,
prone to wander, falls, and pain.

We are children
like Yohanan,
we are not able to love ourselves.

When I see my children sinking in their self-inflicted misery, I don't tell them to love themselves. No, I tell them that Mommy and Daddy love them. I tell them that their Maker and Savior loves them. And then, we would dance, and sing, and hold on to one another (until, of course, I have to make dinner).

Love
looks to others.
When love looks to the self, it becomes something else.

Emeth's first poem

2011-11-07T17:28:00.000-08:00

At the breakfast table this morning, Emeth composed his first poem.

Chubby little fingers,
Chubby little toes,
Chubby little winter on Hanan bear.

I thought it had just the right amount of ambiguity for a poem. I get it, but I don't get it. He said it was to "make Hanan laugh." I thought it was perfect.

Nutella on my priestly garment

2011-11-02T10:55:00.000-07:00

I've loved history my whole life. I mostly kept this to myself in high school. History, or "Sejarah" as we called it in Malaysia, was among the most despised subjects in the public schools. There was little to love when government exams expected students only to memorize dates and events.

So, when I came to the United States, I freely indulged at the fountain of a liberal arts education, and drank myself silly. I declared my academic love to the history department, even though I was a biology major.

Here, I was introduced to the nuns of the Middle Ages. They enthralled me. Life in the the convents and monasteries sounded most -- liberating. When so few women knew how to read, nuns wrote books. The ascetic life seemed so noble. Monks and nuns sacrificed much freedom and devoted their lives to prayer and spiritual disciplines. I thought if I had lived in the Middle Ages, it would be so cool to be a nun.

I have since grown out of that (weird) daydream. (thank goodness)

And then, I became a mom. The freedom that I was ready to sacrifice as a (Protestant) nun paled in comparison to the sacrifices of becoming a parent. I am not saying that the monastic life was easy, not at all, but at least monks and nuns got full nights of sleep, the time to be with one's own thoughts, the luxury of being in one's own mind, the freedom to come and go. As my friend Charisse said, she can be having "intense devotional thoughts" at one moment, and be upset by the sound of children fighting at the next.

Our worship is tangled up with the ordinary. Nuns and monks clothed the naked and fed the hungry as their acts of spiritual discipline. (Wait, that's what parents do.) We offer our lives as worship; we sing, we play, we eat, we drink, we wash, we comfort, we listen, we teach, we pray. Repeat. This is our service unto the Lord, even when my priestly garment is stained with Nutella, and the floor of the sanctuary may have a few Cheerios on it.

So, when Martin Luther wrote "intense devotional thoughts" about stenchy diapers, I try to pay attention. A monk turned family man, he knew what he was talking about:

[Natural reason] turns up her nose and says, "Alas, must I rock the baby, wash its diapers, make its bed, smell its stench, stay up nights with it, take care of it when it cries, heal its rashes and sores?"...

What then does Christian faith say to this? It opens its eyes, looks upon all these insignificant, distasteful, and despised duties in the Spirit, and is aware that they are all adorned with divine approval as with the costliest gold and jewels.

It says, O God, because I am certain that thou hast created me as a man and hast from my body begotten this child, I also know for a certainty that it meets with thy perfect pleasure. I confess to thee that I am not worthy to rock the little babe or wash its diapers, or to be entrusted with the care of the child and its mother. How is it that I, without any merit, have come to this distinction of being certain that I am serving thy creature and thy most precious will? O how gladly will I do so, though the duties should be even more insignificant and despised. Neither frost nor heat, neither drudgery nor labor, will distress or dissuade me, for I am certain that it is thus pleasing in thy sight. . . . God, with all his angels and creatures is smiling—not because the father is washing diapers, but because he is doing so in Christian faith.

On dying and becoming

2011-10-15T13:46:00.000-07:00

{On the sixth anniversary of his proposal}

Six years ago, Hans flew to New Haven. There, he mopped my floor and asked me to marry him. That girl who said "yes" had no idea what was coming for her.

Here are some thoughts from the past six years. They have nothing, yet everything, to do with celebrating our marriage.

1. Became and becoming.
Two months after our wedding, we moved to Trinity. Since then, we have lived in the same apartment, served in the same church, and we are still working on the same illusive degrees. In one sense, we have not gained anything; we have not gone anywhere. Yet, we are so different now. By the grace of God, we are not who we used to be. And this is a very good thing.

We became, and we are becoming
husband and wife, mom and dad, children of God.

2. Life is a string of little deaths.
Marriage and childbearing are much like second and third conversions for me. They are milestones that mark new phases of learning how to die to myself. Marriage was somewhat of a gradual death. Motherhood, on the other hand, struck me down like a thunderbolt. I am a tree in the storm, bent beneath the weight of the sky.

But feeling small is not a bad thing. Pain has been a kind teacher to me.

3. Finders losers; losers keepers.
I cringe when I think of the lofty words in my graduate school applications. I wrote something about finding myself, and helping others to find themselves. Bleh. Life cannot be found this way.

Finders losers; losers keepers. Jesus said, "Whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever who loses his life for my sake will find it." I had neither the discipline nor the selflessness to live life giving myself to others. So God sent the boys, tiny faces of grace speaking truth. Their cries of hunger and outstretched arms rescued me from my self-idolizing heart. They are rescuing me still. For their sake, I want to be the kind of mother who would lay down her life for others. Though it may not feel like anything spectacular, somewhere between mastitis and sleeplessness, the dying and the losing, God gives life.

I read somewhere that blood is poured out during childbirth and at the Cross--for the giving of life, "great loss holding hands with great gain."

4. I like holding hands.
We first held hands when Hans visited me in Denver, while I was sipping on sesame boba tea (he ordered something else). I have not seen this flavor for years, until a few weeks ago when some friends from Denver sent us three pounds of the good stuff.

We are still holding hands. He still cleans my messes. And I am so happy to have said "yes." Thanks for asking, darling.

On whales, trains, and stories

2011-10-05T20:35:00.000-07:00

One night, after the children were in bed, I went into Hans' study and started spewing information about pregnant humpback whales, the growth spurt of baby humpbacks (100 pounds a day), and how they nurse (40 times a day, yielding about 130 gallons of milk, 50% milkfat). Fascinating stuff, right?

I stopped when I saw a huge grin on Hans' face. "What is so funny?" I demanded. "You are talking about breastfeeding whales," he responded.

OK, fine. I can see how that can be perceived as a little weird.
I blame this on motherhood. Emeth gave me his sea-creature-fever and I didn't even know it.

Mommy cow scolded baby cow for standing on the train tracks.

The train was, of course, carrying an octopus and a shark.

These are familiar sights around our home. This is Emeth's world. And it has become our world. Colliding stories. They make perfect sense in the mind of their creator, "Mommy, let me tell you a story. One day..."

Emeth lives in stories; and Emeth lives out stories.

During dinner one night, he was licking rice off the his plate. When I reprimanded him, he answered: "Emeth is not a cow?" Ah, thank you for the explanation. I am never sure where we are during our walks anymore, "Emeth, are we a school of fish in the coral reef (the bushes) or are we trains on the tracks (the sidewalk)?" I need to pay more attention.

I am well aware that one of the biggest advantages I have over all the other voices in his life is that I get to tell him his first stories. Stories make his world. Stories draw boundaries between light and darkness, day and night, sea and sky, right and wrong, good and bad. Stories give him people and things to love.

Mr.Squash meeting the wild animals at the zoo.

Hans found it slightly disturbing when I became fascinated with North Korea. I was digging around the web for articles, videos, pictures, anything really. And as always, after the children were in bed, I sat in Hans' study and spewed information.

How do they bear the weight of their fear? How do they endure the silence and the emptiness of their streets? How did they become so deceived?

Stories.

The same can be said for the concentration camps during World War II. Or how people captured other human beings and make them slaves. Or how pimps deceive young girls into prostitution. They each began with a story -- very, very bad ones.

We expect to be entertained when we walk into the cinema. As we drive down the highway, we are bombarded by streams of billboards. Movies, dramas, video clips, reality shows, commercials, books, the news. We think we are above them. We think they are harmless. In fact, we don't think very much of them at all.

Kim Jong Il, the dictator of North Korea, thinks very much of these things. He knows the power of storytelling. Some call it propaganda. Actors and actresses in North Korea are handpicked by Kim Jong Il, and they are counted among the most privileged of the country. They live and perform to give joy to their "Dear Leader."

In Pyongyang, there is a shrine dedicated to the "Dear Leader." Well, actually he has many shrines, but this particularly one is a museum of cinematography, in which he is the star. Of all things, the people revere him as a genius of the cinema, the theater, and the circus. Prime ministers and presidents of other nations do not receive such praise in these fields. But it seems that his strategy works, the level of control Kim Jong Il has on his subjects is astounding.

When I spewed information about North Korea on my sister Catherine (my poor family), she thoughtfully responded: "I wonder whether I am living in a delusion?"

Yes, of course we are. Like children, we live in stories, and we live out stories. But unlike children, we don't think very much of them. In fact, we don't think very much at all.

On Repentance

2011-09-06T11:12:00.000-07:00

My friend Janice had a way of seeing ordinary things. I loved looking through her eyes. She would say of a rock, "this is lovely," and somehow, it would be lovely.

Hazelnut coffee. The color blue. Mountain climbing. These things she made lovely because she loved them.

One of my fondest memories of her happened late one night when we were up talking, typical for two teenage girls at a sleepover. We were getting ready for my first mountain climb the next morning. This was our only climb up Mt. Kinabalu together. Yet, it feels as though we've climbed it many times together since.

As our hungry stomachs growled at each other, she gave me two phrases that stayed with me for a long, long time:

In repentance and rest you will be saved,
In quietness and trust is your strength.
(Isaiah 30:15)

I carried these words up the mountain the next day, with Janice climbing beside me. Or rather, with Janice pulling me along. When I entered my years of wilderness, these words came with me. An echo from the past, they called me to return to the high hills of Kinabalu.

These words beckon me still.

I read the other day, for the first time, the first of Luther's Ninety-Five Theses. He wrote,

Our Lord and Master Jesus Christ, when He said “repent,” willed that the whole life of believers should be repentance.

The trumpet call of the Protestant Reformation: All of life is repentance.

Not merely a guilty confession, or an apology, or even a prayer for forgiveness.

I had it all wrong. I've always thought of repentance as a U-turn. Yet, after many many turns (sometimes in a single day), the destination still seems so far away.

No, repentance is much more than a U-turn. Repentance is a climb. A long and arduous climb where we fight against the gravity of our sin, the weight of our flesh, and the weakness of our will. To repent is to press on, to take another step closer to the summit yet unseen.

The Shepherd found me in the deep ravines, broken and lost. He rescued me, and restored me. He is teaching me to climb these high hills in search of the rising sun.

Soul, return to the mountains.
Repent with tears, and years.
Repent in thanks and praise, and worship-giving.
Repent with others, sharing and believing,
Repent in songs, and dance,
Repent in quietness, and trust,
Repent in rest.

Soul, return to the mountains with joy, much joy.

I am my mother's daughter

2011-08-22T23:59:00.000-07:00

Among my earliest memories were the comments people made about the way I looked.
"Your daughter is so tall!"
"Your daughter is so round!"
"Look at that mole on her chin!" And then they would proceed to interpret what the mole meant according to Chinese superstitions. Don't even get me started on the comments I got about my nose.

By far, the most frequent thing I heard was how I looked exactly like my father. "You will never get lost," people would tell me, "you look just like your father." I grew up knowing that I was my father's daughter. No mistake there. For this, I am grateful. I've always wondered though, whether there was any trace of my mother in me, since no one ever told me that I looked like her.

My sister Catherine took few shots of our family of four a few months ago. As I scanned through them, I spotted something strange. Something I had not noticed before.

I saw my mother's smile
on my face.

Pa and Ma during their engagement.

Ma, look! What do you think?

I am my mother's daughter (finally!).

I found something else of mine that resembles my mother -- my dry and cracked heels. (Sorry, no visual aide will be provided)

Ma, I have your cracked heels!

Ma had cracked heels when we were growing up. Day in and day out, she was on her feet, running after us, serving us. For five years, Pa and Ma were ministering to three churches scattered in the interior area of Sabah. My father preached three sermons every Sunday. And my mother taught three Sunday School classes. How the churches in Malaysia needed workers during those years! Even when Ma was pregnant, she made home visitations with my dad, hiking on muddy paths. Her cracked heels took her into the hills.

I have cracked heels because I am lazy. I am sure she did not have several different kinds of moisturizers sitting on her shelves. If she did, I'm sure she would have diligently applied them on her heels.

I've been thinking about Ma a lot these days, especially in these joyful trenches of motherhood. I've been recalling memories from my childhood that I have long forgotten. I find Ma in the most surprising places, reminding me of the years she poured into our lives. It's funny how the past sometimes makes more sense when we gaze at it from a distance. At last, her words came true: "When you become a Mama, you will understand."

When we were little, my parents would save every penny in order to take us to visit Amah, my mother's mother, in Indonesia. Among our friends, my sisters and I had the least "stuff". But we would be the few who had traveled to another country.

I remember like it was yesterday when Ma and I were standing at the supermarket and I coveted some silly Hello Kitty whistle-and-lollipop-thing. I remember her resolute and resounding No. She was so wise.

Every year, Ma would buy each of her daughters a beautiful dress. This would be the dress we loved and cherished. It would be the dress we wore every Sunday. She was teaching us how to live simply. She was teaching us how to live truly, and truly live -- even when I wasn't listening.

During her last visit, Ma gave me a blouse made of batik. It's my new favorite. I wear it to church every Sunday. I'm learning to listen (finally).

When I corrected Emeth the other day, even without a mirror, I knew I was giving him the stern look my mother gave me years ago. This is serious, pay attention. Emeth sees my stern face, just as I saw my mother's stern face. But he does not see the hopes I have for him, the joy he gives to me, or the pride that is in my heart because he is my son.

My sons do not understand. But they will, hopefully.
I think I'm just beginning to understand.
I am my mother's daughter.
Ma, I want to be just like you when I grow up.

On this outrageous joy

2011-08-15T23:06:00.000-07:00

Our hearts were full as we drove home from church yesterday.

We had just sent three girls off to college with a (not-so-surprising) surprise party. They said they knew something was going on (thanks to my bad acting skills). But I think that they were at least surprised by how much their friends prepared for them at the party, and how much they laughed.

We laughed so much and so hard that my jaws still hurt. We had a few rounds of charades. The boys were the designated actors, while the audience guessed whom they were mimicking. And they were outrageous. A little mean, the way that brothers can be mean. But they were so funny, the way that only brothers can be funny.

My heart swelled with pride as I watched the three graceful young ladies received their graduation gifts before the church. So different from the eighth-grade squirrels I met five years ago. Squirrels with braces and ponytails. And on Sunday, they stood before me, like Ladies at the King's court.

And to think that I nearly missed out on this outrageous happiness.

Here a picture of me with some squirrels.

A few months before our wedding, five years ago, a Chinese immigrant church approached Hans and asked for help with their English ministry. Knowing that Hans was about to be married, they kindly gave Hans a few extra months to consider. This was one of the main topics of discussion during our honeymoon: to serve or not to serve.

I gotta say, I was not very enthusiastic about jumping into ministry. Especially so soon after our wedding. Hans and I never lived in the same city up to this point and I had hoped that we would spend a few months in our "newlywed bliss"... or something.

Foolishness, I'm now certain.

Hans was committed to be in ministry while we were in seminary. And here was a wide open door. So, he took me by the hand, and we walked in.

Looking back, this was the best way to begin our life as husband and wife. There is nothing like learning about the other person while being in ministry together.

Here is one from our early days at the church. Pre-Emeth-and-Yohanan.

I found myself in the book of Jonah the other day. Again.

Throughout the story, Jonah was whiny. When Nineveh repented, his grumpiness turned into outright anger--at God. Then suddenly, there was a change (albeit very brief ) -- the only point in the story when Jonah was actually happy. A plant grew and covered him from the sun. He was ecstatic.

I can relate to this, because I get whiny when I'm hot. There was Jonah, before a harvest that was plentiful, and he would rather sit under a plant and do nothing. Because it was shady.

I was Jonah. There I was, before a harvest that was plentiful, and I was dreaming about some obscure "newlywed bliss." I wanted comfort and ease more than I wanted to do God's work.

I am still like Jonah, in so many ways. As it turns out, what I am most happy about is a pretty good indicator of the idols in my heart. Air-conditioner and my comfortable chair make me happy. An undisturbed nap schedule for my babies and relaxing weekends make me happy.

I am my own idol. I want to be my own god. I would rather serve myself.

I am so glad God was merciful and sent a worm to eat the plant (if you are confused--read the story! It's a good one).

If I had my way, we would have missed out on a bunch of delightful squirrels--beautiful ladies and gentlemen--whom we love, and we would have missed out on this outrageous joy.

Baptism, Easter 2007.

Because he loves me

2011-07-31T20:18:00.000-07:00

I get my weekly dose of feel-good-about-myself-music in the grocery store. While I shop for food, people on the radio sing about what a wonderful human being I am. That I am amazing, and perfect -- just the way I am. There is nothing they would change, they say, because I was born this way.

I'm glad Hans doesn't tell me things of that sort.

Recently, I made a mistake. The same kind of mistake that I made for the 798th time. Except this time, Hans bore the brunt of the consequences. Because I was careless, my husband suffered.

As always, he forgave me. I married a kind man. He comforted me, and gently encouraged me -- to change.

It wasn't pleasant to hear, of course. But it was the most loving, the most hope-filled thing that he could say to me. He didn't give up on me, or leave me to be the way that I was. My husband believed that I could change because he loved me. Because he loved me, I wanted to change.

"Love yourself." This is the first commandment in the religion of self-esteem. It is the chant of our generation.

I was once a preacher of this religion, along with those singers on the radio. When I was teaching in juvenile prisons and teen pregnancy centers, I gave each girl a bookmark with the words "love yourself" on it. I now cringe at the thought that a few girls even said they were going to make tattoos of these words. I hope they didn't. And if they did, I hope they will forgive me.

My problem is not that I don't love myself. On the contrary, my problem is that I only love myself. There are other (less flattering) words to describe this: selfish, self-centered, self-righteous. I was born this way.

I don't want to remain the way that I am. I want to change. I want to love others more than I love myself. But I don't. And on my own, I am unable to change. I make the same mistake 798 times.

When I was deep in my rebellion, Christ died in my place. He didn't give up on me, or leave me to be the way that I was. He rescued me, and set me free -- so I am able to love God and love others.

My Lord is changing me because he loves me.
Because he loves me, I want to change.

Broken when spoken

2011-07-25T21:07:00.000-07:00

When Emeth was younger, he would (loudly) announce that he was being quiet.

Broken when spoken.

We've been teaching Emeth that he should not compliment himself. It might be cute that he praises himself now when he is only three, but I am sure it will not be cute five years, ten years, forty years down the road.

Self-praise is no praise, we would tell him. The concept is still, however, a little tricky for him to grasp at this point. After he does something kind, or when he shares a toy with his brother, he would say in his seriously voice, "Mommy, Emeth should not say that Emeth is being good. Only mommy and daddy can say that Emeth is being good."

