Lord, We're Waiting For Your Return! (College Retreat September 2013)

"Come, Lord Jesus
As we become the same as Christ
In life, nature, expression, and function,
We are qualified to work with Him
For His Body.

As We trust in the Lord helplessly,
Depend on Him as our love and strength,
And listen to His speaking,
Our hope is to be raptured
Through the redemption of our body.

And out prayer is 
Come, Lord Jesus!
And our prayer is
Come, Lord Jesus!
Come, Lord Jesus!
Lord Jesus, come! "

The sweet hymn above is one of the songs we sang in the college retreat today, and once I close my eyes, I could feel that I'm singing this hymn to the Lord face to face.
http://www.hymnal.net/en/hymn.php/ns/285
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kvO0F0m2B5s

The message we discuss this weekend is about the Lord's return and this is what I enjoy so far. I appreciate that we, as college students, are encouraged to get the highest education as possible. We are advised to get at least a college degree, get the highest grades, and reach to advanced levels (The Lord's Return (Part Two) Western Canada Retreat 2013 booklet, page 28). I don't think I can get the highest grades, but I'll definitely try my best to reach till a master degree in fine arts. And when this happens, we will be useful for the Lord. We will be needed for the Lord's recovery. I also enjoy that we need to learn another language other than English/ our mother tongue. We need to be at least bilingual so that we can preach the gospel to other people and be useful to the Lord as well. I remember how much I hated Mandarin and Malay back then. But after realizing that I have learnt 6 years of Mandarin back in elementary school and 11 years of Malay in elementary school AND secondary school, I must not regret too much that I've learn these two other languages. And so...I guess I can try to speak a little more of these two tongues. I'm thinking of learning Japanese too, so I'm finding the opportunity to do so. =)

So dear young people and all Christians, you must endeavor to gain the best education! You also need to learn a new language! The more, the better! Oh! And I guess why I enjoy the retreat so much is because of the brothers' speaking, including brother Willie's (Willie Wise-in case you're familiar with this brother, he used to be an NBA basketball player back in the old days, I don't know when but he sure was famous at that time, yup we have a former celebrity here in the church family). I remembered that he shared with us a brief testimony. He said that he was in Taipei back in the 1980s and he joined a group for door-knocking to preach the gospel. A couple stood at the door and they were surprised when he said a Mandarin phrase (I couldn't remember what he said). We all laughed when he showed a surprised expression and shouted, "Hei Ren Jiang Hua Wen!" (That black man speaks Chinese! This was the reaction from the couple, not him). I learned that even one phrase of a different language will get a person to listen. There will be a connection between two people who can speak one word of a second language. Brother Robert, another speaking one, also shared a testimony with us and it was about him who was disappointed of not knowing how to speak Filipino language even though he was raised in the Philippines for many years of his childhood. He was a Filipino Chinese, and he learnt English and Mandarin throughout his school days. He dreamed of going to America to study, and this caused him to hated Mandarin (sound familiar? This is a coincidence =P). He made it to America to study in university, he lived with four Chinese brothers who couldn't speak English, so he had no choice but to speak Chinese with them. I guess, what he's trying to say is, even though we might hate speaking our mother tongues (sometimes), we have to know how to speak it. We are encouraged to be bilingual (at least). Psychologically, those who are bilingual are meant to have better character. I actually agree on this, because I've learnt about bilingualism back in the Psychology course I take this semester. Speaking of character, "we need to build a good character" by "exercising ourselves to build a character that is useful to the Lord" (The Lord's Return (Part Two) Western Canada Retreat 2013 booklet, page 28). We need to have a good character so that we can be vessels to contain God. But most importantly, we have to allow God's attributes to work in us (Philippians 4:13~I am able to do all things in Him who empowers me).

I also enjoy that "we must pursue and grow in our spiritual life", and we can do this by "maintaining a living fellowship with the Lord, fully consecrating ourselves to Him and having proper dealings with Him, to be the Lord's overcomers" (The Lord's Return (Part Two) Western Canada Retreat 2013 booklet, page 28). To be succinct, all we have to do is to just simply love the Lord! Just. Love. Him. It's that easy! Do you love him, Christians? We must "grasp the opportunity to love him" (The Lord's Return (Part Two) Western Canada Retreat 2013 booklet, page 28). Mary is an epitome to this matter. She "sat at Lord's feet and was listening to His word, having heard and received the Lord's word and revelation concerning his death"; she even "looked for the opportunity to anoint Him before he died" (The Lord's Return (Part Two) Western Canada Retreat 2013 booklet, page 28). She listened to the Lord because she loved him. So we should listen to the Lord's speaking if we love him.

We are reminded that the Lord's return is near. We need to be watchful and eagerly awaiting for the Lord to come back for the second time. It is said in the Scriptures that he will "steal" "His treasures" (those who love Him), as a "Bridegroom" for us to enter into His wedding feast, and as a "judge" to the nations (The Lord's Return (Part Two) Western Canada Retreat 2013 booklet, page 10-11). He will also come back to "solve all social problems in the world", including "injustice", "sicknesses", politics, and negative activities (going to clubs, drinking, smoking, premarital sex...) (The Lord's Return (Part Two) Western Canada Retreat 2013 booklet, page 5).

Christians, we're living in a corrupted world and Satan is behind all this. Don't you want all this to be put to an end? There are nice things that we can't take our eyes off, and plans that we're waiting to begin in the future, but there's not much time. Christ is coming, and he's approaching soon! I have a lot more to say, but I'll stop here.  If you would like to know more about what we talked about in the retreat, let me know in the comments below. =)

LORD JESUS, PLEASE COME! COME QUICKLY!

