"You won’t change society by violent revolution or gradual reform. To change society you must tell a different story. You must proclaim a new narrative.” (Ivan Illich)
Hi everyone! It’s been a couple years now, but I should probably note here that my newer writing can be found on Medium, here.
At some point, perhaps I will work to consolidate and centralize my writings. But don’t have time for that at the moment! Thank you for following and learning alongside me.
Happy New Year, everyone!
2018 was quite the year! In the last 12 months, we changed jobs, changed cities, changed homes, changed faith communities, and changed day cares.
I also completed my participation in CCDA’s leadership cohort 7, participated in the Ruby Woo Pilgrimage, visited a migrant shelter in Tijuana, and spoke at 2 different women’s retreats. I completed a 6 week health boot camp and found a new love for weight training, and got my body (somewhat) back into shape after having a baby. I continued to watch Amara grow into a delightful, joy-filled, curious child. I discerned a call to pastoral ministry, found a renewed sense of vision for the local church, and felt (somewhat) released from my feelings of spiritual homelessness.
A lot changed- both circumstantially as well as internally. All major areas of our life became “new” in the past year.
All along the way, God undeniably reminded us that God is the author of our story. In every transition, there were moments of miraculous provision that made it clear that God was making the path for us to walk into.
In the midst of all these transitions, I’ve also felt exposed. My own compulsions, addictions, unhealthy patterns, and sin have definitely come out in the face of transition. They’ve led to a lot of conflict in marriage, as well as some difficulties with parenting, and have pushed me to a place of realizing how powerless I am to change myself.
But somehow, through the ups and downs, I’ve rediscovered that I cannot change myself, by myself. I cannot become the person I want and need to be without God’s help. So I’m hoping that 2019 brings a renewed engagement in my spiritual life, and a daily sense of dependence upon God in all areas of my life.
Consequently, I am letting go of my tradition of choosing a word for the new year, which I’ve done the last few years. In many ways, it was my way of trying to determine what the year would hold for me, a way for me to set my own fate. But this year, I’m convicted that God will continue to author my story, and am hoping to grow in surrender. I’m open to the surprises that will come and curious to see what this year will bring!
A prayer for 2019:
Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty
my memory, my understanding,
and my entire will
All I have and call my own.
You have given all to me.
To you, Lord, I return it.
Everything is yours; do with it what you will.
Give me only your love and your grace,
that is enough for me.
-St. Ignatius of Loyola
Our baby turns one today.
It’s hard to believe that the tiny little human (WHO CAME OUT OF ME!!!) is now a one year old who can understand commands, sign at least 5 different words, take steps and “walk” (like a drunk baby, as we like to say), and play independently in our pantry while I cook dinner.
Being a first-time mom has not been easy. The learning curve has been steep, with the first few months of postpartum being especially brutal. But just as Amara has been learning how to breathe and live on the other side of the womb, I have been learning as well. Just as she has been growing in her personhood, learning new skills, and developing resiliency and character, I have been too.
My body, my spirit, and my heart have been stretched and torn, expanded, broken, and reformed by this little love who continues to amaze me every day.
A FEW REFLECTIONS FROM MY FIRST YEAR AS A MOM:
The act of giving birth is truly a miracle. There’s a lot that I don’t remember from this first year. But I still remember the birthing process clearly. I still feel so many emotions any time I hear other birth stories, see birth photos, or think about my own labor and delivery. As somebody with friends who have lost babies during or shortly after birth, I don’t take anything for granted.
Giving birth made me appreciate how intentionally, creatively, and masterfully the female body was designed to bear life. Every birth is completely miraculous and yet woven so seamlessly into the tapestry of human experience. What a privilege it has been for me to share in the mystery of birth with the multitudes and generations before me. I truly do not take it for granted.
Parenting without help is impossible. It truly takes a village to raise a child. I don’t think any parent can survive without help. And I’ve noticed that many people who have resources can simply “buy” that help. They can buy stuff that makes caring for their child easier, hire people to take care of their child the majority of the week, and pay people to clean their house, take care of their yard, cook their food, etc. There’s no judgment on this, as I have definitely done some of these things. However, “buying help” often omits the need for community- true FRIENDS to lean on and ask for help from.
As somebody who doesn’t make a ton of money, I have been thankful for the help of SO many people throughout this past year. We had meals for almost two full months after Amara was born. We’ve had housemates who would watch Amara (for free) and let us go out at night. We’ve had people give us hand-me-downs and have saved SO much money (and environmental waste) on baby things. We’ve had countless number of people praying for us and with us, dreaming for Amara’s life and having hope for her future. I’ve had mama friends to text at random hours of the day, reminding me that I’m not crazy and that I’m not alone.
We couldn’t have made it through this first year without our Village.
Living in community with kids is awesome. I know that living in community when you have kids seems crazy, but it’s been a HUGE blessing to us. Granted, having a baby with housemates is probably not as messy and crazy as having a toddler with housemates. But overall, we are so thankful that we got to have real, adult interaction at home, and that we also had built-in babysitting! 😊
It was also a joy to have Amara grow up with so many adults who were constantly around her- delighting in her, smiling at her, talking to her, and enjoying her. I think it has shaped her to be more comfortable with people and open to strangers.
Transitioning to marriage with kids is really hard. When people ask me what’s been the most difficult about becoming a mom, I always say that it’s the transitions in marriage. I thought it might be the sleeeplessness, or the lack of freedom, or maybe even breastfeeding. But these have been reasonable transitions- mainly because they are things that I, as an individual, can control and manage expectations around. What I can’t control, on the other hand, is my partner. And this has been challenging.
