Two Thousand and Seven and the Full Story

dedicated to all her readers and loved ones

Once upon a time, there was a Very Big Dragon named Two Thousand and Six and a very little girl named Anna.

The Very Big Dragon named Two Thousand and Six lived in the Big, Black Sea down below, while little Anna lived faraway on rainbow-coloured clouds in a place far above.

Two Thousand and Six was Very Bad, and Very Big.

Anna was, on the other hand, very small.

One day, Two Thousand and Six captured little Anna!

Two Thousand and Six was a Very Bad Dragon.

It captured little Anna, stole Anna's very little mouth and hid it in the Big, Black Sea so she could not find it. This made little Anna very sad.

Little Anna set out to find her very little mouth! But the Big, Black Sea was so Very Dangerous and she was consumed by the Big waves.

But one day, Two Thousand and Seven came along.

Two Thousand and Seven was a Very Big Hand. It was even BIGGER than the Very Big, Bad Dragon named Two Thousand and Six.

It was Two Thousand and Seven that rescued little Anna!

Two Thousand and Seven helped little Anna find her mouth, and helped her to help others find it too.

Two Thousand and Seven helped her to draw a rainbow in the sky, and returned little Anna back to her home of rainbow-coloured clouds up above.

Two Thousand and Seven saved little Anna!

"Thank you Two Thousand and Seven!" she cried out.

It was Two Thousand and Seven that saved her life!

"You're welcome, " said Two Thousand and Seven. "I have a Very Good friend named Two Thousand and Eight and he will look after you from now on so Big, Bad Dragons won't come and get you. You'll be safe up here."

Little Anna smiled, and returned home, back safely to her rainbow-coloured clouds up above, waiting for a Very Good Two Thousand and Eight to arrive.

The End

To all of you, thank you for walking this journey with her.

She would like to thank all of you who have sent her emails, messages and notes of encouragement, as well as all of you who visit this space.

Thank you for the little things- for reading, for leaving a note on this tagboard, or simply passing on this space to someone else to share her Story. She wants to hug you, even if she hasn't met you before, because she wants to thank you for sending Two Thousand and Seven to save her.

It's been a long year, from darkness to light, from a deep, deep valley to a mountain-top, and from blackness to light.

Thank you for being with her.

She would like to send you a hug because she knows so many of you sent secret angels to alert Two Thousand and Seven when she was captured so Two Thousand and Seven could come down and save her.

Special thanks to Jo, Ther, Lif, and TAM for your prayer and friendship when she was captured. She can never thank you enough.

To EK and A, for your love, support and encouragement. You changed her life since Kitesong.

To all the Angels she met in her White Place, for blessing and loving her inside-out.

To her family, for giving her a real Home to go back to.

To her Very Special and Big Hand, for saving her life, and for His Faithfulness.

To all of you, for being such a beautiful audience.

Thank you so much for saving her life.

She hopes that each of you may be blessed with a Very Good Two Thousand and Eight too.

She hopes you enjoyed reading her Full Story.

This is her gift to you.

Thank you.

May God bless your hearts always.

the Fragrance of Grief

John 12:3

Grieved

by

the things of this world

for

the things not of this world.

-when only God understands-

The Wedding Banquet.

* To read the Full Story of Grandpa Zhou, click here.

I attended a wedding dinner last night at the Shangri-La Hotel. It was a very grand wedding- men were dressed in suits, and the women were clad in sequin-studded gowns, pursing their scarlet lips, trying to breathe under their corsets. They had faces caked with make-up. It was a very grand occasion and the golden chandeliers gave an air of added sophistication to the entire event. It was a very grand event.

I couldn't sleep last night.

This evening, after dinner with my Complete family, I asked my father if I could go and visit Grandpa Zhou. "He seems all right, you know, " Dad said, " I saw him the other day at the train station too- you dont have to buy him dinner every week. You can't save the world, you know, Jia. There're too many of them."

My parents have a heart of gold. They really do- but I sensed it was out of concern that I was being taken advantage of that Dad voiced his concern.

I explained that I had learnt Grandpa Zhou had been born with a disability on his right arm and both feet, and that recently, his feet had swelled up very badly. I had called my friend, a doctor, the day before and she had told me swollen feet can mean a few things- heart problems, kidney problems, gout or malnutrition.

Malnutrition. That must be it, I thought.

Dad frowned. " I see... I didn't know that. Sure, go. And make sure you tell him to see your doctor-friend too."

So I went.


" Zhou yeye, nin hao! (Hello Grandpa Zhou!)" I chirp. I squat down beside him. I love sitting next to him on those dirty steps.

He beams at me. I love to watch him when he opens the styrofoam box of food delivered to him. There is always a look of gratitude washed over his eyes. He holds the precious box, heavy with an extra portion of rice with both his hands, lists everything he sees in that box in great detail, and tells me a little about each dish. "This vegetable, " he says, " this is bai cai. Haha, bo cai is very nice too."

"Oh dear," I say in mock sorrow, "I didn't get your favorite vegetable!"

He shakes his head. " Ni mai de, wo dou xi huan... Yin wei... ni shi zhen xin mai gei wo de. Ni kan de qi wo. Ni mei you dang wo shi qi gai." ( I like whatever you buy... because you bought it for me with a sincere heart... You didn't look down on me, you dont treat me like a beggar.)

Again, I thought about the many times I had, in my heart, considered him a well man trying to cheat passers-by of their spare change.

People walk by us and look at us.

"Grandpa Zhou," I ask very carefully, "Remember the last time you told me to tell you about your swollen feet? I asked my doctor-friend, and she says it could be due to a few reasons but we won't know till a proper doctor has a look at it. Can I take you to a doctor?"

"That would need money right?"

"No, you'll be seeing my doctor-friend. I've spoken to her. Free-of-charge."

"Really?"

I tell him about HealthServe, a clinic along Geylang that serves the marginalised- construction workers, prostitutes and those who cannot afford basic healthcare.

He tucks into his dinner and we talk. I ask him about his daily meals and routine, and he asks me two questions that chill my heart.

" Hm.... Is it okay to eat cold food? Like say, if I bought food like this and left it aside? And oh yes, expired canned food is okay right? If I boil expired sausages in hot water for a rreeaally long time, it's okay right?"

"No it's not okay and it's not all right, Grandpa Zhou. It's always better to eat warm food, and canned food should not be expired. And no cup noodles. No cup noodles, okay?"

We talk some more, and he tells me about his past when he used to work at the cinema.


"Wai Jia!" I hear a voice calling me from behind. I turn around, to see a familiar face, a junior from the medical faculty. She looks at me from the top of the flight of steps while I remain squatted next to Grandpa Zhou. "I thought I recognised your hair from behind. What are you doing here? Doing CIP (Community Involvement Project)?"

There is an awkward moment. I laugh, then I smile the smile I always smile when I dont know what to say. "No, I live here. Good to see you." I smile some more. She takes some time to understand.

Grandpa Zhou finishes his meal. This time, I didn't buy him beancurd because I'm not sure if he has gout. People with gout should avoid beancurd and beans.

"Wah, fish and egg today, thank you so much. You know, I don't understand one thing. One thing, I will never be able to understand.... The people here at this train station- they are so lovely. I've met so many kind souls... I don't understand... Why do you people do this for me? I don't understand..."

"Because God loves us so much I want to share the love that I've received with you. Is that okay?" I smile.

He nods.

We agree to see the doctor. "They're open only on Saturdays afternoons and Tuesday nights. Next Saturday afternoon or following Tuesday then. Closed on New Year's day. We'll go together."

You can't save the world and you can't help everybody. Many people had told me that before and the words rang in my ear loud and clear. How they stung.

