Possible.

As I alighted the bus in the rain, I saw a frame, a walking wisp of a frame that gripped me, again. It was the face I noticed first, the sallow, yellow cheeks, and then the hands, the skeletal wrists with thick protruding veins, and the legs, upon which a pair of jeans hung so loosely I could only imagine the ghastly thin-ness that lay beneath them. I remember someone telling me before, that the anorexia got so bad, it became impossible to run after a bus.

I was on campus. This shouldn’t be happening, but it is. Today, I saw three people with anorexia.

I stood there. It was raining, and I watched that shadow walk by me, in front of me. I stood there for a long time, trying to recollect myself. I was on campus. This shouldn’t be happening, but it is.

I didn’t go up to her, only because I remember someone had told me she had been confronted before, and her reaction had been very, very hostile. So I stood there, trying to recollect myself. It was a rainy morning.

In the past few months, I have had a number of Encounters with people suffering from this illness, in my child-like attempts to reach out to them, on the basis that I understand. Some of you, after finding out, have asked me how to help someone you knew who was suffering from this. Some of you had siblings, close friends, schoolchildren you were tutoring who were suffering from this… this shouldn’t be happening. One of you sought me out in desperation, telling me you were at a loss, that the person you knew was wasting away, and had been suffering so badly that even the kidneys had stopped functioning. Young child having kidneys losing their function. Losing periods for more than a year. Having knees which have lost their ability to walk down steps because of the bone density and cartilage lost. Losing fat from your boobs, and your feminity.

There is so much loss. So much lost.

People losing themselves, falling down, wasting away. You don’t have to travel far to exercise compassion. It’s funny how Kitesong raised awareness for children in a developing country, while A Taste of Rainbow aims to raise awareness for a problem usually associated with developed nations only. The taste of sadness is the same everywhere, developed country of not. Neither cause is needier, more pressing. Each has their own brand of hunger.

Most people ask me how to help, because no one seems to know. Most people, out of concern, urge them to eat. “Have more food, I’m worried about you.” But this soon escalates into frustration, judgement and comments of condemnation which do nothing but aggravate the problem, isolate the person.
“Eat more, will you? You’re too thin.”
“Why are you doing this to yourself?”
“Will you just eat more, what is wrong with you? You look horrible.”

These don't help.

Nobody wins. In anorexia, nobody wins. The Concerned one sees a slippery loss of weight, the one Suffering only sees a distorted body image, more fat to lose on an already skeletal frame. The Concerned one doesn’t understand and passes hurtful comments, the one Suffering gets hurt inside, clams up. It no longer becomes a discussion, but a power struggle.

Many people suffering from anorexia feel they have lost control over many things in their lives, amidst family problems, work stress, traumatic incidents, childhood issues, such that the only source of control they feel they can hold on to is food. It is only a tool. So the fight breaks out. No one can make me eat. Things worsen. Conversations become competitions of control, meal-times become battlegrounds. Relationships fragment. People lose hope.

I remember how you tried to hold me down that day. “Stop running away,” you said, and you literally had to come get me because I was so mad I walked off in disbelief. We have been through so much in our friendship because of this. We have argued, fought, quarreled, only to find ourselves back to square one, where our friendship started because still, our friendship is strong enough. Still.

I took an atypical route of recovery because I took the initiative and asked for it, sought it out- not because I was innately more sensible or wiser. I did it because of something deeper calling from inside. Something which changed my life and which makes me say till today that God and church saved my life, many times. And when I did, I read about it, did research, met the right people who had the experience to help me. I was very fortunate.

People suffering from this illness will never believe you when you say they are too thin, that they need to eat more. I didn’t. My closest friends tried to make me talk. You tried so many times to make me talk, make me eat, and I never did. I denied it, not because I wanted to, but because I genuinely didn’t believe what they were telling me. Every day it hurt. Every day, no one understood. I didn’t either.

So how do you help, you ask.

Be there, that is all. Be there, tell them you are there for them, and stop judging, stop forcing them to eat, stop the condemning, guilt-inducing and threatening. This is not an easy illness. It comes and it goes, and then it moves in, camps there, and builds an army, a fortress that isolates them from the world. And if you really love them and care for them, be it someone slipping into it, suffering, still recovering or recovered, even, then read about it. Find out. Try, just try to understand and don’t pretend to. It is a complex illness which tests your genuinity. If you really do care, really want to help, pick a book up from Borders, google eating disorder websites. Our natural reactions of concern will backfire on this one, simply because it is too complex, runs too deeply.

If you want to help, truly, find out. Read. It’s all there on a huge shelf at Borders.

During recovery, I met a marathon-runner who had suffered severely from anorexia before, and had recommended me a book to read. It is excellent for both sufferers and people who wish to help or understand more about the illness- Anorexia Nervosa, A Guide to Recovery by Lindsey Hall and Monika Ostroff. I placed an order for it at Borders, brought it to Nepal to read when I was trying to recover.

It really isn’t that hard to be there for someone, but if you want to save their lives, and see a glimpse of their world, then read. Be there for them, show your support, and go with them to a counselor when their hearts open up to you. More and more people are suffering from this, and it's only a matter of time when you'll find yourself knowing someone who is Suffering. There is no harm reading. I can’t begin to tell you how difficult it is for them to talk about it, so don’t push them. Just read, find out on your own. I couldn’t put it into words myself at that time. Even now, I find it difficult to talk about its intricate details. It runs too deep, in the colour of Black.

For those of you suffering, I want to tell you there is nothing shameful about getting help professionally. It was one of the best things that I did. In fact, it’s one of the bravest, most responsible things you’ll ever find yourself doing in your life. There are books, there are people to help you, and there is the support group to attend at Singapore General Hospital Life Centre at 7pm, on the first Thursday of every month. Family of those suffering can also find support and learn how to help their loved ones from the support group.

Every one needs a turning point. I was very blessed that mine came from inside, upstairs, because I couldn’t see myself being an anorexic missionary doctor, couldn’t have people telling me how bad I looked while I was fundraising for Kitesong. I had friends who prayed for me, people placed in my way who helped because they wanted to understand. Most of all, I had God. This is the kind of illness that people suffer from not for years, but for decades. I went in and came out fast only because of the grace of God, I should think.

I remember that day when I was at the support group and someone Suffering looked at me in the eye, told me, “You look so… so good. Is it really possible to recover and be of a normal weight?” My tears built up behind my eyes because I saw that longing in you, that bewilderment, that inner struggle to understand how recovery was possible, how eating normally can actually be possible, beautiful even. Tears, also because I saw your genuinity, and I had not looked at myself like that for a long, long time.

So if you know someone suffering and want to help, please do. Now you know how. And if you are the one Suffering, know that recovery is entirely possible. It is challenging, very, I know, and it may seem far away, almost not worth the try. But it is. I’m here, so please, do try. Get help.

No one told me how. I was very, very blessed. But now you do. Now you do.

I attend the support group at the Life Centre every month because this is still a journey for me. There are new things to learn all the time. And if you do come, come say hi to me. Come see for yourself that it is possible. I want to give you a hug and tell you how brave you are, that’s all.

"With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible."

-Matthew 19:26

Ground-breaking.

Looking back, I realised just how many mistakes and boo-boos I made during my performance, and how kind and generous my friends have been in showing their support and appreciation. Thank you for being such sweet things, for making me feel so special, as always.

3 ways to know that your friendship has reached new levels:

1. "For the umpteeth time, we just sent each other text messages at the same time!"

2. " In all honesty, I think you'll get married when you're... let's see, NINETY-TWO. Ninety-two sounds like a safe bet, what do you think?"

And the ultimate way to know that you both have made a real breakthrough:

3. " Hey Wai Jia, come here a sec. COULD YOU LOOK UP MY NOSE TO SEE IF I'VE A BAT HANGING FROM UP THERE. THANKS A BUNCH."

Ground-breaking.

I love my friends.

Being True.

"Sometimes we just need someone to believe in us, to dare to dream the possibility of what we could become. Thank you for being that person, for believing in me," you said.

I remember we had that conversation. You had so many reservations about your ideas for this play. And I said to do it, follow your heart, be True to yourself.

I just got the news.

We got Best Play.

So this is what it is, being True. Thank you for inspiring me, too.

And thank you all for watching us.

Being Happy.

“ You should have got Best Actress, Wai Jia. That’s what people are saying, I hope you know that. But it’s an intra-faculty play competition and they have to divide the prizes equally across the levels.”

