Under the open sky

On my eighteenth birthday

I love adventures.

When I was eighteen, I went on a medical service trip in the jungles of Borneo. My dad came home one evening and informed me that some of his acquaintances, a group of doctors and nurses, had just arrived from Singapore. They were scheduled to leave for the rainforests the next morning. And he asked me whether I wanted to go. (I know, I have the coolest dad ever.)

I said yes. A thousand times yes.

I left the next day, with a bag pack across my shoulder, and a heart so full I thought it would burst.

I drank it all in. I, the city girl, sat in the back of a pick-up truck, with no hood, the wind in my hair and sun on my face. We traveled on twisty, gravel roads the first day, and on narrow boats in a rushing, yellow river the second day. It was legitimately dangerous.

There was no electricity and no running water. The nights were dark. The sky was navy blue, dotted with a billion stars. While the others slept, I watched the fireflies and the shadow of a pig roaming for food. We slept on the ground. I washed myself under the open sky (with clothes on).

The entire village was a long, long house divided into about 40 narrow sections. Each family lived in one section. The villagers were poor, but generous. They fed us well, with tapioca starch from the trees. It tasted like glue, with sides of meat and vegetables. We were all very hungry. We drank coconut water straight from the trees.

The doctors examined and treated people all day. They assigned me to dispense the medications because I spoke Malay. Most people's teeth had rotted to the roots. The dentist who came with us plucked hundreds of teeth per day while we were there. We gave away toothbrushes and sang with the children.

I was enthralled. The week was magical. I was eighteen and life was just beginning. I wanted that week to last for a long, long time.

I fell asleep last night remembering that girl. It all seemed so far away. "Adventurous" would be one of the last adjectives I would use to describe the life of a stay-at-home mom. "Dangerous" would not be a good word either. In fact, I spend most of the day keeping the three boys away from danger.

But last night, I sat with the eighteen-year-old me. We chatted under the open sky, dotted with a billion stars. I showed her what her life would look like in thirteen years. I introduced her to her three boys, and to Hans, who would be the love of her life.

She cried. She didn't flinch at the thought of being a boy mom, or at the knowledge of her unsuccessful potty-training, or being a novice at homeschooling (probably because she was completely clueless). She was braver than me, to be sure, and so happy to be alive. She thought my life as a mom was pretty adventurous, and legitimately dangerous.

And so it is.

How I want to die

I think about death a lot. I write about death, often.

I am not sure why.

A few Sundays ago, a guest preacher told us a story about his grandmother, and how she died. On the days leading up to her death, hundreds of people came knocking on her door, asking to bid Grandma March one last farewell. Former drug addicts, recovered alcoholics, people she met on the streets, at the grocery stores. They sat by her bed, tattoos and dreadlocks and all, telling stories about how her kindness changed their lives.

The preacher ended his story with this thought,

We are all going to die, right?
I want to die like that.
And I need to start living differently now.

We begin the journey to our deaths at the moment of our births. How I choose to die does not begin the moment I receive a fatal medical diagnosis, or when I am met with a car accident, or the day I turn 65. No, I am dying right now. At this moment.

The length of time I am about to spend finishing this sentence. This is how much closer I am to my death.

How I choose to live is how I choose to die.

I have many favorite quotes from Jonathan Edwards. Some of my favorites are among the words he spoke moments before his unexpected death. For his wife Sarah, who was far away when his sickness struck, he left these words:

Give my kindest love to my dear wife, and tell her, that the uncommon union, which has so long subsisted between us, has been of such a nature, as I trust is spiritual, and therefore will continue forever.

Shortly after leaving his messages for absent members of his family, he looked about and said,

Now where is Jesus of Nazareth, my true and never failing friend?

I want to die like that.
I want to die longing to see the face of Christ.
But I know I would not wish to see his face at my deathbed
if I do not wish to see his face right now.

Soul, love rightly.

