Esther.

It was almost as if there was some sort of forcefield around her. No one stood even remotely near her, even though the train was rather filled with passengers. It was almost as if people believed that if they looked away or stood far away enough, perhaps they wouldn't have to struggle with what they saw.

We look away all the time, away from the elderly cleaning our public toilets, the frail selling tissue packets at bus-stands, the under-grads serving fat garrulous men beer at night, our parents when they look across the dinner table... We look away, to save ourselves the trouble of struggling with what we would otherwise have to. Alternatively, we look and then allow ourselves to grow numb.



I stood right next to her. It seemed right because the space was empty and sunshine filled it. I like sunshine.

She had a white hat on to hide her face with, and her hands meddled with a lilac-pink balloon which had been twisted into a fun shape. With a black marker, she drew a funny face on it, and the rubber thing became a fun toy immediately. Sticking her nifty masterpiece into the spokes of her wheelchair, she peered intently out of the train window, her nose almost touching the glass, warmed by the noonday sun. Her neck was stretched forward, like a child peering through a frosted window pane, hungry for a first-time peek at fresh snow.


I kept watching her. I was smiling at her and wanted her to see me. She didn't.


So intent was her gaze at the window that everything else seemed to fade away. Her legs were atrophied and paralyzed, and her feet seemed to be fitted with special shoes. I wondered what her Story was.


Finally, she looked up, and I smiled at her.


All at once, her eyes, large and beautiful and deep like dark, moonlit pools, lit up like a lamp in the darkness, and they twinkled with a child-like sparkle. They were electric, almost, and for a few awkward seconds, our eyes, across three feet of space, conversed in glittering fluency. I smiled and she smiled back; I nodded, and she, too, nodded back. She wanted to speak, but we found no fitting words.

"For you," she finally said gently.

I stretched out my hand to cup the little balloon animal she had sculpted. Her eyes twinkled like stars.

"What do you do?" I asked, "and what is your name?"

" I sell tissue paper," she whispered humbly. "My name is Esther."

What a beautiful name, I thought. It reminded me of the woman in the bible, who became the famous queen who saved all of her kingdom's people.

"I see, " I said very slowly, "I'm going to meet a friend for lunch at City Hall." I felt obliged to share with her the little I could offer about my life, since she, too had shared hers. I had to bend low to speak with her, because her eyes were so much lower than mine, and beneath that white hat, I discovered a beautiful face, graced with wrinkles but sparkling with life.

"You like it?" she asked me eagerly. "It's a gifting. You like it?"

"I do. I do very much. Thank you so much."


Our exchange lasted all but 6 minutes. Three train stations later, she wheeled herself out, with people fanning out to the side like the Red Sea which Moses parted.


"God bless you," I said.


"And God bless you, too."


It was not so much her gift which captivated me, but her eyes- those deep and brightly lit pools of light which shone with love and speech and humility. I looked at her little balloon-gift, and thanked God for such a beautifully random blessing that lovely noonday.


Esther showed me how a lot of love put into a tiny, tiny act could be so utterly powerful.


That evening, after many years of being captured by Ed and deceived by him to give up what used to be my hobby, I made a breakthrough to cook for my family again- from scratch. A gloriously rich beef stew and grilled veggies stuffed with couscous and sprinkled with pine nuts and melted cheese turned out to be a lovely surprise. I didn't realise how much it touched them. A random mix of ingredients thrown together by some amateur shouldn't have had that effect- but it did. It was the mundane things like searching for the recipe, shopping for the groceries, dicing the beef and preparing the ingredients, spending hours perfecting the consistency of the stew which did.

Simple, mundane things, transformed into the greatest force, because of the love released into them. Love, which I had uncovered, discovered, unearthed for my loved ones since the Professional People helped to lock Ed up- Ed, who had made me believe I was worthy enough only to be abandoned, unworthy of love.

Mundane things, like nail-clipping for dirty little village kids, like washing a grimy floor on your hands and knees, like dicing potatoes in a particular way because you know they'll like them.


Simple things, like a pink balloon with a funny-face, given with a smile and a sparkle of the eye.


Is this why I will always prefer handmade cards and notes over expensive gifts which try to compensate for their thoughtlessness.


Simple, mundane things.


What lovely blessings.

the Shape of love.

One often has the loftiest ideals about medicine.

