a personal Jubilee: starting over happens everyday

J.U.B.I.L.E.E.

It was much anticipated. Singapore's wildest, biggest, most extravagant national party! There have been many movements and moments leading up to it... groups doing craft, entire blocks of flats getting a makeover with all kinds of motifs (I just saw a block that had koalas on it!), folks making videos, writing songs, doing new and wondrous things! As citizens we were given SG50 goodie bags, and over the long celebratory weekend, there will be carnivals, free rides and museum entrances. On the first day of that weekend I even bought a yoghurt at half price!

For someone convalescing and with a few commitments to attend to; I resorted to a vicarious experience of it all via social media... everyone was totally soaking up the celebratory atmosphere over the four-day long weekend. One friend wrote, "hopping from one activity to the next, the fun never ends!". Sounds rather odd for Singapore honestly!

And of course it culminated in this parade la grande ~

largest fireworks in our history

party!

amazing black knights flew '50' formation 

-- which the family caught on TV. I totally missed it, having booked to spend time over a very special conversation with someone who just flew in. I must say I feel a hole in me for having missed our Jubilee Parade.

But losses don't have to be total! On the last day of the long weekend break, we finally headed to one of our favourite places: the Botanic Gardens, now a Unesco World Heritage site. It was so heartwarming to see families and folks strolling, enjoying the vast gardens... there was laughter and one family even did a little race across the lawn. Lovely, energetic fun with a generally cool weather to boot. It felt so good to be alive after the brush with death, and just soak up the Jubilee atmosphere!

So we're 50; and how old that feels depends on who's talking --

As a nation, this has truly been a poignant year. The fact that we are a tiny lil isle in a vast sea that is now bobbing with tremendous uncertainty is not lost to us. Looking back at our journey from colony to statehood to affluent cosmopolitan city-state is an exercise in wonder. So much and so many could have gone awry. Still, it's as if Providence charted a course for us and shielded us through it all.

Jubilee as a notion is of course far more than a mere counting of years. It is a biblical concept that is all about justice, equity and second chances. When the fiftieth year rolls around, everything must be restored. Slaves must be set free, land that was mortgaged must be returned, loans must be canceled. 

Jubilee is all of our cherished hope - the chance to start over. Can someone please wipe the slate clean? Take back my harsh words, rash decision, too quick to press 'enter' trigger finger? Can someone pls cancel away my debts, let me off the hook?

The Jubilee sounds too good to be true. It is also easily abused. The Bible warns against the abuses, and appeals to the heart that desires hope to offer it to others.

But we grasp for ourselves - first.

We want the Jubilee. We may not be so quick to offer it to others. Just forget, forgive, let go? Ask the person next to me.

The Jubilee can be mighty uncomfortable too. We are all creatures of habit and routine. To have to change course, loose bonds, re-imagine what you truly own is quite unsettling. If Ami has been making your breakfast, you could well wake up to having to make your own! From these small shifts to larger ones including taking out title deeds and handing them over; the Jubilee is hard to live out!

So each heart is squirming in the juices of calculation and wariness.

A Jubilee can only happen when we want things God's way and not ours.

It is easy to glibly raise our voices and blow our shofars at the prospect of it; but within our hearts nothing really shifts. We return back to our old ways and set patterns.

Unless -- we realise that the message of the Jubilee is about a just society that depends on God - and that happens when we are personally set free  to depend on God and not see each other as competition, see the world as a limited pie that must be carved up, see our lives as desperate, lacking, unfulfilled.

Jubilee for any society can only happen when it becomes a personal Jubilee.

We must reach for the freedom God offers us in the paradox of offering it to others.
We must reach for the freedom God offers us in the releasing of what we have crafted and engineered for our safety, security and significance.
We must reach for the freedom God offers us in the forgiving of others, and in seeking their welfare.

Listen to this:
Things We Leave Behind

It's hard to imagine

the freedom

 we find
from the things we leave behind

There is some nervousness about the future of Singapore. We have an election coming. We are maturing, asking questions and challenging norms.
There is always some anxiety in our hearts, especially those of us who are parents!


But it's the Jubilee - try to imagine freedom. And pray about finding it in your own heart first.
And that is a daily prayer, a daily discovery, a daily commitment.

More God-years Singapore!

an enemy you cannot see, a Love you must notice

I am 'convalescing'. It means I am on the mend, healing, becoming stronger, getting better. I am regaining strength after a bout of sickness; in this case one brought on by a tiny insect vector: the menacing Aedes Mosquito {I'll spare us the picture}.

Bug bites have never been a huge problem for me. They like me enough; but a scratch or two later, some lotion, and I am fine. Once after a trip to the Philippines I found a large welt on my left ankle. It was huge! I tried to think what creature had inflicted such a mortal-feeling wound on me but a bug bite is not something one notices until it is too late. The bug will not be sticking around to introduce itself! My mind scanned images of irridescent, dark, large, fat-bodied bugs of all sorts. When we landed, an earthquake had just ripped through so we swooped down to lost bags and waist high flood waters. The following two weeks I could have been bitten at many places.

Alas, the doctor's reaction was not exactly assuring; but there wasn't much to do. Thankfully, in another few days, the swell subsided and I was feeling my normal self again.


Ten days ago, I found myself shuddering in my sleep. What I expected followed: fever, aches and a loss of taste. The flu. Well, it's the end of July and I guess I have held out nice and long this year.

But it felt different, in a worse way. Something more sinister was happening. I felt way too exhausted. When I recalled how my area was a dengue hotspot; I decided I should check with my doctor. The test turned out; nothing to be positive about really, positive.

There is nothing external; I cannot even find the bite spot. When did this mortal enemy attack me? What stealth and what damage! A wee little bug easily squished if I had spotted it. But I had not; and it had done me in.

I was really angry.

Here I am, a thousand times larger and - I - lost. And what a darn unfair battle this is. I cannot see you bug! I could have been concentrating on my work when you decided to take a drink. I could be sleeping when you feel a rumbly in your tumbly. Why me?! Many good minded folks like to think of all critters that do damage as a result of the Fall. I am not sure of that; but I do know I was hopping mad that something way down the creation scale can take out a child of the Most High. There was something disturbing about it.

