Love was born

{a story of Khesed's birth}

Falling in love with my husband was not part of the birth plan.

For months, I have been praying that I would love Hans more, and more truly. Six and a half years of marriage taught me just how bound I am to self-love. Praying for divine intervention seemed like a sensible thing to do. I knew God answers prayers. God might even answer this one. Slowly and subtly, perhaps? I expected nothing fancy. But I was wrong.

Hans was the keynote speaker for a conference two weeks before the baby's due date. We had agreed to serve at this event months before we found out we were pregnant. We were really excited though we knew there was a risk that I might go into early labor while he was gone.

Hans was worried, understandably. But I insisted that he must go. I somehow managed to convince myself that I would be fine without him. After all, I've given birth twice. We made arrangements for family and friends to be here in case I do go into labor while he was away. The conference came and gone. And I did not go into labor. For this and so much more, I give thanks.

In the history of Biblical interpretation, many referred to the pain of childbearing as "the woman's curse." However, God himself never said this, not really. God cursed the serpent, and God cursed the ground. But never did he curse Adam and Eve, whom he made in his own image.

Instead, God gave his children pain. It would serve us well to remember that God gives only good gifts to his children. As a consequence of their rebellion, they shall have pain in their fruit bearing and child bearing years.

I had not shed a tear during my first two labors. They were undoubtedly painful, but I did not cry. By the third hour of this third labor, however, my face was wet with weeping. I heard groans unfamiliar to my own ears. Apparently, not all labor pains were created equal.

Pain can be such a cold, lonely thing. I saw myself as I truly was, weak and insufficient. Pain stripped away any delusion that I could manage life alone. I needed my husband. And my God, in his grace, gave him to me, for this hour, until death do us part.

In my delirium, I heard his voice reading Psalms 136, 137, 138, 139. By the waters of Babylon, there I wept, and he pointed me to Zion. I was so very glad I was not alone. As the labor escalated, he pulled me out of despair. His voice instructed me to recite Psalm 8, again and again and again, the way I would instruct the boys at the breakfast table every morning.

I saw my husband, as though for the first time. I saw how he pours himself out for his family and his church. I saw how he serves, how he loves. And there, in the labor and delivery room, God answered my prayer, though his way was neither slow nor subtle. I fell in love, again.

Therefore, I shall give thanks for the pain of childbearing,
for the pain that unveiled my eyes.
In the mess of blood and water,
love met me.

Khesed, Hebrew for Yahweh's covenantal, forever love. 

For this waiting

Waiting is hard.

Time is like a prison. I feel simultaneously confined and stretched (in terms of my patience, as well as around my abdomen). I long to behold his face, to smell him, to feel his baby breath on my neck.

Fact: I am one of those women who have many, many false labors before the real one. If my waiting period is an end-time movie, a whole slew of crazy-weirdo people would have to give all kinds of false alarms before the end actually comes. I don't know why they bother because Christ himself said that no one knows the hour. It will come like a thief in the night. Seriously, people.

OK, fine. Perhaps waiting for my labor has very little to do with the end of the world. But you know what I mean, right?

So, we shall continue to watch, and I am trying to pray.

Recently, I stumbled across a story from the Holocaust. It's taken from a book I read a long time ago, The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom. In it, two young Dutch sisters, Corrie (the author) and Betsie, were imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp. At one point of the story, they wondered how they should pray after learning that their barracks were infested with fleas:

"That's it, Corrie! That's [God's] answer. 'Give thanks in all circumstances!' That's what we can do. We can start right now to thank God for every single thing about this new barracks!" I stared at her; then around me at the dark, foul-aired room.

"Such as?" I said.

"Such as being assigned here together."

I bit my lip. "Oh yes, Lord Jesus!"

"Such as what you're holding in your hands." I looked down at the Bible.

"Yes! Thank You, dear Lord, that there was no inspection when we entered here! Thank You for all these women, here in this room, who will meet You in these pages."

"Yes," said Betsie, "Thank You for the very crowding here. Since we're packed so close, that many more will hear!" She looked at me expectantly. "Corrie!" she prodded.

"Oh, all right. Thank You for the jammed, crammed, stuffed, packed suffocating crowds."

