Atticus Cai

Today God brought life into the world.

He did so very quickly.

Adriana woke me up by telling me that our "Alarm Clock" had broken. Never being found of our alarm clock, I did not care or react. After telling me this same information again and noticing my indifference, she communicated more intelligibly and intensely, "MY WATER JUST BROKE". This was at 7:11am, as told to us by our still functioning alarm clock.

Adriana, then began to make sure that her parents knew what they were to do when we headed off to the hospital to have a kid. She called Bethany Keena and let her know that we would be missing our graduation. She made a list of things for her mom to clean. She had breakfast. Eggs and strawberries. We are hypnobirthers (this natural birth class we attended) and as such tried we to remain calm and at home for the long early stages of labor.

Problem: There were no early stages of this labor.

After a bath and listening to the birth CD, Adriana's discomfort began to elevate. We decided it was time to saunter on over to the hospital. But, lest you have forgotten, we are hypnobirthers and decided to take our hippy time. I had the church van key left in my pocket (huge surprise), and so I made sure to run that over to the office along with some other things necessary for church tomorrow.

On the way to the hospital things began to warm up. Dad was fine, as I pointed out how nice the day was and noticed all the joggers on Sheridan road, speaking calmly to my laboring bride believing that we were beginning a journey that would take all day if not longer. Mom was starting to feel more pressure.

We arrived in the hospital, and I went in to go get somebody to help. I had a couple of jokes for the nurses. I felt okay about them, but I could have been funnier. We eventually got her into a wheelchair and brought her in. Calmly.

After all, we are hypnobirthers. We have all day.

Actually, we had 8 minutes.

The nurse checked us upon arrival, and then came the fury. The comments "that's his head" and "I need a doctor in here" are among the few I can remember. We were tossed on a random bed in an overflow space. A doctor and 2 nurses came in and then after push! push! push! we were staring at our first child.

Atticus Cai was born at 9:12am, sporting a hefty 7 pounds 11 ounces in his 20.5 inch frame. He has thick black hair and giant hands, which we are guessing are from his mom's side.

Now, I sit here and look at the sunset from our postpartum room. I sit near my bride and my resting, healthy and exceedingly hairy son. I am caught up by true beauty. God has been so profoundly kind. I would have to cut out too many of my jokes to tell you all the answers to prayer that we have seen today. In short, our birth process and the health of our son, and the timing of his arrival are marks of God's true provision over our family. As I sit here, I cannot but acknowledge a miraculous God.

The comments and texts and calls and visits have been overwhelming. We are really loved. Our friends and family are taking care of us and my feelings are inundated with all of your responses, prayers, gifts and support over these months, culminating today.

Thanks, Jesus. You did a beautiful thing today. Help us love our child well.

Pity sounds better than grief

Lately I have had a lot of passive self pity. I have been tired, busy and overwhelmed. The weight I have been carrying is too much for me right now. I blame the situations that I am in, and of course, quickly tell myself that I am simply suffering the way Jesus did … and I deserve some well earned points from it.

Pity gives me power. It leads me to anger at the next need, which feels strong. It woos me to false justice, believing that I deserve more, better, best. It takes me to self-righteousness, and when comparing myself with others, I find a way to think of myself as a more deserving person of recognition than the next guy. It gives me bravado and reason to self preserve. In that wall of protection, I am tough. I deserve to fight for me.

But I have realized … I am not busier than normal. I do not have more responsibilities or less help or fewer friends. But, I am still more empty. With Jesus, Anna and others things are chill, but I am still hitting my limit way sooner than normal.

It is ungrieved grief that is burning me out. While I want to blame other people and their needs and demands on me, it is sadness that is gnawing at my soul.

Grief. That is a word that softens me towards others and bothers me in myself. Grief is weak. It is needy. It is unpredictable and unempowering. It feels unsolvable, unending and unconquerable. Self pity is way more fun of a feeling.

My soul feels so naked when it is sad.

But I really am. I am sad. I cannot solve it and Jesus hasn’t seemed to try to fix it either. While I have tried to cover it with lies like ‘I am just so busy’, the reality of it is I cannot handle the normal load I can usually. I am really weak, easily tired, and am frequently overwhelmed, confused and hurt. I am very sensitive to people’s words and can barely think about leaving Winnetka. I love my friends here (from ages 2 to 92) that I really am hurting to leave. I have moments where I think through the good-byes, and I want to hide.

And, the thing is, to hurt is not to heal. Going through that pain does not produce instant therapy. It just hurts. It just sucks.

Jesus doesn’t seem to be leading me out of this grief either. He is trying to get me to sit in it. I’d rather not. I’d rather work on other’s needs and then just feel the empowering feelings of pity that says I was noble to care for them rather than me. I prefer this false martyrdom over true grief anyday.

