Faith

Due Date: A Birth Story and a 100 Days Celebration

Well, today didn’t go as planned. 

Back in July, when I circled today’s date on the calendar with colored ink and drew a little heart beside it, I remember being pleased by the symmetry – our family would stretch to four with one birthday in each season. And if you came on your due date, you and your sister would both have birthdays on the 24th of your respective months. 

After an incredibly difficult move back from Hong Kong, you were a bright ray of hope that I clung to. Your daddy and I marveled at the ways this timing seemed ideal. I found out I was pregnant with you two weeks after we bought our first house and two days after I started a new job that was a perfect fit for me. A birthday in late March meant your dad would have a week of Spring Break soon after your birth, and that he’d be getting off work for the summer just as I’d be returning to work from maternity leave. You and your sister would be exactly 2 years and 5 months apart. 

Of course, I knew you might come a bit sooner or later. These things are never that precise. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that today we’d be celebrating 100 days of you. 

In Hong Kong, where your sister was born, there is a special celebration for a baby’s 100th day of life. The 100th day celebration has its roots in a time when a baby’s first few months were a very vulnerable period. Reaching 100 days was a milestone that marked the baby’s true entrance into the world and society and included a party or feast to introduce the new life to the community. It seems appropriate to introduce you here for the first time on your 100th day.

You are Lucy Emmanuelle Dunn. Lucy. “Light.” Emmanuelle. “God is with us.” You were born on December 14, 2021 at 25 weeks and 5 days. You weighed 1 lb. 10 oz. and they told us you had a 70% chance of survival. Your odds were better than average, but far from the 99.5% rate of a full-term baby.

 

After a completely normal pregnancy, I started bleeding with no warning and no pain on Monday, December 6th. I went to the hospital and was diagnosed with cervical ectropion – a condition where cervical tissue grows outside of the cervix. The hospitalist told me this tissue can be very delicate and can be aggravated by stress or activity. He said my cervix was closed and there was no indication that the bleeding was coming from the uterus. Since I had just come off a weekend running a big event, he assumed I had been on my feet too much and just needed to rest. I went home and rested. The next day I went to my doctor for a regular check up. The bleeding had slowed down and everything seemed normal. I went home and rested for the rest of the day, believing everything was fine.

That evening I began to feel some very mild tightening and loosening in my abdomen. I thought it was Braxton-Hicks. By the time I woke up at 6 AM the next morning (December 8th) I knew I was having contractions, and I was slowly leaking fluid. Although part of me was panicking, another part of me was sure that I would go to the hospital, and they would stop the labor. I thought the worse-case scenario was that I would be sent home and put on bed rest. 

By the time I arrived at the hospital, the contractions had calmed down, but it was clear that my membranes had ruptured. With ruptured membranes, I would have to stay in the hospital on bedrest until you were born. Statistically, they told us, it was likely you would come within a week, but the goal was to keep you in until you reached 34 weeks. At just 24 weeks and 6 days, that seemed a lifetime away. When they told us that your sister Junie would not be allowed into the hospital to visit, your Daddy and I held each other and sobbed. It was one of the worst moments of my entire life. I knew that to keep you safe, I needed to stay in the hospital as long as possible, but I also knew that I was leaving my other baby suddenly and without warning and possibly for months.

Baby, I did everything I could to keep you safe inside. For 6 days I laid in bed on total bedrest with my legs in pressurized cuffs that tightened and loosened constantly to keep the blood circulating while I was immobile. I had infusions of magnesium sulfate that made me feel like I had the flu and steroid shots to help your lungs develop. I went on course after course of antibiotics to stave off infection. I had what felt like every vein in my hands, wrists, and arms, pierced for blood-draws every few hours to check my hematocrit levels as I bled and bled. (It wasn’t until later that I understood how close I’d come to needing a transfusion). I sacrificed all semblance of dignity and used a bedpan, struggling to haul my pregnant body on and off of it a dozen times a day. 

Every morning I woke up and my first thought was, “Thank you God that I’m still here.” Followed quickly by tears and the thought, “Oh God, I’m still here,” while I ached for my baby at home.

When I woke up in the wee hours of December 14th wracked with contractions and sitting in a pool of blood, there was nothing left to do. Lisa, a deacon at our church, had visited me a few days before. Knowing how torn I was between my desire to keep you safe and my desire to be home with Junie, she had prayed that God would keep you in the womb until it was safe for you to come out. Now you were on your way, and I had to trust that it was safe for you to come out. 

I called your Daddy and he came to the hospital. They gave me pitocin to help you arrive as quickly as possible so you wouldn’t endure too much stress. Unlike with your sister, I was offered an epidural which I gladly accepted. A nurse named Kristin held me against her chest with so much tenderness I could have wept while the doctor placed that needle into my spine. I laid back in the bed, reached for your Daddy’s hand, and we waited. 

My delivery nurse, Miranda, said, “This baby is very small. If you feel any pressure at all, you need to call me.” About 30 minutes later I felt the slightest twinge of pressure. It was so minimal that I felt silly mentioning it, but I hit the call button anyway. Two nurses came in and checked me. “Baby is right there. Cross your legs, girl,” the nurse said while Miranda frantically called the doctor. “You need to hurry,” I heard her say into the phone. The NICU team came in and prepared for your arrival. I’d been in active labor for an hour and half.

The doctor arrived out of breath. She had sprinted from the elevator. She pulled on gloves and moved me into position. “On your next contraction, I want you to push,” she said. I remembered pushing from when I delivered your sister. I knew what to do. I had barely started my first push when she said, “Baby is born.” I saw you for just a moment, raw and red and mercifully wriggling as they whisked you straight to the NICU team. “Baby girl!” I heard them call from across the room. “She’s breathing.” 

I couldn’t see what was happening to you, but your Daddy’s gaze flitted back and forth across the room. There was a slight complication. As the doctor delivered the placenta, it tore apart. She had to manually reach in and dig out all of the pieces, an experience that was very painful in spite of the epidural. 

Finally it was over and the NICU team had successfully intubated you. They wheeled you over in your isolette so that we could see you before they took you away. “How much does she weigh?” I asked. When they told me 1 lb 10 oz I choked back a sob. You were smaller than any baby I had personally known. You barely looked human.

For the last 100 days you have grown outside of my body. Through the incredible care of the NICU doctors and nurses and by the overwhelming grace of God, you have survived and you have thrived. I do not take this for granted. 

Just a few days ago I was devastated to learn that another baby in the unit who had been born at 22 weeks, but had survived for 4 months, had passed away. This could so easily have been you, Love. I will never know why my baby lived when this other mother’s did not. I only know how to say, “Thank you.” 

Every day for the last 100 days your dad and I have been at the hospital with you to hold you and read to you and sing to you and watch you grow. Your dad has been working full-time, and I have graciously been given an extended leave during this time. I’m so thankful because going to the hospital, caring for your sister, and pumping milk for you every 3-4 hours since you were born has proven to be more than a full-time job.

In the beginning, you were slow to gain weight. After 6 weeks, you were only 2 ½ lbs. You went on and off the ventilator a few times. And then you developed an abscess on the back of your hand that turned out to be MRSA, an antibiotic-resistant strain of staph infection. There were moments when we worried about your kidney function. It took you ages to completely wean off oxygen.

But today you are 100 days old. You weigh 6 lbs 10 oz. You have no long-term medical issues that we are aware of. You are working on bottle and breastfeeding. Right now you are able to take about 40% of your feedings this way. Once you reach 100% for 48 hours, you can come home. 

Lucy, you have been absolutely drowned in prayers and love from our families, our friends, our church, and even from people who extend far beyond our immediate circle. We’ve been overwhelmed by the generosity of so many people who have helped to take care of Junie while we came to be with you. Who provided meals for us and donated to help cover your medical expenses. Who cleaned our house and raked our yard.

