The God of Small Things

Nathaniel is eighteen and a half months old. I can tell he is maturing. His mental development seems to have skyrocketed in the past couple of months. I realize that he and I can engage in a lot more activities than we ever did before. I feel like it is such a privilege to be able to be the one to introduce the world to him.

Though I told myself Nathaniel would not be allowed to drink juice until he turned two, the other day, I cheated. Maybe it was out of boredom, or maybe I just felt like spoiling him for a moment. I filled one of his sippy cups with a quarter cup of Tropicana, and then diluted it with water. “Here, Nathaniel,” I say, handing it to him. He shakes his head, believing the cup is filled with what it is typically filled with—water. “Try it,” I insist. “It’s not what you think it is. It’s juice.” I shove the spout into his mouth and he takes a quick sip, probably to prove to me that he really does not want water. But after the first sip, he looks at me and a gigantic smile—no, more like a bright glow—appears on his face. It was like he was thinking, “What’s this magical-tasting liquid?” The subsequent sips were followed by the same glow. His glow was contagious. A glimpse of his relishing in something so simple just made my day. (I just have to make sure I don’t give him juice again for a little while and he’ll soon forget about its existence.)

To get to observe how he reacts to different objects, to instil excitement in him, to watch him slowly begin to take in the world around him... It’s like watching a movie in slow-motion and having the pleasure to savour the details. Spiritually, it has brought me to a place of deeper worship. Seeing a toddler take joy in the simple things in life reminds me of the need to do the same—and of course, being able to enjoy the simple things with Nathaniel just doubles the joy.

Nathaniel is developing in other ways too. His emotions have become much more complex. Oftentimes, because he is still not able to fully communicate his thoughts and feelings to me, nor I able to explain the complexities of a given situation to him, he becomes frustrated—and so do I.

It happened twice in the past two weeks—and never had I witnessed it before. Usually, whenever Nathaniel is experiencing any adverse emotion (be it fear, insecurity, hunger, fatigue, etc.), my embrace, kiss, and voice of consolation would be entirely sufficient. This was the case even if the circumstance was that I was the one who caused the adverse emotion (i.e. scolding him for unacceptable behaviour). Even in a reprimand, his instinct was to run to me for comfort, for he wanted me to express a loving voice to him again. And once I did, the moment was over. Moving on.

Not so recently. The first time was because he had napped for only thirty minutes and woken up to cry for me to get him (he normally naps for almost two hours). At the thirty-minute mark, I did what I normally do—ignore his crying and hope that he goes back to sleep. This time, however, he just kept on crying. After twenty minutes, I decided the napping was not going to happen and so I went in to get him. Boy was he upset with me. Rather than opening his arms and wanting me to hold him, he, I believe consciously, stood on the opposite side of the crib, his back facing me, and refused to let me touch him. When I did, he evaded me even more—with emphatic actions, and I would say, even a look of betrayal on his face. The next thirty minutes was my wavering from ignoring him to consoling him—not knowing which was the wiser action. But soon, I realized, neither worked. Eventually, he cooled down on his own, and just like that, he was back to being happy Nathaniel again. After the incident, I was left flabbergasted and exasperated. What was that? (Passive aggression in an eighteen-month-old?)

The second time was today. And I have to say, I still do not know what set him off. One minute, we were reading stories together and he was having lots of fun making sounds that corresponded to the all-too-familiar pages, and the next minute, he just lost it (he must have been motioning for something and I hadn't been paying attention). Thinking that the best way for him to learn not to go off like that was to ignore him, I went over to the keyboard in the same room and started playing music, pretending that there was no wailing baby in the room. This got him even more upset. The wailing grew louder. I began to think, Okay, he just wants my attention, so I am purposely not going to give it to him. I turned to my wailing son, and said sternly, “Stop.” He didn’t, of course. So I returned to playing music on the keyboard. In a matter of minutes, my son was on the floor, tears streaming down his face, booger from his nose. I looked at him, sympathetically. I asked myself, What is the right thing to do?

Sometimes, I forget to hand over to God the “small” things. I forget that in these moments when I find it impossible to discern what the right action should be, I can ask Him for wisdom. But I need to. I need to remind myself to see the bigger vision, and that is that I am raising Nathaniel for the purpose of bringing God the glory.

And so, with my desperate, wailing son in the background, I whisper a quick prayer in my head. God, help me here. And then it came to me—almost instantly. I looked at Nathaniel, and I said to him, “I love you, Nathaniel. Even when you get mad, I love you. No matter how you are, I will always love you.”

In a matter of seconds, Nathaniel’s crying began to die down. He walked up to me, and for the first time in what seemed like unending minutes, he let me embrace him. Inside, I was in tears. I had been sitting on the floor with my back to the couch, and my son had walked up to me and laid his head on my belly. He began to suck his fingers (something he does when he really needs to soothe himself). His eyes were closed, and for a second, I thought he was about to fall asleep. But he was not tired at all. He just wanted to be with me. Just wanted to know that I loved him.

Motherhood humbles you. Because in the everyday routine, things seem so simple. But for the routine task, sometimes there are variations. One parental strategy might work one day, but not the next. Nathaniel could love his vegetables one day, and hate it the next. He could sleep through his naps for a whole month, and have a few days where he refuses to. He could behave his best in public, save for that one day when, for some reason, he does not. With a toddler in my hands now, I have learned that so much of motherhood is about instinct, trial and error, self-discipline, and above all, relying on the grace of God.

Without God as my guide and strength, in my present tired and exasperated state, I would feel dazed, disoriented, doubtful of my own abilities as a mother. But with God, I have hope—because I am not relying on my own wisdom, my own sinful ways, and my own inexperience and ignorance. I have His sacred Word. I have the power of prayer. And I have the Spirit in me moving me in directions that I did not even know I needed to go. And for that I give my God my utmost praise. For that, I say, Amen.

Personal Holiness: The Anatomy of Confessing Our Sins

This morning, I came across a chapter entitled “Personal Holiness” in the book that I’m reading. I was particularly moved by the author’s exposition on the relationship between personal holiness and confession of sin. I pretty much quoted half the chapter—only because it was hard to find a passage that could be omitted. I hope you will find time to read the following excerpt in its entirety—and find it as edifying and freeing as I did:

“Now confession of sin and personal holiness do not refer to the same thing. Confession of sin is a sine qua non of personal holiness, but it is not the same thing as personal holiness. Growth in grace is not the immediate result of a negative process. If a houseplant is knocked over, and the pot is broken, the plant must be repotted if it is to continue to grow. But repotting a plant is not the same thing as the plant growing. Without the replanting the growth will not happen, but the replanting does not automatically ensure growth.

Growth in grace depends on the means of grace established by God: word and sacrament, faithful worship, practical obedience. But if unconfessed sin is deliberately ignored, the growth will always be stunted, no matter how much the means of grace are applied. The shattered pot and houseplant on the floor can be faithfully watered and the curtains pulled back so that sunlight gets to it, but the plant is still doomed. Far too many Christian attend worship services, sing hymns and psalms, and partake of the Lord’s Supper, but they still cling to their sins, refusing to confess them. They forget that all their behavior is before the presence of the God who has said that He cannot endure iniquity and solemn assembly (Is. 1:13).
…

So what is true confession? A person who confesses sin is doing something like this: In prayer to God, he names the sin, taking care to use the same name that the Bible uses. He does this because he is repentant and has turned away from that sin, rejecting it entirely. He thanks God for His promised forgiveness and resolves by God’s grace to make restitution where appropriate. Such restitution is necessary with sins such as lying, theft, open bitterness, and sexual infidelity.

Scripture is very clear on the need for confession: “He that covereth his sins shall not prosper: but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy” (Prov. 28:13). And the Word is equally clear that He will surely forgive: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9).

We have to be careful in dealing with this area. We must first consider what confession of sin is and is not. Unless we think properly about this, we will stumble doctrinally, and instead of receiving help from our confession, we will get ourselves into a horrible mess. One of the first principles to remember is that confession is not meritorious—to confess sins as a way of placing God in one’s debt is not dealing with sin; it is committing another sin. The context of all confession must be a thorough grasp of the free grace of justification. Put it another way, confession is one of the duties of our sanctification; it is not something we contribute to our justification.

Positively stated, confession is agreement. The word for confess in 1 John 1:9 is homolegeo, which means that we are to agree with God about our sin. It means “to speak the same.” Adultery is adultery and not “an inappropriate relationship.” Lying is lying and not “creative diplomacy.”

We also have to make sure our motives for confession is right. There are many good motives, but three motives for confession should be sufficient to encourage us to do what we need to do. First, confession is required by God; God requires believers to confess their sins in an ongoing way. The texts we have considered make the point very plain. To obey Him in any way glorifies Him, and obedience in this matter is no exception. Obedience is a sufficient motive. Second, confession of sin protects loved ones; in the context we have been discussing, it protects the school. Because Achan hid his sin, the nation of Israel was defeated in battle, and his family was executed. We never sin in isolation, however hidden we may believe the sin to be. And third, confession restores the soul. God disciplines us when we are living with unconfessed sin, a truth we see plainly in Scripture. “For whom the lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth” (Heb. 12:6). God dealt severely with David in his sin. “For day and night thy hand was heavy upon me” (Ps. 32:4). Because this is disciplinary and not punitive, the sooner we learn the lesson and confess, the better it is for us. Moreover, confession establishes the soul. The difference between an unrepentant sinner and believers who are walking with God is not that he or she sins and they do not. The difference is found in the fact that they pick up after themselves.

