As I listened to the pastor’s message yesterday in the morning service, I was reminded by a question I used to struggle with.
As a child, I used to wonder and remain puzzled about one particular thing that the Bible told.
Why did they kill Jesus?
(Yes, of course apart from what I had known that Jesus came to die, and it was his purpose of condescending to this lowly earth, so he might die in our place)—but still, how come they killed him?
It was just too much for my child mind to comprehend, how come people who had seen him doing good for so many people; healing them, blessing them, feeding them, teaching them, liberating them, loving them, had a heart to flog, ridicule, and eventually put him to death in a shameful way—hanging on the tree?
Didn’t they see what I see in his cross? I don’t see the shame in it, I only see love, great love that made him stay there willingly, nailed and bled, while he could have come down if he’d wanted to.
Why did they hate Jesus, so much to want to do away with him?
The pastor phrased the reason in one sentence: Jesus did not fit in their religious system. It didn’t matter that he fulfilled all the prophecies in the Scriptures, they rejected him because he did not appear the way they wanted him to.
I too, in my life, have often acted the same way as they did, to some extent. Judging the books by their covers, judging people by outward appearance only, while what matters most lies inside us. When my sight is blurred by worldly things, I miss out the most important ones.
So, while it’s Christmas, I want to ask the Lord to once again cleanse my eyes so I’ll be able to see with a childlike manner, with a childlike faith. So as I see the helpless Babe in the manger, I would not mind the manure, would not mind the dirty stall full of animals. Instead, I would be amazed to see how low God was willing to stoop for me and you. And since I don’t have gold, incense, or myrrh, all I can do is to bow down all of me in front of him, and give him all I have: my welcoming heart, warmer than the heap of hay in his manger.
HAVE A BLESSED CHRISTMAS, MY FRIENDS!
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
(HE) LOVES ME, (HE) LOVES ME NOT
There are two kinds of guys that drove me nuts: stalker(s) and cool prince(s) charming. They both are annoying in their own way when they rub my back in the wrong direction. As being opposite to each other, they always prevail to make me grit my teeth, in annoyance, or in frustration. And maybe (or so I hope), all girls can sympathize with me to some extent.
Princes charming are aloof, untouchable, and despite their being near physically, they are still unapproachable, like a ball thrown too far, completely out of our league. When we wish they would call, or impatiently and frantically wait for any text, still the phone doesn’t ring nor beep, and the inbox remains empty. Sometimes they compel us to give them a green sign, and we reluctantly do, but still they wouldn’t bother to budge. They always create the same feeling inside me the way Latin music does, makes my feet wanna tap and swing around when I don’t have a partner to dance with. They make us thrilled for a while, but then the thrill is fading fast like a rose lacking of water.
Stalkers, in other hand, seem to be also blind (or ignorant, or indifferent?) towards our signs to shun them away. They make phone calls like daily ritual, sometimes to a frequency of taking your pills: three times a day—as if our schedule only consists of talking with them while we don’t even enjoy the conversation, and desperately think how to end it, and later, when it is getting worse and no longer bearable, we try to avoid it as often as we can. And oh boy, you’ll be amazed of how persistent they can be!
For me, friendship develops gradually—from an acquaintance, friend, close friend, more than a friend, and God willing, perhaps he is that long awaited soulmate. And so, a friend of a friend who you’ve just met one or twice is being unfair when he demands more time than what you have or are willing to spare for your own friends.
And also, there are some seasonal friends—those who were part of our stages in life and now as time has passed and you’ve changed a lot, you two might not fit in anymore to each other—and so he also has to start from the beginning again. And if he is not patient enough to go through the friendship phases I mentioned above, and trying to skip some initial phases instead, I find him very intrusively demanding, impolite, and extremely bugging. He is just like blasting rock music when what you really need is tranquility. He robs your peace by always pushing but never understanding.
However, the only question with me now is this: If a prince charming starts acting like a stalker, will he make you super-thrilled with the lavishing of attention, or will you downgrade his position to a ‘stalker category’ and lose your interest in him? I happen to have not a chance yet to test the hypothesis. But as for me, no matter how deeply I am attracted to somebody, I cannot let him have my whole time—I still need some for my family, friends and girlfriends, and most of all, being an introvert, I need time for my own self.
In this case, my previous objection towards long distance relationship starts to dissolve itself. In short words, I’m willing to try it even though I know that there will be times when all I can do is sitting alone on a bench in a garden, tearing the petals from their core one by one while sadly whispering to myself: he loves me… he loves me not… he loves me…. he loves me not…..he loves me.
Princes charming are aloof, untouchable, and despite their being near physically, they are still unapproachable, like a ball thrown too far, completely out of our league. When we wish they would call, or impatiently and frantically wait for any text, still the phone doesn’t ring nor beep, and the inbox remains empty. Sometimes they compel us to give them a green sign, and we reluctantly do, but still they wouldn’t bother to budge. They always create the same feeling inside me the way Latin music does, makes my feet wanna tap and swing around when I don’t have a partner to dance with. They make us thrilled for a while, but then the thrill is fading fast like a rose lacking of water.
Stalkers, in other hand, seem to be also blind (or ignorant, or indifferent?) towards our signs to shun them away. They make phone calls like daily ritual, sometimes to a frequency of taking your pills: three times a day—as if our schedule only consists of talking with them while we don’t even enjoy the conversation, and desperately think how to end it, and later, when it is getting worse and no longer bearable, we try to avoid it as often as we can. And oh boy, you’ll be amazed of how persistent they can be!
For me, friendship develops gradually—from an acquaintance, friend, close friend, more than a friend, and God willing, perhaps he is that long awaited soulmate. And so, a friend of a friend who you’ve just met one or twice is being unfair when he demands more time than what you have or are willing to spare for your own friends.
And also, there are some seasonal friends—those who were part of our stages in life and now as time has passed and you’ve changed a lot, you two might not fit in anymore to each other—and so he also has to start from the beginning again. And if he is not patient enough to go through the friendship phases I mentioned above, and trying to skip some initial phases instead, I find him very intrusively demanding, impolite, and extremely bugging. He is just like blasting rock music when what you really need is tranquility. He robs your peace by always pushing but never understanding.
However, the only question with me now is this: If a prince charming starts acting like a stalker, will he make you super-thrilled with the lavishing of attention, or will you downgrade his position to a ‘stalker category’ and lose your interest in him? I happen to have not a chance yet to test the hypothesis. But as for me, no matter how deeply I am attracted to somebody, I cannot let him have my whole time—I still need some for my family, friends and girlfriends, and most of all, being an introvert, I need time for my own self.
In this case, my previous objection towards long distance relationship starts to dissolve itself. In short words, I’m willing to try it even though I know that there will be times when all I can do is sitting alone on a bench in a garden, tearing the petals from their core one by one while sadly whispering to myself: he loves me… he loves me not… he loves me…. he loves me not…..he loves me.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
SAY NO TO PLAGIARISM
As most people know, writing is one out of million other things I enjoy to do, and one of a few things I take seriously. However, I only have two books on creative writing (of course I’ve read more than that).
Since a friend asked to borrow the only one I have with me now, I took it out of the shelves and reread it again since last night. Personally I don’t think it was great, but last night I thought it was good, esp. the chapter on metaphors, the subject I like the most.
HOWEVER….. five minutes ago, as I reread some files on my computer in the ‘creative writing’ folder, I came across an old document that my formed boss downloaded for me, called OWL Writing Guidance from Purdue University Online Writing Lab. And guess what… I found out that the metaphor chapter I just read in the book was just exactly a translated version of a part of that writing guidance! Not only the definition, even down to the sentence examples!
As I furiously looked for any citation or reference which would take off my offence and objection towards what I suspected as plagiarism, I felt my heart breaking cos there was none!
What makes it outrageous, the writer is one of the famous ones in
Indonesia, won a prestigious prize and was awarded as the best literary writer by a well-known magazine several years ago, and is teaching creative writing in a learning center!
I TRULY HOPE that he just forgot to put the citation/reference, and did not omit it intentionally! SAY NO TO PLAGIARISM!
Since a friend asked to borrow the only one I have with me now, I took it out of the shelves and reread it again since last night. Personally I don’t think it was great, but last night I thought it was good, esp. the chapter on metaphors, the subject I like the most.
HOWEVER….. five minutes ago, as I reread some files on my computer in the ‘creative writing’ folder, I came across an old document that my formed boss downloaded for me, called OWL Writing Guidance from Purdue University Online Writing Lab. And guess what… I found out that the metaphor chapter I just read in the book was just exactly a translated version of a part of that writing guidance! Not only the definition, even down to the sentence examples!
As I furiously looked for any citation or reference which would take off my offence and objection towards what I suspected as plagiarism, I felt my heart breaking cos there was none!
What makes it outrageous, the writer is one of the famous ones in
Indonesia, won a prestigious prize and was awarded as the best literary writer by a well-known magazine several years ago, and is teaching creative writing in a learning center!
I TRULY HOPE that he just forgot to put the citation/reference, and did not omit it intentionally! SAY NO TO PLAGIARISM!
SHORT ARDENT AFFAIR
It was love at the first sight.
He was so cute and sweet, and he returned my affection whole-heartedly. He was crazy of my gentle strokes, and I could not stop thinking of him. I did my best to make him happy, and I think I did, to some extent.
But then I had to say goodbye and leave him. It was so ironic—I who loved him so much could not stay to be there for him, and those who could stay didn’t know how to love him as much as I did, and didn’t care too much of how he was feeling either.
And so our love affair lasted only for three days. They said I was responsible for his broken heart which was fatal. They implied that it was my too much love that killed him. But I could accuse back that it was their lacking of love which could not make him survive.
Well, he’s gone now. And these tears won’t make him back. He was fragile and defenseless anyway, and maybe it was for his own good that every suffering he’d felt was taken away so quickly, along with his short life.
Nevertheless, I still wish he were still there, getting bigger, barking louder, wiggling his tail upon seeing me, licking my toes, or climbing into my lap to be cuddled. And I promised I would love him more.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
ON DUCATI DAY and STONER’S METAMORPHOSIS
I know it’s a lil bit late to say this, but following my fave racer Valentino Rossi’s example of being a good sport—I just want to congratulate all Ducati fans on their triumphant day last Sunday in Motegi, Japan.
It’s also amazing to see how fast a cocoon turned into a butterfly—from a ‘Crashy’ Stoner into Casey The Winner.
Vale finally found the best rival—hopefully next season will be much more fun to watch—full adrenaline too!
I know it’s a lil bit late to say this, but following my fave racer Valentino Rossi’s example of being a good sport—I just want to congratulate all Ducati fans on their triumphant day last Sunday in Motegi, Japan.
It’s also amazing to see how fast a cocoon turned into a butterfly—from a ‘Crashy’ Stoner into Casey The Winner.
Vale finally found the best rival—hopefully next season will be much more fun to watch—full adrenaline too!
Thursday, September 13, 2007
MUSIC OF MY HEART
I’ve been feeling musical lately.
Maybe it is triggered by the intensive orchestra rehearsals at my music school and my daily two hour practices at home.
