Friday, March 28, 2008

First things first.

Wai Jia has been unable to share more of her musings as she has been studying for her final examinations for the year in medical school. She will then fly overseas to stay at a missionary's resthouse at a place with nothing but beach with a few friends for a good rest and holiday.

She promises to write more after this busy time blows over, when she finds some inspiration and internet connection by a lovely seashore.


But for now, first things first.







Thank you all for your well wishes and prayer.

Sending her love and thanks for your encouragement, prayer and love.

Help.

“This is really getting me down... I’ve had this for months, I’ve seen a podiatrist and it’s not getting better. It’s funny how this happened right smack in the middle of the time when things started spiralling downwards... and I started doing shorter sprints to relieve all that pent-up anger inside… Can't help but wonder sometimes if this is God’s way of punishing me, haha. Injuring my foot and taking running away from me. ”

Nervous laughter.

“Ya think God is punishing me? (laughs)”

Pause.


More nervous laughter.


“No, I don’t think so, Jia. I think He’s helping you to let go of what running means to you. You’ve been trying so hard to let things go- I think He’s just helping you.”

Friday, March 21, 2008

A Good Thing

Perhaps one of the hardest parts of This is coming to terms with accepting that you just aren't what you used to be.

It's one of the hardest things to accept, besides the medication, and the emotionally-lacerating process of the healing process. But what’s harder is often, the inability to convey it to other people.


Ambitious projects, impressive ideas, life-threatening deadlines used to speck her planner, in between examinations and parties and presentations, and now... she realises all she can manage are a few appointments on weekdays and church in the weekend. Even school becomes somewhat unbearable.

What happened to the high-flying, high-profiled high achiever?

And she forgot... that the hardest thing to accept, is that This means you just aren't what you used to be anymore. At least for now.

Tiny things pull large triggers, and she forgot she needed to be extra careful with herself and understand how necessary, how vital it is for her to avoid these unnecessarily stressful situations, because... going through This means you just aren't what you used to be anymore.

It's hard enough coming to terms with that, but harder to have to deal with accepting that people don't understand, most are not going to understand, and you can't paste a FRAGILE sticker on your forehead to tell the Big People there are things you used to be able to handle which you can't handle now, because they simply don't understand.

"What was so hard about coping with that?! I just don't understand!"

The question commands for your Uselessness to explain itself.

And it breaks you into pieces, because you're asking yourself the same thing. Just, what was so hard about it?

She used to delegate jobs to people, organise large-scale college events, plan projects from scratch and see them come to pass, top the standard for subjects and now... She musters every fibre of her being just to handle the simplest of situations, and later, when the crowd leaves and the stage curtains draw down, she's drowning in fear, suffocating in tears, crying in overwhelming desperation and depression and groping for an arm that can hold her for just a moment because she's about to break down-no, the breakdown is happening, it already happened- because it was too much for her, she appeared that she could handle it because she had to but really, she couldn't handle it, couldn't answer Big People asking in frustration why she just couldn't handle it- "What was so hard about it?!", couldn't understand her own Uselessness and she opens her eyes to see, to realise and to accept that-

- she just isn't what she used to be.

At least for now, at This point in time.

Perhaps one of the hardest parts of This has to be coming to terms with accepting that- you just aren't what you used to be. And the hardest part, perhaps, may be accepting that most people don’t, won't understand.

The second time I went to see Miss B*, the lady before me walked out of the room, came up to me, smiled and said, "I read your blog and thank you for writing on it... I admire your relationship with God so much. Take good care."

I only smiled back. Because only I know the black moments I have with Him. I fight, wrestle, cry, get angry, disappointed, frustrated with God, and ask him why.

Oh why. Just like everybody else.

Why God, why am I not what I used to be anymore. I’m angry, I’m hot, I’m disappointed, and most of all, I feel wretched and unworthy and Useless. There are times I tell Him how very, very angry and disappointed I am. You for real, Mister God? Really?

And then I hear a whisper:

You used to be very, very capable, and also proud, insensitive and self-absorbed. You used to esteem yourself in things you could show for, and my, were there many- but you were also shallow, superficial and lonely. And then This runs you over like a steam-train, runs you right over.

And you find yourself incapacitated, incapable, inadequate. But also humble, compassionate and grateful, letting go of what entraps so many who do not yet understand- the trophies, medals, certificates, accolades, the doing, doing, doing. You find yourself embarrassed, always covered in snot and tears, contrite, lowly, little, but also deeper, more loving, more understanding. There are tears and yet an emanating radiance, there is utter brokenness and yet you've never been more whole, there is blatant weakness staring back at you in the face, and yet, you've never heard that many people tell you how strong you've been. And you’re blaming me for all this now?

And then, I come to terms with the reality that-

-I’m just not what I used to be. But that could be a good thing. A Good thing.

And it becomes... less hard. Even though it hurts that the Big People don’t understand, may not ever.

Because in some ways I know for sure, God really does know what He's doing, and He really does care more about us as individual persons, as human beings, as His children than what we could ever do, ever manage, ever handle. And this is only for a season. We will learn what we were meant to learn, come out stronger and better for it, and it will pass. Winter is but for a quarter of the year.

I'm just not what I used to be. Not as capable, go-getting, unstoppable, but also not as proud, unthinking, lonely, insensitive. And that could be a good thing.


Maybe someday at some point in our lives, we'll find ourselves asking Him why we're not who we used to be. Why so much was taken away from us, why we find ourselves under a shadow of a black cloud, why we find ourselves receiving that gaze of condescension and disappointment on the faces of those who don't understand. And then when we have a moment to ourselves to see what we do have now, in exchange, perhaps we'll also see-

-We're not who we used to be, but that could be a Good thing.


I remember once, just minutes before a major exam, a distraught girl whom I hardly knew came up to me to tell me, in between heavy breaths and covered in tears that she had been seeing the doctors, she had been having serious depression, wasn’t able to take the paper, and would somebody please help her. We had to fight through the crowd to get to the invigilators, so I could tell them what she was trying to convey. She kept telling me how nobody understood, how everybody just stood apart from her that morning, not understanding, not reaching out to her. At that point, I just thanked God… for everything, for helping me understand, reach out.


To those of you struggling, know that This has a reason, and that yes, you may not be who you used to be, but that while some of the loss is temporary, some of the changes are also life-changing. And that could be a Good thing.