Broken when spoken.

Adults do this all the time, here is a list of things that we break once we speak or think of them.

I should never think that I am prepared. When I think I am prepared, I stop thinking, and when I stop thinking, I forget things. (OK, so this only applies to me.)

After you tell a joke, if people respond with "that's funny!" -- this means that the joke was not funny. Because if it was funny, they would be laughing, not talking.

When you are waiting in line, or when you are stuck in traffic, and you think you are being patient -- you are not. It's like what they say about a watched kettle -- it never boils. So, look away! Think about other things! Have conversations! Keep busy!

Whenever I hear organizations talking about being "diverse" or "multicultural" or "authentic" -- I doubt that they are. If they were truly diverse or authentic, they would not need to talk about it -- they would just be. That would be the norm. Cool people don't need to call themselves cool. That would be un-cool.

When I think I am wise, I am not--because wisdom loves correction and rebuke. It is not enough to just accept rebukes, but we are to love them, to treasure them. Wisdom would seek correction, longing for ways to be better. The wise person would think that she is a fool.

And here is my favorite from C.S. Lewis: When I think I am humble, I am not. Because a humble person would not be thinking about herself at all.

On liberty and strength

2011-07-20T16:12:00.000-07:00

Someone asked me the other day, what am I doing "other than being a mommy." It was a kind gesture, to be sure. But here were a few things that went through my head:

1. Um... What?!
The friend happened to be male, single, and living his dream career. Obviously, he was not a mom, or he wouldn't ask me that.

2. But how should I answer his question?
What do I do "other than being a mommy"?
*thinking*
Wow. I've got nothing.

3. Wait. Really? Am I just a mom?

4. Fine, but I'm not just any mom. I am a mom who cooks intelligent food.... and plays intelligent games... and makes intelligent decisions for my children.

5. You are absurd. And you say (and think) absurd things. Since when did intelligence become so important?

6. Since it became the definition of a successful woman, that's when! A strong woman. A liberated woman.

7. And that is what you want to be?

8. No... Yes... but...

9. And you were just teaching Emeth that being kind and patient is more important than being smart. Nice job at walking the talk, Mom.

10. Do they look like chains to you?

After all these years of trying to break free, I am still bound by what culture thinks about motherhood: being a mom is not enough.

Once upon a time, I worked for a feminist organization that educate girls to be "strong, smart, and bold." That was our motto. Girls can be whatever they want to be -- other than being "just a mom."

Lies!
Lies that I apparently still believe.

Soul, you are very slow to learn.
Not so intelligent after all.

_______

Here are some quotes from Chesterton that I often revisit:
(Chesterton, What's Wrong With the World, 1910)

1. Like the fire, the woman is expected to illuminate and ventilate, not by the most startling revelations or the wildest winds of thought, but better than a man can do it after breaking stones or lecturing. But she cannot be expected to endure anything like this universal duty if she is also to endure the direct cruelty of competitive or bureaucratic toil. Woman must be a cook, but not a competitive cook; a school mistress, but not a competitive schoolmistress; a house-decorator but not a competitive house-decorator; a dressmaker, but not a competitive dressmaker. She should have not one trade but twenty hobbies; she...may develop all her second bests. This is what has been really aimed at from the first in what is called the "seclusion," or even the "oppression," of women. Women were not kept at home in order to keep them narrow; on the contrary, they were kept at home in order to keep them broad.

The world outside the home was one mass of narrowness, a maze of cramped paths, a madhouse of monomaniacs. It was only by partly limiting and protecting the woman that she was enabled to play at five or six professions and so come almost as near to God as the child when he plays at a hundred trades. But the woman's professions, unlike the child's, were all truly and almost terribly fruitful; so tragically real that nothing but her universality and balance prevented them being merely morbid. This is the substance of the contention I offer about the historic female position.

2. Two gigantic facts of nature fixed it thus: first, that the woman who frequently fulfilled her functions literally could not be specially prominent in experiment and adventure; and second, that the same natural operation surrounded her with very young children, who require to be taught not so much anything as everything. Babies need not to be taught a trade, but to be introduced to a world. To put the matter shortly, woman is generally shut up in a house with a human being at the time when he asks all the questions that there are, and some that there aren't. It would be odd if she retained any of the narrowness of a specialist.

3. How can it be a large career to tell other people's children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one's own children about the universe?
How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone, and narrow to be everything to someone? No; a woman's function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute. I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task; I will never pity her for its smallness.

This freedom of ours

2011-07-13T20:51:00.000-07:00

{in remembrance of the children in the African drought}

The sink was full of dirty dishes.
Books covered our floor like ill-fitted pavement.
The hand-knitted tablecloth from Afghanistan was hidden under piles of Emeth-drawings.

They were the evidences of our freedom, our abundance.

The dishes were dirty because we had food. In fact, I was free to make whatever I wanted for dinner. My only restriction was whichever meat I had defrosted this morning. I chose sausages. Long pockets of salty, spicy, (and yes, fatty) meat.

Books covered the floor because they were free. We were free to borrow as many books as we wanted from the library.

The little brother did not think he was free though. All he wanted to do was get out and disassemble big brother's train tracks.

Emeth requested that I draw a picture of our family. So I did. And I drew myself in a red skirt. As I was drawing, he exclaimed: "WHAT'S THAT?!"

I am grateful for the freedom to wear pants every day for the past two years.
Because mommy needs to run after you, darling.

Emeth is free to scribble. To his heart's content. On clean and smooth pieces of paper (he doesn't mind the letters on the other side). The drawings themselves are free in all kinds of ways. Our family can be without bodies, yet we're still holding hands. We can be armless, but we are always smiling.

Pictures, pictures everywhere! On the refrigerator. On the door. On the floor. Aren't they grand?

I am free to have a cup of coffee. At eight o'clock in the morning. Or in the case of today, eight o'clock at night.

I am free to buy mangoes. A dozen of them, in fact.

Whenever I peel one of these, I think of Ma. I've tried different ways of stripping the flesh off the seed, but I found that Ma's way was the best after all.

During mango season, my sisters and I would eagerly wait at the dinner table as she peeled fruits picked from our yard. Every mango was perfect. We especially ~~liked~~ loved the sour ones, young and crunchy. (I'm salivating just thinking about them) We dipped them in sugar and soy sauce. Or fish sauce. Or just salt. We loved salt.

I am free to wear white shoes. So what if they are ridiculous and impractical? Emeth steps on my feet all the time. And I somehow manage to roll Yohanan's stroller over my feet a lot. But these are washable, and if I need to -- there is always bleach.

Emeth and I were watching the BBC news report about the drought in northeastern Africa. I was not sure how he would react to the images of children with sad, sunken eyes in the Kenyan refugee camp. Afterward, Emeth kept squishing Hanan's arm and saying, "Hanan is so chubby, Mommy! Hanan is so chubby."

Yes, darling, you are so round and so chubby.

Waiting for fireworks, seeing the moon

2011-07-05T14:30:00.000-07:00

The world was waiting for fireworks last night. Well, the world in the US of A. It was the fourth of July.

At about 9 p.m. Hans heard the faint sound of explosions from our apartment. He took the elated Emeth out of his crib and sat him on his shoulder. And off they went into the night. Within a few minutes, I heard my husband's voice beckoning me, as though I was Rapunzel. He said to come down and join them.

And so I did. I love fireworks.

It was a warm summer night with just enough breeze. There in the darkness, we watched the sky, all four of us. Well, three of us. Hanan was fast asleep on my shoulder. I was torn between standing still and dashing off to grab the camera.

But I stood still. And I'm glad I did.

Under the lights and the sparks and the grand spectacle, Emeth exclaimed: "Look at the moon! It looks like a banana!" My immediate reaction was to think, "Silly boy! The moon is there every night. Look at the fireworks! Don't you think they are so cool?"

But he was right. The moon was not outshone last night. Even next to the fireworks, it looked pretty spectacular. And to think that we get to enjoy it every night!

People make fun of parents who give the "children-in-Africa-are-starving" speech to coerce their children to eat at the dinner table.

Confession: I give those "speeches". Once in a while.

Sometimes, we talk about the children in Japan. This week, we talked about refugees in Kenya. No, not to get him to finish the food on his plate (because it would not work), but for him to learn compassion. To learn to have a grateful heart. The keyword here is "learn" because the lesson is a difficult one, for both of us.

Thankfully, I don't have to give these speeches myself, because pictures (and videos) are worth a thousand words (Thank you, Internet!). Here is one that I showed Emeth when he complained about having water in his eyes during his (clean water!) bath.

Page CXVI from Living Water International on Vimeo.

I remember the days of old when Hans and I were considering the possibility of a relationship. I was waiting for fireworks, but Hans was like the moon. Bright and steadfast.

Soul, taste and see
what is true, what is good.

Four Red Spots

2011-06-29T13:36:00.000-07:00

I found four red spots on my left arm the other day. I read somewhere that red spots are symptoms of leukemia.

Let's just say that my mind wandered far, far away for the next fifteen minutes. I couldn't believe the intensity of my fear. It was so unexpected, especially because I didn't really believe that I had leukemia (or did I?).

At one point, I was worried that I would not be able to nurse Yohanan during chemotherapy. And whether the boys would understand why mommy can't answer them when she lays in the coffin.

Yeah.

I've never been one who fear death. I knew it was an awful thing. And I felt terrible when I heard people losing their loved ones. But I have never feared my own death. It seemed so... inconsequential. If I die, I die. Besides, I was curious to see the world to come. Or perhaps, I just thought that death would not happen to me, not yet.

Of all things unexpected about motherhood, the fear of my own death is most surprising. In a strange way, I think it can be a good thing -- a reminder for me to truly live, and live truly.

Life is weightier now. I am a mom.

I have a distinct purpose for waking up every morning: I have people to feed. And when I collapse in bed (or on the floor, or in my chair) at night, I can feel good about one thing: People are clean. These might not be grand purposes, but they get me out of bed every day.

After a few more clicks around the internet, I don't think I have leukemia. Phew.

Cheers to more meals to cook and more baths to give!
(Even though sometimes people would rather eat flowers)

On the Tornado and a Flood

2011-06-22T21:48:00.000-07:00

The tornado siren went off right before the boys' bedtime last night. It ended with the words: "Take. Shelter. Now." I nearly finished vacuuming the apartment and was annoyed that I had to rush the end of my routine. I love watching crumbs disappearing into the powerful machine. The siren was loud and deafening. They test the warning system the first Tuesday of every month at 10 a.m. I have two words: baby-waker.

Thankfully, my common sense kicked in right around when the wind started howling. We grabbed the boys and headed into the basement. Shortly after, our building lost electricity for the next 14 hours. The boys had a dark and exciting night, but they settled down quite well after all the commotion.

We survived. The tornado, and the flood of questions and comments from Emeth.

Why is there no light, Mommy?
Emeth wants to see, Mommy.
Why is there no number on the clock?
Why is the bathroom so dark?
Switch on the light, Mommy.
Mommy's stove is not working.

There is no lec-tris-ty, Mommy.

I tried to explain this new concept to him. This all-important thing called "electricity" that apparently makes (almost) everything work. Hans came to my rescue.

Hans: Emeth, everything in this world is made of atoms. And atoms are surround by a cloud of electrons. (Sorry, but I can't recall the exact words between p-orbital and positive holes) ...Do you understand, Emeth?
Emeth: Yes.
(End of questions. Amazing.)

I married him for many reasons.

The world was dark and quiet last night. Perfect for conversations.

We thought about Emeth's questions and his fierce need to understand the world.

We talked about the tsunami in Japan, and imagined how parents of young children would explain why their homes were no longer standing, and how all their belongings were washed away.

We talked about the Holocaust. We talked about the children in concentration camps. The babies and their nursing mothers. We thought about the horrors of explaining violence and cruelty to three-year-olds.

We talked about our world with little children. And how life is so different since they came. And the happiness of belonging to them.

In search for love

2011-06-14T17:09:00.000-07:00

Sunday School has been way too much fun lately.
The topic? Marriage.

Teach about marriage to high school students? None of them are even dating yet. But in actuality, this makes it so much more fun (for me). Because none of them are attached, there is little fear of hurting feelings or stepping on any toes. Just plenty of laughter and giggles all around.

Along the way, I giggled a little about Hans. I thought about why I married him; I thought about us, five years later, and what we have learned.

I recalled a silly conversation we had when we were dating (though I refused to call it "dating" for the same reason I refused to call him my "boyfriend"). I told Hans I didn't want to be called a "spouse" because it rhymed with "mouse". I did not mind being a "wife", even though it rhymed with "knife". But a "spouse" just sounded... bad.

You can say that I was seriously confused.

I had questions. Like, how do I know whether I was ready for a relationship? Or, how do I know whether he was "the one"? Should I just go by "feelings"? Because I felt pretty strongly about not wanting to be called a "spouse".

I think it would have been helpful if I had known what I was looking for. What the Bible teaches about marriage. What marriage should look like. What is the goal of marriage.

First, we went through Genesis 1-2, Ephesians 5, and Hosea 1-2. Then, we studied Proverbs (3:13-20; 4:1-9; and this week 8:12-36). Here, we read the words of a father teaching his son about life and love.

In search for love, the father does not give his son a list of things to look for. There is no mention of religion or ethnicity (things that would be important to the law in ancient Israel). Rather, his son is to pursue only one thing: Wisdom. In Proverbs, to have wisdom means to fear the Lord and keep his commandments.

In search for love, the son is not to be searching for love at all. Lady Wisdom is to be his first love, his best love. Wisdom promises to guard and keep him; she will love him and fulfill him. Love wisdom, and wisdom will teach him to love.

So, how do I know whether he or she is the right person for me? Love wisdom. Fear the Lord and keep his commandments. This, in actuality, applies to many of the questions we direct to God. What should I do in this relationship? How should I raise my children? What job should I apply for? Which college? What do you want me to do and where do you want me to go?

Love God and keep his commandments.
If we do not love the Father, we will not love his will and his ways.

We resemble whom we love. We become what we worship. In search for love, we love not love itself, but we seek after God. In doing so, we become like him. In him, we find love.

This Parade

2011-06-08T12:47:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I wrote to a close friend telling her I was lost in a fog. Unable to see very much, or think very well. Tired. Overwhelmed. Defeated.

I had an epiphany in the shower today. Foggy days, I discovered, was not the right way to think about these past few weeks.

I actually quite like foggy days. I love to walk in the fog, wrapped in that quiet stillness -- which is the exact opposite of how these past few weeks had been.

Here is a better way to describe the state of my mind: drowned in a parade. Deafening music. Clashing cymbals. Blinding colors. And the most annoying thing -- it doesn't go anywhere. I did not go anywhere.

I dislike parades in general. Especially this present one of dirty sinks, laundry, allergies, infections, broken bone. Oh my!

Strangely though, identifying the nature of this chaos has provided a great relief. A parade seems somewhat more manageable than dense, unyielding fog.

Oh, this is only a parade! I know what to do with parades.

Stop
staring
and walk away.

Pompous and exaggerated. An unimpressive distraction.
There is more to life than this.

Soul, remember your destination,
where do you need to be?

On Dying Together

2011-05-14T23:28:00.000-07:00

{celebrating our fifth anniversary}

To say that I am not a very organized person would be an understatement. I am that person who borrowed Organizing for Dummies from the library and actually learned new things from it. What seemed to be common sense to others I had to learn by reading a book. It never occurred to me that I could collect all the pens on the counter top in a cup. The wonders of a container!

Hans, my very organized husband by nature, must have really loved me when he asked me to marry him.

When Emeth was an infant, the comments about his looks came largely from two groups of friends. Team A thought Emeth looked like Hans. Team B thought Emeth looked like me. And these two teams (at church) would have same debate week after week. I will always remember the day when someone (at the peak of one of these arguments) concluded that Emeth looked like both of us -- because Hans and I looked like each other.

That was probably the nicest thing anyone can say about me.

I attended one of my funerals -- at my wedding. Though I knew not the magnitude of my words, I died at the altar that day.

I died, in more ways than I understood. And I promised to be a new person, in more ways than I knew possible, with the one singing beside me. The amazing thing was that he promised to do the same. That he would die for me, to be with me, to be me.

To my single friends reading this: Consider yourselves warned. Remember the magnitude of it all. For better and for worse, in marriage, the two resemble each other. Know well, and choose well, the person you want to resemble. Years from now, whom do you want to look like?

My love, thank you for these five years of dying together.
I take you to be mine, and I give myself to you
again.

Vampire, Werewolf, and Desires (a reluctant part 3)

2011-04-30T12:08:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. Who knew there was going to be a part 3?! Vampires are so out of style. (See part 1 and part 2 from last year)

In my effort to think of an illustration for Sunday School, I could not resist. Alas, Sunday came and only four students showed up that morning (I am not bitter, obviously). One of the four was a boy who didn't even read Twilight (we appreciate you, Kevin!).

Oh well.

I wanted to make a point about idolatry, namely to discuss the differences between surface idols and deep idols. Surface idols are things like grades (you must understand that I teach Chinese high school students), money, family, careers, dreams, addictions. Deep idols are the cravings of our souls for approval, control, admiration, power, comfort, security, pleasure.

In one of the books, Bella was going back and forth between liking Edward the vampire and Jacob the werewolf. She was in despair (Oh, the agony!). And then, she discovered that she she was in love with both (this is where I resist the urge to pull my hair out).

Here was my point: The vampire and the werewolf were merely surface idols, Bella's deep idol was her desire for approval, admiration, and security. Or, in other words, she was in love with both Edward and Jacob because what she really wanted was something else.

Deep idols are the roots that hold the weeds; deep idols are the currents beneath the waves. Surface idols may look different from one person to another, or change depending on the stages of life, but so long as the root remains -- we are bound.

Jesus repeatedly warned his listeners against the love for money. Money serves so well as the surface idol to a variety of deep idols. For those who desire praise and admiration, they flaunt their money. For those who desire security, they save and invest. For those who desire power and control, money paves their path of influence. So for those of us who are frugal, we need to beware that we might be frugal precisely because we love money; or we love the control and security that being frugal gives us.

Therefore, fasting from coffee or facebook or chocolate or texting is not sufficient. Fasting might be necessary -- to wean us from a dependence on these things, but eliminating these things will not change our idolatrous hearts.

Purging must take place from within. Parting from our idols is a painful thing. This is where we scream, "but that's just the way I am" or "how I am wired" or "the way I was raised."

So, it is not enough to identify what I daydream about and what freaks me out. I then need to ask why. Why are these things so important to me?

The truth is, no amount of praise or control or power will ever satisfy. There is no lasting comfort or pleasure or security on this earth. This tells us perhaps we were made for another world.

Creatures are not born with desires unless satisfaction for those desires exists. A baby feels hunger: well, there is such a thing as food. A duckling wants to swim: well, there is such a thing as water. Men feel sexual desire: well, there is such a thing as sex. If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world. If none of my earthly pleasures satisfy it, that does not prove that the universe is a fraud. Probably earthly pleasures were never meant to satisfy it, but only to arouse it, to suggest the real thing. -- C.S. Lewis

On the Mountains and that Timeless Shore

2011-04-20T14:05:00.000-07:00

{the story of Yohanan's birth}

The stars sang the night my contraction began. We had been waiting for weeks, though in reality it was only five days after his due date. He was overdue, but not the way this post is overdue. Now that he is turning one in less than two months, I better jot some things down before it all escapes me.

