All I Need.

This Christmas, in the midst of the lights and presents and raucous laughter, perhaps you're feeling a little lonely, or wishing you were someplace else doing something different...

... perhaps it helps to remind ourselves, that somewhere out there, are many who would give the world up to be where we are, do what we're doing, if only they were given the opportunity.

Dear God, thank you for my home, thank you for my family, thank you for dinner at home, thank you that on Christmas Day I have my exams to study for because it is such a privilege to do so, thank you that in a big and scary world out there of fanfare and noise, all I need is You, a piece of Peace in my heart.


Enjoy the video.

The Writer's paradox.

I could never explain it. One moment, it's brave confession and another, awkward embarrassment.

A friend once asked me before, "I mean, you've written it on a public space, so why can't you talk about it?"

It's funny. I could never explain how I could be so open about my thoughts and life on this space, in letters and in writing, and yet feel so intensely guarded about them on a face-to-face basis. I find it awkward when what I write becomes part of conversation. It takes me time to transit between being open with what I write and candid talk. I don't particularly fancy talking about my writing. It makes me self-conscious.

I could never explain why until I met the man. This fine man, whom I had imagined to be a wrinkly, crinkled quiet old man but who instead, was a greying man with an exuberant personality and hair which looked like it had been shocked by all his electrical thought waves, the kind Einstein had.

Suddenly, as the words left his mouth, I understood. I understood that part of me which was lost in translation and had now found its way home to a piece of my heart and being which I thought had been lost forever.

Philip Yancey is the amazing author with multiple award-winning international best-sellers which have sold more than 15 million copies around the world. He is responsible for famous works such as Where is God when it hurts?, Disappointment with God, and Fearfully and Wonderfully made. Last week, I met the man and spoke with him. He came to Singapore from Colorado, USA to give a writers' workshop for authors and writers-to-be. I was fortunate enough to attend it because my professor let me take the morning off.

It was amazing.

If you read his writing, you will find he does not talk about how he has succeeded time and again to reach God. Instead, he writes of his many failures and ruined attempts, and of God's success in reaching him in those times. He is exceptionally candid.

During the question and answer session, I asked him a question. Because A Taste of Rainbow is now with my publisher and in progress, because it is a book birthed from an intensely personal journey, and because its effectiveness to reach the hurting will also depend on how comfortable I am in being open about my experience, I wanted to know how Philip coped with his audience's response. How much do you decide to share, especially when this encroaches on your private life and when your work evokes a response in the audience which you eventually have to deal with?

He replied, " I have 2 worlds. Writing is my private world, and then meeting people is another world altogether. When I write, the 2 worlds are completely separate. They do not mix. This gives me the freedom to share, to express myself, in a completely genuine way. Because I believe writing should be authentic. In that private world, I do not care what others think. I write for myself, because I am able to work out my faith using words. I write for myself, and to my astonishment, my writing encourages others too. So, to answer your question, just let it all out, authentically, in that private world of yours, and don't let anything stop you. Because only then, do you honour both the craft and God."

Suddenly, in those words, I discovered and understood a part of myself I never did, and could never articulate. It is true. I write for myself, and I keep writing here because the emails I receive from strangers from time to time astonish me, that what I write brings occasional encouragement to someone else. But to be honest, I write because I am simply, looking for God. That is all. And the only way to do it, is to be honest, authentic and plainly, genuine. Speech, and everything else, are merely interfaces I am less comfortable with, interfaces which I can never be completely true to, because I find image, and speech and this mindlesssenselessboggling talk all very cumbersome. I am a hindrance to what I am trying to say. But words on a page, ah, have such passive and quiet power. They sit there, and it is okay if you do not read them. They only engage you if you accept the invitation to be engaged. Words in speech, have the potential to be too in-your-face. Body language and tone and image are troublesome things.

I write from my heart, because it is the only way I know. I don't fancy talking face-to-face about my writing, because it is my private world, even though it is on a public platform. It is the paradox of what Philip talked about, being as candid as possible to be true to God and the craft and your audience, and being careful not to let the 2 mix because it makes one self-conscious, distracted and therefore untrue to the craft and God. His words helped me understand my own humanity and vulnerability, in realising that one is still human, still shy, sheepish and embarrassed about talking through certain things.

So thank you, Philip, for helping me understand this part of my humanity which I felt like a fool for not being able to reconcile. It is simply, the paradox of writing. The writer's paradox.

Because of you, I now understand that part of me which was lost in translation and has now found its way home to a piece of my heart and being which I thought had been lost forever.

Philip Yancey! Love his crazy hair.

Special Sunday. (edited)

"Wai Jia, will you come to the front and stand here with me. We want to pray with you as a church to honour and encourage you, to use the gifts and talents God has blessed you with."