Dengue is one of those things everyone knows something about; and it has a whole scary "you could die from it" dimension where your system can shut down, your organs can bleed and it's all very Ebola like except it's not contagious.

No one can do a whit to help you. There is no medication and so - you just have to hope your body fights back strong.

Much as I would not wish it on anyone, I admit that the many who told me they or their loved ones have had it before gave me much hope. Very few die from it. That's always a good statistic.

Interestingly, the daughter came home from school with a book she got from a giveaway. It turns out to be Tuesdays with Morrie - a book about a dying professor's weekly time with a former student of his; imparting life lessons as he faced his imminent death.

If we cannot spot the bug; then what it can bring in its wake is far harder to anticipate. Some people don't get that sick. Others get way too sick; it turns into what the is called a 'sickness unto death'.

Death is the enemy we cannot really see. Even if you were told like old Morrie was that you had ALS and the doctor gave you a timeframe to expect your life to give up; death will still sneak up un-announced.

I once witnessed someone die before my eyes.

Her breath was very laboured and her daughter and I knew we were just waiting. There was no telling when the exact moment would be. She seemed suspended between the living and the dead...her rising and falling rib cage the only indication she was still on this side. And then, it stopped heaving. She had crossed to the other side. She is forever beyond our reach. Just earlier, we hoped our singing and our tears reached her; but now it felt like a permanence had come over everything. A finality. Someone closed a heavy curtain and the light did not come through any more.

This dengue bout got me a little mad, a little sad, and I could have acted pretty bad too.

The first night I finally was led to my hospital room; I thought the spartan room setting reminded me of the retreat I needed to take.

The Communicable Diseases Centre is such an old relic of bygone days. In fact it dates back to 1907! My room was one in a series of rooms linked by covered walkways as part of a matrix of old bungalow-like buildings. I did not get to see the place much until I left; it was old, homey and quiet; without the usual hive of a hospital. It puzzled me that they placed here - dengue is not infectious - but it's lower occupancy than the hospital and ensured I was already on hospital grounds should I require emergency care; the nurse explained.*

All the nurses and doctors did their best to remind me that they were not able to really help me.

There is no medicine
There is no vaccine
We just hope your platelets rise
Don't brush your teeth, we don't want you bleeding.
Please call us, don't fall down.

So I was reduced to laying in bed and taking four feet to the bathroom. They hooked me to an IV drip that fed me sodium and potassium.

After being in the ER for a while, I insisted that my husband who looked sicker than I return home to rest. A sweet girlfriend came over to see that I was admitted.


While managing drowsily the past week, with the occasional dread of losing it all; I nursed another care within my bosom: the human desperation to live.

Being sick was rough; but my thoughts turned often to the millions of women who unlike me may have no one to care for them, who may have no access to medical care, whose bodies are so sunk from giving that a mosquito bite will bring on their end. I complained about the hospital meals but I have food. The bed had a sinkhole in the middle and the plastic sheets brought on bouts of sweating; but I was in a room, on a bed, with air-conditioning. I had a call buzzer to use when I needed help. My heart ached to think of the women who are alone and in need.

Then there are those who are desperate to live because they keep feeling like they haven't lived it up. Maybe they are hankering for a short getaway, for the dream spouse, to find what they really care about and pursue it with abandon. Some experience it as part of a larger search for self; often co-inciding with the middle years. Many today however are incited to feel dissatisfied in our hyper-consumer culture. 

Then of course there are those like me who are at risk; and if we think about how vulnerable we can all be - a bug bite - it's no wonder many are busy looking for ways to augment life; from pills to Pilates (the latest thing is Rolfing). Of course, I received well-meaning advice soon enough and drank my portion of papaya leaf juice! {It was nasty.}

I wonder if people do live better when they have had a brush with death.

If we seriously consider the odds of staying alive; we should all be more sensible, grateful, and artful about life. But we are not. We are apt to squander it.

Like Mitch Albom, without that providential moment when he caught sight of his old professor and reconnected with the old man, his life was throttling in wild pursuit of a blinding success that inured him to what he truly valued and wanted.

I believe such providential moments exist. I think this sickness is one such moment.

Interestingly for me, I had just taken some time out a few weeks earlier to think about my life and what the next half of it will be about. The exercise left me feeling hugely grateful. Sure there are bits of my life I gripe about. There are days when I cannot be sure where to put my feet. But I have a Purpose. I have a family, a committed spouse, two children who make me laugh. I have gifts I am using. I was still thinking about this, and honestly at this point, wondering about friendships when Dengue struck. My friends emerged from everywhere to pray and communicate care!

Behind all of this stands God - someone I cannot fully comprehend or even relate to -- He is God after all. 

He was extremely quiet while I was in hospital. There must not be much to talk about. I could hardly concentrate to pray or think; and I didn't need to. If God's love for me depended one whit on what I could do; I am dead meat. But it doesn't. It does not begin with my need or my ability and it won't end if I should lose both. 

In the many quiet, half-awake moments I felt cocooned in a safety called Love. 


So I began to think - satisfaction is a state that is cultivated. It begins with the small seeds of gratitude and grows to be a strong tree that can withstand the storms and surprises of life when one realizes that behind and beyond everything stands God; the Great Unchangeable, Constant. Then the desperation to live is real and we must live - not by grasping for what we think we lack - but by gladly enjoying that which is before us.

And of course, things can be better.

Schools can be better.
Marriages can be better.
Church can be better.
The climate can certainly be better.

But things get better because someone is working to make them better. 

And it is hard to make things better when you are bitter. It is a bitter thing to be felled by a tiny bug.

But --  you cannot be bitter for long when you are loved.

Love never fails 

~ 1 Corinthians 13

*although I am not infectious, I carry a virus that can be transmitted by a mozzie! So this makes me 'communicable'. Thank you Patricia Liu for pointing this out!

Take that small step... for Grace is always coming

Little things add up.

Good stuff
or
bad stuff.

Things turn, topple or triumph because of small measures taken repeatedly over time.

The home is crafted
The marriage is enriched
The souls are stronger
The bodies are fitter

In our world of loud, fast and sensational; we forget this pace God has built.