I really love to be there, in the hall upstairs, where lots of chairs are arranged neatly, two for every music stand: we are seated in pair then, and there’s no fixed rule where to sit, as long you find someone with the same position (first, second, or third fiddlers). We all mingle there, from every age (elementary school kids, teenagers, up to grown ups in mid-forties). Some additional chairs are put nearby to anticipate the laggards.
Sometimes I am one of those laggards. But despite the yells to hurry up from the annoyed teacher and music conductor, I enjoy those rushing moments when we climb up the stairs, two steps at a time, then go inside the small room to put our violin case on the floor, open it up quickly yet carefully, tighten the bow and set up the shoulder rest as fast as we can. Though most of us usually don’t have enough time to apply the rosin into those smooth fibbers, we can still smell it from the residue not yet wiped away from the last practice.
Then we fly to the hall where the music is already playing.
We violinist are lucky never to be singled out for any false tunes (though we hit them anyway), but receive the reproach(es) as a group, unlike the poor and only one drummer, or guitarist, or bassist. The worst is just a playful poke of the teacher’s baton to correct the position of our hands, legs, and backs. We don’t mind his yelling at us, really. It is taken with a grain of salt, and though we loudly boo at his suggestion(s) of prolonging the rehearsal hour, we actually won’t mind lingering there a little bit more.
I think music is beautiful. I can’t agree at all with a close friend of mine who thinks that music is not more than a disturbing noise. He is one of the two people I know of who don’t like music, almost hate it, I dare say. However, our different opinion about this subject doesn’t reduce my respect and affections I have for him.
Anyway, I have learned to enjoy some ‘disturbing noises’ as a music as well. I will never forget the beauty I found in my nephews’ kiddy talks as they fussed over me soon after my hospital release over a year ago. Their loud and cheerful voice could barely contain their joy of seeing again their once almost dead aunty. And it mortified me to remember how many times I had chided them for making those sounds when I needed a peaceful time to nap or study.
I’ve also grown to appreciate the moments when I woke up to the sound of the rustling leaves, tossed by a morning breeze. From my window I can see some almost withered roses nodding a good morning for me, while at the same time keeping their petals from dropping with impressive tenacity I almost cry watching them. They won’t be there too long.
But soon I’ll be comforted with the sound of my parents chattering in the kitchen or dining room. Sometimes when I am not too sleepy, from my bedroom I can catch a word or two of their conversations, hear their pleasant chuckles as they banter light-heartedly, like a song to my ears, affirming that they are already there for me, ready to smile at and love me unconditionally, and the thought of it warms my heart beyond words.
I know they won’t be there for me forever, neither will I for them. I hate to think of it, but someday we must say goodbye too. But I will always keep their ‘morning song’ in my heart, as the most beautiful music of all.
Maybe it is triggered by the intensive orchestra rehearsals at my music school and my daily two hour practices at home.
I really love to be there, in the hall upstairs, where lots of chairs are arranged neatly, two for every music stand: we are seated in pair then, and there’s no fixed rule where to sit, as long you find someone with the same position (first, second, or third fiddlers). We all mingle there, from every age (elementary school kids, teenagers, up to grown ups in mid-forties). Some additional chairs are put nearby to anticipate the laggards.
Sometimes I am one of those laggards. But despite the yells to hurry up from the annoyed teacher and music conductor, I enjoy those rushing moments when we climb up the stairs, two steps at a time, then go inside the small room to put our violin case on the floor, open it up quickly yet carefully, tighten the bow and set up the shoulder rest as fast as we can. Though most of us usually don’t have enough time to apply the rosin into those smooth fibbers, we can still smell it from the residue not yet wiped away from the last practice.
Then we fly to the hall where the music is already playing.
We violinist are lucky never to be singled out for any false tunes (though we hit them anyway), but receive the reproach(es) as a group, unlike the poor and only one drummer, or guitarist, or bassist. The worst is just a playful poke of the teacher’s baton to correct the position of our hands, legs, and backs. We don’t mind his yelling at us, really. It is taken with a grain of salt, and though we loudly boo at his suggestion(s) of prolonging the rehearsal hour, we actually won’t mind lingering there a little bit more.
I think music is beautiful. I can’t agree at all with a close friend of mine who thinks that music is not more than a disturbing noise. He is one of the two people I know of who don’t like music, almost hate it, I dare say. However, our different opinion about this subject doesn’t reduce my respect and affections I have for him.
Anyway, I have learned to enjoy some ‘disturbing noises’ as a music as well. I will never forget the beauty I found in my nephews’ kiddy talks as they fussed over me soon after my hospital release over a year ago. Their loud and cheerful voice could barely contain their joy of seeing again their once almost dead aunty. And it mortified me to remember how many times I had chided them for making those sounds when I needed a peaceful time to nap or study.
I’ve also grown to appreciate the moments when I woke up to the sound of the rustling leaves, tossed by a morning breeze. From my window I can see some almost withered roses nodding a good morning for me, while at the same time keeping their petals from dropping with impressive tenacity I almost cry watching them. They won’t be there too long.
But soon I’ll be comforted with the sound of my parents chattering in the kitchen or dining room. Sometimes when I am not too sleepy, from my bedroom I can catch a word or two of their conversations, hear their pleasant chuckles as they banter light-heartedly, like a song to my ears, affirming that they are already there for me, ready to smile at and love me unconditionally, and the thought of it warms my heart beyond words.
I know they won’t be there for me forever, neither will I for them. I hate to think of it, but someday we must say goodbye too. But I will always keep their ‘morning song’ in my heart, as the most beautiful music of all.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
BOUND TO BE HOME
Most people (who I know of, at least) aren’t content to be where they are.
It’s relieving to know that I’m not the only one. Yet it’s also alarming to think that a place you’ve imagined would make you a happier person (if only you could live in it), apparently has failed to do so to others (who are already living there). A dreamer wishes to see more of the world, and yet has to fret because her humdrum routine work makes her feel as if she’s being grounded. And yet a world traveler might long for a year when he can finally settle in one place rather than moving around like a nomad. A woman in her mid-thirties might long for a long-awaited soulmate who’d come to snatch her from her ‘weird singlehood’ (as my friend Danielle put it) and make her his queen in some Timbuktu land where she once has been. And maybe they will breed a litter of kids so she won’t have to be alone anymore, won’t be confused anymore of what to do when time is abundant. And yet a young wife with a handful baby to raise thinks she’d give anything to just have 5 minute for herself, to be alone, to be quiet, without having to worry about breastfeeding her kids, putting up with mom in law, or her once romantic husband who’d grown cold. Or a youngster who dreams of being an expat, living and making money in some far away country, tasting new cuisines he only hears of in some culinary shows on TV, and yet has to be satisfied feeding himself with instant noodles, especially at the end of a month when he has spent nearly all his last month’s salary and has not yet received the next.
And those were a few examples to mention. And like I told you before, I am one of them too. Above all places in the whole universe, I want to go to Italy, and maybe some of you are already sick of hearing me say those words again and again.
Few days ago a friend of mine sent me a well-written short story depicting Milan (which made me rack my brain and flip my dictionary in my efforts to understand it---it’s in Italian). It didn’t tell about the exquisite panettone with gelato inside which would make your mouth water, nor about the exhilarating soccer match in San Siro stadium (which I want to see one day), nor about those tame doves which would surround you in front of the famous Duomo. In short, it was a story of Milan from the point of view of someone who probably had lived there all of her life. Down to earth, realistic, and at some point, poignant too. Strangely, it made me think of Jakarta: Same problems, similar dilemmas. Then why on earth do I (still) think that I would enjoy Milan (or at least tolerate it more) than I do Jakarta?
Beats me.
I’m a kind of person who’s easy to please but hard to satisfy. But I guess, most of us are. We tend to think that other places must be better, must be more pleasant or exciting than where we are now, simply because it is different than what we’re accustomed to. But once the honeymoon period is over, we are faced with the same old drudgery, and start to long for somewhere else. Again.
Is it selfish to be so?
Some self-conceited people do think so. One of them accused my selfless and talented friend of being selfish simply because he said he wanted to go abroad. Why not stay in your homeland, there are lots of souls needed your help, lots of chances to serve the Lord here—were the bases of the accusation. The thing is, that man is not God, and who is he to judge my friend whom he’d just met once? And if he also left his own country to be here, then why smirking at someone else who wanted to do what he himself had done? A dear friend of mine implied a similar accusation to me a while ago. I understand why she thinks so, though I have never been in her position. But I grieved over her failure to understand me simply because she has not been in my position.
I don’t think it’s a sin to want to be somewhere else. I believe it is fine, as long as you can still be grateful for everything you enjoy and learn here, and even for the troubles and challenging things you have to face now, not that you should pretend to enjoy what you can’t, but to realize that they are usually the things that shape you into a better person.
For me, this awareness of the impossibility of being content in one particular place is also a kind of epiphany. It shows me that nowhere in this world will really make me feel home. Cos I’m not home already, there’s always a part of me longing for somewhere else where I’m meant to be. Hey, you’re wrong—I’m not talking about Italy. This place must be much more beautiful than any place we know of, so beautiful that we hardly can imagine this place exist at all. And that’s where other problem lies, i.e. in our inability to have a proper imagination or picture of that place.
(Now I’m gonna quote C.S Lewis heavily) We actually have some symbols to help us imagine it—yet, because of their limited brain, people are usually too dumb to understand. Some of them sneer that they do not want ‘to spend eternity playing harps’ (heck, I love violin so much yet I don’t think I want to spend more than two hours playing it at a time!). Those symbols are used to express the inexpressible. Music for ecstasy and infinity, crown for divine splendor and glory, and gold for timelessness of that place (cos gold doesn’t rust). And if it is not enough, the absence of pain, fear, sorrow (and all those unpleasant feelings) is added on.
Unfortunately, I know that some people are not going to make it, no matter how hard they’ve tried (try to be good as you can, try to give as much as you can, at the most you can only be the least imperfect person in the world, but still perfection won’t allow imperfection in any amount), if they know not the right way to go there. Anyhow, the questions that remain with me now are: what if some of them are people we know, or worse, people we love and wish well? Will the remembrance of them and their absence in that place make us sad? (while it is said there will be no tears), or will we be too consumed with joy that we forget about them? (which sounds selfish to my ears). Again, my questions don’t mean that I doubt about the existence of that place. It is rather like someone who still doesn’t grasp all the formulae while she fully believes that mathematics do exist.
Alright, to those who’ve been patient to read until this far: If you happen to be longing to be somewhere else and wonder whether by wanting it you’ve become an ungrateful chap, I just want you to think it over again and never let your dreams go so easily (unless that still small voice urges you to, which I think will not happen too often, cos when we become more united with it we tend to have similar thoughts and desires), just because some people insensitively misunderstand and judge you. Cos who knows if the tug is actually inspired by something greater than your own desire and longing for adventures and experiencing new things?
But don’t delude yourself that there will be a perfect place in this imperfect world. No, not until we get to that place beyond this world, in which we finally will be able to say, ‘we’re bound to be home, and this is our home for eternity, and we don’t want to go elsewhere anymore’.
