Park benches.

I've been running a lot lately.

My finals are coming, everyone is neck deep into their books. But I've made a decision, to take care of myself and my patients even when the going gets tough, and to thoroughly, (here goes) thoroughly enjoy my remaining months as a final year medical student.

So I've been running. A lot. 5 to 6am morning hour-long runs by myself in the dark to the beach thinking about my last months as a medical student, what medicine and life all means, what turning 24 soon means, what holding this upcoming birthday gathering means, what the recent award means, what a nomination for another award means, what neverending exams for the rest of my life means, and my future holds; I've been thinking about the obstacles faced in publishing this second book (there has not been a stage without resistance), thinking about the unpleasant conversation filled with condescension this week and encouraging myself not to be discouraged by people talking down to me. I've been thinking about impossibilities and possibilities, setbacks and success, weaknesses and strengths.

I've been thinking about the meaning of my almost 24 years of existence. I've been thinking about the defining moments in my life.

All on early morning runs before my day at hospital starts.

I am determined to thoroughly enjoy my last months as a final year medical student. I have never been so excited about medicine before, never felt so thrilled to be a doctor.

What does it mean? What does being at this point in my life, nearly 24 mean?

As I jog along the park connector underneath the carpet of stars, feeling the chilly breeze caress my face, a thick stench interrupts my thoughts. I look to the left, and see a man, no a couple, huddling on the pavement behind a sheltered park bench, sleeping underneath a blue canvas, with a bicycle parked next to them. There is the thick, thick smell of urine. I stop to watch them. They are asleep. I run on.

The next day, I am running. They are there again beneath the park bench, sleeping.

And the next, and the next. My 8-kilometre runs are punctuated by the same stench, at the same place. They are punctuated by glimpses of men sleeping under and on park benches, covered by cardboard, plastic or dirty jackets. I always had school to rush to and hence never stopped for them.

Yea, just excuses.

I thought about Heidi Baker, a famous missionary in the poorest part of Africa who talked about stopping for the One, and loving each person because love has a face. I thought about my vocation, my calling. I thought about my application to meet her and her amazing ministry in Mozambique (the poorest part of South Africa) this coming April after my finals, and my utter hypocrisy- the poor was right at my doorstep, I hadn't the time to stop for them, and here I was filling in an application to fly halfway across the world to learn how to love the poor.

Utter hypocrisy.

Today I ran, and promised myself I would stop for them on my way back. I would at least say hi to this malay couple huddling every day underneath this blue plastic cover. Did they have clothes, did they have a home? Why were they there, and what did they do? Were they chased away by policemen and hiding? Did they not have a place to shower?

They were sleeping. On my way back today, I promised to stop for them. At least say hi, how're you, do you need anything. I didn't know what I could offer.

But there was a another figure 2 park benches away from this stuporous duo, a little old lady in a cap, striped oversized shirt and dirty bermudas, sleeping in a sitting position, with her knees folded on a park bench, back hunched over as she fell asleep.

"Auntie. Auntie," I said. I half-squatted so I could be at face level with her.

"WHAT?!" She woke up with a snarl. I stood 3 feet away from her, worried that she might be startled.

"Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Go away!! I don't need you!"

"How do I address you?"

"GO AWAY! The police chased me away from the void decks. Go away, you don't need my name!"

You don't need my name.

She was rejecting me. You don't need my name means I'm afraid of you, I don't trust you and I am not worthy of your attention.

"Please don't be afraid. I'm not from any organisation. I'm not going to report you. I'm just jogging that's all."

She looks at me in disdain as I crouch down to be at face-level. "My name is Wei- Jia," I say in mandarin. "I'm just a student, don't be afraid. I just want to ask if you need anything."

She softened as the word "student" left my mouth. I'm just a harmless student, that's all.

There was a pushcart full of trash in front of her. "Don't be afraid, Auntie," I said, still half squatting with my quadriceps aching from my position and long run. "Tell you what, can I give you my number?"

She refused. Here we were, separated by the same pride that I had seen in Grandpa Zhou when we first met.

"COME HERE AND SIT LA!" She shouted, pointing for me to sit next to her.

Conversation. That was all she wanted. That is what the elderly and the poor usually want, just some of your time. Not your number or your clothes or your money. All they want is some of your time.

"What do you do usually?" I ask, trying to be polite. "Are you Karung guni?"

Karang guni- it's a slang term for someone who collects and sells recycled material.

"NO! I'm NOT Karung guni!" she said with ferocity, and I was embarrassed by my lack of sensitivity, suddenly aware of its possibly derogatory connotation." I'm... I'm..."

She could not find the words.

"Sixty soft drink cans used to earn me $1.20. Now, only $1.10."

Sixty. At the hospital where I'm at, a can of soft drink is sold at $1.70.

She continued to talk about her husband, and was incensed by his irresponsibility. I put my arm on her shoulder to comfort her.

She looked startled, and stared at her shoulder as if it were foreign, as if my touching her was a phenomenon.

Someone once told me, to always, always touch the poor. Because they don't feel worthy to be touched. It reminded me of Grandpa Zhou, of how he used to avoid my gaze and huddle away when I used to touch him.

"Can I give you my number Auntie?"

There was a tension between us. Age, class, and education. But here we were, on the same park bench because we enjoyed the same cool breeze at the park connector.

"NO. DON'T NEED YOUR NUMBER."

I had to leave. Just before I did, I told her about Grandpa Zhou and asked her for the third time for her name.

"Lee. Auntie Lee."

She wasn't afraid anymore, wasn't afraid of me telling the police. She finally took down my number on a candybar cell phone. I saved my name in mandarin.

"Wei Jia? I've seen that name somewhere. Like the name of someone in the chinese papers this week."

"Oh really?" I laughed. Two weeks after the results of the award were announced, my mum incidentally chanced upon an article about Darren Chua and I on the chinese papers 4 days ago. Darren is one of the awardees who, on suffering a stroke at the tender age of 24 after a year of graduation from medical school, continues to inspire youth today by his commitment to educate needy kids.

Somehow, right there on the park bench underneath the canopy of stars which were winking away into the awakening dawn, something fell into place.

I suddenly realised, that for all the grandeur of our plans, all the complexities of our lives and futures, and all the nobility of awards and medicine and our vocations, nothing really counts if we cannot humble ourselves to share our time and our space with the poor. On that park bench, that little conversation suddenly brought greater clarity and peace and meaning to my vocation and purpose.

I ran home with a strange peace that day. Suddenly, I understood with slightly greater clarity what my vocation means, what the award means, what my future means.

It means very simply that, if I cannot humble myself like the way God did for us, then everything (yes, everything- all our intelligence and high-flying awards and nominations and grand blueprints) counts for nothing. I learnt, that perhaps all we really need is to find a name behind a face. And that yes, it's true, that we very often needn't look far to find meaning in our lives.

Meaning, could just be a park bench away.

Meaning in life, comes not from being first, or being recognised or being respected. It comes not from getting into a specialty programme or getting ahead in the rat race. It means finding out the name behind a face and connecting with it. It means finding time to sit on a park bench and listening to the stories of another world underneath a velvety canopy of twinkling diamonds.

"Thanks Auntie Lee, thanks for telling me your name. You call me if you ever need anything."

This is how I'd like to turn 24.

Why not me.

*story published with permission.

From afar, I knew he was on longterm medication. To be precise, I knew he was on steroids.

Moon-like facies, peripheral wasting, central obesity. The medical list of the spot diagnosis came up in my head, and my mind ran like an automated printer churning the list of complications that this patient might have even before we spoke. Medical school trains us like that- to think 2 steps ahead at all times.

Osteoperosis (brittle bones). Hypertension (high blood pressure). Diabetes Mellitus. Hypercholesterolemia. Depression.

It turned out he had had them all before.

From afar, I also knew he was different. A big black book with golden edges sat on his table. He was about to open it when I walked over.

"Is that a bible?" I asked tentatively.

He smiled. "Yes."

