Money Matters.

It ought to have been a very simple decision of purchase. But like a man paralysed from the neck down, I could summon no strength to buy what my heart so desired, burning within the furnace of my will. God's voice came first as a tiny whisper, then a niggling feeling in my bosom. I had absolutely no peace about it. Worse, I couldn't place a finger on... why.

It ought to have been a very simple decision of purchase. After discovering the joys of cycling, I wanted a roadbike to start training for a duathlon. I had sufficient savings, my parents were mostly supportive, and I'd found a great second-hand bike a friend wanted to sell off at a good price. "So, do you like it?" my parents kept asking me-I think they wanted to pay for it.

Something I couldn't place my finger on niggled at me. I couldn't bring myself to pay the sum- it was the same amount I had decided to set aside to sponsor children for the next year. And while I did have sufficient savings to do both, I began to realise how pertinent the stewardship of money is. For all my heart about helping underprivileged children, I began to realise that this money is not my own- but God's money.

All my life I've been privileged. Being the youngest of two in the family gives me special rights to hardly-worn hand-me-downs. I receive branded clothes from my sister, jewellery from relatives and friends, make-up from church aunties, so I've never had to struggle too much with the issue of spending on myself- what I like, I already have to begin with. Save for me, my entire family has an astute sense for financial management. But I thank God that for all my financial idiocy, I can give whenever I feel like it, and still have enough.

Lately we spent some money to buy a flute because I wanted to learn it. Somehow, that gave me peace because I could bless others with it. If I invited Grandpa Zhou or the poor to my home, I would gladly show it to them and entertain, perhaps even perform with Grandpa Zhou with his harmonica. When I practise, I feel God's pleasure.

But a roadbike which cost hundreds of dollars (a basic decent one easily costs more than a thousand dollars) sitting in my living room, which served no other purpose than the fulfillment of my own athletic desires... I feared would be a monstrosity. I thought I might hide it if I invited the poor over. I imagined myself visiting the disadvantaged, holding their hands in empathy, or giving them a tour of my home and then having to answer for the bike... and tears stung my face as I thought of the hypocrisy of it all. It would stumble myself, even.

It's not wrong to buy a bike, I know. And this really is a relatively small decision to make. But how I fear it will not end there. First comes the roadbike, then a helmet to go with it, a bottle cage, a podometer, bike shoes, bike clothes, bike gloves, sunglasses... it could go on forever. While now it may -just- be a bike, who knows the excuses the deceitful heart will come up with when I have the resources to buy a swanky car, a nice house? It comes down to a matter not of affordability (because you can afford it) but simply, choice. More money on yourself means less for others. More on myself means a tighter budget to buy food, education and shelter for less privileged children.

Missionary doctors have warned me time and again of the lures of this world. You'll be able to afford plenty of things when you start working. But buy a house and car here in Singapore and you can forget about missions. Possessions have a great hold over people.

And I wondered if this were not just a symbolic decision I had to make, not unlike buying an expensive possession like what the missionary doctors referred to. One question I ask myself to keep myself in check is- if someone stole this, how devastated would I be? Quite, I thought. And I felt the sickening grip of an extravagant possession tighten around my neck like a noose. Tears streamed down again, as I thought of what I felt challenged to do- would you be all right if I asked you to use all your savings to sponsor kids this year? Forgo one bike to educate a few more underprivileged children in Africa and Sri lanka and buy them lunch, uniforms and household items in 2009?

The more honorable decision seemed obvious, but it stung. Tis the first time I've had to struggle with a monetary decision such as this.

I want to feel God's pleasure when I ride, not His hurt.

And I was a little upset when I asked God why it was that other people didn't struggle with this like I do. How come you don't ask them what you're asking me? But I knew God has other plans.

I was at a medical outreach carnival yesterday. It was organised to reach out to migrants and sex workers in our fringe community, to bless them with a free medical screening. I met a missionary from Mercy Relief who sat me down as we connected immediately. In terms of goals and personality, we had so much in common. Her Story made me cry. She lives frugally, and yet is blessed. She trusts God to provide for everything, even for her desires. I asked her about the roadbike. She didn't discourage me either. God gives good gifts to His children, too, you know, she said. My close friend had told me, I don't think it's wrong, but why don't you wait on God for a bit since He's speaking to you about something?


It ought to be a straightforward decision, but it is symbolic, I think, of the attitude of my heart. And it is the process, more than the outcome I think, that would shape the kind of person I become. I don't think the end-point is as important as what God wants me to learn through this process. He is challenging me about issues of stewardship, money and cent-sibility (pardon the pun). He is revealing to me the weaknesses of my flesh, humbling me and making me aware of my flesh. He is preparing me for the life I may have ahead if He continues to call me to missions.

I know God gives good gifts to His children. So He may still choose to bless me with a bike in the end, but I want to know that the decision was measured and matured, not impulsive and indulgent. I want to feel God's pleasure when I ride. I want to know it is a good gift from Him.

I am learning- I am not perfect. And what He demands from me is not so much an ascetic life as much as a heart that is sensitized to His voice, a heart longing to learn His lessons. I don't know when this struggle will end- but I pray by God's grace, it does, be it in the form of having the peace to forgo the roadbike altogether, or finding a bike which I know was a gift from Him. But perhaps the most important lesson is to wait on God. Just, to wait patiently for peace and the lessons birthed through this experience.