Yes, we can't save the world, but in the first place, that is not our responsibility. Our responsibility is to love, one person a time, from our families first, inside and out. If we all helped one person, on top of loving our families, perhaps everybody would receive the love they needed in different places. More people would be less broken. More people would be loved in the right places, in the right ways.

And then I realised why I could not sleep the previous night. The wedding made me think of many things. I remember asking the missionary doctor while I was in China, " Do you ever feel oppressed by the lifestyle here in China? Restricted by the lack of material comfort? I mean, life here is so... simple."

The missionary doctor had looked at me, beamed brightly and replied, "Back home in Singapore, don't you feel oppressed too? " He grinned, " By the opulence?" I thought of the many garish-looking, sequin studded gowns I saw last night.

I also remembered another missionary I had met in China, a lady in her seventies serving people with leprosy since 1960. Because of her dedication to the poor, she had turned down two proposals. Two.

So that was what I was disturbed by. The wedding banquet made me think about many things, about whether I would grow to like fancy cars and big houses and extravagant eighty-thousand dollar weddings someday. If I would have mine at the Shangri-La myself. If I could bear to serve the poor and share with them photos of my eighty-thousand dollar wedding, and my designer wedding gown.

Or if I would have a proper, simple but beautiful one, and have a table inviting people like Grandpa Zhou to it.

Or if I would have one at all.

I couldn't sleep last night. And now I know why. I was just, wondering.

That's all.

But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind...

- Luke 14: 13

Grandpa Zhou, have you had dinner?

Letters of Hope (1)

I have chosen to write this because of what some of you have been sharing with me over the past few months. Some of you have been updating me on your progress, asking me questions, and sharing with me bits and pieces of your own Stories. It’s been very difficult to put my answer in an email to different people, or try and squeeze what I would go on to say in half an hour in a text-message space, so I’ve decided to write this letter to all of you whom I’ve met at the support group.

It’s been a joy knowing you all, and I thank God for each and every one of your lives. It’s a long one, so hold on tight.


My Ring

Many people ask me why I wear a ring on the fourth finger of my left hand. To most of them, I never share my answer. They think it’s because I’m attached and I let them think what they want. Today, I will share it with you.

I have heard people tell me of their recovery from depression and other challenges, because of “someone who loved me when I felt no one ever could.” I want to make it very clear that I do not believe in that. This, however, is my personal opinion and I don't impose it on anyone.

I believe God sends us many angels to help us in our recovery, but not one person can be the reason for our recovery. Some people tell me it was a newfound boyfriend or girlfriend who made them feel like they were worth being loved, and my response to that is that for true recovery to take place, you must recover for yourself and God mostly. Neither your mother, nor your boyfriend, nor the support group, nor your counselor, nor myself even, should be the main reason for your recovery. What if your boyfriend leaves? What if he, too, faces troubles and becomes depressed-Are we all not human, susceptible to the lust of the eye and the temptations and stresses of this world?

People can inspire you, they can motivate, love, support you, open your eyes- but ultimately, you must want to recover because you want to and because you believe God loves you enough.

I wear a ring, with God’s name engraved inside of it, on the fourth finger of my left hand because it is my commitment to God with regards to my calling to be a missionary doctor, and to live my life well. And it is a reminder to me of the great love He has for us. We are like God's bride. My ring also tells me that a relationship can only be beautiful when 2 whole people come together, not 2 halves.

That is why I wear my ring every day, all the time. And why I can’t explain why I wear it to most people I meet.


Doing what you do not wish to do

The Choices we make
We’ve talked about this before. Anorexia, for many, is about controlling the only thing you can when everything in life seems to be going out of control. It spirals into a perverse form of extreme discipline- I can't eat this, can't do that, have to burn these number of calories in this amount of time and the list never ends. This is discipline of the body. Since we are all so caught up with this grand notion of discipline, I want to share a higher form of discipline with all of you.

Its called the discipline of the mind and spirit. Discipline is, very often, a matter of doing what your natural impulse refuses to do. Recovery began when I started to exercise this higher discipline to replace the lowly, self-destructive discipline of the body. This higher discipline is about being positive, being alive, and being victorious. It is about doing what Anorexia refuses to do.

I ate when I knew I had to, even when Anorexia didn’t want to, even when I wasn’t hungry- because we all know that at some point, many of our stomachs shrink so much that even just a small meal fills us up so quickly. Even now, perhaps many of us find it very difficult to consume a normal-sized meal at one sitting. But at least, I make sure I eat enough throughout the day, even when I don’t feel hungry- because my hunger centre has been thrown off. I threw away my micro-skirts, even my favorite ones, the whole stack of them, because they represented insecurity, neediness and succumbing to our cultural idols of artificial perfection. I force myself to talk, write, express my feelings in times of distress even though my natural impulse is to go for a run. I have disallowed myself to participate in any form of long-distance marathon training until I know that my body and mind are fully well.

I make sure I eat with people when I lose my appetite because it lifts my spirits and helps me to eat better. I hardly watch television, and I don’t read trashy magazines even though the artist in me loves fashion- because it doesn’t help, it just doesn’t help. Can you look at me in the face and tell me reading Cleo helps you in recovering? People read trashy fashion magazines because it gives them a temporary delight of luxuriating in someone else’s fantasies. Maybe one day you'll be able to read stacks and stacks of these magazines and be perfectly fine with it, but right now, is that the best choice to make for yourself? What you feed your mind with is essential to recovering. You can make the choice not to become a victim of superficial cultural ideals.

What is beautiful is what the eye cannot see.

You can choose to do what you do not want to do. You can choose to seek professional help even though you may need to overcome an initial barrier of feeling shy.

You always have a choice to do what you do not wish to do so that you are one step closer to getting well. You always have a choice, remember that.

You are not a number
We all know our blood-attachment to the weighing scale. When I was very, very ill, it was everything to me. Even during recovery, it was something to fall back on on bad days. Yet, against all obsession, I threw it away. I didn’t change its location, put it in another place so I wouldn’t see it, or tell my family to keep it from me. I did what I didn’t want to do but needed to be done. I THREW IT AWAY. DOWN THE CHUTE. There are many things in life worth throwing away. Your life is not one of them.

You are not a number. God made you a human being deserving of love, happiness and freedom.

Many of you tell me about the perverse feeling of delight when you lose extra weight, because it feels empowering and gives you a sense of control, discipline. I understand, I really do. But consider this- that that kind of discipline wastes, destroys and mocks, while a different kind of discipline, that of doing what you do not wish to do- for your own good, is a more beautiful, higher form of discipline, one that fulfills, builds, and sets free.

Remember, recovery is being strong enough to do what you do not wish to do.


Braveheart

You are very brave to have taken the first step to seek help, talk about your problem. You are very, very brave because so many choose to sleep over it in denial. But it doesn’t stop here. There is a difference between genuinely wanting to get better and taking action, and simply being content to wallow in the status quo because you’ve found a place to ventilate and feel comfortable among fellow people who suffer in the same place you do. There is a difference between true courage, and self-indulgence trying to pass as honesty, admitting your foibles not to improve but only to gain sympathy and consent.

That is no longer courage. It is called, at best, a more sophisticated form of cowardice.

So be strong, do what you do not wish to do in order to get better- that is making progress, that is True courage.


That good.

So many of you are very, very bright. I’m not surprised, because people susceptible to Anorexia are often perfectionists in the first place. Many of you tell me how devastated you are by your academic dip in studies, and some of you have had to stop schooling for a while.

Last year, in spite of saving a lot of travel time by staying at the hostel, I didn’t do so well in my first year of medical school myself. I know how it feels. I couldn't concentrate, couldn't remember anything I had studied. This year, I decided to stay at home, decided to recover. This year meant having to spend at least 2 hours a day traveling to and from university, while studying for twice as many subjects as my first year of school, and choosing to spend twice as much time at church than I ever did before.