All life is precious and all babies are special. But you? You are a marvel. You are an answer to the prayers of so many people. The reality is that you should not be alive. If you’d been born 100 years ago, you would not be alive. If you’d been born in another part of the world, you might not be alive. But here you are. In all of your wriggling, grunting, copper-headed glory. 

Here you are, and the whole world lies before you.

Welcome, Darling. Welcome.

Repatriation: Three Months Back in the US

We left Hong Kong on Easter Sunday. I cried when we left the apartment. I sobbed when we left Beverly, our helper who lived with us and took amazing care of our daughter. My dear friend, Sherna, helped us get to the airport, and I cried when we left her. And then we got on a plane, and we flew for a day or so. And then we were in Louisiana. My parents picked us up from the airport. We all cried some more.

Beloved Auntie and Juniper Evangeline

The first thing I noticed upon re-entry into the US was how huge Americans are. Overweight, yes, (and I am myself in that category, so I’m not saying that from some high horse) but also just tall and broad and loud, taking up space in a jarringly different way than most of the people I’d been surrounded by for the past three years. The second thing I noticed was that my 17-month-old could wear a mask more correctly than half the people around me. And then, frivolously perhaps, I noticed the huge difference and fashion and style. Hong Kong is a people-watcher’s paradise where the majority of people dress intentionally. Sure, there are the people dressed to the nines in perfectly tailored clothes, but even people who appear to be casually dressed have a carefully crafted aesthetic. Don’t be surprised if those sagging jeans and holey shirt cost more than your monthly salary. American style is sorely lacking. 🤣

We spent three weeks with my parents, adjusting to the time difference and making up for some of the time we’d been apart. Juniper was an absolute champ and was totally acclimated to the 13-hour time change within 4 days. She has adjusted to each phase of the past few months with such tenacity, we’ve been completely blown away. She also adjusted brilliantly to new surroundings and new people.

After we bless our meal, Juniper always puts both hands in the air and says, “Amen!”
Juniper and my beautiful Mama/Junie’s Nana.

I adjusted slightly less brilliantly. Those first three weeks I was so incredibly happy to see my parents and my youngest sister who still lives in my hometown. Seeing them fall in love with Junie and watching her begin to develop relationships with them was an absolute dream. But apart from that I was deeply, profoundly miserable. I fell into the most severe depression I think I have ever experienced. I cried so hard and so often you would have thought I’d a loved one. And in some ways I had. I’d lost my home. I took the highest dose of anti-depressants I was allowed to. I slept as much as I possibly could.

The grief weighed on me so heavily that I could not imagine ever being happy again. At least not in the US. Coming back to the Deep South was an especially intense culture shock. All I could think was that aside from my family and a few close friends, this was not where I wanted to be, and these were not the people or the values or the culture I wanted to raise my child around. I often cried until I was physically sick, and I could not be comforted.

During these weeks Jonathan interviewed for approximately 1 million teaching jobs in Columbia, South Carolina and Charlotte, North Carolina. We lived in Columbia during Jonathan’s Master’s program before moving to Hong Kong and still have strong ties there. We also have close friends in Charlotte, NC, about 1 1/2 hours away from Columbia, who we’d like to be close to. We had decided before leaving Hong Kong to settle in one of these two cities and to focus on Jonathan’s job search first. This process was incredibly draining and I am so proud of Jonathan for all of the tenacity and grit he showed through it all.

At the beginning of May we drove to Ohio, stopping for a couple of days in Columbia, South Carolina, where we saw a few friends and Jonathan did an in-person interview. Those few days were the first time I started to envision a life for us in the US that wasn’t all doom and gloom. We stayed with friends and imagined what it might look like to have a little house in a quiet neighborhood and to return to the church we’d been a part of before going to Hong Kong.

Junie and my sweet friend, Rachel, who (along with her husband Chris) let us stay at her house with only a few hours notice.

We arrived in Ohio and spent a month with Jonathan’s parents. We also got to see Jonathan’s brother and sister during this visit. It was really wonderful to share Junie with them and see how much they loved her. Nevertheless, I continue to be weighed down by a heavy depression. Jonathan continued to interview for jobs. I spent my time reading, taking care of Junie, and trying to make myself useful around the house.

Junie and Grammy feeding the birds

Finally, at the end of May, Jonathan started to receive job offers. He received multiple offers, but ultimately took a job teaching 11th and 12th grade English with Richland One school district in Columbia.

We had discussed the possibility of buying a house with the money we had saved working in Hong Kong. We’ve been married for 11 years and have never owned our own home. For a long time I thought it wasn’t in the cards for us. For one thing, I couldn’t imagine being in the same place long enough to buy. For another, I couldn’t imagine saving up enough for a down payment. But as we prepared to leave Hong Kong we realized we might be able to afford a house. And then we heard about the housing market and how houses were selling like hotcakes at well over their list prices. We didn’t know if it even made sense to buy in that kind of market.

The day Jonathan received his first job offer, I got on Zillow and started looking at houses. We had not spoken to a realtor or to a lender and had only a very rough idea of what our budget would be. I found a few houses that were underwhelming. I found a few more that were great, but were too expensive. And then I found a precious little house with yellow door and a huge backyard. I showed it to Jonathan and said, “This is it. This is our house. I want this house.” And he got mad at me.

In his defense, it had been less than an hour since he’d gotten his first job offer after a grueling application and interview season all while handling the stress of living out of suitcases with a toddler, having no permanent home, and also having a severely depressed wife. He just wanted one minute to be happy and at peace about something before moving on to the next thing. “I just got a job offer an hour ago. We are not ready to buy a house. You’re going to fall in love with this house and then get your heart broken when it’s sold in the next two days.”

He was right. It was off the market within two days. I was disappointed, but I wasn’t devastated. Frankly, it was hard to feel genuine excitement about anything, and it’s hard to be devastated about something you couldn’t feel that excited about in the first place. But I was less excited about looking at houses in general by that point.

A few weeks later Jonathan had officially accepted a job offer. We were leaving his parents’ house and heading back to Louisiana to stay with my family for a few more weeks. We decided to break up the 15 hour drive by stopping in Charlotte, NC to visit some friends and then spending a few days in our new home town, Columbia. By this point we had spoken to a realtor and to a lender. We’d been pre-approved for a mortgage, but were still expecting to have a long house hunt. We’d reconciled ourselves to the idea that we might not be able to buy right away. Our plan was to look at a few listings as well as some apartments we could rent while we continued the search.

The day before we were supposed to go to Charlotte, our friends got in touch to say their kids were getting over norovirus and that we might want to delay our visit. We made a last minute decision to go to Columbia first. Our realtor said she was available to show us some listings the next day. We got in the car and drove 8.5 hours to Columbia.

While we were driving I got a notification in my email that a house I had previously viewed was back on the market. I opened the email. It was the house with the yellow door and the great yard. I started hyperventilating.

I texted the realtor to ask if we could see it, and also, why was it back on the market?! Meanwhile I told myself, “Be cool, be cool, be cool.” Our realtor (shoutout to Mary Ellen Maloney) did some digging and found out that the initial contract fell through because of the buyer’s financing, not because of anything wrong with the house.

The next morning we viewed four houses, ending with the House with the Yellow Door. It was even more wonderful than in the pictures. We put in offer in that night. We were under contract the next morning. It was a complete whirlwind in the best way. I was (and am) in complete awe of how God orchestrated our getting this house down to the last detail.

We told our friends jokingly (sort of) that we were so thankful they’d gotten sick when they did. If we’d stuck to our original timeline, the house would likely have been sold to someone else by the time we got to town. Thankfully, our friends had recovered from the virus by that point and we were able to go up to Charlotte to visit them for a few days before driving back down to Louisiana to be with my family.

Over the weeks we were back in Louisiana, I slowly started to feel more hopeful. I saw a few old friends and their children. I worked out with my mom and my sister at the Crossfit gym they own and run. I started a book podcast with my sister. I started to imagine a life in the US that could be good. I planned to start tutoring again and thought I would start looking for a part-time job.

Breakfast with my Granny and Paw Paw. Junie’s great-grandparents!