And when I finally do learn what I sense Him teaching me about money, stewardship and sensibility, maybe, just maybe, God might answer in an unexpected way. Or maybe, just maybe, I might find infinite joy elsewhere, too.

"What shines forth and reveals God in your life

is not your relative consistency to and idea of what a saint should be,

but your genuine, living relatipnship with God,

and your unrestrained devotion to Him...

God's purpose is not to perfect me to make me a trophy in His showcase;

He is getting me to the place where He can use me. "

- My Utmost for His Highest, Oswald Chambers

One month of updates

Its been awhile now, and i've been receiving a number of threats that I better update my blog.

So here it is guys..here is the latest that I will wrap everything up from what i've been doing and experienced for the past one month all in this single post.

Cynfashion.blogspot style.

If there were questions wondering on what my daily job look like (at least part of it) and how weekends looked like on my part, well...this is it...This is as serious I can get until my next post.

Here we go....

Moved a Squatter for RM70,000 in Balik Pulau after much discussion(Isn't it great to be a squatter?At the rate i'm earning through blogs, It'll take me 1400 years or more to earn that kind of money!!!).


Demolished part of their house



with a sledge hammer making sure that nobody will ever be able to stay in the house again!EVER!!


This is how it looked like before I got nasty!!




Then you might think where in this world you can build a house for RM70,000 and less. Well there you go. Only in Balik Pulau you still can. Squatter took free money, bought a piece of land, and build a new LEGAL HOME and is no longer called a squatter.WTF!!DATS OUR MONEY!!!


Could have bought a Proton Persona and still have balance to buy sports rims and modify my exhaust to sound FAST!!!



This month as part of my work, I facilitated in the transportation of equipment for maintenance and repair.




Next,somewhere along this month, I woke up early one morning and couldn't believe a bentley parked at my apartment carpark space.


Why would someone be parking a Bently at a cheap ass place where i'm staying unless....

Ok i'm going to be a little narrow minded here.

COME ON LA!!SERIOUSLY!! WAT ELSE YOU TELL ME!!


ok that maybe a little too much for some people to handle....people who drive bentley's don't do that. They have class ok. Maybe just someone pretty girl who stays there that he really loves. But that doesn't explain why he park so many other more expensive car around there?



For you car enthusiasts out there, this has definitely got to be the 2nd Bentley i've seen around in Penang but the first being a two-doored.

Moving on....

Ok other than that, I went for a seminar at Dewan Puspanitapuri in Putrajaya.



If there was anything that shows girl existence of power, it would be here.

There are all pictures of powerful women of Malaysia hanged on the wall.





No sight of men pictures whatsoever!What happened to equality!!




Moving on again. Certain days of the week in Penang, I oversee a renovation project for my company's new office in Penang. Hopefully to be ready by early next year.


At the end of it all, I can't help but make sure that I enjoy the week by giving myself a treat at places like this after all that hard work.


With cool bands that was there a few weeks back.


I guess that's about it. Will update again but for now...Time for Futsal!!

M & Ms.

I always have had a sweet tooth. When I was little, M&Ms were one of my favourite things. I'd walk to the gas station nearby after our game of pretending to be Power Rangers or whatever Superhero was screening at the time and buy a pack on a late afternoon. They were precious coloured stones, and I enjoyed licking them and smearing the different-coloured gems over my lips, showing off my new lipstick before devouring the lot.

Sometimes I'd finish an entire pack on my own but the surfeit made me queasy. It never was half as enjoyable as licking them slowly one by one and savouring them one by one, very very slowly, through the afternoon.

I've been thinking a lot about M&Ms lately. Not the chocolate, but other things- medicine, maturity, marriage, missions and money. About the way medicine is shaping me into maturity, about how I am maturing into an adult who will (hopefully, ha) enter marriage, about how the kind of man in my marriage I enter into will change my whole life for better or worse, and how missions will bring my faith in money matters to a whole new level. And amidst all this, coming to terms with a decision regarding whether or not to buy a second-hand roadbike for myself, whether or not it's wise stewardship of money, whether it goes against the grain of what missions has taught me, thus far- but that will be for another post.



Some days, it does become daunting to think about these things. It becomes too much.



One day, Aunty Ay text messaged me after I had shared with her a little that had been on my mind:



"Wai Jia, I will definitely keep you in prayer. An important element in faith is patience, which takes time to develop in all of us! Trust God to unfold the different M&Ms for you slowly in His time. Like those yummy bits of choc candy, we can't eat all of it at one shot or we'll feel sick. So too, commit your steps, one at a time, to God's direction. Take time to reflect and savour the adventure, safe in the knowledge that your times are in His hands!"



At once I realised how silly and redundant it was to worry about what only Time will eventually unfold. I used to agonise much over too many things, and it's only been of late that I've learnt to let much go, learnt to trust, and I'm relieved for the peace that's filled my heart regarding all the M&Ms that used to boggle me.

Suddenly I have the assurance that nobody's going to steal my M&Ms. They're all in a pack, safely tucked away, all for me, and I can take my time to savour them slowly, one by one, without fear, nor worry, nor haste.

Aunty Ay is right- like those yummy bits of chocolate candy, we can't eat all of it at once or we'll feel queasy. Just as much as I hope to graduate from medicine, grow in God, get married, go to the mission field and become wise and matured, all these wonderful things happening at the same time will surely be too much for me all at once. So I remind myself that as I take Time to exercise my faith and savour the adventure slowly, I can feel safe in the knowledge that my times are truly in His hands.


