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

It's okay.

"No. My answer is no."

I have gotten used to hearing that. And sometimes, the more resistance I face, the more my inner being feels that it is something worth giving a long shot for.

They say it is good to listen to wise counsel and I agree with that. But I have also learnt, that most importantly, one must listen to that still small voice that comes quietly in the night.

I have a feeling, that my 2 greatest decisions in life- what I do with my job and the person I marry will not be conventional choice either. And they will be decisions I will have to stick by in spite of the resistance and naysaying.

"No, my answer is no. Why are you asking again? I've already told you. They just had a shooting incident. No."

I remember being torn that whole week. My folks didn't want me to go to Manila, not with this amazing photographer person whom I'd only met once, even though he was my publisher's friend. They didn't want me in that crazy city, where they just had a shooting rampage going on and some innocent Hong Kong tourists were recklessly shot to death.

But I really had to go. It was not so much that I wanted to go as much as I knew God wanted me to. I heard that still small voice. That day after praying, I saw a rainbow. And I knew, I was due to go.

I wanted to book the air tickets anyhow, but somehow, a greater respect for my folks stopped me. So I prayed. And prayed. And quit asking, and prayed some more.

Then a week later, my greying hero walked into my room and said, "It's not safe. If you ask me, I'll say I don't like the idea. But if you feel you really must, then book your tickets. We'll pay."

So I've taken leave from my crazy surgical internship to go to a dumpsite in Manila to visit some children living in dumpsites. Me, and 2 other guys, one whom I've never met before. They work closely with an NGO there on a regular basis.

God said Go, so I held Him to His word. So even if anything happens, know that I will die an incredibly happy and fulfilled person.

And just because I've witnessed too many heartbreakingly unexpected deaths of late, I just want to say that Mum and Dad, know that you have given me life to the full by releasing me. Know that I am thankful for your love that allows me to share God's love with the world. Know that whatever happens, I will forever be thankful I had the chance to live life this way. This is the best life to live.

Jo, thanks for praying for me- make sure there're lots of colourful balloons and emo Coldplay and David Crowder music at my funeral and you can have all my photos, dresses and ear-rings. Jes, you can have all the upgraded parts of my bike and fit it onto yours. Aunty Ay, please give all my money away to a foundation for needy kids in Africa, because that is the one place where I've yet to hug the children in.

It's a reckless trip, I know. Someone told me there's some terror alert going on in the area but it's okay. I'm okay. This isn't any different from when I went to Nepal or India or Indonesia.

Your prayers are appreciated.

"Go into all the world..."

-Mark 16: 15

Foolish Heroes.

It was gloriously ugly. When I saw that face, my own shock surprised me. In paediatrics, it is called a gargoyle facies, which refers to the typically gargoyle-like, coarse facial features of a child with a genetic disorder called mucopolysaccaroidosis. The child was sleeping soundly in a cot, her thumb in between horrendously large teeth which were housed in thick lips in an oversized head. A tired, defeated figure sat vigil next to her.

It is a common sight in Paediatrics, to see that tired, defeated figure next to a sick child.

"She was like this since birth. It's a genetic disorder. Hers is type 3, the most severe kind."

"May I ask," I said tentatively, "why she's in hospital today?"

"Don't you know? Children like her lack a particular type of enzyme in the body. That's why she needs to come to the hospital for a special infusion every 2 weeks. It's supposed to be a weekly infusion, but we can't afford it. We just can't afford it."

"How much do her medical fees cost?"

"A lot."

"A thousand for each infusion?" I thought it would be safer to make an overestimate.

"Each infusion is five thousand dollars."

I stood, stunned. Five thousand dollars. It took me a while to take in that figure. That is ten thousand dollars a month.

"We've used up almost all our subsidees. And it only helps her health marginally. But I don't know, things could have been worse. She's had them since she was 2 years old, it's a huge drain on our family."

"How old is she now?"

I looked at the large child sleeping in the cot and thought she could have been four or five.

"Eight."

Later, I read that children like her live till only about ten years old.

I stood there, marvelling at the tragedy and beauty of it all.