You’ll never hear Him say, “What was so hard about coping with that?!” Because He planned This for a season, a season that will pass, that will not last forever. It is a time of helplessness, brokenness and fragility that ironically, will form the foundation of something wholesome, healthy and strong. It is only for a season. This is something most people will not understand, and it can indeed feel very lonely, frustrating even. But He knows, He understands and He intended that we were not to be who we used to be, that we change from faith to faith, from glory to glory- and in spite of everything, that

This could be a good thing, and the beginning of something very good indeed.



" ... he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come! "
-2 Cor 5:17-18

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Married at an early age. Would you?

Not too long ago, I met up with an old school classmate / friend who happens to be getting married this year!!


HEARD THAT RIGHT!!MARRIED!!MARRIED AT AGE 23!!

Some people ask me, how come he could do such a thing???

umm...You wouldn't if u have a girl this hot??



No that's not his girlfriend but his girlfriend is very pretty as well. So what does that tell you??

Anyway coming back to out meet up, if you're wondering what was the first thing that got into my mind,

IT WASN'T AN "ACCIDENT"! hehehe....ummm...


The first thing that got into my mind was....how successful he could have been to do such a thing!



I mean...LOOK AT IT!!Its a really big step in his life.

I can't even imagine myself in a marriage. (that was my cousin in her wedding last week)



How too...when I don't have any of the 5C's at least for a start.

1. CAsh
2. Car
3. Credit Card.
4. Condominium
5. Country Club

How too when i'm still leaching on other people to get myself in VIP ROOMS such as the recent post.hehehe...

Obviously the step he took differenciates the boys and the men.

Now the next thing that many people would be interested to know is when they will have their first child since its no longer an accident.


Well at least I was interested because I wanted to know how old his kid would be so i can space out my timing on when I should settle down.

Then he whispers to me....

His newly wed not interested in having a baby at least for another five years which was agreed by him before marriage.

Now if you're wondering that this is no longer in use after u get married,


you're wrong!!

Heck!!Might as well come to the wedding in this?


She even controls what he can do with his "big brother" right from the start of the marriage. What else is there that the she couldn't control?

Obviously, this is a start of new marriages to come.

In that case. I'm 24, I'm single, I'm free from commitment, this is my prime time..ummm marriage now? No thank you. I think i'm gonna my marry my first sports car first.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Songs from the Darkness.

It's been a long weekend.




"I will sing praise to you..." -Psalm 71:20-24


And shall we only thank God for the good, and not the bad?





"Yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
I will be joyful in God my Savior."
-Habakkuk 3:17-18

VIP Room in MOIS Penang

If there was any one thing about my life, I was not going to stand around and stay at the "bottom of the society chain" blocking me access to entertainment that is offered to only "Very Important People"

People who are rich, famous, and good looking.

People who own cars that not any normal people(the ones that clubs outside the VIP ROOM) would have



What am i talking about???

YES GUYS!!I FINALLY MANAGED TO ENTER THE VIP ROOM!!

Something I couldn't do the last time I visited the club in my last post.

With so much curiosity, I really needed to check the room out and of course show the rest of the people who are together with me at the bottom of the society chain.

This is how far I would go to show my dear readers that I am committed to this blog and that waiting 10 to 15 days for a single post was very worth it.

Right!!Right!!

Hmm.....

This "field trip" was made possible by a friend. All thanks to him whom made thousands of phone calls through friends of friends of friends outside the club to get us a place in that VIP room.

Amazingly, we managed to have a place after buying 2 bottles of vodka and a bottle of whiskey which pretty much amounted to my entire months of pay cheque.

So, what's so nice in the VIP ROOM compared to clubbing on the outside of that room in MOIS?

Well, there was a Harp for rich educated children to play a different kind of tune whenever they find the music outside not too soothing to them.



There were beds.



Beds that I could only imagine a night like how SNoop DOGG would do it!!



There was a private bar.


The kind of bar that you could pull off a James Bond's way of ordering a drink.



There were lots of large seats in the middle.(Imagine yourself with the seats!)



and chandeliers everywhere to make the place look really exclusive.



Everything about this VIP Room really seemed perfect until I needed to do a minor business after having some drinks.

Gin:"Where is the VIP Toilet?"

waiter: "The toilet is at the end there sir" (Pointing at the general toilet used by all the low graded human beings outside the VIP Room)



Gin: "Look i think u did not hear me (Trying to act as a cocky rich kid), where is the VIP Toilet??"



Waiter: "there is no VIP toilet la boss. only that toilet over there"


THERE WERE NO VIP TOILETS IN THE ROOM!! I am VIP!! I cannot pee with other people nor use a tap that is over-used to wash hands after many "sticks".

Also I am not going out of the VIP Room that i may not have another chance of being in the next time i come clubbing in MOIS!

IS THIS HOW YOU SERVE VIP'S??

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Traumatic Incident- Breaking Point.

Why is the medication not working anymore.






Oh God, how long more.

Isaiah 30: 18-26

Friday, March 14, 2008

Slowly.

I see 4 people now. They all work in a team, each one helping to shed light on an illness from different angles, providing help in different ways.

There is Miss B, whom I look forward to see with anxiety and anticipation at the same time. She spends an hour each time with me, helping me cope with Recovery. She is most kind and tender, but also firm and honest, shining light on dark areas which I alone am afraid to tread, helping me recognise the Ed (eating disorder) as a bad boyfriend who needs to be gotten rid off, and how to do so. Miss B is the principal psychologist of the hospital.

She tells me Ed is a abusive boyfriend because like anorexia, he promises you things that are most attractive but ultimately unfulfilling, enticing you back into his arms after each abuse because of the charm and comfort he provides, and eventually destroying your self-worth from the inside out. He makes you believe you're ugly, abandoned and unwanted, and that nobody else but him will accept you- and only if you become very, very thin and sickly. He is a sick man, who likes to run and work out and destroy vulnerable victims- Sometimes, I think it is he who likes to run, and who makes Anna run far more than she would really like to. I don't think Anna really likes running all that much.

This is Ed, my bad boyfriend whom Miss B is helping me severe ties with for good-



There is Miss A, whom I just met this week. She helps me to understand the origins of the illness and how they stem from my familial background and childhood. She approaches the illness from a familial angle, and is the one who will eventually speak to my Big People to help them understand This.

