My Other Leg.

I suppose, Grace takes on new meaning when you look at things his way.

My last ride was definitely one of my most memorable rides ever.

Saturday was my first ride out with my training group since my injury. Because I had been cautioned by the physiotherapist not to overexert myself, I stayed at the back of the group and biked carefully on my own, being extra sensitive to the needs of my body. To be safe, I was determined to finish only half or two-thirds the usual route. I was riding by myself when a low, 3-wheeled contraption whizzed past me.

It was E!

I remember my first memory of him consisted of him standing on one leg because he hadn't another. The other pant leg was completely empty. Without meaning to be rude and with all due respect, it was a sight which I would not forget easily. His good leg, however, stood strong, and he moved from one place to another independently by hopping.

E, like Fungus, is a handcyclist who joined our training group a while back. He cycles with his hands because he only has 1 leg. Because handcyclers, unlike bicycles, are very low, they can be dangerous on the road since other cars and lorries may not see them. Usually, a cyclist or two from our group would escort the handcyclists but this time, E was alone.

He was going quite fast in spite of the headwind, and overtook me. Slightly perturbed by his being alone (and being overtaken, ha), I caught up with him and decided to be his biking escort.

As we talked and biked, I was attracted to his positivity. Eventually, I asked him about his leg.

"Was it an accident?"

"No. Chondrosarcoma. Cancer which relapsed," he said. "13 years ago."

It was then that I saw immense strength in his spirit. He had legs before. He knew what it was like to run, bike, swim, jump... but now had to cope, had to continue living life bravely with a single leg.

"You are very strong," I said.

To which he replied candidly, "Yes I am!" For some reason, it didn't sound proud. It did, however, ring of confidence and relief.

"May I ask a question?"

"Sure!" he said, in between breaths as we cycled down the straight road.

"Did you... I mean, were you ever angry with God?"

To which he replied readily, "Why should I be? I have my other leg! I could've lost them both! And my hands, and my eyes! Don't you see, God loves me... I'm not Christian, but I know there certainly is a God out there who loves me. "

I was speechless. Why should I be angry? I have my other leg.

I suppose, Grace takes on new meaning when you look at things this way.


Grace. It means being given what you don't deserve.


Today at Sunday School, I shared my experience with this inspiring man with all the children, big and small. They were enthralled by this little anecdote. Together, we thanked God for the good health, hands, legs and head he had given us. I realise, we can look at things from 2 perspectives: one, that we deserve everything a good life consists of and any deficiency must be God's fault or His terrible inconsistency; two, that we deserve nothing in the first place and everything is a blessing.

E chose to see things from the second perspective. "Love keeps me going," he said.

As I biked with E and saw no one available to escort him, I knew I could not turn back as I had originally intended because it would be dangerous for him. Nonetheless, I was worried that my healing muscles and hip would not take kindly to the full 50km distance or the slopes ahead. Yet, a certain peace came upon me. I prayed. I knew my physical injury (having a torn grace-lis muscle among other muscles and a broken hip) had a lot to do with my spiritual inability to receive Grace.

But on this ride, I saw the meaning of Grace in a new light, and saw how indeed, my ability to ride, to race, to study, to serve, is not by my own merit, but really, by God's unmerited favor.

So the ride was amazing because of my meeting E. And amazing too, because it was a breakthrough in my recovery. For weeks, I had suffered aches and pains after any physiotherapy exercise, however light, but today, even days after the ride, my legs, for the first time ever, feel so good and strong. For the first time, my muscles no longer feel tight. I suppose it has got to do with improved blood circulation. It sounds crazy, but I often think our spiritual or emotional states are closely and inexplicably linked to our physical conditions.

All this while, many of my friends asked me how they could keep me in prayer. They offered to pray for my speedy recovery. That, however, was not my prayer at all. Eventually, I only asked God to teach me what He wanted to through this, because I knew that when those lessons were finally mastered, I would be healed and my pain would go away.

That day, I understood what Grace meant, and saw how I could, like E, apply it into my life.

(But don't worry, I'm still going to take things very slowly, take things easy and listen to my physiotherapist. It's not wise to make the same mistake twice, and I won't risk it. I still intend to race someday in my life, when God permits.)

E's attitude toward his other leg taught me not only about strength and resilience, but also about gratitude, perspective and grace.

"Thanks for sharing, E. I think you're absolutely amazing. I really enjoyed the ride."

"Me too."

The Fragile Life.

Life, is a long, long road.