O Love, That Wilt Not Let Me Go (another favourite hymn of mine)

" 1. O love, that wilt not let me go,
       I rest my weary soul in Thee;
       I give Thee back the life I owe,
       That in Thine ocean depths its flow
       May richer, fuller be.

   2. O Light, that followest all the way,
       I yield my flickering touch to Thee;
       My heart restores its borrowed ray,
       That in Thy sunshine's blaze its day
       May brighter, fairer be.

   3. O Joy, that seekest me through pain,
       I cannot close my heart to Thee;
       I trace the rainbow through the rain,
       And feel the promise is not vain
       That morn shall tearless be.

   4.  O Cross, that liftest up my head,
        I dare not ask to fly from Thee;
        I lay in dust life's glory dead
        And from the ground there blossoms red
        Life that shall endless be. "
This hymn is taken from Greater Vancouver Young People Songbook, page (I'll add the page number as soon as I can)

" Nice song. By George Matheson

History of Hymn

“O Love That Will Not Let Me Go” written on the evening of Matheson’s sister’s marriage. His whole family had went to the wedding and had left him alone. And he writes of something which had happened to him that caused immense mental anguish. There is a story of how years before, he had been engaged until his fiancé learned that he was going blind, and there was nothing the doctors could do, and she told him that she could not go through life with a blind man. He went blind while studying for the ministry, and his sister had been the one who had taken care of him all these years, but now she is gone. He had been a brilliant student, some say that if he hadn’t went blind he could have been the leader of the church of Scotland in his day. He had written a learned work on German theology and then wrote “The Growth of The Spirit of Christianity.” Louis Benson says this was a brilliant book but with some major mistakes in it. When some critics pointed out the mistakes and charged him with being an inaccurate student he was heartbroken. One of his friends wrote, “When he saw that for the purposes of scholarship his blindness was a fatal hindrance, he withdrew from the field – not without pangs, but finally.” So he turned to the pastoral ministry, and the Lord has richly blessed him, finally bringing him to a church where he regularly preached to over 1500 people each week. But he was only able to do this because of the care of his sister and now she was married and gone. Who will care for him, a blind man? Not only that, but his sister’s marriage brought fresh reminder of his own heartbreak, over his fiancé’s refusal to “go through life with a blind man.” It is the midst of this circumstance and intense sadness that the Lord gives him this hymn – written he says in 5 minutes! Looking back over his life, he once wrote that his was “an obstructed life, a circumscribed life… but a life of quenchless hopefulness, a life which has beaten persistently against the cage of circumstance, and which even at the time of abandoned work has said not “Good night” but “Good morning.” How could he maintain quenchless hopefulness in the midst of such circumstances and trials? His hymn gives us a clue. “I trace the rainbow in the rain, and feel the promise is not vain” The rainbow image is not for him “If the Lord gives you lemons make lemonade” but a picture of the Lord’s commitment! It is a picture of the battle bow that appears when the skies are darkening and threaten to open up and flood the world again in judgment. But then we see that the battle bow is turned not towards us – but toward the Lord Himself!  "

Source: http://www.hymnal.net/en/hymn.php/nt/432#ixzz2f5jAHCIP

This is also a favourite hymn of mine. The tune is just so soothing that sends my heart to a calm, joyful mood. The lyrics are poetic as well with such beautiful, encouraging words that expresses the love of God. God is our lifelong friend, and he is always there even when you're alone.

Check out the soundtrack right here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VxbPPa-AafM

And the instrumental version:
http://www.hymnal.net/en/hymn.php/nt/432

My favourite hymn "God hath not promised skies always blue"

" 1. God hath not promised always blue,
Flower-strewn pathways all our lives through;
God hath not promised sun without rain,
Joy without sorrow, peace without pain.

Chorus: But God hath promised strength for the day,
             Rest for the labor, light for the way,
            Grace for the trials, help from above
            Unfailing sympathy, undying love.

   2. God hath not promised we shall not know
       Toil and temptation, trouble and woe;
       He hath not told us we shall not bear
      Many a burden, many a care.

  3. God hath not promised smooth roads and wide,
      Swift, easy travel, needing no guide;
     Never a mountain, rocky and steep,
     Never a river, turbid and deep. "

This hymn is taken from Greater Vancouver Young People's Songbook (hymn no. 128)

I wonder how many of you who read this blog are Christians, especially those who are in the church life (for the Lord's recovery). I would like to share this hymn with you all, because this is my favourite hymn. I first get to know this hymn when I was browsing through Youtube back in my Taylor College days (Subang Jaya, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia) in the year 2011. I watched this video posted from a brother who played this hymn with his guitar (quite well actually, but I forgot his name). I couldn't remember his background well, but I think he was a former soldier or something (or navy?). Through his playing and his voice, I could tell that this brother loved the Lord. This tune caught in my head from that day onwards, and it faded for a while. Then, this hymn came back to me again when I arrived in Vancouver six months later. I joined the large Young People meetings there, and I couldn't help enjoying this hymn. The tune (new tune) was so melodious and the lyrics were so poetic. I sometimes forced myself to open  my mouth to call out this hymn to be sung in home  meetings, and I always shook with excitement and satisfaction when we got to sing it.

