By, Cheah Kok Hin
July 17, 2001, was the first time I had to visit my grandmother at the intensive care unit of the hospital. Po-po had been suffering from diabetes for a few years. That day, she had to go for a heart operation.
I remember that morning. I was 12 then, and felt so bored at the hospital that I went around playing with my cousins and brother. We didn't notice the gloomy faces of our parents, who soon asked my uncle to take us back to his condominium. There, we had a great time at the pool.
I didn't know why, or how, but for the first time, I felt that the water was clearer than usual. I reckoned the workers had cleaned it. I played and played, and didn't realise the time.
It was the best swim I'd ever had. I wasn't afraid of the water, and I didn't think about drowning. It was as if a guardian angel was among us ...
After a few hours, uncle took us back to the hospital. All that swimming had left me tired. Suddenly, I remembered my grandmother.
"How is Po-po?"
"I don't think she will make it," uncle said.
I was dumbstruck. Just as we reached the ward, the lift door opened and there were all my aunts and uncles, crying. My cousins were sitting in a corner, heads down.
I started to cry. Mom came and hugged me. I shrugged her off and went to a corner. I couldn't believe what was happening.
Back in my uncle's car, suddenly, I knew why I had had such a great time in the pool. It was Po-po's was of giving me a happy time, even when she was having a bad time ...
Sent to Starmag
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Monday, August 22, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Tears for a Brother
I was born in a secluded mountain village. Day-by-day my parents ploughed the dry, yellow soil with their backs to the sky. I have one younger brother.
Once, to buy a handkerchief which all the girls around me seemed to have, I stole 50 cents from my father's drawer. He found out right away and made my brother and me kneel against the wall as he held a bamboo stick in his hand.
"Who stole the money?" I was too stunned to speak up. Father said: "Fine, if nobody wants to admit to the theft, both of you will be beaten!"
He lifted the bamboo stick ... Suddenly, my brother gripped his hand and said, "I did it!" The long stick hit my brother's back with a thud. Father was so angry he kept hitting brother until he lost his breath. After that, he sat down on the stone bed and shouted: "You have learnt to steal from your own house now. What other shameless things will you do in future? You should be beaten to death!"
That night, mother and I hugged my brother. His back was swollen, but he didn't shed a single tear. In the middle of the night, all of sudden, I cried out. My brother covered my mouth with his little hand and said, "Sis, don't cry. It's over."
Years have passed but the incident remains fresh in my mind. I still hate myself for not having the courage to admit to the theft. I cannot forget my brother's expression as he spoke up to protect me. That year, he was eight years old and I, 11.
When my brother was in his last year of his Lower Secondary, he was offered a place in an Upper Secondary school in town. At the same time, I was accepted into a province university. That evening, father squatted in the yard, smoking continuously. I could hear him say, "Both our children have very good results."
Mother sighed. "What's the use? How could we possibly finance both of them?" Just then, my brother walked up and said, :Father, I don't want to continue my studies any more. I've had enough of books."
Father swung his hand across brother's face. "Why do you had such weak spirit? Even if I have to beg for money on the streets, I will send the tow of you to school until you complete your education."
Late in the night, I placed my soft hand on my brother's swollen face and said, "A boy has to continue with his studies. If not, he won't be able to leave this life of poverty." On my part, I had decided not to accept the university offer.
But before dawn the next day, my brother left home with a few pieces of worn-out clothing and a handful of dry beans. He left a note on my pillow: "Sis, getting into a university is not easy. I will find a job and send money home.:
I held the note as I sat on my bed and sobbed until I lost my voice. That year, my brother was 17 and I was 20. With whatever father managed to borrow from the whole village, and the money my brother earned from carrying cement at a construction site, I entered university.
One day, during my third year, a roommate said, "There was a villager waiting for you outside." It was my brother. His whole body was covered in dust, cement and sand. I asked why he didn't tell my roommates who he was.
"Look at me. Wouldn't they laugh at you if I told them that?" Tears filled my eyes as I brushed the dust from his body. He then took out a butterfly hair clip from his pocket and fixed it on my hair. "I saw all the girls in town wearing this, and I thought you should have one."
I pulled my brother into my arms and cried. That year, he was 20 and I was 23.
The first time I took my boyfriend home, I noticed that the broken window pane had been replaced and the whole house looked clean. After he left, I danced around Mother. "You needn't have spent so much time cleaning the house!" I told her. "Your brother came home early to do it," she said. "He cut his hand while replacing the pane."
I went into my brother's small bedroom. As I looked at his thin face, I felt a hundred needles pricking my heart. I applied some ointment on his wound and bandaged it.
"Does it hurt?"
"No, it doesn't. You know, when I was at the construction site, stones fell on my feet all the time. Even that could not stop me from working and ..."
He stopped in mid sentence. I turned my back to him as tears rolled down my face. That year, he was 23 and I 26.
After I married, I lived in the city. Many times, my husband invited my parents to come and live with us, but they declined, saying they would not know what to do if they left the village. My brother sided with their decision. He advised me: "Sis, you just take care of your parents-in-law and I will take care of Mother and Father here."
My husband became the director of his factory. We then hoped my brother would accept the post of manager in the maintenance department. But he insisted on starting out as a reparation worker. One day, my brother was on a ladder repairing a cable when he got electrocuted. At the hospital, I grumbled, "Why did you reject the offer? A manager wouldn't have to do dangerous things and risk serious injury. Look at you now."
With a serious look, brother said: "Think of brother-in-law. He has just been promoted. I am almost uneducated. If I become the manager, what would people say?" My husband's eyes filled with tears as I cried out: "But you lack in education because of me!" "Why talk about the past?" my brother replied as he held my hand. That year, he was 26, and I was 29.
My brother was 30 years old when he married a farm girl from the village. At his wedding reception, the master of ceremony asked him, "Who is the one person you respect and love the most?" Without hesitating, he answered, "My sister." Then he went on to tell a story I could not even remember.
"Our primary school was in a different village. Every day, my sister and I walked for two hours to and from school. One day, I lost one side of my gloves. My sister gave me one of hers. When we got home, her hand was trembling so much she could not even hold her chopsticks. That day, I swore that as long as I lived, I would take care of my sister and be good to her."
Applause filled the room and every guest turned to look at me as I stood up. "In my whole life, the one person I would like to thank most is my brother." And one this happy occasion, in front of everyone, tears rolled down my face once again.
Sent to Starmag by Ong Bee Har
Once, to buy a handkerchief which all the girls around me seemed to have, I stole 50 cents from my father's drawer. He found out right away and made my brother and me kneel against the wall as he held a bamboo stick in his hand.
"Who stole the money?" I was too stunned to speak up. Father said: "Fine, if nobody wants to admit to the theft, both of you will be beaten!"
He lifted the bamboo stick ... Suddenly, my brother gripped his hand and said, "I did it!" The long stick hit my brother's back with a thud. Father was so angry he kept hitting brother until he lost his breath. After that, he sat down on the stone bed and shouted: "You have learnt to steal from your own house now. What other shameless things will you do in future? You should be beaten to death!"
That night, mother and I hugged my brother. His back was swollen, but he didn't shed a single tear. In the middle of the night, all of sudden, I cried out. My brother covered my mouth with his little hand and said, "Sis, don't cry. It's over."
Years have passed but the incident remains fresh in my mind. I still hate myself for not having the courage to admit to the theft. I cannot forget my brother's expression as he spoke up to protect me. That year, he was eight years old and I, 11.
When my brother was in his last year of his Lower Secondary, he was offered a place in an Upper Secondary school in town. At the same time, I was accepted into a province university. That evening, father squatted in the yard, smoking continuously. I could hear him say, "Both our children have very good results."
Mother sighed. "What's the use? How could we possibly finance both of them?" Just then, my brother walked up and said, :Father, I don't want to continue my studies any more. I've had enough of books."
Father swung his hand across brother's face. "Why do you had such weak spirit? Even if I have to beg for money on the streets, I will send the tow of you to school until you complete your education."
Late in the night, I placed my soft hand on my brother's swollen face and said, "A boy has to continue with his studies. If not, he won't be able to leave this life of poverty." On my part, I had decided not to accept the university offer.
But before dawn the next day, my brother left home with a few pieces of worn-out clothing and a handful of dry beans. He left a note on my pillow: "Sis, getting into a university is not easy. I will find a job and send money home.:
I held the note as I sat on my bed and sobbed until I lost my voice. That year, my brother was 17 and I was 20. With whatever father managed to borrow from the whole village, and the money my brother earned from carrying cement at a construction site, I entered university.
One day, during my third year, a roommate said, "There was a villager waiting for you outside." It was my brother. His whole body was covered in dust, cement and sand. I asked why he didn't tell my roommates who he was.
"Look at me. Wouldn't they laugh at you if I told them that?" Tears filled my eyes as I brushed the dust from his body. He then took out a butterfly hair clip from his pocket and fixed it on my hair. "I saw all the girls in town wearing this, and I thought you should have one."
I pulled my brother into my arms and cried. That year, he was 20 and I was 23.
The first time I took my boyfriend home, I noticed that the broken window pane had been replaced and the whole house looked clean. After he left, I danced around Mother. "You needn't have spent so much time cleaning the house!" I told her. "Your brother came home early to do it," she said. "He cut his hand while replacing the pane."
I went into my brother's small bedroom. As I looked at his thin face, I felt a hundred needles pricking my heart. I applied some ointment on his wound and bandaged it.
"Does it hurt?"
"No, it doesn't. You know, when I was at the construction site, stones fell on my feet all the time. Even that could not stop me from working and ..."
He stopped in mid sentence. I turned my back to him as tears rolled down my face. That year, he was 23 and I 26.
After I married, I lived in the city. Many times, my husband invited my parents to come and live with us, but they declined, saying they would not know what to do if they left the village. My brother sided with their decision. He advised me: "Sis, you just take care of your parents-in-law and I will take care of Mother and Father here."
My husband became the director of his factory. We then hoped my brother would accept the post of manager in the maintenance department. But he insisted on starting out as a reparation worker. One day, my brother was on a ladder repairing a cable when he got electrocuted. At the hospital, I grumbled, "Why did you reject the offer? A manager wouldn't have to do dangerous things and risk serious injury. Look at you now."
With a serious look, brother said: "Think of brother-in-law. He has just been promoted. I am almost uneducated. If I become the manager, what would people say?" My husband's eyes filled with tears as I cried out: "But you lack in education because of me!" "Why talk about the past?" my brother replied as he held my hand. That year, he was 26, and I was 29.
My brother was 30 years old when he married a farm girl from the village. At his wedding reception, the master of ceremony asked him, "Who is the one person you respect and love the most?" Without hesitating, he answered, "My sister." Then he went on to tell a story I could not even remember.
"Our primary school was in a different village. Every day, my sister and I walked for two hours to and from school. One day, I lost one side of my gloves. My sister gave me one of hers. When we got home, her hand was trembling so much she could not even hold her chopsticks. That day, I swore that as long as I lived, I would take care of my sister and be good to her."
Applause filled the room and every guest turned to look at me as I stood up. "In my whole life, the one person I would like to thank most is my brother." And one this happy occasion, in front of everyone, tears rolled down my face once again.
Sent to Starmag by Ong Bee Har
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
'Blind' Devotion
The passengers in the bus watched sympathetically as the attractive young woman with the white cane made her way carefully up the steps. She paid the driver and, using her hands to feel her way down the aisle, found the seat he'd told her was empty. Then she settled in, placed her briefcase on her lap and rested her cane against her leg.
It had been a year since Susan, 34, became blind. Due to a medical misdiagnosis she had been rendered sightless, and was suddenly thrown into a world of darkness, anger, frustration and self-pity. And all she had to cling to was her husband, Mark.
Mark was an army officer and he loved Susan with all his heart. When she first lost her sight, he watched her sink into despair and was determined to help his wife gain the strength and confidence she needed to become independent again.
Finally, Susan felt ready to return to her job. But how would she get there? She used to take the bus, but was now too frightened to get around the city by herself. Mark volunteered to drive her to work each day, even though they worked at opposite ends of the city.
At first, this comforted Susan, and fulfilled Mark's need to protect his sightless wife who was so insecure about performing the slightest task. Soon, however, he realised the arrangement wasn't working. Susan is going to have to start taking the bus again, he told himself. But she was still so fragile, so angry. How would she react?
Just as he had feared, Susan was horrified at the idea of taking the bus again.
"I'm blind!" she responded bitterly. "How am I supposed to know where I am going? I feel like you're abandoning me," Mark's heart broke to hear those words, but he knew what had to be done. He promised Susan that each morning and evening, he would ride the bus with her, for as long as it took, until she got the hang of it.
