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!

A Father's Gift

Nathaniel is rather active when I put him in the crib for a nap or for the night. He looks at me, kicks his legs in excitement, talks (now it’s “Bah bah bah bah bah”), rolls, strikes the crib railings with his feet, and fiddles with the toys hanging on his crib. I love listening to his noises and movements over the baby monitor. There is so much action going on in his bedroom even after I leave that I wish I had a camera planted in his crib so I could see what he’s doing.

What’s funny is that after 15 to 30 minutes of noisiness, the sounds suddenly vanish. It’s like, out of the blue, Nathaniel just passes out from tiredness or something. That’s when you begin to hear either his heavy breathing or his nose whistling. Though I’m relieved he sleeps so much—because it gives me the much needed break—I have to admit, I miss him so much after a couple of hours that I can’t wait to see him when he wakes up. A mother’s job never gets old—no matter how habitual everything is from one day to the next.

Monday, Lee is back to work. Of course, that’s a good thing. But it’ll also be sad that he won’t get as much time to spend with the family as he has the past few weeks. What made me cry is that upon his discovery that he was hired last Tuesday, we sat together to pray and thank God for his grace and blessing upon our family; while we shared about what we had learned during these past few weeks, one observation Lee made was the change in Nathaniel’s behavior toward him after just a few weeks of extra hours with his son. My eyes grew watery when I heard that Lee could see the difference time could make with his son. And I tell him—speaking from experience from my own childhood—a Father’s Time is the best gift he can give to his son. I hope, as Lee begins his work and enters a life of busyness again, that he will never forget the connection he made with Nathaniel in the early part of this year.

A Time for Pause

"My son, do not make light of the Lord's discipline, and do not lose heart when he rebukes you, because the Lord disciplines those he loves, and he punishes everyone he accepts as a son." Hebrews 12:4

"Continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose." Philippians 2:12

The past two and a half weeks have been atypical. Week one was busy: the husband was perfecting his résumé, making calls and networking, and applying for jobs on whatever job site was available. In week two, God was so gracious to our family. After a weekend of our wavering back and forth from peace to panic (the former as a result of our submitting to God our heavy hearts and the latter as a result of assessing the reality before us), God gave us hope: Lee was called for four interviews, one of them ended up lasting 2.5 hours long. The nights, as a result, involved Lee studying. He anticipated every possible question the interviewers would ask him and spent hours typing out his answers, then memorizing them. (I felt like the tables had turned somewhat: the past two years, it was me who was spending hours in the evening studying…)

Of course, we realized that even though Lee was temporarily unemployed, this extra time with family was invaluable. For once, during our family time, Lee’s Blackberry was not going off because of emails or phone calls. For once, on a weekday—not one, but a series of them—Nathaniel woke up in the morning, was laid on his mommy and daddy’s bed, and both of us were encircling him. Nathaniel would turn from one side to the other, talking to me, then talking to Daddy, then touching both of our faces. I, for one, was grateful that Nathaniel got more windows to get to know Daddy better.

At the same time, during this time in which Lee was laid off, we couldn’t treat it as a sort of vacation. We didn’t dare go shopping nor go out to eat nice meals—not when we had no idea when income was going to start coming in again.

In Lee’s prayers, he prays for God to humble him, to give him peace during this whole job search process. He was mentally drained. Interview after interview, he felt the pressure to prove himself to somebody—all over again. Not only did he have to do it, he needed to—he had a family to think about. One night, when he took a break, he and I sat on the family room couch to watch television; suddenly, he started breathing hard. It was all too familiar. Over a year ago, I went to the doctor’s because I had experienced shortness of breath. After some tests, the doctor told me that my irregular breathing was a result of stress. It was the same for Lee. I asked him whether he was okay—he said that most of the time, his head told him that everything was going to be okay—but every now and then, his imagination took the best of him, and he would lapse—momentary panic.

