Walking in My Shoes

Things do change when you have kiddies, and I'm not just talking about the extra 10 pounds I've been frontpacking for the past half a year.  My mentality has shifted into sort of a maternal proclivity to protect my young more so than any other instinct. This may have had inklings in my dealings with family and friends, all too often related to food!  I wanted to take care of the peeps in my life, and what better way to do than to feed them?  I have since learned that there are better ways to care for and protect others.  Albeit somewhat extreme, how about taking a bullet for someone?  I have had one friend proclaim that kind of sacrificial love for me years ago, and I am still touched by her unselfish gesture, even if it was just through words.  But I think that even she would think twice now that she has kiddies to watch over too.  Maybe if the bullet she took for me could be removed and she would recover, then she would be willing to do it.  Hmm, I'll have to ask her.  But see, this goes one step beyond genuine care for a friend. And this protective quality didn't manifest itself as my foremost feeling until the girls invaded my life.

I think it's common to hear people desire to take on pain for their children.  Even when my little one doesn't sleep well because of a winter cold, I secretly wish to take on the germs for her.  I wish I could give her my breath so she could sleep peacefully through the night.  But is it so irrational to even give me a disdain for the lone mosquito that dared enter my household in search of fresh blood?  On two occasions, I have found myself up late at night hunting a pest down to keep it from finding prey in my little ones.  When I wake up with puffy eyelids and a red forehead from a battle lost (though a war later won!), I count those battle wounds as essential scars.  And I am grateful my girls come out unscathed.

I could continue to be fecetious about this, but now that I face a more serious illness with one child, I find myself simply helpless to fight her battle for her.  I suppose that's how the Lord designed us to be, wholly dependent on Him.  But why must little children suffer so that we might learn this lesson?  Perhaps I am being a bit too self centered in assuming that that is what it's about.  All I know is that the screams of my little baby are painful and true.  And all I want to do is hug it all away.  But if I've learned anything from Gloria's passing, I do know that He can and is glorified in all our suffering.  And I'll be darned if He isn't through this.

10,000 Miles

I am at a proverbial loss for words.  When I read the heartwrenching accounts of kiddies suffering, parents sacrificing, and heroes saving, I hug my husband and children all the more long.  But today, the hugs are longer; I just don't want to let go.   

When we were teenagers or even college grads, 36 seemed old and past our prime.  Today, 36 seems full of hope with a yearning for things to come.  There's a new eagerness to discover what your kiddies will learn today and become tomorrow.  It's a second wind, opening another chapter in this life on earth.  36 is inarguably too young to die.

I was privileged to hear my friend Gloria sing praises to our glorious Maker on her baby Taylor guitar, at the top of her whisper, in a place where people are punished for declaring His name.  And I was doubly blessed to see her don a dress while sweetly singing at Sung and Clint's wedding after we returned from the Motherland.  We've joked about our shared love for our wacky Taiwanese heritage and laughed about surviving those harsh Boston winters.  I can still see her smiling face and hear her contagious laugh.

Gloria will never see her girls bring home their first As or try to hide their first Cs.  She'll miss trying to wipe that silly grin off her face when she first sees Karinna hold hands with a boy.  Gloria won't be sitting on the bride's side when her girls become one with God fearing men.  And she won't be there to hold her grandchildren, smiling and cooing after their first breaths of air.  But Gloria will be pain free in her new body, rejoicing in our Lord, seeing Him in all His glory.  And one day, she will be reunited with her girls, when her hugs can last for all eternity.

My heart is hiccupping in anticipation of God to fulfill His perfect plan today.  Sing as loud as you can when you see Jesus, Gloria!  What a celebration it will be. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=43Tz3pVb9Dg

Just Can't Get Enough

What was going through my sleep deprived head last September, when I was mourning the soon to disappear alone time with my newly labelled toddler?  I mistakenly guessed that my cherished days of playing, reading, and quiet cuddling would fade away once her baby sister invaded her territory. Little did I know that the days of watching her discover the world around her through bumps, bruises, and foam tiles would not wane but become all the more intriguing!