"Thank You," Betsie went on serenely, "for the fleas and for—"

The fleas! This was too much. "Betsie, there's no way even God can make me grateful for a flea."

"Give thanks in all circumstances," she quoted. "It doesn't say, 'in pleasant circumstances.' Fleas are part of this place where God has put us."

And so we stood between tiers of bunks and gave thanks for fleas. But this time I was sure Betsie was wrong.

As the story unfolds, they later found out that the flea-infestation was the only reason for their brief moments of freedom. They were able to read the Bible and talk openly to other women in the barracks because the guards refused to enter their flea-infested quarters. Betsie was absolutely right to give thanks in the midst of the fleas and for the fleas.

Hans thinks that waiting for my labor is nothing like people dying and starving in a Nazi concentration camp. He has a point. And I agree, with all my heart. But you know what I mean, right?

So, I shall give thanks in the waiting and for the waiting.

Photo credit: Our favorite photographer, Auntie Cat

Things I wish people told us about babies

Our friends Ivan and Sherri just had a baby (so happy!). And Ivan was the one who suggested the title for this post.

Because I didn't think I would write a post like this.

Within the first year of motherhood, my sentiments about people's (kind and well-meaning) advice were more along the lines of "things I wish people would not tell us about babies." Some were helpful, some were not, and others sent me into bouts of worries, guilt, and despair.

This is not a list of advice. These are just some things Emeth and Hanan have been teaching me.

1. Every baby is different.
True, we've only taken care of two babies. Yet, they are so different.

Other people do not know your child. Writers of books and articles do not know your child. Doctors and nurses and lactation consultants do not know your child. They do not know how your body feels or how your family functions. You do.

So, glean with caution. Glean from their years of expertise and knowledge, be grateful that they are available to help, but do not allow their opinions to rule your lives.

2. Every baby comes broken
3. into the arms of broken parents.
Emeth was not a compliant baby and he was very high maintenance. The first few weeks of his life were dark and happy and confusing. Now that he is four, his "difficult traits" are blossoming into his love to be around people and his intense need to understand his surrounding. But we had no way of knowing at the time.

He was a difficult baby. And I was constantly overwhelmed with guilt. I remember crying to Hans, convinced that I broke Emeth. Hans wisely and lovingly told me that Emeth was already broken. He was broken the moment he was conceived. Only the Lord, in his goodness and mercy, can save him — as he first saved us.

4. I have nothing to prove.
Still learning this one. Should have lived by this before becoming a mom. Better late than never, right?

5. The concept of time will never be the same again. Ever.
Me-time, us-time, work-time, play-time, sleep-time, shower-time — all comes crashing into one overwhelming blob.

Time is no longer linear, no longer compartmentalized, no longer predictable. The rhythm of life changes all together. And that's normal. Learn the new song. And don't try to sing the old tune to the new beat.

Nowadays, my time management mantra goes something like this: Stop chasing after what I would like to do. Learn to love what must be done. Repeat.


6. Hold principles firmly, hold methods loosely.
Principles are things that we must do as parents. Love your children. Rejoice in the Lord. Be kind. Be patient. Be faithful. Be gentle. Train up your child in the way of wisdom. These are non-negotiable.

Methods are the many ways, the different tools, we use to carry out our principles. I was so caught up in finding all the best methods in the beginning (oh you know, epidural or not, breastfeeding or not, co-sleeping or not, scheduled or demand-feeding, and all those baby gears!). I am not saying all methods are created equal, but I am saying that we need to hold our methods loosely. Don't get too invested in them. Because, at the end of the day, God has given you to your child. No matter which method you use, you are there. You are the best method. God has chosen you for your baby, and your baby for you.

That said, there was one method I held on for dear life when the babies were little. Baby-wearing. It's awesome, if your baby enjoys that sort of thing. Women (and men, I suppose) of ages past knew what they were doing. When Hans wore our babies, other moms commented on how he secure he must have been of his manhood.
 
7. Hold your baby. A lot.
Because they tend to wiggle more as they get older.

In the unquiet darkness

The hay in the manger was still warm when war horses charged into Bethlehem. The cows and the donkeys knew the boy they came to destroy. His secret was safe with them.

