{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.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Buckling Down and Sweat
This morning, both children were screaming simultaneously while I was trying to vacuum the floor (for the past two hours) because a guest was coming over for lunch (which I thought was overcooking on the stove, but I forgot I had turned off the heat) while I was due to return my sister's call 10 minutes ago.
Yeah.
As I was soothing Yohanan with the tummy ache in one arm and helping Emeth to go to the bathroom with the other, the only appropriate thing to do was -- to laugh. Because the combining effect of all of that reminded me of something else:
a contraction.
You know, like the kind I got when I was in labor.
This was one of life's contractions. A thunder storm. A wave crashing.
Now, we can't take analogies too far, but here are a few ways how this tiny segment of life was like a contraction:
1. They are both inconvenient.
2. The pain does end (hopefully sooner than later).
3. Years from now, I will be able look back on this season with much fondness.
4. They serve good purposes, i.e. giving birth to a child and stretching my patience.
Just for the record, they were also very different:
1. There was no option for an epidural for this kind of pain.
2. No baby was about to be born.
3. OK, there are a lot of ways how they are different. I don't really want to list all of them.
So, this morning, I did what I did in the labor and delivery room:
1. Buckled down and sweat.
2. Be very grateful that Hans came to my rescue. I am sure glad he picked me to be on his team.
Yeah.
As I was soothing Yohanan with the tummy ache in one arm and helping Emeth to go to the bathroom with the other, the only appropriate thing to do was -- to laugh. Because the combining effect of all of that reminded me of something else:
a contraction.
You know, like the kind I got when I was in labor.
This was one of life's contractions. A thunder storm. A wave crashing.
Now, we can't take analogies too far, but here are a few ways how this tiny segment of life was like a contraction:
1. They are both inconvenient.
2. The pain does end (hopefully sooner than later).
3. Years from now, I will be able look back on this season with much fondness.
4. They serve good purposes, i.e. giving birth to a child and stretching my patience.
Just for the record, they were also very different:
1. There was no option for an epidural for this kind of pain.
2. No baby was about to be born.
3. OK, there are a lot of ways how they are different. I don't really want to list all of them.
So, this morning, I did what I did in the labor and delivery room:
1. Buckled down and sweat.
2. Be very grateful that Hans came to my rescue. I am sure glad he picked me to be on his team.
Monday, April 4, 2011
On Daydreams and Freaking Out
In preparation for Easter, our high school Sunday School class is purging -- the closet and our hearts. To help us see what needs to be purged, I am teaching a series on idolatry.
Growing up in Malaysia where Buddhism is a common religion, idols are ubiquitous in all forms and sizes. As a child, I remember being afraid whenever I saw distorted images of gods who reside on red altars. I did not realize at the time that idols reside best not behind incense and offerings, but on the altar of human hearts. My heart.
Violation of any commandment is always a violation of the first commandment: "I am Yahweh your God... You shall have no other gods before me."
When I am impatient, when I am unkind, or jealous, or proud, or selfish, I am worshiping something else; I am serving something else other than God. Something else has become more precious, more desirable than my Creator and Redeemer. Something else has absorb my heart and imagination. Unless I can say that I perfectly love Christ and I perfectly love others, I am idolatrous.
And I am.
Therefore, the question is not whether I have idols in my heart, but what are the idols, and the idols-in-making, of my heart?
To help us see the idols, with the hope of purging them, I asked the youth (and myself) a list of questions:
1. What are your daydreams? What fills your imagination? When you allow your mind to wander -- in the bus or on the highway or when you are doing the dishes, where do you go?
2. What are your hopes? What do you think would fulfill you? What is the next big thing that must happen to make you happy?
3. What gives you a sense of control, a sense of confidence, as you stride down the street? What gives you a sense of safety? What gives you a sense of identity?
4. What are your nightmares? What are your fears? What is the worst that can happen?
5. For whom or what do you make sacrifices? Looking at your expenses, where do you spend the most money?
6. What do you think would gain approval, recognition, and acceptance from people? What would give you success?
7. What do you freak out about? What are your strongest, most painful, uncontrollable emotions (guilt, anger, fear, etc.) and what is causing them?
Many of the answers are not necessarily evil. Some are likely very useful -- like education and jobs and homes and caffeine. However, we must treat them for what they are -- utensils. Some may even be rightly ours to keep -- family, parents, husband, wife, children. But none of these are to rise above God -- the one and only who is worthy of worship.