Life with two minis has been full of highs and lows, but mostly the former.  To see an almost two year old forehead bump her infant sister, attempt to change her diaper, and bring her every toy in the house cannot even begin to be tagged as priceless.  I've witnessed older sister tenderness that wouldn't have been drawn out had that little one not joined the crew.  And how about that dance of giddiness that MeiMei does whenever we go get JieJie from her nap?  Yes, it's been tiring, but hey, people do this everyday with more than two!  Adrenaline might get you through a moment, but love affords a lifetime.  Did someone say that?  If not, someone should have.

Admittedly, the second heir to this Sun fortune (this term is relative, yes?) missed out on the awe that comes from first time parents.  First smile, teeth, solid food, crawling...we have probably taken only a third of the pictures we did of the firstborn.  Novelty and fame do accompany family position, I must say.  The second is developing on a totally different timeline, but sadly, it will not be completely documented.  It's not to say that our fondness for the Baba family look alike is less.  The extra pair of hands is just generally preoccupied.  But that doesn't mean we love her any less, not even in the least.

It continues to surprise me is how the joyful entry of a second human being into my family would be marred by a groundless fear of not having enough love to share.  My fear was that my love would be split between two offspring, as if it definitively filled a measuring cup.  But it, in fact, doubles.  No wonder our idea of God is confined to the boundaries drawn by our limited minds.  If God's love were limited, how then, would I be saved, 'cause He would've used up His quota before I could be bailed out.

Nope, still don't know how far and and how and how deep is the love of God.  And I like it that way.

Inside Out

It finally happened. Abigail peed on me while I was changing her diaper. I never thought it would happen, since she's a girl for one, but also because I just thought it wouldn't happen to me. Four months have disappeared quicker than the day can drag on. I don't know if that makes an iota of sense, but to moms who stay home, I'm pretty sure it resonates with them.

This week I have had to face the reality of ceasing to nurse my little one. Somehow my body decided it was time to stop, even though my heart is not ready. For the past week, I've been in denial, drinking liters of water, popping Fenugreek like it was candy, and having a frustratingly hungry little girl try to squeeze a few drops out before feedings. It is time to face the proverbial facts. Although I have had more than 10 weeks of beautiful bonding with Abby, I am struck hard by grief. Having her look up at me with those intriguing, insatiable eyes while she fed on what little sustenance my body could muster up, stirred an enveloping warmth that emanated from my heart to the tips of my fingers and toes. This was solely mine to give her, something no one else could. In my head, I know that she will still be nourished by other means, but in my heart, there's a feeling of loss.

And now I am suddenly transfixed by a worshipful melody that speaks so privately to me. It's as if my Lord has taken my head in both His hands as He looks lovingly into my own intriguing, insatiable eyes. And without a word, He wants to give me peace. He brings me back to a fond memory on day four when I was filled with sorrow, with tears flowing down my cheek, crying out to Him for mercy. When suddenly a miniature hand reached up and began to stroke my chin, as if to say, "it's okay, mama, it'll be okay."

A thousand times I've failed
Still your mercy remains
And should I stumble again
Still I'm caught in your grace
Everlasting, Your light will shine when all else fades
Never ending, Your glory goes beyond all fame
My heart and my soul, I give You control
Consume me from the inside out Lord
Let justice and praise, become my embrace
To love You from the inside out
Your will above all else, my purpose remains
The art of losing myself in bringing you praise
Everlasting, Your light will shine when all else fades
Never ending, Your glory goes beyond all fame
My heart, my soul, Lord I give you control
Consume me from the inside out Lord
Let justice and praise become my embrace
To love You from the inside out
Everlasting, Your light will shine when all else fades
Never ending, Your glory goes beyond all fame
And the cry of my heart is to bring You praise
From the inside out, O my soul cries out
My Soul cries out to You
My Soul cries out to You
to You, to You
My heart, my soul, Lord I give you control
Consume me from the inside out Lord
Let justice and praise become my embrace
To love You from the inside out
Everlasting, Your light will shine when all else fades
Never ending, Your glory goes beyond all fame
And the cry of my heart is to bring You praise
From the inside out, O my soul cries out
Everlasting, Your light will shine when all else fades
Never ending, Your glory goes beyond all fame
And the cry of my heart is to bring You praise
From the inside out, O my soul cries out
From the inside out, O my soul cries out
From the inside out, O my soul cries out.

How loving a father, my Father is.

