What Makes a Book Good (and my favorites)

I'm a reader. I have six books on my nightstand that take turns being picked up. One of them is my Kindle, which has probably 10 unfinished books on it that also take turns. This may say more about my attention span than about my love for reading, but really I enjoy delving into several topics at once. Reading is a surefire way to keep learning . . . that is, if you've got the right books.

She may have been only a few days old, but my baby needed to learn the basics.

What makes a book good?
Oh man, that's an SAT question. Instead of arguing for my preferred genres, I'll categorize the basic bookshelf occupants:

Books that only entertain
Books that only teach
Books that teach and entertain

Books that invoke misguided emotions and betray morality
Books that reinforce right responses: joy in family, anger at injustice, etc.

Books that paint words as art
Books that structure grammar as science
Books that understand and respect grammar and use words artistically

Books that deceive by twisting truth, even if the content is light or spiritual
Books that speak truth, even if the content is dark or worldly

So the best combination would be . . .
books that teach and entertain, that leave you inspired and challenged, that wield the art of words, and that speak truth.

I have a lot of favorites that I believe embody this winning combination. I'm happy to share my top picks in several genres. You're invited to click on the links to read reviews I've written on Goodreads. (However, they probably all contain spoilers. You'd be better off just reading the books!)

Christian Teaching and Doctrine

The Gospel According to Jesus by John MacArthur

Biography and Memoir

Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy by Eric Metaxas
Booked: Literature in the Soul of Me by Karen Swallow Prior

Classical Fiction

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Cross-Cultural Fiction

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
A Passage to India by E.M. Forster
Caleb's Crossing by Geraldine Brooks
Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton

If you'd like to know why I recommend these cross-cultural novels, I wrote a post about them on my other blog, At Home Abroad. You can read it here.

And if you'd like to read more book reviews, I'm on Goodreads! Find me there (by clicking on any of the book links above), and we'll be friends. ^^

Goodness through Easter

Eastertime is fun.

As a young girl, I would twirl in a new pastel dress with ribbons, carry my basket lined with plastic grass, and hunt for eggs in my grandparents' lawn. (My younger brother always got the most because the adults helped him.) It was a joyous family time of celebrating spring and eating chocolate--plus there was always yummy food at those  big family gatherings.

But how does all that fit in with the somber pictures of a cross and a tomb? My young mind separated the joy of Easter celebrations from the story of Jesus' resurrection. One was for the church service, and the other was for my grandparents' house.

And that's not how it should be. In my childish giddiness and caffeine-induced energy, I ran around and thought it was freedom. I bit into a Peep and thought it was goodness. I spun in front of the mirror and thought it was beauty. But all those things--freedom, goodness, beauty--originate in the resurrection and would not exist without it.

"Christ died for our sins . . . 

And was buried . . . 

and was raised on the third day 

according to the Scriptures," 

says I Corinthians 15:3-4.

Eventually, as an adult trying to explain Easter to my children, I began to realize what it really means. Jesus on the cross and the subsequent empty tomb are the turning point of history, the intersection of hope, and the reference point for faith.

Celebrating Easter may be fun, but Easter itself is . . . goodness. It's goodness because Jesus defeated evil when He (as a blameless substitute) suffered and died in the place of sinners. Then He defeated death when He came to life again on the third day.

So as I run around giddy with my children, dress them in their best, and munch unreservedly on seasonal treats, I can remember that all good things point to that Sunday morning when evil and death were defeated. It's when goodness was given to the world.


{This article was originally published in Naptime Reader, the newsletter for Seoul International Playgroup. You can view the entire newsletter by clicking here.}

The Fog Doesn't Dull the Moon

Facebook was raging tonight with reports of the beautiful red moon. My talented friend captured it like this:

PC: Sandra del Cid

Then I went out walking tonight because the house seemed loud. The kids were all in bed, and my husband was working on his computer, but the noise of my day echoed off the walls and my soul could not quiet down. It was a day full of arguments, bossiness, bullying, and whining. The kids couldn't seem to control their emotions or choose obedience. I also couldn't seem to control my emotions or choose grace. I felt like bursting.

My husband suggested I go for a run. My response: "I don't want to run. I want to punch something and scream."

But there was nothing here to punch that I wouldn't later regret, and there was no where to scream when you live in the middle of the city. So I did what I thought might help: took a walk while intending to knock out some errands and feel good about that. Well, shopping without kids did feel therapeutic until I couldn't find a part we needed to fix our broken toilet.  A rude storeowner finally tipped my coping scale, and I started to cry.