I don’t think I was quite prepared for all the potential strain and change in marriage. Communication is harder when you’re tired and trying to keep another human alive. Being gracious- to yourself and to your partner- is way harder when you feel like you’re clueless and/or failing half the time. Getting quality time together requires so much more intention and effort. Sexual intimacy feels almost impossible (and also potentially painful for a postpartum body). It’s so hard to offer your “best self” to somebody when you’re offering so much of it to another human. This transition has definitely been way more difficult for me than transitioning from being single to married.
That being said, there’s nobody else I’d rather raise my child with. And I am learning so much about how to build a marriage upon grace, mutuality, and interdependence. Our marriage has been challenged and we are growing. And I am still convinced that the biggest gift we can offer our child is the model of a healthy, loving, grace-filled marriage.
To parent without anxiety is completely countercultural. One thing I’ve observed about parenting in our times is how fear and anxiety-driven it is. The baby-industrial-complex is built upon inducing anxiety in parents, so that they will spend more money on things to relieve said anxiety- weird products that you don’t need, books that confuse you and contradict each other, items deemed “necessary” that every generation before us was fine without.
Add to that the pressures of social media, which is built upon invoking feelings of inadequacy and comparison in parents, so that (again) they will expend resources on things just to keep up appearances. Spending lots of time getting the best photo. Parties that require way too much work and Pinterest-ing. Baby outfits that are way too expensive to only be worn a few times. Costly excursions that the baby will never remember.
While I am very guilty of all of these things, I have been reflecting on how parenting without anxiety or comparison is an act of witness. To parent this way requires trusting a God who is good- who loves, cares for, and journeys with God’s people. It says that ultimately, we are not the author of our kids’ lives.
I am praying that when people look at my parenting, they will see a sense of ease that comes from parenting in abundance and grace. I pray that they will see somebody who trusts God and thus is at peace.
Breastfeeding is amazing. And also really hard. Breastfeeding was probably the area of motherhood that I was most afraid of- even more than giving birth. I was lucky to have heard horror stories from other friends in advance, so that I wouldn’t be blindsided by things like clogged ducts, cracked nipples, mastitis, pumping woes, and tongue ties. Even still, we had a hard time breastfeeding in the early days, and I remember going to Amara’s first pediatrician check-in, and bursting into tears during her first weigh-in and hearing how much weight she had lost.
Our breastfeeding journey has been full of ups and downs. Scares with weight gain, struggles with oversupply and clogged ducts and then undersupply when my period came back early. Battles with thrush. A distracted nurser with a mediocre/lazy latch who got used to my oversupply and then was less willing to work for milk. The constant uncertainty- is she eating enough? Growing enough? Should I pump now or not? Should I wake her for a feed or not?
Despite all this, I am proud to say that I have made it to one year, almost exclusively breastfeeding Amara. I’ve breastfed Amara in public many times. I have pumped in a car, on a bus, and on a plane, in an airport, and have spent countless hours with either a small human or a machine attached to my breasts. My breasts definitely don’t look the same, but I am amazed at the life they have sustained and grown.
I’m proud that I’ve gotten a year to bond with my daughter through breastfeeding and that I’ve given her antibodies and nutrition tailor-made for her. I’ve sacrificed a lot, but it’s been worth it.
Every child is truly fearfully and wonderfully made. It’s been so amazing in this past year to see Amara’s own little personality, formed so clearly from such an early age. Watching videos of her throughout the span of the year showed me how much her personality has remained constant, even though she was changing developmentally all the time. From the first few months on, she has always been a very vocal, vigorous, and sociable baby. She has loved making sounds, she is constantly moving, and she is always excited to smile at and interact with others.
It’s also fascinating to see what traits she has inherited from me and what she has inherited from Michael. There are clearly traces of both of us in her personality already, not to mention the physical traits she has clearly inherited from us as well (she definitely has Michael’s eyebrows, for example).
I am amazed to see how much of her own personhood and spirit have been expressed in just one year of life. It is a delight for us to see it unfold.
Happy first birthday, beloved A! We love you so much and can’t wait to see what lessons we learn in the next year.
May is officially Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month.
Many may know that February is Black History Month or that March is Women’s History Month, but way fewer people celebrate the other heritage months that happen throughout the year, including AAPI Heritage month.
AAPI Heritage Month, which was created by the approval of Public Law 102–450 by Congress in 1992, becomes even more complicated by the diversity of histories, cultures, languages, peoples and traditions that fall under the “AAPI” umbrella. According to Pew Research, over 20 million Asian Americans trace their roots to more than 20 countries, in East and Southeast Asia, as well as the Indian subcontinent. So during this month, we don’t just honor Chinese heritage and Japanese heritage, but also the wide diversity of the Asian American and Pacific Islander experience- from Polynesian to Indian, from Hmong to Bangladeshi, from Laotian to Mongolian, from Mien to Melanesian, from Okinawan to Sri Lankan, from Bhutanese to Malaysian.
For me, celebrating AAPI Heritage Month is both a stretching and healing exercise.
Despite identifying as Korean American and living most of my life in areas with significant AAPI populations, I didn’t know that AAPI Heritage Month existed until recent years. Moreover, if you had asked me what some of the gifts of my heritage were when I was growing up, I would have given only superficial answers. Being “Korean” to me meant that my refrigerator smelled like kimchi, that I had a propensity towards drama, that my parents spoke with an accent, and that I was required to bow to my elders. And these traits were not honorable. They were things I felt I had to constantly hide or compensate for.