But this is also the term I have scored twice as well. Do you not miss being above average again? Not because of some deep-seated insecurity driving you to perform, but doing well, simply because you are well.

I can finally eat with my family, and go out for meals with friends, attend social functions without feeling paranoid or anxious. I can finally –think- clearly and lucidly. My mind is freed from obsessing, obsessing, obsessing... I am no longer edgy all the time. My hair doesn’t fall out anymore. I can breathe, live, create, simply Be.

Yes, life after Anorexia can be –that good-. And it most certainly is Possible.


On Winning

You can't win overnight, but you can win small battles every day, all the time.

You win when you eat well, one meal at a time. You win when you decide today is the day you will try and recover for yourself, and for God. You win when you lose and tell yourself you'll try again, and again, and again. You win when you cry because it's so hard but you press on anyway. You win when you forgive yourself for backsliding but never lose hope. You win when you decide to throw your scale away. You win when you decide you want to attend church regularly and thank God for your life, even when you don’t feel like it.

You win when you do what you do not wish to do, because you want to get better. You win when you believe that God loves you. You can win every day.

Keep winning small battles, and you'll Win big-time eventually.

I keep receiving similar messages about self-loathing. Yes, we know- it's not about the food or vanity, but it's about what's inside. I want you all to read this. And then write down ten things you are grateful to God for, about your life, talents and body. Ten things. Don't just think about it- write it down.


On God

A lot of you ask me about God. And why He is so important to me, how He played such a big role in my life and recovery. There is one thing you have to sort out- that God didn’t give you an eating disorder. Life did, and through all things, God represents that hope for us to transform any form of suffering into strength, resilience and beauty.

I don't want to over-generalise or over-simplify by saying that God is a one-time sugar-injection, and overnight rainbow rush, an instant cure-all. But all I can say is that believing in, learning about, serving and trusting in God over time is the reason I recovered so quickly. God and church are the reason I am who I am today.

Do you not know we are God's bride, and that His love for us is “strong as death… unyielding as the grave”, which “burns like blazing fire” (Song of Solomon 8:6-7)? Is that not the kind of love we all long for, that deep, awesome love that is almost ferocious? Does it not terrify you one bit that for all our imperfections, Someone loves us that much, that terrifyingly? I know it terrifies me. It is why I wear my ring every day, all the time.

Believing in God means believing you are worthy of love; believing in God means trusting Him enough to believe that you are beautiful, and will be even more so when you start eating normally, eating well because He made you with all the love in the world- He won't shortchange you by turning you into a fat-mound because you decided to eat well, be well (So many of you tell me this is your greatest fear!); believing in God means letting go, letting it go and just living, trusting and exulting in life.


On the Road

So many of you thank me. You thank me for being God’s angel to you.

But I just want to tell you that you too, have taught me much. You have been of great encouragement to me in many ways. It's been my joy knowing you. And you, too, can become God’s angel to someone else in time to come, if only you will believe in it.

It’s a journey. It’s a real journey, one that winds this way and that, and still, I am walking it. We walk everyday- it is a long road, but it is always worth it.


Life after recovery really is -that good-.

Remember, God loves you. He loves you so very, very much. For every valley we go through, a mountain-top experience awaits. It may be a long journey, but it is worthwhile. A beautiful place awaits.

I am praying for each and every one of you. Be well for yourself and for God, no one else.

Be strong, and do what you do not wish to do, because you'll be one step closer to that beautiful place.

You are very precious indeed.

Go and be Well.

God bless your hearts.



Love,
Wai Jia

Christmas Every Day.

I nearly forgot.

“I’m only at this train station on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Other days, I’m at Yishun train station,” Grandpa Zhou had told me the last time.

And there he was on Christmas day by the dirty steps, playing a broken tune on his harmonica.

“Zhou yeye (Grandpa Zhou)!” I called out, before sitting down next to him. He broke into a smile, the kind I never saw when my heart was angry with pettiness at his seeming arrogance previously.

I squatted down to take his order. “Christmas dinner on me,” I joked.

He replied gently, shaking his head, “Anything will do. But 2-dollar meal only, okay? Extra rice will do. I love to eat rice. Two dollars okay? Fish all that, I like, but too expensive.”

I returned with dinner and wanted to leave. Having spent a lot of time this holiday being overseas on a mission trip in China, celebrating Christmas with family, spending time at church… I was very tired, and the Practical side of me wanted to go back and sort out a little work. A major exam in less than two weeks suddenly loomed into view. So much work, so little time.

And then I remembered what Christmas meant. It meant God loving us so much that all He asked was for us to love others as deeply as He loved us. It is something you and I can do, very simply, to share the joy of love with whoever we meet, wherever we are. It was all God asked for on Christmas Day a long, long time ago.

Sometimes, stuck in a dilemma, a voice in my head whispers, “What would you do if that person were Mister God himself?”

I looked at Grandpa Zhou sitting by the steps, his harmonica by his side- If he were God, I would most certainly want to sit with him, I thought. Buy him a meal, chat, and ask for the annihilation of Crocs from the face of the earth.

So I sat down. I have never seen such a small, old person eat so much for a meal. There was a thick slice of fish the size of a large palm, a huge cube of tofu, vegetables and a double serving of white rice. This time, I ordered more food than the last time, and just like the last time, he finished everything.

“ You call me Grandpa Zhou ya? Please call me that from now on… Don’t call me ‘Uncle’ anymore, is that okay? ‘Grandpa Zhou’… it makes me feel so good to hear that. You know, people look down on us… People look down on us, how many people will stop to talk with us? I have a license to busk, but people still see us as beggars. Don’t leave yet okay? I have some questions for you after dinner.”

I looked at him as he tucked into his warm meal. Not too long ago, I was one of those people, angry with pettiness at him for seeming to be a prideful, lowly thorn.

“You know, how many people will sit down and talk to us like that, buy us a meal? I will never buy this for myself… Fish… I like but so expensive. This morning I ate cup noodles- it’s so cheap. Cheap and filling. My daughter… thirty over years old, she’s never bought me a meal and sat down to talk with me like this… Thank you so much you know.”

“Grandpa Zhou,” I said in mandarin, “You know, we all struggle with different issues in our life. Meeting you has been a great blessing to me, you challenged me to open my eyes to what it means to love my own family more deeply.”

He looked at me, stunned. “Really?”

I nodded. “Looking back, I think I’ve a lot to learn about gratitude and being filial… maybe… maybe this is something your daughter will come to learn in time… Just like how I took a long time to realise I took a lot of things for granted.”

He eventually finished his meal.

“My first question. Why is my leg like that?” He pointed at his swollen distorted feet, the skin cracked painfully at the sides, “You're a medical student ya? Can you do some research and tell me why?”

Then, "Second question, what did you do at church yesterday? Singing and dancing right? Must be... Christmas is special for you Jesus-believing people. That, I know, haha! "

I answered his questions faithfully and was about to leave when he said, “One more question, one more. But don’t be angry okay? Don’t be angry okay?”

I nodded.

He paused, then said, “ You have boyfriend?”

I laughed. All these old people always ask the same thing. “No Uncle, I mean, Grandpa Zhou. No.”

“Good,” he said. “ You finish studying first, concentrate in school, graduate and be a good doctor. All this romantic stuff can come later. Girls will always have suitors, but study first, that later. Ya, you’re not angry, are you? ”

I laughed. “No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’ve to go, Grandpa Zhou. I’ve got to spend time with my family tonight… It's Christmas Day ya. Cant stay too long this time... So sorry.”

“Yup, sure. Oh yes, the last time I told you I couldn’t sleep ya? And you said you would bring me some oils or something like that?”

I had told him about some bottles of essential oil I had bought from Nepal, from the missionary who helps women support themselves by offering them jobs to make essential oils, soaps and candles. “ I’ll bring it for you this Saturday, okay?”

