What would you do, if you knew you would not fail?
Today, my church choir
and I were reflecting on the meaning of the Gospel as the Catholic Church
celebrates the Assumption of Mother Mary. The Gospel reading is from Luke,
chapter 1, verses 39 to 56; it tells of the pregnant Virgin Mary visiting her
cousin Elizabeth’s home, of the child in Elizabeth’s womb leaping for joy, and
of Mary glorifying the Lord.
Someone talked about
how much courage Mary, and her
ancestor Abraham before her, had to follow the Lord’s wishes – Mary, in
conceiving a child before her wedding and while still a virgin, and Abraham, in
(almost) sacrificing his beloved son Isaac. For her, what leapt out at her from
her reflection on Mary’s life was how Mary always said “yes” to God, even when
it was hard to do so.
Mary’s “yeses” have
often been a point of deep reflection for me, too, but what leapt out at me
today was a different aspect of the Gospel. “And why has this happened to me,
that the mother of my Lord comes to me?” Elizabeth asks in wonder. And later,
Mary says – not so much in direct reply but in a harmony of wonder – “My soul
magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour, for He has looked
with favour on the lowliness of His servant.”
The wonder of God’s
two servants in those lines struck me today as a glimpse into the source of
their courage. I think this speaks
more for my lack of gratitude than any lack of providence in my life, but I can
think of very few occasions when I have actually been dumbstruck at how lucky I
am for something to have come into my life. When I think of one such occasion,
I remember the emotion very clearly – heart rising. Heart leaping.
In actuality, we are
blessed in so many more little ways than the big moments we remember, which
have the capacity to strike us dumb with awe if only we are humble enough to recognise them. Mother
Teresa once said that when you are humble, nothing will touch you – neither praise
nor disgrace – because you know what you are. I may venture to add that when
you are humble, nothing will touch you because you know whose you are.
Mary is magnified in
the Church as our Mother, as a motherly figure holding us close to her heart,
but she is also glorified as God’s first disciple and as His child. I believe
that she had the courage to say ‘yes’ so many times to so many difficult
challenges because she knew whose she was. She was humble enough to know that
above all, and underlying everything, she was God’s child.
Humility also comes
hand in hand with trust, or faith. What would you do if you knew you
would not fail? I asked at the beginning of this post. When I think about well-made
plans, I realise that the feeling of confidence and certainty that accompany
them arise from the level of thought we have given them. We have thought things
through so well, prepared for so many contingencies, we know that there is a
very, very high chance we will not fail. Science tells us there is no higher
percentage of accuracy than that. A freak accident could always occur, and we
would fail, but not for want of preparation.
Faith gives us the
highest possible, full percentage of accuracy – but only in the plans which He
makes, and which He offers to us to accept with the humility and trust of a
child. Of His child. Once we say yes
with trust, then we have the courage to sail the plan through, knowing with
humility that neither success nor failure will touch us. PS. That said, I am still finding it very hard to implement this in my daily life. Prayers would be much appreciated!
I’ve been wondering a lot about love lately, in both
its human and divine incarnations.
I also just got back an assignment, which I received a
terrible grade on.
Yes, I promise there is a connection between the two statements
above. Let me explain:
As the Church enters the period of Lent, we are called
to contemplate our sins, and also God’s mercy. This is not as easy as it
sounds. Take the first. Realizing my own wretchedness as a sinner was harder
than it sounds. The fact that we are all sinners seems like a universal truth,
but it is not as self-evident as it appears, because everyone’s wretchedness is
different. Everyone’s forbidden fruit is different. And truly realizing,
internalizing, the extent of my wretchedness was frightening indeed. It can
feel like a quicksand of your own making, when you become aware of your own
faults and failings.
But there is also the second element to contemplate:
God’s mercy. If I had to take a stab at defining Christianity, I would say that
we hold two beliefs: that we are sinners, and that by God we are saved. The
point of being a Christian is not to wallow in the sorrow of being a sinner. It
is to glory in the joy that despite
your status, despite the utter wretchedness of your sin, God loves you just the
same. And God loves you so much that He went through the same thing you did, in
much greater pain, so as to empathize with your personal journey, and to convince you that yes, He
knows who you are, and yes, He still chooses to love you. There is so much joy
to that.
I wrote before that mercy is love to the undeserving. In Church last Sunday, someone offered me an
alternative definition: mercy is loving even when your love has been rejected.
On the divine plane of love, that is easy enough to understand. God reaches out
a loving hand to us, and carries us even when we try to push Him away, even
when we commit the incredible folly of thinking that we know better. I know I have done this far too many times.
But as Valentine’s Day came around just half a week
into Lent, I began to compare my experiences with human and divine love. We are
made in His image; we are called to love as He did. But that is often terribly
difficult. How do we love when our love has been rejected? How should that love
be manifested?
By giving, without asking for
return
My mother shared this excerpt with me. The emphases
are entirely my own, but I wish the words were; if anyone knows where this is
from, do let me know.
“The mercy of God transcends all human understanding,
which had only been familiar with ideas of justice and love. Justice involves
giving each one his or her due. One is first evaluated, and then given only
what one deserves. Love transcends justice,
in that love involves a certain self-forgetfulness in giving oneself to the
other. But even in love, there is a certain reciprocity. One gives oneself to
the other with an expectation that the other would reciprocate the love given.
When the other does not care, there is a hurt that burns with pain. Exactly as
love is precious and dear, that hurt is also deep and powerful. And yet mercy transcends love, in that even when one
is hurt, one seeks to reach beyond the hurt and bless the other. Mercy is giving
undeserved love in the fullness of joy.”
By letting go
Of course, the corollary to ‘giving, without asking
for return’ is that you need some sort of fuel for that amount of giving. I’ve
always loved this quotation from Mother Teresa: “Give, but give until it
hurts”: that is, I’ve always found it beautiful, but also painfully true.
Loving hurts. Giving, passing on your
light to others without anyone to relight your candle, can be exhausting, and,
at worst, self-harmful. I have found myself getting easily annoyed, pugnacious,
or vindictive, when actually I am just so tired of giving without getting any
replenishment in return.
And therein lies the catch. We cannot hope to aspire
to God’s level of love if we only aim to achieve His level of giving without
reciprocally achieving His level of sustenance. Here is where my assignment
comes in: I had put in X amount of work, and did not understand why that did
not translate to my desired grade. I had hoped it would be like a mathematical
formula: X + Y, “it necessarily follows” that Z, and so on. But as these
aggrieved thoughts floated through my mind, I began to find them very familiar.
I found them highly reminiscent of my thought processes when my human loves
failed.
