When Perspective Changes

Heard the story of the wife who had a husband who'd always hit her? One day then, the husband got into an industrial accident and lost both of his hands. Funny thing was, the wife loved the husband even more from that day onwards.

Here's her reason. "When I loved that man, it wasn't because of what he could do, rather it was him - what he was, his weaknesses and shortcomings - that I loved and accepted. Now that he couldn't hit me anymore, isn't that a reason lesser to be bitter about, and an extra reason to love him even more?"

It's all about the perspective, isn't it?

Here's another story, again. A continuation of Lollipop Men, a different perspective, a different side of the story. And yes, it isn't a short one, yet it has been carefully written and prepared. Do enjoy it, blessed week ahead.

Christmas' Last Candle

When I heard the voices – laughter, excited chatters – from the bend of the stairs, I knew that hope was still alive. The last 30 flights of stairs were, after all, not wasted.


Being my first time carrying such a heavy load of newspapers up the stairs, partly because there was virtually no one left on the lower floors due to the holiday celebrations, my hands were aching terribly, breath loud and throat choking with sweat. Somehow, there was only one thing left at the back of my mind that kept me through those lonely and unforgiving flights of stairs.


Finally arriving at the door, I yanked the handle. Jingle jingle. The laughter died abruptly, some quiet hushes, footsteps, then the door opened. As usual and as ever, it was Uncle Mike at the door.


“Merry Christmas, Uncle Mike!” I forced a weary smile to hide my desperation and weariness.


“Will you please buy a copy?” Please?


…


Dark, still and quiet. At 5am in the streets of London, even a mouse’s breathing can be heard without trying too hard. I lit the last remaining candle and placed it behind our dark window. As children, back when mom was still alive, me and Sis would watch her light up a candle and place it behind the window when times were really bad. When we had no money to buy breakfast for the next morning, when dad was trying to get a new job, when the district officers were about to chase us out from our shed.


“The candle reminds us that hope is always alive,” she said while huddling us close under the only blanket left in the house, our eyes still glued to the flickering flame. And every time she said that, her eyes would glitter beautifully.


Many people said Sis had my mom’s beautiful eyes. Sparkling, magical eyes.


And those desolate nights when mom lit those candles, miracles happened. Miracles. A random stranger approaching us with a loaf of warm bread. An unexpected job vacancy in the nearby cement factory. A grace period of 1 year to vacate the area.


The night mom was dying, I ran looking for the candles. Placing the candle on the window, I was about to light it when mom stopped me.


“No,” she said, still wearing that lovely smile of hers. “Keep it for yourselves!” Those were her last few breaths. We got the neighbours to help us call the police and the ambulance to take her away, and the local parish was kind enough to conduct a proper funeral for her.


Many months later, while crossing the road, a reckless drunk driver sped, swerved and hit Sis right at the lower limbs. Crushed and left paralyzed waist down. At the hospital, the NHS were pushing for us to pay up, or else Sis would not receive further treatment. In tears, I ran home and lit up another candle. Not only that, in front of the candle, I kneeled and prayed the only prayer I remember.


“Jesus, give us not what we ask for, but grant us what we truly need.” Sobbing, I added, “Please help Sis. Please.”


Satisfied with the candle now flickering dimly, I walked out of the door, burying my hands beneath the torn jacket I picked up from a recycling centre. Sis was quietly working on her handmade flowers, made from disposed cans. Shriveled legs flowing from a rusty old wheelchair, she looked up and our eyes met. Instinctively, I turned away from her gaze. Not for any other reason, but because her eyes reminded me too much of mom. I’m still afraid of those memories.


“Little boy,” she called out. Such sadness in her tone! How I hated it when Sis spoke with so much sorrow and pain. “Do bring something back for dad.”


Through the glass stained with dirt and time, the sight of dad lying under the thickest available cloth, on the floor, coughing slowly and softly, I walked out into the damp streets of London to find the kind uncle from the bookstore with the bronze horse.


That sentimental bronze horse. My first lollipop, broken and in half, but nevertheless a lollipop still. My first horse ride. With Sis while she still could walk perfectly. How could I forget those beautiful moments? Tearing my eyes away from that bronze horse, squeezing out the memories from my brain, I hugged the stack of newspaper and headed slowly to the apartments.