A few things will always remind me of that night: 1. Star Wars Episode II, 2. Triscuits with sharp cheddar cheese. The contractions started at around 7:30 p.m. I called my friend Jenni who months before had kindly promised to watch Emeth while we go to the hospital, we put Emeth to bed, and Hans and I sat back to "relax" with a movie.

The silly contractions stopped at around 10:30 p.m. I blame this on the horrendous plot of Episode II. To my great dismay, we went to sleep.

At around 8:30 the next morning, I was ecstatic that the contractions had returned! I felt pain! Yes! (Can you tell that I was done being pregnant?)

Everything was in place; every star was aligned. In fact, if you look very closely at the morning sky and squint a little, the stars spelled "Yohanan" -- the name we discovered just days before. Apparently, he didn't want to come out without a name.

Grace. "Hanan" means grace in Hebrew. And grace indeed overflowed that day.

We dropped Emeth off with Jenni at 10 a.m. and checked in at the hospital shortly after (we were about 10 minutes away). We used the same birth plan. Oddly enough, because both Emeth and Yohanan were born on Tuesdays in the same hospital, we had the exact same obstetrician/gynecologist, pediatrician, and many of the same nurses. Very surreal. Apparently, they kept the same schedule after two years.

I was already at 8cm dilated when the nurses checked me in. I know, I was very grateful. The labor had progressed throughout the night while I was sleeping.

Alas, labor pain is labor pain.

In those last hours, I was every woman.

I was Eve, lost in my longing to return to the Garden. I drank deeply the cup that was mine, the bitter curse that was mine because I had disobeyed my Maker.

I was Mary, yearning for redemption and completion. The pain was cold and lonely. I wondered what were her thoughts, laboring in the stables that night.

Hans was so loving, as always. Giving me counter pressure. Reading the chart. Anticipating each contraction. Reading from every psalm that contained "Yohanan" -- "Yahweh, be gracious." Be gracious. Be gracious.

At 1:13 p.m., I heard Hans' voice, "he looks exactly like the one we have at home, honey." We greeted Yohanan Zi-Han at the shore of time and seasons. Unlike my awkward meeting with Emeth, this time I did cry. Seeing Yohanan's face was like a homecoming to me, though we were seeing him for the very first time.

He had two knots in his umbilical cord. Very rare, the doctor said, and potentially dangerous. But we had no idea. His placenta was "above average," according to the doctor. I asked to have a glimpse. Human anatomy is fascinating.

I often tease Hans about his nonathletic, physically-uncoordinated wife. He is one of the best athletes I know. My (short) list of strenuous exercises includes my labor, and mountain climbing. Mount Kinabalu and an entire rain forest was our backyard in Malaysia.

I loved mountain climbing. And I did it solely for the view from the top -- the bright stars, the sunsets, the sunrises. Recently, a video brought me back to the mountains. Watching the waves of clouds and the Milky Way was like a homecoming to me.

Perhaps returning to the Garden will be something like this -- when we arrive at that timeless shore. Perhaps our Father's face will look somewhat familiar, like a homecoming, though we will be beholding him for the very first time.

The Mountain from Terje Sorgjerd on Vimeo.

Buckling Down and Sweat

2011-04-11T21:28:00.000-07:00

This morning, both children were screaming simultaneously while I was trying to vacuum the floor (for the past two hours) because a guest was coming over for lunch (which I thought was overcooking on the stove, but I forgot I had turned off the heat) while I was due to return my sister's call 10 minutes ago.

Yeah.

As I was soothing Yohanan with the tummy ache in one arm and helping Emeth to go to the bathroom with the other, the only appropriate thing to do was -- to laugh. Because the combining effect of all of that reminded me of something else:

a contraction.

You know, like the kind I got when I was in labor.

This was one of life's contractions. A thunder storm. A wave crashing.

Now, we can't take analogies too far, but here are a few ways how this tiny segment of life was like a contraction:

1. They are both inconvenient.
2. The pain does end (hopefully sooner than later).
3. Years from now, I will be able look back on this season with much fondness.
4. They serve good purposes, i.e. giving birth to a child and stretching my patience.

Just for the record, they were also very different:

1. There was no option for an epidural for this kind of pain.
2. No baby was about to be born.
3. OK, there are a lot of ways how they are different. I don't really want to list all of them.

So, this morning, I did what I did in the labor and delivery room:

1. Buckled down and sweat.
2. Be very grateful that Hans came to my rescue. I am sure glad he picked me to be on his team.

On Daydreams and Freaking Out

2011-04-04T23:45:00.000-07:00

In preparation for Easter, our high school Sunday School class is purging -- the closet and our hearts. To help us see what needs to be purged, I am teaching a series on idolatry.

Growing up in Malaysia where Buddhism is a common religion, idols are ubiquitous in all forms and sizes. As a child, I remember being afraid whenever I saw distorted images of gods who reside on red altars. I did not realize at the time that idols reside best not behind incense and offerings, but on the altar of human hearts. My heart.

Violation of any commandment is always a violation of the first commandment: "I am Yahweh your God... You shall have no other gods before me."

When I am impatient, when I am unkind, or jealous, or proud, or selfish, I am worshiping something else; I am serving something else other than God. Something else has become more precious, more desirable than my Creator and Redeemer. Something else has absorb my heart and imagination. Unless I can say that I perfectly love Christ and I perfectly love others, I am idolatrous.

And I am.

Therefore, the question is not whether I have idols in my heart, but what are the idols, and the idols-in-making, of my heart?

To help us see the idols, with the hope of purging them, I asked the youth (and myself) a list of questions:

1. What are your daydreams? What fills your imagination? When you allow your mind to wander -- in the bus or on the highway or when you are doing the dishes, where do you go?

2. What are your hopes? What do you think would fulfill you? What is the next big thing that must happen to make you happy?

3. What gives you a sense of control, a sense of confidence, as you stride down the street? What gives you a sense of safety? What gives you a sense of identity?

4. What are your nightmares? What are your fears? What is the worst that can happen?

5. For whom or what do you make sacrifices? Looking at your expenses, where do you spend the most money?

6. What do you think would gain approval, recognition, and acceptance from people? What would give you success?

7. What do you freak out about? What are your strongest, most painful, uncontrollable emotions (guilt, anger, fear, etc.) and what is causing them?

{gathered and rephrased from different sources,

particularly Counterfeit Gods by Tim Keller}

Many of the answers are not necessarily evil. Some are likely very useful -- like education and jobs and homes and caffeine. However, we must treat them for what they are -- utensils. Some may even be rightly ours to keep -- family, parents, husband, wife, children. But none of these are to rise above God -- the one and only who is worthy of worship.

You and Me

2011-04-01T14:43:00.000-07:00

To Mommy's Big Boy,

Mommy was so unprepared the night you arrived. I had one more load of laundry, I still needed to line your crib, and the bag for the hospital was not yet packed. But, the time had come for you to arrive. And our lives were changed, forever. Mommy and daddy were never the same.

You look so long now, asleep in your crib right next to me. My heart swells with pride and hope just thinking about how you will someday be taller than mommy, maybe even daddy. You are so eager to grow, as you should be.

We have been reading a picture book with trees and blossoms for two weeks now. Mommy is always the one who chooses it. You have been very kind to go along with mommy's choice because I know you would rather read about animals and Thomas the tank engine.

Mommy loves reading the last few pages with you:

Everything you hear, smell, see
All the world is everything
Everything is you and me

While you were drawing the other day, you held four crayons together and said: "Mommy, Daddy, Hanan, and Emeth -- a family!" You were so right. I pray that God would bind us to one another just like this. No space. That we would be close together, forever and always.

You, Hanan, daddy, mommy,
we are a family.
Each of you, a part of me.
You are what I hear, smell, see.
The Lord created, made us free,
gave me to you, and you to me.

Love,
Mommy

on your third birthday

Dirt and Water Spots

2011-03-30T20:05:00.000-07:00

Truth be told, my heart broke a little when I burnt the bottom of my dutch oven. I had lost my sense of smell due to a cold that day, and by the time I opened the lid -- my Bah Kut Teh (Chinese herbal pork-rib soup) was unsalvageable. I nearly wept, seeing the state of my beloved pot.

While the pot was soaking, Hans kept reminding me that it was "only a pot".
Never mind that it was his present for the fourth anniversary of our engagement. Never mind that I cried when he surprised me by hiding it in my kitchen cabinet. Never mind that I had imagined for years a dutch oven of my own -- in heaven.

But he is right. It is just a pot, not some antique porcelain vase in a museum. It wants to be used.

Today, thankfully, it sits prettily on my stove top. Useful for everything -- soups, sauces, roasts, stews, and savory pies. It survived the worst, bearing only a few scratches -- marks of a well-used, well-loved utensil.

Idolatry is worshiping anything that ought to be used, or using anything that is meant to be worshiped. -Augustine

The girls in my high school Sunday School class have each chosen one outfit to wear every Sunday until Easter. Some will refrain from shopping; all will be purging. An act of remembrance -- of Christ who is our perfect covering. An act of voluntary poverty -- remembering those who (involuntarily) have only the clothes on their back.

Perhaps by thinking while we put our clothes on, we simplify and purge the clutter of our hearts. A small gesture for such a mighty task, I know. But, sometimes we need signposts, however small, to remind us the direction we ought to turn.

Clothes are utensils. They are to be used responsibly. We are not to be mastered by our desire for beauty, slaves of our love for attention. Clothing functions to cover our nakedness; they are reminders that we are not who we were created to be. We put on clothes as a declaration -- Christ's death is sufficient for me.

Today, I was a spoon, a chair, a trampoline.
I was too many pieces of tissues, a pillow.
I was bread and water.

When we were walking to the playground, I stepped into mud. My poor shoes. During bath time, my shirt and pants were soaked, as always. Dirt and water spots -- my marks of motherhood. I am well-loved.

Lord, please use me.

Stars and Dust

2011-03-15T14:00:00.000-07:00

{In remembrance of Japan}

Somehow during the course of our OPT (Operation Potty Training), we came to call Operation Number Two -- "making a moon."

Don't ask.

For the sake of his dignity, I must be brief. Let's just say that it has been a scary process for him. During one of our coaching sessions, I told him again the story of David and Goliath, with emphasis on how God helped David to be so very brave.

After a full day of struggle, he was finally able to go. With tears still in his eyes and a big sigh of relief, he exclaimed: "Woohooo! Emeth made a moon! Just like David made a moon!"

"Um... yes, darling, David did make moons...
And he also killed Goliath, and saved his nation, and...." (but I guess that's not important)

As far as Emeth was concerned, Goliath and the entire Philistine army?
Not so scary.
David was brave for other, more important things.

He is teaching me about compassion these days, this little guy of mine.

Emeth loves to invite daddy to hide with him. Sometimes this requires daddy to crawl into low, narrow, confined spaces. Like the (very compacted) closet. Or under the dining room table. Or cardboard boxes.

The reason he asks daddy is because mommy usually refuses to subject herself to that kind of torture. Daddy, on the other hand, would kindly oblige. Always. (Well, he would at least give it a try.)

Let me tell you, it takes work for a grown man to fit into these small places.

Compassion requires me to crawl under the table and see the world from here. Compassion is so much more than this, yes, but it begins by sitting with him.

This is the one thing that keeps me sane.

To have compassion, as I'm slowly learning,
is to sit on the potty with him (metaphorically speaking),
to acknowledge that this is a painful and terrifying thing.
to relive fears I would rather not remember,
and live the fears that I would rather not imagine.

Compassion takes work.
Some days, it is hard work.

When I think of
a wife holding her dying husband,
mothers of young children without shelter,
pregnant women and nursing mothers without water,
orphans,
I just want to crawl away.
Please let me not be in small, confined places;
I don't want to imagine painful and terrifying things.


A woman cries at the remaining steps of her home in Watari, Miyagi prefecture.

Lord,
Teach me to be compassionate
as you first had compassion on me.
You confine yourself in a mother's womb,
a small, narrow space for the Maker of Stars.
You became dust, for dust's sake,
a lowly thing for the King of Glory.
Teach me to sit. Teach me to pray.

And then it dawned on me...

2011-03-07T09:52:00.000-08:00

When I drop Emeth off at Sunday School every week, I would walk by the nursery and usually, the kind ladies there would offer to take Yohanan for the hour while I am in service.

Here would be my Top 3 responses, in no particular order, and always with a smile:

1. Oh! Thank you, but he is asleep right now, and I don't want to take him out of the sling.
(which would be true)

2. Oh! Thank you, but he was sick this week; I think it would be better if I keep him.
(which would be unfortunate, but also true)

3. *Dashing in and out of that hallway really fast before anyone could offer help*
This likely happens most frequently. And until yesterday, I haven't given much thought to my "rush." I am mainly avoiding having to turn down people's kindness, something I loathe doing.

Before you start thinking that I am the kind of mom who can't "let go," I just want to say that I have I handed Yohanan over to them. Once.

But yesterday! Yesterday, I had a glorious moment of truth. The reason for my inner-turmoil-in-the-hallway finally dawned on me. I don't know why I hadn't realized this before.

Ladies: Hi! Let us take him today and you can relax during the service.
Me: Oh! Thank you!
(thinking) Uh-oh, he is awake. And he is not sick.
(out loud) That's OK, I don't want to trouble you! (always with a smile)
Ladies: No trouble at all! Please let us take him! (holding out their hands)
Me: No, that's OK. (and then I said) If I leave him here, I will miss him!!!
Ladies: You'll miss him? But... aren't you with him... all the time?
*confused stare* (they had nothing left to say to this crazy mom)

I will miss him! So simple!
I was laughing inside for the first half of the service.
What a relief it was for me to say it out loud. To finally understand myself.

Before motherhood, I was never one who thought children were adorable. I liked them, and thought they were interesting, but they were like any other interesting people. When I was pregnant with Emeth, I had the most difficult time mustering up any kind of noble thoughts about becoming a mom.This did not change when he was finally born.

"Mother" was definitely not among the professions I was looking into when I was dreaming about growing up. It was not that I didn't want to be a mom, but it wasn't among my youthful considerations. This seems like a huge oversight now.

So you can imagine what a happy thing this was for me. To realize how much I love being with my children. To realize that I love being a mom. These are pleasant surprises for me.

Emeth is at the age now (almost 3) that I enjoy sending him out into the world (yes, even if it is just Sunday school) to explore and learn about others. And I know that Yohanan will soon follow. It makes me smile to think about the two brothers going off to explore the world together.

For now, let me just hold my baby.
Apparently, I would miss him when he is not with me.

grace covers, like snow

2011-02-23T21:41:00.000-08:00

A few Sundays ago, I routinely strapped the boys into their car seats. All was ready and packed for church (there is much to pack when you have two boys in diapers). It was then I realized the apartment key was no longer in my coat pocket. My heart sank as I looked at the ground.

Snow.

The key was buried under the snow. I was (almost) certain of it. I knew I had a few minutes before Hans came downstairs, so I began my futile search. Hans looked with me when he came and --

Nothing.

The time was up. We had to go. Hans opened the door for me as he always does, and I reluctantly climbed in the car knowing we were leaving our apartment key out in the snow. Hidden, maybe, but still...

If I were two, I would be wailing.

As Hans got in his seat, he placed a gleaming key in my palm, "We can be thankful for God's grace," he said, "It was just laying there. I wasn't even looking anymore."

Relieved. Hugely relieved.

When we reached our first stoplight, he said, "It would still be God's grace even if we had found it while we were searching."

As a new mom, I received a lot of advice. And I welcomed them, and even sought after them at first, because I was unsure about many things and desperate for some answers.

What to do and what not to do? What to feed and when and how much and how do you know? I need to be sure about this. I don't want to break him. I can't mess this up.

I search for methods, only the perfect and bests, hoping that they would give me that (false) sense of control that I crave so badly. When something works, I pat myself on the back, feeling smug for having figured everything out. When something does not work, I fall into guilt and despair. What did I do wrong? Why is it not working? Please explain. Trenches on either sides are deadly.

Methods are certainly not bad. By all means, we should educate ourselves. Not all methods are created equal. Some are definitely better, wiser than others. Some are just plain wrong.

The point is this: No matter what method I may choose (or other people may choose) -- grace makes the garden grow.

Every little finger and every little toe, every teeth, every eyelash, every nap (even the short ones), the roundness of every cheek, every squeal -- shouts Glory to the Maker, who holds all of us in the palm of his hand.

As I changed Yohanan's diaper this morning, I was relieved to see that his rash was nearly gone. Finally, after all that hard work! Weeks of applying medicine... I then caught myself. There I go again. Self-righteousness and ingratitude are ever at work within me, never too far away.

I do not heal broken skin. God does.

When I come to the edge of my limitations,
sleep deprived
from waking up the fifth time,
patience running dry
from repeating myself for the sixth time,
when my best attempts yield no fruit --
his grace is sufficient for me,
for all of us.

We are covered
by the grace of him
who gives long sleep and white snow.

Tucked away

2011-02-11T21:07:00.000-08:00

When Emeth was an infant, I religiously kept track of his milestones (first smile, first time sitting up, etc). I even kept a blog for this purpose. My better sense restrained me from comparing Emeth to other babies. I really did not want to be that mom. However, despite my effort, I found myself competing against imaginary babies -- the growth and milestone chart!

I was recording things like when he began to "balance his head" or whether is he is "interested in his reflection in the mirror." I was testing him to check when he was able to "coordinate his eyes in a circle" and whether he knows how to "communicate his expectations." Just so I can check these things off The List. I remember being so surprised (sometimes with a gasp) by moms when they tell me they had forgotten when their children said their first word or when they took their first step.

It was all very silly. I repent from my former ways.

As Emeth grew and as we were getting to know this little person, I realized that really, my focus should be on the things of the heart. If I tell him that being patient, kind, and joyful is better than being smart and talented, but cheer and record more of the latter-- he is able to tell what is truly important to mommy.

So, when Yohanan came around. I made a mental note not to repeat the crazy-mom act and did not keep track of his milestones at all (I know, I am all about the extremes). I do, however, remember when his first tooth emerged the day he turned four-months-old.

All of this is a long disclaimer for what I want to share today, because today is a big milestone kind of day. I want to tuck these away for safe keeping, you know, in case I forget.

Milestone # 1
We officially began our OPT (Operation Potty Training). All systems were ready and we launched. It was so much fun, with lots of treats and celebrations and laughter. Emeth was a Big Deal today.

Milestone # 2
Yohanan must have noticed the festivities, because he stood on his feet for the first time--without support. Just for a second, but still. He was giggling with glee.
Correct me if I am wrong, but I thought I just gave birth? How can he already be standing?

While I am on a roll, I might as well throw in a few fun Emethese words. As his vocabulary is expanding, I find myself having to ask him to repeat himself more often. I am catching up slowly, I think. He has been a very patient teacher.