And so, off I went with my team, with my White coat and stethoscope, a bagpack filled with medical supplies and a head helium-filled with lofty ideals, to a small village in China, full of vigour and enthusiasm, ready to rough it out, to put my two cents worth into a disaster-stricken area which pierced my heart.

The interminably long ride on the road took us through the polluted city and dusty town, before it turned into neverending plains which gleamed like emerald in the glow of the morning sun. But as the green carpet unfolded gloriously beneath the sunshine, it soon unrolled into grey dust, brown debri and black rubble. Where houses once stood, only broken bricks lay; Where there once was glory and pride, only a picture of shame stood; Where there once had been homes, families and lives, now only stood rubble, remnants and regrets.

For miles and miles, stretched the bleak picture of collapsed houses.

As our eyes took in the extent of the devastation, a poignant silence filled the van, broken only by the monotonous engine sound and the faraway songs sung by children, building to a crescendo. Right there, in the middle of the ghost-town, high-pitched voices pierced the cool air, ringing high into the skies. Piles of debri ran for miles and miles, the flattened landscape interrupted only by a tree here and there.


I will never forget that sight.


Children, precious children, who had just lost their homes, parents and possessions, were singing happy children tunes and nationalistic songs underneath a huge makeshift tent. It was chilling, almost, to hear their clapping and songs of gusto fill the air amidst the dreary landscape of utter devastation.


It was not that they were too young to understand the magnitude of what had happened. I remember the little boy who hung his head low and became silent when I asked him if his family was all right, nodding his head only after an indeliberate pause, as if recollecting what might have been. We had given out new schoolbags to the children, individually packed with new pencil cases and jotter books, but they looked stunned, merely.

And as I watched the crowd of villagers gathering round to see the Singaporean doctor from our team, and lining up so I could take down their medical complaints on a proper form, I wondered if they had not more illnesses in their minds, and wounds in their hearts than the physical ailments they complained of.

Most of the patients were very, very old. In their seventies or eighties and still working hard on their farms, many of them recollected the unmistakable shakings of the disaster which hit them more than a month ago. "There was a huge sound... as loud as a bomb blast... and everything was shaking... Bricks started falling and I ran down from the mountains..."

Most of the elderly who hobbled in from fields faraway came with aches and pains, caused by trauma from bricks which had fallen on them during the earthquake. Others complained of arthritic knees due to the harsh environment, and still more came with eczematous skin caused by bacteria released from the disrupted soil. Little children came with fungal infections and hygiene problems, made worse by the disrupted water supply and the ill living conditions. "Our government just bought us a lot of tents and packets of uncooked noodles... But we have no hot water, and our spring water is contaminated... So we eat biscuits all day... We get by..."

It is not that they do not understand the concept of hygiene. The villagers used to keep themselves clean with the fresh supply of spring water from the mountains. A friend on our team shared with me her poignant moment, "I was wiping the hands and feet of a little village boy with an antiseptic wipe, and he kept asking me, ' Wei shen me cha bu diao? (Why can't this be rubbed away?)" His feet were blotchy with eczema, and had accumulated so much dirt since the earthquake that it frustrated him so very much.


We are told to ask the villagers to share their feelings with us and to recount the traumatic incident, so as to lessen their risk of developing post-traumatic stress disorders. An old, frail lady with a shawl, straw hat and walking stick tells me in tears, " I can neither eat nor sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I feel the earth shaking... it's like the earthquake happening all over again. I'm so afraid all the time... It's a nightmare... " Tears stream down her cheeks as she recounts her story in her dialect, and I am somewhat thankful that I am unable to understand her fully. "Let me die," she says, "I'm so old, I'm past my time... where is my grand-daughter... let me die..."

A mainland Chinese student volunteering as an interpreter and myself comfort the old lady as best as we can. We tell her how miraculous it was that she survived, how angels had been watching over her, bringing doctors to see her, too. She puts her hands up in prayer and breaks into a grateful smile, "Yes yes, thank you, thank you for coming all the way here! ... Thank you so much... I'm so lucky... Did you know, my 94 year-old mother was dug out from beneath the rubble... and she survived too!"

They all came with different burdens. But their comparatively minor ailments of aches, pains and bad skin belied their deeper wounds within. There was no medication for the pain which gnawed at them most.