…


“Kid,” Uncle Mike said regretfully. “We already bought the papers this morning. Besides, it’s Christmas Eve, you shouldn’t be delivering papers…”


Oh no... I wailed silently. Speak of a nightmare come true.


And earlier while walking out from uncle’s bookstore with the stack of papers, I calculated that if I could sell a dozen copies, I could buy dad an egg. Or if I could sell all the papers, maybe I could get a can of his favourite hickory ham. But now, there really isn’t anything left for dad, is there?


Turning around, the tears began to swell.


God, why?


Little candle, where’s the hope that I need?


“But wait!” came the voice from behind. Aunty Mag’s voice. Always warm, always kind, always full of love. “We’ll be having visitors later, maybe we could do with a few more copies of papers,” and turning to Uncle Mike, “What do you think?”


Uncle Mike raised his eyebrows while Aunty Mag pulled him over and whispered something into his ears. Quickly I wiped my tears. Whatever it was, it must have been good as a smile slowly carved at the edges of his lips. Walking back to me, he asked, “How many copies do you have there, kid?”


50, I replied. Just 12, and I can get dad his favourite hickory ham. He has always wanted hickory ham. That would be the best present I could give to him, ever, in his entire life. Is 12 too many Uncle Mike?


Roaring in laughter, “I’ll take all!”


His reply certainly stunned me. That was by far the single largest transaction of newspaper ever made in my 4 years as a paper boy. Still gripping the stack of papers, it took a while before reality sank in. Before I knew it, Aunty Mag was clearing a corner of the hall for me to put down the newspapers.


Still left in a daze at the overwhelming purchase of newspapers, Uncle Mike grabbed my small hands and slapped a 100 pound bill into my hands.


“But I have no change!” I exclaimed meekly.


“You don’t?” He looked surprised, camouflaged beneath a cheeky smile. Bending down into my ears, he whispered, “Then keep it!”


Looking at the bill in my hands, it was as if as I had struck a jackpot. Overwhelmed for the second time, my heart was now so full of happiness and hope. Not only could I buy dad a hickory ham, I could even buy a whole turkey! A comfortable bed, a warm blanket for dad…


We could get more candles…


“Thank you Uncle Mike!” was all I could say. “Thank you so much!”


The 30 flight of stairs, this time, was so light and so easy. This time I didn’t even have to run back to the bookstore. Uncle Henry promised me that since it was Christmas Eve, I’d get to take back every single penny from the papers.


The market!


People were already rushing back home. The evening sun was setting. Pace quickening, bigger steps, deep down I was praying that the market would still have some cans of hickory ham left. Running along the streets, a quick glance into the windows of the brightly lit houses and there was Mother placing a perfectly roasted turkey on the table under the watchful eyes of Dad and little children. If only Christmas would be something like that.


My steps died in bitterness and agony. The market was already closing. An old man was locking up the gates. After all that had happened in the last few hours, after all the running and hope, how could this happen?


I slowly walked up to the uncle and tugged at his coat. “Uncle, could you please sell me a can of hickory ham?” His face was wrinkled with sorry, and his gentle eyes couldn’t cover the fact that there simply wasn’t any hickory ham left. He pulled out a small can of baked beans from his pocket and handed it to me. Refusing the 100 pound bill from me, he smiled and walked away, leaving me stoned outside the locked gates of the London market.


For the second time, the journey was long and draggy. How could I face a dying man, with just a can of baked beans? What good was the 100 pound now? There were simply no more tears left for a 10 year old boy anymore. Simply none at all. Just a broken heart, a contrite spirit, a defeated soul. So much for kindness, so much for hope, and it all ends with that painful blow of reality. The markets simply wouldn’t wait for you. The cans of hickory ham just wouldn’t stay on top of the shelves for you.


London’s Christmas, isn’t really for the poor and needy.


Just another turn, and I would be back at our shed. Straightening my shirt, forcing a convincingly happy smile again, I was about to walk again when a very faint melody caught my ears.


Amazing grace! How sweet the sound!
That saved a wretch like me!


When was the last time I heard an angel singing?


I once was lost, but now am found
Was blind, but now I see!


