Broken, Cut Down

There was a tree in our backyard when we moved into our house. You could tell that it wasn't completely healthy, be we left it alone for a few years. Sparse patches of green would pop out in spring, but in winter we would wonder if it might fall with a "snap" and take part of our home with it.

A few weeks ago the tree was cut down, sawed and carried away, piece by piece. Some sections of the trunk were hollow and rotten inside, dark and ugly, eating away from the core outward.

Now the wood from the tree is stacked at the side of my yard. It sits as a silent reminder; my own temporary alter that calls me to worship God, who alone shines light into darkness.

He is exposing years of inner sickness that has been growing beneath the surface. I recognized the threat, that as it grew within, dark and ugly, it would only be a matter of time before it came crashing down. It was threatening my home. So now, I'm getting rid of it, cutting it off at the source, and taking it away--piece by piece.

The Splinter

She's semi-limping around the house.

"What's wrong with your foot?" I ask.

"It hurts a little."

"Can I look at it?"

"Yes, but don't touch it Mommy."

"Okay...It looks like you have a splinter. See how there's a little black line there--"

"DON'T TOUCH IT!!! It will hurt SO much if you touch it."

"Do you want me to get it out so it will feel better?"

"No. I can just walk like this." She demonstrates, walking with her foot turned sideways so the part with the splinter doesn't touch the ground.

It's awkward to see. Kind of painful actually. I sit, watching her normally carefree stride become this unnatural, foot turned sideways, clumsy gait.

"Can we get a band-aid to put on it? That will make it feel better," she says, with hope in her four-year-old face.

"You can have a band-aid, but I don't think it will feel better until we get the splinter out."

"I think it will," she says with confidence.

It doesn't. So later in the day, I'm sitting, holding her foot as she cries, removing the splinter with tweezers, and as soon as we're done she wants me to hold her and help dry her tears. Of course I do. We put a little antibiotic ointment on the wound, and a Dora the Explorer band-aid and all is well (or at least a whole lot better). The next day she grins as she dances and says, "Mommy, isn't my foot SO much better, now?"

I can't help but think how much like my wounded little girl I can be sometimes. Maybe it's not physical, but spiritual, emotional. There's something like a splinter just beneath the surface. It's uncomfortable, often even painful. I may let someone close enough to see that it's there, but I'd really rather they not touch it. I make excuses for why I don't just deal with it and get it out, but it alters my "walk". I might keep it for so long that I forget that it's really not a part of how I was intended to be, until it's removed.

Then, like my little girl, I notice how much better everything can be without the splinters, and I dance.

Crying baby

You're a baby and you cry. It's no surprise.

But there are so many things about hearing each of you cry as infants--moving me through the first moments, days, weeks, and months of life with a baby.

I held my breath as you were delivered, waiting for that first cry, then exhaled relief and overwhelming gratitude when I heard it.

Your hunger cries came into my dreams and woke me, with a warm rush, for our late night meetings.

The cries of discomfort, when not quickly calmed, became loud and shrill, ear-piercing, heartwrenching, spirit-shattering wails that sometimes left me in tears, questioning whether I was really going to be able to handle being a mother (of a child, or two, three, or four children).

Eventually these cries all give way to cries of delight, squeals, and laughter. Jabbering, sounds, and words will replace what was once just a lot of crying. I know that when your first birthday comes, most of this crying we do in the early days will be a vague and distant memory for me and you will have no recollection of it at all.

So soft

"She's so soft," he says as he gently strokes her cheek, and hair, and hands. "Why is she so soft? I'm not so soft. Annie is still soft and Mackenzie is a little soft, but I'm not very soft."

"She's still very new. Her skin is new and hasn't been changed or damaged by the sun or swimming pool or other stuff in the environment."

"I like how soft she is," he says, his six-year-old voice almost a whisper.

Me, too. I know that it won't last, this softness, this tenderness, this sensitivity to every sort of stimulation.

It is the nature of our world; the nature of life; the nature of experience.

Over time we lose our "softness". We lose our sensitivity. We become more rough, more hardened, and it changes us.

I silently pray again to be a little more like my children...to view the world with simplicity, to hear and receive God's word without doubt, to love with abandon, to laugh uncontrollably, to dance any time and any place just for pure joy, to hug with all my might, and to forgive quickly without long-term recall of wrongs committed against me.

I want to regain, or maintain, some of the softness.

Surrounded by servants

We aren't financially wealthy enough to pay servants to tend to our every need. There's no personal chef in our home, no nanny to take care of the children, no cleaning lady that stops by leaving our house sparkling and smelling fresh. And yet, when a new baby arrives, I am blessed to have all his and more.