There was something about his countenance which lit up that dark, quiet ward, beneath the whirling fans. I smiled. I was a little nervous about approaching him for an interview to take his medical history (an exam skill which we need to hone), since many hoardes of students must have, like me, 'pestered' him before, but he put me at ease.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. S, many students must have come to speak to you. Is it all right if I ask you similar questions?"

"Of course. Come, sit down."

So we talked. Some people like to find out what the patient's medical condition is first. I prefer to know his age and occupation, for it helps build rapport and speaks volumes of a person.

"I'm a pastor. Actually, I'm a missionary."

Time stood still for 2 seconds and goosebumps came up all over me.

"Did you say missionary? Where to?"

"China."

"Oh my, do you know Dr. Tan Lai Yong? The missionary doctor?"

"Yea, I do. We work with similar rural tribes."

"Wow, you know, I entered medical school to be a medical missionary too."

A clean, cool presence swept over us. Smiles broke out on both our faces.

"I was diagnosed with lupus when I was 25. The doctors said my kidneys would fail me in 2 years. It was then that I started to believe in God. My kidneys eventually stabilised, I went on to become a pastor and missionary in China... But I got TB (tuberculosis), and cellulitis (skin infection) from the immunosuppressants I'm taking, so I'm back here for treatment."

"When you were diagnosed with lupus, what else did you suffer from?"

He laughed. That surprised me. Most patients, on recollecting their suffering, recount it in neutral tones of grey, brown and black. But he told it in colour, in hues of emotion and reminiscence.

"Back then, it all started with mouth ulcers, and skin rashes on my face and cheeks. Here's my picture before." His boyish photo taken 25 years ago showed the typical butterfly rash of lupus patients.

" Then I had seizures, low blood counts, and depression. My kidneys failed, I had to take medication and then I became severely depressed."

I grew quiet, I was speechless for a moment. I had studied the signs of lupus before, and seen many patients with various degrees of this illness, but never had I met someone who had suffered the full blown manifestations of this terrible autoimmune disease.

Malar rash. Discoid rash. Photosensitivity. Mouth ulcers. Serositis. Nephritis. Haematological disorders. Neurological disturbances. Depression. Joint pains.

He had had them all. This did not even include the side effects of medication.

I sat there, in awe at the quiet resilience this man's experience had developed in him, in awe at his joyfulness and most of all, in awe at his commitment to serve the less fortunate in spite of the odds. I looked for wrinkles of bitterness, of resentment perhaps, and of resignation on his face but found none.

"May I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"I mean... after all this that's happened to you, don't you ever ask God why? I mean, why you? You're a good man, serving God and the needy. Don't you ever ask why all this had to happen to you, question the injustice of it all, become envious of the normal life other people live? You were serving faithfully as a missionary, don't you get angry with God? Why you?"

"Why me," he said. "How about, why not me?" He chuckled.

He actually chuckled. What was funny about this?

My mind somersaulted, and flipped over like a tossed pancake.

"Why not me?" he said, " You know, I believe God planned illness."

"Whoa whoa whoa," I said. This was senstive ground. "No, illness is from evil- God did not create evil, but yes, I believe He does allow certain things to befall us in light of a greater plan."

"Well," he said, "I agree and disagree. Yes, the devil created evil, but God also plans and orchestrates it into our lives for a grander purpose that we may not understand. I don't think my theology is wrong. Look at the man named Job in the bible. He suffered. Big time. And only because God gave the devil permission. But it all turned out for the best, there was a greater purpose behind it, it was not for nothing."

"Why not me," I echoed.

What a paradigm shift. I had heard this phrase used before, but to hear it from the lips of a man who had been through such hardship was powerful, to say the least.

I thought about my previous hamstring injury, about how I struggled and questioned God about my pain- God, why does this happen to me? I do so many things for you and am faithful to do my best to balance my sport with serving others- why do other people get away with things so easily? How unfair can you be? I thought about the many excuses people like myself make for not going to the mission field to help the less fortunate when we have healthy bodies. Oh I have work, I have this constraint and that constraint... ... I won't be hardy enough, it's too tough.... I thought my previous long struggle with anorexia and depression and how I had thrown my fist and thrown tantrums at God for His apparent silence.

Why not me?

When we think about our lives, full of mistakes and errs and blunders and offenses, as being bought over and redeemed by God's love for us, we then begin to cherish the fact none of what we have is deserved. Yes, I suffered lots for my illness 3 years ago but who ever said life ought to be easy? Yes, I tore my hamstring this year- it might never be the same again, but who said I had the right to do triathlon in the first place? My bike, my legs, my cardiovascular system are all blessings, gifts of grace. Joy, is a gift.

And that, was the greatest lesson Pastor S taught me.

As he spoke, tears started to dam up behind my eyes.

He was married too, serving together with his wife in China. "If you remember, please tell your wife that even though I've never met her, I admire her faith and trust. Both are you are very special."

I remember a question my colleagues and I were discussing, whether we would marry anyone with a long-standing medical illness. We were surprised at how varied everybody's responses were. Not everyone has the kind of courage or nerve to do so.

"Now I have a question for you," he said. " I'm very encouraged by your passion for God and the needy. You have only believed in God for 5 years. That really surprises me, because you talk like you've known God for ages. Can you tell me, what makes you so passionate, so committed to your calling?"

Silence. My mind winded around my heart like a sinewy vine and gripped it.

"It was my illness. When I was ill, those years really tested and grew my faith."

That's when the tears fell.

"You see, God has a reason for everything."

These few days, I've been struggling with God with regards to the illnesses that some of my friends struggle with, namely cancers and infections. Why do they have this lot in life? Why God? It was at that moment that I saw, that everything had, has a reason. Till today, a part of me still resents the fact I had suffered those years. Why did they have to be in medical school when I had a price to pay. But now I see how those years have shaped me, given me a kind of resilience towards life, a kind of compassion for my patients and a daredevil-attitude when it comes to going the distance and taking risks for causes I believe in.


"All my life, I've only met 2 humble doctors. I'm sorry to say, I think most doctors are very proud. I think you are the third one. I will pray for your final exams."

I suppose, illness has its way of keeping us grounded, reminding us of our feet of clay. And God has His way of humbling me when my feet drift off the ground.

Do you struggle too? Are you in a trial which you feel is unfair, unjustified? Are you bitter? Do you, like me, often ask why me?

Then like Pastor S, ask, why not me. And perhaps, the world will spin on its right axis for you again.

"Thank you Pastor S. Meeting you has been a great blessing."

"I feel like I've been blessed more than I have blessed you, haha."

When we begin to see the little things in life as gifts and not rights, and learn to appreciate the cost God paid to love us, we give room for gratitude and personal growth in our lives.

Why not me.

Thank you Pastor S. You get well soon, and hope to see you in the mission field someday.

“It is good for me that I was afflicted,
that I might learn Your statutes.”
Psalm 119:71

“This is my comfort in my affliction,
that your promise gives me life.”
-Ps 119:50

Cara.

I don't know what happened inside of me, but when those words left her mouth to answer my question, something in me broke. Something deep inside of me which wanted to hold her close and tell her it was going to be okay shattered like crystal.

With our final examinations looming ahead and the stress of work piling up, medical students like ourselves spend much of our time in the wards of the hospital, interviewing and examining patients whenever we can.

"Hey Wai Jia, can you go talk to her? You're good with kids."

She was sitting on the bed, with a colorful bright rainbow-coloured painting of her name stuck behind her. Her back was connected to a tube, which in turn was connected to a huge machine. But nothing in her smiley face and chirpy voice gave away the fact that she was in the children's specialty ward, where many ill kidney patients were being treated.

"Hello, my dear. Are you *Cara?"

She looked up, bright-eyed and cheery, with a copy of The Little Prince placed on the portable table before her. It was almost jarring, to see a book of such deep poetic meaning in the hands of a child who didn't look more than seven.

"Hello! Yes! I am!"

"How old are you, my dear?"

"Thirteen!"

Her straight bob hairstyle graced her beautiful porcelain face, a stark contrast to the other kidney patients we were used to seeing, who all had that characteristic sallow, yellow and sickly appearance. I introduced myself and my friends to her, and asked if she could answer some of our questions so we could learn more about her condition.