I didn't even bother wiping the tears away as I walked right past the roadway home and headed for the river instead. For thirty minutes or more, I sat on a bench staring out at the Han River. I let myself cry and cry and cry. I cried for my failures as a mom. I cried for my children's sins. I cried for the challenges of fixing a household appliance in a foreign country. I cried for the day without crying, when I made mistake after mistake, all the while wanting to start over but feeling buried and beaten and broken.

And through those tears I saw the moon.

It was full and high in the sky--above the city silhouette on the far side of the river. Its light barely broke through the thick grey fog that hung over Seoul and wrapped around me. "It's so dull," I thought. "It looks like how I feel."

Dull. Faded. Worn. Cold.

Then I remembered the photos I'd seen earlier online. That moon had seemed so much more alive, like a fire blazing warm and bold. "I wish I had that moon."

Then I stopped in my sad thoughts of self-pity. It was the same moon.

It was the same moon.

Because my heart felt lonely and lost, I craved the brilliance of a full moon--a symbol of illumination even in the dark of night. Yet I failed to remember that the moon shines the same regardless of how we perceive it. Fog or no fog, it still reflects light high above the extent of those clouds. To say the moon's light was shining less for me than for my friends in America would be like holding my hand over its image in my sight path and saying it suddenly disappeared.

The fog is there, but it doesn't dull the moon. The moon still lights the night.

And I think of how I'd thought the sad Seoul moon had mirrored my own droopy heart. Maybe my assumptions about hope and help are wrong too. Through my tears, I may look to heaven for comfort and yet not experience a breathtaking, photo-worthy answer, but it's not because heaven has lost any of its brilliance but rather because a fog has shielded my eyes.

God is God no matter how we perceive Him.

And He may seem far away or uninterested or even mean, but it is then--especially then--that I must read and remember the promises of His character in the Bible. Those verses serve as assurances of truth--just like the photos I saw tonight of the moon without the blocking of fog. Even if I can't see or feel it myself, I can be confident in what God is like because the Bible tells us who He is.

The moon may seem dull, but that is only because I skewed its description with circumstances.
Likewise, God may seem uncaring, but that is only because I skewed His description with circumstances.

"I am that I am," He said, so I must not fog the truth of His being or dull the brilliance of His beauty.

The Difference between Hope and Want

Hope: a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen; a feeling of trust
Want: a desire for something; a lack or deficiency of something

I use these interchangeably, and now I'm wondering if maybe I shouldn't. For what do I hope, and what do I want?

I could make a (choose the right word) quiz for myself to figure this out:

Hope or Want
1. that my children know Jesus (h)
2. that I look as good as my grandma when I'm 92 (w)
3. that the weather stays warmer (w)
4. that my husband's sickness goes away quickly (w)
5. that I can lose weight before my sister's wedding (w)
6. that I can be a good wife and mother (h)
7. that I can learn Korean phrases and speak to my neighbors (w)

Hmmm...it seems like my answers reflect this:
Hope is a desire of the heart, aligned with truth and promises.
Want is a yearning of my mind or body, birthed in insecurity.

I hope that my children know Jesus. I look at the Scriptures and see the power of discipling your own kids as commanded in the Torah and exemplified in Timothy's mother and grandmother. I teach them with the hope that they will see Jesus in all the Bible stories as well as in my life and my husband's.

I want to look good, be comfortable and healthy, and find success. However, these should not and cannot be put above the hopes guaranteed in the Bible's promises. When it becomes more important for me to get in a workout than to attend to my son's needs, there is a problem. When I become more attached to the feeling of safety than attuned to the voice of the Holy Spirit, there is a problem. When I start living my life according to my wants rather than my hopes, I will become a problem.

{My list above also shows me that it's much easier for me to come up with wants than hopes. I guess that means my mind dwells more on wavering, earthbound desires rather than truths from the Bible. I definitely need to work on that.}

So what then are my hopes? I see now I can rephrase that to this: "What are God's promises?" Here are three:

I hope to please God with my choices and with my life's direction.
"Trust in the LORD with all your heart And do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He will make your paths straight" Proverbs 3:5-6

I hope for courage.
"For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind" 2 Timothy 1:7

I hope for peace in me and in my family.
"Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus" Philippians 4:6-7

God's promises span all things that really matter. Therefore, I must hope for things that have true significance.

