Pray for Japan.

What would it take for us to realise,

the things which are important in life,

and those which are not.

Do you believe in prayer?

that it brings

hope

even when you think

it doesn't make a difference to the other side of the world?

Just pray.

And let not your troubles think they are greater than they really are.

"Trust in God with all your heart..."

-Prov 3:5

Everlasting Joy.

* Wai Jia has just completed 2 surgical exam papers and will be embarking on 180 brain-numbing multiple choice questions tomorrow morning. She is thankful for all your prayers and support during this time. She is also going through a season in her life sorting out new matters of the heart and seeking God about them.

This post was written early this morning after she'd finished her lot of studying.

"Much of our modern philanthropy is based on

the motive of giving to the poor because they deserve it,

or because we are distressed at seeing them poor.

God never taught charity from these motives:

He said, "Give to him who asks you," not because he deserves it...

We can always find a hundred and one reasons for not doing so,

becuase we will trust our own reasoning.

But who are you?

Do you deserve more than other people the blessings you have?"

-adapted from Studies in the Sermon on the Mount,

by Oswald Chambers

I was surprised at my reaction. It was first to say no, I'm sorry. I can't help you. Help yourself. This has happened before and you need to learn how to get yourself out of the pit. It was then that a blast of realisation hit me in the face and knocked some sense into me.

It was M, the orphaned girl whom I'd met at hospital before, the one who was abandoned as a child in the Philippines, had suffered the guilt of "causing" her Singaporean foster mother's death since she was 14, and been wandering outside by herself bumping from odd-job to odd-job with recurrent admissions for her severe skin condition since then.

"I'm so sorry, Wai Jia. I'm stranded outside. My pay check for $500 comes only next week and I've no money in my transport card. I'm really really sorry but could you help me? Could you transfer $10 into my account? Please?"

When I saw her number on my phone, I half-guessed that it would be for money. I hesitated for a long while before picking the phone up, half hoping she would give up and hang up. She didn't. I was preparing for my final exams and wanted to say: Look, stop being so dependent. You can't keep calling me for money. The last time, you called me for twenty dollars and now this?

She could be a phoney. A trickster. Just finding an excuse to cheat me, right? Or so that's what people would tell me.

But I remembered, that the last time she asked for twenty dollars and I brought her instead to the Community Services division of my church, she brought all her documents to prove who she was, where she was born, how she was fostered and where she was working. I remember looking at all her documents in some shame and awe because some part of me didn't believe that dramatic life story she shared with me that day.

But it was all true.

Just the day before, I was reading my Oswald Chamber spiritual study guide, something I've decided to embark on to stay rooted in God during my exam period. It wrote:

"And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well. If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles.

Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you." -Matthew 5:40-42

I remember being convicted by it. Now, God was prompting me to do the same. It wasn't about the amount, but really, about the attitude of my heart. Did I really think that all my life, all the help I had got from others was that which I deserved? Were they not extended to me out of the grace and compassion of others? And now, when faced with the same choice to help the "undeserving", did I feel I'd the right to judge their situation on my lofty place and lecture them about their financial insufficiency?

My best friend, a girl with dreams of becoming a longterm missionary as well, was studying with me when M called. How much does she need, she asked. I can help.

It was then that what I had read the day before became real to me. When we go the first mile for others, it is often from our own strength. But when we go the second mile, it is not for their sakes nor ours, but from God who lives within us.

Something more divine kicked me out of the house to transfer the money to her account. Twenty instead of ten. Two miles instead of one.

Not everyone will agree with the decisions I made. And that's okay.

Last night, as I sent a friend who came over to study with me to the train station, I saw Grandpa Zhou.

"Oh, Wei Jia," he said. " I have something to tell you. My feet, they became swollen again and I'd to see the Chinese sinseh."

"The sinseh?"

Sinseh. It means Traditional Chinese Practitioner. My heart sank.

"Yea, he's very good. It was $50 and he says I've to go back and see him again to be fully cured. He makes a lot of sense. He told me my tummy is "cold" and that's why my feet swell. You don't learn this in Western medicine, right? Yea, but he's good. Okay okay, you may not agree, and that's okay."

"Who's paying for your fees?"

"I borrowed. Didn't use the money you gave me because I know that's for all my follow-ups at the hospital. I won't have enough for this sinseh so I borrowed."

I was aghast. I had heard stories about Traditional Chinese Practitioners swindling people before. I heard about some of them charging exorbidant fees and dispensing steroids mixed with herbs, or chanting spells over patients, or giving patients false hopes. I had the last straw when my mother's fractured hand was being wrapped superficially with a piece of flimsy cardboard after she decided to see a sinseh and it took me ages to convince her she needed to go to the hospital because the sinseh had reassured her. The glaring X-ray of displaced fractured bones would have put the sinseh to shame. Since then, I've always been wary of them. That anger never quite dissolved.

So I was furious when he told me that. His feet were swollen because of the anti-hypertensive medication he was taking for his high blood pressure. It was a transient side effect. It would pass. We had gone through this before. But no, he said the "cold tummy" logic made sense, and he truly believed the sinseh was brilliant.

I wanted to hit my head against a wall.

But I also remembered one of the hardest and yet most important lessons I had learnt from the mission field. That is, never to impose our expectations and standards on the poor, because the love we share with the poor ought not to be conditional.