And that was exactly what happened. For two solid weeks, Mark, military uniform and all, accompanied Susan to and from work each day. He taught her how to rely on her other senses, specifically her hearing, to determine where she was and how to adapt to her new environment. He helped her befriend the bus driver who could watch out for her, and save her a seat.
Finally, Susan decided that she was ready to try the trip on her own. Monday morning arrived, and before she left, she threw her arms around Mark, her temporary bus-riding companion, her husband, and her best friend. Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude for his loyalty, patience and love. She said good-bye and, for the first time, they went their separate ways. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday ... Each day on her own went perfectly, and Susan had never felt better. She was doing it! She was going to work all by herself.
On Friday morning, Susan took the bus as usual. As she was about to get off, the bus driver said: "Boy, I sure do envy you." Susan wasn't sure if he was speaking to her. After all, who on earth would envy a blind woman who had struggled just to find the courage to live for the past year?
Curious, she asked him, "Why do you say that you envy me?"
"It must feel good to be taken care of and protected like you are."
Susan had no idea what he was talking about, and asked again, "What do you mean?"
The driver answered: "You know, every morning for the past week, a fine-looking gentleman in military uniform has been standing across the corner, watching you as you get off the bus. He makes sure you cross the street safely and waits until you enter your office building. Then he blows you a kiss, gives you a little salute and walks away. You are one lucky lady."
Although Susan couldn't see Mark, she had always felt his presence. She realised he had given her a gift she didn't need to see to believe; the gift of love that can bring light where there is darkness.
Sent in to Starmag by Abner Francis
It had been a year since Susan, 34, became blind. Due to a medical misdiagnosis she had been rendered sightless, and was suddenly thrown into a world of darkness, anger, frustration and self-pity. And all she had to cling to was her husband, Mark.
Mark was an army officer and he loved Susan with all his heart. When she first lost her sight, he watched her sink into despair and was determined to help his wife gain the strength and confidence she needed to become independent again.
Finally, Susan felt ready to return to her job. But how would she get there? She used to take the bus, but was now too frightened to get around the city by herself. Mark volunteered to drive her to work each day, even though they worked at opposite ends of the city.
At first, this comforted Susan, and fulfilled Mark's need to protect his sightless wife who was so insecure about performing the slightest task. Soon, however, he realised the arrangement wasn't working. Susan is going to have to start taking the bus again, he told himself. But she was still so fragile, so angry. How would she react?
Just as he had feared, Susan was horrified at the idea of taking the bus again.
"I'm blind!" she responded bitterly. "How am I supposed to know where I am going? I feel like you're abandoning me," Mark's heart broke to hear those words, but he knew what had to be done. He promised Susan that each morning and evening, he would ride the bus with her, for as long as it took, until she got the hang of it.
And that was exactly what happened. For two solid weeks, Mark, military uniform and all, accompanied Susan to and from work each day. He taught her how to rely on her other senses, specifically her hearing, to determine where she was and how to adapt to her new environment. He helped her befriend the bus driver who could watch out for her, and save her a seat.
Finally, Susan decided that she was ready to try the trip on her own. Monday morning arrived, and before she left, she threw her arms around Mark, her temporary bus-riding companion, her husband, and her best friend. Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude for his loyalty, patience and love. She said good-bye and, for the first time, they went their separate ways. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday ... Each day on her own went perfectly, and Susan had never felt better. She was doing it! She was going to work all by herself.
On Friday morning, Susan took the bus as usual. As she was about to get off, the bus driver said: "Boy, I sure do envy you." Susan wasn't sure if he was speaking to her. After all, who on earth would envy a blind woman who had struggled just to find the courage to live for the past year?
Curious, she asked him, "Why do you say that you envy me?"
"It must feel good to be taken care of and protected like you are."
Susan had no idea what he was talking about, and asked again, "What do you mean?"
The driver answered: "You know, every morning for the past week, a fine-looking gentleman in military uniform has been standing across the corner, watching you as you get off the bus. He makes sure you cross the street safely and waits until you enter your office building. Then he blows you a kiss, gives you a little salute and walks away. You are one lucky lady."
Although Susan couldn't see Mark, she had always felt his presence. She realised he had given her a gift she didn't need to see to believe; the gift of love that can bring light where there is darkness.
Sent in to Starmag by Abner Francis
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Drops of Succour
It was one of the hottest days of the dry season. We had not had a drop of rain in almost a month. The crops were dying and the cows had stopped giving milk. The creeks and streams had long dried up.
Every day, my husband and his brothers would go about the arduous process of trying to get water to the fields. Lately this had involved taking a truck to the local water plant, filling it up and driving it back to our farm. But severe rationing had cut off supply. If we didn't get some rain soon, we'd lose our crops and everything else.
It was on this day that I witnessed a miracle and learned the true lesson of sharing.
I was in the kitchen preparing lunch for the guys when I saw my six-year-old, Billy, walking towards the woods. He wasn't walking with the usual carefree abandon of a kid. I could only see his back, but he was intent on something, and trying to be as careful as possible.
Minutes after disappearing into the woods, he came running out, towards the house. I went back to making the sandwiches, thinking that whatever he had been doing was done. Several minutes later, however, he was walking purposefully towards the woods again. This went on for about an hour - walk slowly to the woods, run back to the house, walk again ...
Finally, my curiosity get the better of me. I crept out of the house and tailed him, taking care not to be seen as he was obviously doing important work and didn't need his mummy checking on him.
I sneaked up close and saw that Billy had cupped his hands in front of him, so as not to spill some water he held in them. There were perhaps two or three tablespoons of water in those chubby hands. Branches and thorns slapped his little face, but he did not try to avoid them. He had other things on his mind.
As I leaned in to spy on him, I saw the most amazing sight. Several large deer loomed in front of him ... and Billy walked right up to them. I almost screamer at him to get a way. A huge buck with elaborate antlers looked dangerously close. But the buck did not threaten him; he didn't even move as Billy knelt down. And then I saw a tiny fawn on the ground, obviously suffering from dehydration and exhaustion, lift its head with great effort to lap up the water cupped in my beautiful boy's hands.
When the water was gone, Billy jumped up. I ducked behind a tree, then followed him back to the house, to a spigot which we had used to shut off the water supply. Billy opened it all the way up and a drop trickled out. He knelt there, waiting for the drops to fill up his "cup" as the sun beat down on his back. Then I remembered the trouble he had gotten into for playing with those hose the week before. The lecture he had received about the importance of not wasting water. The reason he didn't ask me to help him.
It was almost 20 minutes before he stood up to make the trek back into the woods, once again. As he turned, I was there in front of him. Billy's eyes filled with tears. "I'm not wasting," was all he said.
As he began his walk, I joined him, with a small pot of water from the kitchen. I let him tend the fawn. It was his job. I stood on the edge of the woods and watched as the most beautiful heart I'd ever known worked hard to save another life. As the tears that rolled down my face his the ground, they were suddenly joined by other drops ... and more drops ... and more. I looked up at the sky. It was as if God, himself, was weeping with pride.
Some would probably say that this was all just a coincidence. That miracles don't really exist. That it was bound to rain some time. I can't argue with that; I won't try to. All I can say is the rain that came that day saved our farm, just like the actions of one little boy saved another creature's life.
Sent to Starmag by Cindy Han
Every day, my husband and his brothers would go about the arduous process of trying to get water to the fields. Lately this had involved taking a truck to the local water plant, filling it up and driving it back to our farm. But severe rationing had cut off supply. If we didn't get some rain soon, we'd lose our crops and everything else.
It was on this day that I witnessed a miracle and learned the true lesson of sharing.
I was in the kitchen preparing lunch for the guys when I saw my six-year-old, Billy, walking towards the woods. He wasn't walking with the usual carefree abandon of a kid. I could only see his back, but he was intent on something, and trying to be as careful as possible.
Minutes after disappearing into the woods, he came running out, towards the house. I went back to making the sandwiches, thinking that whatever he had been doing was done. Several minutes later, however, he was walking purposefully towards the woods again. This went on for about an hour - walk slowly to the woods, run back to the house, walk again ...
Finally, my curiosity get the better of me. I crept out of the house and tailed him, taking care not to be seen as he was obviously doing important work and didn't need his mummy checking on him.
I sneaked up close and saw that Billy had cupped his hands in front of him, so as not to spill some water he held in them. There were perhaps two or three tablespoons of water in those chubby hands. Branches and thorns slapped his little face, but he did not try to avoid them. He had other things on his mind.
As I leaned in to spy on him, I saw the most amazing sight. Several large deer loomed in front of him ... and Billy walked right up to them. I almost screamer at him to get a way. A huge buck with elaborate antlers looked dangerously close. But the buck did not threaten him; he didn't even move as Billy knelt down. And then I saw a tiny fawn on the ground, obviously suffering from dehydration and exhaustion, lift its head with great effort to lap up the water cupped in my beautiful boy's hands.
When the water was gone, Billy jumped up. I ducked behind a tree, then followed him back to the house, to a spigot which we had used to shut off the water supply. Billy opened it all the way up and a drop trickled out. He knelt there, waiting for the drops to fill up his "cup" as the sun beat down on his back. Then I remembered the trouble he had gotten into for playing with those hose the week before. The lecture he had received about the importance of not wasting water. The reason he didn't ask me to help him.
It was almost 20 minutes before he stood up to make the trek back into the woods, once again. As he turned, I was there in front of him. Billy's eyes filled with tears. "I'm not wasting," was all he said.
As he began his walk, I joined him, with a small pot of water from the kitchen. I let him tend the fawn. It was his job. I stood on the edge of the woods and watched as the most beautiful heart I'd ever known worked hard to save another life. As the tears that rolled down my face his the ground, they were suddenly joined by other drops ... and more drops ... and more. I looked up at the sky. It was as if God, himself, was weeping with pride.
Some would probably say that this was all just a coincidence. That miracles don't really exist. That it was bound to rain some time. I can't argue with that; I won't try to. All I can say is the rain that came that day saved our farm, just like the actions of one little boy saved another creature's life.
Sent to Starmag by Cindy Han
Saturday, August 13, 2011
The Yellow Shirt
The baggy yellow shirt had long sleeves, four extra-large pockets trimmed in black thread and snaps up the front. It was faded from years of wear, but still in decent shape. I found it in 1963 when I was home from college on Christmas break, rummaging through bags of clothes Mom intended to give away.
"You're not taking that old thing, are you?" Mom said when she saw me packing the yellow shirt. "I wore that when I was pregnant with your brother in 1954!"
"It's just the thing to wear over my clothes during art class, Mom. Thanks!" I slipped it into my suitcase before she could object. The yellow shirt became a part of my college wardrobe. I loved it. After graduation, I wore the shirt the day I moved into my new apartment and on Saturday mornings when I cleaned.
The next year, I married. When I became pregnant, I wore the yellow shirt during big-belly days. I missed Mom and the rest of my family, since we were in Colorado and they were in Illinois. But that shirt helped. I smiled, remembering that Mother had worn is when she was pregnant, 15 years earlier.
That Christmas, mindful of the warm feelings the shirt had given me, I patched one elbow, wrapped it in holiday paper and sent it to her. When she wrote to thank me for her "real" gifts, she said the yellow shirt was lovely. She never mentioned it again.
The next year, my husband, daughter and I stopped at Mom and Dad's to pick up some furniture. Days later, when we uncrated the kitchen table, I noticed something yellow taped to its bottom. The shirt!
And so the pattern was set.
On our next visit home, I secretly placed the shirt under Mom and Dad's mattress. I don't know how long it took for her to find it, but almost two years passed before I discovered it under the base of our living room floor lamp. The shirt was just whet I needed now while refinishing furniture. The walnut stains added character.
In 1975, my husband and I divorced. With three children, I prepared to move back to Illinois. As I packed, a deep depression overtook me. I wondered if I could make it on my own. I wondered if I would find a job. I paged through the Bible, looking for comfort. In Ephesians, I read, "So use every piece of God's armour to resist the enemy whenever he attacks, and when it is all over, you will be standing up."
I tried to picture myself wearing God's armour, but all I saw was the stained yellow shirt. Slowly, it dawned on me. Wasn't my mother's love a piece of God's armour? My courage was renewed.
Unpacking in our new home, I knew I had to get the shirt back to Mother. The next time I visited her, I tucked it in her bottom dresser drawer.
Meanwhile, I found a good job at the radio station. A year later I discovered the yellow shirt hidden in a rag bag in my cleaning closet. Something new had been added. Embroidered in bright green across the breast pocket were the words "I BELONG TO PAT."
Not to be outdone, I got out my own embroidery materials and added an apostrophe and seven more letters. Now the shirt proudly proclaimed, "I BELONG TO PAT'S MOTHER." But I didn't stop there. I zig-zagged all the frayed seams, then had a friend mail the shirt in a fancy box to Mom from Arlington, Virginia. We enclosed an official-looking letter from "The Institute for the Destitute," announcing that she was the recipient of an award for good deeds. I would have given anything to see Mom's face when she opened the box. But, of course, she never mentioned it.
