02:48.

Some part of me feels like I should feel guilty that I still sigh or cry when I think of leaving.

Despite looking forward to being at home again, despite wanting to spend Chinese New Year with my family and wanting to live and spend time and be with mom, dad and brother, despite looking forward to being in church, seeing faces I have not for so long, liking the thought of sitting around the kitchen table again eating home-cooked food, taking bus 900 from the interchange.

Despite knowing that things will be more than okay. That I am forever held in the arms of Him who loves me more than life even as I love Him more than life. Or being so sure of the goodness of His plans for me and that I am safe in Him always.

Despite all that I know, I can't stop the tears that are flowing now. Or that numb pain in my heart.

Creature comforts are not measuring points for where my heart lies. I don't care if I sleep on a second hand mattress on the floor, or have a 14-inch television or a plastic couch here compared to air-conditioned furnished room, cable television and all such stuff back home, I call both here and there home. Maybe that's why I cry.

Despite some part of me actually wanting to leave because I (probably) want to run away from the emotional taxation of all of these. Despite a job offer back home.

Despite every thing logical and not, in the heart or head, in Sg or Melb, despite every thing.

I can't stop how I feel.

So I sit at my dining table at 2:59am on Australia Day, on the last 10th day of my time in Melb for now. And the balmy summer night air blowing through the crack in the window can't dry my tear stained cheeks. And because I am home alone, I allow myself to sob out loud.

How did I fall this in love with a place and people?

How did I come to call this place home too?

I feel foolish that it's so hard for me to leave, I feel foolish for acting and feeling the way I do, I feel foolish.

I grab a tissue from that Home Brand white tissue box that our household always scribbles on. My right T-shirt sleeve is too wet for me to keep using as a tear-cloth.

I don't want to whine or cling or talk about me, me, me so I keep quiet. I don't want to look even more foolish so I keep my composure. I insecurely think maybe it would be wrong or more painful if I allow my time left here with people to be spent in emo-land so I don't speak unless I am asked. I know that asking some questions may simply be futile when I know the answers or when the answers are already revealed so I don't ask.

But I don't understand why I am acting this way and I keep crying.

And I so desperately need You, Lord, to just hold me and let me hold You.

12:28.

Now I've found the greatest love of all is mine
Since You laid down Your life
The greatest sacrifice

Majesty, Majesty
Your grace has found me just as I am
Empty handed, but alive in your hands
Majesty, Majesty
Forever I am changed by Your love
In the presence of Your Majesty

Now I've found the greatest love of all is mine
Since You laid down your life
The greatest sacrifice

- Majesty, Delirious

12:16.

Maybe this is living in the full awareness of the moment. When your heart is wringed and yet you can smile and laugh and cry with abandon.

2005 is a year of flight, a year of going from glory to glory, a year of fulfilling my calling even as I cannot call it by name yet truly but somewhere inside, somewhere only You and me know, maybe I do know. And You are slowly teaching me to see.

11 days till I leave Melbourne. It's not any easier thinking of leaving but maybe it's not that hard even as it's so hard.

Lord, You have my heart.

23:32.

I will fight for the heart of my King.

I give You my heart, my soul, my strength and my mind. All that I am for all that You are. I reckon that's beyond good a deal.

I love You, Jesus.

23:48.

"How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd." - Alexander Pope

But that is not my lot. That is not our lot.

Finally got around to watching Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind after having it for so long. People have so much pain we want to forget but to erase them? That is not our lot. As this little excerpt from the movie encapsulates.

Joel, before the memory erasing procedure to rid his mind of memories of his girlfriend who had her memories of him erased: "Is there any risk of brain damage?"

His doctor: "Well, technically speaking, the procedure is brain damage but it is not on par with a night of heavy drinking."

Our lot is not to forget by erasing, not to attempt to move on by avoiding the obstruction on the road.

Our lot is to face stuff. Because only then can we move on.

By the way, darn brilliant show, that. Not too happy. Utterly beautiful but not happy.

01:10.

"Going on from that place, he went into their synagogue, and a man with a shriveled hand was there. Looking for a reason to accuse Jesus, they asked him, "Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath?"

He said to them, “If any of you has a sheep and it falls into a pit on the Sabbath, will you not take hold of it and lift it out? How much more valuable is a man than a sheep! Therefore it is lawful to do good on the Sabbath.”

