moving my posts

Well, for the past few months I (Kathy Khang) have been the only one of the authors to post rather infrequent posts on this site. I had hoped that my fellow author would figure out here login so I could gain access to change things on the blog, etc. but alas the password seems forever lost.

So, I am moving my attempts at blogging to another site so I can tinker with the format and deal with my control issues (wink, wink). Thank you for reading, and see you over at morethanservingtea.wordpress.com
Kathy

Crabby pants

I’ll rarely be accused of eternal optimism. It’s just not in my genes. But every morning I wake up expecting great things. Not things like “today I’ll win the lottery” but more like “today my children will know they are loved by me”.

Well, let’s just say I’m hoping tomorrow goes better.

My idealized memories of summer include fresh tomatoes and strawberries from the garden and hours of roaming the neighborhood on my bike. My parents both worked full time, and there was little time or money to shuttle me and my sister from day camp to tennis lessons. Summers meant completing Korean language worksheets my mother would copy and assign to us, watching WFLD-ch 32 for cartoons, reading, drawing, arguing with my sister, and staying out of trouble. There were days when my sister and I left the house in the morning and didn’t return until dinner.

But summer for my kids has been a tumultuous mix of games of “Life” or “Sorry” with the kids (literally and figuratively), one delightful afternoon at the Botanic Garden, and many mornings and afternoons of dragging the kids to swimming lessons, tennis lessons and tae kwon do.

The lessons are an example of parenting out of my own personal issues. I learned to swim in the 4th grade on a family road trip to Walt Disney World. I’ve never been fully comfortable in the water. I want my kids to be more comfortable in the water. I also never picked up a tennis racquet until high school gym. Let’s just say it was rather humiliating. I want to help my children avoid gym class humiliation. And the tae kwon do thing was simply a result of Corban and then Elias wearing us down with their requests to try the culturally-relevant martial art.

So, instead of blissfully memorable summer days by the pool, riding bikes and taking fun excursions, we are having the summer of Crabby Pants. Some days I am wearing the pants. Some days it’s Bethany or Corban or Elias or some volatile combination.

It’s rather frustrating and confusing knowing that having time to spend at home with the kids is one of the very things my immigrant parents worked so hard to give me a chance at having this “easier” life. So, why am I and the kids so crabby? Surely it’s not just because of video games and high-def television.

What are you all doing to keep this from being the summer of Crabby Pants?

Our debt is paid (well, at least this one is)

We wrote the last check to Clark Township Ambulance Service this afternoon.

Two years ago this June, our youngest child Elias suffered a series of seizures while we were up at Cedar Campus training students in evangelism. We heard words and phrases like “life-support intercept” and “life-saving measures” while Elias had a team of medical professionals and beeping machines crowd around him and crowd us out of the room. He was wearing his red “Cars” t-shirt and army green cargo pants, and he looked so small and lifeless that afternoon.
Elias and I had four ambulance rides and our one and probably only ride in a private jet – a medical air ambulance that flew us from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to Ann Arbor. The head of the pediatric neurology department at the U of Michigan hospital lead a team of doctors and excited med students on Elias’ case.
We learned a lot about MRIs, CTs, EKGs, blood draws, intubation, extubation, ventilators.
We learned a lot about despair and hope, prayer and God’s voice, control and surrender.
And we learned a lot about grace and the people of God. Within hours, people around the world, most of whom we will never meet this side of heaven, were praying for us and on our behalf – uttering prayers that at times we didn’t have the energy to speak or hope ourselves. People helped pack up our belongings, care for our other two children, open up their home, offer their cars, call up medical specialists. I am still moved to tears when I remember the outpouring of love and care and compassion.
God’s provision for us continued months later as the medical bills kept coming and my colleagues at InterVarsity Christian Fellowship opened up their wallets to help us pay for the mounting bills.
How did that happen? My then-supervisor had a fund set up at her church and the director of Asian American ministries sent out a letter to the Asian American staff of InterVarsity, inviting them to care for one of the family. As a national ministry, we often refer to ourselves as a ministry, a movement, an organization, a family. For ethnic staff, there is a deeper affinity having a common history, a common story and heart language, and in this situation my Asian American staff family did what our families of origin have modeled for us – Christ’s sacrificial love.
Their selfless giving moved my parents who in their decades of church ministry had never seen such a response. 
It has been almost two years, and Elias has yet to have another seizure. Until this month, we had monthly reminders of our dark night of the soul as we made payments to cover the bills. Those monthly payments completely overshadowed by Elias’ laughter and playful soul.
The ambulance check? The airlift check? The hospital check?
Check. Check. Check. 

Mom, can we talk?