On the road, life can be lonely. And because of what is on the road, life is infinitely fragile.

Many times when I think of the missionaries in Nepal or elsewhere, who uprooted themselves from well-to-do families, to a far poorer place to look after orphans, widows or the destitute, I wondered if I could do they same too. Just as I was packing for my medical attachment to a mission hospital situated in a jungle in Kalimantan, a loved one asked, albeit jokingly, "I wonder why you can't be happy just living a safe, normal life as a doctor here. Why missions? You always choose dangerous places... But I love you Jia. Someday you'll do missionary work, I know, and it'll be good. I'm proud of you."

On the outside it seems like such a brave thing to do- but nobody knows that before every trip, there is always fear, doubt and transient dread.

Life is fragile. Why risk it?

Many times, when I reserved another plane ticket to a developing country or got on my bike to roadcycle in the wee hours of the morning, I would ask myself the same question. Why risk it? Why risk Life for others, for recreation, for something so seemingly unimportant?

Just like laying down one's creature comforts to do long-term humanitarian work, cycling on the road can be dangerous. In Singapore, drivers often show no respect for a man on 2 wheels. Many years back, my father was hospitalised for a month for getting hit on a motorbike. He nearly died.

I am quite the coward. I failed my driving test 4 years ago and never took it up again. Images of crushed vehicles and mangled bodies and too many memories of surgeries witnessed in operating theatre flood my mind too often, and I cannot imagine myself bearing those consequences.

One day, it occurred to me, that I feared driving and feared cycling for so many years that I only learnt how to ride on 2 wheels just before my 22nd birthday because I feared death. And it was not right. It was not right not to live life to the full because of one's fear of death.

After all, why should one fear death if that is where Home is?

If one fears death, where shall one find the courage to live with the poor, the desperate, the selfish and the hungry? If one fears death, how shall one ever overcome self-preservation and transcend into selflessness? If one fears death, why should one ever leave one's doorstep? A month ago, as I wheeled my bike out for my usual Saturday morning ride beneath my block, I heard a shattering of glass and an entire glass panel fell into smitherines, right behind where I had walked. The couple upstairs was fighting, and they smashed their own glass window.

I suppose, one may die even in the most measured of circumstances.

Life, is a dangerous, dangerous road, with cars and lorries and drunk drivers. But life goes on. It must.

So I wake up at four in the morning to cycle, and ride in a group, to minimise the danger. Still, it is there-the danger of going off balance, of crashing, of getting hit, especially at speeds up to 35kmph... is always there. So I try to do research on the place I visit before I book a plane ticket, but the danger of getting diarrhea, getting groped, getting stopped by a political party on strike is still there. Every time I ride, I am fearful. Every time I leave for a trip to a developing country, I am fearful. I fear falling ill, getting mugged, gaining an experience that may put me off mission work for good. On the road, and in a foreign land, one feels infinitely fragile.

Life, can make one feel infinitely fragile.

Not that we choose to admit it. For we armour ourselves with an armordillo's pride and defense, choosing to live life the safe, closed, hardened way, making ourselves invulnerable to attacks. We choose to ignore that gap between life and death, and seal it with busyness, conservatism or a safe life, so we may destroy that uncertain and tenuous feeling called fear.

Yet, how we begin to open up and accept our ourselves when we accept death. How beautifully we begin to see our weaknesses and embrace them and make progress when we accept our ephemeral existence. Fung, the handcyclist who rides with us using his hands because he nearly lost his life when a mugger shot him many times a few years ago, taught me about accepting death. Mdm H, the patient who adamantly kept her baby whom the doctors had brought up the suggestion to abort because it may not survive or may grow up to be abnormal, taught me about accepting death. Going through my forensic medicine module, and witnessing how brutally one's body can be torn apart and mutilated after death at the mortuary for post-mortem examinations taught me about accepting death. The friends whom I have met in my cycling group, who look out for others and for me always, have taught me about accepting death.

And on that road when we, people from all walks of life, are riding together, it is in that quiet acknowledgement of that possibility of death and courage still to continue living that our hearts are open and that barrier between hearts is sealed. We share, we talk, bonding in a way words will hardly do justice to. The fundamental frailty of life is exposed when we are on the road. Not just literally, but metaphorically as well.