All at once, all that loftiness and seeming nobility evaporated into thin air. I hadn't realised how much pride I had stored in the hidden chambers of my heart, thinking I could serve, help and heal the needy, thinking I could alleviate their pain and suffering to a greater extent than others because of my medical background, thinking I had far more reason to be there than others who were not trained medically.


How my own discovered pride shamed me.


All at once my helplessness, frailty and smallness smashed into my face like a ton of bricks. As I watched the medication we had brought being given out, and the supply dwindle, I realised how in fact, none of their physical ailments would ever be fully treated. This was temporary pain relief, and it would last them a month or so at most.


30 days of pain relief. That was all.


All at once, my shame covered me like a black cloak, as I saw how precious each and every act of love was, whether it came in the form of medical aid or not. Wiping the little children's hands and feet, teaching them folksongs and games, talking to the elderly and bringing them comfort, teaching the teachers there how to wash their hands... each act of love was just as important, if not more important than the potentially self-righteous, pompous task of diagnosing illnesses and dispensing medication.


All my team members had held our medical personnel in high esteem. Yet, all this while, I hadn't realised the pride of my own heart, of putting our team's medical personnel on a pedestal- myself included. All it took was Reality to bring me down to earth again.


All at once, my dispensability struck me like a frostbite, and a profound sense of uselessness, shame and repentence overwhelmed me.


I don't deny the relevance of medical aid, especially in the acute phase of recovery. But in cases like these, one must realise that medication will eventually run out, and the thing which impacts the lives of others the most is the love which flows and touches their hearts. They won't remember what medication it was that you gave them, but they'll remember how you travelled that far just to see them and give them encouragement. There will always be a neverending queue of patients, but there is only so many we can see a day, after which we have to turn the rest away. And sometimes, we just have to be humble enough to admit that all we really are, are a drop in the ocean- there is so little we can do.


Yet, therein lies the tension. That we do so little, but it is the plus-sized love put into the little done which has the power to change, touch, impact.


One village child teared as his dirty hands were being wiped by a friend on our team; I remember the old lady bowing down repeatedly to thank us for coming; A 20 year-old student from the mainland told us how encouraged he was, " I came here to the village all the way from the city to teach these kids since their school collapsed- but you have come all the way from overseas. How can I not be encouraged?"

He looked like there were tears in his eyes.



That night during our team sharing, I shared with everyone my encounter with God, and His revelation to me- how sorry I was for those subconsious thoughts of pride, how humbled I was by everybody else's humility and what I had learnt, and how certain I was now of the importance of every act of love, whether it took the form of medical help or not.


God had taught me how it was not what we could offer that impressed Him, but the state of our heart, the amount of love which flowed out from it- no matter what it was that we could offer.


That night, a team-mate shared with everybody how thankful he was for that revelation, because of how utterly useless he had been feeling during the whole trip, simply because all he had been doing was clipping the filthy nails of little children.

A pregnant silence filled the room.

He was a grown, married man with 2 children, earning a five-figure salary for a multi-national company, who had taken special leave from work so he could come, together with his wife, to clip the filthy nails of little children of a remote village.


Oh, the Shape of humility.


All at once, it dawned upon us all- how limited we are in our own human strength. For all our good intentions, we are who we are- human beings.


There is so little, yet so much we can offer in the little we can.


It is not how much we can actually do for others, but how much love we actually put into the little which we do that makes the difference in the lives of others.


Love in dispensing medication.


Love in listening to their Stories.


And Love, oh heart-tugging, mind-boggling, mountain-moving Love...




thousands of miles away from home, in a remote village hours away from the main city, squatting by a makeshift tent on a dusty ground, clipping the dirty nails of little children.




Oh, the Shape of humble Love.

Never tire of doing even the smallest things for God, because He isn’t impressed so much with the dimensions of our work as with the love in which it is done...

-the practice of the presence of God

by Brother Lawrence and Joseph de Beaufort

Behind bars.

"Aren't you scared? I mean, there've been newspaper reports about aftershocks and recent post-quake floods in the area... ... Ah, you're very brave."

I was at a party, and everyone who found out kept saying the same thing to me, over and over. Yes, I am a little scared, but not of the things they spoke of. Yes, I thought, perhaps I was brave in some sense, but not in the way they thought.

