Letting Go?

“Train children in the right way, and when old they will not stray.” Proverbs 22:6

There’s a commercial that gives warning on the consequences of drinking and driving that always makes me sad. It’s the one where a baby is lying in a crib, crying frantically, and then a message appears on screen that says that the baby’s mother was killed by a drunk driver.

It makes me sad because I know that it is the reality for many families out there. Not just the babies who have lost their parents to drunk driving, but to anything. I read it in the news every day. And now that I have one of my own, the sadness I feel is even more acute because I don’t even want to imagine Nathaniel ever losing his mommy or his daddy. The fear sometimes surfaces when I go to Nathaniel first thing in the morning and he greets me with sheer excitement, or when I tuck him in at night and there is a peacefulness and contentment in his face that brings tears to my eyes almost every night.

These thoughts come to me as I contemplate whether to take a course next semester in seminary. The decision sounds so simple—but as I think about being away from Nathaniel for more than just a few hours, I am overcome by worry and guilt.
When the pediatrician tells you that Separation Anxiety starts to kick in at about six months, I didn’t realize that this included the mother. I’ve only left Nathaniel for more than an hour on two occasions (once, to get a haircut, and the other, to attend a bridal shower). The whole time, my mind was focused on whether he felt abandoned by me or not. Of course, on both of those occasions, I returned to find him perfectly fine.

It’s not just when I leave him that I worry and feel guilty. It’s also when I go through a day that isn’t “typical.” I can finally say that Nathaniel has been trained to sleep (an amazing feat, considering it takes almost five to six weeks of training and great patience and faith!). In fact, he has been trained so well, that now, he protests for his nap time as soon as he begins to feel drowsy. The car seat, stroller, other people’s houses—all are no longer good enough: Nathaniel wants to be in his own crib when he wants to sleep. When he’s in the crib, he naps anywhere from one to three hours (when he’s not, the longest stretch he can do is a half hour).

Now imagine—a mother having trained a baby to sleep regularly, and then suddenly, irregular schedules come up from time to time—that takes the baby away from the regular schedule that he has grown comfortable with. My worry and guilt come in, because when I am unable to give him the schedule he needs, I feel like I am responsible for his discomfort and distress. Sometimes, having gone out with a friend or visiting a family member, or going shopping for too long (which I rarely do anymore), I feel so accountable for his tiredness that I even vow that I would stay home the very next day to make up for it.

I voiced my guilt to my sister once, who’s a mother of three kids, and she said plainly, “Don’t worry. You have the rest of your life to feel guilty about everything you do with the children.”

Believe it or not, her statement actually put me at ease—because I realized the truth in it.

On any given week now, I go out once or twice for more than few hours, but I limit myself to that. My priority is Nathaniel’s wellbeing—and, at this point, I am still unwilling to compromise such for my own needs.

My sister chuckles when she hears me talk about how much easier life is with Nathaniel now that he’s been sleep-trained. “I told you,” she says (since I had been unwilling at first to go through all that intense training—just read my previous blog entries!). Outsiders have asked me and my sister, “Don’t you feel that you’ve lost your freedom?” They are referring to our having to be home all the time in order to accommodate the kids’ sleep schedules. My sister and I understand each other’s amusement in response to their incredulity. With the kids sleep trained, we have MORE freedom. That freedom comes as a result of the time we have from being without the kids—to do household chores, to rest, to read, to converse with friends, to spend with the husband, to watch movies, to spend quiet time with God, to anything, really.

I’m getting side-tracked. My point is that perhaps I am not ready to let go yet. When I am away from Nathaniel, I become anxious about his happiness. I wonder whether his needs are being met. If he wakes up from his nap expecting to see me, and he doesn’t—will he be okay? If he wants to be held by mommy and mommy is not there—will he be okay? If he wants milk and has to take it from a bottle instead of in the comfort of mommy’s arms—will he be okay? If he wakes up in the middle of the night and cries for mommy and mommy is not there—will he be okay? If another person takes care of him, one who doesn’t know what makes Nathaniel happy, sad, scared, or excited—will Nathaniel be okay?

Whenever such questions come to mind, I sometimes ask myself, “What’s the worst that could happen?” Of course, the answer to that question could go very terribly depending on how far my imagination takes it. And when I finally calm down, whisper a prayer to God to ease my fears, I start to think—Nathaniel has to learn… Mommy has to learn.

