A Gift.

" When can I ride my bicycle with my friends?"

That was all he wanted to know. There, lying in the hospital bed for yet another admission of a fit, that was all he wanted to know.

He was normal before. He used to attend a normal school, have normal friends, lead a normal kid's life. Life before his brain infection was good. Then, the incident happened, and now he goes to a special school, makes special friends and leads a different life.

"Mummy never lets me go to chalets with my friends anymore. When can I go to the next chalet outing? When can I ride my bicycle with my friends?

At that moment, my nose soured briefly. He just wants to ride his bike.

During the course of my Paediatric revision rotation, I can see how childhood illnesses are robbers of the light. They take away what does not belong to them. Yet, these brave warriors soldier on. Do we take what we have for granted? Do we realise that everything we have isn't truly ours, that at any moment, all that we have could be taken away from us? That in an instant, our lives could change forever?

And it could be due to no fault, no folly of ours. Who could have thought a brain infection would change one's life so drastically, and such a young one at that?

At that moment, I suddenly realised that everything I have, from my hands and feet to the brain I have, are gifts from God. Going to school and having to face gruelling exams are gifts. Being able to interact with friends ( sometimes laughing, sometimes fighting) is a gift. Being able to say I am recovering from a fracture which still hurts is a gift.

Today, with all its challenges, is a gift.

All he wants is to stay at a chalet with the rest of his friends and ride his bike.

I feel you, dear. I wanna ride my bike and fly in the wind, too. Rest well, and I hope you get better soon.

Thank you for reminding me, that every moment we have, is a gift.

A drawing I scrawled today for this teen (name hidden under my eraser to protect identity!)

Wishing you a speedy recovery.

I hope you can ride your bike with your friends soon!

Love,

Jiejie (big sister) Wai Jia

Wind and Mercy. (edited)

"He's messing with me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he's doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Doing what he's used to doing. Messing with me. Playing with my head, taking things away. I'm angry. And I'm scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Scared that he'll take things away... again. I realise today that he pulled a fast one on me again. I thought I had it, now it's gone. I've been losing things... A lot of things that were supposed to happen this season, aren't happening. A lot of things are at standstill, put on hold, haven't heard from my publisher/my professor etc about a number of things important to me for some time, kinda feel my recovery has plateaued and my injury isn't getting better anymore, I'm losing my body and having to adapt to and accept it all over again, I've so many thoughts about residency and feelings about it to process, and today, this. I don't know what's happening. Maybe he's teaching me patience and trust... and that, without him, I'm really completely... nothing."


"Jia, don't be discouraged. Remember if God wants you there, He will surely open the door. I know you're going through quite a bit, praying God will lift your spirits with fresh Hope and trust in Him."

Last Saturday I couldn't sleep till 3am. Like a tree in a hurricane, I wondered just which gale it would take to break me, once and for all. I've lost so many things this season, what next? In my moment of weakness I asked you many questions. But when I finally awoke, bleary eyed but heavy-hearted and dragged my iron-feet to church, and willed myself to be joyful for the new morning, something I saw as I crossed the road outside my home to the taxi stand reminded me again of Your faithfulness and love.



Times like these, I just want to close my eyes and believe this hurricane is not for naught. If you can remember how much a silly umbrella means to me, surely you know what this means to me?

I need sleep, God. I surrender.

He is jealous for me,

Loves like a hurricane, I am a tree.

Bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy,

When all of a sudden,

I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by glory,

and I realize just how beautiful You are

and how great your affections are for me.

So we are His portion and He is our prize,

Drawn to redemption by the grace in His eyes

If grace is an ocean we're all sinking

So heaven meets earth like a sloppy wet kiss

and my heart turns violently inside of my chest

I don't have time to maintain these regrets when I think about the way

That he loves us, oh, how He loves us.

-How He Loves by John Mark McMillan

Hijacked.

"You know, R, I sense that I'll be entering a season of suffering soon. Things aren't going to be easy. I'm just girding myself for it. It's going to be painful. But then again, that's how we grow right? Through suffering."

I receive a disbelieving look from R. I continue, "Oh come on, surely there is beauty in pain."

This time, her disbelieving look actually bores through my eyes like little laser beams. I go on.

"I mean, like, suffering pain and emerging beautiful and strong. Surely you believe in that, right?"

"Oh you mean like, as in, SHOES."


Silence.


YES. I STILL LOVE YOU FOR RUINING MY POETIC MOMENT.


*As of tomorrow, Wai Jia will officially be a final year medical student. To suffering, Cheers!

Nobody's nobody.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both fell silent.

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

"Sorry Noah."

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

"Sor-wee, Noah."

"Noah, do you forgive Noah?"

"Yes."

"Noah, do you forgive Noah too?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

Love one another.

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

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

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

cannot love God whom he has not seen."

-1 John 4:20

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

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

You need milk, not solid food... "

-Hebrews 5:12

Nystagmus.

They never stopped moving. They were dancing, jerking quickly back and forth like hyperactive elves on steroids. It was disturbing to watch them swinging to and fro like a pendulum on fast-forward. I watched them, I watched to whom these eyes belonged to and was filled with compassion, suddenly.

It is called Nystagmus. Congenital nystagmus refers to these involuntary jerking eye movements present from birth, often due to blindness.

Adil (*named changed to protect identity) was a patient I saw at my professor’s neurology clinic today. She had come in because of seizures, which had become more frequent because of her poor diabetic control. Though she laughed and joked with my professor, I could tell that her highly strung voice and pressured speech were filled with curiosity and a certain desperation. “Doctor doctor,” she said, “I want to ask you ah. My friend said… about my diabetes... Is it true?”

“And also ah, I want to ask you this, and this also…”

The consult was over, but she would not move. Her eyes jumped back and forth, as if desperately hunting for answers. My professor answered her every query patiently. I watched her pressing in for the answers to her endless questions, as if they were a way to fill the gap which her blindness had dug. She sat at the edge of her seat, relentlessly asking questions with her shrill, childish voice. I thought she was seventeen. I later learnt she was more than thirty.

There were many patients waiting outside, and my professor was keen to politely end the session. But as soon as she got up from her chair, she reached out her hand for mine and said, “Thank you. You're my doctor's student, right?”

The black beads in her eyes bounced back and forth like bullets.

I could not resist but ask, “Were you blind from birth, dear? How did it happen?”

“Oh,” she said, “I was born blind.”

Her elderly mother who had accompanied her answered, “She was a preterm baby, born at 7 months. The doctors said she became blind because of oxygen toxicity. It was either her brain or her eyes- they needed to get the high levels of oxygen to her brain to save her at the expense of her eyes.”

Adil interrupted her mother, explaining, “You know… I told myself, my brain is more important than my eyes, so even now, I still continue to be strong. I read Braille, I go out with friends, I help my mother with the housework…” All this time, her head hung low and her eyes continued to dart aimlessly, as if groping, searching for something.

She continued, “Do you know how I ended up in this hospital? My friend told me the eye doctors here are really good. Many years ago when I heard that, I thought there may be a chance I could see! To see!! Wow, I thought to myself, finally I could see… my mother’s face, flowers, the sky, colours… the colour RED! Wow. But then the doctor told me they could not help me, that’s when I broke down and cried… but now... now I think my brain is more important than my eyes.”

I held her hand. “Thank you for sharing.”

Later on, I asked a friend, “Why is that people born blind have such glaring nystagmus?”

“Oh, it’s because they can’t fixate their eyes, dear.”

People who are blind from birth have congenital nystagmus because their eyes are unable to see, and hence unable to fixate. Their eyes dart about aimlessly, because they cannot focus.

