The Lions’ Den

So today we returned to a familiar tale from our Sunday school days – of a man who was thrown into the lions’ den for his defiance of the law, but by a miracle of God, emerged alive and in one piece.

I noted with bemusement at how the boys run things. They adopt a straight down the line, mechanical, step1-to-step2 type methodology. Everything is logical, calculated, sterilized even. The events must be chronologically laid out. The narrative must be coherent. The characters and their motivations have to make some sort of sense. It is a critical operation of scouring through the text verse-by-verse, picking apart the inconsistencies and taking note of the nuances, analysing and breaking down to minute packages of digestible detail.

On a side note, I think we girls have much to learn from that. Perhaps this led on from lunch conversation, where we were contesting the appeal of American soaps to the lay-woman. Often, they feature the emotionally-charged female protagonist with her posse of equally neurotic gal-pals. Together, as they go about painting the town (Wisteria Lane, Tree Hill, Seattle Grace, Upper East Side Manhattan, Beverly Hills, whatever) red, they inadvertently sometimes promulgate messages. The promise that ‘everything that you ever wanted’ (McDreamy, for instance) can be yours even though you’re a little bit damaged. It’s okay to cry a little, to be crazy for a bit, to be demanding for just a little more. And we sometimes celebrate all that in the name of self-respect, or independence (whatever tagword they use these days), because we’re all beautiful and princesses and yada yada.

I sometimes, just call it being spoilt.

On the flipside, there is then the glaring lack of emphasis on contemporary examples of male bonding or kinship. The notion of brothers, who band together around beer and peanut shells strewn all over the floor. No matter the occasional derogatory talk that objectifies females, or the distasteful random toilet joke, they have each others’ back, and sometimes (maybe, hopefully) drum some sense into each other and help their fellas learn a lesson or two. This has become increasingly rare, in my opinion, and all the more precious for it.

Anyway, I’m going off tangent, and that is a conversation for another day.

So, the discussion in this room over deeply-fried food, amongst this band of brothers, was somewhat tiresome for me. Faced with cold, hard, sterile facts, I found myself fidgeting in frustration at some points, mentally asking in exasperation, “What is the point of nit-picking over whether Daniel was the third highest ruler or the highest ruler in the kingdom?” But I soon grew to realise that debate over the most seemingly insignificant of detail was but one of the leading points, a foretaste if you will, yielding insight into much larger questions.

And so, we do it the boys’ way for once, which is also how we find ourselves painting quite the different portrait:

Daniel isn’t young or handsome. He is old, probably in his eighties, coming out of semi-retirement, weary from being forgotten generation after generation, and yet, still proving to be a formidable force of resilience to be reckoned with. Our Daniel isn’t perched on a rock, eyes raised towards heaven and hands positioned in prayer, bathed in pale moonlight. He is probably cowering in a corner, rocking back and forth to calm himself, all the while sweating, shuddering, praying profusely that hope against hope, that lions won’t be hungry. And they, these fearsome kings of the beasts, aren’t lying by his feet like obedient dogs sitting by their master, docile and drowsy. They are probably licking their lips and gnashing their teeth, on the prowl, taking prideful powerful strides around Daniel like sharks circling their kill.

Only, the difference is that their mouths are sealed shut.

It is true how we always pray for escape. We ask for a way out. We call on God for rescue. We desperately plead for pardon. We pray, more often than not, for the pain and suffering to be taken away from us. Oh, would You spare us this ordeal? Oh would You reach in with Your mighty hand and smite our enemies, and lift us up from this mess we’ve created?

But perhaps we shut out the real message that is really, quite unpleasant to the ears, that -

• the best lessons are learnt through the harshest, and cruelest of ordeals.
• you need to fall down, before you can learn how to pick yourself up.
• death comes before resurrection, the rise again.

And that is why people are frustrated with Christianity. That is why we think that our prayers go ‘unheard’. We are disillusioned with notions of miraculous windfalls and taken in by grand prosperity gospels. The thing is, the system won’t go away, the suffering doesn’t stop. But God can reach in with His mighty hand and manipulate the machinery, tweak the screws and bolts, to make things go His way, to make the system, serve Him. He can teach you to brave anything, but only by the process of breaking your heart and toughening your skin.

