- Money cannot buy happiness but it’s more comfortable to cry in a Mercedes than on a bicycle.
- Forgive your enemy but remember the bastards name.
- Help someone when they are in trouble and they will remember you...when they're in trouble again.
- Many people are alive only because it’s illegal to shoot them.
- Alcohol does not solve any problems, but then again neither does milk~!
Friday, August 26, 2011
Rules to Remember in Life
Monday, August 22, 2011
Guardian Grandma
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
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
Once Upon A Time...
Raya in 2104? AHNAF, 16, imagines a teenager's musings on that important day...
Dear diary, yet another hectic day, I had three exams: civics, economics, and history. Bungled economics, that's for sure. Well, at least I'm exempted from my normal eight0hour tuition schedule!
Unfortunately, the exams by themselves aren't enough. We received a history assignment today - something about a ... what was it? "Hari Raya". Puan Leong said that today was actually Hari Raya and provided us with some source material.
According to the books, Hari Raya was an important festival, much like Deepavali and Chinese New Year. What on earth those terms mean I have no idea; I assume they're other festive occasions. These celebrations must have been held a long time ago, before another hole ruptured the ozone layer and the soil was irradiated by pre-emptive nuclear strikes, forcing our people to evacuate. See, I told you I'd been studying my history!
On Hari Raya, people would pray together in the morning, and then families would gather to eat until they were sick. They'd often invite friends, too. After that, everyone would be relaxing while the children played together.
Preposterous! Frankly, I was perplexed; didn't the adults have jobs? Weren't the children busy studying? I asked Puan Leong about this and she replied no, because it was a holiday. I asked her what a holiday meant; it was difficult for me to understand, but essentially it's a time when people don't have to do their work. Can you believe it?!
I told her not to speak of such things. Only troublemakers and lunatics say that work doesn't need to be done. Why would anyone neglect the opportunity to earn more money? Our Beloved Leader has declared that we must earn as much as possible and we must always obey Our Beloved Leader.
We were shown photographs and I was struck by the vivid colours and beauty of the clothes. I cross-referenced some terms, like Baju Melayu. Apparently it was a traditional outfit. The skills to craft it died out years ago because no one foresaw significant profts.
Most interestingly, the source material also highlighted a few remnants from Hari Raya. Now, at least, some of the things that I noticed today make more sense. The morning prayer congregation, for example, and the ketupat-flavoured food pellets issued.
I know some people maintain that the whole "Raya" business is an anachronism, but I can't help but feel that it's good to preserve some traditions. Then I'll be certain that if someone from, say, a century ago were to appear now, they'd be proud of what we've become.
Ahnaf, a self-confessed bookacholic and geek, won second prize at this year's (2004) MPH Young Writers Competition
Dear diary, yet another hectic day, I had three exams: civics, economics, and history. Bungled economics, that's for sure. Well, at least I'm exempted from my normal eight0hour tuition schedule!
Unfortunately, the exams by themselves aren't enough. We received a history assignment today - something about a ... what was it? "Hari Raya". Puan Leong said that today was actually Hari Raya and provided us with some source material.
According to the books, Hari Raya was an important festival, much like Deepavali and Chinese New Year. What on earth those terms mean I have no idea; I assume they're other festive occasions. These celebrations must have been held a long time ago, before another hole ruptured the ozone layer and the soil was irradiated by pre-emptive nuclear strikes, forcing our people to evacuate. See, I told you I'd been studying my history!
On Hari Raya, people would pray together in the morning, and then families would gather to eat until they were sick. They'd often invite friends, too. After that, everyone would be relaxing while the children played together.
Preposterous! Frankly, I was perplexed; didn't the adults have jobs? Weren't the children busy studying? I asked Puan Leong about this and she replied no, because it was a holiday. I asked her what a holiday meant; it was difficult for me to understand, but essentially it's a time when people don't have to do their work. Can you believe it?!
I told her not to speak of such things. Only troublemakers and lunatics say that work doesn't need to be done. Why would anyone neglect the opportunity to earn more money? Our Beloved Leader has declared that we must earn as much as possible and we must always obey Our Beloved Leader.
We were shown photographs and I was struck by the vivid colours and beauty of the clothes. I cross-referenced some terms, like Baju Melayu. Apparently it was a traditional outfit. The skills to craft it died out years ago because no one foresaw significant profts.
Most interestingly, the source material also highlighted a few remnants from Hari Raya. Now, at least, some of the things that I noticed today make more sense. The morning prayer congregation, for example, and the ketupat-flavoured food pellets issued.
I know some people maintain that the whole "Raya" business is an anachronism, but I can't help but feel that it's good to preserve some traditions. Then I'll be certain that if someone from, say, a century ago were to appear now, they'd be proud of what we've become.
Ahnaf, a self-confessed bookacholic and geek, won second prize at this year's (2004) MPH Young Writers Competition
Friday, August 19, 2011
The Demise of Common Sense
Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend by the name of Common Sense.
No one knows for sure how old he was since his birth records were lost long ago amidst bureaucratic red tape.
But he will be remembered as having cultivated such valued lessons as knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm, and that life isn't always fair.
Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you earn) and reliable parenting strategies (adults, not kids, are in charge). His health began to rapidly deteriorate when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place.
Reports of a six-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate, teens suspended from school for a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student only worsened his condition!
It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer aspirin to a student but could not inform the parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.
Finally, Common Sense lost the will to live as the Ten Commandments became contraband, churches became businesses, and criminals received better treatment than their victims.
Common Sense finally gave up the ghost after a woman failed to realise that a steaming cup of coffee was hot, spilled it in her lap and was awarded a huge settlement.
Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and and Trust; his wife, Discretion; his daughter, Responsibility; and his son, Reason. He is survived by two step-brothers, My Rights and I'm Whiner. Not many attended his funeral because few realised he was gone.
Sent to Starmag by Jackie Low
No one knows for sure how old he was since his birth records were lost long ago amidst bureaucratic red tape.
But he will be remembered as having cultivated such valued lessons as knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm, and that life isn't always fair.
Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you earn) and reliable parenting strategies (adults, not kids, are in charge). His health began to rapidly deteriorate when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place.
Reports of a six-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate, teens suspended from school for a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student only worsened his condition!
It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer aspirin to a student but could not inform the parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.
Finally, Common Sense lost the will to live as the Ten Commandments became contraband, churches became businesses, and criminals received better treatment than their victims.
Common Sense finally gave up the ghost after a woman failed to realise that a steaming cup of coffee was hot, spilled it in her lap and was awarded a huge settlement.
Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and and Trust; his wife, Discretion; his daughter, Responsibility; and his son, Reason. He is survived by two step-brothers, My Rights and I'm Whiner. Not many attended his funeral because few realised he was gone.
Sent to Starmag by Jackie Low
Right Place, Right Time
Soon after Sept 11, one company invited the remaining members of other firms which had been decimated by the attack on the Twin Towers in New York to share its office space.