I came home earlier than usual tonight and noticed the light in my daughter’s room was still on.


“Mom, can we talk?”

A dear friend of hers has not been eating lunch. “Amy” goes through all of the motions, buying lunch or bringing something from home, eating a few chips, taking a sip of water, and then gives the rest away or tosses it out. Amy says she’s not hungry. Apparently Amy has not been hungry for lunch for at least three weeks.

My daughter was in tears. Lunch period is the only time these two see each other during the day, but a few friends have also noticed Amy’s lack of appetite.

“Anorexia. What if it’s anorexia? Does she think she’s fat? She’s not fat, Mom. She’s beautiful just the way she is. She needs to eat.”

In my dark moments, I look at my daughter, and I worry. I watch for signs of depression (something I’ve struggled with). I watch for signs of an eating disorder or preoccupation with weight (something I’ve watched friends struggle with) – making sure she isn’t just pushing food around or going to the bathroom after meals. I watch for my shadows cast onto her tween years…

My awkward stage lasted a good 10 years. Bad haircuts, glasses, braces, uncool clothes, a flat nose and almond-shaped eyes evolved into more bad haircuts, glasses, straighter teeth, clothes that screamed “board room” or “goth”, a flat nose and almond-shaped eyes that were forbidden to be tainted with eyeshadow. My sense of rhythm, my $2,000 smile and my killer moves got me a spot on the pom-pon squad, but even the varsity letter couldn’t cover up the fact that I felt, and actually was, very uncool and very misunderstood.

So I watch my own daughter and wonder if she’ll feel anything like I did. I watch for the awkward stage as girls shed their little girl bodies and giggles and find their way into womanhood and reclaim their laughter and voice. I watch for the tsunami of hormones to rage into door slamming declarations that I’m ruining her life. So far, the hormones have focused on her forehead and height.

“Bethany, how do you feel about yourself? Do you know how beautiful you are? Do you know how God sees you?” 

“I know, Mom. I know,” she said with a smile that held nothing back. “I like the way I am. I’m just worried she’s starving herself.”

We prayed for an opportunity to talk with Amy and for courage to be honest and ask questions. And I prayed in my heart that both Amy and Bethany would know and believe deep in their hearts, minds and souls that they – as physically different as they are – are both beautiful, strong and wonderfully, fearfully made.

Oh, Lord. Please help her know. Please help me to guide her well.



Have I feminized the church by submitting and being silent? Or how can I become Christ-like if Jesus is the Ultimate Fighting Champion?

I’m confused.


I’ve seen this list – “Ten Reasons Why Men Should Not Be Ordained For Ministry at Serving Bread” linked on several websites during the past few days. The comments in response range from high fives and laughter to not-so-brief sermon outlines on why women should not teach/preach/be ordained/so/on/and/so/forth.

Personally, I almost cried. Yes, a few of the reasons brought a smirk to my face, and I laughed…out loud. I’ve heard each one of those reasons turned around in some form as an argument against women taking any form of leadership in the church. But I was quickly reminded of how I’ve been deeply hurt, and paused. I do not want to be the cause of such hurt for my brothers.

For me this isn’t an “issue”. Issues can often be boiled down to convenient sound bytes or 32-point headlines. No. I can’t boil this one down to 15-seconds because my story and the stories of my sisters can’t be reduced to that. No. Women in ministry/leadership is life.

So I’m confused because in the same week I’m also reading posts and comments about the feminization of the church being a turn-off to manly men. Phrases like “chickified church boys” and “Ultimate Fighting champion” popped up. The call to reclaim the masculinity of the church is getting louder. Somehow women who are not allowed to lead/teach/hold authority over men have so incredibly influenced the culture of the church that some believe it’s time to pump up the testosterone, grab a weapon and reclaim the Bride.
So now Jesus, instead of being a fair-skinned, wavy-haired blonde with blue eyes who sits by sheep, lambs or little children, is now being painted as a chest-thumping, nose-punching dude who in some other version of the story took down those guards in the garden.

If I’m getting all of these messages straight I’m supposed to be transformed, become Christ-like, which should be a manly dude who had calloused hands as he prepared to lead a revolution. But I’m not supposed to be like that because I’m actually a chick who has chickified the church because I only want the sensitive-Jesus.