With hi-speed photography and lapse-time, we now get to see within minutes, even seconds; and within the comforts of our home and ever shortening attention-spans. -

the space shuttle that took nearly ten years reach the distant planet
the seed radical emerge, anchor, shoots grow out out from the grown, then leaf, bud, blossom and fruit
the spider spinning her intricate web and then trapping and storing her meal

So if you are feeling discouraged that change is coming too slow, check what mode your camera is in; what lens you are using. Perhaps too much zoom on the details? Perhaps not enough light and the aperture is too small? Perhaps you are taking multiple exposures hoping to see significant change when it isn't time yet?

My good friend has a fiesty mom who after many years grudgingly read some tracts and went to church. She professed Christ but afterwards did not enjoy going to church. Naturally, we dug around the details: did she really mean her response to Christ? Why are her old habits so hard to break? How is it she doesn't seem to show much spiritual hunger or interest?

The weeks dragged on to months. You can feel anxious, worried and angry.

Mom is getting older. She even had to go for surgery. My friend, busy as she is, felt it was important to be around for mom more. When she traveled, I sometimes called in to check on mom for her. They did simple things like watch TV, cook, eat. We prayed for mom.

A few weeks ago, my friend suggested that they could read the Bible together when they had time. Mom agreed! Then mom decided to go back to church too.

This story reminded me of the power of small things.

We can turn away and get busy with other stuff, urgent, attention-seeking, self-satisfying. But what would happen to mom, and what would our hearts miss as a result? 

Grace laps gently and persistently at the shorelines of our lives and each time the waves sweep back, we are cleaner and sometimes we find wondrous deposits.

Over time, the shoreline gets redefined and our shape emerges.

But Grace must be allowed to arrive, to break upon the shore and disrupt it abit, to clean back, glass off ... Grace is not water in a cup but a coming of God upon our lives to invite us to that which we fail to see, and so fail to do.


Grace is Goodness' entrance in daily, seasonal, purposeful ways.

What small thing could you do today?

To Really Live when life is hazy

That haze we all hate is such an apt metaphor for our times.

It's in the air.
It affects visibility. We all want to see clearly.

It gets in our air.
It affects air quality. We all want to breathe easy.

It gets on our nerves.
It reminds us that others may not care about what matters to us; may be unfair or even barbaric (to us) - and vice versa, really. We all want respect, fairness, and the power to get our due.


Life is hazy. We don't always see properly, our breaths are quick and shallow as we rush from one thing to another; and we bump into situations and people we wish we did not!

Our faith, purpose in life, motivations can all be hazy too.



This blog site is called To Really Live. I don't even remember when i started it! But it is my personal quest. I have one life and I want to really - live - it. I don't want to merely exist. I don't want to skirt around the edges or float like a phantasm.

Being around for nearly half a century, I feel that we have made life less clear and more cluttered. The voices, views and vistas are so many, we are left wondering, longing, and lost.

How does one..... Really . Live?  To have hearts that are not troubled or afraid?


We need to know what we Live For. 

There is a forward pull to life. We need a sense of direction, some goals, a telos of final destination. Heaven perhaps. Or God Himself? It's useful to seek, establish and recall what we live for. Or we shall can be easily troubled when we compare ourselves with others and then, afraid that we are losing out or worse, just plain lost!

We need to know that we Live From.

Many of us try to live away from. Some live away from their homes, their parents, their hearts. We are trained and enticed to look at all that shines and glitter and shun our lives; especially the bits we cannot finish gnawing off, that never quite get digested: regrets, hurts, pains, shame losses.

But to live well we need substance. The very life we have is the substance from which we are to find compost for fresh shoots.

Our hearts are often troubled and afraid when the past creeps up. Though not all of our past can be understood or explained; we can find peace when we embrace it. Peace comes not in the absence of trouble; but in the midst of it.

We need to know how to Live In.

If we deny our past, we are likely to fail to engage our present. Life is a series of days and an outworking of choices. Beneath it all is the hum of our emotions.

Yet the most amazing thing about life is The Present Moment. Each present moment has the potential to change the trajectory of our lives. What if God had primed us for this moment? What if God has provided someone or something right now, right here, that will call us forth? What if God is right here with us?

To live in our lives presently is the best act of faith and defiance there is. When we choose to embrace, give thanks and serve right where we are, we are saying we trust God to work things out, we are saying we believe in miracles, we are refusing to let our past suck us back in or the future discombobulate us. It is to be rooted, anchored and steadfast. After all, God is a very present help in trouble. 

This space is for us to learn, let go, love and so, To Really Live. Yes, you will find stuff about -

The past ~ memories, reflections, lessons
The future ~ dreams, plans, inspiration
The present ~ dailiness, doldrums, darting danger and drumming up fun!

And dear friends, join in. Your past can encourage my present, Your future can be energised my past.

 Let's Really Live - together - for it was never meant to be done alone.

Thank you for being here.

are you an anvil or a pickaxe aka how to really be a blessing

We all need to be beaten into shape.


Life will deal us blows. And it rarely happens when we are all alone, although it happens most when we feel we are all alone. Huge difference there.

The blows of intimidation, anger, accusation, rejection, disappointment, betrayal.

Some get these blows direct, hard, often.
Most get them on occasion.
Sometimes the blows aren't enough to kill us, but they are slowly destroying our zeal to live.

What we don't realise enough though is that we serve out those blows too. And it doesn't just happen when we are the direct agents causing the hurt. It can happen too when instead of being an anvil, we become a pickaxe (or ice pick or whatever you fancy).

The anvil is what a piece of metal to be shaped sits on. It is strong, solid and takes the blows with the poor metal being beaten into shape. without the anvil to rest on, the work does not get done. There is no stronger substance to absorb the blows. The anvil also has various parts that help to get the metal beaten into the right shape - to add a curve, to punch a hole.

The pickaxe or ice pick on the other hand works by striking and breaking a large piece up. If you are prone to analysis, love perfection, cannot stand uncertainty - this profile probably fits better. Situations, people, crises are all taken apart in your mind and heart; and comes tumbling out in words and mannerisms. Also, as most of us have become so used to being picked on; by parents, teachers, peers, even the media - it is the easier skill to imbibe.

P: I'm worried.
J: Why? What did you do? Are you sure the worry is valid?


I've come to realise that I lived a very insecure first few years; and my attempts to feel unafraid have ranged from being knowledgeable, to being funny, to be right, to being strong. {what about you?}

So it's easy to be a pickaxe.