I'm not afraid of live cockroaches or spiders, but I'm afraid of hamsters; I'm not afraid of para-gliding, but I'm afraid of driving; I'm not afraid of travelling alone to developing countries in the midst of political stability, and not afraid to walk past rioters burning flags, but I'm afraid of walking home alone through my side door late at night, and of the things weird lonesome characters with lusty eyes and cheap beer tell me; I'm not afraid of the possibility of aftershocks, or post-quake floods at the place where we'll be setting up a mobile clinic, but I'm afraid... ...


... ... of a bad, bad man following me there.


His name is Ed.



It's been an eventful week. What with the start of a three-week vacation before we're thrown back into the meyhem of hospital drama, the intensive, intensive, intensive therapy sessions, and the double-edged availability of time, Ed has been working overtime to try and kill little Anna before she heads off to Sichuan for medical relief work.

Ed is a bad, bad man.


But in spite of all the low tactics which Ed has been using, like seduction ( "Oh look, there's a weighing scale right over there, why don't you walk right over?"), telling lies, or distortion, little Anna is refusing to be defeated.

A few days ago at church, a timely coincidence made her see through the viciousness of Ed's deceitfuless. How ironic it was that on the same day, two different people at church told her entirely different things- "Oh, you look like you lost some weight dear, no?" and " You look like you've put on some weight... that's good!"

This made little Anna very confused.

But as usual, Ed only listens to what he wants Anna to listen to, so he can gain complete control over her life.

Ed made her feel very ashamed because recovery means it can get hard to look at a plate like a normal person. There is one portion here, and one portion there, and oh my goodness, why are they all chanting the same lie Ed tells her over and over.

Little Anna would like to appeal to all well-meaning people trying to help girls married to Ed not to pass comments regarding their weight, because this may pull a thousand unseen triggers, no matter which way the comment went.


Intensive therapy, for me, means good progress is being made. But it also makes Ed more angry, more out-of-control, and I have to fight back twice as hard because his rage knows no boundaries. Ed knows food is not like alcohol or cigerettes or glue or cocaine. He knows I cannot put it away and pretend it no longer exists. There is food on a plate three to six times a day, and Ed is right there with me. It helps when I have meals with good people, people who are normal and who love me. It helps so much.


I kept wondering why the Big and Professional People gave me their full support, complete with banners and streamers and confetti, at my request to join a medical relief team to Sichuan, a place stuck with disaster and trembling with grief, devastation and trauma. Their faith in me brings tears to my eyes. For truly, I am afraid.

Not of the possibility of aftershocks, or post-quake floods, or the fact that we get to bathe only thrice in 8 days and that we'll be staying in tents. But of the devastation of the people, of the pain in their hearts, and... and of Ed, too.

So you see, I'm not brave in the aspect which people think I am because how can one be brave in the face of something one isn't afraid of in the first place? Courage is the triumph over fear. This is not humility, but inaccuracy.

The Professional People aren't afraid of that, though. They tell me they think Ed will stay behind, because unlike the good part of Anna, Ed is mean and selfish and awful through and through. He won't like going to Sichuan, he won't like relief work. And most of all, he won't like seeing Anna living her dreams and helping people and being happy. I know he's unhappy and hopping mad, too- he's been trying to get her down all week this week.


Ed is a bad bad man. He instills fear in people by making them believe they aren't worthy of Love at all.


He's gone too far this time and little Anna is really upset with him. So today, she decided that she had had it and finally asked Big God Up There to please put him behind bars for her so she could go to Sichuan without him telling her how close to Ele he thinks she really is, how much of a failure he thinks she is. Put him behind bars so he can't get out. Put him behind bars so he can no longer put fear in little Anna where it ought not to belong in the first place.

Where fear exists, there can be no love. But where fear is cast out, Love comes in to take its place.

Love, the size of God's heart, comes in to heal the wounds Ed has left behind, comes in to cradle the hurts of others grieving and longing for God, comes in to grow into a plus-sized hug which knows no end.

Little Anna is doing her best to trust in God- that He will keep His promise to protect her from Bad Ed. Because God always keeps His promises, each and every one of them.

Ed is put behind bars now, and I think as little Anna prays each day, she will find more and more comfort in knowing that where God is, Love is. And where Love is, there can be no fear.

Anna is ready to fly. She leaves on early Monday morning.

Anna's going.



And Ed is staying behind.