The blind can’t fixate their eyes.


Am I blind, too?

Of late, my eyes have been so unfocused. With the new medical programme and demands to decide on our area of specialty SOON, NOW, RIGHT NOW, my eyes have been roving, scanning the horizons for a glimpse of a glorious meadow. To and fro, back and forth they scan, but find nothing. God, what do you want me to do? Why is it nothing seems to fit? I wish I could tell you I knew what to do, that I found something I loved and knew I could do for the rest of my life. But it is not so. What I love I do not think I could do forever, and what I think I could do forever I do not love with that giddy exuberance. It is like forcing me to marry now. It’s not fair, and I’m not ready to make a decision of such gravity. My eyes are tired from searching, and I want to fall asleep. My lids are heavy. The System is making me decide, and I am afraid. Is it Ophthalmology, is it General Surgery, is it Obstetrics or is it Internal Medicine? Is it none of the above, is it Public Heath?

In general, nystagmus improves when the patient tries to fixate or look directly at an object, worsens when the patient is sick or fatigued and may even stop in certain directions of gaze, or when looking at objects closely, with convergence.

I wondered, would my own emotional and spiritual nystagmus improve when I started to fix my eyes on God, too? Would they finally be aligned and would my vision be clear once I stopped roving and started to look in the right direction, started to fixate upwards?

So perhaps, it is not that I have been myopic that I have failed to see. But maybe, simply impatient and looking in the wrong directions. My eyes are scanning the horizon anxiously, without the ability to fixate.

And so I pray, that my eyes may be drawn back to the One who really matters. Because it is only when I look up and fixate my eyes on what’s truly important that perhaps, my sight and 6/6 vision will be restored again.

Photo by Xi.

"Let us fix our eyes on Jesus,

the author and perfecter of our faith,

who for the joy set before him endured the cross,

scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.

Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men,

so that you will not grow weary and lose heart."

- Hebrews 12:2

Welcome Home.

I froze when I got the phonecall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome home, Roger.

Photo of Roger taken by Gloria W on my birthday

Words.

That night I couldn't sleep. My mind and body were dead tired, but something in my spirit was stirring, and gave me no rest. A serpent was crawling in my head, tossing and turning, and a fire of anguish burning within me.

I knew God was trying to get to me, and until I lay things straight, He would give me no rest. Such is His love. And how thankful I am for it.

Words. What do they do and why do we use them the way we do.

Being in the hospital and watching doctors break news of an illness to patients, doesn't change the fact that you're a third party, watching. Only an experience first-hand makes things real. Since we received the news, something in the atmosphere changed. It was as if everyone's senses had been heightened, and for a few days, even I was moody, irritable, volatile, saying things which I never meant to hurt anyone with, using a tone I never intended to.

People would go into the room merry and laughing, then emerge sober, before a souring of the face and a trickle of tears. There was an acute awareness of what to say and what not to, and as I observed quietly, I saw that often, all it took was a gentle, smiling word to turn the atmosphere into a jovial, bubbly one again. Everyone tried their best.

We want to make her as happy as possible.

I am learning what it means to be quiet, to hold my tongue, to say only what is necessary, to the people around me who may be hurting without showing it, thrown into a storm while maintaining a picture of calm. Only lately did I realise how many words we say in a day which can be superfluous, and add no real meaning at all. Some of them even cut, or snide, undermine others- even if they were meant to be harmless jokes. And sometimes, all it needs is one word, one word, to stir up anger, turn away wrath or bring merry laughter.

So I am learning to enjoy the quietude, the early mornings sitting next to her, watching her eat breakfast, watching chinese imperial television dramas which all end in th same way- someone falls in love, lots of people get killed- and enjoying it. Sometimes I read a bit of mandarin scripture, and answer questions she asks me.

"You going to Nepal again next week? Right after your final exams-why? Aiyo, you doing so much good, so dangerous you know. Why're you always going alone ah? Aiyoh. "

And then I laugh, and tell her that I've many friends there, that I'm only going for a short, short visit because the money has been raised for the orphanage, to learn a bit of pottery, and that I won't be alone because God'll be watching my back. And then I tell her no, I haven't been good, because I've been taking a lot of things for granted, that God's been teaching me how to love my family more deeply, how to spend more time with them. She laughs, asks another question, and lays down to rest, asking me to pray so the headache and aching would go away.

I am learning to love in a different way, a way which I am less acquainted with. Not merely using words, but also in spending more quality time, more action, in getting used to the adjustments, in simply being there not out of obligation but out of delight. Learning to love not using words too.

Sometimes it hurts having to watch someone else you love hurt, so I measure what I need to say-a generous dose of gentleness and reassurance- and tell her I've asked God to send angels to sit by her, take away the headache and watch over her as she sleeps, and leave it into His hands as I leave the room so my own tears don't arrive.

Once in a while I like to peek in just to watch her sleep- and I resist picking the frown off the point between her brows, (there is such a great desire for me to take a toothpick to pick out that knotted frown like bad stitches) wondering why it is so many old people sleep like that. With a frown. Because she's such a strong, jovial woman.

I am learning. There's only so much time we have to live with the people we love, so many words we can say. Words, which can bring healing, life and love, or spite, coldness and cruelty. We have a tongue, called the "fire of the body", which we can use to set things ablaze or choose, in love, to put a muzzle over it. Put a muzzle over it and resist telling someone else what to do because it makes things easier for you, but harder for the other. Shut it, swallow one's pride, just for a moment, in order to preserve the harmony, even if you have to suffer- because that is love. A muzzle is uncomfortable, but since when was true love one of convenience?

We can love by talking. We can also love by not.

So I stayed awake that night, listening to the sound of silence, reading, praying. And when I finally understood, finally broke through to determine to put that muzzle over my mouth in spite of the discomfort and sacrifice- because that was love, I fell asleep.

" I will watch my ways, and keep my tongue from sin;

I will put a muzzle on my mouth."

-Psalm 39: 1-2

"Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths,

but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs,

that it may benefit those who listen."

- Ephesians 4:29

"Love... is not self seeking, it is not easily angered..."

- 1 Cor 13:5

Lost in Translation.

I've been looking forward to this Saturday for weeks. Yes, it's Valentine's Day, and one filled with a special programme at that. I begin a new phase of an excellent and intensive missions training programme, and I can't wait.

Saturday, with its mix of lovey-doveyness and missions-mindedness, got me thinking about the kind of people we're called to love- the poor, needy, broken-hearted. It got me thinking about the way we're called to give and receive love.

Because in some ways, we are all poor, needy, broken-hearted-just, in different ways, in different places. And so many of our conflicts, among friends or family, arise not merely out of simple disagreement, but rather, a deficit in the communication of love.

Can you remember the last time you felt hurt, disappointed, slighted? Hurt because of a harsh word, disappointed because of a forgotten act, slighted because of another useless present? But the person never meant to convey what you received. He thought he was merely "being frank", the act of going two extra miles instead of one didn't cross his mind, or he's just not really a gift person. Fissures appear, hurt hearts withdraw into the safety of their hardened fortresses. And all, not because of a deficit of love, but a deficit in what was conveyed.

Just, lost in translation.

Just as how looking someone in the eye may convey honour and love in our culture, doing so in Africa may convey disrespect. In different contexts, our actions are received differently, even though all we meant to do was love, simply because we're all made differently, speak different love languages. Going to Nepal and giving a freezing child my old jacket would make me his hero, but doing so to a friend here may be plain offensive.

I begin to realise, so acutely, how love can only truly be conveyed in all its fullness and glorious potential when we take the effort to find out what love language the other person speaks.

