When I Was Asleep

Tash paced up and down the corridor. Occasionally looking through the glass panel, she could clearly see the doctors and the nurses working busily over his motionless body. They were mouthing a lot of stuff, but she couldn't make up a single word of it.

From outside she saw the nurses adjusting the IV drips and the metal stand that's holding it. She couldn't will herself to go on looking at the commotion inside and hence sat down on the chairs outside my room.

Holding firmly in her hands was the bouquet of roses she bought seconds before her whole life changed. Seconds before that, she was preparing to surprise him with something sweet that he liked. She remembered that he liked roses equally much as her as the roses reminded him of her.

"Every petal of a rose," he once whispered into her ears, "is a beautiful part of you."

And as she held that bouquet, reminding herself of how beautiful she was - and hopefully is - in his eyes, she thought the roses were dying. She thought she saw her petals dropping and fading as he fell and collapsed right in front of her eyes. How as he turned her around to take the shots, how she wanted to scream and scold him as usual, but too late as he smiled and almost immediately gasped for air as he went down to the bullets.

She just couldn't stop the crystal beads from rolling out of her eyes. Eyes shut tight, images of the scene in the ambulance kept replaying itself over and over again. How she yelled and begged and cried and hit him, but still he remained motionless and still. His pulse was slowly decreasing back in the ambulance and as the paramedics were fighting to keep him breathing and alive, she could only sit silently at the side, making sure she didn't get in the way. Holding his hand firmly close to her damp wet face, she could only pray as a helpless person.

If there was anything that she would never ever doubt, she would never doubt the fact that he will give up his life for her when the time arise.

And how she doubted him back when she once met him.

While dating before heading off to Chiang Mai, she once asked him, "Would you ever die for me?" He was stunned and almost went blank for a moment before he fumbled out the words, "Uh.. well.. that's a tough one isn't it.."

"Would you?"

Silence

"I don't know dear. I really don't know." He held her hands and gazed into her eyes. She saw sadness and unsecurity, she saw no assurance of a man that would be prepared to die for her. She only saw that sombre sense of loneliness she never saw before in his eyes, and her heart sank.

She kept that doubt to herself throughout the whole Chiang Mai mission. Though he stunned her by constantly surprising her with beautiful night sceneries and fruits she never seen before in her whole life, though she decided to give him her life and her future, though she never knew what was ahead of them, she still doubted. That thought had disturbed her through the whole journey back to NY and even as she purchased the roses, she looked into the petals and sigh.

What am I doing?

Now she finally knew what was she doing. She was committing her life to a man that was prepared to die for her, and yet at the point of time she decided to stop doubting him as she walked towards him with that bouquet of roses, she lost him.

"Miss Natasha, may I see you for a moment?"

Disturbed from her daze and thinking, she got up and straightened her jacket. Still holding on to the roses, she walked into the doctor's room and sat on the chair.

"Is.. is he ok?" Her voice was all fear and worries.

What if he died? She thought.

No, I must believe that he will live. He will live for me.

She chose to believe that as much as he was prepared to die for her, he too would fight with every breath that he had, to stay alive, to be with her too. She believed that would be him. He was a fighter. He too had fought half his life for the dreams that he had, for the visions that was given to him, for the glory of the Lord. He fought against the red tapes of the birocracy, he fought against criticism in his very own church, he stood up for what was right when everyone was against it, and he has went through the worst of storms in his life and walked out of it a better and stronger person. He persevered in Chiang Mai, braved the rains and chill and protected her from the cold and rain.

He will fight to be with her. I know he would.

But will he live?

Then she got the news. Her heart shattered. She couldn't believe what she heard.

He wouldn't make it, as long as he did not get a heart from a donor.

Lord.. how could you let this happen? Why him, why a good man?

In front of the doctor, she couldn't control her emotions anymore. It was just beyond what she could possibly bear anymore. It was the last that she wanted or had to hear, and she just heard it slip from the doctor's mouth. She wanted and needed hope of his survival so badly, and the doctor sitting in front of her sealed it up.

How could that be?

The voices of the doctor just faded away from her ears. Nothing from the doctor was really making sense or important, so that had to fade. She did not want to hear anymore attempted dialogues of consolation or comfort from man, she wanted to seek the face that she has always desired to see all her life. She wanted to hear from the voice that was most important to her all her life. She wanted her best friend to be by her side, as He has always been all those years.

The same voice that told her to let him come into his life, the same voice that told her not to doubt in him, the same voice that was always heard through the whole ordeal beginning from the gunshots right till that point of time..