No one's going to steal my M & Ms, and I'm going to enjoy every bit of it, wonderfully slowly.

"... Whoever believes shall not act hastily..."

-Isaiah 28:16

Not God.

"Whenever you feel like criticising anyone," (my father) told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

- The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

We get all riled up when it's done to us, as if the greatest injustice were committed against us. But we hardly feel a thing when we do so to others, and worse, a sense of self-righteous pride swells up within.

It's so easy to judge people, sometimes. And if there's any sin I could be most guilty of, it'd have to be judging others.

Being in hospital exposes one to all sorts of characters. Our special positions give us access to the most intimate histories of people- their social lives, their sexual histories, the number of wives they have... And oh, how that makes for juicy, colourful gossip and material for self-righteous tut-tutting behind closed doors.

Oh my gosh, did you see his second wife kick up a fuss over his operation? Check this out, he's a drug trafficker and an ex-prisoner! Ha, did you hear about (whisper)... he's a SHE!

As if passing on the news weren't bad enough, we throw in a spicy comment here, another there, and pass our judgements on the drug addict with terminal liver cancer from lifelong alcoholism, whose wife just divorced him- Well, with a husband like that, even I would leave him! , the young man with gonnorrhea- Oh groossss. And to think he denies his sexual history! or the trans-sexual patient in the female ward with an obvious moustache across her face, whom everyone passes by with a snigger or two.

We laugh because we think we're better. We judge because we think they deserve it.

And it goes on.

I had a slap in the face one day when a friend told me the truth- "Wai Jia, don't be so judgemental. You're passing your own moral standards on others. Don't judge." It dawned upon me just how terribly judgemental I really am and can be, how insensitive some of the verbalised thoughts I had really were, how terrible a trait that was and is. She got married at what?! He did what?!

But who was I to think I was better, just because I, by God's grace, hadn't walked that path. Did I not see the strength and courage someone else had to walk through the darker path?

It was Erla* who taught me this lesson, a lesson I am still trying to learn now. All the medical students, doctors, and nurses had heard about her- her who looked like a him. She was a patient in the female ward, with a short boyish haircut, a biker jacket and a moustache. They all appeared to treat her fairly and cordially, but behind the doors, there were inevitable sighs of incredulity, sniggers and scoffs.

For the past few years, Erla has been injecting herself with testosterone.

Medical students spend much of their time in hospitals interviewing patients to learn about their medical conditions. I was certain that no one approached her. I had her at the bottom of my list- and it was perhaps a twist of fate that all the other patients on my list were sleeping, occupied or unavailable- leaving me to face my own prejudices in the eye. I took the leap, and interviewed Erla and her family. I tried my best. And they taught me much.

Her mother kept saying how sorry she was, how beautiful and special Erla was, how much she had failed Erla in so many ways. Erla kept silent, filling up the feedback form commenting how lovely the ward nurses and doctors were, and simply nodded when asked if she wanted to be normal, a woman the way she was born.

They showed me what humanity was- the complexity and intricacies of struggle and war, between faith and despair, regret and hope, religion and individuality, family and freedom. They showed me what patience, understanding and hope was. And most importantly, they taught me how human they were, and how I had no right to judge their situation.

It's one thing to make a stand for what is right and to hate evil, but altogether another to pass a judgement. It's so easy to criticise a missionary for being a seeming hypocrite, when we catch a glimpse of them dressed well at an event. But did we know that the suit was a gift, and his only one too? Did we know that the watch was passed down, the shoes bought at a discount?

My squirmish reaction to many things won't evaporate in a day. It won't happen overnight, I'm sure. Yet, even that helps me to stay grounded- to know that I need a divine grace from above to repent of my own puffed-up weakness of judging others. What makes me think my sin is lesser than theirs.

A judgement is telling of one's pride, one's nauseating self-righteousness. Who's to say I wouldn't have chosen that path had I been through the same set of circumstances? And perhaps it is one's ego that keeps one from realising how it's God's grace and His grace only that any of us are spared from the clutches of sin and decadence.


When the son of God walked the earth, he loved us all, prostitutes and tax collectors, sinners and repenters.

Perhaps when we judge, we are far worse than any of those whom we judge in the first place, because when we judge, we forget God. We assume His place instead.


And so I walk each day with a deeper sense of humility, in knowing my own frailty and weakness. By myself, I cannot, but with God, I can see through His eyes and see someone else with His eye, His love. By myself, I cannot, and perhaps it helps much to know that we are all sinners saved by grace, and to remind myself that I'm just...

... not God.

"Do not judge, or you too will be judged.

For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged

and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you...

You hypocrite, first take the plank our of your own eye,

and then you will see clearly

to remove the speck from your brother's eye."

-Matthew 7:1,2, 5a

* named changed to protect identity

And you thought horror movies were scary.

At Sunday School:

"What is your name?"

"My name is AUDREY."

"That's a pretty name. My name is Jiejie (big sister) Wai Jia. How old are you, darling?"

"I'm FOUR."

"What's your favourite colour, dear?"

"GREEN."

"Oh wow. Green! That's a lovely colour. Like this?" I ask, pointing to a flower on the white dress I am wearing.

A little frown, before she breaks out, "No, that's not green. That's ... TURQUOISE!"


"... ... ... What did you say?"


"TURQUOISE. That's not green. That's TURQUOISE."


"How old are you again?"


"I'm four. I'm four years old!"

Sun.

