On doing enough

I am the kind of person who perpetually feels they are never doing enough. (Mostly because it's just accurate.) 

With my clients--I see some of my colleagues providing far more release coordination support than I do, or are enduringly picky about small formatting or stylistic errors, or enthusiastically assent to client requests for tangential advocacy, things I feel I do not have the bandwidth for, and I worry I am wrong for that. 

With my kid--I let him look at screens, I let him eat sugar, ( I let him eat dirt!), I am inconsistent in my application of my chosen discipline method, I have him in daycare, and the older he gets the more I am overwhelmed by the volume of things I have not yet taught him. 

With my husband--I always click into the threads in my due date group polling women on how often they are having sex with their partners, looking for reassurance that my lack of libido isn't inflicting cruel and unusual deprivation of my sweet, uncomplaining husband. 

With my ideals--a friend asked me recently if I was an environmentalist, and, you know, I do really want to be, but making choices that steward the earth is a complicated and nuanced task. Yes, I use a bamboo toothbrush, but sometimes I also just really need to use a Ziploc bag. 

With my faith--ohhh, but this is tricky one. What is the interplay between our commitment to growth and reliance on the Holy Spirit to catalyze that growth in our lives? Grace does not mean we are free to live mindlessly and without discipline, but also, His burden is easy and His yoke is light. 

There is a furniture flipper I follow who likes says, "If we're not doing the most, what are we doing?" I heard her voice in my head as I twice sanded the cabinet doors I was refinishing, hoping and praying that this was not empty labor and would actually make the finish nicer. (But also, let's be honest, this is a lipstick on a pig situation.) 

But this is where nothing is a greater encouragement to me than my faith. The Pharisee prays in front of the synagogue, "Lord, thank you that I have done better than all of these people," while the tax collector prays in the back of the synagogue, "Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner." And who is justified? Those of us who are humble, who are empty, who grieve that we have not done enough, who accept that we could never do enough. 

God gives a glimpse of how right and just and bright and good and kind and free the world could be. And it is good and right to have a hunger for that world. But attaining it does not rest solely on our shoulders. If it did, how could I get out of bed in the morning, how could I look myself in the mirror, knowing I am not doing enough? 

And so I pray, "Give me the desire and ability to do the most in You," trusting in the mystical power of a God who restores in ways that are slow to me, invisible to me, confusing to me, but He is always doing more than enough, and that is enough for me. 

I thought the deluge of friends leaving the faith might slow down in my thirties, but it has not. Whereas in my twenties I felt a conviction that many of these souls would return after some time in the desert, in my thirties I am less sure. 

I don't wish to generalize about people's reasons for leaving. There are many. They are painful. I think I can even say they are legitimate. It is a little bit like hearing about your friend's divorce; you don't wish it for them, but when it happens, it is not your job to comment on how it happened, only to comfort. (Also like hearing about your friend's divorce, privately you look at your own life and wonder, will it happen to me?) 

One of my favorite praise songs when I was a youth was Hillsong's "None But Jesus." It echos the sentiment of Peter in John 6:68, a verse that has been my source of faith for many years, "To whom shall we go? Only You have the words of life." Truthfully, I don't usually enjoy the worship sets at the church we attend, but I was surprised this Sunday when we sang "None But Jesus" and the corporate participation brought me to tears. 

Singing that song I remembered praise nights in the sanctuary of my church growing up, I remembered kneeling at a wooden cross at the YWAM base in San Francisco, I remembered lifting hands in a stadium of 16,000 other people at Urbana, I remembered crying myself to sleep in my bed as a teen. So many flashes of what my faith meant to me then, and how Jesus was near to my heart. 

For many of my peers who have since let go of their faith, these kinds of flashbacks are bitter for them. Things look different for them looking back without the filter of faith. They remember feeling controlled, manipulated. The words are dry. The music is parched. I can understand a little, I think, because I have had seasons where I have felt something similar. 

But in that moment, for me, I was struck by what a gift it is to have these memories to minister to my heart. The investments of my parents, my youth leaders, ministry leaders, prayer warriors, my own investments, they were deposits in my bank of faith that are continuing to nourish my heart in times of sadness, frustration, and distance. What mercy this is! 

Baby Names

A few weeks before Val was born my dad finalized his 70s music playlist for my husband (who sadly missed out on the golden era of Americana). In Val's first days home from the hospital, Peter had this playlist on repeat (all hours of the day and night, because, newborns). As I nursed my baby and changed his diapers, I heard Jim Croce's "Rapid Roy" on repeat and thought to myself what a devilishly cute little brother Roy could be to Val. That song brought me a lot of pep and joy during those tiring first weeks. 

I wanted to get pregnant again immediately. I wanted Val and his sibling to be close in age and to enjoy the togetherness me and my Irish twin enjoyed. I wanted to have more children while my body and mind had the benefit of all this preparation at the ready. On the last day of 2024, Peter, my mom, and I sat discussing things we would have changed about this past year. Peter and I agreed, we would have wished that Val already had a sibling. 

But of course, God has His own timing. 