Yet, those same experiences and my efforts to make it safely through a treacherous world have given me an empathy and mercy that is deep as it is easy.

So I can be an anvil.



I am writing this because just recently i felt the painful jabs of a pickaxe - again.

My initial response was to pickaxe back - even if I mostly do it within me. But time and many painful episodes have taught me it is a rather futile regiment. I do not ignore my pain or gloss over my sadness. I take it to the One Anvil I know who can take all the blows. I trust Him to accept the blows with me and in His Silent Sovereignty to direct those blows so that they shape me up and not smash me apart.

It is hard to not react when you sense danger or feel alarmed.
It is hard to not despair when in a moment all that you thought was in the past come rushing back.
It is hard to not fantasize of another world, another time and drug yourself with false hopes.


The metal being beat sees that threatening pickaxe or hammer coming down and it must be terrified !

But it is not destroyed. For it sits on The Anvil.

"we are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed." ~ 2 Corinthians 4v8-9

And while waiting for the sting to fade, such moments help a lot:

how long it can take to say Happy Father's Day

I never said it much growing up.
We are Asians.
Father's Day wasn't invented yet - not to me anyway.
If it existed, and I knew about it, I'd probably have resisted it.

Not much to celebrate about, I'd say.

So dead wrong I was.


My children are now fifteen and turning ten.
The wheels of time just keep rolling on. In my lesser moments, with the crowding of unpleasant memories - and with Mother's Day still vivid (did he do anything anyway?) .... no need to be so insistent on fussing over what a man's got to do.

So wrong I am.

This morning, the actual Father's Day, I woke up because I heard him call my name. But I turned to see that he was still sound asleep. The voice was recognizable, distinct, clear, firm. Perhaps it was God? So I did the Samuel thing: speak, I am listening! Nothing.

I was asleep one moment. Then I am awake. It doesn't normally happen this way at all.

It's Father's Day I thought to myself. My first thought, honestly, was my preaching coming up later in the morning. Then I whispered, "Happy Father's Day'" to God!

Then I thought about my father.

The one who with my mom were the chosen lives to come together and combine their genetic material to generate me. 

My picture of my dad is not a clear portrait - all gleaming, wall-hanging ready. It's more like bits of mosaic lining up unequally and unevenly.

He could do things with his hands. I remember one time, he brought home timber! He sawed, hammered, nailed... and a chunky double decker bed emerged. I don't remember climbing into it much less sleeping it. Perhaps it wasn't sturdy and my mom had him take it down.

Then there was the time he came home once with an accordion. I had never before seen such a thing and was fascinated by the way it folds and the sounds that whinnied out from it.

He sometimes told jokes. My mother laughed once or twice at them.

Quite a few times, he returned much later than expected and it seemed he had taken the wrong bus. {like the way I get lost I suppose - the blood carries strange things}.

I remember we watched three things repeatedly: Hindi movies, nature documentaries, and wrestling. Thanks to my dad, I am adept at eating with my hands, never let skin colour bother me, can recognise David Attenborough's voice anywhere... {but no, I did not take to the wrestling bit}.

From my mother, I got the story that he had been suspended from school because he was too playful. Apparently, in order to keep him restrained, the teacher had drawn a circle. He stepped out of it. They asked him to step out from school. His father and mother didn't cared. He never graced the doors of a school again. He never took us to school, except to bike my baby sister to her kindergarten.

He loved the thrill of a good gamble; but he made humble bets. Although we did have encounters with loan sharks at one time. Each time he did win, the house would fill with something. But they don't last very long. They go missing pretty quickly. He must have lost then.

He smoked. I had a sensitive nose. When I turned teen, I self-righteously berate and made him feel bad/guilty/worthless for inflicting us with second hand smoke.

If I loved my dad as a child I do not remember it. I wished I did. I would have made music with him, learnt to build a thing or two, maybe got lost together on those bus rides. 

Perhaps I did not love him because we were busy getting by.
Perhaps I did not love him because my mother was struggling with her deep disappointments in life: she had vowed not to marry someone who gambled, but her mother set her up with my dad. And a mother's shattered dreams are shards that are best avoided.
Perhaps I did not love him because there was a sorry need for love in my own little heart.

Thankfully, at age eight, God became a reality for me. Among the many things I would learn and discover about God, I found I had a heavenly father.

God became the father I wanted and needed.

But when I was old enough, God turned my attention back to my earthly father. It began with the mission all good Christians embark on: saving folks. My dad needed saving, that wasn't difficult to see. But in time, God showed me, my father would once again be God's instrument: his cold, indifferent, cavalier attitude about God, called forth Christ in me. I needed to be saved from my lovelessness.

Patiently God waited for me to grow up. When God said, be a friend to your dad through my gushing tears - and I said 'yes' - a whole new capacity opened up within me. I saw how he was a hurt, unloved person in so many ways; and appreciated how much it must take for him to even be who he was.

I miss my father. I certainly miss it that he did not get to walk me down the aisle or see my children. His silliness would be wild fun for them!

I cannot recall how many 'happy father's day' I managed to say in the end. But I am glad I got to say it, finally. 

That verse in Malachi about God turning the hearts of children to their fathers? God is always doing that. He is love; it's what he does. Later Paul puts it slightly differently when he said that God has entrusted us with the ministry of reconciliation.

It took me a long time to say Happy Father's Day because I could not see what a gift my dad was, stuck as I was in what the model dad should be; forgetting that he did not have a father who showed him how, and without God in his life; how was he to ever know?

Yet this is valour --

When he got married and he saw his bride thumbed and abused by his mom, he courageously took her, their two pots and one bag and left in the middle of the night. 

When the children started coming, he worked with a changkol [shovel], he worked as a coolie. It was back breaking and he was tempted to get faster gains and his gambling habit grew. But he never indulged himself. It was always to help us live a little better. Get a toy or two. Eventually he became a clerk at the Harbour Board. But a horrendous driver came up and threw him off his rickety bicycle. They gave his job away. There was no one to look to for recourse. 

If his work outside did not work out, he worked at home. He cleaned and cooked. I still miss his best dish - pig's tongue stewed with soy beans and onions. No one makes it like he does. Sometimes we came home to hand written messages that the water had been boiled and is safe to drink. In a lighter moment, we captured a photo of him using our first vacuum cleaner. 