I Can See Clearly Now

Before Abby invaded our lives, I was given some advice I reflexively agreed with in my heart but did not play out practically in my head. My experientially wise friend told me I needed to keep my husband first before my child. I nodded without hesitation when she emphatically insisted in earnest while looking me straight in the eyes. As if I hadn't heard her the first time, she repeated, "No really, you need to put him first." I got it, sistah; heard you the first time!

Apparently I didn't really hear her...both times.

For those of you who wear spectacles, do you remember the first time you donned those world opening, nerd goggles? I recall how vividly I could see each leaf on the trees we drove past on upstate NY's highways. That's what it's like when I look back in retrospect. Ah, clarity! Too bad it often takes me a moment too long to get the truth into focus.

When I think about the two, earth-shattering fights my husband and I chose to partake in, the two reasons for our emotionally charged outburts seem to turn around and mock me with arms akimbo: cloth diapers and whether to soothe a crying baby at 3am. The details of those arguments now allude me (or at least it's my desire not to remember them), but what strikes me most are the feelings of being misunderstood. I can only speak from down in my bunker that I could not understand why he couldn't see my perspective. I felt like I wasn't being heard. I felt attacked. I felt betrayed! I, I, I! It was so simple. I waded waist deep in selfishness like I was wrapped in a warm blanket on a chilly Saturday morning not wanting to dip my toes into the cold sea of the wood floor. Why can't I help myself? Sigh.

How does God love each of us so completely? Afterall, there are so many of us. I'm just trying to love two people, each like he and she are the king and queen of my world. But I find sometimes I inadvertantly choose one over the other...and of course, at the wrong times.

I'm looking for some tips on how to love better, God. Got any to share?

Money, Money, Money

There's a balance to be struck between living and saving, all in the name of good stewardship. And even as I type this, struggling for a more appropriate word for spending, I lean towards conserving and tucking away those extra bucks for something more need based.

Living in the Bay area, I find it amazing that we can make decisions about purchasing a home upwards of a million dollars, based on a 15 minute staged tour. Agents herd us through like cattle, disguising significant wear and tear, magically transforming inadequacies into character. Sure, we do our homework before promising to plop down the bulk of our savings in one fell swoop, but it is usually with some imagined pressure from other customers willing to make the same rash decision. So people do this everyday here in this area, but after the loans are funded, escrow is closed, and the title is recorded with the county, what's reasonable to sink into your new, old house?

I'd like to think I've never been an intentionally wasteful person, though I have made my share of financial blunders. But I still struggle with what it means to be a good steward of the monies God has given me. I often have mixed feelings about getting a raise, because to whom more is given, more is expected. We've purchased a house with the option of living under one income, so will less be expected? Okay, so maybe that's too legalistic a perspective, but now how tightly do I hold to the smaller resources that aren't so easily replenished on a biweekly basis?

No wonder He has so much to say about finances in that book of His...

Big Shot

Why is it that we feel a universal sense of needing to be in control? The more in control we feel, the more secure and confident we are. And the less at the healm we are, the more anxious and nervous we feel. Sometimes, though, I am scared that that feeling of being in control is a false purveyor of confidence. Perhaps we have such a kindergarten understanding of the situation that we lose the need to take careful, hesitant, and intentional forward steps.

So what should we do when things are out of control? Should we revel in our weakness in faith that the Lord is in the proverbial driver's seat? Or should we be ever more fastidious in securing every strap of our often ill-equipped backpacks?

The Lord has brought me to an interesting place in my life. By the world's standards, it would say that I married later in life, but in retrospect, I think I...er, God...was right on time. I had a lot of maturing to do, so I doubt my marriage would be this good so far, had we pulled the trigger years ago. I did do my share of vying for the steering wheel, the gas pedal, and the gear shifter on the way here, though. But all it did was make me a crazy Asian driver who caused more than one fender bender along the way.