Because of certain Incidents, a little girl was forced to grow up very quickly without really being allowed to be a child for long. At twelve, she was Head Prefect, but also an adult, parent, wife, counsellor. Thus, there is a part of her that still very much hurts as a child, and who longs to be one, to be parented. Miss A wants to help her Big People understand that when she does act up, it really is the child inside who wasn't allowed to grow who is doing so.

A little girl learnt, that one of the primary feelings of her childhood was that of abandonment. Because of certain familial dynamics, she has grown to be morbidly afraid of giving her heart away to... men, of any kind, even if some of them really were or are gifts from heaven. She tries to keep a Safe distance from them all and is really is afraid of what they would do to her, not physically, but emotionally, because of what Big Papa did to Raggedy-Anna a long time ago. One of the principal feelings of her childhood was that of abandonment, and she's just so afraid another one of them would... well. It is so scary for her. But Miss A wants to help her to learn to trust them again, and not to reject them all outright, because some of them really are nice teddies.



It wasn't easy seeing Miss A. At one point, I had to tell her to stop because it was hurting so bad. We talked a lot about God, and I showed her a lot of my pictures.

"What is your mental image of God?" she asked me.

"I don't have one."

"All of us do. It's whether we are conscious of it or not." She coaxed me to think about the one image that would always surface in my mind whenever I was with God alone. It took some time.

"Ah yes. It's me on my knees, my hair at his feet. Like the woman in the bible story- Mary and her jar of perfume."

"It's very telling," she said, "what your pictures tell me about your mental image of your earthly father, God and men. Your experience with your earthly parent has extended to your relationship with God, do you see? Can you imagine yourself in God's embrace? On his lap, in his arms- other than his feet?"

I paused for a long while. It was a very difficult question. My answer surprised me- "No," I said. "No. I am unable to imagine that."

"Do you see? It's that feeling of unworthiness again."

She was spot on. My pictures were so telling- and she saw far more in them than I did. It explained why Anna never grows up, and why she's precoccupied with wearing white, and only white.

Before I left, I heard Miss A say, "This is very unconventional family therapy- I usually don't talk religion. But I think this will help you." She smiled.

It did. It's when they keep going in circles without bringing God into the picture that really messes me up.

Miss A wants to help me see that we have the privilege not only of being at our father's fingertips, but also to sit on his lap, be caught in his embrace, rest our heads on his bosom.






There is Dr L, who helps to arrange the different people who have to see me, and who takes care of medication.

There is the dietitician, whom I'm supposed to see after my upcoming final exams.

Is it tiring to see them?

Yes. I have not taken an afternoon nap longer than twenty minutes in the past few years. I slept for more than an hour yesterday at mid-day, out of sheer exhuastion.

It is a long road, but we will make it there slowly.




*All posts under the link Therapy chronicle her journey to recovery from Anorexia and depression with professional help from the team at the Singapore General Hospital.


Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Turning back.

* Letter published with permission

Dearest Wai Jia,

I really don't know how to express my thanks to you for all the rainbows you create for people like us through your webpage. I have always longed to email you and yet I was hesitant, scared as I'm not really good at expressing myself. But your entry
'the gift nobody wants' really made me cry and I feel the need to thank you so so much. You have managed to see the same 'illness' so many of us have in such a different way... As I blame God and attempt to take my life in protest, you grow closer to him; as I start to feel that society is shit, you reach out to help others........ You're really a rainbow Wai Jia, the rainbow that has provided me relief in the storm. You find the exact words and analogies to describe feelings that I can express only through self-harm and I thank you loads for making me understand me.

Somehow, reading your entries is therapy in itself. I'm not trying to say that I'm suddenly going to start being 'normal' again after this email, because I don't think it is that easy. I feel so guilty, I'm a failed christian and I doubt I'll ever find the kind of strength you have. All I wanna say is thanks, loads of thanks, please don't stop what you're doing... I know God will bless you loads, you're just as beautiful as your words. All the best!

With love and sincerest thanks,
T


Dearest T,

Thank you for writing- For your thanks, affirmation and generosity, I’m deeply grateful, and I’m truly encouraged by your kindness. There is something I would like to say, and I hope you won’t mind me sharing this with you and others here.

We are all different, yet all the same. I want you to know that I am no different, my heart, my form and my body was made with the same substance and by the same Hands as yours are. In times of deep depression and despair, I, too, have blamed God, and considered "to take my life in protest" as you mentioned, sometimes even feeling the same feeling "that society is shit" as you described. We are all the same- our hearts, minds and bodies moulded and shaped by the same Hands, our self-pitying emotions, fear of losing control and wicked deceitfulness all falling short of the same thing. I am no different, I have felt the same way.

Do not ever feel like you have failed, or like you will never have the strength to find your own rainbow. Most of all, never compare yourself with me or any other- for we are all the same, fallen in the same places, cracked along the same faults, crooked along the same lines. Whatever I have, you have too. And whatever you have, I, too. We are made with the same substance, by the same Hands. Remember that.

Many times, most of us go through the same feelings- grief, anger, denial, despair and rebellion. The difference, however, lies in the eventual choice we make. I think it is natural to be mad at God. We all do. But I think, perhaps, it is better to be mad at God and to know so, to turn to him and tell him so, than to be mad and in denial about it, or worse, to turn away in guilt, shame, anger or cynism.

I've noticed-people with faiths have a great tendency to feel guilty, thinking that with God, they ought not to feel such strong feelings of sorrow, vehemence, anger. But I have only just learnt and realised, that many good men of the bible were depressed, furious and frustrated with God too. Yet, none of them needed to feel guilty, none needed to feel like they weren’t good enough. The difference between people with similar cirumstances but different outcomes is that those who find their rainbows were the ones who told Him their feelings to his face. You can say I AM SO MAD. Not behind his back, but to Him, into His face- I AM SO MAD AT YOU GOD, AND I'M REALY UPSET WITH THIS. We have emotions for a reason- but what we do with them is important- do we get mad at God and stay so, or tell him so we can listen to what he has to say, hear his heartbeat against our own?