Gary Chapman wrote the international best-selling book about the 5 love languages- namely, words of affirmation, acts of service, quality time, physical touch and gifts. People have different primary ones and hence love and receive love differently. While one may feel most loved when offered to be given a lift home(acts of service), another may see it as a mere customary gesture; While one may feel profoundly adored and cherished by a hug (physical touch), another may find it too close for comfort, feeling most loved instead by a chat over coffee on a lazy afternoon (quality time). And then there're silly people like me, whose hearts are won not by the lifts home, or the expensive presents, but the cards, and the words in them. Or the simple random text message saying, "Hellooooo. I love you" -which would be completely absurd and worthless to someone else. We are poets won by words, and wring them dry of love to fill our cups.

But therein lies the conundrum, the double-edged sword.

Over the past few months, I've been observing the love languages of my family and close friends, only to find how vastly different our love languages are. Most of them love me through acts of service- while that sits last on my list. And while I love writing notes and cards to people, long text messages and emails because that is how I'd love to be loved, I realise many others would have preferred a practical gift, or my remembering to photocopy that examination ten-year series for them. People who have physical touch as their primary love language may feel insecure in a conservative culture such as ours, while people like myself find ourselves deeply pierced by a prickly word, far more than someone with a different love language. Some never understand how one could be hurt by a mere careless comment, when the other had gone the extra mile to run a difficult errand for him ("Oh, but I didn't mean to say it so harshly, just a joke! But I did this for you, didn't I?") ; some never understand how one could write the most eloquent love poetry and then fail to even show up (" Sorry I was late- I always am, right? But I hope you like the poetry").

And so we walk around, trying our best to love and be loved, but failing in so many places, and getting hurt even in the slightest ways, and bring our hurts around, too.

Some brattish part of me wished my family would be more expressive in their words of encouragement, more flowery, more intimate. But as time passes, and I understand their upbringing, their world, I see how profoundly loving they are, not in the way I want- but deeply, deeply loving nonetheless. There are always, always apples in the fridge because I love them, and they very often go the extra mile to get these particularly lovely ones from a particular store; they don't text me much but they call to ask if I need a lift because it's pouring; they don't write me much or spend much time with me because of work, but they never fail to provide. Provision and acts of service are their primary love language, because of the difficult backgrounds they came from, and realising this has been extremely eye-opening for me.

Is there someone you love whom you feel disappointed with, and when you look deep enough, is it really because he doesn't love you, or that he doesn't love you in the way you want to be loved.

So I am learning. To give love in the way others long to be loved, and to receive love likewise. I begin to see how profoundly challenging this is, because we're all wired differently- but I'd like to try nonetheless. Our primary love languages will never change- words will always have such an intimate way with me- but I can try to learn how others want to be loved, and try to understand how others are loving me, too. I can be more aware of their love languages, and learn to be less needy, less demanding, lower my unnecessary expectations. I can see how they want to be served, and serve their need there, too.

Fortunately, I also realise- that words are cheap (the person who wrote me poetry never came through), and I can learn to value wholesome, practical actions which others give me because these always, always come through. And in the areas where my fleshly limits simply fail to fill the gaps of love, I must remember, that God's love is big enough. Big enough to plug all those gaps, holes in our souls, and because of his sufficient love, I can be healed, restored, overflowing with more than enough to give love to others, too.

Perhaps it helps to remember, that it is not that we are not loved, but just, not in the way we want to be.


We love and are loved imperfectly, but God's perfect love covers a multitude of sins. (1 Peter 4:8)



So while I'll always have my drawer filled with a stack of random notes, cards and letters, folders of saved text messages and emails, and a truckload of memory space for all the words said to me, hand the gifts over anyway, and nobody gets hurt.

"This is the message you heard from the beginning:

We should love one another."

- 1 John 3:11

Jars of clay.

Perhaps, what keeps us continually filling our big, white bowls with Things is fear. Perhaps, what utterly terrifies us, is looking into our own big, white bowls and seeing... nothing inside. Nothing inside, but an empty echo, a shadow of what ought to be, instead of a reverberating assurance, a glimpse into heavenly lights, a taste of God.

Perhaps, what keeps us filling our bowls obsessively, thoughtlessly, unconsciously, is the fact that deep down, we weren't even happy with our own bowls to begin with.

Why am I a white bowl? Why don't I have intricate patterns carved on me? Why don't I have handles, or a spout, or a varnished coat?

The other bowls all around us seem to have them, and we shrink back in dismay and disgust at own empty existence, wondering if some sort of an ugly mistake were made.

"Shall what is formed say to Him who formed it,

'He did not make me'?

Can the pot say of the potter,

'He knows nothing'?"

-Isaiah 29:16b

So we shake angry fists at heaven, and seek to fill the emptiness inside. We fill ourselves with Things, to increase our worth- for how could the Potter make such a mistake? We buy more, hoard more and do more, till our bowls are filled to the brim with Things and no longer have space for God. Filled with pride and self-sufficiency, our Potter breaks us into a million potsherds to remind us of the value of humility, of our human frailty and vulnerability. For we forget, that we are, for all we are, only but clay.

"Woe to him who quarrels with his Maker,

to him who is but a potsherd among potsherds on the ground.

Does the clay say to the potter,

'What are you making?'

Does your work say,

'He has no hands?'

-Isaiah 45:9

For our Potter needs no help at all. He made no mistake at the beginning. We were made the way we were meant to be made- in this size, this shape, with this heart, mind and spirit. With these invisible qualities for a Very Special Purpose indeed. And it is only when we trust the skill of our Potter, acknowledge his workmanship, that we can truly come to love, accept and cherish ourselves, to fulfill the destinies we were meant to fulfil.

"Yet O God, you are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;
We are all the work of your hand.
- Isaish 64:8

On the Grand Table on the night of the final banquet, are bowls, cups, saucers and platters- all of which have a different look, function and purpose for that beautiful event.

Sometimes, in the moulding process, we just can't see how a silly, empty bowl could be of any use at all. Beat and slapped about by the Potter's hands, carved painfully by a knife, and thrown into the furnace, the moulding process is simply too great for us to bear!

"But we have this treasure in jars of clay

to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.

We are hard-pressed on every side but not crushed,

perplexed bit not in despair;

persecuted but not abandoned;

struck down but not destroyed."

- 2 Cor 4:7-9

And perhaps we forget, that what we are on the outside hardly matters as much as what is put inside of us in the first place.

"We always carry around in our body the death of God,

so that the life of God

may also be revealed in our body. "
-2 Cor 4:10

What do you see when you look into your own big, clay white bowl? Have not all of us, at some point, wished we were a big glass jug, or a china teapot, or a pretty vase instead?

Do not forget, that our Potter knows best. He made each of us, exactly the way we were meant to be, through the furnaces we were meant to go through, for a special purpose.

"For we are God's workmanship...

created to do good works,

which God prepared in advance for us to do..."

- Ephesians 2:10

God's workmanship. In Hebrew, it means masterpiece.

And maybe, it is when we finally accept that, that we can stop filling ourselves with Things. For when we look into our jars of clay, we can, though we cannot see Him, be filled with the assurance that such a Big God fills every part of that space we own within.


And then we shall stop filling ourselves with Things, and oh, what joy that shall bring.

If thou could'st empty all thyself of self,

Like to a shell dishabited

Then might He find thee on the ocean shelf,

And say, "This is not dead,"

And fill thee with HImself instead.

But thou art replete with very thou

And hast such shrewd activity,

That when He comes He says, "This is enow

Unto itself - 'twere better let it be,

It is so small and full, there is no room for Me."

-Sir Thomas Browne

Big, White Bowl.