In the last decade, as I’ve grown in maturity and explored my sense of personal voice and identity, I’ve come to realize that to live into my Korean identity is an act of resistance in this country, which was founded on white supremacy. And part of this resistance is to assert our dignity and worth by making intentional time and space to remember our history, celebrate our cultures, and honor our ancestors and homelands.
So here are 5 reasons why I’m celebrating AAPI history month this year:
1. I celebrate AAPI Heritage Month to fight against assimilation and cultural erasure.
Choosing to celebrate all the richness and diversity of the Asian and Pacific diaspora in this country is to affirm the beauty and inherent goodness of our cultures, in a country that has often degraded our traditions, viewed us as perilous and threatening, and forced us into patterns of assimilation.
To value our heritage is to say that Asian and Pacific Islander traditions are not merely “foreign” — that our foods are not “exotic,” our languages are not “harsh,” and that our traditions are not “perilous” or “immoral.” In doing so, we choose to de-center whiteness in our social reality and reimagine the value systems of majority culture by saying that eating balut or durian or biryani are to be celebrated and made as “normal” as eating pork chops and casseroles.
These acts say that Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders exist as part of the life and heartbeat of this country. The whole of who we are should be valued and appreciated.
We may not be white, but we are here. And we matter.
2) I celebrate AAPI Heritage Month to preserve cultural memory and (re)learn the stories of our peoples.
One of the most painful losses for people who both intentionally and unintentionally migrate to the U.S. is the loss of history.
Growing up and speaking a language that is different from our elders, as well as being a part of families that are forced to resettle due to crisis, war, and trauma often means losing precious history. Due to generational gaps, language barriers, material deprivation, and recurrent trauma, many in the AAPI community, myself included, don’t have much to preserve and sustain common memory. Many of us don’t have official family trees, heirlooms, photo albums, or written stories. Many of us can’t communicate with those two or three generations back.
Moreover, our schools and broader society rarely teach AAPI history in any helpful or meaningful ways. I barely remember learning anything at all in my primary education about people who looked like me, minus maybe a lesson about Japanese internment. And the AAPI experience is still glaringly underrepresented in the arts and media.
So to uphold AAPI Heritage month is to carve out opportunities to both excavate and celebrate our histories. We fight for our right to remember. We say the names of our ancestors and honor their courage and sacrifice. We remember the stories of forerunners, like Wong Kim Ark, Queen Liliuokalani Mitsuye Endo, Min Yasui, Larry Itilong, Bhagat Sing Thind, Philip Vera Cruz, Fred Korematsu, Grace Lee Boggs, and Yuri Kochiyama. We remember AAPI members of the National Dollar Strike, Interment Dissenters, and World War II veterans.
Choosing to reclaim the histories that have either been consciously or unconsciously silenced, is an act of resistance. We make our voices heard and our history known.
3) I celebrate AAPI Heritage Month to move beyond the white/black binary and claim our place in the struggle for racial justice.
A month of celebrating Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage could easily become gimmicky- a time of eating Asian foods, putting on traditional clothing, or experiencing cultural art and music. Yet amidst these acts, I also choose to recognize the ways that the AAPI community has suffered under the weight of white supremacy and the Model Minority Myth, which diverts attention from our struggles for racial justice and equity in this country.
It has often been hard for me, as a Korean American woman, to find my place in racial conversations that have historically felt very black and white. It is easy to feel invisible, or to believe that my struggle is insignificant, or that I have nothing to contribute. And while it is true that much of the racism that the AAPI community has faced in this country is distinct from what the Native community, Black community, or Latinx community has faced, and that some in the AAPI community experience greater levels of privilege and wealth than other POC, I believe that choosing solidarity and shared suffering across communities is the only way we can dismantle the forces of white supremacy, which impact us all.
So as I celebrate AAPI history and heritage this month, I also choose to remember the experiences of forced labor, violent displacement, and human trafficking that our peoples have faced. I remember the experiences of racial terror, violence, and even lynching that Asian immigrants experienced. I remember governmental policies that tried to exclude our peoples from even entering into our borders, or policies that incarcerated our peoples en masse. I remember the ramifications of U.S. colonialism, militarism, and economic exploitation that affected many of our ancestors and ravaged our homelands with violence and environmental destruction. I remember discriminatory practices which affected our ability to buy homes, to have communities of worship, to sustain businesses, or even rise to leadership.
And I choose to remember that we are not alone in these experiences. We are not alone in the struggle for liberation.
4) I celebrate AAPI Heritage Month to acknowledge the immense gifts and talents of our communities.
Growing up as an ethnic minority, and particularly as a Korean American in this country often meant feeling like I wasn’t enough- like a spotlight was constantly on my deficiencies. I wasn’t loud or assertive enough. My parents weren’t loving or affectionate enough. I didn’t understand puns or know pop culture references enough. I wasn’t confident or independent enough. I was constantly trying to blend in and fight for acceptance- to prove that I wasn’t a weirdo and that I belonged.
It hasn’t been until recent years that I’ve begun to notice and appreciate the powerful gifts of the AAPI community — that being Korean American isn’t just an identity that I “need healing from.” There is so much beauty and value in the gifts of the broader AAPI community- gifts that don’t always get honored by majority culture, but help sustain life, build community, and serve others.
So celebrating AAPI Heritage Month is not just about honoring the external gifts of food, language, and tradition. It is a way of commending our values and our beliefs, our ways of moving and being in this world, our patterns of relating. It is to celebrate the unspoken impulses and intuitions of our communities and affirm the less noticeable gifts- gifts of hospitality and loyalty, honor and generosity, collaboration and embodied leadership, listening and bridge-building, resilience and endurance, collectivism and sacrifice. It is to honor all of our creative expressions- of rhythm and melody, of prayers and poetry, of movement and strength, of wailing and travailing, the work of our bodies and our minds.