When we learned we were pregnant again, I was immediately hopeful it would be another boy. Immediately my mind was on names to make this theoretical baby feel more real. Where did it come from? I can't actually pinpoint the genesis. But I have been obsessed with the name Lee. A baby boy named after his mama. A gender-ambiguous but still fairly manly name like his brother has. Joining the ranks of many prestigious Lees. Lee Pace, Lee Strobel, Lee Corso, Lee . . . Harvey Oswald? Robert E. Lee? Well, okay. 

 

Unlike Valor, it doesn't mean anything particularly noble. This was always my sadness with my own name. Lee in the dictionary means "the sheltered side," which I suppose is nice. In old English, it meant field. Meh. Possibly "plum tree" in Cantonese, Mandarin, and Hokkien. The most common surname in Macau, so no points for originality, either. 

This is how Val came not to be named Bear, despite lobbying for that name the majority of the pregnancy. I found myself explaining out loud to a friend why I wanted to name my child that, despite the clunky animal associations, and I suddenly found (mostly thanks to Cocaine Bear), that those unpleasant associations overpowered my affection. Similarly, I struggle to articulate my affinity for Lee. But the affinity persists! 

Then the other day we were doing some housework and Peter turned on my dad's 70s playlist, leading inevitably to Jim Croce. I rushed to find Peter and exclaimed, "What about Roy?!" Peter just stared at me. "From The Office?" And it is hard to imagine how I could give my son the same name as Pam's boorish fiancé (even though it feels like an homage, since we watch The Office nearly nightly). 

Time will tell how our children come to appreciate our reasoning (or lack thereof) in naming them. I hope we make them proud! 

20 Weeks

It's starting to feel more real! Here we are, more or less halfway to meeting our newest member. Seeing him at the anatomy scan, having his gender confirmed, and also receiving reassurances that he is moving well, measuring well, and sporting a textbook heart rate, all these things were giant gifts. 

Since that appointment, I have been able to feel his little kicks, another reassuring milestone that my little baby is in there! (Although unlike Val, he is presently breech, and I could do without those kicks to my cervix.) I can't wait for Val to feel his brother's movements, but for now it still makes my heart melt when he lifts my shirt up and pats my belly going, "Hiiiii bebe!" 

Val is Peter's mini-me in almost every respect. This is something I have historically enjoyed, but now in my pregnancy perseverations I worry that we are setting up our sons to be Esau and Jacob--one favorite for each partner. Val's toughness, athleticism, problem-solving ability, and interest in how things work are all things I love about Peter, and things I want baby boy #2 to have, too. Where will we be if baby boy #2 turns out to be a neurotic, poetry-loving, homebody like me??? 

It is exciting to day dream about who he will be. How he and Val will be together. How our family will change. Peter and I joke that since Val was such a tolerant travel baby, baby boy #2 will see it fit to put his foot down and call us on these shenanigans. I try to anticipate other ways that he will be different--but how can I do it? Part of the fun is we will just have to wait and see. 

Doing my best to treasure all these little moments and not waste any enjoyment of this little baby's existence. 

I love you, little boy

If the kisses and cuddles and constant "I love you"s are not enough, here is a quasi-public declaration:

I love you so much, little boy. 

When I drop you at daycare and the tears erupt, I daily question why I choose to spend those 8 hours away from you. While I work I am watching you from the sky cam, laughing at your gestures and antics. When I get up from my desk to use the toilet, I imagine you running away from your potty seat. When I return, I see you in my mind's eye stationed at the windowsill watching the trucks in the parking lot. You're on my mind all the time. 

This morning you took your little bowl of kiwi slices and placed it on your baseball tee, gave it a whack with your bat, and sent the pieces flying. You looked to me immediately, searching for a reaction. I hate wasted food, I am not thrilled that throwing food on the ground is your new favorite hobby, but in that moment I felt joy--my baby is trying new things and he wants to see what I think of it. 

It is such a gift to be the witness to all your joy and wonder and silliness and discovery. It is such a fearsome responsibility to be your teacher and your caretaker and your guide. I pray every day for enough gratitude, wisdom, and stewardship to be the mother you deserve. 

I love you so much, little boy. 

Most of the time I love my job. On Friday, I signed off for the weekend with a feeling of great satisfaction. Big progress on three big projects. One of those projects, an automatic stay of removal for a deeply sympathetic case. I worked efficiently, effectively, and purposefully. 

So why, then, signing on again after the long weekend, am I filled with dread? Fear that my motion to reopen will be denied and my sympathetic case deported after all? Fear that I didn't do enough for my other two projects? Sadness at the politically motivated firing of 20 immigration judges, including the chief immigration judge at our local court? 

Many times I cope with the stress of the high stakes of my job by telling myself that I am mostly trying to do damage control from my client's prior bad decisions. The system is unjust, it's true, but with the detained population, there were a few bad choices that brought my clients into the auspices of the system. It doesn't mean they deserve what's happening, but it does mean that they understand, we all understand, it won't be a shock if things don't work out the way that we want. 

I know that's not right. 

And it makes coping even harder when I have a client with no "excuse" to serve as the origin for their unfortunate position, only the bald reality of a unfair, racist, and deeply broken system. 

It is a gift to be in a position to be raging against the machine. To be on the beach throwing to throw starfish back into the ocean. But there are still moments when I want to look away.