It’s funny. After the performance, as I left that stage, left that part of me which was true, there, I told God that I was thankful for that performance. Out of all our rehearsals, my final performance was my best shot, and that was all that mattered, that I gave it my best shot. There was such a deep sense of peace.

Random people came up to me today to tell me how much they felt for my character, people whose names I never even knew. That was my best moment. That was enough.

What may have been even more beautiful was that after the performance, after I had done my best, I felt validated already- by knowing that through it all, God was with me. He gave me this opportunity to release my Story this way, gave me the strength to do so. I felt adequate, sufficient, without needing anyone to commend me. I prayed to do my best, and I did, and there was an indescribable peace from within. I left early, didn't even stay for the prize ceremony at the end, because I had no expectation, and there was a deep peace welling up inside.

Two years ago when we moved houses, my father asked me what we would do with the twenty over trophies, plaques and awards I had accumulated over the years- art competitions, calligraphy competitions, school awards… My parents displayed them in the living room, and were prepared to pack them into boxes to move into the new house. Holding up my first trophy in her hands, my mother said, “You got this when you were five, remember? Don’t you want to take a picture with all of them- to remember all your achievements?”

“No,” I said. It was a final and firm no. “We’ll throw them all away,” I said, “Throw them all away.”

We kept not a single one from the old house. Trophies, prizes, awards can be dangerous things. And sometimes, it is their absence that makes us True-er to our hearts. Re-reading newspaper articles or material about your achievements is dangerous, very. So in some strange, peaceful way, when I didn’t win, I felt… more settled, almost as if it was more fitting, more appropriate. To know that I had delivered my Story in its true spirit, in a way that had evoked people, touched hearts, in a way that had elicited the sense of injustice in people for me- that was enough, more than enough. It is more beautiful this way, in some strange way it sits better, that I gave something true for nothing tangible in return.

It is like missionary work, isn’t it?

But I’m hardly that noble. Of course there have been moments where I regret not keeping those medals, those objects of achievements. And I’m sure of moments in the days to come where momentary pangs of sourness may challenge my peace and resolve in not being validated by a prize for this performance. But it is like being trained for missionary work, isn’t it- to give your all without being awarded, recognized, and to find complete satisfaction and adequacy in your own spirit, that spirit of doing your best. Thousands of nameless saints work among the poor, selflessly, wholeheartedly, without any form of tangible reward, any recognition.

I’m hardly that noble, but I am learning.

I quit being in the executive committee of the Medical Society, quit being put in a place which made me vulnerable to seeking validation from other people, or awards, or prizes. I remember we organized a Charity Run last year, but I enjoyed it far less than doing Kitesong, mainly because there were so many people to please, so much validation that the Medical Society was needy for. Ten thousand dollars to raise, guest-of-honours to please, right things to say, decorum, standard procedures… Too many things that digressed from the spirit of the event, which was essentially, to spread love.

People like us, perfectionists, try too hard to please everybody else. Sometimes, maybe, we just need space to be ourselves, to be happy with who we are. To do things because we love doing them, with no tangible returns. We write because we like to, we paint because we feel like doing so, we act because we love performing. We love because we love God, because we love to love. That is all.

Sometimes, maybe we just need to do things that have no return. It is a deeper blessing, more beautiful this way, so we learn humility before getting stumbled by pride. I need to learn how to deal with not being awarded, rewarded, validated by others, need to learn how to stop being so needy. So in many ways, I felt the radiance of God’s love when I heard the news. I felt like for once, I am learning what it means to be validated by my own spirit, by God’s love.

“I hope you’re happy, Wai Jia. Because you put up a great show. I just wanted to say I thought you deserved the award, that’s all.”

It is simpler, more beautiful this way. I am happy.

Mind the Gap.

" I cried at your scene."

And after I had got through the crowd, I saw you running towards me, your eyes swollen with tears, saying, " You made me cry..." And you gave me flowers, my favourite ones, because you knew what they meant to me. When I saw your face, wet and red with tears, I hugged you.

Today was the performance of our play, the annual medical play production, and I acted as female lead. It didn't feel like it, because it wasn't a glamorous, diva role. It didn't feel like it, because I've never taken major roles before. It didn't feel like it, because the gravity of what this performance meant to me far outshadowed any amount of excitement that playing a major role could evoke.

Our play was called Mind the Gap. Using the train as a metaphor of life, it highlights the Gap we all have to mind, the gap between living our dreams and realities.

I was expecting an adrenalin rush, but I felt no nervousness at all- not because I was brave, or confident or experienced, but because of the gravity of what this performance meant to me.

I had a Story to tell. A true one. And because it was true, I was putting myself on the line. It was a Vulnerable Feeling. What if the audience didn’t empathise with her Story? What if they thought she was over-the-top, too emotional, unconvincing?

It was a Vulnerable Feeling, a feeling of inadequacy. Then one of you came up close to me before my cue on stage and you whispered into my ear, " I know I’ve told you this before, Wai Jia- you’re so believable it’s scary. Now go do your thing."

So there I was on stage, performing today.

“Wow. You know, I could never do something like that… I nearly cried at that scene, it was so moving. What I can never figure out is- how do you feel so much for a character, act a life out, especially for one like yours… She’s so… complicated,” K asked.

“Memories,” I said. And then immediately, when I saw your quizzical expression, I quickly withdrew, “No, not memories. I mean, it’s about putting yourself in other people’s shoes I think.”

But my words fell apart, and I remembered God doesn’t like lying, doesn’t like lying under any circumstances.

So I looked at you, and said, “ No, I wrote her, that’s why. It was a Real Story. Not all of it, but enough. So yes, memories were enough. ” You frowned, looked at me, and then nodded as though you understood.

Perhaps that’s why it meant so much to me, this performance. I only perform, write, paint things that are True. And so when I performed, it wasn’t –just- an act, it wasn’t –just- a play, it wasn’t –just- a poem I wrote. It was my life, my Story on the line, me. Being presented on a stage, to an audience. Not all of it was literally true, but enough, enough was.

So she put herself on the line today, and right there, when the audience cried, or nearly did, felt for her Story, they put themselves on the line, too. My character’s Story made you cry. I performed today, and you received not only the performance, but received me. During my performance, the audience stood on that line with me, and cried. Thank you.

So many tears were shed during the course of rehearsing for this play, because the memories were so real it hurt. Three days ago, I couldn’t sleep till 3 in the morning. And on Monday, when Lines were cut, when a little girl’s Voice and her Story were erased, it more than shortened the play, it invalidated the heart behind those Lines, and fragile things fell apart, broke. Lines were still cut, but those cut on Monday were added back because they were Real. You cannot give fake things to an audience. It is not right.

This had to be done. I nearly wanted nothing to do with it. But I agreed to be involved in the scriptwriting, acting, conceptualizing, only because I knew this had to be done. This, releasing Real Stories and Real Emotions into the world had to be done.

This performance meant so much to me because it was True to us. We went ahead with it even though it was controversial, edgy, and even though we knew it wasn’t mainstream entertainment. We stuck to it because we believed in it, wanted to tell the stories True to our hearts. And because of it, because we were True to the Story and went over-time, we weren’t afraid of being disqualified. Because of it, I joined this small-scale, far less glamourous production instead of an upcoming large-scale, glitzy act which I couldn’t connect with in the same True way.

D, the director and a good friend of mine, had asked me at the beginning about his concept for the play, and said, “ I know this is a controversial, serious play. Won't go down well with a lot of people. I want to tell you about it, and if even you don’t think it’ll work out, I won't do it.”

When I heard it, I said, “Do what is True to you, because art is precisely that. ” And you did, D. You pulled this whole thing off. You inspired me, because more than anyone else, you stood on the line and were unafraid of the consequences. You are so brave, a True artist.

Every time we re-enact our past, acknowledge it, breathe it into life, we release some of it into the world, and connect with the people who receive it. Maybe this is what art is, then. It is about putting Real things about yourself on the line, re-presenting a part of yourself to others, and hoping that somewhere down the line, they would be brave, too, and put themselves on the line- with you. Art that is Real connects people, makes people think about things, makes people brave enough to be Vulnerable with you. And as an artist, when you release something Real into the world, it makes you a better person.

A better person. What does it mean.

Today, I have released it. I have released that part of my past into the world, and I am happy.