At a morning meeting, the head of security told stories of why some of those present were alive. All the stories were about the "little" things.
Well, the head of the company survived that day because his son had started kindergarten. Another fellow was alive because it was his turn to bring doughnuts to work.
One woman was late because her alarm click didn't go off. Another had been stuck at a turnpike because of an accident.
One of them missed his bus. One spilled food on her clothes and had to take time to change. One's car couldn't start. One went back to answer the telephone. One had a child who dawdled and didn't get ready as fast as he should have. One couldn't get a taxi.
The most striking story was that of the man who had put on a new pair of shoes that morning before setting off for his office. But before he got there, he developed a blister on his foot and stopped at a drugstore to buy a Band-Aid. And he lived to tell about it.
Nowadays, whenever I am stuck in traffic, or miss the bus, or have to turn back to answer a ringing telephone - you know, all the little things that used to annoy me - I tell myself this is exactly where God wants me to be at that very moment.
When your morning seems to be going wrong, when the children are slow getting dressed, when you can't seem to find the car keys, or when every traffic light along your route is red, don't get mad or frustrated. Remember - someone is watching over you.
Sent in to Starmag by K.K. Tan
At a morning meeting, the head of security told stories of why some of those present were alive. All the stories were about the "little" things.
Well, the head of the company survived that day because his son had started kindergarten. Another fellow was alive because it was his turn to bring doughnuts to work.
One woman was late because her alarm click didn't go off. Another had been stuck at a turnpike because of an accident.
One of them missed his bus. One spilled food on her clothes and had to take time to change. One's car couldn't start. One went back to answer the telephone. One had a child who dawdled and didn't get ready as fast as he should have. One couldn't get a taxi.
The most striking story was that of the man who had put on a new pair of shoes that morning before setting off for his office. But before he got there, he developed a blister on his foot and stopped at a drugstore to buy a Band-Aid. And he lived to tell about it.
Nowadays, whenever I am stuck in traffic, or miss the bus, or have to turn back to answer a ringing telephone - you know, all the little things that used to annoy me - I tell myself this is exactly where God wants me to be at that very moment.
When your morning seems to be going wrong, when the children are slow getting dressed, when you can't seem to find the car keys, or when every traffic light along your route is red, don't get mad or frustrated. Remember - someone is watching over you.
Sent in to Starmag by K.K. Tan
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
Monday, August 15, 2011
The Pebbles
Many years ago, in a small Indian village, a farmer had the misfortune of owing a large sum of money to an old and mean moneylender, who fancied his beautiful daughter.
So, when the farmer could not repay his debt, the moneylender proposed a deal: he would write off what the poor man owed him if he could marry his daughter.
Both the farmer and his daughter were horrified by the proposal and said "No". But the cunning moneylender suggested that they let providence settle the issue.
He told them he would put a black pebble and a white pebble into an empty money bag. If the girl picked the black pebble, she had to become his wife and her father's debt would be written off.
If she picked the white pebble, she need not marry him, and her father's debt would still be cleared. But if she refused to pick a pebble, her father would be thrown into jail.
When the next day dawned, all the villagers gathered on a pebble-strewn path in the farmer's field to see what would happen. As they waited, the moneylender bent to pick up two pebbles.
The farmer's sharp-eyed daughter noticed that he had selected two black pebbles and put them into the bag. He then held the bag out to her.
Now, imagine you were the girl standing in the field, with all eyes on you. What would you do?
Refuse to pick a pebble? Empty out the bag and expose the moneylender as a cheat? Dip your hand into the bag and save your father from debt and imprisonment?
Well, this is what she did ...
The girl put her hand into the moneybag and drew out a pebble. Without even looking at it, she fumbled and let it fall onto the pebble-strewn path, where it immediately became lost among all the other pebbles.
"Oh, how clumsy of me!" she exclaimed. "But, never mind. If you look into the bag for the remaining pebble, you will be able to tell which one I had picked."
As the moneylender dared not reveal his dirty trick, he had to declare that the girl had picked the white pebble. Thus her father's debt was cleared and she saved herself from being bound to the dishonest moneylender.
Sent to Starmag by Pola Singh
So, when the farmer could not repay his debt, the moneylender proposed a deal: he would write off what the poor man owed him if he could marry his daughter.
Both the farmer and his daughter were horrified by the proposal and said "No". But the cunning moneylender suggested that they let providence settle the issue.
He told them he would put a black pebble and a white pebble into an empty money bag. If the girl picked the black pebble, she had to become his wife and her father's debt would be written off.
If she picked the white pebble, she need not marry him, and her father's debt would still be cleared. But if she refused to pick a pebble, her father would be thrown into jail.
When the next day dawned, all the villagers gathered on a pebble-strewn path in the farmer's field to see what would happen. As they waited, the moneylender bent to pick up two pebbles.
The farmer's sharp-eyed daughter noticed that he had selected two black pebbles and put them into the bag. He then held the bag out to her.
Now, imagine you were the girl standing in the field, with all eyes on you. What would you do?
Refuse to pick a pebble? Empty out the bag and expose the moneylender as a cheat? Dip your hand into the bag and save your father from debt and imprisonment?
Well, this is what she did ...
The girl put her hand into the moneybag and drew out a pebble. Without even looking at it, she fumbled and let it fall onto the pebble-strewn path, where it immediately became lost among all the other pebbles.
"Oh, how clumsy of me!" she exclaimed. "But, never mind. If you look into the bag for the remaining pebble, you will be able to tell which one I had picked."
As the moneylender dared not reveal his dirty trick, he had to declare that the girl had picked the white pebble. Thus her father's debt was cleared and she saved herself from being bound to the dishonest moneylender.
Sent to Starmag by Pola Singh
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
What Goes Around
By M. Nantha
"Are we there yet?" It was the mother of all annoying questions. If this was what was meant by retribution, Marge regretted ever having kids.
She silently counted to 10 and willed herself not to lose her cool with five-year-old Penny, who was seated in the back of the minivan and had obviously become restless. They were on their way to an old folks' home, a cosy, quiet little rest house about an hour's drive out of town.
The last thing Marge had wanted to do was pack her mother off to some home, but things had gone from bad to worse. For the last three years, she had struggled against all odds to keep her mother with her family in their double-storey suburban bungalow. But with Alzheimer's disease, it wasn't easy.
Harriet was 76. She wet her bed every time her diaper overflowed. She would call out for someone to attend to her whenever that happened, never mind that it was 4am. Then, unable to go back to sleep, she'd stay awake and expect someone to keep her company.
No one was in the mood for a little tete-a-tete at that ungodly hour. What was most exasperating was that Harriet would nod off just as it was time to start the day, and Marge would drag herself to work, like a zombie.
She had had to take time off from the office to attend to Harriet, like taking her for regular hospital check-ups, giving her medication, and making sure she ate the right foods.
Marge had seen no less than four maids come and go over the last couple of years; all of them left because caring for a grumpy, demanding, bed-ridden old woman was not in their job description.