Blood and tears covered the stony ground of Bethlehem. In the unquiet darkness, Herod commanded the slaughter of all the little boys ages two and under.

Fathers fought for their sons in the battle of their lives. Beaten to dust. For years to come, mothers still rose in the night to nurse their infants, only to find their cribs empty. A deafening silence.

Not too far away, Mary and Joseph fled with haste holding the newly born Messiah, wrapped in rags.

Behold your King,
to our weakness he is no stranger.

____________________________________

For years, I have enjoyed John Piper's narrative poems. The Innkeeper is among my favorites. Happy Advent, dear friends. May your waiting this week be full and joyous.


The Innkeeper from Desiring God on Vimeo.

My crooked belly, my crooked heart

I love Avis. She's like a big sister to me. She is also an awesome physical therapist. I had a severe backache when I was pregnant with Hanan. She made it go away. It was magical.

Recently, the pregnancy backache came back. Avis took one glance at me and knew right away that I was in pain. More importantly, she knew why I was in pain. "Of course your back is aching," she said, "you are carrying the baby on your right side." I have learned not to doubt her. But still, I asked: "How do you know that?!" She answered, "Because it is so obvious. Go home, look in the mirror, and you will see that your belly button is to the right side of your tummy."

Sure enough, she was right.

My belly is crooked, people!

How was it that I look at myself in the mirror everyday and not see that my entire torso was lopsided?! Like Avis said, it was so obvious.

I am that person in James 1 who looks at herself in the mirror and yet I do not understand what I see. And I forget what I look like the moment I walk away.


At our church, there are two bathrooms. The smaller bathroom has a mirror that made people look thinner. The bigger bathroom has a mirror that made people look fatter. Guess which bathroom I like to use?

We choose to see what we want to see.

We want to see ourselves in the best light. We want to look thinner or taller or more in shape. We want to look symmetrical. Belly buttons should be in the center (is this too much to ask?!). We want to see ourselves as good people, who commit very few wrongs. And when we are wrong, there must be good reasons (a.k.a. excuses) for our mistakes.

Hans preached on Psalm 33 two Sundays ago. He concluded with a point that went straight to my heart: the upright and the righteous are not those who do not sin. Rather, the upright and righteous are people who see themselves as they truly are — sinners who cannot save themselves. Therefore, they hope in the steadfast love of the Lord.

The object of their their hope defines them: What are you beholding?

Scripture is like a mirror. It reveals our true selves. It reflects our crooked hearts. We do not love God with our hearts, minds, and strength. We do not love our neighbors as we love ourselves. We cannot do or be better tomorrow, because we are crooked and twisted to the core. When I attempt to destroy my idols, I only make new ones.

So we pray as David prayed,
Lord, create in us clean hearts.

A bold request. We ask for nothing short of a miracle. To ask God to do in us what he did in the beginning — to create something out of nothing. We ask our Lord to do this, not because we deserve anything, but because of his steadfast love.

In your mercy,
oh Lord, remove the scales from our eyes.
Help us to see our crooked ways,
twisted and deformed.
Create in us clean hearts,
that we may trust in your steadfast love.

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.

That which is necessary

Repentance and forgiveness are daily, necessary routines in our marriage. Routine unlike eating dry, plain oatmeal. But the routine of waves. Ebbing, flowing. Covering, returning. Wide, open shores. Big, generous waves.

Repentance and forgiveness do not define our marriage. There is so much more to our lives, entwined. But without them, there would be no us. There would be no life.

On this side of eternity, we dance this awkward waltz. We laugh, we cry. We step on toes, we let it go. We turn and return. We give and forgive. We dance with arms wide open, hands holding fast.

Repentance and forgiveness are daily, necessary routines in our worship. Routines unlike boring, redundant worksheets. But the routine of hungry boys at meal times. The routine of children running outside, of autumns warm and golden.

Repentance and forgiveness do not define our worship, our allegiance. There is so much more to our lives, entwined with Christ. But without these, there would be no life. There would be no worship.

On this side of eternity, our repentance and God's forgiveness are necessary. Rebels before a holy God. Are we to be like a standing tree or the chaff that the wind drives away?

Children, turn and return. God gives and forgives. He waits with arms wide open, his hand holding fast, holding us.