(Edited with pictures) The Power of Love.

Are you a gift sort of person? I mean, is that your love language? If it is, Christmas is probably a busy time for you, and perhaps, a time of emotional highs and lows, too.

A couple of weeks ago, I read a book from church about the hardships of marriage. The authors are husband and wife, and illustrated the challenges in communication between a couple.

The husband used to buy flowers for his wife frequently after work, swinging by the florist outside his workplace, thinking to himself proudly, "How many men would actually still buy his wife flowers after all these years?" He did this frequently, expressively, but grew to resent that his wife started showing less and less appreciation. He stopped buying them altogether, resenting even passing by the florist and one day, sat his wife down and haha, said he "wanted to talk". (Which is great by the way, because it's usually the woman who "wants to talk" and the man who dreads it.)

And they do. And the wife says, " It's because everytime you give them to me, they look half dead. And you go on to tell me each time what a great deal they were, how many extra flowers you got for your buck. It makes me feel they were got out of convenience, and I feel cheap."

Silence.

And he replies, "So you want me to drive an hour downtown to Bloomington during the busy lunch hour so I can get em fresh, get the same flowers at about 5 times the price wrapped in a wrapper which says Bloomington so I can give the same thing to you?"

To which she replies, "I think you're beginning to understand a little of what Romance means."

I sighed at this story. Because it only goes to show how much grace we need to love one another, not on our terms, but on somebody else's. I could totally relate to how the wife felt. Totally. I would've felt the same-every woman wants to feel valued above all else by her man. But the man had already gone out of his comfort zone to buy something out of his "practical" mind such as flowers for her.

I suppose, love, when wrapped in a gift, can only release its full measure of power when both it's giver and recipient meet on the same levels.

Recently, I was a little offended by a gift which obviously looked like it was a pass-on, and then later, on reflecting upon myself, realised that perhaps I was guilty, too.

I was slighted. Petty? Maybe. But I suppose, no one likes to feel like a convenient salvation army garage sale, good for second-hands only.

Simmering a little, because I like to think I spend effort writing and making cards and buying thoughtful presents with the person in mind, I then thought of the many children in Smokey Mountain, in Nepal and in many other developing countries this Christmas who might be jumping gleefully with joy at bags of hand-me-downs and collected clothes from people like us who don't want them anymore. Do they feel second-rate, too? Or do they feel privileged even to be considered "second-rate"?

Once, I met a missionary who related a story about a toaster to me. She said she was hurt during a collection event for missionaries, when people donated really awful things to them, thinking that they were fit for use by them. One of them was a toaster, which could only pop up not two, but one slice of bread because one side was faulty.

To be honest, I didn't see a big deal in it. I even thought she might have been a little petty. After all, isn't a faulty toaster better than no toaster at all?

But now I understand. I understand what charity organisations mean when they say they're tired of receiving broken things, or things which were put in their collection bin that you might have to be pretty close to Einstein to figure out what their use might be.

The truth is, no one likes to feel second-rate. A gift often represents what you feel about the person's worth, and no one likes to feel like they were cheap, or that you thought they were.

So each time I clear my wardrobe, I've begun to throw more things out, and started learning to give away things I actually liked to organisations that needed them.

At Smokey Mountain this Christmas, the church there organised a treat for a thousnd kids by ordering Jolibee (their equivalent of Mac Donalds) for them, hired the red and yellow bee mascot to entertain them, and gave out shirts, slippers and groceries to families. A large sum was raised- 14 USD per child. They had their once-a-year treat of spaghetti and chicken nuggets, compared to their usual meagre meals of lentils and cheap rice.

Too extravagant? Some would think so. Generous? Perhaps. Is calculated love still love? I don't know.

I am learning, that sometimes, the power of love is magnified and multiplied when an element of sacrifice is present. That one hour's drive to Bloomington? Yea, that's what I'm talking about. That sweater you kinda like but know you haven't worn for months? I had to remind myself that it could be put to better use when I passed it to the scrawny uncle who mops the lifts at my block. He was so cold that day.

Not that one ought to have high standards for gifts given to one. After all, it's often the simple, thoughtful things like a text message or email which melt our hearts, aren't they? But I have been challenged, to give out of sacrifice, and not out of convenience.