Two years later, in 1978, I remarried. The day of our wedding, Harold and I put our car in a friend's garage to avoid practical jokers. After the wedding, while my husband drove us to our honeymoon suite, I reached for a pillow in the car to rest my head. It felt lumpy. I unzipped the case and found, wrapped in wedding paper, the yellow shirt. Inside a pocket was a note: "Read John 14:27-29. I love you both, Mother."
That night I paged through the Bible in a hotel room and found the verses: "I am leaving you with a gift: peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give isn't fragile like the peace the world gives. So don't be troubled or afraid. Remember what I told you: I am going away, but I will come back to you again. If you really love me, you will be very happy for me, for now I can go to the Father, who is greater than I am. I have told you these things before they happen so that when they do, you will believe in me."
The shirt was Mother's final gift. She had known for three months that she had terminal Lou Gehrig's disease. Mother died the following year, at age 57.
I was tempted to send the yellow shirt with her to her grave. But I'm glad I didn't, because it is a vivid reminder of the love-filled game she and I played for 16 years. Besides, my older daughter is in college now, majoring in art. And every art student needs a baggy yellow shirt with big pockets.
Sent to Starmag by Elizabeth Lee
"You're not taking that old thing, are you?" Mom said when she saw me packing the yellow shirt. "I wore that when I was pregnant with your brother in 1954!"
"It's just the thing to wear over my clothes during art class, Mom. Thanks!" I slipped it into my suitcase before she could object. The yellow shirt became a part of my college wardrobe. I loved it. After graduation, I wore the shirt the day I moved into my new apartment and on Saturday mornings when I cleaned.
The next year, I married. When I became pregnant, I wore the yellow shirt during big-belly days. I missed Mom and the rest of my family, since we were in Colorado and they were in Illinois. But that shirt helped. I smiled, remembering that Mother had worn is when she was pregnant, 15 years earlier.
That Christmas, mindful of the warm feelings the shirt had given me, I patched one elbow, wrapped it in holiday paper and sent it to her. When she wrote to thank me for her "real" gifts, she said the yellow shirt was lovely. She never mentioned it again.
The next year, my husband, daughter and I stopped at Mom and Dad's to pick up some furniture. Days later, when we uncrated the kitchen table, I noticed something yellow taped to its bottom. The shirt!
And so the pattern was set.
On our next visit home, I secretly placed the shirt under Mom and Dad's mattress. I don't know how long it took for her to find it, but almost two years passed before I discovered it under the base of our living room floor lamp. The shirt was just whet I needed now while refinishing furniture. The walnut stains added character.
In 1975, my husband and I divorced. With three children, I prepared to move back to Illinois. As I packed, a deep depression overtook me. I wondered if I could make it on my own. I wondered if I would find a job. I paged through the Bible, looking for comfort. In Ephesians, I read, "So use every piece of God's armour to resist the enemy whenever he attacks, and when it is all over, you will be standing up."
I tried to picture myself wearing God's armour, but all I saw was the stained yellow shirt. Slowly, it dawned on me. Wasn't my mother's love a piece of God's armour? My courage was renewed.
Unpacking in our new home, I knew I had to get the shirt back to Mother. The next time I visited her, I tucked it in her bottom dresser drawer.
Meanwhile, I found a good job at the radio station. A year later I discovered the yellow shirt hidden in a rag bag in my cleaning closet. Something new had been added. Embroidered in bright green across the breast pocket were the words "I BELONG TO PAT."
Not to be outdone, I got out my own embroidery materials and added an apostrophe and seven more letters. Now the shirt proudly proclaimed, "I BELONG TO PAT'S MOTHER." But I didn't stop there. I zig-zagged all the frayed seams, then had a friend mail the shirt in a fancy box to Mom from Arlington, Virginia. We enclosed an official-looking letter from "The Institute for the Destitute," announcing that she was the recipient of an award for good deeds. I would have given anything to see Mom's face when she opened the box. But, of course, she never mentioned it.
Two years later, in 1978, I remarried. The day of our wedding, Harold and I put our car in a friend's garage to avoid practical jokers. After the wedding, while my husband drove us to our honeymoon suite, I reached for a pillow in the car to rest my head. It felt lumpy. I unzipped the case and found, wrapped in wedding paper, the yellow shirt. Inside a pocket was a note: "Read John 14:27-29. I love you both, Mother."
That night I paged through the Bible in a hotel room and found the verses: "I am leaving you with a gift: peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give isn't fragile like the peace the world gives. So don't be troubled or afraid. Remember what I told you: I am going away, but I will come back to you again. If you really love me, you will be very happy for me, for now I can go to the Father, who is greater than I am. I have told you these things before they happen so that when they do, you will believe in me."
The shirt was Mother's final gift. She had known for three months that she had terminal Lou Gehrig's disease. Mother died the following year, at age 57.
I was tempted to send the yellow shirt with her to her grave. But I'm glad I didn't, because it is a vivid reminder of the love-filled game she and I played for 16 years. Besides, my older daughter is in college now, majoring in art. And every art student needs a baggy yellow shirt with big pockets.
Sent to Starmag by Elizabeth Lee
Thursday, August 11, 2011
The Balance of Love
A woman dies after living a long, dignified life. When she meets God, she asks him something that has long bothered her: "If Man is created in God's image, and if all men are created equal, why do people treat each other so badly?"
God replied that each person who enters our life has a unique lesson to teach us. And it is only through these lessons that we learn about life, people, relationships and God.
This confuses the woman, so God begins to explain:
When someone lies to you, it teaches you that things are not always as they seem. The truth is often far beneath the surface. Look beyond the masks people wear if you want to know their heart. And remove your own masks to let people know yours.
When someone steals from you, it teaches you that nothing is forever. Always appreciate what you have, for you never know when you might lose it. And never, ever take your friends and family for granted because today is the only guarantee you have.
When someone inflicts an injury upon you, it teaches you that the human state is fragile. Protect and take care of your body as best you can because it's the only thing you are sure to have forever.
When someone mocks you, it teaches you that no two people are alike. When you encounter people who are different from you, don't judge them by how they look or act. Instead base your opinion on the contents of their heart.
When someone breaks your heart, it teaches you that loving someone does not always mean that the person will love you back. But don't turn your back on love because when you find the right person, the joy that the one person brings will make up for all the past hurts put together.
When someone holds a grudge against you, it teaches you that everyone makes mistakes. When you are wronged, the most virtuous thing you can do it to forgive the offender without pretense. forgiving those who have hurt us is the most difficult, the most courageous, and the noblest thing man can do.
When a loved one is unfaithful to you, it teaches you that resisting temptation is man's greatest challenge. Be vigilant in your resistance against all temptation. By doing so, you will be rewarded with and enduring sense of satisfaction far greater than the temporary pleasure by which you were tempted.
When someone cheats you, it teaches you that greed is the root of all evil.
Aspire to make your dreams come true, no matter how lofty they may be. Do not feel guilty about your success, but never let an obsession with achieving your goals lead you to engage in malevolent activities.
When someone ridicules you, it teaches you that nobody is perfect. Accept people for their merits and be tolerant of their flaws. Do not ever reject someone for imperfections over which they have no control.
Upon hearing the Maker's wisdom, the old woman becomes concerned that there were no lessons to be learned from man's good deeds. God tells her that man's capacity to love it the greatest gift he has. At the root of all kindness is love, and each act of love also teaches us a lesson.
As the woman's curiosity deepens, God once again explains:
When someone loves us, it teaches us that love, kindness, charity, honesty, humility, forgiveness and acceptance can counteract all the evil in the world. For every good deed, there is one less evil deed. Man alone has the power to control the balance between good and evil, but because the lessons of love are not taught often enough, the power is too often abused.
When you enter someone's life, whether by choice or chance, what will your lesson be. Will you teach love or harsh reality? Each one of us has power over the balance of love. Use that power wisely.
Sent in to Starmag by May C
God replied that each person who enters our life has a unique lesson to teach us. And it is only through these lessons that we learn about life, people, relationships and God.
This confuses the woman, so God begins to explain:
When someone lies to you, it teaches you that things are not always as they seem. The truth is often far beneath the surface. Look beyond the masks people wear if you want to know their heart. And remove your own masks to let people know yours.
When someone steals from you, it teaches you that nothing is forever. Always appreciate what you have, for you never know when you might lose it. And never, ever take your friends and family for granted because today is the only guarantee you have.
When someone inflicts an injury upon you, it teaches you that the human state is fragile. Protect and take care of your body as best you can because it's the only thing you are sure to have forever.
When someone mocks you, it teaches you that no two people are alike. When you encounter people who are different from you, don't judge them by how they look or act. Instead base your opinion on the contents of their heart.
When someone breaks your heart, it teaches you that loving someone does not always mean that the person will love you back. But don't turn your back on love because when you find the right person, the joy that the one person brings will make up for all the past hurts put together.
When someone holds a grudge against you, it teaches you that everyone makes mistakes. When you are wronged, the most virtuous thing you can do it to forgive the offender without pretense. forgiving those who have hurt us is the most difficult, the most courageous, and the noblest thing man can do.
When a loved one is unfaithful to you, it teaches you that resisting temptation is man's greatest challenge. Be vigilant in your resistance against all temptation. By doing so, you will be rewarded with and enduring sense of satisfaction far greater than the temporary pleasure by which you were tempted.
When someone cheats you, it teaches you that greed is the root of all evil.
Aspire to make your dreams come true, no matter how lofty they may be. Do not feel guilty about your success, but never let an obsession with achieving your goals lead you to engage in malevolent activities.
When someone ridicules you, it teaches you that nobody is perfect. Accept people for their merits and be tolerant of their flaws. Do not ever reject someone for imperfections over which they have no control.
Upon hearing the Maker's wisdom, the old woman becomes concerned that there were no lessons to be learned from man's good deeds. God tells her that man's capacity to love it the greatest gift he has. At the root of all kindness is love, and each act of love also teaches us a lesson.
As the woman's curiosity deepens, God once again explains:
When someone loves us, it teaches us that love, kindness, charity, honesty, humility, forgiveness and acceptance can counteract all the evil in the world. For every good deed, there is one less evil deed. Man alone has the power to control the balance between good and evil, but because the lessons of love are not taught often enough, the power is too often abused.
When you enter someone's life, whether by choice or chance, what will your lesson be. Will you teach love or harsh reality? Each one of us has power over the balance of love. Use that power wisely.
Sent in to Starmag by May C
"I Love You, But..."
A soldier was finally returning home to the United States after having fought in the war in Vietnam. He phoned his parents from San Francisco and said: "Mom, Dad, I'm coming home, but I have a favour to ask. I've a friend I would like to bring home with me."
"Sure," his parents replied, "we'd love to meet him."
"There's something you should know" the son continued. "He was hurt pretty badly in the fighting. He stepped on a landmine and lost and arm and a leg. He has nowhere to go, and I want him to come live with us."
"I'm sorry to hear that, son. Maybe we can help him find somewhere to live."
"No, Dad, I want him to live with us."
"Son," said the father, "you don't know what you're asking. Someone with such a handicap would be a terrible burden on us. We have our own lives to live, and we can't let something like this interfere with our lives.
"I think you should just come home and forget about this guy. He'll find a way to get by on his own."
At that point, the son hung up and his parents heard nothing more from him. A few days later, however, they received a call from the San Francisco polive: their son had died after falling from a building. They believed it was suicide.
The grief-stricken parents flew to San Francisco and were taken to the city morgue to identify their son's body.
They recognised him, but to their horror, they also discovered something they didn't know - he had only one arm and one leg.
Sent to Starmag by Clement Chan Zhi Li
"Sure," his parents replied, "we'd love to meet him."
"There's something you should know" the son continued. "He was hurt pretty badly in the fighting. He stepped on a landmine and lost and arm and a leg. He has nowhere to go, and I want him to come live with us."
"I'm sorry to hear that, son. Maybe we can help him find somewhere to live."
"No, Dad, I want him to live with us."
"Son," said the father, "you don't know what you're asking. Someone with such a handicap would be a terrible burden on us. We have our own lives to live, and we can't let something like this interfere with our lives.
"I think you should just come home and forget about this guy. He'll find a way to get by on his own."
At that point, the son hung up and his parents heard nothing more from him. A few days later, however, they received a call from the San Francisco polive: their son had died after falling from a building. They believed it was suicide.
The grief-stricken parents flew to San Francisco and were taken to the city morgue to identify their son's body.
They recognised him, but to their horror, they also discovered something they didn't know - he had only one arm and one leg.
Sent to Starmag by Clement Chan Zhi Li
Body Parts
My mother used to ask me what the most important part of the body was. Through the years I would take a shot at what I thought was the correct answer.