“Okay. Please remember okay? Cannot sleep ya… And beer is bad.”

Grandpa Zhou taught me many things. Loving your family, loving God, and loving people in small, humble ways. He opened my eyes to see that for every mile we are willing to go for Strangers we love, we should be prepared to go twice the distance for family. Twice, because family aren’t Strangers- shouldn’t be, at least.

He taught me many things. That for all the time we have in the world, there can never be too much time spent Stopping for someone who needs love, stopping for someone, family or Stranger, the way we would stop in our tracks if we knew that person were... God.

Christmas is every day, every person, all the time.

I gave him a side hug, and wished him a merry Christmas. As I turned to leave, he called out behind me, “Thank you so much. Call me ‘Grandpa Zhou’, okay? Not ‘Uncle’. It makes me so happy.”

“Bye, Grandpa Zhou. Merry Christmas.”

“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me… … I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did unto me.”

– Matthew 25: 34-40

Yours, Betrothed.

I Run
Away, in rebellion.
Like a forked tongue from the sea.
In an angry spit of jealous froth,
I Run from You.

I Run
Away, in rebellion
Like bitter streams snaking from the sea.
But You Pursue me
With haste, and make chase.

For Your love for me,
Strong as death, unyielding as the grave
Terrifies me.
Your love is a sea of fire, cruel,
No water can quench.

And I Run
Away, in rebellion,
But like a dark knight,
You lean and hearken after me
With haste, and win the chase.

I tire,
I am drawn back to You.

Water into water,
My hair loosens, mingles into You
As I unfold,
Spill into
Your vastness.

Water into water,
I unfold, spill into the sea,
Back to the beginning,
I return to the One
Calling me.

In rebellion I Run.
And in brokeness,
Return.

Slain, speared, succumbed.
Full circle,
I have come.

In brokenness I Return,
As all rivers do the sea.

Back to you, I Run.

For Your love makes my journey just,
And lets me end where I begun.

Back to You, I Run,
Yours, betrothed.

Song of Solomon 8: 6-7

Merry Christmas.

Maybe Christmas is:

- sending out Christmas cards, writing to people you love and realizing you have written more than 80 letters to more than 80 people you love in 2 days.

- waking up at 5am to bake cookies for your family, neighbours and friends, and feeling refreshed.

- talking to God.

- emceeing for your church’s children Christmas programme in public, having fun teaching kids (and adults) an action song and laughing yourself silly on stage till you realise you're being videotaped.

- having your sister return from overseas for a week and having family dinner- together, finally, and laughing till your tummies hurt, like we've not done for a really long time. Laughing the way we do only when the four, not three, of us are together, Complete. Four of us, together again, Complete, like the way things should be-even if it's only for the next seven days.

- the four of us opening presents under the same Christmas tree we've had since I was twelve.

- knowing that Santa doesn’t exist- But that that’s the best news there ever was, because Someone else who does exist can give us more than Santa ever could.


There's nothing more I really want for Christmas than what I already have for free.


A family of the four of us, Complete, laughing about stupid things till our tummies hurt; presents that only mean anything because of who gave it to us; and something deep inside so rich, and real and wholesome it could only be called God's love.

What I want, I already have for free. God's love, in the form of family, laughter and hugs. This has been the simplest and best Christmas Eve ever.


Merry Christmas to each and every one of you, and Happy Birthday, God.


I love You.

Sweet Child.

We first met at the eating disorders support group. I think it was my first or second time there, after I had decided to perhaps work with Singapore General Hospital to raise awareness about eating disorders in Singapore.

Aiya, Sweet child, I was just dropping by your space today, and you made me cry again.

Thank you for your letter.

"I don't know how to describe tearing but I'll try.
Because despite the immense hurt I felt at the moment I teared, it was eventually overwhelmed by that bliss feeling. And that was what made it just so much more beautiful.

I didn't really take it in when I first saw you (at the eating disorders support group). I walked in with Nic and thought, okay here's a face I've never seen before, a pretty face. I saw you lean over and talk to Ryan and saw how you smiled so comfortably and smiled inside. Because you seemed so warm and friendly. So well. And realized that that made you all the more prettier.

You sat next to her and were the first to say something. Expressing yourself so colorfully and at such ease. Like you had so much to say but had too little time to say it. But in that forty-five minutes or so, you did so well. At least I felt you did. You managed to bring me back a little closer from how far I had let myself drift off. It wasn't that immense a feeling but it gave me just the amount of push needed to stand firmer on the two feet that you had said we should all be thankful for. The two feet that He had made exactly how they were and didn't need any other reason, other than because He made them, to accept and not hate them.

Nic and me were waiting outside the door. I wouldn't have talked to you if it weren't for her. "I think she's really nice, Sarah. I want to go talk to her." Because I didn't really know how the conversation would go nor was I confident enough that I could get it started but I didn't have to. Because Nic was by my side and you smiled at us and started the conversation.

That brief conversation that meant so much and left me walking through the corridor with that jumpy feeling inside. You smiled when we told you how well we thought you were doing and how pretty you looked and credited him fully. I went home, smiled and thought about how strong in Faith you were when you pointed up and said "Through Him." with your ever confident grin. The strongness of how you felt so deeply rooted and confident radiated so strongly that I was smiling the whole way back. "She's so nice Mummy. I really want to be like her (:" Mummy agreed with me and I thought of how proud any parent would feel. Even without having gone through parenthood, I felt proud.

During the normal monthly meeting in the yellow lited room, someone gave me your blog address. I smiled because you had a blog (: I got home and keyed it in first thing and smiled. To see the colourful pictures, simplicity and same Georgia font I use on my blog. My space. I went to bed smiling after having glanced through some posts and knew that like powder they give you when rockclimbing, your blog was somehow going to be a help in taking a higher step on that humongous and scary wall.

And tonight, I had the same feeling I did as when I saw you for the first time. Because although it was just another blog I was browsing through, this one was so much more special.

Because the humility, genuinity and compassion depicted through the words on the screen made me tear. Tear because it made alot of the things I do seem much more shallow than what they should be. Tear because it was so amazing to see how people like you actually exist in the world and can feel such beautiful feelings. Tear because of how strongly rooted you seemed in Him and how much compassion poured out through that. And tear because I realized that you weren't just another pretty face- you were genuinely beautiful.

I want to sculpt something as beautiful as the lives you are helping to sculpt. Because it is just so humbling, to read how you fall at His feet and give yourself so freely. To read how much trust you have in Him and constantly rely on Him to guide in everything. To read how much you contribute everything to Him. To feel how you are able to touch me so strongly although not here tangibly and how much you are able to urge me to want to be just like you. So beautiful in His eyes.

I'm not that teary anymore and that scares me for a second. Because what if that was just a feeling? An impermanent feeling that vaporises like alcohol. What if it was a feeling that was actually, useless? Like Twisties- and how in peoples eyes they seem to taste beautiful at the moment, but have zilch nutritional value in the long run. What if, that feeling was just a temporary feeling I'm toying with?

Then I remembered how I picked up the washable marker this morning and had written Faith on my mirror. And how I wanted it there because it would be thing I looked at every morning when I wake up. And I remembered what I said before- about how He knows how the limit we can take and how He promised to guide us through the trying moments. And I realized that it really is real. Because it seems like you're one of the guides you know? (: Like a angel by the side he's sent.

So yes, if you're reading this. I just want to say thank you.

Thank you for being there, not tangibly, but real enough to be like the powder I can feel on my hands when rockclimbing. Thank you for being there strongly enough, to make me tear then realize how real I want the word on my mirror to be. So now, I think I don't mind tearing if it's in this way.
It's emotional numbness.
But it's a beautiful emotional numbness (:

Yes, I'm reading this my dear. And you're welcome, sweet child. Be strong, and thank God for everything, for all things so you can be the Child you were made to be.