It reminds me of all my close shaves with failure. The times when I’ve stared it in the face, and snubbed my nose at it; When a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card was delivered into my hands, and I got away, scot-free. I used to call it luck, a fluke-shot, only to realize that really, it was God’s grace, a blessing, favour. However today, I find myself standing at a point again where the reality of failure is very imminent before me. And although, that I perhaps should count myself fortunate, to have been spared from it time and time again, but when and if it does come – this time – to knock, and then break and enter, I will have to learn to let it ransack all that I hold dear, plunder and pillage.

And with what is left, with all these broken pieces, still find wholeness and restoration.

But wait,
I’m also thinking about the dens I audaciously walk into, the lions I willingly throw myself at.

Was Daniel challenging God when upon hearing the decree being made, threw open his windows and made a blatant show of his devotion?

Am I making a farce of God’s grace by refusing to fly from this? And so this is where I evaluate my motivations for still being here. But I want to be here. I so do. I’m not really to leave yet. Don’t take me out of this situation. I would really, do anything for you. Those were but some of the rationalizations that buzzed through my head. Perhaps, there is a reason why I’m still here. Perhaps this pain is necessary.

And so, today’s lesson seemed like my brand of self-soothe medication. A justification for this insanity. But now I’ve got to ask myself some vital questions -

Does it make me noble? Am I truly selfless? Have I crossed the fine line between helping someone and having a Messiah complex?

OR

Does the implicit expectation of something, anything in return (consciously, or not) negate sacrifice? Is this love a selfish one? One that serves a personal agenda, one that is a slave to nothing but mere cowardice and fear of my greatest fear itself.

Have I laid down my life, where it isn’t needed?

All but a vain sacrifice & a sacrifice in vain.

The Win

I wouldn’t have picked myself to be so taken by the US elections. True, I only caught onto the bandwagon at the last, but thankfully, finest possible moment… but, better late than never, eh?

To be honest, I have never watched him actually speak before on the campaign trail. And yet, today my attention was transfixed on the screen, feeling a strange surge of support for the man, not really knowing why. Even still, from my primitive understanding of American politics, and my piteous knowledge of economics and climate change, there was something momentous about hearing the gracious words of an old, war veteran as he conceded defeat. Offering his support to this young, daring upstart, at the expense of personal ambition, in the name of a higher allegiance to country. And of course, I believe anyone, educated or not, would be able to appreciate the sanctity of this moment, to see a white and black family embrace each other in goodwill on the same platform.

Several news reports and conversations later, S forwarded me the link to Obama’s infomercial. Hungry for information, I sat through the 27 minutes of an outline of the proposed change and the policies he intends to implement in a nutshell; all narrated in a calm voice, with a picture-perfect smile and carefully measured poise. Today, I’m still reeling from the emotions conjured by the landslide win, and lapping up every article I can find, just so that these unfounded good feelings towards the guy may be grounded on some sort of substantiated basis.

Lack of general knowledge aside, I’m just thankful, really. Thankful for being alive in this day and age, to be born into this middle-class family, at this level of the socio-economic system that allows me to be given opportunities to partake in the life and history of these three countries.

It is a precious, wonderful thing to witness history in motion. I remember the last time I had this feeling was on the 11th of September in 2001, of course, under a very different context altogether. All the same, be it at the other extreme of the continuum ‘twixt fear and hope, it is just this sense of being one in a multitude, and yet, knowing that by even being – by living and breathing and thinking and feeling, you are participating in a far greater story that will ever be told. A collective story. The story of mankind. A profound tale of the human race, pressing through its struggles and waging its wars, capable of the ugliest brutality and the most passionate love. But oh, when the beauty of all things fragile and imperfect peek out from underneath the brokeness; when the weak summon strength and courage they never knew they had to overcome impossible odds; when hope seemingly dies and resurrects itself in the face of darkness;

It is good. It is very good.