These days I feel less ill at ease being a passenger. With my career in question, the stress of more home ownership looming, and an alien knocking half my internal organs around, it almost feels normal to have lost sight of the reins. My perspective on where I am in the car has dimmed, as evidenced by my recent trip to urgent care to be rehydrated after a bout of gastroenteritis precluded even water from staying down. Three weeks of subsequent infections, a bland, restricted diet, bleeding, and numerous calls and trips to my friendly neighborhood physicians certainly would have sent me into a downward spiral of hopelessness. But surprisingly, my pilot provided more than enough peanuts and beverages on the trip to put me at ease. What a blessing to know the outcome won't even be close to the nightmarish ending my little brain conjured up while I was in terrible pain.

My curiosity still would prefer to know how the author wants this story to play out. But I'm okay not knowing all the details just yet.

My Life

I am officially spent. Why? Because there is something called helpfulness that actually makes your life easier. And then there is meddling, introducing obstacles that make your previously straight path into a winding series of roadblocks and uphill climbs. The line between the two is not fuzzy or fine. It is distinct and bold. And yet there are some who consciously decide to make the effort and expend the energy to pole vault over that moat. How many times must I hear that I can't do this but I have to do that?? I now know what a teenager feels like, only I am supposed to have more sense as a so called grown up. And as an adult, I actually have the financial independence to defy the neysayers and just get off the darn road.

Please, just let me get some rest.

Jump

At my age, it's arguable that I might be approaching the "can't teach an old dog new tricks" phase of life. Say it isn't so! Although work and routine have ruled my life of late, I still secretly yearn for adventure - the kind where a little ounce of fear fuels a wave of adrenaline that makes me wow out loud no matter how hard I try to suppress it.

Can't say this fits the bill, but this past weekend, I was led to rediscover the age old Farmers' Market, where I was re-introduced to local hands-to-the-earth toilers hawking their produce. What fun it was to roam the short street checking out greens I had never cooked, encountering a few I had never seen before. The aroma of strawberries mindlessly guided me to competing stalls where the price of a flat went down with each tick towards the 1 o'clock closing time. I was wisely counseled to go where the Chinese people were, and sure enough, that's where the deals were hiding. Sugar snap peas for 80 cents a pound. Clementines for a buck a pound. Leafy greens for 50 cents a bunch. Regularity, here I come!

My boss once told me a story of a sailing trip he captained. Managing a quality department of all women, it was not a surprise to him that not one of his quality cohorts had any sailing experience, so he was figuratively on his own. But the one thing he couldn't do alone was tow the line in when they docked. He asked a particular person to do the job, which entailed jumping off the boat onto the dock, grabbing the dockline and pulling the boat safely in. She was excited to be commissioned to take on this very important task, eager to be of service instead of simply going along for the ride. As they arrived at the dock, she situated herself to take her leap, but then made the mistake of stealing a quick look down from the edge of the boat and declared, "I'm not doing that!", climbed back into the boat and sat down.

Perhaps a trip to the farmers' market falls into the mundane weekend activity category, but it reminded me that there is still life to be lived and little presents yet to be opened. At this point in my life, I don't want to get back into the boat and just sit and watch.

Excuse me, but I have some beets to roast and some swiss chard to saute.

Because I Love You

According to Dictionary.com, "Peruse has long meant 'to read thoroughly' and is often used loosely when one could use the word read instead, as in 'The librarians checked to see which titles had been perused in the last month and which been left untouched.' Seventy percent of the Usage Panel rejected this example in our 1999 survey. Sometimes people use it to mean 'to glance over, skim,' as in 'I only had a moment to peruse the manual quickly', but this usage is widely considered an error. In a 1988 survey, 66 percent of the Panel found it unacceptable, and in 1999, 58 percent still rejected it."

So if they lied to us about this, what about the rest of it? Was it all a sham?? It appears that I am experiencing a bit of adolescent trauma a bit late in life. This trauma extended into my work arena as well, the only place, mind you, where I am paid to play the role of an adult. Yet again, the joke was on me. Yes, I fell for it; I was the fool. I freely admit that I was taken to the cleaners. How many more trite adages do I need to throw out there before the beatings cease?? Earlier last year, there was a breach of trust that I couldn't get myself to believe. I kept asking myself how could this be? I rather dislike getting angry, because I simply hate the feeling of anger. And so I tend towards becoming disappointed and sad. But when there is outright lying in what is supposed to be a professional environment, sometimes anger is one of the more effective ways of communicating disapproval. So the iron fist had to come down during what my coworkers affectionately call "The Crackdown". But I must say that I held back tears while threatening to fire the next smug character who dared dry lab data again.