There’s a beautiful scene in the film (500) Days of Summer where Tom says that
at the end of every relationship, you go back and start to see where things
began to fall apart. You start to play the narrative back a little differently.
When I did so, I often found my thoughts playing the same mathematical
formulaic arc: “now she’s putting in X amount of effort…” “…now he’s being won
over…” (Yes, I’m aware this is sounding like a really bad sports commentary, of
maybe a lame community game show nobody watches.) And at the end, I’d
inevitably question: I thought I had it in the bag there. What happened?
With grades, it’s easier to say that it’s all
arbitrary. It’s up to the teacher’s discretion; it’s up to your ‘law school
karma’ (replace with degree as relevant); etc. I wish I could say differently
for human relationships, and so pin down some way to remain in love forever,
mathematically speaking; but it’s not. Human love, after all, and grades, both
stem from the same source: humans. And humans are, insofar as emotions are
involved, illogical and arbitrary. (Even our rational processes are not spared.
I think giving only stops hurting when we give up the
need to be affirmed or recognized. This is different from giving without asking
for return. Sometimes, we don’t want a reciprocal gift per se; we just want someone to turn around and acknowledge the
gift of ourselves that we have vulnerably proffered. But this view of giving
runs into the ground for the same reason as applying mathematical expectations
to grades or love: we begin to feel hurt, and then aggrieved, and then maybe
angry, when nobody acknowledges our gift.
I think giving only stops hurting when we begin to
place our need for affirmation in the hands of God instead. When we place our
vulnerability in His hands, and accept the affirmation that comes on His terms,
then we can let go of earthly weights and truly give as freely as He gives.
Happily ever after?
I said before that I was trying to compare my
experiences with human and divine love.
The next theological hurdle I came to was, if divine
love is giving without asking for return, and if mercy is loving even when love
has been rejected, then how do we deal with the idea that God is always calling
us to come home? Why does He want us to be with Him so dearly?
Does this speak of a notion of ownership – i.e. ‘I want you here with me now and always’? If so,
what does this mean for human loves? For the sacrament of marriage? Is it just
a religiously acceptable form of possessiveness?
The long quotation in the first part above ended with,
“Mercy is giving undeserved love in the fullness of joy.” The idea of ‘fullness
of joy’ is, indeed, a recurring theme in Christianity. There’s something about
the ideal relationship between a human and God that is whole, that is full. Mother Mary is said to be “full of
grace”; she is brimming over with God’s mercy and God’s marvelous, marvelous
love.* I think that is what God wants for us too. He wants us to be with
Him because He knows that only then can we be completely and incandescently at
rest. There is no notion of power play in the sense that ‘ownership’ suggests.
As our divine father, I do think there is a paternal element we cannot escape; but
we must not mistake this for a master-servant relationship. God does not want
us with Him to subjugate us to His commands, like slaves; God wants us with Him
so that we, too, can achieve fullness of joy.
What this means for human love is that sometimes, we
rush to the altar. We are too quick to pronounce a state of heady happiness as
‘fulfillment’. We see the best in others, and are too quick to proclaim this
sufficient to achieve the best that God has in mind for us. When we tolerate
differences, without any way (or intention) of getting around them, we
necessarily settle for the lowest common denominator in order to get along. (I thank both my friend Anne and my Constitution Law lecturer for this epiphany.) The
question then arises whether this does us justice; whether ‘getting along’ is
actually the closest we can get to happiness, or if, through a little more
strife, a little more work, there can be something more golden that awaits us.
There is a reason
why Adam proclaims Eve as “this one, at
last, is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh” (Gen 2:23). (It’s not just because she is
literally made from his flesh and
bone.) It is because with human love that reflects divine love, there is a
sense of coming full circle. People speak of ‘coming home’; we have found the
one in whom we can see, and aspire to, God’s level of love, at last.
Grace has to go both ways. There is a saying that God’s mercy is like the rain,
but we must turn our buckets upwards in order to catch the droplets.* We
have to open our hearts to the transfiguring power of God’s love, and first
understand how much and how He loves us, before we can love
others as He loves us.
-
* These ideas are from the book The Art of Grace: On Moving Well Through Life by Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Sarah Kaufman. The book is a work of art in itself, which I hope to write about one day but in the meantime highly encourage everyone to pick up someday.
“To think that this is my twentieth birthday and that
I’ve left my teens behind me for ever […] Yes, I’m sorry, and a little
dissatisfied as well. Miss Stacy told me long ago that by the time I was twenty
my character would be formed, for good or evil. I don’t think that it’s what it
should be. It’s full of flaws.”
“So’s everybody’s. Mine’s cracked in a hundred places.
Your Miss Stacy likely meant that when you were twenty your character would
have got its permanent bent in one direction or t’other, and would go on
developing in that line. Don’t worry over it, Anne. Do your duty by God and
your neighbour and yourself, and have a good time.” – Anne of Avonlea
It’s often difficult for me to begin writing on any
topic, let alone the rather intimidating one of a year-end wrap-up. Nevertheless,
I have found the results of this annual masochism meaningful and, at times,
enlightening; and thus I continue. This year, let me begin with some basic
definitions:
Hope is the quiet confidence in God’s promise. Mercy
is love to the undeserving.
Just a short while ago, as the world entered Advent, I
was entering a time of great anxiety, fear, caffeine, and generally unpleasant things:
law school examinations. When I wrote my year-end wrap-up this time last year,
I mentioned hoping that I would survive my first-ever law school examinations,
which took place around end April this year. Well, I did survive—but not
exactly. I was hurled off my metaphorical horse and thrown across the
figurative paddock and generally got quite bruised and battered by a mix of the
bell curve, sheer laziness, and despicable complacency. But then I survived. As
Robert Frost once said, “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned
about life: it goes on.”
In law school (or any school), life goes on, only to
bring you to the next round of examinations. This time I was full of fear. I
didn’t know for sure if I’d done so badly the previous time round because of
bad luck, insufficient preparation, or sheer stupidity. I began my preparations
later than I probably should’ve, but worked harder than I ever had before,
driven by the fear of failure, by the fear of being proven too stupid for law
school, by the fear of comparisons, and by the fear of letting people down. It
was all rather negative, and I started joking with my friends about also ‘preparing
for a back-up career’ around this time.
Jump back to the timeline as the world sees it: the
Church was entering Advent, a time of preparation for the arrival of our Lord
Jesus at Christmas. After the dreadful dreaded law school examinations ended, I
couldn’t help but compare the two periods of preparation which I had just
simultaneously gone through. Why was
one so different from the other? How I
could reconcile the two, bring the peace and joy of one into the fear and
self-loathing of the other?