And then I got an email from one of my best friends. She was forwarding an email from the rector of the church we attended in Columbia before moving to Hong Kong. The email said the church was looking for a full-time children’s ministry director. They wanted someone with a background in education. Someone with classroom teaching experience. Someone who was theologically curious. They were having trouble finding the right candidate. I hadn’t even started my job search. I hadn’t sent in a single application. This was nowhere on my radar. I sent in my resume that day.

Last Friday I officially accepted the job of Children’s Ministry Director at Church of the Apostles. This past Tuesday, we closed on our house and moved in. We are officially homeowners and residents of Columbia, South Carolina. In the space of three months we have two full-time jobs and a have bought our first house.

Our house. With the yellow door.

These three months have probably been the most difficult of my entire life. I began this period feeling like I had lost everything. I am still grieving the loss of a city, friends, and a whole life that was unspeakably dear to me. But I am also in awe of how God has provided. I am deeply grateful. And with that gratitude has come a bright ray of hope. Great is his faithfulness.

Of Grief and Gratitude: On Leaving Hong Kong

Yesterday, I blinked back tears as I handed in my notice. The principal in her smart black blazer and Adidas sneakers stopped me and said,“No sad! You make the children here very happy. I wish you and your family to be happy. Big hugs.” Her words were spare and earnest, her kindness both a comfort and another crack in my breaking heart.

On Facetime, friends and family say, “I-can’t-wait-to-see-you,” and, “You-must-be-so-excited.” And I wonder, Must I be?

Of course I want to see them. This family, these friends—they are the entire reason we are returning to the U.S. Because we’ve found ourselves on the other side of the world with this vibrant, gorgeous, hilarious, child who has never even met most of her family. Many of our dear friends back in the US are neck-deep in the daily liturgy of keeping tiny humans alive. We always dreamed we’d do this part together with them. Because we believe that we cannot do it alone. We believe in the value of raising children in a community who will love our children like their own. And we want our daughter to know and be known by the people who have shaped us.

I believe all of these things to the core of my being. And yet…I don’t know how to explain that this does not feel like coming home so much as it feels like leaving it.

I have faith that a year from now, life will be sweet in ways I can’t even foresee right now. But believing that does not make this transition any easier.

We have done the picking up and moving thing so many times now, but each time it’s been harder. This is without a doubt the hardest one yet. I love this city. I love the mountains and the harbor and the islands and the beaches, the neon signs and the brilliant skyline. I love the dim sum and the trolley and the markets and the egg tarts. I love the women in their carefully curated, perfectly tailored outfits, each piece costing about as much as my entire wardrobe. I love the elderly people who play old Chinese pop music aloud while they hike. I love that my friends here are from all over the world, and that they constantly challenge me to think differently about politics, priorities, faith, and what deep friendship looks like.

I love all 450 sq ft of the home that we’ve built together. First as a family of two and then swelling and stretching to fit first Juniper and then our beloved auntie, Beverly. It frightens me to think of taking Juniper away from the only home she has ever known. It makes me physically sick to think of taking her away from Beverly, both for Junie’s sake and for Beverly’s. They adore each other.

Most days, sad does not feel like a big enough word for what I feel. It’s something closer to grief. It is a visceral pain in the place where my ribs join my sternum, by turns sharp and dull, like a cough drop lodged in my trachea, difficult to breath around. For more than a year now we’ve talked and prayed and talked and prayed about this decision. Even after we’d made a decision, part of me thought if I just ignored it, it wouldn’t really happen. And now it’s six weeks away.

So I move through the motions. Take pictures of items to sell online. Force myself to respond politely to a dozen messages trying to negotiate a discount on the pieces of my life. Force myself not to scream, “Don’t you understand? This is what I wore while I carried my daughter (safely inside my body) through a year of tear gas and riot gear and fire. And this? This is the mat where my baby learned to roll over, where she learned to bat at toys, her fingers splayed wide like a starfish, where she smiled at me for the first time. These moments were holy. No, you cannot have a discount on my existence.”

Today there was a moment when the grief hit me so hard it took my breath away. And then I thought, I don’t want to spend my last precious days here being miserable. And I thought of an essay by Andre Dubus that I first read eleven or twelve years ago. At the age of 49, Dubus was in an accident that resulted in the loss of one of his legs and paralysis in the other. He had stopped to assist another motorist who had been in an accident and, while pulling the survivor out of the wreckage, he was hit by a passing car. In “A Country Road Song,” Dubus writes about his memories of running, not with bitterness, but with profound gratitude.  

 “When I ran, when I walked, there was no time: there was only my body, my breath, the trees and hills and sky…I always felt grateful, but I did not know it was gratitude and so I never thanked God. Eight years ago, on a starlight night in July, a car hit me…and in September a surgeon cut off my left leg… It is now time to sing of my gratitude: for legs and hills and trees and seasons…I mourn this, and I sing in gratitude for loving this, and in gratitude for all the roads I ran on and walked on, for the hills I climbed and descended, for trees and grass and sky, and for being spared losing running and walking sooner than I did: ten years sooner, or eight seasons, or three; or one day.”

“A Country Road Song” Meditations from a Movable Chair

I remembered this passage and I thought, If I cannot stop the grief, let me sink into the gratitude as well.

And so. It’s time to mourn and to sing in gratitude for Hong Kong. For loving this place and these people. For the mountains and the beaches, for the monkeys and the pink dolphins, for the dazzling skyline, for the temples with their countless golden Buddhas, for my students, for my coworkers, for my friends, and for the family I grew here. I sing in gratitude for all of this and for being spared losing it any sooner than I am: two years sooner, or nine months, or three; or one day.

The Things I Used to Believe: In Gratitude for Becoming

I’ve been thinking a lot this year about what it means to live out my beliefs and convictions. Specifically, I’ve been thinking about what it looks like to speak up for what is right and to speak out against what is wrong. At the bare minimum, I think it looks like having difficult conversations with people in our families and social circles, pushing ourselves and others to really consider why we think and act and speak and vote the way we do.  

But, I will admit that I often find myself shying away from these conversations. I know people who have thought deeply about different issues and still have different opinions or convictions than I do. For the most part, I can respect that. But I also know many people who operate on a system of “inherited beliefs.” They have absorbed and adopted beliefs from their families, churches, or communities without ever really examining them. Yet they hold these inherited beliefs in a vice grip. They are unwilling or unable to consider that just because something has been done a certain way for a long time doesn’t make it right. 

To be honest, I tend to think of those people as hopeless cases who aren’t worth my energy. But lately I’ve been reminded of how much my own beliefs and convictions have changed in the past 15 years. When I think of who I was 15 years ago, and who I am now, I am so very grateful for the many, many people who were willing not to write me off, but who challenged me to consider other perspectives and who modeled for me different examples of what a faith-filled life could look like. It is the memory of these people and the impact they’ve had on my life that make me want to share some of my own journey. 

I grew up in a world that was black and white. You were saved or you were not. You were righteous or you were evil. You were pure or you were tainted. Everyone and everything could be easily categorized. 

I was taught how to defend my faith in a debate, but not how to empathize or engage with people who were different from me. I was taught to judge people’s hearts based on my interpretation of their actions rather than to reserve judgment and extend compassion. 

I left home when I was 18 years old believing that I was a light in a dark, dark world. I believed unquestioningly that my convictions came from God himself. 

Fifteen years later, my beliefs about many things are wildly different from what they were at 18. I am deeply grateful for my upbringing – for my parents devoting themselves to my spiritual formation from a young age. And I am equally grateful that as I have grown and matured, they have seen my beliefs change and seen those beliefs shape my life, and had the grace to do nothing but encourage me. 

This post is a celebration of the ways I have grown closer to being the person I was made to be. It is also a reminder to myself to remain open to people who challenge my beliefs. I have not arrived. I am still becoming.