It’s relieving to know that I’m not the only one. Yet it’s also alarming to think that a place you’ve imagined would make you a happier person (if only you could live in it), apparently has failed to do so to others (who are already living there). A dreamer wishes to see more of the world, and yet has to fret because her humdrum routine work makes her feel as if she’s being grounded. And yet a world traveler might long for a year when he can finally settle in one place rather than moving around like a nomad. A woman in her mid-thirties might long for a long-awaited soulmate who’d come to snatch her from her ‘weird singlehood’ (as my friend Danielle put it) and make her his queen in some Timbuktu land where she once has been. And maybe they will breed a litter of kids so she won’t have to be alone anymore, won’t be confused anymore of what to do when time is abundant. And yet a young wife with a handful baby to raise thinks she’d give anything to just have 5 minute for herself, to be alone, to be quiet, without having to worry about breastfeeding her kids, putting up with mom in law, or her once romantic husband who’d grown cold. Or a youngster who dreams of being an expat, living and making money in some far away country, tasting new cuisines he only hears of in some culinary shows on TV, and yet has to be satisfied feeding himself with instant noodles, especially at the end of a month when he has spent nearly all his last month’s salary and has not yet received the next.
And those were a few examples to mention. And like I told you before, I am one of them too. Above all places in the whole universe, I want to go to Italy, and maybe some of you are already sick of hearing me say those words again and again.
Few days ago a friend of mine sent me a well-written short story depicting Milan (which made me rack my brain and flip my dictionary in my efforts to understand it---it’s in Italian). It didn’t tell about the exquisite panettone with gelato inside which would make your mouth water, nor about the exhilarating soccer match in San Siro stadium (which I want to see one day), nor about those tame doves which would surround you in front of the famous Duomo. In short, it was a story of Milan from the point of view of someone who probably had lived there all of her life. Down to earth, realistic, and at some point, poignant too. Strangely, it made me think of Jakarta: Same problems, similar dilemmas. Then why on earth do I (still) think that I would enjoy Milan (or at least tolerate it more) than I do Jakarta?
Beats me.
I’m a kind of person who’s easy to please but hard to satisfy. But I guess, most of us are. We tend to think that other places must be better, must be more pleasant or exciting than where we are now, simply because it is different than what we’re accustomed to. But once the honeymoon period is over, we are faced with the same old drudgery, and start to long for somewhere else. Again.
Is it selfish to be so?
Some self-conceited people do think so. One of them accused my selfless and talented friend of being selfish simply because he said he wanted to go abroad. Why not stay in your homeland, there are lots of souls needed your help, lots of chances to serve the Lord here—were the bases of the accusation. The thing is, that man is not God, and who is he to judge my friend whom he’d just met once? And if he also left his own country to be here, then why smirking at someone else who wanted to do what he himself had done? A dear friend of mine implied a similar accusation to me a while ago. I understand why she thinks so, though I have never been in her position. But I grieved over her failure to understand me simply because she has not been in my position.
I don’t think it’s a sin to want to be somewhere else. I believe it is fine, as long as you can still be grateful for everything you enjoy and learn here, and even for the troubles and challenging things you have to face now, not that you should pretend to enjoy what you can’t, but to realize that they are usually the things that shape you into a better person.
For me, this awareness of the impossibility of being content in one particular place is also a kind of epiphany. It shows me that nowhere in this world will really make me feel home. Cos I’m not home already, there’s always a part of me longing for somewhere else where I’m meant to be. Hey, you’re wrong—I’m not talking about Italy. This place must be much more beautiful than any place we know of, so beautiful that we hardly can imagine this place exist at all. And that’s where other problem lies, i.e. in our inability to have a proper imagination or picture of that place.
(Now I’m gonna quote C.S Lewis heavily) We actually have some symbols to help us imagine it—yet, because of their limited brain, people are usually too dumb to understand. Some of them sneer that they do not want ‘to spend eternity playing harps’ (heck, I love violin so much yet I don’t think I want to spend more than two hours playing it at a time!). Those symbols are used to express the inexpressible. Music for ecstasy and infinity, crown for divine splendor and glory, and gold for timelessness of that place (cos gold doesn’t rust). And if it is not enough, the absence of pain, fear, sorrow (and all those unpleasant feelings) is added on.
Unfortunately, I know that some people are not going to make it, no matter how hard they’ve tried (try to be good as you can, try to give as much as you can, at the most you can only be the least imperfect person in the world, but still perfection won’t allow imperfection in any amount), if they know not the right way to go there. Anyhow, the questions that remain with me now are: what if some of them are people we know, or worse, people we love and wish well? Will the remembrance of them and their absence in that place make us sad? (while it is said there will be no tears), or will we be too consumed with joy that we forget about them? (which sounds selfish to my ears). Again, my questions don’t mean that I doubt about the existence of that place. It is rather like someone who still doesn’t grasp all the formulae while she fully believes that mathematics do exist.
Alright, to those who’ve been patient to read until this far: If you happen to be longing to be somewhere else and wonder whether by wanting it you’ve become an ungrateful chap, I just want you to think it over again and never let your dreams go so easily (unless that still small voice urges you to, which I think will not happen too often, cos when we become more united with it we tend to have similar thoughts and desires), just because some people insensitively misunderstand and judge you. Cos who knows if the tug is actually inspired by something greater than your own desire and longing for adventures and experiencing new things?
But don’t delude yourself that there will be a perfect place in this imperfect world. No, not until we get to that place beyond this world, in which we finally will be able to say, ‘we’re bound to be home, and this is our home for eternity, and we don’t want to go elsewhere anymore’.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
INTER OH INTER......
After leading 1-0 with Dejan Stankovic’s beautiful goal, Inter could not maintain the position only four minutes before the game was over! Alas! They only got 1 point in the first match of Italian league this season.
And I was just stunned to realize that until Francesco Toldo was played after a fatal blunder of Julio Cesar that sent him off for blocking the ball outside his penalty box, there was no Italian player on Inter squad. Materazzi was not playing, and Grosso has moved to
Lyon.
And so, Inter was full of stranieri, mostly Argentines and Brazilians.
I was so disappointed by their performance, period.
And I was just stunned to realize that until Francesco Toldo was played after a fatal blunder of Julio Cesar that sent him off for blocking the ball outside his penalty box, there was no Italian player on Inter squad. Materazzi was not playing, and Grosso has moved to
Lyon.
And so, Inter was full of stranieri, mostly Argentines and Brazilians.
I was so disappointed by their performance, period.
Monday, August 20, 2007
ROSES ARE RED
Just like my mum’s. Growing beautifully in our garden. Sometimes (or too often), our old neighbor would come in her wheel-chair to ‘rob’ it, and my mum was never too cheap to part with her flowers, thinking that it might be one of a very few things that could please someone in that golden age (what else, can you think?).
Anyway, what I want to write about is not those red roses, but the white ones, I saw them in a skinny tree out there in the pavement, sandwiched in between hard cement and white wall of somebody else’s fence. I was struck to see lots of flowers in her tiny slender stem. How could she bloom in a situation like that? How could she refresh my eyes when she did not look refreshed herself?
What a revelation. I want to be like that too, as a person. No matter how small my world feels at a time (which surely happens to all of us), no matter how suppressed I feel, I still want to be a blessing for others who see me. But sometimes, I am too cheap to even make an effort to smile, when my own heart is not in the mood for love, or whatever you might call it. Instead of blooming like those sandwiched roses, I might’ve been caused an eyesore to others with my snappy words and bad mood. And I truly regret it now.
I might be in need for positivity right now, but it is not an excuse to be negative myself.
Anyway, what I want to write about is not those red roses, but the white ones, I saw them in a skinny tree out there in the pavement, sandwiched in between hard cement and white wall of somebody else’s fence. I was struck to see lots of flowers in her tiny slender stem. How could she bloom in a situation like that? How could she refresh my eyes when she did not look refreshed herself?
What a revelation. I want to be like that too, as a person. No matter how small my world feels at a time (which surely happens to all of us), no matter how suppressed I feel, I still want to be a blessing for others who see me. But sometimes, I am too cheap to even make an effort to smile, when my own heart is not in the mood for love, or whatever you might call it. Instead of blooming like those sandwiched roses, I might’ve been caused an eyesore to others with my snappy words and bad mood. And I truly regret it now.
I might be in need for positivity right now, but it is not an excuse to be negative myself.
TICKLED BY TICKS
Funny how small things could create big problems. I believe I’d been tickled by ticks (read: bitten). Yeah, it did not almost kill me like mosquitoes did once, but still it is so annoying to feel the rash all over my body for almost three weeks.
I thought I’d get rid of it once I finished the doctor’s medication, but I had to come back for another one and I begged him not to give me any pills which had made my appetite ran wild, almost uncontrollable.
He nodded, yeah yeah… those pills increase your appetite. But the fact is, it made me a hungry monster all the time, thinking of what I could gobble up next. Huh. Not that I care bout my weigh. It’s just, I hate being controlled by something I should be able to control.
I thought I’d get rid of it once I finished the doctor’s medication, but I had to come back for another one and I begged him not to give me any pills which had made my appetite ran wild, almost uncontrollable.
He nodded, yeah yeah… those pills increase your appetite. But the fact is, it made me a hungry monster all the time, thinking of what I could gobble up next. Huh. Not that I care bout my weigh. It’s just, I hate being controlled by something I should be able to control.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
GRASS IS GREENER ON THE OTHER SIDE (??)
To be honest, it never crosses my mind to pass somebody’s yard and compare his grass with those on mine. Literally, I mean… but, is it really true that grass is greener on the other side of the fence?
It depends on how you view it, or with what angle you view it, really.
I’ve been chatting with some friends who are seemingly living my dreams, and yet they, to some extent, expressed a desire to trade place with me (which made me ashamed of complaining anymore).
But, how on earth could that happen? Didn’t they also dream the same dream with me? Rather than being dismayed to know that actually things we had thought green have lost its vivid color as time passed, I rejoiced knowing it.
Oh, please, don’t judge me too fast. I’m not rejoicing over my friends’ complaints or their being dissatisfied, be they have achieved their dreams while I’m still fighting for it. I rejoiced because it made me aware that every grass is actually green (cos when they dried up and became yellowish, we call them hay, right?). And, knowing that no place can ever make problems absent in our lives can teach us to be thankful for the roses, and not complain for the thorns (ehm..., please excuse my using clichรฉ here).
So, every time I listen about someone else’s burden, instead of being discouraged like I used to (and I thought it was sympathy or empathy, whatever you may call it), I now have learned to feel relieved, that we actually have our own problems, and no one is too immune of them (and my relief doesn’t mean a nasty thing, like when people rejoice over their enemy’s defeat or fall). This sense of relief doesn’t kill any compassion or other loving feelings we ought to feel when someone dear to us is troubled. But, by not being dismayed ourselves, we are supposed to be able to help them better, and see things in a clearer way, rather than being blurred by excessive and unnecessary sentimentality.
I’m also thankful for the sadness that still tingles my heart and the tears I sometimes shed for the suffering of other people, which proves that I am still capable of loving and caring for others.
It depends on how you view it, or with what angle you view it, really.
I’ve been chatting with some friends who are seemingly living my dreams, and yet they, to some extent, expressed a desire to trade place with me (which made me ashamed of complaining anymore).
But, how on earth could that happen? Didn’t they also dream the same dream with me? Rather than being dismayed to know that actually things we had thought green have lost its vivid color as time passed, I rejoiced knowing it.