If you're Christians but not in the church life like I do, then I recommend you to listen to this hymn. In fact, everyone should listen to this! This hymn helps me to go through dark times. I'm writing notes for Psychology, but due to a cold I'm catching, I can't concentrate entirely. My favourite hymn suddenly came to my head, and I have the urge to share this with you guys. =)
Here's a Youtube video that covers this hymn:
   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8P75mvWH_k

And here's the instrumental tune together with the lyrics like the ones above:
http://www.hymnal.net/en/hymn.php/nt/720

In case you're curious about the writer of this hymn:
http://onthejourney7.blogspot.ca/2012/07/what-god-hath-promised-annie-johnson.html
I wonder who's the blogger? =)

Bible Reading As A Part Of Our Life

I didn't realize that I had read the entire book of John during the three weeks of summer break. As a reward, I received this gift from the serving ones (thanks Sister Jenny and Brother Tony =) ). I guess the reason why we had this bible reading challenge is because we are encouraged to "consume" the word of God every day. And yeah, I post one verse or more than that on Facebook as my status every time after I read a passage in the Bible.  And now the bible reading challenge is extended to six weeks, I'm emboldened a little more to read the Bible every day after school (as well as on weekends). Even though we have school, we are encouraged to read either one verse, the entire assigned passage, or (even better) read with our two/three selected companions and serving ones. Reading the Bible is not only to allow me to let God into my spirit and spread throughout my soul and body, but it also reminds me to do it as a habit.

So here's what I would like to advise to other Christians. Read the Bible! Some of you might think that it's a waste of time or the Bible is too ancient or difficult to understand. You don't have to understand solidly! You just have to take in God's word like food and enjoy God's grace. And if you read at least a few verses or a chapter every day, you'll be surprise to see that you will have a smile on your face and your life will change forever.

Well, we'll see how it goes. Btw, I'm saving the jellybeans for tomorrow. =P

Last Day of Summer, Under The Evening Ribbons

                                        Under The Evening Ribbons 
                              The mighty blazing sphere gazed down
                              with a smile that glistened with golden teeth.
                              Their amber glow spread out
                              that radiated rays of summer luminescence.

                               A ribbon of its light overlapped the top of a hill.
                               I arrived at the park,
                               eyeing at the clear view.
                               Vanilla cotton scattered in the azure heaven,
                               greeting me with a whispering "hello".
                               I slowly breathed in the ripe swirls of oxygen,
                               drinking in the lush green pine trees
                               that surrounded the sides of the park.

                               Thanking God for his grace to the weather,
                               I lay my tote bag flat on the grass
                               under one of the tall shady plants
                               and sat on it like a picnic mat.
                               Ah! Nothing got better
                               than taking a breather
                               on such a beautiful evening.
                               From a corner of my eye,
                               a tiny brown spider swayed steadily in midair.
                               A nerve signal in my brain urged me to move away
                               but I glanced away from my book
                               and stared at the insect without a reminder of my entomophobia.
                             
                               The little spider clung on an invisible thread.
                               It set up a defensive bubble around itself,
                               overcoming a gust of wind
                               that was blown from the Nature Goddess.
                               It swung slightly to the east
                               and then slightly to the west
                               It climbed a few steps higher in the air,
                              maintaining its balance like an acrobat on a tightrope.
                              This young-looking fellow
                               delivered a message to me:
                               never give up on life
                               even when the wind blew that carried your body away.

                               15 minutes had passed
                               swift as an hourglass in a game of Boogle.
                               All I wore on my face
                               was a smile of satisfaction and glee.
                               There went my last day of summer
                               and I yearn to do it again
                               as I packed up and strolled down the hill.

Voila! Finally I've written a new poem! Thanks to the short walk to the park which is up the hill. You should try to take a breather after a long day of staying at home, sticking to your laptop. It really helps! You can breathe in the fresh air and sink in nature. You can even get a simple inspiration like this to write something! I've finished reading until chapter 6 of my new favourite book "Chicken Soup For The Soul: Inspiration For Writers" and I have learnt a lot from it. I guess all the stories in it caused me to write this poem as well, and not just looking at the green. =)
                 

It All Started With A Paper

          Whenever I meet new people, they get interested once I reveal that I love to write. I'm hit by these two questions "Since when you start writing?" or "How long have you write?". I give the one and same answer, "I started writing when I was nine." To my surprise, they don't ask me how I approach to writing. Sometimes, I roam around my room to look for inspiration whenever I get stuck with a poem or a story. I also allow lines flow on paper in the blink of an eye. But what people don't know about me is that I get inspiration from a paper. A line paper torn from a St.James Primary School notebook.

          I was sitting in a third grade (Primary 3) classroom. I slumped on my chair, surrounded by students who chatter with delight and excitement. Boredom and isolation danced in my head. Suddenly, an idea clicked like a switch that flicked open automatically. I immediately pulled out my school notebook and tore a page. A favourite Barbie movie flashed in my head, and in seconds, my pen glided gracefully in the lines like an ice skater. I also had this method of folding the paper into a small square-shaped booklet before writing down a story. It's kind of like a mini book form, but I got confused once I read through them, trying to figure out which was the next part. I thanked the Lord for providing free periods and substitute teachers because I could continue with my stories of Barbie movies. I copied every scene and as many lines of each character as possible.

         Before school started on January 2003, I returned from a family trip to Singapore with a couple of sticker collections. The Finding Nemo and Brother Bear stickers gave me an idea of creating graphic novels which I called "sticker booklets". I added a sticker that was related to a scene of the story.

