Texting is Not Like the Real Thing

Friends, I'm thankful for such a full life, but I am feeling a little frantic lately because of a minor though chronic condition of overcommitment. February is busy because it contains the birthday of my firstborn, who is turning nine, and we must sound the trumpets and celebrate with style because she is worth it. Along with this, and traveling, and commitments at church, charity, and family, my cup overfloweth. I should and could come up with a list of things to do, proceed to run around like a chicken with its head cut off, and feel exhausted and drained without accomplishing much. Or, I could sit down, take a deep breath, and write. Hopefully the effect will be a calmer mind, more clarity, and a deeper appreciation of the purpose of these commitments. Yes, that sounds good. This I will do.

This past weekend I was out of town. I don't normally post how hot my husband is (I do think this) or loudly proclaim my love for him on social media because I don't want to annoy single people who resent hearing about my amazing married life. Not that all single people resent hearing about this. Nor should they. But I know sometimes it is hard so I prefer not doing that. But no judgment towards those who do flaunt their love life because it is something good and should be celebrated. Also, note to single people, our married lives are more than twitter and Facebook statuses, we also fight and that never gets posted. You should know that. End lengthy disclaimer.

The truth is, I do enjoy a very close relationship with my husband. We've been married for almost 11 years so let's face it we're past the honeymoon stage but definitely entered the deep intimate life sharing phase. When I was away, I texted him each night (truthfully to make sure my kids are clean and fed) and shared some short snippets from our day. We are thankful for the new iMessage which allows us to text each other for free as long as we both have internet access to our iPhones. After texting, I'd settle down on my hotel bed and drift off to sleep. I am able to sleep peacefully because I am content knowing my loved ones are safe, and having connected via a few texted words, sense my emotional and relational needs being met. There's a peace knowing my world is fine and I can wake up the next morning carrying on with the tasks of the next day. My marriage has taught me so much about the nature of our human-ness which requires a depth of connection which we find in marriage, friendship, family, communities, and beyond.

You know that bit in the Bible about how we, the followers of Jesus Christ, are metaphorically analogous to the Bride? This need for connection with my husband, this urge to text before bedtime, that's comparable to our longing to connect with our God. And Jesus, He is our iMessenger (wow, cheesy), giving us an avenue to directly relate to our Father. And He brings us peace to go to sleep at night. Peace knowing we are safe in His arms, safe to love others, safe to get up in the morning and carry on with the tasks of the next day.

But after three days of being gone, I came home. And I (after I told him to haul my luggage upstairs) gave him a hug. We settled into bed together and talked face to face. He told me stories of the kids antics and I shared about my trip.

And it was different. It was better. We were together again.

We are not there yet, the Church. We have a lot. We have Jesus, we have each other, we have glimpses of what is to come. It is enough for now. iMessage is sufficient. For now. But one day, we will be together, the Bride and the Groom, and it will be different. It will be better.

Mole Excision Surgery

It was time to get rid of the mole to the right of my nose. I've always had this mole but it has grown substantially in the last few years and it's time for it to go.

Despite having labored to deliver two babies, my pain tolerance is still incredulously low. The thought of a needle in my face petrified me to no end. But I'm determined. The mole's gotta go. For a few days I asked around for mole removal dr recommendations, researched the internet, and talked to people about it. From everything that I read, it's a simple outpatient procedure.

Still, I'm nervous. The more I thought the more I panicked. The intensifying fear required relief. It's time to just get it over with. Thursday morning, I skip Bible Study and go to a pretty well known dermatology clinic near my house. I go in and they said it's full, I gotta wait until after CNY. "After CNY? I can't make it." That's the fear speaking. I left the clinic and decided to go to the nearby hospital. The dermatologist looked at my mole and said for sure I need surgery because it is raised and large and transferred me to the plastic surgery department. So I'm at the plastic surgery department, not knowing any of these doctors, and my nerves continue to grow. The whole time I'm texting Jason and my brother Aidan, keeping them posted, growing increasingly scared. Doctor finally calls me in and says you need surgery but you'll have to wait until after CNY. I panic again and plead, please could I have it done this morning, I have free time right now, I need to just get it over with. A scrubbed surgeon walks by and the nurses ask if he could do it. He looks at me, squeezes my face around, and says ok, he'll do it.