And so I can’t help but think that he got it absolutely right when he said that, “Our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared.” Neither can I help feeling like I want to rise to my feet and join in with the rousing applause that resounded through the square as he took the podium. And oh, was that a tear welling in my eye?

I now believe that we are all significant. I now understand the powerful significance of Obama’s rise to the presidential seat. He fought against tradition, against youth, against even the colour of his own skin. It is a symbol of conquering the impossible, an embodiment of hope, a message that heralds the coming of change. It rings loud and clear. And yet, I still found myself wondering, doubting. There is that niggling, annoying voice that hisses scathingly,“Impossible? That’s not for you. It’s too hard. There is always going to be someone bigger, faster, smarter than you. No matter what you do, nothing is going to change.”

But today, I refuse to listen to it. I expose it for the lie that it is. Perhaps, it is like forefathers who dreamed and passed on before getting the chance to enjoy the fruits of their labour. But they seemed to understand something fundamental, that the reason why they slaved would be realized by a future generation. No matter that they would not live to see it come to pass. And today, when what was fiction transcends into reality, it can truly be said – No one goes unnoticed, no life is insignificant. We all make our mark on the world, just by being here. Some will make bigger impressions, some will make smaller impressions, but an imprint all the same. Unique and irreplaceable in its own way. From president, to white-collar middle-class worker, to teacher, to soldier, to farmer, to student, to starving child in Africa, to doctor, to prisoner, to farmer, to celebrity, to police man, to football housewife, to yes… even little ol’ me, wannabe-psychologist.

I think I will endeavour to read the news more often from now. I finally understand why my father would incessantly badger me all those Saturday mornings to sit down and read the newspaper. I finally recognise the importance of keeping abreadth of what is going on in our world. Because as far removed as it sounds, everything is a cause and effect. Everything filters down, from decisions that are made at the highest seats of power, trickling down to the rest of us commonfolk, busying about our seemingly mundane, daily lives. It is our world, and who is there but us to take ownership of it? There is so much to learn, so much to understand, so many issues to grapple with, and wrestle through, and debate to the ground. Issues that shape the course of our lives, guide the way our family units function, the fields in which we spend the majority of our daylight hours harvesting, that determine whether there’s going to be bread on the table at dinnertime.

I envy the lost plasticity of childhood. They say that your mind is like a dry sponge when you’re young, that soaks, and soaks, and soaks some more. Learning should always be like that. Rich and effortless. But I hope I’m not too late. I shiver in anticipation again, as I dare to dip these toes gingerly into these streams of information – to be overwhelmed by the wealth of it, to be swept up in its current, to be completely immersed in its abundance.

I want in.

I am not an American citizen, but I’d like to think that I’m a citizen of the world. He may not be our president, but I believe that the decisions he makes will extend its influence beyond their shores to the rest of us, all watching on. I also appreciate the cautionary tales that are circulating about the importance of exercising discernment in choosing the people in whom we put our belief and trust in. After all, we have all seen the great heights from which to fall from whenever we thrust people on a pedestal. I like how he emphasises that he is not infallible, that change is slow and arduous, while at the same time, promulgating that there is hope yet.

And so, it is on that note, that my sincerest prayer is that he be able to have the fortitude to weather the storms that are brewing in the distance, that he be able to rise up to the responsibilities that have been entrusted into his hands, that he be given the wisdom to navigate the crises his country faces, and the strength to uphold the promises that he’s made to the people.

Time will tell.

But for once, I’d like to, actually, let us enter with the people of America into this “dawn of a new era” (so they have dubbed it), with the mindset that perhaps yes,

Yes we can.

Desperation

Maybe I’m 3 years too slow, but I’m discovering the sounds of Desperation Band. It’s funny how I find myself returning to this, after all these years. It reminds me of the time I was first introduced to Hillsong; when I could let the music and the words fill my mind and touch my soul.

Lately, I’ve been questioning the purpose of the platform. For a long time, I think to me, that’s as far as its meaning carried – just that, a platform. Crudely put, my once-a-week opportunity to pick up a microphone and sing into it. But I think there comes a point where even the ego tires of the ceaseless garnering of accolade and attention, and begins to recognise the hollowness of its own nature.