If I decide to give money to say, Africa, and the people from the organisation decide to use it to build latrines instead of schools, then I respect them for it; If I give money to Smokey Mountain and they decide to build more homes in the trash dump instead of revamping the whole site, then I respect them for it, because that is their home, not mine. When one decides to give, one must make the decision to give with respect, with allowance for autonomy to be exercised by the recipient, and if not, perhaps it may be better not to give at all. What makes my "first-world" mind think I know what's better for them? Do I have the right to bring my colonial uppity better-than-thou attitude into my giving and so-called philanthropy?

"I also want to ask you, after what I said to you that day, are you angry with me?"

That day. Yeah, sure I was. About three weeks ago after my birthday gathering, Grandpa Zhou had gone on and on about my friends who had come for my gathering. He knew one of them was trying to win my heart and went on a home-run shooting him down.

"Someone like you should be with someone else, someone who can give you Eternal happiness! How much do you know this person? How far apart are you two? I just don't want you to get hurt."

He went on and on, but didn't realise, that all his words already did that day.

Yong yuan de xing fu. Everlasting happiness. He kept repeating that over and over. He wanted me to have yong yuan de xing fu.

"Hey, actually, why don't you consider L? You know, he actually likes you. Really, he does!"

That really frustrated me. I guess having a bad day at school and struggling already with a myriad of emotions just added to the brew of emotions simmering inside.

I know, why take him seriously, right? Other people may think, he's just an old man. He's just an old busker sitting by the roadside. But he is a special friend. And for some reason, maybe because of all the other things that I was going through that period, and my sensitivity to this topic and what I felt God was speaking to me during that period, I was affected by what he said. He had voiced all my insecurities about relationships, about the one which had surfaced itself in my head, and the insecurities were all those which God had Himself convicted me that I should let go off.

"Yes," I said. "To be honest, I was rather angry. And I also disapprove of you going to see the sinseh."

"Okay," he said. "Sure. I'll find a way to pay for it."

"I have to go," I said. "I've another exam tomorrow."

It was then that he whipped out a piece of paper.

"I wrote this for you, Wai Jia. This is my prayer letter for you. I wrote it out so that I can pray for you every day, twice a day. So that I can follow it and not forget to pray about anything for your life."

He showed it up to me and read it aloud.

"Dear God, please protect your precious daughter Wai Jia. Please help her to become a good doctor to help the poor and needy. Please help her in her studies, please watch over her and please grant her everlasting happiness in her relationships and "heart matters". Please bless her with Everlasting, Everlasting Joy. Amen!!

I looked at him reading the letter. I thought of M, who had asked me for ten dollars. I then saw his receipt to the sinseh and realised he had gone to a fairly reputable one at Eu Yan Seng and not some bomo. I thought about all the money I had spent on physiotherapy and sports massage for my own injury, and all the money God had blessed me with on my birthday through the generosity of others and about what I had learnt about respecting the poor, and not judging them even though we may not agree, and finally felt at peace.

I had exams the next day but some things in life are just more important than another paper. After all, I am studying to serve the poor. I went home, put his medical fees in a red packet and wrote him a note on a little card which I redelivered to him.

I wrote, Thank you for your earnest prayers for me. Don't worry about me, God will protect me and take care of my 'Everlasting Joy'. May He bless you with good health."

"Love God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’ ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no commandment greater than these.” -Mark 12:30-31

Over the past few days, I had been thinking about my attitude towards the poor. Have studying for exams consumed me so much I have no time for them? I thought about the two men sleeping on the park bench along my running route, and about an elderly lady who picks trash to recycle (who works as what we call a karang guni) who has been phoning me to ask for a place to stay and who has refused my help to refer her to shelters because she wants "her own place"... and wondered if my heart had grown cold.

I learnt, from these two experiences, that I find it impossible to love the poor with my own capacity- I am judgemental and emotional and proud.

But God is big enough to break my heart of stone and to teach me, that the spring of giving is not impulse or inclination, but by the divine inspiration of God, and a choice to love not man, but God Himself.

We wriggle and twist and compromise and think,

" It is absurd; if I give to every one who asks, every beggar will be at my door."

Try it.

I have yet to find the person who did so who did not realise

that God restrains those who beg. "

-Oswald Chambers

Meant for Good.

* Wai Jia would like to thank you for all your support and encouragement, prayer and love for her book launch which went super yesterday. Thank you for the thoughtful gifts you brought for her. She will share more about the launch soon. But in the meantime, a reflection from the happenings of last week:


Was that a threat?

Looking back, so it was.

My publisher had warned me about the media before. With stories in their hands, things can go both ways- depending on whether they put a positive or negative spin to them. I always took that with a pinch of salt. This time, I saw the ugliness for myself.

Last Thursday, I turned 24. I was looking forward to an interview regarding my next book covered by an important paper which had been organised in advance. Little did I expect the experience which unfolded.

As soon as the interview started, it started to pour.

A doctor and a counsellor sat in with me. They were there to filter out inappropriate or over-personal questions. One thing which had been emphasized to me was not to reveal information regarding my specific weight and height, from then till now, and to avoid giving examples of anorexic habits. Over the years through the media, these information, unfortunately, had a negative effect on the public-at-large, as this negative publicity inadvertently "taught" young girls how to do it. These publicised weights and heights quoted on paper could also be detrimental to those already struggling.

I agreed.