She had put her own family life on hold because of this. Jason wanted to plan for a second child, but she kept putting it off. How could she manage a newborn in the house when her own mother was the way she was?
It had come to a point where Marge knew she had to either exercise her last option, or risk losing her sanity. The guilt trip was tremendous. What was it about history repeating itself?
Yet, for her own sake, she had had to make the heartbreaking decision, which she tried to convince herself was for the best, as Harriet would get the attention and care at the home which she couldn't give.
"It is for the best, sweetheart," Jason reassured her the night before Harriet's departure, as if reading her minds. She kept repeating that to herself in the car during the journey.
Thirty years on, Penny still had not forgiven her mother for what she had done to nana. Harriet had been there from day one for Penny and the two of them had formed a bond tighter than a Boy Scout's reef knot.
Harriet had meant the world to Penny; even as an adult, Penny could remember crying her eyes out as a little girl when she realised what had happened to nana. When Marge told her nana wasn't going to live with them anymore, she had not spoken to her mother for days. Such was the bitterness she felt.
While other kids talked about how great their grandma's pot pies tasted, or how granny had knitted a cool new sweater for them, Penny could only listen and miss her own nana even more.
She vowed never to deprived her own children of a loving grandma, the way she felt she had been cheated of one.
"These are people, for goodness sake," she told herself. "You don't just chuck people out like old furniture."
Her twins, Katy and Shawna, arrived just after Penny had received a huge promotion. Marge was, of course, on hand to care for the bundles of joy. The girls were left in Marge's care as both Penny and her husband continued with their ultra-busy jobs.
Penny could not thank her mother enough for the support she rendered. Shortly after that, however, Marge was diagnosed with cancer, and was forced to move in with them.
The chemo soon took its toll on everyone. Marge needed daily injections and she only trusted Penny to administer them for her. She refused a nursemaid, even though her daughter offered to get her one. Penny was on the brink of a nervous breakdown.
Two years later, she found herself behind the wheel of her car, on an hour-long journey heading out of town. Her girls were horsing around in the back; fidgety because the scenery had not changed for the past 20 minutes.
She let out a sigh and counted to 10 when, for the fifth time in half-and-hour, they asked: "Are we there yet?"
From Starmag
"Are we there yet?" It was the mother of all annoying questions. If this was what was meant by retribution, Marge regretted ever having kids.
She silently counted to 10 and willed herself not to lose her cool with five-year-old Penny, who was seated in the back of the minivan and had obviously become restless. They were on their way to an old folks' home, a cosy, quiet little rest house about an hour's drive out of town.
The last thing Marge had wanted to do was pack her mother off to some home, but things had gone from bad to worse. For the last three years, she had struggled against all odds to keep her mother with her family in their double-storey suburban bungalow. But with Alzheimer's disease, it wasn't easy.
Harriet was 76. She wet her bed every time her diaper overflowed. She would call out for someone to attend to her whenever that happened, never mind that it was 4am. Then, unable to go back to sleep, she'd stay awake and expect someone to keep her company.
No one was in the mood for a little tete-a-tete at that ungodly hour. What was most exasperating was that Harriet would nod off just as it was time to start the day, and Marge would drag herself to work, like a zombie.
She had had to take time off from the office to attend to Harriet, like taking her for regular hospital check-ups, giving her medication, and making sure she ate the right foods.
Marge had seen no less than four maids come and go over the last couple of years; all of them left because caring for a grumpy, demanding, bed-ridden old woman was not in their job description.
She had put her own family life on hold because of this. Jason wanted to plan for a second child, but she kept putting it off. How could she manage a newborn in the house when her own mother was the way she was?
It had come to a point where Marge knew she had to either exercise her last option, or risk losing her sanity. The guilt trip was tremendous. What was it about history repeating itself?
Yet, for her own sake, she had had to make the heartbreaking decision, which she tried to convince herself was for the best, as Harriet would get the attention and care at the home which she couldn't give.
"It is for the best, sweetheart," Jason reassured her the night before Harriet's departure, as if reading her minds. She kept repeating that to herself in the car during the journey.
Thirty years on, Penny still had not forgiven her mother for what she had done to nana. Harriet had been there from day one for Penny and the two of them had formed a bond tighter than a Boy Scout's reef knot.
Harriet had meant the world to Penny; even as an adult, Penny could remember crying her eyes out as a little girl when she realised what had happened to nana. When Marge told her nana wasn't going to live with them anymore, she had not spoken to her mother for days. Such was the bitterness she felt.
While other kids talked about how great their grandma's pot pies tasted, or how granny had knitted a cool new sweater for them, Penny could only listen and miss her own nana even more.
She vowed never to deprived her own children of a loving grandma, the way she felt she had been cheated of one.
"These are people, for goodness sake," she told herself. "You don't just chuck people out like old furniture."
Her twins, Katy and Shawna, arrived just after Penny had received a huge promotion. Marge was, of course, on hand to care for the bundles of joy. The girls were left in Marge's care as both Penny and her husband continued with their ultra-busy jobs.
Penny could not thank her mother enough for the support she rendered. Shortly after that, however, Marge was diagnosed with cancer, and was forced to move in with them.
The chemo soon took its toll on everyone. Marge needed daily injections and she only trusted Penny to administer them for her. She refused a nursemaid, even though her daughter offered to get her one. Penny was on the brink of a nervous breakdown.
Two years later, she found herself behind the wheel of her car, on an hour-long journey heading out of town. Her girls were horsing around in the back; fidgety because the scenery had not changed for the past 20 minutes.
She let out a sigh and counted to 10 when, for the fifth time in half-and-hour, they asked: "Are we there yet?"
From Starmag
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
Friday, August 12, 2011
To Do or To Be
Once there was a man named Nathan. He wanted very much to be a teacher. So he sought the advice of the wisest, most highly-respected counsellor in the land.
"Wise counsellor, it has always been my dream to be a teacher," Nathan said. "I want to stimulate the minds of the young. I want to lead them down the road of knowledge. Please tell me the secret to becoming a teacher."
"Your goal is commendable, Nathan. However, it is very difficult to achieve. First, you must overcome three major obstacles."
"I am ready to meet the challenge," answered Nathan bravely.
"First you must swim the Sea of Children," directed the all-knowing counsellor.
Nathan set off to swim the Sea of Children. First, he had to learn their 38 names. Then he sent the line-cutters to the end of the line. He commanded the name-callers, the pushers and the punchers to apologise to their victims. He gave candy to those who finished assignments and stars to those who sat quietly in their seats.
Nathan checked passes to see how many children were in the bathroom and tracked down students who were gone longer than necessary. He arranged the desks in small groups of four. He lined his children up for physical education, music, library and lunch. Then he stifled a cry when the secretary came into the room with child number 39.
Tired and shaken but still undefeated, the young man returned to the counsellor for his second task.
"You are very determined lad," said the wise one. "However, now you must climb the Mountain of Paperwork."