I was overwhelmed. This was no ordinary person saying those words, and no ordinary audience to me. This was my senior pastor, the man whom I hold in deep respect and awe, and the people I loved, the people in my precious White Place, the uncles and aunties and brothers and sisters who've encouraged and loved me generously even if they couldn't remember my name. And as my senior pastor introduced Kitesong to the church and shared with them its Cause, I tried very hard not to cry in front of what must have been more than a thousand people.

A year ago, I would have swelled with arrogance and false humility. But now, with God having broken and chastened me in His tough love, I have learnt, that this all is His grace and love to me, and it is my privilege, not my right, to be used in such an undeserving and exciting way. God knows His timing best.

There were four of us at the front. The other three writers were a pastor, a homemaker and a lady working in the media ministry.

"Church, pray with me. Today we will pray for the writers of our church." And as the entire congregation of people started to pray, their hearts bursting with that love which ushered me into this Place in the first place, I felt God's presence swell and billow in the sanctuary like a huge balloon, with tears welling up behind my eyes. "God, please bless these children of yours with an anointing to write, that they may use Your gifts diligently, and write even more books to honour You in time to come. Church, let's honour these people today."

Honour. That was Pastor Yang's topic for Sunday. And as the word left his mouth, I saw a crown flash before my eyes as I remembered the lady who, a few months ago, said she 'saw' a crown upon my head. Her vision came true. For at that moment, Recovered, affirmed and deeply encouraged by the undeserved honour so generously lavished upon me, I truly did feel like my kingdom had been Restored to me.

My mind is clear now. No longer bound in depression or sin, I can think. Write. Paint, again.

After both services, some lovely people came up to make donations and purchases of the book and DVD. One elderly woman whom I'd never met came up to me to ask if she could pray for me. "God, I see so many tears in this young woman's life, and I pray You always let her know how precious each tear is to You..." I wasn't even crying then. When I opened my eyes though, hers were filled with tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks.


It was a Special Sunday- the first since I was officially declared Restored, and it coincided perfectly with my pastor's decision to honour the people whom he felt needed to be encouraged. "God, please bless these children of yours with inspiration to write for Your glory."



I want to write again. I want to buy Paper and a new watercolor paint set. I want to sit on a train to nowhere with a cup of rosehip and hibiscus tea and paint the bleeding sunset. And I want to always remember, that Inspiration comes from God always, that every book must have a Cause, that the day I sell myself to write for money or fame, will be the day that all my Inspiration dies. Oh God, help my frailty.


A few Stories have been brewing in my head. But this time, I just want to wait on God, and allow Him to open the doors for me, the way He did with Kitesong, instead of plunging headfirst into a flurry of mindless activity. Lately, an opportunity presented itself- someone wanted to sponsor a children's book commercially- but I told them I couldn't do it unless there was a Cause behind it. Ironic how when Kitesong was launched and I realised it wouldn't be in commercial bookstores, I was, to be honest, a little disappointed. But now, with such an attractive offer staring at me back in the face, I had to consider it precisely because it was for commercial, not charitable reasons. How amazing God is, that His love makes us grow into maturity.

This time, I want to surrender my gifts and wait on God.

Amazing how in the same week, The Professional People told me without my asking Them, "We haven't forgotten your second book A Taste of Rainbow, you know. It may very well happen, but we're planning for say... 2011."


2011. The year I graduate. The year my life would prove my full relapse-free recovery. The year my father had said before would be a good year to have A Taste of Rainbow published- I'd be a doctor by then.


No two books will ever be the same. And there shall be no point in comparing the following with Kitesong- for what matters, is what God wants to do with them, with me, with my hands.


God, all inspiration and providence comes from You. Will you take these hands of mine, and use them. I want to Write and Paint for You.

"Pour Your Spirit over me,

Let Your love rain down.
Would You take these hands of mine,

And use me.

Would You take these feet of mine,

And lead me

To the poor, the needy and the weak,

That's where You are."

-Spirit of the Sovereign Lord

by Vineyard

Dance with me.

It does me so much good to be corrected by professors and friends at the hospital- how else to shave off that lard-like incompetence that drags one down? But I get tired, too, of that constant grating and sharpening, and sometimes, that little girl inside longs to break away, if only for a moment, to lose herself in the music, to a song where she has the freedom to move, imperfectly even, where with her eyes closed, she can sway and dance with joy, liberation and exuberance. Without a care in the world. Doesn't matter if it's not perfect.

As more and more of my chains get broken by God's amazing healing grace, I find myself breaking through wall after wall, and embarking on journeys which once gripped me with fear. First, it was overcoming the fear of cycling, and now, after months of suffering from an illness which completely destroyed my body image, I find myself taking up dance again, and feeling comfortable, happy again.

Breakthrough.

For years, I quit dance. I thought I wasn't good at it, just as I thought I wasn't good at music simply because childhood piano lessons had left indelible scars on my mind. Having flat feet didn't give me the option of ballet, so years back, hip-hop was became the dance of choice.