Something was wrong. For some reason, I was very uncomfortable through the entire interview. I have entertained interviews from newspapers, television and radio stations- none left me feeling the way I did on that cold, dreary day.

It was the tone of the interview, the way I was shot personal question after personal question about my eating behaviours when I was ill, with little consideration to how I might have felt. I understood the importance of being open with my story and had done so with the previous interview, but was shocked by the dogged persistence of the reporter in knowing my exact weight during my sickness.

We explained that the number, for the sake of the general public, should not be disclosed. Focusing on the weight, would in fact, compound the misconception that anorexia and weight was about numbers-they aren't. In fact, people need not be very thin to be anorexic, since everybody's baseline is different to begin with. Eating disorders are about the complex emotional, psychological and physical well-being of the person. In today's day and age, using the Body Mass Index as a guide is far more useful and healthy, since weights and numbers only further compound the myth that less is better.

"We can share the BMI with you."

But she pushed further. It would be harmful, we maintained. "I'm sorry I'm not able to comment on the exact number," I said again. " But this was my BMI then. We have to be very careful about conveying the right information. During the radio interview I had last week, the talkshow host asked the same question- but used the opportunity to educate the public instead, that such figures were sensitive and may have negative consequences. This project aims to help people, not harm them. I'm sorry to put you in a spot."

" We can't run your story unless we have your weight. BMI is not good enough."

"Perhaps you could write about..."

I had scarcely finished my sentence when she snapped sharply, "You have no right to tell me what I can or cannot write!"

Shocked by her response and the loss of professional decorum, the rest of us in the room looked at one another in amazement.

It continued to pour outside. The focus of the interview was all about how sick I had been. She had made little effort to find out much more about the project, and it became obvious that this was an interview she had been assigned to, perhaps grudgingly. I had a sick feeling in my stomach. There was something about the methodical, hungry way the questions were asked and the choice of words used which made me uncomfortable. I felt used. I felt like part of an agenda I never asked to be a part of.

The skies outside were very grey. It was a grim day.

When the interview ended, I was quite shaken. They asked for a photoshoot. For some reason, because of the rain and lack of light, it was impossible to take a good shot.

That night, I was called and text messaged endlessly. What could have been a day of productive studying, or at least, a good time spent with friends became a game of table-tennis, pingponging calls from the middleman who had organised the interview and the reporter, pushing me to reveal my weight and height. It was almost ridiculous, to see how all this hoohah was centred on a number they so badly wanted.

"No weight, no story. But if you give an exact figure, it'll come out."

Was that a threat? Why was there such an obsession over the number?

I thought about it for a long time. I discussed it with the people involved and they were surprised by how my boundaries had not been respected. Another 3 hours passed as I was harangued continually. We weighed the cost. If we stood our ground, we would lose the media coverage for the book launch completely; but if we relented, we would definitely stand the chance. It was a tough choice. I sat down and prayed. God, what would you have me do? This project was used to help people, to harm them. Why did they not understand the sensitivities of such information?

She called again. "Can I just write X kg?"

"That's just plain inaccurate."

This was getting ludicrous. I had to make a choice.

3 hours later, after much discussion with everyone involved, I finally made the decision. "No, we're not disclosing the number. It's not helpful for people struggling," I said.

It was a matter of principle, as Dad would say. It was a matter of integrity. People will always pressurise us to conform to their standards and agendas, but I learnt, that when God asks us to make a stand for what is right, we must.

Later, I learnt, to my horror, that the story they had woven was a rather sensationalistic one, which would harm me. Feeling completely shaken, disappointed and drained that night, I cried to sleep. Now, nobody knew if the story would come out. They might still run it, and it was obvious by then that it would be a story to my detriment. I was angry with the reporter, and angry with the person who had organised this- in their eagerness for publicity and a "good story", they had lost sight of the bigger picture to help others in need.

It's easy to say that it doesn't matter how people look at you as long as you stand right in God's eyes, but I have to confess, I was petrified that after all this hard work, Rainbow would be trodden down and my reputation would be at stake.

A friend encouraged me with a story from the bible. It was about a boy named Joseph, who was betrayed by his brothers. Jealous of him, they had sold him as a slave to Egypt and reported him dead to their father. But because Joseph was a righteous man in God's eyes, his life was preserved. Not only that, but he was raised to the position of KING.

On the day when his brothers discovered he was crowned king and fell at his feet in horror, he told them, "But as for me, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, in order to bring it about as it is this day, to save many people alive." -Gen 50:29-21

I read that over and over. That night, I dreamt of myself searching through the papers for the sensationalistic article the paper had written. I saw a huge hand from the sky reach into the papers to pluck it out for my protection.

The next day, nothing was published. They dropped the article because they didn't have that one number. Later, I learnt that it was very likely that they had already set their mind on the sensationalistic angle of the story, and it was a decision not to conform to their agenda because of a stand for integrity that saved Rainbow.

No publicity is better than bad publicity, my puslisher said. I agreed.

I learnt a crucial life lesson that day: that if you stand right in God's eyes, God will stand right beside you. No harm will come near to you if you make the stand for integrity.

The next day, I received news of a talkshow and another magazine who wanted an interview- they were from good sources with genuine motives. I had another 3 yesterday. None were harmful.

A friend reminded me, "Wai Jia, God will always, always save the best for you."

So we need not worry.