When I was younger, I thought sound was very important to humans, so I said: "My ears, Mummy." She said, "No. Many people are deaf. But you keep thinking about it and I will ask you again soon."
Several years passed before she asked me the same question again. Since that first attempt, I had contemplated the correct answer. This time I told her, "Mummy, sight is very important to everybody, so it must be our eyes."
She looked at me and said, "You are learning fast, but the answer is not correct because there are many people who are blind."
Stumped again, I continued my quest for knowledge and over the years, Mother asked me a couple more times and always her answer was, "No. But you are getting smarter every year, my child."
Then last year, my grandfather died. Everybody cried. Even my father. I remember that especially because it was only the second time I had seen him cry. Mum looked at me when it was our turn to say our final goodbye to Grandpa.
"Do you know the most important body part yet, my dear?" she asked. I was taken aback. I'd always thought that this was a game between us.
She saw the confusion on my face and said: "This question is very important. It shows that you have really lived. For every body part you gave me in the past, I had explained why your answer was wrong. But today, you need to learn one important lesson."
She looked at me as only a mother could. I saw her eyes well up with tears as she continued: "My dear, the most important part of your body is your shoulder."
"Is it because it holds up the head?" I asked.
"No, it is because it can hold the head of a friend or a loved one when they cry. Everybody needs a shoulder to cry on sometime in life. I hope you have enough love and friends so that you will always have a shoulder to cry on when you need it."
Then and there I knew the most important body part is not a selfish one. It is sympathetic to the pain of others. People will forget what you said and did, but they will never forget how you made them feel.
Sent to Starmag by Dennis Chee
When I was younger, I thought sound was very important to humans, so I said: "My ears, Mummy." She said, "No. Many people are deaf. But you keep thinking about it and I will ask you again soon."
Several years passed before she asked me the same question again. Since that first attempt, I had contemplated the correct answer. This time I told her, "Mummy, sight is very important to everybody, so it must be our eyes."
She looked at me and said, "You are learning fast, but the answer is not correct because there are many people who are blind."
Stumped again, I continued my quest for knowledge and over the years, Mother asked me a couple more times and always her answer was, "No. But you are getting smarter every year, my child."
Then last year, my grandfather died. Everybody cried. Even my father. I remember that especially because it was only the second time I had seen him cry. Mum looked at me when it was our turn to say our final goodbye to Grandpa.
"Do you know the most important body part yet, my dear?" she asked. I was taken aback. I'd always thought that this was a game between us.
She saw the confusion on my face and said: "This question is very important. It shows that you have really lived. For every body part you gave me in the past, I had explained why your answer was wrong. But today, you need to learn one important lesson."
She looked at me as only a mother could. I saw her eyes well up with tears as she continued: "My dear, the most important part of your body is your shoulder."
"Is it because it holds up the head?" I asked.
"No, it is because it can hold the head of a friend or a loved one when they cry. Everybody needs a shoulder to cry on sometime in life. I hope you have enough love and friends so that you will always have a shoulder to cry on when you need it."
Then and there I knew the most important body part is not a selfish one. It is sympathetic to the pain of others. People will forget what you said and did, but they will never forget how you made them feel.
Sent to Starmag by Dennis Chee
The Smell Of Rain
A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the doctor walked into Diana Blessing's small hospital room. As Diana was still groggy from surgery, her husband David held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.
That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24 weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Caesarean to deliver their daughter, Dana Lu Blessing, who was about 30cm long and weighed only 0.7kg. They knew she was perilously premature.
Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like a bomb: "I don't think she's going to make it. There's only a 10% chance she will live through the night, and even if she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one."
Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Dana would likely face if she survived. She would never walk or talk; she would probably be blind; she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions, from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation.
"No! No!" was all Diana could say. She and David, with their five-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of Dana's arrival, and being a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away.
Through the dark hours of morning, as Dana held onto life by the thinnest thread, Diana slipped in and out of sleep, growing more and more determined that her tiny newborn would live, and live to be a healthy, happy girl.
But David, fully awake and aware of the dire details of their daughter's chances of ever leaving the hospital alive, must less healthy, knew he must confront his wife with the inevitable. He walked in and said that they needed to talk about making funeral arrangements.
Diana remembers she felt so bad for him because he was doing everything, "trying to include me in what was going on. But I just wouldn't listen, I couldn't." she said, "No, that is not going to happen. I don't care what the doctors say. Dana is not going to die! One day she will be just fine, and she will be going home with us!"
As if willed to live by Diana's determination, Dana clung to life hour after hour, with the help of every medical machine and marvel her miniature body could endure. But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for her parents.
Because Dana's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially "raw", the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle her against their chest to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Dana struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light amidst the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.
There was never a moment when Dana suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there. At last, when Dana turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time.
And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Dana went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.
Today, Dana is a petite but feisty young girl with glittering grey eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She shows no signs whatsoever of any mental or physical impairment. Simple, she is everything a girl can be and more. But ... this is far from the end of her happy story.
One blistering afternoon in the summer or 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Dana was sitting on her mother's lap on the bleachers of a local ballpark where Dustin's baseball team was practising.
As always, Dana was chattering non-stop with her mother and several other adults nearby when she suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, she asked, "Do you smell that?"
Diana sniffed the air and could detect the approach of a thunderstorm. "Yes, it smells like rain," she replied.
Dana closed her eyes and again asked: "Do you smell that?"
Once again, her mother said, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet. It smells like rain."
Still caught in the moment, Dana shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, "No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest."
Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Dana hopped down to play with the other children. Before the rains came, her daughter's words confirmed what she and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.
During those long days and nights of the first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Dana on his chest. And it was his loving scent that she remembered so well.
Sent to Starmag by Emily Loh and Kelly Tan
That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24 weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Caesarean to deliver their daughter, Dana Lu Blessing, who was about 30cm long and weighed only 0.7kg. They knew she was perilously premature.
Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like a bomb: "I don't think she's going to make it. There's only a 10% chance she will live through the night, and even if she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one."
Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Dana would likely face if she survived. She would never walk or talk; she would probably be blind; she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions, from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation.
"No! No!" was all Diana could say. She and David, with their five-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of Dana's arrival, and being a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away.
Through the dark hours of morning, as Dana held onto life by the thinnest thread, Diana slipped in and out of sleep, growing more and more determined that her tiny newborn would live, and live to be a healthy, happy girl.
But David, fully awake and aware of the dire details of their daughter's chances of ever leaving the hospital alive, must less healthy, knew he must confront his wife with the inevitable. He walked in and said that they needed to talk about making funeral arrangements.
Diana remembers she felt so bad for him because he was doing everything, "trying to include me in what was going on. But I just wouldn't listen, I couldn't." she said, "No, that is not going to happen. I don't care what the doctors say. Dana is not going to die! One day she will be just fine, and she will be going home with us!"
As if willed to live by Diana's determination, Dana clung to life hour after hour, with the help of every medical machine and marvel her miniature body could endure. But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for her parents.
Because Dana's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially "raw", the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle her against their chest to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Dana struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light amidst the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.
There was never a moment when Dana suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there. At last, when Dana turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time.
And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Dana went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.
Today, Dana is a petite but feisty young girl with glittering grey eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She shows no signs whatsoever of any mental or physical impairment. Simple, she is everything a girl can be and more. But ... this is far from the end of her happy story.
One blistering afternoon in the summer or 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Dana was sitting on her mother's lap on the bleachers of a local ballpark where Dustin's baseball team was practising.
As always, Dana was chattering non-stop with her mother and several other adults nearby when she suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, she asked, "Do you smell that?"
Diana sniffed the air and could detect the approach of a thunderstorm. "Yes, it smells like rain," she replied.
Dana closed her eyes and again asked: "Do you smell that?"
Once again, her mother said, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet. It smells like rain."
Still caught in the moment, Dana shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, "No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest."
Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Dana hopped down to play with the other children. Before the rains came, her daughter's words confirmed what she and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.
During those long days and nights of the first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Dana on his chest. And it was his loving scent that she remembered so well.
Sent to Starmag by Emily Loh and Kelly Tan
Salty Coffee
He met her at a party. She was outstanding; many guys were after her, but nobody paid any attention to him. After the party, he invited her for coffee. She was surprised. So as not to appear rude, she went along.
As they sat in a nice coffee shop, he was too nervous to say anything and she felt uncomfortable. Suddenly, he asked the waiter: "Could you please give me some salt? I'd like to put it in my coffee."
They stared at him. He turned red, but when the salt came, he put it in his coffee and drank. Curious, she asked: "Why salt with coffee?" He explained:
"When I was a little boy, I loved near the sea. I liked playing in the sea ... I could feel its taste - salty, like salty coffee. Now every time I drink it, I think of my childhood and my hometown. I miss is and my parents, who are still there."
She was deeply touched. A man who can admit that he's homesick must love his home and care about his family. He must be responsible.
She talked too, about her faraway hometown, her childhood, her family. That was the start to their love story.
They continued to date. She found that he met all her "requirements". He was tolerant, kind, warm and careful. And to think she would have missed the catch if not for the salty coffee.
So they married and lived happily together. And every time she made coffee for him, she put in some salt, the way he liked it.
After 40 years, he passed away and left her a letter which said:
"My dearest, please forgive my lifelong lie. Remember the first time we dated? I was so nervous I asked for salt instead of sugar.
"It was hard for me to ask for a change, so I just went ahead. I never thought that we would hit it off. Many times, I tried to tell you the truth, but I was afraid that it would ruin everything.
"Sweetheart, I don't exactly like salty coffee. But as it mattered so much to you, I've learnt to enjoy it. Having you with me was my greatest happiness. If I could live a second time, I hope we can be together again, even if it means that I have to drink salty coffee for the rest of my life."
She was speechless. One day, someone asked her what salty coffee tasted like. She replied: "Sweet ... it couldn't taste better."
Sent in to Starmag by Hew Zhi Xin
As they sat in a nice coffee shop, he was too nervous to say anything and she felt uncomfortable. Suddenly, he asked the waiter: "Could you please give me some salt? I'd like to put it in my coffee."
They stared at him. He turned red, but when the salt came, he put it in his coffee and drank. Curious, she asked: "Why salt with coffee?" He explained:
"When I was a little boy, I loved near the sea. I liked playing in the sea ... I could feel its taste - salty, like salty coffee. Now every time I drink it, I think of my childhood and my hometown. I miss is and my parents, who are still there."
She was deeply touched. A man who can admit that he's homesick must love his home and care about his family. He must be responsible.
She talked too, about her faraway hometown, her childhood, her family. That was the start to their love story.
They continued to date. She found that he met all her "requirements". He was tolerant, kind, warm and careful. And to think she would have missed the catch if not for the salty coffee.
So they married and lived happily together. And every time she made coffee for him, she put in some salt, the way he liked it.
After 40 years, he passed away and left her a letter which said:
"My dearest, please forgive my lifelong lie. Remember the first time we dated? I was so nervous I asked for salt instead of sugar.
"It was hard for me to ask for a change, so I just went ahead. I never thought that we would hit it off. Many times, I tried to tell you the truth, but I was afraid that it would ruin everything.
"Sweetheart, I don't exactly like salty coffee. But as it mattered so much to you, I've learnt to enjoy it. Having you with me was my greatest happiness. If I could live a second time, I hope we can be together again, even if it means that I have to drink salty coffee for the rest of my life."
She was speechless. One day, someone asked her what salty coffee tasted like. She replied: "Sweet ... it couldn't taste better."
Sent in to Starmag by Hew Zhi Xin
Friday, August 5, 2011
One Forever Moment
By Graham Porter
Loading the car with the paraphernalia of our youngsters, ages three to nine, was hardly my idea of fun. But precisely on schedule, and at a very early hour, I had performed that miracle. With our vacation stay on Lake Michigan now over, I hurried back into the cottage to find my wife Evie sweeping the last of the sand from the floor.
"It's 6.30 - time to leave," I said, "Where are the kids?"
Evie put away the broom. "I let them run down to the beach for one last look."
I shook my head, annoyed by this encroachment on my carefully-planned schedule. Why had we bothered to rise at dawn if we weren't to get rolling before the worst of the traffic hit? After all, the children had already spent two carefree weeks building sand castles and ambling for miles along the lakeside in search of magic rocks. And today they had only to relax in the car - sleep if the liked - while I alone fought the long road home.
I strode across the porch and out the screen door. There, down past the rolling dunes, I spotted my four youngsters on the beach. They had discarded their shoes and were tiptoeing into the water, laughing and leaping each time a wave broke over their legs, the point obviously being to see how far into the lake they could wade without drenching their clothes. It only riled me more to realise that all their dry garments were locked, heaven knew where, in the overstuffed car trunk.