Again, I expected a simple outpatient procedure. Yet next thing I know, I"m being prepped for a full on surgery. They had me sign a consent form and I gulped after glossing over words like BLOOD and DEATH. They had me change into gowns, take off all my jewelry, put one of those green scrubby shower caps on and lead me into an operating room. The room is freezing (apparently that's how they have to keep ORs) with surgical equipment strewn all around. I lay down on the surgical bed and stare up into those big surgical lamps with like 6 rounded bulbs. I am freaking out. They cover me with blankets and I ask for more (it's cold in there!). Then they cover my face up exposing just my mole area. The dr. marks my face up of where he's going to cut. I almost jumped at the sensation of the pen on my face because I expected a shot. The doctor and nurses are not telling me ANYTHING about what's going on, which serves to further heighten my nerves. So I take charge and ask, "please can you tell me when you're going to give me the shot?" knowing that was the main thing that was going to hurt. They say yes they will. More prepping, rubbing my face with disinfectant, more marking and squeezing of my face. The moment came, "here comes the shot, it's going to hurt, it's really going to hurt!" The nurses yell. NOT HELPFUL. Expecting one shot, I received 4-5 various shots all around my mole. As always, the anticipation was MUCH worse than the actual needle, the pain was fairly minimal. The right side of my face goes numb. I am paranoid the anesthesia won't work during the procedure so I remain tense. I can feel a LOT of tugging and pulling of my face. Halfway into the procedure, I hear the doctor call the nurses for "電燒“， which literally means, "electric burn". A surge of new panic comes on, why are they going to use electric burn on me? I use the little medical knowledge I possess to surmise they need to cauterize the wound. He "electric burns" my wound, I hear a loud hissing sound, feel immense pressure on my cheek, then SMELL burning flesh. Breathing, breathing, telling myself to stay calm, I persevere. The burning lasts what feels like forever, he repeatedly cauterizes this area, I'm about to pass out wanting it to be over. Finally he puts the electric burn away, and presumably starts stitching. More tugging, more pressure. At long last it's over. They take off my covers and I am shivering uncontrollably, probably from the build up of my nerves. The nurses ask if I wanted to see my mole. I saw the huge ball of flesh on a surgical tray and nearly pass out again. Shaking, I get dressed, pay a whopping 350NT for the whole procedure and walk out the door.

At home, I change my dressing to discover I have a huge gash stitched up with 7 stitches and still shudder when I look at it.

Mole is gone, but in its place I may have a scar. Time will tell whether it was worth it.

2012 Resolutions

New Year resolutions. Or goals. (Somebody explain the difference again?) We’ve all seen them run through our social media newsfeed. Eat better. Be present. Love more. Blah, blah, blah, it’s as standard as beauty pageant contestants promoting “world peace.” I have yet to come across more creative inspirational resolutions. Some people give up making them for fear of failure (gulp, guilty), others tentatively put it out there in public realm in hopes of accountability. The most obnoxious ones flaunt their accomplishments disguised in the form of resolutions inducing shame on those of us who are, what one might deem, lower profile. No, I do not plan on publishing a book in 2012, but hope to crank out a few blog entries for my audience of two to three, thank you very much.

And now, my turn to add my teensy voice into the cacophony of online NY announcements: in 2012, I propose to eat better, be present, and love more. Hey, I think there needs to be more creativity in resolutions but I got nothing.