A tragedy, because it was profoundly sad to see not only the child suffer, but the entire family suffer. "It's a huge drain on my husband and I. We have one other child. It's just, so much money. We even wrote to the pharmaceutical company to give us a discount."

A tragedy, because the child would not get better, and would die eventually,soon.

Yet, it was beautiful, because in spite of it all, they put in their best for her. They put in everything they had for someone who could have no practical value in this world of pragmatism and logic. They put in their all because they loved her.

Foolishness, would be what the world would say. What a foolish, impractical love.

"She can't feed herself, or dress or get up by herself from lying down, but she can certainly still smile, her elder sister plays with her. She can express herself when she wants to watch television or eat."

A few nights ago, I met up with the mother of a previous 3-year old patient I had met a year ago. Mdm S and I had become friends and I text messaged her one day to ask how her son was, and how she was doing. "Back in the hospital," was her reply, "you texted me at the right time."

I went to visit. We met to pray. In spite of steroids, her son was swollen all over again. But he was in good spirits.

"Dear," she said to her charming son, "Go and sit on Jiejie (big sister) Wai Jia's lap."

He crawled into my lap. Just for entertainment's sake, I told him a story off the top of my head, making it up as I went along.

"ONE DAY," I said in my Super-Excited, Hyped-up Storytelling Voice, "THERE WAS A BOY NAMED.... NAMED.... E!!"

He giggled. He was the protagonist of my story.

"ONE DAY, E WENT TO THE ZOO!! AND IN THE ZOO, WAS A TIGER!! A BIG RED HUNGREEEEEE TIGER!!!"

He was stunned.

"ONE DAY, THE TIGER SAID TO E, 'OH E, I AM SOOOO HUNGREEEEE. WHAT SHOULD I EAT?' "

E froze. From being all excited and wriggly on my lap, he suddenly froze.

"So E, what do you think the tiger wants to eat?"

He was very very serious.

" AND THEN THE TIGER LOOKED AT E WITH VERY HUNGRY EYES AND THEN HE SAID, ' E, CAN YOU GO WITH ME TO MAC DONALDS AND BUY ME A HAPPY MEAL?!!"

The three of us doubled up with laughter. And I couldn't believe I told such a silly story. He burst out laughing, giggling, rolling in peals of joy.

It was only later that his mother told me, he had never had a Happy Meal before, had never had Mac Donalds before. Because of his condition, he has a salt-restricted diet. Silly me, I thought, what a story to tell a kid with nephrotic syndrome. You should've known, Wai Jia, I told myself. E had had multiple admissions to the hospital for relapses.

I looked at his mother, saw her incredible strength to continue trusting in God's goodness even when things seemed hard, or unfathomable and thought to myself- what a remarkable woman. She played with E with a reckless, pure kind of love. And it was clear, that E loved her to bits. At one point as she teared, E stood up from his cot and asked us, "Mummy, what are you doing?" It was like he knew, and understood. He is 3 years old.

I met another lady, whose child was yellow and had a huge scar across his chest.

"You know," she said in front of her 12-year old child, I always wondered what it would be like if I had let him go. I mean, do you know how much suffering he and I have had to go through?"

She wouldn't stop talking. In the end, she talked for almost an hour,non-stop.

"My husband is bitter at me, that I chose to let my child have the operation when he was born so he could live. My husband is bitter that I didn't let my child go instead. My mother-in-law is angry with me because I don't allow her to give traditional chinese medicine to my son- the doctor told us not to mix eastern and western medicine by ourselves, lest there be any side effects. My medical subsidees are almost completely depleted. I had to quit my job. After ten years of looking after him, I thought I could return to work but now... he's sick again. He keeps getting sick, what am I to do? I have 2 other kids... my husband still cannot accept the fact that he has a 12-year old son with this condition. I told him, if he can't take it, then he can walk out, but I'm staying, I'm here to take care of my children. But I often ask myself, whether I made the right choice, whether perhaps, I should have let him go." Her child was listening.

She was worried, tired and weary. But she is also a mother, a warrior, a fighter.