Oh, please, don’t judge me too fast. I’m not rejoicing over my friends’ complaints or their being dissatisfied, be they have achieved their dreams while I’m still fighting for it. I rejoiced because it made me aware that every grass is actually green (cos when they dried up and became yellowish, we call them hay, right?). And, knowing that no place can ever make problems absent in our lives can teach us to be thankful for the roses, and not complain for the thorns (ehm..., please excuse my using clichรฉ here).
So, every time I listen about someone else’s burden, instead of being discouraged like I used to (and I thought it was sympathy or empathy, whatever you may call it), I now have learned to feel relieved, that we actually have our own problems, and no one is too immune of them (and my relief doesn’t mean a nasty thing, like when people rejoice over their enemy’s defeat or fall). This sense of relief doesn’t kill any compassion or other loving feelings we ought to feel when someone dear to us is troubled. But, by not being dismayed ourselves, we are supposed to be able to help them better, and see things in a clearer way, rather than being blurred by excessive and unnecessary sentimentality.
I’m also thankful for the sadness that still tingles my heart and the tears I sometimes shed for the suffering of other people, which proves that I am still capable of loving and caring for others.
Monday, July 30, 2007
A SONG FOR ERINA
WITH HOPE
This is not at all how
We thought it was supposed to be
We had so many plans for you
We had so many dreams
And now you've gone away
And left us with the memories of your smile
And nothing we can say
And nothing we can do
Can take away the pain
The pain of losing you, but ...
We can cry with hope
We can say goodbye with hope
'Cause we know our goodbye is not the end, oh no
And we can grieve with hope
'Cause we believe with hope
(There's a place by God's grace)
There's a place where we'll see your face again
We'll see your face again
And never have I known
Anything so hard to understand
And never have I questioned more
The wisdom of God's plan
But through the cloud of tears
I see the Father's smile and say well done
And I imagine you
Where you wanted most to be
Seeing all your dreams come true
'Cause now you're home And now you're free, and ...
We have this hope as an anchor
'Cause we believe that everything God promised us is true, so ...
We wait with hope
And we ache with hope
We hold on with hope
We let go with hope
(Steven Curtis Chapman, 'Speechless')
This is not at all how
We thought it was supposed to be
We had so many plans for you
We had so many dreams
And now you've gone away
And left us with the memories of your smile
And nothing we can say
And nothing we can do
Can take away the pain
The pain of losing you, but ...
We can cry with hope
We can say goodbye with hope
'Cause we know our goodbye is not the end, oh no
And we can grieve with hope
'Cause we believe with hope
(There's a place by God's grace)
There's a place where we'll see your face again
We'll see your face again
And never have I known
Anything so hard to understand
And never have I questioned more
The wisdom of God's plan
But through the cloud of tears
I see the Father's smile and say well done
And I imagine you
Where you wanted most to be
Seeing all your dreams come true
'Cause now you're home And now you're free, and ...
We have this hope as an anchor
'Cause we believe that everything God promised us is true, so ...
We wait with hope
And we ache with hope
We hold on with hope
We let go with hope
(Steven Curtis Chapman, 'Speechless')
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
REMEMBERING ERINA
Today I just found out that my dear friend Erina (29), a young and dedicated doctor who was serving in a remote area in Papua, was killed in a car accident after she helped deliver a bleeding pregnant woman to a hospital in Fakfak. To save her last patient’s life, Erina decided to drive the ambulance herself throughout a winding and dangerous road. On the way back to Kokas (where she worked to substitute another doctor), her car slipped and fell to a ravine of 20 m depth. The nurse who was with her broke her leg and climbed up to ask for help, while Erina was injured badly and passed away on the way to the hospital.
And because I was traveling, I did not follow the news on TV or newspaper, and nobody told me about it until today (I guess they all assumed that everyone knew about it since it became a highlighted news lately). Anyway, I heard another friend talking about the death of a young female doctor in Papua several days ago, and I directly remembered Erina, wishing it was not her. Her last email to me was sent from Fakfak, on May 24 (she congratulated me on my first novel and promised to get a copy when she is back in Bandung), so I drilled my friend to find out whether it was her, but she could not remember any details, so I convinced myself that there must be lots of doctors in Papua, and it could’ve been somebody else.
This morning, before my devotional time ended, my cellphone beeped. Three sms notifying and confirming her death. I fought my tears but gave up. I remembered the times when she drove me home after our Tuesday Bible Studies, listening to her fave Josh Groban’s songs, talking about the future and her medicine studies. I remembered how she willingly helped out with the SRT project I was working on back on my SIL days. She even drove my teammates to her local clinic outside Bandung, where they could interview some of her patients for the project. I could not join them because of my dengue fever. My Mom said, on TV she saw those villagers weeping over Erina’s death, saying that she was such a loving, hard-working and attentive doctor. She was a light there. Not many doctors are willing to help poor people in remote areas. Erina was exceptional.
To think that her life was so brief and had to end so abruptly, in a tragic way, really saddened my heart. I don’t understand why God took her so soon, surely she could be used to help more people with her talents and godly desires. But who am I anyway, to ever question God’s wisdom? One thing that consoles me right now is the assurance that she is now with the Lord, smiling, and happy to have finished her duties on earth, even accomplishing her final task perfectly.
Erina, I am so proud of you. I will always remember your radiant smiles, your heart of gold, and your gentle spirit. Surely you’ll be missed a lot here, but someday we will see each other again, in heaven.
(One of the news about her death: http://www.detiknews.com/index.php/detik.read/tahun/2007/bulan/07/tgl/16/time/152105
And because I was traveling, I did not follow the news on TV or newspaper, and nobody told me about it until today (I guess they all assumed that everyone knew about it since it became a highlighted news lately). Anyway, I heard another friend talking about the death of a young female doctor in Papua several days ago, and I directly remembered Erina, wishing it was not her. Her last email to me was sent from Fakfak, on May 24 (she congratulated me on my first novel and promised to get a copy when she is back in Bandung), so I drilled my friend to find out whether it was her, but she could not remember any details, so I convinced myself that there must be lots of doctors in Papua, and it could’ve been somebody else.
This morning, before my devotional time ended, my cellphone beeped. Three sms notifying and confirming her death. I fought my tears but gave up. I remembered the times when she drove me home after our Tuesday Bible Studies, listening to her fave Josh Groban’s songs, talking about the future and her medicine studies. I remembered how she willingly helped out with the SRT project I was working on back on my SIL days. She even drove my teammates to her local clinic outside Bandung, where they could interview some of her patients for the project. I could not join them because of my dengue fever. My Mom said, on TV she saw those villagers weeping over Erina’s death, saying that she was such a loving, hard-working and attentive doctor. She was a light there. Not many doctors are willing to help poor people in remote areas. Erina was exceptional.
To think that her life was so brief and had to end so abruptly, in a tragic way, really saddened my heart. I don’t understand why God took her so soon, surely she could be used to help more people with her talents and godly desires. But who am I anyway, to ever question God’s wisdom? One thing that consoles me right now is the assurance that she is now with the Lord, smiling, and happy to have finished her duties on earth, even accomplishing her final task perfectly.
Erina, I am so proud of you. I will always remember your radiant smiles, your heart of gold, and your gentle spirit. Surely you’ll be missed a lot here, but someday we will see each other again, in heaven.
(One of the news about her death: http://www.detiknews.com/index.php/detik.read/tahun/2007/bulan/07/tgl/16/time/152105
Saturday, June 30, 2007
ASIKNYA AKSI ROSSI!
From 11 to 1, and Il Dottore is back in the business again!
So fun to watch MotoGP Assen with the two guys of my life, all of us were hoping to be entertained with a great race, and ended up satisfied by the cool performance of Valentino Rossi.
To be honest, for me it’s hard to choose between si Rookie and si Rossi… both are impressive lately. My head usually picks Stoner, but of course, my heart goes for Rossi always (maklumlah, kita sebangsa dan setanah air huehehehe…)
Last week my head was right, this time my heart won in the three last laps, which made everything more fun and more entertaining. And, it was so beautiful to hear Fratelli D’Italia again at the podium.
Also congrats for Hayden for tasting his first podium this season, but….VIVA VALE PER SEMPRE!
So fun to watch MotoGP Assen with the two guys of my life, all of us were hoping to be entertained with a great race, and ended up satisfied by the cool performance of Valentino Rossi.
To be honest, for me it’s hard to choose between si Rookie and si Rossi… both are impressive lately. My head usually picks Stoner, but of course, my heart goes for Rossi always (maklumlah, kita sebangsa dan setanah air huehehehe…)
Last week my head was right, this time my heart won in the three last laps, which made everything more fun and more entertaining. And, it was so beautiful to hear Fratelli D’Italia again at the podium.
Also congrats for Hayden for tasting his first podium this season, but….VIVA VALE PER SEMPRE!
Friday, June 29, 2007
CORAGGIO!
I was awakened from my slumber by a beep of my cellphone. The message reads:
When God leads you to the edge of the cliff, trust Him fully. You know why, only one of the two things will happen: Either He’ll catch you when you fall, or He’ll teach you to fly.
I was struck by the power of encouragement in it. Yeah, it’s something I can really use today, after getting one of the worst news in my life.
If I look back to my endless efforts, buoyant anticipation, high expectation and unwavering confidence, along with unquenchable enthusiasm and unbeatable determination to get what I really want and what I believe I really deserve more than anyone else in this world, of course, ending up not getting it, nay… even not being given a chance to prove it in the first place, is supposed to feel like a slap on my face, a pierce in my flesh, a wrench to my heart and a blow to my head.
BUT, to my surprise, I found myself so matured dealing with it, calmed beyond explanation and I haven’t even shed any tears so far. In fact, I slept soundly. What a miracle, to realize that my hope is not lost, my passion is not dead yet, and my love is not fading away, at one sentence or two from some people who don’t know me well, hence don’t have the slightest idea that they have slammed the door right before my face when I was hoping so much to enter inside, because they chose to close their eyes at my hard works.
That’s okay. I have done my best, and that’s what really counts. And no… no… their no will not end my life nor kill my hope. Rather, it is like a rod which makes a horse run faster, faster, and faster….
I believe everything is beautiful in its season. A seed has to die first to be able to grow. Lazarus had to die first to glorify the Lord when he finally was resurrected. So have I now, learning how to die. It’s not too painful when you understand that it is not the end. Rather, a beginning of new life.
Most important, I am not afraid anymore to keep dreaming big. When it’s not turned out the way I have expected, I believe it’s only a temporary sleep, not eternal death. A delay, not a cancellation. A closing of one door, but the windows are still wide open. Yeah… coraggio!!!!!!
(thanks for the sms, Ryan… it was like a drop of water when I was walking in the desert)
When God leads you to the edge of the cliff, trust Him fully. You know why, only one of the two things will happen: Either He’ll catch you when you fall, or He’ll teach you to fly.
I was struck by the power of encouragement in it. Yeah, it’s something I can really use today, after getting one of the worst news in my life.
If I look back to my endless efforts, buoyant anticipation, high expectation and unwavering confidence, along with unquenchable enthusiasm and unbeatable determination to get what I really want and what I believe I really deserve more than anyone else in this world, of course, ending up not getting it, nay… even not being given a chance to prove it in the first place, is supposed to feel like a slap on my face, a pierce in my flesh, a wrench to my heart and a blow to my head.
