And yet

Chinese New Year is here, a red and yellow carpet rolled out over the city. The boxes of treats piled high in supermarkets, the plum blossom branches and orange trees, the lanterns, the gaity--it's all so festive. This year I've approached it with mixed feelings, knowing it's our last one here. Our last New Year's fair, our last lai see packets, our last lion and dragon dances.  


It echoes all the topsy-turvy feelings we have about this coming year in general. Yes, we are choosing to return home--it's a decision we've talked and prayed over ad nauseam. It's clearly what we want. And yet--and yet. There are people and aspects of life here that are so hard to leave. This is where I've learned to be a mother--what will it be like in another culture, another climate? What will it be like when winter is not just a pretty picture in a book, but a blowing, freezing, icing reality? 


What will it be like when we can't just go hiking on an outlying island whenever we want? Or go dig in a garden in January (yes! We have a little plot now at Matt's school!), or buy entire spools of ribbon for $10 HK each, or simply walk down the street and find anything we need, whether it's a bowl of Vietnamese pho or a new pen or fresh mangoes or someone to resole my shoes or fix my eyeglasses? Sometimes the thing that is most clear of all is that never again will our hearts be fully in one place.  


Last Sunday's church service was so good for us. A proper New Year's sermon, it was all about actually doing whatever it is we are called to do, rather than just talk and plan and talk some more. As a mentor of ours from Hanover used to say, "There's nothing like doing it." So it was good encouragement to us to keep saying yes, keep moving towards the vision we have, a vision we believe is from God. Keep working, keep going. 

And then we sang the final song--"One more step along the world I go"--a favorite song of Ruth Ives, the woman who helped found The Carpenter's Boatshop, and from whom Willa got her middle name. We sang that song, holding dear Willa Ruth in our arms, remembering a woman who wasn't ever afraid to act or to start or to try, and who in so doing changed many lives. With choked voices, we committed again to following this dream, to stepping into the unknown, trusting that God has gone before us and will go with us. 

Give me courage when the world is rough, 

keep me loving though the world is tough; 

leap and sing in all I do, 

keep me traveling along with you: 

and it's from the old I travel to the new, 

keep me traveling along with you. 

Christmas 2010

This is Finn's stocking:

And this is our poor nativity set, with no baby Jesus and a broken-legged goat:

And this is why I just had to let it go: 

There were mountains to hike, babies and sheep to snuggle, and sand to dig. There were carols and candlelight, card games, and even an engagement to celebrate. There were plenty of cookies to eat, along with lefse (lefse!) and Godiva chocolates and eggnog too. And there was a Christmas story to discover again.

Madeleine L'Engle once wrote, "This is the irrational season, when love blooms bright and wild. Had Mary been filled with reason, there'd have been no room for the child."  In my case though, it wasn't reason that kept me from Jesus, it was that never-ending list. But once I finally let the list go, I could let Christmas in.

And I was strangely heartened to read that right in the story from Luke, right after the angels and the manger and all the sweet stuff our celebrations are made of, there's mention of the grief and the pain that can make Christmas so hard for some people, that can make the whole thing seem like a mockery. The old man Simeon warns Mary, after waiting his whole life for a glimpse of the messiah and finally seeing Jesus brought to the temple, that a sword will pierce her heart, that her heart will be broken because of this sweet boy child.

I don't know what is comforting about this sword, except maybe it's that we know the sword is real--that hearts get broken and babies die and far too much attention is paid to lists. And since this reality isn't conveniently glossed over in the story, it makes the story that much more real and true and life-giving. As Frederich Buechner says, before the gospel is good news, it is just news, the truth about the way things are.

I do hope that however things are in your world right now, whatever the state of your list and your heart, that some Christmas joy has broken in. It may be blazing like a winter sun after an ice storm, or may be quiet like the faded light of a winter's eve, but Zechariah foretold its arrival.

By the the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.

Luke 1:78-79   

Merry Christmas from Matt, Monte, Finn and Willa

Feels like Christmas

I saw an ad the other day for a mall here in Hong Kong, proclaiming it to be the place to experience a "True Christmas," on account of over 100 true Christmas trees. And of course, I scoffed, rolling my eyes at the idea that "true" Christmas is found in a mall, or in real Christmas trees, for that matter.
Until I remembered that shortly after we decorated and lit our Christmas tree (Finn's first "real" one) I thought to myself "it really feels like Christmas now."