Nathan set out at once. He wrote objectives and drew up lesson plans, made out report cards and graded papers. He filled out accident, attendance and withdrawal reports. He completed inventories, evaluations, surveys and request forms.
Finally, he made dittos and more dittos. He ran them off until he was purple in the face. But his resolve never wavered and he went back for his third task.
"You are indeed very strong, Nathan. But this final task will take all the courage you can muster. You must now cross the Country of Duties and Committees."
At first, Nathan was hesitant. But his conviction remained steadfast, so he began his long journey. He took lunch, bus and recess duty. He was on the social committee, patrol committee, and the faculty advisory committee. He was the adult supervisor of the student council and ran the United Fund and Easter Seal drives.
He went to PTA meetings, school site meetings, and in-service workshops. He organised bicentennial programmes, talent shows and book drives. Finally, he was elected the building representative of the union.
At last, he reached the outskirts of Duties and Committees. Exhausted but happy, he returned to the counsellor.
"I swam the Sea of Children, climbed the Mountain of Paperwork, and crossed the Country of Duties and Committees," Nathan proclaimed. "Am I not worthy of the title of Teacher?"
"Why, Nathan," began the counsellor, "you have been one all along."
The young man protested: "But I have not stimulate any minds! I have not guided anyone down the road to knowledge! I have not had any time to teach!"
"Oh, did you just say you want to teach? I thought you wanted to be a teacher. That's completely different story!"
From Starmag
"Wise counsellor, it has always been my dream to be a teacher," Nathan said. "I want to stimulate the minds of the young. I want to lead them down the road of knowledge. Please tell me the secret to becoming a teacher."
"Your goal is commendable, Nathan. However, it is very difficult to achieve. First, you must overcome three major obstacles."
"I am ready to meet the challenge," answered Nathan bravely.
"First you must swim the Sea of Children," directed the all-knowing counsellor.
Nathan set off to swim the Sea of Children. First, he had to learn their 38 names. Then he sent the line-cutters to the end of the line. He commanded the name-callers, the pushers and the punchers to apologise to their victims. He gave candy to those who finished assignments and stars to those who sat quietly in their seats.
Nathan checked passes to see how many children were in the bathroom and tracked down students who were gone longer than necessary. He arranged the desks in small groups of four. He lined his children up for physical education, music, library and lunch. Then he stifled a cry when the secretary came into the room with child number 39.
Tired and shaken but still undefeated, the young man returned to the counsellor for his second task.
"You are very determined lad," said the wise one. "However, now you must climb the Mountain of Paperwork."
Nathan set out at once. He wrote objectives and drew up lesson plans, made out report cards and graded papers. He filled out accident, attendance and withdrawal reports. He completed inventories, evaluations, surveys and request forms.
Finally, he made dittos and more dittos. He ran them off until he was purple in the face. But his resolve never wavered and he went back for his third task.
"You are indeed very strong, Nathan. But this final task will take all the courage you can muster. You must now cross the Country of Duties and Committees."
At first, Nathan was hesitant. But his conviction remained steadfast, so he began his long journey. He took lunch, bus and recess duty. He was on the social committee, patrol committee, and the faculty advisory committee. He was the adult supervisor of the student council and ran the United Fund and Easter Seal drives.
He went to PTA meetings, school site meetings, and in-service workshops. He organised bicentennial programmes, talent shows and book drives. Finally, he was elected the building representative of the union.
At last, he reached the outskirts of Duties and Committees. Exhausted but happy, he returned to the counsellor.
"I swam the Sea of Children, climbed the Mountain of Paperwork, and crossed the Country of Duties and Committees," Nathan proclaimed. "Am I not worthy of the title of Teacher?"
"Why, Nathan," began the counsellor, "you have been one all along."
The young man protested: "But I have not stimulate any minds! I have not guided anyone down the road to knowledge! I have not had any time to teach!"
"Oh, did you just say you want to teach? I thought you wanted to be a teacher. That's completely different story!"
From Starmag
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
Playing for Dad
The son loved football but was not very good at it. But the dad didn't mind. Even though the son was always sitting out games on the bench, his father was always in the stands cheering. He never missed a game.
The young man was determined to try his best at every practice - perhaps he'd get to play when he became a senior. All through secondary school he never missed a practice or a game even though he remained a bench warmer for four years. His faithful father was always in the stands, always with words of encouragement for him.
When the young man went to college, he decided to try out for the football team. Everyone was sure he would never make the cut, but he did. The coach admitted that he let the young man on the team because, as a junior, he always put his heart and soul into every practice while providing his team members with the spirit and hustle they needed.
The news that he had survived the cut thrilled the teen so much that he rushed to the nearest phone and called his father. His father shared his excitement and got season tickets for all the college games. This persistent young athlete never missed practice during his four years at college, but he never got to play in the game.
Then, at the end of his senior football season, he trotted on to the practice field shortly before the big play off game only to be met by the coach with a telegram. The young man read the telegram and he became deathly white.
Swallowing hard, he mumbled to the coach, "My father died this morning. Is it all right if I miss practice today?" The coach put his arm gently around his shoulders and said, "Take the rest of the week off, son. And don't even plan to come back to the game on Saturday."
Saturday arrived, and the game was not going well.
In the third quarter, when the team was 10 points behind, a silent young man quietly slipped into the empty locker room and put on his football gear. As he ran to the sidelines, the coach and his players were astounded to see their faithful team-mate back so soon.
"Coach, please let me play. I've just got to play today," said the young man. The coach pretended not to hear him. There was no way he wanted his worst player in this close championship game. But the young man persisted, and finally, feeling sorry for the kid, the coach gave in. "All right," he said. "You can go in."
Before long, the coach, the players and everyone in the stands could not believe their eyes. This little unknown, who had never played before was doing everything right. The opposing team could not stop him. He ran, he passed, blocked and tackled like a star. His team began to triumph. The score was soon tied. In the closing seconds of the game, this kid intercepted a pass and ran all the way for the winning touchdown. The fan broke loose. His team-mates hoisted him onto their shoulders. Such cheering you've never heard!
Finally, after the stands had emptied and the team had showered and left the locker room, the coach noticed that the young man was sitting quietly in the corner all alone. The coach came to him and said, "Kid, I can't believe it. You were fantastic! Tell me what got into you? How did you do it?"
The young man looked at the coach with tears in his eyes and said, "Well, you knew my dad died, but did you knew that my dad was blind?" The young man swallowed hard and forced a smile, "Dad came to all my games, but today was the first time he could see me play, and I wanted to show him I could do it!"
Sent to Starmag by Wong Lee Teng
The young man was determined to try his best at every practice - perhaps he'd get to play when he became a senior. All through secondary school he never missed a practice or a game even though he remained a bench warmer for four years. His faithful father was always in the stands, always with words of encouragement for him.
When the young man went to college, he decided to try out for the football team. Everyone was sure he would never make the cut, but he did. The coach admitted that he let the young man on the team because, as a junior, he always put his heart and soul into every practice while providing his team members with the spirit and hustle they needed.