And what about my Asian American brothers who are often reduced to slanty-eyed geeks (anyone remember “Sixteen Candles”?) or kung-fu masters (and Jackie Chan still can’t get the girl)? Or my African American brothers who are reduced to gun-toting thugs? Or my Latino brothers who are reduced to border-crossing “illegals”? Are they manly enough or too manly for the church?
I’m deeply offended that any male pastor would speak of women with such a derogatory tone. I’m hurt and angry that the few manly men left in the feminized Church, no matter what stand they take on women ordination, aren’t speaking out against such belittling speech about their mothers, sisters, wives and daughters. I don’t want politically-correct rhetoric, but I do long for grace-infused conversations with people ready to learn from people whose cultures, experiences, and heart languages are different; willing to be corrected, admit they were wrong, confess they wronged others; open to the possibility that we have a way to go to understanding and following Jesus.

I’m sad because it seems I am not the only one who is confused. Are we are losing our way?

Toddlers & tummy tucks

OMG. There’s a new book written by a plastic surgeon to help women who are having plastic surgery walk through the process with their toddlers and young children. My kids are 12, 8 and 6. They would notice if this mommy came home with a new nose or bigger breasts. 

Let’s be honest here. I have my moments of vanity. I’m a moisturizer junkie, who has also had to curb my appetite for nail polish. A few months after giving birth to my daughter, I had my eyeliner tattooed onto my eyelids. (Yes, it hurt…a lot. But childbirth hurt more…much more.) I have a thing for great haircuts and hair color, and the local beauty school has allowed for the occasional splurge – a facial for $15!

And I’ve thought about plastic surgery – breast augmentation to be specific. A boob job to be blunt. I wrote a little bit about my personal body image dilemma in “More Than Serving Tea” in the chapter on sexuality. I’m petite with an upper body that looks the same as I did in 6th grade. Finding tailored clothes, even a nice dress, becomes a hunt for the holy grail simply because those darts in the front are meant for some other woman.
I can laugh about it, but when I’m honest there are moments when I compare myself to the media’s images of beauty. I walk away defeated and a bit confused. And I wonder what would it be like to go under the knife.
There are a few things that stop me.
1. Money – those who know me know that I would never pay for plastic surgery even if I could.
2. Pain – again, those who know me know I have a very high tolerance for pain. However, after watching Dr. 90210 one night and catching a glimpse of an actual breast augmentation I recognized my limits for pain.
3. Hypocrisy – one of my struggles is to love my neighbor as myself…I had a hard time loving myself and therefore loving others. So, I am a sinner saved by grace who is learning and longing to love her embodied self. Imagine the conversation I would have with my daughter or my neighbors – “God loves you and knew what He was doing when He created you, your mind, your heart, your body….oh, and by the way, I got a boob job because even though God loves me I wanted to improve on His plans.”
Oversimplified? Yes. But I see my middle school-aged daughter begin to play around with hairstyles, decide what “looks good” in terms of clothing and lip gloss, take delight in her growth spurt that puts her about two inches shy of me. She’s beautiful – all of her. And I listen to my two boys who could care less about lip gloss, except when I get it on them, but sit on my lap and lean into me to say, “Mommy, you’re beautiful except when you yell.”
But the sun is finally out, and pool season is just around the corner…
Would you ever go under the knife?

Asian American worship leaders – women, raise your hands

So, are any of you worship leaders? Are any of you worship leaders out there women? And in what church/ministry contexts are you leading in?

What have you been learning about yourself? about worship? about God as you lead people in worship?
What are your struggles? Joys? Rants and raves? And how do you think being Asian American, being a woman (or a man) impact your leadership?
After three years of a sort-of-self-imposed, waiting-on-God silence, I am singing again. I am leading again. I am breathing again.
Many thanks to mentors like Jennifer and Emily and leaders like Brian and Han. They reminded me to get over myself and to ask God to shape me.

Silencing Ourselves

I spent some time this past weekend with a great group of students and youth ministry leaders at North Park University’s Center for Youth Ministry Studies Topics course on ministering to Asian American Youth. Many thanks to Dr. Jim, Ginny and Alison for being such gracious hosts!