BUT, to my surprise, I found myself so matured dealing with it, calmed beyond explanation and I haven’t even shed any tears so far. In fact, I slept soundly. What a miracle, to realize that my hope is not lost, my passion is not dead yet, and my love is not fading away, at one sentence or two from some people who don’t know me well, hence don’t have the slightest idea that they have slammed the door right before my face when I was hoping so much to enter inside, because they chose to close their eyes at my hard works.
That’s okay. I have done my best, and that’s what really counts. And no… no… their no will not end my life nor kill my hope. Rather, it is like a rod which makes a horse run faster, faster, and faster….
I believe everything is beautiful in its season. A seed has to die first to be able to grow. Lazarus had to die first to glorify the Lord when he finally was resurrected. So have I now, learning how to die. It’s not too painful when you understand that it is not the end. Rather, a beginning of new life.
Most important, I am not afraid anymore to keep dreaming big. When it’s not turned out the way I have expected, I believe it’s only a temporary sleep, not eternal death. A delay, not a cancellation. A closing of one door, but the windows are still wide open. Yeah… coraggio!!!!!!
(thanks for the sms, Ryan… it was like a drop of water when I was walking in the desert)
Sunday, June 17, 2007
REMEMBERING ACEH
Last night I spent some time reading the journals I made back in Aceh, 2.5 years ago (Is it really that long ago, seems like yesterday to me). Several days before my departure, my journal entry read, I got a hunch that I’m going to meet someone very special there. It’s not just a hope or prayer, it’s a faith.
But Aceh was so unpredictable.
I had anticipated social rejection, traumatized people, chaos, blood, building ruins, dead corpses and tears everywhere… (yes, I had experienced some of that too later on…), but the very first ‘problem’ that I encountered (or should I say we instead?) was…. the bathroom dilemma. We had one bathroom only for around 10 people, with limited water supply. The one I had to use had no roof, and the water container was so icky and muddy you could not help wondering, would bathing really make you cleaner, or even dirtier.
Absorbed in page after page of my own scrawls during my stay there, I was surprised to be reminded about my mixed feelings at that time; from excited and fearful anticipative to bored, overwhelmingly sad, frustrated and full of fatigue, yearning for some time alone and to get away from the crowd (but could not, cos afraid to be kidnapped by the separatists), angry and annoyed, moved, thrilled, compassionate…. and finally, counting the days til I could go home.
Yet, when I remember my time there now, I only can do it with delight and warmth in my heart. Despite all the difficulties, there were also lots of laughter, smiles, jokes, loving service and affection being shown, even among strangers who came from many different nationalities, a hard-working team which inspired me to do my best without expecting any reward.
And, instead of meeting only someone special, I met many special people, people so selfless and passionate in doing good for the suffering ones. And though, our friendship kinda ‘ended’ (except for some scanty e-mail exchange or a phone call once in a blue moon), as our term was up and we had to separate going our own ways, I found at least someone, who stayed, and stays closer to me, to my heart, to my life as we got to shared so much in the following days, even until now and I hope forever more.
(Doc Wu, you know you’re the one I’m talking about!)
But Aceh was so unpredictable.
I had anticipated social rejection, traumatized people, chaos, blood, building ruins, dead corpses and tears everywhere… (yes, I had experienced some of that too later on…), but the very first ‘problem’ that I encountered (or should I say we instead?) was…. the bathroom dilemma. We had one bathroom only for around 10 people, with limited water supply. The one I had to use had no roof, and the water container was so icky and muddy you could not help wondering, would bathing really make you cleaner, or even dirtier.
Absorbed in page after page of my own scrawls during my stay there, I was surprised to be reminded about my mixed feelings at that time; from excited and fearful anticipative to bored, overwhelmingly sad, frustrated and full of fatigue, yearning for some time alone and to get away from the crowd (but could not, cos afraid to be kidnapped by the separatists), angry and annoyed, moved, thrilled, compassionate…. and finally, counting the days til I could go home.
Yet, when I remember my time there now, I only can do it with delight and warmth in my heart. Despite all the difficulties, there were also lots of laughter, smiles, jokes, loving service and affection being shown, even among strangers who came from many different nationalities, a hard-working team which inspired me to do my best without expecting any reward.
And, instead of meeting only someone special, I met many special people, people so selfless and passionate in doing good for the suffering ones. And though, our friendship kinda ‘ended’ (except for some scanty e-mail exchange or a phone call once in a blue moon), as our term was up and we had to separate going our own ways, I found at least someone, who stayed, and stays closer to me, to my heart, to my life as we got to shared so much in the following days, even until now and I hope forever more.
(Doc Wu, you know you’re the one I’m talking about!)
REDEFINED POINT OF VIEW
Yesterday morning I heard a heart-wrenching but happy ending testimony of a converted ex-transvestite (let’s call him Jon), born with birth defect so horrendous that his own Dad thought of him as a curse instead of a son. He was without legs, so when he stands, he’ll just reach your waist.
He grew up being rejected, an eyesore to his Dad insomuch one day he intentionally stepped on his mouth as he was laying on the carpet watching TV. Jon was also locked up in his room every time they had any family feasts. His Dad would threat him not to make any sound so that no guest would know that he existed. Once he swallowed all the drugs he found in his room in a suicidal attempt, but he survived.
When finally he could get out and play like he wanted all those times, he could not keep up with boys who were running around, being tough, so his companies were mostly girls until he finally turned to be one of them.
‘She’ left her house and started to make a living, standing out in the streets with scanty clothes, her face now pretty with lots of make-up and seductive smile, her heart yearning for a father’s figure, man’s love she always wanted but never got. 14 years passed and she fell deeper and deeper in the black abyss. She now ‘worked’ in a pub, had a steady boyfriend, sold and used drugs, sold some girls and being sold herself.
“I knew I was so filthy, disgusting, a social thrash, good for nothing,” he admitted. His face was tearstained, his voice trembled. “I came to God once, not planning to repent, but asking Him to take my life. But instead, He came and touched me and healed my wounds.”
Her quest to find God had not been smooth either. She tried several time, all of them ended with some ‘holy’ people told him what to do. “You have to change right now, otherwise you’ll go to hell!” one of them told her so, at their first encounter. “They didn’t ask me how I ended up that way, they did not want to know. They just judged me in the first place,” he said. To me, it sounds like asking someone to go to the fiercest battle without equipping him with any weapon. So there’s only two possibilities; either he’ll die miserably, or he’ll run off. Fortunately, Jon didn’t stop there. But, the next one was even worse. Shes was invited to a youth fellowship where he saw warmth, kind of family she’d longed to be a part pf. She was moved that she shared everything with them, but when she admitted her being transvestite. “The leader of the group cut me off right away, and then told my friend not to invite me to come again. I was crushed.”
Listening to his amazing stories and watching his slideshow about his past really moved me. There’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, as well as guilt and shame in my heart for my tendency to also judge people like him by their outward appearance. How many times did I met them on the streets and shrugged my shoulder in disgust, and could not help feeling alarmed being near them? How many times they wished they had never been born, when the police raided them, or when people abused them and made them the joke? Nobody wants to be that way, including them. And instead of understanding and helping them find a solution, we shoo them away, looking at them with disdain, treating them with disrespect or indifference while up above, God loves us both equally, and He must’ve been hurt to see our arrogance and their misery, both is related to each other though most of the time, we’re not even aware of it.
I really want to see them with God’s eyes and see them through their hearts, with mine. After all, we’re all created by Him according to His good image, though unfortunately, some (or should I say all of us, to some extent?) have been ruined by the sinful nature, abusive parents, social prejudice. And clearly, some damages are worse than the other. Jon’s story has helped me a lot redefine my point of view. I’m not saying that I agree with their behavior or that I want to justify their choice of life. There are some things that are clearly black or white, wrong or right, to me, and I can’t compromise my belief just to make others happy. But, what I mean is, at least we can learn not to judge, but listen to their reasons and understand them. By understanding more, we can love more too. And through love, nothing is impossible, even if it means to straight up a messed up life.
However, the only question that remains with me now is, what can I do for them? Crying, lamenting, or writing about it doesn’t seem to help much.
Jon’s case ended happily (praise the Lord for that!). He found his God, reconciled with his Dad, and leads a new life with a new spirit. But how many have a different ending with his? And does not it strike us to think that actually we, as a community, might’ve taken a part in their bad endings, or might’ve helped them go through it and triumph?
(Yea, you might as well call me a naรฏve girl who wishes to change the world with her little hands, and the awareness of her helplessness often more than not, frustrates her…)
He grew up being rejected, an eyesore to his Dad insomuch one day he intentionally stepped on his mouth as he was laying on the carpet watching TV. Jon was also locked up in his room every time they had any family feasts. His Dad would threat him not to make any sound so that no guest would know that he existed. Once he swallowed all the drugs he found in his room in a suicidal attempt, but he survived.
When finally he could get out and play like he wanted all those times, he could not keep up with boys who were running around, being tough, so his companies were mostly girls until he finally turned to be one of them.
‘She’ left her house and started to make a living, standing out in the streets with scanty clothes, her face now pretty with lots of make-up and seductive smile, her heart yearning for a father’s figure, man’s love she always wanted but never got. 14 years passed and she fell deeper and deeper in the black abyss. She now ‘worked’ in a pub, had a steady boyfriend, sold and used drugs, sold some girls and being sold herself.
“I knew I was so filthy, disgusting, a social thrash, good for nothing,” he admitted. His face was tearstained, his voice trembled. “I came to God once, not planning to repent, but asking Him to take my life. But instead, He came and touched me and healed my wounds.”
Her quest to find God had not been smooth either. She tried several time, all of them ended with some ‘holy’ people told him what to do. “You have to change right now, otherwise you’ll go to hell!” one of them told her so, at their first encounter. “They didn’t ask me how I ended up that way, they did not want to know. They just judged me in the first place,” he said. To me, it sounds like asking someone to go to the fiercest battle without equipping him with any weapon. So there’s only two possibilities; either he’ll die miserably, or he’ll run off. Fortunately, Jon didn’t stop there. But, the next one was even worse. Shes was invited to a youth fellowship where he saw warmth, kind of family she’d longed to be a part pf. She was moved that she shared everything with them, but when she admitted her being transvestite. “The leader of the group cut me off right away, and then told my friend not to invite me to come again. I was crushed.”
Listening to his amazing stories and watching his slideshow about his past really moved me. There’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, as well as guilt and shame in my heart for my tendency to also judge people like him by their outward appearance. How many times did I met them on the streets and shrugged my shoulder in disgust, and could not help feeling alarmed being near them? How many times they wished they had never been born, when the police raided them, or when people abused them and made them the joke? Nobody wants to be that way, including them. And instead of understanding and helping them find a solution, we shoo them away, looking at them with disdain, treating them with disrespect or indifference while up above, God loves us both equally, and He must’ve been hurt to see our arrogance and their misery, both is related to each other though most of the time, we’re not even aware of it.