He didn't have much going for him in life really. But he had an optimistic, can-survive demeanour. We probably got them from him too. Not to mention his linguistic ability. He didn't have many opportunities and no patrons or mentors.

But God did give him am amazing wife. With her, they had nine children! I am glad to be one of them.

When a man has given life his one best shot, as he knows how... it is worth celebrating. And Mr Ho, he gave being a dad a shot. He did not supply us with plenty, but he looked to see that the rice urn and the sugar and salt was there. He did not know how to egg us on to success, but he never held us back and we could see his quiet pride at every graduation. He never told us his love or demanded from us anything. He accepted gifts reluctantly and his sanguine self can go very quiet when attention was fastened on him. But God knows, he tried. I thank God for opening my eyes to see it before it was all too late.

Now, he is having a well deserved rest and a truly wild time in heaven, just fit for his personality. He is home, safe and free at last.

Happy Father's Day dad!

where I grew up

And - to the man who is partner to the children I now have, that's a different and no less important Father's Day to celebrate for sure!

It's all about The View: I zoom out and try to get God's view!

Did you ever feel like you are backed into a corner and have only so many options?

I am feeling it right now. In my case, it's just one option. Nothing life-threatening thankfully; but here is what is happening.

I have lived in my flat now for eleven years. We renovated it when we first moved in. Then we had to repair the toilet - twice! (At one time, and it still happens some days, I live in a first-world flat with a toilet that annoys me with third-world sewer smells. It's a mystery says the plumber... and I remind myself what privileges I enjoy already).

Now we are about to embark on another project to create a personal space for the mighty teen. There is a natural space for it but because of The View, we have to carve out the dining area to create her room.

This is The View.

The Bishan Park - one of Singaporean's favourite local spot!

To keep this view; we will embark on an inconvenient and unconventional plan involving carving out a room on one side of the dining area. This will create a less than satisfactory balcony space, permanently remove my sunny spot for the laundry, involve relocating three bicyles, and, upset the cat... it's a lot to deal with.

But it was hard to battle The View.

We all agreed that we loved The View and the area should remain as is and not become someone's bedroom.

In a way we kinda worked ourselves into this spot. We chose to turn one of the rooms into our home office complete with so many shelves lining the walls; sleeping in it will feel way too bookish; and a bed cannot fit in anymore. So yes, this decision made it necessary to make the current one, because of course of The View!

The view is great. It's hard to beat in a city. It's been paid for and scrupulously maintained by the government. You can see life, families, animals all having a spot of life with exercise and movement and the occasional picnic and photo shoot. Why, even the Prime Minister has chosen this spot to make his speeches!

But one consideration can sometimes limit us.

Like the time I spoke with a retiree who said he wouldn't think of traveling overseas even though his skills are most helpful; because he gets motion sickness.

It is really funny how one thing can dictate another. I have stopped eating chicken lately because I suspect the feathered friends are not longer on chummy terms with me as I get hives from so much as drinking the stock!

What's more; sometimes. the one thing can run our lives!

There are those who can analyse a situation to death; but for most of us, I notice that we mostly live with a view round about the tip of our noses. We don't make all the connections or think hard and long enough about most things. I notice 3 things about most of us:

Our attention spans: brief.
Our analysis: limited to what we can associate with.
Our responses: hemmed in by emotions that cloud our seeing.

So perhaps we live a little too close to ourselves, and not enough in touch with others. Really.

Besides, every one else must fit into the frame of our view or be blurred and lost in peripheral vision. 

All the more so when you live in a competitive, fast-paced island with a narrative that we must keep swimming faster or we sink; our view can become pretty narrow. We can go so fast, things can get so blur; we don't notice, care or engage - really.


So here we are, each one of us, muddling and hustling along with the weight of our own universes on our backs.

It's a sadly funny sight at the train stations in the morning: teeming scores of people looking bored, tired, and wishing they were somewhere else. Our own weights get so much some resort to pretend to sleep to avoid giving up their seat to others; while others require a poster to remind them to 'bag down' so they don't hit others with their bags! Don't we notice that there are other people?

Just the tips of our noses and our own heavy bundle.



What happens when we can zoom the lens out and see a wider picture? 

I have noticed things I didn't before.
I see connections I didn't pick up earlier; that may explain some things.
I have realised that things take time to pan out; and my present panic isn't worth it!


What happens if we can pan out some more -- all the way to where God sees things?

I try to imagine.

A lot of what I fuss over probably won't matter.

and -

Patience ~

the situation may change.
your heart may grow stronger.
your spouse may get the chore done.
your child will grow up and be more responsible.

On Mother's day I had gone to speak at a church where we were at more than ten years ago. I can remember the parents who angst over their teens. The teens who didn't seem headed anywhere. Then I see them - some have gotten married. Some have really surprised us! The parents are in such a different place.

No matter how many flowers we have seen blossom; each flowering still needs its time to go through the stages. We have to be patient.

And I remember too that there are different ways to think about Time.

 The time we are most used to is chronological time (Greeks call it chronos). But there are other ways to see the passing of the moments, the events, the seasons. There is kairos, when time is ripe, special, a divine intervention, a heaven-touching-earth moment. Then there is teleos which speaks of time moving towards a final purpose and towards an end goal.

For the faithful, kairos and teleos shape and define chronos. Our daily hours and moments are meaningful and important because they can be interrupted by Grace and explode with potential. It is not a mere ticking of the hours. We live present, and with a sense of joyful expectancy because things are leading up to something.

This is The View - the really big picture!


When I look out my window onto the park; I imagine God looking at us. I see the the smallish people alone or in groups. I notice the water, and I often hear the noises, cries and barks. All of it forms the picture of the park at that point of time. I don't have the wisdom or insight into the specifics or can quite describe how they fit into that day's plans. But God - when he looks at us - He alone knows how the puny bits that are us fit together in the grand scheme of things.


So, when I get too caught up with the minutiae of my life and begin fussing over what I feel is missing; I remind myself to expand my horizons and think of other women, mothers, wives who live in the next block, the neighbouring nation, the further reaches of our earth. This I remind myself is God's view.

My prayers and requests are valid but they are not definitive for life.