The truth is I am scared to feel the fears I have about leaving. I am scared to tell my own heart that I don’t know how to say goodbye to people I love. I am embarrassed how much these people mean to me, and am afraid that they will be much more okay with me gone than I will be to leave. I am scared to open a door to sadness, because I don’t know how much is in there. I don’t know how long it will take to clean up.

God, help me grieve. Be gentle with me because in grief I am a lot less tough than I am when steeled in pity.

Having a kid.

Having a kid.

Since getting Audi pregnant, I have heard enough advice to last me at least 3 kids (that’s why we are hoping for triplets! No, not at all.). I am not complaining about the advice, but I am a little inundated with it. The thing I hear over and over more than anything else is, “your life will never be the same”. This is usually followed by some type of small giggle or look that says “oh, he has no idea what is about to hit him”.

And I ask myself the question, “do I want a kid?” Now, I know that question is probably offensive to read for some. And some may say it is selfish to ask. I am not asking of whether or not to keep him, but I am asking how am I actually doing with my life about to change. You see, I live in legit fear of my world shrinking. I have seen many parents idolize their children and – on the side - somewhat care about Jesus and what He is doing in the world. It seems that many of them care more about their kids than they do about knowing God, and I believe that is a great sin … and I believe it so lastingly damaging to their kids. No kid should be taught that they are the center of the universe.

Is that what ‘your life will never be the same’ means? Does it mean, that I have a new focus … a focus that will make my concern for Jesus and His mission smaller? Yes, I am scared of that. I am scared that I will idolize my child and place my own identity in how he is doing/living/looks.

Then I think about holding my boy. I think about what it will be like to lead a life in a way a dad is called to lead his son. I think about the awesome and scary responsibilities of providing, protecting, defending, developing and nurturing a life into the world. I think about coaching a soccer team or eating a lot of Chucky Cheese, taking him to his first baseball game, and reading to him some Dr Seuss. I think about trying to understand science homework to give him some confidence. I think about learning to enjoy what he enjoys. Maybe football. Maybe drama. Maybe reading. Maybe Sponge Bob (please NO!).

And … my heart finds itself swelling. Because I do. I want to be a dad. I love that little sucker even though I have only met him through ultrasounds and solid kicks. I am anxious and overwhelmed at the thought of cherishing and praying for and with him. I am scared at the reality that I will pass on my flaws and hurt him with my weakness and failures as a man. But, yes I want to be his father.

I sincerely hope that my life ‘will never be the same’. I hope that I am less selfish. I hope that I can learn what sacrifice is all about. I hope I can face my fears, own my immaturities and weaknesses and provide for my family in all the ways that they need. I hope I can to apologize better.

But, most of all, I hope that I trust a lot more. Not less. I hope that I realize that I need Jesus more. Not less. I hope that this drives me more to know Him in the midst of not knowing how to do this. Not less. I hope that my view on Jesus and His mission will expand. Not shrink.

And for that, I need Him very much. I need Him because I can’t follow Him well on my own, and I sure as heck can’t be a good dad without Him.

MACs ... really? An honest question from the other side.

I am a PC user … and I poke fun at the MAC Cult. I tease the ridiculous price of a new MAC computer, tease the unnecessary IPAD, complain about the difficult print options on the IMAC in our office, and I laugh at the ridiculous price of the MACbook and its aluminum chasis (who says “chasis” anyway?!).
And yet, I confess that I often wonder if I am the one missing out.
I know that somehow Steve Jobs has made computers sexy and that the image of the company is something attractive to everyone. Can someone HONESTLY tell me … is the price only worth it for the image? Or is it really that much better of a machine?

We just finished our family mission statement! it took us forever and many "discussions" over words. it also reminds me how grateful i am for both Jesus and the bride He gave me. Here she is.

Willey Family Mission

Our mission is to give our complete loyalty to God and His mission for the world,

by offering Him

the intimacy of our hearts and habits

and the holistic obedience of our

inward and outward lives.

We inwardly commit

to establish a home of safety, communion and worship

by cherishing and enjoying one another in mind, body and heart,

discipling our family through the unique leading of the Spirit,

and setting patterns of stewardship with our time and resources.

We outwardly commit to make disciples of Jesus Christ

as we serve the local church,

mobilize the Church to love the world,

and lead our family in mission to our local community.

We do this through giving our time and talents,

pursuing individual hearts and needs,

and authentically opening our lives and home.

Why Philly is the best worst city in America

After living in Chicago for 9 years, some branches have been pruned off the further I have grown from my east coast roots. Calling soda ‘pop’ does not bother me anymore. The fact that people are clueless and even insulting towards WaWa is wearing off. The ignorance surrounding thin crust pizza, hoagies and Philly pretzels still is staggering at times, but at least not surprising anymore.