My mom comes before each baby is born and stays a while after to help with the kids and the regular duties of our household, like laundry, sweeping, dishes, and meals. My mother-in-law begins making miyeok guk the day I go to the hospital so I'll have what is thought to be one of the best foods for new moms just after the baby is born. Then there are the friends and neighbors who will be bringing dinner by every other evening for the next two weeks. This time around I've also been blessed with a friend that said, "Please just let me come over and clean sometime. I'm good at it and I really enjoy it, so let me come by and run a vaccuum cleaner, or dust, or something one day."

I am so fortunate to be surrounded by so many loving servants. I am humbled and accept their gifts with gratitude.

A full house

I remember when we first started looking for homes in the area where we live now. I remember looking at floor plans and thinking, "Even as our family grows, we won't need this much house." At the time, we were a couple with one child and one on the way.

Now we're days away from bringing home baby #4 and as I type, there will be 13 people sleeping under our roof tonight (most nights we average 8).

I honestly can't imagine it any other way. When we started building and Eric's parents were facing a recent and catastrophic injury we were able to finish the basement to accommodate them and I was grateful that they would be able to have daily interactions with our kids. When my dad was able to get a job on "our side of town" after being out of work for more than a year, then out of the state, I was glad that we could offer our guest room during the week and the kids would have a little more "Grandpa" time.

This weekend we have cousins from California stopping in on a cross-country drive (family of 5). Two weekends ago it was my sister, her 3 kids, and my mom. In early October it will be another cousin and her family visiting for a few weeks from the Netherlands.

Sure we rush frantically to try to clean up and de-clutter a little before the "not-so-regular" guests arrive.

Sure we have to adjust our normal routines and schedules a bit to keep everyone comfortable.

It can add stress, but it can also add excitement and enrichment to our days.

I do need time and space to be alone sometimes, but that doesn't mean I can't create time and space for others, too.

I'm grateful for the roof over my head.

I'm also grateful for all those who spend time under this roof with me.

"Do you have to brush teeth in heaven?"

Nicholas,

Tonight at bedtime you cried uncontrollably...really, you sobbed so much I think you were close to hyperventilating (you said, "My tummy hurts and my head feels dizzy.").

When you calmed down enough to talk, I asked why you were so sad and you replied, "I don't want Halmoni and Halabeoji [Korean words for grandparents] to die." (between sobs)

"What made you think of that? Halmoni and Halabeoji are downstairs. You know that when your body stops working is when you die? Their bodies are working fine. Why did you think about when they die?"

"I was just in my bed and I thought about it and it made me SO sad. I would miss them SO MUCH." (still crying, and snubbing, trying to get it all under control)

"It is sad to think about people dying." (teary-eyed, trying to maintain composure) "I think it makes us so sad because we miss people when they're gone and it hurts us deep inside. Did you know that when God made the first people, Adam and Eve, that he didn't want them to die? The Bible says that God wrote eternity on our hearts (Ecclesiastes 3). Do you know what eternity means?"

Shakes head, "No."

"Eternity means forever. We were made for eternity, for forever, but we can't live forever in these bodies on earth. That's why God made a plan for us to get to heaven, and why our bodies will be different then (2 Corinthians 5)."

"Can people die then?"

"Now our bodies can get hurt or sick and we get hungry and when someone's body stops working on earth they die. But the Bible says that in heaven there won't be anymore death or crying or pain."

"Mommy, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, buddy. You can ask me anything."

"Did you feel so sad when Memaw died?"

(Now I'm crying) "Yes, I did. Because I knew I would miss her a lot. I also felt glad though, because Memaw had been so sick--not like a cold or stomach ache--but sick with cancer. She had to take a lot of medicines and so her body got weaker and hurt a lot. When she died, I knew she went to heaven and got a new body and she wouldn't hurt anymore, so even though I felt really sad, I also felt glad."

"Do we get to eat in heaven?"

"I'm not sure if our new bodies will need food like we eat here."

"But in that song we sing about a 'big, big table, with lotsa, lotsa food'."

"You're right. Jesus talked about banquets and feasts in his stories."

"Do you think there will be bubble gum and ice cream at the banquets?"

"That would be yummy, wouldn't it?"

"Do you have to brush teeth in heaven? After you eat all that sugar?"

"I don't know. Maybe Daddy does, since he knows a lot about teeth. I don't remember reading anything about toothbrushes in the Bible, so maybe not."

(Giggling) "Mommy, I'm glad we talked about this stuff. Can we pray for Halmoni and Halabeoji now?"

"Sure."