Happy First Birthday, Dad

My memories of my dad come in hues of blues and shades of green and vibrant warm reds and oranges. In one of my favorite young adolescent novels, The Book Thief, death is the narrator. He states at the beginning of the story:

“People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.” 

Death brings about the living vibrant colors of a person’s life.  I recall moments with Dad and the shades hidden within the spectrum and beyond bring forth a man that was large in love, loyalty,faithfulness and strength. 

I see iridescent fluorescent blue: 

Dad sitting on the carpet  in the Woodland HIlls house, that spot between the L shaped couch, ankles crossed one foot lifted on top of the other,  his big toe scratching a itchy spot, clad in his white t-shirt invariably stained with chilli dog,watching Late Night with Johnny Carson waiting for his girls to come home.

I see fresh-cut-grass green  with early morning dew:   

Dad driving his  bank Oldsmobile listening to NPR on the way to Winketa Park for Saturday soccer, the traditional breakfast stop at McDonalds… he never missed one game.  

My four year old self standing akimbo on the mid line in opposition but obedience to my daddy who told me to go after the ball but no further than the midline.

And dad, through college, my biggest fan and greatest coach, standing  on the sideline of my hospital bed after knee surgery, helping to me to see myself as a young woman apart from my soccer identity. 

I see brilliant orange and faithful sacrificial red: 

Dad collecting  every single story written and every email exchanged from my time in China. Binders full.  The pride of his father’s heart when he spoke of each of us girls.

 Dad, hobbling out to the dance floor in desperate need of hip surgery, yet swinging me around in my white wedding gown dancing the movement of a father and a daughter’s love.    

 I see soft sweet heavenly  baby blue:  

Waking to nurse my  newborn, my house the sacred quiet of an untouched night  save the click of computer keys coming from the kitchen where the screen illuminates  Dad’s face. “Hey kiddo,” he says. He coos at his grandchild and with his daughter speaks of the sweetness of life and the miracle of a child.   

The dad of my childhood was big not only in physical presence but in love. His squeezes along with his sneezes called for attention.When he would come home from work, we would attach ourselves to his feet and he’d drag us around the rooms and into the kitchen asking mom where the girls had gone.  His handsome suits and the smell of Old Spice and his freshly shaven face before he left for the day never missed a chance to give us a kiss… In all ways, the big and the small he was faithful. 

Before I left for China, I had snuck onto the closed soccer field at Wheaton College, late at night.  I needed a sacred place to pray and the pitch had become that for me. I was hesitant of what was ahead in my life, I was afraid of making the wrong decision, I didn’t know if my faith and my love were strong enough.. I asked God in his fatherly tenderness, in his love, to grant me a covenantal sign, something that when I saw it, I would be reminded that He was with me, always. And just as I finished praying the words, a train. Not an approaching train in the distance,  but a train instantly passing furiously fast on the tracks next to the field.  

A train, by no accident, has been the symbol  my God’s love and presence in my life. And it goes without saying you can see the connection... 

My mom and dad gave us girls such priceless gifts:  a beautiful home to grow up in, a steady marriage of 48 years, family meals together, wonderful vacations, a college education, beautiful weddings….but the greatest gift, the one I am most thankful for, is the strength and humility  to love and be loved, to love God and be loved by Him.

The month dad was on the final leg of this journey, the Hallmark Channel was featuring Christmas in July.  The simple overstated yet addicting love stories of the season played in the background as I held my dying dad’s hand.  I was taken back to our Woodland Hills home where on Christmas Eve we would always sing Happy BIrthday to Jesus. Although Dad’s passing came in July, according to Hallmark and I believe the Gospel story, it is always Christmas time for in Christ’s birth, God’s Incarnation,  Dad’s death is a birth. A rebirth. A New Life. 

Happy birthday, Dad.  May your memory be Eternal.   

Theory of Colours – Goethe observed that colour arises at the edges, and the spectrum occurs where these coloured edges overlap. Theory of Colours (German: Zur Farbenlehre) is a book by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe about the poet's views on the nature of colours and how these are perceived by humans. 

Researchers have long known that the mantis shrimp eye contains 12 color receptors, but they had no idea why. Humans and most other animals use three color-receptors to see the spectrum of light.

The Flip (Revisited)

It’s in the little things. The half cup of coffee abandoned abruptly on a random bookshelf to be found two days later. The forgetting of the placement of phone, keys tablet, wallet. The annoyance felt toward a left out judge of juice for the umpteenth time. Signs of the primary parent. We are over half way through this flip year and with each and every day, diaper change, meal served, off to work and school drop off kiss exchange, our perspective has widened and our love deepened.