I realized that when one is making ready the way of
the Lord, one cannot prepare for a ‘back-up Saviour’ the way one thinks about
perhaps trying out PR or journalism if law doesn’t work out. The path to God is
a one-track road; our one God waits in His heavenly home to welcome us at the
end. As for how we are to wait and prepare without fear of it not working out,
without fear of failure, without fear of losing out, we return to the basics:
Hope is the quiet confidence in God’s promise. And
mercy is love to the undeserving.
We have the audacity to hope in the light of forever,
to set our sinner’s hearts on this path to God, because we have confidence in
God’s promise. And we derive joy from this confidence. There is no “what if I
don’t get what I want”, because what I want is God, and I know it to be truer
than true that God’s promise will come
true. When we cling to this certainty of hope and we know what it is we wait for, we shake off the shackles of anxiety that
come from our lack of focus, and our lack of faith. And then, finally, we can
wait and prepare with hope and, yes, joy!
Sometimes, we are asked to wait and prepare without
knowing the ways in which God’s hand may show in our lives. I have written
several times about the frustration of not understanding where God wants to
lead me. For someone who is a frenetic planner by nature, I always want to know
what’s happening now, and what’s happening next. I always want key performance
indicators, to let me know my plan’s on track. I always want a back-up plan in
the back of my mind, in case Plan A doesn’t work out. I guess it’s always been
hard for me to accept that God’s plan is the
only plan, and that if His plan isn’t showing itself in the ways I expected it
to, or isn’t bearing the right fruit in time, I can’t say, “Hey, God, this
doesn’t seem to be working so I’m going to plant a different type of fruit and
maybe that will better succeed!”
Sometimes, I think God is trying to tell me, “Girl,
you have all the right ideas and all the wrong ways of achieving them. Just
have patience, keep your calm, and trust in ME.”
I think 2015 has, above all, been a humbling year.
2014 was good in that it showed me how to get myself together after Plan A
falls apart and how to ‘kick the shit out of Option B’ (Sheryl Sandberg). 2015
has taught me that sometimes the only Option
B available is to wait it out. Sometimes, the only thing you can do when you
have been winded and hurt and positively ground to dirt is to breathe, and to
remind yourself that if nothing else, you have God, and what does God do but
love the undeserving? I have been proud and impetuous; I have been complacent;
I have let other things dictate my happiness than the one thing which warrants
it most: God’s unconditional love.
We don’t always understand what has been said or done,
but what we can do is receive it in faith, and wait until it is made clear.
Just like our Mother Mary when her son Jesus was lost at the temple, and she
accepted how God’s marvelous plan was unfolding in the most bizarre way she had
never expected, nor could she understand. “But Mary kept all these things, and
pondered them in her heart.” (Luke 2:19)
Sometimes, there is no human plan that could make
sense of what you have been given. But we have to find joy in the blessings and
the little (and big) good things that happen to and around us; and in the bad
things, in the things we never wanted to happen, we have to find joy in the
quiet confidence that God knows what He’s doing, and He doesn’t chance His arm.
“Rejoice in the Lord always. Let your gentleness be
known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in
everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be
made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding,
will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Phil 4:4-7
In 2015, I was given terrible grades in my first-ever
law school examinations. I was called up to my scholarship office, asked to
explain myself to my scholarship officer, asked to make contingency plans in
the face of many tears, disappointed hopes, and confusion. I was given
heartbreak. I was called upon to question what I wanted in life, to question
who was there when all seemed lost, to question who I was when no one else was
around.
In 2015, I met new people. I made friends with those I
never thought I would be friends with. I stayed in hostel one last semester,
and made little shy inroads where I didn’t dare to before. I tried to be brave,
I plodded on, putting one foot in front of the other when I couldn’t see the
whole road ahead; I did it with friends and family holding one hand, and God
holding the other. I could not have done it without Him. And I realized—how strangely—it
all links in the end.
Every moment you have experienced since you were born,
every memory you have stored, every decision you have made, has come together
to bring you to where you are at this present moment. I am an amalgamation of
every heartbreak, every disappointment, every forced reconfiguration, every
reconciliation, every epiphany, every teardrop, and every song I have ever
sung. I am a mix of those late nights staring at the lights of hostel opposite,
unable to sleep; of those days when I stumbled to my bed unable to see through
the tears; also of the days I could not stop smiling for little to no reason
whatsoever; of the days when I laughed until I cried; of the days when I sat
quietly with a good book or a good thought and smiled to myself and prayed, ‘God,
it’s a wonderful world You have made for me.’
This is the gift He gave us at Christmas, and this is
the gift that allows us to move on, year after year, making ready the way of
the Lord. For it is when we know who loves us, who waits for us at the end of
the road, that we are able to face all the pit stops and car wrecks we may face
along the way.
“A thrill of hope
The weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks
A new and glorious morn!” – O Holy Night
“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true,
whatever is honourable and worthy of respect, whatever is pure and wholesome,
whatever is lovely and brings peace, whatever is admirable and of good repute;
if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think
continually of these things – centre your mind on them, and implant them in
your heart.” Phil 4:8
For 2016, I pray that I will not lose faith in the One
who matters most. I pray to continue believing with all my heart that it is
truer than true that God made a most beautiful and wonderful world. I pray to
take pride in this and this only, that I am loved by God, and not to let any
other trophy this world may hand me make me proud; and conversely, not to let
any hurt this world may throw me bring me down for long, for He is my God and
my Saviour, and He loves me, the
undeserving, and what more could I ask for?
Have a blessed Christmas and a wonderful year of hope
and joy ahead.
This December marks about a year since I started learning hand-lettering (or calligraphy, to use the term loosely). I can't remember exactly when I started, but I do remember my mum getting me a set of nibs just before Christmas 2014, and me experimenting with them on our Christmas cards. I wouldn't say the year since then has brought leaps and bounds in progress, but I've learnt a lot-- both in technique, and in life.
#1 Practice
Ironically, this was number one on the last Lessons post I did too. Either I haven't internalised the lesson or this is just so applicable across the board! Flipping through the various notepads and scrap paper I used to scribble on, it is so visible at a glance how my penmanship has improved. Sometimes the learning curve is jagged. Using a new brush can take me back to step zero before I learn how to use it well. Hand-lettering when I am tired has been proven to be a bad idea- I cannot hold the pen steady, I get lazy with strokes, et cetera. But on the whole, it is very fulfilling to look through these roses of yesterday and feel so very consciously how far time can take you- especially since I tend to doodle whatever is on my mind, so my state of mind and worries are very visible from the practice pages!