God, where are you when I need you the most?

Here I am. Why did you let this happen? Why him of all people? You know well enough that I needed her..

Yes you needed him, but at times like this don't you need Me more? Lord, please be merciful to him Lord, I'm begging you. Not me, just him.. him Lord..

So do You want him to live? Yes Lord, more than anything.. let him live..

Will you give up your life for his sake? What do you mean now?

Will you give up your life for him to liveas he did, for you to live on? Yes, I'm ready. I'm ready Lord, whatever it may take.

"Miss," suddenly the doctor interrupted my conversation with God. "There's only one last possibility left."

That sentence changed the whole course of events. Before she knew what was happening, she was asked to bathe, sign tonnes of legal contracts and statements, renew and review her will for a possible last time, and donning a large white gown, she lay down on a large bed with rollers.

"You are a great lady, Miss Natasha." the doctor looked at her with great and yet, compassionate eyes. "Are you sure and ready to do this?"

She nodded her head confidently. This time, she knew well enough what she was going to do.

Before signing anything, she called her mother. "Nanny?"

"Hi darling.."

I'm just here to say that this will be the last time I'm talking to you, the last time that you will hear my voice, the last time that you will hear me alive, the last time that I will be hearing anything from you..

"I'm just here to say that Nanny, through the many many years, you have been the mother I needed, the lady that was always there for me, the father who taught me to be a lady and the person who has always supported me in all that I do. Thank you and I love you.."

"Is everything ok Tash?"

She never did answer that question, before she burst into another round of tears she quickly slammed the phone. That was the last thing she wanted her nanny to hear before she left this world for good. She didn't want people to worry about her, she didn't want people to mourn or beg her not to do anything stupid.

It was a choice she made. Not for anyone, not for God, but for him.

The man who was ready to die for her without asking for anything in return. For the man who loved her with every little thing that she had.

And she decided, that for him to live would be better for her to live. It was pointless for her to live on with a problem while her problem would become a solution to others. She wanted him to have what she had that could keep him alive.

And she decided, that she will take to the knife. She will let the doctors take her heart, and give it to him.

As she was wheeled into the operation theatre. The anasthesist asked her one last time, "Miss Natasha, beyond this point there is no turning back. This prosedure is irreversible and once you've been put to sleep, you will last for as long as this anasthesia last. Are you ready?"

"Go ahead. Just do it."

As the anasthesist inserted the anasthesia into her, she breathed in deeply. Lord, will I be seeing you soon?

No Tash, not so soon. Why not?

She thought she could see God smiling at her. She never knew why, but what she saw was a doctor running into the operation theatre with a little glass thing in his hands. She could see his name tag bearing the name 'Freezer' through the translucent surgical gown. He pushed the nurses who were getting Tash ready for operation and mumbled some medical terms to the doctor who was about to perform the prosedure. She thought she heard the nurses letting out a laugh and a cheer and she thought she could make out a smile carved on all of their faces from behind their masks.

"What's going on?" she could feel the strain of the anasthesia on her. She was quickly dozing off and falling into a deep sleep.

"Miss Natasha, you are not going to die. For both you and Joash, you will live and be great. You are going to be history."

And true enough, she closed her eyes, never knowing that what was beyond that point of time, what was installed for her after she open her eyes into a new realm would be history.

Homecoming

She was packing up the books in boxes when suddenly a grey and yellow photo dropped out from one of the books. Picking it up and brushing off the dust that collected over the surface, she peered under the light to see what was that photo.

And as she held that photo under the light, the photo became stained with her tears. Blotting out little patches on her photo due to the teardrops that 'washed' away some dirt that remained on the photo, the image became even clearer.

The only thing on her mind now was, "He'll never wait for me."

What was on the photo, was a shot of her and her boy friend few years back before she left for Toronto. With the highlands as background, with his hand firmly over her shoulders, with the largest and sweetest smile she could ever possibly flash at that time, at the back of her mind was nothing more than happiness, comfort, and the luxury of having a man that loved her more than anything in the world.

That, was what she thought back then.

Maybe not now.

He's a superman in his very own ways. He's a state athlete, he's a boy genius, he's a 5-star musician and an accomplished performer in theatres. At his young age, he was already signing contracts for recording and advertising companies who exploited his good looks and talents.

Perhaps it was for that very reason, he never kept his promises, leaving a heart broken and alone in Toronto.

Wiping away her tears, she said to herself, 'I'll be strong. Strong and never give up.'