I frowned quizzically at first when I saw the foreign number on my cell phone. Then, a familiar "hello?" with a slanting accent from a thousand miles away, and tears oozed out my eyes immediately.

"Zahina*?" I cried. And the tears just kept coming, they wouldn't stop. And I could hear her crying over the other end too.

It's been so long.

I first met her when I first visited Sophia's Home, the orphanage Kitesong supports in Nepal. She was one of the caregivers there, a young Nepali lady no more than 2 years older than myself. When I first arrived at the Home, she was cold as frost. Busying herself with household chores, you could feel a smouldering intensity underneath her chocolate skin, and something about her bristled with quiet, undecided hostility, even from across the room. I thought she didn't like me. Her tone was curt, her voice resonant and always bordering on rebuke as the children would sometimes fall into mischief. One thing I knew though, she loved the children with a fierce, fierce love, and the children adored her, for all her sterness, even.

I was often very lonely in Nepal. That being my first mission trip alone overseas, and the longest one I've ever been on, it was challenging, especially since I spent Chinese New Year there, without family not festivity. It was a terrible winter, and the dank basement room I lived in gave no comfort. The missionaries were lovely, but they all had their own families, which made my lonliness and singleness even more apparent.

It was Zahina who showed me the most warmth, after her frosty demeanour melted away. In Nepali, Zahina means "Sun".

We became the best of friends. And when I left, I missed her much.

Many times in Nepal, I felt out of place. Pampered through my growing years, my incompetencies stood out there like a sore thumb. It was Zahina who taught me The Proper Way to peel potatoes, clean floors, make Nepali tea, wash jeans, cook, discipline children and love them tough. To say I was embarrassed by my handicaps might have been an understatement. The children, as young as five, could wash their own clothes thoroughly and Properly. Early in the chilly mornings, they'd trod up to the open rooftop where the sun peeked through the Himalayan ranges and wash their clothes, squatting on the icy cement floor with a cake of buttersoap and a hard washboard.

One day after a hard day's work of shifting furniture as the orphanage was shifting locations (again, because of the high rent), my jeans were soiled. One of the missionaries told Zahina in a mix of english and Nepali, "Wash her jeans for her, will you. She mightn't know how to wash them."

My face was hot with embarrassment. I was adamant not to have anyone clean my clothes. And I can wash my jeans myself thank you very much. Whether I knew how to or not, I had my pride. No, I said, I'm fine. A little polite tussle ensued, and in spite of my denial, I was vilified already. But Zahina knew better. "She can wash by herself, she's a big girl, you know," she defended me.

That night, she sneaked into my room. "Come with me to the rooftop," she said in her thick Nepali accent. " Come now. No one's here, children all asleep. I teach you Proper Way to wash jeans ya, then when they ask you how come so clean ya tomorrow, you tell them because you know how to wash. Don't need to tell I taught Proper Way. Come now, everyone's asleep."

So on that icy biting night on the windy rooftop, where temperatures dipped to subzero degrees, we got on our knees on the harsh bitter floor and slapped our wet clothes on the cement. Our hands numb with cold, we squatted and washed and talked and sang like professional washerwomen in the chilly air.

Inside, rinse, outside, rinse, squeeze, beat on floor, rinse, hang, dry.

That night I cried. I cried into her arms. I was a temporary visitor but she treated me like a sister. We talked about everything, and she confessed to me she had never felt such a connection with any visitor to the orphanage, or for that matter, anyone for a long time. We just, connected, in the way some people do when they're of the right fit, despite different races, language, backgrounds.

"You know I love these children so much that's why I live here with them, day in day out. In Nepal, people do arranged marriages you know. But I don't want. But how I'm going to find a husband and everything in the future..." she sighed a deep sigh, and it evaporated into the air in despair and yet hope... "only God knows. "

I think about her ever so often. Each time missionaries travel to and fro from Nepal, I send them a gift to her, too. I never once received one from her, but I never resented it- she is from a different culture, and she lives on very, very little. She taught me so much. Because of her, I saw the sun, felt warm in the intermittent periods of chilliness when the children were at school or when a bout of homesickness struck. She never laughed at me, never judged me. She had every right to snigger at my inadequacies, but she never did. She only taught me The Proper Way, the way a sister would.

So you can imagine how I felt when I heard her voice over the phone last night, and she told me she was getting married. "This one I do everything myself you know, no arranged! It is going to be Big Day for me." she beamed, and she was crying too because I was.

She doesn't have much. She really doesn't. Every cent she has she spends on the children, or now that she's moved on to serving at a hospice, on the elderly there. She's a typical Brahmin beauty, with eyes large as the moon and yet always dressing plainly except on church days. Careful with her money, always. But she called me. She called me from miles away, and it cost her so much. But she wanted to tell me, she wanted to tell me herself that she was getting married.

I couldn't stop crying.

"When you coming to Nepal again?"

And that question pierced me because just two nights ago I thought to myself how it's been too long since I returned. Just, too long. And though the children just sent me a card not too long ago with their photo, I think I should like to see just how much they've grown.


Zahina made a difference to my life I will never forget. She taught me humility, independence and the Proper Way to wash jeans.


Inside, rinse, outside, rinse, squeeze, beat on floor, rinse, hang, dry.


Congratulations my dear. You're getting married. And you remembered me. I'll visit Nepal
when God opens a way again, okay?


Zahina. Her name means Sun.


*name changed to protect identity

Waiting on God.