        In 2004, a couple of friends made me realized that I write. It was 10 minutes before the teacher entered in the classroom. I was busy writing a Barbie story, while suddenly Sheila craned her neck from the front. Her black ponytail shadowed over my paper that blocked the fluorescent light above me. "What are you doing?" she asked curiously. I paused and looked up, "I'm...writing a story." The next thing I knew, Sheila's dark brown eyes were sparkling. "No way! Can I read it?" I was a little surprised, for I had never show someone my writing before. I didn't realized that I passed my unfinished booklet to her without reluctance. A smile spread on her delicate face. "Oh wow! This is awesome!" Sheila exclaimed with widened eyes, "Kara! You've got to check this out! Michele writes this story!" Our other friend, Kara, approached to my desk with a whirl of interest drawn over her light brown eyes. I saw a smile on her Caucasian countenance that caused my heart to leap in excitement. "Wow! That's neat!" she commented. "Hey! Have you heard of Oliver Twist?" Sheila chipped in, "Maybe someday you can write an Oliver Twist story for me!" I nodded in reply. Oliver Twist was one of my favourite classics, and I immediately recalled on the novel I had read a few days ago. I can't remember how the progress went, but Sheila was delighted when she read my Oliver Twist booklet.

      That was when I realized I should write my own stories in a book. A notebook, to be exact. Once I arrived home from school, I dashed upstairs to the bedroom where I shared with my younger sister, Megan. I rummaged through my shelves and cabinet without having the thought of being yelled by my mother for making a mess. Finally, I found a transparent package of blue and white exercise books deep inside the cabinet. It was like finding a lost treasure hidden in the Caribbean. The first thing that came to my mind was Disney's Brother Bear. I began my series of stories with a spin-off of that film.  It was entitled "Animal Tale" and I remember switching the setting from the ice-caped North America to the cool-misted Mount Kinabalu in Sabah, Malaysia. I can't exactly remember how my own first story went, but I had fun playing with the characters and the plot to make it into my own product.

      During my secondary school years, I found myself writing stories which were inspired from Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, an Australian cartoon series called Blinky Bill, three Barbie movies, and a number of Hong Kong drama shows. Speaking of Hong Kong shows, I have no idea why I watched those at such young ages. Of course I couldn't understand Cantonese so I watched the episodes with Malay subtitles. I guess the reason why I was inspired by those kind of TV shows back then was because I was hooked by the mixture of suspense and romance in the plots. I also spent my pocket money buying new notebooks for upcoming stories which drove my mother crazy, but it was worth it.

        Turning movies and TV shows into words on notebook pages with little twists of characters and plots caused me to lose focus on my studies. Time by time, I filled out countless notebooks with stories that sent  my heart soaring with joy, pride, and freedom. However, once I entered through the college gate, I realized that I had spent so much time copying ideas from media. I learnt the definition of "plagiarism" and that got me worried for wasting time writing stories that were not according to my own ideas.

       Before I transferred to Canada, I was told to clean up my room. I encountered a box of old notebooks while I was dusting my cabinet. They were the vessels that lightened up my childhood. I got all emotional, thinking whether I should get rid of them. It had been so long, and they were not meant to be published. They were squeezed into one stepping stone for me to start using my own imagination and not to be just inspired by the black electronic box in the middle of the living room. Without further thinking, I stuffed all of the old notebooks, scribbled and torn, into a big plastic bag. And the next thing I knew, I placed the bag next to a pile of newspapers and a bunch of other materials at the porch of our house. That day of my flight, I watched with a minor wave of doubt as a worker of the nearest recycle center dumped all of the collections into the truck. There went my stories. My first attempt of writing together with the rest of my trials were about to be transformed into new, common possessions for people.

       Even until now, I regret of throwing one of my precious piece of childhood away. But I am not entirely upset because I have one remaining story that is safe with me. My two "Barbie in Princess and the Pauper" booklets are stored in one of my diaries, and every time I look through them, they remind me to never forget how I start writing and to keep on grabbing my pen or tapping the keyboard of my laptop. An idea is the secret weapon to a story, and a blank paper is the source to a product. So dear paper which I wrote my first ever story, if you have eyes, ears and heart, I just want to say...thank you.

A Bullied One Is A Warrior

      The fourth grade (Primary 4 as we call it in Malaysia) classroom was humid as usual. Heat waves crept through the windows like mist as the sun fiercely radiated the city of Kota Kinabalu in Sabah, Malaysia. It wasn't the temperature that caused me to be boiling in and out. The kid in front of me attacked me with mean, hurtful words. Mandarin words that I couldn't stand. He wasn't just a typical St.James primary school student. Teachers and students admired him  as an English story-telling champion in several years. Every time he was on stage, he attracted everyone with his big, emotional voice. Some strong quality an English teacher in an Asian school looked for. I didn't know whether anyone noticed this, but deep inside, he was a sneaky demon. When a teacher was no around, he shot darts of malign and hatred at me for no reason. He was also like a leader in a group of boys who joined in the bullying. They enjoyed tearing me into pieces. I showed a blank sight of tears in front of them, but within my heart, I was hollering and whimpering.

       It cluttered in my mind like a syringe. He was there, in front of my desk. He was surrounded with a couple of his mates, teasing me on how different and stupid I was. What did I do wrong? I was completely confused, but I wore a stoic mask over my physical face. They didn't see that I was foaming in my mouth, trying to calm the effervescing bubbles in my reddened heart down. Suddenly, their snickering reached my breaking point. I snatched my pink mechanical pencil from my desk and stabbed at one of his eyes. It happened in the blink of an eye. Time froze. I didn't actually stabbed the pointy lead at his eyeball, just at the lower lash line around his eye. I paused like a statue, realizing at what I just did. He covered his injury with both hands clasped tightly. A wave of silence filled the room. I swore everyone in the classroom was staring at me with mouths hung open. Luckily, the final bell rang. I packed my things with shivering hands and dashed out of the room like a rocket. I had never been so afraid in my life.

       I had my lips sealed from my family. I didn't have the courage to tell anyone about the incident. I wished I could stay home the next day, or switch schools so that the boy won't chase after me. I pleaded God that everything that happened that day could be erased from his mind, and my own mind too, but it wasn't possible.

