25 May 2012

24 April 2012

He Laughs

I'm at home, eating a lunch of rice, fried egg, spicy potatoes and gravy. There's a little boy in the house who is sick and with fever. He is his parent's golden child - borne to them late in life, and cherished beyond reason. His name is Isaac, and in two manners he is very much like the Isaac of the Old Testament. 1) His parents had him in their later years, and 2) He really does laugh a lot (Isaac means 'He laughs').

He cannot fall asleep unless his head is on his father's chest, his mother says, with pride. Little Isaac refuses to go anywhere or do anything unless his parents are with him. Last night we were accompanied by his wailing, which crescendoed as and when he could muster an inch of strength - his father had left, late in the night, to conduct a Bible class for migrant workers, and he was visibly (and verbally) upset.

He is a curious child, often poking his nose in things and running around like a stray bullet. He refuses to eat, as children often do, in preference for play. He occasionally smacks his mother's face to get her attention, and they never raise their voice, even when he was about to lick the side-view mirror of a parked car.

We drove home after a visit to the clinic. The day's activities were swiftly put on hold. And now I'm at home, trying to finish some urgent work before I try to make dinner (of rice! oh how much I have forgotten), and feeling a little (just a little) unwell myself.

16 April 2012

Psalm 90:12

It was said at work today, that if anything happened to anybody at our church, we'd be like sheep without a shepherd, as both our congregational pastors are away. But nothing could possibly happen, surely? Perhaps? Our fold is made up of mostly young people, surely nothing could happen. Not in a day or two. One of the pastors return tomorrow. Surely all will be as it is.

But tonight something did happen. We lost someone, just hours ago. We lost a man who drew his dreams and painted his visions. A father, husband, friend. All his face was kind. He always asked about my father, and he did that just yesterday at church. In my heart I had wanted to ask him to perhaps have a drink with my father, again, soon.

Evidence that life is fragile, fleeting.

I remember him painting the backdrop for our Christmas play a few years ago. He bought, built and painted the boards. And the mural at the kids' shelter which he did in his own spare time, after we had stripped and repainted the house.

We can never be sure of anything. Who are we to say we know for sure our tomorrows? We are fools if we say we do.

Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. (Psalm 90:12)

9 April 2012

A Late Afternoon Japanese Snack





Cold buckwheat noodles (soba) now brings to mind that elderly gentleman in that restaurant in the subway station. His deft movements of picking up just enough noodles, dipping them in the little cup while smearing it with just enough wasabi.

Also, it's time for some change.

3 April 2012

Remote Control

When I left my teaching job, I never did think life will pan out this way. Two years of ambling, seeking for stability, answers to uncertainty, and working at odd jobs that were pretty odd. Instant noodle days when money ran low. Asking myself why every time I carted cartons of milk up to the kitchen. Struggling through seminary as I faced my own (lack of) authenticity towards my faith. Having no answers when my parents crumpled their faces in disdain over my apparently 'bohemian and foolish' lifestyle. Having no answers when people ask me what I do (actually, I'm not sure myself) or what's next (waiting - no, really, waiting).

Two years now and I'm no longer single, am finally employed for the work I've been waiting for for more than two years, but still left with a sense of uncertainty. It's a sense of uncertainty that will follow us for the rest of our lives if we seek to live our lives not for ourselves. It's the sense of uncertainty that comes when you stick your feelers out to find out from Him what's next, or where to now. Uncertainty because you've let go of the remote control.

Not an uncertainty that leaves you fearful, anxious or alone.

I never liked uncertainty. I do prefer being sure (Dave finds this annoying - I like to find out the end of a film if I can help it. I've already wiki-ed the next 2 sequels of The Hunger Games). But these two years taught me to consider it, and to make peace with it.