But I find, I cannot get Philly out of my blood. I have realized that Philly is a disorganized, dirty, conjested, smog-filled city and that the east coast tolerates its lack of class because they have Newark and Camden to help them feel better. I live now on the outskirts of a city whose landscape, attractions, parks, cleanliness and architecture make my previous urban sprawl look like a 3^rd world city

And yet … somehow I feel proud writing even her errors. Because even though Chicago may have world class, they will never have Philly personality. They will know us for the liberty bell or the art museum … which few of us even care about. But, they will never boo at Santa Claus. While they make speak in sarcasm, it will never be their mother tongue. They will settle for fake cheesesteaks, which would make William Penn himself vomit in his grave. They will never have serious suspicion based on the tallest (almost) building downtown. They wont know what it means to see Brian Dawkins lead the fight song. They may love Rocky, but never really understand why he is a legitimate art form and should be displayed by the museum. They may see Bill Cosby as funny, but will never know what he truly represents to the people in the city.

Ah Chicago… I will still cheer for the Cubs (because I am mad at Philadelphia to suddenly switching to the Phillies). I will eat your pizza and admit your landscape is better and love your people. I will become a good Chicago suburbanite and will complain about Rod and enjoy Chipotle and drink from the Starbucks on every corner.

But, I cant give up Philly, no matter how proud I am for recognizing the buildings in the new Batman movies.

the robe

I wrote this a long time ago. Shame is and has - as long as I can remember - been a very real part of my life. As I remember, this was in the midst of the shame that I wrote this. Special shout out to many of you that have in my life reminded a proud spiritually perfectionistic dude about the reality of grace. I put it on facebook a while back, so some of you may have already read it.


Grace. I see grace as a beautiful robe I have been given. A robe of pure white, pure warmth, pure wonder. I am given this gift and feel as if I will ever enjoy its purity and comfort. Each time I receive it – which is often – I think that Surely, I will honor the grace given me. Never will I go to the places I have been before, for fear of blemishing my priceless prize. I am full with gratitude and my heart beams with pride in the grace I have received. I am Forgiven and given … this is true pleasure. Yet, as I take that robe around, I find that I gradually start to mistreat it once again. I start to get lazy with what I consume, and it isn’t long before careless stains and marks show up on my garment. Then, once dirty, I get less cautious because I am discouraged. I feel the shame of my careless ingratitude. Yet, the shame doesn’t call me to greater care. I have already messed it up and it is so hard to keep clean. Whats the point? I start to go to the places that I have gone before, and my robe begins to drag, rub and splash through the mire of where I love and hate to go all at the same time. I hate the filth of compromise, but I feel like it is impossible to avoid. Something in me tells me that it is who I am, and that I am a fake to ever have something clean, pure and beautiful.

About this time, I awake and see the mess. I really see. I look at the stains, the spills, the tears and the poor patch jobs I have tried to do. I sit their in my dirty robe. Sure, I know what I could do. I could go explain myself, ask forgiveness and be given a brilliant new robe again. It is not very difficult for me to admit my failure, my carelessness, lethargy and subsequent mess. I can explain the dirt on the old one. It is just hard for me to accept the new. Why? Why would I be given a new white perfect robe again? I have a closet full of different robes I have abused in my passion for self. The marks are different. The tears are in different places and have accumulated by different means … but the result is also near the same.

As I stand in the line to receive the new brilliance of grace that can only baffle at its breadth, depth, length and height … I remember my closets of failures. But, my heart is lifted from that for a few moments. In this epiphany … With all my heart, I wish my life would stay in the perspective that I now see. I close my eyes to see this new thought clearer. I close my eyes as if to say that this is all I want to see ever again. I am enlightened again, the story is not about the closet full of painful failures. The story is about the gift. The story is that in spite a mess, Jesus gives me the clean. My closet is so full, but I have heard of others that even have a few more. Others less. Yet, as I stand in line, no one questions the gaurentee of the robe. Why? Is this some Mary Poppins never ending always replentishing freebie mart? I would never consider it something so cheap! Why? Because we all have something in common more than our failures and dirty robes. We all know the gift Giver. We all realize that all our failure is not near as strong as His grace. We all begin to see that His wonder is what this story is about. It is not about the abuse we put on His robes. It is about the grace of robes that He puts on us.
So, I once again gain my perfect robe. And I realize that this story is not about me. This gift is not about me. It is about the one who painfully made it for me through the drops of his blood and the heaving of his breast, the streaks on His back and the holes in His hands. That’s how He made them. And, somehow He still delights to give them out.

Now, the story that started in the discouragement and failure of self yet again ends in the freedom and success of Christ. I leave so full and grateful. I also leave knowing that I will soon forget. I will try with help to keep myself honoring the gift I have been given. Yet, at the same time I know that my abuse will not eradicate His grace.
I know I will come again …