Friday, February 27, 2009

Grace.

“We moving in maybe sometime later dis year. I always teenk to myself you know, sister Wajar (Wai Jia), why is it God choose you to make something happen like dis. So many pe-ple come to Nepal but how did anybody knows something like dis would happen from Kitesong?”

Within minutes I was in tears. The missionary who had driven his dusty, sand-covered jeep to come pick me from the airport, filled with the aroma of Nepal, was trying to express his gratitude to me. Since my first visit to Nepal, the children at the orphanage had had to move twice (a harrowing experience) because of the high rent, and it was hoped through fundraising from Kitesong, enough money would be raised to buy a permanent piece of land, where the children could grow up in peace and stability finally.

“Why is it dat God choose you?” he asked again, as we drove through the dusty, spartan Kathmandu city, winding through the dusty, smoky winding roads thronged with motorbikes, scooters and trucks. He had meant to say that God had a plan, and a specific purpose for my being there but it was at that point, when I smelled that familiarly nostalgic smell of Nepal, when I saw the beautifully stark houses and mountain ranges, heard the gorgeously languid accent of Nepalese, that it hit me- God chooses who He wants to use not because we’re better, more special, more loved- but merely, simply, of his great grace.

Grace. More than just a floozy, spiritually abstract word, it simply means receiving what you don’t deserve.

Like each one of my birthday presents, my birthday surprises, a ticket to a Coldplay concert and this trip to Nepal-which, if not for my parents’ generosity and love for me as birthday gifts, I would not have the chance to enjoy. The honour and privilege to live with these missionaries, people who’ve given their lives wholly for the benefit of others. The awe of seeing how God used a naïve idea to change the lives of needy children. What privileges, indulgences which I don’t deserve.

We can choose to demand, choose to be disappointed, or choose not to expect, and to count our every blessing. Over here, the people are experiencing a shortage of water, gas and electricity. The missionaries here can choose to complain about the dust, the fact that we don’t have electricity 16 hours a day every day, or thank God for the well which we can draw water from, thank Him for the 8 hours we do have electricity, thank Him for the blessings which come our way.

Tis a topsy turvy world we live in. That we receive when we release, we are lifted up when we bow down, we are blessed when we least expect it. Sometimes, in an upside down world, perhaps it is when we view the world from heaven’s perspective that things are set the right side up again.

“Why is it dat God choose you?” That question still rings in my mind.


God’s grace. How his great love washed down upon me.


One by one, the children ran up to hug me in the chilly, wintry afternoon. They were waiting, and I took in with surreal amazement the reality that I was back to see them- these children whose pictures are all over my bedroom walls. They were in a new, cheaper place which was far, far smaller, with hardly any space to play or be free, waiting to finally move into a permanent place they could call home.

It was beautiful, just being in their midst again.

I am learning- very often, it is when we let go that we receive His blessings. It was when I was ready to let go and say it was just too expensive to re-visit Nepal, that I just had to release the ministry to God that I was blessed with a ticket; it was when I decided that even watching Coldplay with the cheapest ticket would be an extravagance that I got one of the best seats as a gift; it was when I didn’t know any better that God could act like He knew best.

And it reminds me, that God chooses us for different purposes. And it is our attitudes he is most concerned about. When we are humble, he lifts us up; when we empty ourselves, he fills us up; when we understand that we have no right to anything we own, and start from the basis that everything we have is a blessing, a sign of God’s grace, then truly we can exult in joy and bask in the freedom of gratitude and everything becomes a true blessing..






Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Yellow fellows.

The past few days have been a furious flurry of activity.

Final exams. A 22nd birthday. News that nothing can be done about the tumor. Relatives flying in and out. Brain-burning bible study from that intensive missions course I signed up for. Gatherings. Errands. And packing for Nepal.

This year's birthday felt different from all the rest- This year, because it fell on the last day of our final exams, a mind-boggling number of people remembered it. This year, because of the stressful exam period, there were few gifts, but more well-wishes, and a very enjoyable and thoughtful picnic surprise at a beautiful park after the paper finally ended. This year, grandma came to stay to celebrate. Last year, my friends surprised me by singing a self-composed song to the tune of Yellow, by my favourite band coldplay- but this year, what a surprise I got...

... Closing my eyes and then discovering a mountain of 22 golden-yellow eggtarts stacked together like an inverted chandelier of wedding champagne glasses, each with a candle on top, and a crowd of friends laughing together with me. A yellow envelope. Yellow daisies. Then reaching home to find another bouquet of yellow flowers, roses this time. And corn soup, ha. A phonecall late at night, then a sneaky surprise visit at home by friends from church with a banner, terribly smoky sparklers, party poppers and cream-yellow cake smashed into my face.

So many yellow things. It tickled me.

Till late last year, I never liked the colour yellow. And I couldn't help but find it a little funny how so many things I received this year were yellow, without people knowing.

Yellow flowers signify friendship.

This year's birthday felt different. It taught me a lot about gratitude, contentment and security, the importance of friendship, and family. Most of all, it taught me about God's grace. That while mercy is God not giving you what you deserve, Grace is Him giving us what we don't deserve.

It was a time of reflection and thanksgiving. A year ago, I wouldn't even have imagined I would make it this far. But I have. I've grown, experimented, tried, succeeded, loved and matured- and only because of my friends and family. A year ago on that day I was a wreck and today I stand to testify that God never forsakes us, merely brings us through what He needs to to teach, discipline, encourage and love us.

Yellow roses signify friendship. Friendship blessed by God, without which life would be meaningless.

I leave early tomorrow morning, to see my friends in Nepal, the thirty children and the many missionaries, whom I think of every day. The day I left Nepal the last time, the children at the orphanage put a yellow flower in my hair. Come back okay, didi (big sister) Wai Jia? It's about time.