        Nothing got better the next day. As the Mandarin teacher entered through the door, the first thing she did was that she called me to come over to her desk. My heart flipped like a pancake from a pan. I quickly blinked my eyes to prevent from tears coming out as I walked innocently to the big wooden table at the front. She looked at me with her brown eyes glazed with a layer of  concern and anger, "Is it true that you stabbed at him with a mechanical pencil?" I nodded slowly. All I did was nodding and staring at the hardened cement floor. She didn't give me any punishment, but a warning that cling to me like a koala bear on a tree branch, "The lead in mechanical pencils are poisonous. It's dangerous to use them against other people. Hen wei xian de. You have to be careful next time, am I clear?" I nodded for one last time before she allowed me to go back to my seat. (I translate this from Chinese to English, and I add in the phrase in italics to prove that it's originally spoken in Chinese.) I took a glimpse of the boy who sat at the row behind mine. He had a dark bruise on the lower part of his eye. There wasn't serious damage. He gave me this icy glare that killed me mentally; it signaled me to urge myself to run before he raised a sharp weapon from his back to slash my face. I felt stupid for not telling the teacher that his abusive words caused me to react in such a way, but I was the one who caused a bigger effect on him, and that made me feel like a criminal. A 10-year-old, not-so-innocent, criminal. I wished I could just faint so that I could be sent to a mental hospital, and made my parents worried like hell because they didn't seemed to care about my previous endless complaints of being bullied.

       He recovered a few days later, and he still had a playful, evil grin. He harassed me with more words of sin, and I stayed silent for the entire year. He was then followed by more boys who enjoyed making me feel bad during my last two years of elementary school. Every time I tried to explain to my parents or any other adults I thought I could trust, they just won't care much. "Just ignore them." my mom simply replied. But that didn't work at all. Even when I switched seats, nothing got better!

      Not only I got bullied by those mean boys, but I also got verbally abused by teachers too. Back when I was in second grade (Primary 2), I was taught by this horrifyingly-strict teacher who criticized my work in Mandarin class. I don't know, I guess she looked down on students who are weak in Chinese. I encountered her once again when I entered fifth grade (Primary 5) ; she was like Ursula who wanted to murder me with a potion of death. She complained on how messy my handwriting was and my weak progress in completing homework. Wow, so much for boosting a little girl's confidence. I wasn't the only one who got trapped under that shrill voice of hers. A friend in that class, Abigail struggled hard as much as I did in improving her Mandarin and completing her assignments. However, the teacher was not impressed. I had no idea why she was always angry at the two of us. I even felt sorry for Abigail who was being called stubborn and the so-called story of her mother being good friends with the teacher or something. "Your mother is way better than you, Abigail! You should be ashamed of yourself!" the teacher retorted. Man! That's harsh!

         You think my elementary school years were tough? Well, you should see how my freshman year in secondary school ended up into. I was still the silent, timid, antisocial girl everybody knew. Once I was enrolled into the stage of puberty, I told myself that secondary school was all about a new beginning. I would make new friends, be respected, and change myself. Unfortunately, things were not what I expected. I was involved in a group of Muslims and Kadazans (an ethnic group of indigenous in Sabah), and they were not who I called "true friends". From a corner of the school parking lot, I spotted a few of them, and they went on giggling and snickering and whispering. Their eyes were on me, and they gossiped to one another. They were probably talking about how fast I walked, or perhaps how fat I looked. What's the matter with that? I walked fast, so what? That doesn't looked ladylike to you? Fine! But I could felt that they kept making fun of me behind my back. All the time.

         There was this boy back in eighth grade (we called it Form 2) who was like the Joker of the classroom. His target was me. He made faces at me and called me names, attracting others, no..the entire class to pick on me. The teachers didn't notice this. They secretly put on their halos, showing their pure innocence in front of the adults. And shortly, I saw devil horns poking out of their heads. They made me reach my breaking point as well, but I didn't react. They just can't stop calling me a loser, a jerk, or a loner. And the worst part was, they randomly matched  me with a guy I barely even knew in the class. Twice. Well, I ignored that. That entire year, I faced their mean oral assaults. That boy played around, blocking me from going to my seat after every recess. What's so funny about that? Stop messing up with me! I wished I could have the guts to tell a teacher, but I was bubbled up in a shield of terror.

       With all these that happened, I planned to commit suicide. I pictured myself pointing a kitchen knife towards my chest or hanging myself on one of my mom's scarves. I even blamed God for not protecting me from those horrible people. One day, God told me to halt. He reminded me of a verse in the Bible, but I couldn't remember the actual sentence. I was told that committing suicide is a sin. A very dangerous. sinful action. He also made me realized that all those bullying would fade away sooner that I thought. I wondered how the nightmare of my life would last. No one supported me; no one made me smile. I continued to do what I enjoy doing, but not many people came to embolden me.

God promised me that all of these would come to an end. After countless prayers and tears of silence, it happened. When ninth grade (Form 3) arrived, I was surrounded by a new circle of friends. And yes, they were what I called "true friends". New friends that I dreamed of. We had experiences of feeling pain and trying to overcoming obstacles, but we supported each other and stayed strong. I realized that I was not alone. There were people out there who shared the same pain as I did, and they successfully pulled my frown upside down.

Demi Lovato sings, "I'm a warrior, I got thicker skin, I'm stronger than I'll ever be in my armour, it's made of steel, you can't get in, and you can never hurt me again." My dear wonderful friends from ninth grade to eleventh grade are always by my side, even when I'm far apart from home today. Because of them, I am healed. Because of them, I learn to chase after my dream of doing the things I want to do. The little satans somehow hook in my nostalgic mind, but here's what I have to say: you have hurt me, but I stand tall. You may not realize what you've done to me, but I'll never forgive you until you know what you did.