Life- is a big, white porcelain bowl, I tell you, and it's full of God in it.



I was just thinking about things the other day, about why we hunger continually. If life is a big, white porcelain bowl and full of God in it, why is it we continually feel empty inside, and continually fill our lives with things, activities and clutter?

I had just cleared out a good two-thirds of my wardrobe, feeling much lighter from the carthartic process and wondering why it is that the more we have, the more we desire, and the emptier we feel inside. But the more I gave away, the less I owned, and the more fulfilled I was.


We fill our big, white porcelain bowls, meant to be full of God, with things- work, fancy clothes, movies, nice vehicles, things to do. And the more things we put in, the less space God has. Our things take up space, we strain our eyes to see God through the clutter and mess, and we find it harder to see God for who He really could be, who He really is. Forced out of our bowls by Things, He cannot take His rightful place.

On the contrary, there are some whose bowls are full of Things, and yet full of God at the same time. How can this be? If taking things out of our bowls means giving more room for God in our lives, how can the person with fame, money and Things have more of God than he who lives an ascetic life with not a single possession in his bowl?

Why surely he can.


For God is not limited by things, only by the desires behind them.



You see, things by themselves don't really take up space in our bowls. Things such as work, leisure and possessions by themselves don't have the power to push God out. But the desires behind the things- greed, vanity, insecurity, lust- these take up space and eat away not God, but the space which God meant to take up. Some people have lots of Things too, but because their possessions are no longer tied to their emotional states, because their Things are connected to God instead, God is still as big as God can be in their big, white bowls.

Life is a big, white porcelain bowl. It is, I tell you, and it's full of God in it.

And to stop starving, to start being truly fulfilled and full of God, one must make the conscious effort to remove the desires behind those things. It is not suffcient to throw Things out, for if the desires behind them stay, the emptiness in the bowl remains- in the shape of a piece of clothing, a car, a big house, a computer game. It's easy to clear Things out, throw, remove and make space. But if we do not allow God to remove the desirous intents behind them, we only make a vacuum which has even more sinister power to suck more Things in to fill our empty bowls.

God can truly be God only when we make room for Him by asking him to fill the empty spaces in our big, white porcelain bowls. God can fill our bowls in the same way, with or without things, as long as our things are rooted in God and not in our own insecurities- though very often, God can be Big and fill our bowls more easily when we ask Him to remove the distracting intents behind the Things from our bowls and very often, this means us taking the first step to removing trash out of our bowls.

We're so obsessed with filling our bowls, not knowing that it's filled with God already. And the more we try to fill it, the less of God we end up with.

But how can God be contained... in a bowl?

And here comes the mindblowing bit- He can't. Our bowls are gifts from Him. All they hold is just a little glimpse into the infinite measure of God. The day our bowls get smashed and we return to heaven, we shall see God exploding from our bowls to fill the entire universe with all His fullness, bigness and glory.

Our lives are big, white porcelain bowls, given to us for a little while, housing a little bit of our very Big God, holding just a foretaste of heaven.

Big bowls.

Faint. (edited)

Perspective is an interesting thing. All this while I had been peering through a window into a dusty room searching for an answer, sometimes torn, being pulled from different sides to peer in from various angles which made my heart go faint, when all of a sudden, I was taken to the opposite side and saw what I had been missing.

I see clearly now. What beautiful spring flowers in lush, green fields. And my heart grows stronger.

Questions as we come of age: What does it mean to be a godly woman. What is a gentle and quiet spirit. What does Growing Up mean. God, why do you ask me to stay single till I graduate? How come I feel You continually confirming it. Why is there this longing within. And most importantly... What does being Secure in You mean?


In exactly a month's time, I turn Twenty-two... and I want to know.


One moment, I think I've found the answers to my questions. Then God surprises me with a disatisfaction, a colic in the belly, a turmoil in the heart, and reveals even deeper truths to me, which tell even more about my heart's intent than I ever knew existed. Why the relentless restlessness.

All this while I was looking into the enclosed, darkened room, searching for answers, getting distracted by a thousand suggestions ("Wai Jia, you should 'go out' more, you know, nothing wrong with dating..." ), feeling like they don't understand- when You took me by the arm and gently led me to Your side, so I could see view of the wide, open fields I had been missing all this while.

What beautiful spring flowers in lush, green fields. Spring flowers which would surely die had I tried to plant them in that dusty, darkened room.

With uninvited suggestions from all around, I neither like feeling torn nor confused. And just when I had been searching, seeking, knocking, an angel was sent to affirm me, affirm what I felt You had been telling me all this while:


That Singleness is a gift. That there is such a deep purpose in this time You have asked me to set aside, so I may get to know You with such profound intimacy. That this period is set aside for me to find perfect joy, wholeness and peace in You first, that it may be reflected in that special relationship when it finally comes. That it is a blessing, such a great blessing, to have my mind undistracted by relationships meant for a different season of my life.

That we first know You as a child, then servant, and friend but ultimately there come a time where we must know You as our lover. That it is only when we fill our insecurities and longings with You alone that we shall ever be fulfilled. That You love and adore us so incredibly that I shall never falsely place my worth in any other. That it is this focused clarity giving me such Oneness with You which will end in perfect consummation with You and any other.

That the deeper I go in You, the deeper I can go into any relationship- because marriage is the closest reflection of Your love for us. That You are so intensely jealous of me now that Your heart burns for me to know You more, that this is the season You desire my focused and most intimate conversations with You.

In the past, when I knew You only as a faraway father or king, I never knew what Your hug felt like. Those years when I was ill and battling insomnia too, Ed would sleep in with me and grope, making nights painfully anxious, dreadful. But now I've entered a season where I fall into sleep with Your eyes still watching me, as You lie next to me, waiting. And when I awake, your eyes never left from the point mine left Yours.


" God has given you certain special callings. How else can you fulfill them fully without knowing Him fully?"


There is some beautiful poetry in the bible called the Song of Songs, which taken literally, writes of the deeply sensual relationship between a woman and man, from courtship to consummation. Allegorically, however, it is a representation of the relationship between God and us as husband and wife.


Such is the passion which God burns with for us, and hopes for us to burn with for Him too. Unless we, as women, learn to bring our questions to Him, we will forever bring our insecurities to Adam, who, too, is fallen. And Eve shall never be content, shall forever be wounded, insecure, demanding for more. That hole will never go away.


Oh how my heart faints in weakness, but faints even more so for You.


The more I love You, the more I find myself whole. The more I love You, the more I can love myself, and others, too. And while my loving You neither quenches nor lessens the human desires within, it changes me to understand the profound depths of love I can now experience, and thus experience later on.


And I will not harden my heart and claim superficial independence from this yearning within which comes up with periodic precision... for I am neither Man nor God. I am woman. Instead, I surrender and admit my human vulnerability and feminine weakness. It is universal, after all. This shall only be for a season. And while my heart faints, God, I shall wait, because I know the time will come. And it will be in perfect Time. I would be properly whole, then.


But I take joy in knowing that even in my time of Waiting, I can rejoice that we are looking through an open window, from the right side. I can rejoice in the certainty that this season has a Purpose. I can rejoice without feeling torn nor confused that I'm not taking advice to go out, because I have heard You speak clearly to me, time and again. (Isn't it such a waste of time to do things at the wrong season? Like making spring blossoms grow in winter. Planting daisies in a darkened room.)


So I look at the lush, green fields, its ready harvest, and watch Your flowers grow in season, and with You by me, I feel my heart grow stronger.

" O daughters of Jeruselem, I charge you-

if you find my Lover,

what will you tell Him?

Tell Him I am faint with love."