The news that he had survived the cut thrilled the teen so much that he rushed to the nearest phone and called his father. His father shared his excitement and got season tickets for all the college games. This persistent young athlete never missed practice during his four years at college, but he never got to play in the game.
Then, at the end of his senior football season, he trotted on to the practice field shortly before the big play off game only to be met by the coach with a telegram. The young man read the telegram and he became deathly white.
Swallowing hard, he mumbled to the coach, "My father died this morning. Is it all right if I miss practice today?" The coach put his arm gently around his shoulders and said, "Take the rest of the week off, son. And don't even plan to come back to the game on Saturday."
Saturday arrived, and the game was not going well.
In the third quarter, when the team was 10 points behind, a silent young man quietly slipped into the empty locker room and put on his football gear. As he ran to the sidelines, the coach and his players were astounded to see their faithful team-mate back so soon.
"Coach, please let me play. I've just got to play today," said the young man. The coach pretended not to hear him. There was no way he wanted his worst player in this close championship game. But the young man persisted, and finally, feeling sorry for the kid, the coach gave in. "All right," he said. "You can go in."
Before long, the coach, the players and everyone in the stands could not believe their eyes. This little unknown, who had never played before was doing everything right. The opposing team could not stop him. He ran, he passed, blocked and tackled like a star. His team began to triumph. The score was soon tied. In the closing seconds of the game, this kid intercepted a pass and ran all the way for the winning touchdown. The fan broke loose. His team-mates hoisted him onto their shoulders. Such cheering you've never heard!
Finally, after the stands had emptied and the team had showered and left the locker room, the coach noticed that the young man was sitting quietly in the corner all alone. The coach came to him and said, "Kid, I can't believe it. You were fantastic! Tell me what got into you? How did you do it?"
The young man looked at the coach with tears in his eyes and said, "Well, you knew my dad died, but did you knew that my dad was blind?" The young man swallowed hard and forced a smile, "Dad came to all my games, but today was the first time he could see me play, and I wanted to show him I could do it!"
Sent to Starmag by Wong Lee Teng
The Path We Choose
By Azlan Mahmud
He sat waiting inside his red Kancil, the air conditioner blowing out a gentle cool breeze. The radio was tuned to his favourite station, and was playing one of his all-time favourites, Sting's Englishman in New York. He found himself tapping to the music, his lips miming the lyrics. He stole a glance at his wrist watch - 8pm. It would be another 10 minutes before his friend arrived.
He had been working as a medical doctor for a good decade now, toiling in the now infamous government system. The work was hard; he had expected that. But now, he was growing disillusioned. He had been questioning his priorities. And why not? His contemporaries who worked in private practice were making 10 times more than he was, and they were enjoying the life that he wanted. He felt the time was right to join them.
It had been a late night and, as usual, he had finished his work in the operating theatre way past midnight. He wearily changed into his street clothes, and walked tiredly into the almost-empty hospital corridor. With the hours that I do, he thought to himself, I'd be a millionaire.
It was then that he caught sight of the bearded man lying on a bamboo mat in a small space between a wall and the entrance to the operating theatre.
The man was not alone; there were three children with him, the eldest probably no older than five. The youngest, who looked no more than a year old, began to stir in his sleep. His lips parted, and unintelligible sounds escaped from them, forming the prelude to a child's cry.
The man awoke slowly and reached for one of the milk bottles in a pink plastic bag. With a soft hushing sound, he gently placed the teat into the mouth of the child, who instinctively began suckling on it. The father's soft tapping on his thigh lulled him back to sleep.
He had seen this same man and his children in the same spot the past three nights that he was on call. Tonight though, something in him made him approach them. He knelt beside the man, and watched as his child's lips slowly parted and the bottle fell from his hands.
"He's asleep," he said, as he watched the bearded man's face. It mirrored a life of hardship, something he, who had lived all his life in the city, knew he could not even begin to comprehend. The man smiled.
"Yes. He's found it difficult to sleep ever since we came down from Bachok."
They have come a long way, he thought.
"Pardon me for asking, but why are you here?"
The man picked up the bottle and placed it back in the plastic bag. The child shifted uneasily in his sleep.
"My eldest daughter has cancer and she might not have long to live. The doctors here have tried their best. I want to be here when she goes to heaven."
Another child?
"Where is she warded?"
The man turned and pointed to a set of closed blue doors around the corner. Above it was a sign that read 'Paediatric Intensive Care Unit'.
"Surely you must have a place to stay?"
The man looked at his sons, who were in a deep slumber. Children without a care in the world.
"I have used up almost all my savings bringing my daughter here for treatment, and travelling up and down to visit her. Tomorrow I will have to go back as there's no one tending my durian orchard.
"And when I have collected enough money..." his voice trailed off and he turned to look once again at the closed blue doors ... "if my daughter still waits for me, I will be here when she decides to go."
Silence.
He got up, not knowing exactly what to say, and started to walk away. Just then, his pager beeped. He read the message on its small green screen, and let out a sigh. Another emergency.
He turned to look once again at the man and his children. The father was fast asleep, hugging his youngest child. It was almost as if he was afraid that this kid would leave him, too.
Who are they not to deserve the best of care? And with that thought, he walked briskly up the stairs towards the wards.
The loud honking of a car startled him out of his reverie. He looked left and saw his friend waving at him from a gleaming silver BMW. He watched as his smiling friend sauntered towards him wearing his designer clothes and shoes. He smiled back.
That is my friend's destiny, he thought. Mine is different.
From Starmag
He sat waiting inside his red Kancil, the air conditioner blowing out a gentle cool breeze. The radio was tuned to his favourite station, and was playing one of his all-time favourites, Sting's Englishman in New York. He found himself tapping to the music, his lips miming the lyrics. He stole a glance at his wrist watch - 8pm. It would be another 10 minutes before his friend arrived.
He had been working as a medical doctor for a good decade now, toiling in the now infamous government system. The work was hard; he had expected that. But now, he was growing disillusioned. He had been questioning his priorities. And why not? His contemporaries who worked in private practice were making 10 times more than he was, and they were enjoying the life that he wanted. He felt the time was right to join them.
It had been a late night and, as usual, he had finished his work in the operating theatre way past midnight. He wearily changed into his street clothes, and walked tiredly into the almost-empty hospital corridor. With the hours that I do, he thought to himself, I'd be a millionaire.
It was then that he caught sight of the bearded man lying on a bamboo mat in a small space between a wall and the entrance to the operating theatre.
The man was not alone; there were three children with him, the eldest probably no older than five. The youngest, who looked no more than a year old, began to stir in his sleep. His lips parted, and unintelligible sounds escaped from them, forming the prelude to a child's cry.
The man awoke slowly and reached for one of the milk bottles in a pink plastic bag. With a soft hushing sound, he gently placed the teat into the mouth of the child, who instinctively began suckling on it. The father's soft tapping on his thigh lulled him back to sleep.