I really want to see them with God’s eyes and see them through their hearts, with mine. After all, we’re all created by Him according to His good image, though unfortunately, some (or should I say all of us, to some extent?) have been ruined by the sinful nature, abusive parents, social prejudice. And clearly, some damages are worse than the other. Jon’s story has helped me a lot redefine my point of view. I’m not saying that I agree with their behavior or that I want to justify their choice of life. There are some things that are clearly black or white, wrong or right, to me, and I can’t compromise my belief just to make others happy. But, what I mean is, at least we can learn not to judge, but listen to their reasons and understand them. By understanding more, we can love more too. And through love, nothing is impossible, even if it means to straight up a messed up life.
However, the only question that remains with me now is, what can I do for them? Crying, lamenting, or writing about it doesn’t seem to help much.
Jon’s case ended happily (praise the Lord for that!). He found his God, reconciled with his Dad, and leads a new life with a new spirit. But how many have a different ending with his? And does not it strike us to think that actually we, as a community, might’ve taken a part in their bad endings, or might’ve helped them go through it and triumph?
(Yea, you might as well call me a naรฏve girl who wishes to change the world with her little hands, and the awareness of her helplessness often more than not, frustrates her…)
REDEFINED POINT OF VIEW
Yesterday morning I heard a heart-wrenching but happy ending testimony of a converted ex-transvestite (let’s call him Jon), born with birth defect so horrendous that his own Dad thought of him as a curse instead of a son. He was without legs, so when he stands, he’ll just reach your waist.
He grew up being rejected, an eyesore to his Dad insomuch one day he intentionally stepped on his mouth as he was laying on the carpet watching TV. Jon was also locked up in his room every time they had any family feasts. His Dad would threat him not to make any sound so that no guest would know that he existed. Once he swallowed all the drugs he found in his room in a suicidal attempt, but he survived.
When finally he could get out and play like he wanted all those times, he could not keep up with boys who were running around, being tough, so his companies were mostly girls until he finally turned to be one of them.
‘She’ left her house and started to make a living, standing out in the streets with scanty clothes, her face now pretty with lots of make-up and seductive smile, her heart yearning for a father’s figure, man’s love she always wanted but never got. 14 years passed and she fell deeper and deeper in the black abyss. She now ‘worked’ in a pub, had a steady boyfriend, sold and used drugs, sold some girls and being sold herself.
“I knew I was so filthy, disgusting, a social thrash, good for nothing,” he admitted. His face was tearstained, his voice trembled. “I came to God once, not planning to repent, but asking Him to take my life. But instead, He came and touched me and healed my wounds.”
Her quest to find God had not been smooth either. She tried several time, all of them ended with some ‘holy’ people told him what to do. “You have to change right now, otherwise you’ll go to hell!” one of them told her so, at their first encounter. “They didn’t ask me how I ended up that way, they did not want to know. They just judged me in the first place,” he said. To me, it sounds like asking someone to go to the fiercest battle without equipping him with any weapon. So there’s only two possibilities; either he’ll die miserably, or he’ll run off. Fortunately, Jon didn’t stop there. But, the next one was even worse. Shes was invited to a youth fellowship where he saw warmth, kind of family she’d longed to be a part pf. She was moved that she shared everything with them, but when she admitted her being transvestite. “The leader of the group cut me off right away, and then told my friend not to invite me to come again. I was crushed.”
Listening to his amazing stories and watching his slideshow about his past really moved me. There’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, as well as guilt and shame in my heart for my tendency to also judge people like him by their outward appearance. How many times did I met them on the streets and shrugged my shoulder in disgust, and could not help feeling alarmed being near them? How many times they wished they had never been born, when the police raided them, or when people abused them and made them the joke? Nobody wants to be that way, including them. And instead of understanding and helping them find a solution, we shoo them away, looking at them with disdain, treating them with disrespect or indifference while up above, God loves us both equally, and He must’ve been hurt to see our arrogance and their misery, both is related to each other though most of the time, we’re not even aware of it.
I really want to see them with God’s eyes and see them through their hearts, with mine. After all, we’re all created by Him according to His good image, though unfortunately, some (or should I say all of us, to some extent?) have been ruined by the sinful nature, abusive parents, social prejudice. And clearly, some damages are worse than the other. Jon’s story has helped me a lot redefine my point of view. I’m not saying that I agree with their behavior or that I want to justify their choice of life. There are some things that are clearly black or white, wrong or right, to me, and I can’t compromise my belief just to make others happy. But, what I mean is, at least we can learn not to judge, but listen to their reasons and understand them. By understanding more, we can love more too. And through love, nothing is impossible, even if it means to straight up a messed up life.
However, the only question that remains with me now is, what can I do for them? Crying, lamenting, or writing about it doesn’t seem to help much.
Jon’s case ended happily (praise the Lord for that!). He found his God, reconciled with his Dad, and leads a new life with a new spirit. But how many have a different ending with his? And does not it strike us to think that actually we, as a community, might’ve taken a part in their bad endings, or might’ve helped them go through it and triumph?
(Yea, you might as well call me a naรฏve girl who wishes to change the world with her little hands, and the awareness of her helplessness often more than not, frustrates her…)
Yesterday morning I heard a heart-wrenching but happy ending testimony of a converted ex-transvestite (let’s call him Jon), born with birth defect so horrendous that his own Dad thought of him as a curse instead of a son. He was without legs, so when he stands, he’ll just reach your waist.
He grew up being rejected, an eyesore to his Dad insomuch one day he intentionally stepped on his mouth as he was laying on the carpet watching TV. Jon was also locked up in his room every time they had any family feasts. His Dad would threat him not to make any sound so that no guest would know that he existed. Once he swallowed all the drugs he found in his room in a suicidal attempt, but he survived.
When finally he could get out and play like he wanted all those times, he could not keep up with boys who were running around, being tough, so his companies were mostly girls until he finally turned to be one of them.
‘She’ left her house and started to make a living, standing out in the streets with scanty clothes, her face now pretty with lots of make-up and seductive smile, her heart yearning for a father’s figure, man’s love she always wanted but never got. 14 years passed and she fell deeper and deeper in the black abyss. She now ‘worked’ in a pub, had a steady boyfriend, sold and used drugs, sold some girls and being sold herself.
“I knew I was so filthy, disgusting, a social thrash, good for nothing,” he admitted. His face was tearstained, his voice trembled. “I came to God once, not planning to repent, but asking Him to take my life. But instead, He came and touched me and healed my wounds.”
Her quest to find God had not been smooth either. She tried several time, all of them ended with some ‘holy’ people told him what to do. “You have to change right now, otherwise you’ll go to hell!” one of them told her so, at their first encounter. “They didn’t ask me how I ended up that way, they did not want to know. They just judged me in the first place,” he said. To me, it sounds like asking someone to go to the fiercest battle without equipping him with any weapon. So there’s only two possibilities; either he’ll die miserably, or he’ll run off. Fortunately, Jon didn’t stop there. But, the next one was even worse. Shes was invited to a youth fellowship where he saw warmth, kind of family she’d longed to be a part pf. She was moved that she shared everything with them, but when she admitted her being transvestite. “The leader of the group cut me off right away, and then told my friend not to invite me to come again. I was crushed.”
Listening to his amazing stories and watching his slideshow about his past really moved me. There’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, as well as guilt and shame in my heart for my tendency to also judge people like him by their outward appearance. How many times did I met them on the streets and shrugged my shoulder in disgust, and could not help feeling alarmed being near them? How many times they wished they had never been born, when the police raided them, or when people abused them and made them the joke? Nobody wants to be that way, including them. And instead of understanding and helping them find a solution, we shoo them away, looking at them with disdain, treating them with disrespect or indifference while up above, God loves us both equally, and He must’ve been hurt to see our arrogance and their misery, both is related to each other though most of the time, we’re not even aware of it.
I really want to see them with God’s eyes and see them through their hearts, with mine. After all, we’re all created by Him according to His good image, though unfortunately, some (or should I say all of us, to some extent?) have been ruined by the sinful nature, abusive parents, social prejudice. And clearly, some damages are worse than the other. Jon’s story has helped me a lot redefine my point of view. I’m not saying that I agree with their behavior or that I want to justify their choice of life. There are some things that are clearly black or white, wrong or right, to me, and I can’t compromise my belief just to make others happy. But, what I mean is, at least we can learn not to judge, but listen to their reasons and understand them. By understanding more, we can love more too. And through love, nothing is impossible, even if it means to straight up a messed up life.
However, the only question that remains with me now is, what can I do for them? Crying, lamenting, or writing about it doesn’t seem to help much.
Jon’s case ended happily (praise the Lord for that!). He found his God, reconciled with his Dad, and leads a new life with a new spirit. But how many have a different ending with his? And does not it strike us to think that actually we, as a community, might’ve taken a part in their bad endings, or might’ve helped them go through it and triumph?
(Yea, you might as well call me a naรฏve girl who wishes to change the world with her little hands, and the awareness of her helplessness often more than not, frustrates her…)
PRAISED PLAGIARISM…BLAH!
This morning one of my nephews who ‘inherited’ my avidity in reading came to my room and reported, “Aunty, I found a comic book that really looks like Tin-tin at the bookstore yesterday…look!”
As I scrutinized the comic in my hand, I could not agree with him more.
Alright, the name of the main protagonist is not the same (almost similar though…), but he looks like Tin-tin, not blondie but brunette, and instead of having a dog as his company in investigating and catching bad guys, his company is a girl. The setting is being made believe to be as Indonesian as possible, but really, it’s a copy cat of Tin-tin.
It’s like a cookie taken from the same mold, not with the same ingredients and they added some other stuff here and there, and of course, the taste is not even half as good. Besides, I’ve already lost my respect. No imitation shines as good as the original one, and you just simply can’t argue with it.
There’s even an imitation of Doctor Calculus and my beloved Captain Haddock, only his vocabulary of cussing and swearing is not that impressive. As a big fan of Tin-tin, I am terribly offended!
Furiously, I flipped over the pages to look of any ‘disclaimer’, or better, any ‘acknowledgement’ for their efforts of imitating the famous Tin-tin, or anything stating, “We have got the permission from Herge blablabla” or whatever, that would probably justify it a little bit.
Instead, I found some reviews from some supposedly top dogs, bragging about it being the breakthrough in the comic world of Indonesia, ladies and gentlemen… very original, very Indonesia…local comic that deserves to be put alongside the world class ones…BLAH!!! Shed me some light here, am I the only one here who knows TINTIN??? Get out of it!
However, I still wanted to compromise. It might be different in content, I thought, so I started to read it. I only could do it til page 10, and then I tossed away that book in resentment, imagining Herge rolling restless in his tomb if only he knows about it.
Being objective, the illustration is not bad. Pretty good actually, which makes me even sadder. What a wasted, misused talent. Why not trying to make something of your own (you can do it if you try!), why committing plagiarism and forcing people to ‘praise’ it. Isn’t it enough that all our TV series are but copycats of some foreign dramas?
As I scrutinized the comic in my hand, I could not agree with him more.
Alright, the name of the main protagonist is not the same (almost similar though…), but he looks like Tin-tin, not blondie but brunette, and instead of having a dog as his company in investigating and catching bad guys, his company is a girl. The setting is being made believe to be as Indonesian as possible, but really, it’s a copy cat of Tin-tin.
It’s like a cookie taken from the same mold, not with the same ingredients and they added some other stuff here and there, and of course, the taste is not even half as good. Besides, I’ve already lost my respect. No imitation shines as good as the original one, and you just simply can’t argue with it.