Beautiful child, thank you, too.

New Years Eve Party Ideas

New Year's Eve is just around the corner and that means it is time to celebrate!

I just updated my New Year's Eve ideas on my website and the youtube video is from a Party segment I did on NBC's IVillage Live. If you are looking for quick nibbler recipes then check out this blog post.

A Little Bit of Press

Netscape is getting a little crafty - I love that we are in the gossip section!

HOW TO DO IT YOURSELF: Emmy-nominated "Creative Juice" hosts Cathie Filian and Steve Piacenza proudly report the dynamic duo's DIY show -- that takes crafting to new levels -- is being shown in schools around the country.

"'Creative Juice' has aired as part of Cable in the Classroom," says Filian, of the program that utilizes cable TV shows to enhance schools' curriculum. "It's so great, because in a lot of these schools, the art programs are being eliminated," adds Piacenza, "but creativity and using your imagination is absolutely important for the growth of kids."

Click here to read the entire piece.

Silhouettes Make The Cut - Tutorial

Silhouettes Make The Cut
Cathie Filian

Silhouettes were all the rage in the early 1800s and by the looks of pop culture today they are back and in big business. Apple featured silhouetted hipsters grooving to their iPods. Many trucks feature the iconic "mud flap" girl and modern card and wrapping paper designers are featuring everything from silhouetted chandeliers to party girl accessories.

Silhouette artists have been creating cut masterpieces for more than 200 years, using their scissors to capture the image of a loved one without a camera. The process of cutting your way to a masterpiece has just a few steps and the results are simply stunning. You can create silhouettes of family members, friends and pets.

You can cut your image using the traditional matte black paper or show off your wild side with a small striped print or a hot pink glossy paper. Frames and backing papers can be coordinated to your room's color palette. For a cozy look consider attaching your cut pieces to a small canvas covered with a linen or velvet fabric.

If you want to create something a little less traditional like a silhouette of a chandelier, elegant sofa or even an airplane, look in magazines, newspapers and books for images to use for inspiration.

Silhouettes don't have to be tiny! Go big and bold by blowing up your image on a photo copier and use over-sized black paper. Large sheets of solid and embossed papers can be found at art supply and stationery shops.

You will want to work with a sharp pair of scissors and I recommend using a scissor designed for detail work that fits comfortably in your hand. No matter how you cut it, this age old art form is making a bold comeback. So grab some scissors and make the first cut.

Materials Needed:

photograph of a face or object (simple photos with minimal detail work best)

scissors

utility knife

black paper (the size of the photo)

background paper (size of the frame)

frame

glue stick

pencil

How To:

Choose a photo that is simple, preferably with a profile view of a person or object. Using scissors and/or a utility knife, cut around the shape of the subject in the photograph; this shape creates a template. Trace the template onto the black paper (tracing on the back of the paper will keep pencil marks from showing). Use scissors or a utility knife to cut out the traced shape. Apply glue to the back of the image, mount the image on background paper and place in a frame.

Starshine.

It is a beautiful tragedy, but a tragedy, nonetheless.

It took me this long to understand.

That you cannot love a Stranger, you cannot truly love a stranger, touch lives, change the world, unless you love and touch those who were destined to love you-your own family, and change yourself to love them, deeply, genuinely, wholeheartedly- regardless of circumstance or situation.

It took me this long to understand.

Grandpa Zhou said, “Even my daughter has never done this (buy me a meal and talk with me) before…” There he was, by the steps, luxuriating in the company of a complete Stranger, me, because of what he missed. Our stars collided and it was beautiful. But even then, the beautiful moment was tainted by the remembrance of a time lost, missed and longed for.

I went home that night and thought about the last time I sat down with Dad to talk, talk for hours into the night like we used to-it’s been a while. So there I was, by the steps, luxuriating in the company of a complete Stranger, him, because of what I missed. Our stars collided and it was beautiful. But even then, the beautiful moment was tainted by my own remembrance of a time too long ago, too far back.

So love begins right here, at home.

The world is a beautifully interconnected meshwork of lives, Stories and memories. The individual lives and Stories differ always, but the feelings, the hurts and joys, the complicatedness repeat themselves. Over and over again, the same stars collide in the same broken, complicated places.

Therein lies the beauty, that ultimately because of our sameness, because of the same hurts and joys, we, complete Strangers from completely different families, connect in special ways and are able to understand, empathize, love and touch lives. We are, in spite of our differences, bridges, connections, starstreams spun every instant that collide randomly into each other.

But therein lies, too, the tragedy- that in the beauty of this sugarspun cobweb of special and mysterious connections, is a secret that took us too long to understand. If only every family loved itself deeply, genuinely, wholeheartedly from within, there would lay in this world a lot less grieving, and a lot less need for Strangers to fill in the broken, complicated gaps in our lives.

The collision of starstreams and the spinning of sugarspun cobwebs are beautiful- they really are.

But a lot of those starstreams could be saved from colliding, cobwebs spared from being spun, had we loved the right way from the right place from the beginning, loved starting from Home. It is an unecessary mess.

And risk losing the creation of intricate, randomly-weaved webs and connections you say? Yes, but only because it is simpler, more Beautiful this way.

In this, there is simple beauty and no tragedy therein.

How beautiful it is to see the selflessness of social workers, the radical transformation of deliquents; how beautiful it is to see the understanding of counsellors, the healing of hurting patients; how beautiful it is to see the random acts of kindness, the hearts of complete strangers touched by simple gestures.

But how tragic it is to realise- that deliquents aren't born- they are driven away from places they could not find love in, Home; that depression isn't an overnight affair, it grows insidiously, every day, in a place underneath your own roof; that we would be happier, simpler people had we all loved the right way from the right place, Home, right at the very beginning.

So, I am convinced, that love begins right here, at Home. Every family has its own fair share of tangled webs to work through, and if we worked through them, that would be enough. We keep helping, keep loving, keep touching lives outside of our homes, because it is easier to love those whom you do not expect love from. But all griefs, all griefs run from Home- in some way or another. And if only we chose to run Home, to the place of hurts, vengeances and unforgiveness, we would see that the answer, love, lay in the midst of all those cobwebs all along.

Grandpa Zhou wouldn’t need the spare change from passers-by if his son gave him money, wouldn't desperately need a listening ear if his daughter bought him dinner and stayed to chat with him. We, Grandpa Zhou and I, would then have shared a beautiful moment, untainted by a remembrance of a time lost, missed and longed for. Just a beautiful, simple moment where our stars shone for each other, but didn't collide in broken, complicated places.

When we love the right way from the right place, our stars can shine without the affair of messy collisions.

We cannot love a Stranger, we cannot truly love a stranger, touch lives, change the world, unless we love and touch those who were destined to love us-our own families, and change ourselves to love them, deeply, genuinely, wholeheartedly- regardless of circumstance or situation.

It took me this long to understand. To truly understand.

Last night Daddy and I talked into the night like the way we used to when I was little. Talking about all sorts of nonsensical and deep things.

I’m going Home now. I'm packing up my things from a makeshift tent in a dingy waterway underneath a bridge of passing Strangers and finally going Home now.

And what unspeakable joy it brings.

Stars are shining.

Letter - Craftnanza Necklace

I have received a few letters regarding my necklace in the craftnanza commercial. People are wanting to know did you make it? or where can I buy it!

the neckalce

So here is the skinny.... I bought the necklace last year from a store called New York & Co. I just fell in love with it when I saw it. I was not even thinking of it for the commercial but it was the perfect choice with the green t-shirt. I love the glitzy boho style of this piece.