He had seen this same man and his children in the same spot the past three nights that he was on call. Tonight though, something in him made him approach them. He knelt beside the man, and watched as his child's lips slowly parted and the bottle fell from his hands.
"He's asleep," he said, as he watched the bearded man's face. It mirrored a life of hardship, something he, who had lived all his life in the city, knew he could not even begin to comprehend. The man smiled.
"Yes. He's found it difficult to sleep ever since we came down from Bachok."
They have come a long way, he thought.
"Pardon me for asking, but why are you here?"
The man picked up the bottle and placed it back in the plastic bag. The child shifted uneasily in his sleep.
"My eldest daughter has cancer and she might not have long to live. The doctors here have tried their best. I want to be here when she goes to heaven."
Another child?
"Where is she warded?"
The man turned and pointed to a set of closed blue doors around the corner. Above it was a sign that read 'Paediatric Intensive Care Unit'.
"Surely you must have a place to stay?"
The man looked at his sons, who were in a deep slumber. Children without a care in the world.
"I have used up almost all my savings bringing my daughter here for treatment, and travelling up and down to visit her. Tomorrow I will have to go back as there's no one tending my durian orchard.
"And when I have collected enough money..." his voice trailed off and he turned to look once again at the closed blue doors ... "if my daughter still waits for me, I will be here when she decides to go."
Silence.
He got up, not knowing exactly what to say, and started to walk away. Just then, his pager beeped. He read the message on its small green screen, and let out a sigh. Another emergency.
He turned to look once again at the man and his children. The father was fast asleep, hugging his youngest child. It was almost as if he was afraid that this kid would leave him, too.
Who are they not to deserve the best of care? And with that thought, he walked briskly up the stairs towards the wards.
The loud honking of a car startled him out of his reverie. He looked left and saw his friend waving at him from a gleaming silver BMW. He watched as his smiling friend sauntered towards him wearing his designer clothes and shoes. He smiled back.
That is my friend's destiny, he thought. Mine is different.
From Starmag
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
Heaven's Grocery Store
As I was walking down life's highway many years ago, I came upon a sign that dead "Heaven's Grocery Store". When I got a little closer the doors swung open wide. And when I came to myself, I found myself standing inside. I saw a host of angels. They were everywhere.
One handled me a basket and said, "My child, shop with care."
Everything a human needed was in that store and what you could not carry, you could go back for more.
First, I got some Patience. Love was in the same row. Further down was Understanding - you need that wherever you go.
I got a box or two of Wisdom and Faith, a bag or two. And Charity, or course; I would need some of that too.
I couldn't miss the Holy Ghost ... it was all over the place. And then some Strength and Courage to help me run this race. My basket was getting full but I remembered I needed Grace.
And then I chose Salvation, for Salvation was for free. I tried to get enough of that, for you and me.
Then I started towards the counter to pay my grocery bill, for I thought I had everything to do the Master's will.
As I went up the aisle I saw Prayer and put that in, for I knew when I stepped outside I would run into sin.
Peace and Joy were plentiful, the last things on the shelf. Song and Praise were hanging near, so I just helped myself.
Then I asked the angel, "Now how much do I owe?"
He smiled and said, "Just take them everywhere you go."
Again I asked, "Really now, how much do I owe?"
"My child," he said, "God paid your bill a long, long time ago."
Sent in to Starmag by Wong Mei Toon.
One handled me a basket and said, "My child, shop with care."
Everything a human needed was in that store and what you could not carry, you could go back for more.
First, I got some Patience. Love was in the same row. Further down was Understanding - you need that wherever you go.
I got a box or two of Wisdom and Faith, a bag or two. And Charity, or course; I would need some of that too.
I couldn't miss the Holy Ghost ... it was all over the place. And then some Strength and Courage to help me run this race. My basket was getting full but I remembered I needed Grace.
And then I chose Salvation, for Salvation was for free. I tried to get enough of that, for you and me.
Then I started towards the counter to pay my grocery bill, for I thought I had everything to do the Master's will.
As I went up the aisle I saw Prayer and put that in, for I knew when I stepped outside I would run into sin.
Peace and Joy were plentiful, the last things on the shelf. Song and Praise were hanging near, so I just helped myself.
Then I asked the angel, "Now how much do I owe?"
He smiled and said, "Just take them everywhere you go."
Again I asked, "Really now, how much do I owe?"
"My child," he said, "God paid your bill a long, long time ago."
Sent in to Starmag by Wong Mei Toon.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
This Is Your Life, Really.
Do what you love, and do it often.
If you don’t like something, change it.
If you don’t like your job, quit.
If you don’t have enough time, stop watching TV.
If you are looking for the love of your life, stop; they will be waiting for you when you start doing things you love.
Stop over analyzing, all emotions are beautiful.
When you eat, appreciate every last bite.
Life is simple.
Open your mind, arms, and heart to new things and people, we are united in our differences.
Ask the next person you see what their passion is, and share your inspiring dream with them.
Travel often; getting lost will help you find yourself.
Some opportunities only come once, seize them.
Life is about the people you meet, and the things you create with them so go out and start creating.
Life is short.
Live your dream and share/wear your passion.
~Ong Jiin Joo
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
Reach Out For Mum
By Tam Yong Yuee
As Mother's Day neared, my mood turned pensive. The rain pattered on the water convolvulus (kangkong) patch in my backyard. The kangkong leaves are extended, like arms stretched heavenwards, unashamedly glorifying in the life-refreshing rain. Like a child with outstretched hands rushing towards his mother's open arms, reaching for that warm, comforting embrace.
My mother passed way over five months ago. I sensed the desperation (or was it fear?) in her face during the last moments. There are some religious and some superstitious explanations for that. Whatever. It was heart-rending, to say the least. If she had just slipped away in her sleep, I could have accepted it more placidly.
To my simple, finite mind, I could only interpret that desperate clinging to life as the hurt of being forcefully wrenched away from her loved ones.
In life, we take many things for granted. Mother's love for one. Mothers may not express their love in very apparent ways. But tucked snugly in a special corner of their heart, it is there, ready to be dispensed anywhere, any time.
How often when we need her help, she is there to look after our children (her grandchildren), or to prepare that delicious home-cooked meal to warm the stomach and heart - unconditionally.
Yet, it does not take a lot to please her. Just reach for that phone in your pocket or handbag. It will only take a few moments of your precious time. I had often seen how my mother's face lit up as she talked to her offspring on the phone.
So those of you who have the time for your mum today, don't let it end there.
Consecrate a prayerful and loving thought for her in your heart each passing day. May God bless all mothers!
From Starmag
As Mother's Day neared, my mood turned pensive. The rain pattered on the water convolvulus (kangkong) patch in my backyard. The kangkong leaves are extended, like arms stretched heavenwards, unashamedly glorifying in the life-refreshing rain. Like a child with outstretched hands rushing towards his mother's open arms, reaching for that warm, comforting embrace.