With the firmness of a master sergeant, I cupped my hands to my mouth to order my children up to the car at once. But somehow, the scolding words stopped short of my lips. The sun, still low in the morning sky, etched a gold silhouette around each of the four young figures at play. For them there was left only this tiny fragment of time for draining the last drop of joy from the sun and the water and the sky.
The longer I watched, the more the scene before me assumed a magic aura, for it would never be duplicated again. What changes might we expect in our lives after the passing of another year, another 10 years? The only reality was this moment, this glistening beach and these children - my children - with the sunlight trapped in their hair and the sound of their laughter mixing wind the wind and the waves.
Why, I asked myself, had I been so intent on leaving at 6.30 that I had rushed from the cottage to scold them? Did I have constructive discipline in mind, or was I simply in the mood to nag because a long day's drive lay ahead?
After all, no prized were to be won by leaving precisely on the dot. If we arrived at our motel an hour later than planned, no 40-piece band was going to be kept waiting. And how could I hope to maintain communication with my children, now and in later years, if I failed to keep my own youthful memory alive?
At the water's edge far below, my oldest daughter was motioning for me to join them. Then the others began waving, too, calling for Evie and me to share their fun.
I hesitated for only a moment, then ran to the cottage to grab my wife's hand. Half running, half sliding down the dunes, we were soon at the beach, kicking off our shoes. With gleeful bravado, we waded far out past our youngsters, Evie holding up her skirt and I my trouser cuffs, until Evie's foot slipped and she plunged squealing into the water, purposely dragging me with her.
Today, years later, my heart still warms to recall our children's laughter that day, how full-bellied and gloriously companionable it was. And not infrequently, when they air their fondest moments - all but them - are among their most precious.
Shared in Starmag by Jasy Liew
Loading the car with the paraphernalia of our youngsters, ages three to nine, was hardly my idea of fun. But precisely on schedule, and at a very early hour, I had performed that miracle. With our vacation stay on Lake Michigan now over, I hurried back into the cottage to find my wife Evie sweeping the last of the sand from the floor.
"It's 6.30 - time to leave," I said, "Where are the kids?"
Evie put away the broom. "I let them run down to the beach for one last look."
I shook my head, annoyed by this encroachment on my carefully-planned schedule. Why had we bothered to rise at dawn if we weren't to get rolling before the worst of the traffic hit? After all, the children had already spent two carefree weeks building sand castles and ambling for miles along the lakeside in search of magic rocks. And today they had only to relax in the car - sleep if the liked - while I alone fought the long road home.
I strode across the porch and out the screen door. There, down past the rolling dunes, I spotted my four youngsters on the beach. They had discarded their shoes and were tiptoeing into the water, laughing and leaping each time a wave broke over their legs, the point obviously being to see how far into the lake they could wade without drenching their clothes. It only riled me more to realise that all their dry garments were locked, heaven knew where, in the overstuffed car trunk.
With the firmness of a master sergeant, I cupped my hands to my mouth to order my children up to the car at once. But somehow, the scolding words stopped short of my lips. The sun, still low in the morning sky, etched a gold silhouette around each of the four young figures at play. For them there was left only this tiny fragment of time for draining the last drop of joy from the sun and the water and the sky.
The longer I watched, the more the scene before me assumed a magic aura, for it would never be duplicated again. What changes might we expect in our lives after the passing of another year, another 10 years? The only reality was this moment, this glistening beach and these children - my children - with the sunlight trapped in their hair and the sound of their laughter mixing wind the wind and the waves.
Why, I asked myself, had I been so intent on leaving at 6.30 that I had rushed from the cottage to scold them? Did I have constructive discipline in mind, or was I simply in the mood to nag because a long day's drive lay ahead?
After all, no prized were to be won by leaving precisely on the dot. If we arrived at our motel an hour later than planned, no 40-piece band was going to be kept waiting. And how could I hope to maintain communication with my children, now and in later years, if I failed to keep my own youthful memory alive?
At the water's edge far below, my oldest daughter was motioning for me to join them. Then the others began waving, too, calling for Evie and me to share their fun.
I hesitated for only a moment, then ran to the cottage to grab my wife's hand. Half running, half sliding down the dunes, we were soon at the beach, kicking off our shoes. With gleeful bravado, we waded far out past our youngsters, Evie holding up her skirt and I my trouser cuffs, until Evie's foot slipped and she plunged squealing into the water, purposely dragging me with her.
Today, years later, my heart still warms to recall our children's laughter that day, how full-bellied and gloriously companionable it was. And not infrequently, when they air their fondest moments - all but them - are among their most precious.
Shared in Starmag by Jasy Liew
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
10 Ways to Love
Listen
without interrupting
Speak
without accusing
Give
without sparing
Pray
without ceasing
Answer
without arguing
Share
without pretending
Enjoy
without complaint
Trust
without wavering
Forgive
without punishing
Promise
without forgetting
without interrupting
Speak
without accusing
Give
without sparing
Pray
without ceasing
Answer
without arguing
Share
without pretending
Enjoy
without complaint
Trust
without wavering
Forgive
without punishing
Promise
without forgetting
Sunday, July 10, 2011
"Information, Please"
When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighbourhood. I remember well the polished old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box.
I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person - her name was "Information, Please" and there was nothing she did not know.
"Information, Please" could supply anybody's number and the correct time. My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbour. While amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy.
I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, and finally arrived at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlour and dragged it to the landing. I climbed up, unhooked the receiver in the parlour and held it to my ear.
"Information, Please," I said into the mouthpiece just above my head.
After a click or two, a small clear voice spoke into my ear, "Information".
"I hurt my finger," I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.
"Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.
"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open your icebox?" she asked.
I said I could.
"Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.
After that, I called "Information, Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my Geography and she told me where Philadelphia was.
She helped me with my Math. She told me my pet chipmunk, that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.
Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called "Information, Please" and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child, but I was inconsolable.
I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better.
Another day I was on the telephone. "Information, Please."
"Information," said the now familiar voice.
"How do you spell fix?" I asked.
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. "Information, Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall.
As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity, I would recall the serene sense of security that I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes on the phone with my sister, who lived there now.
Then, without thinking what I was doing, I dialled my hometown operator and said, "Information, Please." Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well, "Information". I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"
There was a long pause. Then came the soft-spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now."
I laughed. "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?"
"I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me? I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls."
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and asked if I could call her again when I come back to visit my sister. "Please do," she said. "Just ask for Sally."
Three months later, I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered, "Information". I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" she asked.
"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago."
Before I could hand up, she added, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you."
The note said, "Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean."
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.
From Starmag
I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person - her name was "Information, Please" and there was nothing she did not know.
"Information, Please" could supply anybody's number and the correct time. My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbour. While amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy.
I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, and finally arrived at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlour and dragged it to the landing. I climbed up, unhooked the receiver in the parlour and held it to my ear.
"Information, Please," I said into the mouthpiece just above my head.
After a click or two, a small clear voice spoke into my ear, "Information".
"I hurt my finger," I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.
"Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.
"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open your icebox?" she asked.
I said I could.
"Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.
After that, I called "Information, Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my Geography and she told me where Philadelphia was.
She helped me with my Math. She told me my pet chipmunk, that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.
Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called "Information, Please" and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child, but I was inconsolable.
I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better.
Another day I was on the telephone. "Information, Please."
"Information," said the now familiar voice.
"How do you spell fix?" I asked.
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. "Information, Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall.
As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity, I would recall the serene sense of security that I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes on the phone with my sister, who lived there now.
Then, without thinking what I was doing, I dialled my hometown operator and said, "Information, Please." Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well, "Information". I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"
There was a long pause. Then came the soft-spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now."
I laughed. "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?"
"I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me? I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls."
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and asked if I could call her again when I come back to visit my sister. "Please do," she said. "Just ask for Sally."
Three months later, I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered, "Information". I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" she asked.
"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago."
Before I could hand up, she added, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you."
The note said, "Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean."
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.
From Starmag
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Letting Go
There was once a lonely girl who longed desperately for love. One day while she was walking in the woods she found two starving songbirds. She took them home and put them in a small gilded cage.
She nurtured them with love and the birds grew strong. Every morning they greeted her with a marvelous song. The girl felt great love for the birds. She wanted their singing to last forever.
One day the girl left the door to the cage open. The larger and stronger of the two birds flew from the cage. The girl watched anxiously as he circled high above her. She was so frightened that he would fly away and she would never see him again that as he flew close, she grasped at him wildly.
She caught him in her fist. She clutched him tightly within her hand. Her heart gladdened at her success in capturing him. Suddenly she felt the bird go limp. She opened her hand and stared in horror at the dead bird.
Her desperate clutching love had killed him.
She noticed the other bird teetering on the edge of the cage. She could feel his great need for freedom, his need to soar into the clear, blue sky. She lifted him from the cage and tossed him softly into the air. The bird circled once, twice, three times.
The girl watched, delighted at the bird's enjoyment. Her heart was no longer concerned with her loss. She wanted the bird to be happy. Suddenly the bird flew closer and landed softly on her shoulder. It sang the sweetest melody she had ever heard.
The fastest way to lose love is to hold on too tight, the best way to keep love is to give it wings.
From the book, Love Stories of a different kind
She nurtured them with love and the birds grew strong. Every morning they greeted her with a marvelous song. The girl felt great love for the birds. She wanted their singing to last forever.
One day the girl left the door to the cage open. The larger and stronger of the two birds flew from the cage. The girl watched anxiously as he circled high above her. She was so frightened that he would fly away and she would never see him again that as he flew close, she grasped at him wildly.
She caught him in her fist. She clutched him tightly within her hand. Her heart gladdened at her success in capturing him. Suddenly she felt the bird go limp. She opened her hand and stared in horror at the dead bird.
Her desperate clutching love had killed him.
She noticed the other bird teetering on the edge of the cage. She could feel his great need for freedom, his need to soar into the clear, blue sky. She lifted him from the cage and tossed him softly into the air. The bird circled once, twice, three times.
The girl watched, delighted at the bird's enjoyment. Her heart was no longer concerned with her loss. She wanted the bird to be happy. Suddenly the bird flew closer and landed softly on her shoulder. It sang the sweetest melody she had ever heard.
The fastest way to lose love is to hold on too tight, the best way to keep love is to give it wings.
From the book, Love Stories of a different kind
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
The Most Precious Thing
Long ago a young man and a young woman fell in love with each other and decided to marry. They had almost no money, but their trust in each other gave them faith that their future together will be bright, as long as they had each other.
Before the wedding, the girl came to her fiancé with a request. "I cannot imagine our ever wanting to be apart," she said. "But it may be that, in time, we will tire of each other, or that you will be angry with me, and want to send me to my parents' house. Promise me that if this should happen, you will allow me to carry back with me the thing that has grown most precious to me."
Her fiancé laughed, and could see no sense in what she asked, but the girl was not satisfied until he had written down his promise and signed his name to it. Then the two were married and began their life together.
They set their minds to improving their worldly position. The were both willing to work hard at it, and soon their patient industry found reward. Their first successes made them even more determined to put poverty behind them, and they worked harder than ever before.
Time passed, and they become comfortable, then well-to-do, and finally rich. They moved to a bigger house, found a new set of friends, and surrounded themselves with all the trappings of fortune.
But in their single-minded pursuit of wealth, they began to think more of their things than of each other. More and more, they quarreled about what to buy, or how much to spend, of how they should go about increasing their riches.
One afternoon, as they were preparing a feast for several important friends, they argued about some trivial matter - the flavour of the gravy, or perhaps the order of seating at the table. They began shouting at, and accusing each other.
"You care nothing for me!" cried the husband. "You think only of yourself, and the jewels and fine clothes you wear. Take those that are most precious to you, as I promised, and go back to your parents' house. There is no point in our going on together."
His wife suddenly went pare, and stared at him with a distracted look in her eyes, as if she had just seen something for the first time.
"Very well," she said quietly. "I am willing to go. But we must stay together one more night, and sit side bu side at our table, for the sake of appearances in front of our friends."
The evening arrived. The feast began. It was as bountiful as their ample means allowed. When, one by one, the guests had succumbed to its influence, and her husband, too, had fallen asleep, the good woman had him carried to her parents' cottage and laid in bed there.
When he woke up the next morning, he could not understand where he was. He raised himself up on his elbow to look about him, and at once his wife came to the bedside.
"My dear husband," she said softly, "Your promise was that if you ever sent me away I might carry with me the thing that was most precious to me. You are that most precious thing. I care for you more than anything else, and nothing but death shall part us."
At once the man saw how selfishly they had both acted. That same day they returned home and began to devote themselves once again to each other.
Words of love should be matched with deeds of love.
From the little book: Love stories of a different kind
Before the wedding, the girl came to her fiancé with a request. "I cannot imagine our ever wanting to be apart," she said. "But it may be that, in time, we will tire of each other, or that you will be angry with me, and want to send me to my parents' house. Promise me that if this should happen, you will allow me to carry back with me the thing that has grown most precious to me."