" There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear..."

- 1 John 4: 18a

Available.

I was at the missions clinic waiting for the missionary doctor to give me the necessary vaccinations for the crisis relief trip to Sichuan.

At the waiting area, bags, boxes and crates filled with medical supplies were strewn all over the place. A close friend, J, was with me.

"Need any help?" we asked a tubby middle-aged man carrying a large box, clearly overwhelmed by the mess before him.

"Yah, sure! You can help pack these- thirty units of medication to a bag. Bags into boxes! Here. For the crisis in Myanmar."

And so we packed. There were all sorts of pills, containers and sachets to be packed into different boxes. Paracetemol, DHP, Combiderm cream, oral rehydration salts, and other names which I hadn't seen before. As we packed the supplies into the last box and heaved a sigh of relief, J said, " Sigh, I just hope all this medication gets to the people in Myanmar. It's just so sad they're dying when... when... "

"... when all this help is available to them," I said, gesturing at the stacks of boxes which filled the waiting lounge, "But they're rejecting it outright."

"Yeah... All this help ready for them... right here. What a tragedy."


It made me think about what Miss A said about my issues with fears of abandonment, a mountain which had accumulated from a tiny molehill during the course of childhood, through certain events.

" God is always there for us, " she would say, " God's embrace is always there for you- but you have to picture it in your mind, believe in it and receive it for yourself."

It made me think of how, so often, we unconsciously reject the love of God for our every circumstance, even though all His love and all His help is available for us, in every situation and circumstance. Just as how the different-coloured pills, sachets, and containers of medication were all available, for every illness that would be sprouting up in Myanmar in its acute phase of recovery, God's love and help for us is available for us in every possible situation, no matter how specific it may be. He's got an answer to our fever or fears, diarrhoea or depression, infection or iniquities.

Yet, like Myanmar, we so often, almost without fathomable reason, reject the very thing which could save our lives, give us hope. We reject what is good for us, what we need, when all that help and all that love is... ... Available to us. Right there. What a tragedy.

God will never abandon us, nor forsake us. For all our weaknesses, shortcomings and inadequacies, He will not stop loving us. His love for us comes in every colour, every size and every shape, ready to be Fedexed to us right to our doorstep. Yet, why do so many of us find it easier to reject all that help and all that love when He has them all ready to fill us with, all ready to make us whole, happy, healthy again.

God will never abandon us, nor forsake us. His love and help is always Available.

But it's up to us to come to our senses, to believe that help sometimes really doesn't come with a personal agenda, to receive love big enough to heal all our wounds.


It's all there, Available, waiting for us, specially packed into boxes sitting in a waiting lounge up in heaven-All ready to be delivered to us.


Because He promised- that he would never leave us nor forsake us.


It's all there, right there, waiting for us.

" But remember God's assurance to us-

'I will never leave you nor forsake you.' (Hebrews 13:5)

Have we learned to sing after hearing God's keynote? Are we continually filled with enough courage to say,

'The Lord is my helper, 'or are we yielding to fear?"

-Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest

Wheatfields.

My backbone has been too straight. Worse, it's been arched so far back with my chin held so high at a sickening angle that God had to jolt me back to reality.

We see it everywhere- in offices, schools and in the media. We see backs so straight and arched so far back with pride and pretense that one wonders how their spines have not snapped. Culture teaches us to appear as what we are not, in the name of survival, of appearing better than we really are.


Have you walked through an endless field of lallang, and noticed how, like the stems of wheat which are full of grain and ready for harvest, the arches of their slender stems are curved gently downwards, their spirits bowed low in broken contrition?

When we bear fruit in our lives, do we, too, like the humble grain, have it inside of us to bend down low in gentle humility, or do we arch our backs with our chins held high to parade the full grain of our harvest?



Each and every day since the illness, God has been teaching me a little about Pride and Humility, about my too-high chin and over-arched back.


Perhaps what is deadlier than having no faith at all, is having presumptuous faith- being proud that you had your prayers answered, that you realised your dreams, that God's power and success was manifest through you.

I was too busy battling depression when Kitesong was published, so Pride took a back seat then. Later, however, as good news about the funds raised trickled in, and people gave me pats on the back, Pride crept in through the back door. A kind lady passed me a book over a birthday lunch she bought me- "Here, this is for you. I just want you to know the boys were thoroughly inspired by Kitesong." It was a collection of poetry written by some secondary school boys, inspired by artists with disabilities from the same charity organisation, VSA (Very Special Arts), which I and a team of friends had organised a Charity Run for just over a year ago.