And my wants? I need to look at them and identify what insecurity makes me crave such things. Why do I want to look so good now and at 92? Well, it's because I don't want others to think I'm an unkempt housewife or halfway in the grave. It's because I'm vain and have the wrong perspective on physical beauty. It's because I'm childish.

Why do I want good health for me and my family? Hm, that's probably because I'm afraid of facing the difficulties of sickness, but I need to trust that God gives us trials for our good. He might allow sickness that would actually strengthen us all, and I shouldn't prefer convenience over growth.

Wants are natural, but I must hold them loosely. I must be ready to let them go at any time.

And tonight's question, which spurred this whole post: Why do I want so fervently for my daughter to learn to read before she enters kindergarten? The answer is that I'm afraid. I'm afraid she will fall behind her classmates or be teased or be frustrated. I'm scared that I've made the wrong choice to send her to school. And this fear is wrong because it's based on speculation and worry. It's a want--a very strong want--that may end up damaging our relationship.

What do I hope for my daughter?
Jesus.
And in Him grace, love, identity, compassion, joy, and peace.
But does my little girl know that this is my hope for her?
Do I put my hope above my want?

I will now.



{This post is part of a conversation on "hope" at Velvet Ashes.}
Here is a longer list of God's promises that I found helpful.

Artbox: The Leftovers Syndrome

Leftovers.
It's what's for dinner even if I cook something new.
The kids finish, and I eat what's left on their plates.

Leftovers.
It's what's in my bathroom cabinet.
I finish his almost-squeezed-out toothpaste.
And I salvage the last drops of everything.

Leftovers.
It's what time I have for myself.
After everyone is fed and clean and smiling in their sleep,
I kick up my feet into a criss-cross-applesauce on my desk chair
to write and read and scribble and be.

Leftovers.
It's what's in our artbox.
Broken crayons, scraps of construction paper,
Half-filled paint tubs, sticker sheets stuck together--
and we attack it all.
Clawing for the best leftovers,
we dig in our fingers for the scraps,
for the mess of what's left
to make something new.
Glue galore and stickers atop painted surfaces,
glitter and splashes of goo,
plus maybe some playdough, for texture--
all becoming more.

Leftovers.
I may feel like the bottom of the pile.
I may carry the weight of needs and wants and tantrums and sicknesses.
I may lack the shiny flint of newness
And the wholeness and shapeliness of my younger self.

But then I wouldn't belong in the artbox . . .
Because in there, you're ready for blending,
mixing, creating, molding, and building.
In there, I get to combine my messy moments
with the broken and little and half-bit pieces around me
to fill, beautify, satisfy--
to glorify.

And in that completion I realize that the most precious pieces
often come from the bottom,
from digging deep and finding the one thought lost,
the one thought forgotten,
the one left only to be treasured
in togetherness.

So paint over the buttons
and scribble with the stickers.
Dig for torn origami sheets
and felt scraps and glue.
Create overlap and understanding,
building a new mound of loveliness
with leftovers.




{This post is part of 5-minute Friday--a writing collection each week based on a one-word prompt.}

Writer Realized

Will I fill the role I dream
Real and whole and all it seems?
Indeed known--but better poured:
Thoughts and plots and poems un-stored;
Echoing my soul's delight,
Resounding in etched black and white.

Recognition kills the art:
Ebbing beauty from its heart,
Arresting fame from a puerile ploy,
Leaving a name instead of joy.
Imbed beneath each writer's urge,
Zealous truth must somehow splurge--
Engulfing all and flowing o'er,
Deluging pages with something more.



{This post is part of 5-minute Friday--a writing collection each week based on a one-word prompt.}

The End of my Facebook Era

It may be at its height, and it may be the way to connect. But I'm in retreat. My excitement with and addiction to Facebook is slipping away, but it is not without its last pull. Here are 5 reasons I avoid the feed and 3 reasons I return.

Why I'm backing away

1. My friend list is so big that birthday notifications almost always have someone listed that I cannot remember.
2. I don't update my status, and no one notices.
3. I get lost in the newsfeed even after filtering it considerably and regularly.
4. Seeing other people waste their time or misplace their affections makes me sad.
5. It's unfriendly to pages like my other blog: At Home Abroad.