Then he said to the man, “Stretch out your hand.” So he stretched it out and it was completely restored, just as sound as the other. But the Pharisees went out and plotted how they might kill Jesus."
- Matthew 12: 9 - 13

~ ~ ~
Imagine that - You are without an arm.

You have one good arm, and one stump where the other is supposed to be.

You are in the synagogue, the temple, the church. Along came this man so many have been whispering about. With him is a crowd of the most well-known teachers of the temple. You looked at the scene before you, just like every one else around you. Suddenly, one of those teachers - you recognised he is important because of his robes and the phylacteries on his forehead and left arm - glanced at you and walked over, jabbing his fingers at you.

All eyes turn to you.

The man pointed at your stump of an arm.

"Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath?" The whole group of teachers asked the only one among them not adorned in robes or wearing phylacteries.

You felt embarassed. All of them were looking at your handicap. And all around you, even without looking up, you knew that every other boy and men in the temple were staring at you. You felt a blush of shame come on and lowered your head, in case any one sees.

Then He spoke.

"Stretch out your hand."

And for some reason, you stretch out your stump of an arm. You didn't know why. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw one of the teachers flinch disapprovingly at the shriveled mess of tissues that you proffered at the One some said is the Messiah. You look at that same sight, the lack of your limb, the source of much emotional pain and more tears than you care to admit.

You don't know why you proffered that stump.

Why would a disabled man offer his disabled arm when someone says to stretch out his hand? Wouldn't stretching out the good hand be the natural reaction? That other hand has nothing to hide, no shame and could actually obey any instructions this Jesus might ask. This good hand is the hand that he used to do every thing day to day. The stump... is no good. It cannot do... any thing. Yeah sure, he can use the stump to push little objects about sometimes but that's nothing, nothing compared to what proper arms can do, and there's no way he wants any one to see the emphasis of his handicap if he is to attempt to use the stump.

The stump... he just wants to forget. Not have every one stare at it. But here we are, for some reason, between him and the only man in the room looking at him without pity or scorn is this... his outstretched stump.

And as every one looks at this part of him that has only ever been a hinderence, the shriveled hand grew and filled out.

Suddenly, he was whole.

~ ~ ~

What God wants is your hurt, your disability, your pain. He wants you to hold it out. Not hide it away. 'cause He wants to make you whole again.

What would it take you to stretch out your stump?

Do you want to be healed? Or have you got comfortable with that perpetual hurt, sin in your life? Won't you just trust me... He's not going to laugh at your injury, He's not going to scorn your tears, He's not going to ignore you like so many have done so before.

He wants to change your life.

~ ~ ~
Pastor Reggie Dabbs was at City Church today and he touched on the above scripture. I never saw the significance of that man's stretching out his disabled arm as opposed to the healthy one. It never dawned on me - how hard it is to show your lack to God yet this unnamed man did.

Sometimes, responding to an altar call, confiding in a friend, crying during worship... all these stuff we avoid. Just in case people, or worst God sees the fullness of your inadequacy.

Sod people. God is not going to condemn you. He wants to make you whole. He wants you to want Him to make you whole. And honestly, as for people's stares and what-nots, most are preoccupied with their own problems. Others have the same problems as you. And whoever judges you, you can ignore, because we all have to answer to the same God one day.

If you are in right with the King of Kings, you are in right. Sod people.

I was at the altar today. Had to lay down something that would keep me looking back at Melb otherwise, and had to choose to let go of something in Sg that I probably have to face when I go back.

As I sobbed away during worship at how hard every thing seems, He said - and I am blogging this so I will remember always when I read my posts - the Lord Almighty, my King and Saviour, Lover of my soul and my Tower of Refuge said,

"Remember I have a call on your life."

Because You are in charge and You are Love and I can trust You, so I let go. So I lay bare my wound. So I respond.

My God is big....

18:15.

News for bloggers.

22:42.

"As the stars are going out
And the stage is full of nothing
And our friends have all but gone
For my life, my God I am singing

We will take our hearts outside
leave our lives behind
And watch the stars go out"

- Stars, Dubstar

21:43.

It’s finally night out and me, partly driven by the warmth in the house, have taken to sitting on the metal balcony door with my laptop. The traffic lights at the junction just left to this little would-be horizontal skylight are making their usual clicks, switching to a 16-beat click when the green man comes on.

From here, I people watch, star watch and car watch. This is a vantage point for watching cars make illegal turns, I think. Even a non-driver like myself knows how some maneuvers cannot possibly be legal.

