On dying and becoming

{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

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

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

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

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

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

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.