#2 Adventure
This is about not being afraid to try new things. I still get too crazy when I see new brushes in the stores. (This is probably bad for my wallet.) But, even with the brushes I have, I like to scroll through Pinterest and Instagram to get inspiration of new hand-lettering styles to try. Hand-lettering for a year has taught me that I do have a style I fall back on when casually doodling, but it has also taught me that my hand can learn new styles as long as my brain is up to it! Sometimes this involves practising writing a single letter differently; sometimes this involves going crazy on flourishes (which I haven't mastered yet, sadly and frustratingly); and sometimes this involves totally changing the picture and writing in completely different handwriting. Some of these adventures have incorporated themselves into my fallback style, which is fun to watch.
#3 Mistakes
I've learnt to go with the flow a lot more with hand-lettering. Sometimes, a little quiver can really make a piece! This was especially so every time I tried a new brush and wasn't used to controlling it. I'd shake a little, or apply a little less or more weight than I ought to, and the words would come out differently. But sometimes these mistakes really make the words turn out more beautifully than even I intended- and ironically, I'd try to make the mistake intentionally the next time round!
#4 Patience
Closely linked to practice, but not quite: this is more about learning to go really slow when writing. I used to rush. Sometimes I still do, when I'm frustrated, or when I've an idea in my head which I cannot wait to execute. But I have learnt (and I thank Instagram videos a lot for this) that sometimes, the best-paced pieces- those where the words fall together nicely, where there are flourishes which just flow perfectly- take time to do. Sometimes you have to lift your pen off the page and pause and reassess. Sometimes you take really long just to write one short word! And that's okay. In fact, that's great.
#5 Share
The final lesson I learnt is super important. I don't hesitate to credit a lot of my learning to Instagram users who, apart from posting really inspirational masterpieces, also were very forthcoming in answering questions and imparting advice to amateurs like myself. These ranged from the very Beginner-type questions ("what kind of brush pens would you recommend for someone just starting out?") to the community kind ("where did you find this in Singapore?"). A lot of times, it's just, "What pen are you using?" And watching others use the same instruments you have, but in wholly different and amazing ways, is crazily inspirational as well.
5 Amazing Instagrammers to Follow
@artsynibs
@sowinlove
@theletterbelle
@amandaarneill
@jennyhighsmith
Another side to sharing- sharing your journey with those who are on the same page, or just starting out, too. I'm learning a lot from chatting with friends who are similarly trying out hand-lettering. And now, I'm hoping to learn more by setting down these lessons on a page.
Everything happens
for a reason. The heart breaks a little differently every time. And, perhaps
more importantly, it heals a little differently every time. Each time it heals
it forms a new mosaic, a new stained-glass panel in the cathedral of your
dreams. Your inner sanctum. Each time something grows, you look at it from
behind the previous panel. Your instincts for what to look out for are coloured
and structured from the previous panel. You cannot help it. This is how you
grow (up). But sometimes, a rare shaft of light shines through from a place you
didn't expect. The new panel. The one that foreshadows all the new ways your
heart will break and heal; the way your little cathedral will never be the same
again. Perhaps this shaft of light comes from God. Everything happens for a
reason, even loss; and sometimes, loss itself is but a foreshadowing of joy to
come.
“Eternal God, in whom mercy is endless and
the treasury of compassion — inexhaustible, look kindly upon us and increase
Your mercy in us, that in difficult moments we might not despair nor become
despondent, but with great confidence submit ourselves to Your holy will, which
is Love and Mercy itself.”
So closes the Divine Mercy chaplet, which
is a form of recited prayer my mother taught me. The last line struck me in
particular—“Your holy will, which is Love and Mercy itself.” Anyone who prays
the Our Father –or, indeed, pays attention in church—is rather well-versed in
the idea of God’s will and letting it reign in our lives, but for me, this
doctrine sometimes lapses into trope, easy to espouse but frustratingly
difficult to implement.
What does God’s will mean? And what does it
mean to come to him in our difficult moments?
I firmly believe it does not mean God will “solve
our problems” in the way we want Him to. In fact, sometimes He rather
obligingly makes them worse. But I have come to realize that a relationship
with God means not changing the circumstances around you, but changing you. With God, the dust clouding my
vision is cleared; with God, the rust and jadedness crusted on my heart falls
away.
Coming to God is something my parish priest
has often talked to me about, both in homilies and in our choir recollection.
The idea of God as a lover seems
rather uncomfortable, perhaps even heretic, but isn’t it God who first and
foremost showed us the way of love? Isn’t it God to whom we must aspire in our
human relationships of love? And when we bring our human ideas of love to God
rather than the other way round, things get a little revelatory. “If your
boyfriend didn’t like you saying the word ‘cucumber’, wouldn’t you think of him
every time you said it? Wouldn’t you eventually stop saying it, because you don’t
want to hurt his feelings?” my priest asked. In the same way, if God is the
way, the truth, and the life, if God is our first starting point in love,
shouldn’t we think of Him every time we sin? Every time we get tempted?
We don’t think twice about rushing to be
with the person we love. We shouldn’t think twice about rushing to be with God,
to spend time with Him.
But spending time with Him doesn’t have to
mean spending the whole day closeted in fervent prayer. I have come to realize
that you can live your life as a prayer, too. You can glorify the Lord with
your life, and you can do this by clearing your heart, so that through you,
others see Him (thank you, C. S. Lewis, for your words which I have
appropriated and paraphrased).
I once read an enlightening article about
what God gives when He takes away. It cohered in the most magical way with our
topic of discussion during choir recollection: amongst which, the idea that loss
reveals what we rely on, and prayer reveals that we should rely on God. It is a
lesson I am still learning every single day, how to bring my daily gifts to
God, and so lose nothing when He takes some away.
“Let us be confident in approaching the
throne of grace,” writes St. Paul (or Barnabas; the author is disputed) in his
letter to the Hebrews (at 4:16). (Please try to believe me when I say I’m not
being self-indulgent in including that quotation.) Love is about being unafraid
to come to each other with your sins, forgiving, working through them, and
working them away. So should our love with God. After all, it was He –through Jesus—who
came as a man to experience the temptation of men, who could have said no to God’s will but did it anyway—who demonstrated
most strongly the power of yes. So did
His human mother—Mother Mary, who at many points in her life (not just at the
conception of Jesus—take, for example, when Jesus got lost at the temple; or
more obviously, when Jesus died on the cross) was asked to accept God’s hand in
her life, and acceded with sheer faith.
It is normal to feel unsure about doing God’s
will. Is my human choice dictated by God? Is this the hand of God in my life?
Sometimes, we are called to say yes without asking; more often, when we
come to God as His children with our many questions about how and what and why,
we are asked to spend time with Him in order to understand. As we spend more
time with Him, His peace fills our heart. Everything in His time; everything,
in His way.