Makes me wish I can drive and drove here.

It is not true that you cannot see stars in the night skies while within the city. It is true that they can be observed in much larger numbers outside, yes, but they are not devoid from here either.

From where I sit, there are 10 of them. One of me.

Whenever I look up into the Melbourne skies and see more than a couple of stars, I am reminded of the two camps I attended last year. Easter Camp, and July Camp and I’ve ascertained that it is true that every time I remember the camps – the latter especially – I feel a nostalgic, thankful and wistful at the same time.

Wistful – I haven’t used this word for so long. Where did you go, bud? You perfectly sum up a familiar feeling in my heart and tummy these days.

I can hear every conversation every person walking on the street below have as they walk on by. And I hope I am not going to attract any moths sitting here in the dark with my laptop screen like some flaming signal to them.

Click, click, click, click. Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick.

Many times, Lord, I have stood or sat on this balcony and talked to you. I have been here with tears in my eyes, thankful that I am far enough from any observer for them to notice a strange little girl, crying alone on a tiny balcony. At this spot where I am now parked, Lord, I have prayed for this city you placed me in and which You chose to give my heart to.

For everything, there is a season. Lord, I am still in suspension.

Somewhere deep inside where Your reassurance have made strong, I am still even as my heart is wringed.

I wonder if I will always be filling myself up with pictures and memories. I pray and hope I will never forget. Not just the things that shouldn’t be forgotten, or which the heart says I can never forget but keep too, Lord help me, the colours and hues, the details that make a place alive and the soul sing in response and in passing, remembrance.

You said I am no longer in the Valley of Baca.

You said that I am called to greatness and I will go from glory to glory.

And You know what? I mean, You do since You know all things but hear me, Dad.

I believe.

Whatever comes, I believe.

23:55.

It's five minutes to midnight on a Tuesday night and I have Planet Shakers blasting from my laptop at the highest volume possible. Not as loud as my shouts/ screams of "My God is big, so strong, so mighty", lyrics that are cries from inside and reminders that I am under the protection, guidance and complete care of a God who can do all things and through who I can do all things.

To borrow Sinead O Conner's words, Lord, "nothing compares, nothing compares to You".

When you still don't know whether you would be carving out a career in Sg or Melb, making plans is hard. I look forward to things that are going to happen in the near future then stop myself, and say "I won't be here" then equivocate and say "I have no idea whether I would be here".

I have forgotten many things in Singapore. Certain street names escape my attempt to locate them in the recesses of my mind. Two months ago, I looked through the little red notebook in which I scribbled all the numbers my Sg mobile contained and I realised there are people who I cannot place at all. Just three days ago, while going through an old email account, I saw one of the scribbled names in an email and finally managed to place one of these persons who have been mere names for two months. I cannot remember how my mother's cooking tastes like. I cannot remember the feel of my super single bed. I remember the Eeyore and Garfield I hug to sleep but can't remembered how they felt cradled. I can't remember the feel of my beige piano, left standing there in the corner of our purple living room.

Would the shade of the walls be lighter? Would the pink curtains (a result of non-colour true samples) finally look more right and pale? Would my room smell slept in by someone else?

What would be on my blue Ikea desk? How much dust might there be on the cover of my keyboard, placed on that wide, 2.06metres-tall Ikea open bookshelf that gathers so much dust?

When I look into that full-length mirror on the wall, that mirror whose bottom most panel suffered cracks - on the left or right corner, I cannot recall - caused by me accidentally ramming my office chair with rollers into it, how different would I seem to my own eyes?

Would I look taller in my room? There was a time when I used to realise that this ceiling above me was different and higher, except now it is the norm.

Would my white wardrobe looked slightly yellow?

Would my white bedside drawer share that fate?

What about the white bed frame?

When I lie down on the bed and look up at the light green ceiling, and the two similar green walls and two blue walls, what would I think?

Would I miss Melb?

Would I miss 222 Victoria Street?

Would I miss the smell of the night time air, that air that I took deeply into my lungs half an hour ago as I stood on our little balcony?

When I play my piano and love the feeling of doing so again, would my mind unfaithfully be momentarily distracted by memories of the drumset in my living room here?

Similarly, would I shamefully compare my dear church with City Church?

