Today I remembered I had a dream two months ago.
I dreamt I was talking to somone I knew- a very, very thin and depressed acquaintance, about anorexia. I was talking to her about her needing to get help, and she was listening to me quietly, very patiently without getting defensive or angry. And then I woke up.
I still have not spoken to her. But today I remembered I had this dream, and wondered perhaps if it may not be more symbolic of the series of unexpected Encounters I have had of late. Today I remembered, and everything seemed to come together.
In the past month, I have had to Stop for a few people- the running lady with bowed legs, the girl still in therapy from anorexia whom I met on my way to meeting the Dove-people, the woman crying out for her injection... all strangers. And this morning, you crossed my path.
"Hi Wai Jia. Yea, I'm better now though things are still hard. Thanks so much, and yeah, I went back to church last Sunday for the first time after so long. I'm going to go back again this week. "
When you said it, you beamed widely at me.
Ever since our paths crossed and we bridged the gap between being strangers and friends, you have been keeping me updated about your struggle with anorexia, and bulimia, a ground I am less familiar with. Since the beginning we both knew this would be the start of a very, very challenging period. You asked me how I managed to climb out, and I told you about my faith in the Big Man up there. Church isn't a miracle pill, and I don't mean to over-simplify things, but God and church were my life-savers. They have been, and always will be.
Your smile was so radiant this morning. It made my day.
And suddenly, I realised that my dream did come to pass after all. I still have not managed to speak to that particular face in that hazy memory, but if that face was symbolic of the people that I was meant to reach out to, then yes, it did come to pass after all. Today, I remembered.
Every day, I am receiving answers to my perennial question: Why did all that happen? Whether there was a purpose to it.
At lunch time today, I saw your dream-face again as you walked me by, and I had to take a moment to close my eyes because it hurt me in such a real and painful way. Your dream-face reminded me that you are only an acquaintance to me, and I wondered to God why I should have to bear the burden of being injured and hurt each time I see someone who is hurting inside in that way. Then, I remembered a story. It's one of my favourite ones. It is about a story of a little boy. There were five thousand people, hungry, waiting to be fed, and a little boy with only five small barley loaves and two meagre pieces of fish. He knew there would not be enough for everyone. But God took what little the little boy had to offer, broke the food into pieces and gave them out. After everyone had had enough to eat, there were twelve basketfuls of food left over.
I won't argue about the mathematical or practical impossibility of this story because that would detract from the beauty that it conveys- the little boy's humble offering, his trust and maybe distrust also in the task before him, the enormity and pressure of the multitude of people, the incomprehensibilty and beauty of the result...
All the time, I am asking God the same question. And every day, I am receiving answers to my perennial question: Why did all this happen? Was there a purpose.
Today, I remembered this story and I realised why.
Because, possibly, maybe, perhaps- That bread is... me. Us. That small little loaf of barley bread, which, until it had been offered to and broken up in God's hands, could not be used to bless a multitude of people. It had to be broken, torn up, divided into little pieces, before it could be distributed to feed people who needed to be filled by it.
And so again, I am reminded. That it was all worth it, and nothing went to waste. All that Blackness and being torn and crushed and broken... I have much thanks to give for the people who have emailed or left messages behind to say how they've been encouraged or helped in their journeys, by my openess to share. But it is only because I have been so broken before, that sharing this experience, to me, inflicts much less hurt in comparison. I have lost to the point that I no longer fear losing- So I share, and I tell, and I walk up to strangers with that naive hope that sincere love never fails. And all my Encounters with strangers have been Beautiful not because I am special, but because they listen to what I share with them, and how much I am giving to them without fearing I am losing anything at all, and realise that I understand, that I say the things they dare not say, even to themselves. And none of this could have happened if I had not been broken like bread in God's hands.
If I had not been broken, if I had not lost to that point, I would not be able to give, or give without fearing to lose anything at all. A running woman, a girl I passed by, someone I met at a hospital... hardly five thousand people, but does it matter?
Today I remembered my dream, and the story of the little boy and his bread and God's hands.
Five small barley loaves. Five thousand people.