Thank you all for making my 22nd birthday special and memorable. Thank you for remembering, for reminding me of thanksgiving and gratitude, and for all the yellow things.






And it was all yellow.
-Coldplay

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Eyes on You (edited)

"Wai Jia, just wanted to tell you:

last Sunday as I was praying for you, felt God wants to remind you
not to just look at His hands but at His face...

as He wants you to learn to follow Him by watching His eyes,
rather than Him holding you by the hand...

Simply the process of maturing in God. Blessings."


It was as if God sent an angel with a message in a bottle for me. How did she know- that for the past 2 months, I felt God speaking to me about growing up, that for the past month since that day, I kept seeing, over and over, the image of God's hands moulding a clay vessel, myself, into shape, but never quite seeing His face.

When I closed my eyes, I kept seeing His hands moulding me, shaping me, like a Potter with his clay, so much so that when the doors opened for me to visit Nepal and the children at the orphanage again next week after my end-of-year exams, I decided to learn some ethnic pottery during my time there, from a friend's friend. Tis a marvellous thing, to attempt to understand why God is called the master potter.

This year, my final exams end on the day I turn 22- in two days. It set me thinking.


In so many ways, this year has been so different. Just about the same time last year, plodding through the lowest trough of my life, I had lost so much hope, wondered if the darkness would ever end. Growing up seemed so hard to do, so distant.




And while I've still a long way to walk on this pilgrim's progress- a year on, I've never been healthier, more aware of who I am-my weaknesses and strengths, and more certain of who I am in God, who God is to me. A year on since the darkest, most painful experience of my life, I can finally- the first time in three years- concentrate on the present, remember things clearly, run and cycle with freedom, experience the joy of humility, love, holiness and thanksgiving in the fullest measures of life, in the way only being closer to God can bring.

It's true. All this while, God's been holding me by the hand, leading me, picking me up, somtimes squeezing it so I have the courage to walk on. In the times I was too tired, too short of faith, too much in despair, he carried me; In the times I was too troubled to sleep, he lay by me and held me to sleep; In the times I wanted to shut my eyes and rage at him, he took the blow of my wilfulness. Always, there were angels around to guide, encourage, love me, take me by the hand to steady my feet, treat my wounds.



But now that I'm turning 22, it's time to grow up. Time to let go of a father's hand and start to walk on my own, explore new places, discover new frontiers, without fearing the independence. The past few months have been the most exciting months of re-discovering who I am.

Things are different, now. Since all that has happened, I've learnt to be more secure, content, and confident, more accepting, humble and willing to listen. I discover I like to eat as much as exercise, that good music and dance excites me just as much as painting and poetry; I discover I enjoy company as much as solitude; I'm as anxious as I am excited about becoming a doctor, an elder sister to others, a woman. I find myself much more certain of my place in God, and am no longer afraid to let my hair down, change out of kiddie clothes and wear a grown-up dress.

It's time to let go of that familiar dependence, so I can let go of old, childish ways, let go of a wooden horse that no longer fits to master real creatures...

... let go of the adolescent fear of cycling to really ride on the real thing...

No longer one of the potshards on the ground always questioning God, I find myself trusting in the Potter's hand. And now the next step, is to look into the eyes of the Potter himself.

And though it's never easy to let go of what one is familiar with, the truth is we can never grow up unless we learn to take the leap. For so long I'd been looking at God's hands, at the Potter's hand of guidance, of comfort and sometimes discipline- to the point I had forgotten that he's a friend with a face, too.

So it's time to let go, grow up and experience God in a different way, no longer merely as a father or teacher, but also as a brother and friend. To lay next to him, awakening not just to see his hand, but to gaze into his face.

And perhaps the best thing is, no matter how far we run, He's always near. Even though our hands never touch, and in times of wilfulness when we shut our eyes to hide from his gaze, he's always near, always waiting, always just... by us. And so I know, that even though it's time to let go of that familiar hand, all I need to do, in times of confusion, darkness or despair, is just to turn and be surprised to find that all this time, He's still right there.

His eyes on me, waiting, still.





"When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.

When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see

face to face.

Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."

- 1 Cor 13:11, 12

"I will instruct you and teach you in the way which you shall go:

I will guide you with My eye."

-Psalm 32:8







Thursday, February 19, 2009

Words.

That night I couldn't sleep. My mind and body were dead tired, but something in my spirit was stirring, and gave me no rest. A serpent was crawling in my head, tossing and turning, and a fire of anguish burning within me.

I knew God was trying to get to me, and until I lay things straight, He would give me no rest. Such is His love. And how thankful I am for it.



Words. What do they do and why do we use them the way we do.

Being in the hospital and watching doctors break news of an illness to patients, doesn't change the fact that you're a third party, watching. Only an experience first-hand makes things real. Since we received the news, something in the atmosphere changed. It was as if everyone's senses had been heightened, and for a few days, even I was moody, irritable, volatile, saying things which I never meant to hurt anyone with, using a tone I never intended to.

People would go into the room merry and laughing, then emerge sober, before a souring of the face and a trickle of tears. There was an acute awareness of what to say and what not to, and as I observed quietly, I saw that often, all it took was a gentle, smiling word to turn the atmosphere into a jovial, bubbly one again. Everyone tried their best.

We want to make her as happy as possible.

I am learning what it means to be quiet, to hold my tongue, to say only what is necessary, to the people around me who may be hurting without showing it, thrown into a storm while maintaining a picture of calm. Only lately did I realise how many words we say in a day which can be superfluous, and add no real meaning at all. Some of them even cut, or snide, undermine others- even if they were meant to be harmless jokes. And sometimes, all it needs is one word, one word, to stir up anger, turn away wrath or bring merry laughter.