Even though we missed what could have been a great opportunity to publicise the book launch, yesterday's turnout was greater than what anyone expected.

And because of that horrid experience last week, I am now no longer intimidated by reporters.

I know, there'll be many more interviews to come. And I'm ready to take them on, even if I find out I have to reject them.

He makes all things well.

http://promisesofgod.tumblr.com/

Thank you all for your incredible support and love.

Please visit www.kitesong.sg/atasteofrainbow

to find out how you can help a loved one

or support the cause today.

"But as for me, you meant evil against me,

but God meant it for good,

in order to bring it about as it is this day,

to save many people alive."

-Gen 50:29-21

Park benches.

I've been running a lot lately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yea, just excuses.

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

Utter hypocrisy.

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

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

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

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

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

"Is there anything I can help you with?"

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

"How do I address you?"

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

You don't need my name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She could not find the words.

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I give you my number Auntie?"

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

"NO. DON'T NEED YOUR NUMBER."

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

"Lee. Auntie Lee."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meaning, could just be a park bench away.

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

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

This is how I'd like to turn 24.

Choosing to lose.

When the interviewer asked me that question that day, I was just completely stunned. "What would you give up in exchange for your life?"

I went on a great deal before the next interviewer eventually asked me, "So would you say, you would give up your life to live with the poor?"

What a question. If I could answer that question all over again, I think I would say, I would give up my life in exchange for bringing the message of hope to the poor, the hurting and the needy.

Days after I returned from Philippines, a close friend chided me in mock anger about my writing about death before I left because it unnerved her a bit. I guess, what I really meant to imply was that, since much of what I do is, to some extent, dangerous, I just don't want anyone to feel bad about losing me if they ever did, don't want them to feel bad for letting me pursue missions or travel to developing countries or live my life this way, should I ever lose my life in a freak accident or riot or infectious disease in my journey to medical missions. What I mean to say is that I would gladly, very gladly give up my life in this way, without regrets.

Last Saturday, I went for an interview for a nomination for a national award for service to humanity. To be honest, it was a great struggle for me to go through with it, since I didn't think what I do was really worthy of recognition and also, since most of the past winners are either hotshot doctors, ministers or famous people. What I've done is merely a drop in the ocean. Nonetheless, that question really got me thinking.

Today, on Facebook, an acquaintance sent me a message:

Hi Wai Jia..

This may come as a surprise to you.

About a month ago, I was feeling down and I went to your facebook. I was looking for some encouragement.

When I was browsing through your photos, suddenly, I felt God asking me to ask you a question. If He were to ask you to give up everything, what would you choose to lose first? What is the thing that you will give up first?

I am always encouraged when I talk you or hear your testimonies. I heard that you gave up your bicycle to help others and God provided you with another one...

Thank you for your encouragement.

Warmest Regards,
K

And tears welled up in my eyes because just minutes before reading the message, I had to make another one of those easy yet difficult decisions that killed my flesh. It turned out that all nominees for this award would be invited to a gala dinner regardless of their win, because the whole purpose of it was to celebrate the contributions of each nominee to Singapore to make it a better place. My old man, in his love and generosity, had offered to buy me a table where we could invite our family and friends to join in the joyous occasion because he felt proud of me. It really touched me, because a table would cost $1200.

$1200. That's the exact amount of money that would sustain the weekly feeding programme for the community of children in Smokey Mountain for 4 weeks.

So I brought up the incredulity of the issue, and how it was simply painfully ironic for us to readily spend on a lavish dinner to celebrate my so-called contributions to the poor when this same money could be used for them.

"But I can't give you both, Jia. You have to choose. It's one or the other."

It was like deja vu. Shortly after I made my choice clear, he walked out of my room with a smile. We'd been through this before- we had had the $2500-cheque written out for my suppposed racing bike, and it required a choice to give it away because simply put, my wants simply do not justify the needs of others.

If He were to ask you to give up everything, what would you choose to lose first? What is the thing that you will give up first?

Is it my possibly high-flying career in surgery. Is it marriage. Is it good reputation.

I do not know. All I know is that with sacrifice, comes temporal grief which eventually gives way to joy and breakthrough.

So I guess it's okay. It's no big deal. Sure it stings- I had already planned who I was going to invite to thank them for all their support- my publisher and his wife, my mentors, my relatives, Jo...

But I think they would understand.

What would I choose to lose if I had to give up everything?

Help me to lose myself in You, God. For things greater than myself, and things greater that this world has to offer.

Looi, a 4-year old boy who wouldn't let go of me

during the weekly feeding session at Smokey Mountain,

where each child was fed a portion of white rice

and a fatty sausage no bigger than the size of a meatball.

That was probably their best meal of the week.

"Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss

for the excellency of the knowledge of God:

for whom I have suffered the loss of all things,

and do count them but dung,

that I may win Him,"

Phil 3:8

Wayang.

"What would you give in exchange for your life?"

What a question to be asked at an interview. And to be honest, I didn't know what to say. After all, I didn't prepare for the interview. I had struggled with God about this- initially, I didn't even want to fill up the application, didn't want to go through the tedious process of having to submit my portfolio and four 1500-word essays about my life, didn't want to collate all the things these people wanted to find out about me. I was doing my hectic medical internship then- why bother?


It was Mio who told me, "Wayang, all this is for wayang." Wayang means "for show" in malay.