Growing up in Malaysia where Buddhism is a common religion, idols are ubiquitous in all forms and sizes. As a child, I remember being afraid whenever I saw distorted images of gods who reside on red altars. I did not realize at the time that idols reside best not behind incense and offerings, but on the altar of human hearts. My heart.
Violation of any commandment is always a violation of the first commandment: "I am Yahweh your God... You shall have no other gods before me."
When I am impatient, when I am unkind, or jealous, or proud, or selfish, I am worshiping something else; I am serving something else other than God. Something else has become more precious, more desirable than my Creator and Redeemer. Something else has absorb my heart and imagination. Unless I can say that I perfectly love Christ and I perfectly love others, I am idolatrous.
And I am.
Therefore, the question is not whether I have idols in my heart, but what are the idols, and the idols-in-making, of my heart?
To help us see the idols, with the hope of purging them, I asked the youth (and myself) a list of questions:
1. What are your daydreams? What fills your imagination? When you allow your mind to wander -- in the bus or on the highway or when you are doing the dishes, where do you go?
2. What are your hopes? What do you think would fulfill you? What is the next big thing that must happen to make you happy?
3. What gives you a sense of control, a sense of confidence, as you stride down the street? What gives you a sense of safety? What gives you a sense of identity?
4. What are your nightmares? What are your fears? What is the worst that can happen?
5. For whom or what do you make sacrifices? Looking at your expenses, where do you spend the most money?
6. What do you think would gain approval, recognition, and acceptance from people? What would give you success?
7. What do you freak out about? What are your strongest, most painful, uncontrollable emotions (guilt, anger, fear, etc.) and what is causing them?
{gathered and rephrased from different sources,
particularly Counterfeit Gods by Tim Keller}
Friday, April 1, 2011
You and Me
To Mommy's Big Boy,
Mommy was so unprepared the night you arrived. I had one more load of laundry, I still needed to line your crib, and the bag for the hospital was not yet packed. But, the time had come for you to arrive. And our lives were changed, forever. Mommy and daddy were never the same.
You look so long now, asleep in your crib right next to me. My heart swells with pride and hope just thinking about how you will someday be taller than mommy, maybe even daddy. You are so eager to grow, as you should be.
We have been reading a picture book with trees and blossoms for two weeks now. Mommy is always the one who chooses it. You have been very kind to go along with mommy's choice because I know you would rather read about animals and Thomas the tank engine.
Mommy loves reading the last few pages with you:
While you were drawing the other day, you held four crayons together and said: "Mommy, Daddy, Hanan, and Emeth -- a family!" You were so right. I pray that God would bind us to one another just like this. No space. That we would be close together, forever and always.
You, Hanan, daddy, mommy,
we are a family.
Each of you, a part of me.
You are what I hear, smell, see.
The Lord created, made us free,
gave me to you, and you to me.
Love,
Mommy
Mommy was so unprepared the night you arrived. I had one more load of laundry, I still needed to line your crib, and the bag for the hospital was not yet packed. But, the time had come for you to arrive. And our lives were changed, forever. Mommy and daddy were never the same.
You look so long now, asleep in your crib right next to me. My heart swells with pride and hope just thinking about how you will someday be taller than mommy, maybe even daddy. You are so eager to grow, as you should be.
We have been reading a picture book with trees and blossoms for two weeks now. Mommy is always the one who chooses it. You have been very kind to go along with mommy's choice because I know you would rather read about animals and Thomas the tank engine.
Mommy loves reading the last few pages with you:
Everything you hear, smell, see
All the world is everything
Everything is you and me
While you were drawing the other day, you held four crayons together and said: "Mommy, Daddy, Hanan, and Emeth -- a family!" You were so right. I pray that God would bind us to one another just like this. No space. That we would be close together, forever and always.
You, Hanan, daddy, mommy,
we are a family.
Each of you, a part of me.
You are what I hear, smell, see.
The Lord created, made us free,
gave me to you, and you to me.
Love,
Mommy
on your third birthday
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Dirt and Water Spots
Truth be told, my heart broke a little when I burnt the bottom of my dutch oven. I had lost my sense of smell due to a cold that day, and by the time I opened the lid -- my Bah Kut Teh (Chinese herbal pork-rib soup) was unsalvageable. I nearly wept, seeing the state of my beloved pot.
While the pot was soaking, Hans kept reminding me that it was "only a pot".