Experiences like this allow me to empathize with my parents who were quite protective over us. I remember, in grade six and seven, being one of the few students who wasn’t allowed to go on overnight trips. I remember, all three of us, my sister, my brother, and I, not being allowed to choose a university that was out-of-town. My mom wanted us to be at home. I don’t regret decisions like these—because my going to a university in town gave me opportunities that I wouldn’t have had had I gone away. At the same time, I know that one day, God willing, when Nathaniel is that age, though I know I will be filled with worry when he’s not in my presence, I will have to let go. I will have to cast my cares upon the Lord and be sustained by Him.

I have a few weeks to pray about whether to enroll in that course in seminary. It’s amazing how a decision like this could catapult me into so much reflection. Dr. Dobson concludes his book Bringing Up Boys like this:

“… The door must be opened fully to the world outside. This can be the most frightening time of parenthood. The tendency is to retain control in order to keep your kids from making mistakes… The simple truth is that love demands freedom. They go hand in hand.

No matter how much you prepare, letting go is never easy… It’s an exhilarating and a terrifying moment, and one that was ordained from the day of your child’s birth. With this final release, your task as a parent is finished. The kite is free, and so, for the first time in twenty years, are you.

My prayers will be with you as you discharge your God-given responsibility. Cherish every moment of it. And hug your kids while you can.”

Nathaniel has awakened. Over the baby monitor, he’s babbling to himself again. Sniff sniff. Gonna go hold him tight now...

Mommy’s Daily Pleasures

“Children are a heritage from the Lord.” Psalm 127:3

1. After a good night’s sleep and some delicious milk—Nathaniel is utterly JOYFUL in the morning. Lying on my bed, his hands flap up and down in delight, his eyes meet mine—he smiles, squeals, babbles, sticks his tongue out—the works.

2. Grocery shopping with him in the stroller: With the bundler enveloping the car seat and Nathaniel wrapped in a fluffy coat and a hat on—the only part of his body that peeks out is his chubby face. It’s so cute that passersby can’t help laughing and staring at the little one.

3. Nathaniel squeals in excitement upon seeing Daddy return home from work.

4. Nathaniel waking from his afternoon naps or nighttime sleep: he babbles to himself (which I can hear over the baby monitor). Sometimes, it can last up to a half hour.

5. Nathaniel grunts to express his displeasure. When I am out, with him in the stroller, whenever I stop to look at something, he grunts, as if to say, “I didn’t say anything about your being allowed to STOP the stroller, Mommy. Keep moving.”

6. When I’m holding Nathaniel and he reaches out his hands to touch my face. When I’m hovering over him and he reaches out to play with my hair.

7. When I’m bathing Nathaniel and he turns his body over in an attempt to drink the bath water or chew on the towel. When I’m bathing him and he kicks his legs, splashing water all over Mommy.

8. When he seizes all movement and concentrates on doing “number two.” He stares at me, as if in a trance, and when he’s done, he shudders, as if thinking, “What was that?”

9. Though Nathaniel is full of smiles—whenever he’s confronted by new faces, he adopts a very serious demeanor, as if sizing up everyone in the room.

10. Baby feet. Baby bum. Baby hands. Baby hair. Baby belly. Baby ears. Baby smell. Baby… everything.


11. Feeding Nathaniel—with each approaching spoonful of pureed baby food, he smiles and jiggles in excitement. What can I say—the little one loves his food.

12. Nathaniel is brought to a standstill whenever Holly, the cat, ambles across the room—it’s like he’s still trying to figure out why one of the objects in the room is able to move from one place to another.

13. Nathaniel puts everything in his mouth—even during worship service on Sunday’s, when I’m holding the Bible in my hands, he’s ready to devour God’s Word.

14. When Nathaniel is in my arms while I’m lining up at the cashier’s, he looks at the person who’s behind me and tries to make a sound, as if trying to make conversation with a stranger.

15. Nathaniel tries to assert his independence: When I put a pacifier in his mouth for fun, he takes it out of his mouth and tries to put it back himself.

16. Nathaniel always has to suck on the same two fingers to soothe himself when he starts to feel tired.

17. Nathaniel enjoys being around other children and their laughter makes him laugh.

18. When Nathaniel is scared or sad, he suddenly shuts his eyes and begins to cry desperately—and the moment he’s in Mommy’s arms, the crying instantly ceases.


19. When Nathaniel glimpses his own reflection in the mirror, he smiles and tries to touch his own reflection.

20. When I’m holding Nathaniel as I’m working away in the kitchen, he’s got to reach out his little hands and try to touch everything I’m touching.