He wasn't discouraging me, he wished me all the best, but what he was trying to say was that all these awards and nominations for our "good works" really aren't the things which matter in life.

He should know. He's been helping needy children in various developing countries for 17 years now and has gone unrecognised because he chooses to keep a low profile. He could have chosen to make a big name for himself, but each time he comes into contact with influential people, it is because they came knocking at his door, and not the other way around.

Wayang. I had prayed hard about it, prayed about whether I wanted to follow through with this when my university informed me I had been nominated for a national youth award in contributing to humanity and children's rights. I'd never even heard of such an accolade before. There were so many other people worthy of the award. I didn't even want to try. Whatever for? I'd just become proud and self-centred, I thought.

With the encouragement of my best friend Jo, I wrote the essays, collated what I needed to and made my submission to the university. But just days before the deadline, I received a call from a lady from school saying that she had forgotten where she had placed my parcel for submission. I was annoyed, then disappointed.

Later, I realised that God was showing me where my priorities were, and what truly mattered. Did it matter that my work had to be recognised? I then had the peace that it was more than sufficient for me to be nominated in God's eyes. And in His eyes, we all are. We all have a kingly place in His eyes.

I let it go. Forget about the submission. God, whatever happens, happens. Never did I expect that the next day, a doctor friend called me to meet up at a hospital with him. Recalling that the lady from university had asked me to submit my items to this particular hospital so she could pick them up from there, I curiously went to find out how my parcel went missing, and in doing so, realised that my items never left the hospital and had never reached my university for submission to the national board. If my friend hadn't called me randomly to meet up at that particular hospital, I would never have found my items. If I didn't find them, I would never have submitted them. And perhaps God had deliberately waited for me to be assured that His award was more than sufficient before He allowed me to find them.

He has His ways.

A fews day ago, I got an email. They requested for us to wear a jacket suit to the final interview. There would be a photoshoot and an interview with about 6 to 8 judges. I suppose make-up and heels would have been appropriate.

But I didn't wear a suit. I wore my white dress and a little half-jacket I had bought some time ago from a quaint shop, looking smart but not overly formal. I didn't wear makeup. And I didn't do my hair. I wanted to go as I was.

"See the nomination as a gift," text-messaged Mio. "And don't forget about my work in Smokey Mountain when you win the award :) "


I realised, that this nomination in itself was a gift, and my sole purpose in life, should really be to gain God's approval, and not the approval of men. So many other people deserve to be nominated. Why me? But I realised that God, perhaps, has a purpose. I've had many people telling me not to shun the limelight because such things are platforms to reach out to more people, to earn the trust of more, to build a reliable reputation and thus have the potential to help even more.

I learnt, that yes, to a certain extent, all this is wayang, for show, but how do we allow them to be shaped according to God's purposes?

I really enjoyed the interview. Simply because I didn't attend it to win, and simply felt it was such a journey of faith just to be there. I was in the midst of wonderful candidates and judges who had gone through much in life to make our world a more inspiring place. And even though I felt I didn't answer the questions too well because I hadn't prepared for them, I felt completely natural, and could joke with the panel. It was fun. The photoshoot was fun.

After the interview had ended, the project chairperson came to tell me how much she enjoyed my submission of A Taste of Rainbow, which is due to be published next year. She asked me many more questions before I finally asked why she decided to do what she did.


"Because we want to support people like you, give you a platform to share your work and in so doing, help you in your cause."



It had struck me before, but there and then, it struck me hardest to realise that God has given me a privilege to have a circle of influence which I must treasure and be thankful for. It is a deep blessing.



Yet, when it was all over, and I had had a good time just by being there, I could not forget one question posed to me, "What would you give in exchange for your life?"



That really stunned me. And I ended up talking about a lot of things. But at the end, one of the interviewers asked me point-blank, "So would you say, you would give up your life for the poor? For the poor in Smokey Mountain, for example?"


And I was embarrassed and laughing at the same time because just a day ago I was writing about myself wanting to live with the poor, wasn't I?

But I didn't give an outright yes either. I was scared. I realised, I was scared of hearing myself say something as audacious as that. When he said the words I could not say, pressure built up behind my eyes. Don't cry, woman. You're at an interview.



Would I give my life up to live with the poor. My gosh, what was I thinking. My goodness, was it that obvious?



But that is exactly what I am thinking of.



So I talked a lot more about my hopes to pursue public health and surgery and other things so I could be more useful to help the needy. And I was also aware that had that been an interview to apply for a specialty, I would have shot myself in the foot because why would anyone want to train a medical person, only to lose her to the mission field?



Then I saw the value of the nomination and award. It would be helpful. It was the project chairperson who told me, "We want to encourage people who have been working quietly that they have not gone unnoticed."



As I left the place, I felt so free. I was carefree because the award didn't matter. Just being there at the National Volunteer Philanthropy Centre was an encouragement, being nominated was an encouragement, having the judges themselves and the project chairperson herself tell me they were touched was an encouragement.



I want to write this down because I want to remember the commitment I have made to the needy- that any award shall not be for my own pride, but to garner greater support for the causes I believe in. Just yesterday, famous Singaporean missionary doctor Dr Tan Lai Yong was on the front page of the national paper for his great commitment and impact on the rural poor in China for the past 14 years. I know him personally as a humble and simple man. I stayed with him for some time in a town in rural China, and we jogged together under the stars before our busy day of training village doctors. I saw how some publicity could bring hope and encouragement to others, including young people like myself.