There’s even an imitation of Doctor Calculus and my beloved Captain Haddock, only his vocabulary of cussing and swearing is not that impressive. As a big fan of Tin-tin, I am terribly offended!
Furiously, I flipped over the pages to look of any ‘disclaimer’, or better, any ‘acknowledgement’ for their efforts of imitating the famous Tin-tin, or anything stating, “We have got the permission from Herge blablabla” or whatever, that would probably justify it a little bit.
Instead, I found some reviews from some supposedly top dogs, bragging about it being the breakthrough in the comic world of Indonesia, ladies and gentlemen… very original, very Indonesia…local comic that deserves to be put alongside the world class ones…BLAH!!! Shed me some light here, am I the only one here who knows TINTIN??? Get out of it!
However, I still wanted to compromise. It might be different in content, I thought, so I started to read it. I only could do it til page 10, and then I tossed away that book in resentment, imagining Herge rolling restless in his tomb if only he knows about it.
Being objective, the illustration is not bad. Pretty good actually, which makes me even sadder. What a wasted, misused talent. Why not trying to make something of your own (you can do it if you try!), why committing plagiarism and forcing people to ‘praise’ it. Isn’t it enough that all our TV series are but copycats of some foreign dramas?
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
MY TWO BIGGEST ENEMIES
… now are solitude (hence, loneliness) and boredom—those two make me a sloth, really. I want to write but I’m lazy, napping is not that refreshing anymore, and reading is not that exciting cos the stories are too thin.
All I want is a company, to just talk and be around me.
Only practicing violin makes me happy, but still my hands and shoulders could not cooperate as long as my heart wants. Oh well, maybe I should start cooking with Mom….
All I want is a company, to just talk and be around me.
Only practicing violin makes me happy, but still my hands and shoulders could not cooperate as long as my heart wants. Oh well, maybe I should start cooking with Mom….
BETTER THAN PULITZER PRIZE
Last week I wrote a super lengthy letter (around 10 pages), conventional one (with paper and ink, I mean) to one of my best friends since college. She was the most faithful listener I’ve ever met. We shared the same boarding house for almost four years, got through lots of spiritual phases together, and spent lots of time talking heart to heart, almost about anything.
I will always remember how patient she was in listening to all my incessant rambling about my crush(es), my dreams, my thoughts, my feelings, my fears…. She is one of the very few people with whom I am not afraid to show her me, just the way I am—whether I was feeling down, negative, or even sometimes, dark.
When I was in Aceh, I wrote to her everyday, in a book, and then I sent it to her when my voluntary work was done. I knew she would not write back, at least not as much as I wrote her, cos writing is not her strong point. But it never stopped me from sharing with her, and writing seems to be the most economical way to do it cos she now lives in her hometown, in a different island. Ironically, Jambi, where she lives, is basically the only big town in
SumatraI never had a chance to step in. Hopefully someday…
Anyway, yesterday she sms-ed me to inform that my package (i.e those pages, one copy of my novel, and 5 CD’s full of songs and my pics) had arrived, and she told me that my letter really encouraged her and reminded her once again that God was, and is real.
And really, knowing that my writing could make a difference in someone else’s day by encouraging her and reminding her of God’s goodness, it means the world to me. I’d rather touch and build up somebody’s life with my private writings that probably won’t make me famous or rich, than say… winning a Pulitzer prize, or even a nobel (which can be nice too, if it ever happens to me)
Yes, fame and money and satisfaction of having accomplished something taste really nice, but to think that what you write, what you tell, and what you feel (no matter what it is) have brought a smile upon a formerly cloudy face, and sparks to an almost dying flame, or some cheerfulness to a lonely heart—it tastes even better, cos it is so personal, and hence, much more meaningful.
After all, someone’s heart and soul are much more precious than any worldly acknowledgements, at least for a touchy feely person like me.
I will always remember how patient she was in listening to all my incessant rambling about my crush(es), my dreams, my thoughts, my feelings, my fears…. She is one of the very few people with whom I am not afraid to show her me, just the way I am—whether I was feeling down, negative, or even sometimes, dark.
When I was in Aceh, I wrote to her everyday, in a book, and then I sent it to her when my voluntary work was done. I knew she would not write back, at least not as much as I wrote her, cos writing is not her strong point. But it never stopped me from sharing with her, and writing seems to be the most economical way to do it cos she now lives in her hometown, in a different island. Ironically, Jambi, where she lives, is basically the only big town in
SumatraI never had a chance to step in. Hopefully someday…
Anyway, yesterday she sms-ed me to inform that my package (i.e those pages, one copy of my novel, and 5 CD’s full of songs and my pics) had arrived, and she told me that my letter really encouraged her and reminded her once again that God was, and is real.
And really, knowing that my writing could make a difference in someone else’s day by encouraging her and reminding her of God’s goodness, it means the world to me. I’d rather touch and build up somebody’s life with my private writings that probably won’t make me famous or rich, than say… winning a Pulitzer prize, or even a nobel (which can be nice too, if it ever happens to me)
Yes, fame and money and satisfaction of having accomplished something taste really nice, but to think that what you write, what you tell, and what you feel (no matter what it is) have brought a smile upon a formerly cloudy face, and sparks to an almost dying flame, or some cheerfulness to a lonely heart—it tastes even better, cos it is so personal, and hence, much more meaningful.
After all, someone’s heart and soul are much more precious than any worldly acknowledgements, at least for a touchy feely person like me.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
AWWW...TURNING 26! (….and being in love)
The image that flashes in my mind lately is Jennifer Anniston trying to bang the door when her friends were trying to make her a surprise party, she was turning 30 in FRIENDS… when I saw it I thought it was odd, how could someone be that afraid of birthday??
But oohhh… I guess now I can share a little bit of that feeling. The last two years my birthdays were always so full of people, laughter, gifts, surprise parties with cakes, balloons, confetti and trumpets… just like I wanted them to be. But today, I had a quiet birthday, still just like I wanted it to be.
I’m 26, feeling like a woman, but at the same time, I know I am still a girl deep inside my heart, and I will always be like that.
Being a woman seems to be so full of responsibilities, and I know that the most often asked question from now on will be, “When will you get married?” instead of “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I was tempted to wonder, would turning 26 be less scary if only I had found my soulmate? But then I realized that a lover’s love will be but an icing on top of the cake, because I already got the greatest love of all—love so perfect and beautiful, selfless and flawless, poured down on me abundantly, though I don’t deserve it at all. I feel and see this love inside me, and all around me, in my parents’ smile and service, in my siblings’ affection and supports, in my nephews’ innocence, in the prayers and loving attention of my brothers and sisters in Christ, and even in the laughter, stories and friendship I had a privilege to share with some people I haven’t met yet—yes, most of them are scattered in so many different places, but yet, we are so close in our hearts, bound and united by the greatest love ever.
Yes, thinking about how time flies makes me scared, scared to let these years pass by so quickly without accomplishing my duties. Sometimes, I want to go back to the great ole’ days and wish that time stopped back when I was 22… but I know that life goes on and there is a bright future waiting for me ahead.
So, instead of being freaked out or panicked or worried unnecessarily, this morning I made a resolution. I asked my true love to find me in the river, I asked him to bring me to my knees with my soul lay bare in front of him, and I said to him once again that I would gladly take up my cross to follow him, and if our path were stony and for some reasons he chose not to carry me, I would be willing to walk with my knees, as long as he holds my hand and never lets me go, cos he is all I’ve ever needed. I am thankful for his faithfulness, for the blessings and joy, and even tears and sorrow he has allowed to come in my life—knowing that they all will shape me into a better person.
Yes, on my birthday, I’m falling in love deeper with someone who has always been loving me unconditionally, and this feeling is greater than any chemistry or romantic story. This one I definitely want to keep forever….
But oohhh… I guess now I can share a little bit of that feeling. The last two years my birthdays were always so full of people, laughter, gifts, surprise parties with cakes, balloons, confetti and trumpets… just like I wanted them to be. But today, I had a quiet birthday, still just like I wanted it to be.
I’m 26, feeling like a woman, but at the same time, I know I am still a girl deep inside my heart, and I will always be like that.
Being a woman seems to be so full of responsibilities, and I know that the most often asked question from now on will be, “When will you get married?” instead of “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I was tempted to wonder, would turning 26 be less scary if only I had found my soulmate? But then I realized that a lover’s love will be but an icing on top of the cake, because I already got the greatest love of all—love so perfect and beautiful, selfless and flawless, poured down on me abundantly, though I don’t deserve it at all. I feel and see this love inside me, and all around me, in my parents’ smile and service, in my siblings’ affection and supports, in my nephews’ innocence, in the prayers and loving attention of my brothers and sisters in Christ, and even in the laughter, stories and friendship I had a privilege to share with some people I haven’t met yet—yes, most of them are scattered in so many different places, but yet, we are so close in our hearts, bound and united by the greatest love ever.
Yes, thinking about how time flies makes me scared, scared to let these years pass by so quickly without accomplishing my duties. Sometimes, I want to go back to the great ole’ days and wish that time stopped back when I was 22… but I know that life goes on and there is a bright future waiting for me ahead.
So, instead of being freaked out or panicked or worried unnecessarily, this morning I made a resolution. I asked my true love to find me in the river, I asked him to bring me to my knees with my soul lay bare in front of him, and I said to him once again that I would gladly take up my cross to follow him, and if our path were stony and for some reasons he chose not to carry me, I would be willing to walk with my knees, as long as he holds my hand and never lets me go, cos he is all I’ve ever needed. I am thankful for his faithfulness, for the blessings and joy, and even tears and sorrow he has allowed to come in my life—knowing that they all will shape me into a better person.
Yes, on my birthday, I’m falling in love deeper with someone who has always been loving me unconditionally, and this feeling is greater than any chemistry or romantic story. This one I definitely want to keep forever….
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
DOCTOR LAZARUS
Dr. Lazarus used to serve in the military army, but now he sees his patients in his house. However, his army uniform still served him well when he bravely entered a burning church and saved the old priest that was trapped there, both left the building wrapped in army uniforms, unnoticed by the rioters.
Most of the people in town love him: young and old, rich or poor, from all different religious and cultural backgrounds, they all come to him when they’re sick. The medicine in his pharmacy cost much less than in other places. And quite often, he refuses to accept money from poor people, and let them come to him for free.
His wife left him for another man, a man who probably would not leave her in the middle of the night to help some dying patient. But don’t feel too sorry for this, because he already remarried to another doctor’s widow, who surely would understand him more.
Anyway, a couple of months ago, the whole town was stirred and troubled to hear that this kind-hearted doctor passed away. As whispers and hearsays spread, more and more of his faithful fans knew about it, passed the information to others, and together were deeply mourning for him. Some said they could not believe it, and some wondered where they would go when they got sick and had no money.
They themselves had not seen his body, cos rumors said that he passed away in a hospital abroad. One of the old ladies could not stand it and decided to call his nurse to ask for a confirmation about his death. And she could not be happier to hear that Dr. Lazarus didn’t die, he did go abroad due to a major health problem but the treatment went well and he survived!
