Notes from the inside of a rainbow

While I was driving the other day, Emeth chirped in the backseat about how the leaves of autumn made him feel like we were "living inside a rainbow." At the stop-light, I quickly scribbled these words on the back of my hand. How apt they were in describing our lives at the moment.

If you want to get me ranting for a while, try saying something like "this is not a black and white issue, there is a gray area." I would rebel against the rigidity of these options and talk your ears off about how God did not create the world in black and white or shades of gray. He splashed onto the mountains and threw into the oceans a spectrum of colors, billions of shades, patterns, textures, nuances, and contrasts. Not merely black and white or gray. Just because we can't see them or understand them does not make them "gray area."

Yes, indeed. That would get me ranting for a while.

Khesed now lays asleep across my lap. His slightly parted lips, each strand of his eyelashes, and his warm, soft breaths fill me with wonder. The house is quiet while they are asleep, and I can blessedly hear my own thoughts. These moments melt away like chocolate ice cream, dark and bitter. I savor each spoonful knowing the hustle and bustle of dinner time will soon descend upon us like tart lemon sherbet. And when I am rocking a crying baby in the twilight, I know that the sun will come, and there shall be coffee. My days are like a high towers of ice cream. I prefer some layers more that others.

Emeth's fish died. It is hard to believe Emeth named him Jolay Dalay two years ago. Early last week, he hid under a rock and went to sleep forever. The day he died, Emeth refused to run. Instead, he sat under the trees and thought about his fish. He drew a portrait to say goodbye and went to bed that night with a lump in his throat.

We had a funeral the next day. We placed Jolay Dalay in a tiny red coffin. Before we covered him with dirt, Emeth read the story of creation and we gave thanks for the gift of life. The stuff animals gave their condolences, along with a smiley baby. It was a glorious service, blessedly short because of the cold, and everyone cheered up and cuddled afterwards.

Life has been quite intense. It is never just one thing or one person at a time, but it is everything and everybody all at once. Nevermore alone, nevermore apart. Here, in the quiet stillness, I want to record a snapshot of this craziness, these layers of swirling colors, these autumn days, tart and bitter and sweet.

Praying for Christ

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

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

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

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

What am I to pray for?

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

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

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

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

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

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

love you forever

My dear boys,

I read this book to you last night. You were very nice and soft to cuddle. When I read it as a little girl, I thought the mommy the in the story was a bit weird, her love was a bit crazy. Just like you, I thought she was a bit silly, rocking her adult son like that. But now that I am a mommy, I understand why she would do that. I would be missing you too when you are no longer by my side.

I may not climb into your bedroom window using a ladder (I'm sure you'd oblige giving me a set of your keys), but remember, I will be praying for you.

Your grandmother, my mother, used to tell me that she prayed for me when she couldn't sleep at night. I thought I understood what she was saying, but I didn't.

When mommy tells you that I am praying for you, I am really telling you that I love you. I love you when I see you in the morning and when I sing to you at night and all the hours in between. I am so happy to know you, so proud to be your mommy. I loved you when I first laid eyes on you, I loved you today when you fit so perfectly on my lap, and I will love you always and always.

When mommy tells you that I am praying for you, I am really telling you that even though I want to be with you wherever you go, I cannot.

For a short while, our world is mostly you and me. You are what I hear, smell, see. I am yours and you are mine. This is a very special time. We get to celebrate every small success together. I get to wrap your fingers with band aids, and kiss every hurt away. Daddy gets to hold you when you get your shots, even when you were kicking and screaming at him. We get to remind you to turn, and come back to the way of grace.

There will come a day when we will not be there to hold you. Pain will come. You will feel loneliness, rejection, betrayal. You will lose your way. You will find yourselves tossed in storms too great. Your boat will seem very small, and the waves will be very tall. You will be scared and will want to give up. You will know that you are not enough.

Remember, mommy is praying for you.

I am praying because I know God is with you. He will go with you to places where I cannot. His eyes will watch over you. His arms will fight for you. His hands will uphold you. His love will cover you. He loves you more, much more than I ever could. His love is crazier than climbing up a ladder into your room. He came down to live with us, to be us, to die for us.