A few months ago I began that post having responded to dishonesty in my factories with unbelief, interlaced with a bit of anger. Outside of work, I have also felt betrayal in my life that put me past the point of merely holding back the flood. In those times, I found myself beseeching God to explain why He would allow such grievous trials to afflict me. Why? Why God? But recently, I was admonished to recall the story of Job. And so my heart is tenderly pulled into a compassionate sympathy for my brother of old, because of the pain he agonized. But I'm reminded not just of the man, but also of the strength and stalwartness of his faith which allowed him to be tested. My head then skirts the negative notions of punishment and malady and for a moment, embraces the comfort of being loved by God. Maybe God loves me so much, He was sure my faith in Him and Spirit filled heart could endure the dolor (neat word, huh?). Maybe He knew I've grown enough to withstand the temptation to throw angry darts upwards at heaven in blame of my plight.

Or maybe not.

I just know that God loves me. And there isn't enough love in my heart to express how grateful I am for that unconditional affection.

Talk to Me

In general, there are three ways people respond to criticism. There are those who can decouple the negative message from the deliverer and take to heart how the not so positive feeback can be used to make them better. Or you can jump to the opposite extreme, where all malice and ill intention is assumed and respond in defensiveness in all its evil grandeur. People generally fall somewhere in between the two. Or, they do the unthinkable. Taking the dumb, deaf, and blind approach, they ignore you and pretend nothing ever happened. I have been unfortunate enough to have surrounded myself with several of these latter characters.

I am ashamed to say that I spent at least the early half of my life with the proverbial boxing gloves on, ready to pounce on anyone whose shadow crossed my path in what I deemed an unpleasant way. Although the Lord has seen fit to chip away at my heart of stone, there are those who refuse to believe stone can be softened to flesh no matter how divine the intervention. So seeing as that's been the case, I've worked tirelessly to dampen my irrational anger, curb unfriendly facial retorts, and mute my response when the initial attempts at civility don't seem to work. Admittedly, I am not always successful, but thank goodness He has minimized the angry feelings to a point where I have fewer opportunities to be tested.

All that to say that these life maturing lessons have caused me to seek solace in asking questions and simply overcommunicating, somewhat against my Asian nature. Now let's tie in paragraph one. One plus two does not always equal three. It tends to equal negative one, depending on the day. But I am motivated by what I feel to be God's direction towards healthier, more open, deeper relationships. But you can't get to the solution without all the pieces of the puzzle. So I just pray the other half of these equations are willing to commit to the same.

In the meantime, I guess I'll just keep talking.

What's Going On

A simple, yet comprehensive take on the economic chaos of late:
http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?episode=365

Life in Technicolor

Last weekend, I had the rare chance to share a meal with a couple visiting from Australia, just back from a west coast jaunt in their old RV (which they are trying to sell, if anyone's interested). John is a gentle man of few words, that is, until you begin to talk about current, world events. And Kay is a fiesty, wise cracking, retired secretary who had a knack for making me laugh. But what made an impression on me was our conversation about the upcoming election. I was struck by not only how informed they were of the American political scene, but also by how engaged they were in the process. I quizzically queried them on why they had such an earnest interest in the place where they were merely vacationing. Kay didn't waste any time to matter of factly answer, "Because when America sneezes, the rest of the world catches a cold." They were sincerely interested in their surroundings, and astute enough to know that it streched halfway around the world.

Curiosity fueled the conversation, as I asked how they perceived Americans. They remarked that throughout their travels of the States, they did not find many who were willing to engage in chitchat concerning the latest political headlines. I surmised that my newfound friends were a bit disappointed in our less than eager participation in the election process. Who knew that tourists would be so well informed? They also added ccommentary on how it didn't make sense that a politician had yet to demand change to the electoral process. Apparently we are one of the last countries in the free world not using the popular vote to elect our leaders. I had not realized that. Imagine that; being schooled about your own country by outsiders. I think they were too polite to come right out and say that Americans are ignorant.