But I have been guilty. I have bought stacks of books at book sales, to give them out through the year to people. But you know what? They never feel the same. They never feel as special. Because very often, those were "could-do" gifts and not "WOW, for me?" gifts.

Yet, even the recipient's attitudes play a part for love to blaze like a firework. A friend shared with me yesterday about a garage sale at her church, organised for needy families. While some had sacrificed things they loved to bless others, there were those who simply bought items simply because they were cheap, even though the bicycles were too big for them, or the rollerskates didn't fit.

Love, is a precious thing. I am learning, it needs to be given, and received with care and gratitude. I am learning, that we ought not to exult in feel-good self-righteousness at our altruism since it is the recipient's response which determines how much love is actually conveyed successfully. I am learning, that one also ought not to be offended at gifts- do we not believe that our lives are already filled with good things from God? Are we not secure enough in His love for us? Why should we doubt our worth based on what we receive?

Just as I took a break from writing this post, I found a package for myself on the table, wondering who it could be from. This is from the inspiring mother of one of my paediatrics patients (the cutest little 3-year old boy) whom I'd met more than a year ago, who even till today still prays for me. Thank you so much for the beautiful necklace. It matches what I'm already wearing today perfectly. I love it, but I love your beautiful, gentle spirit more :)

To all my friends and family, thank you for everything that you have blessed me with. Beyond gifts, you have blessed me with your time and love, encouragement and support. Who cares about pass-on gifts when we have one another.


Above all, perhaps we can be thankful for the greatest gift of all that God gave us on Christmas, thoughtfully bought, at the highest cost, with the greatest sacrifice.

That's the power of love.

Merry Christmas.

"...for you were bought with a price:
glorify God therefore in your body."
-1 Cor 6:20

Rain on me.

It's like leaving clay out in the sun.

What was once mouldable and pliable becomes rock solid, and when faced with harsh elements, fragments into pieces.

I guess, I didn't see this day coming. But when I sat down yesterday, with the pile of work and unstudied material before me and realising just how much I've missed spending time with God, I wrapped my fingers over my heart and found it... hardened.

It's hardened without me even knowing it. Who put it out in the sun?

I suppose, what they said about growing up and becoming a junior doctor really was true. That the process would either draw one crazily close to God or drive one away from Him. The routine of work, the fatigue from the hours and the constant demands of the world (sometimes unreasonable ones) erode one's core unconsciously, constantly. I came home from church yesterday, still angry at certain people at home and at work regarding certain situations which I had felt completely wronged about, and started to cry.

It didn't used to be like this. Once upon a time, I sorted these things with God every day. Every day, I put my heart of clay out to be watered and soaked in His love so that it would be soft and pliable, so that He could even out the creases and wrinkles put there by harsh words, unconstructive critique and the wear and tear of this world. It was painful being kneaded, but oh, the next day brought new hope and freedom, to be a new masterpiece.

Then surgical internship came with its crazy hours, and preparation for the final exams came. Day in day out, I plodded along to the song of this crazy world at its crazy pace, allowed the elements to weather my heart and hardly took time to allow God to water and soften and knead out the roughened places.

I found myself on a Sunday afternoon, bitter and frustrated and tired, and full of putrefying anger and resentment at him, her and you. I wanted to shout at someone, say it wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair. I wanted to scream and say I deserved an apology, that what was done was horried and unjust. I wanted to say God, how can it be like this? Aren't you seeing this? Why aren't you putting a stop to this? How can it be that people can be so... frustrating?

I wanted to draw a line and cut these people off from my life. And all that made me wonder- How did I get to this place?

How did I become so angry. And it scared me, because I knew at that moment, that my heart had been hardened. I just didn't want to care, didn't want to try anymore. I just wanted to go away by myself and hide under a tree so I could study another chapter about colon cancers, surgical procedures and liver conditions, away from the grating elements of this world.

It's been too long. I'm sorry, God.