God is Love; God is Mercy. Let us be unafraid, then, to come to the
one who was there first, who went before us and who understands our human
hearts wholly and lovingly. Let us be unafraid to love God, to love others, and
to love ourselves.
If there’s something that strikes me about us
Catholics, it’s how much we don’t know. I’m not talking about the stereotype
that we don’t know our Bible (although, I must confess, I probably know less
than I ought to), but rather, that our entire faith is a celebration of the
incredible minuteness of our human capacity in the face of the vast ocean of
God’s grace. As St. Augustine concisely put it, around 1700 years ago, “If you
think you understand, it isn’t God.”
So I’m going to do a little something different
with this post today. I’ve interspersed it with stanzas from one of my
favourite hymns, “These Alone” by Dan Schutte (video at the end of this post), based on a prayer by St. Ignatius of Loyola. And although my blog has been a good way thus far to mark
the new things I’m learning and internalizing every day, this post shall be a
reiteration of all the things I don’t know—and thank God for that.
Take my heart, O Lord, take my hopes and dreams
Take my mind, with all its plans and schemes
Give me nothing more than Your love and grace
These alone, O Lord, are enough for me
I actually meant to begin (and post) this two
weeks ago, when I was thinking a lot about what it meant to surrender to God’s
will. I’m a frenetic planner by nature. Close friends can attest to how I often
cannot put my mind at rest until I have a problem set out in a mind map,
schedule, or battle plan. This constant need to have my problems delineated and
put on the conveyor belt on their way to being solved, to know what’s happening next, even permeates my
time off-duty: I, sadly, flip to the ends of books more often than I’d care to
admit. (Don’t you? No? Okay.)
Those two weeks came and went without me ever
feeling in the right mood to sit down and type a big chunk about what I don’t
know, until problems piled up at my door that I had to let in and sort out. And
these nights, before I lay me down to sleep, instead of going through battle
plans in my head, I’ve been trying to let them go instead: to ask God to “take
my mind, with all its plans and schemes”. It seems counter-intuitive that you
can be much better off with a tenuous faith in He Who Cannot Be Seen rather
than plans which give you a semblance of comfort, but to quote St. Augustine again
(very eloquent, this man), “Our hearts are restless, until they find rest in
You.”
So take everything I think I know, Lord- take
my tangled strings and hanging knots and weave them into the tapestry which I
know You have in mind for me. Take my yearnings and longings and uncurl them in
the palm of Your hand, place me against Your heart, and keep me there. You know
better. Let that be enough for me.
Take my thoughts, O Lord, and my memory
Take my tears, my joys, my liberty
Give me nothing more than Your love and grace
These alone, O Lord, are enough for me
“Strangely
enough, if God’s will is to be done, there is only one way things can end. And
that’s crazily comforting. There’s no need to make plans or worry about how to
get there. God can handle that,” said my friend Anne over skinny pizzas one day
(I paraphrase your words, dear, but I hope I got the gist right).
It seems that growing up, our problems are more
open-ended than multiple choice, and sometimes the distance between where I am
and where I want to be terrify me so much (to paraphrase Tracee Ellis Ross)
(too many quotes?) (never too many quotes). But it is in these chasms that I
hear, most clearly, the voice of God calling me to Him, to trust him. As Father
Clifford said in his Homily two weeks ago (on the Sunday when I ought to have
written this post), “God speaks to us most powerfully through interruptions.” What
we see as a long-fought-for, long-trudged road coming to a dead end may well
just be a curve in the road He has in mind.
And the strangest thing is, once we start to
let go of the human conception that we know what is best for us, and start to
glimpse the enormity of His excellent
plan, there is so much joy. There is a fullness of joy which I cannot hope to
entirely comprehend and terrifies me in the same way vast oceans and great
mountains and beautiful flowers terrify me: when I realize that I am a small
part in a huge and wonderful world, and I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
I surrender, Lord, all I have and hold
I return to You Your gifts untold
Give me nothing more than Your love and grace
These alone, O Lord, are enough for me
The second reading on that Mass two weeks ago
was from St. Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians, 12:8-10: “Three times I
appealed to the Lord about this, that it would leave me, but He said to me, ‘My
grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.’ So, I will
boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may
dwell in me. Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships,
persecutions, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak,
then I am strong.”
Three
times St. Paul asked the Lord
to rid him of his afflictions. (I must have badgered God at His door far more
often than that.) (Sorry.) But like St. Paul, I only found peace once I stopped
asking for more, and started asking
for less. I need to learn to stop
asking for God to fill my half-empty pot with more of what I think I want/
need, and to start asking him to empty me so He may fill me with Himself. As
Sir Thomas Browne wrote, at least three centuries ago,
“If thou could’st
empty all thyself of self,
like to a shelf
dishabited,
Then might He find
thee on the ocean shelf,
And say, ‘This is not
dead,’
And fill thee with
Himself instead.
But thou art all
replete with very thou,
And hast such shrewd activity,
That when He comes He
says, ‘This is enow
Unto itself—‘twere
better let it be,
It is so small and
full, there is no room for Me.’”
I like to think that at the end of the day when
we reach Heaven’s doors, I will lift up my empty hands and tell Him, “Here are
the gifts You gave me, Lord. I have used them all, and now I return to You.” As
another friend wrote to me a few weeks ago, “God loves you so much, and He
loves you enough to give you this life. That alone should bring you so much
joy.”
Let me be filled with Your love and grace, God.
Nothing more, nothing less.
When the darkness falls on my final days,
Take the very breath that sang Your praise
Give me nothing more than Your love and grace
These alone, O Lord, are enough for me
Admitting you don’t know anything, when you’ve
made an entire life on being the one who knows what’s going on, is terrifying.
But it’s also really liberating.
One of my favourite books of all time, Anne of the Island, has this to say
about death: “I think, perhaps, we have very mistaken ideas about heaven- what
it is and what it holds for us. I don’t think it can be so very different from
life here as most people seem to think. I believe we’ll just go on living, a
good deal as we live here- and be ourselves
just the same- only it will be easier to be good and to- follow the
highest. All the hindrances and perplexities will be taken away, and we shall
see clearly. Don’t be afraid, Ruby.”
I think it’s also super applicable to letting God’s
will reign in our lives- we will be ourselves just the same, only it will be
easier to follow His word.
Lord, help me to let go of the bitterness and
anger I feel when my plans don’t come to fruition. Help me to walk by faith and
not by sight. Help me to keep my head lifted to the sight of Your eternal glory
and fullness of grace, and help me to walk by this light, forever and always.
I don't know so much—but You always know better.
For those who are curious as to what “These
Alone” sounds like, here is a video (filmed at my church!):
For a truly inspiring article on opening your
heart to God’s joy and love in the midst of human grief, read this!