Eat Better. We are not bad eaters. So the boys like snacking and Lizzy and I don’t drink enough water. Besides those minor faults, we generally maintain a healthy family diet, and none of us need to lose any weight. (Except me. But only on my tummy. And a little under my arms. That’s all. Don’t hurt me.) This past year Jason has decided, for environmental reasons, to stop eating beef. I didn’t plan on following suit but naturally stopped serving beef at family dinners. As it turns out, we feel better, spend less on meat, and do our small part withdrawing from an industry that devastates our earth. This year, I hope to eat even less meat and try cooking more vegetarian dishes. Fortunately I’ve found some fantastic vegetarian restaurants in our city and look forward to frequenting those this year.

Be present. This one is a bit vague. I interpret it to mean less time online and more time face to face. I don’t have super high hopes of maintaining this resolution, and will hereby briefly gloss over it and move on to the next.

Love more. Yes! In 2012, may I grow even more in love with my husband and children, taking every opportunity to express love in ways that resonates deeply within their souls. I hope to delve deeper into the precious friendships in my community. I ask God to do His five loaves two fish thing and multiply the space in my heart to include strangers and those in pain. I want to speak words of blessing and hope into a world of darkness. I want to quietly listen to beautiful stories of redemption. I want to shout loudly in advocacy for those silenced by marginalization. I will demand grace when I fall and extend that same grace without reservation. It will hurt me to love more, but when 2013 rolls around, I’ll look back and remember the pain was good pain, the sort that leads to a life worth living, and a story worth telling.

So there you have it, my New Years resolutions. Yours?

Light of the World

I heard a story last week that has been relentlessly haunting my mind with images.

I see a picture of a toddler boy meeting a woman behind bars, his innocence shielding him from the harsh reality that his birth mother has been sentenced for life.

I see a woman forced into household servitude in a foreign land, and in a desperate attempt for freedom, lit a fire that claimed two lives. She believed according to local superstition, that a fire in the house would compel the head of the household to send her back home. Yet in an ironic, cruel twist of fate, her frantic gasp for air suffocated any hope of her return.

I see the dark prison, an institution of society’s justice system, meting out justice to a woman who has never known justice herself.

It’s the Advent season, a time we remember how God incarnated Himself in a tiny baby into our broken world. He did not come so we can arm ourselves with weapons of judgment. He dared those who have not sinned to cast the first stone at an adulterous woman. To his executors he blessed with forgiveness. He came, instead, to bring deliverance for the poor, for the orphaned, for the widowed, for the condemned. His message is one of light in the darkness. He came to tear down the walls we erect to keep the murderers safely out of the sight of our comfortable lives. He came to shatter the moral categories we develop to separate the sinners from the righteous. He brings with Him a new radical vision for all to embrace. In that vision,

I see the toddler boy adopted into a loving family. I see redemption.

I see full forgiveness of God extended to all, even those who have committed capital offense. I see grace.

I see justice for the poor, so no girls are sent away by their families in order to survive. I see deliverance.

I see beauty for ashes; comfort for mourning; mercy for judgment.

Jesus has come, and in his life, death, and resurrection, he’s brought forth His Kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven. Today, may hope flood our hearts and spill over into the darkest corners of the world, perhaps into a prison holding a broken woman, mother, and daughter of God.

Let's get to know each other

I had a conversation with my girlfriend about the hypothetical situation of whether we should remarry if our husbands died. I know my married girlfriends have had this conversation too, don’t deny it people. Her response was how hard it would be to have to get to know another person as intimately all over again.

Truly one of the greatest gifts in relationships is to be understood by another person. And trusting you will be accepted and loved in spite of the intimate knowledge. However, the process from acquaintance to intimacy takes time. It takes time to tell stories, to react to circumstances in life, to laugh and cry together, to argue and disagree, and then to make up. These experiences build layers of trust and loyalty and compose the patches of material that make up friendship. Through time we weave our lives together and enter together into the depth of relationship that allow us to be known by one another. And we are created to long for that depth. To be deeply known.