Last Sunday at Sunday School, the little children learnt about keeping their hearts soft and tender, like the ploughed soil of the earth, so that good seed could grow in it and flourish. We learnt about saying sorry, and about being receptive to You. What had happened to my plot of soil? I was certainly not feeling anywhere close to saying thank you or sorry. A hardened heart builds strong fortresses.

I know you've never left me, and I'm sure you know I've never once thought of leaving you, too. But why is it then that on a Sunday afternoon, when finally, time has availed itself and unfolded before me, that I find myself crinkling up and hardening into a rock, a fireball, a seething, empty whirlwind?

I want to be soft again, God. I want to look at patients, even the angry, whiney and demanding ones at 4am in the morning, and be genuinely concerned with their lives. I want to look at the people who have caused me hurt and suffering and be able to bless them, instead of being mad. I want to put all this anger aside and say, it's okay, you had a bad day and you took it out on me in an unacceptable way but you didn't know how else to vent it out but nobody's perfect and it's okay.

God, I can't do this alone. Come, rain on me.

“Today, if you hear his voice,
do not harden your hearts.”
-Hebrews 4:7b

"In your anger do not sin:

Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry..."
- Ephesians 4:26

Apples and Wine.

Some things just don't make sense. I suppose, that's why they call life, Life.

A lot of people don't understand why I don't drink, not even a drop. On social occasions, there'll inevitably be someone asking me to try an alcoholic drink. Last night was no exception. Just a bit, it's mixed with a lot of other stuff, don't worry, it'll be nice. Just try it. They tell me it's very mild, they're not trying to get me drunk, it'll be fun, they'll drive me home, it's just for me to know the taste... and they always fail. Because they just don't get it. Even I don't.

This has nothing to do with the morality of alcohol. Yes, even Jesus drank wine, I know. And it's not just that I don't like the taste.

You know, I never knew how much impact a person could make on someone else till you confessed it to me. You did so, so terribly sheepishly because for as long as I've known you, you've refused to tell me why you won't eat apples. I offer them to you, I tell you about their antioxidant properties, we're both convinced they're not poisonous, but you just won't touch the darn thing, even if it's masked in cinnamon and sugar. The funniest thing is, you insist it is not the taste you don't like. Your dislike for them is almost pathological. One can tell by your response.

I never understood. So I stopped asking.

Just like how most people don't understand my reason for not touching a drop of alcohol. They stopped asking eventually.

Then one day, I asked. And you told me.

Your mother died when you were very young. And she hated apples. And that's why, since then, you've never touched the forbidden fruit.

Because she hated them. Period.

That was that.

Suddenly, when you told me that, a million things went off in my head. Because, my reason doesn't make sense in the exact same way yours doesn't, too. Our reasons don't make sense, they're completely embarrassing, and yet, they make total, complete rational sense, too. Since that day, I began to muster the courage to attempt to articulate and piece together my reason for not drinking.

It's not a morality issue. And it's not about a holier-than-thou attitude.

I've always looked up to you. I don't drink because you hate it. Period. End of story. I don't drink because you never did, because you told yourself you'd spend time with us instead of socialising unecessarily. And while I know perfectly responsible parents who drink and enjoy wine-tasting, I also respect you deeply for the choice you made. I don't drink because you've spent decades fending off peer pressure when people ask you to drink because you always want to be 100% safe for us, and you never want to be caught in a situation of a slippery slope. I don't drink because I saw that look of utter disappointment on your face when you found out J was drinking, even if it was only socially. I don't drink because I promised that for all my foolhardiness for travelling overseas and doing things too adventurous for your liking, I would never find myself in a compromising situation. I don't drink because I hate what drinking reminds me of, how its indulgence ruins lives, how it sits there like a screaming temptation, how it causes liver disease and all the awful things which make me depressed at the hospital wards, how I know it is an evil that could destroy mine because it opens doors to things I rather not ever know, how I'd rather shut off those doors than to allow them to linger as an option.

You always told me, "Keep good habits. Drinking is not one of them."

I guess, I wouldn't mind trying something new- I'm usually quite adventurous. But I don't drink, not even a drop, not even tasting now, because when I do, I feel I am betraying you.

It doesn't make sense. That is the closest to what I can make out of my pathological dislike for alcohol. That is all. I never talk about it because it doesn't make sense, and nobody needs to know. People can laugh, but doesn't matter to me.