“ Hey Wai Jia, that was a very moving performance, made more stirring by the reality behind it. Thanks for making me think about life, and being grateful for the blessings I have…”

And so it is all worth it. Art that is Real, art that is honest and from the heart makes people, both the artist and the audience, better people. Maybe this is what it is all about. It's about being honest, bridging the Gap, putting yourselves on the line, making connections, and helping one another become True people, True-er to ourselves, and to the world around us.

I am happy.

Orang Minyak (our new hero)

I believe we have come a time that we MALAYSIANS require new heroes in our lives. Heroes that are truly Malaysian. Brought up, created, and filled with Malaysian moral and culture values.

Forget about Spider Man. Because its all foreign!!



Forget about Bat Man too. Another foreign hero!



Forget about Superman as well.(very obscene for our Malaysian standard and foreign as well)


We want! I SAY AGAIN!! WE WANT MALAYSIAN HEROES TO LOOK UP TO!

We want to see our kids run around trying to emulate one of our very own created heroes built with moral values that makes a true Malaysian.

and guess what??

Its already happening.

Currently at the moment, we have the Cicak Man.



If you miss this show!!SHAME ON YOU!!!Buy a copy NOW!!! from any DVD shop or download if you can (that's if you can find one because its a limited edition)

Apparently, there were alot of Malaysian fans who looked up to cicak-man.


I mean, Cicak Man even had to go against the enemies from Matrix Reloaded 2!! Remember the twins?? How COOL IS THAT!!!



With overwhelming response from Malaysians, the production company decided to come up with CICAK MAN 2 due to be released next year 2008.

NEXT YEAR????

That's tooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO long isn't it!!WE CAN'T WAIT THAT LONG!!I SOOOOOO WANT TO WATCH CICAK MAN 2 ALREADY!!!

Our country is developing so fast!! We can't just depend on one hero!!!

Well behold everyone!!

We now have the....

THE MINYAK MAN!!



due in theaters next months (November 2007), YOU BETTER WATCH IT K!!! (Trailer)



Now, I really don't know what our young Malaysians going to do to follow their new found hero, but umm just a small advice, keep your cooking minyak


at a safe place k...

Ordinary Angel.

She cried on the train today, through the entire train journey home. Something that belonged to someone very, very little broke today, and for a moment, time stopped. It wasn't what it seemed. It wasn't what it seemed at all. This ran far deeper than she could explain to anyone.

I remember what L said before- that sometimes, people come completely undone due to some Tiny incident, not because of their reaction to the incident itself, but because of the power some past event holds over it. I knew what it was. I knew what it was. It ran deep, deeper than Black, deeper than a suicide off a valley.

Life has a funny way of turning itself on you.

Put yourself on the line, and don't be afraid to get hurt. Didn't that come from me? I did, as I always do, and today, I got hit by a train.

It ran too deep, too far back, to a place before the Blackness began. And when the Tiny incident pulled the trigger on an unexpectedly loaded gun, it surprised her, and everyone else there. It wasn't about what happened today. It was about what it collided into, what it broke. Maybe if you had sat by me on the train home, you would have understood a little better, what it was you didn't mean to break.

She allowed the tears only because she remembered what L had told her, that you have to let it out, that the reason for the Blackness before was that she never let the sadness out. She kept it inside, kept things in bottles, paintings, writings, but never used her Voice. The Tiny incident happened during a rehearsal for a play she was acting in today, when lines were cut, Voices removed. It wasn't the incident itself, but what it collided into, what it broke. It ran too deep, too far back, to a place before the Blackness began.

So she sat on the train seat, crying, face and neck aching through and through. It was the kind of crying that is not legal on clean, efficient, proper train carriages. It is the kind of crying that is only legal at church.

An angel came on board the carriage, sat beside her, and gave her tissue.

Out of all the people who saw what happened today, only you, Ordinary Angel, understood. It was the kind of crying only legal at church. You were a middle-aged, bespectacled ordinary angel with a receding hairline. With tissue and God's love.

What happened next touched me beyond description- you did what I do for strangers, what I have been doing, what I would have done if I had seen someone grieving on a blue plastic seat on a train carriage. You gave me a tiny booklet, something about God's forgiveness, and a little note with your name and number. And then you placed a small bottle of Evian water on my lap. In that Moment, you felt for me.

You did what I do for people. You reached out. You bridged the Fragile Gap. For me.

I was still undone, with snot all over myself, face and neck still aching. And then I took out a little card from my bag, from my stash of little cards I always carry around just in case a Stranger or a friend needs a note, a verbal hug. And then I wrote "Thank you. Thank you for giving out God's love," and left you the address of this space.

I want to thank you for bridging the Fragile Gap, for being brave to feel for me. It was first tissue, then a booklet, and a note, then a few very gentle words before I left you. Thank you for bridging that space, for reaching out, for putting yourself on the line you drew for me, from your heart to mine.

I thought I was done, thought the crying was done after the Blackness became light. But we are never done, we will never fully arrive, I think. Life is a journey from one station to the next, and just when we think we've reached the end, reached the terminal, we find ourselves going back to the start, where it all began. Some things, you have to re-grieve in order to let go. Re-grieve in different places so you can let go of it, in places you never even knew existed, grow up, become stronger.

But, she still needs to find her Voice. Why is her mouth always being stolen? In A Taste of Rainbow, an unprotected little girl loses her mouth.



Why does she keep losing things.

Ordinary angel, thank you for reaching out today. For drawing a line for her across a Fragile Gap, for standing on the line with her.

Train rides are special journeys.

"She searched high and low, but still, she could not find her mouth."

- A Taste of Rainbow

Sorry for not updating my blog

To my dear unique visitors (countable by fingers),


Sorry for not updating my blog again! Been sleeping early thus having no time to update my blog.



Anyway special thanks to you guys who has been regularly visiting my blog here even WHEN I HAVE NOT UPDATED IT FOR WEEKS NOW!!

Really appreciate it!!

With that, before ending my post, I would like to let you know how many things have happened around the world while you read my "sorry for not updating my blog" post.

Just to let you know, I REALLY REALLY APPRECIATE YOU FOR VISITING MY BLOG!!REALLY REALLY APPRECIATE IT!!

Visit the following website: -
World Clock (nope its not a spoofed up website)

Fragile Gaps

Most people think emotional fragility is a crippling weakness.

For a long time, I did too. It was only two days ago when a new light cast the shadow behind me.

We have always been told that emotional fragility can cripple us. Too soft, and you'll be hurt too much, too vulnerable, too inefficient, people say. Strangely, it is in those places where we have been hurt the most that can give birth to a peculiar brand of strength, if only we let it.

Last week, as I became more aware of the number of Moments in a day where a thought, a Tiny Incident, or an action by someone built up pressure behind my eyes, or triggered some unexpectedly full-bodied emotion, and I wondered whether, perhaps, this may be my greatest weakness or, deepest strength.

It could be a father playing with his daughter, a letter from a friend, or the sight of a couple holding hands-just holding hands. It could be an unexpected hug, a friend offering to explain a concept to me, a random compliment. It could be the sight of an old man by the steps of an MRT playing the harmonica, or an anorexic person walking by. There hardly passes a day where I dont find myself in a Moment.

It is then when I close my eyes and take a deep breath, enough to recollect myself, and not long enough to attract unecessary attention. If I am with no one, sometimes I just let the tears run.

So I wondered- is it the weak who feel too much, or the brave who do? The brave, because it is the brave who dare to love when they could be rejected, dare to feel when they could simply walk by, dare to pray when they simply see no possibilty of their innermost desires being answered. It is about putting ourselves on the line.

Is it the weak or the brave who do so.

Two days ago, on the train home, I decided. I decided that I would rather feel, feel too much, than to feel less, or not at all. I would rather Stop for someone than to be on my way, rather struggle with being on my way than not at all, rather stand up from my seat, attract the attention of all the seat-hungry commuters on the train carriage, walk inconveniently some 3 metres away to offer a seat to an old lady, only to face the embarrassment of being rejected- than not trying at all.

Two days ago, on the train home, I decided.

That day, I got a seat on the train during the rush-hour. Carrying my handbag, a huge plastic bag of props and costumes from my rehearsal, and my notes and books, I was thankful for it. My feet, trapped in insensible heels for the whole day, were tired. Then, the train stopped at an interchange, and people packed the carriages like sardines again. No old lady in sight. I heaved a sigh of relief.

Then I looked up. There was a man in front of me. He wasn't elderly, my father's age perhaps. He had grey hair, and was in his working attire. I looked at his grey hair. My father's age, I thought. Would I give up my seat for my father?