I passed the auditions in the university team, but hardly enjoyed it soon after. I remember our dance instructor- he with a monkey-mop of gaudy, golden hair, tied up in a ponytail, with a big American shirt and shiny bling on his fingers and around his neck, gyrating to the tunes of hit numbers like "Promiscuous girl" and egging us on to do the same.

Once, I remember him teaching us a dance sequence which, after what seemed like a whole series of slimy moves, ended in him putting both hands in the air and shouting "Wicked! I want that move to be WICKED! You hear?!"

Anyone who didn't know the meaning of the word mortified would have seen it from my face. Yellow-haired monkey dude slapping his butt and shouting the six-letter word with such orgasmic gustiness was too much for me to take. Suddenly my body froze on the dance floor. Our bodies are holy temples, bought with a price. He was medusa and on his cue, I had turned into stone.

"What's wrong with you?!" He thundered at me. "Can't memorise the dance, is it?! Stop daydreaming!"

Every bone in my body locked itself against each other. I looked around, at the pretentiousness of it all- the loud shiny jewellery everybody (including myself) was wearing, the large american print on people's shirts, the thick make-up on the girls... all in the name of "getting into the groove of hip-hop". I wondered what I was doing there. I enjoy dancing because it makes me feel free, but the poseur image of hip-hop, sexual glamour of salsa and demanding standards of ballet built a brick wall between myself and music. I can appreciate them, but they don't speak to me. Having a poor body image then didn't help either- that kind of environment was a breeding ground for anorexic-potentials.



Shortly after, I quit, and thought I'd never dance again.



But we forget, that perhaps, sometimes, all we need is some time, space to find out what we like and what we don't like, that's all. Many times, perhaps, what we like closely relates to who or what they remind us of. Like the way Macdonald's ice-cream brings me back to my father and twelve-year-old-me with Simon and Garfunkel in the car, just the two of us; like the way I don't like salsa- because of a memory (it shall forever be defiled for me now); like the way I don't like America or Australia, for whom they've taken away from me, too.

With me bearing memories of my constant crying at my piano teacher's house when I was little, I thought I was un-musical, and then I discovered the flute, a patient and honest teacher, and tunes, rhythms, scales, octaves, and fingerings flooded back; With hip-hop, and the haunting chant of "Wicked!" ringing through my head, I felt my body giving up on me, freezing, stalling, shutting down... and then I discovered lindy-hop and all its silliness, the people there and their similarly exuberant and simple personalities, and my pulse returned to me.

Straightforward, giggly, silly and funny all at once- a dance you can dance with your chin up and hair down, making little mistakes alone the way and just, laughing through it all... I've found so much liberty and joy in learning lindy-hop. It's comical, athletic, involving aerial jumps and stunts- something which I've done before and find rather much fun doing (though an 80-kilo dance partner with rippling biceps really does make a difference). I thought I'd be especially adverse to partner-dancing in lindy-hop, what with all that body contact. But the black, swing songs are so happy, the tunes so liberating and sometimes funny and silly that it's hardly possible to to imagine lust in any way. It's not erotic, or suggestive like hip-hop, salsa or street jazz can be. It's sensual of course- all dance is sensual and beautiful, but sensual only in the way gorgeous sunshine-filled strawberries are, between the lips of a messy child with a bowl of snow-white whipped cream.


Absolutely delectable. Simple. And most of all, crazy-fun.


I love the way the man always takes the lead, always initiates. And I all I have to do is follow and bring out the best in myself, for the both of us. Isn't that what a relationship is like? It is he who should lead, he who should provide some sense of direction. It's not that I have no voice, I do- in my style, and the way I choose to respond. But the beauty of it all is enhanced only because we each play our part, know our role in the dance. And together, in sync, we dance together. And yes, if the man doesn't lead well, you're pretty much done for. Maybe that's why dad told me last night when we were talking, " It's not about age sometimes, but whether it's the right person. Wrong one, and you're finished. Biggest mistake of your life, you know?"


And I thank God for bringing me thus far, for helping me love and respect my body again, and be comfortable with the way I am, was made, and will grow to become. In that music, I can smile, laugh, giggle and be free. In that music, I can relax and be happy to take cues from the lead, feel secure, safe, not taken advantage of. In that music, I can move, just move to the beat and finally... be me.

I love this dance- how it's simply passionate. Happy. And always looking for a bit of fun, on the sunny-side of the street.

I love how it's so much fun discovering what you like and what you don't- it feels like tasting the world for the first time again. I never knew I liked bossa nova music, or cycling, or gerberas that much. Didn't realise till lately how much I no longer like hip-hop.


Perhaps that's when you know you've found something you like, when it brings you deeper, closer to the real you. Closer to you, closer to God, maybe that's when you really know.