Friends who love me enough don't pressure me. They don't even ask me why. Once, I had a friend bring a bottle of juice specially for me and only for me because he brought red wine for everybody else on his birthday picnic. There's nothing wrong with alcohol, but I do save special admiration for a person who can say no to it at all times. You've got to be wholeheartedly convicted for that sort of commitment.

One night you couldn't sleep so I kept you company and talked till past midnight. We were having one of those conversations again. "Remember to marry a patient man. And remember, Jia, don't be so difficult- you know how difficult you can be. And you just be sure about these 4 things- he mustn't smoke, mustn't gamble, mustn't womanise and mustn't drink. "

"Mustn't drink. How about socially? Like wine or cocktails and stuff."

"Alcoholism always starts off with social drinking."

Senior Pastor also encourages us not to, but he acknowledges it's something between ourselves and God. I didn't press you further, I knew your answer would be the same. I never judged you for not eating apples anyway.

Three times a week, you would faithfully walk three streets from your office to buy me the sweetest and costliest american apples you could find, and lug them three streets back to the carpark. You know how much I love apples, how I eat them every day. Your text message would be, "Bought you apples today. Enough to last till I get back."

Till you get back.

Because you travel all the time. So I've stopped caring when the occasional person makes fun of me about not having a night life and for always needing to leave early to go home, because I know for all your life, you made it a point to be home early for us too, and you'd like to see me home before you go to bed. I know you're tired. You are always tired, now. So I often say I have to go so I don't keep you waiting. I don't care what they say anymore, the looks they give one another when I say I've got to go, see you guys next time, have fun. I have to go home to see you, because as it is, we have so little time for each other. It saddens me when I go home, to see you... asleep already. Again. And you're flying off the next day.

Some things in life just... don't make sense.

And yet, it makes total complete sense. Like how I eat bittergourd not because I think I grew up liking them, but because when I eat them, it reminds me of you. Like how I enjoy sitting at the front seat of the car at night (no matter whose car it is and how old and creaky the car is)because it reminds me of how we used to go for spins when I was little. Like how I still buy the really cheap 70-cent Macdonalds icecream cone even though I now think it's really awful in comparison to REAL icecream, simply because it reminds me of how you always specially drove me out for half an hour just to get me one, whenever I felt down and needed a little cheering up.

Love, very often doesn't make sense, and yet, completely does.

Love you.

Welcome Home.

I froze when I got the phonecall.

"You say, what?... How did this happen? ... Is he okay? Can he walk? What do you mean he needs surgery?"

At once, I wanted to be by his side, and tell him everything was going to be okay. I wanted to give him a big hug and tell him I was sorry I always acted so cool and nonchalant every time he expressed his love in such an unabashed manner towards me.

Roger had to be sent to the hospital to get stitches because a heck of a big monster dog attacked him, bit him and wouldn't let go.

Roger is my dog. Even though I don't usually talk about him, and even though I know I would've gotten a cat if it weren't for my family's hatred of feline creatures, I love him to bits.

The groomers had picked him up for his usual weekly grooming session. According to them, the dogs are usually left free to roam around the shop because each dog usually finds his own space and has enough sense to mind his own business or back off, especially if they sense a threat like a really big monster dog. Roger, being his usual friendly, curious self, says hello to everyone. The groomers said he went to say hello to the monster dog which was twice as tall and long as him, the monster dog got scared/offended/hysterical and so attacked. One surgery later, Roger was walking again, albeit with a limp.

This is the monster dog which bit Roger. If I see it ever again, I will... EAT IT.

The thing that never fails to amaze me, however, is Roger's resilience. He's not perfect- far from it. My elder sister, when she still stayed with us, used to call him "dumb dog" affectionately. When he was little, he used to barge around the house a lot in bursts of hyperactivity, crashing into furniture and toppling things over. Once, he ran so hard into a glass door he had to shake his head comically to regain his composure. We all agree he's too curious for his own good, sniffing everything and anything, even dogs too big to make friends with.