"You're very relaxed compared to many other candidates I've seen today," said the project chairperson. "I think it's because you didn't come here to win, did you?"



I smiled. Because I realised, that God had brought me to a point where the award truly didn't matter. It is only wayang, for show, in some sense. Man's approval and the world's recognition should not and don't matter. Being nominated was a great privilege and an encouragement and a lot of fun in itself.



But yes God, I am writing this so that if I ever do earn undeserved recognition, help me to remember to use it not for myself, but for the poor and the needy and the hurting, always.

Yes, I would give up my life to live with the needy.

a little girl from Smokey

"She never craved the limelight,

she only stepped into it because it was

the most efficient effective way to accomplish what she was sent here to do."
- quote on Mother Teresa

"There are certain shades of limelight that can wreck a girl's complexion."
— Audrey Hepburn

"Let's do something beautiful for God."
-Mother Teresa

Maleeni art toyok.

"So what did you do there?"

has probably been the most common question I receive every time I return from a trip to a developing country. We urban people are as such. We want to know what was achieved, the number of people helped, the amount of sacrifice it all took... in short, what was done.

And I often smile, sometimes in insecurity, when I say, "I was with the people. That's all. "

Is that too silly to say?

Because after going on some 10 humanitarian trips to developing countries, many by myself, some with teams, some with clearer agendas than others, I've become to see how crazy it is to think we can visit the poor and return to our lives of excess unchanged, to think we can take photos of a place to shock our friends with back home, and change the world in a week. I've come to appreciate the beauty of being with the people instead of doing for them, because the poor don't necessarily need our help, even though we think they do, even though our culture and our friends crown us with haloes of altruism and paint our good-doing in shades of romantic nobility.

A friend shared this with me: Timothy Keller writes of urban people, "While they may give some of their time, they spend large amounts of money on entertainment, their appearance, electronics, and travel. For a great number, then, volunteering is part of their portfolio of life-enriching activities, but it is not a feature of a whole life shaped by a commitment to doing justice, including radical generosity with one’s finances.

Our culture gives us a mixed message. It says: make lots of money and spend it on yourself; get an identity by the kind of clothes you wear and the places you travel to and live. But also do some volunteer work, care about social justice, because you don’t want to be just a selfish pig."

That pierced me.

Have volunteerism and humanitarian deeds become another means to brand ourselves, to fulfill a different sort of self-gratification? Can you live with going on a trip knowing that you have done "nothing", or must you justify your time and money spent by making sure your time is spent BuildingMakingTeachingDoingImpartingExecuting some sort of project for a people you didn't even bother to spend time with to learn their language? We feast on the hospitality of the locals, take a load of photos, carry with us a sense feel-good awe and return to our lives filled with designer handbags and facials and pedicures.

Jackie Pullinger was a missionary to Hong Kong who wrote a famous book called Chasing the Dragon. She wrote of a local person who shared his heart bravely with her, "You Westerners - you come here and tell us about God. You can stay for a year or two, and your conscience will feel good, and then you can go away. Your God will call you to other work back home. It's true that some of you can raise a lot of money on behalf of us underprivileged people. But you'll still be living in your nice houses with your refrigerators and servants, and we will still be living here. What you are doing really has nothing to do with us. You'll go home anyhow, sooner or later... You can sing about love very nicely, but what do you know about us? You don't touch us - you know nothing.

We couldn't careless if you have big buildings or small ones. You can be offering free rice, free school, judo classes or needlework to us. It doesn't matter if you have a daily program once a week. These things don't touch us because the people who run them have nothing to do with us. What we want to know is if you are concerned with us. Now you have been here for four years, we have decided that maybe you mean what you say."

And so I know it sounds ridiculous, but I want to return to Smokey. I want to return because when I was there, it felt so... right. It was ugly, it was dirty, the fumes from burning coal and the smell of trash was so noxious and the sight of children with skin and eye diseases so heartbreaking that I should have hated it. But it was where my heart was. It is where I want to return to. It has confirmed that God-willing, I should like to return to a developing country to serve them for a long time. I was looking forward to my graduation trip- hoping to perhaps finally visit a developed country and dreaming of going on a cycling tour round Europe. But I look forward even more to the smell of Smokey again.

The smell of Smokey- it is still with me. It is in my hair.

That day, when hoards of children came for the feeding programme in Smokey Mountain, and I, tired from dressing the wounds of yet another kid who had infected ones, asked the Pastor if I could spend 5 minutes talking to the kids.

"Maleeni art Toyok!" I said. Clean and dry. I was trying to get the kids to learn it as a jingle so they could take better care of themselves.

Who was I kidding? Who did I think I was, coming into their world for a few days and thinking I could earn their attention simply by being a foreigner.

I want to live with the poor, and I'm not sure if I can.

The day I returned home, my toes and feet were black because of the ash and mud of the place. Because of the sludge, it was impossible to wear covered shoes. Wearing slippers, however, meant one's feet often slid into muddy glue, disturbing the colony of houseflies resting on it. A friend and I were talking that day about my inability to love myself at times and certain emotional issues I was grappling with because of my perpetual inability to love myself in certain ways. Upon seeing my tarry toenails, she was horrified, then challenged me to go for a pedicure. "It is your inability to love yourself that makes you harsh sometimes, both on yourself and others. It is something you need to deal with."