So I am learning to enjoy the quietude, the early mornings sitting next to her, watching her eat breakfast, watching chinese imperial television dramas which all end in th same way- someone falls in love, lots of people get killed- and enjoying it. Sometimes I read a bit of mandarin scripture, and answer questions she asks me.

"You going to Nepal again next week? Right after your final exams-why? Aiyo, you doing so much good, so dangerous you know. Why're you always going alone ah? Aiyoh. "

And then I laugh, and tell her that I've many friends there, that I'm only going for a short, short visit because the money has been raised for the orphanage, to learn a bit of pottery, and that I won't be alone because God'll be watching my back. And then I tell her no, I haven't been good, because I've been taking a lot of things for granted, that God's been teaching me how to love my family more deeply, how to spend more time with them. She laughs, asks another question, and lays down to rest, asking me to pray so the headache and aching would go away.

I am learning to love in a different way, a way which I am less acquainted with. Not merely using words, but also in spending more quality time, more action, in getting used to the adjustments, in simply being there not out of obligation but out of delight. Learning to love not using words too.

Sometimes it hurts having to watch someone else you love hurt, so I measure what I need to say-a generous dose of gentleness and reassurance- and tell her I've asked God to send angels to sit by her, take away the headache and watch over her as she sleeps, and leave it into His hands as I leave the room so my own tears don't arrive.

Once in a while I like to peek in just to watch her sleep- and I resist picking the frown off the point between her brows, (there is such a great desire for me to take a toothpick to pick out that knotted frown like bad stitches) wondering why it is so many old people sleep like that. With a frown. Because she's such a strong, jovial woman.

I am learning. There's only so much time we have to live with the people we love, so many words we can say. Words, which can bring healing, life and love, or spite, coldness and cruelty. We have a tongue, called the "fire of the body", which we can use to set things ablaze or choose, in love, to put a muzzle over it. Put a muzzle over it and resist telling someone else what to do because it makes things easier for you, but harder for the other. Shut it, swallow one's pride, just for a moment, in order to preserve the harmony, even if you have to suffer- because that is love. A muzzle is uncomfortable, but since when was true love one of convenience?

We can love by talking. We can also love by not.

So I stayed awake that night, listening to the sound of silence, reading, praying. And when I finally understood, finally broke through to determine to put that muzzle over my mouth in spite of the discomfort and sacrifice- because that was love, I fell asleep.

" I will watch my ways, and keep my tongue from sin;

I will put a muzzle on my mouth."

-Psalm 39: 1-2

"Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths,

but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs,

that it may benefit those who listen."

- Ephesians 4:29

"Love... is not self seeking, it is not easily angered..."

- 1 Cor 13:5

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Saying goodbye.

They tell you all sorts of things when you're a medical student at the hospital. They tell you, that no matter how routine or demanding things become, to see every patient as a whole person, somebody's mother, grandmother, breadwinner, brother, soulmate, lover, child... They tell you that disease is a common part of life. That doctors aren't deities who perform miracles. They tell you, matter-of-factly, that death is a part of life. That no one lives forever, and though every day people die, life still goes on. They tell you that everyone has to say goodbye.

They tell you over and over, and you accept these golden truths with unwavering faith, nodding in wholehearted agreement...


... until it happens to you.


Then, overturned are these immutable laws of the universe, your world turns inside out, and everything sounds like a lie.

When I saw the fear in her eyes and the frown on her usually pertually-smiling face, gaunt and washed ghostly white, I knew something was wrong. All this while, I think I always saw it coming, always knew these facts of life. As a medical student, seeing more of death and disease than the average person should put me in greater stead of handling these things. But when it happens to you, nothing really matters. Everything sounds like a lie.

How can this happen. Why is she hurting so bad. Why can't they take the cancer out. Doctor, you're not being fair- you're supposed to save her life. God, where is she going to go when she leaves. What am I supposed to do. What would happen if God and cancer met and had a conversation. No, she shouldn't have to die this way. It's just not fair.

For all your effort spent studying medicine- the myriad of drugs and treatment options available- you just can't understand why it can't save the life of someone you love. You see limitations, not healing; travesty, not hope. All that logical reasoning just goes out the window. It goes out the window when it happens to you, to someone you love, someone you know who is someone's mother, grandmother, child, wife, sister and child.

Lately, many friends dear to me have been losing people. We're at the age where our parents are old enough to be diagnosed with vindictive diseases, grandparents old enough to die. I kind of knew it would happen, sooner or later, but something in my mind just blocked it out. Yet, somehow, those memories, few but rich, and that strong blood tie stitched into my being made the impact far, far greater than I expected.

This strong, strong woman, who never complained, never begrudged, who'd been through world wars and fights, struggles and betreyal, who'd singlehandedly raised ten children, one of whom brought me up... lived a life so rich and full of feist that it was maddening to see it end this way, with an anticlimatic thud, a sickening tug in the gut.

Seeing so many other previous patients in hospitals with the same diagnosis doesn't make the truth easier to handle. It makes it harder, still, because you don't believe someone you love so dearly should die the same way as the many others you saw wither away in such agony. No, not in that way please. You can't take it lying down that the name of someone you love is reduced to a mere disease, a treatment plan, a do-to item on a doctor's list. You want the doctor to perform a miracle, to reverse the cause. You believe people should live forever. She cannot go. I don't want her to go. It's just not fair.

All that logic goes out the window. It's different when it happens to you. To someone you love. Nothing really makes sense.