Tears may dry, but how about the wounds of the heart? How long will it take a broken heart to heal?

Pushing out a trolley full of her boxes and luggages, her parents were already waiting eagerly for her at the arrival lounge. Beaming with joy, her parents took her luggage from her and patted her head.

"So proud of you, Doctor Allison!" dad said.

Doctor? She never wanted to be a doctor. It wasn't her choice really, and she despised the thought of being one. The thought of saving lives were never real, the noble idea of helping reduce people's pain is now a far fetched thought. The only real things that she has seen all these many many years of training and practical in Toronto, were the long hours, the suffering of the doctors themselves, and the hard work.

Worse still, she had no man there to love her.

She fought to hold back her tears to little avail. Hugging her mom and resting her head on her shoulders, she sobbed until the tears would just not come out anymore, leaving both parents at the side to wonder what is going on.

She came home to find her room in order, nothing different. The bed is as soft as ever, her pillow has the same detergent fragrance as before, the flowers were fresh and new. She took in a deep breath and finally smiled.

It was good to be home. To be finally home, it was a luxury. Home was the one place that gave her true solitude and security when the world was closing in on her. Home was the place where she could just turn to her parents when she needed them the most. Home was the place where she got the rest the world could not give her.

And that night as she rested her head, as she put herself to sleep that night, she said to herself,

"As the past becomes the past, as the night comes and darkness falls,
so shall the promise of a future be near, and the coming of a new morning be soon.

As people walk in and out of life, as love comes and goes,
so shall the blessings of God come and be given,
but through it all His faithfulness will never end."

She may never have the love that she desired, she may never work a profession that she would die for, she may never be the everything that others expected her to be. But one thing for sure was, where the home is, the heart is safe, the soul is at peace. Even if nothing would work out well for her in the world, the home was always and will always be that single refuge that she could run away from when the tears come.

And once that tears are dried up, once she wakes up from her deep sleep, she will rise to the challenges, stronger and better. She will find the love that God has for her all this time, she will find the greatest of joy not from Man but from God in a work that she commits to the hands of the Lord. She will know that through the storms, God is above it and God is in control. Only when she decides to come home.

Dedicated to my seniors leaving for Australia soon. May Australia be the home that you desire it to be, may Australia be the land that you can face bravely, and may Australia be a land where God's glory will be seen in you.

On The Swing

From a distance I could see a little girl sitting on the swing, rocking and swaying, up and down and back and forward again. Every time the swing reached its maximum height and stopped in mid air, she would exert more force to push it either backward or forward, hoping that it could take her even higher as it swings downward.

Her face had no smile. Usually people who sat on the swing would smile or glee as the wind breezed through the hair and the ears. Not her.

Motionless eyes that gazed into the sky, not looking at anything particular or of focus, she just allowed herself to be immersed into her own thoughts. Even from a distance, problems, loneliness, desolation, despair, all of it could be seen from her eyes.

Getting out from the van I was in moments before, I asked, "Need a ride?"

She hesitated. She explained that she didn't need one since she was living nearby, and her parents just went out for a little while.

"But it's not safe for a girl like you to be alone." Then she frowned.

Perhaps the only thing on her mind was not to be safe but to be alone. She wanted to be alone in her own thoughts, in her own thinking, in her own little heaven. Her thoughts were her solitude, her emotions her fortress. Perhaps that was the case.

She eventually went up the van with us after a fair bit of persuasion and reasoning. Throughout the whole journey to the coffee shop that we came from earlier on, she was quiet and uttered not a single word. Again she was left to wander in her very own world.

The noise around her in the coffee shop failed to deter her from being in the state of selfness. Friends all around her were yaking and talking nonsense and were laughing, but she sat still beside all of them, gazed at her own shoes and sighed. No longer did she frown, but her tears could be seen hidden deep in her eyes. She never let out a single word, cried not even a single tear, commented on nothing, just left alone.

Looking at her from across the table, a sudden sense of hopelessness and helplessness overwhelmed me. I could just do nothing to help her, I couldn't comprehend the magnitude of the problems that she might have been, neither could I be of any encouragement to her.

Later did I realise, that sometimes, the best therapy for helplessness is just to be by their sides and let them wander on their own.

Sometimes, the best discipline is to do nothing.

Sometimes, the best words said are silence.

Sometimes - right now - as I look back at how the world is unfolding, how darkness is creeping into this universe, how problems are invading our lives, the only thing that reminds me of the tears never seen, the only thing that reminds me of the wanting to be alone and in solitude, would be that girl on the swing.