But I had too many things. Besides, he wasn't that old. He wasn't elderly.

But he could be tired. He could have had a long day. Anybody would have wanted a seat at that time of the day. You didn't have to be old. I remember a few years ago, my father came home one day to tell me at dinner time, almost embarrassedly, "Is my hair that grey? Someone offered me a seat on the train today. I was thankful for it, but... Is my hair really that grey?" I remember because it was one of those Moments where your eyes opened, and you suddenly realised your parents won't live forever. Daddies and mommies get old, too.

So many barries lay before us when we approach strangers. Today, someone told me, "It's not that I don't want to ask the tissue-selling auntie if she's had her lunch. I do, but I'm just... You know... sometimes people... "

So this is what it is about, isn't it. Rejection.

We stop loving and Stopping because we've been rejected. We stop praying because we think our wishes have been ignored. We stop tearing and crying because seeming weak is like being rejected by this strong, powerful world we live in. We put our love, dreams and pride on the line. Is it the weak who do so, or the brave?

With strangers, it is hard every time. Hard, in a different way because you never know how the old lady, roadside beggar, elderly commuter, depressed girl might respond. But it is also exciting, and it only becomes so when you put yourself on the line, and be willing to take that tiny risk. It is only but a Tiny risk, to feel for, pray for, love someone.

He wasn't elderly.

But perhaps it didn't matter whether he needed the seat or not. Perhaps it didn't matter if it was right or wrong for me to say anything. What mattered was, I thought, that we do not harden our hearts. We walk by, we don't Stop, we fear reaching out to someone because we put ourselves on the line, and the rejection can hurt so bad. But in truth, it is not the rejection that hardens us, but the fear of it. Strangers can turn down offers from us, but it is not that that hardens our hearts, really. When you do offer, your heart breathes, it becomes alive. What hardens our hearts, really, is the fear of rejection. It hardens when we don't even try.

We don't even try because we fear, and that is when suddenly, a little part, a Tiny part of our hearts die. It doesn't take much. But every time you want to reach out but don't, because of a bad experience- maybe a beggar went ballistic on you, an old lady was rude and unthankful- a Tiny part of us hardens.

Is it the weak or the brave who continue to feel, pray and love.

Finally, I opened my mouth, "Would you like my seat?"

"Oh! Why thank you! But I'm all right!" He smiled very widely.

I sat back down. Two stops later, the person next to me got off the train, and the grey-haired man plonked himself right next to me.

" Thanks for offering!" he said heartily, "Very kind of you." He was smiling, flipping through a motor-car magazine. "Are you a teacher?" he asked.


"You're most welcome." I smiled, wondering why this was the umpteenth time someone thought I was a teacher, "No, I'm a medical student."

"Medical student? Ah, I see. Very good! Become a doctor! What specialty are you thinking of? What kind of doctor do you want to become, like er... gynae, and er..."

"Actually, " I said, " I want to be a missionary doctor."

"Miss-ion-ary doctor, " he emphasized on the word. "I see! Tough job, a lot of sacrifice! Too much sacrifice!" He chuckled.

"No, not too much," I said, but I said it slowly, my smile was dim, as I realised the gravity of what I had just said, what it meant, what it implied.

I continued to read my book- A Love Worth Giving by Max Lucado. He saw my bible tucked under my book and continued, "Ahh, so, you're a good Christian!" He laughed, and I was embarrassed.

I turned red. "Well, I try to be," I said. There were a lot of people on the train. It was just the both of us talking. I felt myself go red. I continued to read.

"Wah, I have no time for God... I am a free-thinker, you know. No time! Only time for my boss!" He laughed jokingly. For some reason, I liked him. He was sincere, candid, and fatherly.

This time was my turn to laugh. "Of course there's time, Uncle. There always is. God made time, right?"

"Haha, yes. Time management ya?"


"Yes, Uncle."


Next stop. Kembangan.


"Sorry Uncle, I'm getting off here. How do I address you?"


"Chia. Just Chia."


" Take care Uncle Chia, it was nice talking to you."


"Thank you for your kindness. It was very nice talking to you too."

So maybe this is what it is.

It is about daring to put ourselves on the line to feel, to love, to give up a part of ourselves. If you walked by Someone and felt something, a hand inside you that grasped your heart gently, but let go because these sights were too common, too unnecessary, or it was just too awkward, a part of you hardens. A part of you hardens even if you don't want it to. But choose to Stop, and your heart won't, and in that Moment, you become powerful, real, alive again.

Why fear the rejection, when in truth, it is the hardening of our hearts that we should really be afraid of. Uncle Chia didn't need my seat, but that offer, that bridging of one gap between two people breathed both our hearts into life.

Every Encounter counts. Every time you choose to Stop, you create a Moment for yourself. It is these Moments which give us life, or a slow and silent death. When we do feel, when we do tear, cry, Stop, pray, love, are we weak, or are we brave?

Emotional fragility is only a weakness if we do not put it out into the world, make a difference, let it breathe life into our hearts. Why hold back the tears. Let it rain if you must.

Are we weak, or brave.

" A little rain can straighten a flower stem."

- Max Lucado

On Writing.

I came home from school in the evening, and found myself kneeling in front of my bed, crying. Not out of sadness, not out from frustration, even. Just crying because today, I understood a little more about what Love means. Crying, because something happened at school today, just a Tiny thing, and I just wondered to myself, again, if being so open about my experience on this space was Silly. If maybe, all those Big People were right, that for me to do write here, to put this book together, to talk to strangers to reach out to them was naive-

" You put yourself out there on the line like that. You think this world is as kind as you think? Okay, you do what you want, I can't stop you. But you're out there, vulnerable, baring your soul... People take advantage of that, you know? You're going to be a doctor. People out there will judge you. Friends becomes colleagues and bosses. People read so much into your life, see the kind of soul you are deep down inside... Who are these people? I just don't want you to get hurt."

So there I was on my knees, crying, thinking about the Tiny Incident which happened today which made me think about this all over again, and pouring myself into God, asking Him to give me enough strength to fill me, and crying more as I realised I had accepted this calling. I had accepted this task of reaching out to people. So hitting a hurdle and getting hurt in the process didn't justify stopping, or quitting, even, because from the beginning, I had accepted it as a call. Like being a missionary. The pang of hurt shot through me in a real way. I thought about the Tiny Incident at school today, and wondered if the Big People were right. That I put myself on the line, at a cost too high for me to bear.

More and more people are visiting this space and some of you, I don't even know. More will come. Some days, I cannot decide which is more awkward, to have friends or strangers read into my soul. But I write, I keep writing, with the Naive and simple faith that this is what I have been called to do. That this has a purpose. Some call it faith, a kind of nobility, sacrifice, stupidity... I just call it a calling. A task I was meant to fulfill, that is all. It is what it is- just like how it was with Kitesong, because I know I didn't have in me to be selfless and self-sacrificial. So I write, I keep writing, still. That is all.

Of course I feel vulnerable. But aren't we all?

That post was a dynamite that exploded in my face, because so many of you have come to tell me how much you disagree with it, or had never looked at it that way before. Still, I hold my stand. And today I understood what Love means, just a little more.

I was there, on my knees, crying, and wiping my tears, when I realised that there is only one kind of love that never fails you. People can disappoint. They can judge, assume and sometimes manipulate your fraility. Sometimes they say things they don't mean because they love you or think they are in love with you, and then you have to forgive them because they didn't mean not to mean what they said when they said what they said.

So I was there pouring out my heart to God, unfolding myself at His feet, when a sense of peace started to seep into me. And I continued to cry because I was so thankful for the one constant in this world- God's love, the Love that never disappoints, never changes, never fails. If this is a calling, and I am fulfilling it, then He will take care of the rest- and of me. I hold on to that rainbow I saw that day, that very special one, and remember what it means in the bible. God's promise. A rainbow is God's promise- A Taste of Rainbow will happen.

It is those who are broken who become strong. To be strong, being broken is a pre-requisite.

I picked myself up from the floor, thanking God for this whole experience and opened my inbox to find an email from a Beautiful Stranger, sent to me today:

Hi Wai Jia,

Although this may sound weird coming from a total stranger, but I felt that I needed to tell you my thoughts. I have been reading your blog (got the blog address from a friend) and I really hope that you would continue holding onto your faiths and beliefs and also reaching out to those who need help.