"Why are you here, Cara?"

Sometimes, children, and even adults have difficulty answering this question, especially if they've just been feeling generally unwell without specific symptoms. Nothing prepared me for the kind answer she gave me, which pierced my heart and wrung it out, and I had to disguise my shock with a placid "Oh".

"My PTH level is too high."

"What?"

It shocked me. I looked at my friends. Did I hear you wrong?

Because she looked so young, so cherubic and naive and guileless that it made me grieved and anguished and shocked and overwhelmed to know that she had been through so much in life at such a young age, and understood so much about her congenital kidney disease for her to actually tell me the specific name of a particular hormone in her body which was elevated.

"I have a kidney disease from birth. So the doctors say I have to learn PD during this admission."

PTH. PD. Why are you using words like these? They are meant for us, medical people who give mechanical abbreviations and euphemisms to conditions and procedures and things which we do not dare face head-on because of the whirlpool of emotions we fear to face should we come to realise how much of your life and the lives of your loved ones has been taken away by what we can barely begin to understand, and much less, treat.

PTH is parathyroid hormone. It is elevated in you because of your failing kidneys. Your kidneys do not convert enough Vitamin D from the sunshine into an active form, and so, the lack of calcium in your body stimulates this hormone, and results in bone and joint pains, and other further complications.

PD. Peritoneal dialysis. It is a painfully awful procedure where a tube is connected to your kidneys to wash them and re-equilibrate the different ions in your body.

"I'll show you," you said in a sprightly voice, "This is the green button- that means Start. This is the red button- that means Stop."

The junior doctor breezed in to check in on her, and asked cheekily, "So Cara, why don't you tell these medical students what the 4 functions of your kidneys are?"

" To clean toxins from my blood, to make my bones strong, to make pee and... er... "

"To make red blood cells, right?" said the junior doctor.

"Right!" You laughed.

I stood there, rooted to the ground as the scene unfolded before me. It did not help that she looked all but seven years old.

I did not want to ask if she knew she had DD. Developmental Delay, that is.

As part of taking a full history of a paediatric patient, I had to ask how she was affected by her illness.

"Cara," I said very dearly and carefully, "Is there anything you can't do because of your illness?"
"Yea, the doctor says I can't skip or jump. Or do too much of sports. Because I might break my bones."

Yea. You would know. That's why your body is making so much PTH. Your kidneys can't make enough active Vitamin D for the calcium needed for strong bones.

My classmates, charmed by your endearing smile and sunny disposition, started asking you about school, to which you cheerfully replied that you were home-schooled and that the release of the Primary School Leaving Examinations would be announced today. I keep forgetting you are 13, and not 7. Still, why should you know how to operate a PD machine by yourself?

One of my classmates asked if you knew what a transplant was, to which you told us that you were going to get one soon- they found a match from your mother.

A transplant. But was it truly the miracle you all were hoping for? I recalled a video I had watched before, of a young girl who had donated her kidney to her father and then living with bitterness because she could no longer engage in sporting activities. I recalled that even after transplants, some patients don't do well.

"Cara, " I interuppted, "Can I ask you a special question?"

She cocked her head inquisitively.

"You know, when you know that you can't do certain things because of your kidneys which you were born with, how do you feel? What do you tell yourself to make yourself strong? Because I can tell, you are a very brave and very strong little girl."

There was split second of an awkward moment, and I think my classmates were a little taken aback as well.

But she giggled and smiled.

"I know," she beamed innocently, to which we were all tickled with laughter. There was a certain purity, humility and candidness about her which was beautifully disarming.

"And I also tell myself, that someday, all this will be over."

I had goosebumps. "All of what will be over, dear?"

"All of this, all of this will be over," she said in a matter-of-fact, child-like manner which suddenly brought tears to the back of my eyes.

Was this what kept you going, my dear? This hope in a future that lay ahead of you that you knew with such certainty was filled with rainbows and candy-coloured clouds? Because the way you said it, made it sound mighty like what life would be in heaven.

Weren't you angry at God, my dear? What had you done to deserve this? To be born with kidney disease, and a whole host of other illnesses related to it. Don't you know you could have skipped and jumped like all the other kids and how come you're not the least bit mad at God? And here I am complaining about medicine and how much there is to study and the 100-hour work weeks...

Later on, I learnt that both your hip joints were dead and you walked with a limp. How come you still live and talk with such joy and maturity and gratitude? Cara, don't you know what little you have?

But darling, you have much.

Because when my friends left, I stayed back to whisper to you that you were a very special girl indeed. And a stack of coloured cards with the heading God's Promises on your table caught my eye. Next to it, was a piece of paper with your neat handwriting on it, saying,

"I have come that you may have life, and have it to the full."- John 10:10

You have much.

Thank you Cara, for showing me what it means to have little, and yet, to live life to the full.
Thank you for reminding me of what a difference we can make to our lives and the lives of others, simply by living with the certainty of a hope of a certain place we can call Home.

Yes, someday, all this will be over, and we will live in a world filled with golden daffodils and songs.

I left you saying, "The Little Prince is one of my favorite books too. And by the way, God loves you very much."

"I know," you said, and beamed again.

I love you.

"The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy;

I have come that they may have life,

and have it to the full. "
-John 10:10

*name changed to protect identity

Binson.

I was shocked when I heard his reply. I had asked the question as a conversation starter, but little did I expect the conversation to twist that way.

I had asked Jerry, the little twelve-year old boy who had grown up all his life at the dumpsite, "Do you like Smokey Mountain?"

He smiled at me beautifully before saying, "Yes."

That shocked me. Because next to him, all the other boys who were his neighbours squirmed in disgust.

"Why?" I asked.

" Er..." he cocked his head in a child-like manner, "It is... beautiful."

Beautiful. How could this place filled with trash and ash and flies and dirt be... beautiful? Said the Filipino photographer who had come with us, "He probably has never ever been out of Smokey Mountain before. He probably has never seen what beauty is and so has nothing to compare his home against."

Jerry's response shocked me- what was beautiful about Smokey? But it marked the beginning of my journey in learning how to respect the people, instead of carrying my own mindsets, my own culture and my own sense of what was good and correct, my own sense of superiority to someone else's world.

Smokey mountain. This was his home, where his loved ones were.

Jerry

On my first day at the dumpsite trudging through the mud in the pouring rain with Mio's friends, a little boy in the distance caught our eye. He was limping in the rain, against a backdrop of mountains of trash and smoke.

"Cerebral palsy," I thought resignedly, "Nothing we can do." We went nearer, and I saw his right leg contracted in spasms. Completely naked, the little boy crouched down low, shivering in the cold. The medical student in me leaped out and I began to examine his right leg. On closer inspection, we then saw terribly infected wounds on his injured leg. He was limping severely, not because he was crippled, but because he was in great pain. Yellow pus oozed out from where he was hurt. He was shivering, shivering, shivering, and did not answer any of our questions.

"Can we get him a shirt?" I asked. "Maybe from a store nearby?"

"Anung panggalan mo?" I asked in Tagalog. What is your name?

"Bunso." Pronounced Boon-sor. It means Little One. His real name was Vinsen, pronounced as Binson.

He was shivering, shivering, just as we were, except that while we were clothed, he was as bare as a stone. His brown skin glistened in the chilly rain like brown marble. Mio's Filipino friend, Aji, another photographer whom he had linked up with online and just my age, took off his white shirt and I clothed him.


"Come," I said. He was afraid of us. Aji asked him why he wasn't clothed and he said he had no shirt. We walked him home. Little Bunso in a large oversized shirt.



His home was a little makeshift shelter on low stilts made from wooden cardboard and plastic, situated right in front of the coal-making sheds, where it would get full measure of the noxious fumes. It was next to the coast as well, so any floods (which were common) would make his home most vulnerable. We found his mother, who spoke good English because she had gone to school till she was 15.

I learnt, that many of the people in Smokey Mountain live there not because they are "stupid" or uneducated, but simply because, coal-making is, to them, a decent job, one of integrity, a better alternative to other options, and it was a place they were familiar with, away from the big world out there which had no place for people like them.

