The Story of Shiloh

"We'll see what happens."

When you're a married Asian couple, you learn to develop a conditioned response for whenever your parents or family members or friends or complete strangers ask you when you're going to start a family.  We handled the first round with relative ease, but lo and behold, the questions don't stop after the first child.  So those five syllables were our defense mechanism to inquiries regarding baby #2.

If you know me and Ophelia, you know it was only a matter of time.  We love kids.  She would argue that I am still a kid.  In fact, one of her most repeated phrases during our first 6+ years of marriage is "I married a child."  (Which is actually kind of a weird thing to say, given her job.)

Where we differed a bit was in terms of the timing of our family planning.  I thought the ideal age gap between Thing 1 and Thing 2 was two years.  Ophelia's timeline was a bit lengthier, which can be attributed to the fact that she's a decade older than her sister.

Long story short, with Levi being a wild handful at 16 months old, we hadn't really talked seriously about bringing another pooping human into the equation just yet.

So it was the Thursday before Thanksgiving, and we were hosting our small group for a feast of food and feelings.  There was, as always, much to be thankful for, and then in the middle of dinner, Ophelia pulls me aside and says "we need to talk."

From my experience in both real life and pop culture, those four words are rarely followed by good news, so I followed her to the kitchen expecting the worst.  I'm normally pretty talented at reading people, especially my spouse, but I had this one pegged all wrong -- the look of shock on her face was not one of tragedy, but one of... well, shock.

She told me that Denise, our adoption case worker, had just called her.

Okay, I thought.  So far, so good. 

Levi's birthmother...

Uh huh... 

...had just given birth to another baby...

Woah... 

...and it's a baby girl...

Slow down... 

...and Denise wants us to pray it over and let her know what we think.

What.

We rejoined our small group at the dining room table and were able to give off the impression that our lives had not just potentially experienced a dramatic change.  But a short time later, we broke the news to them and asked for prayer.

Everyone else soon scurried home, and Ophelia and I prayed some more.  It was tough ignoring all of the outside factors.  Timing wise, it was a busy time of the year for both of our jobs, especially with me not yet hitting the one-month mark at the new gig.  But in my opinion, there's never a perfect time for any monumental life changes.  I mean, it's change -- and we're creatures of habit.  But you just have your faith and each other and you make it work.

We called Denise back and said yes.

Then we phoned our parents and siblings to pass the surprise along.  I was feeling a whole lot of deja vu from July 2016... except they all knew we were expecting to adopt a newborn baby back then, and this time nobody knew, not even us.

We spent the next day trying in vain to prepare a babbling toddler to be a big brother, but what can you say, really?  (Even now, not yet a month later, we'll read "big brother" books to him that don't make much sense.  "I'm a big brother.  My little sister has to wear diapers, but I can... wear big kid underpants!"  Wait, no you can't...)

On Saturday, after 40 hours or so of physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual preparation for a second child, we walked through the AIM Adoptions door with a full backpack, an empty hand-me-down car seat that had been stashed in our garage, a crazy toddler, and open hearts ready to explode.

And three-day-old Shiloh Yan-Shun Mok did not disappoint.  I will never be able to say no to her.

PC Sharon Ku

Time to buy a shotgun.  (Only half joking.)

I've said it before, and I'll say it a million times more: God is so good.  Thank you everyone (again) for all the love in every form imaginable.  I'm getting questions (again) about dropping off food (Erica has set up a care calendar for us) or checking out our registry (we don't have one) or donating toward's Shiloh's adoption (guess I'll piggyback off of the one created last year), and I can't stress enough how blessed we feel in the midst of the chaos of being parents to 2 kids under 2 (2 under 17 months, but who's counting).

This is us.  We'll see what happens.

PC Sharon Ku

Big Eyes, Full Hearts

"His eyes are so big!"