The voices grew stronger and stronger. Melodious! Sweet choruses! Angelic and heavenly! Dad, oh dad, if only you could hear these voices...


And again the pain struck my heart. Deep and hurting.


“Where is this amazing grace that I need now?” Where is the amazing grace that Dad needs?


Bravely, I picked up from where I stopped and walked home. The corner of the alley was bright and glowing. From afar it looked like our shed was on fire. Strange as it may be, as we had no more candles or sticks left for a fire, our shed was bright again. God knows when was the last time our shed saw light as bright as that.


And the voices, those angelic and beautiful voices, grew stronger at every step I take towards my shed.


Slowly, I realized, there were carolers in our shed. Singing. They must be holding candles.


Uncle Henry was leaning by the wall outside my shed, hands tuck in his pocket. “Hey kid,” he said in his deep husky tone. “Look who’s here.”


I peered inside and saw Uncle Mike and Aunty Mag. Uncle Mike had a roasted turkey in his hands. The same one I saw inside the houses along the streets I was running back from earlier the evening. And Aunty Mag was opening a huge can of hickory ham. There were some other adults that I couldn’t recognize who were fussing over dad. Some gently got him to sit up straight, some wrapped him with warm wool, one even took a bucket of water and washed his hands.


“Hurry!” Uncle Henry said while gently pushing me at the shoulder. “You wouldn’t want to miss the big feast.”


For a while now, with the baked beans in one hand and the 100 pound bill still crumpled in the other, I allowed the unfolding events to dazzle my eyes. How did they know? Was it Uncle Henry? The answers didn't really matter then. There came a very grateful smile, widely curved across my face. The coldness of London’s winter simply couldn’t mask the warmth of the people inside. People I never expected to extend a hand of kindness; people you never thought would come down to the slums to celebrate Christmas with you.


Uncle Mike came out and chattered with Uncle Henry. They would take Dad to the hospital later for treatment. Before my eyes blurred from tears again, before walking up to Uncle Mike and burying myself in his shoulders, I stole a quick glance at the candle I lit this morning. It had died long ago. No longer was it flickering or shining. All that’s left were the now solid tears with the stump right in the middle.


I knew then, that we wouldn’t need candles anymore, not because the shed was now bright, but because from that day onwards, we would no longer need candles to remind us that hope, is always alive.

My Moonlight Notes

Again it was the panic attack that suddenly woke me up. Sitting up straight in the bed, cold sweat, heart beat. Husband's sleeping like a baby beside me, arms hugging his pillow, head moving slowly, deeper into the pillow.

Seconds later, as usual, I would calm myself down, remind myself that it's all over, there's nothing to be afraid or sad about, and would sleep again.

This night, the light shone straight into my window. Memories came flooding back into my eyes, along with those longing and painful tears, of white papers slowly floating into the room.

Oh, I will always remember that very first time she cried. Her cries were not a shriveling or high-pitched shriek, but the quiet, sobbing, and muffled voice. Only a mother could've picked up that cries. Walking into her room, she was huddling beneath her comforter, eyes red and swollen. That night, was a bright night. Moon light bouncing off her beautiful silky hair, the brownish glow dim in the darkness, her eyes still glittering and sparkling despite the tears, her mouth covered partially beneath the folding of her arms.

"I dreamt that a dog was chasing it but it fell into a river..." she sobbed as I pulled her into my embrace. Stroking her hair gently, cooing her, she continued, "I tried to save the dog, but it drowned..."

It's ok sweetheart.. It's ok...

Tucking her back into her bed, I sang her favourite tune. Somehow, that night, as my memory serves me correctly, she never stirred. Her eyes were wide, not looking at me, but staring out of the windows wide opened. Shadows of the branches and leaves of my backyard tree danced under the white layer of snow that covered portions of her bedroom.

"Mummy," her voice, so sweet, still lingers in my ear till this very day. "Why is the night so bright?"

Crying now as I recalled the answer I said, "It's God's way of reminding little darlings that mummies are His way of lighting up even the darkest nights."