But we still run from God’s chastening. We do not want the blow to our pride that confession of sin brings. Confession is clearly the right thing to do but still hard to swallow. So we come up with many reasons for not swallowing.

One of the things we do is trivialize the sin: We say that it is too small to confess. We do not want to annoy God with our petty problems… Or perhaps we surrender to the sin: We say that the sin is too big to confess; it is more powerful than God, and we give up all attempts to be free from it. This is the counsel of despair (Isa. 1:18)…

We may justify the sin, saying that what we did was really all right. “The adulteress wipes her mouth and says she has done no wrong (Prov. 30:20)… And we excuse the sin, admitting that our behavior was wrong, but claiming extenuating circumstances. Saul excused his sin when Samuel did not arrive on time, and the soldiers were deserting the army (1 Sam 13:12)…

Another popular approach is to reassign the sin. We blame someone else. Consider the example of Adam and Eve: “The woman You gave me.” “The serpent beguiled me.”..

We can ignore the sin: We hope that the problem will disappear if we ignore it long enough. We hope that everything will just fix itself. We look the other way. A similar technique is putting off dealing with the sin: We know that the sin will have to be dealt with sometime and so, we reason, why not tomorrow? But the Bible says that if we hear His voice today, we should not harden our hearts (Heb. 4:7). “I know I have to seek their forgiveness sometime. Maybe later.” Another method is to hide the sin: Adam and Even sought to do this in the Garden (Gen. 3:8). They heard the Maker of heaven and earth coming, so they decided to hide in the bushes.” …

The method employed by the very proud is to embrace the sin: This is rebellion and defiance. We say that we will not confess—a common response when the sin is anger, bitterness, or pride… Or we could buy the sin: This happens when restitution is required, and we see the cost as too high to pay. But of course, true restitution is not a cost at all…

And last there are those who theologize the sin: We do this when we have important doctrinal or theological reasons for our refusal to confess. “I am justified, so I don’t need to.” “The corporate confession at church is adequate” (1 John 1:10)…

But it is impossible to make a good omelet with rotten eggs… The whole thing stinks. The enterprise is comparable to insisting on rotten eggs as ingredients and then determining to make the omelet good by improving the kitchen, firing the cook, or changing the recipe. Refusal to deal with sin as sin is folly, pure, and simple.”

Excerpt taken from Douglas Wilson’s The Case for Classical Christian Education, pages 171-175. (bold mine)

After reading this passage, I thought about how tempting it is to oversimplify the Christian faith, and how much we lose by doing so. My devotions, my attending church or small group, my trying to be loving or kind to those around me. As if that’s the crux of being a Christian.

Owning up to the sins in our life is part and parcel of being a Christian. To get past my pride—and genuinely, transparently confess my sins before God requires my understanding of what God requires of me when it comes to dealing with the sins in my life—be it those I’ve committed in the past, those I am tempted to commit today, or the ones that I fear I will succumb to in the future. So often, I am guilty of being the escape artist—as Wilson describes above. I maintain that I want to grow spiritually, and yet I turn a blind eye on the sins in my life—be it big or small. As if—as long as nobody knows about it, the sin isn’t that bad.

On the flip side, doing away with my sins in any of the ways that Wilson identifies ultimately robs me of my prospects of truly experiencing God’s infinite grace, his power to forgive, to accept me just as I am, to transform me, to deliver me from my battles with temptations to sin every day. If I were to come to my God in prayer, and dig deep, so deep that the ugliness from within me pokes its glaring face from under the ground—do I really trust my God as much as I say I do—that He, alone, holds the power to completely wipe out that ugliness? To make me beautiful again?

(I would go on, but I’ve used up 45 minutes of Nathaniel’s afternoon nap. Got a paper to write…)

A Perspective on Motherhood

I’ve been a mother–a stay-at-home-mom—for a little over fifteen months now. A question that sometimes surfaces in my conversations with people is, “Do you ever get bored?” The strange thing is—I don’t. And the answer surprises even me. A lot of the enjoyment of parenthood comes naturally owing to a reality that will come upon almost every parent: “Enjoy them. They grow up so fast.” I like the way the guy who did our landscaping this summer put it: “I had a kid because I thought it would slow down time. But it actually made time go by faster.”

Sometimes, when I’m exhausted while playing with Nathaniel, I lie down on the floor, let out a deep sigh, and watch him play on his own. For some reason, every time Nathaniel sees me lying down on the ground, he gets all excited, runs up to me, goes on his knees, and lays his head on my chest, as if he should be lying down with me too. My heart melts every time. The first three weeks of his life, the only way I could get any sleep was to get him to sleep, and the only way newborn Nathaniel was willing to sleep was if he was sleeping on my chest (they say it’s because they get so used to hearing the mother’s heartbeat in the womb). Even the husband has flashbacks when he witnesses our now toddler lying against me. “Remember when the length of his body was the width of yours?” (I’m so thankful my husband actually caught the moment on video–Nathaniel and I both sleeping in the wee hours of the morning when he was only a few weeks old.)

Every night, as his bedtime nears, I do anticipate it because I’m pooped and ready to have some down time (if I’m not too tired to enjoy it). But when morning comes, I’m eager to go at it all over again. Twelve hours later (yes, twelve hours!), I miss him. He was weaned at thirteen months and takes the bottle now; I nonetheless have kept up the routine. I lay him in our bed in the morning, and as he is drinking his milk from the bottle, I am lying next to him. I kiss his cheeks. I play with his feet and hands. I stroke his hair. I poke his nose. He stares back, starts playing with the protrusions on my face. Because I know that one day I am not going to be able to do such things anymore. Just like all the other little activities we do in the day. I can already picture it: God willing, on his wedding day, when he’s ready to go off on his own and start his own family—his mother is balling in the pews.

But it’s more than that. When you look at motherhood as a gift entrusted to you by God, your perspective changes. Suddenly, learning the words to old nursery rhymes (I didn’t even know the words to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” when motherhood began), playing basic games like peek-a-boo and ball-bouncing, reading the same books over and over and over again, coming up with silly diversions to get baby to eat his food—have spiritual implications. In Matthew 19:13-14, it says: “Then the children were brought to him that he might lay hands on them and pray. The disciples rebuked the people, but Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.” So often I have been just as guilty as the disciples. Now that Nathaniel is walking and roams freely and independently around the house, I can very easily get wrapped up in tending to household responsibilities. How many times has he run up to my leg, hugged it, wanting me to play with him, and I use a toy to distract him, only to return to my task? I have to remind myself sometimes that it’s okay to have a sink full of dirty dishes if Nathaniel is asking for a puppet show. I have to remind myself that though a puppet show doesn’t mean much to me, it means the world to him.

Back in high school, while reading the works of Elizabeth Elliot, I was deeply affected by a quote she gave of her husband Jim Elliot, a missionary who was martyred in the field in Ecuador. It has been a life principle for me ever since: “Wherever you are, be all there. Live to the hilt every situation you believe to be the will of God.” Motherhood—time and energy, heart and soul, devoted completely to raising your child—is the will of God. Just turn to Proverbs 31, which concludes this way in describing the role of the mother:

“Strength and dignity are her clothing,
and she laughs at the time to come.
She opens her mouth with wisdom,
and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.
She looks well to the ways of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children rise up and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praises her:
"Many women have done excellently,
but you surpass them all."
Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain,
but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.
Give her of the fruit of her hands,
and let her works praise her in the gates.”

Before I became a mother, I had this selfish fear. Adoring reading and writing so much, I feared that a baby would rob me of what I love doing most. When I became a mother, I learned that God is sovereign and faithful; I learned that the more I commit my time and attention to raising Nathaniel, the more time He gives me to do the things I love most. By this I do not mean that the things I love most are able to somehow remain as much as a priority as the child that God has entrusted to me. What it means is that God enables me to continue doing the things I love most while at the same time taming my appetite so that I do not love them more than my child. Because raising God’s child is part of His will, you can rest assured that you will not be left alone to carry out the task. (Don’t forget to pray!)

I am thankful for writers like Dr. James Dobson, Douglas Wilson, and R.C. Sproul Jr., who have taken the time to write about the biblical perspective on parenting. Such writers remind me that, as a mother, I am not simply feeding, changing, playing with, or even teaching right-wrong lessons to my child—but I am nurturing his soul. I love the way R.C. Sproul puts it in his book When You Rise Up (the title is an allusion to the instruction in Deuteronomy 6:4-9, which outlines the responsibility of parents) where he explains what it means for us when we believe that children are a blessing from God: "Once we are settled in this biblical truth, we will see our children as a profound opportunity to be about the business of building the kingdom of God.”

Nathaniel is fifteen-months-old. This means, much to the thrill of his parents, he is beginning to exert his own will quite determinedly.