I’ve been
wanting to do a post like this for some time. This summer dealt me some nasty
funk, but the nasty funk also helped me to clean up my standard operating
procedures for getting over bad times. This is not to say that the bad times
are over; I think there are still going to be some days in the months to come
when I feel particularly vulnerable. But happiness is, sometimes, a choice.
I don’t
mean to say that in the way The Worst Advice in the World is, “Snap out of it!”
Because there are going to be times when no matter how much you want to be
happy, you get confused about what would get you there, and this makes the
choice all the harder. I mean that in the sense that sometimes you have to be
your own sunshine and make your own battle plan to achieve your own happiness.
Photo credit: Pinterest
There are
good days, when I find myself smiling and laughing and loving my life. This
Monday evening was one of them. I miraculously won a pass to a Meet & Greet
session with the lovely dancer, Miko Fogarty. I didn’t know what to expect to
come away with when I arrived: while I love ballet, I harbour no aspirations
(delusions) of becoming a professional ballet dancer, and talk of performances
and competitions seemed quite exclusive to me.
Miko at Prix de Lausanne. Original photo credit: Gregory Batardon
I didn’t
expect to hear this: that Miko, an amazingly dedicated and disciplined dancer,
has bad days too. She went through a bad funk of her own when she was thirteen
or fourteen, when she felt burnt out with the pressure of school and dance.
Hearing her talk about her experience and how she dealt with it really
resonated with me.
I’ve
compiled a few tips I remember from the session below, as well as a list of my
own from what I’ve learnt the past few months:
Miko’s tips
1.“Allow yourself to
have bad days, but always remember to reset the next morning.”
I think it’s important to recognize that everyone has moments of weaknesses,
and it’s not always your fault. You have to extend to yourself the same
kindness and compassion you would extend to others, and that includes allowing
yourself to have the bad day, and acknowledging all the nasty emotions you are
feeling. The important thing, however, is to reset. Every brand new morning is
a gift, unencumbered by yesterday’s sorrows.
Photo credit: Pinterest
2.Get inspired.
Even amazing ballerinas have days when they run out of inspiration. I remember
a piece of advice I once received on law school, which is that you shouldn’t be
worried if you’re doing badly; you should only be worried if you stop loving
what you’re doing. There are some days in ballet when I really want to quit. I
think of all the odds which are stacked against my favour (I’m too old/ I’m too
fat/ there are so many people better than me) and think that there is no point
going on. But then I go home and watch a few videos of my favourite ballerinas
on YouTube and think, “Ahhh. This is
why I’m staying.” If you can, and as Miko suggests: watch a live show. (Or create
a new Pinterest board. This totally counts.)
3.Meditate.
Sometimes you can literally feel a knot of tension in you. But it’s important
to find some quiet time with only yourself to sort out that knot; to lay it
flat, and lay it to rest. I find myself doing this on long bus rides, in
pockets of time in the afternoon, or even just before I go to sleep.
Amy Poehler always knows what to say. Photo credit: Pinterest
4.Sleep!
Miko identified one of the root problems of her stress as a lack of sleep over
time. It’s important to know the controllable factors which may be causing you
to react in a certain way. Sleep is always good. I always find that problems
are easier to deal with after a good night’s rest.
My own tips
1.Create your own
playlist.
I think over time you get a sense of which songs make you feel which way, and
which songs you reach out to when you want comfort or an extra burst of
sunshine. Please file all these songs away into a playlist, either on YouTube
or Spotify or whatever you fancy, and pull them out whenever necessary. Music
really does wonders to lift (or worsen) your mood; pick judiciously!
For a soothing song which sometimes makes me cry but also feels like a mother’s
hug when I’m alone at hostel, “Someone’s Waiting For You” (Shelby Flint) is
wonderful.
For somewhat aggressive, power-tripping songs, I like “Run the World (Girls)” (Beyoncé);
“I Love It” (Icona Pop ft. Charlie XCX); and “Really Don’t Care” (Demi Lovato).
For healing, happy songs, “Gonna Get Over You” (Sara Bareilles) is absolutely
great (she did a mash-up of that song with "Forget You", it’s fabulous!). Also
try “Now is the Start” by A Fine Frenzy.
Edit: how could I forget?! Tori Kelly's "Unbreakable Smile" helped me through a lot. It's hard to resist smiling through this one.
You can find the playlist I made here.
2.Reach out.
I think it’s very easy, when you’re down, to shut yourself up against the world
and not let anyone in. It can be very hard to talk about the problem (or
problems). But at the same time it is truly amazing what nasty funks can reveal
about the people around you. For me, it revealed that I have the best friends
ever. One of my best friends arranged a surprise get together with all my
closest friends in law school, just for me. The same best friend and a couple
others would allow me to call them randomly in the middle of nowhere, just to
hear me whine (and sometimes cry) on the other side.
Don’t shy away from making social plans, either. I had great times meeting up
with friends whom I wasn’t close enough to to share my problems with, but who
nonetheless cheered me up wonderfully the way friends do: with plenty of shared
memories and laughter.
3.Try new things.
One of my best friends told me this, and I didn’t know how I was going to
manage it, but when I look back I realize I’m now reading my first non-fiction
book in ages (“Yes Please” by Amy Poehler, which so far, is laugh-out-loud
funny and epiphany-causing at the same time), trying to improve my hand
lettering with new pens and/or new methods, and sometimes dressing differently
just for the heck of it (yes, this counts).
4.When you’re ready-
have a schedule.
Keep busy, and keep recognizing your accomplishments, even those which may seem
very small or insignificant. The first day you wake up feeling amazing? That
counts. Having tasks to tackle, and finishing them, can be a fabulous
adrenaline kick all on its own. You are amazing, and you are going to feel
amazing someday soon.
Photo credit: Pinterest
5.Be your own sunshine.
I once read that smiling at yourself in the mirror, however forced, can really
lift your mood. It sounds ridiculous, but on one of my worst days I woke up and
told myself, “TODAY IS A BRAND NEW DAY AND YOU ARE AWESOME.” And it kinda
worked. You have to be firm about loving yourself.
Photo credit: Pinterest
On a
related note, another avenue (haha) that really helped me through another nasty
funk last year was this blog post by Avenue Maria. Maria is a lovely blogger
from Australia who never fails to cheer me up.