Why I'm not letting go . . . yet

1. People like to see pictures of my kids.
2. Groups (i.e. Bible study, alumni, playgroups, help with cloth diapering)
3. I refer to Pages to keep up with my favorite writers.

This, the most popular of social media, has a firm grip on our culture because we're already plugged in, already connected to so many people. In every discussion I've heard about detaching from the network, someone says, "But then I'd lose contact with so many people." So we stay. We all sign in, participate, and many of us get lost.

We lose the intimacy of face-to-face relationships.
We lose the authenticity of filter-free conversations.
We lose the touch of human mistakes.
We lose the confidence of an unnoticed life.

Sometimes we lose our identity in Christ when we project our identity into a profile.
Sometimes we disconnect with those close to us.
Sometimes we let thoughts in--simply by scrolling--that negatively affect us and linger as a sour taste in our attitudes . . . all day long.

How much of what we read is excellent and praiseworthy?
Some. Not a lot.

So how much Facebook time should I allow myself?
Some. Not a lot.

Thankful to Change a Wet Bed

I heard his little feet scampering over to my bed and sat up before he could climb in beside me. It was 5am.

"Mommy?"

I could smell the problem. Taking him by the shoulders, I turned him around and marched him to the bathroom. We were facing another bed-wetting episode, and I was tired of it. I told him--repeatedly--as I washed him down, stripped his bed, and recreated a clean sleeping environment for my 3 year old.

Then, after leaving him to fall asleep again, I laid down and couldn't rest. A conversation from the night before replayed in my mind. I had chatted with my second cousin (from the Philippines) about our kids. She told me hers was just over a year old now.

"What a fun age! Enjoy it all!" I typed excitedly. Her icon was a picture of her young son, and I could feel her love for him through the computer screen.

A pause. A long pause. Then--

"How can I enjoy him? I work in Hong Kong, and he's been with my mom since he was 6 months old."

My heart dropped, and my fingers started to shake. All I could type was "I'm so sorry." Then words failed me for the rest of our conversation. I hadn't known. I read her story as she sent it to me. I heard her pleas for cuddle times and snuggles. I felt her grieving those lost memories. I felt guilty for having so nonchalantly talked about my kids before asking about hers.

Now, in bed, I started to cry. "You are really blessed, Malia," Mark had told me when I relayed the conversation to him. Yes, I am.

I resolutely stood up and went to my son, knelt beside his bed, and squeezed him tight. What a blessing to be here with him, to teach him how to grow and learn and live. I'm so thankful that he comes to me at night when he has a problem, that I can help him, and that I can tuck him back in and kiss him goodnight. I'm so grateful, and that has the power to change irritability into joy.

Two More Years

As I fought to comfort my baby in a crowded restaurant tonight, my mind kept repeating three words: "Two more years."

You see, my son (the middle child), is now 3.5 years old...and he is much easier. My baby has just turned one, so I have roughly two more years until my life starts to come down from hyperactive mode.

Two more years until...
I can eat slowly.
I can sit down.
I can carry a purse.
I can walk free of a stroller.
I can allow my shoulders to heal from a near-decade of carrying infants.
I can have an uninterrupted conversation with my husband.
I can plan playdates (or anything) without factoring in nap time.

But then as I rocked my little one and felt her chubby cheek against mine, the same words struck sadness in my heart. Two more years. And that's all.

Two precious years of...
incredible milestones
giddy cuteness
the best clothes she'll ever wear
morning jumps in her crib
after-bath snuggles
learning learning learning
this little piggie went to the market
nap times, strollers, and diapers
the unpretentious smile
joyful sounds that sing along
this beautiful baby stage.

The days are hard because she's so dependent. The days are beautiful because she's mine.

I've had five years with my babies, and I have only two more. Then it's on to new challenges and new blessings, but these indescribable baby years will be kept precious in my heart. For tonight may have started with a crying one-year-old girl and an exhausted mama, but it ended with us both laughing as she learned yet another new thing and made sure everyone knew it. It's the joy that remains, energizes, and inspires.

Two more years: I pray they go by slowly.

A Broken Nose: Hindsight Report

During our third week in Thailand, Mark broke his nose while playing with the kids at the pool. Even though such an injury is devastating, especially during vacation, hindsight tells us how God's mercy touched our lives on that day and in that week.