- Song of Songs 5:8

I Understand Now.

* To find out how you may help underprivileged children and give them a chance to dream, please visit www.kitesongproject.wordpress.com.


When I was little, Christmas eve was the best day of the year. Best, better than birthdays, even, because no one forgot.

I believed in everything when I was a child- Santa (my mother told me he parked his sleigh on our living room balcony), tooth fairies (she used to put coins under my pillow because I told her how excited I was that my tooth fell out), princesses (I begged and asked if I could sleep on a thousand mattresses stacked my blankets like the Princess and the Pea, but settled for having my blankets tucked under my pillows the way they do in hotels so I’d feel more like royalty), smurfs even (I asked my mother if I could carry my things in a cloth bag tied to the end of a pole)… the list could go one forever. I had a vivid imagination.

When Christmas was around the corner, I remember I made my own cards to Santa, sealed them in an air-mail envelope, scrawled TO MR. SANTA, THE NORTH POLE over it, and drew my own stamp on the right hand side to top it all off. I remember clutching my envelope under my armpit proudly and trooping to the mailbox with a renewed sense of life's purpose, proudly depositing it into the box, sure that Santa would read my mail about my asking for a pony and a game set of Hungry Hippos. And if I didn’t get one for Christmas, I remember thinking I would forgive him because he must be too busy.

And then I learnt later that for Santa to deliver all the presents which childish brats world over want, he could only spend some millionth of a second at each stop; I learnt that it wasn’t possible for tooth fairies to carry international currency; I learnt that I’d much rather be a tough princess (like Belle in Beauty and the Beast) than a wimpy one; and I learnt from my mother that a five year-old carrying a long wooden pole to school might prove rather hazardous.

And so Christmas became about dinner, presents and tales. I did get a game set of Hungry Hippos in the end, under the Christmas tree, to which my mother promised the handwriting on the gift tag was certainly not hers, though it surprised her that it bore a strinking resemblence to Santa's.

Till much later, I never knew the true meaning of Christmas.


This year, things are different.


Christmas is, for once, not a frantic rush of shopping and giving, but a time of reflection, sitting back in gratitude and thanksgiving.


This year, Christmas is Special.


Special, because Grandpa Zhou enjoyed the Christmas concert last Saturday so much. It was apparent he might never have watched a theatre production, for he made comments, so earnestly and loudly, at all the crucial moments, that you couldn’t help but laugh at his child-like earnestness.

"Wa, is that really her singing? Her voice is so good!" He asks in mandarin, raising his voice above the loud tune.

"No, Grandpa Zhou, " I try to whsiper back. "It's a recording. She's lip synching, heh."

At the end of the production, when the True meaning of Christmas was explained, he put his hand high up, straight like a lightning rod, as a pledge of commitment to his new-found faith in life and God, after he decided that he wanted to be God’s friend, too. I cried at that moment, when he went up to the front, excited to be prayed for, for just a year ago, his disdain for God was apparent and disturbing.

“Wow, that was such a good play,” he said. “ Excellent acting. And wah, the sound system here is really really good, eh?”


This year, Christmas is Special.

Special, because this year, we’re going to perform a special Christmas skit to the fringe community in the red light district and give out food to the needy there.


Special, because so many of my wishes came true.


I have family and friends who love and care for me, a White Place that is still my refuge, school assignments and projects which I find joy and fulfillment doing, gatherings of people I love to attend, and a new roadbike too.


Christmas used to be about Santa’s presents, letters within a flower-bordered envelope sent to the North Pole, and yummy puddings. This year, as I shared the Christmas Story with many others as a volunteer along the roads of town, I finally understood for myself the significance of this season of forgiveness, of renewal and of new life.


Christmas is the day Jesus was born, the reason why I'm healed, joyful and alive today. Because of Him, I can look forward to tomorrow, too.


This year, there is every reason for Christmas to be dull and boring- after all, I just ended my exams but a few days ago, and hardly have had any chance to soak up the festive spirit; I don’t believe in Santa anymore; and I’ve hardly heard any Christmas songs because my radio’s gone wonky.


But Christmas is Special, most Special this year. Because Grandpa Zhou invited me to his church where they give out free food for lunch with him, because I’d the chance to volunteer for a good cause, because ha, I got a new roadbike as a present, and because, for once… I understand what it means. Christmas is not merely about festivity, Santa or carols.


I finally understand now- the True meaning of Christmas.


Forgiveness, renewal and new life-for me and for others, because of You.

All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet:

"The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son,

and they will call him Immanuel"

—which means, "God with us."

- Matthew 1:22-23

Afterthought.

Truth be told, I think the artist in me does love a good love story, does love the heroic grandeur, the caricature, the poetry, pursuit and passion. I am an artist, and foremost, human and a woman after all. But both fiction and artists scare me- them with their way with words, to turn sand into stardust, lillies into lures, gibberish to gold. After which, it all evaporates into effervescence, with nothing eternal left behind, only tangled feelings and messed up heads.

So I sit on a bench with a big-screen epic story playing behind me, while I play with my fingers and watch the sky. It scares me to know, I'm actually this scared.

Unromatically Romantic.

I've been labelled before-haven't we all? But Unromantic must be one I hold the greatest grudge against. That in particular, gently tossed at me years ago, felt like a baseball thrown at full speed into my nose. Unromantic- a label that would cause a serious allergic reaction to many an artist, I should think. For it evokes drabness, suggests a lack of creativity, impulse, life and spontaneity- everything an artist wouldn't be caught dead being associated with.

"That's UNTRUE." I defended myself, with great vehemence, as if it were slander.



But I could understand the misunderstanding, for my hatred towards love movies burns with a hellish passion which could spark a sodden matchstick into flames. I love a good story. And I'm an advocate for true love the way a tree-hugger may be for saving the earth. I would listen to a True love story any day, even gush and listen in wide-eyed wonder to it- but you'd have to chain my limbs and pry my eyes open with toothpicks to make me watch a Fictional love film without going into some sort of epileptic spasm.

Love stories, construed and weaved by pining minds which throw themselves into them with creative fervency, adding layers and layers of illusions, yearnings, lost hopes and fantasial endings seem to me a travesty of the entire notion of love itself.


I had just received news of another break-up a few days ago when a friend aptly declared this to be break-up season officially. I agreed, for I needed more than one hand to count the number of them I heard of recently.

It made me think, and only deepened my conviction that we're so young- just, so young. Often, I wondered if it were not so much incompatibility as much as timing which separated people eventually. I wondered if it were not the terribly prolonged period of courtship which led to both parties taking each other for granted, their sinking into a place of familiarity, losing the shimmer of captivation. With the season of break-ups coinciding with our turning 21, I wondered if it were not the milestone of entering a new phase of adulthood which made some feel oppressed, trapped and constrained by a clingy adolescent affection, which they wanted to grow out of. It made me wonder if entering adulthood made some long in nostalgia for the feelings of an enchantment long past, wondering if the present sullen stagnation were all there was to this grand thing called Love.

After all the imaginings, longings and expectations of our own versions of romantic love, adding to them ornate details from love movies and reading love novels of elope, heroism and extravagance, I wonder if one's own fantasial imaginings had brought us to a place of such colossal vitality and expectation that made our reality an utter disappointment.

And perhaps, that's why I don't fancy watching romantic fiction.


Just two days ago, as I walked along town as a volunteer to help share the Christmas Story with passers-by, I watched hand-holding couples as they walked by, some with bouquets, most completely oblivious to everything around them. Some had glazed gazes over their juvenile faces, full of the adoration only puppy love brings, where one revalues everything in the world according to the measure of response it draws from the other's well-loved eyes. I wondered if it may only be a matter of time before one of them felt penned in, tied down, stifled.

