a piece I wrote during my stay in Singapore (before I moved to China):
The stretch of grass nestled in the sky among the iconic 3-towered Marina Bay Sands, Singapore Eye and Esplanade lotus petal was now populated with families stretched out on picnic blankets as they waited for the fireworks preview of the National Day Parade 2015. Fathers swung giggling babies in the air, while moms spoon-fed mango jello into waiting mouths. The air was abuzz with chatter, anticipation and strains of “See you again” by Wiz Khalifa blasting from the loudspeakers.
On our own little square of picnic mats, the ten of us New Creation young adults had congregated. The ones who had sunglasses on one side of the mat were facing the glaring sun, allowing the no-sunglasses group to hide in the shade. Grace and Kevin, the cell group leaders, for the Varsity Overseas group had graciously supplied an array of BBQ potato chips, dried fish sticks and green tea Pocky. Young and hungry people that we are, we gratefully dug in, adding our own buzz of chatter to the excitement-charged air. When the crackling of chip-bags had finally died down, Kevin leaned in.
“I was asking the Lord what to speak about today, and he said to ask you all – what are your God-given dreams?” he began.
God wants us to remember our dreams no matter how crazy they are, he explained, and so we will be given 30 minutes to find a spot anywhere on the Barrage to journal about our dreams then we will come back and share.
I immediately packed my essentials – the Sony headphones, my Nokia Lumia phone, 3 colors of markers, my black bounded journal – and promptly found a snug spot of concrete that promised a good view of MBS. The familiar tunes of WorshipMob’s “Love Break Down These Walls” coursed through my body. This was the place.
God-given dreams. My purple marker was poised over a fresh page in my journal. I thought back to the stirring of my spirit when I was back at Loaves – to see orphans get adopted, and children get healed. I thought about being glued to my seat as I watched dancers deftly navigate the stage radiating confidence and grace and wishing I could be one of them. I thought about my piano and Kayla, and worship. And I thought about the healing and restoration music and dance could bring.
I started in purple cursive: My God-given dream – to see the broken get healed.
It was then that she passed by. People have trouble believing that God has a sense of humor. It’s because of moments like these that I don’t.
The wheelchair had just broken through the crowds and they were now trying to lift her up the terraced pavement. Oblivious to her surroundings, the girl looked around 11 years of age and her head lolled back as a few guys hoisted the wheelchair up the level. Seeing her almost caused a knee-jerk reaction in me that brought me again face to face to the cerebral palsy kids I had carried around last summer. I couldn’t help but notice her limbs that were awkwardly placed, or the widely set eyes that vacuously stared out into the distance.
go pray for her, it came as a gentle nudge.
God, that’s crazy. You can do that kind of thing in America, perhaps, but not here in Singapore. We’re all about religious toleration, not imposing yourself on others. Also, what use will it do – she’s not going to healed when I pray anyways. Besides, aren’t I already doing your work by going to work with these kids 24/7 when I’m at the orphanage in a months’ time?
He let me whine for a bit, at least until she had passed and I felt a bit relieved that I had been excused.
But as soon as I tried to resume my journalling, the purple cursive all of a sudden seemed jarring – almost hypocritical. If your dream is to see the broken get healed, why do you have such a resistance to being a part of that now? Your dreams don’t start once you reach China; your dreams are now. You may start small – by praying for one person – but starting small is the only way you will ever see your dreams be realized.
I knew there was no arguing to that. So, I jotted down a few other notes before packing up and setting off to find the girl in the wheelchair. Good thing I don’t really know anyone here, I muttered to myself, worse comes to worse I make a fool out of myself and never see these people again.
I spotted her and her parents easily. She was curled up in her wheelchair, her head lolled back. I have learnt not to hesitate when it comes to moments like this, so I charged ahead with a bold smile.
“Hi! What is her name?” I could only hope that my American accent did not further reinforce their stereotype of the over-friendly, loud, boisterous but insincere Americans.
“Dion,” the father hesitated before perhaps deciding I meant no harm.
“Is it okay if I pray for her?” He nodded, almost surprised. I was surprised too.
“Oh, do you believe in Jesus?” I ventured. Perhaps they were used to such offers.
“Oh yes, we are Roman Catholics. Go ahead and pray for her.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. So, at least they wouldn’t think I was completely nuts, or worse, trying to forcibly convert their daughter.
I knelt down in front of the wheelchair and tried to establish eye contact with Dion, but her eyes darted to and fro aimlessly. She was still curled up defensively.
“She has West Syndrome and doesn’t know how to respond in new environments,” the mom explained apologetically. I told the mom it was okay, and that I had worked with children with special needs before.
I tried to imagine what the world must be like for Dion – confusing, loud and inexplicable. Maybe she thought the chorus of “See you again” was the most obnoxious intrusion into the peace she liked to maintain in her world. For a few moments, I just knelt there with her, my hand on her arm.
Could you teach me what it’s like to live in your world? I silently plead. She lets out a whimper, turns over in her wheelchair – and I pray. I pray for healing to her mind, for restoration of peace and for encouragement daily. I pray for her parents – that they would not give up loving her but that they would know how much she is loved by the Most High. I pray – and under the blazing sun above – I feel Jesus there. I think he especially likes to show up in moments like that.
I get up from my knees and give the mom a hug.
“she’s a saint,” she repeats with all sincerity, “and we love her.” I nod and hold the mom. You are one brave woman.
“Keep praying for Dion,” the father adjures me as I shake his hand.
I walked back to my picnic mat that day thanking Jesus. Thanking him that he didn’t let my fear or pride get in the way of me being blessed. Because yes, He wanted to bless Dion and that family, but I think he also really wanted to bless me. He wanted to include me in the joy He experiences everyday of going low, looking into the eyes of kids and loving on them. He wanted to bless me.
He wanted to show me that my dreams aren’t far off – they aren’t some lofty ideal that I will one day achieve when I am 50 years old and have a retirement plan and enough money to spend on buying my dream. Rather, my dreams are for now. All they require is a bit of courage – courage that He grants by His grace.
I said to him – God I want to see the broken get healed. And he said back to me – well, Vivienne you can – I’m sending one your way right now. The time for your dreams is now – what are you going to do about it?
dancing for an audience of One - 