It was Monday morning when he slipped and fell on his face. After some frantic cleaning up--poolside--Mark left alone for the ER by taxi. I called the hospital three hours later (during nap time) to find out why he hadn't yet returned. Mark himself told me the news: he was scheduled for surgery within the hour to reset his broken nose. Alone in our apartment, I prayed as my husband was put under anesthesia and under the care of a specialist. The kids woke up and prayed too then later that afternoon, we jumped into a taxi and went to visit him. He came home the following day.

As he began to recover, I began to see God's hand in all that happened and was happening. The doctor who initially examined him asked how long he'd been unconscious. Mark had been awake the whole time, which baffled everyone. Had he been knocked out, we would have been in bigger trouble! Our family was alone at the pool, and I was in the water holding Kona Mae. If Mark had lost consciousness, he would have gone underwater, and I would have had to rescue him while also carrying my one-year-old baby.

Mark then admitted that he must have been on adrenaline for the first 15 minutes post-fall. As soon as his body settled down in the taxi, he collapsed. I thank God that the taxi was already on the way to the ER and help was there once they arrived about 10 minutes later.

The hospital was a nearby one, which is primarily Thai and not catered to foreigners. However, they called in a specialist to work on Mark, and this doctor/surgeon spoke excellent English. This way, we were able to ask all the questions we wanted to and know what was happening and how to complement his healing once he came home.

Because Mark needed to rest and stay indoors (because he had a brace on his face), he was able to spend two days alone with baby Konane while I took the older two out to play. He's not had the privilege to do this before with Kona Mae. When we've taken the kids separately, he would always take one or both of the older kids while I kept the baby. So those two days provided them both with priceless bonding time.

Lastly, the timing was probably the best it could be on our trip. We didn't have things planned for our week, and it fell right in the middle of our vacation--not right when we arrived and not right before we flew out. Consequently, we didn't feel cheated of our time. Instead, we did some low-key activities and let him heal.

I'm so grateful to God for His mercy. Mark is recovering well, and our family is strengthened and thankful.

Instilling a Love for Literature

Do you like to read fiction, poetry, or plays?

It's a sensitive topic for me, an English teacher. I get sick to my stomach when I hear people say that they hate to read because of what they were forced to swallow (read) and spit back out (write) in school. Sometimes, the fault lies with the parental example or with peer pressure and the stigma of bookworms. Unfortunately, some struggled and were never helped...and who wants to keep doing something that is difficult and seemingly pointless?...

As a new teacher, I taught standards and tested plot and themes--and probably filled some precious minds with material they quickly flushed out afterward. For that, I am sorry. As I matured in my thinking and in my teaching methods, I began to teach why we study literature and how to read independently. This change in my focus yielded a different type of classroom--and hopefully a different type of student too: one that loves literature. Even if not every student loves to read, each one should respect it after having sat under a teacher's instruction. If not, that teacher has failed, regardless of the test scores.

Here are a few articles that deal with the positives of reading fiction. You can certainly google more.

• Why Read Fiction?  in Psychology Today
• Why Christians Should Read Fiction
• Why Read Fiction? (And How?)

Possibly, I will outline my reasons for reading, critiquing, teaching, and writing fiction in a later post...but my focus here is the failure of teachers and parents to allow young eyes to see beauty, young ears to hear rhythm, young hearts to feel passion, young minds to consider truth. This is art; this is literature. How dare teachers toss it about as blah blah blah. How shameful that some educators don't consider the weight of their actions--the impact of a lackadaisical approach to a lifelong skill. 

I am sad for those who are grown and feel there is no value in reading. And while I believe it's never too late, it's a giant challenge to change how one learns: the fundamentals, the essentials, the basics, the classics. 

Mistaken: Offense

I was out with my two younger kids, Coby and Konane, when a Korean woman approached me and asked a question about my work hours and some other details. It took me a second to realize it: she thought I was their nanny. I corrected her. Her response? "You mean you stay with them all day?"

I've been mistaken for a nanny before--when holding friends' babies and when out with only Coby. I'm a Filipina, so I've learned to expect the stereotypes in foreign countries. Women from Southeast Asia are usually contracted as caretakers and housekeepers in Seoul, plus my two younger kids are fairer-skinned--so I normally take no offense and clarify that I'm married to a white man from Texas. This usually gets me a slow nod, raised eyebrows: full understanding.