By the end of week two, I felt like a solemn cloud of calmness came over our household. Not because any solid news came in telling us that we were okay, but because we were somehow resigned to the fact that this was a time in which God wanted to teach us something. Our family has been incredibly blessed over the past several years. Lee has never been unemployed for as long as we’ve been together. He’s only experienced promotions and salary increases in the past decade. It wasn’t so much that “we were due,” as Lee once pragmatically remarked, but that God wanted us to stop and listen. Not that we haven’t thanked God in our prayers for the blessings He’s showered upon us, but sometimes, I have to say, that might not be enough. For an instant, however momentary it was or will be one day when we look back at this, we were anxious about the future. Even when we were telling ourselves there was no reason to be anxious (we had so much family who were ready and willing to help us) yet to know that what we had could disappear—SNAP—just like that.

The message was loud and clear.

Two weeks after Nathaniel was born, last year May, Lee got a call from a recruiter for a job opportunity. At the time, he had already spent five years at a job that was gradually sucking the energy out of him. Sixty to eighty-hour work weeks, incessant calls on his Blackberry that didn’t give our family a moment of quietness. Lee began to hate his job. It was normal for him to go through the Sunday blues, in which he dreaded going back to the office again. Work-life balance was non-existent. When our baby son was born, and this call from a recruiter came in, and after three rounds of intense interviews, Lee was eventually hired—we thought—this was a blessing from God: same title, more pay, less hours. Who knew it existed?

Not only that, but for once, Lee liked his job. He was eager to see the fruits of his labor. He had every intention of committing himself to this company for several years. Then suddenly, seven months later, they present to him a release form, terminating him, not having hinted at all even hours before that this was going to happen. Just like that. He lost his job.

Last week, I had asked Lee: “Knowing that they were going to let you go seven months after taking this job, do you regret having taken it?” With no hesitation at all, he replied, “No.” Though he shook his head in disbelief and frustration that they had done this to him, he was nonetheless thankful for the opportunity that was granted to him and the new networks he had made as a result. In fact, in the past couple of weeks, he’s gone out numerous times with his colleagues from the company that laid him off—with those who were also laid off and the staff who were still there but now were uncertain about their futures.

What occurred to both of us as a result of this ordeal is how things aren’t always what they seem. On the surface, circumstances give every semblance of security: a big fancy office, a comfortable salary, the praise of superiors, a promise of bonuses, good rapport with colleagues. But such tangible items are empty and fleeting, no matter how tight a grip one has on them. Like biting into a decadent piece of chocolate and finding it hollow inside.

Of course, the writer of the book of Ecclesiastes made this observation a long time ago:

“I undertook great projects: I built houses for myself and planted vineyards... I amassed silver and gold for myself, and the treasure of kings and provinces... I became greater by far than anyone in Jerusalem before me. In all this my wisdom stayed with me.

I denied myself nothing my eyes desired; I refused my heart no pleasure. My heart took delight in all my work, and this was the reward for all my labor.

Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun.”

After the extra long interview Lee had last Wednesday, Lee called them back to follow up. The HR representative said they wouldn’t have an answer for him until this week—week three. I have to say, I had a feeling inside that God wanted us to wait. I was somewhat concerned for Lee—he could get the job, he could not—but how would not getting the job affect him? In our prayers, we had to pray that God would give us peace whatever the result. And even further, that if Lee didn’t get the job, that we would genuinely have faith that this was part of His will. That the events that would unravel in the coming months could go any way—two weeks of unemployment, two months, six months—were we ready to demonstrate our assurance in God's faithfulness?

The past weekend, we celebrated Chinese New Year. We enjoyed time with family and relatives. Lee seemed less preoccupied than he had been the previous weeks.

Monday morning: Lee gets called in for a second interview for the same job, this time with the executives of the company. (The peculiar thing is that Lee was told that the company had been trying to reach him since the week before, even leaving him a message, but for some reason Lee never got it.) Tuesday: Lee’s interview is in the afternoon. Tonight: Lee calls home and says, “I got the job.” After another three-hour interview, Lee is made an offer. Relief comes over us.