It is to celebrate the ways that we always make room at the table, and we always make sure that everyone has enough.
5) I celebrate AAPI Heritage Month to acknowledge the unique contributions of the AAPI Church.
As a Christian in particular, I believe that celebrating this month is also a chance for me to remember the unique faith expressions and theological contributions that the AAPI community have brought to the broader Church.
Many of us, despite histories of colonization, harmful missionary practices, exclusion from white churches, or forced assimilation into white Christian institutions, have persisted and resisted, creating ways of understanding Jesus and practicing the Jesus Way that try to speak our heart language and lift us out of a Eurocentric Christianity.
So this month, I celebrate theologies of han and jeong, and the ways that they give words to experiences of my (Korean) soul that no Western theologian could. I celebrate readings of Scripture that give words to my own experience of marginality, liminality, placelessnes, and exile. I celebrate the spiritual rhythms and practices of dear friends, like my native Hawaiian faith family or my Malayali frends who are unveiling the work of the Holy Spirit in their history and their cultures. I celebrate communion performed with roti, prayers uttered in mother tongues, after-church fellowship over jook and sinigang, and worship songs played onthe guzheng. I celebrate churches that were also language schools, immigrant welcome centers, social safety nets, and places of cultural refuge for those in new lands.
As I celebrate AAPI Heritage, I affirm that the American church, and even the Church universal, would not be the same if we were not a part of the Body. We are a blessing, not a burden.
Are you celebrating AAPI Heritage month? If so, what are you planning to do? What motivates your celebrations?
Amara is 9 months old now.
It’s crazy to think about how, just a year ago, she was growing inside me- kicking and slithering and turning her body in all kinds of ways, just like she does today.
Throughout the first year of Amara’s life, I have experienced moments of surprise at how “easy” certain aspects of parenting have been. Despite a few unexpected difficulties and some general tendencies toward anxiety on my part, we have a pretty solid routine established. Amara generally sleeps and naps well. We have a great community who helps us and lightens the load of parenting. And Amara is generally happy, social, healthy and content. I don’t take for granted any of these gifts.
What I did take for granted was my partnership with Michael in the midst of it all.
The daily barrage of decision making, multiplied by the weight of trying to keep a small human alive, definitely took me by surprise. Michael and I are extremely different people, and we each brought to parenting a different set of unspoken assumptions and expectations- about whose voices to trust, how to divide up labor, what’s worth worrying about, how fast to move, and both the capacities and limitations of the small human we are raising up.
Add to that the extreme physical needs of a breastfeeding mom- extreme hunger, extreme thirst, extreme/urgent needs to pee and general tiredness- in addition to the ongoing stress around weight gain for a baby who has never loved nursing, and there has been a lot that we as a co-parents simply weren’t prepared for.
Learning to parent- together- has been hard.
As somebody who grew up valuing efficiency, productivity, and doing things “right,” it’s been hard for me to make room for Michael as a co-parent. Rather than choosing interdependence, it’s often easier for me to bear the weight alone, so we can do things more expediently, or in the way that I think is best. It’s easier to assume that as the mom, that I know better or can parent better. Especially in the season, as the primary source of nourishment for my baby, I can even take advantage of the natural attachments I have with Amara through breastfeeding and push Michael out- of feeding sessions, of soothing times, of bedtime routines.
But these compulsions in me often lead me to a point of isolation rather than companionship, bitterness rather than grace. They push me to make false judgments about Michael, and make me believe that he has nothing to offer- which simply isn’t true.
The truth is, as competent as I am, I truly need my husband in order for our family to thrive. Not just to do things when I can’t. Not just to give me a “break” occasionally. Not to be the “baby sitter” while I take time for myself.
I need Michael to be a living, breathing, dynamic, mutual member of our family, filled with vision, dreams, and love to offer both me and Amara. I need Michael to help keep the narrative of our family, so that we can remember God’s work truthfully. I need Michael, to constantly remind me of the goodness, grace, and abundance of God in my life, so that I have something to offer Amara.
When I’m tempted to believe it would be easier if I could just have everything my way, I remind myself of this African proverb: “If you want to go faster, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.”
I can’t move so fast that I leave Michael behind.
And I can’t do this alone.
Ultimately, parenting is not a list of tasks to accomplish correctly. It is not a series of moments to capture on social media to show the world how “beautiful” or “perfect” our lives are. It is the outflowing of love from two people in such a way that it creates life, joy, and purpose in another human. It is a partnership- of two differentiated yet united people- in cultivating both the mystery and potential of human life. It is exploration- of seeing a young person develop and grow into their own personhood, in both beautiful and baffling ways.
It is a gift -meant to be shared and carried, together.
Happy Eastertide everyone!
This Lenten season and Holy Week flew by. A few days before Ash Wednesday, I had my last day of work with Prison Fellowship, and I thought I was entering into a Lenten season of reflection, rest, and exploring my future. I thought that being unemployed would grant me more space for quality time with Amara, and margin to write, to read, to pray, to explore. I thought I would be granted extra time for rest and renewal.
Somehow, during that time, the Lord provided me with many unexpected ministry opportunities- to write, to speak, to create liturgy, to lead worship, to curate prayer experiences- which was great for lightening the financial burden of unemployment. But these commitments also took up the time and space that I thought I would have for my personal transition. The spaciousness I had hoped for felt elusive.