I think I've muddled over this mistaken identity for a few days because of her final comment. Why is it so remarkable that a mom would want to be with her children all the time? I'm no angel; there are moments (many) when I want to whisk them off to their grandparents for a weekend. However, if you give me a day by myself, truly, I miss them before 3pm. Sometimes, even before lunch.

As I write this, my two older kids are out for the day with their dad (and the baby is asleep), and I miss them all! I miss their little hands, their creative ways of expressing new things, their giant smiles when they do something for the first time. Every day there is something to treasure, and I must remember to be thankful that I can be here for these moments. Others may gawk that I stay with my three children all through the day and all through the night...but gawkers don't understand. Unfortunately, they don't experience the same blessing that accompanies the hard work of being home with babies, toddlers, and preschoolers.

On a lighter note, I did learn through this experience that no one mistakes me for my kids' nanny when Mika is around, proving that one of my children looks like their mama.

Be Where I Am: Rejecting Distractions

I've recently made a resolve to be fully engaged when with my children--that is, to be engaged with my children and not with something else that distracts me from them.

This has changed my life. First, the kids are doing more purposeful activities, learning with more continuity and coordination, and whining less. We laugh a lot, sing spontaneously, and enjoy each other much more.

Second, everything else in my day is getting shelved until nap time and bed time. I'm terrible at answering emails, specifically. The dishes often wait for one big washing before I go to sleep at night. And I'm not taking any outside gigs (editing, writing, etc.) until my window of availability spans more than two hours--much of which is spent cleaning the house. What you're now reading will probably be one of four blog entries this year. No kidding.

And this is all fine. Konane (8 months) has started crawling and now eats three meals a day. (So I prepare food for the older kids, feed Kona, then lastly feed myself.) Mika (4) and Coby (3) act more like twins every day, so they require much intervention to prevent physical fighting or emotional breakdowns. Cutting out all distractions (aka hobbies, chores, online activity) may not be necessary for other moms, but it is now for me. It won't be forever, but I don't see it ending any time soon.

Why was it so difficult for me to come to this point? I believe I felt I had to do other things during the day in order to make it worthwhile, in order to make my existence count. In reality, no one is sitting around waiting for me to write or judging me with a scoresheet. Instead, ironically, there are three little ones sitting right here wishing Mommy would give them 100% attention. Being completely where I am matters to them, and now it matters to me too.

So...if you don't hear back from me for a while, please give me grace. I'm a wholehearted wife and mom and a halfhearted everythingelse.

Allergic to Anxiety

I've discovered that stress makes me sneeze.

I'm not joking. Whenever I get worked up, the congestion builds up, my eyes water, and the sneezing begins. I've picked up on the trend since it began...postpartum: right around 3 months ago. It struck again this morning as Mark and I began at 6:30 to organize and put away the contents of 8 check-in bags. (These are from our recent trip to Hawaii. We don't pack when we go to Hawaii because we have clothes and baby goods there already. So when we return, we jam-pack our baggage allowance with food and items we can't find in Korea.)

It wasn't long before I was doubling over with sneezing spells then throwing my head back to breathe and to catch burning tears back--all while letting out an unearthly growl.

But there is a positive spin to all this. The stress-induced sickness makes me slow down and take breaks. It can be annoying when I feel like getting everything done in a short amount of time, but without my new allergy to anxiety, you wouldn't have this blog entry either. So A-choo and Bless You.

The Pain Spared

Recently, my friend and I exchanged birth stories (moms do this) since our daughters are the same age: 3 months old. While telling it, I realized an important spiritual truth about pain.

I had a natural birth with all three of my children. My second was born in Korea in 2010, and I was convinced that my epidural was useless. I joined in the sob and mope stories of how Korean hospitals do not treat the pain of childbirth with the needed (heavy) dose of numbness. In truth, I remember grabbing a nurse's arm, entreating her to increase my dosage, feeling the tears roll down my cheeks as contractions gripped me. Afterwards, I told my story: "Mine certainly did NOT work!"

But then I had my third, and I'd arrived too late to have the epidural at all. How did this drug-free birth compare to my previous pain? There is no comparison. With my son, I had tears and a plea for help. With my second daughter, I was beyond composure and recognition.

As I retold this account to my friend last weekend, one thing stood out to me: the epidural with my son HAD worked. While in labor then, there was no way for me to tell how much pain I was spared. I only focused on the pain that I was still allowed.