It hurts a little when I read about how you suffered while being anorexic, because it kind of reminded me of my injury a few years ago and how I tried to live in denial and isolated myself from many others who were concerned but did not know how to show it. It's because, to me, the part which I find the hardest to cope with was when people do try to understand, but they read too much into it and think that they actually understand 100% of it when in reality, they don't. And that made me lonely.

That aside, I was very touched when I read about how you approached the girls who were suffering from anorexia. I was really thankful too, because you did what I wanted to do but never had the courage to take that one step out. Thank you so much =) ...

... It would be a pleasure to meet you someday, and I would like to know if it's possible for me to buy a copy of your book. I am not a Christian, but I really hope that I will be able to read your book. And yes, I like your drawings as well. I think they are great.

All the best and take good care =)

Yours sincerely,
J


Of all days, I receive this email today, when I was on my knees regarding this. Of all days.

Thank you J. Thank you for your email. An online, animated version of Kitesong is on the way, and I will post it here in time to come.

If I had based it on my feelings alone, I would have stopped writing a long time ago. Love is a choice. I write because of God's Love. That is all.

" Where do you find the time and energy to do all these things? Exams coming, you're female lead for this play- don't you ever get tired?"

I am human. Of course I do. But remember the little boy, and his bread and fish? We are that bread, remember? Broken up in God's hands, remember? And when the people were all blessed by it, and filled by it, all five thousand of them, there were twelve basketfuls left over.

So I write. I keep writing. Some days, the breaking, the turning yourself inside out for a cause you believe in hurts. Of course it does. But Love is a choice. And I made that choice when I accepted that calling.

Thank you all for every note, email, text message, and conversation that you have encouraged me with. You are no stranger to me, only a friend I had not yet known till today. I want you to know that for every person who has been touched in some way or another through this space, you have been the reason why their life has been touched too. As much as people have been encouraged and inspired, I have been by you too.

So I keep writing. Because after the people were filled, there were twelve basketfuls leftover. Still.

God's love is enough.

" They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces of bread and fish. The number of men who had eaten were five thousand."

- Mark 6: 42-44

Five thousand people.

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.

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

Waiting here.

It used to be so painful, this Waiting. An empty space between here and there, a dream and reality, my heart and Yours. An empty space pregnant with uncertainty. A prayerful but wordless, unanswered empty space.

It used to be a writhing, tormenting pain, bordering on unbearable.

When we were little, we were dying to grow up- "I WANT TO BE BIG!!" When we were bigger, we wanted to be bigger, still. When we are finally Big, we wonder how we ever crossed the empty space, and wonder if maybe, we could go back to the start?

When am I going to be a doctor. When am I going to become a missionary. When am I going to be whole and complete. When am I going to be brave enough to give part of my heart away to someone other than God, if ever. When am I going to Grow Up and become this terrifyingly beautiful idea of a Woman, whose shoes are so big I am afraid my feet may never be able to fill them. When is A Taste of Rainbow going to be published. Will it ever?

It is the waiting that kills, and suffocates. Not a strangulating kind of suffocation, but the kind that sits on your chest like a heavy barrel, the kind that presses onto you like a clear, hot day, leaving you oppressed and breathless with its cloudlessness.

An empty space between here and there,
a dream and reality,
my heart and Yours.

An empty space

pregnant with
uncertainty.
A wordless, prayerful, unanswered

empty space.

The Wait was so bad she could not sleep for several nights last week.

Today, at church, a cloud lifted and suddenly, the empty space was filled with colours and smells and life and Happy Things.

She is enjoying it now, this empty space. We are so used to running through it, desperate for the end. But she is enjoying it now, this empty space, swinging her legs on a swing from a cloud. Why the mad, mad rush for the end?

Today, she learned- Waiting isn’t a space between here and there, dream and reality, one heart and another's.

Waiting isn’t a space. It is a place. A place to be still, and exult in, so Time can make us ready for the Time ahead. If only we’d learn to be still, and patient, Faith fills the space with swings and Happy things, and really, it isn’t so unbearable after all. When the space is filled with faith, it becomes a place.

It is a nice place.

Growing Up.

I went to speak to people at Dove today. Dove, Singhealth and Singapore General Hospital are the three big groups working together to raise awareness about positive body image, eating disorders and the causes of depression underlying them. The last draft of A Taste of Rainbow is ready, and now, I have to decide how it will be used, to whom it will reach out to, where the money will go, how much needs to be raised. Dove has a Campaign for Real Beauty going on, and is working with SGH on raising public awareness of eating disorders as well.

When you truly understand a condition because you've been through it yourself, spotting the signs in others becomes easier and easier. Today on campus, within a span of 3 hours, I saw four people suffering from what I used to- anorexia.

Three hours. Four people.

One was so thin I turned around to watch her walk away because my heart was wrenched. I stood there, rooted, overwhelmed. The pressure built up behind my eyes. It hurt me in a real way, because I understood.

On my way to the Dove headquarters, I sat down on a bench to round up some homework. I looked up, and there in front of me, I saw you, thin. I understood. I didn't even know you. I wanted to get on my way. And then I remembered about our loving people the way God loves us, the way we need to Stop for every one. I was crazy enough to go up to you to introduce myself. Of all the Encounters I have had, I had the most difficulty with this one, because I understood and I was anxious of the reaction I might face.

"Hello, " I smiled my Nice smile. "I know you think Im probably crazy, and I don't mean to imply anything but hi, I'm a second-year medical student... I'm well, yea, I suffered from depression last year and lost a lot of weight."

By this point, your eyebrows were raised, you were frowning a little and I could see anxiety and shock and bewilderment all over your face. I was very worried. When my own best friends had confronted me about my rapid and slippery weight loss, I was in denial and very, very hostile. I had to stop for a while to think, and the silence was very awkward, but I continued. Come on Wai Jia. You can do this. With a sincere heart, surely Love will not fail you. Love will beget love. I shared my life story in 5 minutes, told you about my past depression and counselling experience, my anorexia and recovery, told you about the support group I attend at SGH, and gave you my blog address.

I was getting really worried. God, sincere love never fails, right? Please God help me. My last words were, "I just wanted to come over to tell you that I understand. And that you’re not alone. I know you think I’m probably crazy, but I just want you to know God loves you and that you’re not alone.” At the end of my stuttering, silly monologue, she looked at my blog address and smiled.

"This is familiar. Kitesong. You were on the papers right?" she said.

I laughed. She actually knows me?! Thank you God! She doesn't think I'm crazy! Sincere love never fails.

She said, “Actually, after my therapy I recovered. This is my first relapse. Your story… it’s very inspiring.”

I melted. Sincere Love never fails. Why was I even afraid in the first place?

I had never been to an office quite like Dove’s before. It was large, spacious, very modern and pulsating with life and energy. Bright colours, advertisements with beautiful people on their walls, free ice-cream for all staff and a bubbling sense of creativity and vibrance oozed from every corner. This was DOVE. Sharp, cutting-edge, big multi-national company Dove with their Global Campaign for Real Beauty.

Armed with my paintings of my book-to-be, I felt very small. I was wearing a sundress today because I felt like it. And I felt very, very small. Like a very, very little girl in a little-girl's girly sundress.

The lady from Singhealth, A, came along too. There were four of us. A, myself and the two brand managers from Dove.

“Okay, “ they said. “Tell us.” The trio looked at me.

I was very calm. I felt very small, but I wasn’t afraid. Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified, I remembered from the bible.

I told them my idea of using the book to raise funds and awareness of people with eating disorders, I told them my hope to use this to reach out to school children, told them I liked their Bodytalk programme, which targets Secondary 2 school children and teaches them about positive body and mental health, and about eating disorders. I told them about how I had spoken to SGH, and how I thought the three of us, SGH, Dove and myself should synergise our efforts to work something out. I told them what my publisher thought. I told them everything I felt, sincerely, in my little-girl sundress and my Grown-Up Voice.

“ I liked your first book very much, tell us how you went about doing that.”

I was very calm. And Very Grown Up even though in reality, I was just a little-girl in a white and pink sundress in a huge and busy office talking to Important People who were working on a Regional Campaign, part of a global multi-national company.

I remembered Kitesong, and then I didn’t feel so small anymore. Not because I thought I was great, but I thought, God made the impossible possible for me and the children in Nepal. He did.