*Disclaimer: Characters mentioned below are purely fictional. Any resemblance to real life is purely coincidental.

Actually, Denny really likes Sara. And Sara likes Denny too. They’re a perfect match. But they’ve been friends for so long that they’re both afraid to tell each other.




Billy is really nice to Minmin. Minmin hopes they’ll get married someday but what she doesn’t know is that Billy really is a pervert and a Casanova.

Josh and Tingting both love the same movies, same songs, same activities- they’re best friends. Josh is head-over-heels in love with Tingting but is afraid of ruining their friendship. Tingting thinks Josh is a real good man. But she doesn’t think he’ll ever fall in love with someone like her because she thinks a good man like Josh should date her best friend Sara instead. So she introduces the two to each other. Josh is confused whiled Tingting cries herself to sleep.

Penny and Timmy are together. Childhood sweethearts, they are. They’re a good-looking pair. They’ve stopped loving each other a long time ago but they’re both afraid to break up because well- what would people say? Now they’re married- Timmy wonders if he made a mistake, and Penny wonders if this is all she deserves.

Nancy likes Gordan. But she thinks men should always make the first move so she pretends to be real aloof. Gordan thinks she hates him.

Tom gave Cherie the moon because he loved her so much. He wrote a song for her about her curly hair when he proposed to her at Le Amis. Then she ran away with his best friend on their wedding day and Tom became gay.

A lot of men have asked Belle out. But Belle tells them all that she's not ready for a relationship. The truth is that she really likes James, but James never asked her out. So she's waiting, still waiting. Meanwhile, James is waiting for her to announce that she's ready.

Ray and Pearlie are a perfect match. They've known each other forever and are best buddies. They both wonder if they'll ever find the perfect one but don't realise they are each other's soulmates. When will they open up their eyes?

Jimmy prays every night for a wife who loves God as much as he does.

Sophia prays every night for a man who loves God as much as she does.

Sophia and Jimmy wonder if they'll ever get married, if there'll ever be somebody out there who loves God as much as they do, who want to do the same sort of things for Him, who talks to Him like they do. They're meant to be together- but they haven't met each other yet.

Maybe if we were more patient, things needn't be so Complicated. And maybe it helps to realise that we're so young.

Just, so young.

" Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires."
-Song of Songs 3:5b

Deep.

I love the way you watch me from across the room, intently and lovingly. I love the way you always choose to snuggle right next to me after passing by everyone in the hall. And most of all, I love the way you sit by me, utterly content, and how you fall asleep next to my skin.


Somedays, in the midst of busyness where you're too tired to chat and too overwhelmed to entertain, and yet yearning for love, all you want is just a bit of quiet companionship. Undemanding, quiet companionship. And I'm so thankful that at the end of a busy day, I can come back and find you waiting for me.


Not many people know about you.





That's my dog, Roger. We got him 6 years ago. Back then, my ambition was to be a naturalist-veterinarian.





He never was an easy child. He'd fall sick often, succumb to the worst of skin rashes and run loose like a crazy madman, uncontrollable, whenever you let him into the living room. And when visitors came, he'd grab the thigh of an unsuspecting victim and try to hump it. And it'd take nothing less than Herculean strength to pry him away. He still takes part in this embarassing sport today, unfortunately.



My parents pay for his expenses, Daddy feeds him and monitors his health religiously, walking him whenever he can, my sister loves to spend time with him whenever she returns from overseas, and my maid bathes him and takes him on daily walks in the park.



Yet, when we're all in a room together, me studying as usual, it is me you snuggle up to, while everyone else claps their hands, yells out commands and calls your name for your attention, for a morsel of your love. You toss your ears back in disdain and sit at my feet. I say "sit" and your response is immediate. For hours, you are immovable.



And it sounds stupid, to tell you I love you, but I don't know how else to name this feeling, because is this not love that you have shown me? This undeserving love. I hardly even look after you much, save that one major episode you fell so ill and I had to shuttle you to and fro from the vet's, bathe you twice a day, and you were so ill that I cried and fell ill too. That was a long time ago, you still remember?



Going out of the house is the highlight of your day. Whenever our maid holds your leash, you explode with glee and scamper around in circles, prancing and dancing from side to side. You can't wait, and you're not afraid to show it. Sometimes, you even dash out of the house before she's ready. But just yesterday, when you were all ready to go out, and the door was wide open, you caught a glimpse of me studying and sat under my chair. She called you, time and again, and you completely ignored her. "Roger, it's your time out? Don't you want to go?" I asked.



Going out is everything to Roger- you should see him go berserk when he sees the leash. She called him, over and over, but he sat there, immovable and leaned into my legs. She had to drag him away from me to get him out of the house.





I don't know why, but that moment pierced something deep inside of me. I've done nothing to deserve such loyalty, done nothing to deserve such undivided love, attention and faithfulness. And as stupid as it sounds, I was touched.



You're just a dog. I won't even see you in heaven.



And yet, in you, I think I saw a glimpse, a tiny fraction of truth which mirrored God's love for me, for us, too. I don't even bathe you, or walk you, or feed you. Though yes, I did take you for training lessons, bring you to the vet's, care for you when you were a tiny tot. Don't I fall short as an owner in so many ways.


Similarly, I've made so many mistakes, the same ones, over and over, said so many wrong things, made so many wrong judgements, been so proud, self-centred in so many ways. Though yes, I do make a conscious effort to spend time with You every day. Don't I fall short in so many ways.