My role was sharing stories about “Growing Up Asian American” and connecting my bicultural upbringing with my philosophy of ministry and how I’ve approached faith and ministry through that lens. Before writing More Than Serving Tea, I had never seriously considered how storytelling might be a significant part of my teaching voice…but that’s for another day.
For this particular course it was helping connect the dots between the Asian American experience of liminality and how we as Christians also experience a similar in between-ness as ones who are in this world but are not to be of this world. It was helping young youth ministry leaders serving cross-culturally understand that they are to be students as they are teachers and leaders. It was also blessing majority culture white students and African American students and thanking them for the ways their cultures bless Asian Americans.
But in the midst of all this great dialogue and discussion were a few bittersweet moments. One such moment was when a young woman approached me and described how she had begun silencing herself in ministry contexts after she had gotten married. She and her husband serve the church together, but my sense was that it was a two-for-one deal – he is the leader, and she is his wife who also serves.
Tracey Gee writes about this in the book (p. 177). Women becoming the quiet “sidekicks” of their husbands or their male ministry partners. Somewhere along the line, and I think mistakenly so, godly submission is too often translated by ourselves and others into silence and subservience. 
The session was about to start up again, so there was little time for conversation. It felt a bit trite to remind her that she was to be a steward of God’s gifts of leadership and teaching, not because it’s unimportant to encourage and bless one another as women but that it’s not the only way to stop one another from silencing ourselves. The beauty and irony of it is that we need men to advocate for us, invite us to the table, share the power and authority. We are not supposed to be alone in silence. 
It’s no secret. I’d like to have more of an audience with the men of the church because there are too many women’s whose gifts for the Kingdom are being overlooked, overshadowed, ignored or invalidated. 
What would an honest and gracious conversation between the Asian American women and men of the church look like? And what might that do to further to conversations of about faith and Christ?

What’s in a name?

What should I do?

I noticed on Sunday that Peter and I now have nametags at church, but it took me a minute to figure it out simply because it wasn’t my name.

“Kathy Chang” was next to “Peter Chang”. I recognized Peter’s name, but I did not recognize mine because that’s not who I am.

I did not take his last name when we got married. I was young, idealistic and slightly rebellious. I had just begun to establish a career in journalism, and enjoyed seeing my byline. And when I thought of my parents eventually giving away their two daughters in holy matrimony, there was a pang in my heart. I would become one with my husband, but my name was so tied with my family of origin. If they were really gaining a son, did they have to lose their daughter in the process?

I didn’t set out to make a statement with keeping my last name. I had simply become accustomed to my name in all its oft-mispronounced, misspelled glory.

Hyphenating didn’t make sense. (For those of you who don’t speak Korean, if you put Khang and Chang together with proper pronunciation you get something very close to the word for “soy sauce”.) And as open-minded as Peter was trying to be, we couldn’t think of a way to explain to his parents why their first-born son was giving up his family name. (He still laughs when students or colleagues of mine mistakenly refer to him as Mr. Khang.)

So I stayed Kathy Khang. The kids’ friends call me Mrs. Chang, and I don’t make a big deal about it. When folks ask, I happily explain. I love my husband, and my children with whom I do not share a last name, and I love my name.

There are many women in the scriptures who go nameless. The woman at the well. The Samaritan woman. The bleeding woman. I love their stories. And I really do love the story my name tells. Khang – in Korean tradition the family name comes first. Kathy – given to me by my parents when we immigrated to the states because it started with the same sound as my given name. KyoungAh – my Korean name given to me by my paternal grandfather, according to tradition; the characters mean “congratulations” because I was the first daughter born to the family in three generations.

Back to the name tag.

Despite my slightly rebellious tendencies, I am still Asian American. I don’t want to embarrass anyone by asking for a new tag, and I don’t want to seem too liberal. I don’t want to draw any more attention to our family than we already do when we walk into the sanctuary.

What should I do?

How are we different?

We’ve been doing our best for the past few months at hiding at our local church. We’ve been blessed and quite impressed at how we’ve been welcomed and greeted (“Hi, I’ve not had the chance to introduce myself.” and not once “Hi, are you new here?”). The kids have transitioned well into Children’s Church, though the idea of a separate Sunday School hour is still taking some getting used to. We’ve attended the Inquirers Class to get to know the church and the denomination better. But overall, we’ve tried to keep a low profile, slipping out as quickly as we can after service.

But lately, Peter and I have felt a tug in our hearts. Are we willing to invest into the life of the church knowing that some things will feel different? Until two years ago, we had attended a predominantly Korean-American second gen church where social and cultural connections generally flowed seamlessly into spiritual connections. There was no worrying about what to serve or not serve for impromptu meals together. No explaining why we related to our parents the way we did even though we are grown adults with families of our own.

Peter and I were talking about church, and joked about how we stood out as a family on any given Sunday morning. We’ve been keeping a low-profile, but there are some things we can’t hide, right?

But then my daughter said something that gave me a moment of panic. “Huh? What do you mean we stick out? How are we different?”

My husband and I nearly stopped breathing.

Bethany is developing a wicked sense of humor so for a moment we weren’t sure if she was joking with us, but it was soon obvious that it wasn’t immediately obvious to her how we were different.

And I’m not sure how I feel about that. I don’t want my kids to wear their ethnicity as an angry badge, but I want them to be wisely aware. Does that make sense?

Ironically, I’ve taught on ethnic identity to college students and adults. Any thoughts on translating this for personal use?

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