I dreamt I was talking to somone I knew- a very, very thin and depressed acquaintance, about anorexia. I was talking to her about her needing to get help, and she was listening to me quietly, very patiently without getting defensive or angry. And then I woke up.
I still have not spoken to her. But today I remembered I had this dream, and wondered perhaps if it may not be more symbolic of the series of unexpected Encounters I have had of late. Today I remembered, and everything seemed to come together.
In the past month, I have had to Stop for a few people- the running lady with bowed legs, the girl still in therapy from anorexia whom I met on my way to meeting the Dove-people, the woman crying out for her injection... all strangers. And this morning, you crossed my path.
"Hi Wai Jia. Yea, I'm better now though things are still hard. Thanks so much, and yeah, I went back to church last Sunday for the first time after so long. I'm going to go back again this week. "
When you said it, you beamed widely at me.
Ever since our paths crossed and we bridged the gap between being strangers and friends, you have been keeping me updated about your struggle with anorexia, and bulimia, a ground I am less familiar with. Since the beginning we both knew this would be the start of a very, very challenging period. You asked me how I managed to climb out, and I told you about my faith in the Big Man up there. Church isn't a miracle pill, and I don't mean to over-simplify things, but God and church were my life-savers. They have been, and always will be.
Your smile was so radiant this morning. It made my day.
And suddenly, I realised that my dream did come to pass after all. I still have not managed to speak to that particular face in that hazy memory, but if that face was symbolic of the people that I was meant to reach out to, then yes, it did come to pass after all. Today, I remembered.
Every day, I am receiving answers to my perennial question: Why did all that happen? Whether there was a purpose to it.
At lunch time today, I saw your dream-face again as you walked me by, and I had to take a moment to close my eyes because it hurt me in such a real and painful way. Your dream-face reminded me that you are only an acquaintance to me, and I wondered to God why I should have to bear the burden of being injured and hurt each time I see someone who is hurting inside in that way. Then, I remembered a story. It's one of my favourite ones. It is about a story of a little boy. There were five thousand people, hungry, waiting to be fed, and a little boy with only five small barley loaves and two meagre pieces of fish. He knew there would not be enough for everyone. But God took what little the little boy had to offer, broke the food into pieces and gave them out. After everyone had had enough to eat, there were twelve basketfuls of food left over.
I won't argue about the mathematical or practical impossibility of this story because that would detract from the beauty that it conveys- the little boy's humble offering, his trust and maybe distrust also in the task before him, the enormity and pressure of the multitude of people, the incomprehensibilty and beauty of the result...
All the time, I am asking God the same question. And every day, I am receiving answers to my perennial question: Why did all this happen? Was there a purpose.
Today, I remembered this story and I realised why.
Because, possibly, maybe, perhaps- That bread is... me. Us. That small little loaf of barley bread, which, until it had been offered to and broken up in God's hands, could not be used to bless a multitude of people. It had to be broken, torn up, divided into little pieces, before it could be distributed to feed people who needed to be filled by it.
And so again, I am reminded. That it was all worth it, and nothing went to waste. All that Blackness and being torn and crushed and broken... I have much thanks to give for the people who have emailed or left messages behind to say how they've been encouraged or helped in their journeys, by my openess to share. But it is only because I have been so broken before, that sharing this experience, to me, inflicts much less hurt in comparison. I have lost to the point that I no longer fear losing- So I share, and I tell, and I walk up to strangers with that naive hope that sincere love never fails. And all my Encounters with strangers have been Beautiful not because I am special, but because they listen to what I share with them, and how much I am giving to them without fearing I am losing anything at all, and realise that I understand, that I say the things they dare not say, even to themselves. And none of this could have happened if I had not been broken like bread in God's hands.
If I had not been broken, if I had not lost to that point, I would not be able to give, or give without fearing to lose anything at all. A running woman, a girl I passed by, someone I met at a hospital... hardly five thousand people, but does it matter?
Today I remembered my dream, and the story of the little boy and his bread and God's hands.
Five small barley loaves. Five thousand people.
Memories and dreams are precious things.
"Here is a boy with five small barley loaves and two small fish, but how far will they go among so many?"
- John 6:9
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