And yet... You still love me, same as before. And You make me feel special, adored, loved because you are Captivated by me, by each of us.





However underserving we may be of it.





And so every time we let you into the house from your dog pen and you rush straight into my room to look for me, I am reminded of this grace I have received, this undeserved, un-earned love I have received from God, that is wide, long, high and deep, because of what He did for me, for us.





I love you too, Roger.

"... how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ..."

-Ephesians 3:18b

Music to My Ears.

For a long time, I shut it out. With the world dancing and singing and laughing and celebrating outside, I shut my eyes and ears and crouched low in a black box because sounds were unbearable, lights too blinding.

When people ask me what clinical depression was like, I never know quite where to start, what to say. To skim the surface, it takes away parts of you and makes you believe that you are whatever's left. And so the colours faded further, the music died down and I found myself choking in a black box. Music became unbearable, colours blinding- and a part of the artist in me died everyday.

I didn't want to go out, didn't want to see people, didn't want to talk, didn't want to run or hear or see because everything was too painful to watch or listen to. I stopped listening to music. I stopped watching plays. I stopped dancing. I stopped eating new foods. I stopped cooking. I stopped daring, stopped being inspired and inspiring, stopped painting Possibility. Somewhere back there, I started to lose who I was, because I was afraid of what I might discover. And part of Recovery was being brave to find who that person was, who that New person could be. Only the remnants of the art of words remained with me.


And months later, back on my feet again, the world of sights, sounds, shades, movements have once again exploded into my soul, and the universe is full of Possibility, again.


The past few months, the past month in particular, have been exciting-just, trying, daring, creating, restoring, living again.


For months, I stopped eating, stopped cooking, stopped being adventurous. Just two weeks ago, I cooked a meal for some friends who came over. My family and I have been trying new restaurants every weekend and this entire year has been a learning journey on what it means to listen to my body and give it what it needs. I've eaten so many new foods that Ed took away from me- and I've come a long way, even though there's room for improvement, still.


For months, I quit training because The Professional People didn't allow me to. Just lately, I completed my first 10-kilometre race, at healthy weight. They've given me the freedom to train for half-marathons, a full one, even. Go for it, they told me. You've done the hard work, come a long way.

For months, I hid inside a black box and shut the world of song, music and dance out. For years, I hid behind the nightmarish childhood memories of The Music Teacher From Hell and refused to pick up an instrument, read any music scores. The psychological barrier was like a fortress leading up to the sky. I distanced myself from music because I thought it wasn't my language, because I was afraid. But I made a spontaneous decision one morning, and am learning how to play the flute now. Theory scores and notes and tunes and dance movements to the tunes float into my head, and I'm not afraid anymore.

For months, I stopped listening to music, stopped allowing it to move me. Just last weekend, I finally bought Coldplay's latest album and danced to it- not too crazily, just enough to let it move me and course through my veins, lest the weight of my hair break my neck during an enthusiatic head-bob to a catchy rhythm. And I discovered, that I actually enjoy classical music... hey.

For eleven years, I hid behind the fear of cycling. Just a few weeks ago, I got up one morning, bought a bicycle, and was smitten by it. I'm looking at a duathlon sometime next year. Anyone have a roadbike to sell?

Just a few days ago, I learnt that the Kitesong DVD has been made-it's very simply an animation movie of the book, with music and narration. This time, it'll be used to raise funds for disadvantaged children in Nepal, as well as needy children and youth in other parts of the world. Just as how music was put into the silent frames of the book and gave it new life, I feel as if music has entered my soul again, and once again, I can be moved, be unafraid to be moved. The completion of the Kitesong DVD coincided beautifully with God's restoration for me and the return of music into my life.


It feels good to be back again, living, trying, daring to do things I kept putting off because I was too afraid to. It feels good to break down walls, tear down barriers, break off chains.



There is no black box.

"Amazing Grace, How Sweet the Sound..."

-Amazing Grace by John Newton

"Most people live and die with their music still unplayed. They never dare to try."

-Mary Kay Ash.

Flutter.

The classrooms were brightly-coloured, filled with murals of cartoon animals. And ever so often, the morning silence would be pierced by cries, loud banging or the sound of hard knocks. A child may wave frantically, knock against a chair-leg rhythmically, or twist his head spastically to one side. "This is how some of them register your presence," we were told.

As part of our orthopedic module, we were taken to the Spastic Children's Association of Singapore on a day trip to learn more about children suffering from cerebral palsy- a non-progressive disorder caused by damage to the young brain, commonly during pregnancy. As a result, children may suffer from spasticity, unsteady gait, decreased muscle mass, fits, speech disorders, eating problems, sensory impairments, mental disabilities or behavorial disorders.

Because of their muscular deformities, many children used walkers, walking sticks or special shoes to move around. And even then, most of them walked with a clumsy, scissored tiptoed gait. While some had normal intellectual development, it was apparent that many struggled with normal day-to-day conversation.

After a teaching session on the role medical doctors and surgery could play in the lives of these children, the staff took us on a guided tour through the school, during which I witnessed the many teachers and helpers in the lives of these children.