She slept, so did I, and the next morning I woke up before the house was up, only to find a white piece of paper on the floor, under my bedroom door. The scrawny handwriting, the spelling mistakes, and the crumpled piece of paper that still remains hidden in one of the drawers of a locked room,

"Thank you Mummy! I love you. Love, Baby"

My heart melted. It still melts to even think about it. My darling. My 6 year old darling. So thoughtful, so loving, so endearing. How one note from her, from that beautiful bright night, could even put the brightest sunlight into darkness, and cast shadows in the sunniest days. Holding that piece of paper in my hands, I went into her room, bent down and kissed her on her forehead. She stirred, woke up, and smiled.

"Morning Mummy."

All that is left now, are those memories of carrying her down the stairs, into the kitchen to make her favourite cereals of honey and oat. Ocassionally, I'd sit on the piano and her sweet laughters would fill the music room when I close my eyes and hold my breath. Perhaps, on those very fortunate days, when I stroll in the park and watch a frisbee pass by, I'd see images of my little baby running behind our golden retriever, hair and ribbon tied floating in the air in rhythm with her pink skirt, chasing both dog and toy.

I never blamed the teacher for taking her to the National NuclearMedicine Lab back 18 years ago. It wasn't the teacher's fault. Alright, maybe the teacher should have been more watchful. Maybe she shouldn't have ever allowed her to leave her sight. But it happened. It just happened. Her friends said that she wandered into a room with thick doors and a opaque glass.

The door just shut behind her. We could hear her screaming from inside.
We called the teacher. The teacher yelled for help.
The tour guide ran to a room beside.
When the door opened, she was lying unconscious on the floor.
There was a huge green machine. Bright green.
People wearing huge white masks and jackets.
They didn't let us go in. They took her away. To a hospital. Somewhere.

It was 2 days before we finally saw her. Saw her. They didn't allow anyone to come in contact with her. How I wailed and kicked and fought with the hospital guards as I tried to break free, smash the doors and snatch my baby back from them. How I broke down eventually into the arms of my husband, only to see my baby, lying motionless behind the windows.

And how my life changed that day onwards. How the chair outside her room became my bed. The staff toilet became my bathroom. Sometimes I even borrowed a jacket or blanket to keep myself warm when the thermostat was down.

3 months. From the day she finally opened her eyes, jumped out of bed and skipped around the room as I clapped from outside. On many ocassions she'd even press her face to the window as I'd press mine on the other side, sometimes too she'd cry wanting to come outside, and how I struggled to make her smile while deep inside I was breaking and crying too.

And finally, how her beautiful and silky brown hair finally thinned, fell and dropped. That beautiful brown head became white and smooth. Her eyelids blackened, her skin wrinkled, her body shrunk. Watching my very own baby slowly decaying from the effects of plutonium, that sense of helplessness and hopelessness, that painful experience of watching her slowly fade away.

The day came. My pastor, I and my husband, clad in thick white jackets with a mask over our head, walked dreadfully into the room. My baby was beyond recognition. Bundled under a maze of tubes of different colours, her eyes were closed, her breaths laboured in pain and difficulty, her body shrivelled and small.

And as all mother's ask, "How could this happen to my baby?" And I ran out from the room. My husband never did stopped me, though I now wished that he did back then. I cried so hard that my eyes hurt and tears were now dry. I swore I cried my heart out when my husband came out with the pastor, and the group of doctors slowly wheeled the small bed out with a zipped black bag over it.

Yet, amidst those tears, something caught my eyes. On the floor, still, quietly sitting there, under the doors of her room for the last 3 months. A small, white, folded piece of paper. And that stopped the tears immediately.

Standing up with whatever energy left, staggering and bending down, picking up the white paper with trembling hands. The tears flowed again, this time, quietly and peacefully, as the paper unfolded.

"Mummy." A stick lady, holding the stick hand of a smaller stick girl. At the corner of the paper, written, "Baby."

Alone and quiet now. The same tree, the same branches and leaves dancing under the same layer of snow. The same stillness as that night, when my baby asked me why the night is so bright. Oh baby, if only you would write me just one more note. One more, and I'd give up anything, absolutely anything for that note. A note that would melt my heart all over again. A note that would simply make my day. A note that would remind me, that you were God's way of lighting up my darkest nights.

My Brother's Last Race - Jo Hann's Birthday Gift

Call it inferiority complex, call it brotherly rivalry, or even jealousy. Whatever it was, one thing I knew for sure was, the day I knew that I could run faster and further than my brother was the day my life changed for good.