Baytoh -- Beethoven
Comph-ble -- comfortable
Ductor ducting -- conductor conducting
Hetitopter -- helicopter
Oh-be-dow -- oil pastel (this took a while to figure out)
W and C or WC -- Debussy

On Wild Horses

2011-01-29T23:07:00.000-08:00

She caught my eyes one morning on Bus #28--bright face, laughing.

The year was 2003. I loved Denver in the fall.

A few weeks later, I was teaching a small group of teens in a local prison. I noticed a girl sitting towards the back. She made it painfully clear to everyone that I was a pest, and that she did not want to be there. I tried to be kind and asked her a few questions, but that only made me all the more annoying to her.

Suddenly, it felt as though a brick landed on my head. While the stars were still spinning, I asked her, "Do you have a red Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt?" She made a face. "You take Bus #28 to school, don't you?" I blurted, again, in disbelief.

Yep. She was officially freaked out.
But so was I.

That was how I met Noel.
I enjoyed her in my classes for the next six weeks.

Happenings like this require orchestration. And God is a masterful conductor, with a great sense of humor.

A herd of wild horses stormed into my wilderness. I did not know where I was to go and they cleared a path for me. Their blank stares, their indifference, their rage towards life caused a burning in my heart.

I loved to teach -- who knew? I certainly did not. I thought I loved biology and some kind of health care profession. They forced me to listen, to pay attention, and changed my mind.

These wild horses, they have a very special part of my heart. Faces young and miserable. Some of my first conversations about pregnancy, rape, and abortion were within these prison walls -- with girls who were no longer children, but certainly not yet adults.

I came across this video recently and it reminded me of the friends who did so much for me. It struck me that the color of prison walls look similar everywhere, but these women are certainly not bound by them.

Conversations with me and myself

2011-01-24T17:33:00.000-08:00

I talk to myself a lot these days. An effective way to stay calm with two babies. I highly recommend it.

Sometimes, present-me speaks to present-me.

Sometimes, present-me speaks to me-of-the-past. Those conversations go something like this:

Dumb! Dumb! Dumb! Soooo dumb!
Ugh. That was so embarrassing!
Please don't ever do that again.

Me-of-the-past is usually not allowed to talk, lest she try to make lame excuses for her silliness.

Future-me is a strange one. She visits once in a while.

She visited me at around week-four after Emeth's birth.

The days were long and dark. The jaundice. The blood tests, needle after needle into my newborn's heels. The endless feedings. The pain and the weariness and the questions and confusion as to why my child did not fit the descriptions in the books I read about newborns! Did I mention the endless feedings? A little person who demanded me, me, and more of me.

She said to me (in a very serious tone),

Not too long from now, Emeth will cry and there will be nothing you can do for him. When he is 7, 17, 67, his heart will break in ways you cannot mend. He will desire things your arms will not satisfy.

Right now, he just wants you.

Suddenly, the endless feedings didn't seem so bad.
He is hungry? I can feed him.
He needs to be held? I have arms.
He wants me? I have me!

Spring broke open in my darkness.

You have me, little ones.
You will always have me.

On Bacteria and Abortion

2011-01-17T13:55:00.000-08:00

One of the more useful classes I had to take for my college degree was Microbiology. For my term project, I studied the bacteria found in public restrooms. I carefully swab the toilet seats, faucets, and door handles in every (female) bathroom in the dormitories. I then grew the bacteria on Petri dishes and examined them under the microscope. What (nerdy) fun.

Here is a summary of my findings (according to the number and grossness of the bacteria):

Toilet seats < Door handles < Faucets

Ew to faucets indeed.

That was nine years ago. Since then, I have not touched a single faucet or door handle or toilet seat in public restrooms without a paper towel or something to shield my skin from that thick, slimy, invisible layer of microorganisms.

My belief in bacteria dictates my action. Oh yes indeed it does. In fact, it even governs a sick feeling I get just thinking about faucets.

Years ago, around the time when I took that Microbiology class, I learned that much of the abortion debate centered around the question "when does life begin?" At conception? First trimester? Second trimester? Third? One's judgment on this issue depended on their answer to this question, that was what they said.

Belief dictates action.

Emeth at 14-weeks

Since then, I've had conversations with women who had abortions, and more importantly, had two pregnancies of my own. Thanks to technological advancement, we now have reliable windows into the womb. Faces. Heartbeat. Movement. A separate genetic code from the mother. The fetus is clearly not "part of the woman's body." The question is no longer "when does life happen?"; we know we are carrying human life. Yet, people still choose to abort children.

We are a generation who believes murder is permissible.

My actions betray my beliefs. Every moment, every day. When I do not spend time in God's Word, when I am not living a life of obedience, when I do not fear the consequences of my sin -- I am proclaiming:

The Lord and Creator of Heaven and Earth < Bacteria

Grim indeed.

A Christmas Capsule

2010-12-25T06:06:00.000-08:00

Here are some random thoughts floating around this Christmas. I am recording them as a verbal time capsule, so I can look back many Christmases from now and reminisce about these little years.

1. Christmas is perfectly and wonderfully mundane this year. And it's nice. Our celebration awaits us next week when the family comes together. Our Christmas Eve activities included soothing a crying baby and nursing a lot -- hey, that's probably what Mary did! I am happy to announce that our babies have at least one thing in common -- they are both humans.

2. What I consider a monumental feat at this stage in life: Having empty laundry baskets and shiny sinks at the same time. Monumental? Yes. Worthy of my pursuit? No, not really. There are greater mountains, more important ones, to climb.

3. Something incredible: I have a husband who does not complain about his empty sock drawer. What is even more incredible -- that he married me in the first place. Being so systematic and organized, he probably would not have married me if he knew the acuteness of my non-systematic nature. I knew he was a kind and compassionate man, but I was not aware of just how kind and how compassionate.

4. Herod's soldiers killed all boys ages two and under in Bethlehem. Emeth and Yohanan are two and under.

5. Yohanan recently developed so much in his awareness and curiosity for his surrounding. I find him so funny nowadays. Having number two is like watching my favorite movie all over again. Except this time, I notice the subtle humors and not worry too much about the story line. The best part? The ending is still a mystery to me.

6. The son of our university's president died of a rare strand of the flu yesterday. A sudden heart attack, they say. He left behind his wife and two very young sons.

7. I've been fighting a cold and an awful cough. The best thing about this cold is that I don't have to hold my breath while changing Emeth's diapers. An incredible gift. I better appreciate it while it lasts. And yes, I am that plugged up.

8. I had a hard time hearing today, an added bonus of this cold. I could hear Yohanan's screaming just fine though. Along with his curiosity and motor skills, his will to fight off sleep also had a huge growth spurt.

9. My right hand gloves for washing dishes tend to get ruined within a couple of weeks. I have a collection of left hand gloves in good condition. I used two left hand gloves to wash the dishes tonight. One was blue and the other was yellow. The world did not end, and my hands stayed dry. A Christmas miracle.

10. Dear future Me, I made a batch of whole wheat chocolate chip cookies tonight and I think you should make some too. Remember to brown the butter, they are crispier that way. Also, I hope that you still get to kiss the boys' cheeks as much as I do. Their cheeks are the most lovely and soft in all the world. Perhaps nights are silent where you are, they most certainly are not where I am. I am guessing though, the first Christmas was more like mine and less like yours.

The kettle is whistling. Good things await.
Merry Christmas, dear friends.

My Watery Grave

2010-12-19T21:54:00.000-08:00

Hans lowered me into my watery grave today.
I proclaimed my death. I was buried, and I was raised.
Among God's people, I declared my testimony:

It was Easter Day 1982. Among a congregation in Indonesia, my parents brought me before the Lord in baptism. I was around Yohanan's age, about five or six months-old. They offered me to the Lord in faith and according to their conviction. This was their love for me.

As I was growing up, Pa and Ma continually taught me the way of the Lord. They reminded me daily that my life belonged to God, and that Jesus is always near. They taught me to treasure the Word of God. Christ was the foundation of our home, I never doubted this. I stand here today, because of my Papa and my Mama. I am who I am because of their labor and their love.

When I was around 14, I was slowly awaken and made alive in Christ. His Spirit became real to my young mind. I realized the evil that was in my heart, and asked for his blood to wash away my sins. My sister Jean told me that for the first time in her life, I treated her like a sister -- I was actually nice to her. Ouch.

On Easter Day 1995, I underwent confirmation and began partaking the Holy Communion. I looked forward to this every month. This, too, was precious to me.

Six years ago, in 2004, after many months of studying the Scripture, I came to a different understanding of baptism. I came to believe that baptism is a believer's proclamation of repentance--a turning away from the world--toward faith and obedience to Christ. In baptism, the believer identifies with Christ in his death, burial, and resurrection. Thus, immersion, the dipping of the entire body in water, is our public proclamation of Jesus' death, burial, and resurrection.

What immediately follows is this: I realized that I have not been baptized. I was not a believer during my infant baptism.

That was six years ago.

Accepting the truth that I was not baptized was most difficult, most painful for me. If I indeed believe that I have not been baptized, then I should, right? Because God commands it in his Word. But for a long, long time, I could not bring myself to do this.

Surely, the Lord would understand how difficult this is for me. Surely, he would make an exception for this disobedience. So I brushed the thought aside; I hid it under the carpet, hoping that no one would ask, no one would notice.

This act of my parents, bringing me before the Lord in baptism left a deep impression, a lasting mark on me. It was a sign of God's faithfulness and my salvation. It was my parents gift to me; it signified their promise to bring me up in the way of the Lord. These things were precious to me and I did not want to let them go. These things were more dear to me than my immediate obedience.

I felt like a man who was given a gem. It was blue and it was gleaming. He thought was a sapphire. He placed it in his treasure chest, loved it, and admired it for many years. Years later, he finds out that it was not sapphire after all.

When someone first proposed that the Earth was not flat and we were not the center of the universe, I am like the people who refused reason and rejected all evidence.

Admitting that I have been wrong was hard; changing was even harder.

During this Christmas season, I think of Mary and Joseph, Peter and John, and the first disciples, even the Pharisees and other religious leaders of Jesus' day. Each had their own conception of a Messiah -- how he would look like, the way their savior would come, how their King would deliver them. No one imagined God as a helpless baby among sheep and goats. No, not a God-man crucified among criminals.

To have faith was to first admit that they were wrong, that they did not have the right understanding; and to believe the words of Christ, that he was indeed God in human flesh.

The Lord is kind and patient. He is a merciful God. He is gentle in the discipline of his children. So very gentle.

I was wrong. So the gem was not sapphire. And that's OK, because the light it reflects is still true and still real. It is still blue, gleaming and unchanged. The Earth was neither flat nor were we at center of the universe. And that's OK, because the sun rises every morning, and the God who made the stars is unchanging.

What my parents gave me was not baptism, but this does not change their gift to me -- the knowledge of the one true God, and he is real.

He remains the same -- every Easter, every Christmas.
My life has never been my own, because He has always been my Creator.
I now belong to Christ. I now bear the mark of his death, burial, and resurrection.

Somebody at the Door

2010-12-13T21:17:00.000-08:00

The boys and I were playing at the table this evening. Out of the blue, Emeth pointed at the door and in his urgent voice, he said, "Jesus knocking!" My mind was scrambling, thinking about how I should respond. He interrupted my thoughts and cried again, his finger still pointing, "Somebody knocking! Jesus! Mommy open door!"

"Mommy should get the door?" I asked. He nodded furiously.
"Jesus is at the door?" I asked again, just to make sure I understood him. He nodded again.

I know this is silly, but fear shot through my heart. I was afraid to open the door. Afraid that I would find Jesus standing there, looking back at me. I couldn't do this by myself.

So I knocked on Hans' door. He was in the room studying at the time. "Honey! Jesus is knocking at the door!"

Hans, my dear, sweet husband, rushed out and headed for the door, "Well, why is Jesus standing outside? Let him in!"

He opened the door.

Hans preached a sobering sermon last Sunday. Most of the time, he said, we live for the things of this world as though they are real -- wealth, stuffs, beauty, recognition, respect, the attention and affection of others, even the comfort and health of our earthly bodies.

We worry, we labor, we love, we hang onto them for life. But these things are imaginary. They are fleeting. They are not real. They will not matter.

Yet, towards the One who is real, we speak and act as though he is -- imaginary.

The hallway was empty.

"Where did Jesus go?" Emeth asked, disappointed. I was a little sad too, I think. I was half expecting Jesus to be there. Hans replied, "Jesus is here, sweetie, he is always here. Jesus is in mommy and daddy, and someday, we hope Jesus will be in you and Hanan."

Emeth pulled up his shirt and stared into his belly button for a while.

Hello, Lord.

On Patience, or the Lack of It

2010-12-07T02:07:00.000-08:00

For as long as I can remember, Ma reprimanded me for being too slow. "A little faster, Ling. A little faster," she would say. All my life, I've been trying to catch up to the next big thing. Somehow, I missed Ma's lesson on how to be patient. She must have known much about being patient having to raise four girls. Four!

This flaw of mine has been haunting me lately, as it is becoming painfully obvious. "Be patient," I would tell myself while grinding my teeth, "be kind." Yet, something tells me that merely keeping myself from boiling over is not being patient.

Self-discovery has not been flattering. My sweet children, who bring me worlds of joy and delight, helped me discover a tyrant in me. I did not see this coming.

Hello, meet Mommy the Dictator.
You. Must. Obey.
Like all other dictators before me, I want control.

Wait, I thought parents are suppose to control their children? That's good parenting, right? Producing unfussy babies who eat in three-hour-intervals and sleep through the night at two-weeks old? Well-behaved children who obey my every command and say please and thank you? Who eat organic food and are always bacteria-free?

Where did you get that?
Um. Books?
What books?
Parenting books. Bestsellers... And the internet.
Ahhh.
Wait, doesn't the Bible say that I should know how to control my children?
Actually,... no.
So, am I suppose to just let them run wild?
Um... no. But it has plenty to say about teaching the them to love the Lord, and love others. And that includes being patient and kind.
Hmm.

~~~

I am seeing a pattern within my heart. The more I want control, the less patience I have, the less kind I become.

This was why, perhaps, the newborn stage with Emeth seemed so difficult. For the first time in life, we had to take care of this little person who belonged to himself, with his own desires and will, and who did not speak English, yet. Also, perhaps this was why Yohanan felt easier as a newborn, because I learned that toddlers are even harder to control. And it was helpful that Emeth taught me some babies do not eat at three-hour-intervals.

So, perhaps, this is the first thing I need to learn.

I have no control.
None of the kind that lasts anyway.
I cannot cause them to grow anymore than I was able to cause them to grow in my womb.
So I made him say sorry, or I trained him to sleep through the night, etc.
So what? I am not able to change their hearts.
I have no control over my children, my husband, or whether I will be alive tomorrow. And I should be grateful that it is not up to me.

We are merely keepers, in our Savior's Garden.
We name, we plant, and we water. We must.
We pull weeds, we prune, and we build trellises for our precious vines.

He is their Creator.
He is their Redeemer.
He causes them to grow and bear fruits.

And so I wait and I watch,
Cry a little and laugh a lot.

One Nose and an Old Song

2010-12-03T13:30:00.000-08:00

When Emeth was a baby, we were very, very careful about germs. I remember his grandfather wore a mask during one of his visits for fear of passing his cold to his precious grandson. And we appreciated his effort.

We've been fighting at least two or three strands of viruses in our household for the past two months. Yohanan does not have the luxury that his brother once had. Emeth has no restrain sneezing and coughing into his brother's face. Not on purpose, of course, but he is after all a two-year-old with limited hand-to-mouth coordination.

After withstanding several rounds of colds and coughs (yay for mommy's milk!), Yohanan finally caught something two weeks ago. His poor little nose. Oh, and he is teething too.

He was sitting on Hans' lap earlier today and within a few minutes, Hans was wet with drool and snot. Hans, who comes up with rhymes of all sorts, said in response:

One nose to spray them all,
One nose to goober them,
One nose to sneeze on them all,
And in darkness slime them.

This reminds me of the song we made up for Emeth a long, long time ago.
OK, it seems like it was a long time ago.

I am ten months going on eleven months,
I know that I'm naive.
People I meet may tell me I'm sweet,
And willingly I believe.

I am ten months going on eleven months,
Curious as a bee.
Sharpness of metals, heat of the kettle,
What do I know of these.

Generous with my smiles am I
To face my world of fans,
Whimpering, crying, and sad am I
When I am left alone in my playpen.

I need someone bigger and taller,
Play with me, change me, feed me.
You look like a pretty friendly person,
Would you please take care of me?

Chauffeur

2010-11-26T00:18:00.000-08:00

It will be our 4.5 wedding anniversary tomorrow. And you know I have this thing about anniversaries.

To be honest, I don't really keep track of anniversaries. Most days, I don't even know what date it is.

What I do is I create anniversaries when I need excuses to celebrate. Like when I want to bake a cake, or eat salmon, or share a sweet story about Hans.

This is how it works: I look at the calendar, discover that tomorrow is the 27th (we were married on May 27), do a little more calculation -- and voilà! We have an anniversary!

A while ago, we went to pick someone up at the airport. We were behind a fancy black limousine as we approached the terminal. I was quite amused by the chauffeur in his slick, black uniform climbing in and out of the car opening and closing doors for his patrons. Daydreaming, I said, "mmmm... maybe I'll have a chauffeur in heaven."

Hans turned to look at me, squinted his eyes, and said, "How is that different from now? You don't even drive!"

And he is right.
In fact, I don't open or close my doors anymore.
He even has Emeth trained to open my door and offer his hand to me.

Oh I remember the days when I was so embarrassed that my gentleman-friend opened all the doors for me. It took my pig-headed skull a while to understand that he knew that I knew how to open doors (imagine that!). That he actually enjoyed serving me. That he did this to honor me.

He promised to remain my chauffeur when we get to heaven. I doubt that I would need his service much at all; I am guessing we will mostly be traveling on foot. I only consented to keep him close.

Things I Learned While Purging

2010-11-16T22:25:00.000-08:00

A helpful step towards simplicity -- purging.
Here are some of the things I've been learning:

1. Purging can be fun, and a little addicting.
There lies a great satisfaction in seeing empty hangers and precious space.

2. The best part: The process requires me to be really, really picky.
Too small? Purge!
Too little? Purge!
Too many? Purge!
Too much? Purge!
Just plain ugly? Purge!
I haven't worn this for over a year. Purge!
There is always something else I would rather wear. Purge!

3. I had way, way too many turtlenecks.
Three white ones, two black, dark blue, gray, brown, purple, burgundy.
Lots.

4. Two pregnancies and two births later, my body has changed (no, I did not just learn this). And I decided that I don't like wearing turtlenecks anymore. Purge!

5. I like saying "Purge!" in my head (maybe this is the best part).
It makes me feel powerful. It's like saying to that piece of clothing "I refuse to be bound by you. Christ is my perfect covering. I do not need you. You mean nothing to me." Fun times, do you see? A little over the top, I realized, but it works to keep things moving along.

6. Black is not always slimming.

7. Fact about purging: Out of sight, out of mind.
I've purged about a third of my wardrobe, and not once did I think, "Oh, I wish I still have that!" Honestly, I can't recall most of the things I've purged.

8. Clothes no longer look attractive after the purge.
I saw some of the clothes I had donated hanging at the thrift store, and there was no part in me that found them at all desirable.

9. I kept many things "just in case I need them in the future."
I kept an ugly black skirt just in case I needed to go to a funeral.
Purge!

10. I was surprised by how easy it was to get rid of some things, and how hard it was to get rid of others.

Christmas 1999

11. Things I found most difficult to purge were clothes that had been with me the longest.
You see that red skirt? And that brown top Evelyn is wearing? I still have those. The skirt because it reminds me of the last Christmas and Chinese New Year I celebrated in Malaysia (where all Christmas trees were fake). It also reminds me of the time when I turned down my dear friend Wini who wanted to borrow the skirt when it was still brand new (you can borrow it now, Wini!). As for the brown top, it was a present from Evelyn. These are happy, happy memories.
Among my other relics are a few long-sleeves shirts that Ma and Pa packed for me. They feared that I would be cold in the US.

12. I have the same struggle with some of my unrepentant sins -- the sins most difficult to purge are those that have been with me the longest.

On the Squirrels' Lunch under the Glowing Trees

2010-11-09T06:49:00.000-08:00

The other day, I asked Emeth to be quiet (by toning down his voice) because Yohanan finally fell asleep. The sweet big brother that he is responded obediently to my instruction...

Mommy, Emeth quiet!
Good job, Emeth! Thank you for being quiet.

(a few seconds later)

Mommy, Emeth quiet; Hanan sleeping!
Good job, little bear!

(a few seconds later)

Mommy? Emeth quiet!
*sigh* ...

