Park benches.

I’ve been running a lot lately.

My finals are coming, everyone is neck deep into their books. But I’ve made a decision, to take care of myself and my patients even when the going gets tough, and to thoroughly, (here goes) thoroughly enjoy my remaining months as a final year medical student.

So I’ve been running. A lot. 5 to 6am morning hour-long runs by myself in the dark to the beach thinking about my last months as a medical student, what medicine and life all means, what turning 24 soon means, what holding this upcoming birthday gathering means, what the recent award means, what a nomination for another award means, what neverending exams for the rest of my life means, and my future holds; I’ve been thinking about the obstacles faced in publishing this second book (there has not been a stage without resistance), thinking about the unpleasant conversation filled with condescension this week and encouraging myself not to be discouraged by people talking down to me. I’ve been thinking about impossibilities and possibilities, setbacks and success, weaknesses and strengths.

I’ve been thinking about the meaning of my almost 24 years of existence. I’ve been thinking about the defining moments in my life.

All on early morning runs before my day at hospital starts.

I am determined to thoroughly enjoy my last months as a final year medical student. I have never been so excited about medicine before, never felt so thrilled to be a doctor.

What does it mean? What does being at this point in my life, nearly 24 mean?

As I jog along the park connector underneath the carpet of stars, feeling the chilly breeze caress my face, a thick stench interrupts my thoughts. I look to the left, and see a man, no a couple, huddling on the pavement behind a sheltered park bench, sleeping underneath a blue canvas, with a bicycle parked next to them. There is the thick, thick smell of urine. I stop to watch them. They are asleep. I run on.

The next day, I am running. They are there again beneath the park bench, sleeping.

And the next, and the next. My 8-kilometre runs are punctuated by the same stench, at the same place. They are punctuated by glimpses of men sleeping under and on park benches, covered by cardboard, plastic or dirty jackets. I always had school to rush to and hence never stopped for them.

Yea, just excuses.

I thought about Heidi Baker, a famous missionary in the poorest part of Africa who talked about stopping for the One, and loving each person because love has a face. I thought about my vocation, my calling. I thought about my application to meet her and her amazing ministry in Mozambique (the poorest part of South Africa) this coming April after my finals, and my utter hypocrisy- the poor was right at my doorstep, I hadn’t the time to stop for them, and here I was filling in an application to fly halfway across the world to learn how to love the poor.

Utter hypocrisy.

Today I ran, and promised myself I would stop for them on my way back. I would at least say hi to this malay couple huddling every day underneath this blue plastic cover. Did they have clothes, did they have a home? Why were they there, and what did they do? Were they chased away by policemen and hiding? Did they not have a place to shower?

They were sleeping. On my way back today, I promised to stop for them. At least say hi, how’re you, do you need anything. I didn’t know what I could offer.

But there was a another figure 2 park benches away from this stuporous duo, a little old lady in a cap, striped oversized shirt and dirty bermudas, sleeping in a sitting position, with her knees folded on a park bench, back hunched over as she fell asleep.

“Auntie. Auntie,” I said. I half-squatted so I could be at face level with her.

“WHAT?!” She woke up with a snarl. I stood 3 feet away from her, worried that she might be startled.

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Go away!! I don’t need you!”

“How do I address you?”

“GO AWAY! The police chased me away from the void decks. Go away, you don’t need my name!”

You don’t need my name.

She was rejecting me. You don’t need my name means I’m afraid of you, I don’t trust you and I am not worthy of your attention.

“Please don’t be afraid. I’m not from any organisation. I’m not going to report you. I’m just jogging that’s all.”

She looks at me in disdain as I crouch down to be at face-level. “My name is Wei- Jia,” I say in mandarin. “I’m just a student, don’t be afraid. I just want to ask if you need anything.”

She softened as the word “student” left my mouth. I’m just a harmless student, that’s all.

There was a pushcart full of trash in front of her. “Don’t be afraid, Auntie,” I said, still half squatting with my quadriceps aching from my position and long run. “Tell you what, can I give you my number?”

She refused. Here we were, separated by the same pride that I had seen in Grandpa Zhou when we first met.

“COME HERE AND SIT LA!” She shouted, pointing for me to sit next to her.

Conversation. That was all she wanted. That is what the elderly and the poor usually want, just some of your time. Not your number or your clothes or your money. All they want is some of your time.

“What do you do usually?” I ask, trying to be polite. “Are you Karung guni?”

Karang guni– it’s a slang term for someone who collects and sells recycled material.

“NO! I’m NOT Karung guni!” she said with ferocity, and I was embarrassed by my lack of sensitivity, suddenly aware of its possibly derogatory connotation.” I’m… I’m…”

She could not find the words.

“Sixty soft drink cans used to earn me $1.20. Now, only $1.10.”

Sixty. At the hospital where I’m at, a can of soft drink is sold at $1.70.

She continued to talk about her husband, and was incensed by his irresponsibility. I put my arm on her shoulder to comfort her.

She looked startled, and stared at her shoulder as if it were foreign, as if my touching her was a phenomenon.

Someone once told me, to always, always touch the poor. Because they don’t feel worthy to be touched. It reminded me of Grandpa Zhou, of how he used to avoid my gaze and huddle away when I used to touch him.

“Can I give you my number Auntie?”

There was a tension between us. Age, class, and education. But here we were, on the same park bench because we enjoyed the same cool breeze at the park connector.

“NO. DON’T NEED YOUR NUMBER.”

I had to leave. Just before I did, I told her about Grandpa Zhou and asked her for the third time for her name.

“Lee. Auntie Lee.”

She wasn’t afraid anymore, wasn’t afraid of me telling the police. She finally took down my number on a candybar cell phone. I saved my name in mandarin.

“Wei Jia? I’ve seen that name somewhere. Like the name of someone in the chinese papers this week.”

“Oh really?” I laughed. Two weeks after the results of the award were announced, my mum incidentally chanced upon an article about Darren Chua and I on the chinese papers 4 days ago. Darren is one of the awardees who, on suffering a stroke at the tender age of 24 after a year of graduation from medical school, continues to inspire youth today by his commitment to educate needy kids.

Somehow, right there on the park bench underneath the canopy of stars which were winking away into the awakening dawn, something fell into place.

I suddenly realised, that for all the grandeur of our plans, all the complexities of our lives and futures, and all the nobility of awards and medicine and our vocations, nothing really counts if we cannot humble ourselves to share our time and our space with the poor. On that park bench, that little conversation suddenly brought greater clarity and peace and meaning to my vocation and purpose.

I ran home with a strange peace that day. Suddenly, I understood with slightly greater clarity what my vocation means, what the award means, what my future means.

It means very simply that, if I cannot humble myself like the way God did for us, then everything (yes, everything- all our intelligence and high-flying awards and nominations and grand blueprints) counts for nothing. I learnt, that perhaps all we really need is to find a name behind a face. And that yes, it’s true, that we very often needn’t look far to find meaning in our lives.

Meaning, could just be a park bench away.

Meaning in life, comes not from being first, or being recognised or being respected. It comes not from getting into a specialty programme or getting ahead in the rat race. It means finding out the name behind a face and connecting with it. It means finding time to sit on a park bench and listening to the stories of another world underneath a velvety canopy of twinkling diamonds.

“Thanks Auntie Lee, thanks for telling me your name. You call me if you ever need anything.”

This is how I’d like to turn 24.