I was genuinely happy at first, but it didn't take long before a wave of pride welled up.

What was a sweet thing became cloyingly sickening. Pride ruins goodness.


One can be too proud for too many things, and yet be painfully unaware of it. We can be proud of our studies, our physique, our attitude, our character, and even more sinisterly, our goodness. Yes, one can be proud of one's goodness, and tragedy befalls the man on the day it happens. When one starts to become proud of helping the poor, righteous of his own standards, proud of the risks he took, challenges he overcame to do the sacrificial things he did, and worse, indulges in false humility ( Oh no, it's nothing really...) he forgets the great privilege he was given to do all those things, and falls to his own demise.

God can take away that privilege from us anytime. A bout of illness, a or just a simple turn of events could be all it takes to be displaced from that beautiful postion of helping someone else. What fools we are to place ourselves on pedestals.


I've been guilty of that- and the lesson has been excruciatingly painful to learn. Have you, too, been guilty... of vanity of your own goodness?


In some ways, I am thankful and relieved that my intended second book, A Taste of Rainbow, didn't come through immediately. God made me wait, I am still waiting, and the waiting could be indefinite. Yet, it was through the delay that Patience and Humility was birthed. And I am thankful. I am thankful.

Waiting for the reply from the crisis relief team going to Sichuan to help with the post-earthquake efforts was a humbling experience in itself. After all the trauma of anticipating, praying and finally taking the step of faith forward to avail myself, I learnt that the relief team may not have a space for me. That news crushed me. It crushed me like a steamroller over an empty metal can. On my knees in my bedroom I started to ask God why. And in between my sobs I heard Him say to let go. To let go because Pride still had a hold on me. Deep down inside, I never realised just how proud I was to travel to an earthquake zone to serve people, and this prolonged period of delay was just God's way of sanctifying the intents and purposes of my heart.


God's delay and timing is always for a purpose.


It took me days to let go completely. To bow my head low and to admit that there is no disaster, no crisis, nothing in this world which needs me so bad that makes me indispensable. To admit that God is in control of all things, not me. To put my trust in God's infinite goodness and wisdom that He knows what He's doing, including His decision of sending me there or not, even it it runs contrary to my own agenda.

When I wiped my tears away, I thrust both my arms in the air, smiled and said out loud, in a half-crazy way I would only do in the privacy of my own room, "I trust you God! And it doesn't matter if I go or not, because I want to learn Humility- I've availed myself already, but I'm just going to trust you!"

A huge burden lifted. It was as if the huge boulder which had weighed my back down and caused it to arch in a backbreaking manner had suddenly disappeared.


And just in line with the theatrical way God so often likes to use, I received confirmation of my acceptance into the team that very evening.


Indeed, God cares far less about our actual acts than our hearts from which the acts were birthed from.


Are we too proud to admit that for all our goodness and availability, we may not always be needed? Are we too proud to admit that our goodness without redemption is largely vanity?

That evening, I learnt an important lesson- that for everything in life which we undertake, we can choose to see, myopically, our own goodness, or choose to see our position to help others as the highest privilege in the world.


They say that wheat fields are one of the most beautiful sights on this earth. When their heads are full with fruit, they bow down in lowly humility instead of proudly displaying themselves.

I was reminded today- that as long as the wheat plant stands proudly straight, it is not ripe for harvest. And as long as we remain proud, God cannot use us, no matter how much potential for goodness we have.


Because goodness without humility will almost always only be vanity.


The only way to solve this humanistic dilemma is to kill that part within us which rots our hearts. For only when Pride dies, truly, can we serve, help, and love with the fullness of God's generous spirit. It is only when the wheat plant ripens, bends low, and dies, that its grain falls to the ground and gives birth to new life.


Are we humble enough to feel privileged?

Photo by OY

"I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds."

-John 12:24

A New Season.

It's been hotly debated, but scientists have the final say- whether we remember them or not is one issue, but we all dream nonetheless. As night lulls us into peaceful slumber, our minds, whether we want them to or not, give way to the things of our hearts. It's just a matter of whether we remember them or not.


We dream nonetheless.