Because of the obvious dangers in humanitarian work, the poor are touched beyond words by one's compassion and commitment- it is there, in overcoming the fear of death and recognising the frailty of life, that the gap between the jealousy of the poor and the pride of the rich is bridged; It is there, on the road with lorries and cars and motorcycles, where I have found so many serious sportspeople, who were once strangers but broken, sharing with me, an amateur, their struggles and hurts, even though we only met not too long ago. Some ask me about church, one now attends it regularly; As I ride with handcyclists with disabilities, I accept death more and more, and see how it is in accepting that, that we learn to embrace the weak, the disabled, the fallen, and become a society that is inclusive, united and true.

It is in accepting that space between life and death that the gap between rich and poor, weak and strong, proud and humble is bridged. But it takes an overcoming of fear. It always begins with that.

And in doing so, we accept ourselves, too.

Whether we admit it or not, we are all on the same road, fearing death, and searching for a piece of haven deep inside.

There is a closeness with God I feel on a deeply intimate level when I travel to visit the poor- knowing that someday, helping them could be a daily reality. It is among the poor and needy, who recognise and humbly express their need for community, where holiness and purity are found. I keep travelling, keep planning the next mission trip, because not going would be out of fear.

I ride, I keep riding, only because I know, my not riding is because of fear, too. Cycling then teaches me about faith, and trust. On the road when we are all riding together, our two legs pedalling on nothing more than a thin aluminium frame on a wide road with other vehicles, there is a common understanding, a closeness between us all, in accepting our fragility, our possible... death... and in that gap between a car and myself, bridges are built between us, and I, too, find a bridge with God.

I know it sounds absurd. Incredulous, melodramatic. Call it whatever you want.

But perhaps, it is always in the place of accepting death, that gaps cease to exist and hearts are knit together.


So that is why, even though I am coward, I know I must travel to the jungle hospital in Kalimantan this time, even though there has been a great deal of inertia. It has been too long since I've been on a trip to visit the needy. That is why, even though I fear death, I know I will continue to ride, even if it means waking up at 4 in the morning.


And perhaps, that is why we live, precisely because we fear death, so we can give ourselves the chance to bridge that gap between the empty and full, the proud and the humble, the weak and strong, to find a piece of heaven, to replace that space called fear.

JT and I on our 100km New Year's Day ride

" We begin to open up and accept our own handicaps

when we accept death. "

- Living Gently in a Violent World,
The Prophetic Witness of Weakness

by Stanley Hauerwas & Jean Vanier

Slowly does it. (edited)

Perhaps, it is some form of pride, prejudice or stupidity which makes us overestimate ourselves, and makes us go faster than we ought to. Sometimes, going faster helps to stretch our abilities, inculcates discpline and strengthens our character. But sometimes, it makes us... less.

Each time I am around them, I feel my eyes opened in a different way. I look at them and become inspired. Having suffered from spinal cord injuries from dramatic accidents, or being polio survivors, many of them have tasted pain, suffering and prejudice. Some were born with polio. One suffered 7 gunshots in an armed robbery in America. One had an injury fighting as a soldier in his native country years ago. They had lost use of their legs, but their determination to put their minds, spirits and arms to good use put many of us to shame. Not only do they do so for themselves, but for others, too. Many of them are motivational speakers, and do much to try and help other children/youth with disabilities to find new life in sports.

Helping Fungus by volunteering with the handcyclists has been utterly enjoyable. The handcyclists participate in races mainly to raise awareness for the sport, and to reach out to others who may turn to it as a form of rehabilitation from their disability. But because it is extremely dangerous for the handcyclists to race in a triathlon amidst other faster, able-bodied cyclists, volunteers are needed as biking escorts to ride in front of and behind them to provide air cover.

Perhaps it is our pride which often makes us think, that it is always us who makes the sacrifice, always us who needs to slow down for others who need our help. So I was amazed when I biked with Michael, one of the handcyclists with polio, as I discovered how hard I had to push myself to keep up. He had improved tremendously over the months since the previous race, and my legs, tired from training during the previous 2 days, soured in agony as I pushed ahead. I even had to chase him at some points, as he overtook another handcyclist in good speed. I knew that it was not only Michael, but myself too, who was pushing himself within healthy limits. And it was thanks to him that I, too, felt a sense of accomplishment at the end. For without him, I would not have pushed myself that far, would not have been inspired to even try that hard anyway. I only pushed myself that far because I could see how how important it was to ride closely behind him as a safety marshall, how dangerous it was for him as other cyclists raced irresponsibly close past him.

I learnt, that what we think of as "slowing down" for others, may actually be bringing ourselves further than we would've otherwise. I wouldn't have had the determination to push myself otherwise.