Once I read somewhere that it is perfectly all right to be mad and disappointed with God. But we must tell it to His face, that same face which created our hearts, souls, minds, for joy, peace and good things. It is when we tell it to His face that our healing begins, for we chose not to turn away. That is the difference. He loves us so much, but we have to let Him.

This rainbow you are seeing is not created by me- We are all the same, my heart, mind and emotions made from the same substance and by the same Hands as yours, yours completely. I share the same wicked, deceitful, self-pitying thoughts- we all do. But those same Hands which have painted the rainbow for me, are the same Hands that can paint the rainbow for you, too- if only you believe so. It is not a rainbow I have created myself. The first rainbow was created after Noah's ark found dry land after the 40-day flood, as a sign of God's promise to Him. God doesn't break promises. And His promise to you, to me, to all of us, is that for each and every one of our lives, He has a rainbow awaiting.

There’s no such thing as a “failed Christian” or a “failed person”. And never feel you’ll never have the strength someone else has. For whatever beauty and strength you see in me or any other, and any fault or darkness you see in yourself, you have and I have, too. We are all made of the same substance, formed by the same Hands, and loved as much by the same Heart.

Get angry and mad and sad with God if you have to. But when you do, tell it to His face. Don't turn away. For every heartbreak you have, he has too; for every tear you cry, he cries too; and for every harsh word you say, he hurts too. It pierces through His skin like a knifeblade and he bleeds. He takes it, every time, and He wants to. Is that hard to believe?





For at the end, no matter how mad we get at Him, He never loves us any less. He loves us just as much, for telling it to His face, for not turning away. He loves us just as much. And we can always turn back, always go back to Him. He is always waiting for us to.




Whatever encouragement or glimpse of God you have found here, I have found in your beautiful letter too. We all need one another to fill us in similar ways, are all made of the same substance, by the same Hands, loved by the very same Heart, destined for the same rainbows. There are no failures in his sight, only children he is waiting for, to turn back to him. He is always waiting.

God bless you loads too, dear. You are just as beautiful in his sight.

Love,
Wai Jia


The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
-Psalm 34:18

Sunday, March 9, 2008

Eye Wide Shut.

I remember a birthday party I attended. I was six then. They had a game called “Pin the donkey”, where you had to pin a paper tail on a donkey outline while being blindfolded. To make the game harder, they put you a distance away from the donkey, spun you around a few times so you, in a confused state, had to grope your way to it. I watched the other children play. They made it seem so easy because they were so sure of themselves, even though they couldn’t see a thing. I played too. Back when we were children, we took risks, played boldly, and laughed hard at our mistakes. Being blindfolded never seemed to make us too unsure. It was what made it all fun. We had a wild time.

Faith is about being sure of what one hopes for, and certain of what we do not see-Hebrews 11:1. I used to relate faith with great projects, ambitions, dreams. Now, taking off my rose-tinted shades, I see it instead, in the littlest of things, things I never used to see it in. I see clearly now, that for all our human foresight and worldly vision for great dreams and pompous goals- one very often needs faith, simply for oneself-to believe in one’s own complete restoration, healing, progress, transformation.

Therapy can be an excruciatingly daunting process. Very often, one gets discouraged along the way. The issues surfaced spin you around, the blindfold seems to make it seem like the lights were turned off, and you wonder if the donkey might even be in the opposite direction, behind you.

Times like these, you freeze up, want to back out, say you’re through and you don’t want to play anymore. Times like these, you start to understand the term of “walking by faith” in a profoundly personal way.

Different people with depression shows symptoms in different ways. Some lose appetites, some lose interests, some lose sleep. I have the symptom they call early-morning waking, which involves jolting awake at four in the morning and being unable to fall back to sleep. On better days, this happens at five. You are dead tired, have a full day of school the next day but your eyes are wide open. Yet, the darkness all around makes it seem like they’re shut-you can’t see anything. Eyes wide shut.

The anxiety from the bad dream hauntingly lingers, and your heart sinks as you fight the frustration and resignation of having another night’s rest interrupted. You try to see beyond the darkness and to hold on to a dimming vision of seeing yourself healed, and set free from this unnecessary bondage. With your eyes wide shut, you try and see beyond the present blackness.

Sometimes, this can be so hard.

Some nights I forget, that Faith is about being sure of what one hopes for, and certain of what we do not see. In the darkness, my eyes cannot see, open or closed, and I remind myself, this is what it is- to be unable to see, to suffer from this painful symptom of depression, and yet, still be certain, excited even, of a victory, a time to come.

Sometimes, this can be hard.

On my way home from the podiatrist a few days ago, I walked past the blind busker who performs at the underground tunnel at Orchard Road. He has almost become a landmark there. Many times I had walked past him but could never chat as he was in the midst of a song. This time, however, he had stopped to take a drink. I walked by- “I like your music very much. What is your name?”

“Robin. My name is Robin.”

He took both my hands and held them very tightly. He started to ask me what I was doing, why I was at Orchard Road. I was about to leave, say goodbye and take my hands back but there was an urgency in his grasp that both surprised and disturbed me at once. He held both my hands, shook them, almost fondled with them, as if he wanted to know the hands which belonged to the voice, as if he wanted to be sure I was there, wanted to be sure I wouldn’t go, just yet. Not till he was ready to let me go, at least.

His eyes could not see, and he wanted to be certain.

I thought to myself, it is like the anxious way we sometimes grope in the darkness, urgently crying out for God’s hand to come touch us, anxiously fearful that He’ll leave us, in mid-conversation. But just like the way I was standing right in front of Robin, whether he was clutching my hand or not, God is always right there by us, too, I thought. We’re uncertain of what we cannot see, and Faith allows us to be otherwise.

His grasp disturbed me, reminded me of Uncle P.

Uncle P was once a stranger to me, too. I met him at church. He was just sitting there at the coffeeshop, staring into space, with one hand on his walking stick, his hair a shock of white. I remember I had seen him at a church service once previously. Everybody was praying for him at the front because he had turned blind recently, and had to stop serving as a missionary.

I went up to him to say hello, say that I was moved and encouraged by his life of being a missionary, say “my name is Wai Jia and how do I address you? Are you feeling better now and how can I pray for you?”

He reached out his hand to hold mine. He has been a missionary for a long time. Just two days before we had first met, he had had a heart operation for a heart attack, had learnt his kidneys were failing him because of diabetic complications, and now, he was going blind, too.