We were born to dream.


I’ve always dreamed of being in the thick of the action- stitching wounds underneath a tent, landing on an unknown land with a team of people, travelling places, seeing sights, never knowing what to expect... taking twists and turns, unexpectedly, unpredictably, going on a God-scale adventure, running, flying, fighting, battling, being a part of the epic adventure which takes place not only in real life, but in the very battlefield of one's heart, too.


When you’re discouraged, however, one of the most important things which hit you is how your inadequacy affects you, affects your dreams. It makes you doubt yourself, your abilities. Very often, it makes you feel like a lesser person, someone with something to hide, someone who ought to be ashamed. I often notice patients covering their amputated leg, wound or bandage with a blanket, in fear and shame. Are there parts of you you wish no one would ever find out about, too?


Dreams come in rainbow-colours, and the deep dark voices which echo our inadequacies are like the darkness of the grey skies which taint their techni-coloured hues.

The deep dark voices resounding from within ourselves always threaten to shatter our dreams into a million little pieces. In our darkest moments, it is these voices which threaten to break our hopes, our dreams, our faith in ourselves. They are the voices which keep us tossing and turning at night, that hold our minds hostage and wide awake, capture our hearts as prisoners-of-war, and keep us from dreaming. You can't dream with your eyes wide open, can you?


Being a medical missionary means being able to cope with crises, being able to withstand stress and hardships, being able to be emotionally and mentally strong in spite of loneliness, being able to watch death and listen to grief, being totally independent and yet completely dependent on one's community and wholeheartedly yielded to God. It is my rainbow-coloured dream. Ever so once in a while, however, when grey skies swell with heaviness and evil, dark voices creep up to steal the sunshine-You will never be adequate for this sort of thing. This dream is too big for you. Too big, and too bright.

So one evening, as I tried to confirm my plans for another mission trip overseas during my short vacation, a doctor called me, “Wai Jia, I know a team going up to Sichuan, China to help out in the post-earthquake situation. Has it ever crossed your mind to go there? Nothing stressful happened to you in the past year, I hope?”

I hardly slept a wink that night. Tossing and turning in my bed, deep dark thoughts tormented me. "Nothing stressful happened to you in the past year I hope?" Now, what did that mean? Have my experiences in the past year made me less adequate, less able, less equipped to follow my dreams? Does the arc of my rainbow end in a grey cloud?

Wide awake, a rainbow-coloured dream was locked within the darkened walls of a pulsing heart. Desperate and vexed, I got up to pray.

For the people and rescue teams in China, for the starving children in Burma, for me to listen to what God had to say about this. Many people ask me what God's voice sounds like. How can you hear a voice from someone you can't even see?



You establish a relationship with Him, that's how you know.



When I opened my eyes, I was scared as scared could be. Even when I was in Nepal, just minutes away from bomb blasts near the orphanage, I was never half as scared. When I opened my eyes, and got up from my knees, Fear gripped me like a vice.


For I heard God say to Go, to step out in faith to Go, follow my heart to walk on the rim of a rainbow arc dangling a thousand feet in the air to Go. I froze. There, squatting at the foot of my bed and hugging my knees, I froze in fear.

What do you mean, God. I'm not... adequate. Besides, this is an earthquake, there're still aftershocks...

What would my parents think. What would my doctors say. That I was crazy, irresponsible, or worse... not enough for this?


I dare not tell a soul about that dream that was pulsing from deep within me. Deep dark voices from within smothered my dream like an angry cloud, and suffocated it. Alone in the living room, I would finger the newspapers and read the gruesome, heartwrenching stories of the people of China, and Burma. Eyes wide open, I lay in bed, writhing. On my knees, I finally said- Okay God, if this is really You talking to me, then talk to my parents and doctors and church leaders- because if you're Big enough to prompt me to go to Sichuan on a medical relief trip, I know you're Big enough to make the way there, too.


The following evening, I asked with anxiety, half-dread and trepidation, "Dad, mum. What do you think?"

I nearly died when they said without hesitation, and with much enthusiasm- " Sure! Go, Jia- they really need help there! Isn't this the kind of thing that makes you happy? We'd love for you to go- it's a great opportunity. "


That night, I slept early, but awoke at 3am, 4am, 5am and 6am in the morning. My mind was ticking -Now what would the therapists say?