Those are by far the most common five words I've heard in the past year, and for good reason.  Levi has a pair of eyes that you could get lost in, and the trouble is, he has already mastered how to use them.  He'll give you the side-eye when he's suspicious of you or the puppy eyes when he wants to be picked up.  And trust me when I say you don't ever want to see those bad boys well up with tears because you will be at his complete mercy.

But those five words also speak to a larger point.  While I still enjoy people telling me that little man's got my lips, if it's not already obvious, it's going to be blatantly obvious as he gets older that Ophelia and I are not his biological parents, which will only garner more comments and questions about his story.  I suppose the question most people want to directly ask but don't (well, some do) is:  Wouldn't it be easier to adopt a kid who looks like you?

There's no easy answer for that.  When we were praying over this whole adoption thing, there were countless factors to consider.  Domestic or international?  Infant or toddler?  Open or closed?

I've been out of school for almost a decade, but I still get the occasional nightmare where I show up late to a class completely unaware of the final exam.  Is that normal?  But let me tell you about the most unprepared set of questions I ever had to fill out.

The adoption agency gave us a questionnaire for our child preferences, and me being the efficient man that I am, I wanted to run right through it on my own.  You know, filling out the answers that I knew before reviewing the rest with the wife.

I got nowhere fast with that strategy, and all I ended up completing was our names.  But still very efficiently, obviously.

I'll tell y'all what, going through that questionnaire with Ophelia was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life.  It was just strange having those questions be multiple choice.  For a biological child, you don't get preferences as to gender or health or anything.  No matter what, you're going to love that child, and that child is going to belong to you.  Then all of a sudden we're talking about what medical issues we would be "okay" with, and things of that nature?  "Bizarre" is an understatement.

One question we immediately knew the answer for?  Which race we were open to: all of the above.

Label it a calling or cast it off as naivete, but the race issue was never really an issue.  In my mind, the entire adoption process was without a doubt in God's hands, so if He wanted us to have a baby that looked exactly like us, then He would give us a baby that looked exactly like us.

Most of you who know me best are likely aware that I was/am borderline obsessed with black babies.  I'm not sure if it was solely due to the trips to Africa or what, but those Kenyan kids sure did a number on my heart.  At the same time, though, I would be remiss if I completely ignored the current racial climate in this country.  Seemingly every single day there's another hate crime or another police brutality incident or another... the list is endless.

On the night we brought Levi home from the adoption agency, I was on the highest of highs.  My heart was so full.  I remember watching him sleep and going through all those new-parent feels... the "I can't believe I'm a dad" thoughts that finally had a chance to come to the surface after a 24-hour phone call notice.  But then, the shooting of the Dallas police officers happened that evening, on a day that was supposed to be focused on justice for the police killings of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling.  Reality hit real quick.

And now today, on the eve of my first Father's Day weekend as a dad, the officer who shot and killed Philando Castile has been acquitted of all counts a month and a half after there were no federal charges against officers in Alton Sterling's case.  Unfortunately, nobody is surprised, but people are definitely getting understandably angrier.

I hate to think about how my parenting might change depending on how dark my son's skin color ends up being.  I don't want him to grow up fearing or hating the police, and I shudder at the thought of something as simple as a traffic stop ending up like any of these worst case scenarios.  There's too much hate to the point that it gets overwhelming at times, and race is often a driving force behind it.

So today and every day I pray for my boy's big eyes.  I pray that they be able to take in everything around him -- the good, the bad, and the ugly -- and still shimmer with excitement and determination to make this world a better place.

The Real Story of Jonah

For those of us who grew up in the church, the story of Jonah is typically reserved for the children.  God told Jonah to go to Nineveh to preach.  Jonah was bad and said no and got on a boat instead.  God caused a big storm.  The other people on the boat were scared and threw Jonah into the water.  The storm stopped.  A great fish swallowed Jonah.  Jonah was in the belly of the fish for three days.  Jonah prayed.  The fish vomited Jonah onto dry land.  Jonah went to Nineveh.  Nineveh listened and repented.  God forgave the city.