We were in a classroom, and the children, in their wheelchairs, stuggled to say hello to us. Some could and waved, while others could not. The teacher spoke of them as angels. "This is Faith," she said. "She's amazing, she's made so much progress. Just a few months back, she wouldn't even stand the sight of strangers and couldn't even walk properly. Now, you should see her when she swims! She's like a dolphin, you know. Like a dolphin, twirling and dancing in the water! She's so special, you know... ... And hey, don't think my kids don't throw tantrums- they do, just like normal kids do! "

At that moment, all I could see was a child, ridden with spasticity from the waist down, sitting in a wheelchair and plaqued with mental dullness from the neck up, but the teacher saw so much more. She saw Faith for who she was, seeing what mortal eyes could not see.

Day after day, these special angels laboured and worked in this special institution seeing the good, the possibilities and potential that lay hidden in these children. In a chillingly pragmatic society as ours, where one's merit and utility counts for everything, and which is even considering the conveniently mercenary option of euthanasia, I shudder to think of the place these special children have in our hearts.

And I became ashamed, because I wondered if I could do the same, too. Day in day out, caring for these children, carrying them around (many of them can't even sit up and need assistance moving from a bed to a chair), listening to broken tunes sung by them, engaging in simple, simple conversation. In the grandeur of a hospital in the eyes of the public, it's easy to play the role of the smart, compassionate, altruistic doctor, who gives all the orders, shakes everybody's hands and claims all the credit. But as I watched the fierce dedication and quiet spirit of the teachers and helpers in the school, I felt humbled, immediately.

So this how the flutter of angels' wings sound like.

Quiet.


Hush.


At once, I remembered nurses, parents, maids, cleaners, teachers, caregivers... ... who give up their lives for that of another- whose primary joy come from giving God's love to meet the needs of another, quietly, humbly, without recognition. And for some reason, I grew red in embarassment, as I thought of the past fund-raising events I had taken part in, which were publicised with trumpets and flyers and loud noise. My face stung as I considered how I had publicised Kitesong 2 years back. Nothing wrong with that, except perhaps, that it was without a gentle, quiet, humble spirit. Somewhere back there, was pride, self-centredness, still. And it sickens me to think of it now- that God wasn't fully centre-stage.


For once, I want to be the audience, not the actor of the script; the sunshine, and not the sun; and a point melting into an arc, and not the dot at the centre of the circle. For only God's love is beautiful, big, humble, quiet enough for that place, in the centre of it all.


Hush.


What do you hear?

"Be careful not to do your 'acts of righteousness' before men, to be seen by them... So when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets, as the hypocrites do... to be honored by men... But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret..."

-Matthew 6:1-3

Safe in Arms.

I love being in my White Place. Every week, I look forward in anticipation to going back to it, a sanctuary I can find refuge in, from the harsh winds of world. But more than being there with all the Big People, I love being in my White Place, where all the little children are, at Sunday School.

Sunday School is where the Big People leave their little children to learn songs, games, and valuable life lessons while they attend the adult services.

After a long, busy week at the work, most people can’t wait to sleep in on a lazy Sunday morning. But I find myself waking up early as the sun rises, eager for the highlight of my week.

The rainbow-coloured hall is filled with throngs of children, rambunctious and full of excitement. Like ponies on a field, some of them prance about, squealing with laughter while others dance to tunes in their own heads, delighting one another.

More than running, or cycling, or painting, or dreaming, or a freshly baked egg-tart with cold, cold milk, I like being in my White Place on Sundays, where the little children are.

I'm on my way to the hall, and one of them collapses into my knees, ramming his head into my tummy, giving me a Samurai-sized squeeze. A head is buried into my shirt, and a mischievous smile peeks through a head cocked to one side with glee. GOOD MORNING!!

I enter the hall, and a child with the most beautiful curly chestnut hair, and eyes, large as pools, stands right in front of me, looking at me- just, giggling. How are you today, darling? I ask, and she giggles some more.

I walk out, and another child runs towards me to say hi. HI!!! His warm body leans into mine and I smile, as I take in his boyish good looks and laugh at the previous time I walked away from him in mock misery as he wouldn’t hug me in front of his little boy gang.

I am sitting down, my eyes closed, soaking in the songs of long ago, of songs I’d never heard before because I never knew God when I was a tiny tot- and another child plops into my lap. She doubles up with laughter and puts her nose to my cheek.

I hardly even know these children. Some, I’ve never even met before. But there is such a safety in that rainbow-coloured hall in my White Place that all the children are put at ease, immediately, and know they can find warmth, sunshine and love in any pair of arms willing to take them in.

I love hugs and kisses too. But Time has dragged us to a place where propriety and decorum take grudging priority, and nothing short of an oath of celibacy or familial ties would make any adult creature with the slightest masculine semblance safe, for me at least, at this season in my life, to hug.

Yet, children are different. And with them, I can feel safe, too.

TAKE ME TO THE TOILET. WHERE ARE MY SHOOES! TOILETOILETOILET!! I LIKE YOUR DRESS JIEJIE WAIJIA. YESTERDAY DADDY TOOK ME TO SIT ON A BIG BUS. IT WAS BIG! BIG RED BUS! RED, YOU KNOW. BIG RED BUS! ARE YOU JOINING OUR CLASS TODAY? YAAAAYYYYY!!


Many times, in the midst of song, I found tears running down my cheeks. In being with the children, I realize I can be myself, too. I dance when they dance and sing when they sing, unabashedly, uninhibitedly, the way I never would be able to in front of Big People. With them, I become who I am inside again, and see God for who He is. At once, I lose my cockiness, my defences and become young, child-like, and free.