A diptych for the kitchen

That I may cast my eyes on the true bread and the true wine
as my hands work to create mere shadows of divine things.
That I may remember how manna rained from heaven and water gushed out of rocks
when little hungry people are crying to be fed.

Soul, be still, for our God provides all our needs.

That the Lord may feed true food to all who gather at our table,
family, friends, travelers, foreigners, strangers.

That we may taste the Feast of Life.
That our hunger may be satisfied, our thirst quenched.
That we may love rightly and truly.

That we may remember the Body that was broken for us,
the Blood that was shed for us.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

A stained glass window

I have been scribbling elsewhere lately.

 

Happy to be home.

Take me with you

When I was in second grade, my parents sent me to live with my uncle's family in the city for a few months. My parents were ministering to the churches in the rural parts of Malaysia, but they wanted their daughter to receive a good education. This was the best temporary arrangement at the time. I suppose it was a bit like boarding school.

I am sure that they tried to explain their good intentions to me. But I was seven. The purposes of their ways were beyond my comprehension. The nights were particularly frightening and lonely. How I grieved that I had to pray by myself. I am sure it did not help that I peeked at the video my older cousins were watching during the day -- Michael Jackson's Thriller.

zombies + seven-year-old alone in a dark room = a bad idea

My parents visited as often as they could, driving through those mountainous roads. I know now how difficult it must have been for them. My mom was pregnant with my youngest sister at the time. I remember holding her and hanging onto her green maternity dress. Take me with you. Please bring me home. Let me stay with you.

Tonight marks the last night of our homeless, drifting living. I am done and undone.

We are filled to the brim with the kindness and generosity of our friends and family who took us into their lives. They swallowed us whole, loved us, and made us their own. Though I can see dimly how I have been changed, the purposes of my Father's ways are beyond my comprehension.

Pilgrim through this barren land,
I am weak but thou art mighty,
hold me with thy powerful hand. 

Guide me, O thou great Jehovah.

Take me with you.

Please bring me home.
Let me stay with you.

And tomorrow, we shall.
We shall be home.

Breathing, bleeding stones

I woke up on Saturday morning to Hans' voice humming Moon River to me. It was the perfect song to begin our day together, the day we would be homeless -- together. With the help of dear friends, we packed up our earthly belongings, and drove away just as the sun was setting.

This was not part of the plan. How I fought and resisted the thought just a few weeks ago. But it was most difficult to remain sullen when we were drowning in love and kindness.

A small army invaded our home. They scrubbed beside me (sometimes instead of me), braved through the boys' toys and my kitchen things, and loaded up the trucks in the scorching sun. They filled the last few hours of our apartment of six years with roars of laughter, and their fine friendships.

So, until further notice, we do not have an address. We are drifters drifting. This world is indeed not our home. No, our home is not made of sticks and bricks, but living, breathing, bleeding stones.

Moon river wider than a mile
I'm crossing you in style someday
You dream maker, you heartbreaker
Wherever you're going I'm going your way

Two drifters off to see the world
There's such a lot of world to see
We're after the same rainbow's end
Waiting 'round the bend
My huckleberry friend, moon river and me

Thoughts about heaven

For one reason or another, Emeth talks about heaven a lot. His fascination with his future forever home is intriguing, and so endearing to me. In this season of arduous (and at times discouraging) house-hunting, his little comments are God's grace to me, reminding me to not place my hope in sticks and stones. This world is not my home.

Here are some quotes I am saving for rainy days, in case the roof leaks.

1. Emeth can't wait to get to heaven because there will be no more coughing and sneezing and hiccups. Nobody understands hiccups.

2. Emeth is getting ready to go to heaven. Emeth is so excited! God made a house for Emeth. Emeth is bringing a luggage with four rocks.

3. Emeth doesn't have to bring his toys because God will share his toys with me.

4. God will give me a new skin because Emeth's skin is very old. Emeth has been wearing it for a long long time. (He is four)

5. (When his allergies striked, he said,) Emeth is being brave because God will help me breathe someday.