I Know You Love Me

 

"Even when I fail You, I know You love me." Who else Lord, but You?

Encouraged

I have a meeting with a poet this morning. I googled him to prepare for our meeting, so I won't be an ignoramus, and learnt this is his favourite quote: "Nada te turbe, solo Dios basta" (St Teresa of Avila).

It means - "Nothing shall disturb you; God is enough." 

I like this man already.

Why

Sometimes, I wonder - if I had lived in Biblical times, who would I have been most like? I wonder if I would have even followed Jesus, because I would have been suspicious. I would have questioned; I would have scorned. 

I hope, though, that Jesus would have sought me out like he sought out the Samaritan woman at the well. And if He had, I know I would have been Martha, rushing around getting things done - not the Mary that I like to think I would have been.  And I understand dear doubting Thomas - I can almost hear myself saying exactly what he did, "unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into his side, I will never believe". Such disdain, such foolish self-confidence, I know I am capable of. 

On Sunday, I befriended a visitor to church and there was a moment, when she asked me, why did I become a Christian. And I missed the opportunity of that moment. I was tongue-tied. I couldn't explain. The Bible says, to always be ready to give a reason for my belief. Yet, at that moment, all I could say was "It's a long story". Because it is. It's a long story of a God who chased after me, a God who loved me even when I scorned Him, a God who intervened and turned me away from sin, a God who continued to hold me even when I doubted, when I faltered, when I failed Him. 

I've been thinking of that moment these past two days and wish I had had an answer ready for her. But I can't rehearse. That seems too glib. The words don't come out pat. I need to tell her, I am a Samaritan woman who has sinned again and again because I was searching for Someone to trust, believe and  hope in. I am Thomas who doubts and yet, has Him telling me again and again, "Do not disbelieve, but believe". I am Peter, who says "I do not know him" yet never have Him leave me. I am Gomer, faithless, yet wrapped up in Love. That's why.

A Favourite Poem

When You Are Old

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of  the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

- W. B. Yeats

Staycation

J and I had a staycation on Sunday. For the uninitiated, that is a vacation in a local hotel, without actually leaving the country. This has been a family tradition for us long before the term was invented and it is something we still like doing, though now we have spilt over from a single room with a king-sized bed to a king-sized bed with an extra bed to 2 connecting rooms :) Strangely, for reasons I can't fathom, I usually feeling a little embarrassed telling anyone we are checking into a local hotel. But we have always had good times during our hotel getaways. 

Even before the children came, D and I liked staying in hotels and the old ANA Hotel (now no longer there, up on Nassim Hill) was an old family favourite because we could get a room with buffet breakfast for $100 a night. When the children came, staycations were a good way to have a holiday, without the hassle of travel, leaving home yet with the comforts of home within easy reach.

And both J & R love staycations. There is something about the smooth luxury of hotel sheets, the thick towels, the bouncy beds, the fluffy pillows that entices. Then there is the decadence of housekeeping and the miracle of fresh sheets and towels every day. For the girls, four stars must be aligned before it can be a described as a great holiday - at least one meal delivered by room service, a bath in the bath-tub, a buffet breakfast and everyone piling into the bed and watching a movie! :)

I was quite nostalgic this weekend. Things have changed, yet not quite changed. The pleasures of the hotel stay were the same - thick towels, smooth sheets, wonderful service. Yet the anonymity of the room struck me vividly and I found myself thinking about others who had lain where I lay, looking out at the skyline. I missed you, R. You would have been appalled at how much of time we spent just sleeping... 

Yes, we slept a great deal, ate the crepes we like at Out of the Pan, tried to watch a pay-per-view movie but that was foiled by a faulty movie and then by the time the hotel fixed it I was too sleepy to watch it (yes, despite all the sleeping done before that), read in bed and talked. It was a good, slow, together time. I'm glad mommy-daughter times still feel the same :)

 The view from our room at Swissotel the Stamford

Our take-out dinner

My Father and Me (2)

Maybe it was my last entry that got me thinking of my father so often this past week. Maybe it was the fact that June is always associated in my mind with my father because his birthday was on 10th June, Fathers' Day falls on the third Sunday in June and he passed away on 15th June.

My father was 90 years old when he passed away and 50 when I was born. My earliest memory of my dad is actually of him singing me to sleep. I remember lying face down on his chest, feeling his chest rise and fall with his breathing. I remember the feel of the soft worn white cotton singlet under my cheek and my father's hand on my back as he patted me to sleep, singing a lullaby he made up. This song was essentially a stringing together of the vowels and consonants of the Tamil language!  On some evenings, instead of singing, he would recite the months of the Tamil year.  And that is how I learnt my Tamil :)

My dad's last years were not comfortable ones because he had Alzeimer's. I wish I had not been so busy, so far away in Singapore. I wish I had made more of an effort to visit him. During my last visit, he was convinced that R who was six then, was me. And he was confused as to who I was. I remember visiting him in hospital and he kept asking me what day it was, what date it was and I cried to see him looking so lost. Immediately, he asked me "Why are you crying? What do you need? Do you need any money? Have you eaten? Don't cry." And I felt six again.