And so the whole town was moved again by this good news. I personally don’t really remember his face, but I joined the people rejoicing in his ‘resurrection’. Surely a man like him deserves a long life, and many many years to come to help people with his devotion and generosity, and I pray that many young doctors will also be inspired by it and be like him.
Most of the people in town love him: young and old, rich or poor, from all different religious and cultural backgrounds, they all come to him when they’re sick. The medicine in his pharmacy cost much less than in other places. And quite often, he refuses to accept money from poor people, and let them come to him for free.
His wife left him for another man, a man who probably would not leave her in the middle of the night to help some dying patient. But don’t feel too sorry for this, because he already remarried to another doctor’s widow, who surely would understand him more.
Anyway, a couple of months ago, the whole town was stirred and troubled to hear that this kind-hearted doctor passed away. As whispers and hearsays spread, more and more of his faithful fans knew about it, passed the information to others, and together were deeply mourning for him. Some said they could not believe it, and some wondered where they would go when they got sick and had no money.
They themselves had not seen his body, cos rumors said that he passed away in a hospital abroad. One of the old ladies could not stand it and decided to call his nurse to ask for a confirmation about his death. And she could not be happier to hear that Dr. Lazarus didn’t die, he did go abroad due to a major health problem but the treatment went well and he survived!
And so the whole town was moved again by this good news. I personally don’t really remember his face, but I joined the people rejoicing in his ‘resurrection’. Surely a man like him deserves a long life, and many many years to come to help people with his devotion and generosity, and I pray that many young doctors will also be inspired by it and be like him.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
MY DAD’S FAVOURITE POMEGRANATE TREE…
..is now just a history…
Yeah, yesterday afternoon, we tasted a little bit of Jakarta flood, when the heavy rain was pouring mercilessly along with a scary super whirling wind (I’ve never seen such a wild wind like that in my life!) that made roofs fly and trees fall down, including this pomegranate that had been there since I was a child.
Dad had a hard time parting with it, he suggested us to pull back the falling tree, but we didn’t have time for that since it was too heavy and it was already blocking the small road so people would not be able to pass through. And so my brother took a saw and machete and that was the end of our pomegranate tree, which happened to be so full with buds and flowers and some fruits already.
The neighbors also are making a fuss about it. The Sundanese people need pomegranates to make ‘rujak’, a special fruit salad every time they celebrate the 7 month pregnancy. Without that fruit, the salad will not be valid. It is believed that if the food is hot, the baby will be a boy, and vice versa (no matter how much pepper you add to it!). So, our pomegranates had served our local community very well, and it also had taught my tiny feet to climb.
Well, rest in peace.
Yeah, yesterday afternoon, we tasted a little bit of Jakarta flood, when the heavy rain was pouring mercilessly along with a scary super whirling wind (I’ve never seen such a wild wind like that in my life!) that made roofs fly and trees fall down, including this pomegranate that had been there since I was a child.
Dad had a hard time parting with it, he suggested us to pull back the falling tree, but we didn’t have time for that since it was too heavy and it was already blocking the small road so people would not be able to pass through. And so my brother took a saw and machete and that was the end of our pomegranate tree, which happened to be so full with buds and flowers and some fruits already.
The neighbors also are making a fuss about it. The Sundanese people need pomegranates to make ‘rujak’, a special fruit salad every time they celebrate the 7 month pregnancy. Without that fruit, the salad will not be valid. It is believed that if the food is hot, the baby will be a boy, and vice versa (no matter how much pepper you add to it!). So, our pomegranates had served our local community very well, and it also had taught my tiny feet to climb.
Well, rest in peace.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
TRA PAGLIUCA E MALDINI… (this posting is ode to Gianluca Pagliuca actually)
C’รจ concorrenza!
Eh, yes…between Pagliuca and Maldini, there is a heating rivalry of making a record in Italian soccer history as the player with the most caps in serie A. Right now Maldini is leading with 597 caps, and Pagliuca 590.
I don’t know if Pagliuca really cares about this (based on game duration, he already won because you know if you’re a goalkeeper, you are rarely replaced unless seriously injured or red-carded) but I found myself eagerly waiting for him to beat Maldini’s record! (no offense, Milanisti!).
That’s why I was so disappointed to know that all some remaining matches (including Ascoli vs Milan that I was all ready to watch!) were cancelled due to a riot in a stadium during the match of Catania vs Palermo that killed one policeman, and so the whole league is now stopped for awhile (thanks to Daniele for keeping me updated about this).
I mean, how often can you see Ascoli play on TV now they’re in the last place? I feel a little bit sentimental about Pagliuca right now because this might be the last season for him before he retires. And even since I was 14, I wrote to him every season, to wish him well. And guess what, he never failed to reply!
I’ve been a great fan of him since he played for Inter, and then moved to Bologna, and now Ascoli. I missed the period where he played for Sampdoria and was given a nickname “Re della Samp” because I was too small to understand about football back then.
I liked it when he played as the number one goalie of Italian national team, and I remembered my fervent prayers for him once, when the world cup 1998 was about to begin. Amongst the budding younger Italian goalies, he still made it to be number two before Angelo Peruzzi, and I know that unless he became the number one, there’s no way I could see him play for azzurri (cos again, a number one goalkeeper is rarely replaced during the game and even for the whole tournament, you know). And so I did not want him to sit on the bench as a substitute! I think it was a week before the world cup begun, I read that Peruzzi was injured and could not go to France, and so Pagliuca became the number one. I truly did not pray anything bad against Peruzzi, honest, but I was just so happy to have Pagliuca play again. And even when finally Italy had to loose through a penalty shoot-out against France, I think Pagliuca is a million much better than Barthez!
Really, I don’t think I will ever like any footballer as much as I like him. I like the way he jumps and climbs up his post and hangs in there for awhile watching the ball fly to high above his goal. I like the way he puffed his cheeks and kissed the post in relief when it blocked the ball from going in. I even like his decision to let himself be red-carded once in world cup 1994, for it was rather a sacrificial and heroic red card, and not a foolish one like Beckham or Zidane got. Yes he’s a bit eccentric sometimes, but never obnoxious.
Yeah, it’s been years, and oh, I really wish he would play some more years, though I’ve witnessed him jump, catch, block, kick, and punch the ball, saving his team(s) million times. I was there greeting my teeth in anger when Giuseppe Pancaro dared to spit in his face and understood when he ran after him to give him a punch, or when someone (I think it was Nicola Caccia) pulled his pants off and yet he still had other thing (the ball) to worry about. And I will not forget that snowy night in Russia when he had to be carried out of the field, badly injured. I went back to bed, tears in my eyes and nervously waited for tomorrow to come to find out how he was doing (yes, yes, yes, I only watched those on tv, sometimes at night, sometimes at dawn, but the feelings were real, you know).
And some of my friends asked me in wonder. They said, “Why do you like this guy so much? What benefits will you get if his team wins?” But they just didn’t understand, that even if he gives me nothing but the blues, I still go for him!
Until now, I still keep the collection of the cuts-outs about him that I arranged in a book, along with all the autographed postcards he sent me, and a historical handwriting note (that made me start learning Italian!)
Too bad, age creeps like a thief and so now he’s thinking of retiring soon, if Ascoli remains in serie A next season. I really hope that his son Mattia (age 7), will be a great footballer someday, as his father has been.
Viva Pagliuca!
Eh, yes…between Pagliuca and Maldini, there is a heating rivalry of making a record in Italian soccer history as the player with the most caps in serie A. Right now Maldini is leading with 597 caps, and Pagliuca 590.
I don’t know if Pagliuca really cares about this (based on game duration, he already won because you know if you’re a goalkeeper, you are rarely replaced unless seriously injured or red-carded) but I found myself eagerly waiting for him to beat Maldini’s record! (no offense, Milanisti!).
That’s why I was so disappointed to know that all some remaining matches (including Ascoli vs Milan that I was all ready to watch!) were cancelled due to a riot in a stadium during the match of Catania vs Palermo that killed one policeman, and so the whole league is now stopped for awhile (thanks to Daniele for keeping me updated about this).
I mean, how often can you see Ascoli play on TV now they’re in the last place? I feel a little bit sentimental about Pagliuca right now because this might be the last season for him before he retires. And even since I was 14, I wrote to him every season, to wish him well. And guess what, he never failed to reply!
I’ve been a great fan of him since he played for Inter, and then moved to Bologna, and now Ascoli. I missed the period where he played for Sampdoria and was given a nickname “Re della Samp” because I was too small to understand about football back then.
I liked it when he played as the number one goalie of Italian national team, and I remembered my fervent prayers for him once, when the world cup 1998 was about to begin. Amongst the budding younger Italian goalies, he still made it to be number two before Angelo Peruzzi, and I know that unless he became the number one, there’s no way I could see him play for azzurri (cos again, a number one goalkeeper is rarely replaced during the game and even for the whole tournament, you know). And so I did not want him to sit on the bench as a substitute! I think it was a week before the world cup begun, I read that Peruzzi was injured and could not go to France, and so Pagliuca became the number one. I truly did not pray anything bad against Peruzzi, honest, but I was just so happy to have Pagliuca play again. And even when finally Italy had to loose through a penalty shoot-out against France, I think Pagliuca is a million much better than Barthez!
Really, I don’t think I will ever like any footballer as much as I like him. I like the way he jumps and climbs up his post and hangs in there for awhile watching the ball fly to high above his goal. I like the way he puffed his cheeks and kissed the post in relief when it blocked the ball from going in. I even like his decision to let himself be red-carded once in world cup 1994, for it was rather a sacrificial and heroic red card, and not a foolish one like Beckham or Zidane got. Yes he’s a bit eccentric sometimes, but never obnoxious.
Yeah, it’s been years, and oh, I really wish he would play some more years, though I’ve witnessed him jump, catch, block, kick, and punch the ball, saving his team(s) million times. I was there greeting my teeth in anger when Giuseppe Pancaro dared to spit in his face and understood when he ran after him to give him a punch, or when someone (I think it was Nicola Caccia) pulled his pants off and yet he still had other thing (the ball) to worry about. And I will not forget that snowy night in Russia when he had to be carried out of the field, badly injured. I went back to bed, tears in my eyes and nervously waited for tomorrow to come to find out how he was doing (yes, yes, yes, I only watched those on tv, sometimes at night, sometimes at dawn, but the feelings were real, you know).
And some of my friends asked me in wonder. They said, “Why do you like this guy so much? What benefits will you get if his team wins?” But they just didn’t understand, that even if he gives me nothing but the blues, I still go for him!
Until now, I still keep the collection of the cuts-outs about him that I arranged in a book, along with all the autographed postcards he sent me, and a historical handwriting note (that made me start learning Italian!)
Too bad, age creeps like a thief and so now he’s thinking of retiring soon, if Ascoli remains in serie A next season. I really hope that his son Mattia (age 7), will be a great footballer someday, as his father has been.
Viva Pagliuca!
Monday, February 05, 2007
Sidney Sheldon’s death
I just heard about it on TV, and I feel sad, knowing that no more books will be written by him. The last one was “Are you afraid of the dark?” which I think was out about 2 or 3 years ago. At that time I was still working at the book store (who was recently dead too, bankrupt is the better word for it), and then I bought it for my sister’s birthday two years ago.
Huuu…no more thriller stories to anticipate!
Huuu…no more thriller stories to anticipate!
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