When I feel like it is but a daily grind; I try to spot the kairos moments of Grace and pray to see that things are shaping up and working out. I plaster patience over my anxious heart and call it to be still once again.

It's all about The View.

How's yours?

Power, powerlessness,and Prayer in mothering (and 3 Qs to stare down your fears)

M is for motherhood. It is also for Mystery, misgivings, mistakes and marvelous things!

A new mom is always a good friend to an older mom - because - the older mom, has chalked up more mistakes; and she can lose the light of wonder if she is not careful! 

An older mom is a good friend to a new mom - because - the new mom is facing fears hitherto unmet; and she needs to know there are more fears to come and what seems so puzzling can be untangled with a little dexterity. 

So here is a little something from an older mom to my younger mom friends (and my older mom friends who agree & may need a little reminding :) 

With mommy-ing, you have stumbled upon an awesome power. It begins with the marvel that a life is being formed within you each living, brehting moment. As you cradle and care for the budding life, you get to see now that you can literally lift and shape a soul... and soon enough, you have those moments when you have feel you could go the other way and wreck it: when you lose it, when you are not sure what to do, when nothing seems to go right? Those days when your fears, anxieties and guilt bundle up and nearly suffocate you? 

Moms live with this strange tension of being powerful and powerless at the same time. 


And then, there are fears. 

Remember when you thought you crossed a threshold, jumped a hoop... you find something else coming around the bend. When they were small, I was afraid they didn't drink enough, eat properly, sleep safely through the night. They grew through all of that. Then -

I was afraid of nasty bug bits that left large painful welts, accidents, stranger saying strange things to my kids, other kids who may bully... 

Then I was afraid that she would be lonely, awkward, too strong, too meek...

I was afraid that she would be last in class, lose her things (for the tenth time), feel too stressed, not feel motivation, not really learn, not enjoy herself...become rude, selfish, mean..

I was afraid she would dislike church (waiting so long for us always), be mad at God for stuff that happened, live with cray expectations as a pastor's child...

I was afraid that she would not develop with gender confidence; feel weird around boys...mix with the wrong company...

I was afraid that she would develop an attitude, acne, act up.

 I see it now with trained eyes -- the fears won't end.

But -

fears can be fabulous things. Yes, really. Fear tells you what matters. And, Mothering matters; a lot. A mother who studies her fears and picks her battles is leaning into her maternal shape, hollowed out by trying one-more-time: a magnificent shape that cuddles, coddles, coaxes and coaches another little budding soul into ferocity (boy) and flower (girl).

You can stare down your fears. Like Max here:

where the wild things are {click to enjoy this video version of the famous children's book}

The supper was there, and it was still hot.

I am sure us moms will do just that. Feed our kids hot food even though we were fuming bad... and God our Father does the same. The food of our mothering joy may be delayed due to our silly antics; giving rise to many fears... but He will yet have a hot supper waiting for us.

What we need to learn is that when the fears come with the scary eyes, claws and teeth; we need to look at them squarely and take charge -- not of the child -- but of ourselves!

The answer to Parenting-power lies in managing oneself. 

I learnt that the fears will step back, quieten, and not be able to lay claim to me if I sought for the right answers through asking the right Questions -- nothing cuts through the fog like an incisive question, and nothing clarifies and emboldens like an honest answer.

Here are 3 questions to help take the bite and bloodiness out of the battle.

Q1: what is it I truly value and am afraid of losing here?

Every battle is energized by what it is afraid of losing. Will are you afraid of losing in this situation? Is it worth the battle? Will you really lose what truly counts? 

When I have asked this Q, I often find that what mattered most to me was the quality of the relationship: is there honour? is there honesty? is there humour?  I see what is at stake and recognise that things are not as messy or serious as I initially feel.

Q2: what can i really do about it?

It's good they eat all their greens and follow their routines. But is it fair for this particular child? Every child is a unique human person. What are my options with this child? What difference can i actually make at this point? How can this be done without jeopardising what truly matters? 
Do i need to learn a new way to think/feel/speak in order to make the right difference?

Q3: what am i really praying for?

Most of us pray 'rescue me' prayers. If we rescued our kids from every predicament; they will never grow. Why do we expect God to rescue us, when He wants to train us?

Also, are we praying for what truly matters? Good weather, the ability to handle the exam is all good. But what of creative solutions when caught in the rain and an excellent attitude to learning and revision? 

Rescue prayers happen because we are going so fast we step into potholes we did not anticipate. 

This is why reading, prayer, reflection, and talking to other parents are all very necessary parts of the parenting journey. It is far too easy to just shuffle between work and home, just catching one's breath. It is equally easy to be bogged down by meals, deals, and squeals (of protest) that we get all fogged up and end up drained and ineffectual. 

The only way is to slow down - enough - to pray through the first two questions and forge a constructive path ahead.  Slowing down also allows us to recall assurances God has he given so far, and to anchor back onto the larger movements of the Spirit that persists: God is faithful, and though the way is jagged and strewn with the debris of our mistakes, the journey is shaping up and the life is unfolding yet.

Just this month, older moms have shared with me children's graduation, awards, marriage. These same kids have driven these moms near crazy. As one mom put it, "...still remember bringing him to different schools to get somebody to take him in and even dragged him to take IQ tests to make sure he has no learning disability....But now, wow!".



Prayer is all the more a lifeline if you feel alone in your parenting. Your spouse may not quite get your values or plans. The Bible included a lovely story of  a mom and a grandma who knows all about that. 

They were the grandma and mom of a young man. His name is Timothy. Yes, the one in the Bible, the spiritual son of the great apostle Paul, the young pastor who did not quite have the stomach - physically; and for strong personalities, and sometimes felt pretty unsure about what he is meant to do... Yet, Timothy was a man of faith and he was pastor of young churches needing a faithful, wise shepherd. It may seem unlikely; but he was the man of the hour.

Timothy was born into an inter-faith family. From what we can glean, his dad was a regular Greek guy which mean myth, religion, hedonism and possible some chauvinism too. But Timothy had a grandma and mom who were Jews and devout ones at that.

4 amazing things* emerged from his life story, which we do well to remember:

1. It's really important for children to know the Scriptures from the earliest age.
2. It's really important to keep parenting - especially when the going gets tough. 
3. It's really amazing how an ordinary faith can lead to great usefulness. 
4. It's really amazing how our kids can turn out, despite all the obstacles.