You must remember to call upon him. Turn to him when you get lost. Fix your eyes on the cross. He is your sword, your shield. He is your light when the days are dark. He is your shepherd, you will not want anything else. He will bring you home.

Fly

Hans told Emeth the other day that being a missionary is better than being a doctor. Instead of heartily agreeing with my husband, my mind's immediate reaction was, "Really?!"

Hans was right, of course.

I want to be like Hannah who offered her son to serve in the Temple.
I want to sharpen three arrows who would fly and fight in the Lord's winning battle.
I want to raise three men who would lay down their lives for the sake of the Gospel.

Yet, in moments like these, I realized just how bound I still am to the ways of the world.

Let's face it. Our dreams are not outrageously creative. You've seen them. Those inspirational quotes about dreaming big dreams, chasing the moon, falling among the stars. Blah blah blah. To be the best at this, to be the first at that. To be fulfilled, to be distinct, to be authentic. To be "most-something," anything. All is vanity. Nothing is new under the sun.

This is not what I want for my sons.

We are eagles created to fly. We were once bound, dragged down by the miry bog. The Lord in his grace and by his truth has set us free. We are now free to soar. Instead of spreading our wings, however, we are busy, busy, busy—building cages. Cages engraved with our earthly titles. So we can sit in them and have others admire how beautiful are the edifices we have made for ourselves. Some are made of sticks and bricks, others silver and gold. Very impressive. Not really.

Because a cage is a cage is a cage.

We must chose one or the other. Either we seek first and work hard to build the kingdom of heaven, or we seek first and work hard to build our own kingdom of one.

Soul, grace and truth has set you free.
Burn the cage.
Fly.





*Photo credit: our friend Vivian. Thank you!

Mud soaked in grace

Here is my answer to another favorite question from my single friends: "How do I know whether this person is the one for me?"

First, stop asking the question.
Because this question is fundamentally selfish.

Or perhaps you are dating and already thinking, "I have found the perfect one for me!" Watch out, you are also in for a rude awakening.

You are making your tastes, your needs, your values, your personalities as the central, deciding factors. So really, you are loving you, not the other person. And marrying a person because you love you is generally a bad idea.

While Adam was sleeping, God made Eve. Adam was awakened to the dawn of nuptial love. God did not throw Eve somewhere in the Garden and tell Adam "go find her!" No, God brought her to Adam. In the twilight, they walked in the Garden while the earth was still young. No other husband and wife knew joy so great, though their time was brief.

Therefore, the first thing to say about marriage is that it is a work of grace.

Marriage is God's work of grace in the lives of his children. Grace of the most profound sort. Grace we do not deserve. We were given, entrusted with the life of another human being. For this reason, marriage is suitable a picture of the Gospel. A picture of how the God-man Jesus Christ gave his life for his Bride.

So, do not ask "Who is the one for me?" Rather, we should be asking, am I standing in the way of grace? Do I have the right disposition to receive grace? Grace that I do not deserve.

What is this way of grace?
The way of grace is given to us by the entire counsel of Scripture.

We are not left with our ever-changing, unreliable feelings, and random, subjective experiences (Thanks be to God!). We have been given the counsel of God's Word, which remains true forever. He has revealed his will to us, including whom we are to marry. And we have been commanded to seek after, not husbands or wives, but the kingdom of God.

Our understanding of marriage, however, must not rely merely on the "marriage passages" or the "love passages." We need know the whole story in order to understand the specific passages about love and marriage. We need to know who God is, who we are, our struggles with sin, how God rescues us from our sin, and how we are to live in relationships with one another.

Emeth, who is four, has long started asking me about "his queen." And my answer to him is always the same: he must first learn to love Lady Wisdom. In this way, he will know how to love his queen. He must first learn to walk in the way of wisdom, by fearing God and keeping his commandments. Here, he will learn to stand in the way of grace.

With much fear and trembling (and a teeny bit of reluctance), I pray that my three sons would love wise women. In order to win wise women, however, they must first be wise young men. I don't want them to be exquisite vases looking for other exquisite vases. I want them to be good mud finding good mud. Mud soaked in grace. I pray that they would become suitable clay— broken and yielding—in order that they might be useful vessels for the glory of God.