I didn't get to see my dad before he passed away and that is a sadness I carry. I had heard he was ill, but I did not know how ill he really had been. I would have liked to have said goodbye. My sister tells me he did not recognise anyone at the end; she says that to console me, that in practical terms, my absence did not make a difference. I like to think my father knew how much I loved him; because I know, without a doubt, that my daddy loved me.

My Father and Me

It's Fathers' Day today and we had our usual prayer for dads during church service. But instead of the usual blessing by the pastor, today a dad was invited to pray for the fathers. 

His prayer touched me, because it gave me an insight into fatherhood - which, I admit, I had never spent any time thinking about. I have only ever thought about what it means to mother children, the joys and challenges of motherhood and what kind of a mother I was being to my daughters. But before today, I had not tried to look through the eyes of a father. And I realise, fatherhood is no less challenging.

I remember my own father fondly. Lately, I have also begun to wonder if my sister and I had lionised him, but nevertheless, I know my father was a bigger influence on me than my mother was. 

Interestingly, when I think about my father, the first values and pictures that come to mind are all to do with money. From him, I learnt the importance of thrift and hard work. I remember he gave me a tiny notebook when I started school and in it he taught me to write down every cent I spent from the 50 cent allowance he gave me. My first set of accounts! My dad was an accounts clerk so I suppose he was teaching me the most important life skill he knew... 

At the start of the week, my father would give me a 50 cent coin. He never gave me any combination of coins to make up 50. It was always one big 50 cent coin and I remember feeling really reluctant to part with the coin and receiving many small coins in return after a purchase. Somehow it had the feeling of breaking things up :) At the end of the week, I would have to show my father my little notebook in which I had written down every purchase I had made. 

I remember the first time I broke the one rule my father had about money - never borrow. Never. My downfall was chocolate milk. One adventurous and greedy recess, I bought a whole bottle of chocolate milk to drink. To my horror, I got no change back after giving my 50 cent to the drink vendor! I was terrified because I now had no money for the week and worse, I would have to record one big purchase in my notebook! My dad would know! 

In my desperation, I asked my friend Maheswari (oh how well I remember her name and her face to this day) to lend me 50 cents. And she did. The week passed uneventfully, the purchases were recorded, the notebook was inspected, no chocolate milk was mentioned anywhere...

But my day of reckoning came. Because the next week, my personal Shylock asked me for her money back. Many years later when I read the line "O what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive...", this was the incident that came immediately to mind. Because that was when my dance of deceit and counter-deceit began.

I couldn't return Maheswary her money because every cent I spent needed to be recorded and even if I gave her back 10 cents at a time, what was I going to put in my book? It amazes me now to think back and realise the strange adherence to truth - I couldn't bring myself to lie to my father by inventing reasons that could have covered up the cents that could have been trickled back to Maheswary. Yet, I had broken the cardinal rule my father had set for me. Just one rule - and I had broken it. [Yes, this is the account of my personal Fall. The symbolism didn't escape me :)]

The final crunch came 2 weeks later, when tired of my evasive behaviour, Maheswary brought out her secret weapon - if you don't return my money, she said, I will tell my father. The terror that created in the heart of an 8-year old, I cannot describe to you. Maheswary's father had a black moustache and he rode a motorbike. My father was 58 and drove the car very slowly...

I was rescued from being thrown into the debtors' prison at the age of 8 because I sidled up to my mother that night and simply said, "Amma can I have 50 cents?" And my mother said "Go take it from my handbag." That was it. The end of my weeks of misery, my weeks of falsifying accounts, my weeks of terror at the sound of a motorbike. 

To this day, I have an aversion to debts. I agonise when I see J's telephone bill lying on the table. I can't wait for the day the mortgage on my flat will be fully paid. And for 6 months now I have been putting off starting on renovation plans for the flat because I can't bring myself to take out a renovation loan. 

I wonder if my father ever knew about this incident. But he taught me a life skill that has helped me a great deal, as a student, as a young adult in my first job, as a wife and and a mother raising a family. I have progressed today from notebooks to an Excel spreadsheet, but budgetting has helped me keep my head above waters all my life.

And as I think back on this Father's Day about my dad, I also wonder what I would have done if my mother had not given me the money. I don't quite know why she did that. Maybe she was distracted by the television show she was watching. Maybe she didn't quite hear what I said. Or maybe she too had been given a notebook and she knew the folly of  the misspent 50 cents. :)

What's Next?