~~~~~~~~

When I think I am humble, I am not.
Because humility is not a virtue to be spotted in oneself. When I prize my moment of humility, I can be sure that it quickly turns into something else. A humble person would not be thinking about herself at all.

When I think I am wise, I am not.
Because wisdom completely trusts in God's instruction, not my own understanding. Wisdom loves correction and rebuke (is this even humanly possible? I mean, really). Wisdom recognizes oneself as a fool.

When I think I am being patient, am I or am I not?

There was a time when I thought I was patient. I did not mind traffic jams. Long waits in lines and airports did not bother me. And then, I became a mom. And then, I became a mom of two. There are days I look at myself, or worse -- listen to the tone of my voice -- and wonder whether there was ever that patient version of me. I had no idea what I was talking about.

I was outside with the boys the other day, for the autumn sunshine and dancing leaves. There was no agenda, no where to be. Emeth cooked with sticks and stones -- "squirrels' lunch," he declared. The sky was round and golden at that hour, like the whole wheat cookies I baked this morning, speckled with bittersweet chocolate.

Under those glowing trees, I think I caught a whiff of patience. Long-sufferance was definitely not on my mind -- it was no suffering at all!

Emeth is quiet when his attention is directed away from himself. He is most quiet when he stands by the window looking for the moon, singing about twinkling stars. Likewise, we draw near to humility when we fix our hearts on loving our neighbors; we approach wisdom when we fear the Lord. Perhaps patience can be gained the same way.

Soul, look away from self,
Look away from my schedule, my rules, my goals, my comfort,
Soul, lift your eyes to the hills.

On Bearing Faces

2010-11-02T00:14:00.000-07:00

I think I must have had a nose complex as a child. I spent too many of my waking hours pinching it, hoping it would "grow" a little higher.

When I was teaching in the juvenile justice facilities, my favorite way to break the ice was to show the girls a trick.

I showed them how I can touch both my eyes at the same time, with a pen across my face.

Now, you have to know that these are some intimidating girls. They've seen too much in their short lives to be easily impressed. But there they were -- a bunch of young criminals with pens across their faces, baffled that they can't do this simple trick. "How can anyone's nose could be so flat?!" they exclaimed. Sometimes, I would even get a few laughs.

At least this nose is good for something.

Confession. I almost immediately checked Emeth's nose when he was placed in my arms. I wasn't even really thinking about it, but I remember looking. When we called my sister Catherine to tell her the good news, the first question she asked: "so, whose nose did he get?" I found it tragic that she knew I cared.

But yes, he did. Emeth did get my nose. And so did Yohanan.

Hans thinks it's cute, but he is my husband.

Genetic inheritance is quite a fascinating, delightful thing. People naturally look for resemblances between parents and children. They love to give their (very strong) opinions about who the children look like -- more like mommy or daddy? Grandpa or grandma? I know I enjoy seeing my friends' faces in their children. I love seeing my beloved's likeness in our sons.

As I watch the boys sleep, I force my mind to contemplate this truth: In much deeper ways, my children resemble their Creator.

This baffles me. These little people that I cradle with their runny noses, yummy cheeks, teary eyes -- look like God.

He made them,
in his likeness.
They bear his face.

Long ago, a group of petty men asked Jesus whether they should pay taxes. Jesus asked to see a coin. "Whose image is this?" he asked. "Caesar's," they answered. Then he said to them, “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's.” He was telling them to give up much more than just taxes here.

Soul, you are a creature,
He made you,
in his likeness.
You bear his face.
Render.

Emethese

2010-10-25T14:33:00.000-07:00

A selection of words spoken by Emeth at age two and a half (30-month old)

Applecado -- A green fruit, mommy and daddy eat it with seaweed and rice.
Bay -- What I do when I listen to mommy, what is better than smart, the verb for bedee.
Bedee -- The kind of boy I am when I bay.
Bet -- A B C D E...
Boon -- Ball-like things that fly, usually attached to a string.
Brea-kes -- What I eat when I wake up, eggs, cereal and milk, yogurt.
Bun-ton -- What is on the shirt I wear to church.
Chicken -- The place I cannot enter, where mommy cooks and washes the dishes.
Goolala -- Large, black, monkey-like animals.
Mana -- Yellow fruit, often associated with monkeys.
Magget -- Shapes and letters that sticks to the refrigerator and other metal objects.
Patter -- What I cannot touch, screen, keyboard, mouse.
Plan-tets -- Neptune, Earth, Eenus, the one with rings.
Sheen -- The thing with the button I get to press when mommy does the laundry.
Tapa -- Known also as funny shaped noodle (or "doodle"), a favorite food, sometimes pronounced with an "s" sound, "Tapas."
Troy -- What I like to do to my buildings and blocks, when I do this I like to say "CRASH!"

Some favorites from Old Emethese

Deedah -- The big guy who plays hide and seek with me, whose shoulders I sit on, who builds planes and trains with me.
Dahdee -- The other big one, the one who feeds me, a.k.a. mommy.
It was a little sad when he stopped saying these.

Up-pang-ge -- Upward motion, the act of coming out of the crib.
For a few months, Emeth would attach meaningless syllables after short words. He still says this for fun.

Greatness

2010-10-20T14:15:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I hear testimonies and think: "wow, I wish I had an experience like that" or "I wish I was special like that." More often, our testimonies are about us, rather than about who God is and what he is doing. Recently, I came across testimonies of two young women that are great examples of the latter.

Like resounding bells, I continue to hear "Great is the Lord! Great is the Lord! Great is the Lord!" long after their voices ceased. It is a wonderful truth that God uses the weak and common among us to reflect his glory.

The woman who survived abortion (watch part 1, part 2)

The hidden Christians of North Korea (read here)

Discipleship is as visible as light in the night, as a mountain in the flatlands.
To flee into invisibility is to deny the call.
Any community of Jesus which wants to be invisible is no longer a community that follows him.

— Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Discipleship, 113.

Dreams of Dust in Jerusalem

2010-10-15T01:07:00.000-07:00

Part of my job as Hans' wife is to remind him of all kinds of obscure anniversaries. Such as May 22 -- I call it The-Universe-Stopped-and-I-Fell-in-Love-with-You Day.
Today, October 15, is not an obscure anniversary. It is one of the big ones. Today is the fifth anniversary of our engagement (yay!). Hans calls it You-Said-it-was-OK-to-Ask-You-to-Marry-Me Day.

I've mentioned elsewhere that I did not want a diamond. So instead, Hans proposed to me with seven gifts. (Sweet, right?) We took many walks together that weekend. I showed him my favorite streets in New Haven.

For two hours, he proposed, over pizza. Thin-crust. Brick oven. Bacon and Onion on one side, Eggplant Parmesan on the other. I said yes -- to both the pizza and the proposal.

The first of the gifts was my ESV Bible;
My favorite was the promise of a trip to Israel, together.

Being Malaysian, my passport explicitly states that I am not allowed entry into Israel. I used to joke around about how I would marry an American just for the passport.

I am not yet a US citizen; and with two little ones, this is hardly the time to travel such a distance. But, the hope is a joyful one, and I can hardly wait.

Meanwhile, we dream.

Standing on the Mount of Olives,
Walking under the trees of Gethsemane,
Covered with the dust of Jerusalem,
Catching a storm by the Sea of Galilee.
I close my eyes and see Him
Talking to fishermen, playing with children.
My foolish heart imagines
that He would somehow be nearer -- there.

Until then, I will miss Jerusalem.
Happy to be on the road, with you.

Happy engagement anniversary, darling.
Thank you for dreaming with me.

Stuffs.

2010-10-11T12:41:00.000-07:00

I have a very wise mom. Since we were babies, she was adamant about not allowing us to be attached to "things." For example, she despised pacifiers because she didn't want us to become dependent on "things." When I was two, she instructed me to say goodbye to my most beloved blanket and had me throw it into the river. (I shiver even at the thought of throwing Meow Meow the polar bear into the river. It would feel like murdering a family member.)

I am sorry to admit, however, all that training did not wean me from wanting the stuffs of the world.

Just two days after my big resolution to keep a simple wardrobe, my eyes are already distracted by all sorts of end-of-summer sales.
Clearances. Coupons. Free shipping.

But I'll need it for next summer!
"Need" is a very strong word for another pair of shoes.

But it's so cheap!
Fertilizer is cheap ($1 can get you 40 pounds), do you buy fertilizer?

But, so pretty...
Don't you have another one like that?

Coveting things that are on sale is not
better than coveting things that are full price.
A house overloaded with stuff from the thrift store is not
better than a house of stuff from Pottery Barn.

Stuff is still stuff,
Excess still excess.

Soul, learn to live with less.
Soul, learn to see true worth.

The Necessity of Clothing (On Simplicity)

2010-10-08T22:45:00.000-07:00

A while ago, I posted a few reflections on why we wear what we wear. I ended the series with some applications.

I read the last post again today. I can barely recall anymore why I wrote some of the things I wrote. I think I titled the post "some heart applications" particularly because I knew no practical applications to give.

So, here is another go.
And here is another resolution.

Resolved, to keep my wardrobe simple.

Simple.
Uncluttered, keeping only clothes that I regularly wear.
With a few "special occasions" items.
Clean, practical, pleasant to the eyes (especially of my husband).

(Hans is going to read this and know I have a lot of purging to do. *yikes*)

Simple.
So I would not allow what I wear to define who I am.

I am grateful to know a few older, godly women. One of them befriended me during my time in New Haven. When I first met Judith, I certainly did not think, "My, she dresses so modestly!" In fact, what she wore was of little significance to my first impression of her. Instead, I noticed how friendly, how kind she was to me. She asked thoughtful questions, and was genuinely interested in my responses. She invited me over for lunch, or tea, as she called it; she was from the UK. I remember feeling so comfortable, so grateful, so happy, even though our meeting was brief.

As I got to know her, spent time with her three children, and attended church with her family, I began to notice her wardrobe -- because there were very few items. She had two skirts, a few tops, a few pairs of pants, and a very nice pair of tall black boots. Simple.

Modesty and humility are very similar virtues. C.S. Lewis describes humility so well, in the following quote and elsewhere:

To even get near [humility], even for a moment, is like a drink of cold water to a man in a desert.
Do not imagine that if you meet a really humble man he will be what most people call “humble” nowadays: he will not be a sort of greasy, smarmy person, who is always telling you that, of course, he is nobody.
Probably all you will think about him is that he seemed a cheerful, intelligent chap who took a real interest in what you said to him.
If you do dislike him it will be because you feel a little envious of anyone who seems to enjoy life so easily. He will not be thinking about humility: he will not be thinking about himself at all.

(Mere Christianity, p.128 of this edition)

A modest woman would not be occupied by how modest she looks,
she would not be thinking about herself at all.

Now, there is something to aim for.

Here are the links to the series:
Part 1: In the Garden
Part 2: Shame
Part 3: Sackcloth
Part 4: Bridal garment
Part 5: Christ
Heart-Applications
Hunger: Modesty is not just about clothes

On omg, etc.

2010-09-30T20:18:00.000-07:00

Excuse me, my toddler is listening. He is absorbing words the way water is to a person with a fierce thirst.

Years ago, I was chattering away with a friend on a bus when a parent turned around and requested that we change the subject. My friend Meghan and I were talking about our "weight issues" and how we wished to lose a few pounds. There was a little girl sitting in front of us. Her dad overheard our (apparently very loud) conversation. And he put a stop to it.

My face was hot with embarrassment. We were quiet the rest of the ride. I was glad that he shut us up when he did. Wouldn't it be awful if a couple of obnoxious college girls made the child thinks that she needs to lose a few pounds?

This post is not about a healthy self-image.
It is about taking the Lord's name in vain.

Though I hear / read them often enough -- "God," "Lord," "Jesus," "Christ," I am still surprised and distressed whenever I hear Christians use them in their exclamations over trivial things. I am not sure what is behind it. Ignorance perhaps? Is it fashionable? Is it so we can look somewhat "edgy" as Christians, more like the world? Or it is a mindless habit?

I grant that the fourth commandment "do not take the name of your God in vain" covers a whole lot more than just "do not use his name as a casual verbal filler." But shouldn't it at least require that we pay attention when we do use God's name?

Jewish people, ancient and present, refuse to even say God's name out loud when they read Scripture. Instead, they read "adonai" (lord) at every place where Yahweh occurs. So much care goes into how they utter, how they bear God's name with their lips.

This brings me to the oh-so-vague acronym OMG. Yes, yes, your G means "gosh" or "goodness" or "god with a small g." But, you know what? I can't tell. It's like when girls tell me that they are wearing shorts under the oh-so-short skirt. Well, um... I can't see your shorts! And frankly, does it matter? What matters is what I do see.

All of this will seem ridiculous someday before the throne of the Almighty. There will be nothing cool and convenient about the careless words that we speak. By our words we will be condemned (Matthew 12:36-37).

Hans puts it quite bluntly:
People are dying for the sake the name. What are you doing?

So, please. Toddlers everywhere are listening, please watch what you say.

This is a plea for you, for us.
We are all toddlers
learning to walk, learning to talk.
Wouldn't it be awful if I cause a little one to stumble?

No Space

2010-09-27T02:37:00.000-07:00

This day marks four years and four months since our wedding. Hans said his vows to a very different person that day. I have a hard time recalling who I was, mainly because I cringe at the thought of her. Be assured that I am still that selfish little person, but she was a lot worse.

We had not lived in the same city before getting married. So, those first few months were very sweet. Every meal was a date, every dinner an event. The phone seemed especially repulsive. Its one worthy function was no more. I think I am just beginning to recover from my disgust towards that object.

I enjoyed exclaiming silly things like "No space!" Sometimes because his presence was too good to be true. Sometimes because I was feeling insecure. Either way, I wanted to be with him.

I liked clinging to him, I still do. I even made him miss Emeth's birth because I was clinging to his neck. But that's a different story.

In Hans' sermon this morning, this was his illustration for Matthew 11:28-30. It was no more than a few sentences at the end, but it made me cry, because I knew exactly what he meant.

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me,
for I am gentle and lowly in heart,
and you will find rest for your souls.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

Having a yoke that is easy and a burden that is light? How is this even possible? The utter abandonment of the world and all its pleasures? A sword between parents and children? When is following Christ "light and easy" like the fat-free butter in the refrigerated section at Target?

Yet, it is.

It is the easiest thing in all the world

when we desire nothing else

but to be married to him.

Set me as a seal upon your heart,
as a seal upon your arm,
for love is strong as death...

(Song of Songs 8:6)

On Dark Chocolate

2010-09-17T20:37:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my head.
I am about to let you in on a conversation I had with myself earlier today.

Oh no, oh no! Don't explode!
... *sigh*
Nooo! This is the second time in 10 minutes!
And why does it always have to be on the cute outfits?
Come on, let's change your diaper,... again.
Argh. More laundry to wash.
And I still have to vacuum...
I. Am. So. Tired.
I try and I try and I try.
And I fail.
*feeling reeeal sorry for myself*

Stop it. It's not that bad.

I can't! There is so much to feel bad about!

Stop whining.
Things can be a lot worse, you know.
Just think of the days when disposable diapers did not exist.
No washing machines.
No OxyClean.

How did they get rid of stains?

Think of people who live in the desert.
Women had to walk miles just to get pails of water!

Fine, fine. I get it. *sigh*

It's been a bad afternoon.
Let's have chocolate.

OK! *my heart smiled*

mmmm.... Dark chocolate with bits of sea salt.

*reading the label*
Yikes.100 calories for 2 squares?!
It's worth it.
Wow... Made in France?
Hans is such a sweet husband.

See? Things are not that bad.

OK, fine. Life is actually quite good.