Once, a friend confronted me about this, as we discussed what it was that we were unready for. The answer surprised us. And I wondered if it were not the same answer to why so many teenage romances fall apart eventually, when the sparkling novelty of it all wears out. More than conflict, perhaps, was it disappointment?

Disappointment that reality didn't match up to the thousands of love stories one had read, watched, dreamt about, that no one told them the aftermath of "happily ever after", that no one expected that loving another could be so humbling, down-to-earth and plain.

I'd met couples who were off to a heady start, only to come to an abrupt end after the fire fizzed out. Once, a missionary told me, " We never thought we'd marry each other. We looked so unlikely- he's short, I'm tall, he never really struck me as good-looking at all, and I was going out with many other boys who seemed far more charming... but you know, when you're going to do mission work for the rest of your life with someone, it's not the heady feelings which'll see you through the tough times, but as plain as it sounds, the strength of your friendship and vision you share. We're best friends, and that's what sees you through."

I wondered, why the head-over-heels, crazy-in-love kind of experience often had such a short lifespan, why the long-lasting sort often had such a subtle, quiet face- and if they were mutually exclusive. I wondered if I'd be unlucky enough to land in the first, disappointed in the latter, and if it were possible to have both.


Disappointment. It is the discontentment which kills.


Love comes in so many forms, or so I've heard- in the way he does the dishes, the way she lets him drive without interrupting, the way he listens to her rant because it's the time of the month, the way she swallows her pride so they don't get into an argument. And I don't want any star-studded movie film or bestselling fiction book to define the shape of it for me, raise any expectations unintentionally, kill what already may be pretty darn close to perfect- just because my own love found doesn't look like what's on the big screen, or smell like half of the puffed-up dream I dreamed up from Disney.


Is it not more romantic to be content, than to constantly be reminded of the stark contrast between one's reality and fantasy on the big screen, albeit unintentionally? If love is so great, why make it fiction?


Maybe I'm afraid of disappointment, still. Maybe I'm not ready. Perhaps I don't even know what I'm talking about since I don't have first-hand experience. Or maybe, I'm just plain unromantic-


- though really, I hardly think so.

One heart.

I didn't realise it's been a whole year since I met Grandpa Zhou. A whole year since I made friends with him who I thought to be a terribly rude and ungrateful old busker sitting by the train station, who used to wave off the notion of God and subscribed more to the religion of Mao Ze Dong more than anything else. A whole year since I brought him to the community health clinic because his deformed feet swelled from malnutrition. It's been a year, he's been much better- and he's stopped drinking, too. Now, instead of only eating white bread and soup daily, he has proper meals three times a week at a church near his home which gives out free lunches to the needy. His complexion is no longer sallow, and he looks much better, too.

"I like that place so much, the people are so nice to me," he says.


Just two days ago, I went to visit him again to give him some things. One by one, he took out each item from the bag and recited all the ingredients to me. His eyes glowed when he saw the pack of instant coffee- "My favourite brand! OWL BRAND!"

The people who are Nice or Mean to him. His meals. My future career. My future marriage. Chinese politics. God. These are the topics over which our friendship was sealed over 12 months.

Just a year ago, he was rude and mean to me when I first met him. And I wanted to scowl at his audacious ingratitude. But God's love was big enough for both myself and him, and so two hearts became one over time, over our chats on the grimy steps of the train station, beneath the stares of passers-by. " You God-believing people are so good to me. You know, I think God is real. I believe you now. I feel so happy when I sing the songs they teach us at that church when we have lunch. I've made so many friends- and none of them look down on me! "

This Saturday, we're attending dinner and Christmas celebrations at my White Place together.



We were just chatting, as usual, in Mandarin by the dirty steps of the train station, and it was he who asked me about my future, again.

"Yeah, it's great that you want to be a missionary doctor in future. But you know, you mightn't ever find anyone who might like to do this kind of work. Ever."

His frankness should've appalled me, but I've gotten used to his candid honesty, which in some ways, match my own.

"That's not true, Grandpa Zhou. I actually do know people like that," I said matter-of-factly. A year ago, the same statement might have shaken, unnerved me a bit, but a year later, I find myself at peace.

"Really? Ha, okay. Say... say you meet someone you really, really like- handsome, smart, from a similar background as yourself- in short you find him irresistable, but he doesn't want to do this kind of work... then what're you going to do?"

I laughed at the hypothetical question, then frowned because I was trying so hard to imagine myself being captivated by someone who didn't have the same heart as I did, trying so hard to imagine why God would put me in such a dilemma. But I took him a little seriously, lest it was a warning, though in my head, it seemed impossible, and I laughed out loud.

"Not possible," I giggled. I was trying with all my strength to imagine such a situation but I simply couldn't. I wondered if it was my charming insouciance which unnerved him a bit.

" Ah, that's what you say now, young one. You never know, you just, never know. What if, eh? What if. You're so young... ... BUT. If you do find someone whose heart beats as ONE with yours, then... you'll be very very blessed! "

I laughed. Then resolved to remember this moment, and find time to write down what God told me about my future White Knight. I'd written it down before- I ought to look for it. When 2 people come together, surely their hearts must beat as one, together with God's- as one big One, no?

Last week I met a missionary doctor from America, introduced to me from the previous missionary I had met at the recent medical outreach event I attended. She's been travelling alone to India, Indonesia, all over the world for years alone, serving the poor and healing the sick.

I knew the answer to my burning question to her but I asked anyway. "Do you get lonely?"


" I still wish I had someone with me, the longing never goes away. And people back home in USA chide me for travelling so much- they say I ought to go home to find someone. Why can't I help the poor in America? But you know before I left, I tried to negotiate with God my reasons for staying behind... and I knew deep inside that none of them were valid. Job security, finding a soulmate, familiar faces... what are these to me when my heart is with the poor?"

She looked at the book in my hands- A Chance to Die by Amy Carmichael. "You know that remarkable single woman left everything she had in Ireland to serve in India. When she died, her heart was buried there."

And I reached the point where tears built up behind my eyes. I was trying hard not to cry- I didn't want her to feel embarrassed by her sacrificial love she thought of as hardly significant in comparison to how God loved her. But when we parted, my hug was probably one bit too tight, my voice one bit too shaky when I thanked her.

One heart. She couldn't find anybody else's which beat in sync with hers, so she left anyway, to do the good work she felt called to do, with her ear pressed to the bosom of her Father's heartbeat. When I spoke to her, she was full of joy, with no regrets. And I knew if she had made a compromise, her One heart would break in two.



It's so Important to find a heart that beats like yours. Important, and not impossible, I still maintain.


Just last night, a friend called me just to tell me, "I'm attached and I wanted you to hear it from me." I could have cried when I heard who she was with. I looked up so much to her. A graduate from dentistry, we often talked about doing medical mission work in the future. She has a heart of gold, and I often wondered if she would end up serving the poor alone. "He's such a good man, " I said. "I'm so happy for you."

When I graduate, things will somehow fall into place. Before she graduated, she couldn't imagine her future either. But at the right time, things just fall into place, I suppose. I don't know why I feel such a strange peace about this- I never did before.


So I'll keep my heart in One piece for now, One with God who has called me, till the day I graduate and wait till another finds mine, where us three can become One. The day that happens, I know I'll remember that moment on those dirty grimy steps, and I hope I'll still be in touch with Grandpa Zhou to tell him with the cheeky giggle and charming insouciance I always talk to him with, " I told you so, ya?"


Ha.

"Delight yourself in the Lord,

and He will give you the desires of your heart."