My mother passed way over five months ago. I sensed the desperation (or was it fear?) in her face during the last moments. There are some religious and some superstitious explanations for that. Whatever. It was heart-rending, to say the least. If she had just slipped away in her sleep, I could have accepted it more placidly.
To my simple, finite mind, I could only interpret that desperate clinging to life as the hurt of being forcefully wrenched away from her loved ones.
In life, we take many things for granted. Mother's love for one. Mothers may not express their love in very apparent ways. But tucked snugly in a special corner of their heart, it is there, ready to be dispensed anywhere, any time.
How often when we need her help, she is there to look after our children (her grandchildren), or to prepare that delicious home-cooked meal to warm the stomach and heart - unconditionally.
Yet, it does not take a lot to please her. Just reach for that phone in your pocket or handbag. It will only take a few moments of your precious time. I had often seen how my mother's face lit up as she talked to her offspring on the phone.
So those of you who have the time for your mum today, don't let it end there.
Consecrate a prayerful and loving thought for her in your heart each passing day. May God bless all mothers!
From Starmag
Thanks For The Laughter
By Vishalini Sankaran
Over the years of my life, I have had countless friends. The one thing similar among all of us was the presence of our grandparents. We always had something to say about them, be it good or bad. I remember a friend who said that she never saw any of her grandparents because she was born after they had died. I vividly remember feeling sorry for her. As a little child, I thought my grandparents would be around for good. The thought of their dying never crossed my mind.
But as I became an adult, I began to accept the fact that human beings are not immortal. But my childlike belief still lingers. Secretly, I wish that my old bones will never perish. I lost three of my grandparents pretty early in life. But my maternal grandmother was there all through the years with us.
Grandmother was more like my friend ... my dearest friend, I would say. I remember her for the laughter and gossip we shared. I can hardly recall her reprimanding me for any reason. We used to sit and talk, and she would update me on the latest happenings in the family - with the added "spices", of course.
I remember her sitting at the patio of our house peeling kilos of ikan bilis, for me to take along when I went abroad to study. She would be peeling from sunrise right until sunset. When I peeped on her, I would occasionally see her stretching her stiff neck, due to her small body bending over too long in one position. But when I asked, she would deny the pain. Talk about being selfless.
But now, at 26, I have lost my best friend. Together with her, I have lost my tea-time partner and my story-teller. Now, neither I nor anyone would know the many stories she had in her head. My heart aches when I recall the days of laughter with her. She was an example of pure true happiness - something we miss in this busy life we lead. Oh, how I miss her.
An old African saying comes to mind: "When a grandparent dies, it is like a whole library being burnt down." Happy Mother's Day to the mother of my mother. Thank you for giving me the reason to laugh heartily.
From Starmag on Mother's Day
Over the years of my life, I have had countless friends. The one thing similar among all of us was the presence of our grandparents. We always had something to say about them, be it good or bad. I remember a friend who said that she never saw any of her grandparents because she was born after they had died. I vividly remember feeling sorry for her. As a little child, I thought my grandparents would be around for good. The thought of their dying never crossed my mind.
But as I became an adult, I began to accept the fact that human beings are not immortal. But my childlike belief still lingers. Secretly, I wish that my old bones will never perish. I lost three of my grandparents pretty early in life. But my maternal grandmother was there all through the years with us.
Grandmother was more like my friend ... my dearest friend, I would say. I remember her for the laughter and gossip we shared. I can hardly recall her reprimanding me for any reason. We used to sit and talk, and she would update me on the latest happenings in the family - with the added "spices", of course.
I remember her sitting at the patio of our house peeling kilos of ikan bilis, for me to take along when I went abroad to study. She would be peeling from sunrise right until sunset. When I peeped on her, I would occasionally see her stretching her stiff neck, due to her small body bending over too long in one position. But when I asked, she would deny the pain. Talk about being selfless.
But now, at 26, I have lost my best friend. Together with her, I have lost my tea-time partner and my story-teller. Now, neither I nor anyone would know the many stories she had in her head. My heart aches when I recall the days of laughter with her. She was an example of pure true happiness - something we miss in this busy life we lead. Oh, how I miss her.
An old African saying comes to mind: "When a grandparent dies, it is like a whole library being burnt down." Happy Mother's Day to the mother of my mother. Thank you for giving me the reason to laugh heartily.
From Starmag on Mother's Day
Someday Is Here And Now
A friend of mine opened his wife's underwear drawer and picked up a silk paper wrapped package: "This," he said, "isn't any ordinary package." He unwrapped the box and stared at both the silk paper and the box. "She got this the first time we went to New York, eight or nine years ago. She has never put it on. Was saving it for a special occasion. Well, I guess this is it."
He went over to the bed and placed the gift box next to the other clothing he was taking to the funeral house. His wife had just died.
He turned to me and said: "Never save something for a special occasion. Every day in your life is a special occasion."
I still think those words changed my life. Now I read more and clean less. I sit on the porch without worrying about anything. I spend more time with my family, and less at work. I understand that life should be a source of experience to be enjoyed, not survived. I no longer keep anything. I use crystal glasses every day. I'll wear new clothes to go to the supermarket if I feel like it. I don't save my special perfume for special occasions, I use it whenever I want to.
The words "someday" and "one day" are fading away from my vocabulary. If it's worth seeing, listening to or doing, I want to see, listen to or do it now. I don't know what my friend's wife would have done if she knew she wouldn't be there the next morning, this nobody can tell. I think she might have called her relatives and closest friends. She might have called old friends to make peace over past quarrels. I'd like to think she would go out for Chinese, her favourite food. It's these small things that I would regret not doing if my time comes.
I would regret it, because I would no longer see the friends I would meet, or write the letters that I wanted to write "one of this days". I would feel sad because I didn't say to my brothers and sons, not enough times at least, how much I love them. Now, I try not to delay, postpone or keep anything that could bring laughter and joy into our lives. And each morning, I say to myself that this is a special day. Each day, each hour, each minute, is special.
Sent to Starmag by Lee Chen Hoe
He went over to the bed and placed the gift box next to the other clothing he was taking to the funeral house. His wife had just died.
He turned to me and said: "Never save something for a special occasion. Every day in your life is a special occasion."
I still think those words changed my life. Now I read more and clean less. I sit on the porch without worrying about anything. I spend more time with my family, and less at work. I understand that life should be a source of experience to be enjoyed, not survived. I no longer keep anything. I use crystal glasses every day. I'll wear new clothes to go to the supermarket if I feel like it. I don't save my special perfume for special occasions, I use it whenever I want to.
The words "someday" and "one day" are fading away from my vocabulary. If it's worth seeing, listening to or doing, I want to see, listen to or do it now. I don't know what my friend's wife would have done if she knew she wouldn't be there the next morning, this nobody can tell. I think she might have called her relatives and closest friends. She might have called old friends to make peace over past quarrels. I'd like to think she would go out for Chinese, her favourite food. It's these small things that I would regret not doing if my time comes.