Back home, at least they felt accepted.

Binson sat on the floor while we asked his mother to bathe and clothe him. She was a dark, strong woman with a face like a horse and a charming smile. His wounds on his leg were raw, oozing with pus and covered with black soot. Three days old, she said, Got injured from hot coals.

Hot coals. They were everywhere. This was the children's world. Trash heaps were beanbags and coal pieces, their building blocks. Just the next day I was horrified to find four three-year old kids crouching around a small fire and playing with it with bits of plastic they had found.

It was common to find children helping their parents collect coal from the shed. I saw a little girl, who could not be more than 7, scooping up rusty nails with her bare hands, caked with black soot, to return to her parents for reuse. It was no wonder Binson got injured.

"Come, come in, " said his mother warmly. Mio and team waited outside but I did not refuse. Inside, were 2 chairs with torn cushions and a plastic sheet on which they slept on. I watched as she bathed Binson with scooped water from a bucket, with him wincing and grimacing in pain. Tears oozed from his large, soulful eyes. I must have looked a little too hard at their house because she said with a smile, "We are poor."

She was apologizing for being poor.

Water does not come easy. I later learnt from the local pastor, Ps Nickson, that one has to walk out of Smokey Mountain, onto the main highway and queue up for water, dispensed from a horsecart for hours before getting some. It is not even drinking water, but water from a hose which they must use for all their cleaning and bathing and drinking, too. I cringed on hearing that, as I remembered Binson's mother offering us her water to clean our feet which were caked with mud.

From a wooden shelf she pulled out some clothes, but every one was too large for Binson. He had four siblings and there was not enough to go around. He shivered in a large towel wrapped around him. Finally, he was dressed in his father's clothes. The family was reluctant to take him to the clinic.

"We'll come back tomorrow with medication," Aji told them. "But tonight, can we take him out for dinner?"

Mio has worked as a social worker, counsellor and some sort of freelance missionary for many years. He and I both understand that we are not to practise "touristy generosity", for such things can backlash and create an unhealthy reliance and expectation from foreigners. But he had built close ties with some of the people there, and we felt it was all right to take some of them nearby for a simple meal. In the drizzle, Mio carried Binson on his back. He waved cheekily at me from above.

Even then, the children were modest, not taking more than they could eat, gently refusing when we doled out more food for them.

Ricky is a 7-year old boy who, for some reason, endeared himself to me. As we walked along the streets at night and young teenagers whistled at me, he held my hand and agitatedly spoke to me in Tagalog. It was the pastor's wife who told me that he was telling me how he "would not let the big boys court me" and would protect me from them. Later however, he started crying halfway through dinner as some hooligan boys, not more than ten years old, crept in during dinner to threaten to punch him if he did not share his food with them. They stood outside the coffeeshop, perched like hawks, watching us eat.

Ricky and I

Such is the situation in Smokey Mountain. The Sunday School Teacher in me wanted to rise up to teach those bad boys a lesson, but when I looked into their eyes and saw their ragged clothes, I saw that they, too, were poor, hungry and empty inside.

Along the way, we dropped by a pharmacy to buy antiseptic cream and alcohol to clean Binson's wounds. I learnt, that Ps Nickson had started a feeding programme that fed hundreds of children in Smokey Children, but they had hardly enough funds to sustain that, much less start a hygiene programme for the children. Each feeding session, which provides every child aged 4 to 11 a packet of rice and a piece of sausage the size of a small fishcake, costs about $300. They need a continuous supply of $1200 each month to nourish the scrawny children there.

We had a delicious meal that night. We were all famished. We nursed Binson's wounds over the next few days, cooing "Magandang, magandang (be brave)" as he winced and teared from the pain. It frustrated us, me especially, to know that the soot continually infected his wounds and nothing could keep him indoors for long. At one point, I chided him, and him, in his shame, cried and tore himself away from me. Just the day before, we were best friends.

Binson's tears reminded me of what Jerry had shared with me, that Smokey Mountain was beautiful because after all, it was his home, their Home-it was where his friends and family were; His tears reminded me of the pride and dignity the people had in that place- they were kind and polite to me, and made an honest living collecting trash and making charcoal. They were not stealing, merely making a living; His tears reminded me, that I had no right to assume I knew better than them, had no right to barge in and tell them the grand ideas I had to lift them out of their poverty, and demand that they should have a hygiene programme or a new project or another new scheme.

This is their home. God tells us to serve one another in humility, and not to lord over one another in pride and self-righteousness.

The next day, even after I had chided Binson, I found him lying in a soot-covered hammock under a coal shed, with his wounds all covered with a carpet of black smoke. I learnt, that we cannot impose ourselves on the poor. This is their life. This is their charcoal-making, soot-filled, trash-surrounding life which they chose to live in with dignity, and that is the dignity which I, too, must choose to accord them with.

As we walked back home that night, I saw once again how much the poor had taught me about life. As I carried Binson in my arms, I suddenly knew at that moment once again, with renewed conviction, what I wanted to do with my future. I still don't know exactly what God wants me to do post-graduation, but I do have some idea. I do know, that God has called me to transform communities, and to help underprivileged children, not by running the place down and telling the people how to live and what to do, but in God's own gentle and quiet way, to live with them, to understand them and to encourage them, and in doing so, to love them.

That is all.

"Is this not the fast which I choose,

to loosen the bonds of wickedness,

to undo the bands of the yoke,

and to let the oppressed go free, and break every yoke?

Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry,

and bring the homeless poor into the house;

when you see the naked, to cover him,

and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?"

-Isaiah 58:66

*photos by Mio and I

Starfish.

I was half expecting her not to show up.

After all, people had been telling me over and over, “You can’t save the world.”

It made me think of the Starfish story our teachers used to tell us in school, about a little boy who would pick up stranded starfish every day and throw them back into the sea one by one. An old man scolded him and asked what difference his foolish actions made, to which the little boy replied as he threw back yet another starfish into the sea, "It makes a difference to this one."

Maybe she wouldn’t show up. Maybe, just like what everyone else was telling me, I was a fool for trying to help, and perhaps, even a fool for entertaining her, believing her story. Silly me.

Two days ago, while I was doing some reading at Starbucks, M, a 20-year old patient I had met some months ago called me. “You got twenty dollars to lend me? I need it. No money for transport.”

Later, after a tussle of words, she texted me, “You got church on Friday? I free. I want to go. Want to mit?”

I remember the day I first saw her at the hospital. Her skin was black and flaking, her hair was falling out and she looked like an old lady from afar. Her eczema was so bad that not a square inch of skin was spared. Her entire body was covered in dry, thick scales which peeled off her skin like old paint off an old tin roof.

Born in the Philippines, M was brought to Singapore, and adopted by an elderly Singaporean woman, who died on her 14th birthday after they had had a tiff. Her foster mother had gone out to buy a cake for her, and on turning back to pick up a key-chain made by M which she had dropped, got hit by a car. She died immediately. Since then, M started to work and live independently.

“Sure,” I said, “We can meet. Can I introduce you to my friend? From Social Service unit of my church. If you want a bit more help, she can help. Meet you at 3pm at the train station, okay?”

You can’t save the world. You’ll just get hurt. Don’t waste your time. See, that’s why you don’t have a boyfriend, you spend your time on all these people who waste your time. Go out, have some fun.

But there she was, standing there, drinking bubble tea from the shop nearby and a piece of Old Chang Kee chicken. “My first meal of the day. Need the sugar, no choice.”

Her hair had grown back a little but her skin was still dark, patchy and scaly. She looked grimy from head to toe, especially in her off-shoulder blouse and shorts. Now I understood why she got fired, because “Boss say customer see me also get scared. Kena sack lor.” Even the taxi driver and fruit stallholder seemed taken aback when they saw her.

The social worker and M talked for a long time. I sat there, with my back slumped- someone had told me to be prepared, that perhaps, all this was a hoax. Had I been stupid enough to believe her?

“Can I have your identity card?” said the social worker.

And there it said-Country of Origin: Philippines. Date of Birth: 1990.