Today, as I cringed at the sight of the many teenage couples holding predictably cliched bouquets bought at jacked-up prices, I began to realise how often we forget, that love is not an expression during an occassion but about the little things in everyday life- the way my parents try so hard to be quiet when in the morning so I have another extra half-hour of sleep, the way a cup of tonic is left on the table before they leave for work, the way they always come home on time for dinner.

And perhaps what truly made the news harder to bear, unbearable for a moment, were the anguished thoughts of irritation, shameful resentment and utter selfishness I bore toward someone who ought to have had more place, more love, more respect from me in my life. Why didn't I show more hospitality, more warmth, more compassion? Why had I guarded my boundaries of comfort so jealously instead of putting someone else's needs first before my own? Why couldn't I love the way my parents have taught me to love? Why did I practise a love of convenience?

We think we're being noble to put in our hearts to study medicine, especially at this time where we put everything aside to study for our exams, but what hypocrisy is exposed when we do so at the expense of spending quality time with our friends and family, those whose time with us is short and numbered. How can we claim to give people life when we don't cherish them enough ourselves?

I am guilty.

The tears were unexpected. The volatile feelings of sudden grief, confusion and anger, punctuating the time after the news were unexpected.


It's always hard to say goodbye.


And maybe this is part of growing up, part of turning twenty-two. Finally understanding, not merely intellectually but truly understanding our temporality and vulnerability, the meaning of our visit through this passing world. Finally understanding and seeing my hypocrisy for what it truly is, feeling the grief of its weight and repenting. Finally understanding how selfless true love is, how immature, silly and petty selfishness and resentment can be, and the importance of cherishing those around me, because they could be gone from me twenty years from now, two months from today or... tomorrow.


So don't hold back if you love someone, even though you think it should be obvious. Don't nit-pick or set rules or guard your terrain because if you love someone, you'd be willing to swallow your pride, willing to back down, willing to suffer for their joy. Don't, because they won't be here forever.


1 in 3 people die from cancer. No one lives forever. Everyone has to say goodbye.


I have to remind myself, that these are the facts of life. And through it all, the thicket of confusion, of questioning and of grief, reminding myself that God's grace will abound in this time of challenge, that His love will be a covering for us all, a wing of comfort we can dwell under together. That life is transient, but we look forward to an eternal place where we can find hope and everlasting joy in.


It's never easy to say goodbye. But we put our hope in God, and His grace will be more than enough.




" Each man's life is but a mere breath...

But now Lord, who do I look for?

My hope is in you."

- Psalm 39: 5b, 7

Thursday, February 12, 2009

A Simple Post

It has come a time when people wouldn't really have to meet one another to talk about things that they have been doing or going through.

Gone are the days where it is necessary to seat at expensive places like Coffee Bean with friends to share their thoughts and moments with one another.

Gone are the days where it is no longer necessary to spend money and meet up for supper at nasi kandars to chat and share anything that really comes to mind.

Gone are the days where it is no longer necessary to go to far places like Sunset Bistro to ummm share anything...really anything that comes to mind..

Because today, we have blogs.

And the only reason you are reading this is because u'd like to know what i'm up to. At least right now.

Its 8:40am and i'm planning my way back to Penang. Will write something more concrete when i'm back. Its pretty much a free day once I get back so....see you. Hope to be back in 4 hours and ummm...maybe stop by in Ipoh for Branch?

*A simple post*

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Lost in Translation.

I've been looking forward to this Saturday for weeks. Yes, it's Valentine's Day, and one filled with a special programme at that. I begin a new phase of an excellent and intensive missions training programme, and I can't wait.

Saturday, with its mix of lovey-doveyness and missions-mindedness, got me thinking about the kind of people we're called to love- the poor, needy, broken-hearted. It got me thinking about the way we're called to give and receive love.

Because in some ways, we are all poor, needy, broken-hearted-just, in different ways, in different places. And so many of our conflicts, among friends or family, arise not merely out of simple disagreement, but rather, a deficit in the communication of love.

Can you remember the last time you felt hurt, disappointed, slighted? Hurt because of a harsh word, disappointed because of a forgotten act, slighted because of another useless present? But the person never meant to convey what you received. He thought he was merely "being frank", the act of going two extra miles instead of one didn't cross his mind, or he's just not really a gift person. Fissures appear, hurt hearts withdraw into the safety of their hardened fortresses. And all, not because of a deficit of love, but a deficit in what was conveyed.

Just, lost in translation.

Just as how looking someone in the eye may convey honour and love in our culture, doing so in Africa may convey disrespect. In different contexts, our actions are received differently, even though all we meant to do was love, simply because we're all made differently, speak different love languages. Going to Nepal and giving a freezing child my old jacket would make me his hero, but doing so to a friend here may be plain offensive.

I begin to realise, so acutely, how love can only truly be conveyed in all its fullness and glorious potential when we take the effort to find out what love language the other person speaks.

Gary Chapman wrote the international best-selling book about the 5 love languages- namely, words of affirmation, acts of service, quality time, physical touch and gifts. People have different primary ones and hence love and receive love differently. While one may feel most loved when offered to be given a lift home(acts of service), another may see it as a mere customary gesture; While one may feel profoundly adored and cherished by a hug (physical touch), another may find it too close for comfort, feeling most loved instead by a chat over coffee on a lazy afternoon (quality time). And then there're silly people like me, whose hearts are won not by the lifts home, or the expensive presents, but the cards, and the words in them. Or the simple random text message saying, "Hellooooo. I love you" -which would be completely absurd and worthless to someone else. We are poets won by words, and wring them dry of love to fill our cups.

But therein lies the conundrum, the double-edged sword.