The Necklace is chain and charms. The chain is base metal with a copper finish. It is 3 tiered with the top chain measuring 16 inches. The charms are everything from large sequins to rhinestone butterflies and silk flowers to chandelier style crystals.

detail

I checked with New York and Co. and they don't have this style anymore. But with a little craftiness I know it could be made! This style would be a great way to use up old odd bits or this and that. You could even chop up some old necklaces and string them together to create something new.

Here are a few links to jewelry projects from Creative Juice:

"Citrine & Gold" Necklace and Earrings
New Mom "Breakaway" Necklaces
"Vegas Baby" Bracelet
Resin "Guitar Pick" Necklaces

Letter - Clara Bow's House

I got this email and thought I would share.

Hi Cathie,

The wife and I watch your show all the time! I just read on the internet, that you live in Clara Bow's old house! Is that the house we see on your show? I ask because I'm a silent film nut, and Clara is one of my Fave Stars. If only that house could talk, eh?

Johnny



Hi Johnny,

That house was amazing! I say "was" because we have since moved due to the building being sold to a new developer. SO Sad!

In the late 40's the house was chopped up into large luxury apartments. They even had butlers quarters and separate entrances for cooks and maids. Steve and I both shared a floor, (kind of like a duplex) our apartments were originally the ballroom and if you look close you can see the large arches.

We filmed season 1 and 2 in the house. The rest of the seasons are filmed on a set that looks like a house. The Clara/Ivar house has the smaller kitchen with white and orange striped walls. And the set has the kitchen with the zebra wood cabinets. We also filmed the Holiday Special in the Clara Bow house. In the film noir episode you can see the front of the building when we are at the mail box.

The walls did "talk" - I never paid much attention to ghosts stories until I lived on Ivar. Lets just say the house had a personality that was full of life. During filming the spirits were a flutter! I think they were happy to have something filming in the house. We never got spooked it was just funny stuff that would happen. One time, I was so hot from the lights that I thought I was going to pass out. I jokingly said "Clara! please open the door and let some air in." Sure enough the balcony doors opened and the whole crew flipped out.

I am glad you and your wife are enjoying Creative Juice! We have so much fun making the show. It truly is a labor of love.

Happy Holidays,

Cathie Filian

Here are the doors the mysteriously opened.

Last Chance Documentary

It is only Wednesday and I feel like it is Friday! I have been prepping for NAPTE and working on our documentary, Last Chance.

NAPTE is a huge television conference that takes place in Las Vegas at the end of January. All the distributors, syndicated companies, networks and television peeps will be there. Yesterday, I burned 80 dvd's (with tons more to go), printed 680 DVD labels and began working on our new company press kit.



We have 3 cooking shows in development. One with Steve and myself, (you know how we love to cook and eat) one with funny man, Michael McDonald (from Mad TV) and one with acclaimed chef Joseph Antonishek. I am going to package all the cooking shows together in oven mitts with pint sized wood mixing spoons. I am burning our company logo into the spoons with a wood burner.

Our other projects are docs: Last Chance, Acting Normal and The Greenwood Project. We are still shooting Last Chance and should be wrapped in just a few days! Steve has been busy digitizing all the footage and Greg has been cutting.

Monday, we filmed at the juvenile detention camp for boys here in Los Angeles. It was tough. The only time I have filmed in a prison before was for Bottle Rocket and then we were really isolated from the inmates and focused on the actors. This was so very different. The boys looked like little lost kids. Some were mean, most were curious. For many of the kids, this is it! This is the end of the line - they turn 18 and start doing hard time with the adults - if they don't turn their lives around.

Here are some photos from the camp. I have blurred the faces.

Cathie

Grandpa Zhou.

I never did like that old man very much.

Often, he sat by the train station, playing his harmonica, singing a hoarse tune with a dirty box with spare change inside. A few times, I had Stopped to ask him how he was, if he wanted any food, and each time he would turn my question back on me, saying, “You want to give me ah? Just give me money la, then no trouble to you!”

I thought he was very cocky. He was shriveled and small, but looked very alert. He seemed to play his harmonica un-intently, sing his hoarse songs without any sense of pride. I never did like that old man very much.

The last time I saw him was before I left for China. I thought to myself, one day I have to talk to him.

Last night, I did.

“Uncle, have you eaten?”

He looked up at me, recognizing my familiar face and question, for I had asked him that many times before, and had returned with a box of noodles or a bun from a nearby convenience store. Again came the reply I had expected- “You want to buy for me ah? Can la! You buy la, buy la.” Ha waved his hand as he spoke.

“What do you want Uncle?”

He seemed unpicky at first, but later started to become more specific. “I want anything… No, er… maybe just some snacks… curry puffs or, no no no, bao (Chinese bun). I want a bao.”

“Okay, Uncle. I’ll get it for you.” I walked into the convenience store in front of us, then turned back to ask, “What kind do you want? Is it enough?”

“Chicken. I want chicken, not as if they have pork what. Of course one bao is not enough! Very, very hungry...”

I looked at him sitting by the steps. He was being cocky, and trying my patience too. People often warned me of being taken advantage of, and I thought this may be that instance. His requests, from a hungry old man, were legitimate, but I hated his cockiness with me, that air of disdain and presumption. I never did like that old man.

I returned with a Chinese chicken bun. He thanked me very briefly.

Every mission trip changes me in ways I can never fully explain or understand. Cambodia grew my wings for independence, Nepal opened my eyes to orphans and my heart to Strangers, India broke my pride for going solo and China… China gave me new eyes to see, and strength to enlarge my tiny heart.

I wanted to leave, but didn’t. Church didn’t teach us to be like that. God loves us so much He gives us strength to love the unloveable. He Stopped for everyone, didn’t He? To love, that is all He asks of us. Not just callously, in a salve-your-conscience kind of way, but deeply, thoroughly, genuinely.

“I’ll get you noodles then,” I said, “You like that? Or rice? There is one packet of nasi lemak (coconut rice) and one packet of noodles left. Which do you like?” But as I turned towards the convenience store, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it.

I stated the obvious. “It’s cold ya, Uncle? The noodles from the store… they’re cold ya?”

“Or you can get me the hot one then. The instant cup noodles! Yup that would be much better!”

Given a choice, I would never serve anyone cup noodles. And I would have to be in dire, dire circumstance before consuming waxed junk that tried to imitate itself as food. Something in me broke when he asked for cup noodles. He was old enough to be my grandfather, and though I never saw both my grandfathers, I would never, ever serve my own grandpa food from a Styrofoam cup.

I wanted to go home, I was carrying many things, I was tired, and the Chinese stall was two streets away. But something in me broke when he asked for cup noodles. Things shouldn’t have to be this way.

I stooped down and crouched next to him. “Uncle. You like Chinese mixed rice? I buy for you, can? Tell me what you like.”

It was then that I noticed. I had always thought he was normal and healthy. Cocky, but normal and healthy. But it was then, when I Stopped, when I crouched down next to him to take his order that I noticed- his right forearm was unnaturally shriveled like a toothpick and his feet were swollen with distortion. I had never noticed it before, because he always huddles his limbs together. Congenital disabilities.

“I want cabbage. And chicken. Two dollars only, I know… Or three vegetables, that’s two dollars too! I know all the price of everything!”

As I turned to leave, he shouted behind me, “And extra rice! Extra rice!”

I returned with his meal. This time I didn’t want to leave. “Uncle, please eat. It’ll get cold and then it wont be nice.” He looked at the food and was pleasantly surprised.

“Sometimes I only eat one meal a day,” he said.

We talked. For more than an hour. People stopped to watch us, some intently, others glancing back for a second glance as they walked past. It must have been a strange sight. Young girl with long hair, fancy dress and high heels sitting by dirty steps with a shriveled old man, listening with fascination to his Stories. He was surprisingly very, very knowledgeable.