Things I Used to Believe:

I used to believe that Catholicism was something people needed to be “saved” out of and that liturgical, traditional churches were dry and “spiritually dead.” Now I believe there are many authentic expressions of faith and that we all have a lot to learn from each other.

I used to believe that (American) Christians could only be Republican. Growing up, I didn’t know a single person who voted Democrat – at least no one who was vocal about it. Now I believe there are Christians represented in every party and in no party. But mostly I believe that no Christian should identify so strongly with a political party that that identity becomes synonymous with their faith. 

I used to believe that the United States was the greatest country on Earth. Now I believe that the United States has many qualities that make it desirable and unique among the nations of the world. But I do not believe it is “the best” country in the world. Nor do I believe it should strive to be.

I used to believe that racism was a condition of the heart. That it was limited to a few individuals who were overtly hateful to people of color. Now I believe that racism is also embedded in our country’s policies and systems and that you do not have to be hateful towards any particular group to be complicit in racism. 

I used to believe that all of our resources should go towards criminalizing abortion in order to prevent it. Now I believe the best way to reduce the abortion rate is to provide affordable comprehensive healthcare for women including access to contraception and maternal care, as well as comprehensive postnatal support including paid maternity leave and affordable childcare once a child is born.  

I used to believe in the war on drugs. Now I believe it is responsible for the United States having the largest industrial prison complex in the world and that it is the modern equivalent to Jim Crow laws – criminalizing for (mostly black) people of color what is excused in white people.

I used to believe that affirmative action and diversity quotas were ways of handing out university spots and jobs to people who didn’t necessarily deserve them, robbing more deserving candidates who happened to be white. Now I believe that the only way to begin to equal the playing field after generations of inequality and make amends is to give people of color equal access to opportunities afforded to the white and the wealthy. And it’s not equal access if some people start from behind.

I used to believe that homeless people and beggars were to be pitied, but mostly because of their own bad choices. I also believed there were many people choosing homelessness and poverty in order to take advantage of government assistance. Now I believe that addiction is an illness, prostitution is often a choice that does not feel like a choice at all, and that there are more people suffering from a Welfare system that provides too little than there are people taking advantage of it.

I used to believe that women were responsible for men’s inability to control their lust. If a woman was dressed provocatively or acting promiscuously, she was at least partly to blame for anything that happened to her. Now I believe that men should be held responsible for their own thoughts and actions. Period.

I used to believe that illegal immigrants were getting what they bargained for. They knew the risks and they still decided to enter the country illegally. Now I think, “They knew the risks, and they still decided to enter illegally. How unspeakably terrible must their situation in their homeland have been? What would be horrible enough for me to risk my family that way?” 

*************

For those of you who are grappling with changes in your own beliefs, I hope this can be empowering to you. For those who are set in your beliefs, I hope this can be challenging for you. For those who are trying to engage with others who have different beliefs, I hope this can be encouraging for you. 

For Christians and non-Christians alike, I hope this reminds you that not all Christians have the same views. 

For myself, it is a reminder of who I have been, who I am now, and who I still hope to become.

Black Lives Matter: 91 Books by Authors of Color

As an American living abroad, I am watching my homeland with equal parts disgust and hope. Disgust at the hatred, the evil, and the willful ignorance so rampantly on display in recent weeks. And (wildly) hope. Hope that this is the moment when real change begins.

The US is not unique in its widespread culture of racism and systemic injustice. It is unique in that it is one of a few countries with the influence and authority to denounce human rights violations in other countries while willfully ignoring the human rights violations “lawfully” carried out on American soil every single day.

I do not think the world needs to hear my voice right now except to say that I fully support Black Lives Matter. I believe that injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. I believe that change requires work, and I believe that those of us who are uncomfortable with this are the ones who need to hear it most.

There are many excellent resources that speak directly to systemic racism, the criminal justice system, police brutality, and the lived experiences of Black Americans. I’m not one of them. The one small thing I have to offer here is a list of books written by authors of color that I have personally read and can recommend.

I am not speaking from a place of authority and certainly not from some moral high ground. There is so much I do not know or understand. All I want to do is share one small change I’ve made in one small area. Over the past few years I have made an intentional effort to read more diversely. In 2014 I am ashamed to say that out of the 62 books I read, only 2 were by authors of color. For the past few years, 25-30% of the books I’ve read were by non-white authors. I can still do so much better, but I have found it personally enriching and rewarding to read voices and perspectives from authors who do not look like me, sound like me, live like me, or believe like me. I have also found the more I’ve read that almost all books written by authors of color implicitly, if not explicitly address race and racism.

The words/thoughts/messages/perspectives we consume, even for entertainment, influence our thoughts and beliefs. Our thoughts and beliefs dictate our actions.

Books in bold are those I highly recommend.

Books by BIPOC Authors:

Nonfiction

Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson

Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates

The Sun Does Shine by Anthony Ray Hinton

I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness by Austin Channing Brown

Heavy by Kiese Layman

Notes From a Young Black Chef by Kwame Onwuache

From Scratch by Tembe Locke

The Girl Who Smiled Beads by Clementine Wamariya

Hunger by Roxanne Gay

Born a Crime by Trevor Noah

Becoming by Michelle Obama

We are Never Meeting in Real Life by Samantha Irby

Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson

The Light of the World by Elizabeth Alexander

Dear Ijeawele, or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

The Year of Yes by Shonda Rimes

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou

Fiction

Children of Blood and Bone by Toni Adeyemi

The Mothers by Brit Bennett

Such a Fun Age by Kiley Reid

My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite

Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams

Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese

The Care and Feeding of Ravenously Hungry Girls by Anissa Gray

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jessmyn Ward

Swing Time by Zadie Smith

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas

Behold the Dreamers by Imbolo Mbue

Another Brooklyn by Jacqueline Woodson

Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi

The Round House by Louise Erdrich

The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead

The Cutting Season by Attica Locke

What We Lose by Zinzi Clemmons

The Color Purple by Alice Walker

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison

Clap When You Land by Elizabeth Acevedo

The Poet X by Elizabeth Acevedo

With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo

Poetry and Short Stories

What it Means When a Man Falls From the Sky by Leslie Arimah

How Long Til Black Future Month by N. K. Jemison

Love Poems by Nikki Giovanni

Non-Black Authors of Color

Nonfiction

Good Talk by Mira Jacobs

Trick Mirror by Jia Tolentino

Minor Feelings by Cathy Park Hong

One Day We’ll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter by Scaachi Koul

Yes, My Accent is Real by Kunal Nayyar

All You Can Ever Know by Nicole Chung

Fiction

Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows by Balli Kaur Jaswal

A Place For Us by Fatima Farheen Mirza

Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata

The Tusk That Did the Damage by Tania James

Goodbye, Vitamin by Rachel Khong

The Leavers by Lisa Ko

The Astonishing Color of After by Emily X. R. Pan

Pachinko by Min Jin Lee

Fruit of the Drunken Tree by Ingrid Rojas Contreras

The Boat People by Sharon Bala

The Sympathizer by Viet Thanh Nguyen

There There by Tommy Orange

Ayesha at Last by Uzma Jalaluddin

Unmarriageable by Soniah Kamal

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong

Girls Burn Brighter by Shobha Rao

Miracle Creek by Angie Kim

If I Had Your Face by Frances Cha

Interior Chinatown by Charles Yu

The Immortals of Tehran by Ali Araghi

Family Trust by Kathy Wang

The Night Watchman by Louise Erdrich

Your House Will Pay by Steph Cha

Searching for Sylvie Lee by Jean Kwok

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

The Stationery Shop by Marjan Kamali

A Very Large Expanse of Sea by Tahereh Mafi

Home Fire by Kamila Shamsie

Gingerbread by Helen Oyeyemi

A Woman is No Man by Etaf Rum

Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors by Sonali Dev

The Poppy War by R.F. Kuang

The Dragon Republic by R.F. Kuang

Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng

Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng

Exit West by Moshin Hamid

The Wangs Vs. The World by Jade Chang

Poetry and Short Stories

Sour Heart by Jenny Zhang

The Undressing by Li-Young Lee

Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur

The Sun and Her Flowers by Rupi Kaur

On Becoming a Mom: Juniper’s Birth Story

Juniper Evangeline Dunn was born on October 24, 2019, at 5:49 AM at United Christian Hospital in Hong Kong. Big thank you to everyone who has supported and encouraged us on this journey so far. We can’t believe she’s ours.