Our Hong Kong Christmases (this is our third) have made it clear just how important the secular side of this holiday is to me, and I suspect, in fact, that most of my joy comes from cultural traditions more than the spiritual aspect. (This, in spite of the fact that we emphasize the spiritual side, observing advent, doing special advent devotions, etc.) But cookies and cards and decorations  ... it's just good. And when else in the year do we bring a whole tree inside our homes, for goodness' sake?

So anyway. I like the traditions. And I'm done with looking down on them, even when they have nothing to do with the nativity. (Well, I will look down on Porsche's advent calendar. Did you see that? Just a little obscene.)
This year our joy comes in large part to having a new baby around--watching Willa come into her personhood, and watching Finn fall in love with her.

Our joy, though, is tinged with grief--with a newly conscious and close understanding of sorrow, watching our friends watch their baby die. This feels like the first grown-up grief of our lives (or our friends' lives): No cookie-care-packages or positive attitudes will make this better. And I know that this is the point where I should say something inspirational about how the only answer to the real grief of a baby's death is the real Christmas--the baby in the manger. But though I can affirm that as true, what I believe, it's hard to make the connection right now.

Our joy also has an urgency to it, a responsibility, as if knowing how blessed we are compels us to remember it all the time. But of course, no one can live like that constantly, at least we can't. So we still get cross with Finn and tired of pacing the floor with Willa, even while crying inside for baby Jack and bracing ourselves for whatever other tragedy is waiting in the wings.

And so back to Christmas. The lines that ring in my head are from Rory Cooney's Carol of the Stranger: "Welcome tiny stranger, to hunger and frost, to armored invaders, to paradise lost."

Not very cheery I know. (And to be fair, we have Rosemary Clooney's version of Jingle Bells on repeat around here, so those words ring in my head too.)

But here's a truth I can affirm. If God didn't promise to protect us from all the bad things that can happen, God does promise God's presence with us in those bad things. And where is that presence more prominently displayed than in the form of a baby? God in flesh. Eternity trapped in mortality. A wonder, indeed.

Welcome, all Wonders in one sight!

   Eternity shut in a span.

Summer in winter, day in night,

   Heaven in earth, and God in man.

Great little One! Whose all-embracing birth

Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth.

(Richard Crashaw) 

Thanksgiving recap

You'd be surprised what you can do with a toaster oven and one (one!) stove burner. I am, anyway. I approach these things not knowing how they will work out, but pretty sure that they will. I think I've had enough experiences like this--whether making a birthday cake here in Hong Kong, where I am oven-, refrigerator- and counter-space-challenged, or cooking meals for 50 people for a retreat or baking bread in my own hand-built wood oven--that I'm learning to trust myself. (Or frantically reading Joy of Cooking the night before cooking and serving pot roast as part of my culinary internship, never having cooked it in my life or in culinary school.)  This is, come to think of it, how we felt before the births of both of our kids--not at all sure how we would manage what would be required of us, but sure that we would, one way or the other.

Anyway, our little non-Western-equipped kitchen put out homemade rolls, homemade pie, roast chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, broccoli, cranberry sauce, and what was supposed to be roasted sweet potatoes but turned out to be roasted taro--which looks way more interesting (deep purple) than it tastes. Finn was excited to have guests and excited to have pie and Willa slept through the whole thing and it was a successful evening all around.

Except for the picture-taking. I think Willa feels the same way Finn did the first time I put him in his pumpkin hat last year ... ah well, he's grown to love it and how could I not knit a pumpkin hat for this October baby?

The weekend ended with the barest beginnings of decorations, St. Olaf Christmas Fest music, and lighting one candle on the advent wreath. I don't know how much he understands about Christmas and Advent, but Finn gets decorations. He certainly feels it when preparations are underway. And he knows there is something special when babies are born. So we're excited to share this season with him, letting it unfold, telling him stories about St. Nicholas and Jesus' birth.

And this--this is random but I'm so proud and happy to show you another of Willa's first mama-made items, worn a little more peacefully. I didn't know how the wool soaker would go but we're loving it. Easy to wear, not too hard to clean, and completely adorable.

One week down ...

Well, we made it. The first week without my parents, taking care of both kids on my own during the day. Doesn't sound so hard, does it? I think I feel especially wimpy about this because I don't really have any examples around me of how it's done.  Every family I know with two kids has a helper, and sometimes two.