A few days ago, I watched the VP debate at a hotel bar in Trenton, Ontario. And that was only after we had to convince the barkeep to change the channel (apparently ice hocky is big in Canada; who knew??). Nothing like watching our potential second in commands go at it over beer and stale, spicy party mix and peanuts. But I found myself intrigued in who these people were and what they stood for. At the conclusion, I was no better off in backing a candidate, but I found myself wanting to vote. This American ain't gonna sit this one out.

Home - Air Around The Golf

The other morning I eagerly added 4 extra golf balls to my hatchback stash as I got ready to leave for work. After a painfully disappointing first lesson, I expected the second session to be just as discouraging and equally stinging to my right hand. But I was pleasantly surprised to connect with the ball enough to get a transient feel for a potentially better swing. And this time I was smart enough to tape up my thumb and pointer finger to save my right hand from the torture of hitting 200+ balls in an hour. Ready to try out the new swing, I was saddened to hear that a member of my foursome was denied the right to enjoy a much needed 4.5 hours out on the course with his golfing buds. 30 minutes complaining about how his wife doesn't allow him any freedom led us to cancel our tee time in lieu of venting over a couple pitchers.

Friends often ask me why I play golf. Interestingly, no one has ever asked me why I play tennis. But I digress. Originally I took up golf for a guy, which is generally a slippery slope on which to step, especially since things like golf and football serve as outlets for guys to get away from the women in their lives. But oops, I stepped and slid. I never could pin down why I continued to play, though. It is frustrating, not to mention expensive, and just plain difficult to get the hang of. But I am beginning to see past the first tee all the way to the 19th hole, where walking those 4 miles and then bonding over Fat Tire has laid a foundation of friendship that goes beyond a common tee time on Saturday afternoon. Heartfelt discussions concerning separation, divorce, teenagers doing drugs, mingled amidst politics in the world and in the office and childhood experiences that have meandered their way into our so called adulthood - those are worth the 3 putts to give me a bogey on the par 3 17th, the duff into the water after a long drive into the middle of the fairway, and the occasional greens in regulation moment of glory.

Now you know why I play golf. And now I know too.

Hungry Like the Wolf

NatureShark MountainMonday, June 23, 7:00pm
[D] (KQED Life-Encore)Underwater filmmakers Howard and Michele Hall have spent 25 years diving and documenting the most remote and beautiful underwater locations, always learning something new about the fantastic creatures that live there. Yet even these remote places and creatures are at risk in today's world, and being able to share their experiences with the rest of us is increasingly important to the Halls, and to us. They take us along on the dive of a lifetime, to a tiny outpost 300 miles off the coast of Central American — Shark Mountain.CC, Stereo TVPG Educational Taping Rights: 1 year

Normally, I am fascinated by nature, especially of the underwater world. Creatures below the vast oceans have intrigued me since my best bud introduced me to the angel fish living in a simple desktop tank. But tonight, as I watched the schools of sharks around Coco Island mingle amongst so called "fish" whose fins are used as feet and spongelike frog fish with lures protruding from their foreheads, I was scared. I suddenly felt frightened and disturbed watching a dozen male, white-tipped sharks attack a single female by biting down on her gills in order to mate. And then the film makers allowed me to invade the privacy of hundreds of silky sharks voraciously hunting the innocent, sleeping fish in reefs in the dark of night. I was absolutely terrified.

I'm so grateful there is still light at 8 at night this time of year.

Long Way Home

I've always been an overly emotional person. My sister claims it has something to do with our repressed childhood. But whatever the reason, I cry at the drop of a hat. When I left my first job of 2.5 years, I asked my manager to mislead my coworkers by announcing a later last day, so that I could slip out without having to tearfully face my office family for the last time. Shoot, I cried leaving a 2.5 month internship my sophomore year of college! But my sensitivity does have some practical implications. The bucket-o-tears meter is the gauge I use to determine whether or not a movie is worth my ten bucks. Who needs Ebert and Roeper when you have your own internal movie critic? I put a shout out to Kleenex for making tissues soft enough to spare my nose from unnecessary chafing; I think they should send me a lifetime achievement award for my overactive tear ducts.