I must say, it wasn’t until I took my Old Testament Theology course in seminary that it came to my attention that man had been put to work even before the fall. Genesis 2:15 writes, “The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it.” During Lee’s job search, from time to time, he would sit at the laptop and declare, “I need a job”—but not just because he ‘needed’ it, but he was saying that he needed to work. He couldn’t just sit around and do nothing. Ecclesiastes 2 writes, “A man can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in his work. This too, I see, is from the hand of God, for without him, who can eat or find enjoyment? To the man who pleases him, God gives wisdom, knowledge and happiness…”

At the moment, I am waiting for Lee to come home. But even before receiving his news over the telephone, I had thought—if God decides that Lee is to get this job—He is truly gracious—because this period of testing could go longer—we might even need it to go longer (when I pray to God to humble us, don’t think I’m not scared about what I’m asking). As it is written in James 1:2: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” Lee and I—we still need so much more maturing in our relationship with God—in what other circumstances was God going to shape us?

This three-week period of Lee’s layoff—rather than a prolonged impedance—has felt like someone had suddenly pressed the “pause” button on the remote—and today—suddenly pressed “play” again. As if, for several minutes, rather than listening to all the white noise coming from the television, we were able to drink in the stillness and the silence.

Lee starts his new job on Monday. I go on the company website and discover that the company that hired Lee is rated as one of the “50 Best Managed Companies” in all of Canada.

God, You are so good—yet none of it we deserve. May we offer all of ourselves to You—in good times and in bad. Thank you that you are the source of true peace, true assurance, true hope. Everything we have is meaningless if we do not acknowledge that it is You who has freely given it to us. Forgive us for our greediness, selfishness, self-centeredness. May we trust that You, our Heavenly Father, seeks to mold our character and conduct so that they reflect your holiness. Let no obstacle that comes our way do any harm to the state of our souls, but may we always seek the highest good, which is exemplified in your Son Jesus Christ.

Freedom from Fear

For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline. ~ 2 Timothy 1:7

So many thoughts have been going through my mind that I have yet to form an entry of it all, at least a coherent one anyway. I need time. Time to stand back and absorb it all. Time to delve into the Word. Time to figure out what kind of wife I need to be at this moment for my husband.

Driving home from fellowship on Saturday night, Lee began to explain what he was feeling to me. It was past midnight. It was cold. The roads were covered with snow. In the privacy and quietness of our car, I tried to understand what he was saying. And since Lee doesn’t very often pour out what is in his heart, I listened hard. In the end, I know I can’t empathize with what this means for him. When asked by people how he feels about what happened, he answers with the simple statement: “I feel like my best friend just turned his gun on me.”

He says this because ever since he took this new post as I.T. Manager, he’s been affirmed continually by his colleagues and boss. In fact, the affirmation came with a top notch performance review and a salary increase. This all took place two weeks before he got laid off. Of course, his being let go had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the recession we find ourselves in at the moment. Suddenly, the dismal headlines in the newspapers are hitting a little closer to home.

Now and then I ask Lee whether he’s okay. Quite often at first. To the point where I asked him, “Is my asking you whether you’re okay annoying you?” He answered, “Kinda.” “Do you want me to stop?” I then ask. He doesn’t answer. That in itself communicated a lot.

Repeatedly, he has said that it isn’t the financial aspect that vexes him as much as the psychological. If constant affirmation in the workplace isn’t a sign that you’re going to get to keep your job, what is?

This, of course, goes back to the age-old theme that nothing in this earthly life can be fully relied upon. We all know that. We live like we don’t, until one of us, inevitably, has the rug pulled from under us. We’re taught this time and time again in the Bible. Nothing is new under the sun.

While Lee is working on his résumé, talking on the phone with recruiters, networking with all his business contacts, I’m tending to Nathaniel or reading. I’ve picked up Martyn Lloyd-Jones’ Spiritual Depression again—thinking that the book would speak to our current situation. Coincidentally, the chapter I left off at just a few months ago was entitled, “Fear of the Future.”

I noted the following passage in this chapter:

Our fears are due to our failure to stir up—failure to think, failure to take ourselves in hand. You find yourself looking to the future and then you begin to imagine things and you say: ‘I wonder what is going to happen?’ And then, your imagination runs away with you. You are gripped by the thing; you do not stop to remind yourself of who you are and what you are, this thing overwhelms you and down you go.