The trouble is, then we move. We pick up and move to another town. Or in my case, across the freakin’ ocean. I grew up in a small school where my friends were like my brothers and sisters. We were that small and that close. At graduation we scattered literally all over the world. Our new communities did’t know our collective history and we had to start over from scratch with the storytelling and the laughing and crying and all that relationship building stuff. Then we’d move again. And start all over again. It’s no wonder people who are forced to move around a lot, like military families, have intimacy issues. It’s simply too exhausting.

Each time we enter a new community, that new place shapes us, molding us into someone different. When I left Wheaton, I was starting to question some of the conservative elements of my beliefs. Fuller helped introduce a broader spectrum of theology and how to incorporate doubt and criticism into a vibrant faith. In a sense, there was a Morrison Cindy, a Wheaton Cindy, a Fuller Cindy, a China Cindy, and a back-to-Taiwan Cindy. As time went on, the world changed and so did I. In the moving river of life, people who stepped in along the way journeyed with me downstream without the knowledge of who I was before I became who I am. Like a diamond, we can only reflect light off of one surface at a time even though we are made out of many facets.

The potential for misunderstanding is alarming. In our limited perspective, it’s too easy to make judgments regarding a person’s comments without a fuller understanding of their background. Wheaton Cindy would be appalled at some of the theological slants of back-to-Taiwan Cindy, and Chinese Cindy cannot hardly stand American Cindy most of the time. The complexities of our biological, cultural, mental, and spiritual identities is what fuels the psycho-therapy economy. And yet there exists inside of me the desire to be wholly known. The impossibility of somebody understanding the nuances of every past experience, every hat I wear, every idea and action and word I exhibit, doesn’t stop me from trying.

So I tell stories. I share my reaction when stuff happens. I laugh and cry. I argue and disagree. And I make up. Then I listen, not only to stories but to the stories behind the stories. I try not to jump to conclusions about people because I don’t know where they’ve been upstream. I look for the other faces of the diamond that make up each person I encounter because seeing only one side is not satisfying. I lean deep into the relationships around me to know and be known. It’s what I was created for.

I’m Cindy. It’s nice to meet you. Let’s get to know each other, shall we?

Called to Love

I knew when I encountered the word "locutionary" in the latest theology book I'm reading I had bitten off more than I can chew. Contrary to what Kathy Laytham says, I am really not very smart. I learned very late in life how to think for myself. In that respect, my daughter is way ahead of me as she seems to know everything about the world at the age of 8. But there is something so alluring about reading intelligent articulation of faith, theology, and culture. At Wheaton, I spent hours sitting in the dining hall with friends unpacking theology and its significance. With the explosion of the blogging enterprise, I am now afforded the opportunity to engage for hours on end with theology professors, authors, and pastors via the world wide web. I simultaneously scorn and crave controversies that go viral online. Rob Bell's accused heresy fed my addictions temporarily. For my next fix I look to Mark Driscoll - he never fails to deliver. Sometimes I will attempt to squeeze in one more blog post from Mason Slater before I feed my children. It is that bad. I am reminded of Monica opening wedding presents without Chandler (OMG, am I REALLY referencing Friends, how last decade am I?), "Joey, I'm out of control!"

Turns out your online life eventually bleeds into your offline life. If you read enough blog posts "pushing back" at another blog post, you learn to push back in real life. I've struggled with this problem for quite a while. In seminary we were taught to think critically about our faith. For one of our finals we had to criticize the theology in Veggie Tales. What in the world? Who does that? It's Veggie Tales, Saturday morning fun, Sunday morning values! I wrote, "Veggie Tales does a great job of teaching children Christian ethics" and I got a C. So it's really no surprise that by the time I came out the other end of the theological training system, I can no longer listen to a sermon, go through a Bible Study, or even watch a darn Christian cartoon without ripping it to shreds. Uh, I mean, critically evaluate the presuppositions and rearrange the epistemological framework of the underlying assumptions attributing to the consequent praxis. If you didn't understand that last sentence, yeah neither did I. And the only reason I even knew those words was because I was forced to use them in my education and I was obsessed with beating my husband with my grades. (That is really sad, I know.)