On Wed, B asked me, "What do you see yourself doing next?" He was quite startled by the alacrity with which the plans came pouring out, I could tell :)

There was a time when I used to agonise about what I could do. But as I grow older I have become more aware of what I am best at and what I struggle with; I am surer about the gifts God has blessed me with; and I am more confident that working from my strengths and saying no to what I do not enjoy doing really is wiser.

And so I know these are what I want to be doing... I want to retire as soon as I can, even before I hit the mandatory age, because I don't care if there is another promotion or not. I want to go back to school and get a post-grad degree in Counselling. I want to be an adjunct teacher and get back into the classroom with the kids I love. I want to spend more time with the Young Adults ministry in my church and take time to mentor and disciple them. I especially want to mentor the young teachers and help them keep the love of teaching alive despite the hard time they have in school. I want to form a support group for young dating and married couples - just open up my home for these couples to meet and talk and work through the joys and worries of marriage with others so they know that life can be puzzling or hard but it can be handled with the help of others. I want to help with the Pastoral Counselling ministry in my church and have the time to listen to hurting people because I know we are all made of struggles and strengths. I want to enrol in a theological college and dig deep into God's Word. I want to spend time in the mission field and teach English and train teachers. I want to travel and open my home to young people who travel, maybe by running an informal B&B. I want to write, in my blog, maybe a book, maybe a collection of devotionals, maybe a memoir for young teachers. I want to be a grandma and love my grandchildren to bits.I want to read the books I have bought and stacked on the shelves with the thought 'one day...'.

God willing, that's what I want to do. God willing, that will be next...

Doc Visit

My body is breaking down. I'm not sure if it is because I haven't taken a break in such a long while or whether it is just an onset of age-related nigglings. But today I am on medical leave because, for a second night, I threw up in the middle of the night and had the runs to boot. Since I was due for gynae appointment this morning anyway, I didn't go to a GP, but spoke to my gynae, Prof K, instead. He thinks it is acid reflux and has given me 2 days of medical leave and told me to try a bunch of stuff that includes sleeping on my left (yes, really!), raising my pillow, not eating within 3 hours of bedtime, keeping a food diary and not getting stressed. My BP is also creeping up, he says. 

I like him. I have been seeing him since I was pregnant with J and he has grown to be a good friend. What I appreciate about him is that he takes a wholistic approach, never says "that's not my department" and listens to every ailment I moan to him about - "my elbow and fingers hurt, my neck hurts, my knee hurts, I can't wake up in the mornings, my migraine is back, I can't focus for as long as I used to, I'm depressed ...." Hahahaha. I think he is worth his weight in gold just for that patient listening :)

I appreciate Prof K all the more after my visit to the Clementi Polyclinic last Thursday. It has been more than 10 years since I visited the polyclinic but sadly, beyond the upgrade of technical facilities (now I can scan my ID card to get a queue number), I don't think much has changed in terms of quality of care. I waited 1 1/2 hours to see the doctor and my 5 minute consultation was such an irritating encounter I was glad I only went to get a referral to an orthopedic surgeon (for said elbow, knee, fingers and neck) and not for medical attention. The doc who attended to me was abrupt and didn't give me time to finish listing my woes and then told me "You are 53. This is all old age. You just have to live with it. Don't waste time and money going to a specialist." I then asked him what he suggested I do and his reply - "I will give you Panadol." If I had had an umbrella and I hadn't already waited 1 1/2 hours and didn't need a referral badly, I swear I would have hit him on the head. 

It made me think though - how many people who can't afford anything more than the primary care offered at our polyclinics, who do not know how to negotiate the bureaucracies of getting specialist care and lack the self-confidence to know that "living with it" is not the only option available - are putting up with pain every day.

Me-time

J and I make a terrible mom & daughter team moaning about work almost every day! Sometimes I think I should set a better example, but I'm afraid I don't. When she moans about work, I confess I can only empathise. 

But I have been feeling a great deal more cheerful today than I have felt in a long time and I was wondering why... And I realise what has made me happier is the fact that I worked only half days for the last 2 days, conducted a seminar for JC students on Fri morning and had 2 unloading sessions with 2 dear friends - one via email and the other over dinner. 

So that's it. The confluence of factors that keep me even-keeled - space, students and friends. Perhaps what I need to do then is to find ways of finding these pursuits of pleasure within my current work? Easier said than done. 

Nevertheless this is the here and now and I will enjoy it. I've had an hour at the gym & the laundry is done. I have bought myself a green tea frappuchino and a roast chicken wrap. My iPad is powered up and the latest copy of 'O' awaits in all its digital glory. Finally, this is me-time. The speech I have to write for our Guest-of-Honour can wait.