Behind The Rain Is A Light of God

Brief note: I was thinking of sharing this as a testimony for the saints, but I think it would be better if I share this here to refresh my memory. I might edit this to turn it into a Personal Narrative piece (just for fun) but..I'll see how it goes.Before I came to Canada, I was a half-year student at Taylors' College (in Kuala Lumpur) for the Canadian Pre-University program. Canadian Pre-U (CPU) is kind of like a preparation/transition for Malaysian students to get accessible grades to enter Canadian universities, unfortunately it's only recognizable in Ontario. Anyway, living in my first college life at Taylors for six months was definitely an experience, including when I was with the church sisters in Subang Jaya (the town I lived). I lived in one of the row of houses just opposite the CPU building, and it was rented for church girls. We went to church together and we did spiritual, holy things like reading the bible and Christian books. Of course, we hung out as well but not too often because of our college work.

One of the things we CPU students needed to complete in order to graduate was to do 10 hours of community service. Once I heard about it, I was freaking out. How was I suppose to do that? I had assignments to do and exams to prepare, plus I hadn't done anything like that before. Jesus knew what I was going through, and he sneaked in a miracle for me.

It was a heavy rainstorm. The dark cotton puffs above shed storms of tears down the earth.I rushed to campus with an umbrella in one hand and presentation materials in a bag in my other hand. I tried not to groan too much because of my wet sandals and soaked jeans which was drenched by the rain. There was poor drainage, so there was a sheet of water flooded the roads. I nearly slipped on the shiny tile floor of the CPU building. Luckily, I made it to the classroom on time. A classmate and I had to do a presentation on AIDS in the Individuals and Families In A Diverse Society course (a kind of complicated social science subject).  I settled on a chair in the freezing air-conditioned room before bringing my pen drive to the lecturer's laptop. While doing it, I silently wondered whether the rainstorm would cause more harm to the urban city of Subang Jaya. This thought slipped when I realized that it was my turn to speak. I was shivering, and it was not due to the frosty-like temperature. It was my speech. I remembered saying a line that made the entire class laughed like I was an idiot from an alienated world, and it was about AIDS in sex is caused by gay men (yes, call me stupid). I had no idea where I got that information from.

The class ended as soon as our presentation was over. I made my way back to my temporary crib and groaned even more when the bottom of my jeans sagged heavier than before. Thanks a lot, Mother Nature.


The home phone in the living room rang that made me jumped. I left my early dinner of Swiss roll on a glass table and took the call. I couldn't quite understand what the person on the line was talking about, for I was rusty in Mandarin. Thanks to translation from one of the roommates, I received bad news from the nearest church. It turned out that the roof was leaking and stacks of Christian books which were stored in the attic of the church were soaked with naughty rainwater. The guardian (we usually call him/her a "serving one") on the phone was looking for volunteers to help out with carrying and moving the books away from the soon-to-be-ruined attic. I decided to help out, and most of us sisters in the house agreed to drop by.

We sprinted under the splattering fountain, overcoming its droplets that attacked against our skin like bullets. We went down the sidewalk, past the long row of cafes while avoided from getting distracted by the food, turn right to an opposite block, and at the foot of a flight of stairs. A semicircle of saints crowded there, waiting for a few muscular brothers to climb down with small piles of books in hands. It was like building an anthill. We took turns carrying books passed by the brothers and stacked them in the wide-spaced trunk of a truck.  I had no idea how many books we had to carry. There were saints who volunteered to drive the troubled books down to a building which we called a "training center". It was where we saints were to consecrate ourselves and our lives to God and to be separated from the world, to be perfected for God's second coming.The training center was the only place for us to store the books for a while until the next day.

 I volunteered to go up the stairs to the third floor where the small church was situated. Some sisters sat around the floor, tearing out large pieces of newspapers and wrapping remaining books with them. I recognized some serving-ones and helped them out with the process. I could feel adrenaline rushing in, even through the auras of each sister who fumbled and steadied their hands on the combination of wet and dry books written by the legendary brother Watchman Nee and brother Witness Lee. We were worried that the rain would get stronger and more books in the attic would be spoiled. It was like destroying God's words. However, our mouths were silvered with encouraging, hopeful lines of prayer. The Lord soon strengthened us with his light. A tiny spark of luminescence glowed inside of me, emboldening me.

There were several dozens of stacks left and a sign of luck was shown through the fading rain from the windows. One of the serving-ones suggested that  we should go for a break. I followed a group of sisters to the nearby food court. My heart lifted once I felt the severe drizzle. There was hope that the little flood around the area would diminish the next morning. We were greeted by the buzzing atmosphere of the famous food court in Subang Jaya. The rows of bright fluorescent lamps above shone down the nearly-packed restaurant. Hawkers wore their usual loud voices to attract customers. Night owls, especially men, fixed their eyes on a television screen at the top center while watched football matches live. We sat at a perfect empty table and ordered our desired Malaysian dishes. Thanked the Lord for recharging us with the food, we were ready to go back to work.

The clock struck 11pm, and my eyelids were at their limit. They were drooping so quickly that I hardly could keep myself awake for a little bit longer. One of my roommates noticed and decided to walk me home. Before I left, I scanned around with relief as the number of book piles began to decrease. I was sure that they would be done by midnight. And they did.