This has
turned into a super long post with probably more semi-colons and “wonderful”s
than it ought to have, but I do hope it helped. If it has helped you, and you
feel okay with it, let me know! I’d love to hear from you.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a college
student in the face of looming deadlines must be in possession of an
existential crisis. (Or at least, I hope it isn’t just me.) It occurred to me
the other day how my panic attacks and general existential crises had been
accumulating in frequency more and more since I returned to Law school for the
second semester of my first year- that “life had not mirrored her spirit back
to her with its old, perfect, sparkling clearness” (Anne of the Island). And there is no set way to get this clarity of
mind back. I guess the image I had in my head was that of a rubber ball, and
wondering why I wasn’t bouncing back as quickly as I used to be able to, until
I realized that a more appropriate image would be a bunch of rubber bands that
had gotten so tied up together that they couldn’t bounce back unless they were
untangled. I needed to untangle the many worries I had in my mind, before I
could set my mind at rest and move on.
It usually helps to look at the bigger picture, and
that’s when I got my first epiphany. Being someone who very much looks to books
and movies for life advice and kind of charting the way my life is going, it
took me a while to realize this, but somewhere along the way it stopped being
me looking ahead to fiction to see how things were supposed to pan out, but
rather me looking sideways to fiction. Fiction began to run parallel to my
life, instead of the runner in front of you whose number tag you focus on to
keep your feet steady. I was so used to the groove of holding fiction as an
ideal for my own life; I held its characters on pedestals, and felt like
adulthood could only be achieved through stepping over a magical,
indeterminable, inextricable threshold of age. I couldn’t see it coming, but I
would definitely know when I had crossed it, and I definitely hadn’t.
But I suddenly realized that when my life started to
echo the questions I saw in books and movies, when fiction wasn’t so fictitious
anymore, when I started having my own questions that didn’t have so direct an
answer –or any at all- I realized that all these struggles- all this thinking-
is a sign that we are at that magical age betwixt youth and old age. Taylor
Swift got it right when she said “we’re happy, free, confused, and lonely at
the same time/ it’s miserable and magical”. This is what songs are written
about. This is what books are written about. This is what films are made about.
We’ve reached. We’re here.
And what do we do now?
It takes a lot to find liberation in this confusion. A
couple of days ago, I was telling my mum quite frankly that I didn’t like who I
was becoming in Law school. I felt like I was losing the discipline, and the
generosity, to love. I felt like, when given “the choice between what is right,
and what is easy” (Harry Potter and the
Goblet of Fire), I had, too many times, chosen what was easy. And that was
to give in to a life that was mediocre and ordinary, which was only scratching
the surface in terms of the depth and wealth of significance that life has to
offer. I felt like I had failed the little girl in me, who at 7 thought that 20
was just such a magical grown-up number at which I would of course have my life
figured out. At 7, I probably did not imagine that it was possible 20-year-old
me would be stumbling.
To this colossal sense of failure, my mum smiled (and
possibly laughed internally, though more out of commiseration than scorn). “That’s
growing up,” she said.
But what does growing up mean? I always thought there
was just one step between being a kid and being an adult, but now it seems it’s
more of an ocean. More importantly, what does growing up in God mean?
I think our sense of failure is based on that mind-set
of viewing life on rigid scales instead of as a very indeterminate ocean, but
once we let go of that mind-set, it becomes a lot easier to live in Christ.
During one of his Lenten addresses, Pope Francis said something that really stuck
with me: “The Lord never tires of forgiving. We are the ones who tire of asking
forgiveness.” Past redefining the word ‘failure’, it’s time to chuck it out of
our vocabulary. I think it’s very dangerous when we scale life down to a kind
of list where we just check in the
boxes. God’s view of our life is so much more than that. “Perhaps this is the
moment for which you have been created” (Esther 4:14), and God is not waiting
for you to reach a certain checkbox on the list. He is with you every uncertain
step of the way.
Therefore, I think it’s time to think of life more as
a long journey in which we constantly strive for God’s image. Failure implies that
one day, we are going to succeed. But it’s just like that earlier image of
growing up, that one day we’re not and one day we just magically are. There
is never going to be a day in which we wake up magically perfect in God’s
image. The whole point of Lent, as this rather illuminating article suggests,
is that we are never enough. The point of making sacrifices in our lives is not
so much that after we are done, we’re on the next level (and therefore, if we
somehow tripped up in our Lenten sacrifices, it’s not so much a fatal step
backwards to Hell and doom). The whole point of Lent is that we will only be
enough with God, when we recognize that we are smaller than Him, and can only
be made whole with His hand. Our only greatness is in His greatness. As Mother
Teresa said, “He will use you to accomplish great things on the condition that
you believe much more in His love than in your own weakness.”
It is quite easy to acknowledge that it’s “the end of
the day” that matters. When we are caught up in results and deadlines, it is
easy to escape stress by consoling yourself that it’s God who matters. But that
can sometimes fall into the trap of creating a dichotomy, between following the
rat race and following God. It’s a bit like that “Sunday Catholic” phenomenon-
you’re only a Catholic when you go to Mass on Sundays. But once you leave the
Church physically, you snap back into your “other” identity. Grace, Law
student; or Grace, ballet dancer. We need to translate this acknowledgment into
our daily lives. Our identity as a child of God can and should be assimilated
wholly into our “other”, secular identities as students, workers, siblings,
daughters, and friends. After all, it is for this that you were created.
“How on earth do those people make the time to love?”
one of my friends said today. ‘Those people’ refer to the same people this article referenced: those incandescently good people who seem to have life
figured out, and life, for them, is radiating that joy and that goodness.
Again, there’s that sense of the step dichotomy: that one day you’re just
ordinary, and the next day you climb a step and you’re there. But I think the
answer is that love is not something you make time for. Love –and the
generosity of love- is a habit.
Part of my moral crisis was the sense that as I grow
up, love becomes more of a choice than an instinct. It pains me to have to make
the choice. There are people who are going to frustrate you, hurt you, but as
the Lord’s Prayer goes, “Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.” While it is true that the
childlike mind chooses love so easily it’s not even like a choice, it is not
necessarily fatal to our identity as a child of God if we recognize how
difficult this choice really is. Rather, it reinforces the strength of our
eventual decision to love as He loved us. Someone wise (I forget who) said that
we don’t have to like people, we just have to love them.
Shailene Woodley in her acceptance speech for Best Female Performance at the recently concluded 2015 MTV Movie Awards thanked the
author John Green for “wearing integrity and compassion on your sleeve”. And
while this shouldn’t be such a novel thing (pardon the pun) as to warrant
mention in an awards acceptance speech, it is. Being kind and loving does take courage, because it’s not what
everyone does. It’s not what is commonly prioritized today. It’s not easy.
Going back to how to concretely translate the concept
of “glorifying the Lord by your life” into your daily life, I think the answer
is in how you measure the success of a day. Again, the idea of success (and,
therefore, failure)! But again, this is not a yes-no dichotomy. The ocean of
love is an infinite scale. And I think the best measure of how a day has gone
is in how you have reflected God in your dealings with others, and in your
life. How happy have you made others? How much love have you given- and given
freely? One of my favourite hymns (and I have many) goes, “Freely, freely you
have received- freely, freely give/ Go in my name, and because you believe,
others will know that I live.”