Despite this busier-than-expected Lent, a surprising number of job opportunities also came my way during this time. A job search that I thought would last around 6 months was condensed into almost six weeks, as half a dozen potential ministry opportunities divinely appeared during that time. It was shocking, affirming, energizing, and exhausting, all at the same time. But each step of the way, I was given tools for discernment- for noticing what excited me and what didn’t, when I said “I would be excited to do that!” vs. when I said “I could do that,” for discovering my nonnegotiables, articulating my experiences and gifts, as well as what I wanted in this next season of life.
It became more clear to me that I wanted to transition from the parachurch world into the local church world, and to explore a call to pastoral ministry. I was looking for an opportunity to mobilize the church to do justice work, not just as an intellectual exercise, but as embodied, communal, and contextual practice. I was looking for a diverse community, where I wouldn’t have to do the heavy lifting of initiating conversations around racial justice, and where Amara and Michael could be around people who looked like them. I was looking for a role with flexibility to write and to speak, and channels to cultivate my gifts of communication. And I was looking for greater integration in my life- of my spiritual family, my place of ministry and influence, and my neighborhood.
Praise be to God, that like Manna from heaven, an opportunity arose that met these desires! After having many conversations with different churches and nonprofits, the last church that reached out ended up having an opening that perfectly fit my desires.
I am happy to announce that as of April 9th, I will be serving as the Director of Advocacy and Community Engagement for First Presybterian Church of Hayward.
In my role, I will be helping the church reach their strategic goal of giving away 100,000 hours of community service in the next 5 years. By providing training and formation for the church, as well as by building partnerships with community and governmental agencies, I will be creating pathways for First Pres Hayward to truly seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God in the Hayward/Castro Valley/San Leandro area. Additionally, I will be running church-wide advocacy efforts around educational equity, immigration, unaccompanied minors, and racial healing work in our community. I will also have a chance to write, to speak, and be a voice for the church in issues related to justice.
Praise be to God, that we are not the authors of our own lives!
If you had asked me at the beginning of Lent what God would do by Easter, I would have never imagined that this could have unfolded. I would have never been able to write such a job description for myself. But every step of my discernment journey- including every conversation about a role that didn’t work out- helped me to know that this job was tailor-made for me.
I know that this transition will not be easy. It means closing a significant chapter of my life.
I spent (almost) all of my the first 17 years of life- my childhood- in Southern California. And I have spent the last 17 years of my life- growing into adulthood- in Berkeley. I will be forever imprinted by some of the major forces in my life the past 17 years- the city of Berkeley, the UC campus, the InterVarsity community, churches like Church Without Walls and The Way Christian Center, and the restorative justice world. But Michael and I are choosing, along with Amara, to move closer to the church- somewhere in the greater Hayward area- to sink down roots for this next chapter, and to pursue greater integration in our lives. It’s a huge risk. A huge transition. And we are scared, but we are also hopeful.
This, indeed, continues to be the story of the Kim-Eubanks family- to walk in such a way that the steps we take are filled with risk but also hope. To move in such a way that we know only God could have created our path. And to live, financially, in a way where we have enough manna for each day- where we don’t have tons to hoard or an extravagance of resources, but where we know our daily bread will always be provided.
We are grateful that God is the author of our story. We are thankful that in choosing to faithfully follow God’s ways, that we end up discovering more of our true selves. And we are thankful for the loaves- the Manna that God always provides.
May we always choose to remember.
May we believe that it is enough.
It’s been a little over a week since I had my last day of work with Prison Fellowship.
After many months of experiencing dissonance at work, ongoing transitions into motherhood, and increasing clarity about my gifts, call, and purpose, I found the courage to quit my job, without having anything lined up next.
It is hard (in the Bay Area especially) to imagine life as a family of three, living off one InterVarsity staff worker’s income. In Berkeley, the average cost of housing per month for a family of 3 is at least $3300. Child care prices are more than rent or mortgages would cost in other parts of the country. A good cup of coffee costs around $5, a good loaf of bread just as much. To quit my job (even with as measly of an income I was making as non-profit program manager), especially with a partner who fund-raises for a living seemed a bit foolish.
It is even harder to imagine, in the midst of our current financial circumstance, how to continue to live generously, as both in reality and in spirit we feel like we have “less” to offer. The temptations towards a mentality of scarcity, and to even rein in my own generosity towards others, are quite ripe and formidable.
And yet, as I step into another season of discernment while also taking time to be more present with my sweet baby (now 7 months old), I am reminded of the unavoidable markers of abundance that God has afforded me. I am choosing to remember all the concrete markers of provision in our lives- the loaves and the fishes that have multiplied for me and my family in the past – and the fact that everything I’ve needed, God has abundantly provided.
So much of what we possess in our lives- both material and immaterial- have come so clearly from God’s work of multiplying the offerings of God’s people. And I must choose to remember.
I remember that for many years, both Michael and I have worked for nonprofits, through which our salaries and benefits were paid for by the generosity of others.
I remember the times that, while feeling tight on money, we would benefit from surprise generosity- offerings taken for us that would blow us away, checks that appeared in the mail, people giving us surprise offers of financial provision that we never even asked for.
I remember the friends and family who helped us financially so that we could live free of any debts and loans (minus the one for our house, of course).
I remember that so many of the significant material possessions in our lives- my engagement ring, most of our kitchenware, our car, Michael’s guitar, the vast majority of Amara’s daily belongings- were gifted to us at various seasons of life.
I remember that the house that we co-own (and the only reason we could remotely afford to live in the Bay Area) was “bought” in a season of life when we least expected to become homeowners, only because of the breathtaking generosity of a friend and a clear word from the Lord about giving us a house.