So, how would you characterize someone who is wise? Here are just a few traits gleaned from the book of Proverbs. The wise person fears the Lord. Unlike fools, the wise person is aware of their foolishness and loves correction and discipline. The wise person prays, trusts in the Lord, bears much fruit, is hard-working, resourceful, kind, and knows how to reign over their tongues. Fools manipulate and take advantage of others; they are flirtatious, proud, dishonest, provocative, and lazy. They have no self-control especially over their tongues and their temper.

A few more words.

Not only have we been given the entire counsel of God's Word, we have also been given a cloud of witnesses. You should not be making this decision alone. Seek the counsel of God-fearing people who love you and who would watch out for you. And listen. Wisdom is discernible by others. In fact, your own vision might be a little (or more than a little) compromised by your feelings.

No matter how well we think we know the person we marry, we always marry people who are somewhat of a stranger to us. Because dates are not the same as real life. Because people change. And believe it or not, that's a very good thing. The knowledge that we are able to change is the very hope of marriage.

Part of me died at the altar on my wedding 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.

The way of grace is narrow.
But its narrowness
is the narrowness of a birth canal.
There is an entire universe waiting on the other side.

Hananese

Hanan, who has been fairly quiet in the past two years, suddenly decides it is time to start talking. He has been telling us about the little person he is becoming, and we've been enjoying getting to know him.

At 26-months, Emeth was obsessed with wildlife, stories about trains, and the characters in those stories. Little brother also loves trains, but for entirely different reasons. These two boys are growing within the same walls, yet they are worlds apart.

Hanan is more of an abstract thinker. He is obsessed with numbers and colors and shapes. He takes things apart (sometimes permanently) and analyzes how they work. Turning wheels, pushing buttons, making music, and eating are among his favorite things. He adores his big brother, and says "hi ge ge!" and "thank you ge ge!" about hundred times a day.

Distracted. Always.

What I do when mommy says, "smile!"

In celebration of his aunties week-long visitation tomorrow, here is a glossary of some of my favorite words by the little bear.

waji - H2O

meee!!! meeeee!!! - MORE!!!!!!

eye or winkle winkle winkle - star.

pah-mei - please

te-te - a shape with three sides

ku-air - a shape with four sides

gle -  a shape with four sides, two sides are longer than the other two.

pen-gon - a shape with five sides.

ok-gon -  a shape with eight sides.

hoyee hoyee hoyee - my favorite song.

hoyee God in love be cake - (emphasis on cake) my other favorite song. (I have a lot of favorite songs)

buchen - mommy's heart when I disobey. This also happens to most things I take apart.

thona - the very useful engine. What I sleep with.

wowo - canine creatures. The other thing I sleep with.

mana - long yellow fruit, my new love.

turtle - not what you think. What mommy uses to wrap burritos.

crapper - crunchy cheesy things (crackers).

pah-per - what mommy changes when I go to the bathroom.

sillay, farnay - what I say when people are trying to make me laugh.

enenen - the number after ten, rhymes with seven.

ka-ga-mee - what I say when I need reassurance that I am not alone ("cover me")

haa-jee-ga - what I say when I need a hug

ge-ge pee ge - what I say when I want something from big brother

ding! - you and me, we are the same! (when he has a similar cup, cap, etc. with another person)

Singing in the dark

My children cry, a lot. We tell them to stop. Big boys don't cry. But --

Jesus cried. The manliest man wept. The king of glory groaned over his lost sheep. The divine warrior mourned in the garden.

So what are we to teach the boys?

On Sundays, we sing praises to God in the congregation. We sing about his greatness, what he has done, what he will do, and we make petitions for grace. We sing songs that lift our souls out of the miry bogs of the week.

Nothing wrong with singing happy songs. Sundays are happy days. But praises are not enough. They cover only part of the Psalms. Remember the laments, chaos, disorientation, hopelessness, meaninglessness. They, too, are part of God's Word. This is the story of God's people, from the beginning. This is the story of the Psalms. This is our story. We move from lament to praise, chaos to order, again and again and again.