Over the past few months, I've been observing the love languages of my family and close friends, only to find how vastly different our love languages are. Most of them love me through acts of service- while that sits last on my list. And while I love writing notes and cards to people, long text messages and emails because that is how I'd love to be loved, I realise many others would have preferred a practical gift, or my remembering to photocopy that examination ten-year series for them. People who have physical touch as their primary love language may feel insecure in a conservative culture such as ours, while people like myself find ourselves deeply pierced by a prickly word, far more than someone with a different love language. Some never understand how one could be hurt by a mere careless comment, when the other had gone the extra mile to run a difficult errand for him ("Oh, but I didn't mean to say it so harshly, just a joke! But I did this for you, didn't I?") ; some never understand how one could write the most eloquent love poetry and then fail to even show up (" Sorry I was late- I always am, right? But I hope you like the poetry").

And so we walk around, trying our best to love and be loved, but failing in so many places, and getting hurt even in the slightest ways, and bring our hurts around, too.

Some brattish part of me wished my family would be more expressive in their words of encouragement, more flowery, more intimate. But as time passes, and I understand their upbringing, their world, I see how profoundly loving they are, not in the way I want- but deeply, deeply loving nonetheless. There are always, always apples in the fridge because I love them, and they very often go the extra mile to get these particularly lovely ones from a particular store; they don't text me much but they call to ask if I need a lift because it's pouring; they don't write me much or spend much time with me because of work, but they never fail to provide. Provision and acts of service are their primary love language, because of the difficult backgrounds they came from, and realising this has been extremely eye-opening for me.

Is there someone you love whom you feel disappointed with, and when you look deep enough, is it really because he doesn't love you, or that he doesn't love you in the way you want to be loved.

So I am learning. To give love in the way others long to be loved, and to receive love likewise. I begin to see how profoundly challenging this is, because we're all wired differently- but I'd like to try nonetheless. Our primary love languages will never change- words will always have such an intimate way with me- but I can try to learn how others want to be loved, and try to understand how others are loving me, too. I can be more aware of their love languages, and learn to be less needy, less demanding, lower my unnecessary expectations. I can see how they want to be served, and serve their need there, too.

Fortunately, I also realise- that words are cheap (the person who wrote me poetry never came through), and I can learn to value wholesome, practical actions which others give me because these always, always come through. And in the areas where my fleshly limits simply fail to fill the gaps of love, I must remember, that God's love is big enough. Big enough to plug all those gaps, holes in our souls, and because of his sufficient love, I can be healed, restored, overflowing with more than enough to give love to others, too.

Perhaps it helps to remember, that it is not that we are not loved, but just, not in the way we want to be.


We love and are loved imperfectly, but God's perfect love covers a multitude of sins. (1 Peter 4:8)



So while I'll always have my drawer filled with a stack of random notes, cards and letters, folders of saved text messages and emails, and a truckload of memory space for all the words said to me, hand the gifts over anyway, and nobody gets hurt.



"This is the message you heard from the beginning:
We should love one another."
- 1 John 3:11

Monday, February 9, 2009

Cycling Lessons.

Perhaps one reason why I've grown to love biking so much, more than the heady thrill of it, more than how it reminds me of my overcoming fear (never rode a two-wheeled bicycle properly in ten years then upgraded to a roadbike within 2 months), is how much truth I find it teaches me. Ever so often when I find myself on the road, an epiphany hits me and I pause in amazement to take in the revelation, fresh like a breath of air.

I've been learning a few cycling lessons of late.


Lesson 1: Stop planning.
Lesson 2: Be distracted.
Lesson 3: Don't rely on yourself.


I see you raising your eyebrows. I can explain.




Lesson 1: Stop planning.

All our lives we've been taught to plan. Plan, and you will succeed. And so we've sold ourselves to this Planning Conspiracy where every single minute of our lives has to be recorded down in a compartmental box on a calendar. Work fills our days. And on the days we don't, how many of us can confess, unsheepishly, that we've never succumbed to that obsessiveness of planning whattodo, whotomeet, wheretogo next. Being busy is normal, fashionable even.

Don't get me wrong. I believe planning is important. My final exams for the year are in 2 weeks, and I've a calendar with my study plan right here.

But for too long, how many of us have set one too many goals, penned down one too many targets to reach, worried and obsessed over one too many Things to Do on our neverending list? We plan weeks, months at a time, (to attend this course, accomplish this project, participate in this race, read these number of books) and the pressure comes not merely from the sheer list drafted, but really, from the worry of our inability to fulfill them.

I was roadbiking the other day, with my new-found training partners on the road. They're triathletes and biking enthusiasts nice enough to give their time to help me. On a straight stretch of road where we decided to each break up to our own levels of speed, I watched as they tore down the road, disapppearing into the distance, as I tried my very best to keep up, albeit failing to. A seasoned cyclist ahead of me had slowed down, and my next aim was to overtake him.

Heavy vehicles were roaring down the road occasionally, and I had to check behind before I swung out of my line to overtake him. Anxious, I kept looking over my right shoulder to check for oncoming traffic, though I was still metres away from who I was trying to overtake.

It was then that I realised how silly that was. First things first, I should've got close enough to him before checking for traffic. Traffic, being dynamic, changes all the time. What was the point of checking behind if by the time I had decided to overtake, a truck had steamed near enough to hit me? What was the point of checking for traffic so early when he could decide to speed up and race off anytime?

And right there and then it struck me- isn't that how we live our lives sometimes too? We make plans way ahead of time, bullheadedly and adamantly, make a tonne of resolutions, even take measured steps to reach them, but forget to leave room for God, fail to leave room for the dynamics of life, which change as God leads. When we're so fixed on fulfilling tasks and meeting targets with such unrelenting definition, ignoring changes in circumstance or ourselves, not leaving space for our plans to change because "I have to do this", life becomes so... stifling.