I remember, also, that in the ways that we have continuously lived off the generosity of others, that we have chosen to be generous in supporting both our friends and strangers- in the midst of need, in pursuits of their dreams, in support of projects and endeavors that clearly allowed them to live with purpose, worth, and dignity.
And just as the crowd of thousands would not have eaten their fill and been satisfied without a small boy who offered his loaves and fish, I am grateful for the picture of God-like community embodied in the obedience of friends, family, and even strangers who have been conduits of God’s lavish provision for me and my family.
To choose to remember draws me back to the truth that God’s people were always made to live in community. As people created in the image of a Triune God, we are meant to mirror the abundance, the interdependence, the reciprocal flow of giving and receiving that is modeled in the Godhead- in whom there is no lack.
Moreover, to choose to remember also means that in moments when Jesus leads me into the presence of people who are hungry for God’s provision, I must not demand they be sent away to meet their own needs. Instead, I must remember the miracle of being a part of God’s economy- an economy in which our small offerings are multiplied so that everyone can eat to their fill, even to the point of having leftovers.
So as I enter into this season of Lent while simultaneously entering a season of vocational “wilderness” (and reduced income), one of the practices I hope to engage is an intentional practice of generosity. I don’t want merely to practice self-denial, but also want that denial to lead to blessing and provision for others.
This year for Lent, I am choosing to abstain from eating out during the week, not to save money in this time of pseudo-unemployment, but to have an additional $25/week that I can use to participate in small acts of generosity towards others.
It may not seem like much, but I am hoping and praying that God leads me to the right people and right situations- in which my resources can be multiplied to do more than I could have imagined. I am hoping that through this practice, I can continue to both remember the loaves I have received and also offer my own- that my eyes would be open to both how much I have and how much I can give.
What are the practices you are hoping to engage this Lent?
At the end of last year, so many of us were hoping for 2017 to be a “better” year. We yearned for some respite from the unceasing weight of lament. We longed for healing to arise for our nation’s festering wounds. Yet headline after headline, we saw mass violence, natural disasters, political ineptitude, and fractured communities. We waited for silver linings only to see the skies getting darker.
On top of all that was happening in our country and our world, several of my close friends went through life-altering traumatic experiences, and many others continue to struggle with unmet desires, unanswered questions, a lack of purpose, and spiritual homelessness. 2017 was an exposing and unrelenting year.
Despite all these hardships, this past year was undeniably a life-changing one for me and my family. The gift of our beloved daughter, Amara, has added the sounds of baby giggles, squeals, farts, and coos into the soundscape of our lives. She has been the source of so much joy, wonder, delight, curiosity, and affection, not only for us but for all who enter into our lives. There are times when I stare at her sweet face, and marvel at the fact that she grew inside me, got pushed out of my body, and has grown solely on breastmilk for these past months. There are other moments- when she expresses her desires, asserts her will, or shows her personality- that make me wonder how she could have such a remarkably distinct self, even at a mere 6 months old.
Through Amara’s entrance in our lives, I’ve learned so much about inhabiting my own body in all of its capacities. Experiences of my pregnant, laboring, post-partum, and breastfeeding body have made me much more aware of the strength and efficacy of my body, as well as its fragility and limitations. Whether through my never ending need to go to the bathroom, the deep pulses of pains brought on by contractions, the perpetual stream of blood and fluids coming out of my body post-partum, my rock-hard, engorged breasts, or the tingle of letdowns, I’ve become much more attuned to all of the physical intricacies of my body, and the ways that those realities are not divorced from the spiritual. Because Jesus took on Flesh, all of these very physical (and often mundane) realities become imbued with the possibility of communing with Him and reveal traces of the sacred.
Moreover, my battles with anxiety, feelings of overwhelm, and often unexpected emotional breakdowns (aka cry-fests) this past year have further reminded me that inhabiting my body means acknowledging its wholeness, not failing to steward my emotions along with my actual physical self. As an Asian American woman who grew up without permission to have my own desires or assert my emotions too strongly, I am now recognizing how the suppression of my emotions is actually a denial of my full humanity, a diminishing of the Imago Dei.
While last year’s recap focused on growing our family as a major hope, 2017 taught me that my participation in our family requires me to inhabit my own body, in its fullness. The call to offer my body as a living sacrifice means that worship is not just some ethereal, spiritual act and that my body matters- in the struggles it has endured, the histories it bears, the identities it represents, the emotions that it carries, the voice that it holds, and even the land that it stands on. All of these things are part of my unique expression of worship in the Kingdom and give glory to a good Creator.
There were some other significant highlights from the year. We left our church and entered into a season of spiritual discernment about call, vocation, and church community. We continued to experience a rich and vibrant community life with our housemates (the Parker Pandas) and are learning how to be community together in the midst of trauma and loss. We had some significant experiences of learning from Native American faith leaders, and entered into a process of reimagining faith from a decolonized perspective that decenters Western worldview and whiteness. We (mainly Michael) launched some pilot versions of The Lament Project and are dreaming about ways to create art that leads to holy disruptions and sacred (re)imagination. We began developing new family traditions and rituals, now as a family of 3, and learned (through many conflicts) that parenting together is hard work!
It’s been a year of holding both deep joy and gratitude in tension with longing and dissatisfaction.
THE WORD FOR 2018: EMBODIED
As a natural outworking of what God has been doing in my life, my word for 2018 is EMBODIED. My intention is to live a more embodied and integrated faith, to know that living rightly and believing rightly are two sides of the same coin, and that you cannot have one without the other. It is also to embrace the particularities of my flesh- and all the identities that my body carries- with greater confidence and security.