She wasn’t lying. Even though her skin made her look 60, and the pains and reality of life made her sound as if she was 40, she was truly only 20. Younger than me and eking out a living for herself, living in a temporary shelter because she had the courage to stick by her promise she made to me the last time, “Ok, Wai Jia, I promise to leave the boy I am staying with. I promise to pray to God for a new lease of life.”

“Now,” said the social worker, “I just need to ask some personal questions about your expenditure if you don’t mind. How much do you spend on food daily?”

“Three dollars.”

“What?” I interrupted, “Three dollars for a meal you mean? She’s asking how much you spend a day on food.”

“Three dollars. I have one meal a day now. Can’t afford to spend more than that.”

I slumped back in my chair. Three dollars a day. Three dollars can’t buy a soy latte from Starbucks.

After taking a detailed history from her, the social worker disappeared. “I’ll see what I can do.”

So M and I talked. Or rather, she talked incessantly and I listened. Hers, was the obvious verbose one-sided conversation of someone who had not had heartfelt conversation for a long time. “Sorry I tok so much. At the shelter there, no one tok to me. Only got a lot of other sad people crying there, always I comfort them, tell them life not so bad la, can go on one. Sometimes I very bored, I tok to the Telly-Tubby my foster mother gave me when I was a kid. I still keep leh, so long already, one eye come out already. Purple colour one. The other colours so ugly. Last time you hit the tummy of the Telly Tubby it can say ‘I love you!’, budden now, cannot, so old already, so I tok to it lor. No one else to tok to. Sometimes I think I crazy already.”

The social worker returned, with forty dollars topped up in M’s transportation card.

I sat there, slightly stunned, fingering her pink identity card. She was real. Her story was consistent. Hers, was a genuine case.

M limped out of church. Her lower back was aching due to a urinary infection she had because of long hours at her old work place. She had just got a course of antibiotics from her doctor yesterday. As we left church, I stood amazed. I felt encouraged, I felt God’s presence as He walked with us out of the building. God had honoured me as I had honoured Him.

It made me think about all the things the other people had said, that she could’ve been a fake, that she might not show up, that there’re too many people in the world to help.

But she was real. She showed up. She asked for twenty, but got forty. She wanted my help, but got a social service unit to follow up with her. She said all the other medical social services at hospital and governmental community services had given up on her, but this one didn’t. She showed up. She is not a fake, and her life was certainly not “just another life”.

It was worth it. That two hours or so of my time was worth it. Every life is worth it. Just like how mine was worth it to God, that He had sent people to help me in my times of desperation.

As we walked out, I bought her a simple takeaway dinner, and as we passed a fruit shop, she casually looked at a watermelon. “Want one?” I asked.

“Ver long never eat already. So long.”

And as she bit into the long sliver of juicy goodness, she exclaimed in child-like amazement, “It’s sweet! It’s sweet!” as if she had not expected it to be so, just as how she had not expected her life to be so, too. Her moments of child-likeness betrayed the old-ness and tragic maturity she displayed most of the time, reminding me that in spite of all her hardships, she was all but 20.

As we parted, she said for the first time, “Thanks ah.”

And though I was tired, it made me happy to know my arms were sore for good reason, from throwing starfish back into the sea. After all, I was once a starfish, too.

"Since you are precious and honored in my sight,

and because I love you,

I will give men in exchange for you,

and people in exchange for your life."
-Isaiah 43:4

"But God demonstrates his own love for us in this:

While we were still sinners, He died for us."
-Romans 5:8

Tiny seeds.

Who would imagine that such a tiny seed would grow into a towering, formidable, life-giving oak tree?

It's like how we would never imagine that our tiniest acts would have such a large impact on somebody else.

Sometimes, do you feel like what you do doesn't matter? Does it feel like a smile, or a kind act you give out evaporates almost instantly, leaving nothing but a memory in the atmosphere? Does the answer of only God knowing and seeing what you're doing dis-satisfy you? I know I felt that way before, but less and less.

A few months ago, Grandpa Zhou stopped me in my tracks.

"Wai Jia!" he said in mandarin. "Do you know a Marcus?"

In mandarin, he had pronounced it as MAH KER.

"Mah-ker? There are many Mah-kers around, Grandpa Zhou. Which one are you talking about?" To be honest, I wasn't taking him very seriously.

"He says he knows you!"

"Well, okay. Tell me more?"

"Well, this boy. This boy who's a little older than you came to sit by me just the other day! He sat down and played the guitar with me, bought me food... and so I shared with him about my god-daughter, you, and about all the things you did for me which touched and changed my life... And I said you were very kind... and surprisingly, he asked for your name! And when I told him, both of us got a shock of our lives because HE KNOWS YOU!!! He's from your church!"

Mah-ker. Mah-ker. Ah yes, I know a Marcus! I remember now!

It was beautiful, to know that someone from Home would see Grandpa Zhou through a different set of eyes from the world-not my eyes, but the eyes of God.

A week later when I spoke to Marcus over the phone, we both chuckled. Grandpa Zhou plays the harmonica and busks at a train station in the north on some days and on other days, in the east. Marcus had met him in the north while I had met Grandpa Zhou in the east.

"What made you stop for him?" I asked Marcus.

"You know 2 years ago when you wrote an article in our church magazine on Loving the Poor and Stopping for One? (pg 7), it impacted me really greatly. So I told myself I would do the same. I didn't think the old man whom I stopped for was the same old man you had written about!"

What a small world.

Marcus has been seeing Grandpa Zhou regularly, buying him food, bought and watched a movie with him at a cinema and even accompanied him to a mid-autumn festival event last week.

Last week, I got another email from a stranger through Facebook:

Hi Wai Jia!

You must be wondering who I am. Ha, I'll tell you something amazing! You know the uncle who sits outside the Kembangan mrt (train station)? I know him too! Only this week did I find out that you are his "gan sun nu" (god-daughter). Haha, anyways, I forgot to intro myself, I am ZX from your church too. Nice to meet you! The uncle says you're very nice! It's amazing how God brought us 3 to know one another. Haha C:

God bless,
ZX

Today, Grandpa Zhou told me that when this teenage girl and her mother stopped to talk with him, and when he shared with them about this god-daughter he had, that I was from a church in the east called Cornerstone, they exclaimed that they were from the same one!

Last Friday, I got a phonecall from another friend.

"Wai Jia, I need to talk to you."

"What's up?"

R is a final-year law student, a budding artiste, a friend who has encouraged and inspired me greatly in many ways. He is always full of ideas and just set up his own theatre company to put up Christian theatre works.

"I read your story about Uncle Tay and his 5 shirts. And I read your story about Grandpa Zhou. I'd been organising a series of lectures lately for our law faculty- the latest one being on the topic of Social Injustice. The speaker challenged us to find one aspect of society to pray for and to take action in during the next many months... and to set small goals... ... So, well... I want you to know I'm starting a movement, to raise awareness about helping the elderly in our society who fall through the cracks. I've been speaking to various social workers and agencies to compile a list of helpful services and hope to bring this to people, help people help others. And I need your help, because you're what inspired me."

We talked.

"So what made you stop for Grandpa Zhou the first time you met him? That's what I wanna know, that's what I feel we can impart to our youth today."

"To be honest, R," I said- I knew I was about to spoil his poetic moment, "if you read my writing, I hated Grandpa Zhou at the start. He was mean to me. And I was darn impatient. I was too proud to stop for him. I didn't want to. It was God who made me stop, changed my heart. He humbled me. That was how."

Just as I left Grandpa Zhou today and gave him another fifty-dollar note from a pool of money given to me by my junior's boyfriend (he, whom I've only met once, had given me all of his Chinese New Year money given to him by his relatives for any purpose I wanted) for his medical fees, I caught sight of Rachel, my 7-year old girl from my Sunday School class.

I had shared with my Sunday School children the story of Grandpa Zhou before. I had taught them the value of loving the needy. I remember she was most attentive during those lessons, and she even asked me several things even though she was normally quiet in class.

Now, she saw me bending low to talk to Grandpa Zhou. She saw for herself what she had heard in class.