I looked at his blank eyes which stared out into the distance. When they looked into mine, I saw two stagnant pools of glassy dullness staring back at me. I didn’t know how much of me he could see. So I looked back into his eyes, pretended that he was seeing me quite clearly. I didn’t know what to say. Tell him what, that I understood?

One Sunday I saw him standing in the midst of a crowd, his wispy frame leaned over his walking stick, a lonely shadow of a man amidst a garrulous, bubbly crowd. He couldn’t walk forward because of his eyesight so he was waiting for his wife to come. His face was crestfallen, his eyes forlorn. It must have been our third encounter. As I went over to comfort him, he started to cry and weep in a sudden outburst of emotion. I didn’t know what to say. Tell him what, that I understand? That I understand his feelings of anger, betrayal and confusion to his plight after doing God’s good work for his entire life to serve the poor? That I understand how everyone is trying to give him a different kind of explanation for his circumstance-it’s punishment, no it’s fate, no it’s a trial, just accept it, no you should believe in being healed-you cant just accept this… That I understand his frustration, his agony, his shame?

“ God loves you so very much, Uncle P,” I said.

“It’s been ten months!” he cried out, “ I want to see… I just want to see…” How he wept. And if it hadn’t been for his walking stick, he would have sunk into my arms. In some sense, I felt his pain, too. All that frustration and confusion about his state seemed to echo within me. As he wept, I started to cry, too.

I remember the first time I introduced myself I told him I was a medical student hoping to be a medical missionary someday. Suddenly his eyes lit up and his hold on my hands tightened to a grasp, the same bold grasp of Robin the blind busker. At once, from his shrunken, dim state, he became ecstatic, was glowing, even. He smiled broadly, his face turned to mine, and his blank, blank eyes bore into mine, bore into mine so deeply it was as if he was looking right into my soul, and he said, “I’m so happy, Wai Jia, to hear that. You know, I know I’m going to go back to the mission field myself…Oh I’m so excited, I’m going back to the mission field someday!”

Now when I see him, he tells me the same thing, over and over.

I wanted to cry, wanted to tell him, that from a medical perspective, he might not ever see well again. You just had 2 heart attacks, one heart operation, your kidneys are failing, you have severe diabetes and you are almost completely blind. But I said nothing. For he had what I was losing on this long journey-

-Faith.

Faith is about being sure of what one hopes for, and certain of what we do not see. He was blind, but he was sure.

As sure as children are when they march forward with their blindfolds on, to pin the tail on the donkey; as sure as I am when I flick on the light in mornings of insomnia to read the bible, page after page, and claim the peace of God like a little babe; as sure as Robin was of my physical presence when he grasped both my hands in his.

Blind, with eyes wide shut. And yet certain of what they could not see, sure of what they hoped for.

And I do believe Uncle P- that he will go back to the mission field someday and become an extraordinary man. You’d think it’d be impossible- he’s going blind. But his faith has won and inspired the hearts of men, that beautiful faith exercised in spite of circumstance is testimony to his love for God, not only in times of being blessed, but even in spite of great pain and agony. Do you not see- because of his faith, his mission field has become the people around him, who have been shamed by his glorious and devoted love for God in spite of circumstance.

And I finally understand, that it’s true when they say that faith can move mountains, open blind eyes, bring life, restoration, healing. So now when I awake at four in the morning, with my eyes wide shut, I am more determined now to look into the darkness and smile in faith at the hope of a future I cannot yet see. I have been afraid and anxious of many things because of the three appointments for therapy I have this week- the thought of it has been so intimidating that one cries alone in the night when one cannot sleep. But I realise, that one sometimes just has to move forward, with each step in child-like faith, and be unafraid to take the step forward to pin the tail on a donkey we can't even see, because it will be done according to the certainty and faith birthed within our hearts, even though we cannot not yet see- because just like how I hadn't moved an inch away from Robin, God is likewise always there found right beside us.

It’s so very hard sometimes, but the harder the case, the greater the faith that will be magnified.

Perhaps someday, when I’ve graduated from medical school and recovered from this all, I’ll meet Uncle P- in the mission field, too- with our eyes wide open.



Then He touched their blind eyes, saying, "Be it done to you according to your faith."
-Matthew 9:29

Friday, March 7, 2008

Heavenward.

She caught my eye immediately.

The bus doors opened for passengers to board and alight, and there she was, fiddling with her purse on her way up. I was sitting near the door, my body slumped wearily on the bus seat, head-heavy from the afternoon of intensive studying, watching the file of blank-faced passengers board the bus-when she caught my eye. At once, she not only caught my eye, she captured me- all of me. I sat up immediately.

She was a complete stranger, just another Chinese woman boarding the bus, but there was something about her that caught my eye. By conventional standards, she wasn’t a head-turner. No smoky eyes, luscious raspberry lips, or legginess to show off. No shiny jewellery, matching accessories, or dress-to-impress clothes. She wasn't even particularly young- she must have been in her thirties.

In our country, every woman in her twenties and over wears make-up, heels and has her hair either straightened, dyed or both. Everyone looks the same after a while.

She had not a hint of make-up. Her clothes weren’t particularly fashionable, even. In fact, it was her skirt I noticed first. It was one of those plain, long, sweeping peasant-girl skirts, with patchwork patterns and tiny girly flower-prints all over. To tell you the truth, if I had seen it on a rack, I would have thought it looked like a cheap, tacky bargain from a bazaar sale. But on her, it was... beautiful.

On its own, it was a little maternal and perhaps a little frumpy, even. But on her, it was... beautiful. Beautiful, because something which had the potential to be cheap and tacky was transformed on her, by her. And my eyes, transfixed upon her, searched her all over for her hidden enchantment.

Perhaps it was her ruddy, clean-faced complexion, her dressed-down clothes which conveyed simplicity and good taste, the way she put up her virgin hair loosely in a hair-clip the way I do so at home, or how she floated onto the bus with such grace on chrome-coloured leather clogs. I remember thinking to myself, how that would be the way I’d like to look when I grow to become her age. Simple dressing, plain clothes, and an enigmatic spirit filled with elegance and grace. She was very plain, so plain she was beautiful-sexy, even.