Her fiancé laughed, and could see no sense in what she asked, but the girl was not satisfied until he had written down his promise and signed his name to it. Then the two were married and began their life together.
They set their minds to improving their worldly position. The were both willing to work hard at it, and soon their patient industry found reward. Their first successes made them even more determined to put poverty behind them, and they worked harder than ever before.
Time passed, and they become comfortable, then well-to-do, and finally rich. They moved to a bigger house, found a new set of friends, and surrounded themselves with all the trappings of fortune.
But in their single-minded pursuit of wealth, they began to think more of their things than of each other. More and more, they quarreled about what to buy, or how much to spend, of how they should go about increasing their riches.
One afternoon, as they were preparing a feast for several important friends, they argued about some trivial matter - the flavour of the gravy, or perhaps the order of seating at the table. They began shouting at, and accusing each other.
"You care nothing for me!" cried the husband. "You think only of yourself, and the jewels and fine clothes you wear. Take those that are most precious to you, as I promised, and go back to your parents' house. There is no point in our going on together."
His wife suddenly went pare, and stared at him with a distracted look in her eyes, as if she had just seen something for the first time.
"Very well," she said quietly. "I am willing to go. But we must stay together one more night, and sit side bu side at our table, for the sake of appearances in front of our friends."
The evening arrived. The feast began. It was as bountiful as their ample means allowed. When, one by one, the guests had succumbed to its influence, and her husband, too, had fallen asleep, the good woman had him carried to her parents' cottage and laid in bed there.
When he woke up the next morning, he could not understand where he was. He raised himself up on his elbow to look about him, and at once his wife came to the bedside.
"My dear husband," she said softly, "Your promise was that if you ever sent me away I might carry with me the thing that was most precious to me. You are that most precious thing. I care for you more than anything else, and nothing but death shall part us."
At once the man saw how selfishly they had both acted. That same day they returned home and began to devote themselves once again to each other.
Words of love should be matched with deeds of love.
From the little book: Love stories of a different kind
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Angel In My Heart
By Jade Cheng
On this Cheng Beng (All Souls Day) Sunday, when the Chinese remember their dearly departed ones, let me tell you about a darling angel who almost came into this world, and who has never left my heart. If she had lived, she would be 21 now, a full grown adult!
It was my first pregnancy, and it had gone well ... for seven months. Then I was told by a gynaecologist friend that I was bigger than normal.
"You must see your gynae for a check-up," he stressed. He was very serious, but still I couldn't imagine that anything could go wrong. I had been so healthy, I had worked throughout without any problems. I hadn't even suffered much from morning sickness.
My gynae immediately put me on full bed rest. Something was not right, but nothing had shown up in the ultrasound scan ... until one week later. The baby had a growth around its neck that was preventing it from swallowing, hence my enlarged water bag. More observations showed that the growth was increasing at a phenomenal pace. It was not known yet if the tumour was malignant or not. But the doctor said it would be very difficult for the baby to survive or live a normal life. He recommended inducing birth and not reviving the baby if it could not breathe. My husband agreed.
I hesitated, but was too shocked, confused and numb to put up a fight. I went along with the decision. But inside me, I felt like a murderer, of my own baby, whom I was supposed to protect and nurture. I was relieved when the post-mortem tests showed the tumour to be malignant - she wouldn't have survived.
I didn't know if I could make it through the ordeal of labour and delivery with the knowledge that there would be no bundle of joy at the end of it all. I longed to just go for caesarean - get knocked out and have everything done while I was unconscious. But that meant undergoing a major surgery and I was advised against it.
The night before the delivery, I asked for a sleeping pill. In those days, they didn't allow husbands in the delivery room so I was alone most of the time. I got the thickest novel I could find and fixed my mind on it to shut out all other thoughts. The delivery itself was not overly painful - perhaps I was too numb to feel much pain. My husband had told me to close my eyes and not look at the baby. Again, I was too numb to think independently. I remember the nurse telling me I had a beautiful girl and asking me if I wanted to see her. I shut my eyes tightly and shook my head.
I agreed to give up my baby's body for scientific research. When later, I changed my mind about not seeing her, there was nothing left. The doctor showed me a photograph and yes, the nurse was right - she was beautiful. But we have nothing physical to remember her by. She is buried nowhere but in my heart.
Family and friends were stunned by the turn of events. Not knowing how to react, they pretended that nothing had happened. There was no acknowledgement that the baby had existed at all, that we had lost a baby.
When my mother-in-law caught me crying, she told me not to cry or I would go blind. It was her way of trying to help me get over my loss. My husband, fraught with anxiety over my well-being, was a bundle of nerves. In those days, when nobody understood the psychology of the grieving process, my crying indicated to him that I was not doing well and it made his heartburn worse. In order to help him calm down, I tried not to cry in front of him. That way, they thought I was putting the loss behind me and was on the way to recovery.
My colleagues who knew about the tragedy thought they were respecting my privacy by not gossiping about it to others. Thus, many in the office didn't know any better. For more times than I could bear, the cleaning ladies, the telephone operator, and people form other departments would come beaming to me and ask me if I had a boy or a girl. I broke down many times. But many more times I learnt to say, "I lost the baby". The smiles would turn to shock as the enquirers slinked away in silence. I forcibly pushed down the cry welling up inside me and turned back to work.
I wished my close friends would have the sense to tell others not to ask me about the subject, but they didn't and I couldn't talk about it at all. For months, I sobbed uncontrollably almost every day on the drive home from work, hoping that people in the cars around me wouldn't notice.
Slowly, the months stretched into years. Other events in my life took centre stage. We didn't have other children and I couldn't decide whether or not to go all out to try for kids. My husband said it didn't matter to him whether or not we had kids. "If we have kids, fine. If not, we'll travel," he used to say. I didn't know if I really wanted to be a mother, or whether I wanted a baby to make up for my lost angel. On the outside, I acted normally. But deep inside, I never got over the tragedy ... not for a long time.
It wasn't until eight years later that I had to make a choice. I was about to go all out to try for a baby to avoid possible regret in later years. Then the opportunity arose for me to pursue a course of studies I had dreamt about for more than 10 years. But if the baby effort turned out successful, I wouldn't have time for the studies. Examining myself deeply, I realised that I preferred to pursue the course, that being a mother was not important to me. Then and only then did the last boulder of crippling a corner of my heart dislodge and I was whole again.
It doesn't mean that the sadness is completely gone. Indeed, writing this article made me cry buckets all over again. But it does mean that I am free today to enjoy other people's children - my nephews and nieces, my friends' kids. I am also able to emphatise with the unbearable pain of a mother's loss, even though I never quite got to be a full-fledged mother. I appreciate the need of those who have suffered the tragic death of a loved one to undergo a healthy grieving process, and the role that family, friends and third parties can play in this process.
While I would not have chosen such a painful experience, I thank my darling angel who, in coming so briefly into my life, made me a better, more compassionate and sensitive person. I regret that I never held my baby and kissed her and told her that I will always love her. But I know that she knows. And just as she has moved on, so have I.
Starmag
On this Cheng Beng (All Souls Day) Sunday, when the Chinese remember their dearly departed ones, let me tell you about a darling angel who almost came into this world, and who has never left my heart. If she had lived, she would be 21 now, a full grown adult!
It was my first pregnancy, and it had gone well ... for seven months. Then I was told by a gynaecologist friend that I was bigger than normal.
"You must see your gynae for a check-up," he stressed. He was very serious, but still I couldn't imagine that anything could go wrong. I had been so healthy, I had worked throughout without any problems. I hadn't even suffered much from morning sickness.
My gynae immediately put me on full bed rest. Something was not right, but nothing had shown up in the ultrasound scan ... until one week later. The baby had a growth around its neck that was preventing it from swallowing, hence my enlarged water bag. More observations showed that the growth was increasing at a phenomenal pace. It was not known yet if the tumour was malignant or not. But the doctor said it would be very difficult for the baby to survive or live a normal life. He recommended inducing birth and not reviving the baby if it could not breathe. My husband agreed.
I hesitated, but was too shocked, confused and numb to put up a fight. I went along with the decision. But inside me, I felt like a murderer, of my own baby, whom I was supposed to protect and nurture. I was relieved when the post-mortem tests showed the tumour to be malignant - she wouldn't have survived.
I didn't know if I could make it through the ordeal of labour and delivery with the knowledge that there would be no bundle of joy at the end of it all. I longed to just go for caesarean - get knocked out and have everything done while I was unconscious. But that meant undergoing a major surgery and I was advised against it.
The night before the delivery, I asked for a sleeping pill. In those days, they didn't allow husbands in the delivery room so I was alone most of the time. I got the thickest novel I could find and fixed my mind on it to shut out all other thoughts. The delivery itself was not overly painful - perhaps I was too numb to feel much pain. My husband had told me to close my eyes and not look at the baby. Again, I was too numb to think independently. I remember the nurse telling me I had a beautiful girl and asking me if I wanted to see her. I shut my eyes tightly and shook my head.
I agreed to give up my baby's body for scientific research. When later, I changed my mind about not seeing her, there was nothing left. The doctor showed me a photograph and yes, the nurse was right - she was beautiful. But we have nothing physical to remember her by. She is buried nowhere but in my heart.
Family and friends were stunned by the turn of events. Not knowing how to react, they pretended that nothing had happened. There was no acknowledgement that the baby had existed at all, that we had lost a baby.
When my mother-in-law caught me crying, she told me not to cry or I would go blind. It was her way of trying to help me get over my loss. My husband, fraught with anxiety over my well-being, was a bundle of nerves. In those days, when nobody understood the psychology of the grieving process, my crying indicated to him that I was not doing well and it made his heartburn worse. In order to help him calm down, I tried not to cry in front of him. That way, they thought I was putting the loss behind me and was on the way to recovery.
My colleagues who knew about the tragedy thought they were respecting my privacy by not gossiping about it to others. Thus, many in the office didn't know any better. For more times than I could bear, the cleaning ladies, the telephone operator, and people form other departments would come beaming to me and ask me if I had a boy or a girl. I broke down many times. But many more times I learnt to say, "I lost the baby". The smiles would turn to shock as the enquirers slinked away in silence. I forcibly pushed down the cry welling up inside me and turned back to work.
I wished my close friends would have the sense to tell others not to ask me about the subject, but they didn't and I couldn't talk about it at all. For months, I sobbed uncontrollably almost every day on the drive home from work, hoping that people in the cars around me wouldn't notice.
Slowly, the months stretched into years. Other events in my life took centre stage. We didn't have other children and I couldn't decide whether or not to go all out to try for kids. My husband said it didn't matter to him whether or not we had kids. "If we have kids, fine. If not, we'll travel," he used to say. I didn't know if I really wanted to be a mother, or whether I wanted a baby to make up for my lost angel. On the outside, I acted normally. But deep inside, I never got over the tragedy ... not for a long time.
It wasn't until eight years later that I had to make a choice. I was about to go all out to try for a baby to avoid possible regret in later years. Then the opportunity arose for me to pursue a course of studies I had dreamt about for more than 10 years. But if the baby effort turned out successful, I wouldn't have time for the studies. Examining myself deeply, I realised that I preferred to pursue the course, that being a mother was not important to me. Then and only then did the last boulder of crippling a corner of my heart dislodge and I was whole again.
It doesn't mean that the sadness is completely gone. Indeed, writing this article made me cry buckets all over again. But it does mean that I am free today to enjoy other people's children - my nephews and nieces, my friends' kids. I am also able to emphatise with the unbearable pain of a mother's loss, even though I never quite got to be a full-fledged mother. I appreciate the need of those who have suffered the tragic death of a loved one to undergo a healthy grieving process, and the role that family, friends and third parties can play in this process.
While I would not have chosen such a painful experience, I thank my darling angel who, in coming so briefly into my life, made me a better, more compassionate and sensitive person. I regret that I never held my baby and kissed her and told her that I will always love her. But I know that she knows. And just as she has moved on, so have I.
Starmag
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
A Reflection of Life
I had started to write this article many weeks ago, but I put it aside after only writing two paragraphs. But today, a very close friend asked me the question "What does life mean to you now?" got me thinking again. What do I really see in life? Actually, life has already given me practically everything that I could ever ask from it.
Fate has been very kind to me for giving me a very good family to begin with. I have a wonderful set of parents who really love me and would always ensure that I get the very best in life. Greatest love in the world, wonderful upbringing (very good moral values to begin life with), a harmonious home, good education, very beautiful house to live in, and even some siblings to play with and fight with. There's a lot more that I can be thankful about with my parents, but too much to write here.