21. When Nathaniel wakes up for a night feeding, I have to try to resist playing with him so that he'll immediately go back to sleep in his crib--but his smiling and talking makes it virtually impossible to maintain a disinterested composure.

22. At night, after I tuck Nathaniel under his covers, his little fingers pull the covers even closer to his chest.

23. Watching past video clips of Nathaniel brings tears to my eyes as I witness how quickly he is growing. The video clip that stirs up the most nostalgia—when Nathaniel is one-week old and he's sleeping on my chest (if he did that now I would not be able to breathe properly).

24. The way Nathaniel can pass gas that leaves me asking the husband, "Was that you or Nathaniel?"

25. Nathaniel looks at me, his face expressionless; I smile at him, seconds later, he smiles back.

26. Nathaniel talks to toy animals. When they make sounds, he squeals back at them.

27. Nathaniel sticking his tongue out; Nathaniel sticking his tongue out, then playing with his saliva, and making a gurgling sound.

… I COULD GO ON AND ON AND ON…

Recollections

My Gong Gong passed away last week.

I remember when my grandmother passed away six years ago. I was at church practicing for worship. I got a phone call from my sister who said that Mah Mah had been admitted to the hospital and that she had been diagnosed with Cancer. I cried immediately upon hearing the news.

Mah Mah had immigrated to Canada when I was one-year-old. We had spent countless family occasions together, and during our childhood, she would often babysit us or we would sleepover at her house. That short month and a half that was spent visiting her at the hospital as she grew weaker and weaker, and then that final night when we had gone over to her house after she had just passed on, brought an immense sadness over our family. At the cemetery on the day of the funeral, it was also the first time I had witnessed tears coming down my father’s eyes.

It’s a different story with my Gong Gong. He lived in Hong Kong. He visited us a few times during the first two decades of my life. If it were not for old pictures in our family albums, I would not even have remembered most of those times. As a result, I have few and sparse memories of who he was or my relationship with him.

Last week, when I received the phone call that he had passed away, I felt a pang of sadness. No tears, just sadness. Two years ago, I had visited Hong Kong with my mom and my husband. We stayed at Po Po and Gong Gong’s place. It was the same place they had lived in for the past fifty years, only renovated. Upon our arrival, my mom had just begun to hire help for Gong Gong to relieve the burden off Po Po. Her name was Cindy, and she came from the Philippines. She cooked for us, cleaned, bathed Gong Gong, even helped him cut his nails, pick his nose, down to the nitty gritty.

Even sharing the same flat with them, I did not see Gong Gong much. He stayed in his room most of the day. Everyone encouraged him to take walks outside, but having experienced an injury during his last walk outside—after falling—he developed a fear of it, and stubbornly stayed indoors.

Because Gong Gong was on medication, his Alzheimer’s was not immediately apparent—although I knew it was pretty severe. I guess when you don’t know someone well to start with—it’s not obvious when he acts like he doesn’t know who you are.

Dinnertime was when his deteriorating physical condition was the most obvious to me. He wanted to feed himself. Po Po would scoop food into his bowl, give him the portions that were easy to chew. I watched as he slowly brought the spoon to his lips, his hands shaking, his lips quivering, some of the rice making it into his mouth, but most of it falling onto the table. It was like watching a toddler feed himself, but worse.

When I was in grade eight, my homeroom teacher gave us an assignment. We had to write a biography on a family member. It was probably one of the most valuable assignments I ever had to do in elementary school. I chose to do it on my mom. It wasn’t until I did that biography that I realized how little I knew about my mom’s history. My mom never really volunteered information about her past. We had to ask. We had to probe. And a lot of the time, it never occurred to me to ask such specific questions. It was when I was thirteen-years-old that I learned that my mom was not supposed to be the oldest of five children in the family. A boy had been born before her, a stillborn. My mom said that this was the reason why she was not treated inadequately, even though she was a girl. The fortuneteller had told her parents that having a boy would have brought bad luck. She also had another sister once, but she had died due to ill health. They were very, very poor, my mom told me—rice and soy sauce for dinner; clothing was used and reused for the seasons, sewn and resewn; accusations at school were always directed at her when theft took place.

Gong Gong was absent, my mom told me. He smoked. He drank. He gambled. He had extra-marital affairs. Po Po took care of them. Even when she was going into labour, Po Po had to walk to the doctor’s by herself.