-Psalm 37:4

Self-discovery, All over again.

The parallel is striking. Just as how my life collapsed and shrunk inwards, backwards when depression seeped in, I almost feel an exponential starburst of growth outwards, upwards as I continue to walk forwards into life, again.

I hadn't realised it until lately- the extent which the darkness had stunted my growth in my first two years of medical school. Groping in the dark and losing my balance, I withdrew further and further away from people, medicine and life. I quit dancing, enjoying music, eating, cooking, concentrating, simply- living. And now that I've started to breathe again, started to be surprised at the extent to which how little I could concentrate in class in the past, I'm exulting in the infinite freedom and joy that new life brings, which is mindblowing, overwhelming, to say the least.

It is as if I've returned to life with a Vengeance, and all at once, I find myself immersed in good literature, and the million things which I had drifted away from for 2 years. As I discovered my appetite for food again, I discovered an insatiable hunger for beauty, music, medicine and life too. All at once, I discover I am concentrating better, and have the capacity to try harder to- something I found impossible to once upon a time. All at once, I want to dance to the music, want to master the flute, want to write, paint, move, sing, and study medicine, too. All at once, I want to try new things, things I was too afraid to do- like learning a new genre of dance, listening to new genres of music, cooking new foods, trying new sports, learning world history, writing and painting a new Story that's still hibernating in my head. It's about Trains, and Growing Up.


I used to be so afraid, because I couldn't trust if I could let go enough without losing my balance.


But now that I've found God as my ultimate anchor whom I can trust in storms, it is as if I am living Life again for the first time, and I'm no longer afraid to. It feels like I am discovering a person within whom I never knew before- I had been living in the black box for so long that I no longer knew who I was, what it was which I liked or didn't like. And now, it amuses me even to discover I that I do like to dance, as much as I say that I can't or don't, and that I do like ketchup- and quite a lot too.

I took myself to a symphonic concert last week. On a whim. It was something I'd never done before. I'd taken myself to arthouse movies, plays, art exhibitions before, but not to a musical concert. I never quite had the ear for music- memories of The Piano Teacher From Hell still gives me goosebumps. I'd learnt the drums before, then taken vocal lessons- but never found it within me to perform. Then one morning I woke up and decided to try again, dialled the number in the classified ads and signed up for flute lessons. I can't believe how much I like playing music now, and unspeakable thanks goes to The Piano Teacher From Long Ago.

I am beginning to challenge the boundaries I set for myself, the rules which no longer make sense, question the fences I'd unwittingly built- out of fear, anxiety, for a lack of confidence.

It was a spontaneous decision. That evening, I just decided I wanted to listen to music alone. Like the way I decide sometimes that the pouring rain may be just perfect to walk right into.

There was a special segment where the children's choir sang. And as I listened to them and the orchestra and allowed the carols, symphonies to lull, tease and grip me, I found a star shining above me, a flower blooming within me, and a million little broken pieces, broken by fear, finding their way to one another to piece together a part of my heart, an Artist's heart, which had withered in the darkness. And by myself, in the midst of the music, away from the maddening crowd, away from companionship and banter, I think I found my Centre again.


It was glowing, and growing. It was pulsating, restless in the light.


I had never experienced anything quite like that feeling. Not for a long time. And the more I explore, the more I find myself amused, amazed, tickled at the vast, vast beauty of this Big, BIG world God has created, that I hid away from for the many months of my life. You mean He made this good food, and good music and good colours? And bicycles and dance and voices pretty as birds'?

And as one of the children's voices rang high, crystal-clear, vulnerable with a tinge of tremulity, up into the concert hall, some hard, dead thing within me broke open and tears started streaming down my cheeks.

The artist in me suddenly choked into life again, like a rusty steam train beginning on its five-thousand-mile journey. For so long I hovered between sickness and healing- my voice cracked into a squeak whenever I sang in front of people, my body always froze when I felt watched, though it was charged to move to a tune. And now I think the dead, hard thing is broken, I think I can find the courage and stead to live, dance, sing again. And at that moment of realisation, I was happy.


So on that concert seat in the huge esplanade auditorium, I started to cry.


I was happy listening to music I never appreciated before. Happy to discover it, and discover myself in the process. Happy being by myself, letting myself move with the music- yes good music always moves you, I insist. Happy that I could come away from the busyness to be alone for a bit, for a quiet moment where my time wasn't demanded of, where I was neither judged nor measured up to.


And all at once, I think my Centre found its way back to where it always belonged to- back to my heart, back Home, where a girl, now no longer so little anymore, with her twirling skirt and paintbrush and hair let down, can dance and move and sing, exultantly, joyfully, with neither fear nor inhibition, to the music once lost, in the sunshine once hidden.

It was a happy feeling.

Like a Grain of Wheat.

Two weekends ago, we had a thanksgiving dinner at my publisher's home. It was Special, because it was the first time we all met together to give thanks for this humbling journey since Kitesong began. It was Special, because the Kitesong DVD (more details soon) had just been launched and it was the first time we all got together in one place to watch it. It was Special, because on that table filled with a sumptuous home-made spread, I discovered that I was set free, much recovered from that darkness of anorexia and depression, as I enjoyed the meal with ease and contentment, gratitude and joy.

I looked at the DVD cover and a flower of thanks bloomed within me, thanking God for the lessons I learnt about faith, humility and trust through this journey. Beneath the word Kitesong on the DVD cover were the credits in small font, and I knew deep down inside that it was Him who deserved the most credit of all.


The Kitesong DVD is His, not ours, nor mine.


When the first draft of the DVD cover, designed by my publisher, was sent to me, it was perfect, except for one thing- my name, just right there in large print, stood out like a sore thumb. I didn't put the DVD together- it is the product of the initiative and generosity of my publisher and his beautiful wife, the genuinity of one of national day composers-Sydney Tan, and the digital animation of Digidreams director Gilbert Yeo himself. The DVD helps to raise funds for needy children and youth all over the world- and it was Ps Norman (who heads the Methodist missions society that runs all these orphanages) who suggested expanding the cause to benefit more children.

So we took my name in large print off the cover, save for the credits in small font, and it felt right that way. After all, the DVD was truly a collaborative effort, and my publisher and his wife claimed no credit, though they sponsored and thought of it.


It was through a little child which God spoke to me, about being small and humble enough to be used by Him. The smaller we are, the bigger God can be for us. It echoed Loren Cunningham's words (founder of Youth With A Misson): God can't use you if you're proud.

I was at Sunday School at my White Place, talking to kids again. I love children, and I always like to ask them for their favourite colours, after which I ask them to guess mine. Little Sarah exclaimed randomly, "PURPLE AND YEELLOOW!!"

Whatever answer they give is undoubtedly right because I love all colours. "Yes!" I answered in mock astonishment and excitement, much to her delight, "How did you know?" I watched her squirm in childish glee.

"Haha, and I have one more favorite colour. That's WHITE. Colour of my dress, see?"


At this juncture, I always ask, "Darling, do you remember my name?"

Most of them can't remember, for a chinese name can be quite a mouthful for young ones. I've seen frowns, sheepish smiles, tiny fingers scratching their heads, but nothing prepared me for Little Sarah's response, and the revelation I got from it.


" CAN I CALL YOU JIEJIE (big sister) WHITE-DRESS?"


"What? Haha, my name is Wai Jia, dear. Try again- wwwaaaaii jiiiiia. Jiejie Wai Jia."



"JIE JIE WHITE-DRESS!!!"


It was like a veil from a window was torn before me, and the sunshine brightened a darkened room.