A week ago, Nathaniel took a pen out of my pencil case. We were in my room and I was folding laundry while he was exploring on his own. I glanced over to his direction when I noticed him being very quiet. I found him holding the cap in one hand, and the pen in the other. He was trying to keep his hands steady so he could put the cap on the pen. Spending time with Nathaniel day-in, day-out, I know that he has a short fuse when it comes to not being able to complete a task on his own. Seeing that his hands were tilted, which prevented him from being able to put cap and pen together, I placed each of my hands on his to straighten them up. He then, successfully, put cap and pen together. But this wasn’t good enough. Nathaniel wanted to do it again, without my help. But each time he did it, I helped him a bit. After several attempts, I decided that I had to let him do it on his own, or else he was never going to put the cap and pen down. But he couldn’t do it. In fact, he was so frustrated that he couldn’t do it, he threw the pen on the floor, began to wail, and even kicked the pen a few times to express just how frustrated he was. So I slowly picked up the cap and pen, put them back in his hands, and explained to him that he needed to be patient and to not give up (though I know that he doesn’t understand a word I’m saying, I’ve learned that gestures and tone of voice communicate just as much as words do).

I can say that this rather mundane activity lasted a good twenty minutes. I can also say that I treasured those twenty minutes. The romantic in me regarded the moment as genuinely beautiful. And then I thought—what if I hadn’t been in the room when Nathaniel was attempting to put cap and pen together? What if I was too busy to notice what this baby was doing on his own in the far corner of the room? What if the moment was lost—simply because I thought that the everyday things, the little things, the ordinary things didn't matter? That they were dull, boring? That they didn’t somehow add up to becoming part of his soul?

The amazing, miraculous thing is that, when God’s kingdom comes into focus, all of it matters. Because all of it is how the message of the gospel impresses upon these little hearts. “Older women… are to teach what is good, and so train the young women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled, pure, working at home, kind, and submissive to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be reviled.” Titus 2:3-5

And then there is the command to parents in Deuteronomy 6:4-9:

“Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might. And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise. You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.”

When you sit… when you walk… when you lie down… when you rise… Mothers, I pray that every moment with our children be offered on the altar to our most gracious and loving God.

A Night of Nostalgia

This past weekend, we celebrated my dad’s fifty-eighth birthday. My sister came up with an idea: the dinner celebration would be just the five of us—Mom, Dad, my sister, my brother, and me. Our husbands would stay home, take care of the kids, and put them to bed.

With their children leaving the nest and beginning lives of their own, my parents have probably become used to the level of activity that takes place during our family get-togethers. Oftentimes, the children are the source of entertainment. Meals take place at home more than in public restaurants (it’s a whole lot easier to handle four very active kids). Setting the table for a meal usually requires counting and then recounting the number of bodies in the room. It’s either multiple conversations take place at the dinner table simultaneously, or single conversations remain brief because of the attention the children regularly need.

Last night, the five of us opted for meeting at a Japanese restaurant near our residences. However, after waiting for fifteen minutes or so after we sat down, neither of the two waitresses in the restaurant served us. They barely looked in our direction when we waved to them (I’ve had problems with this restaurant franchise before). Given that this was our special evening with the family, we were not willing to put up with subpar service, so my mom suggested we get up and leave.

Rather than taking all of our separate cars, my mom decided that all of us should go into my dad’s car and he’d just drop us off at the parking lot to pick up our cars when we were done dinner. Of course, my sister and brother had to joke that the shortest person had to sit in the middle—which was me. So there we three siblings were, jammed in the backseat together, asking my parents, “So where are we going?” Everyone in the car must have been feeling or thinking the same thing—when was the last time the five of us sat in my parents’ car, like our childhood days, waiting for my dad to drive us to the destination, meanwhile the siblings talked and joked—as if we were the same brothers and sisters a decade, even two decades ago?

We ended up going to Moxie’s. The waitress seated us in a corner booth. We looked at our menus. (Whenever the children decide to treat either of the parents to a meal for a special occasion, my mom usually tries to order something “cheap” so that the bill won’t be too high for us. She doesn’t have to—but every time she does it, I’m reminded of how she never stops thinking of us, no matter how old we get.) My sister and I scanned the menu, our indecisiveness probably stemming from the unfamiliar feeling of freedom—wow, we get to eat a meal without worrying about having to feed the kids sitting next to us—what to eat, what to eat?

Now, if I’m talking about family, and how it used to be with the five us, then I have to say—my dad going on for thirty minutes, talking about work, would usually be interrupted by my mom. “Okay… no more talking about work,” she used to say. “This is family time.” But, last night, there was no interruption. Partly because it was his birthday—so all of us yielded to my dad being the focus of the conversation.

Besides jokes, anecdotes, funny stories about the children, and arbitrary sharing—discussions also centered on the spiritual and theological. My dad, as usual, prayed before we ate our meal. The subject of salvation came up—those in our circle whom we were praying for, who were suffering, who were living in darkness, and deeply needed to hear the gospel. My sister began talking about how her eldest daughter is very eager to share about Jesus with the children around her. This is childlike faith, she observed. How far away are we from sharing about our faith like children? With no reservations. With enthusiasm. With love. But I remember we used to be like that, I replied. Back in the primary grades, I used to bring the Bible to school and tell people about Jesus. I remember even sitting in class once and memorizing Bible verses with one of my classmates. That’s how our parents raised us. They were always willing to drive our school friends to church with us on Sunday’s.

For two hours last night, it was refreshing and heartwarming to relive old times with the family again.

~ ~ ~

About a month ago, Lee and I watched a DVD video of one of Rev. Charles Price’s sermons, which I believe was entitled “Experiencing the Parenthood of God” (I should have taken notes while I was listening to it!) One of the points he made was the importance of establishing family traditions. Help your children develop good memories of the past so that one day, when they grow up, even if they stumble upon a dark place in their adult life, they will always have with them memories of a good time, good place. A place they can return to. Be comforted by. Feel the goodness of. When your children think of home, “God” should be on their minds.

I think, last night, I was moved to think about the advice that Rev. Charles Price gave. While my family has had its up’s and down’s, of course, like any other family—the good humour, the camaraderie, the spiritual depth and understanding among all of us—made me swell up in warmth, thankfulness, joy, and wonder. I praise my Father in Heaven for creating families, families built on more than just a superficial foundation, but a meaningful one, an eternal one.

I look forward to Lee and I carrying out our own traditions for the family we have started. God willing, I pray that one day Nathaniel will be able to look back on his childhood, and—by the grace of God—feel the profundity of the faith that our family has nurtured.

Praying for Discernment in Parenting

Fourteen-month Nathaniel is really starting to express himself. I’ve done my best to establish some form of communication system with him to minimize the “yelling” and the “whining.” The situation has been improving. Most of the time, he signs “please,” “more,” and “help,” and knows to say “thank you” if I cue him.

But since he still doesn’t know how to talk (and I can’t reason with him), he can become quite frustrated when he’s trying to communicate something to me, and I just don’t get it.

Or when Nathaniel tries to perform a more challenging task on his own—fitting different shaped blocks into their respective holes, building a tower with blocks, trying to take a toy apart and reassemble it—if he doesn’t get it after the second, third, fourth try, he begins to bang on the toy or cry (if I happen to not be around to assist or guide him).

Or when he’s sitting on the high chair and he points to the fridge or the pantry, communicating that he wants a snack to eat, but I can’t give it to him because he has yet to finish his actual healthy meal. He gets upset (though this doesn’t happen often). Sometimes, he’ll purposely drop the food he’s eating on the floor to express his protestation.

For the most part, I tell myself that I can’t let him win the battle. I sit in front of him, for what feels like a very long time, and make him eat his meal. He’s in tears, and I’m exasperated. Or I raise my voice, give him a stern look, and shake my head, “No, no.” Last week, when I had done the latter, he stared back at me with those big, perplexed eyes, and began clapping his hands, as if applauding my performance (I tried not to chuckle). Clearly, he didn’t get what I was trying to do, or maybe he thought if he tried being “cute” I would lose the stern face.

There are times when I am unsure of whether I’m doing the right thing. Sometimes I wonder whether I’m being too strict—is he too young to understand what I expect of him? Other times, I wonder whether I’m being too lenient—maybe he’s old enough to understand the meaning behind his actions.

The husband and I are currently reading Douglas Wilson’s Standing on the Promises: A Handbook for Biblical Childrearing. Though the days of exasperation are few (one thing I’ve learned: don’t let those harder days rob you of your enjoying your child)—when I do feel concerned about my dealings with Nathaniel, I am deeply comforted that Lee and I do not have to stand alone in our parenting. The Bible is full of wisdom on how to parent children. Not only that, the Bible is full of promises for the future of our children if we obey God’s instruction on childrearing.

I feel uplifted and encouraged by Douglas Wilson’s book so far. Not only because he is so scriptural but because he is so firm in what the Bible does say about the raising of our children. Consider the introductory chapter:

“Parents are responsible to maintain a biblical culture in the home through loving discipline, teaching, and prayer, and by screening all the sinful cultivating influences coming from the outside world—whether on television, on the radio, in books, at school, or from friends.