As a child, I was taught to pray for Po Po and Gong Gong’s souls. Po Po accepted Christ over a decade ago (God worked sovereignly in her life and her story is an amazing one too, but this entry is about Gong Gong). After Mah Mah died, my mom realized how little time she had left with her parents, so she began flying back to Hong Kong once a year. Starting then, she shared the gospel with Gong Gong again and again, but to no avail. Even in his physical and mental condition, he was still able to give a resolute “No” when she asked him whether he knew he was a sinner and needed to be forgiven.

Gong Gong accepted Christ in 2007. My mom gave a testimony of her experience during one of our church services. After the service, many people her age came up to me and told me that her testimony had made them cry—made them realize that they needed to work on trying to bring their parents to Christ.

Though I did not know Gong Gong well, I knew of his dark past, and I feel at peace knowing that just last year God forgave him for that dark past because Gong Gong finally saw that he was a sinner before God. That last week, he had breathed his last, but because somehow, beyond our understanding, God had managed to reach out and touch an old man's soul (even in his mental illness he was able to say, "I believe"), his death does not cast a somber shadow over our family but a hopeful one. This is the beauty of the Christian gospel: it is never, never too late.

A couple of days ago, I was reading John Piper’s Suffering and the Sovereignty of God. I came across a passage that talked about what I had been thinking about the past week since I learned of Gong Gong’s death.

"We all die, if Jesus postpones his return. Not to think about what it will be like to leave this life and meet God is folly. Ecclesiastes 7:2 says, 'It is better to go to the house of mourning [a funeral] than to go to the house of feasting, for this is the end of all mankind, and the living will lay it to heart.' How can you lay it to heart if you won't think about it? Psalm 90:12 says, 'Teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.' Numbering your days means thinking about how few there are and that they will end. How will you get a heart of wisdom if you refuse to think about this? What a waste, if we do not think about death."

I had said earlier that I had felt a pang of sadness upon hearing the news about Gong Gong. Let me emphasize pang. This pang of sadness actually made me feel a bit melancholic. It would have been really "nice", I thought, if I had felt an overwhelming wave of sadness, like the way I felt about Mah Mah when she passed away. But I didn’t know Gong Gong well enough. We barely had a relationship.

As a result, I decided to actively recall my moments with him. At first, I pictured him lying in his bed in the hospital—the tube attached to his body which provided him nutrition. I called to mind the sound of his voice. And always, for some reason, I couldn’t stop evoking the image of his trembling hand bringing the spoon of rice to his mouth.

Then I began to conjure up flashbacks, which I recorded in my journal on November 18, 2008:

“I remember their living with us during their visits from Hong Kong. They stayed in a room in the basement at Hampstead. Gong Gong used to smoke (until his health just couldn’t take it anymore) and mom would give him a dish to be used as an ash tray).

I remember the mornings. Each time he visited, he would boil milk, add an egg and sprinkle in some sugar. That was his breakfast. (There was a time in my early twenties when I made this breakfast too because I thought it tasted pretty good.)

I remember seeing him hold us as toddlers when he was here—in the old photo albums.

I remember his voice. Low, hoarse.

I remember his fragile, helpless state when Lee and I stayed with Gong Gong and Po Po just a few years ago. His bedwetting. His disorientation. His taciturnity (inability to talk).

I remember when Mom told me the story of how she brought Gong Gong to Christ—during a puzzle activity—at this point, Gong Gong having the mental capacity of a six-year-old.

And then I remember how we, as children, would pray and pray for his salvation and the Lord answering our prayers.

(Grace reminded me today of how Gong Gong used to write verses of poetry at Kensington and stuck the verses on random walls around the house—out of sheer boredom he wrote them.)

I wonder if Gong Gong is scared where he is, or whether, in his mental state, he’s thinking about where he is going.”

On the night of Gong Gong’s passing, I waited for Lee to come home from work so that we could pray. That morning, I had not known that Gong Gong was going to die that day, and had intended the prayer time to be for his health. It turned out to be a different prayer time.

Lee and I talked. He asked me, “What are you thinking? Feeling?” We talked about death. Then about how he and I would have to go through the same experience with our parents one day. We talked about how hard that would be. How sad we would be. And then we prayed. Much of the prayer was thankfulness and praise that God had blessed this family—his and mine—so much.

My sister and I are taking the children to see my Yeh Yeh today, my grandpa in Toronto. I am looking forward to the visit. My grandpa is an amazing man, and his contented state is a mystery and great testimony to those around him. The number of people who have approached me in church to praise Yeh Yeh’s character—is unbelievable—yet when they do, I nod in agreement, knowing exactly what they are referring to. Yeh Yeh is the epitome of JOY. No exaggeration. If you met him, you would be thinking the same thing. I have much to learn from him.