My main problem is that I can't seem to undo the damage. I can't unlearn what I have learned. Also, did I mention it is addicting? Do you know how satisfying it feels to actually look up the word "locutionary", learn what it means as applied to biblical hermeneutics, understand it, and explain it to your husband to show off your intellectual prowess? (In case anyone is curious, he's not normally as impressed as I'd like him to be.)

I actually intended this post to be a serious one about conjoining theology and ethics but it's late at night and slight delirium is leading me to derail from my original purpose. The point is, in case anyone is still reading this post, the allure of theological musings can sometimes mar one's character, which results in some serious irony as the study of a Good and Loving God should lead one to love more fully, not think more critically. I don't remember a word from my undergraduate commencement message (probably because my future in-laws were there and I was more concerned about impressing them) but I still remember the sermon Dr. Richard Mouw spoke at our graduation from Fuller. He said Christian education is about the head - thinking critically, the heart - loving, and the hand - doing the work of God. Then he said the most important of the three is the heart. (note he says it much more eloquently than my paraphrase here, that is why he is the president of an academic institution and I'm just rambling in cyberspace with questionable use of parenthesis.)

I went to seminary because I love God and I wanted to serve people. Thanks Dr. Mouw for reminding us all that living a rational and robust faith means loving with abandon. As much as I believe in thoughtful engagement with culture and not divorcing our intellect from our faith, I hope they contribute instead of detract from our character as followers of Christ. That our theological debates lead us to greater humility, generous charity, and sacrificial love.

Home to home and back again

There are no surprises. Even the youngest member of our family, five year old Hayden, has a well-worn passport. International travel is no novelty to us. We know there will be lines for customs, procedures of security check, and how to occupy our time for hours and hours of airplane travel. We land in LAX and I wait for that sensation of culture shock, though anticipated is no less jarring. Our five sense are flooded with sights and sounds we are not used to, but yet are not unfamiliar with. I whisper to Jason, "I hope the kids don't make comments about seeing black people", nervous about the unfiltered words coming from my little ones who live in a monocultural society. At the same time I mentally run through my own behavior and whether they are appropriate for this context, telling myself to go ahead and banter with the store clerk because that's what people do here. I watch my husband and wonder if he feels as foreign as I do in this place. I marvel at the children's reactions to being back in America, so filled with delight and yet tentative. By day 3, I had crossed the line from merely being a thoughtful traveler to crazy over-analytical wife who was overwhelming her husband with theories of why people behave the way they do here and what is the Christian meaning behind the behavior and how it affects our family's history and future. It's the career hazard of being a cross cultural Christian worker. I abandon the theoretical exercises (or at least stop spouting them out loud) and simply enjoy the good times to be had with friends, old and new, and family.

We had a too-brief stay in LA and was reminded of how much we loved living there. Then off to Colorado to reunite our children with their doting grandparents whose gracious hospitality allowed us to not have to lift a finger for anything. Mountains were enjoyed, Colorado blue sky appreciated, and even a sighting of Saturn through the telescope at Grandparent's cabin was scored. Credit cards were maxed out and two years worth of shopping were caught up.

The glass half empty approach to our family's unique cultural experiences would be to struggle to find where home is. Indeed, at the moments when the modern invention of jet plane lands us in a a different land within a matter of hours, it takes a while to find our balance amidst the sudden shift in culture. But quickly we discover our home among people, those who are connected to us through a smorgasbord of life experiences, those who remain faithful in our relationship despite geographical distance. It turns out home is not just where the bed you are used to is at, but amongst friends and family connected to you via strands of love and loyalty, shared experiences and commitment, common vision and faith.

As we've gone from home to home and back again, I can't help but wonder if there is a home for us somewhere we've yet to discover.