This is really long and a bit TMI, and I know not everyone will want to read this, but I also know some of you are really interested in birth stories. I decided to write it all out for my own memories and share it here for anyone who is interested. I will write a separate post that is specifically about my experience with the Hong Kong public hospital system.

10:45 PM – My Water Breaks at Home

On Wednesday, October 23rd, I had a normal day at work. I met some friends for dinner afterwards and got back home around 10 PM. Around 10:45 I was sitting at the table, texting with my little sister. She asked if I was about to pop, and I said yes. Little did we know how literally true that was. A few minutes later, I felt a warm gush of fluid as my water broke. I turned to Jonathan with wide eyes and said, “Either I just peed my pants or my water just broke.”

We were both a little in shock. Even though we knew from 37 weeks on that she could technically come at any time, everyone always says that first babies are usually late. I had mentally prepared myself to go over my due date. I was scheduled to keep working until 3 days before her due date. I was only at 38 Weeks, 1 Day.

We had been told in our birthing class that if my water broke at home I might need to go to the hospital sooner than normal, but that I should monitor to make sure the fluid was clear, and unless there was evidence that it was mixed with meconium, we didn’t need to rush to the hospital and could still labor at home for a few hours. 

Jonathan and I both showered and started charging all of the electronics. I was wandering around the apartment trying to text and talk to people and pack up any last things. The amniotic fluid continued to come out in gushes for the next few hours along with my mucous plug. I went through so many pairs of underwear trying to stay dry enough to move around the apartment. 

About 15 minutes after my water broke, I started having contractions. The first two were about 20 minutes apart. Then 12 minutes. Then very quickly down to about 5 minutes. We were trying to time them in the middle of everything else going on. At that point they felt like strong period cramps and I could talk through them. They were lasting anywhere from 30 seconds to over a minute, but not consistently. Around 1 AM, my contractions were consistently 2-5 minutes apart, but the length and the intensity were both inconsistent. Jonathan and I decided that since it had already been more than 2 hours since my water broke and the contractions were close together, we should go ahead and go to the hospital.

1:30 AM – We Arrive at the Hospital

We took an Uber to the hospital (about 15 minutes away) and arrived around 1:30 AM. They had me fill out some paperwork and then hooked me up to some machines to monitor my contractions and the baby’s heart rate. The nurse said the doctor would come to examine me in about 30 minutes. The nurse asked if I had a birth plan. I said no, but that I wanted to do whatever bloodwork was necessary so that I could have an epidural later if I wanted one. She told me there was no guarantee I could get an epidural. I told her I understood, but I wanted to do the bloodwork so I would have an option. She said to tell the nurses in the labor ward once I was admitted.

I laid in the bed with the monitors hooked up for 40 minutes and then the doctor came in to check me. During that time I continued to have contractions every 3-5 minutes. At this point they were stronger than period cramps, but I could breathe through them. The doctor came in to check me (so uncomfortable) and after digging around for what felt like ages, she said I was 2 cm dilated, but that the membrane was still thick and it would probably be awhile. They would move me to the antenatal ward to wait.

At this point I was a little disappointed thinking we had come a bit too early, but I was glad that I was at least dilated a few centimeters. Part of the reason we wanted to avoid coming too early was because in Hong Kong, if you are not in active labor, you go into an antenatal ward with a bunch of other women and your husband cannot come with you. They wheeled me out and we met up with Jonathan in the waiting room. He was able to walk up to the antenatal ward with us, but then they advised him to go back home and wait there since it was the middle of the night. “Get some sleep, it will probably be awhile,” they told him. I would have my phone and would call him when things progressed.

I could tell that Jonathan really didn’t want to leave, but since it was the middle of the night it wasn’t like there were any coffeeshops nearby or other places for him to wait, so I told him I was fine, and he reluctantly left. 

2:45 AM – The Antenatal Ward

They wheeled me into the antenatal ward where I was put into a room with 5 other women. All of the lights were off and everyone was in bed. By this time, I already felt like my contractions had ratcheted up a level. As they settled me in the bed, the midwife asked me, “How would you rate your pain level? 0 is no pain and 10 is you’re dying. So… like a 2?” she suggested. At this point I was thinking at least a 4, but I had no way to compare how bad it was going to get. She had she suggested 2 and I was only 2 centimeters dilated so I reluctantly said, “I guess a 2 or a 3.” Inwardly I was freaking out thinking, “Dear God, is it going to get 4-5 x worse than this?!” They settled me in the bed and said they would come check on me every 4 hours, but to come get them if I needed something before then. 

My contractions were about 2-3 minutes apart at this point and I could not understand how the other women in the ward were just laying there. I tried to lay down for a little while and “rest,” but during each contraction I had to fully focus on my breathing, and since they were so close together, there was very little “rest” time. I also felt like each one was stronger than the last. After about 45 minutes of this, I walked down the hall to the bathroom where I realized I had started bleeding quite a bit. I stayed there for awhile, just to be sitting in a different position, then went back to the bed.

I noticed several of the other women in the ward were sound asleep and actually SNORING. I was baffled. Were they feeling the amount of pain I was feeling? How were they sleeping through it? Was I just a wuss? Were we all feeling level 2 pain? I tried to lay back down, but the pain was steadily increasing with only 1-2 minutes break between each contraction. I writhed around for a bit, then stood up and leaned over the bed for awhile. Finally I decided to go back to the bathroom. Once there, I started to feel a strong urge to push. Like most people say, it felt like I needed to use the bathroom, only so much stronger it was almost impossible not to push. I remember sitting in the bathroom stall with my head leaning against the wall and starting to cry thinking, “I can’t do this for much longer.” 

Knowing they wouldn’t give me anything for pain until I was in active labor, I was a little afraid to ask and be told I hadn’t progressed at all, but I went to the desk told the midwife the contractions were much stronger, that I was bleeding. She asked if I felt an urge to push and I said YES! She said she would come to check me, but I could tell that she didn’t think it had been long enough, so we were both surprised when she finished the check and said I was 6 cm dilated. “Call your husband. We are taking you to a delivery room.”

I was in a lot of pain, but was also so relieved to hear I was all the way to 6 cm and felt somewhat justified that the level of pain I was feeling was definitely not a 2. 😉 

Poor Jonathan had been waiting at home for about 2 hours without hearing anything from me. He had expected me to be in touch once I was settled in the antenatal ward, but the combination of being in the room with all the lights off and dealing with near-constant contractions had made me forget entirely to get my phone out. I called him now and said, “Come now. It’s time.” He was a bit confused since it hadn’t been that long and I was not being a particularly good communicator, but I kept repeating. “It’s time. You need to come.” 

4:33 AM – The Delivery Room

My best guess is that I went into the antenatal ward at about 2:45 AM. According to Jonathan’s phone records, I called him at 4:33 AM. He got in an Uber at 4:38 AM and was at the hospital 10-15 minutes later. By that time, I had been moved into a delivery room. When I got there, the midwives asked about my pain level, “0 is no pain, 5 is ‘I want to cry,’ “ she said. “Six!” I shouted. 

They got me into the bed and asked if I wanted gas and air (standard offering for pain relief in HK). 

“Yes! I want something!” I yelled. They gave me a mask that I could self-administer by putting it over my nose and mouth and breathing in during each contraction, then taking it off when the contraction finished. The gas does little or nothing to dull the pain, but it does alter your perception of the pain in a way. 