So when her eyes met mine as she boarded the bus, I gave her my heavenward-smile, the kind of smile whose edges take their time to find the sky. Our eyes met for a moment and I smiled at her for the simple reason that I thought she was so plain, and yet breathtakingly beautiful.

She smiled back. She not only smiled back- she sat down right next to me.

I watched her with a sideways glance as she sat down and fiddled some more with her purse. She was glowing, I thought. This is a special woman. So I continued to smile, albeit very shyly lest she thought I was mad.

“You study Japanese?” she suddenly asked me. She saw some Japanese words written on a stack of notes I was holding.

“Oh no, my mom used to. These are my study notes I made on the back of my mom’s old Japanese notes. I study medicine, heh.”

She nodded her head gently. There was a brief awkward pause, the kind where you’re unsure to leave the conversation where it is, or to continue.

“By the way, I think that’s a beautiful skirt you’re wearing. It’s beautiful,” I said.

“Oh really? Thank you, it was a cheap buy- I bought it at THIS FASHION.”

THIS FASHION is the name of a franchise in our country that has found its market among heartland aunties and youths with a tight budget.

“ Ha, I bought a dress for fifteen dollars there myself-took a risk to wear it to church and was surprised it got compliments, heh. I guess it’s one of those places where you can get really good finds once in a while.”

“Oh, church you say? Which church do you go to? I’m a missionary to Sudan, Africa.”

Suddenly everything around me grew dim and I understood perfectly the nature of the beauty I was drawn to in the first place. It was her heart, her spirit. I laughed out loud when she spoke those words- I finally understood why.

“I knew it!” I said. We both laughed. “You won’t believe it- I’m doing medicine because I’m thinking of becoming a medical missionary.”

“Ah,” she raised her eyebrows, “divine appointment, this is.”

And so, as with all the other Strangers, we exchanged contacts, became friends.


It all began with a smile, a heaven-ward search from the two edges of our lips.


I remember it was someone I respect very much who told me, “You never know who you’re talking to. Smile, entertain strangers with wisdom, treat everyone with utmost respect.”

Perhaps not every person we meet will give us the same exquisitely delightful experience. Sometimes, in a smileless society, we may, by our smiling at Strangers, even be thought of as being crazy. But I say it’s even crazier not to smile if you really mean to.

Try it. Smile at an old person on the train today. Be brave, smile and look at him in the eye. Most importantly, mean it- mean it like you really want to convey your joy, your appreciation for his life, your love from God for him. See if he doesn’t smile back right at you. And tell me, if we don’t live in a Crazy world who thinks smiling at strangers is crazy.

Oh, the randomness of life, and the beauty of its randomness.

On my way home today, an old Indian man walked by me and stopped me with his toothpaste advertisement-worthy smile. Actually, he called out to me. He had a walking stick because he was so old. He looked at me, smiled broadly behind his thick glasses, and asked me out-of-the-blue, “WHERE DO YOU LIVE?”

I was stunned. I frowned a little, but returned his smile because he was so old and frail. “I live nearby,” I said, trying to be polite.

“But WHERE?” He quizzed.

“Oh, nearby, just.”

“You mean you cant even tell me WHERE?” He laughed heartily in jest, lifting his stick off the ground. He had a way of punctuating his words such that he sounded like he was narrating a children’s storybook.

“ I live across the road, right there.” I pointed to where I lived and smiled at him.

“OH! Oh, you look SO BEE-YOU-TEE-FOOL today,” he said to me in an odd sing-song manner, in an unlecherly, grandfatherly sort of way, beaming still. I was in a strange ensemble of home clothes-a grey T-shirt and shorts, and wearing my glasses with my hair in disarray, as usual. “ I- Love- You!” he said, bowing his head courteously.

“Thank you,” I laughed out loud. I nodded and replied, “God loves you too." I smiled back. I was amused. This is the second time I’ve had a strange man come up to me to tell me he loved me. The last time it happened, I was in Cambodia with my school team on a humanitarian mission trip. A strange man tailed our group for hours on a trail and when our team leader finally approached him, he came right at us and told me- he loved me. His English was very bad- "My name... is... Bob. I I luvp you. I lup you very much."

I want to tell you in all truth and honesty that I made no attempt at all to smile at him or any other stranger then. If one chooses to smile, it must be in the right place and with wisdom exercised too. I became, needless to say, the butt of everyone's joke during the rest of the trip. Please understand- I dress very plainly when I'm on mission trips or walking home from dinner nearby. Often, I don't bother with contact lenses and my clothes are sometimes mismatched. I now wonder why it is this type of men I attract. Ah, well.

The old Indian man crossed the road.


Crazy man, some might say. Crazy girl like me, you might say, too. But who’s to say who’s crazy if a smile like that can brighten up someone's day. We all grow old. Many of us become senile, crazy- some of us earlier, some of us later, some of us in the headiness of our youths, and some of us in the greyness of our ageing. We all grow old. Life’s too short.

So smile. You never know what you might find, who you might meet- a missionary from Africa, a lonely elderly person desperate for someone to talk to. It made me think of the time I smiled at an African man on a train on my way to a friend’s church. I smiled at him because of the way his golden-black skin shimmered against his white, white shirt, and because he was clasping a big-book bible, heading in the same direction as I was- I suspected he was attending that same church. He came up to talk to me. We became friends, exchanged contacts. I didn’t take it too seriously when he asked me more about Kitesong. He ended up donating a hundred dollars. Last week, I received an email from him asking how the project is doing now.

So smile. Heaven-ward. Because you never know whose day you'll make, what Encounters you might have.

Smile heaven-ward. Because when smiles go up, angels come down.


I see you smiling already.



" Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have entertained angels without knowing it."
- Hebrews 13:2

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

The Gift nobody wants.

During my time in China, I visited a centre helping people recovering from leprosy with rehabilitation. I learnt, that people with leprosy don't die because of the bacteria they've been infected with. They die because of simple cuts, grazes, wounds they ignore that become infected when left untreated because of the painlessness. People with leprosy don't die because of Mycobacterium leprae. They die because of painlessness. Remember that.