*rolled my eyes* Drama queen.

~~~

“Have you realized that most of your unhappiness in life is due to the fact that you are listening to yourself instead of talking to yourself?... This self of ours -- Do not listen to him; turn on him; speak to him; condemn him; upbraid him; exhort him; encourage him; remind him of what you know, instead of listening placidly to him and allowing him to drag you down and depress you. For that is what he will always do if you allow him to be in control. The devil takes hold of self and uses it in order to depress us. We must stand up as this man did and say, “Why art thou cast down? Why are thou disquieted within me? Stop being so! Hope though in God, for I shall yet praise Him…" (Psalm 42:5)

- Martyn Lloyd-Jones, Spiritual Depression, p. 20, 21.

Time-Out

2010-09-14T21:51:00.000-07:00

My tongue hurts. I bit it. I bit it real hard yesterday while trying to contain my annoyance, while telling Emeth he needed to be patient, while I was trying to calm the screaming Yohanan in my arms.

Wait. I thought I was the disciplinarian in this parent-child relationship. Why do I often get the feeling I am the one getting the time-outs?

My tongue was not able to move very much today, which meant I wasn't able to raise my voice. I was forced to talk at a slower pace, with fewer words. I listened to myself, I sounded somewhat gentler. I wonder how I usually sound like when my tongue doesn't hurt.

Law and grace are not polar opposites. They flow in and through one another. My hurting tongue is God's grace to me -- reminding me to obey his law of patience and kindness. It is grace that we require Emeth to hold our hand when crossing the street. It is grace that we have laws in our home.

Apostle Paul was really onto something when he told those Corinthians that love was patient and kind. Are you sure he had no children? And by children I mean toddlers and babies. Somehow, he knew that's exactly what parents needed to hear. I thought I was pretty kind and patient until these two little ones showed up.

Again, why do I feel like I am the one getting the time-outs?

Because I am.
Because He loves me.

Because I have not died enough

2010-09-01T22:17:00.000-07:00

Every now and then, usually around seasons of transitions and uncertainty, I get all worried about the future. In my head, I imagine myself standing before all these different paths, leaving me confused as to which of these paths to take. In my head, I imagine all these different options of where I would like to go, who I want to be.

I never seem to learn, because the truth is, there are only two paths.

The path wisdom
and the path of folly

The path of the righteous
and the path of the wicked.

Two.

And there are only two destinations.

Blessedness or Destruction.

Hans reminds me that God is always letting us know where he wants us to go, the question is whether I am listening.

Each day presents hundreds of little moments where I have to decide which path I want to be on.

Am I patient, or not?
Am I kind, or not?
Do I forgive, do I believe, do I love?

I would like to think that these hundreds of smaller moments are chiseling away at me, helping me to die little by little, in order that I may become that new creature who would know better the will of my Father.

I am grateful that I do not yet know what the Lord would have me do five/ten/fifteen years from now. Because the me of today would probably not like it, not understand it, rebel against it. Because I have not died enough. Because I have not lived enough.

So, until then, help me see the step immediately before me.
The night is dark, Lord, I need your light.

On Getting Places

2010-08-25T09:23:00.000-07:00

Our friends got married last Saturday. The wedding was remarkably kind to young children. (Thanks Ivan and Sherri!)

It took place in a park, completed with a zoo! The pavilion had all the benefits of an outdoor wedding (overlooking a lake!), but was cool and shaded. A good fraction of the crowd was children, yet their voices and laughter were not the least bit distracting. Crayons and coloring booklets were distributed before the ceremony.

It was incredible. I was grateful.

The zoo had giraffes and polar bears. It was not an opportunity to be missed. Emeth made sure of it. He repeated the phrase "see giraffe!" at least 77 times that afternoon.

Walking around in the heat, I enjoyed every look of wonderment in his face. Like Adam did in the beginning, he named all the animals.

When we got to the giraffes, he proudly declared: "Emeth found giraffe self!" (translation: I found the giraffe myself!")

Never mind that he was sitting on daddy's shoulders.
Never mind that daddy's back kindly bore 30-pounds for hours.
Never mind that it was daddy who walked everywhere.

*sigh*

I am convinced that the Lord gave me children so that I might see myself more clearly.

"I will be praying for you..."

2010-08-17T00:02:00.000-07:00

I am beginning to think that I need to have a "Hans' sermons" label as I am noticing a trend...

OK. Done.

Matthew 9:35-10:15
Scene One.
Jesus had compassion upon the crowds, seeing that they are like sheep without a shepherd -- harassed and helpless. He instructed the disciples to pray that the Lord will send laborers into the harvest.

Scene Two.
He called his twelve disciples and gave them authority to cast out demons, and heal every disease and affliction.

Scene Three.
He sent them out.

Conclusion.
The disciples are the laborers.

Note to self #1:
The next time I say "I will be praying for you,"
there is the possibility that I would be the answer to my own prayer.

Note to self #2:
Do not use "I am praying for you" lightly and without commitment.

Note to self #3:
Before even telling people this, I need to ask myself how I can serve them in their situation.

p/s His sermon had an entirely different emphasis. He only merely mentioned this in the passing.

Conversion

2010-08-12T13:46:00.000-07:00

I have a relatively boring conversion story, except for the part about how I was redeemed by the precious blood of Christ, delivered from eternal damnation, and obtained the hope of everlasting glory. Apart from that, I have a pretty boring story.

All of this is to say: I love listening to other people's conversion stories. I love hearing them and thinking about them.

There are two stories I think about often, because they make me chuckle in wonder.

We have a friend from Singapore.
His mom was a practical Buddhist, and his dad was a traditional Hindu.
He chose to be an atheist.
The more superior way, he thought to himself.
And then,... he had a crush. (hmmm...)
On a Christian girl, (ahh...)
my dear friend Deborah,
who rejected him. (go Deborah!)
So, he decided to visit her church. (so typical)
Bored and lost during the sermon, he flipped through a pew Bible.
The Lord met him there.

In the maps.
Yes -- the ones in the back, the ones that were hardly ever used.
"Maps of actual places?" he wondered,
"Christianity isn't just based on myths? God in human history?"
He is now a full-time pastor.
Deborah married him, and they have two little boys.

Listen and be afraid,
the Lord God can use anything to turn hearts to himself --
boyish infatuation, maps, and all.

We have this other friend, an Igbo woman from Nigeria.
Bold. Intelligent. Articulate.
A PhD degree from France -- rare among her community.
Long braids. Make-up. Jewelries. Her tall figure flaunted the latest fashion.
After rejecting a long line of suitors,
she married a doctor from a powerful family.
Her earthly edifice looked expensive.
One night, a wave came crashing in and washed everything away.
She was accused of adultery,
forced into a divorce.
The name she made for herself -- shattered.
The Lord met her there.

In her devastation.
She shaved her long braids (her hair remained this way, even when we met).
She washed her face (never again did she apply make-up).
She became a secretary in a Christian organization (for which she was definitely over-qualified).

Listen and be afraid,
the Lord God changes people --
cleans faces, purifies hearts.

Beyond My Wildest Dreams

2010-08-08T21:59:00.000-07:00

I am grateful everyday that the Lord did not grant me the man of my dreams. Not that I had such a man or such dreams, though I think people should. No, I did not know what I was looking for, but the Lord gave me Hans who is beyond my wildest imagination.

We met during my intentional year of repentance. What might that be?
Simply stated, I got really lost during my years in college, and I was tired, and I wanted to not be lost anymore. So, I set aside one year to hope -- that I would be found.

I told Hans about this in the beginning of our friendship and he told me that he was not interested to know who I was or what I had done. "I am only interested in knowing who you are right now," he said. I thought he was very kind, and very sweet to say that, but I don't think my heart wholly believed him.

But here we are, seven years later, married(!), and with two children (!). He has not once asked me about the past.
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine a husband like this, who would love me in this way.

As I was getting Emeth ready for bed tonight, I thanked him for being such a good boy. He then recounted something wrong he did this morning, reminding me that he hasn't been good.

I paused.

mmm... The Lord is gently teaching me this lesson about forgiveness, again.

I have forgiven him. I do not want to remember. It gives me so much pleasure to tell him that mommy has forgiven him, and we are now going to forget about the whole thing.

My husband loves me. It matters not to him who I was before I met him.

Lord, teach me about your grace, for I cannot imagine it.
I do not know how far the east is from the west.

Those who are forgiven much, love much.
Those who are forgiven little, love little.
Help me to know how much I have been forgiven.

In Defense of Being Busy (Rant #1)

2010-08-07T23:01:00.000-07:00

I walked into the bathroom and noticed puddles of water near the toilet.
*sigh*
"Emeth, did your play with the toilet brush again?"
*silence*

This is what happens when my child is bored -- he gets himself in trouble. When I do not keep his little hands and feet busy, and direct his attention toward constructive activities, his little mind quickly fills with ideas, often mischievous ones.

Being busy can be a good, and even necessary, thing.

Unfortunately, busyness has gotten quite the bad reputation, especially among Christian circles. Often, it is used as an excuse for "not doing devotions" or not coming to church. There are many silly jokes about how busyness is a "weapon of Satan" or "the devil himself." I think someone ought to correct this over-simplification.

First of all, the opposite of busyness -- being idle -- gets us in trouble. The book of Proverbs speaks against sloth, again and again. I do not recall, however, the Bible speaking against being busy. Lady Wisdom is a very busy woman -- established and fruitful in her home (Proverbs 31), whereas Madame Folly is loud and flighty, here and there, gossiping and seducing.

If boredom gets little boys in trouble, idleness gets adults into trouble all the more. When we are lazy/procrastinating/bored, in other words -- not busy, we indulge in entertainment. Each of us has places we go to fulfill our own pleasures, where we are at the center of the universe.

So. Being busy can be good. We should be busy.
The question, then, should be:
Why I am busy? What is the reason for my being busy?

My Burmese Uncle

2010-08-02T05:49:00.000-07:00

People I meet along the climb up this mountain are precious to me. The first moment when I knew Hans will always be someone special was when I realized how much I loved having him as a traveling companion. Hopefully, we will be walking side by side for a long, long time. Meanwhile, I will attempt to record the footprints of some of those we met along the way.

I had a neighbor from Myanmar (Burma). He was like an uncle to me.

He was a Christian from the Karen tribe, a group who suffered much persecution for their faith. Where he came from, people traveled on foot. On Sundays, they trod upon many hills to worship.

He was dark and thin, a quiet man with kind eyes. One day, when we were grocery shopping, I asked him what was the monthly household income in his community . He thought for a moment and answered, "Ten dollars." I can't remember how I responded, but I can almost hear myself exclaiming something that made me looked quite silly.

He once showed me a picture of his family. With his wife, they had three children and adopted five. Every year, they took care of at least four to five homeless children who lost their parents due to the persecution.

Because we lived in an intentional community, some of the chores in the compound were done by volunteers. In the fall, I saw him outside raking leaves; in the winter, shoveling snow; in the spring, planting flowers. He was that kind of neighbor -- the kind who made people throw open their windows and shout friendly greetings.

He was heading back to Myanmar two days before our wedding. When we were saying our goodbyes, he took out a red envelope.

I wept.
He insisted.
We still have that ten dollar note.

Are You Praying about Ketchup Stains too?

2010-07-30T00:10:00.000-07:00

Did you know that it is possible to begin a conversation with a digression? Because that is what I am about to do.

When I was younger, I told a fellow PK (pastor's kid) friend three things I would never do:
1. I would never go to seminary
2. I would never go into ministry as a profession
3. I would never marry pastor

I have learned since to not make statements that begin with "I would never." They are dangerous.

Technically, ministry is not my "profession," but having invested ourselves in years of theological education, I can't promise it will never be in our future. Besides, mommy-hood is quite the ministry. My mom used to call the four of us her sheep.

And technically, I am not married to a "pastor," but I am married to a preacher. And I love being married to this preacher. For one thing, he gives great illustrations.

End of digression.

In my previous post, I recycled Hans' ketchup stain illustration. Originally, he used it to explain the scenario in Matthew 9:1-8. Seeing the faith of his friends, Jesus healed the paralyzed man -- by forgiving his sins.

What's that? The guy can't um... move? In Jesus' eyes, apparently, that was secondary. Jesus' main concern was the sickness of his heart. He declares, “Take heart, my son; your sins are forgiven” (Matt 9:2). In the following narrative, while "sitting with tax collectors and sinners," Jesus identified himself as the physician to those who were sick.

Too often, my prayers must sound pretty silly. They go something like this: "Dear Lord, please remove the ketchup stain from my hospital gown, and please remove the mustard stain from so and so."

Yes, Jesus was able to cure the man of his paralysis, and he did. But the concerns of this body and this life are like ketchup stains. Temporary. Superficial. To God, the sin of the heart is our true death, incurable except by his mercy and forgiveness.

Years ago, when I was teaching inner-city youth, delinquent girls in the juvenile justice facilities and schools for pregnant teens, I was feeling pretty useless toward the end of the year. They were dead and dying before my eyes, and I was teaching them futile things like "your need to love yourself," "feel good about the way you look," "please, don't get into abusive relationships." Ketchup stains!

Lord, teach us to pray.

Ketchup Stains

2010-07-26T12:11:00.000-07:00

A man is dying. The doctor comes into a patient's room with the cure to his disease. Upon entering the room, he notices a ketchup stain on the patient's hospital gown. With great efforts, he proceeds to get rid of the ketchup stain, and neglects to administer the medication.

Hans gave this illustration to make a point in his sermon yesterday. Here, I am recycling it for a somewhat different purpose.

Most of the day, I am busy cleaning ketchup stains, disinfecting hands, and making sure he eats his vegetables. Now, there is nothing wrong with cleaning ketchup stains, but too often I forget that my children have an infinitely greater need -- they are little souls in need of grace and the Gospel.

It's Monday, and here is to a new beginning.

Resolved, to demonstrate grace, in hopes that when the time comes for us to explain the Gospel to them, they may understand what it means to be forgiven and to be loved in ways that we do not deserve.

1. I need to remind myself to look at my sons the way the Lord looks upon me.

As a father shows compassion to his children,
so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him.
For he knows our frame;
he remembers that we are dust. (Psalm 103:14-15)

In his mercy, the Lord remembers we are made of dust.
I need to remember Emeth is two years old,
and Yohanan is one month old.
They are "new here" and have a lot to learn.
I need to have more patience and compassion.

2. Forgive and forget, immediately.

3. I need to pray with them and pray with them often -- in joy and in want. Especially when I feel like I am losing patience, we need to beseech our Lord together for strength and grace.

4. Throughout the day, I need to fill them with words of praise and assurance, with reading and drawing, holding and kissing. Instead of reacting to bad behavior or responding to whines, I need to initiate love and anticipate needs. Even when they are non-cute looking (unthinkable, I know), I need to be kind and gracious towards them, as the Lord has been kind and gracious to me.

On Being Sons

2010-07-18T12:48:00.000-07:00

Many have kindly asked us how we are doing since Yohanan was born. With sympathetic eyes they would ask whether the baby is sleeping well at night, and whether we are getting enough sleep. Laughing, I would answer "no" to both these questions, but continue to let them know how much we are loving this time, and that it is really ok that we are not getting enough sleep.

The other day, I came across the article "Abba Changes Everything" by Russell Moore (dean of Southern Seminary and author of Adopted for Life) in Christianity Today. This is the second time I came across the story in the opening paragraphs since I became a mom. It sums up very well for me the joy of being parents.

The creepiest sound I have ever heard was nothing at all. My wife, Maria, and I stood in the hallway of an orphanage somewhere in the former Soviet Union, on the first of two trips required for our petition to adopt. Orphanage staff led us down a hallway to greet the two 1-year-olds we hoped would become our sons. The horror wasn't the squalor and the stench, although we at times stifled the urge to vomit and weep. The horror was the quiet of it all. The place was more silent than a funeral home by night.

I stopped and pulled on Maria's elbow. "Why is it so quiet? The place is filled with babies." Both of us compared the stillness with the buzz and punctuated squeals that came from our church nursery back home. Here, if we listened carefully enough, we could hear babies rocking themselves back and forth, the crib slats gently bumping against the walls. These children did not cry, because infants eventually learn to stop crying if no one ever responds to their calls for food, for comfort, for love. No one ever responded to these children. So they stopped.

The silence continued as we entered the boys' room. Little Sergei (now Timothy) smiled at us, dancing up and down while holding the side of his crib. Little Maxim (now Benjamin) stood straight at attention, regal and czar-like. But neither boy made a sound. We read them books filled with words they couldn't understand, about saying goodnight to the moon and cows jumping over the same. But there were no cries, no squeals, no groans. Every day we left at the appointed time in the same way we had entered: in silence.

On the last day of the trip, Maria and I arrived at the moment we had dreaded since the minute we received our adoption referral. We had to tell the boys goodbye, as by law we had to return to the United States and wait for the legal paperwork to be completed before returning to pick them up for good. After hugging and kissing them, we walked out into the quiet hallway as Maria shook with tears.

And that's when we heard the scream.
Little Maxim fell back in his crib and let out a guttural yell. It seemed he knew, maybe for the first time, that he would be heard. On some primal level, he knew he had a father and mother now.

Yohanan cries. Emeth cries. Because they know they would be heard. Because they know they are not orphans, they are sons. They have a daddy and a mommy who would come when they call.

Sunday School

2010-07-11T21:10:00.000-07:00

For four years now, Hans and I serve in a small English ministry of a Chinese immigrant church here in the suburbs of Chicago.

This morning, we officially launched a new Sunday School class and I was their appointed teacher. As usual, I was up last night preparing the materials for my class. As Hans was teaching the high school and college students (my former class), I was next door having a blast.

I had two students. One was extremely involved, responsive, attentive--best student ever, really. And the other slept through my entire lesson.

We read stories from Genesis. We colored. The picture of Adam and Eve had a butterfly, two giraffes, a rabbit, some trees, and a mouse. We sang. We learned a Bible verse. We ate snacks. It was fabulous.

This is the Sunday School class for ages two and under. I am Mommy, your Sunday School teacher.

Sharing

2010-06-11T20:59:00.000-07:00

We've been teaching Emeth about sharing. As he grows older and continues to develop his sense of possessiveness, it has become harder for him to share. Let this serve as a good warning for those of us who are much older than our precious two-year-old boy.

Just the other day, Daddy asked Emeth whether he was willing to share some cereal with him. Reluctance was written all over his face as he quietly said, "no."

We then gave him the mini-speech about how it is good to share, how it is good to be kind and generous. He thought about it for a bit, paused, and shared one piece of cereal with Daddy. This was followed by many thanks and encouragement from the parents, and Emeth clapping for himself.

My little boy gave me a glimpse of my own foolishness.

Facts:
1. My cereal is given to me.
2. God asks me to share only a teeny-tiny portion of my cereal.
3. Reluctance to give to the One who gave us life, and everything else we have to live on, is a very, very sad sight.
4. I think I deserve praise and indulge in self-praise when I do share.
5. In the Lord, there is an unending supply of whatever I am hoarding.

Balloon

2010-06-10T20:56:00.000-07:00

Some friends came by today to celebrate the birth of the little brother. They brought with them a balloon. It was a cheerful thing. Yellow with colorful patterns and the words "Welcome Baby" on it.

Emeth adored the balloon. He was fascinated that it could "fly" and that it was so "tall." He held onto the string while running and dancing around the apartment.

At around the third-hour with his new favorite toy, he took a bite. I quickly patched the little hole up with some tape, managed to save most of the helium, and tried my best to explain to a two-year old how a balloon works. I warned him that if he wants it to "fly," he cannot bite it.

Alas, his curiosity got the better of him. He took another bite and that was the end of the flying balloon.

As he stared at the remains of the balloon, looking a little confused, I was so sad.