 The gas was mostly effective because it gave me something to concentrate on during each contraction other than the pain itself. The best way I can describe it is that without the gas, during each contraction my mind was thinking, “I’m dying. I’m dying. Ow. Ow. I’m dying.” With the gas, my mind was thinking,” I’m breathing in. I’m breathing out. I’m trying not to push. I’m pushing anyway. I’m shouting. I’m doing these things because I’m dying.” Lol. The effects of the gas wear off within 20 seconds after you stop breathing it, so I was constantly taking the mask on and off.

By this point, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from groan/shouting at the peak of each contraction. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be pushing yet, but it seemed impossible to stop myself.

Jonathan arrived and stood by my side. The next part is all a bit hazy for me, possibly just because of the pain and intensity and possibly a bit from the laughing gas, but I remember him coaching me to breath and not to push. I remember him asking me if I wanted to change positions, but at that point I was so in the zone and the contractions were right on top of each other and I couldn’t imagine being able to move myself into a different position. I also remember that I had reached a point of not caring at all who was in the room, what noises I was making, or whether or not I pooped on the table. 

Probably 20 minutes after I got into the delivery room, the doctor came to check me. She told me to go ahead and try to push with my next contraction, then said I wasn’t ready yet and to hold off pushing and everyone left. After this, my contractions started to feel slightly different. I couldn’t really explain it, but there was almost a burning feeling to them. I wondered if this was transition. About 20 minutes later, Jonathan buzzed the midwife to ask if I could get some water. When the midwife came in, she asked if I wanted to push and I said, “ YES!” (I’d been wanting to push the whole time). The team of midwives and the doctor came back in to check again and said, “Ok, you’re ready to push. Go.”

I pushed for about 15 minutes, which was honestly a relief because I’d been wanting to push so badly the whole time. The midwives were coaching me the whole time and Jonathan was telling me he could see her head. That final big push when her body was delivered along with a huge rush of fluid was the most relieving feeling in the world. 

5:49 AM – Junie is Born

Juniper Evangeline Dunn was born at 5:49 AM on October 24, 2019 weighing 3.22 kg (7 lbs 1.5 oz). Remember that I called Jonathan from the antenatal ward at 4:33 AM and was 6 cm dilated. Which means I dilated the remaining 4 centimeters AND pushed her out in about 1 hour and 10 minutes.

The midwives took Juniper to a station on my side for a minute to make sure she was breathing and to wipe her off a little. She didn’t cry at all. Then they brought her back and showed me her little bottom, “See! It’s a girl!” before they put her on my chest, Suddenly I was looking down at this perfect little creature who had impossibly just come from my body.

She laid on my chest for a while, but eventually they had to take her away because they were having difficulty delivering the placenta. After 3 doses of pitocin, it still wasn’t coming out and the doctor eventually had to reach up in there and dig it out. Reminder…I had had no pain meds. It was…unpleasant. 

Juniper and Jonathan left and I spent about an hour massaging my uterus, trying to get it to contract and to slow the bleeding. Finally, the bleeding had slowed enough for them to stitch me up where I had torn during the delivery. 

The worst part of the actual delivery was that I tore relatively badly while pushing her head out, and since I did not have an epidural or other pain meds, I felt each rip very distinctly. The doctor did not give me an episiotomy, though it may not have helped anyway as the tearing was more extensive than just the perineum. Thankfully, they did give me a local anaesthetic before stitching me up. I vaguely remember the doctor telling me she used one continuous stitch to sew up all three layers, which might be more sore, but would heal better in the long run.

After what seemed like ages, I was moved to the postnatal ward and they brought Juniper to me. I am the last person who ever thought I would someday go through natural childbirth, much less in a foreign country. It was almost exactly 7 hours from when my water broke to when she was born. I am so incredibly thankful that labor went so quickly and so smoothly and most of all that my sweet girl is here and is healthy. 

And now, the real adventure begins!

About Juniper’s Name 

We chose the name Juniper partly just because we like it. 🙂 But the more we researched it, the more reasons we found to love it. Juniper is a botanical name, like mine, and it has a similar sound and rhythm to Jonathan’s. It means “evergreen.” One of our favorite connections to Juniper is from the Bible when the prophet Elijah fled to Horeb and was saved by hiding himself under a Juniper tree. We love the image of an evergreen – full of life and hope – also being a place of safety.

Her middle name, Evangeline, means “good news.” We’ve been pretty open about how much of a surprise her existence was for us. In the beginning, we (I) didn’t honestly feel like it was such good news. We love thinking of Juniper as someone who will bring the Good News to others, but the name is also meaningful to us as a way to speak over her that SHE is good news. To us. And to the world.

Evangeline also has special meaning to me because of its ties to Louisiana and to Cajun culture. I am originally from Lafayette, Louisiana, the place the Acadians settled when they were forced out of Nova Scotia for their religious beliefs. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote an epic poem called Evangeline telling the story of one of the Acadians, beautiful Evangeline and her lost love Gabriel. Evangeline became a cultural staple in my hometown and a symbol of Cajun heritage. The name is often used in the names of streets, businesses, schools, etc. So having Evangeline as part of her name is also a touchstone to where I came from.

 

No Effs to Give: On Body Image at Eight Months Pregnant

I recently posted a few pictures on Instagram from our babymoon in Thailand. A few people kindly commented on how confident I looked. At first I thought they were just being nice, but looking back at the photos, I can see what they mean.

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It’s true that I’m not self-conscious about my body or about how I look pregnant. It’s not that I look at my swollen belly and my stretch marks and think, “I’ve earned these tiger stripes,” or whatever it is the mommy bloggers like to say. I know I look huge. I am huge. But it’s also abundantly clear why I’m huge. And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.

My confidence is that of a person who has zero effs left to give. And I realized that that is a far cry from who I was nine months ago.

***

Back in January, I wrote this post about how very much I was struggling with my body. I had reached an all-time low, exhausted by self-loathing and feeling powerless to make any lasting change.

I spilled my guts about my desperation, and six weeks later I found out I was pregnant. Hilarious, God. Truly.

As you probably know, my initial reaction to the news was not positive. I admit, one of my first panicked thoughts was, “I can’t be pregnant now. I am the heaviest I have ever been in my life. I am going to be HUUUUGGGE.” I understand that extra weight and a changing body are a small price to pay for creating a whole new life, but at the time it felt like one more way my life was being taken from me.

Now here I am 8 months pregnant and it turns out that losing control has been one of the best things that’s ever happened for my relationship with my body. I have felt freedom from self-criticism and self-hatred for the first time since I was ten years old and became aware of my body as female and of all the expectations that go along with that.

Some pregnant women are filled with love and appreciation for what their bodies are capable of as they move through the stages of pregnancy. And yes, it is miraculous. But for the most part, I have not felt this way. Most of the time I feel this odd combination of being intensely aware of everything going on in my body while also feeling like a stranger in it. I feel every ache and pain and jab and stab acutely, and at the same time I have the sense that I am floating around inside of this vessel I do not recognize, just waiting to get my life back. While this distance from my body has been isolating in some ways, it’s been healing in others.

Let me be clear. I have not particularly enjoyed pregnancy. I do not feel beautiful, sexy, or powerful the way some women seem to feel during pregnancy. I don’t particularly likethe way I look pregnant and I definitely don’t like the way I feel. But I’m also not disgusted by my body the way I was pre-pregnancy. I just honestly don’t care.

For the first time in my life, what is happening to my body is really and truly beyond my control. I could eat organic kale for every meal and workout twice a day and I would still going to have this giant belly. Since there is nothing I can do to change what my body looks like right now, I have no brain space or energy to waste worrying about it.

My expectations of my pregnant body are so vastly different from what my expectations of my body have always been. As an adolescent growing up with the mixture of societal pressures and the targeted messages of purity culture, I was constantly aware of the wrongnessof my body. There was the shame of not being attractive enough, along with the shame of being inappropriately attractive. I felt the expectation to simultaneously figure out how to be thin, toned, feminine perfection, and to dress in way that protected helpless men from that thin, toned, feminine perfection.