Suddenly, self-gratification no longer suffices. Actually, it can never.

The worship ministry has always been the most dangerous – the flashing lights, the elevated stage, the hypnotic sway of the crowd. It precariously toes the line between many a divide – technical perfection and purity of heart; pride and service; flesh and spirit. Music is a powerful and treacherous tool. With skilful hands and a keen ear, you could weave quite the intricate tale. With careful manipulation of dynamics, as the sound rises and falls according to a premeditated plan of action, you could create quite an atmosphere.

The high can really get to your head.

And no one would be able to tell the difference – behind closed eyes, a look of rapturous reverence on your face, uplifted hands and a perfect note.

And so, sometimes, I truly wonder whether we are serving anybody, or are we just a merry band enjoying the sound of our own voices echoing in our ears or resounding in a hall.

I you-tubed Endlessly, my favourite song from Desperation, and one user’s comments particularly jumped out at me.

‘This stuff, has the power to heal’, he said.

I wish our worship could have that effect on people.

And so, week after week, I find myself a keen student of this art that I know is going to take my whole lifetime to acquire, to live, to be… I find myself encouraged. I think I needed to remember again what it felt like to have my heart stirred, to be inspired. And now that I am beginning to catch a glimpse of what it means to engage with the purpose behind every note I sing, may I never lose sight of it. Just as I was found again – may the harmonies we sing, the melodies we play, the compositions we write – draw us closer to Him.

Yes, maybe music can make a difference.

Loss

I thought I was dreaming;
That by some twisted confusion ’twixt dream and wakefulness,
My brother had got it very horribly wrong.

But it is real, she is gone.
And I find myself lying here, contemplating things of life and death. My mind struggles to weigh up the remnants of last night’s turmoil, debris of trivialities that float aimlessly about, with the graveness of the sobering issue I now have at hand.

The tears didn’t come immediately, and I felt a prickle of guilt that they didn’t. But it’s not about that, perhaps it hints more so at a greater sin. I feel like being here for the past 4 years have almost inadvertently enclosed a sterile bubble around me. The distance has muffled out all the heated conversations and diluted the messy situations.

I feel estranged.
I need to find some semblance of that sweet, little girl – The one that strutted around the house in her daddy’s over-sized t-shirt, the one that valued without a question, the one whom Saturdays meant everything, and really, wanted nothing more than a hug.

Today, I have forgotten and neglected the old. I have allowed my temper to run rampant, like weeds overgrowing a garden. I have lost track of my priorities, and I am so, so far away from home.

But this morning, I am called back to my attention. I feel His hand – the same one that gives and takes away. It rests on my shoulders and I feel it’s sure, secure grip, as it steadies my stand. And then, it’s not about me, today it is about remembering my grandmother. I feel this urgency to write these things, before the detail and the form fall through the cracks, like water slipping through the holes of a sieve.

I was told that she used to take care of me when I was little. I remember weekends at her house – the dusty marble floors, the white dog named Honey, afternoon naps in the room upstairs, the glass table, yellowed with age, around which we would circle on plastic stools. It always smelt of food, my favourite soup brewing in the back-kitchen, the sambal belachan tickling my nose, porridge bubbling on a Sunday afternoon. Family dinners every Saturday were a splash of black and red. I always preferred eating in.

I remember when she used to stay in our guest room – pale blue sheets, that yellow blanket and stiff pillows. I looked forward to the companionship on a week-night after a long day at school. We would watch late-night Chinese serials. I distinctly recall that 100-episode one, to which I would sing, with gusto, the opening credits. I trawled through the evening market with her to search for that particular soundtrack, filled with golden classics from her era.

She taught me patience with a needle and thread. They say how true skill with cross-stitch is revealed not by the finished exterior, but what you see when you turn over the cloth. She would laugh in disdain at my criss-cross of entangled string. Hers were of course, flawless, neat and tidy. Today, I thank God for those precious times. I feel like they were the days that I truly got to know my grandmother.

And then there were always the needles and the blood, the tablets and the log-book. They were a part of her every day. But she took it in her stride. I always admired that stoic obedience. She endured her long-drawn suffering, this strict regiment, with minimal griping and a faithful adherence. I still wish she could have indulged in a slice of her birthday cake at least once in all of her years.