 Points 1 and 2 are instructional. Points 2 and 4 are sooooo inspiring!

Slow down, pray, ask good questions, stare down your fears.

Mother on valiantly --

knowing you are shaping a soul one day at a time, one determined smile at a time, one teary conversation at a time, one more sacrifice, at a time.


And if you need a fika, arrange for one!

*adapted from desiringgod.org

and then Narnia: surprises in new motherhood

M is for motherhood. It is also for Mystery, misgivings, mistakes and marvelous things!

I invite moms to share this month here. We begin with a new mother, Rox, who describes herself as 'an accidental saty-at-home mom, former slave to the corporate world; now a happy slave to her son Max'.

Look at Max, such a happy chubs ~

"Entering motherhood, for me, was like opening a wardrobe and stumbling into Narnia - a foreign land and a whole new world. 

w o n d e r 

There are battles to be fought, discoveries to be made and victories to be won. My identity and role as a woman shifted from a wife to also a mother and yet there were times when I felt as helpless as a newborn and as clueless as a child sometimes would with a new experience. 

I was suddenly set on a path to distinguish parenting truths from myths, to separate science from superstition and to sometimes decide between listening to my instincts or well-meaning advice. There is a barrage of choices to be made and theories to be tested; from breastfeeding to exclusively pumping to formula feeding, having schedules in place or following a baby-led routine, how to sleep-train and so on. Some choices seemed to invite judgment which then made me feel less of a mother and some made me feel wrongfully superior. More significantly, there will be choices that reflect my values as a parent; values that will inevitably be passed on to the child and could potentially shape his behaviour and beliefs. The voices of the world are many, loud and confusing, so it is a relief to know I could always turn to the voice of God, our perfect parent, for instruction, assurance and comfort.

And then there are the surprises; the loud burps that I can never imagine would come from such a tiny human being, the embarrassing farts that I thought could only belong to the husband, and the baby's ability to always wake up when I'm in the middle of a shower! I discovered that my physical and mental resilience could be stretched, that it was possible to function on little sleep and still remain joyful. I even started to exhibit sacrificial behaviour, putting the baby's needs before my own, letting my stomach growl angrily while satisfying his hunger. The maternal instinct that kicked in caught me by surprise - I became protective and passionate about every aspect of his well-being.

As I became more comfortable about my new role, the journey began to be filled with many magical moments - they say a picture is worth a thousand words but some emotions cannot be captured with either pictures or words. Thinking that newborns mainly eat, sleep and poop all day, I was proven wrong when my 2-month old son started responding to me with a variety of sounds - it gave me such a rush to be able to have a conversation with him, sort of. When he shows interest in a book or song, I wonder if he'll love reading or music as much as I do. I started to think about where his strengths and passions will lie and what kind of character he'll turn out to be!

Finally, I've come to realise what a privilege it is to be able to influence and disciple my child and I can't wait to see what God has in store for him.

Rox & Max

Mother's Day Solidarity Call

I know many mothers; and have met many more.

There are no accidental mothers; just that not always, it was a woman's free, willing, ready choice.

Here are two photos of moms I love: a simple Indian woman with her half-clad babe and the blonde with her dark African babe.

Mothers come in so many shades.

There are Mothers in India, Thailand, Indonesia... the ones who live far away from the bright city lights and are not tethered to a cable that wires their imagination to a world of 'have's'. Those mothers? They have stomachs to feed.

Then there are those mothers I read about and weep. Those mothers who roused to the sound of sirens and grab their kids, kicking dust for miles with only the clothes on their back. Those mothers who in the mob moment loses grip of the child and now are haunted by that moment as they pray and cry till there are no-more-tears in the camps. Those mothers who have watched as their children are taken, ravished, killed. These kinds of mothers? I have no words for what they suffer.

Usually when we mothers think about 'mothering', we see ourselves, our moms, and maybe other moms we know personally. But there are so many mothers out there!

We need to set our lives against the larger canvas - and what we juxtapose it with makes such a huge difference!

I will tell you this too: I have met and known mothers who are 'tais tais'; rich and robed in splendour - but living with an inner posture of poverty and want, literally worried sick over house and husband and offspring.

Fellow mothers, what is this wondrous, painful, incredible, and tremendous thing we have been called to?

How do we respond to it? 

How do we know when we do it well, or not? 

Do we ever fail?

Fellow mothers, in a world that says "if it's worth anything, it gets paid, handsomely" - how do we continue in our daily trenches when the affirmation cracks like thin ice?

How do we keep going when there is no interlude with popcorn and streamers?

I remember my own mother - whose life I described as both entrancing and repulsive to me at the same time. I adored her passion for life and her endless capacity to care; but I felt unnerved to think that a woman's lot is so much sacrifice.

She was three when she lost her dad. With a mom who gambled away the meagre earnings, she learnt to be resourceful and to provide, cook, clean, plan, and scheme! She raised her mother and brother. Later she would marry my dad and repeat the whole thing over, this time, including a mean-spirited mother-in-law, and nine children! 

She never had a boudoir but wore mostly the same few clothes and her shoes were hospital-issue where she worked. She would walk with aching legs to save the few coins for a larger meal for us. As a litle girl, i believed my mother could do anything! She cooked, cleaned, sewed, made pretty our sparse home, told stories, comforted us, laughed at our antics... and with each season, she just kept growing and glowing. It wasn't until we were grown and started supporting her that she began to spend on herself.

Most of my growing up years then, I admired my mother and wanted her grace and prowess - but  - I told myself I would not lose so much in the process.

I didn't understand.

The paradox of dying to live and giving to receive stumbles us. It is a faint voice, seemingly unreasonable, even foolhardy with the noisy clatter each day of 'get what you want', 'don't let others take advantage of you', 'watch out for yourself'...

I'll be honest. I still don't get it quite yet. Maybe I am too tethered to the world and need to cut loose some more.

If Jesus invites us to be the branches extending from him as the vine; I am the branch with many other IVs inserted into parts; busily drinking off approval, competition, strife, fear... I am not pure juice. I am sloshing a little tipsy with the flavours and favours of the world.