Never mind that it was his present for the fourth anniversary of our engagement. Never mind that I cried when he surprised me by hiding it in my kitchen cabinet. Never mind that I had imagined for years a dutch oven of my own -- in heaven.
But he is right. It is just a pot, not some antique porcelain vase in a museum. It wants to be used.
Today, thankfully, it sits prettily on my stove top. Useful for everything -- soups, sauces, roasts, stews, and savory pies. It survived the worst, bearing only a few scratches -- marks of a well-used, well-loved utensil.
Idolatry is worshiping anything that ought to be used, or using anything that is meant to be worshiped. -AugustineThe girls in my high school Sunday School class have each chosen one outfit to wear every Sunday until Easter. Some will refrain from shopping; all will be purging. An act of remembrance -- of Christ who is our perfect covering. An act of voluntary poverty -- remembering those who (involuntarily) have only the clothes on their back.
Perhaps by thinking while we put our clothes on, we simplify and purge the clutter of our hearts. A small gesture for such a mighty task, I know. But, sometimes we need signposts, however small, to remind us the direction we ought to turn.
Clothes are utensils. They are to be used responsibly. We are not to be mastered by our desire for beauty, slaves of our love for attention. Clothing functions to cover our nakedness; they are reminders that we are not who we were created to be. We put on clothes as a declaration -- Christ's death is sufficient for me.
Today, I was a spoon, a chair, a trampoline.
I was too many pieces of tissues, a pillow.
I was bread and water.
When we were walking to the playground, I stepped into mud. My poor shoes. During bath time, my shirt and pants were soaked, as always. Dirt and water spots -- the marks of motherhood. I am well-loved.
Lord, please use me.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Stars and Dust
Somehow during the course of our OPT (Operation Potty Training), we came to call Operation Number Two -- "making a moon."
Don't ask.
For the sake of his dignity, I must be brief. Let's just say that it has been a scary process for him. During one of our coaching sessions, I told him again the story of David and Goliath, with emphasis on how God helped David to be so very brave.
After a full day of struggle, he was finally able to go. With tears still in his eyes and a big sigh of relief, he exclaimed: "Woohooo! Emeth made a moon! Just like David made a moon!"
"Um... yes, darling, David did make moons...
And he also killed Goliath, and saved his nation, and...." (but I guess that's not important)
As far as Emeth was concerned, Goliath and the entire Philistine army?
Not so scary.
David was brave for other, more important things.
He is teaching me about compassion these days, this little guy of mine.
Emeth loves to invite daddy to hide with him. Sometimes this requires daddy to crawl into low, narrow, confined spaces. Like the (very compacted) closet. Or under the dining room table. Or cardboard boxes.
The reason he asks daddy is because mommy usually refuses to subject herself to that kind of torture. Daddy, on the other hand, would kindly oblige. Always. (Well, he would at least give it a try.)
Let me tell you, it takes work for a grown man to fit into these small places.
Compassion requires me to crawl under the table and see the world from here. Compassion is so much more than this, yes, but it begins by sitting with him.
This is the one thing that keeps me sane.
To have compassion, as I'm slowly learning,
is to sit on the potty with him (metaphorically speaking),
to acknowledge that this is a painful and terrifying thing.
to relive fears I would rather not remember,
and live the fears that I would rather not imagine.
Compassion takes work.
Some days, it is hard work.
When I think of
a wife holding her dying husband,
mothers of young children without shelter,
pregnant women and nursing mothers without water,
orphans,
I just want to crawl away.
Please let me not be in small, confined places;
I don't want to imagine painful and terrifying things.
 | ||
| A woman cries at the remaining steps of her home in Watari, Miyagi prefecture. |
Teach me to be compassionate
as you first had compassion on me.
You confine yourself in a mother's womb,
a small, narrow space for the Maker of Stars.
You became dust, for dust's sake,
a lowly thing for the King of Glory.
Teach me to sit. Teach me to pray.
Monday, March 7, 2011
And then it dawned on me...
When I drop Emeth off at Sunday School every week, I would walk by the nursery and usually, the kind ladies there would offer to take Yohanan for the hour while I am in service.