There are some things I wish for and to and some I do not. Sat noon, I stared at the skies from where I laid on the couch and told You what I know I want. I still don't know truly if I want to be in Melb/ Sg and that's one of the biggest decisions and probably the most urgent one I have to settle on but there was something I knew I want, every thing aside. But I know that will only happen if You choose to and I am not going to stick my nose or fingers into this in ways I should not. Dad....

I am remembering some things I have forgotten. Images of me in Singapore have started running in fragmented reels in my mind's eye. I remember the simple pleasure of certain routines and places and I miss some people in honestly real ways.

And I don't know why I typed "Would I miss Melb?" just now.

I already know the answer.

I stare at you
you stare at me.
the looking glass can't speak
so can you? girl in a land I cannot see?

tell me the stories in words plain to understand
interpret me every look and hue
the slight sad look in the brown eyes
that painted smile so slightly lop-sided

speak to me in stories plain to speak about
and tell me what my eyes are seeing
and what i am not saying

I already know the answer.

02:29.

Dear Jesus,

I love it when I am caught up in how lovely You are.
And I love You for all that You are.

Me.

15:46.

"Bono was attending the opening of a museum exhibition in Holland by U2's longtime photographer Anton Corbijn, "and he had a room full of Bonos, if you can think of anything worse," the singer says, chuckling with embarrassment. "But to see these giant pictures, through the years -- I got stuck in front of one, it must have been 1981 or '82, of me taking a ride in a helicopter. The eyes were so open. The whole face was so open.

"A journalist sidled up to me and said" -- Bono affects a thick, old-world accent -- " 'Vat vould Bono now say to dis Bono?' I went, 'Well, I would tell him, he's right -- and stop second-guessing himself.'

"The band was what I believed in then," Bono contends. "My faith in myself was a different matter. That innocence -- you don't just want to shed it. You want to beat it off you, scratch it off. You think that knowledge of the world will somehow give you an easier route through it."

- www.u2.com
- - - - - - -

I was just chatting with an old friend who I met a whole 10 years ago. What happened, I asked? We got more cellulite, she answered.

Here's the first mention of this number on a blog this year - 24.

That's the age I will be this year. Two dozens. Full circle.

I looked back at the person I was at 14. Bono had a band he could believe in; I believed simply in myself, and knew that was not enough as salvation. I was my own god, but I didn't and couldn't worship me. The innocence of adolescence - and me, every step trying to rid myself of that wide-eyed innocence that I thought merely uselessly characterised my age - trying to navigate and understand the world and meaning and oneself is heartpain. Navigating life with pure instinct (and much Grace) and desperation for more than this was like a blind girl in a tunnel holding her heart in her hands (because it is the only part that can feel) and using it to grope her way around.

10 years on, now. I am still trying to navigate and understand the world and meaning, and who I am in the midst of all this.

My salvation has found me and is continually being worked out in me.

I have a God and I can live.

At one point, while growing up, I probably did think "that knowledge of the world will somehow give you an easier route through it".

Somehow along the way, as basis to believe in oneself completely changes its foundations, and Hope is learnt while Faith works on, I hold on to the innocence I understand now is so precious and I want to navigate my world while holding on to this innocence.

However cliche that sounded.

When I was 14, I knew clearly what I wanted.

In half a year's time, I will be 24. And I have no idea what I want.

Dreams have been fulfilled, expectations have been exceeded, growing young is the theme of the reversal of cynicism and jadedness.

What do you want? What do I want? So often these days when people ask me that, I am at a loss for words.

I want to be nobody else except who I am supposed to be. I want to be a person who means what I say and do not say any thing I do not mean. I want to be willing to love and give, and hurt only when it's necessary. I want to dare to be open and transparent and real.

I guess being lost for words doesn't mean not knowing what I want.

Let's do this through the cycle of dozens, since it's 12 x 2 this year for me.