So  --

when my sweet child grows up as she must and turns into a stranger; I panicked that I have lost years of pure maternal investment and career sacrifice.

when others cringe at the son's outburst and hurl accusations, I am a crumpled heap.

when the future possibilities for my children could turn out to be sloppy-artist and itinerant juggler (no kidding) I pace within my heart and wonder what went wrong.

You see how quickly I move dead centre and it becomes about me? I think it negates the whole idea of sacrifice and being for others when little old me walks on stage and demand the floodlights shift to reveal a star!

I need other mothers to mother - well.

So here's what I figure. I need to issue a call for solidarity. Mothers, let us stand together. Let us cheer each other on. Let us remind each other of the sheer nobility and washboard-knuckle pain reality of this thing we call 'mothering'. Let us also step back often enough to see the larger canvas, and weep along with fellow moms. We fight different battles. But one thing we all do: we fight: for life, for hope, for love.  And our --

laying down,
letting go,
leaving it aside... 

it is all Jesus' way...  I always wondered how as a gal I could be like Jesus. Mothering showed me a deep, amazing way to be so. He laid aside His majesty. We may too, with wrinkly bosoms. He lets his right go. We may too, when we drink from the sippy cup, go de-caf, stop smoking... He left a lot aside; the reasonable stuff of income security and a carpenter's dream workshop perhaps...and more. For some of us, the children we have demands we be certain kinds of moms: stay-home, doing odd jobs, regulars at hospitals, special services. principals' offices...

Jesus gets us!

At that cross. His mother stood with him. A child and a mother can get each other that way when they were both willing to drink from the same cup. We can get our God's heart (and he is wont to use maternal images: the mother hen being a favourite) and enjoy a solidarity there.

In our crosses, Jesus stands with us.


As fellow moms, let us stand with one another.


Solidarity challenge this mother's day season:
1. pray or send a gift to a mother with less
2. don't compare, complain or compete with another woman (especially your mom!)
3. give thanks for being a mom
4. share this post and solidarity challenge!

I will not be silent !

When I miss a post,

I sweat a little.

Here's why.

I'm not a professional blogger, paid to write. Nor do I have eager fans waiting for RSS updates... So why fuss over how long since I last wrote?

There are many reasons one sweats over missing a beat.

One is driven to meet certain expectations (real or imagined).
One is a stickler for routine/habit.
One is guilt-stricken because one has made a promise to self or others.
One is worried to lose readers (social media gurus' mantra: don't miss a post!)
One loves doing it!

I am somewhere in the midst of all that, to be honest. On different days, different things propel me. It may be the same for you  - for coaching your kids, baking, designing or fishing!

But here's my top 2 reasons for keeping at it - giving it time, energy, attention - even if it doesn't pay any bills or bring other rewards commonly hoped for including fame (or infamy) and a following!


reason #1 : writing 'saves' me.

It does not save me the way God my savior does. But it is an ally in the process. Writing is the instrument of choice when it comes to gaining clarity, solidifying conviction, gathering heart rhythms onto a score sheet to see what tune it is playing.

I did not see it coming. But I have been teaching Journaling as a Spiritual Discipline for three years now; and it is such a delight to see hearts and minds awaken to deeper things!

Personally, with many thoughts and ideas bobbing around the waters of my soul-brain; I always feel much better each time after I write.

This belongs with a strange paradox worded like this by Jesus ~

"unless a seed falls to the ground and dies, it remains but a seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds." ~ John 12v24

When we give of ourselves, we take a risk and die to any self-preservation and protection. What I write can be misunderstood, misread or taken out of context. I could be labeled, accused, or bound up in some neat box by someone's notion of sensibility and right/wrong.

It isn't just writing. It is doing anything we find worthwhile and for which we will labour and 'put yourself out there'. Artists of all stripes understand this.

But this is God's way. Life comes on the back of sacrifice.

And lest we fed on a diet of heroics think this is Life for others; I have found, it is much more Life for myself first. Writing is like other aspects and areas of work and commitment: if God has called us to do it; the many seeds it produces is harvested first from our own lives.

Ask the mother who has the satisfaction of seeing her child come of age and mature well. In truth, the fruit of her labour and sacrifice were being carved onto her soul as she doles out the love each day.

Or the pastor / coach / manager who sees his efforts bear fruit, those hours of being alongside now seeing fruition as the mentoree / athelete / protege rise up to their potential. In truth, their persevering, believing, offering of second chances shaped their leadership ethos deeply.

I find that what God calls us to do serves us more than it serves Him. In his sufficiency and unfathomable wisdom; I doubt my few words put a dent in his univaserse. If it does, there is no way I can measure it. Sure, a comment or two may pop up (and that's really nice!), but where I can measure the difference is right here between the ribs!


reason #2: writing is words is meaning is power

Since God spoke the first words that became solid colour, design and life.
Since the Law was given.
Since the prophets railed and ranted.
Since The Word came in the flesh.
Since the bible was compiled.

There has been a battle to silent the Word. 

'Did God say...?' -- doubting the Word, began in the garden. It continues through the ages with skeptics, cynics, critics and couch potatoes. The word is sneered at, made light of, out-rightly rejected and rebutted.

What strange power. Sounds represented by letters strung together explode into embodiment of value, principle, truth, Life. Or else, falsehood, vain glories, exaggeration, simplification or distortion. It is an amazing thing this!

Today, this power is buzzing in many hands that hold a little device which allows each one to set forth their views and feelings with little censure.


So since God tapped me on the shoulder and pointed me in the direction of my bent - this love for words, this quest for meaning - He has given, shaped, edited my life and given me words for what I think, feel, intuit... and then He had said, "be bold and say it". I choose to believe that my very clumsy, often inadequate words are resonating a deeper, stronger Eternal One.

So reason # 2 can also be called Obedience.

Again, I do not always get to see the outcomes of my obedience. But as a child eager to please the parent, I am eager to do what blesses my Father's heart. And if the little lad and his lunch of fish and bread instructs me, I only have to bring what I have -- He takes it, breaks it, and can use it to satisfy the hunger of who-knows-how-many? I wait with wide-eye wonder to see what all the words over time will do.

Together with reason #1, this writing, this post, is then a Joyful Obedience.

Perhaps a cheeky borrowing of a famous verse ~

For God so loves me 

that He called me to write

to save my own soul

and encourage others.