But one thing I know, is that every time he gets into trouble, he bounces back up really quickly. Nothing gets him down for long. And even after a really hard smack and lecture from me after doing something wrong, he never fails to snuggle right back up to me to ask for forgiveness. I often give him the cold shoulder because one must be careful not to reward hyperactivity (which he is 98% of the time). I have to be very careful about when to be warm towards him so I don't reinforce negative behaviour. Our helper bathes and walks you, my father pays for everything you need, and I... just keep you company, or vice versa rather. But when all of us call for you at the same time, you come to my side immediately. When we let you roam about the house, you always enter my room first, even if half the world is calling for your attention.

Once, I remember a friend drove over to my place specially to give me a bike decal sticker of my name to stick onto my bike. He was being nice, and you knew it. And you knew that my bike meant something to me. So when he walked into our living room, said hi to me and touched my bike, you bit him right there in the balls. I have never seen you so fiercely protective, except for that one time you bit the man with a LOUD BOOMING VOICE who came to fix our air-conditioning. But that's okay, I think people ought not to speak in loud booming voices too. I should warn my future boyfriend about you, that he must pretend not to like me at all in your presence and not to speak in a LOUD BOOMING VOICE, because I keep forgetting, because of how small you are, that you're a pure-bred guard dog.

So I'm just really glad you're coming home today, finally. Because I really miss you. And I promise I won't threaten to get a cat anymore every time you're being naughty, because for all that's happened, you're still a really good dog.

Welcome home, Roger.

Photo of Roger taken by Gloria W on my birthday

First Try. *photos added

And not forgetting
my parents,

-for sponsoring all my sporting gear and

for supporting me in all my strange and varied interests

with sometimes more excitement than I,

and for keeping me in check.

This race would never have been possible

if it weren't for what you've blessed me with
so generously, as always,

and if it weren't for your amazing trust to let me pursue

where my heart takes me

be it going to another developing country

or taking up another crazy hobby,
even if it involves giving you another heart attack ;)

It's really cool to know that
you two can sometimes be more excited about what I do than I am.

And I just want you to know,

that the race medal is yours too.

Just sharing that moment with you

And seeing that smile on your faces
was Bliss.

And thank you God,

for my 2 arms, 2 feet of clay and a

healthy mind & body,

(which I now understand and realise not everyone has,

so I no longer take life for granted).

Thank You for placing Fungus in my life.

I can't believe You taught me

how to cycle on 2 wheels only last October,

how to swim freestyle in the sea only in June,

and how to revel in the gift of having a healthy vessel

and honouring it to honour You.

Just 2 years ago, I was so ill.

The medal means much to me only because

it reminds me of so many angels

You placed in my path,

without which,

I would never have started nor completed the race.

I never believed

I could do something like this-

I am naturally scared, anxious and once upon a time was overweight.
And I thought You wanted me to give this whole pursuit up.

But little did I realise that:

When we show you how little these things mean to us

in comparison to You,

You turn around to show us

How much we mean to You.

Michael came to church with me after the race for Saturday service.

He saw that I couldn't stop crying,

Because I was so grateful

to You.

I learnt,

that nothing is inherently good or evil,

But our attitude towards it makes it so.

Sports,

or anything else for that matter,

-working, studying, painting, eating, birdwatching, dancing-

can be holy and pleasing to You

as long as we remember

that it is a gift from You.

Michael came in First in his race catergory on Sunday,

completing a full Olympic distance

after he had already done a sprint distance on Saturday.

He was so thankful to You for His strength.

Michael says,
that You are pleased when I swim, cycle and run
in gratitude to You.

Even if it is a little race, like the mini one I did.

And so I cried,

Because for the first time,

I felt Your pleasure.

And that kept me going through the race,

keeps me going still,

Even as I'm On the Road.

This race was one of blood, sweat and tears,

literally.

Truly, I cannot ask for more.

2 of my cycling buddies by me, and our medals

Tired.

Thank you to those of you who've shared in my joy in my journey,
and who have encouraged me in one way or another.

Thank you God.

" I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith."

- 2 Timothy 4:7

*photos courtesy of Ernest, Danielle and KL

The Distance

So, how far do you go?