This means that children should view the home as not simply the place where they eat and sleep, but where they are taught and shaped. They should view home as the center of their world. They should see it as their primary culture—and always view the larger culture in the light of what they have learned at home.” (11)

Upon reading this, parents may feel overwhelmed by the burden that seems to be placed on them. But, again, what gives us determination is that we do not do it alone. We have clear instruction from God’s Word. We know that we can hold God to His Word. Consider how Wilson ends the chapter:

“Some may object and say that this is a burden that no fallen parent can bear—who is sufficient for these things? The answer of course is that in ourselves none of us is sufficient. But these promises were given, not to the angels, but to us. The angels could be perfect parents, except they are not parents. The promises of the covenant are given to forgiven sinners. And because they are gospel promises they are ours by grace through faith. Christian parents should anticipate seeing their children grow up knowing the Lord. This should not be seen as an oddity—the oddity should be children who fall away… For covenantally faithful parents, because the promise of Scripture cannot be broken, the Lord’s gracious calling of our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren is something in which we can rest.” (21)

Throughout the book, Wilson lays out the duties of parents as taught in Scripture, but points out the three basic duties of parents:

1. Personal obedience yourself (Col. 2:21). In a Christian home the children are under the authority of parents who are under authority themselves. Nothing undermines godly parenting more than hypocrisy. When children see that they are expected to be obedient to the parents’ authority while the parents have no such expectation for themselves, the results are regularly disastrous.

2. Intercession for your children (Job 1:5). As the context makes clear, Job was righteous in what he was doing. Not only did Job pray for his children, he did so as their representative. Our modern mentality is that the home is simply a traditional cultural system for organizing roommates. But Job did not pray for his children because he liked them, or because he was close to them. He prayed because he was responsible. He offered sacrifice for their sin.

3. Instruction in God’s standards (Deut. 6:4-9). We must notice that the greatest commandment is given to us in the context of a passage on bringing up our children with a Christian education. Parents are to teach their children the law of God, and they are to do so without ceasing. We see here a life-style of teaching the standards of God. (37-38)

By the grace of God—every day is a new day to do it all over again. I pray that Lee and I endure. That we don’t take shortcuts. That he, and I, and us, in our marriage, be sanctified—so that it may glorify Him, and so that Nathaniel will grow up in this home—this world—seeing God. I pray that Nathaniel will one day unearth the absolute joy that knowing the Creator brings. God, show us mercy when we fail, when we sin. Be patient with us. We are slow at learning. Fill every crevice of this home. Amen.

The Shadow of Death

With the recent deaths in the celebrity world this past week, it is not surprising that we are bombarded by so much media coverage of their lives. While I’ve always been out of touch with popular culture, I, myself, can’t help but get sucked into the stories. Not so much because of the drama or the hype that’s been in the air waves—but because I find it intriguing that, in a society where people pride themselves in being able to successfully and happily live their lives free of a God, when Death comes, people are scrambling to make meaning out of the lives of the deceased, they are scrambling for the truth.

We have to know how MJ died. As if, by knowing, his ending would somehow become less tragic. As if, by knowing, Death—especially when it catches us off guard—would somehow be more acceptable to us. (But doesn’t Death always catch us off guard?)

We have to make sense of his weaknesses. We have to make sense of the choices he made: we glorify his good; we try to give an account for or excuse his bad. Because, in the end, when it is all over, deep inside of us, we can’t be at peace until we feel he has been absolved of all that had gone wrong with him, until we can reach far back into the past and revive the good, as if it had been there all along, and never left, as if it had never been forgotten.

We see this in the papers. Old photos of him, with that childlike innocence seen in the glimmer of his big, hopeful eyes. We hear it on the radio. Familiar tunes that make us travel back in time (I remember performing with my class “We Are the World” in an assembly in primary school.) We watch it on television. The powers of video editing to slap together clips, fill in the gaps—to construct a story that appeases the viewer, “You see? It’s all right. He was a good person after all. He went wrong at this point… and this point… but here’s why…” We read it on the Internet—people’s responses pouring in, paying tribute to his life. We always, always need to highlight the good. Deep in our gut, we can’t go on, we can’t let go, until we’ve done it.

In the Christian faith, we call “bad choices”—Sin—and nobody is without it. We look for Meaning in life because that is how God has designed it. We yearn for absolution from our transgressions because we were created to seek Redemption.

As real as Death is, so is our bewilderment every time it hits us. We refuse to believe that it’s the end. We can’t. Either we immortalize him in this life (just look at his current record sales). Or we nonchalantly declare, “At last, he’s at peace”—meaning that we do hope that, on the other side of this life, there is indeed a better place, a place of peace, a place where everything is right or as it ought to be.

C.S. Lewis, in his essay, “The Weight of Glory,” wrote:

“A man's physical hunger does not prove that that man will get any bread; he may die of starvation on a raft in the Atlantic. But surely a man's hunger does prove that he comes of a race which repairs its body by eating and inhabits a world where eatable substances exist. In the same way, though I do not believe (I wish I did) that my desire for Paradise proves that I shall enjoy it, I think it a pretty good indication that such a thing exists and that some men will. A man may love a woman and not win her; but it would be very odd if the phenomenon called 'falling in love' occurred in a sexless world. Here, then, is the desire, still wandering and uncertain of its object and still largely unable to see that object in the direction where it really lies.”

In times of death and tragedy, why do those who live like there is no God resort to using such words as—“Prayer,” “Miracle,” “Heaven”—that belong to the Eternal sphere?

Living under a pluralistic system where everyone’s religious beliefs (or absence of) are accepted is great practically speaking—we get to live life how we want, we don’t have to justify our choices, we don’t have to give an account to anyone about our actions—good or bad, no one has the right to judge us, we don’t tread on anyone else’s territory, we respect everyone by not saying a peep about what they ought to believe—but worthless when it comes to dying, or facing our mortality. When someone is dying of a sickness and needs a cure, the last thing he wants is for one to courteously open a large cabinet of medicine, and say, “Here you go, take your pick.” We want the remedy, the treatment, the sure thing.

“And after that, you may come (some do) to believe that that voice- like the rest, I must speak symbolically- that voice which speaks in your conscience and in some of your intensest joys, which is sometimes so obstinately silent, sometimes so easily silenced, and then at other times so loud and emphatic, is in fact the closest contact you have with the mystery; and therefore finally to be trusted, obeyed, feared and desired more than all other things. But still, if you are a different sort of person, you will not come to this conclusion.”
—C.S. Lewis, Christian Reflections, "The Seeing Eye"

Samuel Pearce & Excerpts from his Memoir

One of my assignments was to write an article of 300 words about Samuel Pearce for a dictionary of Christian Spirituality. Here was my article:

Pearce, Samuel

Samuel Pearce (1766-1799), converted in 1782, was trained at Bristol Baptist Academy between 1786 and 1789, afterward becoming pastor of Cannon Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, of the Calvinistic Baptist denomination, from 1789 until his death. Pearce’s life and ministry was characterized by what he described as “heart religion”: the more he recognized the effects of sin, the more he clung to the Cross. His preaching centered on the crucified Christ. Manifested in his preaching, family life, and relationships were remarkable humility, sincerity, and self-sacrifice. Author of his memoir and friend, Andrew Fuller, identified Pearce’s governing principle as “holy love.” His congregation thrived under his ministry, his preaching known to elicit tears from hearers.

Pearce was passionate about bringing the gospel of God’s grace to unbelievers—in his church and globally. In 1792, he helped form the Baptist Missionary Society, which sent William Carey and John Thomas to India. In 1794, Pearce himself felt called to join them, although the committee declined his request, their reason being that his existing role was so instrumental that he would serve the cause better by staying in England. Initially disappointed, Pearce’s peaceful acceptance of the committee’s decision proved his trust in the sovereign will of God. Neither did his zeal for missions dissipate, for he shifted his energies to the home front. As Pearce saw it, his whole life’s purpose was to glorify God and build his Church.

In 1798, severe illness forced Pearce to withdraw from public duty, which providentially enabled him to produce writing that would edify generations to come. His letters and diary reveal the true piety of his Christian character. Pearce died a year later, leaving behind his wife Sarah and five children. Upon death, he spoke boldly of his faith: “It is a religion for a dying sinner.”

From Andrew Fuller’s A Heart for Missions: The Classic Memoir of Samuel Pearce

ON SPIRITUAL FRIENDSHIPS AND JOURNALLING

“Get two or three of the students, whose piety you most approve, to meet for one hour in a week for experimental conversation and mutual prayer. I found this highly beneficial, though, strange to tell, by some we were persecuted for our practice!

Keep a diary. Once a week at farthest call yourself to an account as to what advances you have made in your different studies; in divinity, history, language, natural philosophy, style, arrangement, and, amidst all, do not forget to inquire, Am I more fit to serve and to enjoy God than I was last week?” (109,emphasis mine)

THE PITFALL OF LETHARGY AND SELF-COMPLACENCY

“I love the man who tenderly feels for the souls of the poor heathen. What a reflection is it on the philanthropy of every Christian country that no more pains have been taken to carry the light of eternal life to those nations that sit in darkness in the shadow of death! What a lapse of time since the Reformation! But how have its wasting years been improved to this important end? We and our fathers have thought, and spoken, and written, and heard, and read about Christian benevolence; we have investigated its nature, admired its beauty, contended for its importance to the Christian character, whilst, like the unapproved servant, though we knew our Master’s will, we did it not. Almost the whole Christian world have partaken of the common lethargy… They have satisfied themselves without any positive exertions, and lain down dozing, dozing at their ease… But I hope the time is come when we shall, every man, look no longer at his own things only, but the things of others.” (43)

ON DYING

“I find myself getting weaker and weaker, and so my Lord instructs me in his pleasure to remove me soon You say well, my dear brother, that at such a prospect I ‘cannot complain.’ No, blessed be His dear name who shed his blood for me, he helps me to rejoice at times with joy unspeakable. Now I see the value of the religion of the cross. It is a religion for a dying sinner. It is all the most guilty, the most wretched can desire. Yes, I taste its sweetness, and enjoy its fullness, with all the gloom of a dying bed before me. And far rather would I be the poor emaciated and emaciating creature that I am, than be an emperor, with every earthly good about him—but without a God!”. (133)

UPON FACING DEATH, PEARCE’S LETTER TO HIS GRIEVING WIFE:

“Forgive me, my dearest Sarah, if I have in the smallest degree been ‘severe.’ I saw that your tender heart was overwhelmed. I could not see it without anguish. I realized your prospects, and did not wonder that you felt as a creature; but I feared you did not make use of your privilege as a Christian.