It made me wonder what marriage is, what children are to us. Everybody has children, with hopes of attaining that beautiful picture of a complete family. But what if something goes wrong? What if my child is born with a genetic disease which will only deteriorate with time? What if my child develops a disease which keeps relapsing? What if my child's condition affects our lives so much that our marriage becomes tested?

At the side of every bed in the paediatric hospital, is often the figure of a woman of steel.

Her name is Mummy.

To all the mothers who have given their lives up for another, who have demonstrated what it is to die to oneself so another may live, who have exemplified the love of God through His son to us, I salute you. I just want you to know that you have made our world that much more humane and real and beautiful to live in. You have shown appreciation for the fragility and preciousness of life, and have lived with a spirit so large and generous only the hardest of hearts would not be moved.

And although so many of you face the similar problem of feeling discouraged by your husbands, I want you to know that God is watching over you. God sees that heart that wanted to save that precious life He calls His own, which gave utmost respect and dignity to a life He created. And though the world may not see every heartache and every tear, God most certainly counts your life as precious and your calling as a Mother most worthy to be praised. Who else would, with such abandon, love another so selflessly, thoughtlessly and recklessly, like a laid down lover. Like a laid down lover.

Foolish in the eyes of the world, just like how He was made a fool for our sakes. Yet, ultimately precious and prized in God's eyes.

So I salute you. Thank you for teaching me what it means to love, to lay down one's life for another. I don't know if I could do the same. You are amazing.

"For the foolishness of God is wiser than man's wisdom,

and the weakness of God is stronger than man's strength... ...

But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise;

God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong."

-1 Cor 1:25, 27

Nobody's nobody.

"I'm not the nobody! YOU'RE THE NOBODY!"

"NOO!! YOU!! YOOUU AAARRREE THHE NOOOBODY!!"

That sounded like a situation which really needed a time-out. Both boys were tearing one another's hair out and yelling at each other like angry porcupines. The big boy was about 4 times the height of the younger one, but both were sizing each other up like gladiators in an arena ring.

"I'M the REAL Noah. YOU'RE the NOBODY!"

"NOOO! I'M THE REAL NOAH. YOOUUUU ARE THE NOBODY!!"

This went on, back and forth. Big Noah was 12 years old. Little Noah was just about 4. Both boys, with the same name, were arguing who deserved to be the REAL Noah.

Like boys, seriously, I wanted to say. You can fight about girls later on, but this? Man. But I reminded myself they were kids and that I used to say really dumb things myself (still do sometimes) and so instead I said to the two of them at Sunday School during church camp, "Hey! Who's calling who names?"

Both stopped. Then both started at once, "I'M THE REAL NOAH. HE'S THE NOBODY!!"

With the amount of vigor and conviction they both said it, you would have thought they were running for presidency against Obama.

"BOYS," I said firmly in my teaching voice, " Hey. Nobody's a nobody here, okay? You are BOTH precious to God. And you're BOTH the real Noahs."

Looking at Big Noah, I said very firmly, "Just because you were born first doesn't make you more real."

And looking at small Noah, I said, "And just because you're younger doesn't mean he's the fake one."

"Okay? Both of you listen to me. It's not nice to call someone else a NOBODY, okay? If you wanna talk about age and who's real, then both of you must be fake, because the REAL NOAH with the BIG ARK was born many many many years ago, waaaaay before either of you, okay? Look at this. You guys just did this exercise. What did you learn?"

I pointed to the charts the children had put up on the classroom wall. They had written down their confessions about how they had disobeyed God and how they could stop doing those things.

"Both of you, this is BULLYING. This is NOT KIND."

(Yes, I thought it was kind of scary reading the charts as well. Scary- both because of the content and the... grammar. )

Both fell silent.

Looking at Big Noah, I said, "Noah, I think Noah deserves an apology."

"Sorry Noah."

Looking at little Noah, I said, "I think Noah deserves an apology, too."

"Sor-wee, Noah."

"Noah, do you forgive Noah?"

"Yes."

"Noah, do you forgive Noah too?"

"Yes."

"Love one another. Remember, love one another, okay?"

