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!