All these years I have been living in my brother's shadows. He's intelligent, brilliant in his studies, knows his geography at the back of his hand, and is older than me. He gets presents first hand, books brand new, shirts fresh from the bags, and ang pows in larger potions. To simply make matters worse, he gets the attention from relatives and friends, while I'm always left by the side, sulking and wondering what I could do to divert those attentions away from him to myself.

So that morning during the annual school race, I realized I could run and run without stopping. That moment of time when I touch and broke the ribbon with my older brother tailing behind by the laps, that was the very defining moment. An eruptuous cheer, magnificent applaud, standing ovation from the crowd, and a team high in spirits dashing towards me, lifting me in their arms and throwing me into the air like a hero.

I knew then, that if there was anything that would make me shine brighter than him, it would be in a race.

And from that day, I trained very hard. Running, jogging, swimming and skipping. All forms of exercise that would make me stronger, faster, and last longer on the field and road. Every moment of training, the only thing on my mind was this,

"I'll be better than my brother."

Sure and true enough, I would emerge champion tournament after tournament, race after race. Slowly stepping into the limelight, walking up the podium before my brother, standing on a platform higher than his, I finally thought, This is it! I'm finally better than my brother!

My brother is a quiet man. He never held any grudges against me. We were still best of friends, the most ideal wrestling and squabbling partner and the most vulnerable prank target. Fact was, he never joined me for training since my winning streak in races began. Slowly he pulled back into the shadows, as if he was allowing me to bask in the glory of my strength, withdrawing from the crowd that once loved him, and faded into himself alone.

2 years ago, my brother would graduate in 2 months. So happened a tournament flyer fell into my hands and caught my attention. Eager to beat him in one last race, I invited him persistently to participate, and he - knowing my intentions well enough - agreed graciously.

That morning then, the eyes were on 2 men. Brothers, one the older brother, the other, the younger but faster brother. The bellowing of the siren, the raise of flag, and the gunshot. The race officially began.

In a 10 km race, many will fall out and drop out of line. Only a few would remain in the pack trailing the leader, and come 6th km, I was the leader with a single man remaining from the pack.

My brother.

The last 2 km was a traditional victory lap for me. I would stride into the stadium, gloriously raise my hands as I made my last 3 laps in the stadium before I crossed the line. Already the crowd were hysterically cheering me, chanting my name, while my brother quietly and tamely followed from a distance.

Beaming with pride and swelling with ego, I said to myself, This is it! The ultimate victory is mine!

Little did I know, before those words were even completed in my heart, I slipped and fell. It was the weight of my body that crushed my ankle, a grinding sound, then a snap and crackle, and I was lying on the floor, grimacing in pain, and holding my ankle with both hands. Looking up, through the shrunken vision of my half closed eyes, I could see the finishing line just metres away from me.

No!! I yelled to myself. How could this be?

I cried in pain and bitterness, not from the physical injury but from the mental agony. How could I have slipped on my very last occasion of beating my brother?

Initially, there was jeering from the crowd. Boos. Mockery. Laughter.

Then it was a eery silence that followed.

A pair of strong arms that I've never felt before, from below my armpit, lifted me up. In a few speechless moments of mine, he threw my left arm over his shoulder and rested my weight upon his back.

"Let's finish this race," he said through the deep breaths he took, "Together."

Those last few metres, limping down the lane, 3 feet supporting 2 bodies, 2 brothers once divided over a crown now united. Those last few metres were the longest I've ever had since I first ran. And tears of remorse, tears of shame swelled in my eyes and rolled freely. Resting my head on a shoulder that was full of a brother's strength and love, I was both ashamed of my behaviour, and proud of my brother.

He dropped me carefully and slowly into the first aiders hands after crossing the finishing line together. Lying down, while white soldiers were busy wrapping my feet together, my brother came over to me and said to me,

"I don't run against you, I run with you. And to me, you're more than a race champion, you're a brother. My only brother."

He graduated from high school with flying colours. Watching him walk onto the stage in his flowing robe with the square hat over his head, I recalled that last race we ran together. How I wished that I had ran with him more, I thought. How I wished that it wasn't ego and pride that fueled me to run faster. How I wished that every race I ran, I ran by his side and not ahead of him.