Suddenly I loved him. Loved his Stories, loved his interest in my life, loved that underneath that cocky façade was an old grandpa who just wanted some food and company. Grandpa Zhou, I called him. Very old men who are not lewd have a soft spot in my heart. The lewd ones, on the other hand, make me want to gouge their eyes out and burn their… nevermind.

“You… you must be one of those who believe in Jesus right?” he said, as he tucked into the first warm meal he had had in a while.

“That’s right, Uncle. Heh.” I said.

“Yeah, I know… You Jesus-believing people like to buy food for people, ha. I don’t believe in any religion though. It’s not as if anyone has ever seen God, you know. Right? Ya, but I don't hold anything against you all...”

We talked about many things. Chinese politics, his background, his suffering from congenital disabilities, my life and my future… “I like your harmonica-playing,” I said.

And played he did. I never thought he would finish such a large packet of rice but this tiny, shriveled old man finished every bit, including the bao too. And when he did, he sang his favourite Hokkien song and played on his humble harmonica for me. “I love to sing,” he said.

We agreed to meet on the weekend so he could teach me a tune or two.

How I had wronged him. I thought he had no pride, but it was just that he was old, and his voice was hoarse; I thought he was cocky, but it was just that he was preserving his dignity- after all, he never asked for money from his son; I thought he was taking advantage of me, but it was just that he hadn’t eaten a good meal for a long, long time.

We keep thinking these people don’t really need our help, keep thinking we need to travel far and wide to help the less fortunate, keep thinking that underneath that façade, these people have quite a good life cheating passers-by of their money. But he earns $300 a month, tries to save by spending $2 a day on food and needs the rest to support his wife and pay for utility bills.

"I can't sleep every night, you know. Sometimes I drink a little beer just so I can sleep. But now, I don't even do that because do you know how expensive beer is?"

"Beer is not good ya. Don't smoke or drink beer okay? Beer can cause liver cancer ya..."

"Ya I don't anymore. I want to be healthy. I'm past seventy already."

I shared with him my pictures from China which were in my bag. He was fascinated, especially with the picture I had taken with the patients from the Rehab Centre. They too, like him, were crippled or had handicaps, but were joyful and grateful for their lives. I explained the reason for my visiting China, and told him about the missionary doctor who had given up his comfortable life here to be there to serve the poor.

“What a noble man. You, too, are very noble ya,” he said pensively, blinking his eyes. “ You are very blessed too. You have money, good life, so you can bless other people. Study hard.” He paused before he continued. “I don't think God is real cos I've never seen Him but one thing is for real… I don’t believe in any religion but you Jesus-believing people… you fellows that Ive met are very kind, always loving people... that I know for real.”

As he looked at his takeaway box, he said, “Thank you. Thank you for the food- this is more than two dollars. Thank you for sitting to talk with me. Even my daughter has never done this before…”

It was late, we had talked for more than an hour and I was becoming tired. “Take care, Grandpa Zhou. I have to go. Thank you so much.”

“I'm not fit to be your grandpa- I'm too poor... I should be the one thanking you. Thank you for stopping to talk with me.”

We think it strange for us to stop to talk to Strangers. Some of us put a coin or two to salve our conscience, some of us buy a packet of bread, leave it by their side, smile and walk away. But I will always remember what Grandpa Zhou said, “ There is this other lady who always buys things for me. She always leaves it by me and walks away. But she never, ever stops to talk… … How Strange.”

How strange.

How strange that we think it strange to stop to talk, but it is stranger still not to.

I thought of all the times I had wronged him, all the times I had chosen to walk away, all the times that my actions were driven more by the need to salve my conscience than the genuine desire to love, to love the way God loves us.

I thought of all the times we chose to give our love to Strangers, rather than the people in our own homes, all the times we took love for granted, and the times ahead that we can create, can change to bring that kind of love under own own roofs, for our own mothers, and fathers and siblings- people who were destined to love us deeply, thoroughly, genuinely till the end.

How far I fell short. How far we all do.

“Bye Grandpa Zhou. God loves you very much. See you on Saturday.” I gave him a side hug.

“Bye bye, and see you. I’ll be here till late on Saturday... Bring your harmonica!”

"I will, Grandpa Zhou. I will."

"... Love one another..."

John 13: 34-35

Happiness in a Nutshell.

Happiness is waking up every day at 6am in the village, jogging in the freezing cold underneath a canopy of stars with the missionary doctor, chatting about God and life, and eating hot, steaming roadside fare.

Happiness is spending the first day of your trip exploring the place by yourself, with no guide, nobody at all- and feeling completely at ease in the midst of humble, quiet people.

Happiness is taking public transport by yourself on your second day in a foreign land to a lake with thousands of seagulls, sitting on a stone bench and overhearing a conversation in simple Mandarin:

" Mama, wei shen me zhe zhi mao mei you er duo? (Mommy, how come this cat has no ears?" A little boy comes up to where I am sitting and stares curiously.

"Yin wei... yin wei ta bu ting hua ya... Ni kan, ling wai yi zhi mao duo ting hua ya! (Because... because it was naughty and didnt listen to what its mommy told him... See, the other cat has ears because it was a good boy!)"


The little boy, holding his mommy's hand, uses his other hand and scratches his ear, before coming over to feel the ear-less, naughty cat.

Happiness is enjoying colourful messiness, and seeing Beauty in it.

Happiness is seeing a poor villager's life changed- being able to function again after having a leg and fingers burnt by acid- because of what the missionary doctors and God's love have done for him. Happiness is seeing the missionary doctor give him a haversack, and a jacket and seeing him overwhelmed with joy and thanksgiving.

Happiness is seeing how a little girl, dulled by mental retardation, constantly salivating and frowning because of her inability to walk, go completely ecstatic when you take a picture with her with a flash. Happiness is hearing her scream and shriek with joy, and seeing her mother smile.

Happiness is spending two hours to travel to another hospital, and helping a village family pay for their hospital expenses, partly with money a classmate gave you " to use it in whatever way you want to help the poor, I don't care how you use it...". Happiness is praying for the family and the father who has terminal cancer, and seeing their tears of gratitude when you open your eyes.

Happiness is laying shoeless on grass, and seeing nothing but blue skies, and clouds

Happiness is walking by miles and miles of sugarcane fields, and biting refreshing sugarcane freshly chopped in front of you by the village farmers.

Happiness is throwing up all night, feeling giddy and weak but laughing the next morning at church, grateful to God for the Beautiful experience.

Happiness is feeling physically weak from puking and pooping, and emotionally exhausted- but knowing you could do it all over again.

All over again, because it makes you Happy.

Beautiful People.

Thank you all for your thoughtful emails, notes and prayers for me.

I arrived at 2am this morning, after a memorable gastronomical spewing session on the aircraft due to the result of staying for a few days in a village and eating with the beautiful people there. Miles and miles of sugarcane fields, endless cloudless blue skies, and humble, hospitable, quiet people. It was worth it.

I'm sorry I could not share Stories with you all till now. For some reason, I wasn't able to access this space during my stay in China. Apparently, some sites are restricted in China, and this happens to be one of them.

Many sights, sounds and Stories broke my heart there. Talking to villagers stricken with lethal diseases but too poor to afford a stay at the hospital, listening to the poor tell you how they wanted to end their lives after losing their limbs in unfortunate accidents but could not afford even the most basic operations, and seeing how humble and simple people can and ought to be- can break your heart in ways you don't even imagine.

Then you see how missionary doctors there send out teams to collect the poorest and neediest villagers, from the most inaccessible of places in the mountains, send them to hospitals to give them new hope for a new life; you see how they give them money, friendship and love; you see how they give them hope to want to live again- and something deep inside you breaks in a Good way. Like you know you could do this someday. Like maybe, for all your pampered upbringing, you could. Maybe, more than maybe- you could, and will.