But I believe, with all my heart, that she tasted the sweetness in life in a richness of family and relationship; all the people she treated with kindness, generosity and a softness of heart. Above all, my grandmother was a gentle spirit.

It’s so hard being so far away from it all. I missed my grandfather’s funeral 2 years ago. It feels so removed – I have been, for too long – hearing choked sobs over a crackling telephone line and the voices quavering over the mesh of static. It is so far from the experience of crying on each other’s shoulders, to rest secure in the lock of another’s embrace. Another, who is just as broken as you, and who has no idea what could make this better. And yet, you can feel the surge of a peculiar strength. Human frailty pulls through again, in the most uncanny moment, as it usually does. It is the power of grief and blood combined. For now, I can only imagine it. The thick of incense, the throng of relatives I’ve never known my whole life, the hassles of the funeral arrangements, the unpleasantness of tying up loose ends, the awkwardness of not knowing what to say when the clichés of comfort and condolences have run ragged, and the days of tears.

It is a pain I shouldn’t be spared from.

I can’t begin to comprehend what happens after this life. I still don’t know the reality of all the things that we adamantly promulgate with our insistent and very inadequate words, as we stand on a wooden soap box week upon week. For they will never suffice; they are but flawed structures that man has fashioned for ourselves. We’ve translated truth into a language that we can understand, and in doing so, retained what is sweet-sounding, and discarded what we fear. Like a kid at a candy store, picked and mixed from the assortment into a clear plastic bag. Distortion through simplification.

But I choose to believe. I believe in a God that is merciful, as He caresses all the souls of the world in His hands. Now, she rests. Her body, frail, broken and weathered from a life well-lived, will be restored in His arms. I place my hope in a God that works all things for good, and that has one, only one purpose.

Healer, Redeemer, Saviour.
Restore life in the wake of death,
Tomorrow, turn our mourning into dancing.

On the Whole

I’m finding it extremely hard to reconcile.

I am torn between a myriad of conflicting selves, the cacophony of voices that fill the auditorium of my mind. They all pull this way and that. So much is at stake – pride and principles. They all seemed to emerge at once, shouting over each other, layer atop layer, clamouring to be heard -

The me that simply wants to be surrounded by people she can call friends on her 21st.

The me that seeks to achieve; that derives deep satisfaction from crafting an argument – feeling the words flow from my fingertips, and the sentences taking frame in my head. I strive for no less than excellence.

The me that is with you. Bright-eyed and eager, brimming with wonder and anticipation. I wonder what it would be like if I engaged every day and every person with this intensity and – Lapping up every moment in the glory of its fullness, documenting it in memories. And it is sad that I fail to realize, that the more I archive, the deeper I drive the knife into the wound.

The me that still wants to save the world. Friend, counselor, confidante, psychologist. I still wrestle with that picture. I need compassion and empathy as second nature, not as an afterthought. I take that back, I think I need to be love.

The me that longs to be Your child, to know You – to sit at Your feet, to wait upon the Lord, to experience the intensity of a first love. A part of me longs to earnestly learn what it means to truly worship, to sing songs of your salvation, to proclaim freedom . Teach me.

The me that struggles to fulfill the duties of a daughter, to rise above the pressures that have been bestowed upon the first-born. More so, something in me needs to move beyond obligation and to dig deep again, return to my roots, remember where I came from… to be grateful again.

The me that sorely wants to lash out at the world. To scream against the unfairness of it all and cry bitterly over the injustice that has been doled out to me. I wish I had the strength to shut out the noise and wall myself up. I used to take pride in standing alone.

It has come to a point where I can no longer find reason behind action. And really, it comes down to one very simple question:

Why?

Why do I go, knowing that I will leave? Why do I try, so damn, freaking hard for something that I can never get… maybe something I don’t even really want.

I will never fit in. I will never have fun. That will never be my scene. This is far from the best for me.

Will this ever feel like home?