God lives. God has arisen. And it is up to us to reflect that joy in our everyday choices. “Rejoice always. Pray constantly.
Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus
for you.” (1 Thess 5: 16-18) There is so much we don’t know. There is a
plethora of uncertainty. But the liberation in our confusion is the knowledge
that God has planned for it all. You are
so small in His sure and wondrous hand- rejoice, and trust!
Looking
back at “a year of blog posts”, I realized I haven’t really been writing much
this year. (My 2013 wrap-up post was just six posts ago!) But I have posted
some pretty monumental posts in 2014- monumental, for the depth of personal
connection which I finally dared to post on a public domain; monumental, for
the way I am learning to grapple with religion in my writing; and monumental,
for the surprising number of people whom my writing has managed to touch.
Odd,
that as I grow older I grow more introspective, but at the same time more
willing to open up and reach out to other people. This year, I’ve learnt how
everyone is fighting a battle you may not always know about, and yet, everyone
has similar battles. So when you unsheathe your battle scars, and be open and
honest about what it’s done to you and how you are trying to grow stronger, you
help others as well as yourself.
My
annual wrap-up posts (for lack of a better word) are usually in point form, I
suppose to encourage brevity and aid my future selves in scanning through past
posts. But this year I feel a little more like ruminating- perhaps because,
like my roll of blog posts, 2014 has been quick but monumental.
Where
to begin?
On
a purely factual list, I began this year with the stuff of all students’
dreams: a half-year break between JC and university (sorry, boys). I chose to
spend (most of) it doing a five-month internship at an e-commerce firm. I had
long harboured wispy notions of entrepreneurship, particularly in the fashion
line- in primary school, I had no idea what a lawyer was, but would tell
literally anyone that I planned to be a fashion designer. In secondary school,
this gave way to slightly more practical (if humdrum) ambitions, although I
began to nurse an interest in graphic design, which continued into publicity
work for my JC CCAs. My internship, therefore, was a culmination of sorts of
buried ambitions and secret hopes which I planned to shelve once I entered
university.
There was once when I really couldn’t imagine a future outside fashion.
My mother once told me that I could always “settle” for being the best-dressed
employee wherever I went, but I couldn’t imagine settling for such; I had heady
dreams of magazines, runways, and big cities. Growing older has changed me in a
myriad of little ways, but my internship, if anything, settled the fact for me
that fashion could only be on the back burner throughout a career pursuing
other burgeoning interests that seemed more tailored to my personality and
skills (or lack thereof). That said, I am thankful for the five months I spent
doing everything from manning the counter, to styling photoshoots, to managing
social media. It was a crash-course to everything I’d dreamed of (and more),
that I couldn’t have gotten anywhere else.
That
cramped little office an hour away from my home became the setting where I
dealt with much bigger changes that dwelt on my horizon. I filled out
university applications in a side room, using my friend’s hot spot when the
office’s Wifi was down. I took leave to attend university and scholarship
interviews, and told my boss about them when I returned. It was at my office
when a very kindly NUS staff member told me over the phone that it was “highly
likely” I hadn’t gotten into NUS; and at my office, in that same side room, a
few minutes to closing time, when a scholarship officer told me the same, and
suggested (kindly, but painfully) to think of other options.
But
God has dealt his cards kindly this year.
Even
as He gave me things which I hadn’t wished for, He knew –so much more than I did- what I needed. 2014 was the year of
God proving me wrong, and 2014 was the year in which I am so glad my life is in
His hands. I didn’t get the internship I wanted initially- but I got something
totally different, and one I really enjoyed. I didn’t get the A level results I
wanted- I got a bit less, but less enough that it made my scholarship and
university applications difficult, particularly when I aspired to such
competitive fields. I didn’t get the scholarship I wanted- but the one I got
(thanks be to God), sent me to a place where I find things to thank Him about
every single day. And in those nights alone in hostel, when the single light
over my bed made my eyes strain to read my notes, and no amount of music could
make me feel any less alone, He taught me to pray.
Where
I am today is nowhere I could have envisaged myself being a year ago, let alone
twelve. And this is what I remind myself, when sometimes (all the time) I get
impatient and demand God to show His hand. “Show me what’s next. Show me where
I’m going.” But if He did, would I believe Him? And if He did, would I let Him? The
path 2014 took was so unexpected, so difficult, so painful, and yet, I am so
thankful for 2014. You taught me a lot.
In
2014, I got my first job, in the field I’d always dreamed of, and learnt why
perhaps it wasn't the right field for me.
In
2014, I realized that my personality meant I needed a career giving back to
something, a career which meant something to me, a career worth fighting for. I
realized that some things are worth fighting for.
In
2014, I realized that comparisons are odious when the path God has planned for
you is unique, and tailored to your interests, your inclinations, your
passions. I realized that better than wailing and comparing, is sitting up and
making a battle plan- and making it through.
In
2014, I realized that friends come from unlikely places. And if you find them, fight
to keep them.
Best
of all, in 2014, I realized (in the words of a prayer I wrote just before
starting university), “…how small I am,
not in the face of difficulties or the ‘real world’, but in the palm of God's
hand”. He is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.
Making yearly resolutions
doesn’t seem to make much sense- particularly when, as I read in an article a few
days ago, every new beginning inspires a re-evaluation of where we’re going
next. 2014 was chock-full of new beginnings (perhaps enough for a lifetime), and therefore, necessarily, chock-full of introspective re-evaluations. Looking
back on 2014’s wrap-up post, I planned to “not compare myself to the 2%”
(struggled, but more or less succeeded); “stop being so harsh on myself”
(struggled, still struggling); “stop being so harsh on others” (struggled-
urhgihwh); and “to sleep earlier” (hello, law school). I also continued a one-
or two-year long tradition of paying tribute to this wine-red asymmetrical
skirt which I bought around this time years ago, and promised to wear forever
(which I didn’t, but hey, marsala is the colour of 2015! Close enough).
If anything, for
2015, I want to stop making conscious plans insofar as I want to start leaving
my plans in God’s hands. “Those who leave everything in God’s hands will
eventually see God’s hand in everything”, right? Then again, it would be good
if I survived my first law exams (upcoming next semester). Also, if I learnt to
procrastinate less, and take better care of my health, and be kinder in my
thoughts and in my words. I would like to leave 2015 a better person, having touched people around me for the better, than I was in 2014.
Now, dare I say-
God, go ahead and prove me wrong in all my expectations. You always know
better.