I’m not quite sure what this looks like, but I know that it means stewarding my actual, physical body better- taking time to breathe, making space to stretch, choosing to move and exercise my body after a season of many bodily changes and transitions. It means rebuilding a connection between my self and the land that I occupy- both caring for the land well (including my backyard, which is a MESS), and making space to experience the beauty and fullness of the earth around me by opting outside more regularly. It means honoring the limitations of my own body, by renewing practices of Sabbath and rhythms of rest, which have taken a backseat in the past years. And it means that I live less of my life through a screen and “digital relationships” and more in the flesh through actual, embodied relationships.
Happy New Year, everyone! May this new year bring greater growth, healing, and purpose for us all.
In the last two month, I’ve spent hundreds of hours with a small human attached to my breasts.
I’ve definitely enjoyed times of bonding with my baby during those hours- taking in her smell, enjoying how her hands move and hold my breasts or my hands, listening to all her noises (including her “old man” farts), finding satisfaction in hearing the light “kuh” sounds that signify her swallowing milk, noticing where her eyes move and what she’s observing, or just simply finding satisfaction in knowing that she’s being nourished and sustained.
I’ve also spent plenty of those hours simply trying to pass the time. I’ve watched the first 3 seasons of Jane the Virgin in their entirety, spent way too many hours on social media, texted many mom friends, done some (maybe too much?) online shopping, listened to podcasts, meditated to worship music, interceded for friends and for the world, and also done nothing at all- all with a small human attached to my breasts.
Many hours of breastfeeding have passed, and many more are still to come.
But the other day, while nursing Amara, I was suddenly struck by the question, “Was Jesus breastfed? Did he too, spend hundreds of hours of his early years nursing, sustained from the nourishment of Mary’s breastmilk?”
And I became overwhelmed by the embodied, incarnate, fleshly reality of baby Jesus– an actual, human baby- who breastfed, cried, pooped, farted, sharted, burped, spit up, hiccuped, cooed, and kicked. I began thinking about Jesus as a newborn- covered in amniotic fluid, attached to his mama by an umbilical cord, breathing first breaths in this fallen world. I imagined Jesus’ first days, circumcised 8 days after his birth, taking in drops of colostrum, or suckling at the breasts of Mary. I imagined Mary holding a squirming, kicking, flailing Jesus, singing to him, rocking him, putting Jesus to sleep.
While thinking about these things, I noticed a tinge of embarrassment and shame creep up in me. As if it’s somehow wrong to think about the Divine in this way. As if it were blasphemous to acknowledge the very real and fleshly realities of Jesus- as messy as they may be. As if the body of Jesus was meant to be minimized or hidden. As if the humanity of Jesus weren’t as important as the divinity of Jesus.
And that’s when I realized how subconsciously Gnostic much of American evangelical theology is.
Too often when when we think of Jesus, we immediately picture a 33-year old, grown-up, (white-skinned) Jesus. More often than not, this is due to the fact that a theology centered on penal substitution nullifies the need for Jesus as an embodied, fleshly being. All we need from Him is the spiritual reality of crucified flesh. All that matters is that He died on the cross for our sins.
And when we think that the gospel is only about crucifixion, we erase the full power of Incarnation, denying the necessity of Jesus’ birth, childhood, unknown years, earthly ministry, crucifixion, resurrection, ascension, and (eventual) return. We dishonor the particularity of Jesus’ body- a dark-skinned, Palestinian Jew, born to an unwed teen mother, raised in the ghetto of Nazareth, living under Roman occupation, executed on a political symbol of shame and disgrace. All that matters is that Jesus died- not how He lived or the body He lived life in.
To remember Jesus, as fully human (and not just fully divine), is to remember His complete identification with all of the human experience and struggle- including infancy. It reminds me that as I watch Amara growing as a baby, that Jesus is not far off, that He is in fact very near and completely sympathetic because He too was once an infant. He can identify with her in her weakness. Out of love, He chose into solidarity with the fullness of human experience- in all of its fleshy-ness- and allows for glimpses of the sacred to be revealed through her own baby self.
It is because of the Incarnation, that when I breastfeed my 2 month old baby girl, I can experience the nearness and solidarity of Jesus. I can discover His presence, even amidst a pretty ordinary, sometimes messy, always corporeal act. And the act of breastfeeding can be transformed into something holy, an opportunity for communion with the Divine.
What a sign. What a wonder.
Word made Flesh.
Dwelt among us.
Full of grace and truth.
A couple weeks before Amara was born, I was talking to my older sister about the birth process, and she repeated to me what many other mothers had said to me previously: “It’s fine to have plans regarding your baby’s birth, but hold them loosely. What really matters in the end is that both mom and baby are healthy. Ultimately, the birth is just one moment, albeit an important one, but parenthood is a lifetime.”
As I approached my due date, I tried to hold onto these words, but I couldn’t escape my tendencies toward planning and my strong desires for a certain kind of birth. After having taken a birthing class, I had grown a deep sense of awe and reverence about the birth process and I felt both confident and empowered about my body’s capabilities to form, sustain, and bring life into this world. Consequently, I had hopes for how I wanted everything to happen. I even created a birth preference sheet that detailed (in pretty, colorful icons) my hopes for labor and delivery. And while I knew to call this a birth “preference” sheet instead of a “plan,” I couldn’t help but long for a perfect, textbook birth.