Here would be my Top 3 responses, in no particular order, and always with a smile:
1. Oh! Thank you, but he is asleep right now, and I don't want to take him out of the sling.
(which would be true)
2. Oh! Thank you, but he was sick this week; I think it would be better if I keep him.
(which would be unfortunate, but also true)
3. *Dashing in and out of that hallway really fast before anyone could offer help*
This likely happens most frequently. And until yesterday, I haven't given much thought to my "rush." I am mainly avoiding having to turn down people's kindness, something I loathe doing.
Before you start thinking that I am the kind of mom who can't "let go," I just want to say that I have I handed Yohanan over to them. Once.
But yesterday! Yesterday, I had a glorious moment of truth. The reason for my inner-turmoil-in-the-hallway finally dawned on me. I don't know why I hadn't realized this before.
Ladies: Hi! Let us take him today and you can relax during the service.
Me: Oh! Thank you!
(thinking) Uh-oh, he is awake. And he is not sick.
(out loud) That's OK, I don't want to trouble you! (always with a smile)
Ladies: No trouble at all! Please let us take him! (holding out their hands)
Me: No, that's OK. (and then I said) If I leave him here, I will miss him!!!
Ladies: You'll miss him? But... aren't you with him... all the time?
*confused stare* (they had nothing left to say to this crazy mom)
I will miss him! So simple!
I was laughing inside for the first half of the service.
What a relief it was for me to say it out loud. To finally understand myself.
Before motherhood, I was never one who thought children were adorable. I liked them, and thought they were interesting, but they were like any other interesting people. When I was pregnant with Emeth, I had the most difficult time mustering up any kind of noble thoughts about becoming a mom.This did not change when he was finally born.
"Mother" was definitely not among the professions I was looking into when I was dreaming about growing up. It was not that I didn't want to be a mom, but it wasn't among my youthful considerations. This seems like a huge oversight now.
So you can imagine what a happy thing this was for me. To realize how much I love being with my children. To realize that I love being a mom. These are pleasant surprises for me.
Emeth is at the age now (almost 3) that I enjoy sending him out into the world (yes, even if it is just Sunday school) to explore and learn about others. And I know that Yohanan will soon follow. It makes me smile to think about the two brothers going off to explore the world together.
For now, let me just hold my baby.
Apparently, I would miss him when he is not with me.
Here would be my Top 3 responses, in no particular order, and always with a smile:
1. Oh! Thank you, but he is asleep right now, and I don't want to take him out of the sling.
(which would be true)
2. Oh! Thank you, but he was sick this week; I think it would be better if I keep him.
(which would be unfortunate, but also true)
3. *Dashing in and out of that hallway really fast before anyone could offer help*
This likely happens most frequently. And until yesterday, I haven't given much thought to my "rush." I am mainly avoiding having to turn down people's kindness, something I loathe doing.
Before you start thinking that I am the kind of mom who can't "let go," I just want to say that I have I handed Yohanan over to them. Once.
But yesterday! Yesterday, I had a glorious moment of truth. The reason for my inner-turmoil-in-the-hallway finally dawned on me. I don't know why I hadn't realized this before.
Ladies: Hi! Let us take him today and you can relax during the service.
Me: Oh! Thank you!
(thinking) Uh-oh, he is awake. And he is not sick.
(out loud) That's OK, I don't want to trouble you! (always with a smile)
Ladies: No trouble at all! Please let us take him! (holding out their hands)
Me: No, that's OK. (and then I said) If I leave him here, I will miss him!!!
Ladies: You'll miss him? But... aren't you with him... all the time?
*confused stare* (they had nothing left to say to this crazy mom)
I will miss him! So simple!
I was laughing inside for the first half of the service.
What a relief it was for me to say it out loud. To finally understand myself.
Before motherhood, I was never one who thought children were adorable. I liked them, and thought they were interesting, but they were like any other interesting people. When I was pregnant with Emeth, I had the most difficult time mustering up any kind of noble thoughts about becoming a mom.This did not change when he was finally born.
"Mother" was definitely not among the professions I was looking into when I was dreaming about growing up. It was not that I didn't want to be a mom, but it wasn't among my youthful considerations. This seems like a huge oversight now.
So you can imagine what a happy thing this was for me. To realize how much I love being with my children. To realize that I love being a mom. These are pleasant surprises for me.
Emeth is at the age now (almost 3) that I enjoy sending him out into the world (yes, even if it is just Sunday school) to explore and learn about others. And I know that Yohanan will soon follow. It makes me smile to think about the two brothers going off to explore the world together.
For now, let me just hold my baby.
Apparently, I would miss him when he is not with me.
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