It scared me that my parents were, for once, so instantly supportive. But it scared me even more to think what the Professional People I'd been seeing would say.

Would they tell me, gravely and resolutely, that I wasn't well enough, wasn't adequate at this point in time for this sort of thing? That it would be too traumatic, too much for someone like myself to take? After all, it is a crisis relief trip. There would be trauma, death, grief, infection, counselling, desperation... All of that.

As I sat in the room with bated breath, tears welled up in my eyes when I heard-


- “Whatever made you think you aren’t well enough to go?" They laughed out loud, "Look at the progress you’ve made! What're you afraid of?"


Pause. "That I won't be... adequate. That I might be... well, you know me... that I might be... too saddened by the situation there... break down, you know," I said in a quiet whisper, and looked away.

" If you’re worried about breaking down there, then well, I’ve got to tell you- which normal person wouldn't!" Miss B laughed out loud. " What’s important now is that you prepare yourself mentally, physically and emotionally. Don't be afraid to feel. This is part of who you are, embrace it! In an earthquake relief setting like that, nobody is going to be adequate. "

The Professional People looked at me and smiled, "You've come a long way- you've our full blessings to Go."


They laughed out loud. And I laughed too, albeit nervously, more quietly, not quite believing my ears.


“Every one of those doctors in that team will carry some form of emotional baggage with them. Nobody will be adequate for something on a scale like this, Wai Jia. And I think you’ve been doing well."



And it made me realize, that each and every one of us has a hidden inadequacy, a burden we carry, a voice which tells us how inadequate we are. But what matters the most is how we carry those burdens, or better still, how we release them by confessing our inadequacies, humbly and truthfully to one another. When we do, our burdens are halved, shared, our humility is doubled, and we become more whole, hale, healthy. Humble, too. We all have inadequacies, and while it's one thing to be humble enough to accept it and learn to overcome it, it's also another to learn how to embrace it.

Being emotional means having to tolerate people's disdain sometimes, and one must be humble enough to admit its pitfalls. But it is also what makes one more human, more empathetic, more attractive in certain ways. Inadequacies can be crippling, but they can also be beautiful and advantageous if we embrace them in the right ways.

I wouldn't be half the person I am if you took away that part of me. It has caused me distress, hurt and put in my way many challenges, but it has also opened the hearts of Strangers to me, opened up roads to places where I'd never dreamed I would be, put to flight many a kitesong birthed within my heart, to be the kind of missionary doctor I dream of being.


When we acknowledge our inadequacies, the million little pieces of broken faraway dreams, previously shattered by deep dark voices, join together like colours in a swirling palette.



For those of you struggling with your own dark voices, know that you have nothing to be ashamed of, nothing that can stand between you and your rainbow-coloured dream if you choose to confront your fears humbly and truthfully. You can choose God and healing if you step out to make that choice- because there are always people out there who wish to help. Know that you have the power not to let it take your dreams away. Know that with faith and God's grace, all things are possible. You are not an inadequacy, not an illness, and it is not a part of you. Rather, it is apart from you, and though it a long and challenging process, you can choose to make that separation.



To my parents, friends, church leaders and many loved ones who have given me their fullest support, Thank you all so much, for your faith in me, my dreams and who I am.

This means so much to me.


This is what my dreams are made of- adventure, God, people and medicine.


Thank you Mum and thank you Dad, for loving me and supporting my dreams. I cannot thank you enough for releasing me to where my heart belongs.




So this is it. If all goes well, I leave for Sichuan with a medical team in less than two weeks. We will be bringing in medical supplies, medical help, providing post-trauma counselling and staying in tents.



Thank you all for walking with me on this journey of darkness and light. Remember the four seasons I talked about? Winter, that season which seemed like it would never end, has finally ended and a New Season has arrived. Delay and waiting are a part of God's dealings. It is always worthwhile to wait on God and for His timing.


Did you know, I saw two half-rainbows in the sky this week. My mother was with me when we saw them.


Winter is ending, and Spring is near. I can finally lay my watering-can down, close my eyes and dream rainbow-coloured dreams by the sinuous roots of a glowing tree trunk, freshly planted in a crater of soil.


New dreams are awakening.



It is a New Season. Spring, oh Spring, is finally here.

Photo by Xi

Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves is heard in our land.

- Song of Solomon 2:12