As I got older, I stripped off some of the burdens of purity culture, but struggled as my weight fluctuated and my self-worth rose and fell with the expansion or shrinking of my thighs.

Now for the first time, my attractiveness is utterly irrelevant. I take up more space than ever before. People are hyper-aware of me and my body. And at the same time, I have never felt more invisible. I feel no expectation, from myself or from anyone else, to be attractive. My body is no longer an aesthetic object, it is pure function. I am an incubator. That’s all.

Of course, I don’t want to feel this way forever. I don’t want “mother” to become my identity. I don’t want to disappear. I want to walk down the street and have someone think (but maybe not say) “Daaaaayummmmn, girl!” But there are also things I hope I take with me from this time.

I hope my base level expectations of my body have permanently changed. Instead of valuing myself based on arbitrary measures of attractiveness, I hope my foremost expectation of my body is for it to be healthy and strong so that I can do everything I need to do. No more. No less.

I want to feel attractive again someday, but I hope that feeling is based on confidence and acceptance, not meeting an external expectation. I think it can be incredibly attractive for someone to say, “My body is just my body. I look how I look.” If I can accept without difficulty the fact that I have blue eyes and small hands, could I also accept whatever shape my body ends up being when this ride is over?

I don’t know what to expect or how things will change post-partum, but I’ll be sure to keep you updated.  Whatever the next part of the journey looks like, I kind of hope that I’ll continue to be fresh out of effs to give.

Living in a Land of Protest: An Expat’s Take on the Hong Kong Protests

At 10 PM every night the shouting starts. The voices of men, women, and children mingle together in a passionate call and response. People lean from the windows of their flats or shout from where they are walking along the street. The courtyard below my apartment rings with cries that bounce from highrise to highrise and echo off the soft waves of the bay. 

For 10 minutes each night, the people of Hong Kong stop what they are doing and raise their voices together in a moving show of unity, chanting protest slogans like, “Reclaim Hong Kong: Revolution of our times!” I open my windows to hear it, and feel I am bearing witness to something intimate and holy.

This summer has been a season of upheaval for Hong Kong. In June, millions of Hong Kongers began a series of demonstrations to protest a proposed bill regarding the extradition of criminals from Hong Kong to mainland China. (If you’d like more understanding of the background to this conflict, this video from Vox sums it up very clearly).

On the day of the first protest, my parents were visiting Hong Kong. We were all returning from a weekend trip to Cambodia and were not aware of the build-up to the protest. We arrived at the airport and learned that there were major traffic jams on Hong Kong Island. We took a taxi home and didn’t encounter any protest activity along the way. Later, we watched the footage online of what turned out to be a peaceful march of over a million people, including many families with children.

“Good for them,” I thought. I was inspired to see so many people joining a peaceful demonstration against what seemed to be a problematic policy. Like most Hong Kongers, I had no idea then that this was only the beginning. 

Over the last 13 weeks, protesters have continued to assemble for organized marches, rallies, and demonstrations every single weekend. Over these weeks, the situation has escalated, becoming quite violent at times as police have indiscriminately used tear gas, rubber bullets, and excessive physical force to try to control the situation. In response, protestors have grown angrier and more destructive, lighting fires and smashing windows. Many people’s faith in their government in general and in the trustworthiness of the police force specifically has been shaken. More than 1800 rounds of teargas have been deployed this summer, often in residential areas and several times (very dangerously) inside of MTR stations. 

Aside from the marches, there have been dozens of different protest activities designed to disrupt daily life in Hong Kong. Several targeted campaigns have caused disruption to the MTR and bus systems that Hong Kongers rely heavily on for transportation. Protest action at the airport successfully brought the eye of the international community to the situation in Hong Kong.  

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An example of a Hong Kong protest schedule

The protests are about the extradition bill, but they have also expanded into something much bigger. Ultimately they are a fight against perceived corruption in the government and the police force and against the steadily growing influence of mainland China on Hong Kong’s government, economy, and social structures. The protesters have declared their five demands:

  • The complete withdrawal of the proposed extradition bill
  • The government to withdraw the use of the word “riot” in relation to protests
  • The unconditional release of arrested protesters and charges against them dropped
  • An independent inquiry into police behaviour
  • Implementation of genuine universal suffrage

The people are angry, and they are also determined, and they show no sign of backing down. Last weekend the police arrested several key protest leaders and denied the permit for a planned assembly. In response, thousands took to the streets all across the city in what turned out to be one of the most violent weekends so far. The city is splitting at the seams in constant conflict, not only between the protesters and the police, but between citizens who support the protesters and defend them and citizens who support Beijing and defend the police.

There are endless news stories you can read about these events and all of the various angles and opinions. I’m not a reporter and I am not equipped to talk about the political and social nuances of a government and a culture that are not my own. I can only talk about my experience. 

It’s strange, sometimes wonderfully so and sometimes frighteningly so, to be living in this city at this time in history. In some ways, these events affect my everyday life. I am alert to disturbances and spend most of my Sundays at home, not wanting to be caught in the crossfires of any conflicts between police and protesters which more and more often make their way into MTR stations and other public areas. 

There have been times when my commute to work was lengthened because the MTR service had been suspended. One morning I thought I would not make it to a doctor’s appointment because of wide-scale disruptions to the transportation system. An incredibly kind and generous couple offered me a ride even though it was out of their way. Last Saturday, my afternoon classes were cancelled and I went home early to avoid protest activity taking place near my work.

At the same time, I have not had to walk through tear gas to get home and I have not witnessed any violence. Most days I carry on with my life as normal. At 31 weeks pregnant, I am especially mindful of my safety for the sake of my little one. And yet, I am not afraid for myself. I continue to feel much safer in Hong Kong than I ever feel in the US. 

I honestly have no idea how this will resolve. Sometimes, I cannot imagine a way forward. What I know is this. I am moved, sometimes to tears by the hundreds of thousands of people who are risking their safety and their future to stand for what they believe in. Over 1,000 people have been arrested, some under rioting charges which can carry a ten year prison sentence. This is not a temper tantrum. These are people who are love their home and who love their people and are willing to risk great loss for the hope of a better future for themselves and for their children. 

I can’t help but wonder, have I ever held a belief so strongly that I would honestly risk my safety or my future to defend it? The largest march this summer had over 2 million participants. In a city of 7 million people, that is over ¼ of the population. Can you imagine of ¼ the population of the US cared deeply enough about something to take to the streets and raise their voices relentlessly until something changed?

There is so much injustice in the world, but what do I believe in passionately enough to act on and to keep acting on until something changes?

****

Just as I have finished writing this, Hong Kong’s Chief Executive, Carrie Lam, has announced her intention to move for the final withdrawal of the extradition bill. This still has to be voted on by the legislative council, but it is the first glimmer of any kind of concession from the government.

If social media is any indication, the response of protesters has mostly been, “Too little too late.” The streets continue to ring with the slogan, “Five demands, not one less!”

Do you hear the people sing?

6 Lies Y’all Told Me About Pregnancy

I usually roll my eyes at “Things nobody tells you about x, y, z” posts. First off, they very rarely contain information I haven’t heard before. (Just because nobody told you something doesn’t mean nobody is talking about it. Maybe lots of people were talking about it and you’ve just never paid attention). I also usually roll my eyes at listicles. But…I still write a lot of them for my side hustle. So this post is a listicle, but it is not about things supposedly nobody told me. Instead this is a post about what I would like to call “Lies.” Mostly told to me by people like you. Possibly you yourself. (If you think it might have been you, you’re probably right). Fair warning…there’s some TMI here.*

Lie #1: “Morning sickness gets better as soon as you reach the 2nd trimester”

Liars go to hell! I thought benevolently, pouring sweat and streaming tears as I wretched into an outdoor public toilet at 16 weeks. My nausea and aversion to all food did dissipate between 18 and 19 weeks, but let it be known that that was 6 weeks past the date I had been promised my salvation. And I am one of the lucky ones. I have a friend who threw up every single day of her pregnancy and others who had to be hospitalized for dehydration. 