All these tiny incidents served not to remind of my own goodness, but to remind me of how God could use someone as self-absorbed and proud as me, to reach out to someone else, and how just such a tiny act of obedience can have ripple effects on numerous people, things and circumstance around us.

You just never know.

So the next time you do good and feel weary about doing so, remember that God is not the only one touched. Your smile, your gesture, your one small act of love does not evaporate into thin air.

Like a tiny seed which is the beginning of a giant tree that can bear fruit and provide shade and beauty for many others, your tiny act of love, too, can go such a long way.

I never knew.

5 shirts.

The old man stood me up. For half an hour I waited, and paced up and down the hospital lobby, peeling my eyes for a glimpse of the old man. I was annoyed, very annoyed. I had taken the trouble to pack the items for him, lug the big bag to hospital (this internship requires us to report to hospital on some sundays), and had rushed down to meet him.

I was annoyed.

Then I wondered, how much convenience does it take to convince one to help? How much convenience do we expect before we are joyful in lending a helping hand? That question stung me like a boomerang, and reminded me of that day when we met.

He was a thin, tiny old man with a chest so thin that he might have disppeared sideways. Dressed in a grimy collared shirt and old-fashioned black pants, he squatted by the side of the path leading from the train station to Singapore General Hospital.

He got up, tottered a few steps forward, then squatted down again.

I was curious. Everybody was. People walked past him and stared. Another elderly man with frosted hair stood in front of him, just staring, before walking off.

There was something about him which perplexed me. For he wasn't squatting in the way old men squat sometimes by the road, faced out, with shoulders back and their hands thrown casually across their knees. He was crouching, his back facing the sidewalk instead and looked like he was huddling himself.

I had taken the morning off from my internship, was there for my regular follow-up appointment and on my way back to Tan Tock Seng Hospital to attend a lecture.

More people walked by.

A kind Filipino nurse saw him and walked by. Our eyes locked briefly and she hesitated before going on her way. She stopped, I stopped. At that moment of uncertainty, I realised it takes a certain amount of energy to overcome one's inertia to stop in one's tracks for another. She was obviously rushing off to the wards, I was rushing off to a different hospital. Our hesitation gave each other courage and I said loudly in case he was hard of hearing, "Uncle, ler si mi dai ji?"

Hokien is a very rough language, even if one is trying to convey a gentle sentiment. Literally, the words meant, Uncle, what's your problem?

I thought about that incident 2 months ago when I suffered from the worst menstrual cramps I'd ever had in my life after delivering some items to a patient and was left hobbling home by myself, almost paralysed in pain, with no one offering to help me and was angry. As I looked at him, I was angry. He had been there for some time, why did no one stop for him? Is it inconvenience that we are afraid of?

I thought, how much convenience do we need to be convinced to stop for someone else?

"Jin tia," he said. Very painful. "Wa si lai kua lokun eh, kui dou." I came to see the doctor, just had an operation.

He lifted his grimy shirt to show me the full glory of his two scars emblazoned across his chest.

One subcostal scar and one laparotomy scar. That must have been quite a big operation.

I was angry.

Just how much does it take for us to stop? Why did I hesitate before stopping, and why is it that we fear being inconvenienced so much. I thought about that time when I was in such pain and a taxi driver stopped for me as I hailed for him, then immediately drove off again after he had a closer look and saw that I was pale from so much pain. What is it that we fear?

The nurse was very kind. "Uncccle, where are you going?" I translated it for her.

"Chinatown," he said in mandarin. "I'm walking there."

It would have taken anyone a good half hour to get there. The sun was blazing hot. "Zhu na li?" Where do you stay? I asked in mandarin.

"Chinatown hawker centre. I sleep there."

I suggested going back in a cab. It would not cost a lot of money.

"Wo zou lu hu jia, wo mei you qian!" Vehemently, he cried out, even in his pain, "No! I will walk home, I have no money!"

He calmed down a little after I handed the nurse a red note. We walked him to the taxi stand as he hobbled unsteadily, but I had to rush back for a lecture. The nurse offered to accompany him until he was safely in a cab.

"Why does your tummy hurt after seeing the doctor?"

"It hurts pretty often. When I am hungry, I eat food that is leftover by people who eat there. My tummy hurts sometimes when I am hungry."

Hunger, and we're naive enough to think the phenomenon doesn't occur in Singapore.

"Uncle, do you drink or smoke?" I asked firmly.

"No, never!"

I struggled briefly with giving him a fifty-dollar note, then eventually succumbed when I was reminded how easy it is to part with a hundred dollars each time I go for physiotherapy. Or fifty dollars for two pairs of shoes, for that matter.

"Uncle, this is my name and my number. You call me if you need something. And this is not for buying beer okay, use it to buy food. Okay? " I was using my Sunday School Teacher Instructive Voice.

He nodded. I left him with the nurse, and went on my way.

Days later, at noon, as I scrambled to set up my powerpoint presentation on Deep Vein Thrombosis to present to my senior consultant, he called.

"Wei Jia ah?" he said in mandarin. "Mr. Tay here. Yar. I'm calling. I need something."

"Yes, what is it?" I said, as I scrambled to download my presentation into the computer while everyone waited for me.

I sighed, chiding myself for so freely giving away my number and expecting to be disappointed by a demand for money.

But the words thereafter melted my heart.

"Ni you yi fu ma?" Do you have clothes?

Clothes. That was all. He asked to meet me in Chinatown hawker centre, at his "home". But the days have been so hectic I asked if he could meet me on Sunday (today) at Tan Tock Seng instead.

Mr. Tay has a long-drawn voice which sounds chronically tired, as if the voice had run ten miles, run out of breath and then revived itself to speak.

" I will wear black so you can find me. What colour are you wearing?"

"Blue," I said, as I thought of a bright blue dress to wear. Last night, he called twice to confirm our meeting, as if I would forget something so important to him, "because I have no more clothes to wear."

"Don't bring too many. Just a few will be enough."

Today, I waited. He didn't show up. More than an hour later as I headed to church, he called from a public phone. I was now rushing to church for a meeting and was in the train. "I can't meet you anymore, Mr. Tay, why didn't you come?"

"Wei Jia ah, I fell down yesterday so I couldn't walk to meet you. You can come to Chinatown now. I'm at a coffeeshop at Block 34."

"How come you didn't tell me sooner? Or last night when you called again? I brought all your stuff and waited for you."

I was disappointed and a little frustrated. I asked myself: If you had known it would be this inconvenient to help, would you still have offered it?

I got out of the train, and into a cab. If I cabbed there and to church, I would still make it in time. But the taxi driver said, "Block 34. It doesn't exist. All the blocks in Chnatown I know are triple-digit blocks. Or at least that's what I know."

Frazzled, I tumbled out of the cab. And then, in the interest of time, caught another straight to church.

My mind was in a mess.

If the world were a simple, happy, Predictable place, Mr. Tay would have been right there at Tan Tock Seng waiting for me, we would have had a yummy lunch together at the food centre, we would have gone grocery shopping together at Novena Square and we would keep in touch. We would be best of friends. Can you hear birds chirping?

But life is as such. That he fell. He didn't find a public phone in time to tell me in advance. I don't drive and so didn't think of meeting him at his "home". The taxi driver said Block 34 doesn't exist. And I had another meeting to attend.

Life is as such. He sleeps in a hawker centre and eats food leftover by people.

All I could think about was what went through my head when I offered my help. Was it conditional, that I would do so only if it was convenient to me? After all, I did ask him to travel to Tan Tock Seng where I was doing my Sunday rounds. What if he turned out to be demanding, how would that change things? And what if he wasn't being demanding, just simply... elderly. He's just a little old man needing a few clothes.

Am I too important for him? Do I feel so? Me with my "all-important" medical exams and my wardrobe of Mango and Zara and G2000 and Threadless T-shirts?



Just as I contemplated these thoughts in the taxi, my phone rang again. It was the 4th time he was calling me because 10 cents run out pretty quickly on a public phone.

"Wei Jia ah, ni you lai ma?" You coming?