One of my new year's resolutions is to finally complete my new year's resolutions from years past of reading through the Bible.  It has been decided -- 2017 is going to be the year.  I mean, I have a daily set time and everything this go-around.  Doing this thing for real.

So I'm chugging along in my handy chronological reading plan on the Youversion Bible app, and I come across the book of Jonah.  Easy peasy lemon squeezy reading, I think to myself.  (Well, other than the terrifying ocean parts with the giant creature and all.)

The tale culminates in chapter 3, where Jonah learns his lesson and makes the trek over to Nineveh, where he does his rendition of The Ring's "SEVEN DAYS" phone call.  

"Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!"

I've seen people make claims like this all the time, most notably yelling on the drag or on dirty 6th during my time in Austin, but this time was different.  "And the people of Nineveh believed God.  They called for a fast and put on sackcloth, from the greatest of them to the least of them."

Eventually even the king heard about this warning from Jonah, and he decided to follow the sackcloth fashion trend and issued a decree that the nobody in the entire city was allowed to eat or drink.  Instead, everyone was to "call out mightily to God" and "turn from his evil way and from the violence that is in his hands."

Why?  "Who knows?  God may turn and relent and turn from his fierce anger, so that we may not perish."

And spoiler alert, it worked!  God saw what they did and relented of the impending disaster.

Cue the applause.  What a fun, gift-wrapped story.  Its TV show equivalent would probably be Full House, and this is where Danny Tanner would explain the moral lesson of the episode to an innocent Michelle, Stephanie, and DJ with thoughtful music playing in the background.

But then I reach chapter 4, which isn't really covered in the kid's version of the story I was accustomed to.  At a time when everything should've been splendid, you know, with the city of Nineveh being saved and all, Jonah throws a fit.  He is PISSED.  He didn't care about the city's change of heart.  He didn't care about the sackcloth.  He didn't care about the fast.  He didn't care about the people.  The city should burn anyway!  He was angry at God's compassion.

I would be more disappointed with Jonah if this story wasn't such a compelling display of the human condition.  You can blame it on social media or the millenials or whatever you want, but it's becoming abundantly clear that this world has a selfishness problem.

I think this issue rears its ugly head in many different forms.  I just can't figure out if it's human nature or if it's something we've taught ourselves.

Sometimes it comes across as jealousy.  Why is it that when someone is doing something awesome, one of the first responses people have is "jealous"?  Are we prewired to not be able to just be happy for good things happening to other people without inserting ourselves into the situation?

Other times it comes across as a perverse sense of justice.  Just like Jonah, we tend to think that we are better people than the rest of the messed-up people around us.  As if it made sense for God to show mercy to Jonah, but the 120,000 people in Nineveh were beyond saving.

So what's the solution?  Can we mandate selflessness?  Can we force sympathy?  Maybe the world just needs a giant dose of self-awareness, until finally, someday, we realize that we are all Nineveh.

Why I Didn't March.

I write this out of guilt, self-preservation, frustration, and mostly insecurity. Cool, glad that's out there.

Yesterday, as most of my peers were standing for something under the sun, holding peaceful and beautiful protests in various cities, I was having a casual Saturday enjoying the 50+ degree weather in Chicago. I went to a park with a few friends for the simple purpose of being outside. Just a couple miles South of me, more than 200,000 people gathered in downtown Chicago for the Women's March, taking a stand for various things a day after Trump's inauguration.

On Instagram and Snapchat, I followed posts and stories of close friends at rallies across the country -- friends in Houston, friends in Kansas City, sister in Denver, and neighbors in Chicago. A dear friend responded to a snap of mine asking, "Why aren't you at a rally?!"

Well shit -- why wasn't I at a rally? Didn't I care? Do I support Trump? Am I a bad person? Am I a rapist? Where was my decency? I'm an ass sometimes, but have I stooped that low?