Tonight, the bite of the cold brought comfort and freshness, and the tears brought shame instead of relief. I hear words echoing from the past, the rustle of ink-blotted pages and the smell of old things stored away and forgotten – journal entries, ad hoc messages scribbled under the influence of pure emotion, all those incoherent speeches that I’ve muttered in my head.

All these recurring themes.

I need to integrate, to choose a path and stick to it – taking the step forward and never looking back. One foot in front of the other, on and on and on; till the next thing stops me in my tracks.

One of Those Days

Sometimes, the pain gets so inexplicable that the tears don’t make anymore sense. It’s become chronic. The littlest thing can set you flying off the handle. Today it was the late finish, and the congested tram. I felt this surmounting annoyance at all the blank faces, the vacant stares, the mechanical man-and-briefcase that ascended up the stairs. All these people and their empty lives, scurrying like rats in a race.

You mean, that’s it?

And then it occurred to me, that perhaps it wasn’t them, it was the surmounting irritation at my own lack thereof. For a moment, I observed myself in the trappings of the games I’ve created for myself; finding myself standing on a rusty rung of that old ladder of hierarchy I used to call upon so often.

And then… the final straw – an empty cupboard.

Lately, I feel like I want to be consumed by my work, to live and breathe my psychology, to find a semblance of life through filling up my diary with engagements and commitments. Maybe then, would fulfillment come. Maybe then, I could proudly declare that I finally ‘got a life’.

But at the end of a day such as this, the next step just doesn’t seem worth taking. To what, to where, to which end?

Sigh.

I wish I could turn despair into prayer. I wish my words could usher in hope and spark inspiration in the stead of dread and death. I wish I could churn strength from my trials and tribulations.

Oh God, I am weary.
My legs feel like lead, and my body is bolted to the ground.
Would you come, like the wind beneath my wings,
to lighten my load and alleviate my burden?
Today, I have no will, no strength, no might,
But to simply stop, and stare -
Waiting on you.

The Big Cry

I am Yours, You are mine,
I refuse to be denied.
All of You is my heart’s cry,
I refuse to be denied.

Father, father, father.

What is this emptiness? What is this loneliness? Why does it rack my insides with such profound pain? Take it away, please. Rid me of my erratic emotions, cleanse me of the plaguing insecurities, peel me of my flesh. It hurts to be living in this skin. It is hateful. I long desperately to be soaked in the Spirit, to claim the things that you have promised, to walk in line with the purposes that I was destined for, to suspend in the present. And yet,

I feel forsaken.

I cannot feel you, or maybe I have forgotten how. In truth, I wonder whether there was a time I ever did, or if it was just a sensory illusion that my body conjured up in the heat of the moment. I doubt your reality in my life, for if you truly knew the desires of my heart, why are they denied to me? I wish it was easy to ‘seek ye first your kingdom’ and have all these things added unto me, and yet am racked with guilt, that it shouldn’t be the means, with a selfish end in mind.

Even then, I find myself still calling out Your name, without truly knowing you. I find myself on a platform, singing words that resound of Your glory, without really experiencing the tangibility of it in my life. I find myself at the head of a discussion, bearing testimony to Your works in my life, without conviction and clarity. I find myself reading a verse, in a proclamation-sound of authority and all-knowingness, ignorant of its context or relevance.

Though I’m weak, though I’m dry,
I refuse to be denied.
All my life, a sacrifice,
I refuse to be denied.

Still, naively, I hope that is enough. Maybe, it counts for something. Maybe, at least, a fraction of that time is spent in genuine earnestness and in cultivation of true intentions.

But I was told that You aren’t a God that bargains. They say that You love me despite my flaws, in the face of my iniquities. They are many. They say You are a God of second chances, the father that embraces the prodigal son.

How could you though?

I wouldn’t love me. I wouldn’t give me a second chance, knowing that I’d trample all over it once my moment of repentance fizzled out, like a flash in the pan.

But because of who You are, in this moment of minute, acute anguish, in my suffering… I close my eyes and surrender. I reach out blindly for the frame of a hand to hold onto, to cling for dear life.

Still my heart,
Never let me go.
Cast not your sight from me.

I’m coming after you.