 I was pretty sure that Satan was behind all this. He tried to ruin God's speaking by ruining the precious works from our fellow brothers, but he was missing something. God was there to help us. He never gave up on saving the books by encouraging us to transfer the books to the training center as a safe place for the night. Ha! Take that, Satan! We even learnt the power of teamwork among us, reminding us that we were one with God. No..we ARE one with God! Oneness was the key to the expression of God. And another good thing about this incident was that I had performed six hours of community service! By a snap of a finger! Well, for the remaining four hours I had to find something else to do community service, but I had figured it out. That late night, as I slipped into the bottom of the double-storey bed with a smile on my face, I felt blessed that God had solved my problem.

It All Comes From Her Career

Should I write a personal narrative about my family? Or just a simple blog post? Oh, well, I'm getting started anyway.

It's fascinating to hear that the main personality of each of us comes from our mother. One dinner, she shared with us on how our main strength/ interest was created while we were in her womb.

She started her business at Popular Tuition Center when I was in her womb. She didn't had a good number of teachers that time, so she had to teach a few classes besides her three (or is it four) helpful teachers. She taught primary school students English (Singapore level) and I guess her teachings got soaked into my developing, tiny brain in all those weeks. Her early days of teaching English was the reason why I'm good in the language (not really actually, I always make grammar mistakes =P). As for Manuel, Mom faces her most stressful years yet. I believe when my brother was nestling in her tummy, she tried hard to find more teachers and manage more things to make her business better. But then I wonder how does Manuel get the talent of playing the piano?

Megan's part fascinates me the most. Mom's business boomed with success as she accepted a good big number of students and staff. She was immersed into the habit of counting stashes of bucks, and this caused Megan in her body to be enthusiastic in flipping money. (Remind you of a once-famous-Disney-Channel-show? The boy with the mind of a salesman with the last name, Baxter.) Speaking of money, Megan currently has a part-time job at a Pho restaurant (Pho is a Vietnamese noodle house).  She is definitely into working to earn her own money and to buy the things she want. Big spender. Shopaholic. Money dreamer. If you open her closet, piles of clothes with a hint of good fashion sense will dazzle before your eyes. Now she has her own savings in her bank account, I have a strong feeling that she will earn until the right amount to apply for college.

As for Maureen, I forgot what it was, but Mom's business was pretty good too when Maureen was in her pregnancy. (I'll get back to it as soon as I can) And lastly, Mona was like the most talkative girl in the family, for Mom was in charge of "Speech and Drama" classes organized by Trinity Guildhall. No wonder she talks and brags until her sentences make no sense at all.

We are given strengths and gifts from her 18 years of running Popular Tuition Center. It still exists now, but I don't know how it goes so far.

Girls' Brigade (formerly Pride in the Girls' Brigade) revised version of memoir chapter

Brief Introduction: This chapter is basically about several significant times back in the Girls Brigade. Girls’ Brigade is an international organization which is like a combination of Sunday school and girls’ scout. I have joined the Girls’ Brigade back in Sabah, Malaysia for eight years. The organization has taught me discipline, teamwork, and faith to serve God. At first, I have trouble with remembering every single detail of the events, but with reference from my diaries and photos, I have refreshed my memories to write the scenes through imagery. In this chapter, I’ve covered a few events from the years 2005 to 2008, and at the end, readers will get to know that 2008 is my last year in the Girls’ Brigade. The reason why I choose to write about this topic is because I realize that it had been years since I seen the faces of the officers and girls back in the company and I regret for not contacting them ever since. A few weeks ago, I was so happy that I finally found a few familiar faces on Facebook and added them as friends. I tagged them in the draft of this memoir chapter and they were reminded on how fun it was back then. The times we had together as a large group. I also would like to share my experiences in the Girls’ Brigade with readers like you so that you can relate this chapter to your own life as well.

           A typical Sunday revealed on the 2008 calendar. I wore that sapphire-colored uniform with a small collection of silk badges that were sewn on both medium sleeves and a flowing skirt that reached to my kneecaps. The uniform was brightened up with a simple dark blue belt and a carmine red tie with a small Girls’ Brigade crest pin at the middle. The crest was made up of a white cross that symbolized Christ’s church, a gold crown on top that represented Christ as the king, a flaming torch above it that signified Christ’s living spirit, an oil lamp below the cross that signified light, and a background of blue and red circle to represent God’s blood and love. An oval-shaped dark blue cap covered my head with another crest pin on \it. We girls must wear pearly white short socks and canvas shoes to represent purity. 

            You had got to be kidding me! I rubbed my eyes, hoping that I was only dreaming. But as I lifted my eyelids, my name at the top of the notebook page was still there. “Looks like you’re chosen to become the leader of the squad!” my sister Megan squealed in delight. What was with that smile? You had no idea how scared I was in becoming a leader! In eight years of my life in the Girls Brigade, I had never been in front of a line before. I wished I could grab a correction tape and replace my name with another member of the squad, but it was too late.Everyone gathered at the empty parking lot which was situated next to Shern En Methodist Church. The forever-summer-heat bounced against my skin that pierced through like needles.

My whole head felt like it was caught on fire, even my cap couldn't cool me down. I stood at the furthest corner of the parking lot with eight other girls queued behind me. The other leaders on my left looked like they could nail their marching steps in just a snap of their fingers. I, on the other hand, could feel my stomach churning with anxiety that I might trip on an imaginary banana peel. A line of officers in light blue uniform shirts, dark skirts and black heels stood at the front right of the parking area. A girl who was selected as a commander yelled out with a voice that sent my brain in alert,  “Leaders of the squads! Forward…march!” I held the little blue notebook in my left hand and marched forward with my right hand flung straight up and down.We stopped three feet away from the commander’s left with a final stomp of our feet. “Turn left!” I raised my voice from the back.  It sounded shaky instead of firm, but I sighed in relief when we shifted our feet to the front. Then, the commander called to the rest of the squads to come forward. It wasn't so bad after all. I performed the rest of the steps in roll call and ticked the names of the members in my squad. When it ended, the captain came to me with the smile of an impressed American Idol judge. She complimented, “Good job, Michele!” 