Life seems to be like that. At one moment you celebrate life, and then another moment, you are forced to contemplate death. For the believer or non-believer, we all have to come to grips with this inevitable outcome. As John Piper's statement reminds me—are we willing to look death in the face and determine what it means for us? A time of mourning. A time to savour every moment we have with our family and friends. A time to search for concrete and genuine meaning. A time to consider whether eternity really exists—and if it does, how can we go on living as if it didn't?

The Reason for God

I am sitting at my writing desk again. The shutters in front of me are open; the master bedroom is dimly lit by the white radiance coming from outside. The snow is falling fast, like rain. A quiet house, a forest of naked trees gradually being draped by snow, the calmness of a lonely birdhouse in the distance—such beauty never fails to rouse the reader and writer in me. And knowing that time is hard to come by, I rise (a bit reluctantly) from under the soft covers of my cozy bed and begin to write.

It has been snowing since Nathaniel’s crying woke me up at 7:30 a.m. He is sleeping again. When he went down for his first nap, I decided to finish the book I had started a few days ago, Timothy Keller’s A Reason for God: Belief in an Age of Skepticism.

I had expected that a book dealing with apologetics would be a harder read. I had expected that, like other similar books I’ve read, I would be rereading paragraphs or slowing down because of information overload. I had expected that I would have trouble finishing the book (since I picked up this book not for school but for leisure reading—I was under no obligation to finish it). But this book by Timothy Keller was a joy to read.

The book’s chapter titles immediately grab my attention—which is why I bought the book in the first place (actually, I’m buying it for my brother for his Christmas present—so let’s hope he isn’t reading this entry): “There Can’t Be Just One True Religion,” “How Could a Good God Allow Suffering?”, “Christianity Is a Straitjacket,” “The Church Is Responsible for So Much Injustice,” “How Can a Loving God Send People to Hell?”, “Science Has Disproved Christianity,” “You Can’t Take the Bible Literally.” But the book doesn’t end there. Keller knows it’s not enough to dispel skeptics of their doubts purely with explanations, no matter how complete or convincing they are. The second part of the book addresses reasons for the faith, with such titles as, “The Clues of God,” “The Knowledge of God,” “The Problem of Sin,” “Religion and the Gospel,” “The (True) Story of the Cross,” “The Reality of the Resurrection,” “The Dance of God,” and perhaps most importantly, “The Epilogue: Where Do We Go from Here?”.

First, the book is written in a voice and style that is very easy to read. While Keller uses a wide range of evidence to support his points, he presents them at a pace that allows the reader to easily digest the information. The ease of reading is reinforced by frequent subheadings (each section is no more than a few pages long, which gives the reader time to think and “breathe”) and striking analogies.

The beginning of the book addresses the Christian as well and his or her need to tackle such difficult questions, as he states, “Only if you struggle long and hard with objections to your faith will you be able to provide grounds for your beliefs to skeptics, including yourself, that are plausible rather than ridiculous and offensive. And, just as important for our current situation, such a process will lead you, even after you come to a position of strong faith, to respect and understand those who doubt.”

Moreover, Keller’s explanations also deal with problematic texts that have only recently surfaced, including Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code, Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion, and such Gnostic gospels as The Gospel of Thomas. The premises for such texts crumble in the face of Keller’s arguments.

As mentioned earlier, Keller incorporates effective illustrations in his arguments, which is what makes this book ideal for the lay reader. In the chapter “The Clues of God,” Keller discusses the incredible and miraculous way in which the universe is held together—“the speed of light, the gravitational constant, the strength of the weak and strong nuclear forces…” The author then offers a pertinent analogy for one who might believe that the universe had somehow come to be by chance: “The philosopher John Leslie poses a similar illustration. He imagines a man who is sentenced to be executed by a firing squad consisting of fifty expert marksmen. They all fire from six feet away and not one bullet hits him. Since it is possible that even expert marksmen could miss from close range it is technically possible that all fifty just happened to miss at the same moment. Though you could not prove they had conspired to miss, it would be unreasonable to draw the conclusion that they hadn’t… Although organic life could have just happened without a Creator, does it make sense to live as if that infinitely remote chance is true?”

Of course, being the aspiring artist, though Keller’s earlier arguments quench the thirst of my mind, it is when he discusses the clues of God—when it comes to LOVE and BEAUTY—that revives my gratitude for being a Christian.