Anyway, we were all fed, cleaned, dressed, and even mostly cheerful. Oh, there were tears--on everyone's part except Matt's--but no major meltdowns. It took organization, simple meals, and Hong Kong's service economy--in which almost anything you need can be delivered for a very reasonable price. And laundry. Serious laundry. Thanks to a wicked diaper rash that won't go away, Willa gets lots of diaper-free time, which results in lots of laundry.

Finn is doing great. He loves Willa, loves to play with her (for as long as she'll tolerate, since his playing means moving her arms to the motions of "Wheels on the bus" or "I'm a little teapot") and tries to teach her everything he knows. I frequently overhear conversations like "See Willa, this is how you play tennis. Hit the ball like this, then this, then this," (all the while swinging the racket wildly.) He is needy, though, and comes into our room at night, literally climbing on top of us to sleep.  We've also brought back out the sticker charts and star charts--I never thought I would use so many "techniques" and "tricks." But hey, the stickers work.

The truth is, I'm tired and sometimes feel like I'm drowning in details--keeping in my head what time Willa last ate or had her diaper changed and what needs to be prepped for dinner and what we need at the store and what fun song or story I can use to distract Finn. But it is sweet. It truly is--and I think I'm doing a good job of holding on to the sweetness in all these details.

Some dear friends are walking through a tragedy right now, watching their baby die from a brain tumor. This has been their reality since the summer, which means it has been on our minds throughout the end of this pregnancy and beginning of Willa's life. And if there is ever anything good that comes out of such devastation it is the reminder to all of us onlookers at how fragile life and health can be. We know, with tears on our face and prayers in our hearts, how fleeting this newborn time is, and we have held Willa differently than we held Finn, studying her face more intently, memorizing the feel of her head nestled into our necks.

Of course we all know these things happen, have all heard stories about friends of friends. But the closer one is to a tragedy, the more one hears the details both extraordinary and mundane. And hearing those details--of hospital visits and surgeries and learning to put in a feeding tube--makes me relish our details. For simple meals and mountains of laundry, for diaper rash and a baby that can be soothed, for stickers and stars and even more laundry, we give you thanks, oh God.
 

The jolly existentialist

"The wheels on the bus" has been Finn's favorite song for quite some time now, but only recently has it become such a part of our daily soundtrack.

Me: Shall we have oatmeal for breakfast?
Finn: The wheels on the bus go round and round,
Me: Let's get your bowl.
Finn: round and round, round and round.
Me: After we eat, we can go to the park.
Finn: all day long.

He loves the verses too, though it disturbs him none to mix up the lyrics.
  
     The driver on the bus goes swish swish swish.
     The wipers on the bus go beep beep beep.
     The horn on the bus goes open and shut, open and shut.

And of course, the pancakes, the books, the bike--everything he encounters in life--all make their appearances as well.

Matt and I think it's becoming a philosophy, so often is it given us as his response to whatever arises, happy or sad. But rather than a dreary acceptance of the unchanging qualities of life, just going round and round, on and on, it's actually quite cheerful. Jolly, even. After all, as long as sometimes it's the mamas who go beep beep beep and the horn that goes shhh shhh shhh, then life seems bearable. It's Ecclesiastes meeting Jesus' upside down kingdom, and somehow, everything turns out alright.  All day long.

21 days

Three weeks ago, we went from this

to this

in about 12 hours. She looks like she's about to fall out of that shirt up top, doesn't she? After a long, comfortable early labor at home, we went from 2 cm to pushing in less than two hours. She came out perfectly healthy and totally alert, ready to hang out with us.

Since then, we have been:

• marveling at how tiny 3.06 kg really is, and how big 2 1/2 years old is. 
• laughing at--and loving--the big-bum-cloth-diaper look.
• soothing lots of tears, from both Willa and her brother.
• amazed by babies' inborn altimeters. Why is everything better standing up?
• joyfully watching Finn's sweetness and pride towards his sister, happily introducing her, stroking her head, bringing her toys, playing peekaboo. 
• eagerly figuring out who this little person is, already so different from her brother.
• discovering the nighttime (and early morning) sounds of this neighborhood. 
• so thankful for my parents' presence and help these past weeks. (not sure how the dishes will get washed next week)

The next 21 days will be spent figuring out our new normal, as we return to old routines and meet this wee little one's needs too. And in just over a month, Matt will be home for Christmas break. We can make it a month, right? Here's hoping you'll hear from me before then!