I wondered how often I ruin my own gifts because I was not able to enjoy them in the right ways. The balloon reminded me how I have destroyed good and precious things because my curiosity overcame my self-control, and rebellion overtook my sense to obey instruction.

Lob-star

2010-05-25T21:39:00.000-07:00

Besides refusing to call Hans my "boyfriend" when we were dating, he had to put up with a lot more when we were preparing for our wedding.

I didn't want a diamond unless it resembled the sunset and sunrise.
I refused to call the period of time married couple spent after the wedding our "honeymoon."
So I called it our LobSTAR, because we ate a lot of lobsters that week (we were in Maine), and I like stars.

We've had four fabulous years, or what will be four fabulous years on May 27. Some days, it feels as though we said our vows yesterday. Other days, it feels as though we've always been married from the beginning of time.

When I try very, very hard, I catch glimmers of my pre-marriage self. These are usually followed by questions along the lines of: "Why did you marry me? I was so..." These are then followed by: "Thank you so much for marrying me! I can't believe you married me."

As we've been discussing possible names for our second little boy, I am once again reminded of why he is such a wonderful a companion when faced with a seemingly impossible task. The air is charged with the same sort of laughter and thoughtfulness four years ago as we stayed up late into the night planning our wedding.

We had decided that he would write my wedding vow, and I would write his.

In our rough drafts, I had wanted him to promise that he would follow Christ unto death. Because if I were to follow him all the days of my life, I needed assurance that he would follow Christ... unto death. He gently (and wisely) suggested that this might not be the best thing to declare in front of hundreds of people on our wedding day.

See what I mean? How did he choose to marry me?

So, we changed it. He promised he would "follow where He should lead us, seeking after the fulfillment of our sure hope of the perfection of our faith."

With a companion like this one, I really shouldn't worry about not being able to come up with a name for our second child.

As I declared four years ago,

"I take you to be mine, and I give myself to you."

I see you

2010-05-18T06:35:00.000-07:00

Much of my day as a mommy can be summed up as being here to say, with and without words, "I see you, darling."

Whenever Emeth chokes on his food or water, he would prolong his cough until I look him in the eye and ask, "Emeth, are you ok?" Then, he would nod and go on eating.

When he builds with his Lego pieces, usually into shapes that he calls either a "truck" or a "plane," he would always come over to show me the finished product.

The other day, as he was near tears after a fall, daddy picked him up and comforted him. After a few magical blows and kisses, he was brand new and off running again.

He is a toddler who prioritizes cleanliness. He doesn't like it when he gets a yogurt-mustache on his lips or spaghetti sauce on his fingers. So today, because we had both those things on the menu, I spent most of dinner wiping his mouth and his fingers.

When he knows he is being obedient, or kind, or when he is sharing, he would look our way and clap his hands as if to say, "Do you see me?"

By watching and listening, I am shaping Emeth into the man is he becoming.

We are each a witness.* We stand as witnesses before the lives of those we encounter everyday--our husbands, wives, parents, siblings, the librarian, the cashier, stranger on the sidewalk. As selfish creatures, it takes great effort for us to see beside ourselves and look to others--how are they kind or admirable, how are we to appreciate and honor them.

We shape one another into who we are becoming. We are given to one another in order that we may say throughout the day, with and without words, "I see you."

At 28, I am really not all that different from my two-year-old.

When I conjure up some interesting recipe in the kitchen, it is a ritual for me to offer the first bite to Hans. With my curiosity at the verge of bursting, I wait for him to scoop/cut/bite his first taste. Then, like a gentleman, he offers his verdict, noticing the subtleties, commenting on the new ingredients, the new technique.

You see me. And I am loved.

*My friend Serene wrote about being her husband's witness. The concept stayed with me.

This is not just a phase

2010-05-13T21:47:00.000-07:00

A good reminder from Hans today.

All my life, I have been restless and moving. There is always a next big thing, a next big move. In one sense, our whole life is "a phase," a transition to something bigger and better.

In another sense, however, this life is it. This life is the preparation, the one rehearsal, for the life to come. Once the clock stops ticking, there is no going back. Once the rich man is in Hades and Lazarus is at Abraham's bosom, there is no going back (Luke 16:19-31). This life determines eternity. This life is it.

Sometimes, I am so focused on what the next big thing is I am barely here for the big thing that is right before my eyes. I am anticipating the birth so much that I am missing the pregnancy. In mommy's language, nursing/teething/running around with toddlers/fill-in-the-blank is only "a season." Sometimes, we may even imply that we can't wait to be free do our own thing again.

Hans emphasized in his sermon last week, the Father gives only good gifts to those he loves (Matthew 7:7-11). Listen now, the Father gives only good gifts to those he loves. Not just the things we think as good, but all of it.

Our disappointments and failures,
Sickness, weariness, betrayals,
Unfulfilled hopes and dreams,
Death and darkness.

These are all good things from our Father who loves us. They work together for good in order to draw us to Himself -- the ultimate Good. They help us to become the women and men we were created to be, we are to reflect who He is.

I am exactly where the Lord wants me to be right now.
This is not just a phase.
This is it.
I need to live it.

When I am doing the laundry, I am doing exactly what I am suppose to be doing. Is there something else I am suppose to be doing? In fact, there is.
I am to do the laundry cheerfully.

Rampage

2010-04-27T20:46:00.000-07:00

Looking through our pictures on facebook, friends wonder why the refridgerator is next to Emeth's crib. Now, if they look at enough pictures, they would realize that the dining room, Emeth's nursery, my study, our library, and our kitchen (separated by a counter) are all in the same room.

This is our world. Our first home as husband and wife. The place where we had our first child, where we will welcome our second child. And it is precious to me.

In preparation for our new arrival, I've been on a rampage! I've been digging through closets, rummaging through shelves, opening boxes, and uncovering carpet. Most delightfully, I've been donating and throwing things away. I am learning to be ruthless. Clearing clutter is serious business.

I mean, I had food hidden deep in my shelves that expired back in 2007. GROSS.

At church, Hans is preaching a series on the Gospel of Matthew. We've been dwelling in the Sermon on the Mount for a few weeks now (Matthew 5-7). Last Sunday, concerning laying up treasures in heaven (Matt 6:19-24), he asked us what our treasure were.

What do we love? How do our lives reflect where we place our affections?

Our time is limited. The space of our lives is confined, and is precious. To have an orderly home, we must be ruthless when it comes to what needs to stay and what needs to go.

There is much clutter in my life. There are things hidden in dark corners that had expired back in 1985. GROSS. Am I really going to eat that?

Grudges and youthful infatuations,
Rotten, infested sins,
Useless expensive things,
Things that do not even fit anymore,
Stubborn habits, bloody stains.

Lord, enter my heart like a whirlwind and make me clean.

Flower

2010-04-15T14:58:00.000-07:00

While walking on campus today, I saw the husband of my friend who recently passed away. He was deep in thought, eyes downcast.

She entered into new life as he read Isaiah 40 by her side,

All flesh is grass,
and all its beauty like the flower of the field.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
when the breath of the LORD blows upon it;
surely the people is grass.
The grass withers, the flower fades;
but the word of our God will stand for ever.
(Isaiah 40:6-8)

Her death has been a gentle and effective instructor; it teaches with a rod.

As I kneel down and look into Emeth's eyes, "Darling, I want you to obey immediately," I hear my voice echoing the same instruction given to me. "When mommy says come, you come."

No excuses.
No delay.

When I am tired and weary, her death forces me to turn, to repent from my great urge to complain, and acknowledge my ungrateful heart.

I have another meal to serve and share.
Another walk, while holding hands.
Another song to sing, even with this broken, imperfect voice.
I get to hear "mommy" and "darling" just one more time.
Another new word to celebrate, new alphabet to conquer.
Another cuddle.
Another conversation around the dinner table, even with the frustrations of misunderstandings and inadequate words.
Another night to sleep with the hope of seeing another sunrise.

Another day,
One more chance to obey, to repent
before I must stand before the throne
and give an account of my choices,
what I have done,
what I have left undone.

Obey immediately, darling.

On Bearing Fruits

2010-03-25T21:28:00.000-07:00

For about three years, we lived in a small home on Pokok Palma lane. One of the redeeming qualities about this nothing-to-brag-about-house was the big mango tree in the front yard. Every year during mango season, it would be laden with fruits. The branches were heavy with clusters of sweet and sour goodness, waiting to be harvested. The tree would be covered with specks of yellow and green, and here was the best part -- our tree was uncommonly worm-less. Every fruit was a good fruit.

Surely, this is the image we should see when we read in Genesis, "be fruitful and multiple" (Genesis 1:26-30). Often, we think of this as the mandate to procreate, as in producing children "to fill the earth." However, having one or two or even twelve children is nothing compare to how nature bears fruit.

There are days when I wallow in discouragement and self-pity. It happens most consistently when I am looking for the wrong kind of fruits. You know, the worldly kind. The kind that comes with a grade, human praise, a degree, promotion, money, etc.

Last Saturday, as I was doing the dishes, I had an epiphany. I realized that right then, I was bearing a fruit. By performing this mundane task of applying soap and rinsing the plates, while obediently wearing my yellow gloves upon Hans' request to protect my dry hands--I was bearing a fruit, unto the glory of my Father in heaven. A tiny fruit, yes. An unappreciated fruit, perhaps. A fruit, nonetheless.

Vacuuming. Cleaning the stove top. Scrubbing the toilet. Fruits.
A thank you note. Another fruit.
Doing homework. Yet another.
Getting enough rest. Fruit.
A walk with Emeth to see the ducks and squirrels. Several fruits.
Homemade yogurt that saved the milk. And another.
Discipline. Discipline. Discipline. A slow growing, but essential fruit.
An email. Fruit.
Keeping my body tone in preparation for the delivery. Fruit.
Peeling grapefruits. Making dumplings. Baking that cake. Fruits!

We bear fruits when we obediently and faithfully carry out the tasks that God has set for us. Each task should bring about joy, contentment, and gratitude.

Many of these fruits do pass away and go unappreciated. Some will fall to the ground and be forgotten. Others will be eaten by squirrels rather than kings. But so what? The idea is for our branches to be laden, heavy with clusters of sweetness. Hopefully, by being a fruitful tree, we give glory to our creator and draw others to him.

Even as I am typing this, a friend is fading because of cancer. Very soon, her five-year-old daughter will not be able to see her for a while. Do I have any excuse to remain idle?

Let there be light

2010-03-22T21:43:00.000-07:00

From our bedtime reading:

Dad: Do you know how God created everything?

Emeth: *nods*

Dad: Simply by speaking words.
God says, "Let there be--"

Emeth: *sneeze*

Dad: *staring at the book* Saliva.

Emeth: *sneeze*

Dad: And more saliva.

You really have to be there to truly appreciate the sight. The splatter of drool on the pages is quite necessary for the full effect. And Emeth's giggles after each sneeze to top it off.

On Vampires and Desires (Part 2)

2010-03-11T16:31:00.000-08:00

The second discussion took on quite a different tone. By then, I realized the girls' infatuation with the series was no laughing matter. I was very grateful for Hans' stabling and non-giggling presence next to me that Sunday morning.

There is in each of us desires. Certain yearnings are more forceful and obvious than others, such as our need for intimacy and our desire to be wanted, to be attractive. And then, there are others that are more subtle--things that we may not even realize. These desires are not inherently evil. Our crooked hearts do, however, often turn toward the wrong direction in search of their fulfillment.

Vampires, as depicted in the Twillight series, are repeatedly described as being like gods and goddesses--even the evil, human-blood-drinker kind. They are Beautiful. Powerful. Immortal. When human beings are transformed into vampires, their senses and "gifts" intensify and are made even cooler. They are supernatural, surpassing humanity in every way.

Stephanie Meyers' vampires is strangely comparable to, though a much less descriptive and imaginative version of, C.S. Lewis' solid people in The Great Divorce. Human beings, on the other hand, are like the weak and non-substantial ghosts.

Throughout the story, ever so predictably, Bella wants to be a vampire. So that she can be with Edward. So that she can be beautiful next to Edward. Why would anyone want to remain a plain, non-sparkling human when you can be a godlike vampire?!

Even Emeth recognizes the picture on the cover of Twillight--"Apple!" he declares.

Now, what does an apple have to do with vampires?

When you eat of it, you will become like God. (Genesis 3:4-5)

The lie is not very original, is it? In fact, it is the oldest one in the book.

Give into your desires. Being your own god is really much better than being a creature. Take the bite (pun intended). And your dreams will come true. And you will live happily ever after (the title of the last chapter of the saga).

As at the first, the lie is not completely devoid of truth. We can become like God. We are created in his image. We are created to be beautiful, powerful, and immortal. We can become like God--by obeying our Creator-King-Father. We become like God by worshiping him.

Even sadder still, when Satan tempted Eve and promised a God-like existence.She had forgotten a fundamental truth -- that she was already like God. Her Maker created her in his image. So, she betrayed the One who loved her for absolutely nothing.

The world hungrily devours the Twillight series. They are hungry for love, beauty, power, and immortality. Yet, they are eating jello (grosser things come to mind, but let me spare you) which does absolutely nothing. Jesus is the Bread of Life. He alone fulfills.

Link to Part I

On Vampires and Desires (Part 1)

2010-03-04T22:51:00.000-08:00

I spent two Sunday School lessons on vampires. The girls were thrilled. They were actually excited to be there. Go figure.

I promised my Sunday School girls I would read Twillight and give them a treatment of my response. Everyone, every single one, of my girls read the book, except for Hui--who just moved here from China.

I started by giving them a character analysis. Keeping my face straight while describing Edwards Cullen, the vampire, was quite a task. I lost it when I got to the part about his "set of perfect, ultrawhite teeth." We then talked about the highly volatile nature of the relationship between the Bella and Edward.

The girls accused me of over-reading. They said, quote: "We don't read this the way we read the Bible, okay?" I replied by asking them whether they really want me to quiz them on the characters in the Bible. Needless to say, they regretted saying anything.

I was intentionally scrupulous. I wanted them to see how much goes by unobserved--the underlying assumptions that create the story that they liked so much. The unobserved is often the most dangerous. These have a way of leading our hearts astray without our knowing.

I actually found the series quite fascinating as a case study for human desires, particularly of the female kind. We know that it sells. We know that girls and women of a spectrum of ages love it. It sells because the story resonates with what we want to daydream about.

We desire to be desired. And this story provides a god-like, dazzling vampire who lusts after an ordinary and clumsy human girl--for her thoughts, her touch, her scent, her blood. We want to be loved, to be protected. We want to be in the story.

Link to Part II

Edifice

2010-02-23T21:23:00.000-08:00

On our last night in Honduras, mom and dad took care of Emeth to give us some time by ourselves. We took a long stride by the ocean as the sun was setting.

While we walked, Hans told an elaborate story of a man trying to make his mark in history.

How he labored.

How sure he was of its worth and grandeur.

How all will see and be amazed, and remember its builder.

How it lasted.

Until the waves came.

It was a very sad story. A very true story.

Lord, let me be content with the ebb and flow of your waves.
May I see the foolishness in my desire for a sandy edifice.
Let me find joy in being in you, the Ocean.

The Song of Ting Ming Hui, with Preface (Part III)

2010-02-12T23:35:00.000-08:00

These were her words, composed when she was an old woman:

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.

*The names of Ming Hui’s eight daughters: Jade Coral, Beautiful Jade, Jade Dragon, Victory in Battle , Aromatic Jade, Gentle Jade, Strong Jade, and Assured Triumph.

Life was difficult for my mother, whose name is Strong Jade (pei chiang). A masculine name was given to her because they were sure the seventh child must be a boy. My mother grew up with the expectations of the name placed on her.

At 25, she met my father. He proposed. Among her essential expectations? That he remains loyal. That she will always be his one and only, his only one. Together, they raised four daughters, who love their femininity.

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

Part I
Part II

The Song of Ting Ming Hui, with Preface (Part II)

2010-02-08T23:09:00.000-08:00

Preface, Part II

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.

Part I
Part III

The Song of Ting Ming Hui, with Preface (Part I)

2010-02-05T23:06:00.000-08:00

Among my impractical pursuits, I loved my studies of ancient Chinese women poets. The following is a piece I wrote about five years ago as as a study on pseudonym, archaism, and writing “in the spirit” of someone else. The tone of this piece intentionally reflects ancient scripts, i.e. choppy and redundant. I chose to write in the voice of my maternal grandmother.

I am the firstborn of four daughters. We each bear the Spirit (ling) in our names: Ai Ling, Shin Ling, Sze Ling, and Yee Ling. Growing up, Chinese relatives and friends often questioned my parents whether they were trying for a male offspring, which was never the case. My parents had decided on the number of children they desired long before any of us arrived. They thought four was a good number, and my youngest sister would agree.

My sisters and I are assured of our parents’ impartial favor and affection. Much of this is owned to my mother and grandmother's suffering. This is a story of a woman in her exile.

Preface, Part I

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.

Part II
Part III

A Clean Hotel

2010-02-04T03:26:00.000-08:00

As we set foot on the island of Roatan, Honduras, we were quickly greeted by the inefficiency of the hotel management. The transportation from the hotel was an hour late -- one unpleasant hour of being harassed by the heat and people who took advantage of gullible tourists for a living.

The ride to the hotel was quite adventurous. Emeth, being the well-protected American toddler, was for the first time in his life riding in a vehicle without a carseat. He sat in my lap, asleep, while the driver raced through small crooked streets without any signpost indicating that he needed to slow down. The local children continued to play, just inches away from speeding vehicles.

We were then directed to our hotel room for the week. I was curious to see what we've invested in. After all, we haven't spent money on vacation since our honeymoon.

The room was pretty. There was enough light, fairly clean. Another armchair would be nice, we thought. I was not impressed by the bathroom, however. I cringed at the thought of Emeth taking a bath in this bathtub. Definitely unlickable.

That night, I read the story of Jesus' birth to Emeth from The Big Picture Story Bible.

He had a favorite page that night. He made me read it at least twenty times. And many more times throughout the week. I have it memorized.

"But in this crowded city,
where would this special baby be born?

In a nice, big home?
No, not in a nice big home.

In a clean hotel hotel?
No, not in a clean hotel."

His little finger pointed at the hotel, and his voice echoed mine as I read:
No, not in a clean hotel.

"God's forever king was born
in a stable, a place for animals."

Lord, please give me a listening heart, one that can be taught by a toddler.

Jesus likely did not have a carseat or disinfected bathtub. No, not even a crib.

The reminder was gentle. The effect, however, was a little humiliating. I needed to stop pretending like I was writing a review for some vacationers' website.

We did not invest in a vacation.

We are called to be light.
To be grateful.
We are called to love our neighbors.
To honor family.
To celebrate the marriage of our cousins.
To be aware of the poverty of humanity,
the poverty that is right outside the resort,
the poverty of our own hearts.
To pray.
To be in awe of the vastness of the ocean, the height of the heavens.

So, we stood by the waves, played in the sand, and kissed a dolphin. The week was grand indeed.

Smashed Clay

2010-01-19T20:50:00.000-08:00

One of my greatest joy in marriage is to have a husband who does not mind my weirdness (too much). When we were dating, I refused to call him my "boyfriend" because I did not want to sound like I was in high school. Calling him my "partner" did not sound right either, due to contextual associations. So, he suffered being called my "gentleman-friend" for the two-years we were dating. Things he had to put up with!

The year we got engaged, I took a class on the woman writers of ancient China. We were required to study many of the works by writers who were concubines, courtesans, as well as wives who had to share their husband or lover with other women.

Now, I am a reasonable person. I have no fear that Hans would do anything of that sort, like taking more than one wife, but I took great pleasure in warning him that I will not tolerate such behavior. I am all the woman he can handle, after all. And I read this story to him:
(the first copy of this is dated around the 1600s, though legend has it that this was first written much earlier)

One day, Zhao Mengfu said this to his wife Lady Guan:

I am a Secretary,
You are a lady.
You must have heard that
Secretary Tao has his Peach Leaf and Peach Root,
Secretary Su had his Morning Cloud and Evening Cloud,