This sweet place of not a word exchanged and we know the need of the other. Not even a look, just simple knowledge of the common toil compels. It was a Monday. Ben was sick and getting sicker. “I’ll probably feel better tomorrow, “ he assured me. Say no more. I was able to arrange for a substitute to watch my class on the next day. Good thing, Tuesday morning Ben was worse. He slept the day away, between frequent visits to the bathroom. I spent the day checking off tasks on his daily to-do list (yes, the professional did "coordinate the sh*t" out of the housework. See blog post “The Flip”) and ventured into his next day of chores. When Ben’s fever broke and he was able to join us in the evening, the look of relief on his face was a shared joy. I know what it means to be sick with housework and children clamoring in the wings. The day after is often worse when it means catch up while you are still feeling so weak and worn. Say no more…

I started to make looking at his housework app a thing I did on the weekends to help him out and get him ahead of the game. I did it for one weekend, maybe two. Then one Saturday I asked him about it. “Hey, did you get the chores done already? There are none on here.” He just kept looking at the book he was reading, “You need a weekend too, you know.” Say no more.

Ben was offered a camp job a few months back. We talked about it. But this is where we want to be presently. Life is simple. The struggle and worry has passed for now. We are truly enjoying this stage.

We may or may not have chosen this path here on our own but we are grateful. The perfect house for us came on the market right when we needed one. I walk to school in the morning and home for lunch. The proximity brings such peace. This flip doesn’t feel disruptive like one might think it would have been. It’s more like the turning of one of those calming bottles we made with the boys. One abrupt movement but yet all of the pieces slowly float, flow and fall among the glitter into place.

“Just because we flipped doesn’t mean you can not to be the hot one in bed!” Ben says as he curls his six foot five freezing frame around me under the covers. “Wait. What did you just say?!” I laugh hard and place frigid feet against his calves. These expectations of ours. What we are to be in our lives, in our homes, in our cultures… in bed. (Side note: I don’t mind being known as the hot one, by the way.)

I am this one. You are that one. What if we were to be just one instead? Truly one. Where no words need to be exchanged, no role division needs to be hashed out, we simply were just one. I’ll pick up the forgotten coffee mug and put it in the dishwasher for you. You’ll put the orange juice jug away for me, again. I’ll remember where you put your keys and you’ll find my phone. Say no more. It’s in the little things. Flip.

The Flip

I came home to piles of laundry on our bed. Folded piles of laundry. Folded coordinated piles of laundry on the made bed.  And so the flip has begun.  Ben and I will be switching roles for the next

year. He will be the "primary parent" (a term he recently discovered and proudly owns) and I'll be the working parent. I'm actually not certain what to call what I will be and this seems to be pretty much what I have been feeling as of late.  I think all of us moms go through this. This identity shift and change continually in moments and through seasons - mom, wife, friend, sister, daughter, employee. We have an understanding, it seems, of before I was a mother and after, before I became a wife, when I was single, when I was working, I was...

I will be a classroom teacher once again. Eighth grade.  I love the angst of the early adolescent years. This struggle to define themselves and discover who they are and who they want to become.  I identify with it, maybe a little too much. Lord have mercy on this perpetual puberty. Approaching this school year, I am equally excited and hesitant.  My babies are five years old, three, two and one.  I anticipated going back to full time teaching someday but someday came sooner than we expected. 

On a Tuesday afternoon, before the boy's swim lessons, Ben was fired from his Outdoor Education Coordinator job. We were given three weeks to pack up our home, our life and move on. To what? Everything shifted. Everything flipped.

Ben needed time, needs time. With my degree and the timing of the "shift" it seemed obvious it would be me who would pursue an income.  Not even a week after Ben lost his job, I had my first interview for the job I was offered. There has been no time really to reflect or think or feel even. You put your head down and do what you need to do. Pack bags, wrap up treasures, take snapshots in your mind of the place you hoped your children would grow up and with the help of dear friends you move on and into the first floor of a gracious family from your church.

People wonder how we are doing with all this. I wonder!  They mainly ask about Ben. How is he really with staying at home? Answer: To quote Ben, "I'm going to coordinate the sh*t out this!"  There already is little pictures of clothes on drawers so the boys know where to put their laundry.  He already has found a more efficient app for meal planning and grocery shopping.  He has even already signed up to take a meal to someone in our church.  I think people should rather ask how I am doing with my husband showing me up as Super Mom, I mean, Super Primary Parent. 