So, cry, weep, groan.

The shepherd is listening, and he suffered. He cried, and he died for his lost sheep, for you.

So, in time, we will teach our boys to weep, for the right reasons, in the right way -- to God. For this, too, is worship. Let the tears fall, little ones. And remember his tears thick like blood that washed away our sins.

Let God's people mourn. Let us weep together, and weep over sins and meaningless suffering. Give us songs to sing in the dark.

A reflection on Psalm 42

I have lost my appetite
And a flood is welling up behind my eyes
So I eat the tears I cry
And if that were not enough
They know just the words to cut and tear and prod
When they ask me “Where's your God?”

Why are you downcast, oh my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
I can remember when you showed your face to me

As a deer pants for water, so my soul thirsts for you
And when I behold Your glory, You so faithfully renew
Like a bed of rest for my fainting flesh
I am satisfied in You.

When I'm staring at the ground
It's an inbred feedback loop that brings me down
So it's time to lift my brow
And remember better days
When I loved to worship you in all your ways
with the sweetest songs of praise

Why are you downcast, oh my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
I can remember when you showed your grace to me

As a deer pants for water, so my soul thirsts for you
And when I survey Your splendor, You so faithfully renew
Like a bed of rest for my fainting flesh
I am satisfied in You.

Let my sighs give way to songs that sing about your faithfulness
Let my pain reveal your glory as my only real rest
Let my losses show me all I truly have is you

So when I'm drowning out at sea
And your breakers and your waves crash down on me
I'll recall your safety scheme
You're the one who made the waves
And your Son went out to suffer in my place
And to tell me that I'm safe

Why am I down?
Why so disturbed?
I am satisfied in you

little was never so big

When God walked among us, Jesus loved children.

He was always patient, always kind. They often interrupted and asked a lot of questions and talked too much (especially the four-year-olds, I am sure). They were loud; they were children. But he was not annoyed or irritated. He was never too busy. They were never too little.

He told them stories. They surrounded him. They believed him. They knew he came from God, because he said so. They took front row seats at the miracles. They gasped when the blind beggar opened his eyes. They cheered when the lame man took his first step. They were not afraid to sing his praises: "Hosanna to the Son of David! Hosanna in the highest!" while the adults grumbled and plotted the savior's death.

He knew them by name. Sometimes, he would say, "Come!" Most of the time, he did not need to; they flew into his open arms. He held the babies, laid his hand on the bigger ones. And he would pray, and pray, and pray for them. He would tell his disciples: "Turn, and be like children."

He was kind to fathers, and especially to mothers. He remembered pregnant women, mothers of young children, and single moms, the widows. When their children were hungry, he fed them. When their children were sick, he healed them. And when all hope was gone, he raised their little ones from the dead.

Jesus loved children.

When God lived among us, he covered his glory with the face of a fetus, wrapped in a virgin's womb. A small, narrow place for the Maker of stars. He was a baby. He was fed, held, swaddled.

Little was never so big;
big was never so little.

Scripture references:
Matthew 9:24-25; 11:2;14:21; 15:38; 17:18; 18:2-5; 19:13-14; 21:15-16; 24:19.

grace for the delusional

I always have something to prove. It is a disease. A bad habit. I want people to think certain things about me, as though I can control their thoughts. It is a wearisome thing.

Even now, as I am typing, my words and intentions are infected by a need to prove something to you, dear reader. The picture you see at the top? That is what I want you to think of our family. It's not how we behave, not always. But it is what I want you to believe about us.

Last week, I was all stressed out. Some friends and their children were coming for dinner. There was so much to do, but the boys simply would not take their afternoon nap. For four hours, four hours, they were crying and laughing and bouncing in their cribs. But not sleeping. They can be horrid and fussy without their naps. And certainly, we would not want the guests to think I am a horrid mother.

In naps I trust.

Even to my husband, who entrusted himself to me, I still manage to find something I need to prove. Hans took me aside and reminded me that everything need not be perfect. I know, said I, but I want everything to be perfect. And perfection meant that everything must follow my wishes. Doesn't he know that people's eternal happiness depended on this dinner?