The Day My Dad Smiled - A Tribute to My Dad

For a time in my life I only thought that my dad was someone very foreign and far away. Unlike my mom who was often at home that I could talk and yak to or joke around with, my dad was working from 7 to 6 in the Ipoh GH Microbiology Lab. More often than not he'd come home from work, open the door and briefly asked how was my dad. Unbuttoning his shirt as he walked upstairs to change, he'd come down in a couple of minutes, plop his butt on the chair and sip his coffee while relating his day to my mother.

For a time in my life I only thought that my dad was all about a stern face and the cane. Everytime I did anything that would piss him off, it was the cane landing on my backside and a good time of shelling and bombing. After that I'd sobbingly retire to my room to lick my wounds.

I should have known him better back then. I didn't then, but now I do.

Born in a big and poor family, my dad struggled to send his brothers to university. Back in his secondary school days, he'd literally sit underneath a lamp post to study at night in preparation for his HSC examination. With a CP scholarship he was able to pursue medicine in Australia, but his condition denied him that opportunity. He had a side growth on his thumb - the growth was like a little thumb - causing him to not be able to wear gloves. Because of that he turned to microbiology instead, and it wasn't until his final year in Australia that a kind professor decided to help remove that little growth for him.

He struggled in the government sector. He would be the one working the longest hours on a task, the first to enter the office and the last to leave, the one preparing all the letters and stuff, and was never recognised for that. He would be the one to take up every single job and task people ask him to do, and even if he is being stretched to the limit or breaking point, at the verge of breaking, he'd still stubbornly continue doing it. Frankly it was by God's grace that my dad survived the brutal years in the Hospital.

I often was frustrated with him. I'd complain to my mom, "Why does everyone takes Papa for granted? What do they think Papa is? Their servant?"

"No Joash," my mom would explain patiently. "It's just that Papa is very nice and tolerant."

"For what? Not like they're paying him more or recognising his effort." I'd protest, and my mom would talk about the weather and my homework or ask me to go practice my piano just to divert from the topic. My mom hated to engage in this kind of talk with me, becasue she knew too well that it would all end in a rather nasty way.

And all I knew about my dad back then was that he'd rather let people trample on him then to let them suffer. I thought he never knew that he's doing other people's job when they should be the ones doing it.

I was always envious with friends. Most of my friends came from rich family. That's partly because I met them in debates and competitions, so I decided to get to know them better. Everytime they hoped into a huge Mercedez Benz after tuition, everytime they took out their new Nokia or Sony Ericsson, everytime they talked about which country their dad's going to send them to after SPM, my heart sank.

My dad could never afford any of those, I'd think to myself. He's just a poor government servant bullied by his staff.

Again I'd protest to God. "It's not fair God!"

I kept forgetting, that nothing was ever fair in the world.

That's if, I choose to believe it.

That Father's Day back in 2005, I made my dad a card.

"Papa,

Would it be better if people said 'Tan Chong Eam, father of Joash'
or 'Tan-Loh Joash, son of Tan Chong Eam?'
I'd prefer the second even if you'd prefer the first."

And I left it on his bed. He walked into his bedroom as usual after work, and after he changed he came out from his room and walked into mine. I was honestly a bit surprised when he walked in.

He smiled at me. (If I haven't mistaken, it was a long time since he really really smiled at me.)

"Thanks Joash, I never expected you to give me a card."

I think he hugged me, and walked out of the door. I thought I felt something different from that day, and I started to look at my dad from a much different perspective.

When I compared what my father gave me and what other dad's gave their children, it would seem that I was at a losing end, becasue my dad never gave me the luxury of the materialistic world. What I forgot was that for what luxury my dad could not afford to give me, he made it up by sponsoring me for my music lessons. Every music lesson would cost a bomb. It was around a thousand eight hundred bucks per month for my piano and violin diploma course, and yet he paid for it.

My mom once sat me down at the dining table and calculated my music lessons for me. "If your father didn't send you for music lessons," she said, "we would be driving a Mercedez Benz by now, all of us in the family would be using the latest handphones and we'd be going for holidays overseas every year." That struck me.

I only thought that my dad would never buy me those expensive stuff because he was too stingy or because he couldn't afford it. What I forgot was that he himself could have bought those things had he not send me for music lessons. I was remorseful and practiced the piano till my hands would break or just drop off from my body. I would sit on the piano for hours prior to the diploma test just to make sure that I don't waste my dad's money.