And as one child wraps her arms over my neck and tells me her favorite colour, I find myself learning what it means to trust God, and to enjoy Him, to enjoy His presence and warmth. As three young sisters chase after the public bus I'm on just to wave goodbye to me, waving frantically, I find myself learning what it means to pursue God. And as a young one spills into my frame and whispers to me something bothering her at school- “Jiejie Waijia, I’ve a performance on Wednesday in front of the whole school and I’m so scared, you know,” I look into her eyes, vulnerable and trusting, and learn what it means to come to God with all my requests, big and small, and to trust His providence for me.

"The soul is healed by being with children." - Fyodor Dostoevsky

Indeed, it is. For I find myself renewed and refreshed in their midst, as I, too, with their arms wrapped around me, come to God as a child myself, safe in His arms.


Hugs, a squeeze, and BYEBYE JIEJIE WAIJIA!! BYEBYE!! MY FAVORITE COLOR IS COLOR-FUUUULLL!!


See you next week, darling. God loves you.

" Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."

-Matthew 19:14

Drinking Beer with Lime

Ok here's something easier to digest before reading my post on the Plusliner..

Just awhile ago, I went to meet up with my cousin at The Curve for dinner.


If there was anything I love about this place, is that there is a small Philippino band that plays all kind of romantic music. So if you are out of places to bring your girlfriend, out of money, and what more with nothing to do, i'm pretty sure this is the place you'd want to stay around for awhile..




The occasion was to see his very young kids with one that still needs carrying.



And the other being 2 years old.



As for dinner, we went to a restaurant called Bavarian Bierhaus (its amazing for someone who takes the plusliner bus).



Judging from the look on the signboard, it is indefinite not to drink beer.

Now I am not going to write about my food since i would leave that to somebody else or wait...somebody has done it already isn't it!

I am going to talk about my beer that I had there. I mean i've never done any posts on drinks before.

So just before I had my very expensive Paulaner together with my meal,


my cousin told me to try the beer with lemon in it as he had heard from a friend in America a long time back.

Now I don't really know what kind of crap they come up with in America, but what the heck, for the fun of it, I went ahead with it.



Drop a lemon in it, and after having half a glass full of the beer, I couldn't help but think that, there was nothing great about it except for the slight tint taste of lemon.



How about squeezing lemon into it??Would that make a bigger difference?hmm..

And So i did.



Drinking the rest of my Paulaner with lime knowing full-well that it will taste like ummm...

LIME WITH BEER!!

I can't help but think I would either get a very upsetting stomach or at worst delusional.

Things seem ok until I noticed something rather different with one the boys...



The two year old boy suddenly came out from his chair.

Walked closed to another table and stared at the little girl



After 10 minutes, really focused and keeping full eye contact with the girl.



Then squad and admire her. It looked like someone found love at an early age.



hmm I don't know about you guys, was it me or is it just that guys today really start at a really really young age or is it simply i've noticed too many marriages this year..

All I know is, at least it gives a sigh of relieve that the parents know he is normal than to think 20 years later he'll be the next Elton John!

Plusliner Bus - Serendipity

Yesterday, I came down to KL by bus. (not this NICE bus ok!)



That's right guys!THE BUS AGAIN!!

Unlike my once-in-a-bluemoon-treat of using exclusive buses such as the Aeroline that I wrote a post not too long ago,



At most times though, I would be using buses that are half the price of it.

Its the kind of bus that you'll never bump into a beautiful girl. If you ever remembered of how a guy and girl would meet up in buses and end up being a relationship, it will never happen in this bus. NEVER!!(ummm maybe this kind of gal, i think got arr..)



Even the thought of having a beautiful girl boarding such a bus would fail to appear and even if she does board the bus, u can't help but think that GOD didn't put her in this hell hole!!Definitely not with people like me in such a bus..

And even if such things would happen, people who board this bus would never take a girl out on dates at romantic places like Ferengghi Garden.



At most he would be taking her to the famous LOVE LANE in Penang, hoping that some kind of miracle would happen there and keeping fingers-crossed that it does not matter where you are but how both of you could make do in LOVE LANE.



Even if he decides to take her to Mcdonalds, it would have been the biggest sacrifice of his life as he would have to now downgrade himself to a much much cheaper bus that he'd never know whether he would be able to see her again.



With all that, at a price of RM30 and below, this bus is called the Plusliner.



It has many couple seats.


It has an emergency door and colored for local emergencies to use during the right time if you know what i mean..


and umm the lane to get out of the bus between seats..


That's it!!Ok I will tell you what this bus does not have!

It has no SIA stewardesses unlike the Aeroline bus to make your trip comfortable.(What the hell was I expecting for such a price!!)



It has no more toilets unlike the Aeroline bus and so...our bodies would learn to adapt and make sure we pee and shitz when the time is right.

They do not serve us food and drinks on this bus. We Starve!(Now u know why i don't really add weight)



It stops once at a rest stop throughout the journey and it takes a hell of a long time to reach our destination and also it has no TV.

It is of no wonder that i'm a very simple person.

This bus may not have alot but I only hope to have one thing that this BUS could hopefully ever offer me. Everytime before I board this bus down to KL, I can only hope and pray

LIKE REALLY PRAY!!



that something good will happen to me on this bus with a cinema full of couple seats that some nice and pretty and down-to-earth and local and understanding and chatty girl would make my trip a little more enjoyable...


I hope i'm not asking too much for a little Serendipity to happen on the Plusliner next time I go to KL again.NOT ASKING TOO MUCH!!