The place that broke my heart the most must have been the Rehabilitation Centre.

I was on my way there when I crossed a huge park in the city, bustling with activity. In the morning, crowds of elderly people exercised, danced, played instruments and played with their grandchildren. It was a joyous, beautiful sight, brimming with energy and life.

At the end of the park were dozens of people squatting by the side, offering to polish the dirty winter boots of passers-by. I hardly stopped to look at each of them because there were so many, each doing the same thing for a living. Different lives doing the same thing to live. But she caught my eye. She caught my eye because there she was, sitting in the sunshine on a frosty winter's day, squatting by the side, waiting to polish the dirty winter boots of passers-by... and she had no feet. Where our feet start, hers ended in stumps, as if her feet were buried under the cruel metal concrete ground below.

She had no feet, and yet, squatting by the roadside, she held a polishing cloth, waiting to polish the dirty winter boots of passers-by, boots that enveloped the very things she did not have. I watched her, rooted to the ground, outraged by the audacity of the irony. Suddenly, in that poignant moment, everything faded away. I wanted to go up to her, talk to her, but what could I say that would bring comfort or peace to her? So I watched her, rooted to the ground.

I caught her eye, and I did the only thing I knew- I smiled her my best smile.

In return, she smiled her Best smile back. It was a radiant, Beautiful smile, shining in the winter's sunshine, without a hint of malice, or resentment at the lot life had dished her.

I turned the corner, then had to sit by the roadside where she could not see me. And I started to cry.

I pick myself up and make my way to the Rehabilitation Centre, the place where villagers who have met with devastating accidents are given new life and new hope because of what the missionary doctors have done for them. "Go and talk to the patients and spend time with them. Just, spend time with them." the missionary doctor had told me.

I am a stranger there. With no one to tell me what to expect, I find myself shocked and deeply saddened by the sight of a man, burnt and terribly disfigured from head to toe. His skin is deep red, brown and pink. He hardly has eyes or a nose. He comes up to me with a group of patients and I brace myself.

I find it very awkward at first, and they seem not to welcome me very much. But they soon open up, and I make friends with Mei Yun (Beautiful Cloud), Xu Hai, and Tian Zi Shu.

They all grew up in villages. Born with a disability, Xu Hai cannot walk normally. Mei Yun lost sensation of her left calf when she was little but surgery at the Rehab Centre allowed her to walk again. Tian Zi Shu sits in a wheelchair. His legs are tiny, shriveled, but his face is determined, radiant even. His leg muscles hurt when he was fourteen- they still do.

They all had one thing in common- they all told me they had wanted to die at some point, but coming to the Rehab Centre, learning about God's love and purpose for their lives gave them new hope, new life, made them want to live again.

Xu Hai

Mei Yun (Beautiful Cloud)

Tian Zi Shu

We sit in the warm sunshine, talk, eat fruit. I meet Yang Yao, a man with long hair tied in a ponytail, and with one leg. He lost his hearing in one ear and his left leg after a mining accident.

“I heard the tssssss…. of the dynamite wick and knew haha, it was over,” he says with a smile, "I thought I would die actually."

I ask him how long he has been at the Rehab Centre and he replies, “Oh, my treatment has long been over. My lover. This time, I'm here cos of my lover.” He says those two words with a charm I cannot fully reconcile with.

“My lover,” he says, “My wife, she is having treatment. She lost both her feet because of severe burns. Her legs are stumps. I have no job now, but we’re thankful we earn enough because she polishes boots in the day.”

Later, I learn he is the husband of the woman I smiled to at the parade square, the one who made me cry because of her Beautiful smile.

There are other visitors too. One of them comes up to tell me, “I was watching you just now with all the patients. I just wanted to say you have this special gift of involving everyone in having fun. It's a special gift, just wanted you to know that.” Another young lady comes up to talk to me and says, “ You look like you’ve been working here for a long time. You really have a way with these patients.”

I had been there for an hour at most. One young girl who had lost her leg in a tragic car accident when she was sixteen spilled her entire Story to me within the first 5 minutes of our encounter, without me even asking her. I was afraid to ask, really. Some hurts, we as Strangers, have no right to ask.

It took me days to figure it out. And suddenly, it came to me- the reason why we became friends so easily, the reason why the patients told me, "I don't usually share this with people. But somehow, I feel I want to share this with you."

The answer was very simple. We, not just they, had one thing in common. We all knew the taste of depression, what it meant to want to kill yourself. We had been there and back, been there, played and toyed with it until we knew what God's love is, what it does. We had that one thing in common, and that was enough. In that warm sunshine, we talked, and ate fruit, and became instant friends.

That night I woke up at 3am, and could no longer sleep. Something inside was stirring within me. Haunted by the day's events and haunted by the inner demon I had promised myself to deal with, I could not go back to sleep. All my life, I have been battling with my inner demon of low self-esteem, of not feeling pretty, smart, good-enough and that night it haunted me with a hollow Blackness.

The next evening, I returned to the Rehab Centre. Cui Hua, a village lady who had lost both her legs just two years ago shared with me, " You know, this made me feel like a lesser person. It made me feel like I wasnt good enough for anything." She sighed before she continued, "But then I knew God, and then I felt life was worth living all over again."

I looked at her, sitting in a wheelchair with her thighs as stumps and it hit me like a train. It made me feel like I wasnt good enough for anything, she said. The tears started to come, and I had to leave. " See you all soon!" I said, trying to hide my tears as I turned to leave.

That night, I wept myself to sleep. I wept so hard the lady who housed me had to hold me in her arms, warm my cold, cold hands and tell me it was okay to let it all out, okay to let it all out.

Here Cui Hua was, saying she wasn't good enough for anything- the exact same thing I have been haunted with for the whole of my life. Here these poor villager patients were, with limbs and skin and faces lost, saying they felt like they wanted to die- the exact same thing I had thought before. Except that- they had lost limbs, skin and faces... and I had...

-Everything.

That night, I wept myself to sleep. I wept so hard the lady who housed me had to hold me in her arms, warm my cold, cold hands and tell me it was okay to let it all out, okay to let it all out.

Suddenly I was ashamed, ashamed and thankful to the point of tears and weeping. Weeping because I was ashamed and thankful at the same time. Thankful because I felt blessed to have had the peculiar privilege of understanding the taste of sadness, of understanding the hollow, empty feeling of not feeling good enough but having my limbs, skin and face intact. I wept that night, and I kept having to feel my legs. Ashamed also, because I had everything that should seem not to warrant any of those feelings at all.

I wept my heart out that night.

I thought of the poor villager patients, their limbs, skin, faces lost. Thought of their thoughts, and mine, thought of their lives, and mine. I thought their traffic, mining and occupational accidents, and anorexia- how anorexia had been my accident which amputated my limbs, skin and face.

Most people don't understand what a weighing scale means to someone with anorexia. It means a number, and self-worth. They are obsessed with the number, because everything in their lives rest upon it. It is an altar which they worship. Everything revolves around it, and everything important in their lives rests upon it. In deep sickness, they can weigh themselves up to more than ten times a day. I was that ill before. Even on my worst days now, I am never that ill anymore. But though I have thought of ridding it many times before, I have never been able to.

That night, I wept. And finally, I knew what it meant to be blessed. I knew the meaning and weight of being blessed. I wept myself to sleep, kept feeling my legs, legs that had cartilages worn out too soon, too early by an illness but were intact, and made a Promise to myself.

I will always remember these Beautiful people, people who were brave, strong and humble enough to grab hold of pain, wrench it dry and re-fill their lives with a brand of hope only God's love can give.

I got home, and threw away the scale today. It went down the chute, just like the stack of micro-skirts, and my trophies. It just isn't worth it.


Beautiful People.