Honestly, it makes me so proud and so thankful. I am humbled by this gift of my man.  We always held to this egalitarian understanding of our marriage and the way this flip has been so fluid thus far shows the depth to how sincerely we hold the truth of that ideal.

And sure, there has been some stumbles, some arguments, some bruised feelings  and there will be more as we continue to figure this out. The unofficial first week of me working, I came into the kitchen just to grab something so I could continue to write my parent letter in the other room. Banner asked for a frozen yogurt tube. "Of course, baby," I say and grab one without even thinking. Ben looks at me aghast. "Seriously? Dinner will be on the table in five minutes!"  He's angry but I secretly loved it. Flip.  

This use to be my "domain."  Granted, Ben never, ever once stepped into my "territory" and assumed charge. It was more like me throwing babies at him, begging for him to take over, the minute he walked into the house.  But now, how much more of an opportunity to really step into each other's shoes, to really appreciate one another, to really grow in our understandings of how much it really takes to be true partners in life and in love.

He has even washed the sheets already. For the love. Really, for the love. I can honestly say there is no hidden envy or "You just wait, Ben, after weeks of this" or "Yeah, of course you can because you didn't have little people literally sucking your brain capacity out of you for the last five years..."  None of that. Don't believe me?  Watch us. It is quite impressive.  I can't even fathom how it's working.  I think it has a lot to do with how we identify ourselves. Are we defined by our roles? Our work? The amount of our income? Where we live? 

Jesus' last prayer in the garden was that we would be one as He and the Father are one.  The union of the divine.  Separate but one. Each constantly seeking to give glory to the other.  This is our prayer in marriage that we would be one. And I hope to give glory, to honor Ben in whatever role we play. And He feels the same. In this submission to one another, we find one ourselves and our identities are made true in love no matter who is bringing home the paycheck or folding the piles of laundry. 

My Dangerous Territory, My Quest

She is fidgeting.  Shuffling through the basket of makeup on her lap in the passenger seat.  It's early morning and the sun has not even come up yet.  Her fingers are nervous, everything about her is anxious, unsettled.  She is high. She must be high.  "He called me dangerous. I know what that means, Sandra,"  she says as she rummages through the pile for the umpteen time. "I am going to write a book about that word, you know? I started yesterday."  Up all night, Sarah was not ready when I arrived at her grandma's house to take to her court appointment two and a half hours away. "They say I'm crazy and they love it at first. But when they call me dangerous.  That's when they leave me. And they always do." 

I think of the new book  DangerousTerritory - My Misguided Quest to Save the World by friend Amy Peterson.  Sarah is my dangerous territory. She is my quest. Everything about her unravels me and reveals my heart full of conflicted self righteousness, Is this really love or my misunderstood Christian obligation in attempt to be awarded some holy badge? If love truly perseveres, how far must I go?  Dear God! How do I even ask such a question when you went to the cross?  

When we first started the foster care/adoption journey, there were a few people in our lives that were concerned, rightfully so, about the safety of our babies and the disruption of our simplistic ideal lives. And honestly, I was one of them.  I tested myself by playing out awful scenarios in my head.  What if an emotionally disturbed child pulled down a book case crushing my two month old while I was in the laundry room? Would I take responsibility for the decision I made for having brought "that" into "our" home?  Foster care/adoption would mess everything up. And it should.  Often our kingdoms need to be turned upside down...

"I use to climb this one tree when I was little," Sarah tells me as she puts in yet another CD.  "I would sit on one of the top branches with my nose to the sky. My uncle would ask if I was a bird. 'No' I'd say 'A dolphin. But I want to go up not down. I want to swim in the sky.'"  Her words make my heart ache. So much has happened to that little girl in such a short time. She is only eighteen and has had a more than a lifetime of pain and tragedy.  I imagine Lily in The Secret Life of Bees. She is standing in the middle of  a swarm.  She calls upon her love to overcome her fear and to ease the bees. "I love you. I love you. I love you," she whispers under her protective covering .  "I love you. I love you. I love you," my soul reaches out in the dark of the car.

The day is long. The drive back home even longer.  We return just as it gets dark.  My two year old adopted son - Sarah's son -  runs out to meet me.  I hold him tightly. Many people enter into adoption to save children.  I don't think we can. I don't think it should be our goal or even our calling.  But to love, to persist in love perhaps is the Cross we are to carry.  This is salvation. Amy's book concludes with Saint John Chrysostom's words, "Our mission is to put love where love is not."   It has been a week since I heard from Sarah. She is on the run now.  My soul continues to shout into the darkness, "I love you. I love you. I  love you. "  And hope she hears and is healed.

