Sunday, 31 December 2017

Year 2017

Not a single post in 2017. Well, not till now. Thought I'd sneak in a quick post before the new year to keep this blog fresh. 


It's weird that work is (and I suspect, also for the large majority of young adults) the major deciding factor for what happens in their life, in a year. Not that work is a bad thing, in fact, it is a very good thing. I will quickly admit however, that as a young un' (not too long ago), I always thought that work wouldn't feature as much as it does in how life plays out. Again, nothing wrong with this, but it sure makes a boring highlight reel for one's new year reminiscing. 

I had to tidy up my CV some weeks ago (again, work related) and couldn't help thinking that some of these things I've got listed down is pretty impressive. Boring, but impressive. Couldn't help thinking that I'm a very blessed person to have had such a wonderful and enjoyable working experience. Not many people enjoy their work as much as I do. So I guess where I'm going with this is that I'm thankful this year end. 

Some recent Christmas thoughts: 
  • Christ came to us, but his own did not receive him. 
  • This is not by his own doing, but by design.
  • Humans however, are not absolved from wrong doing because we rejected Christ.
  • He wasn't a Christ that they wanted in the past, and neither is he a Christ that is wanted now
I know this because, I can very easily tell that my sinful self doesn't want this Christ. I suspect this wasn't very different in the past: he came neither with the pomp of a savior nor the splendor of a king; nothing worth a second look. And today, I can understand that people don't deem Him worth a second look either- He's really not the type of Savior they're looking for. Yet He is. 


Happy new year everyone! (a disjointed post, but I guess not writing in a year does that to you)

Monday, 15 February 2016


Seated by the pier, they watched as the night sky filled with light- streaks of blue and red blazing across the expanse, effervescent yellow sparkles raining to the ground. The Wilsons cozied up against each other; New Year’s fireworks are always a sight to behold, even on a cold winter’s night. 

George whispered to Martha, “Nights like these are a gift.” 

“Mmm.. they are,” Martha agreed as she nestled her head on his shoulders. 

They sat in silence observing the fireworks in the distance. Little Dennis stood up and ran in circles completed wowed by the amazing display of fireworks exploding in the sky, lighting up dark chasm above, then fading away into darkness. Celebrations in silence are commonplace in the Wilsons- the New Year was no exception. 

George stared into the distant sky, seemingly deep in thought- “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..” 

“It does seem like an appropriate night to recite Kerouac.” 

“More appropriate that I found you- or that you found me” he replied, his arms over her shoulder pulling her close. 

“Mad. Both of us.” 

They laughed at themselves- they knew the madness of falling in love, they knew the madness of falling out of love and they knew the madness of keeping the oath they made to each other in all circumstances- "till death do us part"

They pondered on the many obstacles and deep waters they had overcome thus far in their marriage and were filled with thankfulness to God; it had almost been a decade that they had spent as man and wife. Marriage- the roots are deep, the covenant is solid, the love is sweet. Life is hard and God is good.

Thursday, 7 August 2014

little by little everyday

Laughter filled the hallway. Of the sounds on earth, a child’s laughter is perhaps the closest to that of heaven, thought George. He looked at Dennis from afar with fatherly affection and said a quiet prayer for Dennis. It was one of those days, where he felt exceedingly blessed to have Dennis- his treasure, his heritage. Indeed, blessed is the man whose quiver is filled with them!

Of course, the highs are never without the lows and there are just as many tough days as there are good ones. Could so much devastation and delight co-exist in the gift of a child? It could. But Wilson also knew that sometimes blessings come through raindrops and to George, Dennis was mainly blessing than raindrop.


Dennis had just learned to read and he found books immensely interesting. He’d take books, papers, anything with words on them and traced his fingers across the alphabets. 

“K-I-N-D-N-E-S-S. What does that mean Pa?”

“That is when you do something nice for someone. Like when Ma gives me a neck massage- that is an act of kindness”


Most of it didn’t make sense to him but that didn’t stop him from asking. Words were exciting and he found it peculiar that almost everything he could see or feel or touch could be described in words- of course, most of the time he didn’t know what the word was. He was eager to make new discoveries and spent significant amount of time with books, especially books with colourful pictures.

His favourite was a picture dictionary that depicted the different things and people one might find in different places. He especially loved the section in a carpenter’s shed and would look through the list of tools one would have if he were a carpenter.

“H-A-M-M-E-R. Hammer!”

Martha smiled at Dennis.


Martha, George and Dennis made up the Wilsons. Martha and George met in school but it didn’t occur to her that one day she’d be a Wilson. Mostly showy and borderline obnoxious, George wasn’t her type. He’s mellowed down significantly since then, it may be that men mature at a later age when compared to women. Martha wasn’t his type either- Martha was as modest in her looks as in her ways but George had a penchant for the popular. Either way- they made it.

And now. Now, there was Dennis.


Martha sat beside Dennis as he read his picture dictionary.

“Mom, I want to be a carpenter, fireman, astronaut, policeman and doctor when I grow up!”

“That’s lovely sweetie, which is your favourite?” she asked gently.

“They are all my favourite”

“Well, you can be anything you want to be, sweetie.”

She smiled again at Dennis, but found herself continuing in her head “.., but you can’t be everything you want to be”.

Thursday, 26 December 2013

merry christmas

it feels good to have made it home for Christmas. I thank You for home, and I thank You for Christmas. 

Saturday, 30 November 2013

On the east and of Fitzgerald

This is a first for me- a post on a movie. But I felt like writing today, and this is the first thing that came to mind. 


I recently watched The Great Gatsby (2013) by virtue of many days at sea and the hard drives being passed around (I had missed it in the Cinemas). I hadn't read any reviews nor had I watched any trailers (though I did see posters/adverts of it), so I had little or almost no expectations. I had read the book before, so it pleased me to be able to interpret the movie with a reference point. 

I had imagined Gatsby to be more of a gentleman and less of a maniac. A maniac of course, but a maniac in control; more soft spoken, more gentlemanly and more 'Oggsford' like. So, I had pictured Gatsby to have been someone along the lines of James Franco instead of that Dicaprio. And I had imagined all the parties and music to have been more big-band-charleston like. 

Of course, all these are just a matter of interpretation and it's inescapable that everything we read is colored very much by our experiences and cultural background.  


I also had the opportunity to be in East Malaysia for a few days sometime in September, which was an interesting time for me because I had observed that the people were remarkably different from that in the west (of Malaysia). And though (or because) they were extremely accommodating and friendly, I couldn't help feeling slightly (and strangely) out of place. It appeared to me that I have now become what they call a 'city boy' and there was a need to adapt.  

So it made me very happy to have found that the closing lines of Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby seemed to sum up my feelings of the east and of home: 

That's my middle-west--not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns but the thrilling, returning trains of my youth and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family's name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all--Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.

And if the Lord leads me, maybe I'll have another go at the east.