I also learnt, that it is often our friends who make the distance shorter, who make us go faster than we would have done ourselves. But I also learnt, that there is such a thing as going too fast.

I was shocked when it happened. An experienced triathete on his (probably) ten-thousand dollar roadbike zoomed towards us from behind and at a dangerous, narrow bend, refused to slow down for the handcyclist and us. It was obvious he was a competitor, and being a safe or friendly rider was not his priority. On that bend as he tried to overtake us, I gasped in utter shock as he shouted his presence to everyone to steer clear, and on that fateful bend, came so close to me that his torso shoved against mine as he zoomed past me. We were just a hair's end away from a terrible, terrible crash. He could've crashed into me, who could've crashed into Michael, who could've crashed into the other biking escort in front. How close were we to a nice bloody mess on the side of the road because he was going too fast at the expense of others.

It made me rethink my priorities, made me take stock of how we use what God has given to us for His purpose, and also, its potential for evil.

How do we use what we have to bless others?

In some way, it is a sacrifice. After all, volunteering to be a biking escort is certainly different from taking part in your own race. When the crowd cheers, they are cheering the handcyclist on, not you. You are merely an escort, a safety marshall looking really un-cool in a fluorescent vest here to perform a duty. It always humbles me, to wonder if we can go through life the way God requires us to, meekly, humbly, without trumpeting nor fanfare.

I believe God has a way of speaking to us. One Saturday as I was cycling, I saw someone fall out by the roadside. She was a cyclist who had fallen ill halfway and could ride no further. I had looked forward to a good workout all week. I wanted to ride on. But God told me to stop, told me to listen, to ride with her slowly till she got to safety. She needed someone to go slow for her, and He wanted me to learn the lesson of going slow for someone else. I did, and felt a divine presence with us as we rode safely and slowly back. I understood, that being able to use my legs, and overcome my decade long fear of cycling was not a right I owned. It was a gift from God, a blessing to share with others. So I made a new friend, and learnt a new lesson that day.

As we rode back, she looked at my bike and said the same thing I had heard over and over from countless other cyclists, " Your bike doesn't fit. It's too big for you. " And I smiled, bittersweetly, because I knew already. But it is a gift from God, even if it costs a tenth of what most cyclists I know own. I never deserved it in the first place. God has blessed me with legs, and He even gave me a chance to cycle, to get to know the handcyclists and many lovely friends... why should I ask for more?

I believe it wasn't coincidence when it was that same evening that I heard the question which I had given up on. It completely floored me. God has His way of blessing us when He has birthed in our spirits what He wants us to learn. " Hey, we want to get you a new bike for Christmas and your birthday. You look around till then and let us know, okay?"

Silence.

"Say that again?"

It was then that I made a decision that everything we have must be used to bless others. That the gifts and talents we have been given are not so we can finish the race fastest, but so we can bless others with them. Because when we do, it might surprise us to know that we went further, pushed ourselves more, gained something of eternal value, had more fun and achieved what we would never have if we had pushed on headlessly and hurriedly by ourselves.


After all, the handcyclists, though "slower" than the rest of us, have blessed me in ways more deeply than they could ever imagine. "

Fungus asks me, "Why don't you do your own race yourself sometime?"

"I will someday, Fungus. I just like biking with you guys, that's all."

Because you've taught me so much.

Fung and I

The handcyclists from HAS (Handcycling Association of Singapore)

and all the volunteers

" Let nothing be done through selfish ambition or conceit,

but in lowliness of mind let each esteem others better than himself.

Let each of you look out not only for his own interests,

but also for the interests of others."

-Phil 2:3-4

Tall Order.

No one likes to be last. It's always better being first, or is it?

When I first started cycling with Joyriders, I was intimidated. After all, I had only learnt how to cycle (much less on a roadbike) for a few months. I was always at the back, slinking behind as other people zoomed ahead of me. The feeling of being left behind as a line of elite cyclists roar past you is a desolate one. You try your very best to catch up- your adrenalin is pumping, your legs are turning sour with pain, but the group speeds off, further and further away, and you are... dropped.

Being dropped. It's a terrible feeling. You're all alone, with no one to encourage or cheer you on. And worse, the fact that you're not in a group means that extra effort is required to push against the strong headwind by yourself.