I wish my next trial were as simple as draining a box of tissues. There are really no words that can adequately describe the experience of losing your best friend. I have felt the feelings of loss before and the flashes of memories that you swear happened just yesterday. There are even twinges of regret, for the times you could have spent talking about heartfelt dreams instead of watching another bad rental that we had to finish to get our $2 worth. But it has never been so severe that it would cause me to throw up while brushing my teeth. I suppose my body had to step up the physiological response, since the crying reflex went into overdrive. But all the adjectives and adverbs cannot begin to tell the story of trauma that is placed on your heart. If you know and can relate, then I sincerely apologize. This morning I heard the story of a father who fell asleep on his 10 week old baby, smothering him to death. No longer do I have to pretend to imagine what another person in mourning feels. Perhaps I should just be grateful for the short time on this earth that I shared with my friend. But you know what, I am just not ready to.

Control

When I go down the list of the jungle of emotions we're prone to feel, I often wonder which ones are not of God. I'm not debating whether they originate from God. Afterall, God has revealed His character to us as being a jealous god who can also choose to seethe in anger. I guess my beef is with where along the path do they become fully carnal, devoid of any holy inspired intentions.

I remember being graciously asked to forgive someone whom God had brought to a momentous point of revelation as to how he had wronged me. From this retrospective perch, I can applaud the process, citing the brave humility it must have taken for him to apologize and seek absolution. But my memory reminds me that I wasn't quite ready to let him off the hook at the time. Granted, I wasn't in a position to withhold anything tangible or even my friendship or attention from him, but I would not let go of the forgiveness he sought. At the time, my intentions felt practically noble, wrapped up in a warped sense of self-preservation, because my healing had nothing to do with him. But today, that so called guarding sounds selfish. Ultimately he requested something I could hold over his head, and I greedily held onto it.

"Watch yourselves! If your brother sins, rebuke him. If he repents, forgive him. Even if he sins against you seven times in a day, and seven times returns to you saying, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive him.” Luke 17:3-4

When I read Jesus' command to his disciples to freely give grace, it saddens me to think back at all the times my heart created undeserved situations of bondage over others. I missed the "must" in Jesus' reproof. Add in the countless number of times I myself have been forgiven, and I'm not even playing in the same ballpark. So now, as I go back full circle to my musing on when feelings become ungodly, my concern seems moot. I completely missed the mark.

I'm going to go now, hang my head, sigh, and then move forward to look for an opportunity to cut someone loose.

All Shook Up

For the few, the proud, the unrecognized who continue to search unrelentingly for a smidgeon of entertainment and could care less about who was booted off Dancing With the Stars this week, here is my attempt at a bit of online folly. I like to call it the Barium Enema Rumba. May I?

As many dances begin, I started off with a drink, a fizzy 10oz bottle of Magnesium Citrate, which is like homemade lemon soda. Not bad, considering I was expecting to have to down chaulky sludge in preparation for this adventure. Patients tend to have a reaction anywhere from 30 minutes to 6 hours later. Since I got called into work that night, I am happy to report that this did not kick in for 5.5 hours, by which time I was joyfully at home, in close proximity to my toilet, I might add. Just before dozing off into what I thought would be a pleasant slumber, I ingested four enteric coated Bisacodyl tablets like a good little patient. And thus began the frequent flyer miles from my bed to the commode, peeing through my butt. Too much information, you think to yourself. Well, my friend, read on. I finally did get a stretch of sleep only to be interrupted at 4:40am by an unsympathetic operator. So what the heck, while I was up, I might as well rack up that mileage I began accruing the night before. To finish the checklist off, I administered the Fleet Bisacodyl Enema 45 minutes before I had to leave for the hospital, having timed it by the 15-30 minute reaction time spelled out on the preparation sheet. No worries, since my colon was running on empty, right?

Turning the corner from Churchill onto El Camino, I was struck by a sudden feeling of "was the sushi I ate last night bad?", even though I had not eaten since Sunday. Oh, and then the feeling that can only be described as explosive diarrhea fell upon my seatbelted self. Debating whether to turn into Pali High and then Town and Country or just simply pull over to the side of the road, while scanning the entire front half of my vehicle for a plastic bag (I need not tell you what primitive idea I was toying with), I mustered enough mental capacity to beg God for the physical strength to keep my britches clean. I, of course, tagged behind the slowest senior citizen with no knowledge of the workings of the parking garage, but eventually found a spot near the elevator entrance. Let me tell you how slowly an elevator can travel one flight when there is impending tragedy at hand. Needless to say, relief did come not just in time, but in time.