I would regret it, because I would no longer see the friends I would meet, or write the letters that I wanted to write "one of this days". I would feel sad because I didn't say to my brothers and sons, not enough times at least, how much I love them. Now, I try not to delay, postpone or keep anything that could bring laughter and joy into our lives. And each morning, I say to myself that this is a special day. Each day, each hour, each minute, is special.
Sent to Starmag by Lee Chen Hoe
Seize the Moment
Letter from an 83-year-old:
I am reading more and dusting less. I'm sitting in the yard and admiring the view without fussing about the weeds in the garden. I'm spending more time with my family and friends and less time working. Whenever possible, life should be a pattern of experiences to savour, not to endure.
I'm trying to recognise these moments now and cherish them. I'm not "saving" anything; we use our good china and crystal for every special event such as losing a pound, getting the sink unstopped, or the first Amaryllis blossom.
I wear my good blazer to the market. My theory is if I look prosperous, I can shell out RM28.49 for one small bag of groceries. I'm not saving my good perfume for special parties, but wearing it for clerks in the hardware store and tellers at the bank.
"Someday" and "one of these days" are losing their grip on my vocabulary; if it's worth seeing or hearing or doing, I want to see and hear and do it now. I'm not sure what others would have done had they known they wouldn't be here for the tomorrow that we all take for granted.
I think they would have called family members and a few close friends. They might have called a few former friends to apologise and mend fences for past squabbles. I like to think they would have gone out for a Chinese dinner or for whatever their favourite food was. I'm guessing; I'll never know.
It's those little things left undone that would make me angry if I knew my hours were limited. Angry because I hadn't written certain letters that I intended to write one of these days. Angry and sorry that I didn't tell my husband and children often enough how much I truly love them. I'm trying very hard not to put off, hold back, or save anything that would add laughter and lustre to our lives.
And every morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that it is special. Every day, every minute, every breath truly is a gift.
People say true friends must always hold hands. But true friends don't need to hold hands because they know the other hand will always be there.
I don't believe in miracles. I rely on them. Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here, we might as well dance.
Sent to Starmag by Lydia Chin
When Are You A Grown-Up?
By Susan Campbell
We ask children, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" and we expect them to name an occupation - fire-fighter, teacher, the president.
We never ask them - "And how will you know when you're a grown-up?" - because we don't know ourselves, and our confusion might scare them.
When I was a child, I formulated my own definition of "grown-up". Grown-ups were so dependable that they drove cars through the night, and you, the child, were safe enough to go to sleep in the back seat.
But after a certain age, you realised responsibly driving through the night is not the be-all you once thought it to be.
So when are you a grown-up? When you get your first credit card? Your first pay cheque? When you first have sex? At age 21? When you have your first child? When your parent dies?
We worry about the stress we place on our adolescents, our almost-adults, without ever asking whether introducing the idea of adolescence opens the door for an adolescence that never ends. Ours is one of the few cultures in the world that want to have a space between childhood and adulthood, where the young person is given a shot at adult behaviour without adult consequences.
Is this good? Maybe not, because if you look around, it would appear that adolescence get stretched further and further into one's 20s, 30s and 40s.
But who am I to talk? Through no fault of my own, I am a baby boomer. We who vowed never to trust anyone over 30 can only see that age through the rear view. Yet many of us look a tad arrested, developmentally speaking.
Look at Enron. Criminal behaviour, sure, but shockingly, childishly selfish, too. Listen to the sabre-rattling from the US president, which sounds like nothing so much as seventh-grade "mine's-bigger" locker room talk. A day of reckoning, indeed.
Things being so confusing, I humbly offer the following list, randomly selected, tried and true by its author, as a way of knowing when you've achieved grown-up status.
You know you're a grown-up when you accept the following:
We ask children, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" and we expect them to name an occupation - fire-fighter, teacher, the president.
We never ask them - "And how will you know when you're a grown-up?" - because we don't know ourselves, and our confusion might scare them.
When I was a child, I formulated my own definition of "grown-up". Grown-ups were so dependable that they drove cars through the night, and you, the child, were safe enough to go to sleep in the back seat.
But after a certain age, you realised responsibly driving through the night is not the be-all you once thought it to be.
So when are you a grown-up? When you get your first credit card? Your first pay cheque? When you first have sex? At age 21? When you have your first child? When your parent dies?
We worry about the stress we place on our adolescents, our almost-adults, without ever asking whether introducing the idea of adolescence opens the door for an adolescence that never ends. Ours is one of the few cultures in the world that want to have a space between childhood and adulthood, where the young person is given a shot at adult behaviour without adult consequences.
Is this good? Maybe not, because if you look around, it would appear that adolescence get stretched further and further into one's 20s, 30s and 40s.
But who am I to talk? Through no fault of my own, I am a baby boomer. We who vowed never to trust anyone over 30 can only see that age through the rear view. Yet many of us look a tad arrested, developmentally speaking.
Look at Enron. Criminal behaviour, sure, but shockingly, childishly selfish, too. Listen to the sabre-rattling from the US president, which sounds like nothing so much as seventh-grade "mine's-bigger" locker room talk. A day of reckoning, indeed.
Things being so confusing, I humbly offer the following list, randomly selected, tried and true by its author, as a way of knowing when you've achieved grown-up status.
You know you're a grown-up when you accept the following:
- The smoke alarm will start chirping precisely at 2.38am. Every time. And you will get up bleary-eyed and fumble through a drawer for a new battery and take care of it, but not before you've wandered through the house wringing your hands trying to ascertain precisely which alarm is chirping. And you will be back in bed by four, at the latest. Every time.
- When the phone company sends you a bill, it is serious in its desire that you pay it.
- Same with the credit card company.
- One day, you will stand at Blockbuster and endure some young pup's snide comments about "your music" or "your movies" that place the entire boomer culture in a dusty denim-covered box that smell slightly of patchouli. And rather than fire off a retort, you will smile and think, "Keep on living, sweetheart."
- Conversely, your movies, your music and your clothes will eventually be recycled as high fashion, and the most you will be able to muster is bemusement. Of course! Dennis Hopper is God! So is Peter Fonda! And Americans all smoke marijuana, marched against the war in Vietnam and went to Woodstock to roll around in the mud! That's precisely how I remember it, too! Now, if I could just remember how to make a peace symbol with my hand...
- Someone will always be the first in line. That someone will rarely be you.
- You will come upon a 20-year-old picture of yourself and think two things: 1) My God, I've been alive long enough to have 20-year-old memories, and 2) I have aged.
- You'll find yourself relying less on those unguents that promise you youth in a bottle and more on good old Ivory soap and Noxzema.
- The day will come when you know fewer than 20% of the people on those magazine end-of-the-year list of famous, sexy, interesting people. And you'll care even less.
- You will wander through the house searching for your keys, only to discover they were in your hand the whole time.
- Same with reading glasses.
- Along those lines, you will walk into a room and forget why you bothered, but you will notice something in the room that amuses you, and you won't feel too bad about the whole adventure.
- You will cultivate the ability to say "I'm sorry" and mean it.
From Starmag
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