It was hilarious on hindsight, and yet sobering, too.

And it reminded me, how like children, we can, so very often, learn a lesson then forget it almost immediately. It reminded me, how powerfully dangerous our tongues can be, how we use it aimlessly and thoughtlessly like children to maim one another. If only we knew how much our teasing and unecessary words brought destruction and not edification, hurt and not restoration.

Love one another. It reminded me of that ever resonant voice which would permeate through the walls of the orphanage in Nepal when the house parent would say over and over to the orphans whenever they got into arguments, "Love one another."

Love one another.

It was then that I realised, that the lesson was for me, too.

"If someone says, "I love God," and hates his brother, he is a liar;

for the one who does not love his brother whom he has seen,

cannot love God whom he has not seen."

-1 John 4:20

"For though by this time you ought to be teachers,

you need someone to teach you again the basic principles of the oracles of God.

You need milk, not solid food... "

-Hebrews 5:12

Please don't go.

It was like a cruel joke: It was during my Palliative Medicine module that my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer and we were considering home-nursing care; it was during my Emergency Medicine module where we lost numerous patients every day that she passed away; it was during my Psychiatric module that my mother was battling the bereavement grief; it was shortly after my Orthopedics module that she fractured her wrist... and now that I'm doing my Neurology module on the brain, I find out that one of the children in my Sunday School class, whom I dearly love, has a brain tumour.

It cannot be removed. She is 7 years old.

Oh God, please don't take her away.

You've always been such a good girl. You often volunteer in my class, you're polite, and you very often turn your head around during class just to smile at me or make sure I'm actually watching you. I remember once, you came to tell me how young I looked compared to the other teachers and you were so amazed by that, that most of the teachers were mothers and I was so... young. And when I asked you how old you thought I was, you said TEN! TEN YEARS OLD!! and we both giggled ourselves silly.

One Sunday, you shared with me Lolly's story. Your mother was telling that story to the entire children's church and you volunteered to act as the sunflower. Your hands were your petals, and you were looking to the sun. Sunflowers always look heavenward.

Last Sunday, I went to the children's church extra early. I wanted to give you a flower made by Zhang Qing. I wasn't scheduled to teach that day but I just wanted to see you.

You weren't there. They said "something cropped up" and I wondered what it was. Were you ill, had you gotten worse. I didn't dare ask more. Because if I did, I wouldn't know where to stop. What happened to you. How did they find out. What were your symptoms like. What does this mean. Why can't they operate on it. What is the diagnosis. Is it a high or low-grade lesion. Does this mean chemotherapy or radiotherapy. When will you get well. Does this mean you are leaving us.

No. Please don't go.

I blame myself somewhat. Because I saw your squint from the start. A squint is a divergent or convergent gaze in the eyes, what some people may unpleasantly describe as being "cock-eyed". Another child and you in my class had squints and I had asked you both about it, about whether you had seen the doctor. Because a squint could mean having a harmless lazy eye which could be easily corrected by wearing an eye patch, or could imply a raised pressure in the brain because of a growth. I spoke to the other girl's parents, and they assured me she was seeing a doctor. I remember that day when I tried to confirm your squint by getting you to play some "eye games" with me, which really were clinical tests, and you said to me, "How did you know I have a problem with my eyes? How did you know? Mummy took me to see the doctor already. They make me wear an eye patch." I was worried I had hit a raw nerve with you but I forgot, you are still a child, and you only giggled it away. You were so tickled that "I knew".

So I left it at that.

I didn't know, your squint was a sign of something growing in your brain. It was a classic 6th cranial nerve palsy because of increased intracranial pressure. I saw it from the start.


And now they say you have a tumor in your brainstem that cannot be resected. How can this be. It's so unfair.

So I was relieved to see you later at the adult service sitting with your parents near the pulpit. In the middle of the sermon, I came to sit next to you and passed you the flower, because I was worried you might rush off later. You really liked it. I held your hand.

"Are you scared?"

"Yes," she said. "I was scared last week. I have a plaster on my head. They made me sleep from 2pm till 7pm. I was scared."