My mind was clotted by a web of anxiety when I found myself standing in a queue for a church choir audition back in 2005. The captain was standing next to a pianist at a corner. Captain Kiu was like the friendliest, kindest person all young girls in the company adored. Her short curls matched her beautiful motherly countenance. She had the sweet ruby-lipsticked smile and the parcel of positive attitude that emboldened us to attend the Girls Brigade every Sunday afternoon. Every girl was tested with a vocal exercise of singing the eight main notes: do re mi fa so la ti do. To my surprise, I mastered every note smoothly. The choir was to sing a Mandarin song for a church event, and I didn’t realize how much work we had put into. That very day, when we performed on stage, all I could see were grins of satisfaction from the audience. Captain Kiu praised all of us at the end, “You've worked really hard to make this performance

perfect.”

            Drills watered the seed of confidence to grow in me, but unexpected things could happen as well. I was an innocent 14-years-old back in 2007. The dining hall was cooled by the whirling row of ceiling fans above. I hid myself at the furthest table of the room. Salty droplets trickled from my eyes.  An officer approached to me and asked in a worried, gentle tone. “What's wrong?” Stifled between my tears, I replied, “I’m not chosen to be in the drill competition.” I dared not to look at her, for I was too embarrassed to show my reddened face. The officer put her right arm round me and rubbed my shoulder. There went her words of comfort, “Don’t be upset. You’ll have the chance next year.” I never knew how eager I was of wanting to be in such a challenging event. Face it! Who would ever wanted to be grilled under the Malaysian sun with

the uniform wrapped round your body and a pair of white Mickey Mouse gloves that triggered the sweat receptors in your palms while you marched?

The 2008 Sabah Adventure Camp at Sabah Tea Garden was an event I’ll never forget. I lumbered on the dark bamboo floor as I made my way to the selected bedroom. The traditional Malaysian longhouse was dominated by 63 girls and 16 officers. I was surrounded by an extremely long wall of thick split bamboo that extended outwards on my left and a row of wooden doors that led to bedrooms on my right. The roof was made of dried grass.  In the room, three plump mattresses were arranged on a wooden platform with large white mosquito nets hung over each of them like tents. A simple porcelain sink was attached at a corner of the room with a  mirror above it. A fluorescent lamp above the beds lit well enough in the enclosed square.

I placed my frameless spectacles gently on an edge of my bed before I changed into my nightwear. Before I knew it, I sat on it without reminding myself about my alternate eyes. A loud, crispy crack caused my brain to freeze. My heart was torn into pieces as I got off my bed. My spectacles, the only eyewear I had, were smashed into cookie bits.

            Stuck with a blurry vision for the remaining two days, I squinted my eyes at long-sighted distances and asked help from Megan to read faraway words for me. That was the first time I broke a pair of spectacles, and I regretted for not owning contact lenses. However, the rest of the camp pulled the strings of my mouth into a smile. We breathed in the fresh mountain air at an early hour; the sky was a blue-black. I was trapped in this lovely paradise of emerald shrubs. The mixture of various tea scents fused in the crisp atmosphere that made me dream of an exotic, all- flavor cup of beverage. When we arrived at a desired spot of the stony slope, God had summoned a topaz sphere that illuminated hues of garnet and amber. It peeked between the hills like a toddler who played peek-a-boo. Even though I couldn’t see the sunset clearly, I could see the bright ball in awe. It was definitely a sight!

As luminous rays of sunlight flashed over the overlapped tea fields, we were fueled up with cups of Milo, a popular hot chocolate drink in Malaysia. We then made our way back to the longhouse to get ready for jungle trekking. Compass, water bottle, novel, towel, an extra shirt and a pair of jeans, slippers…my backpack became a package of weights on my shoulders. The whistle blown by an officer alarmed us. We dashed off our dorms and down the bamboo stairs. A forest guide drove us to a forest which was ten minutes away from the accommodation. 

We were in the middle of a muddy, slippery trail. The countless days of rain before the camp must had soaked the earth in playful splotches. A long line of girls trudged and slid down the mud. Luckily, there was a railing of white rope that was tied firmly at each ends of the trail. “Be careful, Mich! I just slipped on a wet spot down here!” my 12-years-old sister called from a few feet away. I gulped in fear as if a cherry seed seeped down my throat. I gripped hold on the rope as I slowly stepped down. Before I knew it, my right foot skidded on a thick patch of brown. I landed on my butt, letting out a painful yelp. This was definitely not what I had in mind.

            “Are you sure you want to do this?” a voice spoke in my head. I gave one last tap of the keyboard. A letter was done on the screen of my mother’s laptop. I had planned to do this before the camp. My decreasing number of attendance that year was due to a crucial national exam, and this pulled my Girls’ Brigade enthusiasm down. Thoughts on the future flooded in my head like a waterfall: harder courses in school, upcoming exams, preparation for college. I had an adamant feeling that it was time to say goodbye. It all happened in the blink of an eye. Save. Print. Document ready. I feared that after I send the letter of quitting the Girls Brigade, the girls would hate me. But I believe that no matter where I was, Girls Brigade would always be in my heart. That afternoon, I handed the letter to an officer with a mixed emotion of relief and guilt.  I couldn’t remember what her last words were.