Now if I could obtain a few
Maidens of Wu and beauties of Yue, it would befit my position.
you are already over forty years of age,
Yet in this jade hall you still want to monopolize Spring!

Lady Guan replied with the following poem:

You and I
Share an ardent passion.
When passion is ardent,
It burns like fire.
Take one lump of clay
Knead one you,
Sculpt one me.
Smash them both into pieces,
Mix them with water,
Knead another you,
Sculpt another me:
In my clay there is you,
In your clay there is me.
In life you and I share a single coverlet,
In death a single grave!

I still read this to him once in a while. And I take great pleasure in emphasizing the fire, the smashing, death, and the grave. Things he has to put up with!

While I watch him sleep

2010-01-14T22:17:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite things about night time is Emeth's sleeping face. Those cheeks regularly inspire Hans to tip his entire body over the crib like a seesaw. With his feet high in the air, he kisses his son.

Before Emeth invaded our lives, I used to think the phrase "forgive and forget" was a little, um,... optimistic? Even now, when I ask for forgiveness for certain repeated sins, my heart wavers. Cold doubts about the sincerity of my own repentance, not to mention God's ability to accept this feeble apology, oppress me as I know I am likely to fall again.

Since his coming, I discovered a strange and wonderful grace. While I watch my child sleep, I have a hard time recalling the difficulties of the day. How many times I reprimanded him and why, and the messes he created -- they seem so far away I can barely hold them in my thought. The fact is, I don't want to remember. He has repented, kissed me, and said sorry. Each morning brings such sweet reunion as I am reminded of how much I love his smile.

If the Lord grants human parents this capacity to forgive, how much more should we trust in his promise cleanse us from our filth. He removes our sins far, far away -- as far as the east is from the west (Psalm 103:8-14). He is faithful to forgive.

It is our foolish hearts that continue to hold on to these sins, or as my professor says, keep them as pets. Once in a while, we take them out of our pockets and admire them, caress them, feed them. One day, we shall find monsters, capable to consume and kill.

Flee, O heart, from evil affections! Your Lord and Father, the Merciful and Compassionate, has removed your sins from you. Believe this and live, far away from all unrighteousness.

Ocean

2010-01-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

It has been too long. I haven't seen the ocean since our honeymoon back in June 2006. On this New Year's Eve, its waves and vastness is what my heart longs for.

In an Edwardsian manner, I hereby declare a strange resolution:

Resolved, to have a heart like the ocean. By the grace and mercy of Christ, knowing I cannot do anything apart from him, I resolve to be like the ocean. Lord, do expand this puddle-like heart of mine.

This is, unsurprisingly, a Hans-inspired metaphor. If one's heart has the depth and width of a puddle, it would not take much to disturb one’s peace. A little ripple, however, can hardly affect deep waters.

This is true for many things I am (painfully) learning.

When Emeth is not behaving even after a full-day of discipline, may my love enclose him as I sing to him before tucking him in.
When things are not going as planned, may I keep my composure for a few coming waves.
When storms of doubt and anger roll by, may the depth of my soul remain quiet and tranquil.
When dishing are piling, homework undone, may hope remain steadfast.
When people change, irritate, and offend, may my soul be still, trusting in the unchanging kindness of my God.

The peace of heart lies ultimately in Christ, the one who holds the ocean in the fold of his garment (Proverbs 30:4).

What a Funny Boy You Are

2009-12-16T22:42:00.000-08:00

Dear Emeth,

I just want to write this letter to you so we can all remember what a funny boy you are at 20-months.

When we are preparing to go out, you like to choose which pair of shoes I should wear. I am glad you always choose my favorite winter boots.

When we come home, you would insist upon taking my shoes off for me. You probably do this because you see Daddy doing this and we always help you with your shoes.

You have four favorite stuff animals right now. They have earned their way into your arms when you sleep: a BIG white teddy bear, two smaller ones, and a dalmatian. You like to hold all four of them--at the same time.

You love dogs. When we were visiting our aunt, you chased her little dog down, grabbed it by its face, and kissed it. You did this twice. The dog was a little surprised.

You were recently at a stage where you said no to everything, even when you meant yes.

Dad: Would you like some of my pizza?
Emeth: No *opens his mouth*

Me: Do you know that mommy loves you?
Emeth: No *snuggles*

You like to pretend that you are a conductor. Whenever we are listening music involving a full orchestra, you are sure to be waving your little fingers at the computer screen at the beginning and again at the grand finale.

You like to eat, a lot. There is rarely a meal or a snack when you have not asked for a second helping.

Love,
mom

On the Sweetness of Repentance

2009-12-13T22:09:00.000-08:00

Hans and I listened to a sermon on Charles Simeon as we made our way to church this morning. It reminded us of the refuge that is God's gift of repentance.

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. -Charles Simeon

Seas of People: A Christmas Memory

2009-12-11T12:25:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of my friend Serene's recent post, here is a reflection on a favorite childhood memory: Christmases without snow.

In a predominantly Muslim and Buddhist culture, Christmas was the "Christian holiday." Around the church compound, the trees twinkled with lights for all to admire. It was indeed a moment to be proud that I belong to this church. That it was Christmas. That Christians were celebrating.

For the church, it was the most festive day of the year. The buildings were swarmed with people dressed in their best attires on Christmas Eve. By swarmed, I mean there were three or four services right up to midnight and each service was packed and overflowed with seas of people.

Those who did not usually go to church came on Christmas Eve. Services were more evangelistic in nature, and the Gospel was presented. There were candles and dancing, plays and choirs. There seemed to be hundreds of children, each rejoicing over the bag of gift they received. Each contained an apple, some sweets, and other junk foods. I remember dancing with the tambourine alongside my friends, singing O Holy Night. I do still love that song.

On the first Christmas Eve my family spent together in the States, we arrived at church half an hour before the service, for fear that there would be no where to park. We were so puzzled when we found the parking lot empty. The sanctuary was empty. People slowly trickled in and when the service started, the building was barely half-filled.

I now understand that here in the States, people travel on Christmas and most of the celebration is done prior to Christmas day. But Oh, how I missed the festivities, the crowds, and the faces, not at the mall or the airport, but at church.

For as long as we both shall live

2009-12-02T21:03:00.000-08:00

I became a Christian in my teens. The burning questions at the time always had to do with what my friends and I called BGR (boy-girl-relationship). If you want to get us excited about a speaker or a sermon at youth group, this is the go-to topic.

How do we know when we have found "the one"? Is there such a person as "the one"? In carpools and sleepovers, I am sure my girlfriends and I have exhausted these questions. I was always the romantic. I wanted to believe there is one person out there just for me. I still do. Thankfully, he is no longer "out there," he is in fact in the next room.

Between giggles, we were asking a profound theological question, namely: how do we know the will of God?

If I was given an answer during those years, I wasn't listening, because I don't remember receiving a satisfactory answer. Adults often referred to the "do not be unequally yoked passage." Marry a Christian, that was all we were told. The rest of the story was often filled with stuff from church-culture and pop-culture. Biblical principles were rarely mentioned.

As I am taking a class on Proverbs this semester, it struck me as incredibly odd why I hadn't realize its relevance for godly relationships?True, it addresses not only relationships with the opposite gender, but still, it has much counsel to give about how to find your marriage partner, and how you would know when you have found him or her.

As a motivation for you singles out there to run to your Bible and flip to Proverbs this instance, here is a paraphrase (with my own elaboration) of what my professor said today:

God does not want you to marry a Christian, he wants you to marry a wise person. A wise person, of course, presupposes that he or she is a Christian. However, a Christian may turn out to be a fool.

Knowing this brings freedom, because the decision on whom we should marry is not arbitrary or merely based on subjective experience. God has set a standard for Wisdom. He has revealed it to us, and we are commanded to seek it.

Thinking about this brings great joy and an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I had little knowledge of this when I said yes to Hans' proposal of marriage. Looking back, the Lord was so gracious to us (he still is). We dare not think we are wise, but at least we know we are fools. We are blessed to have a lifetime to be fools together, seeking Wisdom.

Hopelessness

2009-11-21T21:42:00.000-08:00

As I was cleaning my kitchen floor on my hands and knees, a strange memory came to me.

Hans visited me in New Haven, CT a few years ago. He commented that my kitchen floor was sticky. I replied, "I know! It's hopeless!"

He proceeded to search for a mop. Together, we discovered that my floor was actually white, not some grayish-yellow.

He then proceeded to ask me to marry him a couple days later. He must have known I needed him then, and I still do.

The Necessity of Clothing (Some Heart-Applications)

2009-11-14T22:49:00.000-08:00

After our first two Sunday School lessons, the girls' faces wrinkled with worry:
So, what does all this MEAN?
Is it ok to wear a tight shirt?
Doesn't context dictate what is ok and not ok to wear?

The reason we begin the class by looking at Genesis is so we can get at heart-question first: where is our heart when it comes to what we wear? What is our love and who are we trying to please? And understanding the purpose of clothing in light of God's Word helps us to focus on our hearts before the Lord.

For the sake of giving a practical example, here is one more glimpse to the goriness of my wedding dress adventure.

As I was planning our wedding, I had my heart set on two things:

1. Cheap, preferably a great deal.
Lofty reason: I refuse to fall into the pitfalls of wedding obsession and consumerism that permeate the American culture.

2. A mandarin collar, or something like the perfect dress of my imaginings.
Reason: I don't want to bare more flesh than I would normally, e.g. I would not normally wear something strapless. I did feel very strongly about finding something that is elegant and that appropriately covers.
Real reason: I can be quite picky with some things. The image of my perfect dress was stuck in my head and it wouldn't go away.

It is all a fad anyway, so unnecessary.
It is just a silly dress that I am going to be in for a few hours.
I couldn't careless what I wear.

I lied.

My pride and emotions were so wrapped up in finding the dress that it consumed me. Even if I had the "right" reasons, my heart was definitely in the wrong place. It was that night in the train, defeated after a fruitless day in NYC, that I finally saw my foolishness.

So, I dropped my search and focused on other things. I eventually found a dress, quite unlike the dress, but I was grateful for the search to be over.

The whole point of this tale is to illustrate two things:

1. When it comes to the way we dress, as Christians, we must live in the tension of it being both an important and unimportant matter. It matters in that the Bible speaks of it in various places, so our affection must be in a disposition of obedience. Our hearts, however, must not be so bound to our external ornamentation, that we neglect necessary things such as good works and serving others.

2. The heart, my heart, is a crooked thing. Clothing ourselves with modesty requires both rightness of heart and action. On one hand, a person who covers their body appropriately does not prove their heart is right with the Lord. On the other hand, a person who is ostentatious or who neglects propriety cannot claim that they had "good intentions."

We need much grace and wisdom.

Here are the links to the series:
Part 1: In the Garden
Part 2: Shame
Part 3: Sackcloth
Part 4: Bridal garment
Part 5: Christ
Applications: Take Two
Hunger: Modesty is not just about clothes

The Necessity of Clothing (Part 5)

2009-11-07T20:59:00.000-08:00

Christ.

When I was little and even thereafter, the goal of my prayer before a meal (when eating alone) was to be as fast as possible: "Thank you Lord for this food. InJesusnameIpray Amen." Not that prayers before meals need to be prolonged, but there wasn't much thought other than to consume the food that was before me.

These days, admittedly with much deliberation and discipline, I try to think about Christ.

He is our manna, the bread from heaven (John 6:32-33). He is our True Bread, True Drink (John 6:52-58). I shall not live by bread alone, but I am alive because of every word that come from the mouth of the Lord (Deuteronomy 8:3).

This is why fasting is good for us once in a while, our hunger without food reminds us of the infinitely greater hunger of our souls without God. In other words, the nourishment and enjoyment of food points us to Christ.

In like manner, we must think about our clothes.

There in the garden, blood was shed. God slaughtered animals to cover Adam and Eve with garments of skins (Genesis 3:21). In this context, the mercy of God points to the day when Christ will crush the serpent once and for all (Genesis 3:15) and perfectly cover the sin committed in Eden and thereafter.

Christ is our True Covering. I am no longer ashamed, no longer naked. As I stand in the presence of God, God sees Christ and his righteousness, and forgives me of my betrayal, my iniquities. My righteousness is like rags, like leaves (Isaiah 64:6-7). His is perfect.

As we feel our skin beneath the coverings of our earthly garments, think of Christ. Think of the hope of our future glory (Philippians 3:20-21). Our wedding gown is expensive indeed. The Lamb of God was slaughtered to clothe us in his righteousness.

By grace, put on Christ. Wear the radiance of his glory.

Here are the links to the series:
Part 1: In the Garden
Part 2: Shame
Part 3: Sackcloth
Part 4: Bridal garment
Heart-Applications
Applications: Take Two
Hunger: Modesty is not just about clothes

The Necessity of Clothing (Part 4)

2009-11-02T23:41:00.000-08:00

Bridal garment.

One of the most miserable hurdles in my wedding planning adventure was the purchase of a wedding dress. It was a difficult task style-wise, financial-wise, and heart-wise. Let me spare you the gory details.

I do, however, want to share a conversation I overheard while standing in line for a fitting room in one of the bridal-gown-super-stores I unfortunately had to visit in New York City. The building was three or four stories high and it was HUGE. It was completely packed with big white things and insane women.

There I was tired and discouraged from a long fruitless day, and saddened after having just watched a few pregnant women trying on wedding dresses. Two women behind me were flipping through a bridal magazine and their conversation went something like this:
Woman A: uuu... I like this one,... very sexy!
Woman B: UGH! I would never wear that. I would look like a *virgin*!

You heard right, people. What was the ultimate symbol of purity now is expected to make women look ... well, anything but modest. My point goes beyond this one conversation, just look at the options we are presented. The styles! The price-tags!

Now, how do make my way back to the topic at hand?

So I had made the statement that we wear clothes because their presence serves as a reminder for us that we are no longer what we were created to be. They are things of comfort as they are gifts of mercy from a Father who understands the shame and fear in his children. So he covers us, pointing to a perfect covering that is to come.

Each morning, when we go about the mundane task of picking our garments for the day, let us be filled with hope. Our ordinary outfits this day point to the bridal garment that is to come (Revelation 19:6-9).

As we choose what we should put on, let us also ready ourselves: mind, body, and heart to do the good works that God has set before us this day. Let us think of people to whom we can show kindness, cups of cold water we can offer, morsels of bread we can share. May the Lord help me to be a joyful mom, a content wife, a diligent worker, a faithful friend.

Keeping in mind that we are unable to do anything without the help of our Lord. Our own attempts are futile, insufficient. Though the Bride is to ready herself, it is God who grants her the fine linen, bright and pure.

Go forth and shine, O Bride of Christ.

Here are the links to the series:
Part 1: In the Garden
Part 2: Shame
Part 3: Sackcloth
Part 5: Christ
Heart-Applications
Applications: Take Two
Hunger: Modesty is not just about clothes

The Necessity of Clothing (A Song)

2009-10-25T02:58:00.000-07:00

Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to the cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for dress;
Helpless look to Thee for grace;
Foul, I to the fountain fly;
Wash me, Savior, or I die.

-Augustus M. Toplady, Rock of Ages

Here are the links to the series:
Part 1: In the Garden
Part 2: Shame
Part 3: Sackcloth
Part 4: Bridal garment
Part 5: Christ
Heart-Applications
Applications: Take Two

Weep I did not

2009-10-19T20:34:00.000-07:00

{the story of Emeth's birth}

Let me be the first to admit that I am not one who can stand much physical discomfort. When I first expressed my desire for a natural birth, Hans was a little worried. One finds oneself willing to make exceptions, no matter how difficult, for the object of one's affections. We wanted to give our little person a good beginning, at least to the best of our knowledge and capabilities. This is why love is a powerful thing. It changes people. And it has since transformed me into a morning person. But I digress.

"My feats of endurance are fine but few," to borrow a phrase from a friend. Emeth's birth and my three climbs up Mount Kinabalu are among my cherished occasions of growth. However distinct the experiences were in kind, in many ways my memories of them parallel. They were endeavors of great hope, with promises of sunrises and new life. They were sweet yet marvelous, compelling in their reminders of my humanness, weak and messy, and my need for other human beings.

My water broke around midnight, on the first day of April, 2008.

Hans was my champion in shining armor, my confidant, and my doula that night. He held my hand, with the other hand putting counter-pressure on my lower back as each contraction progress. He paced me, watched the monitor, reported the lengths and strength of my contractions. I took at least three steaming hot showers; they relieved me tremendously. As the pain peaked, I was unable to stand and we had exhausted all hymns. It was Hans who asked me to recite for him a psalm in hebrew. Psalm 137 was the only one I knew by heart. Thus, in my delirious state, I sat by the waters of Babylon and chanted, though weep I did not.

Hans adds this part: A little before 9 a.m., we were starting to wonder how much longer this was going to go on, and how much worse it could get. Just as we were thinking this, the nurse came in, told us we were ready to give birth, and that the worst was over. Which it was. This period was more painful than the birth itself, which was a relief in comparison.

At 9:41 a.m., I gave one last push. Hans missed Emeth's arrival because I was holding him ever so tightly around his neck.

I've always thought people were lying when they say you will feel no pain once the baby is out. I thought this was an unrealistic, yet another romanticized hollywood myth about the noble feelings of motherhood (which I found I disturbingly lacked throughout my pregnancy). My friends, mothers-to-be, I can attest now there is at least some truth to this and it is not because I was so "overcome with joy." I was joyful, in many senses, but my first meeting with Emeth was a little awkward. I stared at him and said, "Hi Emeth" about a dozen times. I didn't know what else to say. Albeit I have given birth only once, I can assure you I felt no pain. In fact, I was walking and enjoyed my fourth shower that morning within two hours after the delivery. It is true that the recovery for the next few months was uncomfortable, but not awful.

Lastly, below is a copy of our birth plan (minus a few details for confidentiality) for the purpose of giving you a rough idea some things to consider. For the most part, our birth was what we hoped for. I did have an IV with antibiotic but I was still able to move about and take showers.

We would also like to add that we did take many hours of birthing classes with an extremely dedicated and competent instructor. These hours were extremely beneficial to us and suited to the way we learn as a couple.

Secondly, we are indebted to two nurses that night. Advocates of natural birth themselves, they believed us and were confident that we were committed to our decisions. They allowed us the space to labor with minimal supervision. Though the doctors gave several suggestions of drugs, the nurses respected our birth plan and were protective of our desired birth.

For all these things and so much more, we are thankful.

A Proposed Birth Plan

To the OB/GYN and the Family Birthing Center:

We are grateful for your help and care. As we look forward to the birth of our son, we would like to share with you a few decisions we have considered with respect to our delivery and recovery. We have made our decisions to the best of our understanding in the hope of a healthy and uncomplicated delivery for mother and child through natural childbirth.

Before labor:

× We would like to go into labor naturally, and not be induced before 42 week gestation period.

First stage of labor:

× We are working to avoid medication and will request it as needed

× We would like to have mobility during labor to encourage the labor process.

× In order to have the ability to move about, we would prefer intermittent fetal monitoring and to maintain hydration by regularly sipping water, rather than with an IV.

Second stage of labor:

× We are preparing to avoid an episiotomy and would prefer that the mother’s perineum tear naturally.

× We would like for the cord to stop pulsing before it is cut, and dad would like to cut the cord.

Third stage of labor:

× We ask that the mother would not be given Pitosin to deliver the placenta.

After the birth of our child:

× We plan to breastfeed our child exclusively and prefer no bottles or pacifier.

We are grateful and trust the discretion of our care providers. We look forward to experiencing this important event with you.