I was delusional, of course. And I didn't really think these things were true, but I behaved as though they were.

At 4:30 p.m., a dear friend, appeared at my door, bearing words of comfort and a large bowl of dark chocolate mousse. She knew that the boys were sick and I had company that night, so she thought she would help by making dessert.

What grace! This friend grew up in Germany and lived in France for a time. And, let me tell you, she had a way with chocolate mousse. Not only did the words roll off her tongue in the most sublime way, spoonful after spoonful of Mousse au Chocolat sang, twirled, and exploded like fireworks in our mouths.

The family arrived around 5:30 p.m. As it turned out, what was most wonderful, most memorable, about that evening had little to do my day's labor. I was conversing mostly with the wife, and Hans with the husband. At one point of our conversation, I realized that God had been preparing me for this conversation with this friend not in one afternoon, but over the span of years.

The circumstances of our lives flickered before my mind's eyes. Details and hassles that I had accepted as the way things were. Their purpose suddenly became clear. My effort and preparation was nothing in comparison to the weight of God's hand, molding me and breaking me, in order that I may learn to understand this woman, my new friend. In order that I may learn to care for her in a deeper, more meaningful way.

I have nothing; thus, nothing to prove.
But this.

For sinners, Lord, Thou cam’st to bleed,
And I’m a sinner vile, indeed.
Lord, I believe Thy grace is free.
O magnify that grace in me.

Joseph Hart, ca. 1757-1759
(free mp3 here)

The boys survived the night with no meltdown. They appeared to have enjoyed playing with the other children. Sick and napless, though they were. Lest their mother thinks she had anything to with their happiness.

On common, marvelous things

In our house, a house where there are two seminary students, Bibles are as common as bananas.

Years ago, I watched a video of Christians gathering in a rural village in China. Due to the persecution and the ban, they had no Bible. On that particular Sunday, some traveling evangelists were visiting and they had with them a copy of the Bible.

The little red book was passed from person to person in the gathering. People wept at the sight of it. Some cradled it next to their hearts. Some placed it against their cheeks, the way I placed my cheek against my child's right before I tucked him in last night.

God's Word was marvelous in their eyes.

Growing up in Malaysia, bananas (tiny pisang emas) grew beside the ditch in our backyard. Here in the US, bananas are in stores all year long. Completely taken for granted, like clean water. That is until two years ago when I introduced solid food to Emeth. I learned to appreciate this creamy, fragrant, soft (helpful for little people) and seedless (time-saving) fruit. Not to mention cheap (always a plus), versatile, and common.

Last week, inspired by my childhood friend Serene, we brought the humble fruit to another level: Banana ice-cream. Without the cream. And no added sugar. Just banana.

We had it three times a day, three days in a row. Craziness. And to think that in ages past, bananas sat there contently -- in the Garden of Eden, in the jungles, beside the ditch behind our old house. Completely delicious just as it is, but spectacular when frozen and blended.

Common things can be marvelous.

Creamy ice-banana
A most encouraging tip I learned about cooking was this: Yumminess is 50% technique, 30% recipe, and 20% ingredient. Or something like that. The point is that the right technique can do wonders to ordinary ingredients.

I did add two tablespoons of vanilla yogurt and a dash of milk to hasten the process (because little people are hungry in the mornings). But they are not necessary. We like it both ways. At first, its consistency will be like soft-serve ice-cream. After a few hours in the freezer, it will firm up.

Peel and slice four bananas.

Freeze over-night, or until frozen.

Blend, scrape, blend, scrape, blend.

Watch and wait.

 

Lick.

Eat.

Wipe.

Marvel.

on love and knitted souls

...the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David,

and Jonathan loved him as his own soul... (1 Samuel 18:1)

Behold, how good and pleasant it is

when brothers dwell together. (Psalm 133:1)

By this we know love,

that he laid down his life for us,

and we ought to lay down our lives for the brothers.

(1 John 3:16)

On winning hearts

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, ego-shattering 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

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.

My cup overflows

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.

Emeth's first poem

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.

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.

This freedom of ours

{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

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.

On the mountains and that timeless shore

{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 bitterness 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.