Those many races I won, I only obtained a short lived glory stored in a memory database, somewhere. That last race my brother ran, he still didn't win the race, but he won my respect. And till this very day, when asked about him and what he's up to, my reply is always simple,

"He's my brother." With pride and love.

I Believe in You

Mandy had only one thing to say after I ran across the hall to break the good news to her.

"Jo, it's been such a long time since I last saw your eyes sparkle and light up like that."

Indeed, it has.

It really wasn't much of a sacrifice when I decided to make those trips back to Shah Alam. The juniors deserved some sort of training before entering the debate tournament. Besides, I was the one who actually persuaded both of them - and their mums - to allow them to join the debates. More to that, at least I utilized all those time to catch up with my beloved juniors. Betty, Peiling, Stephy, Amanda. Slept and played DOTA in Samuel's room, met his whacky bunch of friends, borrowed his Campbell biology book, slept on his bed while he slept on someone else's.

Then came one special old junior whom I've trained before. Zoe. The extremely special one. The one that I actually wished I'd spent more time with, the one I wished I had paid more attention to, the one that I've tried the hardest to understand... and yet failed at every step of the way for the whole of last year.

And to my surprise, this debate has blessed me more than anyone.

For a long time, I've held back many emotions and many problems. Refusing to allow people to once again meddle into my life and heart, I kept the world locked out to ensure that no one sees the me inside again. Yet one person could make that difference, even without trying. Seeing her made me remember myself when I was in her age. Tough, resilient, ready to take on the world, daring, brave, yet fearful. Fearful of the past, held back by the haunting memories, afraid of making mistakes that have happened before.

Throughout those sessions then, the greatest - and hardest - decision of all, was to choose to do what was right. All the time.

And for once too, I refused to lie to myself, I refused to lie to them. Juniors that may be far away from me in distance, but close to me in my heart. I believed in them, I trusted them, and I did all that I could to never let them down.

They deserved the best I can give.

Those juniors gave me the greatest gift. Not of victory, but of friendship. Not of success, but of trust. Not of another trophy, but truth.

They achieved what I could never have achieved on my own in my time.

Stephy and Pei Ling's sms again placed a smile on my face and in my heart. Somehow, my heart was so full of happiness and joy. It was such an honour to have them paired up in the first place, to see a friendship unfold between 2 initial strangers, how they learned to trust and depend on each other, how they held each other's hands and pray, how they'd very cheekily send me off and gossip and girl-talk, how they hung on, stayed strong for each other, trained hard, and eventually won the whole debate.

Zoe then, showed me that people can change for the better. Drop the word 'better', make it 'change for the best'. She proved me right. I chose to believe that she may be afraid, but she will not back down. I knew that one day, in her own time, in her moment, she will shine and rise above storms of despairs and sail the waves of turbulance. She did it. She may have made me proud, but she can now be proud of herself. Maybe not for what she did, but for realizing what she truly is.

And in a very quiet corner of the hall, was a special girl with a special story to tell. She had a story of sadness, a little tale of a troubled girl, and a little broken heart held in her hands. But I believe that while her hands still hold the shattered pieces, she now knows who she can surrender them to.

"Make sure you give Him every single piece, if not, that broken heart can never be mended"

Sam, Elsha, while I can never deny that I am proud because you won, I am still proud that you have went on to achieve that which you first thought was unattainable. I'm honoured to have your trust and belief from the very beginning, that while you two may have doubted in yourself, you never doubted in me. That you gave me a chance to prove to you that both of you are worth far more than what you think you are, that you allowed me to take a small step into your lives and bring you into experiences after experiences that will make you look at yourselves, never in the same way again.

Above all, Sam, Elsha, I am so happy that you are now not only the best of friends, but you two now have a wonderful and beautiful story of grace, mercy, and second chances.

It's your story, as it is mine. Thank you for sharing that story with me.

And yes Sam. That's the very best thing that has happened to me.

I. Miss U.

Waking up to the calls of the phone alarm, bending over the bed to switch it off, then slowly crawling out of the bed even when the eyes are still not fully opened, or the sun is not fully up. To walk to the desk and turn on the lights, sitting on a chair that provides little comfort when in front of the lecture notes:

I miss the days where my mother would wake me up. With ruffling on the head and a gentle whisper, those moments define the beginning of a beautiful day.