In the years that followed, my dad started to treat me like a man. He would just talk to me about non-children stuff like 'how would I handle my life next time' or 'what kind of wife I'd have to choose'. My perception of my dad changed slowly from that wicked whip-master to a wise old man that had experience in him. Once thinking that 'my dad's just a stubborn man that thinks he knows best', I realised that 'my dad knows a lot after all' and now as I type this, I must admit that he can amazingly perform a lot of stuff beyond my wildest imaginations. (To know more, read the rambutan tree post)
On one trip to KL I decided to follow my dad down to KL for his meeting. On the way back we were talking about something - I couldn't remember the jist of our conversation - and he pointed out that I should be more helpful in doing the housework.

"Mummy's very tired and is not strong enough to do everything, so if you can do it just help out."

"I do," I replied. "I'd be the last person to let my mom suffer."

Again, I saw my dad smile. I knew what he was thinking.

"Looks like we love the same lady I suppose?" I pointed out. "Yeah," he replied briefly.

When my SPM results were released in 2006, he called. I told him I got straight A1s except for a Chinese. After all, no-one on earth - not even my evil Chinese teacher - expected me to get an A1 for that subject.

"You didn't get straight 1s then?" Through the phone I could sense his disappointment. After he put down the phone, guilt creeped in. How could you have let your father down? He needed the assurance that you'd do your best and you let him down, didn't you?

I went home a disappointed and defeated student. In front of the press, I openly admitted that I wasn't happy with that results. I didn't reveal to them the reason, but only my mom knew about it. I wasn't disappointed about the fact that I didn't get an A1 for Chinese, but I was disappointed about the fact that I let my father down.

My father assured me that he wasn't disappointed later that day, but one thing for sure: my dad's a terrible liar. He couldn't even lie to himself. =D

But had it not be for that point of time, I wouldn't have ever noticed how much my dad meant to me. He means so much to me now that I'd be more disappointed with myself if I were to disappoint him.

My dad, in the last few years I spent with him before coming down to Shah Alam, was a teacher. He taught me how to survive and how to study. He taught me how to live alone and how to face my fears. He never talked to me about all those things or wrote it down in paper or pen, but he taught me those things by lead of example. His history, his experience, his past became my guide and direction.

Now I finally come to terms that what my dad truly was - and still is - lies way beyond what he does. What he has done in the past, like caning me or bombing me, was for disciplinary purposes, but beneath the hard shell of his stubborness lies the softness that every father has deep in their hearts. Though he may never give me what I perceived to be the best, yet he never failed to give me what was really the best that I should have. The best thing that he gave me, after all, was himself and all that he had.

That I recognised and realised, only after the day I saw my dad smile.

Postlude: The above is NOT fictional.

Papa, if you're reading this, I hope you won't mind it. Anyway, it's just another way of me telling you how much I love and miss you.

I'm coming home soon.

Eyes on Malaysia

"We want the world to see us, but what will the world see?
We want the world to know us, but what will they know?"

As I type this post, my hands are still shaking. Earlier the afternoon me and Si Han (Freezer) helped carry a disabled man on a wheel chair down 3 flights of stairs. The stress on my arms was overwhelming - though the man wasn't heavy at all - and the effect is still there.

That's not the whole reason of me typing this post. I'm not complaining about showing some kindness to a disabled man who was struggling to near the stairs in hope that someone would offer to help him down.

The whole purpose of this post is that - what happened to the Malaysian spirit?

"Malaysia Boleh"

What are we doing with that spirit?

Boleh what?

Play batu seremban in space? Build a ferris wheel so large for Malaysians to ride up for 15 minutes while both money and time could be spent at better use?

Upon boarding the bus to head back to Subang, Si Han protested. "KL Sentral is the most fantastic architecture in the country. One toilet per level, and no special lanes or facilities for disabled people."

"There are facilities for them," I pointed out. "Just that it's spoiled."

How often do Singaporeans regard us Malaysians as people who 'can-build-but-cannot-maintain' and the leaders of this country would react as if the skies were collapsing beneath their ego? Isn't that a fact? The elevators meant to take disabled people downstairs from the upper floor in KL Sentral was spoiled, so how do you expect the poor disabled uncle to go down? Fly or glide down the railings?

That's not the real issue. Allow me to address the critical problem here.

The spirit of Malaysia.

I once know of a land where people were nice and friendly. I once believed that the this land is peaceful and free from social diseases. I once thought that I my country is a home where the families of the home would stand up for what they believed was right, fight for justice and uphold righteousness.

