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.