I long to lead your mind for comfort to an immortal source; to a God who is both able and willing to do far more abundantly for you than you can ask or think. You can think of being supported under the trial which is now before you, but God can do more; he can make you happy under it, and thankful for it. The second year of our marriage it seemed as though you were to be taken from me. O how my heart was torn at the prospect! And yet, in the midst of it, the Lord was so pleased to calm my mind and to reconcile me to his blessed will that I had not a wish for your life, if he saw fit to take it! He can, and he will, I trust, do the same by you. Only cast your burden upon him, and he hath said, ‘I will sustain thee.’” (138)

FULLER ON PEARCE IN THE CONCLUSION OF HIS MEMOIR

“Finally, in [Pearce] we see that the way to true excellence is not to affect eccentricity, nor to aspire after the performance of a few splendid actions; but to fill up our lives with a sober, modest, sincere, affectionate, assiduous, and uniform conduct. –Real greatness attaches to character; and character arises from a course of action.” (173)

Impact of Missions on Spiritual Life

I had the opportunity to take a course at TBS in May, Theologians of the Christian Tradition. In the four-day crash course, we studied the lives and works of John Calvin, John Bunyan, Charles Wesley, and Andrew Fuller. In fact, I will continue to be knee-deep in reading for the next month or so, and will not have much time to blog.

Yet I'm coming across a lot of good stuff in my reading and wished I had the time to reflect and synthesize my thoughts. Since I only have Nathaniel's naps to do my course work, I really have to exercise discipline. Nonetheless, if time permits, I will include excerpts here and there, hopefully, for your personal edification as well.

Here is one for today:

"In one direction, when your love for Christ is enflamed and your grasp of the gospel is clear, a passion for world missions follows. In the other direction, when you are involved in missions—when you are laying down your life to rescue people from perishing—it tends to authenticate your faith, and deepen your assurance, and sweeten your fellowship with Jesus, and heighten your love for people, and sharpen your doctrines of Christ and heaven and hell. In other words, spiritual life and right doctrine are good for missions, and missions is good for spiritual life and right doctrine. "

John Piper, "Holy Faith, Worthy Gospel, World Vision" (to read this article, go to http://www.desiringgod.org/ResourceLibrary/Biographies/1977_Holy_Faith_Worthy_Gospel_World_Vision/)

Okay, back to work.

A Follow-up on my Previous Blog Entry

The day after I blogged about my previous entry, coincidentally, an imposing wooden fence was erected by one of our neighbours. For two days, I watched as the fence was built, disappointed that the beautiful view was going to be partially blocked. This neighbour has a dog that often roams freely in the backyard, and I was looking forward to Nathaniel's growing older so that he could enjoy the dog too. This neighbour also has a birdhouse, which is a lovely embellishment to the forest behind it.

Upon completion of the fence, a letter from those neighbours was left at our doorstep later this week. In the letter, the couple apologized for the negative feedback they've been receiving regarding the fence. They gave reasons, however, for their need for the fence. 1. Complaints from surrounding neighbours that the dog was roaming on their territory. 2. A rod iron fence (which would have been much less imposing) was too costly compared to a wooden one 3. The couple admit they are quiet people and value their privacy, and 4. The husband has extreme allergies and the large garden belonging to the neighbours makes it hard even for him to mow the lawn (i.e., the garden whose blossoming flowers, I said in my last entry, I really relished in).

Though I'm not happy about the wooden fence that now blocks my once unhindered view of the forest, I appreciate the fact that our neighbours offered an explanation as well as an apology. Their letter also made me realize that one really has to try to consider another person's point of view before passing judgment.

I Need Only Step Outside...

"The heavens declare the glory of God,
and the sky above proclaims his handiwork."
Psalm 19:1

For the first few years of our marriage, the husband and I lived in a condo. It wasn’t until we found out we were expecting that we decided it was best to move into a house to support our growing family.

During those initial years of condo living, I would catch glimpses of our neighbors in the hallway from time to time, wave “hi,” but rarely would anyone stay in the plain, empty, narrow hallway just to chat. Politely greeting one another, most of us already had our foot in the doorway, ready to disappear inside. As a result, I have come to really appreciate living in the neighbourhood we’re now in…

I love our backyard. It’s not big, but feels bigger because we have no imposing fence that separates our house from our neighbors. While privacy might be a concern for others, it isn’t for me. I enjoy the possibility that when I step out into the backyard, I might be able to exchange dialogue with any one of them. There’s something captivating about being able to peek, even for a moment, into the moving pictures of the lives of those around us…

Watching their children play, savoring the scent of deliciously prepared food roasting on the bbq, gazing at couples working hard at their gardens, eyeing the dog that’s chasing after the bright neon ball, spotting the rabbit hopping across our lawn, listening to the singing of the caged bird that the neighbor hangs on his deck or the hoot of the nearby owl… The tranquil beauty soothing the soul.

To top it off, our yard backs into a forest, specifically, resting perpendicular to our yard, so the rows of trees in the forest carry on into the distant blue sky, beyond my vision. Throughout the year, all I have to do is look out the kitchen window, or from the second floor, the master bedroom window, to view the changing faces of the forest—the glowing white of winter, the vibrant leaves of fall, the dancing and rustling leaves of spring… a complementary background to the blossoming flowers and bushes of the impressive garden resting below it.

As former condo-residents, Lee and I don’t have a clue about how to maintain our lawn. While all the neighbor’s lawns seem to showcase their creativity, diligence, and knowledge of how to sustain plant life—we’re scratching our heads and researching on how to save our dead, yellow grass and prevent another weed takeover. My sister has been trying to convince me to take up this whole gardening thing (what’s wrong with stealing her cucumbers and tomatoes or just taking advantage of the hard labor of our neighbors?).

But perhaps learning the skill of caring for plant life, that is, persevering and exercising patience in seeing the fruits of such an endeavor, might open my eyes to simply beholding more of God's magnificent creation.

The Art of Remembering

I became a serious journaller when I was about sixteen-years-old. Back in high school, when I had all the time in the world, a single entry could be as long as four thousand words. Thoughts would pour onto the computer screen without much filtering. I had some Kerouac ideal—believing that in order to be true to myself I had to unleash my thoughts in a sort of stream of consciousness. I didn’t even allow myself the luxury of rereading (and thereupon editing) my entry before hitting the print button. Once that last word was typed, the whole entry went straight to hard copy. Kind of like self-imposing a point of no return. You. It’s out there. No taking it back.

As years went by, time grew scarce, and so did my entries. In a desperate attempt to continue journaling, when oftentimes it was (sadly) the last thing on my mind, I resorted to expressing my thoughts—however fleeting, fragmented, and random—by hand in the decorative journals that I would frequently receive as gifts.

My mom told me that as a child I was always very quiet. Virtually all my report cards in grade school were the teachers’ comments that I needed to talk more. My mom told me that she had been gravely concerned about my shyness and introversion. Later on, when she noticed that I had begun writing, she was relieved. She understood that her children needed an outlet. In fact, it wasn’t until we were older that my mom told me that this was why she made all of her children learn instruments—she knew each of us needed some form of release.

Writing has always been a release for me. Morbid as it sounds, I always looked ahead to the future and thought—should the worst happen—at least I have 1) God, and thus prayer, 2) my writing, to save me.

I have an awful memory. If it weren’t for journaling, at least half of the things in my past would cease to exist simply because of the sheer ease in which I forgot them. The question is, If a memory is lost to time passing, does it exist?

But the act of recalling memories, or in my case, reading about them, is so vital to understanding how we have come to be. So often we take for granted who we are today. Or what we were. Or what we once wanted to be.

There are parts of ourselves that have changed for the better, and there are parts for the worse; there are agonizing complexities of our past that we have worked through, and there are beautiful simplicities that we alas no longer cherish; there are dreams and hopes that we once dwelled on yet never revisited, and there are ones that we unwittingly noted down again and again and again yet never saw them through.

Whatever the nature or circumstance surrounding these realities, they ultimately reveal truths about ourselves, and therefore, are replete with meaning—meaning that, if we were to probe deeper, would bring forth a larger understanding of ourselves, if not, a quiet thankfulness—for being alive, and being given the chance to taste the perpetual changing seasons of our lives.

Of course, nowadays, I don’t permit myself the indulgence of pouring my every thought onto paper. Maybe it’s because I choose not to. Maybe it’s because I no longer think it necessary. But I do know how invigorating it is to spontaneously and arbitrarily turn to a journal entry of mine now and then and read—simply to remember—and as a result of this virtually effortless act—to recover within me a longing to carry on.