Moving on to my siblings. My sister, there's really nothing more that I could want from an elder sister. She loves me more than any person could love her sister. I can always count on her for help in practically everything under the sky, from fashion to all the way to studies. As for my brother, well, he's the usual kind of little brother that we all seem to already know, as naughty as a monkey. But, he's my little brother all the same. There are many times when he actually showed that he cared. It's just that a guy being a guy, he won't show much.
Next is my late grandfather. A great man he was. He was actually the very strong Elephant glue that keeps our extended family together because he was the eldest brother in his family. So during the festive seasons, the rest of the big family would come to our house, mainly just to visit him, and our home became the centre meeting point for everyone. He loves all of us dearly. When my siblings and I were young, he would always cook for us because my parents would be out working. So grandfather took care of all three of us practically all the time. He would make sure that we have everything that we want. He would make sure we have our pocket money when we go to school. Everything, he would take care of to ensure that we'll be alright. So when he passed away, I wrote him a poem. I've posted the poem in this blog also, search for the title "Memory".
The rest of my extended family is just too much to talk about. Some that deserve at least a mention here would be my youngest granduncle and his whole family, and the late fifth granduncle and his whole family too. The rest, I'm not as close to them as I would like. Except perhaps one of the son's family of the fourth granduncle and one daughter's family of the second granduncle. I think I better stop here as it is getting real messy.
Now, coming to the biggest group of people in my life. My friends. I think here I better only give mention to the very very closest of close friends. I'll start with my hometown friends. The most important that I still keep contact with would be my primary school friends. Ng, Stef, and Sofia. We have been friends since primary school. Everything that I forget about my childhood, they'll help to remind me, especially of the fond memories we had together in school, both primary and secondary. In secondary school, I guess I didn't mix as much with people of my secondary school as much. Yi Won, Ju Anne, Terri, Liak Shern, Ben...these are among some that comes into mind when I think of my secondary school, and these are people whom I still have contact with. For those that I may miss out, they wouldn't know anyway for this blog is not really followed by my hometown friends.
Moving on to my matriculation friends. Those that I grew very close to in matrics is Chen Giap, Mei Kian and Candy. I think I can stop my list here for the others I did not even contact already nowadays. Chen Giap is my practicum leader and I'm his helper. We're still in contact now, mainly because we got in to the same university. Oh ya, forgot to mention, Wei De and Wai Fun are also friends from matrics. These two was once my emotional support, because Wai Fun understand me more than I sometimes understand myself while Wei De understands how the universe works.
Then in my university years, three years into a four-year course now, I would call this the most challenging times of my life so far. I wonder how much worse it would be when I go to work after I graduate in a year's time. I acquired a few more precious friends such as Mian Yi, Ashley, the choir gang, and most recently, Casper (from a Buddhist camp).
I'm not sure why, but Mian Yi and I didn't really get to know each other in matrics, but only found our friendship during university years. I guess it started from the orientation choir practices. We both worked out a song for the choir team to sing for orientation choir competition together. And from then onwards we were rather close friends.
As for Ash, I think I should have known her during CC interaction week, but I can't remember anything from there. My memory of her only starts in choir practices. (Sorry, girl, for that lack of memory capacity of my brain). We shared many happy memories in and out of choir together. Roommates for almost one year. And we sometimes still sing together when we have the time to do so.
Lately, Casper, who has now become my adopted twin brother for the many similar traits we found in each other. He's also one of my current emotional support together with Ash.
I guess from here, anyone would have been able to see how blessed my life truly is. So where does all these brings me to? Back to the question posted by Ash. What does life mean to me now? Well, my dear friend and adopted sister, the answer is, I already feel very blessed and there is nothing more I could ever ask from life. There may be some unhappy times and upsetting times in my life, when things don't seem to go my way. But we will never know what life has to offer next. Perhaps the things may not go our now, but it could be that life is arranging something good for us after that. So for me, I would just have to learn to bear with the problems life gives us and at the same time remember to appreciate what life has already given me. Things may change, people may change. But then again, better things and people may come. Life goes on no matter what. Just bear with it, come what may and enjoy while we still can.
Quote from an article I've once read:
Yesterday is history,
Tomorrow is mystery,
Today is a gift,
That is why it is called the present!
I have reached the twenty-second year of my life. And yet, I have not really stopped and think back of what I have been through my life before until recently. My twenty-two years old journey through life has been a very colourful one. There were many downs, but there were definitely way more ups compared to the downs.
Moving on to my siblings. My sister, there's really nothing more that I could want from an elder sister. She loves me more than any person could love her sister. I can always count on her for help in practically everything under the sky, from fashion to all the way to studies. As for my brother, well, he's the usual kind of little brother that we all seem to already know, as naughty as a monkey. But, he's my little brother all the same. There are many times when he actually showed that he cared. It's just that a guy being a guy, he won't show much.
Next is my late grandfather. A great man he was. He was actually the very strong Elephant glue that keeps our extended family together because he was the eldest brother in his family. So during the festive seasons, the rest of the big family would come to our house, mainly just to visit him, and our home became the centre meeting point for everyone. He loves all of us dearly. When my siblings and I were young, he would always cook for us because my parents would be out working. So grandfather took care of all three of us practically all the time. He would make sure that we have everything that we want. He would make sure we have our pocket money when we go to school. Everything, he would take care of to ensure that we'll be alright. So when he passed away, I wrote him a poem. I've posted the poem in this blog also, search for the title "Memory".
The rest of my extended family is just too much to talk about. Some that deserve at least a mention here would be my youngest granduncle and his whole family, and the late fifth granduncle and his whole family too. The rest, I'm not as close to them as I would like. Except perhaps one of the son's family of the fourth granduncle and one daughter's family of the second granduncle. I think I better stop here as it is getting real messy.
Now, coming to the biggest group of people in my life. My friends. I think here I better only give mention to the very very closest of close friends. I'll start with my hometown friends. The most important that I still keep contact with would be my primary school friends. Ng, Stef, and Sofia. We have been friends since primary school. Everything that I forget about my childhood, they'll help to remind me, especially of the fond memories we had together in school, both primary and secondary. In secondary school, I guess I didn't mix as much with people of my secondary school as much. Yi Won, Ju Anne, Terri, Liak Shern, Ben...these are among some that comes into mind when I think of my secondary school, and these are people whom I still have contact with. For those that I may miss out, they wouldn't know anyway for this blog is not really followed by my hometown friends.
Moving on to my matriculation friends. Those that I grew very close to in matrics is Chen Giap, Mei Kian and Candy. I think I can stop my list here for the others I did not even contact already nowadays. Chen Giap is my practicum leader and I'm his helper. We're still in contact now, mainly because we got in to the same university. Oh ya, forgot to mention, Wei De and Wai Fun are also friends from matrics. These two was once my emotional support, because Wai Fun understand me more than I sometimes understand myself while Wei De understands how the universe works.
Then in my university years, three years into a four-year course now, I would call this the most challenging times of my life so far. I wonder how much worse it would be when I go to work after I graduate in a year's time. I acquired a few more precious friends such as Mian Yi, Ashley, the choir gang, and most recently, Casper (from a Buddhist camp).
I'm not sure why, but Mian Yi and I didn't really get to know each other in matrics, but only found our friendship during university years. I guess it started from the orientation choir practices. We both worked out a song for the choir team to sing for orientation choir competition together. And from then onwards we were rather close friends.
As for Ash, I think I should have known her during CC interaction week, but I can't remember anything from there. My memory of her only starts in choir practices. (Sorry, girl, for that lack of memory capacity of my brain). We shared many happy memories in and out of choir together. Roommates for almost one year. And we sometimes still sing together when we have the time to do so.
Lately, Casper, who has now become my adopted twin brother for the many similar traits we found in each other. He's also one of my current emotional support together with Ash.
I guess from here, anyone would have been able to see how blessed my life truly is. So where does all these brings me to? Back to the question posted by Ash. What does life mean to me now? Well, my dear friend and adopted sister, the answer is, I already feel very blessed and there is nothing more I could ever ask from life. There may be some unhappy times and upsetting times in my life, when things don't seem to go my way. But we will never know what life has to offer next. Perhaps the things may not go our now, but it could be that life is arranging something good for us after that. So for me, I would just have to learn to bear with the problems life gives us and at the same time remember to appreciate what life has already given me. Things may change, people may change. But then again, better things and people may come. Life goes on no matter what. Just bear with it, come what may and enjoy while we still can.
Quote from an article I've once read:
Yesterday is history,
Tomorrow is mystery,
Today is a gift,
That is why it is called the present!
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Meet the real Patch Adams
Dr Patch Adams has clowned around in 70 countries, visiting orphanages and nursing homes to bring cheer to the less fortunate.
CAN you imagine a world where no one knows what war is and have to look up a dictionary for its meaning?
Impossible though it may sound, it is the goal of one Dr Patch Adams who lost his father to the Korean War when he was 16.
So don’t be surprised if you are at one of his inspiring talks and end up hugging total strangers tightly or telling them that you love them. That’s exactly what happened at the Securities Commission in Kuala Lumpur on Friday, for no less than one-and-a-half hours!
Picture of fun: The real Dr Adams doesn’t wear a stuffy doctor’s coat but dresses in psychedelic outfits.The exercises (as Dr Adams calls them) comprise the first part of his talk titled: ‘What’s Your Love Strategy?’ at The Gathering Of Great Minds — Series 3, a series of talks organised by Live and Inspiremagazine.
Many of us would have known of Patch Adams from the hit movie starring Robin Williams. But there is more to Dr Adams than the Hollywood movie portrayed.
For starters, the real Dr Adams doesn’t wear a stuffy doctor’s coat. Instead, the 65-year-old physician dresses in psychedelic outfits, dons sneakers and sports an unusual fork earring. In his pockets are all kinds of props and gadgets, ranging from red noses to dental braces and even fake drool.
Behind the seeming eccentrics however lies a wealth of compassion and wisdom that comes from Dr Adams’ personal experience and thirst for knowledge. The funny doctor has 35,000 books in his library!
The six-foot Dr Adams, who easily commands attention, has been a clown every day since coming out from a psychiatric hospital at the age of 18. (See separate story.)
“Ninety-nine per cent of people will hug you when you are a clown. That won’t happen if you’re in a grey suit looking like an old fart,” Dr Adams says, amid laughter from a 300-strong audience.
Dr Adams is committed to what he does – being on the go 300 days a year. His two sons – Zag and Lars – join him on his trips around the world to cheer up the sick and less fortunate.
To date, Dr Adams has clowned around in 70 countries, visiting over 2,000 orphanages and 1,000 nursing homes. He even put on his clown’s act for five Trinidadian “death row” prisoners a day before they were executed.
Filled with love: Dr Adams getting the participants to hug each other during the talk.Dr Adams claims to have stopped many fights with his antics – be it on the streets or bars. And he has held no fewer than 2,000 starving children in his arms.
For a man whose life revolves around cheering up others, Dr Adams is disappointed at how impersonal people have become these days.
Relating his long journey from America to Malaysia that involved three flights, he laments: “No one had eye contact with anyone else. It seemed like second nature.”
It is this kind of indifference that Dr Adams is striving to change. Throughout his interactive session, the larger-than-life Dr Adams reaches out to the audience by sharing funny anecdotes, singing Country and Western songs and reciting several Pablo Neruda poems.
But it is more than just comic relief that he imparts – he drives home a message on the importance of love (and not necessarily the romantic kind).
“I have called up CNN many times as Patch Adams the famous guy to offer a love strategy: about a loving response (to war). Every single time I called up, whoever talked to me said no one would be interested,” he says.
“But I know many thousands of people and no one wants the war.”
He asks the audience if anyone thinks there are more important things in their lives than “loving”. Not a single hand shoots up.
“It’s unanimous. Loving to this audience is the most important thing in life. I’ve lectured about 30 million people and about 10 people have raised their hands. That is mathematically insignificant,” he declares.
But he quickly points out that no one has a philosophy on loving and how to carry it out.
“In my 45 years of asking people, no one has ever jumped right into discussion on how to love themselves, their God, their children, humanity, trees. Maybe CNN was right,” he says.
He points that the average American has 13 years of compulsory education of which five hours a week is devoted to science, history, mathematics and languages.
“But nothing is taught about the most important thing in life. Certainly no one would say mathematics is the most important thing in life.”
Dr Adams is amazed that most of America is depressed and miserable.
“If you have food and friends, it’s already a luxury.”
He also believes that depression is just a pharmaceutical company’s diagnosis.
“Depression is a symptom of loneliness. It is not a disease. Loneliness is the disease,” he says.
Dr Adams is dismayed that nature is being desecrated, that children are exploited as sex slaves and millions are starving to death.
He believes that humans are beautiful by nature but a lot of that beauty has been damaged because of money and power.
“There is no love strategy there, yet loving seems to be the most important thing. That’s why I do the things I do,” he shares, adding that he has been beaten up about 100 times and imprisoned a few times before (on a short-term basis).