That was the brain biopsy. That means they had to take out a bit of your brain to test the tumour to see if it is... bad. Is it bad? I didn't even dare to ask.

"You dyed your hair?" I asked, stupidly.

"No, I'm wearing a wig," you whispered very quietly in my ear. Silly me, of course. Of course they had to shave your hair for the biopsy. Of course it was a wig. Stupid me.

I looked into your face and saw your squint was worse. You jumped to sit on the floor by the steps and as you got up, you nearly tripped because you lost your balance.

Ataxia due to brainstem compression. We've been learning about brainstem abnormalities in the Neurology department for 3 weeks now. It causes one to lose one's balance and sense of coordination.

I asked you for a hug and kissed you as I always, always do. You have always been precious to me.

Did you know that that morning, all the children at Sunday School were praying for you? We gave out colourful cards and all of us wrote our prayers and well wishes for you on those cards. I asked the children if they knew you were sick, and each of them understood. Those I asked were 6 and 7 years old, from our class, and they said they knew.

They used the word Cancer, the word we are never allowed to say at the hospital. We must say mitotic lesion or neoplastic growth. Or carcinoma. But we never say the word cancer. It is taboo. It is as if saying the word places a curse on someone. Did you know, we get marked down for using the word Cancer during our examinations- the word must not exist. But children do not care for euphemisms, and each of them believed God would heal you.

God, will you?

Please don't make her suffer.

I'm scared, too.

After church I went for my flute lesson as usual and I played all the sad songs really well, and the happy ones badly. Some of my notes were shaky because my nose went sour and I was trying hard not to cry. I was angry with myself for feeling so sad, when it would be impossible for me to imagine what it must be like for your parents. I was angry for being scared, when I cannot imagine how it must be like for you. You are so brave.

I won't forget your smile, I won't forget the story you shared with me- it was the story of a girl named Lolly, who knew she could be secure in God's love, no matter what the world threw at her. It was a story you liked very much.

Aaron is another 7-year old in our class. I remember he often sits next you. 2 weeks ago, I heard him say you were his "GIRLFRIEND!" He was so proud of it! He was beaming. And you were giggling yourself silly because you were his "GIRLFRIEND!" Worried that he would be crushed by the news, I talked to him today to find out how he was coping. But he was smiling, and he said, "I am praying for her." And we both put fingers to our lips because it was our little secret that you are his "GIRLFRIEND!!"

"Don't tell anyone, okay?" He smiled cheekily at me. You, Aaron, are such a charmer, the slick and smooth kind, precisely the kind of boyfriend I would never want to have. But I just laughed. And wondered what you would do to me if you found out I wrote about your love story here on this space! But I am proud of you, Aaron, because you like her for who she is and not how she looks- I don't know many men my age who would see past a squint. And you like her still even though she is... sick. Is it true that boys treat girls better when they're still boys? I hope not.

For all our knowledge and wisdom, life can hit us in the face. That day, was a stark reminder of our fragility in this life, and the frustrating limitations of medicine.

It cannot be resected.

Be strong okay, dear? Be strong and brave like Lolly when she met the bad witch, and the crafty fox and the evil rabbits. And when you are well and better, I can read it to you and you can be the sunflower again.


* Prayer request: Please, if you could spend a minute or two, pray for her.

Holding Your hand.

When I let go of my grasp, you continued to fiddle with my fingers. Even when my hand went limp, you kept holding on. Every time I thought you would release me, it was but for a deceptive moment, before you fondled my hand to find another position you could entwine my fingers into yours. Our palms were sweaty but it didn't bother you one bit. Our fingers were entangled with one another. And then, when you lopped my hand onto your chest, these funny, fuzzy warm feelings started coursing up my hand and arm like a lush rush of liquor and entered my heart as you leaned into me. Your body was so warm. It was as if you planned to take my hand captive.

I liked that.

At Sunday school, the children I teach like to take my hand. Today, as we sang and danced, one of you darlings took my hand and held it throughout the session, lightly, gingerly and yet, so faithfully. When you got tired, you simply tossed my hand to your bosom so you could still hang on to it loosely.