Years ago, I watched the film Memento. The premise of the story always stayed with me whenever I thought about the whole act of journaling. In the story, the main character, Leonard, loses his short-term memory due to a brain trauma. His condition means that his brain is unable to store new memories. As a result, to survive his condition, Leonard keeps up a system of notes, photos, and tattoos in order to keep track of “facts” about himself and others. Leonard relies completely on his own self-made system. Whatever his notes, photos, and tattoos say—that is his reality—that is the reality that he chooses to know, to remember. Needless to say, an immense degree of trust is involved because Leonard himself is the one who decides what is recorded.

I don’t remember how old I was when I decided to do this—but at some point, I made a conscious decision to no longer record my embarrassing moments. I realized that I didn’t really want to remember those moments, and as long as I didn’t record them, those moments would vanish into the past, just as I would like them to.

I’m a bit more discerning when it comes to my angry moments, or any other moment that exposes a darker side of me. Some of them, I know, are best forgotten. But not all of them. Some of them I need to remember. Because they are a part of who I was, who I am, and more importantly, what I’ve been redeemed from.

For me, the act of journaling is one that continually reminds me of how my entire existence rests at the hands of the Living God. The tragically painful moments paint a portrait of life’s inevitable droughts and valleys, but at the same time, the eventual emergence of rain and glimpse of the mountains; the joyful moments, then, the grace of God in granting the miracle and beauty of healing.

On the other hand, the basic, bare, unembellished moments elicit anything from fondness, distress, tenderness, pity, amusement, regret to pure pleasure. I have found that as I’m writing, though I find nothing poetic about such sentences as—Lee held my hand, or Nathaniel smiled at me today, or Lee and I had a fight last night—they are as poetic as can be when I am standing far into the future, looking back. In their entirety, these moments multiply tenfold, a hundredfold, in meaning.

You see, in the end, the act of journaling is a spiritual process: it stipulates a faith that there will be a past worth looking back on, one that holds a story worth reliving, and for the writer, retelling, and for the Christian, revealing to the world the One to whom these pages belong.

Motherhood: Relinquishing Pride

When I was young, I recall on numerous occasions when my mom would sit around our kitchen table with other mothers. It wasn’t uncommon for mothers to casually discuss the accomplishments of their children, be it their grades, how well they were doing in piano, or whatnot. Overhearing their conversation, I would wonder why my mom never joined in on the conversation. We, her children, had achieved similar accomplishments—how come she didn’t partake in the dialogue in which parents were showing how proud they were of their children?

Then, when I grew older, my mom shared about how she felt during these moments—how she was resolved not to “show off” her children like other parents did. My mom never believed in playing favorites among me, my sister, and my brother, nor did she believe in playing the game that many other parents were playing when it came to seeing whose child shone the best when it came to awards, talents, and academic standing.

As a mother of an eleventh-month-old baby, I am already beginning to witness how easy it is to become overly proud of my baby. Sometimes, the temptation is very subtle and if one isn’t careful, one might not even realize the danger in it. Many times, the friends, family, and strangers who interact with mother-child do so with the most thoughtful of intentions. What harm can there be when a sweet, lovable, innocent baby is the object of everyone’s affections?

At church, at the grocery store, in social gatherings—I hear people’s praise of the baby almost on a weekly basis. And that’s great. Praise on. (It’s a great encouragement to me, of course!)

He is so cute.

It’s good that he can do __________. [insert baby skill]

He’s so well-behaved.

You’re feeding him well.

I am beginning to notice it more and more as Nathaniel is approaching his first birthday—as he is gradually becoming his own.

Nathaniel is eleven-months-old as of this week and he has yet to begin crawling. But at this age, many people, though often for pure conversation’s sake, ask about what Nathaniel can do. And sometimes, I catch myself giving a reason as to why Nathaniel can’t do a certain thing, when, in reality, I really do not owe anyone a reason. It means nothing whether I give a reason or not.

It made me realize how much a child can be a source of pride—when he or she shouldn’t be—because ultimately—Nathaniel is a gift from God. My only goal is to raise him so that he knows who his God is and so whom he is to please.

Yet so often, we, parents, try to please—or impress—everyone else. Whether it’s how we dress our child, or when we teach our child new skills, we want others to witness our child’s beauty or endowments. And though, many times, our desires may be sincere—we have to be careful that we don’t go too far. Humility is hard to come by, but it becomes easier when we realize that every facet of our child’s being is from God and God alone.

When our family is at home spending time with Nathaniel, all we do is enjoy our time with him. Nathaniel is very often all smiles, sitting in his play area, exploring his toys, talking to himself, once in a while looking over to Mommy or Daddy’s direction to elicit a smile, and when we smile, he almost always smiles back. Alone in our household, Nathaniel just has to be his delightful, adorable little self—and we, his parents, are happy.

As I think back to my childhood days of my mom’s restraint when it came to parading her children— whom she loved and was proud of—before others, I am grateful that I have an example to follow.


(I’ve been meaning to blog on this subject for a while, but decided to do so today because I came across this article while surfing: http://www.focusonthefamily.ca/parenting/motherhood/my-baby-is-better-than-your-baby )

Memories of a Miracle

For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful, I know that full well.

My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place.
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,
your eyes saw my unformed body.
All the days ordained for me
were written in your book
before one of them came to be.

~Psalm 139

As Nathaniel approaches his first year in a month, I get teary with every tiny thing he does. Feeding him before bedtime, cradling him in my arms before I lay him in his crib, drinking in his curious babbling, resting next to him and the husband on our Queen-sized bed on Saturday mornings… I praise God for each and every one of these moments – as much as I anticipate many more moments to come.

The day Nathaniel came into this world – last year, on Mother’s day, at 10:41 p.m. – is still so vivid to me. The scenes play like a movie in my mind…


I realized in retrospect that I had been experiencing contractions at least a week before Your arrival. I just didn’t know they were contractions. Sharp, shooting pain jabbing at my lower back. I simply thought that as I was approaching the fortieth week of pregnancy, You just really wanted to remind me that You were in there.

Saturday, the day before Your arrival, Lee and I went for a stroll in our neighbourhood. Lee had to take tiny steps because I was walking like a penguin. We saw a sign, “Open House,” on the lawn of one of the houses on our street. We jumped at the opportunity to stick our noses in someone else’s house, just to see what it looked like. When we left the house, the real estate agent wished us the best with the baby. When is the baby due, she asked. Any day now, we replied.

As we walked on the street, a dog jumped out of an SUV on one of the neighbour’s driveway. It started running toward me, barking loudly. Afraid of big dogs, my heart leapt, and at that moment, You kicked me real hard. That’s how connected we were, Nathaniel. You reacted to my fear.

In the evening, our College & Career small group met at our house to plan for programs for the next quarter. I volunteered to take the minutes. As I was writing, I told everyone that I would have the minutes typed out and sent to everyone during the week. A wise member of the group responded skeptically–and I, naively–said that I still had five days before the baby was due.

As I was writing the minutes, I felt that sharp, shooting pain in my back again. I winced, and I recall a member of the group saying to my belly, Don’t hurt your mommy, okay?

Late Saturday evening, before bed, Lee and I were in the bedroom. I was organizing the closet, or folding laundry or something. Suddenly, I came out of the closet, looked at Lee, and told him that I was feeling that sharp, shooting pain in the back again. Soon after, I returned to whatever chore I was tending to. I must have repeated this action two or three times, before Lee said to me, I think you’re in labour. I was skeptical. So Lee took out the five-dollar stopwatch he had bought at Wal-Mart weeks earlier for this precise moment, and said, Tell me when the pain stops. Now, I said. Then I tell him when the pain starts again. We did this several times. The pain was occurring consistently twelve minutes apart.

It’s amazing how much the psychological has to do with the pain you’re feeling. Because the moment I realized I was actually in labour, the sharp, shooting pain jabbing at my back felt even more acute (or maybe because I knew that, as I had learned from our prenatal class, that they were only going to intensify in time).

We turned off the lights and went to bed. I laid on my side, holding a pillow, squeezing it for dear life every time the contractions came. The pregnancy book said that if labour began at night, that the mother ought to try to get some shuteye beforehand because she was definitely going to need it for the actual labour. I would like to know what woman was ever able to sleep through contractions!

For hours, well into the morning, I was either squeezing the pillow or squeezing Lee. Needless to say, Lee didn’t get much sleep that night either. I smile at the irony now, but I recall Lee remarking that night, “At least when the baby comes, the disturbance won’t be every ten minutes!” (Boy – how little we knew!)

What I remember of Sunday was how much Lee took control of everything and how the pain I was feeling had caused me to somehow lose all common sense. Once again, I failed to follow the pregnancy book or the prenatal class advice –go for a walk, watch a movie as you go through contractions, anything to keep your mind off the pain. What did I do? I sat on the family room couch from morning until afternoon, telling Lee when to start and stop the stopwatch. At some point, Lee said, Go take a shower. We’re probably going to the hospital soon. I replied, No, initially, believing that I still had a lot of time. Eventually, he persisted, and pretty much ordered me to take a shower. So I did. The shower took a while. Every one of my movements in the shower was accompanied by my needing to take a breather.

That Sunday afternoon, our family had actually planned on going for lunch to celebrate Mother’s Day. I called my mom at church, during her Sunday school class, and told her it wasn’t going to happen. The baby was on its way. We didn’t tell many people. But the next thing we knew, Lee’s dad called us from Hong Kong early that afternoon and said, I heard you had the baby. It was hilarious. I had only begun to have contractions. How did the news circulate all the way to Hong Kong that the baby had already arrived?