I want to believe in that Malaysia, but is it becoming the Utopian Malaysia?

The disabled uncle rooted his wheelchair at the edge of the stairs, hoping for someone to carry him down. Hundreds of people must have passed by his side and walk without giving him a second thought. Credit given to the kinder souls who dropped in a couple of pennies inside a little plastic bag he had on his lap.

And if no one still believes in the spirit of Malaysia, I chose to be that spirit.

The spirit of Malaysia is fading. How shall we revive it?

Prayers?

Campaigns?

Implementation of new policies by the government?

It must begin from us within. No one can change the nation, we can. Simply because we are the nation, we are Malaysia. Not the physical state, not the geographical location. But us, the people, the citizens.

We often want Malaysia to be known in foreign countries. It seems awesome when foreigners praise Malaysians. Of course! Who doesn't like the honey of the ear, while forgetting the bitterness of the medicine that we ought to be taking now?

We want the world to see us, but what shall they see? A dying spirit, a failing enthusiasm, a moral-lacking society?

We want the world to know us, but what will they know? A nation divided morally, an epitome of nonchalency, an example of tidak apa?

Boarding the bus back to Subang, I realised that I had no small change left. An aunty graciously smiled to me as I approached her with a ten-dollar bill in my hand. Counting the one-dollar notes that she exchanged with me, she adviced me on purchasing the right tickets next time before boarding the Rapid KL Buses and to plan my journey ahead of time - to save money.

And I thank God, in all of His grace that He showed me that the dying spirit of Malaysia is not dead. Beneath the defeated ashes of a fire that was once a fighter's spirit, the glow is still very much alive. There is a chance that this glow will once again burst into a magnificent fire, if and only if we choose to fuel it one more time before it's too late.

Never Easy Being Me

I try my best to be the best that I can be,
not knowing what the best other people expect of me.

I give my all in everything that I do,
not knowing what the expectations are and the standards lie.

I work to be what I should be,
in reality what should I really be?

I am happy to be myself
but can everyone accept me for who I really am?

I strive for excellence and distinction
but who will stand by my side and see me through it?

I hate to struggle
but I have to

How many roads more to walk?
How many battles to fight?
How much more work to day?
How many more days to go?

The battle's a lonely one
The road's a long one
The journey's a tiring one
The day's dark one

But in all doubt and pain
in all tears and sadness

I've learned - the hard way -
to always
and at all times
put your heart and your hope in the Lord
and trust in all His ways
that he knows what you need and not what you want

When love hurts too much, it's time to let go
because letting go is the beginning to healing and restoration
and the start of a new journey

Who of you, have seen my tears?
none.

But God has.

Who of you, have let your tears fall in front of others?
I'll never know

But God knows.

Looking Beyond the Storm

Thursday night I delivered the hardest message I ever delivered in my whole life. No debate or speech was any harder than that.

It was a CA night and it was the first one of the year, and Pastor David told me to go deliver a message. I prayed about it, and the message that came to me was clear.

Talk about something close to your heart Joash.

The verse that came to my mind was Luke 18:36. The blind beggar.

And I decided to talk about it. Talk about how the beggar had problems that he had to face, and how he decided to face it. Talk about how he cried for mercy, talk about how desperate he was and that in his desparation when he cried out how God delivered him.

Tha wasn't the hard part, the hardest part was to believe what I said. Especially after going through a real hard year before that.

I spoke about why problems came into our lives. Moulding, character building, purifying through trials of fire. I shared about the importance of recognising such problems in our lives. It's all about humility. I showed them what happens when we cry out to God about our problems. We recognise that He is supreme and that He is the one that can deliver us from our problems. I lastly shared about allowing God to come into our lives to work those miracles. Don't struggle with God!
Easier said than done, more often than not, including in my situation. I was struggling with God, and I did. Just recently I was asking God, why am I short and pimple prone. I questioned him, why can't He make me tall and handsome?

Where would my glory be? Would people see My glory or yours?

And I was rebuked.

And I was convinced.

Then did I know, it was no longer about me or myself. It was about God. The Giver of dreams, the Healer of wounds, the Physician, the Keeper of time. He is all and everything, so who am I to take that away from Him?

1 hour before I went up for my message, I had gastric. Half an hour before, I bruised my thumb so badly while whacking the conga I thought the blood veins nearly burst. 10 minutes before due time, I had such a bad stomach ache I thought I was going to get diarrhea.

I prayed and covered the message with His blood.

The very second I picked up the mike, God proved to me that at the end of the day, He was, is and will always be in control.