Now the first thing you have to do is to take a firm grip of yourself, to pull yourself up, to stir up yourself, to take yourself in hand and to speak to yourself. As the Apostle puts it, ‘we have to remind ourselves of certain things. And as I understand it, the big thing that Paul is saying in effect to Timothy is: “Timothy, you seem to be thinking about yourself and about life and all you have to do as if you were still an ordinary person. But, Timothy, you are not an ordinary person! You are a Christian, you are born again, the Spirit of God is in you. But you are facing all these things as if you are still what you once were, an ordinary person’.

And is not that the trouble with us all in this connection? Though we are truly Christian, though we believe the truth, though we have been born again, though we are certainly children of God, we lapse into this condition in which we again begin to think as if none of these things had happened to us at all. Like the man of the world, the man who has never been regenerated, we allow the future to come to us and to dominate us, and we compare our own weakness and lack of strength with the greatness of the falling and the tremendous task before us. And down we go as if we were but our natural selves. Now the thing to do, says Paul to Timothy, is to remind yourself that we have been given the gift of God’s Holy Spirit, and to realize that because of this our whole outlook upon life and the future must therefore be essentially different. We must think of suffering in a new way, we must face everything in a new way.

Jones continues in the chapter by making the next empowering statement:

Living the Christian life means we have the “power to endure, power to go on whatever the conditions, whatever the circumstances, power to hold on and to hold out. Let me go further, it means that the most timorous person can be given power in all things, even to die.”

But how are we to free ourselves from running away with our imagination, one replete with human worry? Jones says it is necessary to get rid of ourselves—that is, our persistent need to be engrossed in self-love, self-concern, and self-protection. We do this by becoming “absorbed in someone or something else that [we] have no time to think about [ourselves]. Thank God, the Spirit of God makes that possible.” We are to think of “the love of the Son in its breadth, its length, its depth, its height… Think of His love, and as you come to know something about it, you will forget yourself.”

My calmness right now, I must confess, is because this is the first day that Lee is out of work. God truly showed his grace to us during this time, for Lee, having only worked for this company for seven months, nonetheless received a two-month severance package, in addition—vacation pay and bonus.

We are praying. We are actively searching for job prospects. We are taking it one day at a time and trusting Him who is the provider. We are looking ahead. We are hoping. But I must say—eight weeks is not a long time, and as the days or weeks go by, and should we not hear anything, I pray hard that our faith does not grow any less weak because we have more reason to be fearful. I pray hard that, as Jones has described, we do not respond to our situation like ordinary persons—but as children of God, with the Spirit in us. Not only that, I pray hard that, whatever might come our way in this time of uncertainty, that we turn it all into glory to the One who graciously gave us life.

In Good Times and in Bad…

When you’ve been married long enough, your attention is easily seized by the subtlest changes in your husband’s behavior. A little before midnight last Thursday, the husband and I are in our bedroom. I’m lying in bed, reading, and Lee is checking his work email. Then, out of the blue, he gets up and says, “I have to make a phone call.” I say, “Why don’t you make it here?” To which he answers, “It’s private.”

I stay in bed, but I hear his muffled voice coming from the basement. The fact that he has to talk on the phone in the basement so that I’m not within earshot worries me. Some time passes by. My eyes grow heavy, and curiosity is not enough to keep me awake.

1:30 a.m. My husband taps my elbow. I open my eyes. Hovering over me, he says, “I have something to tell you.” He sits down on the bed next to me. That’s when my heart begins to beat faster.

“I think I’m gonna get let go tomorrow.”

I continue listening.

“It’s too complicated for me to explain to you, but I pieced it all together, and I’m pretty sure tomorrow is my last day.”

One thing about my husband. He has an exceptional ability to observe and evaluate his surroundings. He can read people, make conclusions based on their words, actions, gestures. He has this uncanny ability to filter out “unnecessary” emotion and opinion to see things as they are (can you imagine what our marriage must be like—this man with someone like me?). As a result, Lee can very often see the reality behind the pretense. He’s also a very pragmatic man. When he speaks, he only says what “needs” to be said, nothing more, nothing less. So when he tells me all this, I have no doubt that his hunch is correct.

A slew of words come out of me. Among them, “I love you,” “I trust you,” “Are you okay?” Then came the more realistic questions—how are we going to handle our finances? Considering Lee had just begun this new position last June, we were worried about what his severance package would be. Two weeks, perhaps? A month? We started to list all the “fat” in our monthly budget and began to decide which ones needed to be eliminated.