I called my sister a number of times, and she called me. I kept describing to her the pain I was going through and how far apart the contractions were. She told me to call the Assessment Desk at the hospital so that they could determine whether I was ready to go to the hospital. Being the passive person that I was, I kept saying, No, it was too early, the contractions were inconsistent. Eight minutes apart. Then six. Then seven. Then five. Then four. Then six again.

I’ve always been a by-the-book kind of person. I find safety in rules, and I expect that when I follow the rules, things will go according to what is expected. The pregnancy book had said that one was not ready to go to the hospital until the contractions were consistently five minutes apart.

Lee kept on telling me, Let’s go to the hospital. I kept saying, No. The intervals aren’t consistent.

I was afraid that once we drove all the way from home down to the hospital, that the nurse at the Assessment Desk would send me home. I recalled my sister telling me that she had been sent home twice with her first one. I didn’t want to waste any time or be embarrassed at the hospital that I had got it wrong.

But at around 3:00 in the afternoon, when the contraction intervals were still inconsistent, Lee said, We’re going to the hospital. I’d rather be sent home than sit around here and take a chance. Lee loaded the car with our big gym bag of stuff, the pillows, and I put on a brown, hooded sweater. It was May, but the weather was rather cool.

As Lee was driving down the highway, I squeezed the seat as each contraction came. When we arrived at the parking lot at North York General Hospital , he found a parking spot quite far away from the hospital. I had preferred walking the distance with Lee than to be dropped off and not have him beside me. As we made our way toward the hospital entrance, I had two contractions. Each time, I had to stop, and Lee held me and waited for the pain to disappear, then we began walking again. The second contraction took place right at the entrance door of the hospital. Lee held me again. Some people walked by us, looking in our direction, then going in.

When we got to the Assessment Desk, I started to tell the nurse what I was feeling, but the pain was so intense I couldn’t finish my sentence. (Probably a sign that I was ready for labour since the pregnancy book said that not being able to speak was a sign of it!) I gestured to Lee, signaling to him that he had to finish my sentence. The nurse sent me into one of the partitions, and I waited at least ten minutes before she assessed me. Before then, she had heard my breathing from behind the partition as I had each contraction. She came in. You are breathing way too fast, she said. You’re going to hyperventilate if you keep breathing like that. Slow it down. (Sadly, I had been breathing wrong for fifteen hours! So much for remembering the lessons taught in our prenatal class.)

At around 4:00 p.m., I was told that I was five centimeters dilated. They were going to assign me to a delivery room right away. I remember being so thankful that Lee knew what he was doing all along. Had I listened to my instincts, we might have arrived at the hospital too late.

Before sending me to the delivery room, the nurse asked me whether I wanted the epidural. I didn’t hesitate. I nodded. Yes, please.

When the nurse came in to instruct me on what was going to happen in the ensuing hours, she stopped herself, realizing that I was actually going through a contraction as she was speaking and wasn't listening to her. My silence surprised her. Other mothers, I guess, screamed or made sounds; I responded to the excruciating pain by tightly squeezing onto the bed rails and closing my eyes.

It wasn’t until 5:45 p.m. that the anesthesiologist came in to administer the drug. Before pregnancy, I remember seeing the size of the needle on the Learning Channel and being freaked out about it. But I never saw the needle. The doctor asked me to sit up on the bed, and told me to tell him when I was feeling a contraction. Next thing I knew – he said he was done – and I felt one more contraction before all the pain I had felt for the past nineteen hours completely disappeared. (I admire all those mothers who do it naturally – which include my sister – but boy did it feel wonderful to no longer feel any pain!)

Within seconds I finally was able to utter a normal-sounding sentence to Lee, Are you thirsty or hungry? Lee looked at me incredulously upon witnessing the drastic change in my disposition. The nurse reassured Lee. She’s okay, I’ll take care of her. So Lee left to get some food. (One thing we didn’t anticipate was our being at the hospital on a weekend when the cafeteria would be closed.)

Lee returned with our bag of belongings – we had only packed granola bars and dried mango. (Poor Lee, he was so hungry.) The nurse came in and caught me munching on dried mango, and said, Nobody told you that you aren’t allowed to eat? I shook my head. The epidural in my system meant that my body wasn’t going to be digesting anything. Oops. I put the food away.

The nurse came in every half hour to check on me. In-between, Lee watched the monitor, which was the only indicator of how intense my contractions were. Amazed by the erratic zig-zaggy lines sweeping across the screen and my composed demeanor, he remarked, So why don’t people take the epidural?

There were some benefits to taking the drug—other than being free from the pain. It meant that I could have a real conversation with Lee without being seized by gradually escalating contractions. It meant that I could take a nap and rest.

At some point, I looked at Lee in utter bewilderment, Can you believe we’re having a baby tonight? At some point, we bowed down, and Lee prayed for our family, and our anticipating of Your arrival. It was exhilarating.

Late in the evening, I had a very strong contraction, so I was told. It was so strong that You did not respond well to it. The nurse said that your heart rate dropped, and I had to wear an oxygen mask. I had to wear this mask pretty much until You were born.

I asked the nurse late that evening whether there was a chance that You were going to be born on Mother’s Day. The nurse smiled, I think so. You’re getting close.

At around 9:45 p.m., I was told that my OB wasn’t going to make it to the hospital on time (he wasn't supposed to be working on weekends but he wanted to deliver my baby; by the time he reached the parking lot of the hospital, however, it was all over.) Another doctor came in to deliver the baby. The doctor didn’t speak much to me—I guess maybe because he must have done this thousands of times. Then came the scary stirrups and the overwhelming bright light shining on me from the ceiling.

The nurse began to count—and as she counted, I was supposed to push as hard as I could. As I pushed, all I could hear was the nurse yelling, Go! Go! Go! Then came a brief resting period before the nurse was counting and yelling again. (As it turned out, the prenatal classes in which Lee was taught how to coach me for labour really wasn’t necessary. The nurse did all the work anyway.) With each interval of pushing, for some reason, I began to think back to my softball days. As I was pushing, I pictured myself running around the bases on the diamond – I was pretending that I had to run as quickly as I could in order to reach home plate. By the time I reached “home,” the interval of pushing was over. It kind of worked because before I knew it, You were here!

It must be noted that there were many, many people in the delivery room. I remember that prior to labour, I had fretted about how many people were going to be witnesses to the delivery. But just as my sister had told me, It doesn’t really matter. Nothing matters that day (that is, no degree of self-consciousness), except the anticipation of the baby’s arrival.

Nurses were on sight, doctors, even a pediatrician—it was all precautionary measures because of the fact that your heart rate dropped in those final hours. Although the nurses made me wear an oxygen mask and had to repeatedly come in to check on You—for some reason—I wasn’t too worried. You were in God’s hands—and the medical staff was doing their best to ensure you were okay.

Everything was a blur after you came out—You’ll have to ask your dad about the rest. While the medical staff was handling You, Dad was on the other side of the room snapping pictures, and I was lying in the hospital bed, being told by the doctor and nurse what kind of pain I was to expect once the epidural wore off (that wasn't fun...) and what procedure the doctor had administered during the labour. (When you came into the world, the first thing I remember was the nurse saying, She’s here! She’s here! To which I exclaimed, She?! I mean, he, the nurse said, HE. Sorry, I didn’t look, she said apologetically.)

You didn’t cry right away upon entering the world. We had to wait a few minutes. They put You on the little cart, and the pediatrician gave You a check-up. At some point You began to cry, which brought us such joy. They put a faded yellow hat on You to keep You warm, and there You were, suspended in the air in the nurse’s hands, before they put You on my chest. Skin-to-skin, the nurses kept telling us—the best way to ensure your health. Nothing but the closeness of Mommy and Daddy.

(By the way, Nathaniel, Dad took a picture of your lifeline for nine months if you’re ever curious– the placenta—I have it hidden behind one of your baby pictures in your album. Don’t want to scare unwitting viewers with what Lee describes as a “big steak.”)

TEARS. TEARS. TEARS.

Fast forward eleven months and I must say—Nathaniel—Your birth, Your very existence, Your precious little being— is no less Miraculous than the day you were born.

Dr. House... A Lesson on God's Grace?

Nathaniel went to bed at 8:00 last night, so Lee and I finally got to sit down and catch up on an episode of House. Last night’s episode was about a priest who was still practicing but had somehow lost his faith along the way. After facing a slew of unforeseen events and misdiagnoses, Dr. House, of course, solves the case (I missed the first half of the episode because I was putting the little one to sleep). At the end, after having previously wrestled with the priest about the existence of God, House, a professed atheist, tells the priest, “Everything that has happened to you can be rationally explained” (or something like that). The priest, who had been near death, and who had claimed at the outset of the episode that he no longer believed in God, incredulously replied, “Still, that’s a lot of coincidences.”

Perhaps the priest's response refers to that ephemeral unspoken and quiet wonder we have whenever events in our daily lives unfold a bit too neatly and precisely. Even for the Christian, the demonstration of God’s sovereign hand in our life on any given day—disguised as a string of coincidences—can be startling—and yet, as quickly as the realization comes upon us, so has its dismissal.