I knew she was right, and as a symbolic act of humility to acknowledge and address my fears of loving myself, I went for a pedicure on the same day as I had returned from Smokey Mountain. How ironic, I thought. Yet, it was an emotional breakthrough on a different level and so I allowed it for a different reason.

Nonetheless, it got me thinking about how much I have yet to give up, how much I can and hope to.

That night, my dad, on seeing my photos with the children, expressed his fatherly concern that I might catch a disease by being so close to the kids. I didn't say much, didn't tell him that the kids rolled on piles of trash during playtime and that I hugged and kissed countless children without thought because touch, I've learnt, especially to the poor, is a powerful love language. It tells them you're not afraid to be on their level. It tells them you see them as human beings, too.

But my life and theirs still does not match. I have a thousand-dollar worth of facials in an upper-class spa bought for me by a lady at church I hardly know because she said she just wanted to bless me, I have a two-thousand six hundred dollar roadbike which my friends and family bought for me, and even though I don't do them often or regularly, I love pedicures.

What then? What now? God, deal with my inconsistency.

Because after all, if life is a journey of seeking of seeking balance amidst imbalance, and seeking reconciliation amidst conflict, then I am seeking for an equilibrium between my world and theirs. As far as God was concerned, He loved us so much that even heaven's distance from our fleshly carnality did not stop Him from seeking us out and bringing us closer to His divine love.

I have a long way to go.

But I know one thing, that I will not forget those moments I played with 7-year old Ricky and loved him as if he were my son, nor forget the dream I have about living with and loving the poor, because as we sat by the pier that day overlooking the trash-filled sea, I realised that one of my most treasure moments was sitting close to Ricky and playing with our blackened, unpedicured feet and realising that being with the poor was joy in itself, that being close to them was a blessing in itself and that to truly impact the lives of the needy through healthcare or education or policy-making, I would need to live, love and be with them for a long time.

God did not see as us projects. He did not establish programmes to fix us. He simply came to live and be with us.

Maleeni art toyok. To change lives, requires more than a day. Sometimes, it requires a lifetime.

Smokey Mountain is calling.

Photos with Ricky

"For you know the grace of God,

that though He was rich,

yet for your sake He became poor,

so that you through his poverty might become rich."

-2 Cor 8:9

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

Stilts.

*Disclaimer: This post may be sightly offensive to some.

It was only recently that I noticed, that he always wears a cap. A worn-out, shoddy-looking cap, so that as people above walk by him, his eyes may avert their haughty gaze. It was only lately that I noticed, that sometimes when I spoke to him while I stood up, he would never look up at me, only to the dirty ground, as if he was not used to eye contact.

So today, I decided, to always be at eye level with Grandpa Zhou.

As some of you know, Grandpa Zhou is the 80-year old busker who sits at the dirty steps of the train station near my house and plays the harmonica for a bit of money. It's been three years since we've known each other, and each of our lives have been drastically transformed through each other.

Today, as I squatted by him in my PrettyFit flats, PepperPlus office skirt and white collared, ESPIRIT office blouse, people, as usual, stopped and stared.

Once upon a time, when I used to buy dinner and sit by him in my running shirt and shorts and slippers, I never felt awkward sitting by him. But as I progressed in my medical training and started to come home in collared shirts, high-waisted skirts, and sometimes, heels, with my handbag strategically hung over my arm for style, and my stethoscope tucked neatly into it, one day I realised, to my horror, that I felt awkward sitting by this old man who wears the same shirt for 4 days and smells odd because of it.

It's much easier talking to him while standing up. Surely fewer people would stop and stare. But was this what we were called to? Years ago, when I was younger, when I sat at the interview room with grand ideas of saving lives and nursing the sick, did I not say Medicine was my dream because I wanted to heal the sick, be close to the people? Did we not promise we would keep our feet and heads on the ground, where the poor and needy needed us?

Did we not promise that lives, not money, mattered; Ideals, not comfort, drove us.

I now see the challenge, and feel it too. Up and up we go, building stilts for ouselves, leaving the rest of the world down below. We grow to think, it's too dirty down there below. Perhaps, it takes a maverick to chop his stilts for something better on the ground.

A year ago, our education system changed. With the new residency programme that seems to favour those who apply for specialties early to climb up the corporate ladder fast and furiously, the entire medical faculty has been thrown into a mad flux of competition and anxiety.

APPLY NOW.
DO ALL IT TAKES.
IF YOU DON'T, YOU'LL BE LEFT BEHIND

are only some of the insidious messages broadcasted into our subsciousness. Now, all of a sudden, everybody wants to be a surgeon or an opthalmologist. ASAP. Everyone wants a bite of the cake which promises fast rewards and a fast-tracked career to success, prestige and honour. We have taken axes to make stilts for ourselves, no matter if this process destroys the forest. My stilts matter most.

I have nothing against this new system, mind you. Only something against the spirit of self-striving, insecurity and backbiting in one's effort to get up there, somewhere at the expense of someone else. Or so I've heard.

I'm not sure how realistic it is to apply for a specialty so early in life. Many senior doctors have cautioned, are still cautioning us against it, for it could produce a breed of doctors too specialised and narrow at too young an age, when experience has yet to fulfill its responsibility to our hungry minds. After all, junior doctors often specialised only after working and gaining experience in many fields after a few years.