Looking back all the Beautiful Encounters I have had with people, I begin to realise how much unspoken pain there is in each life and yet, the strongest, most uplifted people I have met are not those who have no pain to speak of, but those who acknowledge, experience, and work through pain on a regular basis. Face pain and talk to God about it. Ever so often. These people who have lost their parents to cancer, family to suicide, mothers to depression, siblings to anorexia, legs to tragic accidents- are not people on the papers, or televisions. Often, they are not even old people. They are the faces in our workplaces, schools, classrooms and churches, strangers sitting next to us on our trains and buses. Real people with real pains. Real pain that has been suppressed, oppressed and hidden for as long as weeks, months, years.

You know this. 1 in 4 Singaporeans will suffer from depression in their lifetime. At least 1 Singaporean kills himself every day. Yet, we go on in life, day by day, shuffling by alone in this huge cosmopolitan, neon-lit city, numb to the little cuts we accumulate each day, little cuts which we choose to ignore, allow to become infected, unconsciously. When things happen, we dismiss, deny, justify and minimalise. The depressed person dismisses himself, doesn't want to be a burden and says he's fine. The anorexic denies and justifies her eating habits, minimalises his or her distress. The stressed out student or heartbroken girlfriend minimalise their plights, say they'll get over it.

Many times, I told myself, "I'll get over it- it's no big deal. It's not serious enough to render getting help."

But we forget, tiny tragedies are important, too. No pain is too small to be dismissed, whether its exam stress, missing someone or moving homes.

I am learning, pain is a gift from God, a phenomenon of His grace poured into our lives, a message to spur us into self-reflection, repair and renewal. I am learning, that the symptom of pain is not the illness itself, but a sign giving clues to the illness itself, a sign of the beginning of healing, if only we allow it to be so.

But how addicted most of us are to get rid of pain, and getting rid of it fast. It's a chronic condition.

We are the lepers.

So many of us shun from seeking help, reaching out to a counsellor, pastor, therapist, teacher. Some of us turn to friends and family and find solace, while others reach a dead-end when they realise most normal folks just don't know how to help. They can listen, love, support- but where there comes a point when you become stuck in a rut and no one understands, what then?

A long while back, something Tragic happened to someone I knew and I heard someone else say, "She's fine. She's coping. She doesn't need counselling. Let's not make it a problem, okay?" As if the decision to get help would mean acknowledging a pain that we would have chosen to believe did not exist in the first place. "She's fine."

" Look, something tragic happened-it's okay to get help, it's normal, healthy. If we just let it sweep by, and never acknowledge the grief, we will never be able to heal. The pain will only come back later, in deeper, fiercer ways,"

I was passionate about this. I argued. Because I know you can choose to sleep, choose to deny, dismiss, justify, minimalise. You could sleep on pain for years and be quite all right, only to have yourself broken into a million little pieces when that unconfronted hurt is unexpectedly triggered later on in life. We have hurts for a reason. God allows pain to tell us that something is wrong, something needs attention. That we need to stop, feel it, and allow it to teach us the deepest of life's lessons.

Lepers die from painlessness.

I am learning-this is where the most profound lessons of life are learnt- in the heart of pain. And I am also learning- that Pain is a precious gift from God, the gift nobody wants.

When Pain arrives at our doorstep, how many of us find joy and excitement in unravelling the package packed in red ribbon? Most us search frantically for the receipt-mister God, can I exchange this for something else?

"I'm just afraid that seeing a counsellor would break her down. What if it's too painful. What are we going to do then?"

We are morbidly afraid of Pain, so we don't acknowledge it. We don't want to acknowledge it so we don't need to get help. We don't want to get help so we get help only when it's too late. When it's too late, it's... ... ... more Painful.

We mourn in 5 stages- denial, depression, anger, bargaining and forgiveness. Perhaps most of us sink into the first 2 stages and live our lives under a perpetual cloud of supression and chronic dullness without ever realising it. But the pain never really leaves. We merely sleep on it. And every moment we spend in our numbed painless state, a part of us dies. It is only when we allow ourselves to feel it, that we allow ourselves to live.

" I just don't think she needs to get help right now. See, she's fine isn't she?"

The human mind protects itself by blocking trauma out so we can function. It's an instinctive mechanism that kicks in.

We are the lepers- afraid of pain, afraid of acknowledging, confronting it. So many of us fail to see that if we dont take action now, fast, then denial and depression can grow like tumours, and by the time something significant happens, an Attempt or breakdown happens, we scramble, frenzied.

So many of us avoid the option of counselling, would rather skip than dwell on it, may even look at you in a HOW-DARE-YOU-SUGGEST kind of way if you even mentioned it, however casually. People think it's associated with weakness, and want nothing to do with it. Even I struggle with the pre-conceived notions attached to it. But it's a learning process, merely a means to help us understand our situation better in the larger scheme of things, in a way most people may not be able to help. Many find new insights and treasures they would not have otherwise found.

But I am also learning that while it is an excellent means to learn about skills, and a beautiful process of confronting and embracing the pain, gaining revelations and fresh insights, it is, by itself, not curative.

For all things, only God can heal eventually. We can talk about forgiveness, learn to forgive, try and forgive, but the ultimate healing comes from Upstairs.

But before we can even reach that state of ultimate resolve and liberation, we have to take the bravest step of all- to embrace it in its full glory. I am learning, that by confronting our shadows, we eventually find where our own light comes from. It is the paradox of healing- To embrace deeper and deeper pain before we can truly heal. I am learning, that it takes courage, humility and faith to embrace pain. It is in those tears where our strength can be found.

I am learning, I am learning so many things, waiting silently during this lull period as I prepare for my exams but preparing myself for the continuing therapy in the weeks to come, preparing myself for the Pain ahead, and the treasures I may find in it. I, too, fear, and struggle with battling the leper inside.

I am learning, what it is that Pain really is, and discovering how, in so many ways, it is the Gift that nobody wants.

For therein the heart of the hurt, lies the real present, healing and new life.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

My supposedly cheap Canon IXUS 960 IS in Penang

Two days ago, I finally bought my first camera.

That's right. MY VERY FIRST CAMERA!!

After many years of having no relationship,



I managed to save enough money for my single-self to treat myself on something I've always wanted. I decided it was time to treat myself by buying a camera since i've not been able to find another date to spend on.

A camera to take photos on what's left of my single life before ending my life with expensive camwhore wedding photos.


To be able to show my kid one day that there are alot of things you are able to do besides taking your gf to shopping malls and carrying their handbags for them.