A took the train with me after we left Doves office. She looked at me and said, “You are a very, very strong young lady.” And I laughed, because only I knew how weak I was during the times where I was going through the depression and self-destruction. Even now, I am always having moments where I need minutes to myself in a day just to cry. She took me aside and told me many things, and when I got home, I started to cry. Again.

In that room, I was so strong, she said. I was so Grown-Up and Steady I scared myself.

In a few months, I think I have grown up. And I never would have imagined myself having the audacity to call up Singhealth, SGH and Dove to tell them about a Silly idea that I had. But the Singhealth lady said it would work. SGH said it would work. My publisher said it would work. Now I’m waiting for Dove. So I was crying because I realize this is what it means to grow up- to just believe with all your heart in what you believe in, trust in the calling that God has called you to, and in the midst of uncertainty and doubt, to just be patient, just wait and just have faith. I was crying because I know if my ex-college friends had heard me in that room with that Grown-Up Voice, they would not have been surprised because I spoke and acted that way when I was vice-president of the students’ council, when I was over-achieving and selfish and self-sufficient. But now I see so clearly I wasn’t grown up then, even though I had seemed like it. I wasn;t grown up at all. Then, I was insecure, needy, controlling and desperate to be validated. But in that room today, I didn’t care. I was who I was, and if they didn’t buy it, God would help me find another way to use this book because Sincere Love never fails.

“I like this book idea,” the Dove-man said. “I like it. I need to set up a meeting with the people on our side and I’ll email you after. We’ll see how things work out.”

We’ll see how things work out.

"The goal of this command is love, which comes from a pure heart, and a good conscience and a sincere faith."

- 1 Timothy 1: 5

Friends.

A beautiful day ought to be immortalised.

It's funny how we grow up backwards. Do you remember the time when you were a child, needy for attention, and how you would tell over and over again about how great that trip to the zoo was, or how much you liked that ice-cream, or how you had a fantastic day at school because you got a special stamp that nobody else had? Children say it over and over and over again, rhythmically, in the excess, not absence of life. Children recount happy things, repeatedly, untiringly, not because of their boredom, but because of their abundance. Every recount is a new experience, a memory further polished to sparkle ever more brightly, a fresh distillation. It gets more special every time.

It's funny how we grow up and lose that strength to exult in this repetition. We do, we do repeat things- but not the way children do. Children repeat to give life into their memory, we repeat to flog it till its dead. For we resurrect old things, bad things, again and again, and we excuse one another in the understanding that it is called venting. We all understand when Big People rant on blogs, and they are excused. But to write about a good and happy day? Oh, then that's just plain cheesy, or has she run of things to write about?

A beautiful day ought to be immortalised. And beauty can lie in the tiniest, deepest and most superficial of things. So at the risk of sounding cheesy, silly or awful and narcisstic even, this Happy Day will be immortalised here.

List of things that made today a Happy day: (in chronological order)

1. A HUG! A FREE HUG!
The day had barely started and I was just sitting there, when you came over and wrapped your arms around my shoulder, drowning me in my own wonder and joy and sweet surprise. Hugs are the bestest thing in the world. But an unexpected one? Wow, that goes through the roof.


2. from L:
"Thank you for being such a blessing, Jia."


3. I walk into the lecture theatre, and find my seat. I overhear a joke but dont understand it.
from M:
"Haha, you don't get it? Sigh... it's just like you... It just shows how selfless you are. By the way, you look great in that top."


4. from K during lunch time:
"Oh yeah, thanks for that email... You know it came just at the perfect time when I was feeling down that day."


5. from M, just suddenly, out of the blue:
" Yea, you're a very attractive young lady. " You smiled.

Now WHERE ON EARTH DID THAT COME FROM.


6. I remembered the past week of emails that I had received and realised just how blessed I am to have friends like you all. Four special emails last week. One on Wednesday from a stranger telling me his life story who has now become a friend, not one, not two but three sweet emails on Thursday.

It's not even my birthday.

So there. Children do it. They talk about Silly Things like a Terrific stamp on their spelling book or a special flower they saw during playtime today, over and over, beaming with pride and oozing with happiness about the simplest of things, bringing new life into their recounts each time, as each recount fills them with life in turn.

So I'm taking a brave step to do it today. Oh, the vulnerability one feels to share about what makes one happy. The tiniest of things makes one seem inadequate or needy or absolutely mushy. How superficial we all are after all. Im not complaining.

Today is a Happy Day. Not merely because of what you said, but because of the intention and the heart behind the things expressed.

All this happened in one day. My mind has yet to fathom how so many beautiful things can be lavished on one person in one day. What did I do to deserve Friends like you all?

She was walking into the attic by herself, looking dejectedly for a lost teddy bear to hug when suddenly, the lights came on and everybody jumped out with presents and confetti and flowers and hugs.

There was so much love in the air today.

Thank you all. I don't know what I've done to deserve Friends like you. All this from you all in one day.

8 October 2007. Monday. Today is a Special Day, a Special normal day.

It's not even my birthday.

What did I do to deserve friends like you?

Thank you God. HUG.

Can I help you?

“ Go away, I’m okay! I want to go home! I neeeeed my injection now!” she pleaded in Mandarin.

I was on my way to school today, walking across the overhead bridge, when 2 men crouching over a woman sitting on the steps caught my eye. Her hand was clutching her chest, and her face was twisted into a picture on agony, as if she were writhing inside. She was clearly in distress, unable to get up, and saying over and over, “I want my injection, I WANT TO GO HOME.”

I spoke in Mandarin to her. “Xiao Jie, ni shen me shi? Shen me wen ti?” (Miss, are you all right? What’s the matter?”

One of the men, a Caucasian, said to me, “She needs an insulin jab!” He rushed back to the MRT control station to get security- but whatever for, I still can’t figure out.

The other man was with me, a young Chinese lad, trying to convince the lady to go to the hospital. In frustration, and with a lot of effort, she finally heaved herself off the steps and started to amble very clumsily across the overhead bridge. She was agitated, defensive even. Stubbornly, she said over and over, “I WANT TO GO HOME. I NEED MY INJECTION. I WANT TO TAKE BUS 74. TAKE ME TO THE BUS STOP!!”

I walked with her, pleading to take her to the hospital. “I don’t think you’ll make it home on a bus like this,” I said, “ Its dangerous. I’ll take you to NUH. It won’t be very expensive.” She was clad in very simple, slightly dirty clothes. People were watching us as I pleaded with her. People were passing us by. The Chinese lad followed closely behind us.

She refused us defiantly. As I walked with her, pleading with her in mandarin, I was anxious, frustrated, at a loss. “I’ll get you a cab, all right?” I said. Xiao Jie, ke yi ma? (Is that okay, Miss?)

It was the morning rush hour and all the cabs that passed us were hired. As she held onto her chest more tightly, she was finding it harder to talk, harder to stand, and harder to carry on a conversation. She was getting increasingly hostile. “NO CAB! I WANT TO TAKE BUS 74! BUS 74 TO HOUGANG!!”

When we finally hailed down a cab, I said to the driver, “Hougang please, as fast as you can.” I was about to get into the cab with the lady to send her home, when he shouted back, “No, not Hougang! Too far! I’m in a rush!”

“Please Uncle! She’s about to faint, she needs to get her medication!” I was distraught myself. The two men there, hovering, and the lady in distress, looking like she could faint any moment, pleading with me to let her take the bus, made me anxious, worried, flustered.

“No, no time! Not Hougang!! I’m rushing!” He yelled back to me.

I was mortified. And mad. But more than anger, a profound disappointment and peculiar acceptance swept over me. I wonder if the driver saw my face. If he did, I wonder what he would have felt. I told him the lady was about to faint. Needed to get home to take her medicine. No time, he said. No time.

When the next cab came, we finally convinced her to get into it and the two men and myself paid for the fare in advance. “Can I come with you?” I asked the lady.

“NO PLEASE DON’T! LET ME BE, I’LL BE OKAY! I CAN STAND IT TILL I GET HOME!!”

I told the taxi driver to step on it, to take her straight back and to walk her to her home. I was about to get into the cab myself, when the lady yelled for me not to. I asked for her number, told her to pick up my call when I called her later.

The Caucasian man left shortly after, and the Chinese lad and myself watched the taxi drive away.

I was distraught. Had we done the right thing? Perhaps we should have sent her directly to NUH, which was just ten minutes away? Perhaps we should not have listened to her and should have accompanied her straight home? Why didn’t I do that? I got her into a cab against her wishes, but because of better judgement, so why didn’t I send her to the hospital?