I've nothing against this new system. I suppose, if God has called one to apply for a specialty, by all means, one should go for it. Nonetheless, axes have been drawn out of insecurity, stilts have been built out of fear of being left behind, and the ground has become a faraway place for some, a place we once thought we would be close to, close to the people we once said we would genuinely serve, not for money, not for pride, not for prestige, but out of love, genuity and compassion.

So everyone has been asking me what I've applied for. Is it Obstetrics and Gynaecology which was my first love? Is it General Surgery because of my fascination with the operating theatre? is it Ophthalmology because of what God spoke to me? Is it Paediatrics because of my love for children? Or is it Internal Medicine so I can pursue Infectious disease or Geriatrics in the future? Or maybe, Public Health?

It took me a long while to decide,

that I don't want stilts.

I don't want an axe to make my own, nor an axe to chop off the stilts of someone else.

I emphasize, there's nothing wrong with applying for a specialty early,

as long as one's feet are on the ground. As long as one knows it is what God has called one to do, and not because one is afraid, or insecure, or anxious.

I do not claim the higher moral ground for not applying for a specialty so soon. Each has its own benefits, depending on what God has called one to do.

Nonetheless, squatting next to Grandpa Zhou today reminded me, that once upon a time, when we learnt about bedside manners, we had learnt about the importance of sitting at the patient's eye level.

It made me wonder: how many of us do that now? As we move from third-year to fifth-year of medical school, our eye levels shift upwards too. We amass more knowledge, we begin to feel more important, and talk down to our patients who lie down, who crane their necks like flamingoes just to hear us spout long phrases and words like colonoscopy and aspiration pneumonia.

Yes, you need a colonscopy, sir. Please sign on the dotted line.

A man in a black shirt stood on the train platform above Grandpa Zhou and I. I saw him from the corner of my eye. Way above us, he peered down, and it reminded me of the many times I had stood and "talked down" to my patients, the many times I had stood to chat with Grandpa Zhou instead of sitting at his level while he huddled by the train steps. The man above was a spectator, uninvolved.

It made me wonder, would I become the kind of high-powered, money-churning doctor who sits high above, peering down at the lives of my patients? My patients, who live in one-room flats and sleep at the void decks and who come into my clinic complaining of gastritis because they ran out of food to eat? Yes, this happens in sunny Singapore.

Would I become a hands-off spectator peering down at my patients, uninvolved in their lives, prescribing medicines too expensive for them to buy, speaking in English with an accent I acquired from a post-graduate degree overseas?

I will never forget, that before we were friends, I hated Grandpa Zhou because I thought he was another lazy old man trying to earn easy money. It was only when I sat down by him one day, at his level, that I saw that he had deformities in his feet and right arm. Work is difficult with a handicap.

So in my PrettyFit shoes, PepperPlus office skirt and ESPIRIT white collared shirt, I forced myself to squat, and told Grandpa Zhou while looking into his eyes, "I have a special task for you. You've got to think about what your favorite food is and let me know the next time we meet, okay? We'll go to a nice place to eat when I have my break in 2 weeks time-a friend of mine is very eager to meet you."

So I write this down, in the hope that I may always remember, even years after I graduate, never to chop a tree down for my own stilts.

Meeting Grandpa Zhou, has been one of the greatest blessings in my life.

The Village of Stiltsville

Perhaps you don’t know,
then, maybe you do,
about Stiltsville, the village,
(so strange but so true)

where people like we,
some tiny, some tall,
with jobs and kids
and clocks on the wall

keep an eye on the time.
For each evening at six,
they meet in the square
for the purpose of sticks,

tall stilts upon which
Stiltsvillians can strut
and be lifted above
those down in a rut:

the less and the least,
the Tribe of Too Smalls,
the not cools and have-nots
who want to be tall

but can’t, because
in the giving of sticks
their name was not called.
They didn’t get picked.

Yet still they come
when the villagers gather;
they press to the front
to see if they matter

to the clique of the cool,
the court of the high clout,
that decides who is special
and declares with a shout,

“You’re classy!” “You’re pretty!”
“You’re clever!” or “Funny!”
And bequeath a prize,
not of medals or money,

not a freshly baked pie
or a house someone built,
but the oddest of gifts—-
a gift of some stilts.

Moving up in their mission,
going higher they aim.
“Elevate your position”
is the name of the game.

The higher-ups of Stiltsville
(you know if you’ve been there)
make the biggest to-do
of the sweetness of thin air.

They relish the chance
on their higher apparatus
to strut on their stilts,
the ultimate status.

For isn’t life best
when viewed from the top?
Unless you stumble
and suddenly are not

so sure of your footing.

You tilt and then sway.
“Look out bel-o-o-o-w!”
and you fall straightaway

into the Too Smalls,
hoi polloi of the earth.
You land on your pride—-
oh boy, how it hurts

when the chic police,
in the jilt of all jilts
don’t offer to help
but instead take your stilts.

“who made you king?”
you start to complain
but then notice the hour
and forget your refrain

It’s almost six!
No time for chatter.
It’s back to the crowd
to see if you matter.

Stiltvillians still cluster

and crowds still clamour

but more stay away

They seem less enamoured

since the Carpenter came

and refuesed to be stilted.

He chose low over high,

left the system tip-tilted.

"You matter already,"

he explained to the town,

"Trust me on this one,

Keep your feet on the ground."

-Fearless, by Max Lucado