I’ve enjoyed this show in the past, in part, because of the clever dialogue, the non-one-dimensional characters, as well as the sporadic allusions to religion (especially in the earlier seasons). There were certain moments when I was simply relieved to see a secular show on television point to something beyond violence and sex, or whatever meaningless junk there is out there.

Seeing last night’s episode made me recall another scene in a past season, which I’ll share in this blog entry.

In season 2, episode 1, two cases come to Dr. House’s attention—one involving a teacher and the other a convict on death row. Dr. House’s subordinates are concerned about the time he is spending on solving the case of the convict rather than the teacher. Why should someone who is guilty of murder deserve Dr. House’s time? The conversation between Dr. House and one of his subordinates goes like this:

House: Talk to Cuddy. She’s got me going to Mercer State Prison, Capital Sentences unit, I don’t know.

Foreman: Aren’t there better ways to spend our time?

House: Good question. What makes a person deserving? Is a man who cheats on his wife more deserving than a man who kills his wife?

Foreman: Uh… yeah. Actually, he is.

House: What about a child molester? Certainly not a good guy, but he didn’t kill anybody. Maybe he can get antibiotics, but no MRIs. What about you? What medical care should you be denied for being a car thief? Tell you what: the three of you work out a list of what medical treatments a person loses based on the crime they committed. I’ll review it when I get back.

I love this episode so much because House’s sarcasm in the above conversation demonstrates such strong parallels to our misconception of who is “deserving” of God’s grace. Like the workers in the vineyard (Matthew 20:1-16)—rather than looking at our own selves, we’re so busy looking at other people and judging where they're at. But in Romans 3:23, it states: “…for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus.” How ridiculous it sounds in the context of this episode to determine whether someone deserves a chance at life based on what sins he’s committed in his past.

Later in the same episode, the convict perhaps earns our sympathy when he utters the following words to Dr. Foreman:

“Can you imagine your whole life bein’ about the worst thing you ever did?”

But with Christ, it isn’t about the worst thing we’ve ever done. It doesn't matter who we are or what kind of person we were, with Him as our Savior, we are freed from the chains of our ugly past. As it is written in Romans 10:9-13:

“If you confess with your mouth, "Jesus is Lord," and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you confess and are saved. As the Scripture says, "Anyone who trusts in him will never be put to shame."For there is no difference between Jew and Gentile—the same Lord is Lord of all and richly blesses all who call on him, for, "Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved."

How fitting that this episode is entitled “Acceptance.”

A Mother's Prayer

Love the Lord your God with all your heart
and with all your soul and with all your strength.
These commandments that I give you today
are to be upon your hearts.
Impress them on your children.
Talk about them when you sit at home
and when you walk along the road,
when you lie down and when you get up.
Tie them as symbols on your hands
and bind them on your foreheads.
Write them on the doorframes of your houses
and on your gates. ~Deuteronomy 6:5-9

Nathaniel is nine-months-old today. He has grown to be a joyful baby. Every day, when I go to his crib first thing in the morning, he waves his arms and legs in the air in absolute delight. When I put him in the bouncer in our kitchen, he jumps in it gleefully for a good half hour—as I make his breakfast, prepare dinner, do the dishes, etc. The majority of the time, when I put him down for a nap, he lies in his crib without protest. When we go out, having slept well through his naps, he does not wail (like he used to in the earlier months!). He can play on his own for a lot longer too—sitting in the Exersaucer, or on his own, exploring the different toys surrounding him.

At the same time, Nathaniel is beginning to learn how to not give in to my wishes. I see this especially during meal times—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—you might find me sitting by the kitchen table, in front of his high chair, for as long as forty-five minutes, trying to get him to eat the food he’s supposed to eat. At his eight-month checkup, the pediatrician had advised me to introduce the following foods into his diet: meat, yogurt, egg yolk, white fish, and cottage cheese. The only food Nathaniel seems to be willing to eat from this list is yogurt—only because it’s just as tasty as the fruits and vegetables I’ve been feeding him. Most of the time, feeling exasperated, I give up feeding certain foods to him and give him what he likes for fear that he might go hungry during the night. But my actions make me consider whether I am acting in my best interest or Nathaniel’s. (Last night, I tried to force feed him chicken, putting bits of chicken in his mouth even though he was whining—little did I know—I could stuff food in his mouth, but I can’t make him swallow. He began choking when the pieces accumulated in his mouth! And yes, I've tried hiding food he doesn't like in food he likes—for some reason, that doesn't work either...)

Nathaniel can shut his mouth completely when he sees food he doesn’t like approaching his mouth. He can resist my putting him in the high chair or car seat by firmly straightening out his body. He can whine if he is not pleased with any given activity we are engaged in.

As Nathaniel is entering this new stage of his life, I, as a new mother, am also entering a new stage—my becoming anxious about whether I’m making the right decisions on a day-to-day basis. Is what I’m doing today going to somehow impact his behavior in the long run—in a negative or positive way?

Much prayer is needed. That God give me wisdom to make the right choices. It is so needed—because the difference between the wrong decision and the right decision seems so subtle in these rather mundane tasks. Although Nathaniel’s resistant behavior at the moment is minimal in proportion to the many hours of the day that I spend with him—I can’t help but think about the degree of discipline I will soon have to exercise as he grows older. And honestly, if trying to feed him some chicken wears me out—just imagining the work involved in training him in other areas has me letting out a big sigh.

In the hundreds of moments that I interact with Nathaniel, I can easily forget my responsibility as a mother—that is, that which is commanded in Scripture. This means that I have to think twice about giving in to Nathaniel’s wishes simply because I am too tired or because it is just easier to do so. More importantly, down the road, I know it is not merely his behavior that I am trying to affect, but his heart—that he develops a heart that will come to cherish and love the living God. As I heard Rev. Charles Price once mention in a sermon—we can’t force Nathaniel to accept Christianity, but our job as Nathaniel’s parents is to be an example and live godly lives that will make it easy for him to put his faith in Christ. As it is written of the role of the wife and mother in Proverbs 31:

“She is clothed with strength and dignity;
she can laugh at the days to come.

She speaks with wisdom,
and faithful instruction is on her tongue.

She watches over the affairs of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness.

Her children arise and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praises her.”


When I spend my quiet time with God, I don’t just pray for me and Lee, I pray for all the new parents in my family, my social circle, and my church. All these little tikes running around us will one day, God wiling, have the power to influence this world in a way that either honors or dishonors God. There is enormous weight on our shoulders as parents—and I hope that in these tiny moments we spend with our children, we never forget the task before us.

The All-Knowing God

As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts.
Isaiah 55:9

The company that laid Lee off on January 9, 2009 went bankrupt last week. Though the company was clearly not doing well financially, it surprised us that it went down so quickly. Of course, this meant that the “two months’ severance” that Lee was promised on his last day of work is no longer available.

God’s sovereign care of our family has, again, caused our jaws to drop. Lee got a job the same week that the funds from the last company came to an end.

We can’t help but wonder:

Had Lee not begun looking for jobs immediately upon his layoff, he would not have found a job so quickly. (Had he rationalized to himself, “I’ve got two months—let’s take a break for a few days…” I’m so blessed to have a hardworking husband.)

Had Lee not been laid off, he would have lost his job anyway, three weeks later, but without any severance pay. The short-lived payments we got in early January helped tie us over until Lee got another job last week.

Had Lee not begun looking for a job in the time that he did, he would not have landed his current job. The window of opportunity was extremely small—and he submitted his résumé at the precise time necessary to secure the job.

Had Lee not quit his job last May to join the company that just went down, he would have never been laid off, and thus would have never found his current job, which is a much more stable company to work for (with amazing perks—he gets a 407 transponder from the company—no more expensive toll bills to pay, and the company is going to invest money in training him!).

And to imagine our earlier devastation when we received the news that Lee was going to be let go! Fast forward, exactly a month later, and we have gone from devastation to relief!

O Lord, You have truly opened our eyes to Your awesome power and omniscience.

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life,
what you will eat or drink;
or about your body, what you will wear.
Is not life more important than food,
and the body more important than clothes?

Look at the birds of the air;
they do not sow or reap or store away in barns,
and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.
Are you not much more valuable than they?
Who of you by worrying
can add a single hour to his life?

"And why do you worry about clothes?
See how the lilies of the field grow.
They do not labor or spin.
Yet I tell you that not even Solomon
in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.

If that is how God clothes the grass of the field,
which is here today
and tomorrow is thrown into the fire,
will he not much more clothe you,
O you of little faith?

So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?'
or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?'
For the pagans run after all these things,
and your heavenly Father knows that you need them.
But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness,
and all these things will be given to you as well.

Matthew 6

Men are from Mars...

I bought this spring green hand towel for our first floor bathroom four years ago. It has a horizontal bar of white flowers on the front. Every time I wash my hands and use the towel, I make sure the towel is back in its proper position. It has always bugged me that my husband never did this. Every time he uses the towel, it’s always arbitrarily tossed back onto the towel rod, or he positions the towel backwards so that the pretty flowers aren’t visible.

Yesterday, after I heard him wash his hands, I finally hollered, “Hang the towel back in its proper position, please!” He peers out of the bathroom door and says, “What?” I said, “You know, with the white flowers facing forward.”

He then replied: “There are flowers on the towel?”

Need I say—we’ve been using the same towel for FOUR years!