But I ride with the Joyriders, joyfully now, because I've met so many people who've touched my life there. Friends like Big A always looked out for weaker, slower, newer riders like myself when I first joined the group. He's very, very fast, but he's what we call our Guardian Angel because he takes care of others. I could never fathom why he would be so patient and encouraging toward us, instead of speeding ahead with the fiercely competitive group. (After all, in sports, it is all about Pride. I've seen elite cyclists snub their noses at slower riders, and Big A has shared with me some nasty experiences he has had with proud sportsmen too.)

So I always ask Big A why. To which he always replied- "If we are good at something, we should always help others who need help." Without him, I never would have continued cycling after being dropped so many times, over and over. One thing I know, he never dropped me.

No one likes to be left behind. No one likes to feel like they are slow. Do you?

That day, I received a phonecall. "I'm sorry I can't train with you on Thursday. I'm going for the Florida Championships in November. This is a very crucial training period for me, I hope you understand."

"Yes," I said. "I understand. It's all right, I fully understand."

After all, how could I not? M was going for the Florida Championships, an international triathlon where the best of the best would be competing against one another for top spots. He had come in first in his category for his last race. So when he said he couldn't meet me for a ride on Thursday because he had his own training to do, how could I not understand?

But my heart sank, still. Even though I didn't mean for it to. There was an awkward moment over the phone. What was unspoken but very straightforwardly-conveyed was- I was too slow for him. My rational mind hardly allowed for me to feel sad, but I cannot say that it did not sting a little, still.

The reality of life hit me at that moment, very starkly, that the slow ones in life always get left behind. Few, like Big A, go the distance to ride back and cheer them on.


Ever since I learnt how to cycle and started participating in races, I learnt the importance of being willing to be slow, not just as a cyclist, but as a person living life.

Slowing down for others means being patient to teach someone something you already know without making them feel stupid about it. It means sacrificing your time, effort and pride for another. Slowing down means being willing to be (gasp) dropped for the sake of someone else. It's not easy, especially when you know going on the fast track would improve your own performance, give you a chance at winning a medal.

Fungus once asked me before why I enjoyed volunteering as a biking escort with the handcyclists so much during their races- "Why don't you compete in the races yourself? Don't you feel better going faster, and completing your own race?"

Ever since I started cycling better, God's been teaching me the humility to slow down for others. He's been teaching me, that his purpose for me in sports is very different-my body was not made for speed. But his gift to me of finally being able to cycle (after having a bike phobia till I was 21) because of the love, support and help of many others, requires me to pass on that love and help to others too. Big A has taught me, that there is so much more to being first, and fast. Because when we slow down for others, God births in us something far more valuable than any medal.

It is called character.

I told Fungus, that there is no meaning to cycling, or to life, if done without purpose or heart. There is no meaning in completing a race alone, if not done from a position of humility, and a heart to love and help others too. Some of my best rides were the slower ones, because I had time to take in the scenery and encourage someone else. They were memorable because of the encouragement I received along the way. The charity ride 2 weeks ago left me very badly sunburnt because we rode rather slowly under the hot sun, but riding with Dr William Tan and my friends for a good cause was a thoroughly memorable experience.

But I must admit, I am selfish, too. Now, I ride much faster than before, and I have been been guilty of dropping others to catch up with a faster group ahead. I have been guilty of feeling irritated in class when someone asks me a question, of which I think the answer is obvious. I have been guilty of feeling so even though I have been hurt before by another's prideful response implying that I ought to know the answer to such a simple question.

The fact is, no one likes to be slow. And most of us struggle with slowing down for others. It is all a matter of pride.

The next day, M texted me, "Sorry, I felt I was being prideful regarding the ride. When would best work for you? God is teaching me to let Him work in my life."



Sometimes, going slow means inconveniencing yourself. It means a sacrifice on your part. It means humility. And it also means doing so in a patient, loving way that doesn't make someone else feel bad.

It is a tall order.

But it also means gaining a reward no top-speed can ever win you, it means gaining a type of fulfillment in character that no physical traning can ever bring. And in the end, perhaps the greatest achievement is in knowing that it made a difference in someone else's life-that joy is inexplicable.

So tomorrow, Big A and a group of us will be biking escorts for the handcyclists during the trifactor race. We are going not because we are altruistic, but because we have a lot of fun doing this together. We had a lot of fun the last time.


I am learning, that those who are first, may be so in the world's eyes, but God sees things differently. His prize is different. I am learning many things from them, still.

"So the last will be first, and the first last.

For many are called, but few are chosen."

- Matthew 20:16