You never let me go.

Today, my fracture site hurt. It hurt when I sit and when I stood. I think the pain has become more pronounced only because I have become more aware of it. I thought about the intensity of my personality, what J had spoken to me and warned me about- that it is both my greatest strength and weakness; I thought about how the fracture could possibly have happened; I thought about the ways I could've possibly grieved God with my own self-striving attitude.

All this while, He never let me go. Even as I ran away, time and again, because I wanted more control, because I thought I knew better, because I wanted to be sure I could hit the mark, He never let me go. He never chained my hands or gripped them cruelly. But up or down, swayed left or right, He always held my hand, lightly, gingerly, even when my grasp went limp.

Holding hands is a 2-person thing, isn't it. It is tiring to hold on to a hand which doesn't cooperate. It is hard to love someone who doesn't love you back. But even when I let go today, my little child never let my hand go. She just played with it, wanted a sense of being close to me.

My heart is not completely surrendered. There are days I still want to keep doing things, to keep my time occupied, when I know you have asked me to rest, to pray, to simply be. Even then you are patient. You could choose to dispose of me- surely you can afford it. But you are furiously in love with me, with us, how could you bear it?

A friend told me about the story of a shepherd, who loved his sheep so much that he had to break a leg of one of them because it kept straying. If he had not done so, it would have gone astray and got eaten by a wolf. Yet, it was the injured one which grew closest to the shepherd.

The doctor said, no races for 9 months. That's about the duration from now till my final exams- it's not a lot of time if you think about what I've missed out on because of my illness. I always prayed that you would tell me when to stop, when to let go; I often prayed you would help me cling loosely to all my possessions, especially my bike which I love; I prayed hard you would help me to be a competent, compassionate and professional doctor. I guess, with this fracture, you answered all my prayers, in the most perfect and painful way. In some way, you broke my leg, too. Call me crazy, but it makes me love you more.

Pain is sweet. This is a different sort of pain for a different season.

Thank you for reminding me, that in spite of it all, you are always there, ever so patient with our repeated failings. When will you tire of my rebellion.

So God, help me to be still. Help me to stop doing things, to stop running away.

I just want this moment to savour, just to hold your hand, too.

" Thus my heart was grieved...

I was so foolish...

Nevertheless I am continually with You;

You hold me by my right hand.

You will guide me with Your counsel,

And afterward receive me to glory."

-Psalm 21-24

Why I Love my Sunday School kids.

"JIEJIE (big sister) WAI JIA, HOW OLD ARE YOU?"

"Twenty-two. And turning twenty-three this Wednesday."

"HUH? REAAALLEEEE? I thought you were MUCH YOUNGER."

I laugh. "Like how old?"

"Like... LIKE TEN YEARS OLD!!!"

So, antioxidants do have their benefits.

I Need You.

A gentle tug on my hand. "Jiejie (big sister) Wai Jia, can you come to toilet with me? The tap, it's too hard- I can't press it."

I hold her hand and take her back to the washroom, where she tiptoes and reaches her cupped hands to the running water, relieved. "Yay, I love going to zoo with church... today will be so much fun!" She squeals with excitement.

And what the children don't know is how excited I really am, too. Excited to take them to the zoo as part of a holiday programme organised by the children's ministry at my church; excited to know that I've been "promoted" to being their teacher instead of a helper at sunday school; excited just to be with them and listen to them giggle, fight, ask questions and even say the wisest things ever so once in a while, just out of the blue- "Jiejie Wai Jia, you know ah, I don't like to be too pretty or too thin, later get very proud or get blown away by the wind."

"You're absolutely right, darling. One will get blown away by the wind." And you tuck into the warm porridge at lunch after our zoo outing like it's the best thing in the world. I have to keep reminding myself you're seven.

What you don't know is how much I enjoy spending time with you all. How much I love the way you reach out for my hand and hold it the way I always like it to be held, firmly and trustingly, no matter if our hands get a little sticky; how much I love the way you lean into me as if I were a sofa; how much I love the way you ask if I could go with you to the washroom or if I could uncap your bottle or if there are dragons in hell. I love the way you play with my hair and hug my thigh and give me a kiss because you're having such a good time. I am, too. I just wish you knew how much.