“If there is no God, and everything in this world is the product of (as Bertrand Russell famously put it) 'an accidental collocation of atoms,' then there is no actual purpose for which we were made—we are accidents. If we are the product of accidental natural forces, then what we call ‘beauty’ is nothing but a neurological hardwired response to particular data… though music feels significant, that significance is an illusion. Love too must be seen in this light. If we are the result of blind natural forces, then what we call ‘love’ is simply a biochemical response, inherited from ancestors who survived because this trait helped them survive.”

Being an individual who aspires to become a writer, I admit that I sure don’t exercise a whole lot of discipline. Deep down, I know that if I were really the passionate and genuine writer I claim to be, I would be writing and reading a whole lot more than I am doing right now. At the same time, I know that every time I feel an urge to write in my journal, spend days and months finishing a story, or savor how another writer is able to combine words together to form striking image after striking image—it is precisely this LOVE and BEAUTY that flows from my Christian faith that act as the catalyst. Without the truths that Christianity offers—about LOVE and BEAUTY, and then about SIN, DEATH, and REDEMPTION—what I see out there, is empty of all meaning. And without meaning, for what reason would I pick up my pen?

And last, before I run out of time (Nathaniel has begun to whimper), it is Keller’s description of the beauty of the Christian gospel itself that compelled me to write this entry in the first place. What is so wrong with the other beliefs of doing good works and relying solely on personal merit as our goal for living? I believe Keller nails it with his personal sharing below:

“When my own personal grasp of the gospel was very weak, my self-view swung wildly between two poles. When I was performing up to my standards—in academic work, professional achievement, or relationships—I felt confident but not humble. I was likely to be proud and unsympathetic to failing people. When I was not living up to standards, I felt humble but not confident, a failure. I discovered, however, that the gospel contained the resources to build a unique identity. In Christ I could know I was accepted by grace not only despite my flaws, but because I was willing to admit them. The Christian gospel is that I am so flawed that Jesus had to die for me, yet I am so loved and valued and that Jesus was glad to die for me. This leads to deep humility and deep confidence at the same time. It undermines both swaggering and sniveling. I cannot feel superior to anyone, and yet I have nothing to prove to anyone. I do not think more of myself nor less of myself. Instead, I think of myself less. I don’t need to notice myself—how I’m doing, how I’m being regarded—so often…

This means that I cannot despise those who do not believe as I do. Since I am not saved by my correct doctrine or practice, then this person before me, even with his or her wrong beliefs, might be morally superior to me in many ways. It also means I do not have to be intimidated by anyone. I am not so insecure that I fear the power or success or talent of people who are different from me. The gospel makes it possible for a person to escape oversensitivity, defensiveness, and the need to criticize others. The Christian’s identity is not based on the need to be perceived as a good person, but on God’s valuing of you in Christ.”

To go back full circle, in his final chapter, Keller offers relief for the individual struggling with the question of whether he or she should become a Christian or not. What shall become of his or her doubts? Should he or she wait until they have all been appeased before taking the plunge? Oh, I must remember the analogy he gives here:

“Imagine you are on a high cliff and you lose your footing and begin to fall. Just beside you as you fall is a branch sticking out of the very edge of the cliff. It is your only hope and it is more than strong enough to support your weight. How can it save you? If your mind is filled with intellectual certainty that the branch can support you, but you don’t actually reach out and grab it, you are lost. If your mind is instead filled with doubts and uncertainty that the branch can hold you, but you reach out and grab it anyway, you will be saved. Why? It is not the strength of your faith but the object of your faith that actually saves you. Strong faith in a weak branch is fatally inferior to weak faith in a strong branch. This means you don’t have to wait for all doubts and fears to go away to take hold of Christ.”

I was, as a result, pleasantly surprised to arrive to this final chapter of Keller’s book. It is this final chapter that demonstrates that his intent in writing this book was not simply to fiercely tackle all the arguments out there against Christianity. It wasn’t simply a scholarly display of intellect or understanding. Bringing together the academic, the creative, and the personal, Keller offers more than just a religion. He urges the individual to decide on what is Truth, as he emphatically lays bare at the end of the book, where he includes excerpts from an interview with Bono and a short story by Flannery O’ Connor to drive home his point (another distinctive feature of this book is the incorporation of diverse secondary resources).

I must go now. Nathaniel is awake. I can hear his voice over the baby monitor—little high-pitched squeals. Somewhere deep down, I knew God would give me enough time to finish this entry.