On New Year’s Day, Grandpa Zhou asked me something that made me think. “Are you going to buy food for me every Tuesday and Saturday?”

It stunned me. For a moment, I thought he was trying to pin me down, take advantage of me like so many people had warned me before. Then he said, “Tell me a time I can wait for you till before I know you won't be coming because I'm just afraid sometimes I might have bought food for myself already, then I’ll be too full to accept yours if you do come.”

It made me think. How long do I intend to keep up with this, and how far am I willing to go? We're going to see the doctor next Tuesday. Then what?

What on earth does it mean to love others deeply, the way God loves us? It is easy to love Strangers as a one-time effort- but for life? For every mile one goes for a Stranger, one should then be willing to go twice the mile for one’s family. Is it possible?

How far do you go? There’s only this much time and energy a mortal person has- how does one divide it and how far is too far?

It was my father’s 58th birthday yesterday. On my way home from the library, I thought of buying a cake. Mum and dad said not to though, as one of Dad’s clients would be delivering a good one this weekend. Yes, okay, forget about cake- Dad’s not really a birthday kind of person anyway… … Maybe I’ll draw him a card. Argh, exam in a few days and I'm short of time... Maybe I’ll buy one… it's more convenient...

But Dad likes it when I draw him cards… …

And what’s a birthday without cake?

At that moment, my mind cleared- you do what love propels you to do. There is always an excuse, but Love is not convenient. Often, it is inconvenient.

Walking home from the train station, I see Grandpa Zhou huddled at a corner. It’s Thursday, he shouldn’t be here… I stop in my tracks. Aw man, if I stop to talk to him, he’ll expect me to buy him dinner… No, I shall resolve not to buy him dinner tonight. I resolve not to- I can’t be doing this forever, I don’t want him to be over-reliant on me. No, I will not, I will go home and celebrate Dad’s birthday. I can only take care of one old man per night so that’s that. I will say hi to Grandpa Zhou and then I will go home. I will buy him dinner on Saturday. YES.

Love is inconvenient. God never asked much from us, He only asked for us to love people as much as He loved us. How far do we go?

I reach home. And then I leave home again as soon as I reach it. This time, I resolve to buy Grandpa Zhou dinner, and there is a lightness in my heart.

He is surprised to see me. “You’re back! With food…! You really shouldn’t have ya…” I explain I cannot stay to chat this time as I’ll be having dinner with my family soon. But I ask him about the sandalwood oil and few sachets of chamomile tea I had given to him on new year’s day to help him with his insomnia, and chat for a while. I tell him we will go to the clinic on Tuesday night when it's open.

“ Ni… ni hen you ai xin. Wo zhu ni xin xiang shi cheng, zhu ni cheng gong…( You… you have a kind heart. I wish you the very best for your future, that you may succeed in all things you do.)”
I don’t know what to say so I just smile. I wonder to myself how far I will go to love this old man, and mine back home, my own father.

“The oil and tea you gave me, it’s very expensive no?”

I chuckle. I wonder about the relativity of price. I don’t think he’s seen Crabtree and Evelyn teabags before.

At home, I surprise my two folks with two mini-cakes I have bought. It is a good, cosy celebration. Dad isn’t usually very expressive but this time, he says to me, “ Thanks for your special effort. I feel really good today.”

Those words mean a lot to me.

Just before he goes upstairs to his room, I give him a card I draw. Opening it, I watch him, grey with age, smiling the smile I only ever see twice a year. “ You drew this!” He is laughing by now at the picture I drew, laughing a laugh that I would not hear had I bought a ready-made card. Going up the stairs he says in an odd sing-song, “I am the happiest man in the world today, haha, Your old man... the happiest man in the world ha… …”

Two old men. Two different distances.

How far do we go? How far.

When I saw the smile on both their faces, all at once, it became clear.

That far.

We go as far as we want to- that far.

Merry Christmas.

Maybe Christmas is:

- sending out Christmas cards, writing to people you love and realizing you have written more than 80 letters to more than 80 people you love in 2 days.

- waking up at 5am to bake cookies for your family, neighbours and friends, and feeling refreshed.

- talking to God.