The more I know God, the more I see the importance and beauty of a humble heart, one which works in quietude and faithfulness, without need for affirmation, recognition or applaud from the world.


Little Sarah made me question if I could find complete fulfillment behind the scenes, let God be Big for me, without needing a gold medal on my breast, and my name to claim credit for. She brought me back to the beginning, where all our gifts and experiences are from God, where we can give thanks for everything, with humility and gratitude, because nothing I have is mine. She reminded me of the thousands of nameless missionaries who give up their whole lives for others, working faithfully and silently for the good of others, without their names splashed across headlines for the wonderful work they do.


Can I be like a grain of wheat? Humble and small, nameless, and yet full of potential, able to be used by God to bless others?


And as I fingered the DVD cover, I thanked God for the joy in my heart, which would never have been there two years ago. It went against the old me- and I felt His pleasure when I found myself different, able to let things go, happy and utterly content.


I think about how my life has changed since I found my life with God, how Kitesong has transformed my perspective on so many things, how more and more, I find joy and fulfillment in simplicity, humility, and quietness. I think about White, about how as a citizen of God's White kingdom, I have the privilege to marvel at the Bigness of heaven instead of myself.


I think about White light, how though it illuminates all creation around it in incandescent beauty and truth, it is in itself invisible.


For all its worth, it claims no credit.


And then I find myself, though having my human ego just a tad short of being slightly bruised, having a heart of thanksgiving and being courageous, confident and carefree to say in reply to Little Sarah....


... "Yes darling Sarah. You can call me Jiejie White-dress."

" The characteristic of a devoted life to God

is its seeming insignificance and its meekness.

It is like a grain of wheat that

'falls to the ground and dies'-

it will spring up and change the entire landscape- (John 12:24)."

-paraphrased from

My Utmost for His Highest, Owsald Chambers

"He must increase, but I must decrease."

-John 3:30

Money Matters.

It ought to have been a very simple decision of purchase. But like a man paralysed from the neck down, I could summon no strength to buy what my heart so desired, burning within the furnace of my will. God's voice came first as a tiny whisper, then a niggling feeling in my bosom. I had absolutely no peace about it. Worse, I couldn't place a finger on... why.

It ought to have been a very simple decision of purchase. After discovering the joys of cycling, I wanted a roadbike to start training for a duathlon. I had sufficient savings, my parents were mostly supportive, and I'd found a great second-hand bike a friend wanted to sell off at a good price. "So, do you like it?" my parents kept asking me-I think they wanted to pay for it.

Something I couldn't place my finger on niggled at me. I couldn't bring myself to pay the sum- it was the same amount I had decided to set aside to sponsor children for the next year. And while I did have sufficient savings to do both, I began to realise how pertinent the stewardship of money is. For all my heart about helping underprivileged children, I began to realise that this money is not my own- but God's money.

All my life I've been privileged. Being the youngest of two in the family gives me special rights to hardly-worn hand-me-downs. I receive branded clothes from my sister, jewellery from relatives and friends, make-up from church aunties, so I've never had to struggle too much with the issue of spending on myself- what I like, I already have to begin with. Save for me, my entire family has an astute sense for financial management. But I thank God that for all my financial idiocy, I can give whenever I feel like it, and still have enough.

Lately we spent some money to buy a flute because I wanted to learn it. Somehow, that gave me peace because I could bless others with it. If I invited Grandpa Zhou or the poor to my home, I would gladly show it to them and entertain, perhaps even perform with Grandpa Zhou with his harmonica. When I practise, I feel God's pleasure.

But a roadbike which cost hundreds of dollars (a basic decent one easily costs more than a thousand dollars) sitting in my living room, which served no other purpose than the fulfillment of my own athletic desires... I feared would be a monstrosity. I thought I might hide it if I invited the poor over. I imagined myself visiting the disadvantaged, holding their hands in empathy, or giving them a tour of my home and then having to answer for the bike... and tears stung my face as I thought of the hypocrisy of it all. It would stumble myself, even.

It's not wrong to buy a bike, I know. And this really is a relatively small decision to make. But how I fear it will not end there. First comes the roadbike, then a helmet to go with it, a bottle cage, a podometer, bike shoes, bike clothes, bike gloves, sunglasses... it could go on forever. While now it may -just- be a bike, who knows the excuses the deceitful heart will come up with when I have the resources to buy a swanky car, a nice house? It comes down to a matter not of affordability (because you can afford it) but simply, choice. More money on yourself means less for others. More on myself means a tighter budget to buy food, education and shelter for less privileged children.

Missionary doctors have warned me time and again of the lures of this world. You'll be able to afford plenty of things when you start working. But buy a house and car here in Singapore and you can forget about missions. Possessions have a great hold over people.

And I wondered if this were not just a symbolic decision I had to make, not unlike buying an expensive possession like what the missionary doctors referred to. One question I ask myself to keep myself in check is- if someone stole this, how devastated would I be? Quite, I thought. And I felt the sickening grip of an extravagant possession tighten around my neck like a noose. Tears streamed down again, as I thought of what I felt challenged to do- would you be all right if I asked you to use all your savings to sponsor kids this year? Forgo one bike to educate a few more underprivileged children in Africa and Sri lanka and buy them lunch, uniforms and household items in 2009?

The more honorable decision seemed obvious, but it stung. Tis the first time I've had to struggle with a monetary decision such as this.

I want to feel God's pleasure when I ride, not His hurt.

And I was a little upset when I asked God why it was that other people didn't struggle with this like I do. How come you don't ask them what you're asking me? But I knew God has other plans.

I was at a medical outreach carnival yesterday. It was organised to reach out to migrants and sex workers in our fringe community, to bless them with a free medical screening. I met a missionary from Mercy Relief who sat me down as we connected immediately. In terms of goals and personality, we had so much in common. Her Story made me cry. She lives frugally, and yet is blessed. She trusts God to provide for everything, even for her desires. I asked her about the roadbike. She didn't discourage me either. God gives good gifts to His children, too, you know, she said. My close friend had told me, I don't think it's wrong, but why don't you wait on God for a bit since He's speaking to you about something?


It ought to be a straightforward decision, but it is symbolic, I think, of the attitude of my heart. And it is the process, more than the outcome I think, that would shape the kind of person I become. I don't think the end-point is as important as what God wants me to learn through this process. He is challenging me about issues of stewardship, money and cent-sibility (pardon the pun). He is revealing to me the weaknesses of my flesh, humbling me and making me aware of my flesh. He is preparing me for the life I may have ahead if He continues to call me to missions.

I know God gives good gifts to His children. So He may still choose to bless me with a bike in the end, but I want to know that the decision was measured and matured, not impulsive and indulgent. I want to feel God's pleasure when I ride. I want to know it is a good gift from Him.

I am learning- I am not perfect. And what He demands from me is not so much an ascetic life as much as a heart that is sensitized to His voice, a heart longing to learn His lessons. I don't know when this struggle will end- but I pray by God's grace, it does, be it in the form of having the peace to forgo the roadbike altogether, or finding a bike which I know was a gift from Him. But perhaps the most important lesson is to wait on God. Just, to wait patiently for peace and the lessons birthed through this experience.

And when I finally do learn what I sense Him teaching me about money, stewardship and sensibility, maybe, just maybe, God might answer in an unexpected way. Or maybe, just maybe, I might find infinite joy elsewhere, too.

"What shines forth and reveals God in your life

is not your relative consistency to and idea of what a saint should be,

but your genuine, living relatipnship with God,

and your unrestrained devotion to Him...

God's purpose is not to perfect me to make me a trophy in His showcase;

He is getting me to the place where He can use me. "

- My Utmost for His Highest, Oswald Chambers