It's funny. In the past, I used to plan my weeks, months in advance with meticulous precision. I believed those hard-lined goals would mould character, those unyielding deadlines would instil discipline. Yet, for all my punctilious planning, I never was happy. I got very, very sick instead. Tired. Heavy-burdened and weary. But now that I've learnt to trust in God a day at a time, making enough plans only to give me some sense of direction but leaving much, much room for His call for change and His guiding, leaving room to listen to my body (am I doing too much?) and circumstance (has the situation changed?), to His voice, I find I accomplish much, much more than I ever set out to do in the first place, with much more joy, peace and satisfaction, simply because I've more energy and zeal without the self-imposed stresses.

When we choose to give up our obdurate natures, lay down our pride, surrender our futures to God, trusting Him to take us through whatever may come our way, releasing to Him our worries, anxieties and must-dos, trusting Him to take us to the top when we remain faithful to His calling, allowing ourselves to become pliant and flexible, limber and yielding, life becomes a whole lot more enjoyable, easy and fun, too. You never know when God will surprise you, never know when a turn in the road may take you somewhere so new.

Pliance is not weakness. Yieldedness, not leniency. In fact, when we allow ourselves to be flexible and give God permission to s-t-r-e-t-c-h us, we, like elastic bands, surprise ourselves with simply how much we could hold.

Which is why I am learning not to plan rigorously for another book, not to plan to join another race, not to dictate God's will by saying which specialty I intend to pursue, not to make it another item chiseled intransigently onto my to-do list. Planning is important, yes, but focusing on Now instead of boasting in a misty future, hitting goals which are but temporal is even more so. Yes, I shall continue to do my best to be a good steward of the gifts God has given me, shall continue to train, shall continue to dream, but I am learning- that above and beyond this, letting God and giving Him room to work, to change our plans, to be the author of the ending is far, far more exciting. I never planned for Kitesong, and now, when I've decided to throw away my training plan and listen to my body instead, I find I train much better simply because I've learnt to enjoy it so much, because I'm giving God room to say "that's enough for today".

When I was so intent on checking for traffic so I could hit my target ahead, I could hardly enjoy the ride anymore. But as I understood the laws of change and waiting, taking action when the time called for it instead of taking two steps too soon, allowing room for variability and change, and focused on pushing myself instead of looking outside for affirmation, things fell into place and my bike took over quietly, swiftly, steadily.

Hence, lesson one for me: Stop planning. Start living.



Lesson 2: Be distracted.

I love riding at the beach. Being a large part of my childhood, the beach is a place I can unfold in, and I feel the sea speak to me each time I visit it. But ever notice how when you race down a path, with your eyes transfixed ahead, the wind blares in your ears, and all you hear is the wind resisting your inexorable advance? And I can no longer hear the sea. It is far away.

The world tells us never, ever to take our eyes off our targets. Not even for a split second. Is that why so many of us lose ourselves in temporal goals, failing to realise they are but a chasing-after-the-wind, and it is really what we learn in the process that counts? And I realise, it is only when I tilt my head ever so slightly, allowing myself to be distracted from the road ahead (if only for a moment), that I can hear the ebb and flow of the tide, its pulsing song, and careful whisper.

We go to the beach to enjoy the sea, but when we're there, we forget it altogether. Are we like that too, do we become so focused on racing ahead that we forget the point we started our journeys in the first place- that is, to learn lessons, to enjoy the scenery, to listen to what God has to whisper to us?

Sometimes, perhaps it's good to take your eyes off the road ahead for a while, stop for a moment, and hear what God has to speak to you. He might very well ask you to change your path, change lanes, stop for a moment to admire the rising crimson sun in the dawn, and it could very well be worth it.



Hence, lesson 2. Be distracted. In the good sense, of course.



Lesson 3: Don't rely on yourself.

The world tells us to be fiercely independent, that it's a dog-eat-dog world out there, that no one besides yourself is reliable. I used to be entirely self-sufficient, and darn proud of it too. But I am learning, it is only when we allow ourselves to expose our vulnerabilities that we open ourselves to many a good samaritan out there, who've much to teach, much to share.

Ever since I made new cycling friends (those triathlete enthusiasts with time and energy to spare to teach an amateur as myself) I realise how much I enjoy their company, even though we don't have much in common, because they make the journey easier. I hardly go as fast when I ride by myself. One's aching muscles literally make cycling a pain in the butt. But Friendship makes the toughest roads easier to ride through, and the funny thing is, they even stretch us to distances we never thought possible. With friends, one forgets the pain and monotony in the ride. Also, when you ride behind someone more experienced (called 'drafting'), you ride much easier because he's helped you cut out the wind resistance.

Friends are precious. Hence lesson 3- there's no point pretending to rely on oneself all the time. God gave us friends.


And so I've really grown to love my roadbike, for all the lessons it teaches me, like learning how to live a day at a time in God's grace, and all the growing up it's been helping me to do. Just the way I'd like to turn twenty-two.






"Now listen, you who say,

'Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money'

Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life?

You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.

Instead, you ought to say,

"If it is God's will, we will live and do this or that..."

-James 4:13-15




Friday, February 6, 2009

Lovestruck.

For some time, I was afraid to admit it- just as I always am whenever I become enamoured with anyone or anything. For some time, I kept my cool, convinced myself it was just an infatuation. It would pass, I insisted. It was that funny fluttery feeling which frightened me, for I wanted to keep an open mind, keep my options open, you know. But it was only a matter of time before the truth became apparent, and I had no choice but to admit it to myself- that I was deeply, deeply in love. And that scared me. What and who I was in love with scared me. It still does.