The real answer why I wasn't at a rally: I just wasn't. Same reason why literally millions of others who are anti-Trump and care about women's rights, minorities, etc. weren't at a rally -- they just weren't. They had plans set beforehand. They didn't have plans, but ended up doing something else. They went for a run. They had errands to take care of. They were out of town. They were hungry. They were too far from a rally. It wasn't kid-friendly. They thought it was just for women. They slept in. They were lazy. They don't like crowds.

During the day I felt like I had missed a part of history. And I did. But I miss parts of history every day, some events which are easy for me to take part in. What affected me the most was not that I missed out, but that I felt guilty for having abandoned an apparent civic duty. Barring a valid excuse, like work or emergency, there was an expectation (perhaps self-conjured) that developed as the day went on, that someone of my demographic should be at a rally.

I understand that sentiment. It's like, how can you claim you're a Houston Rockets fan and you don't even watch Game 7 of a playoffs round, and instead you go play mini-golf? But it's not that simple. A single march, albeit an incredibly symbolic one, is not necessarily akin to a game 7. Whereas the success of a basketball team is adequately measured in wins and losses, and the avid support of a team requires at least some participation in critical games, the fight for rights isn't so basic. It's diminishing to think that participation alone at a single event serves as proxy for genuine support. Though yesterday was indeed a success in terms of sheer number, the absence of those who are like-minded and able to attend was not a failure. Progress is incremental, and this battle is multifaceted. There are countless fronts on which this struggle is fought, every day. Yesterday's rallies were not the beginning to something amazing, but instead a continuation of progress that momentarily manifested itself in a very visible, popular way.

It was a beautiful day, one that I chose to experience away from the main event, and one that I will remember for years. However, I will look back upon Trump's presidency and I will not see my absence yesterday as singular indication of my support or disdain. I know where I stand and how I fight -- I trust we all do, no matter how active we are in the spotlight moments.

The Brats Are Coming!

There's a Millennial Crisis. It is real, pervasive, and is mostly annoying. It makes me cringe when I hear it in others, and sometimes also in myself.

The crisis can hit at anytime in the first 10 years of a millennial's working career after college/grad school. It is brought on by steady achievement in the workplace and a favorable world environment (which we are in right now). This Earth is ripe for Millennials. Success stories of like-minded peers making it to the top via unconventional ways (i.e. NOT the corporate ladder) are increasingly close-by: "Oh yea, totally. I know a friend of a friend who made it big."

Everyone is an entrepreneur, and if you don't own a business, you can at least be entrepreneurial in your career. Ever heard that line? It's a wonderful mindset that is empowering, but it also inflates importance. It waters the seed in those who assume they are due more. The fantastical stories of tech startups are now real and close enough to touch (just join a coding school, duh). Just. The next step to modern stardom is just in front of you. Take it, you'd be lazy not to.

Its explicit pursuit of self-preservation is nowadays widely accepted, and even encouraged. There is no longer an assumed loyalty to a vocation. Dedication lasts as long as the attention does. I cringe when I witness it because I think it is generally a detrimental thing. Not only does it create an overly-optimistic and dreamlike view of the path to success, but it forces institutions to react accordingly. Every man for himself, survival of the fittest -- yet everyone believes they are the most fit. And when they don't feel valued, then it's time to pick up and leave rather than seeing the situation for maybe what it is -- the truth: you are not the fittest, and that's okay.

The Millennial Crisis doesn't settle for being a role player. You are a superstar, and if you're not in a superstar position, you will be because that's what you deserve, dammit! Mother said so!

This may be no different from the douchebags that have always existed, or the entitled brat you used to manage at work. People are people, and people can be shitty. The difference here is that the Millennial Crisis is the manifestation of how America evolved since the late 80's -- now, being a brat is masked by genius and admirable ambition. Millennials have made it popular to be shitty. There's no longer just one annoying guy in the room who's an aberration. The room with many annoying guys has been systematically created. The movement has begun to propel itself across generations and into popular culture. We are creating a new social norm of shaming meekness and praising self-worth. Carpe diem is ever alive, and now without much dignity.