Lie # 2: “Your boobs will look amazing.”

First off, I’m not into big boobs on me. I find them annoying to keep covered and also think they make me look like a Pillsbury biscuit canister that has exploded and is oozing biscuit dough out of all of the crevices in the previously vacuum-sealed container. 

Second…this is clearly being spoken by someone who has only ever seen pregnant boobs in clothing. 

Early in pregnancy, your areolas get larger and darker, ostensibly to provide a “landing pad” for the baby to aim for when breastfeeding. In other words, my boobs now look like two pieces of salami ringed by a tiny rim of regular boob flesh which is mottled with bright blue veins and the beginnings of stretch marks. Additionally, my previously perky boobs now point straight down. So when I’m sitting down, I can rest my nipples on my belly-shelf. Sexy.

Lie #3: “Now that you’re in your second trimester, you are probably experiencing a sudden energy boost!” (Quoth “TheBump.com”)

False. If I could sleep 22 hours/day, I would. I am much more tired than I was in my first trimester. I may or may not have fallen asleep while teaching a class recently. (Don’t worry. I think the kids believed me when I said I was just thinking really hard).

Lie #4: “The sex is great!”

Also false. I mean, it’s not not great, but mostly, the sex is…complicated. Not only do you physically have to negotiate what works and what does not anymore with your constantly changing body, but also, it’s hard to feel sexy when your unborn child is kicking you in the vagina, reminding both you and your spouse of their presence there with you in your special moment. 

Another factor in this…grooming the lady bits becomes significantly more difficult when you cannot see them. Lately I’ve just been going at it blind, trying to use my intuition. My “Lily Tingle” if you will. (10 points if you catch the reference). Results have been…suboptimal.

Lie #5: “When your baby kicks it is the most magical feeling in the whole world”

I admit, I really like being able to feel the baby move and know it is OK. What I’m not wild about is feeling like there’s a basket of snakes moving around inside of me. 

When the movement is near the surface, it feels like involuntary muscle spasms. Like when you drink too much caffeine and your eyelid won’t stop twitching. Except much bigger. And in your abdomen. Not something to make me weep in wonder, but not a big deal. 

But when that kid goes for your organs? Uh-uh. My child believes in expressing themselves by alternately grinding a heel into my bladder and ultimate punching me down the vagina. I swear sometimes the shock waves radiate down to my kneecaps. If you have not experienced this, it’s like when you go in for a pelvic exam and the doctor hits a sensitive spot, but instead of pulling away, he punches you there. Sometimes I swear a little hand or foot is just gonna pop right out.

You say magical, I say akin to having a vengeful alien take over your body as its host and show no mercy. Tomato/Tomahto. 

Lie #6: “You might experience more vivid dreams”

Not a lie. Just not nearly warning enough.

After a friend showed me her engagement ring which had been custom-made from some family pieces, I dreamed that she had entrusted me with these precious family heirlooms and I had had them set into a diamond and sapphire encrusted molar. Yes, a molar. As in a tooth. I kept my fancy molar safe in the back of my mouth and then one day it fell out! And some of the stones came loose. I was distraught. My friend had entrusted the family jewels to me. What to do?! Luckily, I was able to track down the little old man who had made the molar in the first place and he successfully put the stones back. (Incidentally, he looked just like the guy who fixes Woody in Toy Story 2 complete with the big magnifying glasses). How I got the molar back into my mouth, I’ll never know. 

I also recently dreamed that my baby fell out. Like whoosh, just fell right out there. Fully clothed in a onesie. And I was just chilling there for a while and then remembered Hey, it’s not supposed to come out this early, I should put it back. And then I kept trying to put it back in there, but an arm or a leg kept falling out like it was a baby doll I couldn’t quite fit into the toy chest. And then I had an epiphany Wait a minute! You’re not supposed to put them back once they come out!  Then I started panicking about how early it was (I think I was 20 weeks at the time) and decided to take a closer look to see if it was OK. I took it back out and laid it on the bed. It was a completely normal-sized baby, except its legs were only 2 inches long. 

This is like every night, y’all.

***

If you’re pregnant or have ever been pregnant, maybe you can sympathize. Or at least laugh at me. If you’re thinking of someday being pregnant, take this as an alternative truth, And if none of these things apply to you, I sincerely apologize for any damage this has caused your psyche. Just wait til I tell you about some of the unique experiences of being pregnant in Hong Kong.

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*Obligatory Disclaimer: I know that every body and every pregnancy is different. The liars are probably speaking “their truth” or whatever. And also, please note that I’m really not complaining. Much. I’m very thankful for a (so far) uncomplicated pregnancy. Please take this in the spirit it is intended. 

 

Expectation and Entitlement: Basically a Ton of Questions and No Answers

I grew up believing in a God who bestowed favor on his children in all kinds of tangible ways. When I snagged the last pair of shoes that just happened to be in my size and, surprise, they were on sale…divine favor. When the vending machine accidentally dropped two bags of chips instead of one…divine favor. When the closest parking space to the door became available just as we pulled up…divine favor.

We prayed big prayers with loud voices. We lifted our hands and we claimed the “promises of God,” whatever we thought that looked like in a given situation. We were bold in our requests and confident in the outcome. We cursed the devil and all of his works, from cancer to witchcraft to democrats.

We were like horsemen, using prayer to direct a mighty power, the way the rider uses reins to tell his horse which way to turn. 

In college I discovered theology for the first time. I learned about different forms of biblical interpretation and different faith traditions, and I started probing into the “why” behind what I believed and how I expressed it. Along with many other things I questioned, I started to feel like there was something pretty arrogant about telling God what you’d like him to do and how you’d like him to do it. 

If the favor of God* was evidenced by material gain, physical comfort, or what many would deem “good luck,” what did that mean for the mother trapped in a cycle of poverty, unable to provide for her children and hopeless to find a way out? Or for the child who was abused while the world looked the other way? Or for the man who was shot and killed because the color of his skin sparked fear in the heart of someone more powerful? I could not accept that God was answering my prayers and showing favor by arranging a convenient parking space while another woman died from a lack of clean water. 

The result was that over time my prayers became more vague. Now I pray for peace. I pray for God’s presence. I pray for direction. I pray for the faith to trust in God’s provision. I rarely ask for anything specific. This is partly from the theological conviction that we are not God’s puppetmasters, but if I’m honest, it might also partly be to protect myself from his silence. If I pray “God, please help my husband find a higher-paying job,” I am set up for disappointment if it doesn’t happen. If I pray, “God please be with me,” I am guaranteed a positive answer. God is always with us. Crisis of faith avoided.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because I am living through a season of tremendous uncertainty. Every plan I had for the future and everything I thought I knew about the shape my life would take has changed. In about 4 months I will become a mother. On a very practical level, I do not know yet how we will provide for our child financially, what our childcare situation will be like, how my mental health will be impacted postpartum, or how long we will be in Hong Kong. These are concrete questions that need concrete answers. But I find myself unable to ask God for any of these things. I haven’t prayed for a higher salary or that I wouldn’t get postpartum depression. I’ve just prayed for “provision” and “peace.”

Is it a theological issue of believing it is wrong to pray for the things I want? Or is it that I no longer believe in God’s ability to impact real-world scenarios? Do I pray in big-picture terms for God’s provision because it isn’t my place to try to dictate how God should provide? Or is it because I don’t believe he is powerful enough or interested enough to change my circumstances? Do I dare ask God to provide a way for me to stay home with my baby and still save money for our eventual move home? Is that an arrogant request in the face of a world with so much real need and real suffering? Or is it holy boldness? The kind that gave Peter the confidence to say to the lame man, “Stand and walk” ?

Can I ask God for something and believe wholeheartedly that he can make it happen without believing he should make it happen? And if so, how do I ask with expectation-with hope–but without entitlement? ________________________________________________________________________________

*I wrote a post a long time ago now about how my understanding of divine favor has changed. You can read it here.