And then it was so clear to me. When hit with pain (physical or emotional), it's easy and natural to focus on what is dealt me and cry a huge "why?" to God. So many times, I've stamped my foot and thought, "God, You are not helping me!" However, in reality, there is no way to know how much He has mercifully spared me.

His hand may be holding back the flood while I complain about getting a little wet.

As a high school teacher, I once illustrated this on the whiteboard by drawing a line completely across it. "Imagine this measures all the evil possible in the world." Then I erased 80% of the line. "Now, even if God spared us that huge amount, what do we say? We look at the line remaining, marvel at its length, and blame Him for being unfair."

Truly, His mercy keeps us alive each second, and every good and perfect gift is from above: undeserved and too often unrecognized.

If I had 8 kids...

While waiting for my name to be called at the doctor's office, there was a reality show playing on TV (in Korean). It was a mom swap: a mother of one preschool girl with a mother of eight children. Of course, they set it up for chaos and conflict, but since I couldn't understand what anyone was saying, I was left to evaluate the situations by observation alone.

Here's what I realized: It may make for funny television, but it's truly unfair.

As a mother of three, I can say that I was not ready to manage three children when I had my first. I was not ready to manage three children even when I had my second. It takes time and adjustment to reset your mind and body for what is required for day-to-day life as a mom when a new kid (or multiples) is added to the family.

I looked at that one mom struggling with eight kids and sympathized with her. I would be similarly scatterbrained if thrown into that home.

People look at me with my three young children (ages 4, 2, and 3 months) and marvel. "Wow, how do you do it?" and "You've got your hands full!" However, they think it's crazy because they have fewer kids--none, or one, or two. It's not as if I was thrown into motherhood with three kids of different ages. Instead, God gave me time to adjust to one, then to two, then to three.

I'm grateful for the grace of God and how He allowed me to ease into motherhood, to prepare to raise three kids close in age. Each step was hard, but each step prepared me for the next. And if I was to have eight children, by the time they all came, I'd be ready!

Progressive Creationism: Compromising Biblical Authority

I've believed in a young earth all my life, so it was shocking for me to realize that a sharp opposition to my view would come from within the church. I expected such adamant and insistent arguments from evolutionists and atheists...but from Bible-believing Christians?

First, I was struck by the "it isn't essential to the gospel, so we shouldn't argue about it" statement when talking about a young versus an old earth during a book club meeting. My friends gently redirected the conversation when controversy started to brew.

Second, in my BSF (Bible Study Fellowship) discussion group, we covered Genesis 1, and the notes themselves gave leading questions toward progressive creationism. Others in my group went right along with the majority, and only one other woman voiced a belief in a literal 6 days of creation.

Third, while re-reading one of my favorite series of juvenile science fiction--A Wrinkle in Time and its sequels by Madeleine L'engle--the story speaks of Jehovah God but continues to say billions of years when referring to the age of the earth.

Frustrated, I checked out The New Answers Book from our school library and have been plowing through it, wishing it wasn't a borrowed book so I could highlight and annotate in it. One specific chapter gives straightforward, logical, and scientific answers to this important question: Why Shouldn't Christians Accept Millions of Years? My research settled the volcanic rage that had almost exploded from me during these moments when other believers chose progressive creationism over a literal interpretation of Genesis 1; however, my unwavering faith in a young earth only makes me more sympathetic (and angry) about the compromise being made by so many I know.

It is a big deal. If readers can reinterpret Scripture according to man's fallible ways, then the whole Bible is at risk. If we cannot trust God's clear language in the beginning, then how can we know His meaning anywhere in His Word? Progressive creationism allows "science" to interpret the Bible when we need to be letting the Bible interpret "science."

After a number of conversations about this topic, I now realize that most Christians who accept progressive creationism do it out of ignorance not conviction. They unknowingly compromise Scripture and the authority of God's account by going along with the crowd and not seeking the truth. We must stand confidently on the infallibility of God's Word, bow before our Creator, and shun compromise as even more dangerous than outright rejection.

A Short Time Together

The saying "The days are long, but the years are fast" comes to mind today as I reflect on the four years I've been mothering. Malika has her birthday at the end of the month, and it's hard to imagine her holding up four fingers when hit with the inevitable question by strangers: "How old are you?"