As I watched the taxi leave, I felt a great crushing burden bear down upon me. Had we done enough. Had we done the right thing.

“Did we do the right thing? Do you think she’ll be okay?” I asked the Chinese lad. “What do you do?”

“Yes, I think you did the right thing, putting her into a cab. Actually I think she needs to be warded. Not sure if she’ll make it home in time looking at her condition-she needs a drip actually. I’m a medical officer.”

“You’re a what?” I was bewildered, enraged almost. “You’re a medical officer, you knew all this, and you didn’t even insist?! WHY!!!! Why didn’t you insist, why didn’t you do anything? You KNEW all this!” I was mad, I was almost in tears, and I didn’t care if people at the bus-stand were all staring at us. It was very crowded.

“Well, “he said matter-of-factly, “She refused right? And besides, we did our best.”

“We did our best? You had knowledge of what had to be done and kept it to yourself- you think that’s doing our best? Hello. What we just did was the most basic, human, decent thing to do- and I’m not even sure right now if it even hit that mark, not even sure if we did the right thing. How can you say we did our best?” I was trying not to be hysterical. But I had lost my mind, I was mad.

He looked at me. I could tell he was a decent man. He knew I was a second year medical student, knew I was naïve and idealistic but he never scoffed at me. He only kept saying we tried our best, that there is nothing doctors can do if patients are non-compliant.

I argued. There is something we can do. Our knowledge helps us to know when to exercise our insistence. She could have passed out. What if she doesn’t make it later? How would you feel? Too many thoughts were running through my head for the tears to stream down.

Our bus came. As I sat on the seat with him, traumatized and very very still, I thought of the story of the Good Samaritan written in the Bible. It was about how a man had been mugged by some bandits, and left injured by the roadside. A priest and temple assistant passed him by. It was a Samaritan, a man of low social class, who stopped. He Stopped for the injured man, took him to an inn, and paid the innkeeper, even telling the innkeeper that he would bear whatever extra cost the injured man may incur. That was love, that was doing his best.

Did we not show enough love, give enough help? I thought of the silent medical officer, the Caucasian who just stuffed ten dollars into my hands for the taxi fare before rushing off, the taxi driver who had no time, my lack of better judgement perhaps, and the tears welled up behind my eyes. Had all my time at church learning and reading been a waste? God had told us to love one another, strangers even, as deeply as we can. Did we do the right thing? Did we do enough?

Tears started to well up behind my eyes.

“I think you did the right thing,” he said.

I called the lady with the number she had given me. No answer. I wanted to cry. At once, she called me back, sounding distraught herself but a little relieved.

“Harlow? I’m at Queensway Polyclinic. Taxi Uncle drive me here ya. I’m taking a number now, seeing doctor. Ya ya, buh bye.”

So I didn’t cry.

“This I must tell you, all right,” I said, trying to sound gentle. “ As a doctor, if you have knowledge, you have to use it and exercise it. It’s not right to have knowledge and not align your actions with it. Okay?”

He looked at me and smiled. “Okay.”

Silence.

“You’re very passionate,” he said.

I told him the story of the Good Samaritan. We left each other.

When I got to school, my mind was in a mess. The fact that she was all right didn’t change the fact that I had to think about the principle behind what we did. Was it right. Was it done out of love. Most importantly, did we go all out to help? Most people help, but God tells us to go all the way, as far as we can. What does it mean to go all the way? Did we? Did I? Did I try hard enough.

I thought of the things we said, things we did, and thoughts behind what we said and did and wonderied if we had altogether lost our bearings.

I wanted a room to myself to bangbangbang the walls, vent it all out. I reached school, and I figured I had been too traumatized by that early morning’s events to carry on with the day. I was early, so I changed into my running gear and ran round the whole campus before class started, thinking, thinking, thinking. Came back in time for bible study with my friends- the topic was, Loving Others Fervently.

How we have all fallen short.

"The Parable of the Good Samaritan"
- Luke 10: 25-37"

' If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear children, let us not love in word or in tongue but with actions and in truth. "
- 1 John 3:17-18

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.' This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbour as yourself.'
-Matthew 22

Places.

In my email inbox today:


"Dear Wai Jia,


Based on what I’ve been reading from your blog, you must have had your fair share of being in touch with people with all the problems and depression etc. I guess, I should not be that much of a shock then.



Basically, i attempted suicide by an overdose of drugs… I was rushed to the hospital that evening..."



Thank you for sharing with me all that you’ve been through. The terrible mood swings, aggressive behaviour, sudden bursts of tears, self-hurt and pain, the exasperation with your family and relationships, and the million little pieces inside of you which you’re trying to recollect… I understand.

I understand.

Thank you for sharing your heart with me. I know your language of pain, and the colour of Blackness. I don’t know you, I’ve never even met you. I cannot even try to say I understand fully what you’ve been through. But I want to tell you to hold on, and to be brave.

This is a phase. And it will pass.

The reason why we want to cut the rope, snuff the candle and want all this all to end is because we think the darkness is forever. But friend, I promise you, this is only temporary. It is a passing, a test, a place we walk to and leave from. We choose how long we want to stay in that place, in the centre of that storm. Sometimes we think the darkness will never end. But it will. I promise you, it will.

I know you believe in God because you wrote so and I need you to know God is always there. In the darkness, he is always there. Maybe in the times of extreme emotion, it is as if God is hidden, or evil or just... not there. But He is, I promise you.

Someone once told me that peacock feathers are made from peacocks eating thorns. Sometimes life is like that- It is the harshest things we take in that ultimately contribute to our beauty, and strength. I need you to know there is a reason for all of this happening, need you to know that God never gives us more than we can bear, and most importantly, I need you to know that deep inside of you, you have what it takes to turn this all around, and to find your reason for holding on.

Have you seen the rainbow after the storm.

It took me ten years to walk through it. Ten years of darkness sifting through light, fumbling, stumbling, crying and sometimes walking. Mostly, I never knew who God was. It was only 2 and a half years ago when I did. And when I did, sometimes, I doubted if God cared. I asked him why. All the time I asked Him why, just like how you may do too.

But I am here now. I have arrived. The process is not easy. It can be excruciatingly painful, what with all the counseling and delving into one’s past and childhood trauma, but the paradox is this. The deeper you delve into your pain, the more profound the release and the greater the fulfillment you will experience in your breakthrough. I need you to be brave and walk through this emotional journey with your counsellor, find out where things went wrong, release the emotions, come to a place of forgiveness, acceptance and total breakthrough. I'm so glad you're seeing someone professional who is helping you through this. You have taken the bravest step of all.

Courage is not the absence of fear. It is moving forward in spite of it. It is moving out against your odds and believing in what you used to, God. It is believing that every day, you are learning about the meaning of strength in suffering, resilience in despair.

As long as you believe, all this will come to good someday. The world is so, so huge. There are many people waiting for your recovery and victory, so that after the storm, you can run free in the rain, and help those caught in the onslaught. Someday, you will see how all this will come to work for good, how it will shape you to be the kind of man you always wanted to be, sensitive, understanding, compassionate. I need you to see that one day, this experience will help you reach out to someone who needs help. One day, you will become somebody's hero.

I’m not asking you to be a hero overnight. What I’m asking you to do is to live bravely, one day at a time, spending five, ten minutes each day in quietude, believing that God is with you. I am asking you to use this experience to gain a deeper understanding of your inner man, and to explore his hurts, his strengths and his dreams. It may not seem like much, it may seem like nothing at all, but God is here with you- He really is.

I need you to see there is a reason for all of this, and that a beautiful place awaits ahead of you. You will reach it if you make a daily choice to live bravely, every day. In moments of desperation, profound frustration and wild, crazy madness, I need you to learn how to love yourself, to take a breather, to be strong and reject the alcohol, and to write your emotions out, because God loves you to the moon and back.

I know you can. I have arrived here, and every day, there is nothing more I want to do than to live. You will reach here too. I know you can. Be brave.

I’m here now aren’t I.

Life is never about staying in one place. We are always moving, and I need you to know God doesn't intend to make a house in the place where you're at now.



" My attempt at communicating with you, to put it bluntly, is... I wanna get out of the hole i'm in now and i need a hand which i can relate to for help. Thanks for listening. Hope to hear from you soon."





Thank you for writing. This is God’s hand I’m giving to you. Remember what I said about roads leading to places. Be strong, take courage.

from A Taste of Rainbow

" 'Do not fear, for I am with you; Do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, I will help you; Surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand."

