grace covers, like snow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.