I couldn't make it anymore. Time didn't permit, and I wasn't sure where he was. I wondered if I should just leave him, wondered if I had been stupid or naive to entertain him in the first place. Maybe he's a confused old man. Maybe he's disoriented. Maybe, it's just 5 shirts. It's no big deal even if I left things as they were.

Then I wondered if I was having all those thoughts because Chinatown is a crazy maze of a place and I didn't want to go through the trouble of looking for him just to deliver 5 shirts.

"We'll have to arrange again," I said, and thought about another two 36-hour shifts I would have mid-week and next Sunday. "I'm sorry, I've work during weekdays, maybe next weekend? Call me on Friday night and we'll arrange."

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

How convenient do circumstances have to be before I offer my help to someone else? How much must I think the other person deserves it and is worthy of my time? Do I think too little of 5 shirts?

Then I thought about how convenience is never a consideration for God, even when I ask Him for the most ludicrous of things. I thought about the many times I had prayed for things seemingly impossible to obtain, and somehow He made it clear to me that pains were taken to orchestrate something so divinely arranged that things happened in ways which stunned me. I thought about how undeserving I am of many things, my bicycle for example, but God still blessed me anyway. And I thought about all my tiny, seemingly trivial prayers that God still hears and answers.

Is my prayer for a good night's rest or my leg to be healed to small for Him to listen to? Is 5 shirts too insignificant to me?

I'm pretty sure God has a lesson to teach me through this.

So this is the plan. We're going next week and we're going to hunt him down to deliver 5 shirts to him. I say "we" because I'm looking for someone with a big heart, sense of adventure and A CAR to come with me. It doesn't matter if we've met before. Friends were always strangers before. Email me if you're available next saturday for an hour :)

We're going to find out where this "Block 34" is and Mr. Tay is going to get his 5 shirts.

"If there is a poor man among you... in any of the towns...

you shall not harden your heart, nor close your hand to your poor brother;

but you shall freely open your hand to him,

and generously lend him sufficient for his need in whatever he lacks."

-Deut. 15:7.

Give to him who asks of you,

and do not turn away from him who wants to borrow from you.

-Mt 5:42

You shall give generously to [your poor brother],

and your heart shall not be grieved when you give to him,

because for this thing

God will bless you in all your work and in all your undertakings.

-Deut 15:10

Beautiful child.

Thank you for giving her the gift of hearing.

Now, Alisha can truly have a chance at a normal life back in Nepal where she stays at.

Like the other kids.

*To those of you who have made a difference to her life through your generosity, thank you. Alisha still has to return to Singapore regularly from Nepal for her speech and hearing therapy. The flights and therapy sessions all add up. If you would like to help support her further in any way, please write to me at tanwaijia@gmail.com to find out more.

Things Unseen.

Somehow, I knew God had a hand in it.

You see, as medical students in our clinical years, we rotate around various hospitals in Singapore so much that we rarely spend more than a month or two in a single hospital. Surgery, internal medicine, paediatrics, dermatology, infectious disease etc... for each specialty, we move to a different location.

Alisha is the 4-year old girl from Nepal whom my missionary friend and I were involved with to coordinate a cochlear implant surgery in Singapore some time last year. I remember, both times Alisha had been scheduled to fly in for her speech and hearing therapy appointment at the National University Hospital, I had happened to be scheduled there for my postings as well. It was because of that, that I was able to visit her and accompany her for her therapy sessions. Not once, but twice.

Mdm H is the lovely lady whose waterbag had burst only slightly more than midway through her pregnancy. I remember, she made a huge impact on me because of her joy in spite of her circumstance. Most women can be moody and emotional during their pregnancy because of the hormonal changes and various other stressors. (Pregnancy in itself can be very stressful.) Yet, in spite of such a huge setback, with news of her baby needing to be born prematurely and possibly facing many risks and future complications, Mdm H remained positive, strong and held on firmly to her belief that God was in control- not out of ignorance, but sheer faith. I remember, the two times she text messaged me to inform me she was carrying her baby boy to the hospital for followup visits with the doctor, I had happened to be allocated to that hospital as well. Because of that, we could catch up and I could visit her son. She wrote about our 1st and 2nd meeting. In my time of self-doubt and despair, she gave me immense encouragement.

Mdm S is the strong parent whose faith and strength shall always be etched in my memory. Her 3-year old son, E, has been in and out of hospital for bloatedness due to a kidney problem. The week her son was warded happened to be the week when I was posted to that hospital as well. Because of that, I could visit and tell him funny stories where we laughed ourselves silly, and pray together with Mdm S.

Qing is the amazing young woman from China with a grossly disfigured face. Having had acid poured all over her beautiful face when she was 14 by her elder sister's vengeful boyfriend, she had been almost blind for 5 years before Dr. Tan Lai Yong, a Singaporean doctor who had been serving the needy in China for more than a decade, flew her in to Singapore for various skin and eye treatments, and took her to various meetings to speak about her experience. Her simple joy and faith in a God whom she believed loved her immensely would bring tears to those who heard her story.

On the second day of my Ophathalmology rotation 6 months back, I remember bumping into her at the waiting room. She happened to be scheduled to see my professor, who was her doctor.
Yesterday, I received a text message from her saying she would be at the Eye Centre again. Incidentally, even thought I am now doing my dermatology rotation at a different hospital, I had been scheduled weeks ago for an appointment with my therapist there on the same morning. Perfect.

So many times, it seemed as if God had allowed these special arrangements to take place so that I would have the chance to enjoy these very special moments. Coincidence? On so many occasions?

Today, Qing was there in her signature sunglasses which she uses to hide her eyes. Where her right eye should have been, is a red, fleshy piece of skin and some clear liquid dripping out. When I first met her, there was an ulcer and pus- things had improved since then. Her other eye, with a severely damaged eyelid and only a few eyelashes, had undergone 2 previous corneal implants due to infections.

"I certainly hope the doctors will say my eyes have improved this time!"

She is almost blind. Before she met Dr. Tan a few years ago, she could see even less. She is now 22, almost my age.

Instead of being resigned to doing nothing, she spends her time making beautiful cloth flowers which she sells to raise support for herself and other victims of abuse in the Rehabilitation Centre at Kunming, China. On my 23rd birthday this year, instead of buying me more things I didn't need, my friends purchased the beautiful flowers made by her. They were sold in a flash.

She opened her wallet. "Wai Jia," she said in mandarin, "this is my old photo. This is how I looked like before. I was dancing in a performance, I chose this dress because I thought it looked so pretty."

I fell silent. She was so beautiful.

Doe-eyed and innocent, she was so beautiful at 13 before that fateful day. Now, her face was, by normal standards, hideous. No one would walk by her without taking a second look. She had one eye. Her face was a giant keloid. Half her nose was gone, her mouth was crooked. Part of her scalp was so badly damaged she had to cover it with her fringe.



This time, she came with a friend, HJ. When we had a quiet moment together away from Qing, I asked HJ, "Does Qing ever feel depressed?"

"No. Can't you see, she's always very cheerful."

"But how can that be? Surely she has difficult moments?"

I thought about how difficult it must be for her to face herself each day, how depressing it must be to feel ugly, blind and to have to apply creams, eyedrops, and wear contact lenses for one eye to prevent recurrent corneal infections on her only good eye. For myself, just a hamstring injury and a pelvic fracture had caused me so much grief- I had days feeling fat and ugly, and couldn't imagine how it must be like for Qing.

"It happened so many years ago that she's learnt to cope. If anything, it's her elder sister who still copes with some guilt."

I knew HJ was telling the truth, because Qing once shared with me how God loves her so much that He sent angels to bring her from China to Singapore, people to sponsor her multiple operations in Singapore which cost tens, if not hundreds of thousands of dollars, and doctors to see her for free.

"He loves me so much. Why should I be sad?"

She is 22. This happened to her when she was 14.

I had to leave for my medical appointment. And it made me see how our every moment is a miracle, how many things there are which we can be grateful and thankful for. I was fed up with being injured, fed up with having to followup with my therapist regarding my old illness of anorexia, but she showed me how precious our life is, and how much we have to be grateful for for even having the chance to receive medical treatment.