Lovestruck, it's like the entire world no longer exists. Time passes in a flash. My heartbeat quickens, my eyes glow and all my senses are at once heightened, awakened. My skin breaks out into goosepimples but something burns inside with a sparkling, playful fire. It is quiet. Sometimes, I hear music in the background.

People shuffle in and out, at twice the pace of the rhythimic background beeps of the machinery, purposefully, precisely. Behind plain white masks and clad in paper-thin armour, a certain tension hangs in the air, as the soldiers prepare their artillary and the captain psyches himself for battle. The old world no longer exists. In this new world, new rules exist, immutable laws must be kept, at all costs- for lives are at stake. I change into the dress code of this new order and shiver in that cold, cold place, watching the best captains make cheerful banter with ease over the repair of a bleeding gut, a stubborn tumor waiting to be dug out with gloved hands, or a spewing blood vessel, with still a certain seriousness running like an undercurrent behind every word.

Scalpel, please. Diathermy. Retractor. Lagenbeck. One more suture, please.


My bloody hands are gripping the tumor, holding it firmly back because the captain says, "Your hands are nice and small. Hold this tightly while I try and manouvre this." My eyes watch his careful, meticulous movements, his cutting, slicing and stitching. It's that funny fluttery feeling in my heart again, which I try to suppress. It's just an infatuation, it'll pass. But it's a Saturday, nine hours pass in what seems like five minutes and I find myself -still- there. I am doing superficial stitches, supervised, and the captain says, "Not bad."

Maybe it's grand notion of saving lives, or the efficient, no-nonsense way problems are excised and solved in that room; Maybe it's way I like to work with my hands, or the way I see the metallic surgical instruments arranged like a painter's watercolor set waiting to be used by an Artist for his masterpiece; Maybe it's the way how drab everybody looks in that room on the outside but only your inside skills count for anything, and having that privileged awe of looking into a person's insides, beautifully and wonderfully made by a Creator...

... that enchants me so much. And I find myself at once alive, with a deep effervescent passion sparkling with excitement within me. That feeling of being in love, totally enamoured, consumed, excited... puts me but at ease only with God.


A missionary surgeon came to our university to meet a small group of us today. He came to share with us his experiences serving for twenty-three years in a developing country, together with his wife and six children. As usual, as when I hear any of their stories first-hand, tears welled behind my eyes as I felt something deep inside and outside calling, calling out to me.


Purpose. Love. God. The only things worth living for. The only things one makes sacrifices for. The only things which can ignite in your heart things that can sometimes be so fierce, stinging and zealous that it scares you.


Surgery. Missions. Poor people. Twenty-three years in a poor man's land with his wife and six children. He travelled half-way around the world, underwent all that rigorous, grating training to be a surgeon who could be earning maybe hundreds of thousands a year so he could be paid an allowance from his church, bring up his children in a developing nation, live a frugal life to serve the needy, love the poor.

And as that burning feeling fiercely called out to me again, called me closer, something deep and precious inside gushed out of me- and while I felt the luckiest, most blessed person in the world- to have found a calling, a sense of purpose, a love for a truth- that brought me closer to the heart of God, a deep melancholia brewed underneath, too.

It scared me. It scares me to know I love what I'm studying, that I love surgery this much. (Why can't I be in love with an easier specialty? The Surgery Specialty- it means interminably, inhumanly long hours, rigorous training and tight schedules. Very, very few women are surgeons because of the time-consuming nature of it. Most do not marry.) It scares me to know that I love the idea of missions, surgical missions, that I love God this much.


It makes me cry and laugh to think about the things I love. Cry, because of things I have to and may have to give up. Laugh, because it'll be all worth it in the end. It must be.


Till today, I have not met a single female medical missionary who is married with a family serving the poor long-term in the field. I know no one who does, and that discourages me. The full-time medical missionaries I know serving the needy are all either men with families (their wives aren't doctors and support them at home or in a less stressful ministry) or single women doctors.


Who can share with me the struggles of a female medical missionary serving the poor and her husband and children? Is it even possible? Is there a reason why these women aren't married? The men find them too busy, too self-sufficient? Or have these women accepted singleness as a sacrifice? Does what I love- surgery and missions- take me away from what I would love to have- a family? Is this what they meant when they called such a calling a sacrifice? Is it one or the other? Why do I love what is so difficult?

Hence the tears. No one has the answers to my question.

The burning desire for both remains. Hence the fear- of one taking away the other. And yet, the fierce fire of the Calling burns more furiously still. It calls and calls, calls and calls. It scares me to know it is all I think about- every single day- that it brings me so much purpose, joy and fulfillment to walk in this passionate pursuit to what I believe God has called me to.

And yet, in spite of all my questions and doubts, in spite of the seasons of moodiness regarding this which coincide terribly with my hormonal cycles, I don't know why I feel such an inexplicable peace, still. A few months ago, I felt God speak to me- that He had it all covered for me. That His calling was real and good, and that there was someone who would find me, too. Someone with the same calling, and things would fit together. I can't quite explain it.

But the peace does elude me time to time. My fears are real, and they bring me real moments of discouragement and sadness as I look at the unblazed path before me. But I hold on to the truth that God has a good plan, just waiting to unfold, and now is merely the lull between the Promise made and Promise fulfilled.


The missionary surgeon said today, "God will weave what you love into His plan."


So I'm going to walk in faith, even if there are tears in my eyes. I'll have to. I must. I will. In spite of all my questions, worries, fears and doubts, in spite of all my insecurities, uncertainties and pains, I'll have to learn to listen to what I love, the cry of my heart, the heart God weaved and stitched together with His own hands. Learn to be scared of what my heart loves, but, in spite of the fear, love it harder, more fiercely still...


... even with tears in my eyes. Even in the face of sacrifice.



