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