Walking out from a steamy shower hoping that it would keep me awake for the next 2 hours, tightening the buttons over the chest and wrist; knotting the ties before draping the stethoscope over the neck, and walking out of the house with a pen in the pocket and papers in the hand:

I miss the times when my dad would wait for me at the dining table, send me to school, and hearing those assuring words of "I love you" as I step out of the car, those minutes reminded me that I'm a son of a great dad.

Picking up a copy of free newspaper before ascending the 4 flights of stairs to my lecture hall, to open the doors entering an empty theater to be soon filled by people of all colours and ages; sitting down half browsing the papers before quickly turning back to the notes prepared nights before, and patiently waiting for the lecturer to walk in with profound sciences to be taught:

I miss the mornings where teachers amaze me with the simplest of ideas, when maths was so simple yet so fun, when science was so obvious yet so wonderful, when writing was a joy and a pleasure. It's a pity we can never be a child all over again.

Hustling through the narrow shelves searching for the book in a red cover, rushing downstairs again to the photocopy shop to get some articles copied; passing by crowds with occasional greetings of Hi's and Bye's, sometimes even forgetting names and addresses, when a smile is weary and a laughter is fake:

I miss the times when the reason we ran was laughter, and the people we met were people we love. Where laughter was genuine and a smile was from the heart, those days just seem so far away.


What I've learned in the last few weeks of Uni life has taught me, that medicine is a journey of rediscovering yourself by first understanding others. The fear that 'what I do not know could kill a patient' is extremely real. Perhaps it is a necessary fear to keep us on our feet, yet,

"It is not what we know, but what they know that would save a life"

Do they know who's the keeper of the lives? Do they know the source of true joy and laughter? Do they still remember the Giver of those happy days in their life?

IMU, stands for I Miss U. The memories that were graciously given to me, that I've taken for granted over the years; the people I've met and loved, that I've often neglected; the laughter and smiles that I could've given more generously; last but not least, the Reason of my being in IMU, and the Shaper of my future.

100th Post

When I first started this blog, it was only meant to help distract myself from the various frustrations of situations I faced back that time. Stressed, disturbed and hurting from what was happening, I saw the blog as a way to vent out my frustrations and run away temporarily from my struggles. And since small, my head has always been full of fantasies and ideas, of knights and soldiers, of lovers and parents, of children and teens, running around in the mazes of life, falling and tripping over stones along the way, and finally reaching their various destinations of success, victory, joy and laughter.

It's funny to look back at the first few stories I wrote. Looking back I realized that my writing has went through a momentous period of evolution. From the typical boy-girl love stories to a complicated series of Zanotopian army fightings, and finally coming to the one area ever so close to my heart: family.

Throughout these writings and over the last 2 years, there has only been 1 true theme and purpose of my little stories: Hope. Partly because it is the one thing I yearn and desire for constantly, but more importantly because that is the one reason why I enjoy writing and reading stories. My stories are never the best in the market or in the web, but within my limited vocabulary and with my shamefully confined narrative skills, I do my very best to use people, events, and little things along life's journey to bring out the best from the worst of situations. I promise you, I'm improving by the day, with the help of very meticulous parents that have been my best critiques and the support of close friends like Si Han and many others who help stimulate and encourage me to keep writing and keep growing.

To all who've read and encouraged me along the way, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It is never easy to write a story, let along post it on a blog. Yes, I stumble and fall, but ultimately this blog is never about myself, it's about us. You and me, we're all the same after all. The same story, the same destination, maybe different paths here and there, but at the end of the day, we would finally meet at one common point after being separated at an earlier junction.

And how would I know that for sure? Coz' beyond the mere words in this blog, the true inspiration and source of these stories is the one Giver of my dreams, and the Great Storyteller, and believe it, He is the one that has prepared this journey for all of us.

Thank you so much for spending a couple of minutes of your life in this webpage. The following story, Lollipop Men, is my 100th story. It ain't short, but it is a carefully and very delicately written story, specially prepared for all of you. Do enjoy it, and have a very blessed week ahead.


cheers
Jo aka HeartzOfGold