-Isaiah 41:10

Choices.

" We should stop every single time, for each person."

- Stop for the dying, Always Enough

by Heidi Baker

I was running by myself yesterday, enjoying the wind in my face as I watched the sky melting into evening. I ran fast and light, and turned back to head home. It felt so good to run without my knees hurting like they used to, I thought. Being recovered feels so good.

And as I carried my feet, sprinting back, I saw you plodding past me. I ran past you, my head twisted and my eyes fixated on your back because of what I saw. You were running, or trying to. I watched your back as you jogged away. I was shocked.

I saw a lady so thin her bones were jutting out at her shoulders, elbows and neck and her legs were like toothpicks. As she jogged, I saw how her legs were so thin her knees were bowed outwards and her hips wobbled forwards and backwards as she plodded forward. I recognised that frame and what it meant- I never was that thin, but I had seen enough people at the eating disorder support group and I had remembered what the doctor had told me when he explained that it was neither my genes, nor my exercise regime, but rather my anorexia, that was the main cause of my hip and knee pains.

I ran past her towards home, my heart aching, as I thought of all the emaciated patients at the support group in the hospital and their shriveled, pained bodies, ravaged by emotional and nutritional deprivation. What was I to do? Who did I think I was? I can't go around telling people how to live their lives! If I did approach her, what would I say? That I thought she had an eating disorder, that she was destroying her body, that she ought to get help? I thought of the possibly hideous outburst that could break out as she screamed at my audacity to even suggest such a thing. She might curse me, swear at me, or simply say I was crazy and downright nosy and disrespectful. How dare I say such a thing to her. How dare I.

I remembered my explosive outburst when a close friend had suggested that I had anorexia. Incredulous, I thought. You crazy? And this is the reason why anorexia is considered one of the most difficult illnesses to treat- more than anything, it is characterized by self-denial.

We must have been almost half a kilometre apart when I turned back to watch her back again.

I’ve walked up to complete strangers before, haven’t I? I've asked an Uncle not to smoke because it would hurt him, and he was grateful, right? I did it once, I could do it again, I thought. What was the worst that could happen? She could morph into a three-headed monster, unleash a woman's scorn and fury in all its full glory and hurt my pride, wound my good intentions. I could take that... right?

My legs had slowed down, but I continued to run in the opposite direction away from her. No, God, don't make me do this. I'm a good person in other ways, but please don't make me do something stupid like this. I'm not Mother Teresa. Please no, don't be stupid. It's late and Im running home now, okay? This is so silly.

Right there as I bargained with God in my head, my heart started to ache as I thought of my own hypocrisy. Here I am, going against some odds to publish A Taste of Rainbow to reach out to people suffering from eating disorders, and right there I was running away from someone right under my nose potentially in need of help, someone whose life could possibly be changed, but whom I was willing to let go because I was what- I was afraid?

Oh no, God. Please don’t make me do this.

" We should stop every single time, for each person."

Suddenly, I remembered what Heidi Baker, a missionary to Mozambique, Africa had written in her book. All the time, we are walking past the needy, she wrote, but what we really need to do is Stop.

Was it that difficult? Why are we always in a rush, and why don’t we have time to ask if that old lady begging by the roadside has had her lunch? If we’ve time to study and to eat, why don’t we have time to stop for the needy and dying. Most people here aren’t so poor that they’re about to die any moment, but they’re dying and hurting inside, and why don’t we have time, love, courage to just stop. Stop every single time, for each person. What's the worst that could happen? They could curse, spit, go absolutely ballistic on us, and so what? So what.

Despite the angel in my head winning the argument, every fibre of me wanted to head home. But right at that moment, I turned 180 degrees and started to catch up with the lady. God, I thought, where this audacity is coming from I don’t know, but if this what Love for others means, then fine, teach me, cos my heart ain't that big.

I finally caught up with her because she was so slow, and when I did, I ran ahead of her, pretending I was just, running. Pretend you’re just running and mind your own business, I thought to myself, Go home, Wai Jia, go home. Don't be stupid. Maybe she's just naturally very very thin, and was born with bowed knees and wobbly hips.

My mind went blank, and what possessed me to head back and run by right next to her, and blurt out involuntarily, in between breaths and pants- “Hello! You training for an upcoming Run?” – only God knows.

I tried to smile my Nice smile, the kind of smile I use on strangers, and when I want you to like me.

She looked a little surprised, and then replied, “Yes, in fact I am, for the Great Eastern Women’s Run at the end of the month. I’m doing the 5km Fun Run.”

“Oh really? Me too heh.”

We started a conversation while jogging on the spot.

“ Hm.... your knees all right there?” I asked. I hesitated, and then I said, “ You know, well… Im not sure… but… yea… when I saw you running… I just thought, well…maybe, cos you know, I suffered from it before when I lost a lot of weight… and yea, do your legs, your knees… and maybe your hips… do they hurt when you run?” My whole face had crinkled into a prune and right away, my legs wanted to dash off in an Olympic-timed sprint. WHAT WAS I SAYING? My mind was blank as I haphazardly and clumsily strung the words together.

“Yes, actually, my knees do feel a bit twingey! I took some glucosamine but it helped only a little… how do you know my knees hurt? And hi, I’m J.” She smiled.

“Oh yes, I'm Wai Jia. Nice to meet you, heh. Well, cos actually, a while back... I sort of under-ate and overtrained, and when my knees started to hurt, I found out it was because of anorexia, you know? The weight loss causes bone-wasting and pain at the joints… I’m just wondering, were you born with a low body weight?” Clumsy, I felt I was treading on a mine-field, and any moment, something would explode.

She was surprised at my concern, and as we chatted more, I asked the most important question of all. “ Are you troubled by anything?”

“Yes, actually, a couple of stresses… ” Her smile dissolved and her face fell immediately.

In 3 minutes, I shared my experience with her, and found out she was working, training for a run, losing her appetite. She lived across the road from me, and attended a church nearby. We talked more, and finally she said, “You jogging here next week too? Hope to see you again… Thanks so much for stopping by to talk… I really appreciate it. Thank you… But... why…?” Upon knocked knees, she looked at me and smiled.

“Well… heh… I was jogging home actually, nearing reaching it… and then… well, I felt God asking me to turn back to tell you that He loves you and that no trouble in your life is too big to overcome. Hope you'll find your appetite for life again. ” I said it all in one breath and my face flushed with embarrassment. By then, I had no trouble giving her my Nice smile because my face felt numb.

She beamed. “Thank you for stopping by to talk… Thanks for your advice... Nobody ever told me... I never knew... Really hope to see you jogging here again next Sunday.”

I sprinted back home because it was getting dark, and as I did, I wanted to cry. Going with my own feelings, I never would have turned back to chase her, much less Stop to talk to her, run the risk of offending her and being rained on by ungratefulness. I thought, just a few years back before I knew God, what a self-centred, achievement-driven, anti-social freak I was. I still am in many ways, but I'm learning to be better every day. And I held back the tears as I thought of how I had grown into a person, still far from perfect but much different, all because of knowing Someone who had loved me so much and renewed me inside-out, Someone who taught me to, above all, Love others deeply and bravely, and to Love not with my own strength but with His infinite comfort.

I wanted to cry because I thought, this must be Love. I wanted to run home, but against my own feelings, I made a choice to Stop. This must be Love, I thought. Not love from my own heart, because only I know I’m hardly that magnanimous.

As I walked up home to my apartment, I felt a warm and fuzzy feeling descend upon me. What just happened back there, me resisting my primal instincts to follow the heartbeat of Someone up there… that must be love, and not my love, but God’s love for me- God’s brand of love that disciplines, restrains and runs against the grain of human reason, the kind of love that transcends instinctive feeling. Love that is a choice.

I went against my own feelings to find something far deeper. I wanted to cry because I saw how even in the most unlikely situations, Love never fails you. Most of the time, it will not betray you with scorn. When you are brave to show people your vulnerability, they will be brave to show you theirs. I wanted to cry because I had seen for myself how God's love for us had transformed my blackness into a light, if only for a moment, for someone else. And I wanted to cry because I understood, finally, that this kind of Love, God's love, is... ...

His choice, and mine.

There are always going to be poor and needy people among you. So I command you: Always be generous, open purse and hands, give to your neighbors in trouble, your poor and hurting
neighbors...

-Deuteronomy 15