See Differently

“And what are we celebrating tonight?” It was a genuine question. Sincere. I truly think our waiter was really interested. Even included himself in our party as noted by the personal pronoun. Maybe he doesn't see too many people like us at Red Lobster - “like us” meaning that our faces shone giddily with the knowledge that we don't spend money on seafood very often, or often, or at all, for that matter.

“Sea food differently” is the current advertising gimmick by the company and Ben and I have taken to it, seeing that we could split their four-course feast offered for only $14.99 and get an awesome meal for both of us rather cheaply. So as we sat down, Ben in his button-down-not-ironed shirt and me in my new jeans purchased at a second-hand store, perhaps we did give off a sense of excitement that the waiter equated with celebration. We were out on our own without baby and we were about to “cheat the system” so it was rather exciting. Although the food itself was in the end rather forgetful, the waiter's opening question has remained with me. And what are we celebrating?

Before each dinner Ben prayers the same prayer - short, succinct, and to the point. “Thank you God for all the good things you do for us. Amen.” (Sometimes he adds “including my lovely wife” and kisses my hand for good measure.) Banner has begun to join us as he can now sit up in a high chair. He is our good thing, the good-est thing in our lives right now. Each day I surely celebrate him. I sing and dance around before him as I make dinner and he giggles in delight. As a new mommy, I admit though that I am a little neurotic when it comes to putting him down to sleep. He cries almost every time and then when he stops, I panic a little wondering if he is okay and go to check on him.

When we pray at night, I thank God for letting us keep him one more day. Letting us keep him.... It is a strange way of saying it. I have often nuanced words, stumbled over semantics, and wrestled with word choice. Ben and I have been lately discussing the verbiage we use to describe God and our relationship with him. Such musings have worked their way into every conversational exchange. When asked what we were celebrating, I wanted to say, “Life. Each other. Eating” but maybe because I was thinking a little too much about the question, or maybe because I didn't want to be over romantic, and maybe because simultaneously with the happy-go-lucky response there came that wave of fear that this simple life that I treasure so much will crumble into the brokenness of the world around us, both Ben and I simply responded “nothing” and smiled.

To some, the celebration of life, food, and relationship might be darkly overshadowed by present circumstances. But no matter what is going on, these things are a good a cause as any to celebrate. It might not be as easy of a response though. Maybe the waiter's inquiry is a good question to ask ourselves every day. And what are we celebrating today? Yes, there is a time for everything – everything good and bad, tragic and celebratory, barren and fertile, dead and alive– but all of it in the end will together be redeemed. And in this hope we can always, always celebrate. Ben says it all comes down to trusting that God is good. We daily thank Him for good things but mostly we thank Him because He is good. We celebrate the good things but we celebrate Him for He himself is Love. “Sea food differently” commands the advertisement and they invite you to come and eat. See differently and come to a wedding feast for the final celebration. In the end, there is always and will always be dessert to share.

Water and Blood, Bread and Wine

    The nurse came running after us. “You forgot these,” she happily pronounced her friendly salvation act as she handed us the two small shot glasses. “I figured they were for your contact lenses.” Uh, huh. Contact lenses, right. I am the only one in my family with nearly perfect vision. Ben's had Lasik surgery. Along with a miniature bottle of red wine, we had smuggled the glasses into the delivery ward of the hospital. (Forgot our essential overnight bag – the one with changes of underwear and toothbrushes -- but we did not forget the alcohol. Oh no, we did not. We have our priorities straight you see.) It had been nine months of abstaining and I wanted to celebrate properly. In the quiet dark of the hospital room then, on the beautiful December night of our first born's birth, we broke bread and gave thanks, sweet precious Communion. In covenant love, we would begin our journey as parents, as father and son, as mother and child, as a family. Holding this marvel of miracle to my chest, Ben wrapped his arms around us and prayed, “God, may we love each other profoundly. May Banner know he is loved beyond measure. May your banner over him, over us, be love.”

    After about twelve hours of labor, Banner Benjamin Maki entered this world. It was Easter that we found out we were pregnant and three days after Christmas, December 28,2011, that our baby boy was born. The celebratory seasons spoke to me as to the significance of what incredible endeavor laid before us - the pregnancy, the labor, parenthood. We hoped to have a natural birth experience without any drugs and we were able to - despite the need of oxygen and the possibility of pulling Banner out in the end as his heart rate had dropped significantly. The last two hours of pushing were extremely difficult. Banner was in posterior position nearly the whole duration which lent to much back labor. Ben was an amazing partner and coach through it all. He held my hand and relentlessly pushed on my back. The counter pressure brought much needed relief as he whispered stories to keep my mind from the pain, “We are on the beach at Point Reyes. It is dark and there is a camp fire that warms us.” After, I was shocked when I looked in the mirror to see that the blood vessels in my face, eyes and around my shoulders all had burst. I had heard about this happening to women before but could not have imagined such exertion.