- emceeing for your church’s children Christmas programme in public, having fun teaching kids (and adults) an action song and laughing yourself silly on stage till you realise you're being videotaped.

- having your sister return from overseas for a week and having family dinner- together, finally, and laughing till your tummies hurt, like we've not done for a really long time. Laughing the way we do only when the four, not three, of us are together, Complete. Four of us, together again, Complete, like the way things should be-even if it's only for the next seven days.

- the four of us opening presents under the same Christmas tree we've had since I was twelve.

- knowing that Santa doesn’t exist- But that that’s the best news there ever was, because Someone else who does exist can give us more than Santa ever could.


There's nothing more I really want for Christmas than what I already have for free.


A family of the four of us, Complete, laughing about stupid things till our tummies hurt; presents that only mean anything because of who gave it to us; and something deep inside so rich, and real and wholesome it could only be called God's love.

What I want, I already have for free. God's love, in the form of family, laughter and hugs. This has been the simplest and best Christmas Eve ever.


Merry Christmas to each and every one of you, and Happy Birthday, God.


I love You.

Starshine.

It is a beautiful tragedy, but a tragedy, nonetheless.

It took me this long to understand.

That you cannot love a Stranger, you cannot truly love a stranger, touch lives, change the world, unless you love and touch those who were destined to love you-your own family, and change yourself to love them, deeply, genuinely, wholeheartedly- regardless of circumstance or situation.

It took me this long to understand.

Grandpa Zhou said, “Even my daughter has never done this (buy me a meal and talk with me) before…” There he was, by the steps, luxuriating in the company of a complete Stranger, me, because of what he missed. Our stars collided and it was beautiful. But even then, the beautiful moment was tainted by the remembrance of a time lost, missed and longed for.

I went home that night and thought about the last time I sat down with Dad to talk, talk for hours into the night like we used to-it’s been a while. So there I was, by the steps, luxuriating in the company of a complete Stranger, him, because of what I missed. Our stars collided and it was beautiful. But even then, the beautiful moment was tainted by my own remembrance of a time too long ago, too far back.

So love begins right here, at home.

The world is a beautifully interconnected meshwork of lives, Stories and memories. The individual lives and Stories differ always, but the feelings, the hurts and joys, the complicatedness repeat themselves. Over and over again, the same stars collide in the same broken, complicated places.

Therein lies the beauty, that ultimately because of our sameness, because of the same hurts and joys, we, complete Strangers from completely different families, connect in special ways and are able to understand, empathize, love and touch lives. We are, in spite of our differences, bridges, connections, starstreams spun every instant that collide randomly into each other.

But therein lies, too, the tragedy- that in the beauty of this sugarspun cobweb of special and mysterious connections, is a secret that took us too long to understand. If only every family loved itself deeply, genuinely, wholeheartedly from within, there would lay in this world a lot less grieving, and a lot less need for Strangers to fill in the broken, complicated gaps in our lives.

The collision of starstreams and the spinning of sugarspun cobwebs are beautiful- they really are.

But a lot of those starstreams could be saved from colliding, cobwebs spared from being spun, had we loved the right way from the right place from the beginning, loved starting from Home. It is an unecessary mess.

And risk losing the creation of intricate, randomly-weaved webs and connections you say? Yes, but only because it is simpler, more Beautiful this way.

In this, there is simple beauty and no tragedy therein.

How beautiful it is to see the selflessness of social workers, the radical transformation of deliquents; how beautiful it is to see the understanding of counsellors, the healing of hurting patients; how beautiful it is to see the random acts of kindness, the hearts of complete strangers touched by simple gestures.

But how tragic it is to realise- that deliquents aren't born- they are driven away from places they could not find love in, Home; that depression isn't an overnight affair, it grows insidiously, every day, in a place underneath your own roof; that we would be happier, simpler people had we all loved the right way from the right place, Home, right at the very beginning.

So, I am convinced, that love begins right here, at Home. Every family has its own fair share of tangled webs to work through, and if we worked through them, that would be enough. We keep helping, keep loving, keep touching lives outside of our homes, because it is easier to love those whom you do not expect love from. But all griefs, all griefs run from Home- in some way or another. And if only we chose to run Home, to the place of hurts, vengeances and unforgiveness, we would see that the answer, love, lay in the midst of all those cobwebs all along.