After an hour of discussion, I open the Bible to Philippians 4 and read it aloud. Then I pray for the both of us. In my prayer, I even prayed that God would grant Lee the sleep he needed, even in the midst of the circumstances. Afterward, Lee tells me he needs some time alone, so he goes downstairs. At 4:30 in the morning, when I still can’t sleep, I go downstairs to find him. He’s fallen asleep on the family room couch. I wake him—advise him to go to sleep in the bed. He does so, and falls sleep until 8:00 the next morning.

Lee puts on a dress shirt and pants the next morning to prepare for work. He wants to look his best for his last day. Later in the morning, I tell my sister to pray for me. Prior to leaving the house, Lee had told me not to share the situation with anyone until he knew what was really going to happen. Late in the morning, I tell my sister to pray for me. I tell her I can’t tell her why—though I knew in my heart I would feel better if I did. So I say to my sister, “Would I be a bad wife if I told you even though Lee told me I couldn’t?” She chuckles, “No… He didn’t say—me— in particular; he said, ‘anyone.’” I hesitate. “Okay, I’ll guess—so you really wouldn’t be telling me.” I, of course, agree to that. (My sister and I have an unspoken understanding that when we say to one another, "Don't tell anyone," our husbands are the exceptions; there really needs to be a clause in the confidentiality agreement with our husbands that the same holds true for sisters.) My sister guesses correctly. And that’s when I recount the events that had taken place since late Thursday night.

“Do you have time to pray?” My sister then says. I said, “Yes, I prayed last night and this morning.” “I meant, do you have time to pray right now?” So over the phone, my sister prays for Lee and me, and as I listened to her words, I began to cry, and then she began to cry.

Nathaniel and I spend the afternoon at my sister’s place. We played with the kids, snacked on chips and cookies, joked around, meanwhile, in the background, my thoughts went back to what Lee was going through. When I got home at around 2:45 p.m., Lee’s car was already in the garage.

I knew that what he said would happen, had happened.

Daddy-Son Connection

It’s nothing amazing when Nathaniel cries for Mommy. When I leave him in the bouncer or exersaucer so that I can do my chores around the house, Nathaniel simply has to see me walking away from him before he begins to cry—even if it’s just a few seconds.

Last night, however, was the first time I ever saw Nathaniel cry for Daddy. It was a very touching moment.

Lee had to work a little later than usual. Nathaniel’s bedtime was supposed to be 7:00 p.m., but I tried to keep him awake so that he’d, at the least, see Daddy before going to bed. Nathaniel and I sat together in his bedroom. I was relieved to hear the garage door opening and minutes later Lee coming up the stairs into Nathaniel’s bedroom. At the first sight of Daddy, Nathaniel squealed and kicked his legs. Lee held Nathaniel in his arms and hoisted him in the air as he always does (Lee likes to do things I can’t do with the baby). Ten minutes later, I say, “Time to sleep.”

I sit down to feed Nathaniel, but oddly, he rejects me, turning his head around and reaching out into the space ahead of him. I try a few times to get him to feed, but he rejects me again. Then he begins to cry. Perplexed by this uncharacteristic behavior, I call Lee to come back into Nathaniel’s bedroom.

“I think he wants you…” I say to the husband. “Let’s put this to the test. Sit down beside me.” Lee sits down (I normally tell Lee to leave the room when I feed Nathaniel before bedtime so that Nathaniel doesn’t confuse bedtime with playtime). At once, Nathaniel begins to feed, then turns around every ten seconds or so to check that Daddy is still there. When Nathaniel is done feeding, I put him in the crib, but his hands reach out toward the door, as if wanting Daddy to come back.

Since Nathaniel’s birth, he’s always had an intimate connection with Mommy, of course. Lee always tries to mimic my interactions with Nathaniel when attempting to pacify his crying, but in the end, it’s always Mommy he wants. I console Lee every time: “He needs me, and he wants you.”

It was nice that this was not the case last night. Nathaniel’s expressing what he wanted last night and the happiness this brought the husband was a moment definitely worth recording.