In the next dozen years, I want to be married, I want to be in the job that is my calling, and I want to be making a difference. I want to still look good, I want to still be passionate about music and enjoy my movies and books and pop culture. I want to be as honest and unhidden as that day 14 years ago at the altar when I pledged to give YOU my 100 per cent with this one life. I want to still be in love with Jesus and more so, passionately and unceasingly so. I want to not be afraid of tackling issues that have to be tackled, of crying or laughing or being goofy. I want to be who I am supposed to be. I want to not be weighed down with wanting money or material possessions. I want to be unafraid of breaking conventions. I want a husband who still holds my hand at home and out, who's not afraid of showing he loves me. I want intelligent discussions, I want pop culture and witty talk, I want fun-spirited wrestling around and goofy talk. I want kisses at the traffic lights, caresses of the neck when I am before the laptop, hugs from behind when I prepare food in the kitchen. I want to know theology better, know the classics, speak ok, at least one more language, be still drumming, and be a better drummer, guitarist and pianist, I want to roast turkeys during Thanksgiving and watch sitcoms on telly. I want to feel fulfilled and yet keep being driven to do even more while I can and because I can and because I am compelled to. I want to have preached before. I want to minister to people. I want to spend time in prayer every single day. I want to be a better writer and a amazing wordsmith. I want to cut through the babble and capture order in chaos both in my writing and in my life. I want to be mentoring someone well, being able to pour my life in someone else's. I want to still be in love with my husband and him to still be madly in love with me. I want to be relevant to Christians and non-Christians. I want to still read the news and understand politics and economics better. I want my brother to come over to my house with his family and vice versa and I want to know and get along extremely well with my sister-in-law and their kids. I want to love my in-laws and for my husband to love his in-laws. I want to sing aloud and talk to myself around the house still if I feel like it. I want to still wear un-aunty jeans. I want to be able to drive, be able to ride a bicycle and know what's it like on the back of a moving motorcycle. I want my husband to share the chores, cook too for me, and not take me for granted or expect the wife to be the maid. I want us to still go out on dates. I want guitars and a piano or a drumset at home. I want a romantic proposal that obviously had a lottt of heart and thoughts put into it, not a "should we apply for a HDB flat?". I want to serve in church. I want to jump during praise and worship from the outflowing of the joy and gladness in my heart and spirit, and not be hindered or ruled by age or expectations. I want to be an assured woman and empower women, to help the abused and neglected. I want to still go out with my friends and be involved in their lives, as they are in mine. I want to still pause and linger to stare at sunsets, rainbows or plain beautiful clouds. I want to - every moment - love God with all my heart, all my mind, all my soul and all my might, all that I am capable of every moment.

And there's more. Even as there's probably too little of some subjects or big picture that I wrote about.

It is 5.37pm, nearly two hours since I started this post. In between, I deep fried a piece of marinated fillet the way Mom does and fried up some eggplant like brinjals with the chili, ginger, garlic mix I broke the mortar pounding.

Yes, I broke a mortar.

But that ain't the point.

The point is this.

I am 24 years old. Who I was is not who I am, and yet what I wanted are not all undifferent from what I want but I am alive. And I am going to live like the saved.

Because I have been saved.

And that's the diff.

11:08.

Attachment is one of the strangest manoveurs of the human heart.

It might originate from the mundane, from say, rountine. And as time goes by, you are loathe to break it. It might start from normalcy. Living in a set place for 17 years of your life. Or forgive me if I might sound arty farty, attachment - the cute furry loved pet or vicious predator, however you fancy it to be - might, whether it be true or not, seem like it jumped and latched onto you as you turned a street corner in another place and another time, or at least somewhere in your mind.

Whatever it is, you end up feeling like a mutt one time or another.

The Bible says "simply let your 'Yes' be a 'Yes'; and your 'No' be a 'No'" (Matt 5:37). And in Proverbs 4:23 - "Guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life". Hold on, it's "Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life".

Guard your heart and be true in words.

I don't ever want to be who I am not supposed to be.

So.

Yes, Lord. Yes, Lord. Yes, yes Lord.

20:56.

Is it true that we can see?
Butterflies wings in emptied skies of green
Too many find joy in clouds burning
And those who can't simply must preach

15:49.

The things I cannot pack up into a suitcase, the people who cannot be freezedried and vacuum packed, the air and wind and skies unique to a geographical location, the roads that belong to a city and not another....

What are the hardest things to leave?

Everything.

All that I have to leave behind make up the hardest thing.

Yet all that you can't leave behind - the stuff in the suitcase of the heart, memories and much feeling - are the things you can carry. Inside of you.

I cannot transpose what I have here to Singapore, should it be that my time post-Feb 5 is meant to be in Singapore, but somehow, I will never leave what I have.

I guess I can't.

17:45.

Some backlogged photos from eventful December.

11:49.

I remembered thinking before, more than once, how it is tragically fortunate that I live in these times. As a journalist, as an observer, a lover of history and such, knowing that you live in times where forever is changed gives you a strange feeling.