Because I'll just have to trust, that God made my heart, the heart which loves missions and surgery, He loves me so much He may just blaze a new trail for me, and He has a plan- He has a plan for me.



" 'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the LORD,
'plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future.' "
-Jeremiah 29:11

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Lets play Kings tennis at Esplanade

Ok guys, some of you may only have read whats been happening at the esplanade after the incident of the "Kings of Tennis" event which went off not too long ago. I figured I might as well show you some pictures of whats been happening over there recently.

These were taken a few days before Chinese New Year.

Damaged Garden.(supposedly costs RM200,000 to repair) So for you China Businessmen out there, maybe plant grass for less? I mean, how hard can it be to plant grass!!


More damaged grass


DAMAGE!!



DAMAGE!!



DAMAGE!!!!


So, I leave you to be the judge of how much the grass is worth.

Anyway, one of the things that they have also left behind in the field is this...


A Tennis Court.

Not just any tennis court. The Kings of tennis court.

This was where all the all-time greats were supposed to play tennis not too long ago. All-time greats such as Pete Sampras.


Now I don't know about you, but in many events like this, you don't even get a chance to stand on the tennis court unless you're the tennis-ball collector or the one that shouts "OUT".

So guess what, I took the liberty to stand on it and I did.


Excellent view for such an event.



Standing there for a few minutes under the hot sun, I can't help but notice why nobody has come over here and play tennis.

ITS FREE!!(At least thats what it seems to be for now)I mean how many times do you get to play on world class tennis court standards!

I'm sure we can come up with something for the net, maybe just two sticks and a very very very long string?


So anybody up to have a game of tennis?After work maybe, for those of you nearby the baby financial center of penang.


I feel this could be a beginning of bringing up many Jaguh Kampungs of Tennis. Please don't take the tennis court away!

Monday, February 2, 2009

Jars of clay.

Perhaps, what keeps us continually filling our big, white bowls with Things is fear. Perhaps, what utterly terrifies us, is looking into our own big, white bowls and seeing... nothing inside. Nothing inside, but an empty echo, a shadow of what ought to be, instead of a reverberating assurance, a glimpse into heavenly lights, a taste of God.

Perhaps, what keeps us filling our bowls obsessively, thoughtlessly, unconsciously, is the fact that deep down, we weren't even happy with our own bowls to begin with.

Why am I a white bowl? Why don't I have intricate patterns carved on me? Why don't I have handles, or a spout, or a varnished coat?

The other bowls all around us seem to have them, and we shrink back in dismay and disgust at own empty existence, wondering if some sort of an ugly mistake were made.



"Shall what is formed say to Him who formed it,


'He did not make me'?


Can the pot say of the potter,


'He knows nothing'?"


-Isaiah 29:16b



So we shake angry fists at heaven, and seek to fill the emptiness inside. We fill ourselves with Things, to increase our worth- for how could the Potter make such a mistake? We buy more, hoard more and do more, till our bowls are filled to the brim with Things and no longer have space for God. Filled with pride and self-sufficiency, our Potter breaks us into a million potsherds to remind us of the value of humility, of our human frailty and vulnerability. For we forget, that we are, for all we are, only but clay.



"Woe to him who quarrels with his Maker,


to him who is but a potsherd among potsherds on the ground.


Does the clay say to the potter,


'What are you making?'


Does your work say,


'He has no hands?'

-Isaiah 45:9


For our Potter needs no help at all. He made no mistake at the beginning. We were made the way we were meant to be made- in this size, this shape, with this heart, mind and spirit. With these invisible qualities for a Very Special Purpose indeed. And it is only when we trust the skill of our Potter, acknowledge his workmanship, that we can truly come to love, accept and cherish ourselves, to fulfill the destinies we were meant to fulfil.



"Yet O God, you are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;
We are all the work of your hand.
- Isaish 64:8


On the Grand Table on the night of the final banquet, are bowls, cups, saucers and platters- all of which have a different look, function and purpose for that beautiful event.

Sometimes, in the moulding process, we just can't see how a silly, empty bowl could be of any use at all. Beat and slapped about by the Potter's hands, carved painfully by a knife, and thrown into the furnace, the moulding process is simply too great for us to bear!



"But we have this treasure in jars of clay
to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.


We are hard-pressed on every side but not crushed,
perplexed bit not in despair;
persecuted but not abandoned;
struck down but not destroyed."


- 2 Cor 4:7-9


And perhaps we forget, that what we are on the outside hardly matters as much as what is put inside of us in the first place.


"We always carry around in our body the death of God,
so that the life of God
may also be revealed in our body. "
-2 Cor 4:10



What do you see when you look into your own big, clay white bowl? Have not all of us, at some point, wished we were a big glass jug, or a china teapot, or a pretty vase instead?

Do not forget, that our Potter knows best. He made each of us, exactly the way we were meant to be, through the furnaces we were meant to go through, for a special purpose.



"For we are God's workmanship...
created to do good works,
which God prepared in advance for us to do..."
- Ephesians 2:10

God's workmanship. In Hebrew, it means masterpiece.

And maybe, it is when we finally accept that, that we can stop filling ourselves with Things. For when we look into our jars of clay, we can, though we cannot see Him, be filled with the assurance that such a Big God fills every part of that space we own within.


And then we shall stop filling ourselves with Things, and oh, what joy that shall bring.



If thou could'st empty all thyself of self,
Like to a shell dishabited
Then might He find thee on the ocean shelf,
And say, "This is not dead,"
And fill thee with HImself instead.


But thou art replete with very thou
And hast such shrewd activity,
That when He comes He says, "This is enow
Unto itself - 'twere better let it be,
It is so small and full, there is no room for Me."


-Sir Thomas Browne
 
Design by emfaruq. All Rights Reserved.