For Dr Adams, friends remain the most important thing in his life.
“For me, a friend is my God. I love friends. When I answer my mail, I’m looking for friends.”
Dr Adams, who has yet to switch to the computer and still relies on snail mail, says he is in constant correspondence with 1,600 people and answers every single letter he receives.
He points out that humans have always been communal animals, adding that the nuclear family is an unnatural way of living.
He also assumes that strangers are friends he has not met yet, while friends are a possession.
“I’m addicted to people. If you sit next to me on an airplane, you are in trouble. If you’re in an elevator and that door shuts, I’m sorry,” he quips.
Ultimately, Dr Adams has two simple strategies for happiness – gratitude and love.
“At 18, I dove into the ocean of gratitude and I never found the shore. It has given me a very loving life.”
And the funny man has this wise maxim to share: “Be thankful for your arms and legs; for food and friends. Be thankful that you are alive.”
To find out more about Patch Adams, log on to patchadams.org
By RASHVINJEET S.BEDI
sunday@thestar.com.my
http://thestaronline.com/news/story.asp?file=/2010/11/28/nation/7516986&sec=nation
Facts about Dr Patch Adams
>Dr Adams was born Hunter Doherty Adams in 1945, the second son of a school teacher mum and a US army major dad.
> When Dr Adams’ father died in the Korean war, the family returned home to Virginia and he was thrown into the social chaos centering on racism and war that marked the beginning of the 60s.
A sensitive teenager, he became disillusioned with a world where injustice and power seemed to have more value than love and compassion. Dr Adams didn’t want to live in that world, and after three attempted suicides, he was hospitalised in a locked ward of a mental asylum.
> In the mental hospital, Dr Adams made two decisions: to serve humanity through medicine, and to never have another bad day!
> After graduating from medical school, Dr Adams began the Gesundheit Institute with a group of 20 friends, including three doctors who moved into a six-bedroom home in West Virginia and opened it as a free hospital.
The hospital was open 24 hours a day, seven days a week for all manner of medical problems, from birth to death. It treated 500 to 1,000 patients each month, with five to 50 overnight guests a night. Over its 12-year history, 15,000 patients were treated. Dances, home-made plays, humour, gardening – these were the social glue that held the medical project together.
> While the young medical team in West Virginia saw that it needed to make US healthcare a more humane and fun interaction, it also saw the huge need overseas for the same.
Dr Adams and his friends, all young idealistic doctors, headed where the need was greatest: to be involved in changing the situations of poverty, illness and suffering faced by millions across the globe. This subsequently led to the involvement of many young Americans in programmes to bring aid across the globe.
Source: patchadams.org
Thursday, June 24, 2010
A Friend for All Seasons
In kindergarten, your idea of a good friend was the person who let you have her red crayon when all that was left was the ugly black one.
In the first year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who went to the bathroom with you and held your hand as you walked through the scary halls.
In the second year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who helped you stand up to the class bully.
In the third year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who shared her lunch with you because you'd left yours on the bus.
In the fourth year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who was willing to switch partners in the science lab so you wouldn't have to be stuck with Nasty Nick or Smelly Susan.
In the fifth year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who saved a seat at the back of the bus for you.
In the sixth year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who went up to your new crush and asked him to dance with you, so that if he said no, you wouldn't be embarrassed.
In the seventh year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who let you copy the Moral Studies homework the night before that you had to hand it in.
In the eighth year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who helped you pack up your stuffed animals and old toys, but didn't laugh at you when you finished and broke into tears.
In the ninth year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who would accompany you to a party thrown by a senior so you wouldn't be the only junior there.
In the 10th year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who changed her schedule so you would have someone to sit with at lunch.
In the 11th year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who gave you rides in her new car, convinced your parents that you shouldn't be grounded, consoled you when you broke up with your beau, and found you a date to the prom.
In the 12th year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who helped you pick out a college/university, assured you that you would get a place there; and helped you deal with your parents, who were having a hard time letting you go.
At graduation, your idea of a good friend was the person who was crying on the inside but managed the biggest smile one could give as she congratulated you.
At the end-of-year party after the 12th year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who helped you clean up the house; assured you that now that you and your beau were back together, you could make it through anything; helped you pack up for university and silently hugged you as you looked through blurry eyes at the 18 years of memories you were leaving behind; then sent you off to college knowing you were loved.
Now, your idea of a good friend is still the person who gives you the better of two choices; hold your hand when you're scared; helps you fight off those who try to take advantage of you; thinks of you at times when you're not there; reminds you of what you have forgotten; helps you put the past behind you but understands when you need to hold on to it a little longer; stays with you so that you will have confidence; goes out of her way to make time for you; helps you clear up your mistakes; smiles for you even when she is sad; helps you become a better person; and, most importantly, loves you!
Sent to Starmag by Charmed
In the first year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who went to the bathroom with you and held your hand as you walked through the scary halls.
In the second year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who helped you stand up to the class bully.
In the third year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who shared her lunch with you because you'd left yours on the bus.
In the fourth year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who was willing to switch partners in the science lab so you wouldn't have to be stuck with Nasty Nick or Smelly Susan.
In the fifth year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who saved a seat at the back of the bus for you.
In the sixth year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who went up to your new crush and asked him to dance with you, so that if he said no, you wouldn't be embarrassed.
In the seventh year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who let you copy the Moral Studies homework the night before that you had to hand it in.
In the eighth year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who helped you pack up your stuffed animals and old toys, but didn't laugh at you when you finished and broke into tears.
In the ninth year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who would accompany you to a party thrown by a senior so you wouldn't be the only junior there.
In the 10th year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who changed her schedule so you would have someone to sit with at lunch.
In the 11th year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who gave you rides in her new car, convinced your parents that you shouldn't be grounded, consoled you when you broke up with your beau, and found you a date to the prom.
In the 12th year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who helped you pick out a college/university, assured you that you would get a place there; and helped you deal with your parents, who were having a hard time letting you go.
At graduation, your idea of a good friend was the person who was crying on the inside but managed the biggest smile one could give as she congratulated you.
At the end-of-year party after the 12th year of school, your idea of a good friend was the person who helped you clean up the house; assured you that now that you and your beau were back together, you could make it through anything; helped you pack up for university and silently hugged you as you looked through blurry eyes at the 18 years of memories you were leaving behind; then sent you off to college knowing you were loved.
Now, your idea of a good friend is still the person who gives you the better of two choices; hold your hand when you're scared; helps you fight off those who try to take advantage of you; thinks of you at times when you're not there; reminds you of what you have forgotten; helps you put the past behind you but understands when you need to hold on to it a little longer; stays with you so that you will have confidence; goes out of her way to make time for you; helps you clear up your mistakes; smiles for you even when she is sad; helps you become a better person; and, most importantly, loves you!
Sent to Starmag by Charmed
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Wiping the Slate Clean
Lisa sat on the floor, staring at the old shoe box in front of her. She had decorated it many years ago, for use as her memory box.
One by one, she took her things out: photographs of her family at the Grand Canyon; a note from her friend telling her that Nick liked her; some sweet cards. She lingered over the last before reaching for the last item in the box. It was a single sheet of paper with lines drawn to form boxes - 490, to be exact, and each box had one check mark.
As she stared at the paper, her mind wandered ...
"How many times must I forgive my brother?" the disciple Peter had asked Jesus. "Seven times?"
The Sunday school teacher then read out Jesus' answer to the class: "Seventy times seven."
Lisa leaned over to her brother and whispered, "How many times is that?"
Brent, two years younger but smarter, replied, "490".
She nodded and sat back in her chair.
Brent looked small for his age. He had narrow shoulders and came close to being a nerd. But his incredible talent in music made him popular among his friends. His music teacher had predicted that he would be a musician some day.
That night, Lisa drew up the chart with 490 boxes. She wanted to tally the number of times Brent forgave her. She showed him the chart before going to bed.
He protested. "You don't need to keep count ..." he protested.
"Yes, I do!" Lisa interrupted. "You're always forgiving me, and I just want to keep track."
Slowly, the ticks filled the boxes. No. 418 was for losing Brent's keys; 449, for the dent in his car, which she'd borrowed; 467, for the time she put extra bleach in the washing and spoilt his favourite shirt.
They had a small ceremony when Lisa ticked No. 190. She let Brent sign the chart before putting it away in her memory box.
"I guess that's the end ... no more screw-ups from me!" she exclaimed.
Brent just laughed. "Yeah, right."
Soon enough, it happened. No. 491 was another careless mistake ...
When Brent was in 4th grade at music school, he was offered an opportunity to audition for a place with an orchestra in New York. He was out when the call came. Lisa was the only one home; the audition was scheduled for May 26, the secretary reminded.
Lisa didn't think to jot that down, but assured her that Brent would get the message. Straight after hanging up, she sat down for her own music practice, and totally forgot about the call.
Some weeks later, as the family was having dinner, Brent suddenly said: "The people from NY orchestra were supposed to inform me ..."
"What's the date today?" Lisa shouted.
"June 8."
"Oh no!"
She'd blown her brother's big chance. Guilt engulfed her as she related how she'd picked up the phone and what happened after that. Brent ran straight into his bedroom and didn't come out again, not even to watch his favourite TV show.
That night, Lisa wrote a note - "Mum and Dad, I've made a terrible mistake and Brent won't forgive me. Don't worry, I'll be fine." - and left home.
She found a job in another town and settled into a small apartment. Her parents wrote countless letters to her, but she refused to read or answer any of them.
One day, while at work, Lisa met a family friend, Aunt Winnie, who blurted out: "I'm so sorry about your brother ..."
"Brent? What happened to him?"
Aunt Winnie explained that he had had an accident on the highway and died on the spot.
That night, Lisa returned home. After crying on Brent's bed, she crept into her own room and opened the memory box. There, on top of her forgiveness chart, was another, which had letters written big and bold: "491: Forgiven forever. Love, your brother Brent."
One by one, she took her things out: photographs of her family at the Grand Canyon; a note from her friend telling her that Nick liked her; some sweet cards. She lingered over the last before reaching for the last item in the box. It was a single sheet of paper with lines drawn to form boxes - 490, to be exact, and each box had one check mark.
As she stared at the paper, her mind wandered ...
"How many times must I forgive my brother?" the disciple Peter had asked Jesus. "Seven times?"
The Sunday school teacher then read out Jesus' answer to the class: "Seventy times seven."
Lisa leaned over to her brother and whispered, "How many times is that?"
Brent, two years younger but smarter, replied, "490".
She nodded and sat back in her chair.
Brent looked small for his age. He had narrow shoulders and came close to being a nerd. But his incredible talent in music made him popular among his friends. His music teacher had predicted that he would be a musician some day.
That night, Lisa drew up the chart with 490 boxes. She wanted to tally the number of times Brent forgave her. She showed him the chart before going to bed.
He protested. "You don't need to keep count ..." he protested.
"Yes, I do!" Lisa interrupted. "You're always forgiving me, and I just want to keep track."
Slowly, the ticks filled the boxes. No. 418 was for losing Brent's keys; 449, for the dent in his car, which she'd borrowed; 467, for the time she put extra bleach in the washing and spoilt his favourite shirt.
They had a small ceremony when Lisa ticked No. 190. She let Brent sign the chart before putting it away in her memory box.
"I guess that's the end ... no more screw-ups from me!" she exclaimed.
Brent just laughed. "Yeah, right."
Soon enough, it happened. No. 491 was another careless mistake ...
When Brent was in 4th grade at music school, he was offered an opportunity to audition for a place with an orchestra in New York. He was out when the call came. Lisa was the only one home; the audition was scheduled for May 26, the secretary reminded.
Lisa didn't think to jot that down, but assured her that Brent would get the message. Straight after hanging up, she sat down for her own music practice, and totally forgot about the call.
Some weeks later, as the family was having dinner, Brent suddenly said: "The people from NY orchestra were supposed to inform me ..."
"What's the date today?" Lisa shouted.
"June 8."
"Oh no!"
She'd blown her brother's big chance. Guilt engulfed her as she related how she'd picked up the phone and what happened after that. Brent ran straight into his bedroom and didn't come out again, not even to watch his favourite TV show.
That night, Lisa wrote a note - "Mum and Dad, I've made a terrible mistake and Brent won't forgive me. Don't worry, I'll be fine." - and left home.
She found a job in another town and settled into a small apartment. Her parents wrote countless letters to her, but she refused to read or answer any of them.
One day, while at work, Lisa met a family friend, Aunt Winnie, who blurted out: "I'm so sorry about your brother ..."
"Brent? What happened to him?"
Aunt Winnie explained that he had had an accident on the highway and died on the spot.
That night, Lisa returned home. After crying on Brent's bed, she crept into her own room and opened the memory box. There, on top of her forgiveness chart, was another, which had letters written big and bold: "491: Forgiven forever. Love, your brother Brent."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)