Grandpa Zhou wouldn’t need the spare change from passers-by if his son gave him money, wouldn't desperately need a listening ear if his daughter bought him dinner and stayed to chat with him. We, Grandpa Zhou and I, would then have shared a beautiful moment, untainted by a remembrance of a time lost, missed and longed for. Just a beautiful, simple moment where our stars shone for each other, but didn't collide in broken, complicated places.

When we love the right way from the right place, our stars can shine without the affair of messy collisions.

We cannot love a Stranger, we cannot truly love a stranger, touch lives, change the world, unless we love and touch those who were destined to love us-our own families, and change ourselves to love them, deeply, genuinely, wholeheartedly- regardless of circumstance or situation.

It took me this long to understand. To truly understand.

Last night Daddy and I talked into the night like the way we used to when I was little. Talking about all sorts of nonsensical and deep things.

I’m going Home now. I'm packing up my things from a makeshift tent in a dingy waterway underneath a bridge of passing Strangers and finally going Home now.

And what unspeakable joy it brings.

Stars are shining.

21 soon.

Scrapes make little girls cry.

Sometimes girls cry for no reason at all, and sometimes they do for every reason, but they don't tell you so you just have to let them. Thank you for letting me cry on your knee today without asking me why, what, who, when, without asking me to explain everything, explain everything, explain everything. It's so tiring to have to explain everything. Thank you for not making me have to explain everything.

How do I begin to tell you how terribly frightening all this is to me, this growing up to become that terrifyingly awe-inspiring thing called a Woman, that knows, does, loves everything. How do I begin to tell you how terribly awkward this is for me, perhaps worse than sticking through a bad-acne-frazzled-hair-and-no-one-invited-me-to-that-cool-party pubescent period. How do I begin to tell you that since the happy childhood ended, I purposefully grew myself up and now, I'm just a peculiar mix of grown-up and little-kid that can't decide which direction is better to grow into.

How do I tell you. That I don't know anything about anything, and nothing about everything.

Too many things happened today. And it wrenched my heart so.

Too many question marks in places that should have answers. Too many empty spaces in places that ought to be filled. People looking for me seeking advice, love and inspiration, and me finding myself increasingly inadequate, small, awkward. They are seeing me as if I am a grown-up, an adult, a Big Responsible Person with Answers and Direction and Purpose in Life, a thing they call a Woman.

And I am but a child, forced to age because of a certain experience, now in a young Woman's body, unpolished, roughened and awkward.

She can travel independently on solo trips to developing countries but can't drive a car in her neighbourhood. She can raise funds for orphanages and projects but she can't earn a cent. She's a medical student, supposedly intelligent, but hasn't a clue about financial management. She's read much about psychology, counselling etc, but struggles with coping with her own emotions day to day. She is the person people turn to for advice regarding their relationship problems, but she's never been in one herself. One part is growing up too fast, knows too much, loves too hard; the other part can't drive, earn a salary, read a map. One part loves too hard, too many; the other doesn't know how.

You think she's matured because she doesn't club, drink, smoke, or engage in the emo-decadent things young people do; you think she's matured because she talks like she is; you think she's all grown-up because she seems to be so. But you don't know, you don't know nothing. What if she's grown up too fast, too soon in some ways, and not grown up at all in others? Have you seen those old, wrinkled aunties in their fifties on the streets wearing tight-fitting, lycra clothes, black fishnet stockings, gaudy gold jewellery with make-up caked onto their faces in inches? Have they grown up backwards? Or in two directions?

She doesn't know why she cried today. She was facilitating a meeting she organised, a very grown-up Responsible thing to do. Then she needed a knee, a scrapeless knee, just to lean on and cry on for a while, like the way a little child throws himself onto Mommy's lap.

Can a person grow up backwards. Or in two directions.

Why did nobody warn me.

This girl needs someone to take her on a carousel ride on a white unicorn, take her for a spin at night for an ice-cream cone through a Mac Donald's drive-through, go swimming in floats, or play on the slide, over and over and over again.

Can I buy some time, please?