I'd like to proclaim the actual procedure to be uncomfortable yet bearable, but then I'd be lying. Descriptive phrases that come to mind include disgustingly painful, terribly long, and embarrassingly unprivate (thanks Adam and Eve, for making us need fig leaves). It's an intriguing process to have someone inject barium solution into your colon, stand the table you're sprawled out on up to drain the fluid, pump air into you between x-rays, and roll you around to make sure every nook and cranny is covered. I now know what it feels like to be shaken and not stirred. The nurse and doctor tried to warn me about how my body would react to introducing foreign instruments where the sun don't shine, but let me just say that my mind was not prepared for the inflation of the balloon that was supposed to keep the tip from being pushed out. God designed the muscles down there to push in one direction, and one direction only. But I was in this for the duration, as if I had any choice. The first introduction of air made me feel like I instantaneously acquired a stomach virus; my whole body felt ill. That feeling decided to accompany me on my entire 45 minute journey. And every twist and turn caused my insides to struggle for relief. So much so that in the midst of my second 360 degree log roll, that balloon proved ineffective. Couple the doctor's cautionary warning to "just keep the barium in!" with the sudden realization that I might have to endure this torture again, and let's just say that barium stayed put. Who thought of this test anyhow??

How wonderful it was to see the radiologist leave. That meant 12 more pictures and then freedom. And that finally came. Finally.

I do not recommend having this procedure done. But I give thanks for all the prayers and the virtual hand holding - the Lord spared me today with clean results! Phew. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to visit the little girls' room...

Total Eclipse of the Heart

Last week, I was especially rocked by the profound truth that "if you don’t love God, you can’t do anybody any ultimate good." This hasn't always been my struggle, perhaps because I selectively dole out care, avoiding those who would cause me to question the Christian creed to turn the other cheek. So the connection of my loving God allowing me to love others isn't at the forefront of my mind. But to love God, how could that be so tough, seeing how He's loved me despite my constant failings. But recently I've come to the end of my rope in loving each and every soul around me, be they family, friends, coworkers, and especially the unaware driver I have the unfortunate misfortune of almost hitting in the parking lot of Ranch 99.

God continued to knock my noggin through Piper's preaching that "The main reason we don’t love God and find it burdensome to love people is that our cravings are for the things of the world. They may be good things. They may be bad things. They may be material things. They may be relational. Whatever their form, they are not God. And when we crave them above God, they are idols. They replace love for God and love for people." I am not adverse to the premise that the way or the amount or the quality of my love for God is not sufficient. In fact, I would not be at a loss to delineate many of those cravings. And perhaps this is why I have been so frustrated in my so-called service of late, to the ones I love. Sourced through my own strength, my "giving to" and "doing for" efforts have not been well received. Even if the gift is something they would accept, they complain about why they don't need it, why they don't like it, and how it is simply all wrong. My attempts to serve garner a similar, demoralizing response. But God would see fit to seize this opportunity to pour out this seemingly illogical inspiration into my head, rationalizing away my paralysis-rendering discouragement. Of course I cannot do good without His good. Of course my love on its own is not what they need. Of course.

Let's hope this divinely fortuitous revelation can redirect my misguided path, not towards them, but towards Him.

Here I Go Again

"With great power comes great responsibility." Spiderman got it half right. Add in adulthood, and the responsiblity factor increases at least twofold. I didn't ask to grow up or become competent enough to claim self-reliance, but here I am, in my 30s, supposedly an adult, and supposedly responsible. Yahoo.

Instead of feeling proud of traversing a long and arduous path, arguably accomplishing much, I feel defeated. It's as if life has beat me down only to wallop me in the head and then in the gutt just as I crawl to my feet, and there I am again, communing with the floor. Surprisingly I am not disheartened by this rather loathesome state. Instead, I have become resigned to this being the involuntary, systematic cycle I affectionately call my own private "sin-wave". No, not sine wave. SIN wave. Okay, so it's not always sin that directs my plane into a downward tailspin. But it sure is a plausible explanation of my dizzingly predictable existence.

Not to worry; I am not angry or depressed. This is my plight, and I'm gonna eat it, thank you very much.