I love the way you are so dangerously vulnerable and needy and trust me with that.

Did you know, it's been almost ten years since I last visited the zoo. Back then, my parents took me to the night safari every friday after their busy week at work. We would drive from one end of the island to the other, take the tram ride to see the night animals while I fell asleep half-way, then drive all the way back home. So I was just as intrigued and fascinated as you when we admired the giraffes, zebras and polar bears. The weather was beautifully cool and each of you were lovely in your sunhats and sports shoes and little bagpacks. We were off to the water-park at Rainforest Kidzworld and you couldn't wait.

You were running and running and running, round and round, up and down and asking me to join you so you could get me wet. "Ahhhh, watch out!" you squealed, as I ducked away from a water-contraption which threatened to drench me suddenly.

And then I thought what the heck and went into the water for a bit as well. You always know the bestest ways to have fun, don't you?

Then one of you came home with me because we'd been planning for THIS for months. A long time ago you told me how much you loved gingerbread men and how you wished you could make them. "Want to come to my house to bake someday in the holidays?" I asked innocently, and who knew the persistence of a little child who would remind me week after week after week- "Can we bake gingerbread men, Jiejie Wai Jia?"

And it was such a busy week that I couldn't get the gingerbread-man cookie cutter for you so I apologised profusely for having only animal-shaped cookie cutters. But you were ecstatic and didn't care what shape it was as long as you could help make the cookies.

"Okay, read the ingredients to me darling."

"One four teaspoon baking powder."

"Oh, you mean one-quarter, dear."

"One quarter?"

And so we had math lesson too.

To tell you the truth, I was worried before. I was worried that with medical school and all my other commitments that I wouldn't be able to cope with spending time with you all at sunday school. But I don't know how to tell you how much joy and freedom you give to me, that it's more of a joy than a commitment, more of a highlight than a burden of my week. Just being with you and listening to you, answering your questions, and laughing, laughing, laughing with you brings me so much joy. You make me feel so comfortable and at ease and unpretentious and lovely and happy and free all at once, because I am most happy when I am allowed to be a kid again, which I only am around kids themselves, or people whom I'm most comfortable with- the girlish giggle never comes out otherwise.

Did you know how happy I felt when they told me I was finally appointed to teach my very own class of seven and eight year-olds? Today was my first time teaching you all about loving our neighbours. We talked about how like looking through a kaleidoscope, God looks at us through a different perspective. We learnt about loving the unlovely through object lessons using gummie bears and M&Ms- that the particular flavour of gummie bear which nobody chose was like the lonely friend we had in our classes, that though each of us look different on the outside just like multi-coloured M&Ms, we were all of equal worth inside, as proven by our taste-testing experiment today where we proclaimed that all M&Ms irrespective of colour tasted the same. I wondered if you all would understand, if you would be distracted and uninterested. But you were attentive and inquisitive and we had great fun eating candies after our lesson. You make my sundays so very very bright.

And that crazy spoilt brat inside of me dissolves into nothingness every time you need me, need a tissue or a squeeze or a prayer or simply my presence. How my heart melts when you ask me why I will not be at sunday school next week. "Because I have something on darling, I see you week after next, okay?"

"Okay."

And maybe the best part was the text message from your mommy: "She had such a good time today. Couldn't stop talking about it." and your random phonecall to my mobile phone this afternoon, "Jiejie Wai Jia, my cousin wants to eat gingerbread men now also... Are you free... er.... now?"

"Next time when I am free, we can do it again, okay?"

Because as much as you need me to go to the washroom and uncap your bottle and explain this and that to you and listen and love and hug you, I realise that...

... I need you, too.

"The soul is healed by being with children."

- Fyodor Dostoyevsky

And you thought horror movies were scary.

At Sunday School:

"What is your name?"

"My name is AUDREY."

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

"I'm FOUR."

"What's your favourite colour, dear?"

"GREEN."

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

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


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


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


"How old are you again?"


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