This past year has been the hardest between the two of us. It included tiresome potty training and the daily battle against hormones during my pregnancy with her little sister. There were days I wished I could send her off to preschool or to her grandparents--the strain was great as the days stretched out further than my patience. Others may smirk at the idea of my fighting with a three-year-old, but it did happen. And it twisted, stretched, and tore at my emotions. Full-time mommies do not get a break from their jobs.

But of course, those difficult days are dwarfed by the moments of pure delight, of tender compassion, and of secure affection. Mika has a warm heart, always eager to use her hands to hug and to help. She smiles readily and dances without restraint. I see in her the reckless joy I try to recapture in myself.

My husband commented recently that this might be her last year home with me. He's right. We have the option of putting her in kindergarten next fall, and she would be the youngest in her class. Or, we could wait a year and have her be the oldest in her class. We're not rushing to make that decision for quite a few more months, but I had not considered this to be her last year with me. I guess my subconscious refused to think about it. The many times as I wished for solitude when frustrated, tired, or sick cannot contest with the absolute love I have for spending time with my daughter. I do not want her to leave yet.

What a complex job this is: being a parent. We train our children, all the while knowing that they will someday be independent of our guidance. Of course, sending Mika to kindergarten is not as grandiose as sending her away to college or to get married...but it's the first step away from me she'll take. While preparing her for that move, I need to prepare myself too.

The TV Stigma

I've been noticing lately that whenever a mom says she let the kids watch a movie or a television show, she then feels the need to qualify the statement with something like "but normally I don't." I think it's good to limit children's intake of mindless programs, but do we always need to defend ourselves in this area? Maybe it's a hidden sense of guilt that our kids have this influence at all. Or maybe it's a stigma, a link to a "worldly" household...so "we only watch TV sometimes" is on the same level as "we only drink on special occasions."

But yesterday I was wondering if children's programs have a good place in a sick home. I was quite miserable with a head cold (still have it today, yes) and was also handling the three kids alone after a night up with my newborn. All day, I didn't consider letting them watch a movie...until in the later afternoon when all of us were quite affected by my irritability and absentmindedness. I realized that playing a kids' program would be more beneficial for them than observing me "lose it." So the kids watched Yo Gabba Gabba as I cleaned up a bit and made dinner with more peace of mind and less of a headache.

Furthermore, if moms pride themselves so much in NOT letting their kids watch TV, they should (dare I say "they'd better") have engaging activities with their children during the day. What good is it to cut out educational programs if they're replaced with neglect due to an absent or distracted mother? (This would apply to me on days that I get consumed by the computer.)

And now I don't think television shows only have a place in sick homes; they can be beneficial in any home. I as a mom don't need to be ashamed that my kids watch TV if I am involved in the choosing of the programs and the monitoring of its frequency. Once upon a time, reading novels was seen as a waste of time. But it wasn't reading that was the stigma, it was the fiction and the seeming idleness of it. Likewise, television has gotten a bad reputation because of the consuming entertainment that encourages viewers to check out mentally. However, there are programs that actually stimulate learning, teach Biblical principles, and invite interaction. While these shows should not replace a parent's instruction, they should not be the object of embarrassment in discussions either.

Holding while Withholding

My daughter Konane had an ultrasound scheduled today at 11:05am for which she needed to fast for three hours beforehand. Unfortunately, she refused to wake up for her last possible feeding. (Mika and I both were trying to wake her with tickling, singing, and sitting her upright.) So when she finally did wake up, she was hungry, and I was not allowed to feed her.

It's a form of torture: to have exactly what a baby wants and to be unable to give it to her. I held her close and told her I loved her, but she responded with screams. Clearly, she did not accept my hold on her as a substitute for milk.

The experience gave me a startling picture of what my Father does for me and how I probably respond. It's a commonplace fact in Christianity that the Lord will sometimes say 'no' because it's best for us. Still, to have this illustrated in the cries of my red-faced infant drives the truth deeper than a mere catechism. But as I held her, I also remembered that God is near to the brokenhearted. His withholding does not negate His holding. When I am obstinate about a request, I often forget His role as Comforter and push away the very arms that would heal my hurt.

Holding while withholding--it's what I did this morning because I love my daughter and wanted her to have the ultrasound done. She needed it to verify that all her internal organs were functioning correctly (which they are!).

Holding while withholding--it's what my Father does for me because He loves me and chooses my best according to His viewpoint, not mine.

May I remember this the next time I'm denied a request, so that I may restrain my stubborn protests and accept His comfort instead.