     One of the reasons I desired natural birth was that I wanted to fully be mindful of the spiritual journey of labor. It seems to me that there are many allusions connecting the experience of birth and death that they almost seem to be one in the same. Jesus said in order to find life, we must lose it. We must take up our cross daily and follow him. “Be born again,” he says. The Hebrew word for compassion includes the word for womb. The Greek word lends to the same idea, Splagxnizomai. It is as if this virtue is conceived in the very place where precious life is formed and is connected to the living breathing heart of the Creator. Brennan Manning, author of Abba's Child, purposes that compassion exists then in the very womb of God. And it is because of this divine compassion, this love for His creation, that He sent His one and only Son. The night before Jesus died, on the night he broke bread with his disciples, he communed with His Father in the garden. It is written that he prayed so hard, he sweat blood. He labored in prayer for the incredible endeavor that was before him - the trail, the beatings, the crucifixion. More so, for the joy set before him, Christ labored. He labored for us. And in such exertion to bear life, to bring life, to be Life, his blood vessels perhaps burst. I believe it was birth pains he experienced in that garden that early morning for on the cross that day His death brought forth life. And from His side, poured water and blood, the very fluid of rebirth. Drink wine. Break bread. Do this in remembrance, he tells us. This is the day you were born. Celebrate in covenant. His banner over us is love.

Baskets and a Baby Banner

A Princess Leia slave costume, a Magic Bullet, and a broken-printer-but-working-scanner – the three items I listed on Craig's List last week. Ben and I are making room for the baby. Yes, baby, arriving January 3^rd. Now we can effectively fit him into a storage box if we wanted. (Granted, that slave costume didn't have much to it. Don't ask. It was a bridal shower gift from my baby sister.) As we reshuffle things around our little camp cabin here -selling and giving away things all the while purchasing deals on baby stuff and gratefully receiving hand-me-downs – that concept of “making room” begs to be noticed. Do we live our lives in such a way where it is simple to recognize what needs to go? Or more so, do we live life in a way where there is already room and will always be room for the important stuff? And I'm not just talking about material possessions.

Ben and I have a running argument – mind you, our arguments are more like running jokes – about baskets. When we were first setting up the studio we lived in that first year, I insisted I needed a basket to organize our clothes. He thought it was a ridiculous use of funds. He relented though and I got two baskets as a result – one for sweaters, one for socks. Last week, I came home with a basket and a storage box. Hence, an “argument” over the value of baskets returned. (I have yet to bring up how valuable a basket was in the life of Moses. Life savers those baskets are.) So the new basket holds papers from the desk (which is really an IKEA table that will now find a home in the shed) and the storage box - all my newsletters, pictures and memorabilia from China. And again, that “making room” mantra resounds. As I placed the lid on the albums, it seemed a little too significant, a little too dramatic as I put the China box on the shelf and closed the shed door behind me. But it is moments like these that clarity seems to emerge. All my China stuff was out because I had just been given a chance to talk about my experience with the women's retreats here at camp. I entitled the session, “Three Women, Three Lives, One Story.” The last of the women's lives I shared was my own but I stopped the story simply with my return back to the states. But the women at the retreat knew better than I, know better than I in their years of wisdom. They insisted that I continue sharing, they insisted that the story continue - How did I meet Ben? How did I fall in love?How did we get here? ...

When I put that China box away, I knew that it was not gone, it is not over for ultimately that time is stored up in heaven, but with its placement there I can now make room for the narrative to continue. Here and now. And when Baby Banner Benjamin Maki arrives, there will be much room in heart and mind and soul for that Great Story to go on for it is all apart of the One story, is it not? Naming our boy after the Song of Solomon verse ,“I am my beloved and He is mine and His banner over me is love,” we will always be aware of what is most important. I label the boxes and put titles on Craig's list items all the while under this banner, this knowledge of love. Do I need to make room for Love? The story continues despite the lack of space sometimes (or the pressing need for baskets). It works its way through those cracks we are susceptible to and then it expands and expands till we can not help but to drop nets and sell all we have and live in the freedom of less is more in the Name of Love. 

http://www.ted.com/talks/graham_hill_less_stuff_more_happiness.html