Berlin Wall, 911, Gulf War, Iraq War, Invasion of Afghanistan, terrorism, communism's embrace of capitalism, and now the Asia Quake.... In between, there were the purer political upheavals and power issues and struggles.

To use the word "fortunate" to describe living in a time like this is not something I can do now. In little pockets of volatile moments in the first few days after Dec 26, resentment and detest towards world affairs and tragedies were paramount, as was a remote protest - which was nevertheless there - about being here now, a protest heightened by how I can not do much.

Dec 30, last year, I was with two guys - who are at this moment, my closest friends here - on St Kilda beach and I told them what I have expressed before - that this is a strange generation that we are, and what we have seen and will see will be much and extreme and I am not sure if I want to see how our world will be 26 years later, when I am 50. [If I ever get there].

I am living life on my knees.

I have learnt and am learning that that is the only way to get into flight and stay midair.

15:47.

29th last month, last year, I called home for the first time since the tsunami struck. Two aunties were in the woodlands home and the happy sounds of conversation and television were carried over the lines as I talked to my Dad. He sounded happy, happy to hear my voice, and happy in the company that was there, happy after a visit to Sheng Siong, a hypermarket my mom and him love going to.

We talked about the tsunami, I made sure that nobody we know or he knows were involved and he passed the phone to my mom, who was - accompanied by splashing tap water - doing cooking prep; and my aunties whose voices I have not heard for 10 months now.

My aunties told me how they are sure that God will make the way straight for me in these crossroads, my mom talked to me about my pastor - who lost his brother and new sister-in-law this month, and pushed by a sudden spurt of emotions, I asked to talk to my brother.

Told him I loved him, am very glad he is my brother and that I am proud of him.

The normalcy of every thing - even him being his non-responsive with emotions self - somehow made me more emotional.

I felt driven to my knees with thanksgiving.

And felt some sort of guilt that I seemed to be benefiting from the tsunami disaster, because its horror made personal affairs more clear to me.

The next day, I was at St Kilda's beach. When the waters came into view, my steps slowed and I had to exert effort to push myself forward. Every thing was so beautiful, so normal... my world and the company I was keeping with was good, and less than half the world away, every thing once normal and beautiful have been robbed.

The beauty before my eyes, the waves and the horizon had a terrifying aspect. I don't think I would be able to touch sea water for a good while.

New Year's Eve was spent with two very good friends. A time of jamming after dinner turned into worship and we gladly, very gladly decided to spend the new year's eve in a contemplative, quiet manner. Went over to Bouverie Close nine minutes before midnight, since its rooftop boosts a better view of the fireworks that were slated for appearance all around Melb.

The fireworks' beauty seemed weak, weak perhaps because they could not elevate suffering perhaps, or weak because at the moment they went off, we are all aware of the suffering still ongoing on the immense scale in Asia and Africa.

I could only give a crooked smile in response to the revellers' oohs and aahs, though it was sweet hearing happiness. In quietness, I thought fleetingly about how humans are always drawn to things that are bright and again fleetingly, I note that the briefness of the fireworks' illumination and the briefness of existence.

I am not sure why but we - or at least, I know I - spent a minute staring at the spot where the fireworks appeared after the last ones faded away. Then, it was hugs, happy new years and a brief stop at a friend's apt in the same building before we adjourned to another in the same building.

Then, it was something like two-and-a-half hours of prayer where everyone present - the Spirit too - wept.

On the first day of this new year, I hurted with the hurting and stood in awe of God and what He chooses to do.

Dec 30, 31 2004, Jan 1, Jan 2 2005 - They seemed melted together in a languidly alive recollection, where tears and laughter co-existed perfectly while this year ahead was shaped. And I realised half a day after the first half hour of the year, that those five shots were the symbolic mourning for my - and the world's - grief before I could move.

I have clarity in feelings words cannot express.

And I am thankful.

12.23.

These are words from a friend. They sum up so much.

"I saw a lame person today and it made me realize that I have a pair of legs. That may sound stupid but it really struck me. I have a pair of legs while that person has none and so... I will run. I must run. Because I have sight while a blind person doesn't, I must see. Because I can hear while a deaf person can't, I must listen. And because I have life while thousands upon thousands don't, I must live."

This is 2005. And Jesus Christ, I will run for You, I will see and hear and preach, I will love and cry and give and receive and care. I will hold your children and be held, I will give life my best shot. Because I am alive. And I must live.