I wanted to have a natural, unmedicated birth. I wanted my doula, who was also my birthing class instructor, to be present. I didn’t want to be induced. I wanted to labor mostly at home and be able to go to the hospital after having progressed well into labor. I wanted to be able to eat and to move around during labor. I wanted intermittent fetal monitoring and minimal vaginal exams. I wanted to push the baby out quickly. While I knew that many of these things might not happen, I had also heard stories from some friends who experienced these realities, and so I knew it was possible. As somebody who’s fairly strong, capable, and athletic, I thought maybe I’d be a rare exception, and that I’d get to experience a quick and easy natural labor for my first child!
Of course, God always has a way of foiling our plans.
First off, Amara was late. Very late. With every passing day after her due date, I wondered to myself “Could this be the day? Surely this will be the day?” I tried pretty much every “natural” method of induction people suggested, from long walks, to eating spicy foods, eggplant, and pineapple, to having sex, to using evening primrose oil, to bouncing on yoga balls, to chiropractor, to acupuncture, to warm baths. No signs of baby.
During those weeks, there were also a number of significant occasions- Michael’s birthday, his brother’s birthday, my dad’s birthday, to name a few- and I wondered if Amara would get to share her birthday with one of these events. But all of those days passed, with no baby in sight. And because Amara was so late, my doula wasn’t able to be at her birth (due to a pre-planned vacation) and my parents’ trip to the Bay Area to “spend time with the baby” came and went, before she was born. My dad ended up going back to Socal before I even went to the hospital, which was a bit disappointing for all of us.
After nearly two weeks of waiting, we came to the day before our scheduled induction- Monday, July 10th. I went to see my OB and she did an exam to find that my cervix had (finally) changed in the past week, that I was 2.5-3cm dilated. She thought I was in a good position to go into labor very soon, and as I began experiencing contractions throughout the day, I believed things were progressing and that at some point in the day I’d have to go to the hospital. But the whole day passed, the contractions never got intense or regular enough to go the hospital, and we were at home another night.
When I went to the hospital the next day, on our scheduled induction date, I was hoping to learn that all the contractions from the day before had helped me dilate further. However, a morning exam revealed that I was still pretty much at the same place as the day before- only 2.5-3cm dilated. I was discouraged and wondered, “What were all those contractions for if nothing seemed to change? Was all that pain and discomfort a waste?” Reluctantly, we began the induction process.
Two doses of misoprostol, 10 hours, and many contractions later, I was still only 4 cm dilated, but couldn’t take any more miso, because my contractions were too intense and close together to take more. This meant that I had to start Pitocin (which both Michael and I really wanted to avoid), and we basically began a gradual increase of Pitocin from 7pm until 7am the next morning. For 12 hours, I experienced contractions, with the Pitocin dosage increasing every half an hour. While the pain was pretty bad, I found it to be bearable by walking around the halls and having Michael give tons of counterpressure. Somehow, we endured and made it through the late hours of the night without getting an epidural.
By the next morning, between 7-8am, I was at 9.5cm, which was a huge relief. We were all exhausted, but also grateful that Pitocin had done some work and that progress had been made throughout the night. But my water still hadn’t broken, so my doctor tried to break my bag of waters, and with some help from a bit of pushing from me, I was able to push my way to 10cm and break my bag at the same time.
Finally, I began my process of pushing. After a few strong pushes, my doctor said that I was very close, with the baby at +3 station! I began to think I was nearing the end! But with those pushes, the baby’s heart also decelerated greatly, and the nurses dropped my Pitocin levels, affecting the strength of my contractions. For the next 3 hours, I continued to push, but things seemed to be stalled because my contractions weren’t strong enough. I began to lose hope and energy, feeling like I wasn’t “pushing correctly” and began to feel defeated regarding my ability to push baby out. But after some time, because baby’s heart rate had stabilized, the doctor decided to crank up the Pitocin levels again, and finally I began to get close. On one push, they saw the baby’s “full head of black hair.” A few pushes later, the bed was finally stripped down and my OB began to take position, and I knew it was time. The baby was coming.
My last push was more like 10 pushes. I just pushed. And pushed. And pushed. And didn’t stop. Apparently, my OB said something like “It’s okay for you to keep pushing if you want.” So I did. I screamed primal screams. I felt the baby come out of me, along with lots of other bodily fluids. I heard the baby crying. There was a flurry of nurses and noises and motion, but I couldn’t really see what was happening. Michael ended up cutting the cord, even though he originally said he wouldn’t want to.
As they placed Amara on my chest for the first time, my first words were an incredulous, “That came out of me?!? I thought it was so strange that this small, crying, fluid-covered creature had literally been inside of my body moments prior. But then I simply marveled, that this tiny human who had grown inside of me was now living and breathing in this world, squirming around on my chest. What a mystery. What a miracle.
Amara Ruth 예은 Kim-Eubanks was born at 11:40am, on Wednesday, July 12th, 15 days past her “due date.” She weighed 6lbs, 7oz and measured 19.29 inches long.
Despite all of my attempts to manufacture a perfect, textbook birth, everything about Amara coming into this world- from her conception to the labor and delivery- was out of my control. No level of preparation or planning or even sheer will could make her arrive when and how we wanted to. While Michael and I had to be faithful with our part in the process, all of our plans, timelines, and attempts to control/manipulate her life were ultimately useless. Yet being forced to surrender our ways allowed us to experience Amara’s birth as a vessel for grace rather than a task of human achievement. This is for God’s glory and for our good.
Amara has always made us wait, but she has always been worth it. She’s always made us trust in God’s ways, which have always been better than we could have contrived. And her birth will always serve as a reminder that human life is meant to cherished rather than controlled, received rather than ruled over.
She is our beloved- loved not for anything she has done, but simply for who she is as a precious child of God.
Soli deo gloria.
Let your life speak 