In spite of it all.

I suppose that’s the toughest part- to eat it all, love and hate, in a single bite. Sweet meat and bitter bones, succulent fruit and withered core, all at once. How does one love in spite of it all?

I suppose, that’s the toughest part- to love God all the time all at once, even all the bits we find hard to digest, like the way He loves us in spite of it all.

I’ll be honest with you. These few months haven’t been easy. I’ve been mad at God for numerous tiny things accumulated over the course of time. At times, I was so mad I was ready to throw in the towel and say I was through with this. I’ve been giving Him the cold shoulder. You’re unfair. You’re silent when I need you. You see all these terrible things happening and people suffering and you let them happen. WHY.

Where are you. What are you doing with all your free time up there.

I was injured. I couldn’t ride or run. My parents kept bugging me to “go out and see people”, and to please “see someone your age in medicine”. One of my ex-patients (a little 3-year old boy) kept getting re-admitted to hospital because of a chronic illness. His mother fought, is fighting so hard to keep things together and continue to trust in God.

I wanted to tell God how mad I was with Him for making us suffer this way. I wanted to tell Him it’s unfair that I’m losing my friends, my closest of friends because they are leaving me and finding their other halves and I am sitting here patiently doing what I know I need to do simply because I know you’ve called me to the mission field and it’s darn unfair that I can’t ride or run or go out with people because of what you’ve done to me. It’s unfair people go away after I’m upfront about missions. It’s unfair that they’re always so many patients at hospital. It’s unfair we have to go on call for 36-hours without sleep taking blood and seeing people and resusitating patients and come home feeling wiped out. It’s unfair that after submitting my paintings and writing so many months ago and them all promising that the project would be well underway and that they’re on to it that I receive an email asking where my paintings are, and there is silence from everyone on the other end because everyone is busy. I’m tired of this writing and publishing and painting and waiting… I’m tired God, I’m emotionally drained. I don’t know what to do or think because people haven’t been replying to my emails and I have no one to tell but you and you keep telling me you’re in control.

What control?

It frustrates me, God. It bloody frustrates me.

And Grandpa Zhou is asking me to join him for a mid-autumn festival charity dinner organised by a church near his home this Saturday night because the last time we met, I was feeling depressed and wanting someone to take me out on Saturday night to Dempsey or Starbucks to eat ice-cream and listen to music and read or draw or just, talk. And so he said, “Yar, you were feeling down right? So I’m asking you out on a Saturday night, please come for our event!”

But though I want to accompany him, I don’t feel like going because I’m angry at You.

I’m angry.

I want to throw a tantrum. And I have. You’re unfair. You frustrate me and you don’t listen to me. You give me things, making me love and treasure them deeply only to take them away. And this isn’t just about my injury, God. Your discipline hurts so bad. Why does it take so much to believe in you. Why are my hopes pinned on a kite gone astray.

I like fancy things too, God. I want to go for pedicures and perm/straighten/colour my hair like everyone else does and stay out late at night in fancy places. I want you to go away. Stop bugging me. Why do you keep bugging me.

I’m angry.

And it amuses me to see how mad I can be with Him, giving Him the cold shoulder on Friday nights and Saturdays when I’m feeling most alone and suffering withdrawal because I’m a workaholic and there’s something about the sterility, bloodiness and neediness of the hospital which sedates and calms me, and yet feeling particularly tender and loving to him from Monday morning till Friday evening when I really need His help to draw blood from a patient whose veins are slipping from my fingers like runaway snakes. God, please help me. I need you.

How can we be so two-faced.

And I realise, we’re like this every day.

Part of me is so bitter at you, in spite of all you’ve done for me. People look at me and say they admire the faith I have in you. But it comes with a price, and God, I don’t know if I can keep paying it. I am hurting. And I know this is nothing but a big tantrum because I never deserved a such a nice bicycle and I never deserved to write and publish books, but will you please show me you are real and that you care. Just put me on my bike on a neverending road to a faraway place for a while with blue skies and yellow daffodils and hot green tea soy latte in a Starbucks mug.

I am learning-that that’s the toughest part- to love God all the time all at once, in spite of what happens, in spite of how we feel, in spite of what we’ve lost. In spite of bitterness, pain and anguish. In spite of uncertainty and loneliness. I am learning, that that’s the toughest part, to come face to face with reality, understanding that life with God isn’t a bed of roses but an uphill climb, a constant challenge to believe that You’re on my side fighting and rooting for me, and not an evil puppet master. Some part of me knows, nothing very much in this post makes sense at all.

I am learning, that that’s the toughest part- to say I love you in spite of all that’s happened, in spite of all that could happen. I guess I’m just frustrated that You’re so silent, though I know it’s more likely that you’re praying for me and hoping I would be patient enough to see how much you love me.

You really love me?

And I guess the toughest part- is really fathoming how in spite of it all, in spite of my petulance and tantrums and hypocrisy towards you, you love us still, warts and all.

In spite of it all.

Please God, make my heart tender again towards you. I hate being mad at you.

I’m on 36-hour call again tomorrow.