I have not been taking photos of nearly a quarter of my entire life.

Well to cut the story short.

Choosing a camera has never been easy for a first timer. Its simply difficult to buy a camera that is simply worth my whole month of pay.

If there was anything, I just had to get the latest. Not only that. I wanted the cheapest offer that I could find.

So with that, I now present to you my Canon Digital IXUS 960 IS that i manage to scrape through every life savings to come up and pay for it.




Titanium body, 12.1 Megapixel, Lots of functions, 2.5inch lcd, and blah blah..

I bought it for RM 1450 at a shop in KOMTAR Penang.


Much less compared to all the camera shops in Gurney plaza who offered me RM1499 the least. The camera comes with a 2GB card and a camera bag.

Now if you wanna tell me that RM49 is not much of a big difference. Let me(poor man) tell you that money is still money. A cent saved is a cent richer.


BUT!!!!IF U HAVE A BETTER OFFER THAN WHAT I HAD, PLEASE LET ME KNOW!!

Cause the lady at the shop told me one that her offer is the best offer that you cannot find anywhere else!!

Now the funny thing is that everybody thinks and says the same way too. Nearly every shop i went to says that somehow!

I hope i wasn't duped. For no poor man can handle anything more that makes him poorer.

Saturday, March 1, 2008

The Pursuit of Courage

There a quality of lasting permanence about receiving them, and yet it is their maddening transience that strikes you. There is something captivatingly profound wrapped under their fresh sepals, and yet everything about them shouts frivolity and waste.

Flowers, that is. I like giving, and receiving them.

Some say it is a waste of money. Most would agree, and buy them anyway. For the language of flowers have transcended time, culture and race. It is a universal language. It declares love, subtly yet surely- love of the brave and daring kind, the kind that has overcome the fear of getting hurt, the fear of giving too much, too soon.

It is one thing to receive flowers, another thing to receive those that were thoughtfully chosen for you, stalk by stalk. The ones I received on my birthday were stunningly beautiful- I learnt you trekked all the way to the other part of the island just to get them for me, because you thought those flowers, fresh and tall and unbending, picked out amongst buckets and buckets of them stretching for miles, were beautiful, knew I’d think the same way too. I absolutely love them.

Yet, they all die. It is the most maddening and gut-wrenching fact of all. Still, we buy them. Still, we give them. Still, we receive these precociously transient gems graciously, with thanks, love and gratitude, because of the permanence of their memory, the memory we keep in our brown paper boxes, along with all the other ones.

They are like our friendships. Most last for seasons which end. Yet, nothing stops us from loving, from daring to love, from daring to invest, from daring to put ourselves on the line- and getting hurt. Just like the way nothing, nothing stops the quiet and bustling activity of life stirring beneath fast-asleep buds, nothing binds them from their eventual incandescent, luminent glory. We love, in the way flowers bloom- daringly, abandonedly.

Even though we know… the imminence of death.

We lose people along the way. Few friendships last for life. Flowers wilt, lives change, the people in photoframes too, and all we are left with, often, are brown-paper memories we cherish that provide no more than a lingering fragrance of what once used to stand proudly in a crystal vase, a stack of old photos taken with crazy poses and peals of laughter, holding no more than memories etched in our hearts.

That day, I was just thinking about things, the way I often do- thinking about what had happened, why we stopped being around each other, why it felt like I had lost an older brother who used to watch out for me constantly, why I missed you and the old times. And on the same day I saw you walk by me to someone else- yet, I noticed your slightest glance in my direction, and realised you missed that too- and then you walked by me in a little out-of-the-way fashion, not too obviously, to give me that cheeky, almost-lecherous smile as you walked by me, so that I would smile back- the way you used to.

I remember that smile.

It is a loss to lose the once-known familiar closeness. One often yearns for the good old times. Yet, it is only the bravest who dare venture out in faith and proclaim on higher ground that it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. I wonder constantly if I am that brave, that daring. It is easy to love Strangers, hard to love friends, harder still, to love family- only I know the coward who lurks beneath my skin.

It is a tragedy to watch flowers die, see them wilt away. Their edges crinkle, their petals brown, their leaves shrink and yellow like the fading dusk, and they stretch out their dying over an excruciating period of days- they never die all at once. Most people change the flowers in their vases at the first sign of death, at the closing ceremony after a glorious performance.

Yet, it is only the bravest who dare leave them in their vases and watch their dying glory, in vulgar candour. In the face of such fleeting transience, it takes a brave man or woman to love valiantly.

For do we stop buying, giving and receiving flowers, stop loving, daringly and unabashedly, because of the possibility of change, the possibility of death?

... No.

For when flowers die, it is not the end. We only enter into a different season, a different time. New seeds fall, new flowers bloom. We may miss old times, but we can revel in quiet joy for one another too, appreciating the exciting paths our feet have taken us, though we went different ways. Seasons, and not necessarily friendships, end. For I know even now, if someone came along and said an evil word against me behind my back, you would take him up and put him to the sword; if you saw someone break me into pieces, you would spear him without a thought- the way you would in the old times. Seasons, and not necessarily, friendships, change.

This taste left in our mouths is not what we call sour, but merely, bittersweet- like the lingering taste of black coffee sand, left like grit on our tongues at the end of a cloyingly sweet journey, sugared with condensed milk.

It takes a brave man or woman to love valiantly, in the face of the knowledge of such maddening transience. It takes a braver soul, still, to be able to mourn the wilting of flowers, embrace the end of seasons, and to look forward to new seasons ahead, to wish old friends well, and to look forward to new times ahead, though things may not be the same. Things seldom stay the same.

There is a splattering mess of paper-brown petals and sun-yellow pollen, withered petals and hunchback stalks at my window sill. The sight appalls and appeals to me at once. At once, the vulgar reality of death and transient life smacks me in the face, at the same time of the fond remembrance of a time that was beautiful, captivating and true.

And that is why I still buy, give and receive flowers with joy, why I always lap up their unrestrained, valiant blooming beauty like a good-old Kodak film moment, why I fight, tooth and nail, to resist the temptation, oh the cowardly temptation to stop running to keep pace of setting the distance from you and you and you, and why I never change them too soon but always, albeit between taking deep breaths to teach my heart the meaning of Courage, leave them long enough in their crystal vases-


- to watch them die.




 
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