Some time back, when I was back in the same place where I was treated learning about anorexia, but this time as a medical student, I found myself, during a tutorial, doodling (out of nervousness from hearing about my old illness being taught aloud). What I had drawn startled me, made me see that part of Ele still lives in my head. That was when I knew there was still work to be done.

Here we are worrying about how we look, how we appear in front of others, worrying about being fat or having acne or shoddy, when there is so much more to life. This afternoon at the dermatology clinic, we saw so many patients who came in wanting to know how they could get rid of their eyebags, skin creases or tiny skin tags less than 2mm in diameter.

Granted, these are valid urban anxieties, but do we forget, that somewhere out there, in a world different from ours, there are people living lives with such pure faith and joy, strength and courage in the face of tragedy, injustice and pain. Do we lose ourselves in our self-absorption.

"Qing, thanks so much for keeping in touch with me."

Thank you, for being a part of the many special encounters God has orchestrated to show me how gratitude and faith, courage and love, can make such a huge difference not only in our lives, but in the lives of those around us.

Thank you for showing us what it means to live life with such valour.

You may be almost blind, but you've opened our eyes to the things unseen.

"... while we look not at things seen,

but things unseen;

for things seen are temporary,

but things unseen are eternal..."

2 Cor 4:18

*Qing's pictures and story published with permission.

Little piece of heaven.

I got an email today from a special friend:

"...in your post about heaven, in the last picture, you mentioned that God being with you is what heaven is about.... If this is true, does this mean we are in heaven now? :) Because Jesus did mention He will be with us until the end of the very age... (Matthew 28:20) :D...just to pick your brains and see what you think...(or if you are like me- most of the time, I don't think :D)"

I like to think our life on earth, is a little piece of heaven :)

10 out of 10.

Nothing prepared me for the intensity of the pain. It hit me like a dummy crash-car into a wall and strangled the life out of me, draining strength from my legs, tummy and chest. God, what is happening?

The pain came at the wrong time. I was on my way to deliver groceries to Uncle Z. A day ago when I checked in on Uncle Z, he said that his son had run away. His 20-year old son had threatened to take all the furniture in their one-room flat except the bed, and said he wanted to move out. Uncle Z had just been discharged from the hospital for another near-death episode as he does not comply with his blood-thinning medication, essential for his condition of having 2 prosthetic heart valves from previous open-chest surgery. His wife, Mdm N, was diagnosed with severe hypertension and dementia last year. Uncle Z said, "Ever since our son left, she cries every day. She sings and cries, sings and cries."

My friend, D, had agreed to come with me and pray with them. My pain lingered, I tolerated it, but even D could tell I was suffering.

"You okay?"

"Yea," I said, in between breaths, "This is very unusual, I never have this sort of pain normally. But I got to say, this pain, is definitely worse than the pain of a half-marathon."

By the time we reached Uncle Z's home, and sat to chat, I knew the pain was only growing in intensity, but I kept a straight face, and Uncle Z didn't suspect a thing.

As soon as we left and his door closed, my upper body collapsed in pain. I then realised this was what guys are most afraid of hearing, "D, I think it's cramps. Crap. I usually never have pain- at all. This is really unusual."

D had to rush back to work, and so left me. He knew I'd be okay. I knew it too.

Little did I realise that the pain only worsened. By the time D had left, I could hardly walk.

God, I said, you have such a sense of humour. Today's the first day I don't feel pain in my fracture site and this is what you replace it with? Okay, like, please talk to me now if there's something you're trying to tell me. My ears are peeled.

At once, the words of my physiotherapist, AL, rang in my ears.

That day as she meticulously recorded the events of my injury, she asked, "When did they do the X-ray for you?"

"About 6 weeks post-injury."

"What? How come they didn't do it immediately?"

"I guess they weren't really suspecting it. They said muscle tears can be excruciating, too."

"What was your pain score at the Emergency department?"

I remembered myself being in so much pain I had to be put on a wheelchair. "I told them 8 out of 10."

"Really? It was 8/10? You sure? Then how bad was your pain 6 weeks later?"

"Er... 4 out of 10."

"Yeah right. They won't do an X-ray 6 weeks post-injury for a pain score of 4/10. It was more like 6/10, wasn't it."

"Maybe."

"Trying to be a hero."

Trying to be a hero. Yeah.

It was then, in the spasms on my pain, that I suddenly realised that therein lay pride, too. As my menstrual pain escalated progressively, I felt God was showing me what a pain score of 8/10 really was, and what the pain that day should've been.

It was 12 out of 10. And I only took 2 tablets of painkillers, refusing the rest.

By the time I had realised this, people at the train station were watching me and giving up their seats for me because I probably looked like I was about to collapse. As soon as I reached the train station near home, I bought Paracetemol, then deliberated about taking it. It's the freaking wrong time of the month for this sort of pain, I cursed inwardly. My pain score continued to increase, it went beyond 8/10 to 10/10. I could hardly stand anymore, much less walk. So I took the medication. Shortly afterward at home, the pain left. But I was so tired it felt like I had just finished a triathlon.

Today's pain taught me, that I really do need to surrender, more things than I thought. It taught me, that I have deeper idols to release.

Yesterday, I read that while our idols can be money, possessions, people etc, within us lie deeper idols, such as a sense of security, control or vanity. As I sat at the botanical gardens this week watching swans go by, I suddenly realised that the deepest false god in my life was not anorexia, or sports, or myself, even. It was a sense of needing to be in control. When things at home started to spin out of control years back, Ed became a way to regain that sense of stability; I enjoy cycling and long to learn horseriding because that sense of control on a bike, an animal is incredible; but the scariest revelation I received as I prayed was that, I am single, have been single, largely because...

... it gives me a sense of control. Being in a relationship makes me feel... vulnerable, and out of control. Who's to say the person doesn't turn out to be a jerk? I've met them before.

What is your deepest idol? Look at the patterns in your life, identify all your false gods, then see if you can find something in common. I did.

These days, I have been praying for God's mercy, that I will learn these lessons now and not when it's too late. I pray I learn to let go of self-sufficiency and the importance of a strong spiritual core before I rip my muscle again and cause a recurrent fracture. (The fracture was a non-contact injury- it broke where the muscle was attached too because the muscle tore too forcefully.) I pray I'll learn to destroy Aphrodite before she destroys me. I pray God'll help me to trust Him for my life partner and not let me realise this when I'm 45 and dying of loneliness in a mission field.

I have spent the last week by myself. It is our break now, my parents went overseas, my good friends are attached, some getting married, and I was unable to train. Some days were depressing. I had a lot of time to myself, and for one of the first times, wished someone would drive me out on Saturday night with the likes of Coldplay and Beatles on the stereo to Dempsey Hill for waffles and ice-cream.

God has never let me down- every time I prayed for company, like today in delivering groceries, someone always would show up. But I realised, that in the tough moments to bear, only someone who really loves you would go the extra mile for you. I don't blame D for returning back to work. But I know when I was hobbling home in pain, I really wished someone would call a cab for me, lug me back home, buy Paracetemol for me.

Today's pain showed me that I have to surrender. I need to learn how to say God, I am weak. I need help. I can't do this on my own. I have to realise many factors in life cannot be controlled. I cannot control when or how severe my menstrual pain will be (who cares if it's the wrong time of the month?), I cannot control who will love me and who I will love in return. I have to stop chasing things which give me a sense of control and security, because that pursuit will ultimately end in an uncontrolled manner.

God, not me, controls my life.

And I guess what I'm most relieved to know, is that He who controls our lives is indefinitely loving and kind, righteous and true. So because of that, I can let go, I can say okay, I won't resist You or love or run away anymore.

Because of that, I can finally say, I'm broken, and my pain score was 10 out of 10.

"If you are too afraid or too enamoured by love,

it has assumed godlike power,

distorting your perceptions and your life."

- Timothy Keller, Counterfeit gods

" Be shattered, O you peoples,

and be broken in pieces!"

-Isaiah 8:9